A Winter's Tale: Ballantrae to Lendalfoot.

Here I go again, stealing the second part of Robert Louis Stevenson's title. You can read the first part about the first day here. 

Striking camp from place that shall remain nameless. We had struck a deal. Hear no evil, see no evil. I don't want the generous people that allowed us to camp to get into trouble for their kindness. A story for another day, possibly. Anither time. It felt colder than Saturday, pulling the pegs for the Gram-counter Gear LiteHouse Solo. My hands were going numb and I had all my layers on. Brrrr. I don't think it WAS colder. It just felt it. Gone were the clear blue skies and weak winter sun to be replaced with cold gun metal grey clouds. The breeze was still there, not helping matters. I was slower than Phil packing up, he had already legged it back to the car and the warmth of it's heaters. I wasn't long behind. Not a morning for hanging around. Hopefully it would clear. Even if the sun broke through just a little it would feel better.

Phil had the car started and the heaters on and his fingers were starting to get there feeling back. I just huddled in my layers hoping to heat up soon. Strange to be so cold after being so warm the night before in the Therm-A-Rest Haven bag. Once I had figured it out. It's always the way, losing all the heat that you've accumulated in your own wee cocoon. We left and joined the road back to Ballantrae. A couple of bedheads not quite fully awake to the world yet but looking forward to another fun days walking. I was anyway.

Back in Ballantrae we stopped at the Spar to resupply. Phil bought another pie for lunch and a big steak pie for his dinner. They are local made pies and he was impressed with them from the day before. Phil knows a thing or two about pies. If he says its a good yin, it's a good yin. I bought two bottles of Irn Bru. My weakness. Sweet sweet nectar. The true drink of the gods. I drink it by the gallon. However I'm not alone in that, just ask Barrs.

With breakfast washed down with half a bottle of Bru. I was ready for the day. No need to be carrying all the gear we had yesterday. Everything other than what was classed as essential got left in the boot. Basically we dumped all the gear in the car except food and liquid and the water proof jackets. We had parked back in the same car park on the Foreland. We crossed the road to where the way markers were indicating the path continued. I had kept my insulated jacket on over my wind shirt and I was glad of the extra heat. Added to that I had my hat on. This served two purposes; one, keeping my head warm, two, hiding the Mr Majeika bedhead from the night in the sleeping bag. Hopefully it would flatten out the ducks tails and coos lick I was sporting. Not that I was likely to bump into anyone I know but you never know, back in the land of my fathers' and the county I grew up in. So vain. 

We walked along the Foreland stopping occasionally to read the information boards. I love those boards especially if there made by the locals. Full of interesting little nuggets of local knowledge. From there we walked round to the harbour. It's a picturesque wee thing like a lot of harbours up the west coast. It would look even better if it had some boats anchored in it's lea. Maybe in the summer but it stood proud and strong against the sea, if a little lonely. The coastal path then becomes just that, a coastal path. You make your way along the shore. For us the tide was out but may have been on it's way back in. The beach was made up of firm sand with patches of pebbles and stones. The common make up of the beaches here and great for walking on. Especially in your bare feet during the summer months. Beware though the sea can still be terribly cold even in the height of summer. Ah when I was a boy.   

It's a long beach and a longer walk than you think. One of those walks that you have to look behind you to see how far you've come as the head land and it's cave doesn't seem to be getting any closer. Something I was doing frequently. It was a good section to start on and stretch my stiff and unfit walking legs. About halfway along I had built up a head of steam and had to remove my insulated jacket. I didn't want to over heat and build up too much sweat. Eventually or so it felt; not in a bad way, we came to the end of the beach. We made our way off up the path to where a marker gave us a choice. A take it at your own risk sort of offer. You could either follow the new road up and over the head land and down or the old road round but that was your decision. On your head be it. Personally it wasn't a hard choice for me and Phil was of the same mind. The two of us were not for the long hard pull along the new road with trucks, lorries and cars speeding by. Added to the fact that there was no real view. It was agreed. We moved off over a small bridge and joined the old road that I remember more fondly from my younger days. 

On the old road here is a cave. A cave that I remember well but having never gone in. It took a cairn and Phil to remind me of the story. This particular one was where Snib Scott lived. Originally a banker from Dundee, he just chucked. Decided it wasn't for him, this modern world and he wanted something simpler. Doesn't get much simpler than being in a cave, living hand to mouth. He must have been happy as he lived for many many years. Phil went in for a look about. Too dark for me. I'm a big shite bag in the dark places. It wasn't for me. Even now my hackles are on end just remembering it. I let big brave Phil explore. I just stood in the entrance. He switched on his heard torch and vanished into the back, the abyss. Void of light. To me it was a black hole sooking up all the light. Shiver. I don't think Phil realised that if anything happened back there; like attacked by cannibals, dinner with the De'il or a fall, he was on his own. I would run and jump in the freezing sea before venturing into that particular hell of mine. However I may surprise myself, bite it down and go in there and drag him out. Never say never. Luckily nothing foul happened to Phil and he returned safe.

Once the caving expedition was complete we ventured back on to the road and followed it's gently curving incline round the head land. Much more sedate and enjoyable than the up hill slog on the new road. The old road has been claimed back by the local farmer and he's using it for his own needs. It is weird though walking up a full proper road with no traffic. Even although you know there's no cars you still find yourself looking around for traffic. 

It was not long until we found ourselves in familiar territory, another river of coo shite and piss. Yep. We were back there again; well not quite physically, that was miles away on the other side of Ballantrae. Anither turgid, festering and stinking road of pish and shit. We had not long got rid of the stench from the day before. It was nowhere near as deep as the previously crap filled road but it was just as wide and just as long. That and another herd of cows; this time beef not dairy, stood between us and the top of the hill. I could see the look on Phil's face and he didn't look best pleased. I imagine mine to be similar but we laughed it off and got on with it. Skirting the slick road by way of the fence on the slightly higher ground and trying not to get entangled in the rusty old barbed wire. I didn't fancy having to stop in at Ayr hospital on the way home to get myself a tetanus jab. Aye a jab not jag because it is like getting punched in the arm. It was almost like Total Wipe out on BBC1 but I didn't fancy splashing down in that liquid road. That would not be funny.

