Those Blue Remembered Hills

by D. J. Farrant

Down the ages many reasons have been advanced for climbing mountains: in Biblical times, as in Classical Greece, the mist-shrouded summits seemed the most appropriate residence for the Gods and mortal men ascended in a spirit of awe and trepidation. Himalayan expeditions have been asked not to climb the last five feet of their mountain to avoid a trespass on the dwelling of the Holy One. John Hunt quietly asked Hillary to leave a crucifix on the summit of Everest; on the last Sunday in July over fifty-thousand devout Irish men and women will climb the holy mountain of Croagh Patrick to hear Mass on the summit. On the other hand, men have built beacons on mountain tops to warn of invaders (a recent survey showed that only twelve summits would be needed in Britain to flash a message from John o’ Groats to Lands End) or have made ascent easy by the provision of railways and cable-cars, or have built cafes and observatories in the clouds.

We have done most of these things in Britain for a variety of motives, some sacred and some profane, yet a decisive answer as to why we seek the summits is as fleeting as a Brock-en Spectre or the Grey Man of Ben Muich Dhui.

In the nineteenth century Sir Hugh T. Munro, Bart., of Lindertis, compiled a set of tables in which he classified the 3,000 foot tops in Scotland, divided them into separate mountains and mere tops (coming up originally with 283 and 538) and ascended most of them personally. Unfortunately Sir Hugh died before his revision was complete and the work of record passed into the capable hands of a number of dist-inguished members of the Scottish Mountaineering Club. When the tables were re-classified, the totals became 276 and 544. These were added to by the “discovery” of Beinn Tarsuinn in Wester Ross and by the addition in the last couple of years of Beinn A’ Chlaidheimh and Ruadh Stac Mor in the same area as the result of the new ordnance survey.

This will probably destroy the concept of collecting Munros because all the measurements on the new maps will be metric. To complicate the issue further, the S.M.C. keeper of records, Eric Maxwell, died a few years ago and no obvious successor has come forward to assume this responsibility. The Scottish Mountaineering Club still publish annually in their Journal a list of those who complete the Munros (some 120 now) but in a recent letter to me their Secretary, Donald Bennet, doubts whether the records will continue, especially after the metric conversion. Furthermore, now that the two new Munros have been discovered, does this invalidate the success of the previous mountaineers who are now dead or too old to complete the new course?

Such arguments are of course purely legalistic and are nothing to do with the reasons why Sir Hugh with his tidy mind amassed his list in the first place and even less to do with the reasons why people try to climb them all. There is surely much more of a seeking after the places of the Gods than a mere desire to see one’s name in the record books.

In the Journal of 1966 I contributed an article on a holiday in the Highlands at Easter 1965 and mentioned then the ascent of Mullach Nan Coirean in the Mamores as my first Munro. Little did I realise what I had set in train during that memorable week that varied from a fortunate escape in a fall on ice on the Ben to an idyllic day on An Teallach when I discovered a new kingdom. If I were to be allowed a type of “Desert Island Discs” wish at the end of my climbing career, I think I should ask for that day over again. I have never climbed An Teallach since for fear the spell might be broken.

This introduction to the Scottish hills was followed by the supreme wisdom of taking a job in Edinburgh and thus being able to get away into the Highlands at the first opportunity. From there the memories blend and blur—and to chart my progress exactly I can refer to my climbing diary—but I prefer to linger on some of these memories and leave the facts and figures until later.

There was a blazing Torridon Easter in 1966 when for ten days we basked in glorious sunshine whilst the snow beneath us was crisp to the cut. A memorable traverse of Beinn Eighe began with eagles in the glen and ended with an exhausted descent many hours later into the dark chasm of Coire Mhic Fhearchair. An ascent of Beinn Alligin provided a view so diamond-sharp that Harris and Lewis seemed but offshore islands and the eye quested for St. Hilda which comes into vision on the rarest occasions.

A June weekend of sun and splendour on Ben Alder: the round of five hills above Culra Lodge that ended with a weary trudge off Beinn Bheoil and down to the burn beside our camp site. We lay contentedly for an age in the sparkling water and happily found the cans of beer that we had cunningly left there to cool all day. This was the occasion of my hundredth Munro.

