Number Nine.

Well, I've done it - my route for the 2011 TGO Challenge has been submitted and I await my vetter's comments. This will be my ninth official challenge walk (I say 'official' because 2001 was truncated owing to the foot & mouth outbreak and although Alan, Mick & I did achieve an entire crossing, we officially signed in at Newtonmore).

So Nine it is - that makes this walk quite important to me, as the next, being my tenth, means an automatic acceptance when I next apply. Apparently it also confers upon me the title of "Legend" in Challenge circles, although I hasten to add that plodders such as I are distinguished from the real legends by the careful pronounciation of the term: "Leg - End".

I still blame Alan Sloman for all of this (see this post for evidence of his guilt) but at least I have come to understand his evangelism for the event. Now I am guilty of it too. I have already had my brother-in-law cross with me in 2004, and a potential victim for 2012 has already been selected. Time to hone your backpacking skills, Dave!

Planning a route is a real part of the pleasure, and a real intellectual challenge too, as you consider distances, ascents, terrain, possible weather conditions and your own mental and physical condition from day to day. It can be very easy, warm and cosy at home, dram in hand, to imagine great deeds done traversing high mountains. At such times it is well to recall being up to your knees in a freezing bog, in pouring rain, utterly tired out and inexplicably 'misplaced'.

Now that phase is over. The maps of Scotland are stowed away. The dining room table is once more used for dining, the PC for things other than boggling at Memory Map's stratospheric ascent figures. Christmas approaches with all its temptations ... oh dear ...

So the New Years resolution will be the same as always: get out, find a few hills and whip this sorry carcase back into shape.

Uncle George

Not an outdoors post at all, I’m afraid. Just something I felt like putting up on the blog. I wrote this last night, and scanned the documents this evening.

After the Remembrance Sunday service I recalled that when one of my aunts died, quite a few years back, one of the personal effects that we kept from the house clearance was an old cigar box. Somehow it ended up in my sideboard, unopened and forgotten.

But not quite forgotten. I vaguely remembered being shown some of its contents when I was about eight or nine, and thought some of them were souvenirs from WW2. So I dug out the box this evening and had a look inside. It was really quite an experience, especially as I have no clear idea what some of the mementos represent, and can only guess.

On the top was a silk glove, an airman’s inner liner for his gauntlets, and several propaganda leaflets. Presumably these were souvenirs of missions over Germany, as some are labelled with the date and place they were dropped – “Kiel 18th May 1941”. The last leaflet is dated 9th July 1943, and purports to be a tract written by dissenting german students in Munich. Was this the airman’s last mission, or was he later delivering a more deadly cargo? Who was he? Did he survive? The keeping of these small souvenirs makes me suspect that he didn’t.

Deeper down in the box are reminders of life at home in WW2. Ration books belonging to my grandfather and aunt – still in their Tate & Lyle ration book holder, which carries dire warnings about the threat of nationalisation of sugar.

And then I found my Great Uncle George – or rather his letters and a couple of obituaries. George Simons joined the 10 Lincolnshire Regiment in September 1914, and went on active service the following year. He was awarded the DCM in 1916.

In the letter on the left, dated 10th July 1917, he says “…the line is fairly quiet here, however, and I am expecting to have quite a decent time”. He died less than 7 weeks later. His last letter (written to his wife on the eve of the attack) is dated August 25th 1917 at 7.30pm is quoted in full in the newspaper clipping.  He was killed in action the following morning.

To see the text in more detail, just click on the pictures for a larger view - most browsers will then allow you to click on the image to zoom to full size, and the text will be perfectly legible.

Touching these objects, the stained glove, the letters, somehow transforms names into real people. George Simons, an official with the Post Office aged thirty in 1914 enlisted with thousands of others. The unknown airman was one of thousands too. The objects that I discovered are small things - tiny fragments of lives long gone. I've returned them to the cigar box now, but I hope that sometime in the future someone else will open the old box and make the same discoveries.
 

 

Lt G H Simons DCM

LLangollen & Berwyn - Explorer 255

What a delightful little corner of Wales this is.

I had heard Alan "Captain Hook" Sloman mention that he had been to this area a while back with Robin of Blogpackinglight fame, so when casting around for a weekend's walking within sensible reach of Suffolk & Cambridgeshire, I dragged the name from the back of my memory and looked for it on the map. Hey, an easy run of less than 170miles - should be under 3¹/₂ hours - and so it was.

I set off on Friday evening with my Brother in Law and ex Challenger, David, and we arrived at Llangollen in good time for a barmeal followed by a few pints of Robinson's Unicorn at the excellent Bridge End Hotel which, incidentally, seems to be the only source of real ales in the town.