On getting to the top of the hill we now had to join back up with the main road, the A77. Not the best having to walk along the verge. The views to our left were cracking but I can imagine it not being much fun in the height of summer. The coast road here can exceptionally busy. Nose to tail. We were lucky it was a Sunday in January and cold to go with it. At this point the road is all downhill and makes for easy walking and being high on the headland affords stunning views on a clear day. Northern Ireland, The Ailsa Craig, Mull of Kintyre and Arran. Mind you it has to an exceptionally clear day to see the hills of Northern Ireland. 

It could be one of those places that if a car doesn't get you, the cannibals might well. Oh? You don't know we have cannibals in Ayrshire. Aye. They stay in caves along the shore at Bennane Point. That's what I was lead to believe, my dad told the story of Swaney Bean like he was real and not some 200 year old tale. Used to scare us running round the beaches. It stopped my sister and I from venturing too far. Sawney Bean will get yi. Personally a great yarn invented by the smugglers that did use those caves, to keep folk out just in case the De'il wasnae awa' wi' th' exciseman. It would take a brave man to go down there an' face off against forty odd hungry rabid cannibalised Ayrshire folk. Just be like square in Cumnock when they kick the pubs oot on a Saturday night.

Having dodged the cars and avoided being boiled in a massive cauldron of human stovies or worse by Sawney Bean and his clan, we made it to Bennane and it's very own five star spa. Not that Phil and I were about to go and get a pedicure. We don't need such things. As we reached the spa, Phil stepped out of sight over the wall. I hadn't notice him disappear from sight, I was too busy looking out to sea. The next thing I knew was  a shout of "Morning!". It was a bit startling, no other soul was about or so we thought. I'm sure the De'il himself was woken, if not him then the dead. It brought me round from my day dreaming out at sea. As I jumped over the wall, I to was greeted with a shouty welcome. It was a guy coming out of the spa laden with towels. I returned the greeting but not as load and continued after Phil. He was checking to see if the walk continued on the beach. It didn't, it still followed the road but had become a Tar McAdam(ed) path.

Now down at sea level barring a few feet. It was a straight walk into Lendalfoot. When I say straight I mean curvy. As we walked and talked on this easy part we noticed a keen sea kayaker. For keen read nutter. That's what I was thinking. It was cold enough on dry land never mind out in the hypothermia inducing water. My face was nipping a bit with the cold and my nose was running like a dripping tap. Wat-iry snotters. Can't image what it was like for him out there. Braver man than me. He must have had three Adam's aipples. Wearing his baws as earrings. Don't get me wrong, I would love to do some sea kayaking but maybe not the back end of the winter in Scotland? I'm surprised the Ayrshire gulls never thought snack, dinner. Probably too cold for even them to bother.

As we continued on we came across the memorial to the Varyag. Greatest of all the Russian warships. It ended up smashed on the rocks here. Not a fitting ending for such a famous battleship. Even if your driving by it's well worth stopping off for a break and a walk about to read about the Varyag's history. As well as to see the monument at the centre of the memorial. Real communist era Russian design. It is something to see. Impressive.

On the last short leg of this section and bit ahead of time, if I remember correctly. We came into the outskirts of Lendalfoot. Lots of unusual holiday homes. Built of wood in many different styles from Scandinavian to your simple hut with lean-to extension. These have been constructed over the years and it feels that Lendalfoot gets longer by the year. I'm not even sure if these are officially in the 'village' or not. Some are very nice indeed and couple I wouldn't mind owning myself as they have wonderful views. Lucky people. In the village proper it was time to find the bus stop. It's easy to tell when your in the actual 'village', it's all old stone and white wash not bright pealing painted colours and wood. 

Looking for the bus stop and finding none. Not like it can hide in Lendalfoot. One street and that's the main road. The guide book said it was by the telephone exchange, a phone box to you and me. If it was, someone had forgot to put out the stop. Maybe they take it away and are laughing behind their net curtains. We walked to the edge of the village. The last hoose or the first depending what direction your coming. It was the auld Smiddy. Where we happened upon a man in a boiler suit painting some ceiling coving. Phil dispatched me and my local accent to ask where we could get the bus. With my one of my dad's many favourite sayings ringing in my ears, "Ya've goat a gid scot's tongue in yir heid, yase it!" Yes; I may have mental issues, hearing voices in my head. "'scuse me chief" it might have been "sur". Doesn't matter either is acceptable in the local parlance. Onywiy. "Ya cudnae tell us whur the bus stoaps?". Yes you always ask in the negative. Like he isn't going to tell you. 

Much to our surprise the gentleman spoke with a English accent. He informed us that the bus would stop anywhere on the main road. That made things easier so we parked ourselves down on a seating bench on the way into Lendalfoot. This gave us a easy view to see the bus coming and plenty of time to cross the road to stop it. We had nearly a couple hours to wait. Sunday service in operation, one bus every now and again. It was cold but you could see the clouds were breaking over the Mull of Kintyre and Arran was starting to appear out of the blue. Not a bad place to sit and wait. 

Out came the extra insulating layers as it was biting now that we weren't walking. Hoping that the clouds would get a move on and the sun would start to move closer to us and give what little heat it had to our cold bodies. Phil got tucked into his local pie and me my rolls then I cracked open the Irn Bru. It was now just a waiting game. Waiting for the bus but it wasn't bad in the slightest, good views and good company. Eventually the bus arrived, guess the fare? One pound sixty five pence. Seems to be the standard fair. Same as it was Ballantrae to Glenapp. Then we were heading back to the car and home. Two brilliant days.

The Masters of Ballantrae: Glenapp to Ballantrae

Hopefully Robert Louis Stevenson will forgive me for stealing his title. The first half to be exact, it just seemed apt. I have not long returned from my first overnight in a long long time. Breaking out old gear and breaking in new gear. Learning new things and remembering old things. Yep, you can still teach an auld dug new tricks. 

