Tag: writing

Cresting the County – First year Review – May 2024 to April 2025

I hadn’t seen it coming, but when it did, I had to confront the beast. The Unitary Authority! But before we meet the beast, time to reflect.

On the 10th May 2024 I parked up in Westerham, Kent, marched north out of town and fifty minutes later was standing by a wall, looking across a field where my very basic research had established the highest point in Kent. Betsom’s Hill. It was a small start, but as the months progressed, further counties’ highest points were reached, either on foot, or drive by. I’d have liked to have done one on the bike, but that may remain a pipedream.

I had initially been inspired to take up this arguably pointless activity after a climb to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain in Monmouthshire, with my daughter and her partner J. After the climb, in March 2024, I read that Sugarloaf was the highest peak in Monmouthshire, and I realised that there might be other opportunities, either by chance, or by deliberate choice. Indeed, as I began to research the topic, I realised that over 66 years I had achieved some already. Just a few weeks later, again with my daughter and J, we were standing at the top on Ben Nevis, in a thick, cold cloud. It didn’t matter, I had done it once before thirty odd years earlier with my son, on a glorious Highland day. Just getting there had been an adventure. On the way back home, and due to far too casual planning, I narrowly missed out on the highest point in West Lothian, but three days later I drove to the highest point in Nottinghamshire.

Early on I realised that if I was going to take it a bit more seriously, I would need to compile a list of counties and establish the highest points. With the immense power of the internet this would surely be an easy matter and completed in a couple of hours.

Days later, and despite numerous searches, I hadn’t yet found what I considered to be a definitive list of British counties. Eventually I settled on a list that, from all the indicators, felt about right. It contained all the counties in Wales, Scotland, England and Northern Ireland. I created a table and placed each county in alphabetical order. Whilst I had included the six counties of Northern Ireland, but with no friends or relatives to justify a visit, I rationalised that it was unlikely any would be trod. The list understandably included Greater London and Greater Manchester.

Over the following weeks I researched the highest points and began to log by county, nearest place and height. What this process began to reveal was that I wasn’t alone. I hadn’t been naive enough to think that I had come up with an original concept, but as the weeks went by, I came across more and more sites written by others (all men so far) who were committed to the cause. In due course it became apparent that far from being a micro niche activity, after angling, it was almost certainly the largest mass participation leisure activity in the country. Oh woe…!

Well, it was what it was, and I was enjoying going to new places, finding out more about areas I may have been to before, but more interestingly, the places I had never been to before and, up until that point, had never intended to go to at all (Warwickshire being the best example so far).

Ebrington Hill, at the western most point of Warwickshire, was the last to be achieved in 2024. Winter set in, and that involved it raining almost every day for the first few weeks of 2025. I wasn’t going anywhere, not least because the roof had surrendered to the elements and I was going to have to dig deep to get it fixed.

To fill the vacuum, I went online and purchased a very large and basic map of the UK, divided by county. Simple, but beautiful in its own right. Once I had carefully mounted it onto a sheet of ply, cut from a much larger sheet that I left in B&Q when I realised it wasn’t going to fit in the car, I could now sit comfortably and gaze lovingly at the entire UK and contemplate options for the coming months. When I wasn’t hypnotised by the map or watching steady rain on the window and getting more and more anxious about the arrival of the scaffolding, I started to research the underlying geology of each of the heights. I’d previously downloaded the British Geological Survey’s Geology Viewer (BETA), and this amazing work of science, art and technology was all I needed to not only establish the underlying geology, but also accurately pinpoint the highest points (believe me not everything published online about highest points is correct or accurate).

In late March 2025 I set off for a few days in Bristol and the West County. Before leaving I sat down and took a close look at the enormous map.

An Enormous Map

The good news was that I would be passing through the north of Hampshire, where Pilot Hill marked the county’s highest point. The City of Bristol was also on my list and would be an easy win. But, looking more closely at the region around Bristol, it became clear that any previous assumptions had been misplaced. Somerset had been on my radar, but the map, published in 2014 was showing far more “counties’” than I had expected, not least South Gloucestershire.

Back in September 2024 I had climbed Cleeve Hill in Gloucestershire and had assumed it had been a done deal, but no, not according to my map. It was a mystifying blow. What had I missed when I created my original list? Turns out that what I had missed was the huge change in the political landscape that has taken place in the last half century. Of course, I knew that some of the old historic counties had long gone, Middlesex and Caithness for example, but it had completely passed me by that much of the country, (especially England) had since been subdivided (presumably due to shifting demographics, or let’s be a tad more cynical, gerrymandering?).

What my planning strategy to visit the West Country had revealed was another entity, with, from what I could glean, similar powers to traditional counties – the Unitary Authority (UA).

On one level this was deeply troubling. At the time I didn’t have the gumption to count how many additional regions were about to enter the fray, but a brief look suggested at least some tens more. But on a more positive note, this now offered up many more opportunities, not least the many Unitary Authorities that now presented themselves for inspection over the coming days. South Gloucestershire for starters, but also Bournemouth, Poole, Christchurch, Southampton and Portsmouth, that I would be passing through on my drive home a few days later. And that didn’t include North Somerset, and Bath and Northeast Somerset, which, whilst being near Bristol would have been too much to attempt during my tour.

Over the last few weeks of the self-imposed calendar year (May to April), I started to update my list of counties by adding in the Unitary Authorities. This revealed other troubling difficulties. Again, working from information on the internet, inconsistencies began to emerge. For instance, my map had shown there to be three UA’s sitting next to each other in Dorset; Poole, Bournemouth and Christchurch. This had led me astray when I had passed through the area on my way to Portsmouth. The reason being that in 2019, long after the publication of my map, these three authorities had merged to become BCP Council (Bournemouth, Christchurch and Poole). Shucks!

What this confirmed, had I not already known it, was that whilst the map was helpful, it was already out of date, and couldn’t be relied on to provide a definitive list. Again, I faced the difficulty of trying to locate an accurate list of all the UA’s. In the end I decided to opt for the information on Wikipedia, which from what I could tell, was likely to be as accurate as anything.

Needless to say, my list has expanded exponentially and is likely to keep me occupied for some time to come.

The UA/County, West Country complication

Local authority elections were held in England in May 2025. I spent most of my life in London but now live in East Sussex. I am pretty sure that when I was growing up the county of Sussex was a “thing”. But I am wrong. Sussex has been divided between East and West Sussex for centuries, and maybe as long ago as the 12th century. 1889 was the year that saw them fall under separate council governance, and in 1974 this was formalised following the Local Government Act of 1972. Now what constitutes the entirety of old Sussex consists of East and West Sussex, and the Unitary Authority of Brighton (yet to be topped).

