Читать книгу Not the West Highland Way - Ronald Turnbull - Страница 7

INTRODUCTION

The High Road and the Low

The West Highland Way is one of the finest, if not the finest, of Britain's long-distance paths. It passes through six separate mountain ranges, from the tall cone of Ben Lomond and the crag towers of grim Glen Coe, to the seductive Mamores. It runs from Scotland's largest city, alongside her longest loch, by way of the biggest and bleakest patch of peaty moorland, to the foot of her highest mountain, paralleled in its path by (as it happens) the Highlands’ second busiest main road and also the West Highland Railway.

The comfortable gravel path, the well-placed waymarks and cosy bunkhouses, the cheerful evening singer doing (yet again) Loch Lomond's ‘bonnie banks’: do these really compensate for not going up any of those mountains? Not when above the stony path there rises the compelling cone of Beinn Dorain, sprinkled at its top with snow. So instead of sticking to the path I wandered up the Auch Gleann and bagged Beinn Dorain from the back, leaving the West Highland Way, over three miles to Bridge of Orchy, technically unwalked.

For those new to the Highlands and the big hills, the WH Way is a dream – and a convenient dream, with its signposts and bridges, its hostels and its shops. But for those more familiar with the hills, it's a shop itself: a sweetie shop – and you haven't any pennies in your pocket. For all of those fine mountains are seen, yes, but you're not allowed to touch.

As Capt Edward Burt recorded in 1765, of the military road that's now the WH Way: ‘The objections made by some among the Highlanders are that the bridges in particular will render the ordinary people effeminate.’ And it's happened. It may be Scotland's best long-distance path: but this book intends to do a great deal better.

Part One takes the line that you're walking the route of the conventional WH Way, and using its overnight stops; but during the days you divert onto a mountain alongside. When the clouds are down you stay down as well, and walk the official footpath. But when the sun shines, and the twitter of the skylarks is somehow more appealing than the rumble of the A82, here are Ben Lomond and Beinn Dorain, the charming Campsie Fells, and the mighty Mamores; and the best pub-to-pub in these islands, the high-level crossing of the Black Mount from Inveroran to Glen Coe. This is the WH Way idea – the same WH Way overnights, the pre-booked bunkhouse, the luggage transfer service – but higher excitements.

Not all of those excitements are the ever-popular Munros. The first is the Lowland range of the Campsie Fells, rising to a mere 578m. Two later ones aren't tops at all, but high mountain passes: through the Lui group, and then over the Mamores. Another two are the lesser, and less-visited, hills called Corbetts. And even on popular Ben Lomond you're not just bagging it and coming back. You're crossing Ben Lomond to distant Inversnaid, and this takes you onto the grassy northern ridgeline where it's just you, the view, and some skylarks high above Loch Lomond.

West Highland Way on Telford's road across Rannoch Moor, with Black Mount hills Clach Leathad and Meall a’ Bhuiridh (Route 10)

Part One’s four hill outings are simple Munro-bagging. Why not? A well-walked-on path, a satisfying horseshoe route, a number of like-minded people coming up alongside. Plus the convenience of returning to your start point, where the damp clothes of last night have had time to dry, there’s no shopping to do because you shopped for two days yesterday, the bed is still warm from the night before. Those too stingy to use the baggage transfer, in particular, can enjoy the lighter rucksack of the circular day walk.

To qualify as a true Not the WH Way, four or more of the high lines have to be taken, excluding the circular outings. There are eight to choose from: the Campsie Fells (or alternatively the Dumbarton start, Route 17); the crossing of Ben Lomond to Inversnaid; Beinn a’ Choin; Ben Lui’s high pass or else its summit; Beinn Dorain’s back way; the Black Mount Traverse; Beinn a’ Chrulaiste and Blackwater; and the Mamores crossing (or alternatively the Glen Nevis backpack, Route 15). Those who use this book for the circular excursions, along with three or fewer of the off-path diversions, don’t complete the official Not the WH Way. They have achieved what we have to call a ‘Not the Not the West Highland Way’.

