Between the Sunset and the Sea: A View of 16 British Mountains
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‘I watched the mirror for a last view, for now, of the frozen mountains of Glen Coe. As the road bent and the outline of Buachaille Etive Mor slid into sight, I did what I always did, and always would. I felt for that flutter of awe and that indefinable, unmistakable quickening of the pulse.’In the late 18th century, mountains shifted from being universally reviled to becoming the most inspiring things on earth. Simply put, the monsters became muses – and an entire artistic movement was born. This movement became a love affair, the love affair became an obsession, and gradually but surely, obsession became lifestyle as mountains became stitched into the fabric of the British cultural tapestry.In his compelling new book, Simon Ingram explores how mountains became such a preoccupation for the modern western imagination, weaving his own adventures into a powerful narrative which provides a kind of experiential hit list for people who don’t have the time nor the will to climb a thousand mountains.For some of these mountains, the most amazing thing about them might be the journey they’ve taken to get here. Others, the tales of science, endeavour and art that have played out on their slopes. The mythology they’re drenched in. The history they’ve seen. The genius they’ve inspired. The danger that draws people to them. The life that clusters around them, human and otherwise. The extreme weather they conjure. The adventure they fuel. The way that some raise the hairs on the back of your neck, and trigger powerful, strange emotions. And moreover, what they’re like to be amidst, under, on – just what that indefinable quality is that the British mountains wield which takes possession of you so powerfully, and never goes away.Ingram takes us high into the rafters of Britain’s most forbidding, unflinching and unchanging wild places through all the seasons of the year – from the first blush of spring to the deepest, darkest bite of the mountain winter. From Beinn Dearg to Ben Nevis, he takes us on a journey spanning sixteen of Britain’s most evocative mountainous landscapes, and what they mean to us today.
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and to Rachel and Evelyn, for bringing me back.
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Not that they always look straightforward, of course. An amusing story, which time has sadly rendered apocryphal, concerns a visitor from Switzerland who had come to walk up Snowdon. Upon rounding a corner of the Pyg Track, at a point that offers a spectacular view of the mountain’s east face, he froze, before imploring his party to turn back as there was insufficient daylight to make a summit attempt. Snowdon had tricked him; in good conditions the summit from that point is little more than two hours away. This is heartening, because, if you’ve ever seen the Swiss Alps, you’ll know that the mountains there are ridiculous. They’re like daggers, and there are millions of them. The fact that someone who comes from a country with mountains like that would want to come and climb one of ours – let alone be overawed by one – tells us something. It tells us ‘less is more’. It also tells us that whatever it is our mountains have, it isn’t cheapened by abundance or the anonymity of youth. They are dignified. Distinguished. They have something, which, were they alive, you might call a personality.
The names help. Oh, the names. Mountains across the world are usually given evocative names; it’s what comes of being the landscape’s most dramatic natural feature. But the toponymy – a little-deployed word to do with the etymology of place names – of the British mountains has a curiously unique vintage that is both cherishable and maddening, depending on the dexterity of your pronunciation muscles. Thanks to the interbreeding of Middle English, Gaelic, Goidelic Celtic, Old Norse, Anglo-Norman and the odd humorous landlord with a hill’s identity at his disposal, we have within our shores mountains that sound like flaking skin conditions (Slioch); someone choking on a Polo whilst trying to give directions in a Glasgow suburb (Stùc a’ Choire Dhuibh Bhig); unpleasant bodily reflexes (Barf); embarrassing bodily parts (Fan y Bîg); a kind of rice-based snack (Canisp); and the fortress of some medieval villain (Bidean nam Bian). We also have a couple of Cockups (one big, one not so big), a Sergeant, several Old Mans and literally hundreds of Bens. And though I jest, the meanings of some of the more colourful mountain names are as fascinating as they are eclectic. To illustrate this point, I’ll offer just one particularly good example: a hill in North Wales called Pen Llithrig y Wrach. It means ‘Hill of the Slippery Witch’. How can you not love that?
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