Along with all residents of voting age in all three authority areas I was unable to vote in May. Along with several other areas across the country the government paused elections whilst a period of consultation took place to decide on whether the whole of the county should come under a single authority. Because the outcome is due in the next year or so, it was decided that it would be too expensive and impractical to hold elections for councillors who may, or may not, be out of a job in just a few months. Not only could that see the end of East and West Sussex and Brighton, but potentially lower tier authorities such as Lewes, Worthing and Hastings.

Sussex covers a massive area. It stretches from Camber Sands in the far east, East Grinstead in the north and to Wittering Sands in the far west. It’s approximately 90 miles from east to west along the coast, and, just for the record, takes bloody hours whether by road, or even worse by rail. And, apart from the Channel, what these places have in common is probably restricted to the consumption of the rather fine Harvey’s Best. Of course there is an argument that in an age of austerity, and where confusion presumably reigns over the plethora of computer and information systems that must operate, combining the authority into one, would, in a nutshell, bring obvious efficiencies of scale. I can see some benefits in that, and am yet undecided, but my gut instinct is that if it is agreed, local democracy will be stifled. At a time when there appears to be a thirst for more localism, this feels to fly in the face of that process. A single authority and an elected Mayor running this huge, and hugely economically, politically and geographically diverse area? Hmm. I’m not so sure. I certainly need to give it more attention. At least (except for Brighton, which I guess I may need to do pretty sharpish) I have stood on the highest points of both East and West Sussex.

My last walk before the end of the calendar year took me on a train ride into Kent, and from Snodland Station up to the top of the Medway Unitary Authority (yup, this wasn’t a place I had anticipated visiting until recently). That day marked the first day of Reform UK gaining control of Kent County Council (not subject to any consultation on a single authority). Hmmm, well we’ll have to see how that goes. Their first act in office was to remove the Ukrainian flag at County Hall. Gesture politics, tokenism, who knows but feels like Vlad the Invader has just got his little tippy toes on the beach at Pegwell Bay.

Before I end this introspection, a word of warning to anyone thinking of putting on the boots and pursuing the county tops (and UA’s, and Metropolitan Districts – Oh, did I not mention them?). Speaking of Sussex and putting it back into the context of this arguably futile pastime, whilst looking at some of the many blogs and websites by other committed county toppers, one in particular caught my eye. I can’t now remember how I got to Richard Gower’s site, but not only was he going after all the current counties, he had gone so far down a wormhole (and I say this with affection), that he had completed all six of the ancient “Rapes of Sussex”. These ancient administrative areas divided the county, running west to east, into six areas: Chichester, Arundel, Bramber, Lewes, Pevensey and Hastings. It’s fascinating stuff, but it’s a cause too far for me. It may be that as the sands of time catch up with me and I find myself less able to travel, visiting their respective highest points (and as it happens, I have already unwittingly done at least two of them), could become an attractive option. I’m also imagining that if the rest of the country was at one time divided into these ancient domains, the quest would become an unending toil in every sense. All that aside, I must take my hat off to Richard Gower. It’s a pukka site. **      

Just a final note on the website (if that’s what it is?). It’s rubbish. Moons ago I completed several bike rides along the coast from London, around Kent, and most of Sussex, and after each wrote up some notes on a Word document. All very well but once done, would I ever revisit them? My daughter had started posting some things on a website/blog. I liked the appearance, and as importantly I could read them on my phone without the word blindness that normally prevails. For no reason, other than I had heard of it, I started to transpose the words from Word to WordPress, added a few photos and some infantile art, and began to post each leg of the bike journey under the perhaps less than original title of Pier to Pier. *** Whether or not people read the posts (on one day I had 15 odd “likes” from what I had to assume were “bots” and emanating out of the US, given that it appeared nearly all were teenage females whose likely interest in a cycle ride round the Isle of Sheppey was deeply suspicious), didn’t concern me. What I gained from it was the thought process and then, whenever I chose, being able to read them on my phone, or any other device, to remind myself of what I had done.

I’ve been writing since I was ten (to paraphrase Marc Bolan). Immature diaries, essays, short thoughts on bands and gigs, futile attempts to write a book, and then over thirty five years, millions upon millions of words in memos, letters, works order tickets, emails, reports, presentations, minutes and many moments of long reflection when things might be getting too much, and when self-articulation through pen and paper, or keypad and screen, relieved the pressure; like lancing a boil. It may sound a bit contradictory, given that each escapade I publish an account online, but I write (primarily these days) for myself. The accounts reflect how I was feeling at any one moment, what I might have been thinking about, if there were local or international events that might influence the narrative and any significant landscape or features worthy of note. They are not intended to be a fully formed guide to other intrepid walkers, so beware should you choose to make one of these ascents solely based on one of these reads. Unless it’s obvious or easy, always take a map, and of course a phone (and keep in mind that a phone can run out of battery or connection, a map never does). 

None of the above justifies the utterly useless presentation. I have honestly tried for hours to create a landing page where different threads and menus are clear to see (like everyone else’s), but I’m no further forward that I was years ago. The next time anyone younger than me visits, I’m going to have to collar them. In the meantime, what it is will have to endure.  

The music – well that’s just an afterthought if something about the day has brought a tune to mind.  

So, having walked to the top of Betsom’s Hill, and with some more county tops on the near horizon, so to speak, it made perfect sense to commit each experience to the page, and then the world. 

I discovered one other key detail, and as such see the need to advance a precautionary slice of advice. Some weeks after climbing it I discovered that Sugarloaf Mountain was not the highest point in Monmouthshire, it’s the highest peak. When I found this out and given that it had been   the motivation to start this project, it came as a bitter pill to swallow, not least because at some point I’m going to have to go back and climb to the actual highest “point” – Chwarel y Fan, which sits a few miles to the north of Sugarloaf. Well, at least now I know. Here’s coming for ya..?

* https://geologyviewer.bgs.ac.uk/?_ga=2.58458858.1363630663.1720815697-999374144.1720815697

** https://www.richardgower.com/blog/sussexrapes

*** https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2018/10/16/pier-to-pier-a-coastal-caper-with-occasional-calamities/

Cresting the County – Greater London

Westerham Heights

245 metres (approximately)

804 feet

10th May 2024

Tales of the Unexpected

Today marks the first anniversary of having intentionally set out to bag a county summit. On the evening of the 10th May 2024, I ran, or rather walked, the gauntlet of incessant traffic, climbing up Westerham Hill on the A233 out of Westerham to Betsom’s Hill (the highest point in Kent).

