2. A Casual Start
Visits to Skye, Torridon & Ullapool
In which I find that I cannot rock climb, I encounter a naked lady, search for a dustbin and attempt the whole Skye Ridge. Relating also "Close encounters of a Woofter kind", Ian's pretensions to be a windscreen wiper, when I loose my inaugural Loch Torridon Wrestling Championship, we nearly climb Stac Polliadh and we go poaching for fish on Ullapool Docks...
SKYE 1976: The Inaccessible Pinnacle, Skye. The only Munro where rock climbing skills are essential
SKYE 1976
September 1976 was the year that a love affair with Scotland began in earnest. The occasion was the 23rd Blackpool Annual one week Venture Scout Camp.
Alec Webster was Venture leader. Ian Holland, Mike Beck and Steve were assisting, with myself along as an extra hand and driver.
"We hadn't gone but 50 yards,
We hadn't even started cards,
When all at once from off a shelf
A Bodcan hurled its ugly self"
​So started the poem I wrote about the weeks incidents. Within 100 yards of setting off, a four pint can of Boddingtons best bitter fell of a parcel shelf and brained one of the Venture Scouts (another Ian).
We spent an hour or so at Victoria Hospital. Not a good start to a long journey, and young Ian never did seem to grow after that event.
We travelled through the night and dawn saw myself driving over Rannoch Moor and down Glencoe with a slumbering load. When we had just completed the long loop via Kinlochleven other folk awakened and we stopped by the loch side for breakfast on a glorious morning.
There was some amusement and comment on the discovery that I had taken the 20 mile detour to Kinlochleven ignorant of the fact that a new bridge had replaced the old Ballachulish Ferry. So much for my current knowledge of the Highlands.
THE VAN: My excuse for going, and, therefore, possibly the catalyst that led to the Munro Challenge.
Our 'Leader' Alec with compulsory fag
A further rest stop was taken between the Cluanie Inn and Shiel Bridge. It was here, at this precise moment, surrounded by what seemed like scores of finely shaped big hills, that a thunderbolt hit me, and I realised what I had been missing by not paying Scotland the attention it so obviously deserved.
I was held spellbound by the South Shiel Ridge and made a private vow to become better acquainted.
Arriving at Glenbrittle Campsite in the early evening after the ferry crossing from Kyle of Lochalsh (no bridge here !!) we pitched camp. Canvas consisted of large ridge tents of the Blacks Niger & Icelandic variety but a minor problem (Major so far as Alec was concerned) was the omission to pack tent pegs.
Ian and I soon had a rock system in place and all was made secure (or so we thought). Alec was almost distraught at his failure to check we had pegs, and seriously considered rushing off a great distance to try to procure some. What would the parents committee say?!!
The Venture Scouts were heavily into Rock Climbing and fishing, so little time was spent on the main Cuillin ridge. We did however complete the Coire Laggan round on a calm sunny day that lived up to the title "The magic of Skye".
It was this day that I first came face to face with the Inaccessible Pinnacle. I was to kick its base several times before climbing it.
From Sgurr Dearg, we tackled An Stac, scrambling directly down its face, and then up the airy ridge to Sgorr Mhic Coinnich before tracking back to Collies Ledge and finding our way on to Sgurr Alasdair and down the stone chute. This was an astounding hill day, with clear blue skies and spectacular views all day. I would like to be able to paint, and one of the first things I would want to paint is the view of Alasdair seen from the Sgurr Dearg ridge this day.
A days rock climbing on Sgurr Sgumain in Coire Laggan found Ian and I embarrassingly stranded, to be rescued by the ventures by the simple expedient of being told to walk off sideways. Alec was eager to set the example and get the boys tackling the main ridge.
He and I set off on our own for Gars Bheinn with the intention of spending the night on its summit prior to a spectacular attempt on the ridge. We slept out on a damp and miserable night, soaking with condensation in plastic bivvy bags.
The only consolation was that the rain dripping of an overhanging rock provided a constant source of fresh water in our mugs for brewing up purposes. By morning the weather had deteriorated to gale and heavy rain, and we beat the retreat.