I should point out luckily for Phil and I this doesn't end like the novel of the title, obviously I've sat here and written this and Phil is in Edinburgh, probably sitting in a corner shaking with a cold sweat and trying to come to terms with spending a weekend in my company. Hopefully he'll get over it and his ears have stopped bleeding.

I should probably add a little caveat in that this is probably not how Phil remembers the first day of the walk. It is my memories that have been processed, regurgitated and bubbled back to the surface to be committed to these here digital pages. It may not be a true reflection of the events or the sequence in which they happened. If you want a accurate and true version, speaking to Phil might be a better idea than reading this. Then again?

The plan was to walk from Ballantrae over to Lendalfoot on the Saturday. Camping overnight. On the Sunday, walking to the Maidens. It was arranged to meet in the car park on the Foreland at Ballantrae for 9:30am. Very sociable time, not too early and not too late that you don't get to put down some miles under foot.

I decided to stay in Cumnock on the Friday night at my parent's house. Longer lie in and a shorter drive. Easier driving from Cumnock to Ballantrae instead of East Kilbride. Even better after getting there, mum made dad drive me to Ballantrae. No need to worry about the car. 

Driving with my dad is an experience. If you've read some of the other posts you'll know he is an experience. Being a passenger is just plain funny. Dad plays this game when driving in Ayrshire. Anywhere else he'd just get lost. Give this man a compass and he still couldn't find north. Seriously and he'll be the first to admit it. The sat nav gets switched on and the 'route' set. It tells him his expected arrival time at the inputted destination. Then it's on. White on rice and bag of potato chips. All that. Dad proceeds to drive the roads he knows. Which is to say roads without letters or even a designation. If your lucky it's B road. He knows roads I don't even ken. The result of this is; bing bing, recalculating. Bing bing. Take the next whatever. My dad ignores this and keeps driving. Bing bing. Recalculating. This happened for nearly our entire journey to Ballantrae.

Half way to Ballantrae my dad started to inform me at how piss poor the planning was for this walk. If we were walking to the Maidens. Why weren't we meeting Phil there, he leaves his car there and my dad drives the two of us to Ballantrae. Probably because it hadn't occurred to us? Shut up taxi driver and just drive, I never said that out loud; just in my head, I think. Bing bing. Recalculating. Take the next right in point 3 miles. That wasn't going to be the case.

Just as we pulled into the car park I received a message from Phil, "I'm parked here" but I had already spotted his car. Why does that always happen? Introduced Phil to my dad. He informed Phil how piss poor our planning was. Dad has a bigger gub than me and I can talk a squeaky gate into submission. Also that I was carrying enough kit for two weeks never mind one night. All that coming from the car camper.

It was an absolutely cracking morning, a bit chilly but clear blue sky. Maybe even a touch of frost. Now with my dad departed we started getting our gear sorted. Phil was lending me a one man tent, sleeping bag and sleeping mat. A Gram-counter Gear LiteHouse solo in a very fetching yellow (you can read my thoughts here), A Therm-a-rest Haven top bag and a Pacific Outdoor Equipment Ether Elite 6. I really don't have much in the way of lightweight gear where it counts, so he was helping me out. Nice chap. 

Phil suggested a change. That we catch the bus and head down to the very start of the Ayrshire Coastal Path at Glenapp. By saying this I make Glenapp sound like a big place. It doesn't have a bus stop. The bus will just stop for you. Is no more than a handful of houses and an ancient church. Blink and you will miss it. It was a fine day and it would be a waste not to. I was happy with this new plan. No point in wasting this glorious opportunity. You don't always get a fine weather window like that. We made the most of it.

The bus stop is opposite the Church in Ballantrae and handily the little shop of curiosities next to it had a seating bench. After popping into the local Spar to get change for the bus, we sat our self down and waited. We only had twenty or so minutes to wait. The bus was due through the village at about 10:30am. We sat. We chatted until a guy and his King Charles spaniel sidled up. Morning, morning. If I remember correctly he was taking the dog to Stranraer to the vets? I'm thinking would it not be easier to go to the vets in Girvan, it's closer. He informed us the bus was due shortly and we wouldn't have long to wait. He was getting the bus as well. He walked off with the dog in tow. When he returned the bus was running late and we all got talking about walking. Walks that we'd walked and walks he'd walked. The bus arrived about ten or so minutes late. One Scots pounds and sixty five of the new pennies, a single to Glenapp Church. 

 I'm glad Phil was paying attention as I was away in another world. Tying my boots a bit tighter and generally looking out the window but not really paying much attention to what was going on out there. Happy within in myself looking forward to good day of walking. Phil gave me a nudge at the exact same time as our newly acquired friend and his dog said, "Next corner is for you boys". The dog didn't speak it was the guy. Now that would have been something. We got up and walked to the front of the bus. I'm positive as the bus swung round the corner, I nearly took out the old lady with my rucksack. Luckily for her I was going lightweight. I apologised regardless. I plinked the bell or Phil did. I'm not sure. The driver flung out the anchors and put the brakes on like the De'il himself had stepped out in front us; eating thunder, shitting lightening, all raining hellfire and brimestaine. It's known to happen. The De'il is a regular visitor to these parts. Can't you hear the banjos? I have plenty of stories to tell about him. It probably wasn't like that but that's how I remember the bus stopping. 

After jumping clear of the bus. Tuck and roll. We hurried across the road to where the sign post was indicating the direction of the path. Hoping to dodge any approaching speeding traffic or speed freak bus drivers. We took a couple photographs of the church from the relative safety of the grass verge. Settling our packs on our shoulders we set off into the Ayrshire countryside. When we turned, we saw the postman in his van making deliveries to the couple of cottages across from the church. Or so we thought. Instead of coming out of the back of his van with parcel and letters, His chocolate retriever appears. Walkies? Bizarre. 