When you start walking you hold onto your Mummy’s hand. When you start walking the rather longer distances with the big rucksack, the Mummy is the West Highland Way. It tells you where to go, it makes sure you’ve got somewhere safe to spend the night, it cooks your tea, it even fusses about trying to keep your socks dry. Then as you start to grow up it lets you wander off out of sight – but you’d better be back by teatime.

Grown-ups don’t want to be home in time for tea. Grown-ups stay out late and get into the nightlife. We want to drop our packs under a pylon-free sky, look around and see no street lights, sniff and smell heather – not petrol. We want to gather stones to shelter the stove, and hang our socks in the tree by the river. We want to watch from the high corrie of Ben Lui, as 40 mountains go grey and purplish against an orange sky.

On the south ridge of Ben Lomond (Routes 2 and 3), looking to the tops of the Arrochar Alps (Route 18)

In Part One, the use of the WH Way’s overnight stops and baggage transfer allows backpacking, as it were, but without the backpack. When Part Two attempts your first two-day tent adventure, the ground alongside the Way turns out to be just grand for that as well. There is genuine wild country in the southwest Highlands, between Loch Lomond and Lochaber: big beautiful valleys with craggy mountains rising on either side. But there’s also a pretty good path, there are bothies, there is that bus stop for Glasgow just one day’s walk ahead. Corrour railway station stands at the geometrical centre of nowhere at all: it has a café, and a youth hostel, but not a road leading to it.

So Part Two has tips for beginner backpackers. And after the tips, the trips: a couple of two-day hikes designed to get you going on this game of carrying the big rucksack along the valleys and through between the hills. Learn how to do it not by deep study of the literature, but by doing it, and doing it wrong. Discover for yourself the setting up of a damp camp when you’ve been walking in the rain for four hours. Find out that you should have put your dry pants in a plastic bag. And if you did manage to forget the tent pegs, there’s a bothy alongside to crawl into with the sodden sleeping bag, and a train home tomorrow so that the suffering is at least reasonably short.

Part Three is the proposition that Glasgow (or Loch Lomond) to Fort William is one of Scotland’s good walks, so simply ignore the WH Way altogether. Here are the damp little paths along Loch Etive, and the peaty ways through the heart of Rannoch Moor.

After two days of waterfalls and windswept heather, come down to Kinlochleven (say), do your shopping, eat a big hot meal plus sticky toffee, stay in the hostel there. Set out again at dawn, or whenever you manage to get out of bed (let’s hope it’s quite early). At the back of Kinlochleven is a wooded valley. Waterfalls splash down into a river that zigzags across slabs of bare rock. Walk up the slippery stone path below the birches and the oaks. After four miles you come up to this bleak, bleak reservoir, the Blackwater. You find the old path through the peat, and you come to a lochan, and beside it there’s a beautiful bothy that hardly anybody uses, as it’s not really on the way to anywhere. But if a roof of any sort is repugnant, you can carry on and camp beside the water. All night the ripples murmur against the stones. And at four in the morning, the curlews are crying in the air above your tent.

The fairly good path continues for a couple of hours, through a heathery slot in the hills. It’s Gleann Iolairean, Eagle Valley. You might see that eagle soaring overhead; you’ll almost certainly see some ravens. Come out to the next big reservoir. Now if you turn left, it’s up along a stony stream with waterfalls, and alder trees, and grassy riverbanks for the path; then gradually down again as you’re now in Glen Nevis. You walk below big Ben Nevis on one side, the shapely Mamores range on the other. The heather gets denser, the river bigger, and the air gets slightly cosier as you lose height. Suddenly you’re in the meadow at the glen’s end, with the Steall waterfall tumbling over grey quartzite, and the great tree-hung Nevis Gorge. Then it’s out to the youth hostel for another big meal.

If the twined-together routes of Parts One to Three are the stalk, then Part Four is the flower. As the train clatters south across Rannoch Moor, your feet are sore but your head is filling up with ideas. Outwards and onwards lies the whole of the Scottish Highlands.