But, for the moment it’s bonus ball time. What is the highest point in Greater London (the clue is above so don’t peek)?

Anyone familiar with London, and asked what they think is the highest point, will probably offer up The Shard. Might they be right? Just for the record, I have been up to the public observation point of The Shard, with a friend, in a snowstorm so bad you could barely make out London Bridge Station directly below, and with snow drifts forming inside the viewing platform!

The View from the Shard when the weather’s pants!

We took the lift. At that moment, some years ago now, were we at the highest point in Greater London? According to Wikipedia we were (although of course we weren’t because there were a couple more floors above). But, when I came to write up this account (and rest assured it is not an account of how my friend and I paid for tickets and then took three or four lifts to the top of The Shard in a snowstorm), something nagged away at me. Could it really be true that this tower, with its base almost at sea level, be higher than the two Crystal Palace TV transmitters set high on top of Beulah Hill and Sydenham Hill some miles to the south? Due to the almost zero visibility on the day of the Shard ascent, it was impossible to make any comparison, and trying to get any clarification from Google has proved almost impossible.

At first, and instinctively, I was prepared to trust Wikipedia, but for whatever reason I expanded my research and doubts began to creep in. To cut a long story short (I made several attempts at it, having landed on a variety of confusing and sometimes contradictory sites), I came across what appeared to be a definitive and humorous account by Bron Maher (link below). *

Working on the basis that the writer of the article comes across as sincere and impassioned, I suggest that the highest man-made elevated point in Greater London, where the eagles fly, is the Crystal Palace television tower, erected in 1957 (a rather fine year I should add) at the top of Sydenham Hill in south London. At an estimated height above sea level of 330 metres the tower is about 27 metres above the top of the Shard. Thankfully, for this exercise, I don’t have to find a way to get to the top of the Crystal Palace television transmitter, because here we are focused on the highest point of land in Greater London.

Once upon a time you could live in any part of London and consider yourself to belong to one of the established Home Counties. Surrey and Kent south of the river and Essex and Middlesex to the north (I have no editor, so you’ll just have to hope this is correct). If, say, you lived in Deptford in south-east London before 1965, and gave your address, you would have added Kent at the end. Surbiton would have been in Surrey. Hounslow would have been in Middlesex and West Ham was in Essex. Surrey cricket club play at the Oval and Middlesex play at Lords. And so forth. No matter. Times change. Scotland was once an independent country. The Greater London Authority has existed as a political entity since 1965, but you could be confused for not knowing this.

So, getting back to the core subject (apologies for earlier wormholes), if you asked most people who know London what they thought was the highest point of land in Greater London, I am pretty sure that there would be a range of opinion. Primrose Hill is trendy and wrong, but the views of London are excellent. Others, depending on their geographical bent and possible prejudices, may say Highgate Hill, Westow Hill, Ally Pally, Blackheath, Muswell Hill or perhaps even Richmond Park. But Greater London is more than location, location, location. Beyond the noticeable clay and sandstone ridges of Hampstead and Highgate in the north, and Crystal Palace and Sydenham Hill to the south, the land gently rises again, stretching out towards the suburban rim and Green Belt. In the north, parts of Enfield, Harrow and Barnet reach over 400 feet. But the big hitters, towering a whole two or three hundred feet above the north London rivals, are far to the south, and beyond the view of most Londoners.

From central London one approach could be to head directly south-east and to one of the country’s largest and possibly least known post war council estates. New Addington is the size of a small town but is largely hidden from view. Whether or not that was a deliberate decision by the planners it’s hard to say, but as a teenager who occasionally ventured up Lodge Lane to meet with friends from school, it boasted one of the largest packs of stray dogs I’ve seen anywhere, and a rather fearsome reputation for violence (not including the dogs). Those days have largely gone, but whilst on a dreary winters day it still feels like a place beyond every other place (its colloquial name is “Little Siberia”), its fringes are surrounded by farm and chalk downland. If you can navigate through the estate and exit at the south-eastern end on King Henry’s Drive, you’ll soon get to Biggin Hill, and beyond that South Street.

If you wanted a short walk to the highest point of land in Greater London, South Street might be the best place to park up (if you’ve driven). But I wouldn’t know, because I arrived at Westerham Heights from precisely the opposite direction and hadn’t a clue I had ticked it off until some months after tackling the highest point in Kent. When I was putting together the list of the highest county points (sometime after I had climbed Betsom’s Hill), it became apparent that at a point in that walk I had passed Westerham Heights by a matter of a road’s width. Located just beyond a hedge to the east of the A233, and on the opposite side of the road to Westerham Heights Farm (an obvious giveaway that passed me by on the day). If you want to read a short account of my inadvertent discovery of Westerham Heights, it’s contained in the first of these tomes, Cresting the County – Kent. **

Westerham Heights – At the orange triangle – approximately. The thick black dash/dot line marks the boundary between Greater London and Kent. The barely discernible blue trig point just below marks the highest point in Kent – Betsom’s Hill.

If you make it to the moment where a local resident points me in the direction of Betsom’s Hill, but also explains it cannot be accessed, that’s the spot. Curious that he didn’t mention the Greater London massive on his doorstep! I’m not complaining though. Two in one day and I didn’t even know it – Hey Ho! 

There is a website called PeakBagger.com that I have since referenced a few times to check information, particularly on heights. Just to ensure I had indeed reached the highest point in Greater London I double checked, and in doing so noticed that the Westerham Heights link showed a few names of site members who had previously “bagged” it. It was the first time that it had dawned on me that “bagging” county tops was even a thing (I have long known that there is no such thing as original thought or action, but I was becoming increasingly aware that what I had assumed was, at best, a very niche activity, was actually a widespread pastime). I clicked on the last person to have made this trip. David Darby, an American judging by the list of 15k feet plus mountains that he had climbed, almost exclusively in North America. The highest was over 20,000 feet. At some point in his obsession, London came a calling, and he had to bag it. I wonder then what he thought when he arrived on the 19th of November 2023, having possibly travelled up through New Addington, clinging to the roadside hedges and hoping to live another second besides the 804-foot Westerham Heights. Well, I know one thing, from his records on Peak Bagger, he didn’t bag Betsom’s Hill. Poor research I reckon, particularly if you’ve come all the way from the States. Mind you, check out David Howell’s (who seems to have lived quite a life and has stratospheric ambitions), who, like me, completed the double on 2nd July 2023. The things we do…the things we do.

After cresting Greater London and Kent, and a couple of hours later, I arrived home, and soon after, for the one and only time in my life, watched in dismay the Northern Lights. Happy anniversary.