As I said earlier it was a glorious morning, a little chilly in the shade but beautiful for a days walking none-the-less. We started off down an nicely wooded, what appeared to be old estate road. Then we turned off on to what looked like an old cart road. As indicated by the sign post. The Rotary Club have done a great job marking the route. The old road started to go up hill steadily out of the glen and up through the trees. I was puffing a bit. I was out of practice. Pushing the buggy round Whitelees  Wind farm is not the same. However it was a nice path to stretch the legs on and get into my stride. As we gained more metres above the glen the trees started to get thinner and finally we were greeted by a stunning view. We had great views down towards Cairnryan and Stranraer with the Ferries turning into port as well as across to the Rhins of Galloway. Loch Ryan shinning blue in the sun. We stood a bit drinking it in and taking a few photographs. A worthy reward for nice climb.

As the path turned we left the view of Galloway behind and followed the old road on a northward direction. We hadn't seen hide or tail of anyone since we left the postman way down at the main road. Then all of a sudden we came across a dog walker with her little terrier. By that time we were a good few miles from anywhere. We exchanged pleasantries. Morning, Morning. "You boys walking the coastal path to Ballantrae". Both "Yes", well maybe I said "Aye". Her reply was "Good on youse!" but I heard it in tone like. Crikey you boys are a bit keen, that's a fair old walk. You'll be lucky to get there by sun down. What did she know that we didn't? Thinking about now as I type it out, maybe she was an Ayrshire witch? She did appear out of no-where and there hus been no sign of onybudy else. No parked cars or such like and we weren't far from a set of standing stones? Aye. I'm probably reading far too much into it but you never know and standing stones always make me tingle. Ayrshire is an old place.

After we said our goodbyes to the "Witch" (read nice lady). We carried on the road this time with a great view off to the north and west a bit of the Ailsa Craig, the large volcanic plug that sits in the Irish sea. The De'il papped it there in a fit of rage. Some laird somewhere managing to get the better of him, again. The road had levelled out for a while on the cliff. It was pretty apparent that we were now within an estate rather on just farm land. There was feeding troughs for pheasants and not surprising the odd pheasant diving about and generally being skittish. You would be to if folk fired buck shot pellets in your general direction. Little did we know.

As we walked on we noticed in the distance an convoy of four by fours moving towards us. A Land Rover Defender, a Range Rover Vogue, a Land Rover Freelander 2 and a Toyota Land Cruiser. Not the usual banged up farmers choice. Well looked after and new. The clues were plain to see. We were walking into a shoot. The jeeps turned down a track before they got to us and we though we were okay. For about 5 minutes it was fine then we came to the turn they had made and Phil checked the guide, we were to take that path they had ten minutes earlier. As we turned we noticed that the Mole Catcher had been busy.

Following the road it started to descend down towards the coast and the sea. He turned another corner and came across an old cottage. It was in a weird place. We had look inside. Possibly an old estate workers house but it had a unusual configuration of rooms. At some point it had been done up but it had fallen back into disrepair again. No roof and no original fittings inside. I looked a bit like it could have once been a auld fermhoose with the byre attached but there was no obvious remains of any steadings. We walked on and turned another corner when we heard the noise of an approaching Land Rover Defender. Unmistakable. We got out the road. Phil stepped to the fence; me on the other hand, stepped into the gorse bushes. Ouch! Stupid but no damage down. It's the Beat Master. I nod in greeting. He stops. Rolls down the window and speaks to Phil. I can't hear anything I'm stuck in the gorse. The master has asked us to hang back, there about to start shooting. How long? He didn't say. However he could have asked to leave on health and safety grounds. It's also private land even although we have right of access. A hang back was fine for me. We'll I don't know about Phil but I didn't fancy picking pellets out my arse.

Walking slowly down the track we could see the beaters on the other side of the wooded glen. The side you would have to be climbing back up. I looked that they were driving the pheasants down the glen to the shooting posts. Phil asked a few questions about a pheasant shoot and I did my best to explain, having been on a few. The shotguns where soon blasting out and echoing around the glen. I think more birds were escaping than were getting shot or so it appeared. It was hard to pick out where the shooters were because of the sounds bouncing about like a rubber ball. When the echoes died to nothing and the dogs were sent into pick up the birds. We walked down to the cove where the jeeps were parked. We decided here was as good as any to take a break but as Phil was getting his stove out, the Beat Master appeared. I asked when it would be safe to continue. Now was the answer they were finishing up. Ah well, away with the stove and back on the track.

The road climbed steeply out this side of the glen as we headed back towards the cliff tops. It looked like a fairly new track. The stones were large and possible ankle breakers, not at all knocked about by estate or farm vehicles driving over them. We got to the top and were about to make a left turn back towards the sea when Phil jumped out his skin. I literally shat myself. An escapee was making another bolt for freedom. A pheasant had blasted out from the ferns at the path side. I think we got a bigger fright than the startled bird. Catching me breath we were now on a even steeper slope. I was starting to toil a bit. I'm blaming the roll and corn beef that I had inhaled as Phil got his stove out. Really it was my poor hill fitness. 

It levelled out as best as nature can. In to say that it undulated like a gentle sea. A mirror of what we could see. It's not so much of a path to follow here, more of a sheep track and painted fence posts with the occasional direction marker. Not like you can go far. You have a dry staine dyke on one side or a fall off the cliffs on the other. It funnels you nicely along towards Ballantrae. We came across a funny stone on here. Weird that things like that appear where you stop. We had stopped again for me to take a wee breather. I'm out of practice remember. To our left was a rectangular stone set in the ground flush with grass. It had no markings, nothing. Wasn't on the map either. Interesting. No ideas. Just a strange place to be.  

There is not much change in the terrain on this section. Steadily making your way along the cliff. Following the markings and the white topped fence posts. The view out the Irish sea is incredible on a summers day it would be magnificent. It was here on this part that I started to really started to struggle. There was a lot more up and down rather than the gentle undulating of earlier. We were also into agricultural fields that was home to a large dairy herd. I don't think falling into hoof holes with my small feet all over the soft ground was helping either. Much to Phil's credit, if the frequent breathers were starting to annoy him as it can when your continually stopping and starting. He never showed it. He is great walking company.