The other way to Fort William: the book’s first backpack, Route 15, passes Steall Waterfall on its way down Glen Nevis

The West Highland Way, with its well-made path, its centuries of history, its mountain surroundings, is the best long path in Scotland. But the best is just the beginning. Here’s the follow-on: which is ‘Not the West Highland Way’.

When to go

April is still winter on the summits, but down in the glen the WH Way path offers good walking then and in May. The leaves are breaking, the birds are busy, and the midges are harmless larvae lurking in the bog. At these off-season times the busy footpath can be almost deserted – I walked it at the end of March and met four other parties. Youth hostels of SYHA may be shut but the independent ones are open all year round, and at quiet times you probably don’t need to book in advance.

Meanwhile, the mountaintops above may be suffering sleet and hail, and be covered in soggy wet snow. On the other hand, the air may be clear and crisp, with sunshine on the white top of Ben Nevis. So walk the path if it’s wet, and if the sun comes out, hit the heights.

May and June are enjoyable at all altitudes. These are the least rainy months in the Highlands; the leaves are fresh and green; there are 18 daylight hours, enough for even the most energetic. The one annoyance can be the cuckoos, mocking you as you go.

July and August can be hot and humid, with less rewarding views. This is also when the WH Way path is at its busiest, and midges are at their most vigorous, infesting the glens. The last two weeks in August do bring out the best of the heather – although there are no really huge heather moors on the WH Way.

Midges hang on until the first frost, normally some time in September. October often brings clear air and lovely autumn colour. The woodland along Loch Lomond can be excellent as the birch leaves turn gold (the third week in October being the ideal moment in most years). More surprisingly, Rannoch Moor goes orange all over. In between times there’ll be gales.

The red deer are being shot at from the middle of August until 21 October. The West Highland Way itself is a right-of-way, as are almost all the backpacking routes in Parts Two and Three (blue and orange on the overview maps). Many of the hill routes in Part One welcome walkers year-round, but a handful do have limitations on access during the three autumn months (see Appendix A).

Winter is a time of short days and often foul weather. Snow lies on the high tops from December to April, with patches in the corries obstructing some routes even into May. Few will attempt the routes in this book during the cold months. Those who do could just enjoy crisp cramponing along the ridges, views of hundreds of mountains, and buttercup-coloured sunsets; such a journey is described later in this Introduction.

Safety in the mountains

In the glens of Part Three you can be a day’s walk from the nearest road or habitation, and without a mobile phone signal. In the mountains, especially north of Rannoch Moor, the ground you need to get off by may be steep with crags. Safety and navigation in the mountains is best learnt from companions, experience, and perhaps a paid instructor; such instruction is outside the scope of this book.

Most of the routes and outings in Part One are no more than moderately serious, and a walker used to day walks in the Lake District or Snowdonia should feel at home on them. The main difference is that in various places, Part One takes you off the trodden paths. This can be disconcerting or worse if you are unhappy with your navigation.

The international mountain distress signal is some sign (shout, whistle, torch flash or other) repeated six times over a minute, followed by a minute’s silence. The reply is a sign repeated three times over a minute, followed by a minute’s silence. To signal for help from a helicopter, raise both arms above your head and then drop them down sideways, repeatedly. If you’re not in trouble, don’t shout or whistle on the hills, and don’t wave to passing helicopters.

West Highland Way, above River Falloch

To call out the mountain rescue, phone 999 from a landline. From a mobile, phone either 999 or the international emergency number 112: these will connect you via any available network. Reception is good on most summits and ridges, but absent in places without direct sightlines to settlements such as Bridge of Orchy, or to the mast behind Kings House. Sometimes a text message can get through when a voice call can’t; to register your phone and enable 999 text messages visit www.emergencysms.co.uk.

