Doing The Donalds

by D. J. Farrant

In May 1974 my Odyssey around the Munros was completed on Ruadh Stac Mor and in an article for the 1976 Journal I reflected on the question of what to do next. To some extent this had already been settled because earlier in 1974 I had had a most enjoyable day on the hills in the Scottish Borders and thus got started on the ascent of the Donalds.

These are very much less well-known than the Munros and owe their classification to Percy Donald who compiled a list of “all hills in the Scottish Lowlands 2,000 feet in height and above.” A distinction between hills and tops is established, as in Munro’s Tables, which provides a total of 86 hills and 133 tops, but this is much less clear than with the larger mountains and most of those setting out to climb the Donalds would surely regard 133 as the realistic target. In addition there is an appendix section of a further 15 areas that do not merit inclusion as tops but are nevertheless enclosed by an isolated 2,000 foot contour. The metric conversion is fast doing away with the special distinction of a peak above 2,000 feet but such a change can fortunately do nothing to destroy the beauty and solitude of these most attractive hills.

It took me four years and two days to complete the ascent of these summits and 34 days were required on the hills. The longest took eight hours but I was out for more than six hours on only six occasions. The total walking time was 147 hours 30 minutes (an average of about 65 minutes per peak) and the distance covered was 320 miles. I was accompanied by fifteen different companions whose total of Donalds on these days came to 129.

These statistics carry their own interest but it is the topographical details that spring more readily to mind. These hills, unlike the Highlands, have very few areas where one feels any real sense of remoteness. Roads and towns are near, yet never intrusive, and the county and parish boundaries which so often take the line of the ridges are frequently marked with dykes or fences, so that even in the thickest weather it is virtually impossible to get lost. Similarly, apart from certain well-known danger spots like the Grey Mare’s Tail, there are few steep drops so that safety is usually assured. In case of trouble, help is quite near and with the hills not being so high, the extremes of weather are only rarely experienced. That is not to say one should underestimate these (or any) hills: I have frequently taken an ice-axe on them in winter (though I cannot recall an occasion where it proved to be essential), and men have died here in a sudden winter blizzard as the cairn to Ralph Forlow beneath the Rhinns of Kells testifies. Nevertheless these are, not areas for which a fully-equipped mountain rescue service is necessary—or available. Having said this, though, I must recall an incident when a pupil of mine (fortunately not on an expedition in which I was involved) collapsed from exposure on the Merrick range in a July rainstorm and was spectacularly snatched off the ridge by a helicopter.

Despite a few steep faces here and there, the contours of these hills are fairly gentle and there is little opportunity for rock-climbing. Perhaps as a result they do not very often attract mountaineers and are thus invariably open and lonely. Galloway is different, having always had its corps of devotees, but elsewhere I can hardly recall ever meeting another soul.

Donald has catalogued his hills in twelve sections from the Ochils to the Cheviots (where there are two peaks on the Union Boundary) but in my experience the large group in the middle of the region tended to merge without an appreciable division. The distinct groups are the Ochils, for which one has to cross the Forth, and the Galloway hills which, as I have suggested, have a quality all their own that is more reminiscent of the Trossachs or the Lake District than part of the Southern Uplands. This latter phrase is the title of Andrew and Thrippleton’s admirable guide to the region in the S.M.C. District Series and I found it invaluable both as a source of interesting local information and as a starting point in route preparation.

I had no particular strategy in climbing these hills—this would have spoilt the spontaneity of arranging occasional days out in areas that suited certain companions. Indeed, the very lack of planning was different from the Munros where the exercise in logistics was often quite complicated. My days on these hills were usually single ones and on only a couple of occasions did I make a weekend of it and take the tent. I found all of the hills easily accessible from my home in Edin-burgh, the farthest point being Glen Trool about three hours away. A further consideration here is the present price of petrol which was about 3 Op a gallon when I was rushing off to the north-west Highlands; I doubt whether I could afford to attempt the Munros now.

With this unplanned approach to climbing the hills, I thus have a kaleidoscope of memories that can easily be stirred by turning the pages of my diary. Several of the days were spent in hard winter weather with plenty of snow on the ground and a crisp frost in the air. On an ascent of Dollar Law we found horizontal icicles almost a foot long protruding from the fence posts; on another December day on the round of Great Hill from Talla Linnfoots it was so windy with the spindrift being flung in our faces that we almost had to abandon the route and in fact were able to make any progress only when we began to swing round the horseshoe and get before the wind; then early in the New Year was the day when we failed to complete the round of Glenholm and were driven valleywards by a stinging blizzard. In contrast, however, are the memories of some marvellous summer days. There was an evening trip to the Ochils in May when the head of Dollar Glen above Castle Campbell was alive with the call of the cuckoo and when I watched a hen harrier voraciously quartering the higher ground. I had another evening walk from Moorbrock at the head waters of the Ken which began with a pair of buzzards circling over Beninner and ended in the last glimmer of daylight with the first drops of a heavy rainstorm that had obligingly held off until I had pitched the tent.