For the land being the same here it more than made up for it with the wildlife. Amazing sights and first for me and possibly Phil. Walking and talking as we were, pointing out views. Me asking about sailing. Phil has a boat. There was a massive FLASH out of the dead ferns and bracken. A massive hare all resplendent in it's winter coat. Pure white like the driven snow. Whiter than Snow White or some untouched Himalayan peak. Whiter even that Gandalf after returning from defeating the Balrog. It was that white. Except the jet black tip to the tail. It was off, so fast. Greased lightening. I was so happy I'd never seen a hare in winter dress before. I've seen plenty of hares. Eaten a few, there just big rabbits really. It was amazing to see and all the more easier considering there was no snow. The hare stood out like a sore thumb. Magnificent to watch it run. Then it was gone. Gone. Hidden again in a hole or the undergrowth. Not long after that we disturbed another or maybe the same one but he had decided to leave the winter coat in the wardrobe this time.

Unfortunately there is a problem when you start to get into a rhythm of following the markers. Especially when one is wrong and or just plain missing. We were now in the heart of the farmers fields and not far from the end of the days walk. We could see Ballantrae and Ardstinchar Castle clearly now. Now on a proper farm road. Which for me was good as my legs were getting a rest. No up and down, no kissing gates, stiles to negotiate. Just walking. We came across a nice big white arrow pointing up the farm road. It wasn't clear straight away that we had missed something or that something was missing. We turned another corner and were heading up when we met what can only be described as a river of shit shining with a sheen of piss. All oil slick and horrible. Black and smelly. It was a bottle neck for the dairy coos going to the milking parlour. It was stinking. It was getting deeper. Sure this is the right way? Must be, the arrow pointed this way. After much dancing, skipping and generally trying to find the high ground. Boots now caked in cow shite we make it to the top but it's a gate. Not any gate and electrical wire and we're on the wrong side of the river of excrement. The hook up point is on the other post. At the this point the beasts must have been pissing themselves laughing watching us pair louping around. Not that you would have noticed. Phil being the brave one, wades through and unhooks the wire. Pure manure. I don't think Phil liked the cows. It was enough to put you off your milk. 

Once through the gate and back on terra firma we realised our mistake. We shouldn't have followed the road but skirted round the field edge. There was a kissing get in the very bottom corner out sight from the road. Ah well. Onward, stamping hard to get as much of the cloying cow pats loose from our footwear. We were on the homeward straight as it were. It was all road from here to Ballantrae and all down hill. We made our way to the bridge at the Stinchar and on to the car. Luckily it wasn't at the Maidens. Maybe just as well the planning wasn't that good? Now it was time to find a place to camp and get ready for another day of walking but that's another story in itself...... 

Four men went.... and one got the fear.

photogrpahy courtesy of LHOON

It was the morning after the night before. One of those nights. One of those mornings. Bauwk. I was a guest at a wedding. It was a friend of my now wife's parents. It was at the Crutherland Hotel not far from my house. It was meant to be a quiet night. Nothing to be worried about. Aye right. I got foo o' the beer and the vodka. This always a bad move, for me personally. Me and spirits don't get on. A lesson I thought I had learned along time a go. There is no fun in shouting for auld hughey in the morning.

Safe to say I was in no fit shape to get out of bed or anything else for that matter. Luckily I had the foresight or is it hindsight, to pack my gear. I got up and met Hughey in the bathroom. Which was strange because I thought I had left him back at the hotel the night before. Oh well or more to the point unwell. I then met his brother, dry bauwk in the shower. Not someone you want to be sharing a shower with, I'm sure you understand. It wasn't going well. I had a lift to meet. One of those, meet a friend of a friend at such a place at such a time. If I got there first I'll stick a stone on the dyke, if you get there and I'm not there, knock it off and I'll know you've been. However If you get there first you put the stone up and I'll knock it off. You get the idea? Not the best start to a weekend in the hills.

What was worse, I wasn't meeting the guy until 14:00 in the afternoon and I was off, he was working a half day. It was the Septemeber weekend and my dad had pissed off to Spain to play golf with one of his brothers and a couple of mates. I hadn't been late to bed, the Thurday wedding finished at 00:30 dark. I was only at the reception. I crawled into bed and had passed out before 1 am and like heyzeus, had risen late and was now running late. Thankful of the aformentioned foresight but it's not great to be meeting someone you've never met and being late. Fuck.

I was seriously considering a call off. I was not good. Green about the gills and greyer than Gollum. After a good slapping about the chops from my now wife. Only joking she doesn't batter me. Just sometimes. No she doesn't but I do think she told me to man up, grow a set or some such wise sage advice, as usual. I got my shit together and myself squared away. I wasn't on a even keel, far from it. But close enough. She got me back on track and back on time.

I was deposited at the preordaned pick up point. Tuck and roll. I was earlier than I expect but later than I wanted to be. It meant I was standing round like a spare lamp post in my trilby hat, pink carnation and a copy of the Evening Times tuck under my left oxster. We had never met and I've seen it in the movies. That's how they do it. I was there first no one waiting. Perfect, as I thought I was going to have to go round the wall and have a serious shouting match with Hughey. It passed, the wave of nuasia washed over me and was gone. Shiver. Sweat. Shake. Where's a clothes line when you need one.

Seriously though, I was grateful for the walking gear. I worried that the polis might mistake me for some we junkie roon the back o' the hospital looking to tan motors for the cd players. Cash Convertors. Especially in my current state, shaking with an unholy palor. The guy I was meeting worked in the hospital labs at the Royal Infirmary.

I should probably stop now and explain where we were going if the photograph hasn't already given it away. Hopefully the cat is not out the bag. We were off to An Teallach but not climb this magnificent mountain.

From the centre of Glasgow that's about a five and a half hour drive. This bit I was not looking forward to. A very long drive in my current state, was not going to be fun. Nevermind for me but my walking buddies were going to have to put up with this stinking wet washing until it had dried out.