The Berwyn Mountains are very close to a lot of the UK's population so, given the accessibility, I expected a sort of mini Peak District / Black Mountain level of activity. Not so. In fact the area seems to be something of a backwater. The only disadvantage of this is that, unlike more popular areas where lay-bys and small parking areas abound, it is difficult to park a car in some of the (to me) obvious jumping off points, so having dropped the car on it's belly a couple of times in soggy verges, we decided to drive on to a Tourist attraction with a car park and risk the crowds. So Saturday's walk started at Pistyll Rhaeadr waterfall (which at 240ft is the highest in Wales, and probably England too).

Crowds? There were just three people there! Maybe we were early. We popped the car in a lay-by and wandered up to the falls, which are truly impressive. Then off  and up onto Moel Sych at 827m and enjoying the views along the ridge to Cadair Berwyn - also 827m but topped with a trig point. The ridge starts to descend from here towards Cadair Bronwen, and we decided to swing East to Tomie and drop down to make our way back below the cliffs of Craig Berwyn and over Moel yr Ewig to the curiously named Lyn Lluncaws (which is welsh for 'Lake like a Cheese' apparently - couldn't see it myself). Then on a really beautifully engineered path that lead us down to the valley just 300 yards from our car. The path was made all the more enjoyable by the bit of heather bashing to reach it!

By the end of the day we had met one backpacker and three or four day walkers like ourselves - in glorious weather too. Although we spotted quite a few cars in the little pay and display car park on the way down, it appears that few stray beyond the falls. It's a great little area to walk, and ours was quite short (under 12k) but with about 625m of ascent there's enough to leave you feeling that it is a worthwhile excursion. Take time to enjoy the views, have a little lunch as we did perched out of the wind on a ledge at the top of a cliff overlooking Lyn Lluncaws, and enjoy a bit of solitude away from the honeypot areas. We thoroughly enjoyed every minute.

Looking west from Cadair Berwyn

Back at Llangollen after a bath and a bit of a doze it was time to saunter out in search of a pie and a pint, so we ambled off to the Bridge End Hotel again. It was absolutely heaving with crowds spilling on to the pavement outside. Golfers! Hundreds of 'em! All wearing a golfing glove on their drinking hand and dressed in bizarre golfing garb (check plus fours, shorts, Pringle sweaters and the like). We swiftly diverted to a quieter venue.

No sooner had we got a pint in hand than the golfers burst in - and all of them ordered a WKD Blue, and reminded each other constantly to 'mind your language' and waving score cards. Something odd going on here. As the Bridge had been vacated we went back there and settled in.

"What's going on with those golfers?" I asked the barmaid.
"Oh, they're not golfers - it's the rugby club on a night out. They're playing Pub Golf".
"How do they play?"
"Well, in each pub they all have to drink whatever is marked on the scorecard for that pub. But each pub has a rule too, and if they break the rule they have to pay a forfeit" (I guessed this was an extra drink) "and lose a point. For instance, in here none of them was allowed to go to the toilet, and in the next pub no one can swear ... and so on."
"So what happens at the end?" I asked.
"Dunno, love. I don't think any of them have ever lasted the course".

Well, at least now we could settle down for a quiet pint. Wrong. Through the door burst about twenty fairly large girls in very small dresses wearing 'birthday girl' sashes, and it was party time all over again. Llangollen may be a small town, but the people there know how to have a night out!

Up to Offa's Dyke Path

Sunday morning, and after breakfast we decided on a short exploration of our immediate surroundings before the trip home. There are any number of good walks straight out of the town, and we made our first objective the castle  - a brisk 130m climb out of the town and giving terrific views  along the Dee valley and Vale of Llangollen with the steam train chugging along, and away to the east it was just possible to discern the aqueduct which carries the canal high across the valley. From the castle we dropped down to join a woodland path around the bottom of the hill and eventually joined the scenic Clwydian Way up to Plas Yn Eglwseg where we cut across to join the Offa's Dyke Path and a couple of small byways to get us back to the town. Once again a fairly short (12¹/₂k) walk but with around 600m of ascent a decent enough stretch - especially after a night out in the fleshpots of Llangollen!

For the more dedicated walker wishing to explore the hills in this neck of the woods, why not pop over to the Pieman's blog for a review of the local Hewitts? But for us ambling flatlanders these excursions made for a really enjoyable weekend. Not too taxing - just relaxing.

That's entertainment!

Geoff  Roberts on stage

The weekend was a cracker - and quite unexpectedly. Saturday night, and a 60th birthday party ... there seem to be a lot of them at the moment. I don't mind, but as the years pass our parties become increasingly staid, and conversations tend to centre around ailments, aches, pains, divorces and money bleeding kids who just won't go away and leave their parents in peace. At least with the kids we can take our revenge by living long enough to be a burden on them ... ha!