(Apologies – this scans horribly)

  * https://londonist.com/london/secret/shard-not-tallest-building-in-london-crystal-palace-transmitter-is

** https://elcolmado57.co.uk/2024/05/28/cresting-the-county-kent/

Cresting the County – Highland

Ben Nevis

1345 metres

4413 feet

22nd June 2024 and August 1994?

In the Bleak Midsummer – The Big Yin

When you stand at the top of Ben Nevis, the nearest higher point, roughly to the northeast, is in Norway. That means that if you manage to climb to this point, and unless you’re standing next to someone taller than you, you are the highest person on this part of the planet for 700 kilometres, in any direction. If you draw a line directly south, the first higher point is near Santander on the coast of northern Spain. If you draw a line directly east, and this is not entirely scientific, the first higher point is an undefined location north of Lake Baikal in Siberia. If you do the same going directly west, and again this is unverified, it’s somewhere in the Rockies in British Columbia, and not a million miles from Dawson’s Creek. Taking this one last step, heading directly north, the 4413 feet elevation height line goes over the North Pole, and I’d like to think all the way across the Pacific Ocean until you reach another undefined point in Antarctica (although it is possible that there might well be higher ground somewhere in the Chukotskiy Khrebet range of mountains in the very northeast of Russia and somewhere south of a tiny settlement with the unlikely name of Billings. *)

Of course this is all entirely academic (just to clarify, no academic research was involved), immaterial and perhaps even meaningless. But though Ben Nevis, compared with much higher, and indeed colossal mountains around the world, is relatively small fry, it represents the highest point on Earth for an astonishingly large part of the planet. Mind you, and for what it’s worth, at Oakwood Station at the northern end of London’s Piccadilly underground line (height 282 feet above sea level and approximately 4200 feet lower than Ben Nevis), there is a sign that reads ‘This station is the highest point in Europe in a direct line west of the Ural Mountains in Russia.’ Which also means that Ya Souvlaki, the Greek restaurant next to the station, is the highest kebab shop in a direct line west of the Urals too.

The first ascent

I first climbed Ben Nevis in the summer of 1993 or 1994. A family holiday at Dunoon, a three-hour drive south, on the banks of the Clyde estuary. It was hot, and the midge count was set at maximum (that’s eleven times eleven million per square cubic metre). With my brother-in-law and our respective sons, both no more than seven years old, we drove north, and eventually, after an excruciatingly long journey, arrived at the car park of the visitor’s centre, where we met up with the brother-in-laws father (who had come over from the east coast and, it transpired, in his role as a teacher, had previously taken many school trips to the top).

The visitors centre lies a mile or so out of Fort William and is not too much higher than sea level. Given that it is the biggest mountain in the British Isles, that means any walk to the top starts at or near sea level. So, you are in for the full slog.

Given the length of the drive, we eventually set off late morning and reached the top some hours later. Despite the mid-summer heat, a north facing gully near the top still retained a healthy layer of snow, which came with a calamity warning about its risks from my brother-in-law’s knowing father. It had been a long, hot day and the kids had been heroic. Despite the elevation and purity of the air, I can remember a slight disappointment in the view. At the summit there were no plunging vistas, just a rock-strewn plateau with the rounded summits of hundreds of similarly sized peaks disappearing in all directions. But hey, a minor detail.

By the time we began the descent it was late afternoon, and shades of guilt began to bite knowing that the two lads had so far to go before a well-deserved Irn Bru and mutton pie.

I would like to share one or two photos of this day, but due to a technical error (owners incompetence), I can’t. The technical error occurred a few hundred feet down from the summit, where, and I can’t remember the exact circumstances, my standard issue Canon instant camera detached itself from either my hand or bag and was last seen bouncing down a scree slope that stretched into eternity. For a moment it felt like a death had occurred. How ridiculous! Nevertheless, it contained real bonafide evidence of an epic day, which years later would have brought happy memories. Of course, children being children, the instant scope for adventure kicked in and they were both over the top and heading down the treacherous slope in pursuit before parental responsibility kicked in and they were brought back under control, and safety. Over the years that moment has come back to me again and again (possibly when risking life threatening dashes over insecure scree slopes), and I wonder if anyone ever found it. Highly unlikely, but I also wonder how long it would have taken before the elements did their worst and killed the film. Maybe not that long. I need to get over it.

The Second Ascent – Journey to Base Camp

Thirty years on, the journey to the visitor’s centre was from an entirely different direction and had taken a good deal longer than anticipated. I had an appointment to meet with my daughter (who would have been no more than two or three at the time of the first ascent) and her partner near Fort William on Friday the 21st of June, with the purpose of riding the steam train across the Glenfinnan viaduct on the Sunday.

Nine days earlier I left the south of England and headed up to Scotland. I had intended to make this trip the previous September to catch up with relatives, but after meticulously booking various hotels going up and back, I caught Covid a few days before and had to abort, losing a shed load of dosh on the bookings in the process.

Being June, and based on previous June encounters with Scotland, the prospect of a few days of nice weather led me to picturesque Stonehaven (on the east coast south of Aberdeen) for a couple of nights, and with the intention of launching north and then west to Achmelvich for a few nights camping on the beach.

On the second washed out day in Stonehaven, and having assessed the weather over the coming days, it was clear that camping anywhere in Scotland was no country for an old man.

And there was no going back opinion. The best of the weather (the distinction between best and worst was entirely marginal and should perhaps read “the best of the worst weather”) seemed to be further north and east. To that end I booked expensive rooms further up the coast. After a night in the previously unknown (to me) town of Tain, by Tuesday I was hunkering down in Thurso. On the journey up I had passed over the historical border of Caithness, now subsumed into the much larger county of Highlands. The road north is almost entirely coastal, but at some point I looked inland and caught a fine glimpse of the very distinctive peak of Morven (Fiona), the highest point in what was once Caithness. I was almost tempted. But it was getting on, the weather was entirely unpredictable, and I had already set my mind on an unexpected shot at John O’Groats. Some things only present themselves once.

I’d booked two nights in Thurso, having had absolutely no intention of ever being there, but it was clearly the least wet part of northern Scotland at that moment in time, and the room was just about affordable. After passing Morven I eventually reached John O’Groats, and in almost horizontal drizzle (that was a first) I walked out of town and made it to the furthest north-eastern point on the mainland – Duncansby Head. An impressive cliff scenescape stretched south, which would have made a fine view had it not disappeared into the mist.