The plan was park up on A832 somewhere around Dundonell with one of the cars and park the other over at Kinlochewe also on the A832. Then spend the next four days walking over to pick up the car Kinlochewe. One night in the bothy at Shenavall and the other two nights bivying. Then drive back round, pick up the car at Dundonell and drive home. Cracking plan for the weekend.

I was waiting but not for long. The guy I was meeting duely turned up. Spot on time and the other two turned shortly after. They were coming from the west of the city so the had made there own arrangements, on who was driving and who was picking up who. The hand shaking and ribbing commenced. Jokes were told. Exagurations exagurated and then we were ready. Packs in the cars. Nothing for it but to go.

Off we went. Heading north. Heading for the A9. It had been decided to stop at Dunkeld for something to eat as none of us had eaten any lunch, I hadn't eaten anything and had drank very little. I was happy with this, it gave me a little longer to recover.

We made Dunkeld in good time, the traffic wasn't too bad. The banter continued along with the tales. I for some reason didn't go for the fish supper but for a massive sausage supper. I was a lot more hungrier than I had thought. Glad to be eating and so was my body. It was going to need the fuel and it knew it.

Back in the car after the late late lunch. Feeling a bit better after a big creashy supper. Something in my stomach. I probably should have done this earlier but the thought of seeing my breakfast again was a non-starter. Now it was time to settle in for the rest of the drive north. I always find that in the car you pass a lot of scenery and a lot happens but as a passenger you take very little of it in. The miles dropped off and the clock ticked on.

We arrived early evening at the lay-by. Later than expected was the impression I got. I was a follower on this trip not a leader and didn't have a look at the maps. I had no idea the distances or where we were actually going. I was along for the ride. I was looking forward to it. I was informed that we should make the bothy before dark. Should. Fair enough.

Having deposited my other dry set of clothes in the boot of the other car that was left at Kinlochewe. I usually only have two sets of clothes with me, a wet set and dry set. The dry set is for sleeping in. For some reason I thought it would good to have some nice fresh togs to get into after four days in the same gear. So much so it's now a standard procedure for me.

I re-jigged my pack, got it up on my back and settled it. I think I was carrying about twelve kilos for the three nights. It was heavy but not that I really noticed. Sit down at the back and take a breath. This is before I started weighing things and before I started trying to follow lightweight enthusiasts. Lets be honest it makes sense. Less weight more fun. Well the weight was the weight and that was what I was carrying. This included sleeping bag, bivvy, stove, gas, food, pot, water, dry clothes and a heavy weight fleece to keep the chill off at night. I could have probably fed all four of us quite easily with sheer amount of scran I had. It's a lesson I need to learn but I like my food. It'll probably be what makes the biggest difference to my pack weight. Not so much the weight around my middle.

We crossed the road from the layby and throught a gate, starting up wards. Onwards. Each of us trying to get into our natural walking rhythm. I fell into mine quite easy, at the back. Last. Like I've said before, I'm short and have stride to match. All was well. I felt okay. I had drank plenty of water in the car on the road from Dunkeld and just created a small burn in the lay-by. A big streak o' pish comes to mind.

It was a fine evening for walking up into the wilderness and on to the mountain massiff that is An Teallach, the forge. It was dry but with patchy clouds. The clouds were high. Not the usual, lower than 3000ft we get. We were gaining height quickly on this path and the views of the massif where getting better with each step. Beautiful. I remember walking over pink like granite slabs. I maybe wrong and it was elsewhere but it just sparkled in the evening sun.

Things were now starting to be a struggle for me. I was stopping and drinking more water from my nalgene bladder and the guys were having to wait a points for me so the didn't get out of sight. It was a plod. One foot in front of the other. A slog. I was feeling worse with every step. The hangover was returning and it wasn't funny like the movie. To top it off the clouds were dropping down and becoming less patchy. It was like An Teallach was gathering them in his arms and turning them dark and angry.

It was going to get dark earlier. The sun was already setting. That time of year it sets before 20:00. We were in the wilderness with some very high mountains between us the sun. Making it darker even faster. Then it started.

Plop................. plop................ plop............ plop..... plop..... plop.... plop... plop... plop... plop.. plop.. plop.. plop.. plop.. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. plop. Until it was like sheets of water dropping. Like tipping out the bath onto my head. Hood up and thanks to the little gods of the outdoors for Goretex. On we went as the light faded and the path started to disappear.

Then the light was gone. Completely. Gone. Black. Black like I don't like. No stars, no moon. Nothing but rain in the sky. It was weird because the light had been fading slowly with your eyes growing used to it but all of a sudden. GONE. Off came the packs and then one by one. Click. Click. Click. Click. The four of us found our head torches and switched them on. We still had aways to go to the bothy. This was going to slow us down.

It was going to slow us for two reasons. One I had never done a night walk. Never. It's different. Everything slows down because the track just disappears into the heather. It vanishes. Foot placement becomes crucial. The guys were great. Nothing to worry about. Just follow the torches and keep talking. If you have to stop, shout. If one stops we all stop. We'll get there but it'll take a bit longer. Follow the leader, leader.

After about an hour of this I was done. The night before was coming back to haunt me. I was tired. I was hungry. I had lost track of time. Like I said, in reality only an hour had past but felt like I had been walking all night. If I turned my head to the side to look into the void, I stumbled. If I looked up I stumbled. I had tunnel vision. I just had to stare at my feet and keep walking. It was like I was hypnotised by the white blue light of the torch. Only the light bouncing on my feet mattered. Every so often I would stop look up and see the glow of the other torches and then stagger on after them.

I remember all of a sudden being acutely aware of some running water on my left handside but not level with me. It was below me. Running angry and fast like little burns do when the rains are heavy. All dark brown full of silt and stone, with mean white crests breaking against rocks, pools and bends. That was when I noticed I was walking downhill. When did that happen? We must be close. The bothy would have to be near a water course. Then I was alone. I froze. Terror. I was alone. No torches to be seen in any direction. Nothing. Fuck. FUCK!