But this 60th birthday party was different. This was Geoff Robert's 60th. Way back in the early seventies Geoff had a band, and since retirement he has been able to dedicate more of his time to music - so to our surprise when we arrived at his house, we found a stage set up in the garden where his new band ripped through some great numbers. One of the partygoers was the lead guitarist from the original seventies band, and he stepped up for a guest spot. Music ranged from Standards, to Stones to Hendrix, and I noticed that some of the kids across the street were standing by open bedroom windows and a few hovering at the end of the drive. I think Geoff's band has been asked to play as 'American Anthems' and there will be a cd early next year. It's always great to hear live music, and Geoff's party made our minds up to go to more gigs in future.

Of course, expecting the standard party I didn't take a camera, so I only have this picture taken on my (very cheap) phone. But it was a great gig Geoff - happy birthday!

On Sunday morning we decided to have a quieter day at a local steam rally and country fair. Our nephew, Richard Hobbs would be there showing his 1966 Matchless motorcycle, inherited from his granddad, Miss W's father. And it was the usual sort of thing. Loads of traction engines, heavy horses in ploughing competitions, classic cars and so on. There was also a traditional fair, and amongst the steam driven gallopers (one of Miss W's favourite rides) old fashioned swing boats and candy floss was an attraction that I had previously only ever seen in comics and old american films - the Wall of Death.

Probably the best £2 I've spent on a show in years. The audience stand around the top of what is basically a giant wooden barrel. Some of the bikes are 1920s Indians - one used by  a 'Tornado Smith'  in a wall of death show back in the 1930's. The noise and the smell is awesome as the riders arc and wheel, sometimes riding from the bottom right to the top, within inches of the spectators. That's exciting enough, but when they do it with the throttle locked open as they sit on the handlebars or stand on the bike with their hands raised, well, just amazing really. The finale has three riders tearing round, just missing each other, until they finally form line abreast. We both agreed that this old, old sideshow remains a genuine thrill - god alone knows what the 'elf & safety people would make of it! If you get a chance to see Ken Fox's Hell Riders - do.

The day ended with a bit of nostalgia for Miss W as she joined Richard on the pillion of her dad's old Matchless for the display tour of the show ring, just as she did in the past when he used to take it to the shows.

A great weekend. The solitude of the hills has its place, but we all need a little entertainment from time to time. Rock & roll & fast bikes? Yeah, why not!

Pond Life

Digging out- flat areas are for plants

Back in October 2007, we decided to enhance the little patch of field that we had bought for a wildlife area by adding a pond. This is a post about what happened, and the extraordinary amount of wildlife a small pond can attract.

Of course, before you see any of the wonderful species that may or may not visit, there is the unremitting slog actually digging the thing! I was assisted by my mate, Dave, for a weekend, and we soon had a very satisfactory hole. We tapered the ends of the pond to make sure that any hedgehogs or other small mammals that might fall in could get out easily. Then, of course, it had to be made watertight. This was no problem where I used to live in Cambridgeshire, where if you dug down you were soon carving your way through the densest clay, but here in Suffolk, just on the edge of the Brecks, the soil is light and sandy, so I opted for a butyl rubber liner, protected by woven geotextile underneath (so no sharp flints or stones would puncture the liner) and I laid the same textile on top so that any sand and soil put into the pond could not puncture the liner from above if I was wading in it.

Filling up - note anchoring trench for membrane

Which brings me to a useful tip - when you anchor the membrane in a surrounding trench, don't run the top textile into it as well. For three anxious days I thought the pond was leaking. What was really happening was that the textile above the water line was acting as a wick. Water crept up it by capillary action and either evaporated or was absorbed by the surrounding soil. In any event it lost 180 gallons in two days! Suddenly I realised what was going on (O level in physics not wasted) and cut the textile around the edge and folded the excess below the water line.

Result - no more water loss.

Finished!!

The next tip is to do with water. I made a big mistake by filling the pond from a hose attached to the domestic supply. We live in an agricultural area, and even the groundwater now is full of nitrites, which is ideal for promoting the growth of blanket weed. Fortunately with the purchase of a few plants some pond snails hitched a ride to our pond and set about demolishing the evil green slime. Even so it took a few months, and from then on we have kept the pond topped up with only rainwater captured in butts - a hose is run from the butts in wet weather. The pond has remained pretty much crystal clear.