Duncansby Head – An impression

The following day I made it to Dunnet Head, the most northern point on the mainland. Hundreds of nesting seabirds, a couple of puffins after an hour trying to spot one (another first, and probably last), and murky views across the briny to the Old Man of Hoy, Scapa Flow and Orkney.

Spot the puffin

Earlier in the day I’d been tempted to nip over on a ferry, but the sea was excitable, and the prospect of being stranded on Orkney for a couple of days ruled it out. As I was about to leave the Dunnet Head car park I realised I had mislaid my binoculars. I retraced my steps and they’d gone from the spot I had put them down at. They say rural crime is on the rise. They had gone, and in my mind, there were only two potential culprits, but they weren’t fessing up. Humph!

I could have dwelt on this misfortune (I mean, I did of course) but rationalised that having finally spent fifteen minutes observing two puffins through them, they had duly served whatever purpose they had been manufactured for.

Thursday the 20th of June was the longest day, but with the dreich still lingering you wouldn’t have known it. Staying in the northeast was no longer an option. I needed to be at Spean Bridge, near Fort William by Friday, and there was just a hint on the weather app that there was a threat of sun later in the day to the west. I set off along the top, and as time passed the cloud slowly lifted. A long day’s drive, but with empty roads and the increasingly beautiful, glaciated landscape south of Loch Eriboll dazzled this old geographer’s eyes. Time was inconsequential. Everyone should do this trip once (free school trips for all kids in Britain to be made compulsory). By the time I was heading south (having abandoned any loose plan to get to Cape Wrath – the most northwestern point on the mainland, and mainly because it appeared to be almost inaccessible without detailed advanced planning), the sun was breaking through for the first time since I had left home.

At a remote village (that will remain unnamed on the grounds of national security, the possibility of being sued, and the avoidance of it becoming an Instagram “go to” location), a cafe had me calling. After an awkward few minutes, I’d eventually negotiated a tea and something to eat. Whilst we shared a common tongue, the person serving had so little insight as to what she was able to furnish me with that it took me to suggest a cheese roll before the eyes lit up and we were back in business. Sitting on a lump of granite, overlooking a small harbour, I sipped at the milky tea before taking a chunk out of the huge roll, stuffed with grated cheese and some pickle (I had had to suggest the pickle as a topping option).

One bite was more than enough. Without doubt the processed everything was quite simply the worst cheese roll I had ever had to ingest. I was sorely tempted to take it back and seek compensation on the grounds of it being a breach of the Trades Descriptions Act, but sensitive to the precarious nature of any business at the end of nowhere, I decided to swallow my aghast and bin it. I walked back to the car. There was no bin, but a sign passively aggressively instructed me to take my litter home with me. As I continued my journey the super sub sized disappointment sat on the passenger seat, cooking and sweating in its wrapper.

By now the sun was well and truly making an appearance. Glory bloomin’ be. Crossing the bridge at Kylesku, to the southeast the inspirational views of Ben More Assyant (the highest point in the old county of Sutherland), and its neighbouring peaks reminded me of what an astounding part of the planet this area is.

Slumbering peaks

An hour on and I was putting up the tent on the edge of the coast at the incomparable Achmelvich Bay. The sun slowly disappeared behind thin clouds, but the air was, for once, warm. I sat in daylight, with the gentle swell of the sea lapping the rocks below, reading Great Uncle Harry by Michael Palin until 11.30pm. Total peace. Instant karma.

Peace in our time. Midnight at Achmelvich

An early start on the Friday, but the drizzle and low cloud was back. Despite an overwhelming desire that I had clung onto for days, any thoughts of a second ascent of the most beautiful mountain anywhere in the world went out the window. I had climbed Suilven on my one and only previous visit in 2010. Just south of Lochinver there had been a carpark with a small cafe which marked the start of the long walk inland to the Falls of Kirkaid, and then on across the moors before the almost vertical climb to the low, rounded, and stratified summit of Suilven, with its unimaginably beautiful views in every direction.

Suilven… centre stage 2010 (note typical June Highland weather)

Now, arriving at the small car park, the gate on the road leading to the cafe was locked and it was clearly no more. My plan had been to grab a coffee and some breakfast before setting off towards the Falls. The cafe’s absence, the steady rain, the empty car park and the fact that a few brief sightings of Suilven revealed that most of it was sitting under a heavy cloud altered my thinking, and I drove on. It was probably for the best. Even with the weather being the pits the occasional views remained epic, especially the cluster of low peaks (including Stac Poli) on the route to Ullapool. But getting anywhere in these parts was just as epic, with hardly a hint of human occupation for mile after mile. Despite having set off by 10am it was well past midday before I pulled into Ullapool, and eventually obtaining some sustenance. At least, I thought as I chumped greedily on a rare crab sandwich (astonishingly the crab was not locally sourced), I had cracked the back of the journey and I’d be at Spean Bridge within a couple of hours. As I watched the small fishing boats (not employed in catching crabs it seemed), entering and leaving the harbour, I checked the map on the phone and entered my eventual destination. “What the %@*#?” I sighed out loud as the journey time of four hours flashed up on the screen. At least two middle aged couples strolling nearby stopped in their tracks before taking a wide berth around my bench, under which a discarded can of Tartan Super Strength gave the wrong impression. And that was by far the quickest route.

At this moment, a secondary plan (given that I had abandoned plan A to climb Suilven), to carry on south by clinging to the minor, minor coast road, was also kicked into touch. I reluctantly bit the bullet, headed back east to Inverness, then back southwest along the banks of Loch Ness, obscured almost entirely by thick vegetation and a thin veneer of mizzle. After a brief stop at the Commando memorial, just before five I eventually pulled into the accommodation at Spean Bridge.

“Hey Tam, do we get vitamin D rations too?”

My daughter and her partner had already arrived, having taken just a handful of hours to drive the 255 miles from the north of England. Just a few miles to the south the Big Yin heaved high above the lochs and rivers below, shrouded by clouds but challenging us to take it on. Tomorrow. I went to bed with a feeling of dread hanging over me like a low cloud, and then barely slept.

The Final Ascent

Despite reaching the main visitor centre car park at 9am we were lucky to grab what must have been the last parking space. A bright morning, but with leaden clouds gathering up the River Nevis valley, there was no sight of the summit. Never mind, it felt like a pleasant day and the sun might win out in time.

I felt pretty good, but it had been a couple of years since I had taken on anything similar (Snowdon) and had spent the previous year trying to exercise (relatively successfully) my way out of the pain and discomfort of a right heel disorder called plantar fasciitis. Because of this I had a realistic expectation of abject failure. I made it perfectly clear that if I gave up, the kids needed to carry on and I’d work my way back. As heroic gestures go, I had half expected some resistance to this suggestion, but the response was resolutely “Yeah, we were gonna anyway!”