On arrival back at camp we found that mayhem had struck. The large Icelandic/Niger tents had all been blown down in the gale and kit was strewn everywhere. This was partly the fault of having forgotten the tent pegs.
Ian had taken a small party camping into Coire Laggan and he reappeared shortly after ourselves. It was impossible to restore order or to find gear in the conditions so we decided to try to book in at the Youth Hostel.
Alec was keen to set an example
Me, Normal Neville and my Cliff Edge Bivvy
I knocked on the wardens back door as the main door was shut for the night. The warden, a young lady, had just taken a bath and appeared draped in towels.
I was admitted whilst the others waited outside and we visited the dorms to see how many beds there were. Being a tidy sole I closed the wardens interior door to keep her room warm not realising that it was on a Yale.
The poor girl could not regain her room, and was stranded in the hall, towels and all. As luck would have it some of the hostel residents were from Glasgow and locked doors presented no problem. Order was restored and we were all admitted.
Everyone did however have to become a member. A costly night. Ian and I were allocated a job in the morning. "Go and find the dustbins". We failed.
Steve, Alec Webster, Ian Marsden, Mike Beck and Ian Holland
For a night out we took the Scouts and the Minibus to Dunvegan to a "Dance". On the way home someone felt sick, and rather than stop the vehicle we lifted the cover of the rear axle flywheel, revealing a hole to the road.
When our passenger 'performed' we realised too late our error as the flywheel acted like a food mixer without a lid. Ugh!!!
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I tried to get John Stewart to walk from the Glenbrittle road end to the campsite. Somehow the bet got turned round and John went home by minibus and Mike Beck and myself ended up walking on a fine starry, starry night, to be rewarded by a bottle of Guinness at our tent door on our arrival some hours later.
Another excursion by myself, Ian and Mike Beck was up Sgurr Na Banachdich via Coir an Eich and down via Sgurr Nan Gobhar. There was a blizzard on top and we beat a hasty retreat.
We were incredibly lucky this week because, despite the gales and spells of wild weather, we had in fact enjoyed superb views whilst out on the ridge.
Me, with the makings of a beard
Skye 1977
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Following last years camp, the Venture Scouts had gone to college, or otherwise moved on.
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We decided to have a leaders reunion, and we upgraded our accommodation from a tent to a hired caravan, perched by the fence overlooking the sea at Glenbrittle.
Ian Holland, Alec Webster and Mike Beck were all in attendance.
The main walking exploit of the week was Ian and myself attempting the full ridge. We did manage around 13 miles and 8250 ft in just over 12 hours, but it must be said that we came nowhere near to completing even half the ridge.
With an early start we made our first mistake, and headed into Coire Ghrundda, balancing our way up the poised boulders to the main ridge. (We should have headed straight for Gars Bheinn).
Once on the ridge we turned South and took in the tops on the way to Gars Bheinn, the end of the ridge. Now we set of in earnest, repeating at first the tops of Sgurr a Choire Bhig and Sgurr Nan Eag. Before reaching Alasdair we hit the awesome gash of the Sgurr Dhubh Gap.
This revealed a spectacular drop to a small Col then an unclimbable ascent out the other side. It took us all of 10 seconds to realise that we needed to find an alternative route, so we retreated and descended west to try to get back up further round.
We were pushed farther and farther off route and forced to miss Sgumain and Alasdair. Nothing daunted we kept to high ground, linked up with the Great Stone Shoot and used this to descend quickly to Coire Laggan.
Instead of calling it a day we climbed back up to the ridge and took in An Stac before heading on to Banachdich and Thormaid. As we reached Thormaid it was going dark and we knew we were defeated. Coire an Eich gave, thankfully, a quick descent. We vowed to return.
Another day this week saw us (Ian Holland and Mike Beck) ascend Beinn Dearg Mheadhonach a 652 metre top on the way from The Slighachan Arms to Sconser Lodge Hotel.
There was a full gale on top and we sat just below the ridge, in the lee, lobbing stones in the air and watching them be carried away as they left the shelter and entered the blast. Alec ran taxi for us.
