LETTER FROM SCOTLAND

West Kilbride,
March, 1951

There are compensations for living on this windswept coast, and one was to open my own front door in Ardrossan and walk out with Sale to board the Arran steamer, in May, 1948.

In Arran we met J. D. Brown and stayed at Sannox. I would regard Sannox as a better climbing centre than Brodick or Corrie, unless one has tireless legs or a car, and we had neither. The peaks can be attacked direct by going out of the back garden and straight up the Cioch, or laterally by walking along the road to Corrie and ascending Goatfell by Upper Corrie : or taken by surprise by ambling up Glen Sannox till one reaches the heart of them right under the granite face of Cir Mhor : or from the rear by walking up North Glen Sannox towards Caisteal Abhail. We tried all these routes and not until we had been in the hills for three days did we see another living person on them, which is more than could be said of the Cuillin and which leads to that question the prudent would avoid – ” How does Arran compare with Skye ? ” or ” What has Skye got that Arran has not got ? ” The second question I have heard answered in one word ” Drambuie ” – but this is neither kind nor true. To endeavour to be a little more accurate, if less succinct, I would say that Arran has charm, but not magic, granite but not gabbro, ridges but not the Cuillin ridge. And could one meet, as we did in Glen Brittle, one man who has climbed Trisul, and another Mt. Kenya ?

Nevertheless one should go to Arran, it is a delightful island, the hills are good and the view from them superb. But Zermatt does not look so good from the Matterhorn as the mountain from the village, and the best view in these parts, (other than the Carlisle road) is that of the Arran peaks from the mainland, reminding one of Belloc writing from the ” Nona ” :-  Therefore did we lie thus in Harlech Bay, gazing at the great hills of Wales. There is no corner of Europe that I know, not even the splendid amphitheatre standing in tiers of high Alpine walls around Udine, which so moves one with the awe and majesty of great things as does this mass of northern Welsh mountains seen from this corner of their silent sea.”

Our first day onjVrran was good, and I recorded, apart from North Goatfell, Mealloch and the Cioch, five deer, one grouse, one Peacock butterfly and one ladybird, this last above the 2,000 feet contour. Later we climbed Cir Mhor by an indeterm­ inate granitic and speleological route, another day Caisteal Abhail (the Castles) and Ceum na Caillich (the Witches Step), a pleasant scramble; but our best day included the A’Chir ridge. We walked up Glen Sannox, ascended to the bealach between the Castles and Cir Mhor, skirted the latter and thus attained the south end of the ridge. It was the best ridge we found and the aged discovered that a rope was reassuring now and then, although the only time I fell was after discarding it, sliding down a steep slab and sustaining, luckily, much greater damage to my pride than my person, whilst Sale, who had just taken one photograph and wasn’t ready for another, regarded the whole thing as most ill-timed. Continuing we completed the ridge and traversed to Beinn a’ Chliabhain, which gives perhaps the best high view of the peaks themselves, dropped down into Glen Rosa and gently approached the road near Brodick.

One year later, and at 1.15 p.m. on a Saturday afternoon, the M.V. Lochinvar took a wide sweep into Oban Bay and shaped a course for Tobermory. It was a cold colourless day, so that Sale and I found the cargo more interesting than the scenery. We chose an hotel and found a children’s party in full swing inside it, which was the last sign of life we saw in Tobermory for it was the close season for treasure hunting and next day was Sunday and we sailed at 9 a.m. Monday, Macbrayne borne for the intricacies of guideless travel in the Outer Hebrides.

We passed the mouth of Loch Sunart, swung west and saw Ardnamurchan Point, the most westerly part of the mainland, away to starboard. Coll now lay dead ahead, and as we approached we could examine the southerly aspect of our old friends Rhum, Muck and Eigg, whose northern sides we had so often seen from the Cuillin. We paused a while off Coll, a

desolate rocky coast, whilst boats took off miscellaneous passengers and cargo, tied up at Tiree long enough for a brisk walk and reached the sheltered waters of Castle Bay in Barra in the early evening. Flodday, Hellisay and Eriskay were unremarked and Loch Boisdale was reached at about 9.30 p.m. of a cold evening in the rain. So we landed on S. Uist, soon to see the truth of Macculloch’s description, ” A strange collection of sands, bogs, lakes, mountains, sea lochs and islands.”