The path started with a bridge over the river and then a gentle slope across a field to a stile over a wall. And that was the last of the “gentle”. The “gentle” had lasted three or four minutes. The plod had begun, and the well-defined stone-based path took a more or less straight line up the lower slopes of Meall an t-Suidhe, a subsidiary peak on the same massif.  Within ten minutes, with the sun unexpectedly breaking through, I had stripped off the layers and was already down to the T-shirt. Now the bag was heavier, and if it was going to get hotter, then there wasn’t going to be any escaping the fact that I might end up in a spot of bother. The priority at this stage, twenty minutes in (huh!), was regulating the breathing, and not talking.

Over a mile in, and at a reasonable pace, the path crept slowly away from the river valley, but at an increased angle up! I was doing ok, and the no talking in the first hour policy was working. A bridge crossed a stream, with a small waterfall above, and a lot of picture opportunities. Whilst it was still clear, the sun had gone missing in action (confined to the lower valley and peaks to the south) and I had slipped a thin jumper back on. After the waterfall the path’s gradient steepened again, with a steady slog on up to Lochan Meale on a more challenging rocky surface. By now the path was busy. Many early risers had been to the top (some, including a friend of my daughter, doing the Three Peaks challenge) and were now hurtling back down. Those with walking poles were marching straight through the middle of the throng, seemingly indifferent to the safety of others picking their way gingerly up through the relatively difficult terrain. 

Towards the top of this grind, the path dog-legged directly back west for a distance, before another turn and a longer, less arduous climb to the north-east across boggier terrain on either side of the path. Time for a stop and some calorie intake (some sort of energy bar that my daughter had bought me after I had specifically requested a Mars Bar – she told me that the Scottish grocery shop didn’t stock Mars Bars – as if???). The views up the glen still hinted at the prospect of the elusive sun making an appearance at some point soon, but for the moment the sight of a couple of wild campers over towards the mysterious glacial relic of Lochan Meale, a distinct and spectacularly grey expanse of water at around 550 metres, was a salutary reminder that whilst in Scotland you can camp just about anywhere, actually putting that into practice comes with a degree of recklessness. (On a cliff top walk to Dunnottar Castle, near Stonehaven, a week earlier, a couple had pitched a small tent just off the path at the edge of plunging cliffs below. I wasn’t sure whether or not to tell them that, judging by the evidence all around, and the incessant rain falling on already saturated sandstone, the likelihood of a catastrophic collapse seemed high. At that moment I became distracted by a cow in an adjacent field, which was doing its level best to figure out how to unlock the large gate, and subsequently forgot to mention my concerns. The cow was demonstrating significant skills in its attempt to escape, but the reality was that it would take many more centuries of evolution before it was going to be able to unpick the padlock).

After crossing what was in effect the only less difficult gradient on the whole climb, it was back south and then step by step up and up. Precisely two hours after starting the journey, and with what felt like very little distance achieved, the cloud started to swirl into our faces and all the remaining layers were back on. Within minutes, Lochan Meale disappeared from view and for the next few hours.

The Last View

I couldn’t say for sure what the route looked like after that. The path became increasingly rocky and knee jarring, but to all intents and purposes I was getting on with the slow slog, in a world of my own, but mindful of the on-coming hordes making their various descents.

Another bridge across a tumbling stream, but I was too tired to register the aesthetics. The slope was now fully exposed to the cold westerly wind, and with the swirling mist there was no view beyond the next walker ahead. Despite its zig zagging approach to the summit, and presumably designed to make it slightly more achievable to the average walker, the path was remorseless. The final 300 to 400 metres was dedicated to navigating carefully through a barren scree slope. Somewhere down one of those treacherous slopes lay a Canon automatic camera, over thirty years old and with a film that had documented my last visit. A moment of regret, but after decades of rain, sun, ice and snow, it was time, as they say, to let it go.  

Because there were no reference points it was impossible to say how high were, except, every few minutes I was being given an elevation check from the kids. Every step was now a struggle, but I had no doubt that I was going to get to the top. It would have been a major disappointment if I had stopped at that point, but the regular updates were having an unintentional negative impact, and so I asked politely for them to abate.

Evidence that the summit was getting closer appeared through the mist in the shape of a wide expanse of grey snow. In the sunshine it might have been white, but there was no indication that the sun had shone here since the last millennium. Surely it was just a few more minutes now.

Further time elapsed. My walking style had now been reduced to short forward steps, with my hands clasping my thighs. I have no idea what this brought to the party, but it felt necessary to maintain forward momentum. Another section of dirty snow that I recognised from my last visit. Like a saddle, the small patch of snow topped a ridge, that, in the appalling visibility, hid a plunging ravine, that certainly had stories to tell (not least the one told by my brother-in law’s father some thirty years before).

No warning sign necessary

I knew now that we were nearly at the top, and anxious to get there, had no curiosity whatsoever in peeking down the chasm. **

We were nearly at the summit when the gradient began to ease off, and the land began to flatten out. By now, and being so exposed, the wind was blasting across the shattered landscape, with waves of fine drizzle lashing into our faces. Miserable is one word to describe it. Mind you, compared to the many people wearing not much more than shorts and T-shirts, I felt like the best dressed man on the mountain.

As we approached the last few yards, spectral figures emerged, and disappeared just as quickly in the clinging cloud and mist. Bit by bit the handful of stone buildings that marked the top came into view and as impressed as I was with the fact that we had made it, my only objective was to get out of the wind and eat something solid, even if it was a fruit energy bar. A low structure with demolished walls on three sides grabbed my attention, and with the agility of a mountain goat I was over, in, and hunkered down in seconds.

Proof…if any was needed.

After the much-needed sustenance break, my daughter and partner went off and climbed to the top of the stairs on the remains of the old observatory. I guess for a few moments they were the highest people on the planet for 700 kilometres (I won’t repeat the narrative around this). I didn’t have the energy, nor interest, and rationalised I had probably done it the first time (and that somewhere down a nearby scree slope a decaying roll of Kodak film held the evidence). In any case there was zero view, but for some reason it didn’t seem to matter. It was an achievement after all.

It had taken four and a half hours, and it was time to get back down. And so, slightly dried off behind the wall, we turned back and into what was by now a fierce, wet and bitterly cold wind from the west. It was just another hazard to endure. Going down is never as easy as you hope it to be, and with the conditions, and a still steady flow of people going in the other direction, it was step by careful step for an hour or so.