Our first frog

With sand mixed with a little soil (not too much) to form a natural bed, and oxygenating plants added, plus potted water lily (for shade in the water) reeds, sedges, arums, marsh marigolds and iris etc, we were set up and ready for the aquatic life to arrive. To get things going, in the spring we took a couple of bottles to a nearby natural pond and filled them with water to 'inoculate' our pond with water fleas and the like.

A Common Newt

The first to arrive were a pair of ducks, who set about eating all the plants. In the end we had to net the pond until they finally accepted that this was not to be their home! Thereafter, though, we have enjoyed a wonderful procession of wildlife. The first noticeable arrivals were diving beetles, soon followed by frogs, newts, dragonflies (and their mini lobster larvae) and then, tempted by the chance of the odd amphibian for lunch, a grass snake swimming in the water.

The recent drought caused some anxiety as water levels fell perilously low, but it rained just in time. We have been delighted with the results. Birds drink, bathe and splash around and small mammals visit too.We are often asked if we have any fish. The answer is no, as fish would gobble up all the dragonfly larvae and other small creatures, and the diversity that we have would be much reduced.

 The finished result - pond and wildlife garden in Spring

By the time full summer arrives, the water lily leaves will cover about a quarter of the surface, giving shade for the creatures that prefer it. Below is one of my favourite pond visitors -  Hissing Sid, the grass snake likes to drop by from time to time in search of a tasty snack.

Hissing Sid, the grass snake

Overall the wildlife area has been a great success, although it does take just a little more management than I had first imagined (I had imagined none at all) mainly cutting at the right time to encourage the widest variety of wild flowers, and keeping the rabbit population out. We also put up boxes with leaves and straw inside, or bundles of cut bamboo canes for mason bees and leafcutter wasps. These insect hotels are fully occupied. Once the structure is in place, it's not nearly a time consuming and arduous as 'regular gardening'. The rewards are great, and often unexpected, like the arrival of bee orchids, which are scattered thoughout the garden in June.

Bee Orchid

It takes quite a bit of hard work to begin with, but afterwards the bore of mowing is restricted to just twice a year, and there's no need to visit the garden centre ever again! Just put a bench up, sip a cool beer and enjoy.

If you hate conventional gardening, and have a neglected area, even if it's in the middle of town, it's well worth giving a wildlife garden and pond a go. Ecologically sound - and no more boring deadheading, mowing and mulching. Perfick!

Decisions

Next month the fateful October issue of the TGO magazine will be published (magazines are a bit odd datewise). Fateful, because it will contain, along with alluring tales of 2010, the application form for the TGO Challenge in May 2011. I’ve been mulling over routes during the last few days, and a surprising idea has popped into my head.

This time I think I might resist the siren call.

Not because the event isn’t just fantastic (it is), not because there is no social side (I take weeks to recover from the socialising) and not because I wouldn’t be traversing some of the finest wilderness walking that Europe has to offer – and without any paint splashes and helpful little signs to help me on my way. All of this is immensely appealing, as is the fact that it is a linear walk, with each day bringing a new horizon.

It’s that last point that is the problem – each day brings a new horizon. Sometimes I’ve wanted to keep the same horizon for a day or two. Four or five times now I’ve planned a superb ridge walk or other high level foray only to be forced to take a foul weather alternative (OK, OK, sometimes we wimped out). The next day, when I’m fifteen miles further on, the weather has been great. If only I could have sat it out, and not been walking to a schedule.

I know that many people will happily slog along in driving sleet and zero visibility. In fact I believe that some of the more puritan souls prefer it that way, to judge by their responses to any comment on the weather. “Ah but you should have been here back in ’86. We had to use Braille maps, and wearing three sets of mittens too”.

I understand them to a point, and I’ll admit to experiencing a frisson of delight as a trig point or cairn emerges from the freezing murk after a tricky bit of navigation. But this starts to wear a bit thin by cairn number five. I do like a fine view. In fact my chief purpose in climbing a hill is to get one, otherwise, what is the point? Munro, Corbett, Graham, or whatever bothers me not a jot.

This should not be mistaken for a yen for fine weather – I love to see showers moving across the landscape, and passing periods of snow, hail and blustery rain usually enhance rather than detract from the experience.

“Passing” being the key word there, of course, and the showers preferably falling on someone else.

So, will next year be my year of the missing pieces? All those delicious bits of previous challenges that, for one reason or another, I missed. This may well mean staying put for a day or two before heading off to the next part of the adventure, but I will get them done.

“But I will get them done”. Oh no! … saying that makes me a ‘list ticker’ …. I’ll be drawing up tables next and people will start setting off to ‘do the Lamberts’.

Oh deary me. Maybe I should apply as usual, and just keep the missing pieces scheme as backup in case I don’t get on. I could combine all my missing pieces into one great and gloriously eccentric challenge route. Or, maybe I'll try a completely new approach ... but then I'd miss ... er ... oh, I don't know ...