Tuesday morning was grey and cold, with the clouds well clown on the low hills along the east side of the island. We had thought that an ascent of Hecla, although only 1,988 feet, might give us virtue by reason of the name, but the idea of a climb into dense cloud after a four mile struggle with the peat bogs soon lost its glamour and we did not possess Botterrill’s facilities for penetrating the island to the base of the mountain (Y.R.C.J. Vol. VI No. 19). So we set forth to traverse the island from south to north, feeling secure in the characteristic of these parts, namely an inn at either end joined by the island’s solitary road. It was a trudge against a north easter, the sky was grey, the road was straight, no woods, no villages, no hills in all that twenty miles, only the moor and the road and innumerable acidic lochans – the moor, ” the awful blanket of peat ” as Eraser Darling puts it, (Natural History in the Highlands and Islands) compared with which Rannoch Moor looks fertile, – and the only relief was four trees ; these though only six feet high were definitely trees, and the only ones we saw in Barra, S. Uist and Benbecula. So we were not displeased when the bus overtook us and carried us to the inn at the north end of the island. We were rebuffed, but undaunted crossed the bridge to the south end of Benbecula, to find similar scenery but a more commodious hostelry. The manager here also pleaded cattle dealers and fixed us up at the north end of the island, where, after a brisk five miles walk we got a warm welcome, and for the first time met one of these ubiquitous merchants.

The next morning was still cold and dull, and we felt that even Kingsley might have found the wild north easter less attractive had he tried it in like circumstances for so long.

We had a walk round the north west corner of Benbecula in the morning, and had a look at the Monach Islands and, for the first time marram, machair, and a little arable land. Then to the aerodrome, where, after watching the mail plane come in and off load on to a dog-cart, we joined a lady and a couple of children, the only other passengers in our 28-seater. As we took off the sky began to clear and we flew straight on into sunshine and distant views and Hebridean blue. We judged our height at 2,000 feet as the plane crossed N. Uist diagonally, and continued up the east coast of Lewis and Harris. Skye came into sight at last, and the mainland from Gairloch northwards. Fortunately there was no contact between the newest mode of transport and the oldest rocks in Europe, and our only discomfort was that when we alighted on what we thought to be the Stornoway airport our fellow traveller remarked, ” How nice to be at Tiree so soon ” ; but we trusted our map reading and disembarked.

The herring fleet was in, some Dutch fishing boats and a formidable fisheries cruiser, so having gazed with pleasure on the trees in the Castle grounds, and watched the herring fleet steam out, we took our tea and discussed the future. But let it be put on record that we ate ambrosia, herring of immaculate freshness, grilled in oatmeal, fish which outclassed Dover Sole or Red Mullet, and put to shame all the gastronomic gallimaufry from anchovies to Zabaglione.

We changed our plans completely, boarded the Loch Ness and so came to Mallaig about seven o’clock of a grey showery morning. At Morar post office we paused awhile to lighten our sacks. A car overtook us and stopped ; it was our friend the cattle dealer and although we never quite found out how he got there or where he was going we gladly accepted a lift. He stopped at Glenfinnan and we alighted. Sale said ” When I was here some ten years ago, before the war, a launch started down Loch Shiel at 1 p.m., it is now 12.55 p.m. and the jetty is about half a mile away.” It takes more than Hitler to upset the Lady of the Lake, and all that afternoon she bore us gently towards Acharacle some twenty miles down the loch.

Next day secure in the knowledge that shortly we should be pursued by a bus, we made our way up Loch Sunart leaving Ben Resipol cloud capped on our left. The bus arrived at Strontian and bore us up Glen Tarbet, but at the water shed we left the driver to complete his journey unaided, dropped down the road to Loch Linnhe and walked a pleasant six miles along its shore to Ardgour. Acceleration over the last mile was painful but necessary – we caught the last ferry which caught the last bus – and achieved Fort William.

The idea behind the stern struggle to reach Fort William was to have a look at the Mamore Forest road, shown as General Wade’s Military Road on the i in. ordnance map. It was an easy day and just as well, for the weather was sultry and the route at first held little of interest except a glimpse of the southern slopes of Ben Nevis. The Mamore Forest hills are not seen to great advantage, except for Stob B^an, which from this side is as white as any one could reasonably require ; but finally one reaches the steep descent to Loch Leven and looks down and across the loch over thin birch woods. It was Saturday afternoon when we strolled into Kinlochleven without a care in the world – to be brought up all standing by the most frightening sight I have ever seen in the High­lands – a shinty cup tie.

Next morning, still burdened by the Plan, we climbed a winding road through the birches and followed in the tracks of General-Wade, if not of Major Caulfield, across the moor to the watershed between Glencoe and the River Leven. The pass was not at the lowest point of the ridge and the reason appeared to be to avoid a long stretch of bog which presumably was equally unattractive in 1750 or thereabouts. By now low clouds had returned and we saw little to the north, but Bachaille Etive lay in front formidable and grim as the storm approached. We strolled gently down the Devil’s Staircase to the Glencoe road, ate our lunch in great contentment, packed our sacks and stopped a bus. It was going to Glasgow and we went with it.

D. L. Reed.