Book review: Moonwalker by Alan Rowan

Moonwalker: Adventures of a midnight mountaineer

by Alan Rowan

Walking the Munros. This is a time-honoured subject for hillwalking books, and it might be thought that nothing new can be contributed to the topic. Search for books on the Munros and you'll find everything from detailed guides to memoirs. However, Alan Rowan's book Moonwalker: Adventures of a midnight mountaineer is something altogether different, and not only for the most obvious reason.

The premise of this book is clear from the outset: it's about climbing the Scottish hills by night. I was prepared for an unusual take on what it's like to climb mountains after dark, maybe with some poetic descriptions of the many sunrises the author must have seen.

What I wasn't prepared for was such a continuously enjoyable narrative, told with a compelling blend of candour and razor-sharp wit. This is actually the account of an epic undertaking and I take my hat off to the persistence, toughness, and hill skills of Alan Rowan. There's a wealth of mountain experience contained in these pages.

The author's journey to climb the Munros largely took place in the 1990s, at a time when his hectic day job prevented regular weekends on the hills. He was not an experienced mountaineer when he began his journey, and the early chapters are filled with entertaining anecdotes about poor gear and misjudging the conditions. When he caught the bug, as so many of us do, he made it fit around his work commitments by heading out after a shift and climbing at night — often heading straight back into work immediately afterwards. At first this was just a stop-gap attempt to fit his hillwalking ambitions in with his work schedule, but he soon began to enjoy the finer points of being on the hill after dark.

In my opinion, two particular qualities make this book special. First there's the journey: an incredible voyage of self-discovery and perseverance, featuring low points as well as highlights. Then there's the quality of the writing itself. The author's voice is very distinctive, with a sharp wit and a handsome turn of phrase. Many of the situations Alan Rowan got himself into on his journey are genuinely hilarious, too. Parts of the book had me laughing out loud.

In summary, Moonwalker deserves every word of the praise I've been hearing about it, and I wholeheartedly recommend it to all lovers of the Scottish hills.

Further reading

Buy the book on Amazon UK

Read Alan Rowan's blog

The Caplich Wind Farm proposal threatens the wild land of Scotland

Update: UKHillwalking asked me to adapt this article as an opinion piece for their website. You can read the extended version here.

Although I lived in Scotland for a number of years, I can't claim an intimate acquaintance with the far North West of the country — that wild and desolate corner of the UK that comparatively few think about, or even really know exists. It always seemed just a bit too far away even when I lived in Glencoe, and besides, all the biggest mountains were in Lochaber. I think that's the attitude that keeps the NW so quiet.

I did pass through it once. Isi, Jamie and I organised a cragging road trip out to Reiff and Sheigra, and as we drove through the sunny paradise of Assynt I found myself unable to look away from those towering, prehistoric mountains that reared like dinosaurs out of the jigsaw of lochans and peat, stretching for many miles away to the Atlantic.

We camped on the soft grass beside Sheigra bay. Glencoe had been cloaked with rain and mist for weeks, but up here the weather was mild and calm, the waters blue, the seabirds calling. We climbed for a day on the sun-washed cliffs before heading back home to the murk and the clag. I never forgot the beauty of Assynt or NW Sunderland, although I haven't been lucky enough to return — yet. I plan to go back to the NW this summer as I thru-hike the Cape Wrath Trail.

My single brief visit was enough to stamp a certain knowledge in my mind that this wild land is special. It's unlike anywhere else in the UK. It's nothing like the wilderness of the Cairngorms or Knoydart; it's quite unique, and somehow doesn't even quite feel like the rest of Britain. I'm sure more experienced voyagers in the NW will know exactly what I mean. That sense of North is not to be found anywhere else in these islands.

The threat of the Caplich Wind Farm development

I'm sorry to say that this wild land is under threat. A proposed wind farm development near Oykel Bridge will have a major visual impact on large areas of the NW if it goes ahead. It won't be quite visible from Sheigra, but this map speaks for itself.

