874 metres 2867 feet 2001
The good news is that this is one I crested many moons ago. At the time I didn’t possess a camera on my phone (although I did have a mobile phone). I do have a photograph of me posing at the top, and whilst I would love to share the full glory of the moment, I am slightly embarrassed by the jeans.
Irrefutable evidence 2001
I have deduced that this photograph was taken in 2001, and I am pretty sure it was taken on a hot (obs!) day sometime in April or May of that year. A short break staying with relatives near Glasgow (it helps to have friends and relatives scattered around the land in order to save on costs if you’re keen on outdoor activities outside your immediate area). I’d flown up from Stansted and had made a promise to be back in time to take on my child caring responsibilities.
My cousin and I made the ferry journey from Ardrossan to Brodick on the Isle of Arran, got to the top, acknowledged the fine view, then returned down and home. A straight 2867-foot ascent from sea level, which is always quite satisfying if achievable. No goats were to be seen on the fells, but not too far from the summit, and about a hundred metres across the heather, in a slight dip in the land, we observed a large, antlered red deer, who watched us back, and when satisfied that we represented a threat, bolted off and was gone in a flash.
A beautiful day and a beautiful location, but that’s not my strongest memory of the mountain. A late February in either 1984 or 1985, and my partner and I spent a few days with family in Paisley, near Glasgow. The weather was atrocious, and most of the British Isles was under several inches of snow after some wild winter storms. Nonetheless, and regardless of my consideration for others (or possibly lack of), I urged my partner to take a day trip to Arran. To her credit, but perhaps out of ignorance, she agreed, and off went to catch a train to Ardrossan, and then over the sea to Arran. The mainland retreated, shrouded as far as the eyes could see by a blanket of thick white snow. Our stay in Brodick was going to be a brief one.
Except, on arriving and disembarking, a meteorological phenomenon. The sun shone, no evidence of winter to be seen, and we were in an alternative reality. The Gulf Stream had served us well. We wandered around Brodick, slightly overdressed for the Spring like weather, found some tea and cake, and, as the fancy took us and as we had a few hours to kill, strolled north along the coast road towards Brodick Castle.
We entered the gardens, rhododendrons blooming and with tracks going up through trees and glades. With no intentions in mind after a while we had unwittingly gained some elevation and were now at a stone wall with a gate which opened onto open moorland. A natural point to stop, take a look around, and then head on back to town. Except, and quite unexpectedly, we didn’t stop. Maybe the intention was to get a bit further up and above the tree line to gain a better view, but half an hour on and we were still snaking up what was obviously the path to the summit.
I would like to say that with a spring in our step, companionship and a shared ambition we strode on and found the peak. Well, we didn’t. As we continued to climb the weather began to close in, and with increasing evidence of ice and snow patches on either side of the path, I was conscious that a breakdown in the entendre cordial was a distinct possibility. We reached a fork in the path. To the left a track that continued heading up, and to the right, and a path which headed off back towards the coast; somewhere. We had a conflab, and to my surprise it was agreed to carry on. I wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but would there ever be another chance? At times I can be a tad selfish, and I must have rationalised that I was prepared to lose some emotional credits to satisfy my curiosity. Just as we set off, out of the mist ahead a couple of walkers emerged. After proper acknowledgements and fishing for information about how far it was to the summit, based on the feedback and rather miserable presentation, I took an executive decision. I needed to save my skin before it was too late. The couple headed on down the slope, the smell of hot cock-a-leakie soup wafting up from the buts and bens of Brodick and encouraging their descent.
So, as they took off to the low road, I offered up defeat and surrendered the high road. It was also getting on and it had already been a long day. It was only early afternoon, but the nights come quickly to the north in February. We looked back towards Brodick, which suddenly looked a million miles away and now lying solemnly under the same cloud we were hovering on the edge of. By the look on my partner’s face maybe I had surrendered too late. Back at the fork in the path we could see the coast road just to our east. It looked to be far closer than Brodick and the map indicated a hotel, a post office and a public toilet, just a bit further north in the village of Corrie. Sod it.
I have a very clear memory of this moment, but writing this triggered a thought. Did I possess a map of Arran? As it happened, I sure did. 1980 Ordnance Survey Landranger 1:50,000 (or 1 and a quarter inch to 1 mile for the benefit of the Jacob Rees-Imperial-Mob). And sure enough, sometime after the event I must have tracked the route we had taken with a yellow highlighter pen. As fresh now as the day I drew it. In retrospect we really had been close to the summit. No more than a third of an inch (or 8 millimetres).