Decisions. All the time, decisions!

Status Anxiety and how to avoid it.

"What do you get out of it?". I suppose we've all been asked that question by people who cannot understand the appeal of nights alone in the hills, and whatever answer you might give, the chances are that they will remain unenlightened. For some of us it's to find that small part of ourselves that is easily smothered in the hurly burly of what passes for life. Call it what you will - soul if you must - but without it we are surely diminished.

I guess it must have been ten or twelve years ago, when things were really on the up and up and buying a new car or whatever was a matter of writing a cheque, that I realised that life had somehow become pretty miserable. I was putting in overlong hours and dealing with difficult people for much of the time. Still I carried on. Money and ambition are curious things and cause us to behave in curious ways – good and bad. Yes, they can drive us on to achieve great things and improve our lives. But the compulsion to succeed can also drive us slightly mad.

I went slightly mad.

The only periods of sanity were when I went up to Scotland on the sleeper to go backpacking for a few glorious, liberating days. Taking part in the TGO Challenge was just fantastic – two weeks of freedom from the fax, email and phone (I told the office that none of these worked in the Highlands. I didn’t tell them that they didn’t work because all the devices were switched off and in a drawer at home).

I loved backpacking, especially the enforced egalitarianism of having nothing but what you can carry. No matter how much money you might have, you can only carry so much stuff. In fact, carrying too much is likely to provoke ridicule – quite the reverse of ‘normal life’ where the main point of toil, beyond survival, is the accumulation and display of as much stuff as possible.

Gradually, gradually, walking changed my life. Five years ago I disposed of my company and you could say I retired. The truth is that I just stepped off the treadmill for a while and (so far) have never felt the urge to get on it again, although I do the odd job to keep ticking along.  I soon discovered that living simply isn’t terribly expensive and is vastly more pleasurable.

Now, at this point it might appear that I’m about to say that I’ve become a monk, wear a hair shirt and eat berries and roots gathered from the woods. Not so. In my work I still like to excel, and, as anyone who knows me is well aware, I love my luxuries and take great pleasure from them. The difference lies in being able to distinguish between personal luxuries and status symbols.

The breakthrough for me was the realisation that the pleasure gained from acquiring some expensive gewgaw tended not to add greatly to my stock of satisfaction and happiness – at least not after the first rush of delight. So I just stopped pursuing them. Miss W is of a similar mind. In fact she got there before me. And many people that I meet when I amble across Scotland on the TGOC are seemingly made this way.

Comfortable in their own skin.

Beyond the basics (food, shelter, security, sex) many people are driven not by personal goals but by the craving for high social status, whether merited or not. If one can’t acquire genuine status and respect, then the next best thing is to acquire the badges of status. This, no doubt, is why so many run up huge debts just to parade around in designer labels, drive expensive cars and mortgage their grannies to buy unaffordable houses filled with plasma televisions and the like. Lives dominated by the fleeting triumph of having the latest must have, and the misery of envy as a friend or colleague trumps them.

“It may be tempting to laugh at those afflicted by urgent cravings for the symbols of status: the name droppers, the gold tap owners. … Rather than a tale of greed, the history of luxury could be more accurately read as a record of emotional trauma. It is the legacy of those who have felt pressured by the disdain of others to add an extraordinary amount to their bare selves in order to signal that they too may lay a claim to love”

Alain de Botton.

That's Status Anxiety. We've all suffered from it from time to time and Alain de Botton analyses the angst that this condition provokes. I read his book shortly after my own period of readjustment and thoroughly enjoyed it. For a book by a philosopher it is remarkably readable, and neatly points up the diminishing returns of increasing wealth. It won’t change your life, but it may make you think about it ...

... and maybe understand why the people you see inside the most expensive cars always seem to look so damn miserable!

Getting high in the Outer Hebrides

I mentioned in my last post about Harris that two of our companions, Paul & Sue Fisher, took the opportunity to climb Clisham whilst we were out looking for Golden Eagles. Paul has very kindly sent in a piece about this, and a description of climbing Beinn Mhor in South Uist.

So if you're taking a few days in the islands, and the weather is kind, here are a couple of hills to savour. Plus of course, for Corbett baggers, Clisham just has to be done.

Over to you, Paul ...

Climbing Beinn Mhor, South Uist

Opposite Loch Dobhrain on the main road up South Uist a gravel peat-cutter`s track heads towards the bulk of Beinn Mhor. A word to the wise – don`t try going up the hill by car using this route since the sharp gravel is no good for tyres and the track  gives out after a mile....