Others more learned in these matters (see links at the bottom of the page) have written more eloquently on this subject than I am able to. I'm not an expert on renewable energy or conservation, but I do know with absolute certainty that humanity's purpose on this earth is not to despoil it in order to make a quick buck. In all of nature, our species has the unique position of being able to choose our role. Do we want to be custodians of this wild land, protecting it for a time beyond our own limited vision, or do we want to exploit it for short-term greed?

Make no mistake — I'm a pragmatist, and as much as I believe in the protection of the environment and the biosphere, I know that energy for human growth has to come from somewhere. But this is not the right place for this wind farm because it will set a catastrophic precedent. I just don't think that should even be up for negotiation. That's my stance and I doubt it will ever change.

If you wish to object, and I believe it's your duty to do so if you agree with my point of view, then you can make your voice heard here. The outdoor community is rallying around this cause. Please consider making a public objection.

Further reading

I would encourage you to read Alan Sloman's more detailed analysis of this proposal here: Scotland's fabulous north west is about to be destroyed
Chris Townsend's piece on wind farms and wild land: Allt Duine, Wind Farms & Wild Land
James Boulter's analysis: The Fall of Assynt

Forty-eight hours at the Lairig Leacach bothy — a typecast

In a departure from my usual form for trip reports, I'm writing this one up as a typecast — that is, scans of pages typed on a manual typewriter. I used an analogue camera to take all the photos on this trip so it feels appropriate. I hope you enjoy this (much-delayed) trip report of a soggy journey to Scotland. Note: you can click on the links below each page to display a full-size version.

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Link: Balmoral trip report (January, not February!)

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Scotland's last glacier ... as it appears in the present day!

Photo (C) James Roddie 2014, all rights reserved

Back in January, it emerged that the last glacier in the Scottish highlands may have lasted well into the 1700s. Coire an Lochain, a deeply carved corrie in the northern Cairngorms, was believed to be the site of one of the last Scottish glaciers.

However, the research has been mired in controversy since the original paper was published. Rival scientists have challenged the claims and it now appears that the entire question hinges on arcane matters such as soil pits.

A definitive answer to the question "When did the last Scottish glacier die?" may be a little way off, but in the meantime we can gaze in awe at views like the one above and think back to what it must have been like.

The Great Slab of Coire an Lochain

The topography of Coire an Lochain is unusual. At the base of the cliffs, a gigantic slab of polished rock tilts down at a steep angle. Snow builds up on this slab during the winter months and it is often the site of spectacular, full-depth avalanches later in the season.

During thawing conditions like at present, the snowpack can slump and begin to drift down the slab, producing the dramatic crevasses clearly visible in the picture above. The effect is accelerated when the underlying ground isn't that cold (again, this closely mirrors current conditions).

The scale is altogether different, but here's a photo of a glacier in the Alps for comparison.

In this picture we can see genuine glacial crevasses caused by the gradual downhill movement of masses of ice over many centuries. This slope is also prone to avalanche - you can see huge blocks of debris that will testify to that, and many climbers have died here over the years - but it isn't a transient feature like the Coire an Lochain "glacier" is in the present day. The maze of crevasses will change year by year as the entire mass slowly drifts downhill, but it will be possible for a glaciologist to "track" individual features over long periods of time.

Glide Cracks or Crevasses?

The scene in Coire an Lochain today might look like a glacier, and the "crevasses" are certainly fearsome enough, but in the 21st century it's a temporary feature. The crevasses are known as "glide cracks," a term that refers to seams that open up in a slumping, thawing snow pack as it drifts downhill prior to a catastrophic avalanche.

Depending on conditions, these crevasses can stay in place for weeks or even months - but the avalanche will always happen, even if the pack hangs on well into May. By late summer the Great Slab will be almost entirely snow-free again.

So it might be thrilling to think of a wee glacier lurking in a hidden corrie of the Cairngorms even in the year 2014, but unfortunately the science says otherwise: it superficially looks like one, but it isn't!

Winter climbing conditions - how much information is too much?

