Longer Outbreaks of Rain

Tony Smythe

As I sit in my van at Kinlochhourn listening to the machine gun rattle of gusts of rain and mulling over the previous 36 hours, I could give this piece the title, ‘Trench Foot in Knoydart’.  This peninsular must be the wettest place in the mid-west.  It wasn’t as though it rained huge amounts – just enough to keep an anorak on, hood up, most of the time – it was the splosh factor.  That rich green, thigh-deep grass concealing an all-absorbing sponge underfoot, extending right up to two and a half thousand feet.  Nice for the myriads of frogs, not so good for leather boots.

However, to go back to the beginning.  I had not previously ventured along the 25 mile single track road from Invergarry.  Next time I shall keep the speed down to save the vehicle contents being flipped like a pancake at various points.

Mrs. Margaret Potter at the farm at KH took a couple of quid off me for parking, but I couldn’t grumble.  She chatted cheerfully and noted my Reg. No. and checked my likely length of stay, ‘for the safety’ she said.  I couldn’t help feeling though that it only meant that if I came to grief my corpse might be searched for sooner rather than later!  It was still early September but cold windy weather with hailstorms was forecast – good for keeping midges grounded but definitely unfavourable for waiting to be rescued.

I set off at 7.20 next morning with 3 days’  provisions and a tent (more about this joke later).  The seven mile path alongside Loch Hourn to Barrisdale has plenty of interest – crofts down on the seashore, herons at frequent intervals suggesting that the fishing is so good each bird is settling for less territory than customary, and a few ups and downs to test the fitness of the intrepid wilderness seeker with his big pack.

Barrisdale is a flat open glen making an estuary with Loch Hourn.  The sense of peace and solitude is wonderful.  Cloud hung low denying me a view of ‘Larven’ (Ladhar Bheinn) described as one of the finest mountains in Scotland, with views from it among the best in the land.  Ian the Ghillie assured me that no stalking was taking place that day so I decided to head first for a pair of peaks which might be affected by this activity another day – Luinne Bheinn and Meall Buidhe, which lie to the south and make a good circuit from the pass of Mam Barrisdale.  On the sheltered side of the pass I pitched my tent – sheltered however, is a relative term.  I ought to explain that my tent is more of an embarrassment than accommodation for the night.  I think of it as a ‘cornflakes packet’ tent – 2 tokens plus £4.99 (plus postage and packing).  I wasn’t sure that it would survive the hefty gusts and stowed its contents in a dustbin bag as a precaution.

Within 5 minutes of setting off a squall of rain and cloud drove in, but just as my morale had reached a low ebb the peaks cleared – it was going to be one of those variable days and well worth persevering .  The first peak, the ‘Loony Bin’, I reached in more thick cloud but potential navigational cockups on the descent to the col were saved by a perfectly timed clearance.  After that, ten thousand Munro seekers had beaten a groove in the peat between the crags up to Meall Buidhe and its dinky cairn then I made my escape down the grassy Coire Torc.  Mistake!  This was an exhausting ankle-wrenching battle with lumpy soggy ground deeply buried in lush grass and my temper was hardly improved when an hour later I found that the tent, still standing was full of water.  I scooped it up (the tent) and retreated to the bothy at Barrisdale.  The only other occupants were a German couple and a girl called Lucy who had run out of food and gazed at my supplies so wistfully that I shared some with her.

This was the first time I had used a bothy.  As shelter for the night they’re an awful lot better than being outside if it’s blowing  and raining, especially if you have only a tent like mine, but the accommodation was austere – no fire (removed for ‘insurance reasons’) and bunks a mere hard platform like a mortuary slab on which you arrange your mattress (I had none, having expected to be cushioned by best Knoydart turf).  However, after such a strenuous day I slept well – although the following afternoon when I called to collect my tent etc. and was packing up completely on my own I heard footsteps in the sealed loft above.  Strangely I did not feel scared, just curious!

My second day started clear and after donning clammy wet boots and clothes I set off for ‘Larven’.  A stalkers’ path leads conveniently round into Coire Dorcail but I decided against the classic traverse of Stop a Chearcail first as it looked wet, greasy, steep and horrible.  I headed for the easier north-east ridge, although the burn crossing was excitingly acrobatic.  The summit was magnificent – a roof top from which a magical clearance gave me a view of the Cuillin.  Then 5 minutes later I was battered by a hailstorm that nearly blew me off the ridge, a real taste of winter.

So, eventually, later that day there I was on the path back to Kinlochhourn, soggy, numb from a fairly intensive 36 hours and counting my steps in twenties on the up parts of the ups and downs.  I must go again in the summer.