Given the unreliable phone coverage, it is wise to leave word of your proposed route with some responsible person (and, of course, tell that person when you’ve safely returned). Youth hostels have specific forms for this, as do many independent hostels and B&Bs. You could also leave word at the police stations at Glencoe or Fort William.

Being lost or tired is not sufficient reason for calling the rescue service, and neither, in normal summer weather, is being benighted. However, team members I’ve talked to say not to be too shy about calling them: they greatly prefer bringing down bodies that are still alive…

There is no charge for mountain rescue in Scotland – teams are voluntary, financed by donations from the public, with a grant from the Scottish Executive and helicopters from the Royal Air Force and Royal Navy rescue services. You can make donations at youth hostels, tourist information centres and many pubs.

Beinn Dorain and Auch Gleann (Route 8) with Beinn a’ Chaisteal and Beinn Odhar; the WH Way runs along the base of the hills

Maps

The West Highland Way is a wide, well-used path, or else a vehicle track, and is well waymarked. For anyone aiming for nothing more than the mere path, even the cheapest map will do. That cheapest map is produced by Footprint, at about £5. The best map of the path is Harveys West Highland Way at 1:40,000 scale. It’s printed on tough polythene, has proper contour lines, and covers a wide enough strip to include Ben Lomond (Routes 2 and 3), the Mamores crossing (Route 12) and the less interesting route up Ben Nevis.

For long hikes through the back country, you need a map that not only shows that back country but also the ground around – in case you wander into that ground and get lost (or more cheeringly if you’re inspired to wider explorations than originally planned). The very useful Harvey ‘ British Mountain Map series is at 1:40,000. ‘Southern Highlands’ covers the area from Rowardennan on Loch Lomond to Tyndrum. ‘Ben Nevis’ continues northwards, from Inveroran and the head of Loch Etive, with the exception of Route 21 to Rannoch Station. The map is printed on polythene so robust that one outdoor writer uses it as his groundsheet.

Second best is still more than good enough. The Ordnance Survey’s Landranger series at 1:50,000 covers the whole area, and indeed the whole of the UK. It is well surveyed, clear and easy to read. It has two minor drawbacks. Even on a brand new map, the information on forestry plantations and forest roads is liable to be a decade or two out of date. And the footpaths marked are proscriptive rather than descriptive, which is a fancy way of saying they mark paths that ought (for historical or other reasons) to exist, rather than the ones that actually do. Sheets 64 (Glasgow), 56 (Loch Lomond), 50 (Glen Orchy) and 41 (Ben Nevis) cover the ground – almost. You need Sheet 57 (Stirling) for Drymen on the WH Way, but not for any of the ‘Not the WH Way’ routes. And the Rannoch crossing (Route 21) requires Sheet 42 (Glen Garry) as well as Sheet 41.

For exploration of crags and corries and pathless boulder slopes, you would be helped by the extra contour detail at 1:25,000 scale. The routes in this book don’t require this extra bulk and expense. However, for those who insist that bigger is invariably better, there is the 1:25,000 Explorer series of the Ordnance Survey. This is excellent mapping apart from the fact that many of the summits are so obscured with crag-marks that the contour detail is almost illegible. If you’re prepared to pay extra for a map that’s printed on waterproof paper, and marks paths where they actually are, most (but not all) of the routes are on various 1:25,000 Superwalker sheets from Harveys.

A compass is a very useful aid in mist, even if your skills only extend to ‘northwest, southeast’ rather than precision bearings. Magnetic deviation is about 4° west: to convert a map bearing accurately to a compass one, add 4. No magnetic rocks have been found in this area (it’s you that’s wrong, not the compass!). GPS receivers should be set to the British National Grid (known variously as British Grid, Ord Srvy GB, BNG, or OSGB GRB36).

How to use this book

The headers at the start of each walk should be self-explanatory. The walk-type icons are shown on page 9. The difficulty blobs are explained in the panel opposite. The length blobs correspond with the approximate times in the main headers: one square is a short day up to six hours, two squares up to eight hours, and three squares an even longer day; four squares are two days, and five is longer than that. The approximate times are based on one hour for 4 horizontal km or for 500m of height gained, with extra time where the ground is particularly steep or rough. They’ll be about right, including snack stops, for a moderately slow party with light rucksacks, or a moderately strong one backpacking.