British winter climbing is in a strange place at the moment. We like to get away to the hills as an escape from "real life," and yet the world of climbing frequently mirrors the world around us even if we like to pretend that it doesn't.

Look around you. We live in an age of ubiquitous information, of instant answers, of a vast mass of knowledge that can be tapped or ignored at will. A modern climber is a creature of the modern era, and it would be strange to expect otherwise.

I'm generalising to an extent here, but in the past climbing was a more adventurous activity: uncertain, unpredictable, and more of an act of exploration than it is today. The sense of adventure remains strong, but the sport has changed beyond all recognition and modern climbers, particularly winter climbers, crave one thing above everything else: information.

The Information Age

O.G. Jones

The advance of the information age in climbing has been a long and slow one, arguably beginning in the 1890s when O.G. Jones wrote his first guidebooks to popular climbing areas of the UK. His motivations for doing this were to help climbers avoid wasting their time and to prevent fatal accidents ... noble goals, and yet he was widely criticised. The established climbing community resisted all attempts to democratize the sport.

The shape of things to come was set. Throughout the next century guidebook after guidebook was produced, covering more and more of the UK in greater and greater detail. As new routes were climbed the blank pages were filled in and even the climbing grades themselves became more precise, leaving less to discover yourself.

The information age is a two-pronged fork. On the one hand we have information about the climbs themselves: guidebooks, hut logs, club journals, eventually followed by online forums and route databases. On the other hand we have information about climbing conditions (mainly the concern of winter climbers, but also relevant to trad climbers as well).

The first category is well-developed in the year 2014. Guidebooks are bewilderingly comprehensive and virtually every climb in the UK is documented to within an inch of its life. The amount of information available online is similarly verbose, allowing climbers every possible opportunity to research their routes of choice before even seeing the crag or mountain. It can be argued that this wealth of information has encouraged the phenomenon of "honeypotting" (in which popular routes get mobbed by crowds while others lie neglected), but that's not really the issue I'd like to talk about in this blog.

It's the second category - the conditions information - that really interests me.

Tweeting from the Crag

Conditions are everything in winter climbing. Depending on conditions, an ice climb may be a glittering pillar of pure ice ... or a dank chimney dripping with water. Perhaps it's to be expected that winter climbers have an insatiable appetite for conditions data.

Since I started mountaineering in 2006 there has been a revolution in how climbers find out about the quality of the white stuff coating their chosen hill. Forums existed in 2006, of course - and word of mouth has always been with us - but new technology has enabled high-quality information to spread far more quickly and in greater volume.

The Scottish Avalanche Information Service provides perhaps the best online information about conditions. Updated daily during the season, at a glance you can get a good idea about snow conditions in most of the main climbing areas. It requires experience to use effectively but is one of the best tools available today. MWIS is another vital tool that provides weather forecasts tailored to the most popular mountain areas.

Blogs have really taken off and now it seems that every guide, instructor, and enthusiast has a blog (this is by no means a criticism; I love reading mountain blogs!) UKClimbing.com now has a winter conditions page detailing which routes have recently been climbed, and perhaps most significantly of all, climbers on Twitter utilise the #scotwinter hashtag to tweet live updates on snow conditions directly from the crag. Twitter is buzzing with climbers and when I'm stuck down south with no chance of getting to the mountains it can be a real boost reading about adventures almost as they happen. It all helps to build up an accurate picture of what's happening on the hill.

Good information can make the difference between a day like this...

... and one like this!

Information Overload?

All this information is hugely empowering. Once, mountaineers might have driven hundreds of miles to a mountain, perhaps using up their only holiday opportunity all winter - and with no idea of what they might find when they got there. In the days before guidebooks they might not even have known about any climbable routes, and they certainly wouldn't have had any idea about critical factors such as avalanche risk, snow quality, or cornices.

Of course, that's the very definition of "adventure" and I'm quite sure that such circumstances have produced fine outings on many occasions.