In these hills there is an abundance of wild life. As I went up the Bowmont Water one rich December morning to climb into the Cheviots, I was thrilled to see my first kingfisher flash upstream in a blur of silky blue. On almost every expedition in the Manor and Moffat hills I saw a fox. The best day, though, was undoubtedly one of continuous interest on Cairns-more of Fleet. The morning had begun unfavourably with drenching rain and it looked as if these conditions were in for the day. We drove down to Clatteringshaws Loch in a mood to abandon all ideas of a walk when lighter streaks started to open up the western sky and within ten minutes the sun was shining. We went down the forestry track to Dallash, beneath the northern flank of the mountain, and were soon away up the slopes. Within minutes we had put up a pair of stags and then we found a most handsome peacock butterfly on a boulder beside the track. As we climbed higher we saw a small herd of feral goats—so much more attractive than the roadside scroungers in the artificial enclosure on the main road at Murray’s Monument—and then beside the twisted metal of the wartime German bomber on the summit slopes we saw a lizard dart into the rocks. After a traverse of the tops we dropped down over some refreshingly bilberry-strewn ledges into the glen and suddenly as I was in mid-stride an adder flicked between my boots. I leapt upwards—more in surprise than fear (or so I claimed)—which sent the snake darting into the heather but it was an attractive specimen of about two feet long.

Another of the pleasures to be derived from the Donalds is that one can so often enjoy a magnificent view from the summits. The prospect from Cairnsmore of Fleet, especially following the rapid clearance of the belt of rain, was particularly fine, displaying the long reach of the Antrim coast and the Mountains of Mourne, the spine of the Isle of Man with Snaefell in the centre, and the stretch of sandstone of the Cumbrian Coast down to St. Bees Flead and Black Combe; then to the north were Ailsa Craig and Arran as well as all the Galloway Hills. There is another fine panorama from the Ochils reaching as far as Lochnagar and Ben Macdhui in the north, while in the west are the magnificent mountains of Perthshire, surmounted by the pyramid of Schiehallion. Yet my favourite viewpoint was Queensberry, the most southerly peak in the Lowthers, which I climbed on a beautiful August day from Mitchellslacks, where James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was once a herdsman. This summit has the advantage of a central position with clear sightlines in all the interesting directions. Ireland, the Isle of Man and the Cumbrian coast were all clearly visible again but we also had the full stretch of the Lakeland fells from Buttermere to Skiddaw, inland were Cross Fell and the Pennines and slightly further across was the big bulk of the Cheviots; to the west was a clear view of Goat Fell on Arran, whilst to the north, beyond a huge expanse of flat lowland country, could be seen Ben More, Stobinian and Balquhidder.

The days that especially cling to the memory, though, must be those spent in the enchanting corner of Galloway. The full ridge of the Rhinns of Kells from Loch Doon to Loch Dee was the longest day and from Coran of Portmark to Meikle Millyea we traversed nine peaks in eight hours, skilfully dodging the showers that seemed to be falling everywhere else. The quintessential section is the sharply defined ridge on either side of Car-lin’s Cairn, and it was here, with a well-developed faculty for the art of strange meetings, that I encountered a man with his wife and daughter and discovered after some general cross-talk that we had been at school together. The other long north-south traverse of the region is over the Merrick from Shallock on Minnoch to Benyellary and this works out best if one can afford the luxury of a car at each end. The route from the summit of the Straiton road begins in rather unexciting manner but the way gets grander at every step, culminating in the Spear of Merrick and the final plunge to the Bruce’s Stone in Glen Trool. In between these long ridges lie three incredibly rocky little peaks: the Dungeon Range of Mullwharcher, Dungeon Hill and Craignaw, none higher than 2,270 feet but possessing all the character one would require of a mountain. From Glen Trool we climbed up beside the Buchan Burn to the remarkable configuration in the rock known as The Grey Man of Merrick. This is a strikingly life-like facial resemblance but one has to look quite hard to find it unless its exact position is known. From the little col behind it we came down to the clear white sands of Loch Enoch, the grains of which are so abrasive that this is immediately evident to the touch. They used to be very popular with knife-grinders in days of old. Mullwharcher, the hill of the hunting horn, stands behind the loch and its ascent is made much easier by the granite pavements that are overlaid amongst the tougher heather. The view northwards to Loch Doon is very fine and one’s blood boils at the serious threat that has been made to this area to use it as a deposit ground for expended nuclear fuel rods. Our route now lay back to Dungeon Hill which meant dropping almost to loch level before climbing back to the rocky summit plateau that rises above the encircling shoulder of crags and which gives a view down to the sinister grey criss-cross of the Silver Flowe, a marsh that has claimed more than one life. The final stage of the ridge onto Craignaw is the most exciting part and involves a sharp descent to the steeply defiled cut called The Nick of the Dungeon and then a testing little scramble up a Skye-type gully to another summit plateau. This was great fun on a clear day but I should not relish the route-finding in mist. The way down lay at first over the welcome granite pavements but then across treacherous slopes of heather in which large unstable boulders are cunningly concealed. However, the final run-out down the Gairland Burn is sheer joy and made a delightful finish to the day.

Thus at the Christmas period of 1977 I found myself with just a handful of Donalds remaining and on a cold day in the New Year, following a night of heavy snowfall, I set out with two of my most regular companions to walk over the final three peaks from the Megget Stone to Broughton. We began with a hair-raisingly unsuccessful attempt to get my car up the icy hairpins of the 1 in 5 above Talla; as we slid backwards out of control I realised that some error of judgement had been made …. However, that is another story, and we walked the extra four miles along the road instead. The route over Clockmore, Cramalt Craig and finally Hunt Law was pleasantly exhilarating on a cold, clear windless day and we were down at Stanhope a comfortable hour before dusk.

It was pleasant to have completed a different aspect of Scottish mountaineering—less dramatic or arduous than the Munros but having a charm all its own. The inevitable question of what next could be posed but I am just about to go and live in British Columbia so it looks as if I shall be poised —and spoilt for choice—between Mount McKinley and Mount Baker or Mount Robson and Mount Waddington. This is indeed a prospect to gladden the heart.