In the Wilderness

[rhythmaning]

Well, that might make it sound a bit dramatic; but probably one of the most remote places in the UK: I was staying seven miles from the nearest road; and there was nothing there.

I had tried to explain to an English friend where I was going during a phone call; she had asked. “Seven miles north of Cluanie Inn,” I said. “Where’s that?” We were trapped by her lack of Scottish geography – I have no idea what kind of answer other than “Scotland!” would have made any sense. “The middle of nowhere north of the Great Glen” seemed to work for me; because that is where I was.

There are harder places to get to: Knoydart, for instance, can only be reached by a thirty minute sea journey or a twenty mile walk. But the thing is, when you get there, there is a pub, somewhere for bed and breakfast, a shop, and a restaurant.

Where I walked seven miles to be, Alltbeithe, is just a hostel; and several mountains.

No pub, no restaurant; no shop. This didn’t surprise me: I knew this, I expected this; this was why I was carrying enough food for four days with me, as well as my sleeping bag and enough clothes – winter clothes (it gets cold in the mountains) – to keep me going.

Generally I don’t really like youth hostels; they do not meet my minimum standards for places to stay, if only because they are crowded with other people and I like privacy and I hate having to be sociable at breakfast. And in hostels, there always seems to be someone in your way, wherever you are, whatever you are trying to do; so there is an elaborate dance going on as people try to avoid each other – whilst carry kettles of boiling water and saucepans full of pasta. So generally, I don’t like hostels, and only use them when I need to – usually because I am part of a party heading of to the hills. (And don’t get me started on sleeping in dormitories… ugh.)

The hostel at Alltbeithe was no different, really, except that everyone there really wanted to be there: it wasn’t as if they would just be passing.

The remoteness made it special; it also made it quite quiet whilst I was there: there were six people there the first night – including the warden; eight the second – three of whom were path-builders working for Scottish National Trust (who own a lot of the land around there – Kintail); and five on the last. It wasn’t busy – although it felt moderately full – since it had twenty six beds, and since they don’t actually turn people away (where else can they go?), they have house many more.

It was very quiet: there was no radio, no television, no telephone; no computer, and no internet. The only communication was via a satellite phone – some kind of dedicated service – so that the warden could phone the main office in Inverness, or call the mountain rescue if they were needed. (I wondered about the mountain rescue when I was out walking. The nearest they would be was eight miles – I doubt they’d be at Cluanie Inn – so it would be a while before they even got to the start point, and a very long while before they got anywhere near me. Maybe mountain recovery might be a better name…) So the only communication was with the people there. (I knew nothing of bombs in Mumbai, war in Lebanon.)

Oh, and no fridge. There is some power from a windmill and from a wood-burning stove (they use a four-wheel drive landrover to drop off a supply of wood at the beginning of the season, as well as gas for the cookers; sometimes, they use a helicopter to drop stuff off). Indeed, since it was a very windy place, the water was wonderfully hot. But the power can’t be depended upon, so no fridge.

Because everything has to be walked in and walked out, I didn’t have any music, either: I had decided against taking my minidisk player. It doesn’t weigh much, but my pack weighed enough as it was; I removed anything I thought I wasn’t going to need. I took nothing to write on – no pens or paper – but I did take two books to read.

The warden must have a funny existence. She had only been there for two and a half weeks; the guy before her hadn’t been up to it, and had left. She was Australian – from Newcastle, apparently a large town north of Sydney – so she was a long way from home; probably as far as she could get – and then she found one of the most remote places possible. She was quite fun – chatty (if she wasn’t, I guess she’d have had a dead body sitting in a rocking chair somewhere…) – and quite protective of her domain.

I was there to climb three specific mountains: Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan, Mullach nan Dheiragain and An Socach. I can only pronounce An Socach – “soc-ack”, if you are interested. Most people call the first “Chrysanthemum”. No one knows how to pronounce it.

The first night was very wet and windy, and didn’t bode well for getting out the following day. After the regulation breakfast of porridge (lightweight, and it doesn’t need milk, which would be heavy and would go off) and pulling together my lunch of oatcakes and cheese, I headed off. It was still windy, too windy, I felt, to be on the main ridge. I climbed An Socach, and decided not to go onto the other; I really didn’t want to get blown off the ridge. I spent a lovely afternoon reading, instead.

I had rice and a packet sauce for supper (it made a change from pasta), and drank whisky in the evening. Interestingly, I had anticipated a cultural detox – no communications, no stimulants (ie coffee), no alcohol, no music. Then I decided to take a quarter bottle of whisky in – I had it left over from some trip, nothing special – and it was a very pleasant: a good choice of luxury. (But I chose that over my walkman?!)

The path-builders came in late, about 8pm. There were three of them: George, the gaffer – one of his recent jobs had been to do a whole lot of drainage up the west face of Arthur’s Seat (the steep side); a very quiet guy called Ennis or Innes, who smiled but barely said a word – he looked like a young Pierce Brosnan to me, though I am no judge of these matters; and a young guy who was seconded from SNT to help the other two out; Geoge called him “the boy”, and he was clearly the butt of their jokes. They had a landrover, and came in with a large amount of food and a twelve pack of beer. They ate most of the food – their plates piled high with pasta and tuna sauce, and then they put frankfurters on top.

The following day was a lot better: the wind had dropped, and it was almost sunny. I climbed up to the ridge, drenched in sweat. I doused myself in factor 15 (I know; it should be factor 25…) and headed up Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan, a monster of a hill: over 1100m. It was a long pull to the top; and then steeply down to follow a long ridge to the outlier of Mullach nan Dheiragain. It is a long walk out to it: the ridge seems to go on and on; and then on a bit more. Things is, when you get there, you know the only way back is back along the ridge and up to the top of Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan again.

The weather held fair – sunny in patches. I was again joined by RAF pilots practicing their high speed movements; and I heard stags in the glens and perhaps an eagle. There were a lot of other birds – grouse, warblers (though most small birds look like warblers to me).

I saw no one for more than eight hours; I spent a lot of time lost in thought – just thinking, somewhat aimlessly.

It was lovely.

But it was also quite good to leave the following morning: it was very cut off.

(And pictures will follow. Some time.)