However, the chance of mishap is high and the margin for error slim. At best, the climbers risk disappointment if the mountain is stripped of snow and none of the routes are in condition. At worst, they risk death from avalanche.

Nowadays the climber has options. He or she can look up routes in a guidebook to judge their own skills in relation to the mountain. The climber can research a wealth of data online, from accurate weather forecasts to avalanche observations, from recent pictures of the mountain to tweets posted the day before from the same route. When used wisely and tempered with experience, the risk of disappointment or accident is reduced - and, arguably, the chance of having a memorable and safe adventure is increased.

We climb in an era when information is readily available, but some of us still look back to simpler times and yearn for the uncertainty and adventure of days before we had such powerful tools. As a sport, climbing is inherently adventurous - but we live in times when technology and information threaten that sense of adventure.

The Next Phase: Real-Time Updates

The BMC has recently launched a new service enabling winter climbers to view live temperature data directly from Cwm Idwal, a popular ice climbing location in the Snowdonia National Park. The pilot service is very well-presented and climber-friendly. A little knowledge will allow potential visitors to judge whether or not the ice routes are likely to be in condition.

It's an interesting development and, when I read about it today, I asked myself if I would use such a tool. I sometimes enjoy the freedom of climbing without guidebooks, but I would never venture into the mountains without appraising myself of the avalanche and weather forecasts. I remain a 21st century climber despite my occasional fondness for tweed and nailed boots.

I must admit that I would use these sensor readings, even if part of me recoils from the clinical stripping-away of uncertainty and adventure.

It's a dilemma, isn't it? In the year 2014 it is seen as irresponsible to climb in winter without having checked weather and avalanche data. In the year 2024 will it be considered irresponsible without having checked your real-time temperature readouts on your Google Glasses (or whatever gadget we're all using in the future?)

The information age of climbing progresses, times change, and the boundary between adventure and common sense continues to move - but it moves ever in the favour of greater safety, more information, less uncertainty.

Just me and the snow - but for how much longer?

I don't really know what point I'm trying to make with this piece. Part of me looks back at the brave, foolish early years of climbing and yearns for the days when the mountains were empty and unknown and to climb was to be a genuine explorer. Part of me knows that change is inevitable and the sport of climbing is as subject to technological shifts as everything else. Part of me realises that if extra information can avoid disappointment or danger then it's almost certainly worth it.

But I wonder about a future where every mountain throngs with climbers, where we all wear Google Glasses which can calculate every axe placement and give live readouts on the probability of a slope avalanching. Is that the future we want for our most wonderful sport? The machines are already taking over in the fields of navigation and communication in the mountains; will they start replacing our common sense and experience as well?

I really don't have an answer for this. I don't see it as the thin end of the wedge, but rather a point in a long, long process. We can't resist the future but, for the moment at least, we have some choice over the extent to which technology intrudes into our adventures in the mountains.

What do you think? Do you welcome the introduction of real-time temperature sensors in climbing venues, or do you think we have enough information on conditions as it is? Sound off below!

The Mounth Passes by Neil Ramsay and Nate Pedersen: book review

The Mounth Passes:

A Heritage Guide to the Old Ways through the Grampian Mountains

by Neil Ramsay and Nate Pedersen

(Kindle)

This slim ebook came to my attention through the Scotways Twitter account. Scotways is one of the oldest outdoor access organisations in the country, established in 1845 to help fight for rights of way through the Scottish countryside. The authors, Neil Ramsay and Nate Pedersen, are both involved with the Heritage Paths Project.

My first impressions of this book were very good. The cover is attractive and the book includes a large number of colour photographs (plus a map) to illustrate the various routes. The introduction gives the reader a grounding in the etymology of the word "Mounth," a term originating from the Gaelic monadh. These mountain passes connected distinct glens, usually over high ground but following weaknesses in the landscape, and were often used for cattle droving in past centuries. Several of the roads were perilous in winter before the widespread use of modern clothing, maps, or equipment, and have claimed many lives over the years. Today some of the passes are still in use while others have faded into obscurity.

