Trudge and triumph: Lurgh Mhor & Bidein a Choire Sheasgaic

[old danensian]

Wednesday evening (walk-in)
15.5km; 496m; 3h 30m

Thursday (hills and walk-out)
24.5km; 1051m; 9h

Optimism battled with all the “ifs, buts and mebbes” that bedevilled this jaunt to taste the promised delights of Bidein a Choire Sheasgaich: cheesecake.

The starter was to comprise a gentle night on the shores of Loch Calavie, the main course was an opportunity to get my teeth into the big shank, the meaty Lurgh Mhor, and the dessert was obviously “the” cheesecake. It’s strange how we’ve wrestled with pronunciation and settled on such an inappropriate alternative when the Gaelic relates to farrow cattle. But hey, needs must when tongue and brain can’t cope.

Anyway, no matter how good the menu on offer, there are some eateries where the surroundings just don’t do the main event justice. At other places, both the preliminary and complimentary amuse bouche and the petit fours with the coffee leave a sour taste in the mouth: they detract from the main event.

And, if you’ve taken the trip up the glen from Attadale recently, you most probably know where I’m going with this one.

Wednesday didn’t have an attractive forecast. On the other hand, Thursday promised sun and a return to the conditions we’ve enjoyed for the bulk of May. So, why waste a good day walking in? Get to Loch Calavie the evening before and, after camping on the shore, enjoy a relatively straightforward clamber up the pair of Munros the following morning: it seemed a good plan.

Attadale cottages and the start of a long twenty five hours

Maybe I should walk in from Craig, and take in the Corbett Beinn Tharsuinn as well: but I did the first part of that a couple of months ago. Maybe I should take the bike? No: too many steep uphill zig-zags. Maybe Wednesday’s weather might not be too bad after all. Maybe folk are over-egging these reports of a bit of hydro work. Maybe I shouldn’t have added the weight of that wee carton milk – but I know what that first mug of proper tea tastes like. Maybe, maybe maybe. If only.

Sadly, that forecast for Wednesday didn’t disappoint, it was driech and wet. The cloud and drizzle dropped a veil over the whole interminable evening’s experience: all three and half hours of it until a patch of flat grass on the shore of Loch Calavie emerged from the gloom. The saving grace was that I couldn’t see what stretched ahead round every turn of the construction track. Any suggestive hint of a brightening horizon kept disappearing as another bank of cloud and mizzle colluded to maintain the dampness. And, in the middle of the night, the loch was still lost in the mists.

It just goes on and on and on and ....

Main construction compound - the epitome of a blot on the landscape

Like the crossings of the Forth - one new one and one old one

I expected it to feel remote, and although I suppose it was, I also knew there was an army of high-viz clad hard-hatted workers only a mile or so away. It’s all relative.

Lochside gloom at Calavie ...

But, when the tent door was unzipped, Thursday morning made it all better.

... and it's surprising what difference a few hours sleep makes

And, for four hours or so, all was well with the world. There was a stiff pull alongside the Allt Coire Calavie and up to the bealach but, well within two hours I was watching the puff-ball clouds drift in between the surrounding peaks from the cairn on Lurgh Mhor. Stretches of scrambling and scree had made life interesting but not too taxing, so I didn’t need to greet the cairn in a sweaty breathless state. A relaxed saunter was fine and dandy.

Summit of Lurgh Mhor

Mists boil out of the coire below Lurgh Mhor

An hour after leaving Lurgh Mhor, the Torridon giants burst from the skyline in all their glory when just a few metres below the delicate summit cairn of Bidein a Choire Sheasgaich. It’s a demure pile of stones, understated and almost appearing bashful in the majestic surroundings in which it stands. But with such an all-encompassing panorama you’re not going to be spending too much time admiring the construction prowess of the cairn builders of yesteryear.

As the shadow of a lone raven kept passing over the top, riding the thermals, I simply sat for more than half an hour pondering, enjoying and participating in the obligatory pastime of “taking-it-all-in.”

