Over the Hills and Far Away

My last blog referred, in my tantrum-like, mardy conclusion, to ‘my pisspot life’. Can I just say that it was not a statement on my life. It was a swear word like saying ‘bloody life’ or ‘sodding life’ or something else which is attached without being descriptive. It was my humour which was in a pisspot state, not my life. I’ve had a good one. Marrying the kid I wanted too and loving her for forty five years and having three daughters I’m immensely proud of for being nice and loving.

Anyway sorry for my mardy bum tanty rum. But it still is very hard and I’m not great at handling adversity.

It had been snowing in Inchnadamph when I woke up, having spent a relatively sleepless night wrestling with whether I should get on the bus at 08.00 on the way home or not. I’d set the alarm to get the bus but when my feet touched the floor the grinding pain on the blisters and sores had reduced a lot. A second factor in deciding to give it another try was a message from Chris Morrish, a Gashead mate who has been right supportive through the South West trek and on this one. I’m carrying on as long as I physically can. 

I actually met two guys at the hostel who were walking the trail in the opposite direction. The first real walkers I’d seen in five days. They were able to give me some advice over breakfast on the route to come, stopping places and potential problems. Good advice thanks.

I set off towards Oykell Bridge with a view to ending up 23 miles away at a bothy in the hills beyond the bridge. (By the way bothies are old cottages or sheds in wilderness areas which are maintained by volunteers and which provide free shelter for walkers). It meant climbing up to a pass to the west and round the brooding hulk of Conival, a shoulder to shoulder mountain twin of Ben More Assynt, which is better known but a mere 33 feet higher than Conival. I chose the wrong side of the river to go uphill on and missed the track from the first step. It was rough ground when I’d hoped to make some quick progress. It took me an hour to find a river crossing point and it was snowing now again.

Finally I got over the other side, when the river became smaller and crossable. It had cost me an hour and valuable energy too. I climbed up the track directly towards snow-covered Conival.

After hours of climbing I reached the start of the pass, having used my GPS device to make sure I was going in exactly the right direction as the path had disappeared. I could see another person’s tracks in the snow but they were a few days old and kept disappearing under more recent snow. Conival got closer and the views looking back to Inchnadamph, Loch Assynt and out towards the sea beyond became awe inspiring.

The distant view, to the west, of Suilven which is a big chunk of a mountain was fabulous. To cap it all the weather temporarily cleared.

Carrying on upwards the pass seemed to get further and further away and Conival was getting broodier.

  I met a bloke walking coming the other way. He had camped in the valley and seemed disoriented. He asked if I was English, which is bizarre as he was Geordie and they sound more like Danish than English – Whyaay. He had been 16 days in the wilderness and had another 16 to go. He must have stunk the dirty pillock.

I finally made the point where the water started running down away from me, rather than back behind me after wading through snow drifts on the top.

I could see the valley down to Ben More Lodge and Oykell Bridge 15 miles beyond with rain sweeping up the middle. 

There was no track and I dropped down through the peat bogs, across the river in the valley and went up to the snow line on the hill to the left of this photo above. Walking down the valley from this height I would be less likely to get sucked into the bogs and would see any track below me if one arrived. Eventually I did find a track. Looking backwards to the east of Conival was the hulking Ben More Assynt.

 Going down the valley took me hours and hours, eating only a tin of tuna since breakfast and not taking a break. After 10 hours and 19 miles of walking I finally arrived at Oykell Bridge at 7.30 at night and there was a choice. There in the middle of nowhere was a posh hunting, shooting and salmon fishing hotel. I could stay here or cross the river and climb up four further miles to a freezing and lonely bothy in the dark. For some reason I can’t explain (but probably financial) I turned left and aimed for the Old Schoolhouse bothy. I was exhausted  at that time and forced myself along the uphill track until it was right dark. I couldn’t do any more. I got my map, torch and GPS out and referenced my position on the map. I shouted out loud, I’m there I’m there. I was only half a mile away and I pulled my body along. To get there when it’s tough I count my steps and somehow it gives me strength. I gave it 1700 steps to get there, my legs are shorter than yours. At long last it emerged from the dark and I eased the door open whispering, Sorry to arrive so late and disturb you.  There was no-one there. I fell into the place, put my sleeping bag on the wooden bench and got all my clothes on and my soaking wet boots and socks off.  The Old Schoolhouse is thin walled and cold.

It got down to below zero inside! There was no fireplace and I slept badly on the bench. The hardness doesn’t bother me because I’ve slept on hard surfaces many times now, but the cold was extreme. I had six layers on my top, including two thermals, a balaclava and a hat, thermal leggings, trousers and two pairs of socks as well as my sleeping bag. I was still so cold I couldn’t sleep. I pulled my rucksack with still a lot of gear inside it on top of me and eventually dropped off for a few interrupted hours. Christ it was pisspot cold. 

Night night.