Twelve Mounth passes are described, mainly in Aberdeenshire, and each road gets its own chapter with an overview of the history and folklore plus a survey of the route. I found the historical details particularly fascinating and I think the authors do a great job of analysing the changing nature of the Scottish landscape and how forces both human and natural can shape these passes.

The "survey" sections tend to contain the most photos and actually act like mini walking guides, aiding the curious reader in following these old paths.

This is an authoritative compact guide and the authors clearly have a great deal of expertise in the subject. Recommended for those with an interest in the history of Scotland.

~ FIND OUT MORE ~

Visit the Scotways website

The Heritage Paths Project

Download the book on Kindle

Scotland's last surviving glacier lasted into the 1700s, research shows

My new novel, The Atholl Expedition, asks a question: when did the last glacier in Scotland die? Was it thousands of years ago in the prehistoric past, as is commonly believed, or did a glacial mass survive in one of the remote and secret recesses of the Highlands, away from the inquisitive minds of surveyors and geologists?

Until now we have only been able to guess at the answer, drawing on folk legends and historical accounts of mountains capped with snow all year round. Research has proven inconclusive. I wrote The Atholl Expedition partly as an attempt to show what it might have been like if a small Scottish glacier somehow survived through the aeons right into the reign of Queen Victoria.

Now we no longer have to imagine. The question has been answered.

According to researchers from the University of Dundee, Scottish glaciers formed and persisted in the Cairngorms during the so-called Little Ice Age between the mid 17th and late 18th centuries. The specific glacier in question was situated in Coire an Lochain in the Northern Corries above Aviemore (photo above taken by the author in May 2010).

Dr Kirkbridge said:

There are some anecdotal reports from that time of snow covering some of the mountain tops year-round. What we have now is the scientific evidence that there was indeed a glacier.

And a quote from Dr Harrison:

Our findings show that the Cairngorm mountains were probably home to a number of small glaciers during the last few hundred years - around 11,000 years later than previous evidence has suggested. It may be that such glaciers also existed in the Scottish Highlands and elsewhere during other cold periods after the main ice sheets had disappeared.

The glacier in The Atholl Expedition

The eigh-shruth - not a glacier in the present day

In my new book, Professor Forbes investigates the "eigh-shruth" of An Garbh-choire, Braeriach, in the year 1847. This location is only a few miles away from Coire an Lochain and is currently home to the most persistent snow patches in the UK. 1847 is at least sixty years after the latest date put forward by the researchers in their recent publication, so it remains unproven whether or not a glacier actually existed on Braeriach at that time. My personal opinion is that it's certainly plausible!

Further reading

Glacier 'Discovered' in Scotland's Recent Past - UKHillwalking.com
Scotland had a glacier up to 1700s, say scientists - BBC
Site of Scotland's last glacier discovered - Scotsman

An update on Atholl

Just a quick update. Interest remains strong in the book, and it has remained in the top ten bestsellers in the mountaineering chart on Kindle for most of the last week, reaching a high point of #2 so far (although #6 - #9 is more usual). That means it has been consistently outselling some fairly heavyweight authors including - at one point - Joe Simpson! I'm sure this success won't last, of course, but it's doing much better than The Only Genuine Jones was at this point. I suspect the amount of buzz about the book on Twitter has made a huge difference.

All I can say is ... any authors who stubbornly insist "Twitter doesn't sell books" have been doing it wrong!

I have also taken delivery of the very first paperback proof and have begun checking it through for printing errors. I will be in a position to register interest for signed copies within a couple of weeks.

Onwards and upwards!

Defeated by Lochnagar but inspired by Balmoral

Wham! The gust of wind punched me in the chest, lifted me off my feet, and hurled me twenty feet back through the air to land, dazed, on a snowbank. I struggled to get up again but the force of the wind was relentless, pushing me back step by step, crushing me to the ground.

I had never experienced wind like it: ferocious, elemental, irresistible. When I saw "gusts to 60mph" in the forecast I thought I could handle it, but faced with an exposed climb ahead I couldn't risk being blown off my feet a second time. It was galling to turn back less than 200m from the summit, but I had no choice.