This hill, at just over 2,000 feet the highest point in the Outer Hebrides south of Harris, is a bit like a miniature Ben Nevis. From the south it appears as a big, rather uninviting wedge with a long level knobbly crest: but its north and east side is something quite different....! Sue and I climbed it on a sunny, breezy June day with Rick and Lindsey, and once we`d managed to park the car and pick our way across a mile of boggy, heathery, boulder-strewn moorland I really began to take to this little hill. For a start, as went  easily and  gradually upwards traversing onto the grassy north-west shoulder, a path began to materialise. And the mountain felt much bigger than it actually is, almost like a Munro – I guess that`s mainly because you begin almost at sea-level. I couldn`t believe it`s quite a bit lower than any of our Yorkshire `three peaks`!

When we reached a flat grassy saddle underneath the final summit pyramid, we saw the path heading straight up the middle towards the tapering rocky cone at the top. Take a moment here to go over to the left-hand edge for a first stunning view down into the eastern corrie far below, with the knobbly sister peaks of Hecla and Ben Corrodale beyond, and up to your right a glimpse of the great cliffs falling down almost vertically from the Beinn`s summit ridge – a foretaste of what is to come...

Easily on for the final 500 feet or so to the north-west top – it narrows considerably and gets rocky as you reach the top, and wow, what an impressive sight! Stretching ahead of you is an exhilarating half mile or so of narrow choppy ridge, grass and rock all mixed up (a bit like a mini Striding Edge) with the summit prow rearing up at the end, plunging vertically down in an awesome cliff to its left and steep grass on the right. Indeed much of the north-eastern face of this hill is pretty vertical with great cliffs belying the mountain`s modest dimensions.

The North East ridge of Beinn Mhor - photo - Tom Richardson / CC BY-SA 2.0

Despite the stiff northerly breeze down below things got much calmer the higher we went.
The way ahead is much easier than it might look. Pick your way at will – sticking to the crest if you want exhilaration, following bits of path down to the left or right for a less exposed route. As on Striding Edge the path weaves its way in and out around and over the ridge. There`s a lovely sharp grassy pyramid just before the summit where you can scramble up and pretty well hug the top! The final 100 feet or so to the top is on a path up the grass by the `back door`. A big wind-shelter encloses the trig-point on top.

What views! Superb panorama all round – back along the ridge, the big precipices and corrie below wild and lonely, the other hills and the sea to east and west, the jagged Cuillins of Rhum and Skye further east, the islands to south and north, and the amazing water-studded flatlands of South Uist all around (“like a jigsaw with lots of pieces missing – and they`re all water”).

We could have been adventurous and continued with the complete circuit of all three hills – fairly straightforward, but pretty long and tiring with a big walk out at the end ... next year ... sometime?

A Walk up Clisham

There's the quick, ordinary way up this mountain – a doddle....... There`s the “I did it properly” way, doing the complete horseshoe, a substantial day out..... Sue and I did – the soft option (well, it was very breezy and there are, we were reliably informed, one or two narrow rocky bits later on....)!

Clisham as you all know is the Corbett of the Outer Hebrides, at just over 2,600 feet the highest point of the archipelago. It`s the right hand point of an impressive group of four mini-ranges spread east to west across North Harris, seen very well from where we were staying with Lindsey and Rick and Phil and Tini at a cottage in Ard Ashaig.

We`d delayed attempting this hill all week (the weather...) and this was our last day on Harris.....Halleluia, my hot line worked, and it was a cool clear sunny day! The others were off eagle-searching, so Rick very kindly drove Sue and me four miles or so up the main road to our starting-point, a lay-by where we were already 600 feet up by the River Maaruig (well, a little beck actually). From here it`s just straight up to the top, looking so near and only another 2,000 feet...From here too it`s a neat grassy, bouldery pyramid – very different to the big gentle grey dome you see from the south.

Across peaty moorland, a bit damp, for half an hour then slowly upwards where better bits of path take shape. Aim dead centre, keeping to the right of a small rocky bluff higher up. Soon we heard the repeated `peep peeps` of two delightful golden plovers, bobbing up and running from side to side to our left and right – typical `please, please, you`re in our space – THAT way, NOW`!

As we neared the top, things steepened and narrowed and got quite rocky. The summit ridge is all spiky rock (slightly reminiscent of those much bigger sharp boulders on the Glyders plateau), narrow - but wide enough to feel secure and to accommodate the big wind-shelter summit cairn a couple of hundred yards ahead of us. The path tracks an easier route just below.