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It was this week that saw lively goings on based around the Slighachan Hotel Public Bar. This otherwise characterless and dingy place was transformed into the noisiest, liveliest hostelry we had so far encountered.
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We were of course familiar with the place from last year, and it was a convenient calling shop from various excursions around the Island.
One night we arrived warm but damp and decided to live up to our motto of "Making the most of every available opportunity". We met up with Neil, a smooth dressing entrepreneur, accepted his invitation to dinner, and ended up back at his house with a number of locals and Neil's drunk, German, wife.
The evening progressed, with myself taking Neil to Portree Hospital for stitches in his hand, Alec lecturing the Macdonalds on Macdonald history, another visit to the Slighachan, and an involvement with an accordionist who was eventually driven home by Ian in an 'Automatic'. These escapades must await a full recounting in another epistle.
It was this trip that we walked the length of the Storr Ridge, saw a running fox and finished the day watching a giant of a Highland Bull rampaging through fencing, down the road, and crossing a small Lochan to reach the ladies of the species.
This despite being chased by the farmer and family hurling rocks and abuse. Such is the power of love (or lust).
We also had a day exploring the wonders of the Quirang, with its rock formations, bowling green and gullies.
Ian Holland, Alec & Mike
Nev & Alec
The Quirang
Torridon 1978
In September 1978 a further reunion for Venture Leaders was arranged.
This time a caravan at Inveralligan, Torridon, was the chosen venue, perched looking across Loch Torridon to Ben Damph.
Participants were, again, Ian Holland. Mike Beck. Alec Webster.
Transport was again my car, and I had recently just purchased a five seater Peugeot Family Estate, ideal for expeditions such as this.
En route for Torridon Ian, Mike and I ascended Beinn Dorain direct from the station at Bridge of Orchy. Straight up and no messing. The summit ridge was more complex than expected, in mist.
Alec opted to watch us from the luxury of the cars fully reclining front seat, easing the seat back a notch for every 100 ft we climbed, reversing this procedure as he watched us descend. His own idea of exercise, although, to be fair, he did throw in a trip to the village for fag papers.
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Beinn Dorain is still one of my favourite hills when seen as a cone, beckoning, as the road tops the incline between Tyndrum and Bridge of Orchy.
Much of the week at Torridon we spent beachcombing, one of Alecs speciality pastimes. It was his birthday so we bought him a book on 'Beachcombing'.
No winkle was too tough to prise from its rock, or too small to leave uneaten. Old ropes, driftwood, flotsam and jepsom made his eyes gleam as he rolled his own, and muttered about the 'bloody slag heaps' of hills that surrounded us.
Despite his affinity with the coast, and feigned abhorrence of the high hills, he did accompany us on an epic day along the tops of Liathach.
This great mountain of mountains was climbed from the East end, climbing up Stob a Choire Dhuibh Bhig from the North side then taking in Toll a Mhuic, Spidean a Choire Leith, the highest point.
Then we contoured on a narrow, vertigous path below the pinnacles, to arrive at Mullach an Rathain. Here we descended by the wrong gully as it was going dark, and a lively scramble was required.
Nev. Pregnant?
Alec and home rolled fag on slagheap
Many years later (19th September 1991 to be precise) Malcolm, his friend Robbie (Dumper), and myself did a repeat on Choire Leith. It was a foul, wet, day, and as we put boots on we noticed a lone walker, sat in his car on an otherwise deserted car park.
Our setting off seemed to decide him to do likewise. He passed us on the way up and we exchanged comments. Meeting up again we continued together to the top, learning in the process that his name was Dave Southern and that he hailed from Preston.
This chance meeting led to the beginning of another great friendship. David went on to complete his round of Munros, and joined us on a number of our Corbetting trips. In addition, by 2000 I had done 8 long distance walks with him.
Back in 1978, another day dawned, and was spent climbing on Ben Damph, though the actual summit itself was not attained.