The plan

The plan had been simple enough: get the bus to Crathie, walk to the Gelder Shiel bothy where I would spend the night, and climb Lochnagar the next day. Unfortunately things started going wrong almost from the very start.

My train was late at Grantham, which caused a knock-on effect resulting in massive delays later on in the journey. I missed the last bus from Aberdeen to Deeside, so had to stay in the Aberdeen youth hostel overnight. When I arrived at Crathie the next morning, I spent several hours scouting out the Balmoral estate.

Balmoral

The Balmoral estate will be a primary setting for Alpine Dawn Book II - as yet unnamed, but set in 1848 and 1849. A big reason for going on this trip at all was to conduct some field research and get a feel for the area myself.

My first discovery was that it's virtually impossible to actually see Balmoral castle from anywhere! The trees have grown up a great deal, and I couldn't even see a glimpse of the turrets from the top of the nearby hill (or from the other side of the river Dee). Happily, this is of no importance to me as the modern castle bears no resemblance to the building that would have existed in 1848. The first castle was demolished in the 1850s as it was too small for the Royal household.

The River Dee, taken from the bridge built by Brunel

I did, however, make some useful discoveries. The current kirk dates from 1895, and replaces an earlier building constructed in 1804. The head keeper of Balmoral in 1848, a man named Grant who had six sons, lived in a cottage a mile from the castle with a good view of Lochnagar. Victoria, Albert and their children built a number of cairns on the hillside in commemoration of their purchase of the Balmoral freehold in 1852 (until this point they had the castle and estate on lease from Lord Aberdeen).

I walked up to find Victoria's cairn and was treated to a spectacular view as I came upon it:

Queen Victoria's cairn

I have come to know Victoria and Albert quite well over the last year as they are major characters in The Atholl Expedition and shall certainly be returning in the next book. Far from the conventional, stuffy figures most people call to mind when they think of Victorian royalty, these people were actually fascinating characters who did a huge amount of good in their lifetimes. They also had many positive qualities, including a genuine concern for the lives and wellbeing of their servants.

My books don't take sides when it comes to the class warfare of the 19th century. My job as author is to show the story from all possible sides, which is why in The Atholl Expedition I picked characters from every possible level of the social spectrum. All of these people have qualities both good and bad. Some may criticise me for portraying the Royal couple in a positive light, perhaps wishing that I had instead pursued some political or social agenda in my novels, but I see no need to take sides in a war that is no longer being fought (or, at least, no longer being fought in the same way or on the same fronts).

I stood for a few minutes on the high prow of rock where Victoria and Albert first looked out on the estate they had purchased, and I don't mind telling you it was quite a touching moment for me. They found such happiness in their visits to Blair Atholl, but it was always at the sufferance of the true owner (the 6th Duke of Atholl). In Balmoral they were finally able to create a miniature world all of their own. They also did a lot of good in the local area, providing employment, improving infrastructure, and boosting the economy.

Gelder Shiel

After exploring Balmoral I walked to Gelder Shiel in increasingly strong winds; however, the weather was otherwise good and, despite the forecast, I convinced myself that the next day would be acceptable for climbing.

Gelder Shiel is a comfortable little bothy and I spent about 15 hours there in total. Once unpacked, I spent a fair bit of time writing up notes from my research I'd carried out in the Balmoral estate, and fleshing out ideas for my next book.

At Gelder Shiel

Lochnagar

I started the walk-in to Lochnagar just before dawn. It felt pretty windy in Glen Gelder but I was confident things would improve later on. The sky was clear and I was treated to some absolutely stunning cloud and light effects as the sun rose.

Dawn

A herd of red deer

A well-constructed (even perhaps a little obtrusive) track cuts through the reserve and eases the initial walk-in, but after the first mile much of the track was drifted over with snow of varying thickness and quality. It hadn't really got below freezing overnight at this altitude so the breakable crust on the snow was rarely strong enough to hold my weight, and consequently travel was far more laborious than I had expected.