View west from summit - photo by Andrew Curtis / CC BY-SA 2.0

As expected, wonderful panoramic views again in every direction, including the ubiquitous Cuillins. The continuation down and across the linking switchback ridge to the other main peak, Mulla-fo-dheas, looked very tempting....but there was that misty low bit of cloud over there, and the fleshpots of Ard Ashaig called. So back down, renewing our friendship with one of the golden plovers (delightfully bold and cheeky), and  a short peaceful meditation by a rock-pool and cascade not far from the road.

Summit of Clisham looking SE - photo by Calum McRoberts / CC BY-SA 2.0

It was a long 4-mile walk back – but aren`t people kind...a couple we`d met on top, whom we`d also met on top of Beinn Mhor, drove up and offered us a lift. Then, as we sat looking wistfully out to sea near our cottage (now where did they say the key was..?) Rick drove up and said “tea up” - well he didn`t actually, but we knew it would be......

Paul and Sue Fisher

Go west! ... and then a bit further west!

What better way to recover from the aftermath of the General Election, and the pip squeezing austerity measures, than to escape to a distant island with miles and miles of white sandy beaches, turquoise seas, and a slow, laid back lifestyle?

That’s what we did. And where is this idyll? The Maldives perhaps? The West Indies maybe?

No.

We sailed to the Outer Hebrides. Specifically, Harris. Where the tweed comes from ... except, confusingly, Harris Tweed is made on the Isle of Lewis, which is not a separate isle at all, but a part of the same island as Harris. It’s all like that  in the Western Isles – everything is slightly confusing. For example, Miss W called at our local shop for some milk. Simple enough you might think.

Shopkeeper: Ah, Mrs Bates, I’ve got something for you.
Miss W: I’m not Mrs Bates.
Shopkeeper: Oh, I’m expecting a lady who’s staying in our community for a week.
Miss W: I’m staying for a week, but …
Shopkeeper: Ah, so you’re staying with Mrs Bates!
Miss W: No, I’m not.
Shopkeeper: Do you know Mrs Bates?
Miss W: No
Shopkeeper: Well, if you see her, tell her to call by.

Wisely, Miss W disengaged at this point, bought the milk and started back home. It was drizzling and she had only gone a few yards when a white van pulled up. The driver opened the passenger door and called “You don’t want to be out walking in this weather – hop in and I’ll give you a ride back to your house”.

And that’s island life. Weird, confusing, but also amazingly kind and considerate.

On the beach at Luskentyre

This holiday was originally planned by our good friends, Rick & Lindsey, who were hopping northwards along the entire archipelago with their friends Paul & Sue Fisher. For their arrival at Harris they had booked a cottage for a week, with a spare bedroom. Would we like to fill it? Yes please!

So, what are they like, these far western isles? On the whole, a little on the bleak side, but when the weather is kind, just inspiring and quite magical. It largely depends on you and your outlook.

Lewis is mainly a blanket of bog, which is quite handy as much of the islanders' fuel is peat, and all over the island you will see peat being cut, stacked and dried ready for the winter. In fact the very name, Lewis, is apparently derived from the gaelic ‘leogach’, meaning boggy. Very apt.

Harris, by contrast, is mainly bare rock – reminiscent of the Greek Islands, but without the sunshine and heat. But it has some magnificent hills, culminating in Clisham (An Cliseam) at 2619ft. The very name, Harris, derives from the Norse for ‘high land’. It’s considerably more fertile on the western side, but most people live on the bare and barren east.

Why? Are they a bit daft? Well, no, they were driven there by landlords who found sheep far more profitable than crofters, and the crofters' fields made excellent grazing. Amazingly as well as turning to fishing, these displaced folk managed to create areas to grow crops in the clefts in the bare rock by building up peat and seaweed into fertile " lazybeds". Lazybeds is bit of a misnomer, given the backbreaking work required to build and maintain them. Tellingly almost all are now abandoned.

Abandoned village

Miss W, who is far more sensitive that I to ‘atmosphere’ remarked, “This place is so full of ghosts. You can hear them whispering, and it’s sad”. It’s certainly true that the low evening sun reveals lines and lines of 'lazybeds' in the most unpromising locations. Often they wind up hillsides and surround windswept bays where once there must have been houses and small fishing boats. We came across several of these abandonded settlements in our stravaigs, some in idyllic settings, all slowly being reclaimed by bramble and bog.

Ruthless eviction, and forced and unforced emigration depopulated this island. Well intentioned restitution by new landowners, such as Lord Leverhulme, the soap king, failed to take account of the islanders’ culture and tradition. His big idea was to make the island a centre for fishing – he not only built the ports (and a whaling station!) but founded the Macfisheries chain to distribute the produce. He even had spotter planes to help locate the herring. Unfortunately the islanders preferred their old way of life. Basically they wanted security of tenure on their crofts, and this was incompatible with Leverhulme’s ‘progressive views’. He eventually abandoned his plans in Lewis, and on his death in 1925 the completion of Leverburgh, the purpose built fishing port in Harris, together with the rest of his projects, was quietly dropped.