Within Part One, in between the Not the West Highland Way’s numbered routes (hill crossings and circular outings), there are brief descriptions of the actual WH Way, for use in case of tiredness or nasty weather. These have their own walk icon, showing Telford’s road to Kings House (see page 9).

For the linear routes of Parts Two and Three, the headers include notes on public transport to and from the end-points, and, if there should be any, of facilities such as shops available on the way. The WH Way itself is splendidly equipped with hostels, campsites, bus stops and shops; these are listed in Appendix B, along with general public transport information.

Buachaille Etive Mor and Beinn a’ Chrulaiste from the track to Black Corries Lodge (Route 21)

In old numbers, 600ft was a vertical distance, while 200yd was horizontal. I’ve used a similar convention, so that 600m is an altitude, or a height gain, while 600 metres (with ‘etres’) is along the ground. I use ‘track’ (rather than ‘path’) for a way wide enough for a tractor or Landrover.

The difficulty estimates are on a rough scale of 1 to 5:

	Clear smooth paths, no steep sections
	Small rough paths, some steep ground
	Short steep climbs or long gentle ones, pathless ground with clear ridge lines
	Some boulderfields, steep rough ground, navigation at the level of ‘northwest, southeast’; remote country a day’s walk from any road
	Featureless plateau or moorland requiring compass bearings in mist; heather tramping; remote high ground; long steep rough ascents and descents; rocky ground and scrambling

A Winter Not the West Highland Way

The Not the West Highland Way idea is less perverse than it sounds. Ever since the path was opened walkers have been taking in Ben Lomond, and using Ben Nevis as a post-walk warm-down. Many more will have walked under Beinn Dorain, gazed longingly upwards, and wished they’d brought along the extra map and hadn’t already scheduled themselves forward to Inveroran. When I stopped on my own WH Way walk at Tyndrum’s By the Way Hostel, I wasn’t terribly surprised to see the squiggly line painted across its ceiling that is the altitude profile for ‘The Highland High Way’, a Not the WHW that’s a whole lot more strenuous than anything in this book, invented in 1996 by two tough types called Heather Connon and Paul Roper.

South ridge of Binnein Mor

Indeed, the usual response to Not the West Highland Way isn’t so much ‘Not the what?’ as ‘Oh I did that ages ago.’ My friend David Didn’t the West Highland Way in May 1990, under ‘more snow than I was planning on for a solo trip’. David enjoyed all four of the Blackmount Munros before a night at Kings House with a disconcerting waterbed effect under his tent as the ‘bathtub-type’ sewn-in groundsheet operated as the name suggests (except with the water being on the outside). He continued, much more energetically than anything in this book, over Buachaille Etive Mor, the sky-piercing scramble of the Aonach Eagach, and nine of the Mamores.

As for me, Not the WH Way swam into my mind in 1993 in response to a phone call from eastern Europe at an unexpected time of the year. ‘I have time off from the shop’, said Alois my Czech friend. ‘How is Scotland in February?’

February is not necessarily Scotland’s best. So I planned a five-day journey for minimum misery. Loch Lomond to Fort William offers pubs, hostels and shops. There are plentiful escapes by cosy Citylink and Scotrail. There’s a path alongside Loch Etive that’s been on my Landranger for the last ten years without my doing anything about it. And at worst, there’s a heavy-rucksacked trudge up the West Highland Way with the sleet, quite possibly, coming from behind.

But the best-laid plans of mice and mountaineers… Something happened to throw the whole scheme into confusion. It was, as always, the weather. To our shock and surprise, the sun came out.

So it was that we found ourselves on a route that, by Day Three, was to be Not the West Highland Way by a span of about 20 miles sideways.