The approach to Lochnagar

I broke away from the track and began the ascent of Lochnagar, cutting up behind Meikle Pap to reach the col on the NE Ridge. I had already decided against climbing any of the gullies as I had seen avalanche debris from as far away as the hut. Freezing level was at about 900m but windchill was at least -10 or -15 at that altitude.

As I climbed, the crusty snow lay in deeper drifts and it got windier ... and windier ... and windier!

Above the snowline

Soon forward progress was a real battle and I was constantly having to stop and lean against my alpenstock to avoid being blown backwards. As I approached the col I got hit by some monster gusts, far in excess of 60mph in my opinion, and when I finally got blown over (while on the steep slope above the col) I decided enough was enough.

Ominous lenticular clouds

The prospect of getting bowled off that ridge by another gust was not an appealing one, given the huge drops on either side, so at about 1000m altitude I reluctantly decided to turn back: a decision made all the more galling by the gorgeous blue skies.

On the way down, an expansive view of the Balmoral Forest

Back at the bothy, I collected my sleeping kit and began the tramp back to the road. My original plan at this point was to catch a bus up the glen and sleep overnight at the Slugain Howff before making an attempt on Beinn a'Bhuird the next day (taking advantage of a weather window). However, it was dark by the time I jumped on board the bus, and given the fact that the Slugain Howff is both secret and exceptionally well-hidden, I didn't much fancy my chances of finding it in the dark! A friend had told me the approximate location, but I'd never been there before. I decided to find accomodation in Braemar.

Remarkably, all three hostels in Braemar were closed so I was obliged to take a room at the Fife Arms Hotel.

The retreat

With several days left until I had to go home, you'd have thought I would have jumped at the chance to explore some more areas and climb some more mountains. However, all the mountains accessible from Braemar are big days, usually requiring a stay at a bothy, and the forecast from Friday onwards was pretty bad - I didn't fancy being blown off another mountain. I considered doing one of the smaller hills, but to be honest that would have meant staying another night at the hotel, and I had started to feel a little apathetic about the entire trip. I suppose my failure on Lochnagar disheartened me a little.

My research work - the main reason for coming in the first place - was done; I had been beaten by Lochnagar, the mountain I really wanted to climb; any other objectives were purely secondary. I decided to return home on the first train the next morning.

Despite my failure to climb any mountains at all, this has actually been a very successful trip. I've done a lot of highly useful field research, and perhaps more importantly, my sojourn at Gelder Shiel allowed me some thinking space and I have already planned out about half of my next book...

A week of mist and magic in Glen Shiel

This time last week I was sitting in the public bar of the Cluanie Inn, nursing a pint of Red Cuillin and reflecting on yet another spectacular day in the mountains of Kintail. All of my trips to the mountains this year have coincided with pretty decent weather, all things considered, and this trip was no exception!

I spent a total of four days on the hill and climbed seven new Munros, taking my full tally up to 60. Perhaps more importantly, I visited a new area of the Highlands for me and spent some time with old friends. Here are some highlights from the trip.

The Five Sisters of Kintail

Isi and I used to climb together frequently in the old days at the Clachaig, but since going our separate ways we haven't had many opportunities to get out on the hill. We arranged to meet at the Kintail Lodge Hotel on the first evening of my trip to plan an outing on the Five Sisters of Kintail.

Sunbeam over Sgurr Fhuaran

This famous ridge walk is almost ten miles in length, involves almost 1,400m of ascent, and visits the summits of three Munros (Sgurr na Ciste Duibhe, Sgurr na Carnach, and Sgurr Fhuaran). It begins with a punishing grind up a steep hillside to the high Bealach an Lapain. The weather was less than perfect when we set forth, with dense cloud shrouding the tops and a persistent wind, but nevertheless the walk was a good one, full of interest and plenty of ups and downs.

Unfortunately we saw no views worth mentioning until right at the end of the route.