South west from the summit of Bidein a Choire Sheasgaich

Beinn Tharsuinn, Sgurr Choinnich and Sgurr a Chaorachain from "cheesecake"

To the east, where the tongue of Loch Monar should have been, a parched palate of ochres, umbers and siennas stretched between banks of washed-out sage and moss greens. A thin trail of blue meandered toward the loch a further half mile or more further downstream, hinting at the threat of hosepipe bans to come following this recent prolonged dry spell.

The Torridon Giants from Cheesecake

Below, and to the south, Loch Calavie sat, holding a perfect reflection, suggesting a crucible of heat and stillness when I descended. Then, the upturned image of Beinn Dronaig blurred as a pattern of ripples raced across its surface: the salvation of a potential breeze.

To the west the huge bowl holding Loch an Laoigh looked like an arena or amphitheatre, the surrounding geology below Sail Rhiabach creating a sense of terraced seats from where the herds of deer could be watched – or the Tonka toys and JCBs supervised.

And there was the grist in the mill.

Even on the very top, nature’s noises were drowned out by the thunk-clung-thunk-clung of the machinery below. It sounded like someone was enthusiastically taking a lump hammer to an empty skip and enjoying every minute of the cacophony they were creating.

And to rub salt into the wound, I looked to the south west and couldn’t escape the scratched line in the distance – the construction track – snaking away, just waiting for me to tramp its whole length back into Attadale.

But for the time being, I could stay and look in the other direction before heading back down to the tent, just forty five minutes below. And it was definitely as warm as I’d suspected when watching the loch’s reflections from above.

Peace and tranquillity back by Loch Calavie - beyond the mechanical thumps

Back at the tent I retrieved the milk from its shady spot in the stream and enjoyed the joys of a refreshing mug of tea and the relief of being able to pack a dry tent, all while trying to block out the prospect of what lay ahead.

I delayed and prevaricated and put on another brew. I took some photographs and spent a while looking at the map, but in the end had to face the walk back.

The start of a long trudge back - one crossing down, another eighty two to go

Once past the shoogly bridge It was like the A9 and the monotony of counting down the laybys when the traffic is slow. They’ve put a marker on a pole at each point where a stream crosses the track. I rejoined it just before Bendronaig Lodge at WX82 and it seemed like it was going to be an awfully long way to tick them all off before reaching WX1 where the construction track could finally be left behind. And like the A9, in its lower reaches, old stretches of the estate track now form a redundant loop every now and again – laybys, detours or diversions. For every step of the way I was accompanied by that ethical dilemma: would I accept a lift if I was offered one by a passing truck?

A final pleasant view of Bendronaig Lodge

In the end it was a purely academic exercise. I had to wait at the main compound for a fork lift as it blocked the track while picking up a load. A mile or so later it passed me while I slogged up the long slow gradient, but a tad too quick for its own good. Just after overtaking me it jolted over a bump so hard that the pallet on which a generator sat broke, depositing everything in a pile of shattered timber and tilted machinery on the track. He was on his own trying to sort it out during which time nothing could pass either way. He only caught me up at WX4 by which time a lift would have been of little benefit anyway.

Doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself - especially when you know you're on the last lap

Now back at home, and for the sake of sanity, I’ve erased the remainder of the walk from my mind, only revelling in the relief of removing boots when I got back to the car twenty five hours after leaving it. There’s little to be written, recorded or recommended.

In culinary terms, it had been a sandwich trip: a spectacular filling squashed between two dull and boring slabs of white bread. Now there’s a challenge for Subway, Pret and their ilk – a cheesecake sandwich.

[Jaxter]

They are lovely hills, I hope you can blot out the less attractive approach and remember the good bits

The approach from Craig only has one real steep bit, and the free wheel out afterwards (or easy walk) more than makes up for the effort on the way in

[Sunset tripper]

Nice pictures. A long walk in though. I cycled in as far as the shoogly bridge a few years back and it was hard going and there was a fair bit of uphill on the way back out also but it was worth it.
Cheers