There was the first visit to Skye: and it rained. We were caught in the most terrifying thunderstorm I have ever seen as the whole face of the Cuillin flamed orange and black in the smoky twilight and lightning flickered between the pinnacles— Gotterdammerung indeed. When the calm came we were eaten alive by the midges; we sought the tops and I got gripped on the gendarme on the West Ridge of Sgurr Nan Gillean. The second visit to Skye: we were flooded out of our bivouac; we drank whisky in a friend’s caravan at ten in the morning and still to some extent under its influence climbed the Cioch in the afternoon; Glen Brittle was flooded out and we fled in despair. The third visit to Skye and still it rained but at last at mid-day it cleared and we went to climb the east face of Clach Glas. This is a continuously interesting piece of route-finding rock work that ends magnificently with the summit cairn as the final handhold. The rain disappeared, the mists rose and the incomparable sweep of the Cuillin ridge swelled into the sky. The next day there was a walk across the moor from Sligachan to the Pinnacle Ridge of Sgurr Nan Gillean— one of the most marvellous ways to climb a mountain, continuously testing and revealing; we stood on the summit with two senior citizens who disclosed a wondrous thing, that one was 67 and his friend 79—the Gaelic name of the mountain means “The Peak of the Young Men;” perhaps it is true that it is in the mountains that one finds Shangri-La, or Tir-Nan-Og. The best wine was saved for our last day: the round of Coire Lagan. We began with an ascent of the Window Buttress, tricky to start with and then a grunting pull up an awkward corner to climb through the window; then on to Sgurr Dearg and down to climb the Inaccessible Pinnacle. I had longed to do this; what a position, what a sensation of exposure, but lovely, easy rock with firm holds at a decreasing angle. Ten minutes work and we were there. We continued the traverse over Sgurr Mhic Coinnich and Collie’s Ledge (not as frightening as it looks), onto Sgurr Thearlaich and finished on Sgurr Alasdair to complete the day. I lay in my sleeping-bag that night in a state of utter contentment.

The very writing causes the memories to flood back without need of reference. Dalwhinnie in a February blizzard when we could not see and were given a lift through the pass on a snow-plough; staying one April in the old school house at Kinloch Ffourn that still contained the equipment from its last use in the 1920’s and then being snow-bound because the car could not negotiate the hill until the thaw.

There were four visits in a couple of years to Glen Shiel that contained a number of magnificent days. Two of them on the Cluanie ridge, a superb November morning on Beinn Sgriol when the first winter snow was on the ground and when the stags were roaring in the glen as if to answer the cries of the circling eagles on the summits, an epic traverse of Beinn Fhada on a day after a torrential storm that ended with the most dangerous river crossing I have ever attempted at the head of Glen Lichd.

Then there were three Easter holidays at a cottage in Glen Affric. The first year gave us superb weather and provided glorious days on Cam Eige and Mam Sodhail, the Strathfarrar ridge and Sgurr Na Lapaich. I remember sitting beside Loch Toll A’ Mhuic at the end of a beautifully sunny traverse of the Strathfarrar hills, talking to my young companion about the way in which the beauties of the earth can strike to the heart. I thought of Gustav Mahler, who sensing the approach of death, poured out the quintessence of his soul in “Das Lied von Der Erde,” in a passionate elegy of farewell to the world he loved so much. There was another day too on Sgurr Na Lapaich when we climbed up the long south-east ridge in ever sunnier and warmer weather until at last we sat in the summit shelter still in our shirt sleeves and lazed for half an hour. The second year in the region was a harder one, trying to find ways to some of the remoter peaks and succeeding in reaching Beinn Fhionnlaidh (Affric Lodge—Mam Sodhail—Cam Eige and straight on), An Riabhachan and An Socach (the road beyond the Monar Dam that leads into Gleann Innis An Loichel), and what our limited Gaelic had transposed into Sgurr nan Chrysanthemum (there is a forestry road up there too that takes you to Athnamulloch and permission to use it is usually granted out of the tourist season; this allowed us to do the round of Ceathreamhnan and Creag A’ Choir’ Aird in about hours). The third year in poorer weather had as its highlight a safari by Land Rover into the remote parts of the Attadale Estate to climb Lurg Mhor and Bidein A’ Choire Sheasgaich, being honoured with the company of a Scottish climber whose last day on the hills had been on the south-west face of Everest. We were kindly given permission by the owner to use the estate road to Bendronaig Lodge, which makes the ascent of this remote pair of hills relatively easy, but the road is thrilling and only a vehicle with four-wheel drive could possibly negotiate it.

By this time I had notched up over 200 Munros and had got to the delicious stage of being able to count down rather than upwards and had by now learned to live with my wife’s very justified and forbearing observation that it was easy to plot where our next few holidays would be. So the list dwindled until I was left with twenty in the Wester Ross area. A summer trip to the Fannichs took care of nine of them and I came to the New Year of 1974 with only eleven remaining.