Most years in the last twenty or so I have a week or two away, somewhere to the south, mainly Greece to be precise. Most times this requires a flight out of, and then return to Gatwick. On the return flight the planes generally fly over the channel somewhere between Eastbourne and Hastings before banking and making the final descent towards the runway, almost always from the east and into the prevailing wind. And it doesn’t matter what the weather is like anywhere nearby (usually gloriously sunny), there is always, always, a moment when the plane sinks with a judder into a bank of cloud, remains in it for what seems like too long, before suddenly emerging just below. For a few minutes or so, the plane dances in a zone between cloud and clear air. Gatwick is the only place I know where this happens, but it happens every time, and I can only conclude that this part of the south of England rarely sees the sun.

As we continued to clamber down, we dropped out of the cloud, and momentarily glimpsed the world below. And just as quickly it was gone again. This process, now formally known as the “Gatwick paradox”, continued for some considerable distance before eventually our heads managed to break free of the cloud for good.

Lochan Meale….three hours on. Spot the difference.

We made it back to the sham plateau, with Lochan Meale in view. From nowhere I felt a bounce in my step and given that the path was relatively flat and easy, set off on what must have looked like a pantomime jog. I figured that I was the weak link and was holding my much younger and fitter comrades up. After a few minutes of this hop, shuffle and hope, I looked back and seemed to have put a few hundred metres on them. Encouraged as such, and with a mind of a 12-year-old, I continued to skip down what was now becoming more of a boulder challenge. I should of course have stopped at this point. So, it was almost entirely predictable that when I overextended my range and landed my right foot in an unorthodox position on an angled stone, which in turn rocked alarmingly, the realisation that something was amiss was immediate.

Having once managed to insert my entire right foot down a rabbit hole whilst replicating a perfect Glen Hoddle volley, I knew that the pain from this moment of indiscretion could have been much, much, worse. I sat down, and within minutes my companions had caught up. Apparently impressed that I had launched off so effectively on my own, they were naturally keen to press on. I mentioned my slight misfortune and admitted some discomfort. With some considerable effort we set off, me limping shamefully.

An hour on and we were eventually on the home run down the long straight path at the foot of Meall an t-Suidhe. Except I had endured enough. My ankle had lost the earlier intense pain but my energy levels, particularly my legs, couldn’t sustain the pace any longer. I stopped and told them as much and encouraged them to head on. I would see them back at the car park. There was no resistance to this offer, and off they skipped, no doubt relieved to be shot of the old whinger for a while.

It was a chance to take stock. Sitting on a rock for a few minutes I gazed across the valley below. To the west the sun shone on the tops of the lesser mountains. Looking back towards Ben Nevis there was no sign that the cloud base was going to lift anytime soon. Of course, it would have been better to have reached the top on a clear day, but I wasn’t fussed. I had been to the top on a clear day with my son, and on a climatically, diametrically opposite day with my daughter. Both occasions had equal value and were as meaningful on a personal level. Mind you, I was proverbially shagged, and any suggestion that I might be persuaded to accompany the grandkids up sometime in the future was for the fairies. It was unquestionably the last time.

Taking stock. The last look…

When I was younger, having Scottish roots, but growing up first generation in the English diaspora, whenever the subject of Ben Nevis came up (which was daily of course), my party trick was to inform the listener/s that it was 4412 feet in height. I didn’t get any help from AI, just a quick search of my memory banks and filed under “Useless Trivia.”

So, it has been a bit of a disappointment to find that searches on modern databases (my phone) contend that it is now 4413 feet. I guess a foot here or there is immaterial, but it has dented my confidence a bit. As a result of the last ice-age, the north of Britain, which was covered by huge ice sheets, is slowly rising. It is a consequence of a bounce back effect now that the ice has gone. Inversely, the south of Britain is sinking (after it was lifted like one end of a seesaw in the ice-age). Bad news for the south. Maybe Ben Nevis was 4412 feet in the 1970’s and has since risen a few inches to reach 4413. As I say, entirely immaterial.  

*  Checking heights on Google maps has been beyond my technical skills. Despite owning a very respectable Times world atlas, the level of detail needed to ascertain exact heights at specific points on the globe, makes much of the twaddle written here dubious, to say the least.

** At the foot of the north facing cliffs, approximately six hundred metres below the summit, I had noted on the 1:25,000 scale Ordnance Survey Explorer Map (2009), gifted to me before the trip, a red public telephone symbol located on the hostile terrain. I had never seen this on an OS map before. Red was obviously indicating an emergency resource. Curious to see if there was any indication of its existence on Google Maps, I discovered instead the Charles Inglis Clark Memorial Hut, which lies precisely on the spot where the phone is shown on the map. It was built in 1928 and can accommodate a fair few walkers and climbers foolish enough to take this route. I’m guessing that in an emergency it is just the sort of place you’d want to stumble across. That it’s not shown on the OS map makes no sense.  

By the same token, and perhaps more importantly, when I looked on Google maps to find the name of the pub that we stopped at for a celebratory pint, just off the road to Spean Bridge from Fort William, there was no mention and no evidence of its existence at all. Maybe it was all just a dream? ***

Footnote

Sorry, I do go on!

*** My daughters partner was eventually able to solve the missing pub mystery. The Factors Inn, Torlundy. It’s by no means obvious on Google Maps, but does show on the OS map. There’s a thing. And very nice it was too.

Cresting the County – Surrey

Leith Hill

294 metres

965 feet

8th July 2024

Ploughing Inn a Well-Worn Furrow

I finished this short ascent and descent in the garden of the Plough Inn, Coldharbour. The sun had momentarily picked a hole through the now familiar blanket of grey cloud but by the time I had reached the large back garden, juggling a pot of tea, a jug of milk, and a saucerful of sugar it had inevitably gone, and a light drizzle danced in the breeze. But that was okay.

On a handful of occasions, over many years, I had sat in this place with friends, supping warm beer after strolling to the top of Leith Hill, not just the highest point in Surrey, but the whole of England’s southeast.* Today, being a Monday, with the recent weather dialled down to “it really can’t get much worse,” the garden was empty, but to all intents and purposes, it hadn’t changed too much.

I can’t remember much about getting to the top of the hill the first-time round. It was an end of year school outing from south-east London in the early summer of 1973. The whole year dispatched to Dorking to expand the minds. The comprehensive school had only opened three years earlier. We were the top year throughout, having all of us completed our first year of secondary education in other establishments, and consequently we were small in number.

From what I know of end of year school trips these days, a visit to the nearest theme park seems to be the order of the day, but the nearest to a thrill ride back in 1973 was when a handful of the lads jumped on the back of a milk float a mile out of Dorking, on Coldharbour Lane, treating themselves to mid-morning pasteurised refreshments.