​Talking of the Ben Damph, this was also the name of our 'local' for the week. It was this week that Ian learnt about 'hot drinks' which usually meant a hot rum and blackcurrant, guaranteed to warm you up and give you pink lips.
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One good night here ended up with the locals organising a disco after closing time. This was held in the closed up café adjoining the pub, and 'carry outs' were duly purchased, records and player found, and action started. The stalker and ponyman were in attendance.
The headwaiter from the hotel seemed a particularly fine dancer, dressed almost entirely in white, with white shoes and a white suit. I found it odd that none of the girls danced with him and when I transmitted this piece of observation to Alec, Ian and Mike they suggested I dance with him myself.
Naturally I refused, until a suitable sidestake was arranged, and then I earned a fiver by performing a duet, although the motions I go through myself have not often been referred to as 'dancing'.
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It was a surprise that when all was over, and we came to leave in the pouring rain, our friend in white came over to the car and knelt at the window, getting drenched. I wondered what it was he wanted, to be advised by my more worldly friends that he wanted a goodnight kiss.
I found this rather startling, if not amusing, and another sidestake of £5 was agreed. Easy money.
Ian “Pinklips” Holland
Mike Beck pond dipping
Retelling this story to the locals in the same hotel 10-15 years later I was interrupted by a man at the bar who said “Dressed all in white, white shoes!! That was me.”
Whilst I was still contemplating the possibility of winning yet another £5 bet, my friends deemed that this was an appropriate moment to bodily remove me from the premises, and I was ceremoniously dumped back in the car.
By way of compensation we headed to the Lochcarron Hotel for an hour or so, then to book in at Gerry’s, and finally on to Bloody Beryl’s, to round off another good night!!
Back in 1978, (how I digress!!”), another night at the same Hotel ended up with Ian, unbeknown to me, perched on my roof rack. Instead of turning right and heading for home (our caravan), I took a left out of the car park and followed a locals car in which we knew there to be a full bottle of whisky.
Following this at speed towards Shieldaig, I was surprised by the size and uncontrollability of my windscreen wipers. I couldn’t switch them off, and they appeared to be going berserk.
When an upside down head appeared I thought this strange, and within minutes I quickly realised that it wasn’t the wipers I was watching, but Ian's frantic armwaving attempts to convey the fact that he was on the roof rack, that the car was going at speed, and that the roof rack was loose.
​On arrival at Shieldaig we lost the car we had been following, and Alec decided, after the episode with Ian, that perhaps he should drive. As he had been drinking I considered this a poor idea and, lest he try to get my car keys from me, I ran off, sober as a newt, in the safest and nearest direction, which happened to be straight into the Loch.
It was not very deep for the first 20 yards or so, and in
deeper water I saw a rock, so aimed for this and crouched upon it. Unfortunately the moon was now coming out and my white pumps gave my position away.
The Loch Torridon All-In Wrestling Championships were inaugurated during the course of which I lost my car keys to Alec. Feeling a little deprived I decided to walk back to the caravan rather than suffer the indignity of a ride in my own car.
The fact that this was a 10 mile trek did not at the time seem significant. Each time I saw headlights coming down the road I jumped into a ditch to avoid detection. But after an hour or so this got boring and so, with only another 6 miles to go, I opted to ride.
Another hill day this trip was when we set out to do the valley walk around the back of Liathach. We set off in two pairs, one pair from each end.
This meant that someone would end up at the car and could use it to collect the others. Half way round we met up. (There is still debate about who exactly went which way round). Ian and I decided to climb Beinn Eigh although we didn’t have the map to hand.
We climbed steeply up Sail Mhor, then followed the good ridge to Coinneach Mhor and Spidean Coire nan Clach at 972 metres, believing this to be the Munro top. Ian was feeling a bit groggy for some reason and descended somewhat light-headedly.
It was only later, in the Ben Damph, that we discovered that we had not in fact visited the highest point on the mountain, Ruadh Stac Mhor, which is out on a spur at the other side of the main ridge.
Carelessness costs energy!” This was still early days and we were only just getting used to the term Munros. I had the book, but we only referred to it casually and occasionally.