I have been so fortunate with Easter weather in the Highlands that I hardly dared hope for success in this respect once more as four of us set out at the end of March for The Smiddy, the beautifully appointed J.M.C.S. hut at Dundonnell. Once again, however, we struck gold. There was a splendid day on the Beinn Dearg range from Inverlael that enabled me to see only my third dotterel. The following day, 1st April, was a fascinating expedition up the private road to Rhidorroch Old Lodge (by kind permission of Major Scobie) to wander into the wild and find Seana Bhraigh. I lived up to the spirit of the day by falling head first into a bum before the first hour was up, but eventually we tracked down this lonely peak—a feat of navigation I should not welcome in mist. The northern corries of the mountain are a revelation: deep, riven clefts, shattering drops and a scale comparable with the corries of Beinn Eighe or Liathach.
 
Then there were six, so I staked all on a half-term trip to Shenavall at the end of May. We were a goodly company: two pupils of mine with strong endurance records on the hills, Rory, a timid little skeltie whose only complaint was a river crossing, and his master, a Church of Scotland minister. I felt that most eventualities had been provided for. We walked in over the moor on a miraculous Friday evening. The tops of An Teallach were flecked with tiny clouds, pink streaks dappled the sky and the cuckoos were calling in Strath Na Sealga as we came down the rocks to this remote and uninhabited kingdom.

The following morning we set out with high hopes to do the full round of six peaks and almost succeeded. The weather seemed to favour us as we struck up the ridge of Beinn A’ Chlaidheimh but on the long section across to Sgurr Ban it suddenly turned vicious and the mist and rain swirled in, ruining our views for the rest of the day. Nothing daunted, we continued over the fine conical peak of Mullach Coire Mhic Fhearchair, along the sharp ridge of Beinn Tarsuinn to the head of the glen and then up the slopes of Scotland’s remotest mountain, A’Mhaighdean. There the original ordnance surveyors lost their courage, and though there is no actual mention on the map of “Here bee dragons” the details are woefully inaccurate. In the mist not only could we not see the magnificent mountain scenery that we knew lay all around but nor could we get our bearings. We tried to find our last objective, Ruadh Stac Mor, but appeared to be plunging down a rocky hillside well below any imaginable col and felt it safer to cut our losses and return to the main glen. We could undoubtedly have completed the round but nonetheless felt utterly drained of strength when at last we returned to Shenavall, only minutes less than twelve hours after we had set out.

The next morning, despite rain and cloud, we were not to be denied and took a fail-safe course to the elusive Ruadh Stac Mor. We found the steep red slope implied by its title and eventually emerged on the summit plateau and reached the shelter of stones around the trig, point. There was a spell of rejoicing and congratulation, photographs were taken in the mist and a secret bottle of whisky for a celebratory dram was produced from the rucksack.

What does one feel when the goal is achieved? Tired and happy, undoubtedly, but in my case no desire like Alexander the Great to sit down and weep that there are no more worlds to conquer. There are faults in Munro-bagging of course: one can merely climb separate peaks without regard for the topography of the area—how absurd to climb Spidean A’ Choire Leith without completing the summit traverse of Liathach over the Fasarinen Pinnacles; one can ignore anything below 3,000 ft.—how foolish to turn the back on Suilven, Quinag, Stac Pollaidh, the Cobbler, or never go to Rhum or Arran; one can climb everything once and nothing twice—how shortsighted not to want to return to Nevis, Torridon, Skye . . . . I feel, though, that the prime value of climbing the Munros lies in one’s acquaintance with every part of mountain Scotland. In my case this has served only to sharpen my appetite and to cause me to seek to return to as many of the wonderful places with which I may now justly claim kin.

In Elgar’s Enigma Variations there are two themes: the musical one that the composer offers in various settings to identify his friends and the underlying enigmatic theme that is surely the harmonizing bond of friendship. Thus do I associate my mountains with my friends and my final answer to the question posed in the first paragraph would be that I climb for the sake of companionship and find in the mountains the perfect spiritual setting.

Appendix: Factual Information on the Ascent of the Munros

Year	Munros	Days	Hours	Miles
1965	9	6	48	51
1966	20	13	89	97
1967	54	27	156	238
1968	34	17	109	139
1969	42	29	166	251
1970	38	20	122	192
1971	27	17	93	158
1972	24	15	94	174
1973	20	10	65	115
1974	11	4	34	54
TOTALS:	279	158	976	1,469

Time taken:  Friday, 16th April, 1965 to Sunday, 26th May, 1974 9 years, 1 month, 10 days.
Companions:  55 different people whose aggregate of Munros in my company is 456.