There’s a lot to be said for using Inverarnan, Inveroran, all the WH Way’s orthodox overnight stops; and looking upwards each day at the weather, downwards at the legs, and deciding between the well-built path and the mountain excitements alongside. And if that’s your idea at the moment, you’ll skip a few pages down to Part One, rather than reading of how my Czech mate and me hauled rather large rucksacks up the Cobbler on what will, later in this book, be Route 18. You won’t want to know how we almost needed our crampons up there, except that the people before us had left hippo-size footsteps in the snow. Cloud was wafting around the three rocky tops, and forming beautiful hoarfrost over them. We stood and admired the beautiful hoarfrost. We weren’t tempted to climb through the hoarfrosted hole, along the hoarfrosted ledge, and onto the exciting true top of the Cobbler.

‘What’s this thing on the back of the ice-axe?’ Alois asked. Ah, the adze! Nailed boots and the noble art of step-cutting, that’s the proper way. Step-cutting is slow but satisfying, but even more fun is to scamper in crampons across crisp Beinn Ime like a wasp on a wedding cake. Then we dropped off to the north, wandered along a boggy valley and down a damp birchwood. They let us camp at Beinglas campsite even though it was closed, and in the night my boots froze to two rigid lumps.

Alois rests above Kinlochleven

In the morning the sun was shining. Alois the Czech was astonished, as he knew it doesn’t do that in Scotland two days in a row. But since it was, we branched off again to the west – Route 19. We cramponed up Ben Lui, and watched the climbers pop one behind the other out of the top of Central Gully, quite like the computer game of Lemmings except that they didn’t walk off vertically down the other side but came and sat down at the cairn.

Wandering to west of the West Highland Way meant no bunkhouses or hostels: but with the shiny sun alternating with cloudless moon, we could tent it the three days to Kinlochleven. ‘Ah, but I have a slightly sore leg,’ said Alois. ‘A hot shower would be the thing.’

Well, there might conceivably be a B&B in Dalmally. And the B&B might even be open, supposing we ignored the fact that most places do close in February. And so, going down the forest track, we discussed the maximum we’d pay for the treat of trickling hot water on the leg. In the High Tatras, £9 buys a hotel room for two plus use of the swimming pool.

In Dalmally, a small sign nailed to a phone pole indicates a B&B that charges £3 less even than our stingy maximum, offers not just shower but bath, and extra towels to dry the tent with. Breakfast is full fry with haggis – happily, two days over Ime and Lui have created the appetite to cope. ‘Going to Glen Etive? A nice run that, but roundabout,’ says helpful Mr B&B. ‘You’ll have to go right back to Tyndrum, then across the Moor.’ Our big boots and damp tent are just a tease. Obviously we have a car parked round the corner…

Our way to Glen Etive is slower than the road, but straighter. An invisible stalkers’ path through a high pass, a riverside track down Glen Kinglass, and then that little dashed line along Loch Etive. The Etive path exists just enough to be followable. Bog, stones, and grassy foreshore: but the freeze is right down to the sea and the wet bits are slide-over-bump rather than in-squelch. Gradually we trekked past Beinn Trilleachan, with the famous Trilleachan slabs icy grey under low cloud. We found a sheltered corner at the head of the loch; it didn’t snow or even rain; and the covering cloud kept us nice and cosy. Above us on Ben Starav, a waterfall made soothing noises all night long.

In the morning the sun was shining yet again. (Who wants the Highlands in February, eh?) We zigzagged arduously up the end of Buachaille Beag. The smaller Buachaille is just one of many fine mountains apparent on the map but not mentioned in the body of this book because there are just so many of them.

Argyll Needle, the summit of the Cobbler

Buachaille Beag’s a logical extension for anyone with spare energy on this part of Route 18. We made scratchy crampon noises all along its lovely ridge, to find a way down northwest from just short of its final summit Stob nan Cabar. Luckily we were walking away from the sunshine; sunscreen was one burden I hadn’t thought to bring. Then up the Devil’s Staircase, and there was the Pap of Glencoe standing erect against the afternoon.