Isi at the end of the Five Sisters

The Forcan Ridge

Of all the mainland ridge scrambles, one has long been near the top of my list for me to climb, and that's the Forcan Ridge. This route is graded 2 in the scrambling spectrum, and is no pushover; although much of the climbing is straightforward, there are several optional pitches of Moderate rock climbing, including a difficult downclimb that will test most scramblers.

Fortunately the weather was absolutely flawless for my ascent. I made rapid progress to the base of the ridge thanks to the excellent stalker's path that climbs the mountain's lower flanks. The route begins innocently enough, with a few pitches of scrambling on good quality rock that give a taste of what is to come higher up.

The ridge is a continuous pleasure and is far longer than is initially supposed. You can't see the entire ridge from any given point. It reveals its intricacies in stages, providing yet another "wow!" moment as you arrive on the crest of the first buttress and see the route onward.

I was followed up the ridge by @Pozorvlak and friends, and when we reached the summit introductions were made - always a strange coincidence when people who have chatted online meet up by chance in the wild!

I also made friends with a tame raven who was almost brave enough to eat out of my hand.

The raven on the summit - with the Black Cuillin of Skye beyond

Beinn Fhada

The approach to Beinn Fhada

Years ago my approach to mountaineering was very much motivated by grades, lists, and routes. If a day out didn't involve a challenging rock climb or something I could tick off a list then I wasn't interested. Consequently, in 2008 I probably wouldn't have been motivated by the prospect of ascending a mountain like Beinn Fhada by its easiest route.

Thankfully nowadays my appreciation of mountains is a little more holistic and I found plenty to enjoy about this long and scenic route to the summit of a splendid Munro. The approach, through Morvich and Gleann Choinneachain, was a stunning walk in its own right through a mixture of managed woodland and semi-wild mountain pasture.

Gleann Choinneachain

A stalker's path led through the intricate corries of Beinn Fhada to the summit plateau. I was astonished at the scale of this mountain; it's of a similar size and complexity to the entire Bidean massif in Glencoe, with as many cliffs and hidden corries, and yet is only a single mountain!

I was treated to constantly shifting misty views from the summit plateau.

The surprising cliffs of Beinn Fhada

Layers of mist

A'Chraileag and Mullach Fraoch-choire

The eastern expanse of Glen Shiel, looking down to the Cluanie Inn

Until the last day of my trip, all of my Glen Shiel adventures had taken place at the western extremity of the glen. I decided to get the bus down to Loch Cluanie for my last day to get a taste of the mountains at the other end of the glen.

I chose a'Chraileag and Mullach Fraoch-choire as my objectives for the day. The first part of the ascent consisted of a brutally steep grass slope rising from the road to Point 803 on the south ridge of a'Chraileag. Several other walkers were tackling the ascent with me and, given the warmth of the morning, there was a lot of standing around to "admire the view" on the way up!

The views from the summit of a'Chraileag were expansive and stunning.

Distant Ben Nevis

A'Chraileag from the ridge to Mullach Fraoch-choire

The second Munro of the day, Mullach Fraoch-choire, is accessed by a rather splendid and toothy rock arete. A path bypasses most of the scrambling sections, but the sporting route is straight over the top. This would be a grand ridge in snowy conditions.

The rock arete of Mullach Fraoch-choire

I spent a little while on the summit taking in the grand views over to Glen Affric before beginning the long descent back to the Cluanie Inn. The way back takes the boggy length of an Caorann Mor to its terminus at the main road. Thankfully in the dry conditions the bogs weren't too severe, and I even managed to make do without putting gaiters on, but it was damp enough to tell that in wet weather this would be a hell of a slog.

An Caorann Mor

So there you have it: a week exploring a totally new area of the Highlands for me, climbing some brilliant mountains in good weather and even getting a little scrambling done to sweeten the deal. For me this is what Scotland is all about and why I keep coming back year after year. I shall certainly be returning to Glen Shiel as many mountains have been left unclimbed, including the Brothers Ridge, the entire South Shiel Ridge, and many more.