PANIC! Sheer panic. Like nothing I've a felt since or before. What do I do? Turning wildly in circles trying to get a bearing. That wasn't going happen. My mind started racing, did I miss a junction in the track, was I that out of it? What should I do? Stay? Stumble on blindly? I had no map and no idea where is was. I could have been on the moon for all the good it would do me. FEAR.

I was really starting to freak out. PANIC! I started shouting but it was getting drowned out in the downpour. What do I do? I'm standing there in the pitch black alone and I'm scared. Really scared. How stupid was I getting lost. All I had to was follow. How hard is that? So stupid. Why did I have to get so drunk the night before. I'm lost, the guys will panicing. They be wondering what happened to me. What will they do?

I was resigned to the fact there was nothing I could do. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nothing to do but bed down till the sun was up. Wait for Dawn to show her face and see how the land lies. With this realisation the panic began to fade. The fear was still there but the panic was over. Calm. I unslung my pack. Time to get the bivy out and be as comfy as I can.

It was then I noticed something funny. The darkness wasn't sucking up the light like a black hole. The light was bouncing back. It was hitting something right at the edge of the beam. Must have been about thirty metres away. I then thought I was losing it. Something opposite of those in the desert, my mind was playing tricks on me but like a magnet it had a hold of me and was pulling in me in.

Step after step I got closer and the shape became a wall, then a gable end. Relief. Pure Relief. I had made it. I hadn't lost the rest of the guys. One by one they had entered the bothy. It must have been just out of reach of the beam but in my panic I must have moved closer and it caught the light. I made my way round to the door and entered the shelter and safety of Shenavall. No panic, no fear. I could hear voices in the front room. I went in. The fire was still burning and the other guys were settling down. Happy.

"You took your time, that must have been some shite?", "We heard you shouting but left yi tae it, yi can wipe yir ane erse. Yir a big boy". Bastards. There's always a funny bastard. Always.

There's not much to tell of the weekend after that. No walks walked. No mountains climded. It rained. I never saw the tops of An Teallach or Beinn Dearg Mor. We spent the next couple of days collecting fire wood and hanging round the Bothy. Hoping the clouds would lift. They never did. The company was great, the banter good. A great weekend.

The Range of the Awful Hand

Photograph courtesy of tigerweet on flickr

This might be a bit presumptuous of me. However I'm going to continue, most people seemed to enjoy my last piece of reminiscing and the retrospective look back at my first munro. With me struggling to get out on the hills of late, I thought I would regale another tale of me in the hills. So get yourself sorted, get some refreshments or at least make sure you've been to the toilet. Strap yourself in this could be as epic as the first one or epic-ier. Like Die Hard II - Die Harder. Well not really but you'll get the idea.

As a litte caveat the languauge may well be a little choice in places, that's just me. If think I'm bad you want to hear my dad. Well where did you think I got it from? Also there is some metrosexual, in touch with my feelings man love going on as well. Deal with it. Get over it or HTFU. There may also be some colloquialism that I'm not in the habit of explaining, feel free to ask. You are now fore warned and therefore fore armed.

When I first moved out from the shadow of my infamous (or famous, just depends on who's telling the story) dad; I come from a small town in deepest darkest Ayrshire, most folk ken the other folk and if your not related they've either seen your face or they've heard your name, it's not quite like Deliverance, banjo battling country as most people conjure up. There's no (much) inbreeding. It's great to be kent even if it's by the extension of someone else. There is a downside you get away with nothing. Nothing.

I was being seduced by the bright lights and the big city. It was different. Exciting even. No hills, green fields and beasts. Not entirely, there's beast but I was talking about the agricultural variety. Well maybe. I wasn't spending much time back in the hinterlands or much time with my family, especially my dad. We used to do a lot together; walking the dogs, fishing, walking, arguing, fighting, walking, arguing, fighting and arguring some more. We're the same. Cut from the same cloth. A spitting image. This apple sitting here typing hasn't fallen far from the tree. We ARE the same but like chalk and cheese. You understand? I would do something exactly as asked/shown but I still couldn't do it right and he fucking showed me.

I suppose this sounds like we didn't get on back them but we did, greatly. There is no man I look up to and admire more than my dad. If I'm lucky enough to be half the man he is, my wee Rowan will have a great dad. Maybe at times I never showed him the respect he was due but he's always been right by me and stood by my desicions. Right or Wrong. Hopefully I've learned.

Now we get on even better. I'm not at home. Strange that, how I have a home of my own but Cumnock is still 'home'? Folk must think I'm loaded, East Kilbride is home. Cumnock is home. He's got two houses. I wish. Home is where you make it and I make it in both these places.

Even when I write I blether. Your patter is like water, Tooks. Onwards.

The whole point was we weren't spending as much time in each others' pocket. More so me in his spending his money. We decided that if all else failed we would always spend the September weekend the gither. We'd go do something. Some beers, some walking or fishing or whatever. That was that and that was law. It has of slipped the last few years but that's fine. I see him and my mum most every other weekend these days.

The September weekend arrived, which weekend it was I'm not sure. Ayrshire has is September holiday the week before Glasgow's which is usually the last full weekend of the month. In the run up there was much back and forth discussion of where and what. My dad has never been for bagging hills, he's not really into the pointy stuff. Much prefering to walk the glens, woods, fields and the coast. Where I like walking on the hills but I'm by no means a bagger. See, the same but different. I've bagged more than I know and can name you even less. It just about being out there for me.

The destination or base camp was to be Newton Stewart in Galloway. In fact we ended up a few miles away on a campsite at Glentrool Village. Just out the side the village. Yes were up for a bit of glamping. My dad is like that, he likes to rough it but not that much. We were directed to a field adjcent to and out the road of the caravans but we had a shower/toilet block, which made dad happy.