One more range stands between us and journey’s end. Except that, in Scotland’s winter, you do have to adapt your plans to the weather. And extreme weather is on the way: yet another day of winter chill and cloudless blue skies. When sun runs golden along this particular range, you can’t just ignore the Mamores. We booked at Blackwater Hostel for a second night, hung the tent in the drying room, and clicked and scratched our way up the steep end of Binnein Mor.

When I was in the Western Tatras, they rather reminded me of the Mamores. Narrow ridges with wide paths, steep drops alongside, down the ridge and up the ridge and here’s another pointy peak. (The High Tatras, which are granite, are something else again.) What do you think, Alois? Tatric a bit?

The Tatras may be twice as high but, Alois explained carefully, Scotland is still much bigger for him. ‘In Scotland if you look around you see only mountains and mountains, I really love this. Also the beautiful lochs.’ Indeed, with chill sub-zero air, a sharp snow edge, Loch Leven below and a view from Mull to Schiehallion, it’s no trouble at all to forget about Scotland’s bog, our grey rain, our miserable summer midges.

A sharp dip leads into the cleavage between the twin peaks of Na Gruagaichean, ‘The Maidens’. The col is steep in and steep out, with verticality on the right, but in this superb snow the crampons can cope. On the second top we looked at birds against the blue sky. No, not an eagle: a raven. Corvus something, sorry I don’t know the Latin.

On Stob Dubh of Buachaille Etive Beag

Mamores ridgeline, towards Na Gruagaichean

‘I know raven,’ said Alois: ‘Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.’ Edgar Allen Poe is big in Moravia.

On over the easy Munro of Stob Coire a’ Chairn; and now the white mountains against blue were being buzzed round by a little yellow helicopter. The ‘copter made figure eights, Scottish-dance style, round each of the summits. It seemed to be searching for someone whose route plan had been an unhelpful ‘Mamores’. We ignored it and looked at Am Bodach. Am Bodach is translated as ‘old man’. Actually it’s the particular sort of old man you scare your babies with, the old bloke that if they carry on like that will come down the chimney when they’re asleep and get them. The climb to Am Bodach is, in summer, steep and awkward scree. Now it was hard snow, still steep, among rocky outcrops. Even the confident crampons found it a little exposed on the way up.

Winter days are short and Stob Ban is far, so we headed down Bodach’s south ridge, and found streaks of snow right down to the path.

Next day, sun still shining; Mamores still obstructing the road to Loch Linnhe. Alois, exhausted by so much sunny Scotland, took the bus to Ballachulish. Alone, I cramponed back to the ridge in a breeze stiff enough to be alarming. I’d started at dawn, so nobody else was around. The morning sky was not just blue, but blue-green, with an intensity normally got by improper use of photographic filters. This was like the Alps, except that, as Alois has pointed out, the view had lochs in, and the sub-zero sun couldn’t turn the snow to midday slush. I took a long solitary pause on Mullach nan Coirean, simply being there. South across the Aonach Eagach, Bidean looked particularly splendid. But then, so did everything else.

There are various ways down Glen Nevis. The road is simply horrid, with spruce trees on the left and the dull side of Ben Nevis opposite. The forest track is slightly less horrid, no cars but even more spruce. I took the Third Way, on the wrong side of the river – and found Glen Nevis is a beautiful place. Backlit, you don’t notice the grim spruce. The river chuckles over golden stones just loudly enough to drown out the cars on the other side. Birches make twiggy lacework against the light. It’s all later in the book as Route 12.

I visited the Old Fort, but resisted the temptation to head onwards along the new Great Glen Way. It’d be a lot less Great than Ben Lui and the Buachaille Beag. After five days, I was fit for the Nevisport carbohydrate whammy – macaroni with chips – and their pictures of Alpine ridges failed to arouse the usual jealous stirrings.

Scotland’s weather is unpredictable. So often, it leaves plans stymied and unfulfilled. We’ll have to do that blizzard plod up the West Highland Way another year.