There are other ghosts here too, and they may speak to us, but their language is long lost – brochs, standing stones (especially atmospheric at Callanish) are evidence of a past with a powerful air of mystery. I defy anyone to vist the tombs in St Clement’s church at Roghadal and not be impressed by the black stone effigies of the warriors that lie there.

Harris is pretty empty. That means that when the sun shines (admittedly not often) the miles and miles of white sands can be yours and yours alone. The beach at Luskentyre is a peach, with wonderful views across to Taransay, where the BBC castaways lived in the 2000 TV programme. Ben Fogel did OK from that, but I never did hear about the rest of them. Are they still there?

Left to right: Old concrete boat on Scalpay used for mussel packing,    Miss W at the Butt of Lewis,    Iron Age Broch

There is wildlife too. On a ‘heritage walk’ around Scalpay (oh, by the way, half the waymark posts are missing) we saw an otter raiding the nests of oystercatchers. The plaintive ‘peeps’ of the parents as their eggs and babies were scoffed were really quite affecting. A walk up Gleann Mhiabhaig saw golden eagles soaring off their nest high on Sron Scourst. Just magnificent.

And higher even than the eagles on that day, Paul and Sue were enjoying a sunlit, but blustery walk to the summit of Clisham.

Whilst we stayed on the island, Rick, Lindsey, Paul & Sue set off for a day trip to St Kilda, encountering basking sharks on the way and absorbing the strange atmosphere of that remote and unique abandoned community. St Kilda has a history well worth reading. Quite astonishing.

So, there you have the briefest of brief impressions of Harris and Lewis. It’s a great place to visit. For myself, it felt just a wee bit too remote and insular for a long term stay - a few days rather than a couple of weeks - that's just me. (Miss W has just pointed out that any island is insular by definition). But I’m really glad we went. Wonderful scenery and seascapes, friendly people with a delightfully laid back attitude. A five minute delay on the (single track) road whilst two drivers in front stop for a bit of a chinwag is not uncommon. Distances aren't great, so they don't bother to put any indication of mileage on the road signs, which are in gaelic, with the english equivalent after. Takes some reading for an anglophone, but, unlike most of the mainland, people here really do speak gaelic in their daily lives, and it somehow sounds right in these islands.

If you like to get away from it all, the Western Isles could be the place for you.

 Sunset ... or sunrise over Harris. It's the same thing in June!

Primus windshield

Last week I bought this wee bit of kit from Bob & Rose at Backpackinglight. Tested over this weekend in the Lakes, I can say that it works a treat, and when not in use it clips, inverted, over the canister, so it takes up no more room in your pack. In fact, many pots and kettles will still allow the canister to be stowed inside with the windshield fitted over it. Perfick!

And to make the stove much more stable, for the past couple of years I have been using the Primus canister foot - a sort of fold-up tripod that clips on to most sizes of canister.

The saving on gas, time and the added safety and stability are well worth the very small weight penalty. 60g for the wind shield, 23g for the canister feet. You can buy them both from Backpackinglight

The 2010 Daunder

It was a thoroughly splendid affair, with a fine route and finer company. As readers of Mike Knipe's report will have noted, speed is absolutely not of the essence in this enterprise. Pleasant walking, fine views and any opportunity for a quiet snooze or a drink and a bit of a natter are the main ingredients. Plus a test and review of the kit, a gentle stretch of the sinews and a check that liver and kidneys are up to the rigours of the two weeks in May that are the TGO Challenge.

I'm delighted to report that all came through with flying colours on a thoroughly convivial daunder.

Words cannot describe ... so here are some pictures (you can click on any picture for a bigger view if you wish). The map is courtesy of daunderer in chief, Alan Sloman.

 

The route for the 2010 Daunder

Assembling at Gt Langdale campsite,   Lunch in Langdale Combe,   Heading to Stakes Pass

 Campsite at Stonethwaite

Getting dressed after a night at the inn proves a challenge

Dock Tarn,      Alan approaches Dock Tarn,      John Jocys on Low Saddle

The team on High Raise,   Gerry takes our photo,   Alan takes in the view from Sergeant Man

Last night - party at Shirl's place

Sunday was not quite as sunny as promised by the met men - Stickle Tarn

So we staggered down the dreadful path to the New Hotel, ambled back to the Old Dungeon Ghyll for lunch, and then we all went home. 

Tired, yes. 

Happy, for sure.

Thanks to all the daunderers for a great weekend!!