I've always loved being outside and hated being cooped up indoors. When friends at school gathered in the playground to replay the previous night's TV and review the latest jokes, I would listen intently and try to join in. Sometimes I could get the gist of a story and enter into the conversation, laughing along at the tales of who did what or what was said by this comedian or that. But I could rarely drum up the enthusiasm or effort required to carry off a fully fledged discussion on the latest topic. You see, when my mates were indoors watching telly, I was usually outside. Didn't matter what I was doing, I was just outside, and at the time I even thought of myself as a bit of an oddity. I wanted to be cool and watch what they watched, do what they did, have the latest trainers or football kit. I wanted to like what my friends liked and go to the places they frequented….but I wanted to be outdoors more than any of that.
It all started on camping trips to Arran in the summer holidays. Aims (in no particular order) -
- go camping
- get a massive carry-out
- check out the local talent
- live on tins of whatever for a week
- run wild.
Now, don't get me wrong - I enjoyed all of the above and was usually pretty darned good at it. I could run wild as much as the next guy and party till the break of day, and then get a couple of hours kip and start all over again. Hey, you're only young once, right?
But things changed one amazing morning when I woke early and decided to go for a walk.
Base camp was Glen Rosa, a lawless hinterland at the gateway to some of the most amazing mountain country Arran had to offer. Far enough away from the town to ensure wild shenanigans would go unnoticed (or unpunished!), and close enough to nature that I felt like some kind of frontiersman. Someone once asked me what I intended to use the seven inch Bowie Knife I was carrying for. I replied that it was for hunting. That sounded manly enough. When asked what I would hunt with it, I hadn't a clue. But it looked the business! Anyway, John Rambo carried one in First Blood, and if it was good enough for Rambo, it was certainly good enough for me.
Anyway, back to the walk.
It really was a fine morning, Heaven sent, I reckon. 8.00am. Everyone else was fast asleep, deeply hungover after managing to stagger back to their tents about two hours earlier. I was the same. But, for some reason I couldn't sleep, so I decided to explore the upper reaches of the glen. I'd spotted some guys bivvying on the valley floor on a previous sortie and was kind of impressed - real mountain men! This looked way more macho than swanning around with a knife and a can of lager. So I thought I'd go and see what the attraction was.
One exceedingly steep scramble up some loose scree and bracken later and I was right in among the sort of place I could only dream of - Torr Breac, I reckon. A wee pimple of a crag on the way up to Cul Nan Creagan. Maybe so, but what a view I had. A herd of Red Deer bounded away (downwind of me) in the distance. A gentle stream trickled in the background, as birds sang in the morning sunshine. And, you know what? (much cheesieness about to take place) I felt glad to be alive. In fact, I'd never felt more alive and free. I'd only wandered about a mile from the campsite, but it felt like a hundred miles. Right there and then I knew, without a shadow of doubt that this was where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be. This was what I wanted to do with my spare time. In fact, at that moment in time I felt like dropping everything and going back to nature. I didn't know exactly what that meant, but I knew I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything, ever!
And so, fast forward about ten years to that box-ticking day I'd started to tell you about before I got all thoughtful and un-manly: we'd just come off Ben Vane in thick cloud, heavy rain and a fairly stiff breeze. Fair to say it was "blawin' a hoolie." (technical term).
"Lets nip over to Ben Vorlich and knock it off before dinner". Seemed like a good idea and so we scampered off down to Sloy Dam and virtually ran up the hill. In the mist and howling wind we steamed off in the general direction of the summit, eager to tick it off and add another Munro to our rapidly increasing haul. All we saw of Ben Vorlich that awful day was the inside of our hoods. We could've been anywhere, on any hill, on the surface of the moon, but all that mattered was achieving the summit. Mission accomplished!
Fast forward another twenty years and things are so different now (and yet, not so different). It's a beautiful Spring day. The sun is shining and there's a gentle breeze, just enough to be enjoyably cool and not too warm and sticky. My companion for today is my daughter Rachel. She's sixteen and full of the joys of youth. The same age I was, some thirty years previously, on that fine morning in Glen Rosa. She's out in the hills with her auld Paw, looking to climb Ben Vorlich.
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| Looking across to Ben Vane |
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| Father and Daughter |
We somehow managed to miss the footpath from the road to Sloy Dam, which made the going difficult initially, before eventually locating it when were tiring - phew! From there, it was easy going all the way to the summit, crossing a few small snow fields. But, in contrast to my first experience of this hill, what a joy today was! Fine weather. Even finer company. A great hill, with magnificent views to the southern end of Loch Lomond on one side, and a panorama of peaks, flat-bottomed/fluffy topped clouds and amazing Spring colours all around. Rachel took a number of panoramic photos, of which the one she took at the summit found its way onto my Facebook page as a cover photo - excellent photography, Rach!