Setting off down the ridge, Meall Breac, the mode brightened. Just a couple of miles and we would be relieved, refreshed and snug as bugs at the Hotel bar, killing time until the bus took us back to Brodick. Compared to the path up from the castle, the rocky track we now found ourselves on required careful navigation and once it had petered out we were slipping and sliding down steep and boggy moorland. Frozen, and getting wetter by each step, the clear highland air was beginning to turn a sharper and fouler state of blue. Apparently, it was no one’s fault but my own, and I wasn’t going to argue.
Meall Breac and the view towards Corrie on a sunny day in 2001
It was well over an hour before we eventually pitched out onto the coast road just south of Corrie. We had navigated down the hill and along the north edge of the Corrie Burn. For at least half that time we had had sight of the hotel and a red phone box that screamed our destination. With a final half mile push along the road, we now stood outside the hotel. The door was firmly closed, and the lights were out. Closing time was still 2pm in these parts. Even the public convenience was out of season. Whose big idea had that been then? Well, to be honest she didn’t say it quite like that, but I am sure there are rules and guidelines on what you can say and publish on the internet.
Fortunately, the phone box allowed entry. By now the rain was lashing down and the next bus was sometime the following week. We called for a taxi and twenty minutes later we were relieved from our misery and were speeding back to Brodick. I have no recollection of the ferry back to the mainland, but I suspect I spent most of it hiding below deck or under a car.
Seventeen years or so on, in 2001, and a couple of days after cresting Goat Fell, I was dropped off at Prestwick airport to catch a late morning flight back to Stansted. I would have more than enough time to get home, tidy up, and then pick the kids (our kids) up from school. It was my turn, and I would have them for the next three days. I was looking forward to it.
The gates opened and we boarded the plane. I was last on (I don’t understand that rush to the seats) and took my seat. Twenty minutes or so passed before the engines kicked into life. And then, a bang, and the stationary plane juddered. Hmmmm?
Another twenty minutes passed, none the wiser and with the temperature in the plane beginning to reach an unacceptable level. Cabin crew passed up and down, unable to furnish any information. More time passed before some of the customers started to unbelt and unleash their inner frustrations. An hour had passed before an announcement came across the intercom that there was a technical problem with the plane, and we all had to disembark. Frustrating of course, but a welcome relief that we could at least get back into the terminal and get some refreshments.
Another hour passed. No information of any substance was being offered up by the ground staff, and although it was still relatively early, the first doubts were entering my mind about the possibility of having to abandon my parenting responsibilities. By now the Elvis Presley bar (Prestwick airport is where he spent two hours, and his one and only time on British soil, on returning from army service in Germany in March 1960) was seeing the benefits of this forced grounding. Eventually an update. An engineer was on his way to check the aircraft. They weren’t being clear on the specifics of the problem, but the general consensus was that the aeroplane towing vehicle had made a rather too robust connection with the front landing gear.
Another hour on. Had the engineer made his inspection, the people asked? Ah, not exactly. He was in the air himself, on a flight up from Stansted! Huh!
More time passed. Other planes had arrived, presumably some of them from Stansted, and others gone. Has the engineer arrived, more people asked? Ah, not exactly. The plane took him to Glasgow airport and he’s now on his way to Prestwick in a car. Huh! I made a call to London. It’s getting a bit sticky here. I might struggle to make the cut, but I’m sure it will be fine, I explained.
The afternoon passed into early evening. Another call to London. I’ll pick them up from yours if that’s ok. No problem.
The all clear came at around 8.00pm. I’d called again and said I would pick them up in the car as soon as I got back. OK!
An hour later the plane landed at Stansted. They’ll rush us through, I rationalised, and with luck I could be back in London and picking the kids up from their mother’s around 11pm. Not ideal but at least I’d have kept to the informal commitment.
The plane taxied towards the terminal, and then carried straight on past, eventually stopping in the middle of nowhere half a mile from freedom. An announcement. Due to the late arrival (the use of the word “late” having never been so mishandled), the plane was now so out of sync with terminal roster that we would now be the last in. And so it was, sometime around 11.30pm, that we were finally off the plane and scrambling to get to the last train into London. I didn’t have time to call again. It was, by now, patently obvious that I had failed as a father.
I have strayed a million miles off the relatively straight and narrow path that takes you to the top of Goat Fell, but to achieve your ambitions, sometimes you have to make sacrifices. As it happens, no damage was done to the post-relationship relationship. Fair play. I picked the kids up the next day without any fuss, but on reflection I can now accept that in 1984/5, choosing to evacuate the mountain by the Maell Breac and Corrie Burn route, instead of a straight push on back to Brodick, may well have been in the top twenty grievances against me when the time came, thirteen or fourteen years later, to part. Uh-huh!
The failed 80’s attempt – just short by 8mm
El Colmado 57 