Mum had organised the food for the weekend. There was enough to sustain an arctic expedetion. Seriously. There was a cool box stuffed full of perishable gear. It was so full you couldn't have wedged a wafer thin after eight in there. Not a MREs (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) insight for these boys. Tupperware crammed full of home cooked goodies. Mince, Stovies, soup and the rest. Sliced sausage and bacon for breakfast. Full on catered for weekend. No small camping stove for us either, a calor gas twin ring burner with grill and I'm not talking one of those small fits in a rucksack gas canisters. This beauty takes the full on, heats up your caravan for 2 week holiday gas cannister. What's the point of taking the car and not making full use of it. It's your own personal sherpa. Wasn't like I had to load the gear on my back and hike in, dragging arse like a dug with an itchy bum over your best carpet. It was going to be a great weekend.

I'm a bit sad at this point because I remember we didn't have a camera and nethier of us had camera phones. In fact I don't think anyone had a camera phone back in those dark ages. However for some bizarre reason we had a video camcorder thing. It was huge, thinking back now it was fucking huge, it was breeze block big but probably small for the time. There was so much footage from around the campsite and absolutely hilarious commentery of me collecting water from the spicket. When I first seen the footage back, my thoughts were Geez-oh! But everyone that watched was rolling about laughing. It's a shame there was no Youtubez back then. This too is all now lost after my parents house was broken into and the camcorder stolen. Bastards. Maybe it's a good thing I'm writing this?

I was excited as outside of Ayrshire, for me Galloway is the next best place. I've done as much walking here as I have anywhere. To me it is, was Lord of the Rings country long before Peter 'The Hobbit' Jackson had a wet dream about and idea about a film. If you've read any Tolkien you'll know what I'm talking about. The place is wild, as wild as anything you'll find up north in the highlands. Wilder than a hairy arsed blue painted Pict chasing a smooth skin sun tanned Roman back south of the wall. Yes it is that wild. Galloway is one of the least populated Shires in all the country. There has been times when we've had the place to ourselves . It's beautiful on a fine day but it can be a brutal slog on wet day. Don't kid yourself when I said it's wild I mean it's wild. Most of the time you will have the place to yourself or whoever your with.

Even the places names you can imagine in Tolkien's novels. The Dungeon Hills, Rhinns of Kells (one of the finest ridge walks in all the lands, in my humble opinion), Corserine, Mount Doom, Black Craig, Emyn Muil, Murder Hole, Moria, The Rig of The Jarkness, Mindolluin, Loch Neldricken, Mullwharchar, Neive of the Spit to name a lot and of course the Range of the Awful Hand, Shalloch on Minnoch, Trafessock, Kirriereoch, Merrick and Benyellary. My favourites.

As it was early afternoon by the time the green Vango dome was planted, secured in a spot not too far from the facilities block and far enough away from the other 2 tents in the field. It was a good spot. Ideal some would say. Perfect. Sometimes you wonder why some people pitch where they pitch?

We fattened oorsels at the alter of the coolbox. Filled our full and decided to tackle the high stuff the next day. But a walk was indeed in order as we need to shift some of the gluttony on. The fatted calf and the Bull. We jumped in the motor and drove up to the car park at Loch Trool and Bruce's Stone. Unlike his cave, which there are many. We parked and took the short walk to the stone.

The stone commerates 1307 when Robert Bruce won a minor engangement during the Scottish Wars of Independence. This led to, to later in that year, a more comprehensive win at his first major battle in the middle of Ayrshire at Drumclog or Loudon Hill which ever you prefer. However it wasn't till Bannockburn in 1314, did he finally have the decisive victory. If at first you don't succeed, try try and try again. So lengend goes. 7 years that's a lot of caves and watching a lot of spiders. Maybe. Think I best end the history lesson before I really bore everyone. Too late?

After reading the inscription we wandered on. I'm not implying it in the aimless fashion but in the sense of the speed of a wander. It's slow. Like I stated in my other post. I'm short so I don't walk fast. I don't have a swinging gate. Simple science. That and the fact that I take my height from my dad. Though I'm taller. The same but different. On we went. There is a cracking shortish walk round the loch. Short in the that it takes about 3 hours. Not very up and down. They weather was fine and dry. It was good to be out walking with my dad. Trying hard to ignore the baited hooks. We like to rib each other. "Ony fuckin' hawfwit wid ken better" or "yir jist gettin' a len o' that", "it's no fur keeps sir", "'member it just a len o'"is the usual lines after one of us has bitten. 'Member once bitten, twice shy.

Like I said it's a fine walk. The mix of terrain and views is great. Glentrool or Loch Trool is a great stepping off point, a great starting point for exploring the wilds of Galloway. There is much in this area. Especially if your a wild camper.

It was getting late as we returned to the car. This calf was no longer fat, looking at the Bull though, I wasn't too sure but dinner was on the cards, well in the cool box at any rate. Real stovies. It was time for to fire up the twin ring burner. Get the jet engines blazing and cooking up a storm.

To be continued.......

Posted via email from tookiebunten's posterous

Don't look back in anger? Or my 1st munro

BE WARNED THIS IS EPIC!

Not epic in the sense of Beowulf or Lord of the Rings but just EPIC in size. It's probably the longest post I've ever written and the longest thing I've written since I was pupil in higher english. I will also warn of some choice language. If you don't like sweery words don't read on.

I'm in the mood for reminiscing, don't know why. It's not normally like me. Not normally like me to do it here. It may be that I have been regaling this tale at some point to the poor @PhilOutdoors. I say may because the last time I was in Phil's presence a pretty few beers had been drank in the land of my fathers', the 'shire of my birth and the county of my youth.

I'm unsure as to what was talked about on that last meeting it was getting a little fuzzy towards the end (A recurring theme). However it probably doesn't really matter other than it's at the front of my head rather than locked away in the dark spaces of my brain.

The story and the reason for this post, it's probably nothing of interest to anyone but myself, to put it down for prosperity. It's the tale of my first munro, my first hill of the highlands. My first.

The photograph is a give away to those that know. The mighty majestic guardian of Glencoe. Buachaille Etive Mor, 'THE' Buachaille and on that day my nemesis. Goliath versus David. Not so much for it's awe inspiring massiveness. It is massive, lets not kid ourselves, it's a hulk of hill. Or the fact that it is a big climb, 3353ft if I remember correctly. It was more to do with the condition I was in.