Do I recall that, at that time ,the pub wall in the Ben Damph had an early video game on it. You fired a rifle at a moving image, as a photo of a clay pigeon shot across the wall?
Liathach​
Loch Broom 1979
​Yet another get together of the 23rd team. This time Mike Beck had dropped out and Mark Harrison came along, with Ian and Alec Webster again making up the compliment.
As last year, we were again caravan based, this time at 'Letters', a collection of a few Crofts overlooking Loch Broome. Typically, Ian, who had booked it, wasn’t sure on where it was.
We stopped to enquire from a venerable old gent who was quietly gardening. “The names Mc Donald” said Ian. “McDonald replied the gent, “Everyone round here is called McDonald, but you’ll be wanting Mrs McDonald at Letters who is expecting you.” Bush telegraph is still alive and well in the Highlands.
We arrived, to find that the old van was wired down to prevent it being blown over in a gale. Perched 50ft above the Loch there were extensive views northwards and eastwards towards the Beinn Dearg Group.
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One night, Ian thought it was dripping in through the caravan roof, but on looking up saw that it was only Alec on his way back to bed after a call of nature.
Alec always made a large mug of coffee in an evening, drank half and saved the other half till morning when his first action would be to thrust his whiskers into the stone cold distillation with a grunt of great satisfaction.​
​An Teallach was the big fish of the week, setting off from near Dundonell House two or three miles South of the Hotel on Destitution Road.
Alec accompanied us as far as Loch Toll an Lochain with its great wall of surrounding rock. We took in Sail Liath as an extra then circled round onto Corrag Bhuidhe, missing out the bad step before proceeding to Sgurr Fiona and Bidean a Ghlas Thuill (the two Munroes), then on a good path down to the Dundonnell.
Ian in Van
An Teallach
This was our first visit to the hotel, and it seemed a more lively place in those years. At closing time the door to the residents bar would open and all would drift in to continue as if it were a different hotel with different closing times.
The bar staff were on a raised decking and seemed larger than life, especially one yellow bloused antipodean beauty with whom Ian fell instantly in love (a daily occurrence at this time).
On one occasion the place was full with a Vintage Car Round Scotland Rally and on another it was a coachload of Gardening Enthusiasts from Cornwall.
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A year or so later, we missed an opportunity one evening when we turned down an invitation from a group of locals who were living a hippy lifestyle at Badrallach across Little Loch Broom.
They had tales of wild parties, and a way of living that might have been interesting to observe. Their small craft pulled away without us. If only Alec had been with us!!
During the week at Letters we had our first sorties further North, seeing, for the first time, the glory of the full Ullapool Fishing Fleet lit up at night as you crested the hill before the town.
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One day we spent down obscure single track roads (most were single track at this time), and ended up cliff walking to visit sea stacks.
Another day was spent on a boat trip from Ullapool observing sea birds and seal colonies.
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Our only other hill venture was up Stac Pollaidh. It was a day of heavy mist above 1500ft and the actual summit eluded us as it was well protected by a headaching bad step over a substantial drop.
We explored all round the hill and in the heavy mist Mark was all for descending the wrong way i.e. Northwards which would have made for an interesting long detour. Alec, true to form, rolled fags and kept to the comfort of the car.
Wandering around the harbour at Ullapool we watched giant refrigerated wagons being loaded with fresh fish for long distance transportation. Surplus fell from the wagons, to be swept into the sea to the frenzied delight of the assembled gulls.
Alec and I manoeuvred Ian's open cagoule hood alongside an overloaded lorry into such a position that, with a little pushing and shoving, fish were caught in it.
We then frog-marched Ian past security and suppressed his desire to point out his illegal catch to the amused security men. With that silly grin on his face he looked like the local village idiot, and they understood!
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Having acquired the mackerel we placed some of them in the stream by the van to keep them cool and fresh. Two days later we ate them. They were still cool but far from fresh and we leaned, as a team, over fencing, and fertilised the vegetable patch as our stomachs rebelled in tandem.
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By now we were aware that Munros Tables existed, but we were still making no real effort to make serious progress.