I am pretty sure that some of the accompanying teachers made small efforts to educate us about the history and geography of the area, but in truth we weren’t really an intellectually motivated bunch, and anyway Walk on the Wild Side was in the charts, and it was the summer of glam and retro rock n roll. We’d all let our hair down (even the skinheads).

Just in case you might be interested, here’s a selection of the tunes that formed the backdrop to life at that time (and be warned – it’s not as great as I remember it).

https://www.everyhit.com/retrocharts/1973-June.html

The walk along Coldharbour Lane wound up the lower slopes of the hill and then through a mile long section of high, overhanging beech trees that lined the flanks of the tight road, creating an impressive tunnel effect. I can hardly remember any of the ascent to the top of the hill, but for reasons best known to the enlightened teachers who accompanied us, we ended up (or at least some of us did), in the garden of the Plough Inn at Coldharbour.

With dedicated ambition, and some subterfuge, the bolder and perhaps more mature looking students, procured warm pints and pork pies for those interested in being educated in the art of beer drinking (I, being one). The Plough Inn at that time, was a typically rural affair, with a sprinkling of locals enjoying an afternoon pint or two, but now inundated by feral urban youths’ intent on having fun. My abiding memory is of taking a chunk out of my allocated pork pie, and possibly being a tad tipsy, watching, as if in slow motion, what remained of the pie roll gracefully out of the wrapper and bounce onto the dusty floor below my seat. Having then loudly announced that I wasn’t going to eat the rest of it, an old boy sitting opposite, and closely resembling Ted from the Fast Show, explained assertively that having served in the trenches during the First World War, I was an insult to him and humanity in general, and demanded that I pick it up and eat it. A dreadful image entered my head but there was no arguing with his logic. I ate the pie and learned an important life lesson. Don’t waste anything.

The second ascent took place just three years later, in 1976. Two mates and I (including my friend Bill from school), took the same journey by train to Dorking and then on foot up Coldharbour Lane. Having now reached our majority, the plan was to complete the walk, revisit the Plough, have a few and then sway back to Dorking and home. If only! The weather was of a completely different composition to that of 1973. Wet and cold (which, given that it was 1976, strongly suggested that this was not a summer campaign). Having completed the climb, and now soaked and freezing, it was just a question of legging it back to the pub. Which, in the best traditions of the times, and the then licensing act…. had closed two minutes before our arrival. With the rain now hammering down, no cover in sight and desperately disappointed (you can imagine), the thought of walking back to Dorking was the last thing we wanted to do. That said, there didn’t appear to be another option.

As I write this, I am very aware that I have strayed a million miles off subject. The subject of course, in case that’s already been lost to the wind, was about getting to the top of the highest points in each county. Back in the present I had driven up from home, with some time to kill before a later appointment back in southeast London. Through Dorking and up the familiar route of Coldharbour Lane. I once drove this road at a ridiculously early hour of a Spring morning, with dawn beginning to break, and after having dropped a friend off at Gatwick for a first out flight. I could have gone straight back to north London, but opportunities like this didn’t come round every day and in the weirdness of the early hour I took these narrow, high lanes. As wondrous and mystical as the Surrey Hills were in the dawn, it was hideously counterpoised by the appalling slaughter that the endless roadkill evidenced on these small backroads. And that was in the days when 4X4’s were exclusively owned by farmers!! I dread to think what dawn might be like now.

There was no evidence of mass slaughter today. Maybe the recent incessant rain had washed all the roadkill away? I reached Coldharbour and parked up in the small car park opposite the Plough. As far as I could see nothing much had changed, although a large sign on the car park gate advertised a music festival in a field somewhere in Surrey, with a range of old bands that back in the 1970’s I may or may not have seen in the Greyhound in Croydon. *

The Plough Inn and shop – Coldharbour – 2024

Whilst it wasn’t raining, it was overcast and a bit muggy. To justify parking in the pub car park, and because I quite fancied a drink, I went over to the pub, which looked a tad closed. However, just to the side, and by the arch that would have once seen coaches and horses pass through to take up stables for the night, was a small cafe, obviously associated with the pub, but thankfully open. The cafe came with a small shop which sold a range of random essentials, almost certainly a bit of a lifeline to the handful of locals.

I finished off a coffee and then set off on what I knew to be a short climb (other routes are available but don’t start and finish at an ancient pub). The route started opposite the pub and up a metalled road. Within thirty seconds I was reminded of just how steep this section is. Driving for two hours and then quaffing down a coffee was irresponsible preparation. I stopped and took some deep breaths. I couldn’t just give up. Could I? Off again and the gradient increased! Another stop. Ludicrous. Just two weeks earlier I had managed over 4000 ft. Further up I could tell that some people were coming down in the other direction. This was no time to look like an old man walking (which of course is exactly what it was), and so after a deep draw I trudged on, managing to mutter a “good morning” as the couple passed, and after a few more minutes was over the worst of the gradient. By now the road had become a track, and with it huge muddy puddles where only 4X4’s and ponies could cross. Carefully picking my way through muddy paths away from the main track I eventually broke the tree cover and there it was. The cricket pitch. I had almost completely forgotten what must be one of the most remote and eccentric pitches in the land. The fact that it was still there and clearly still in use, post Covid, was good to see.

At this point I had two options. Left or right. I took the left, and the path up through the woods. It all felt very familiar, except for the signs warning you not to stray from the path into the woods, where the evidence of storm damaged trees was scattered widely. On and up, and then the final push up a steeper section, with a new mountain bike trail close by on the right.

Over a decade earlier, and working in an inner-city concrete jungle, where youth crime and disorder was the backdrop to everyday life, and which I had some responsibility in trying to address it, I was invited by a colleague to take a group of young people, identified as being at risk of offending, on a day’s mountain biking in the Surrey hills, not a million miles from Leith Hill. I can’t think now why I agreed, but at the time it felt like saying no wasn’t an option. My colleague was very persuasive.

A minibus ride from the heart of north London with 15 or so kids who had rarely been out of their postcode, and a couple of hours later we were in paradise and being put through our paces. As a moderately keen cyclist, I was looking forward to observing, but the reality was unexpected, not least because I hadn’t expected to participate, and would have been more than happy just to watch and shout encouragement. But no. Along with everyone else I was allocated a bike and told to cycle as fast as I could towards a large log that lay across a dirt path. This felt completely mad and counterintuitive to anything I had ever done on a bike before. The problem was that so far, all the kids had fearlessly taken on the challenge and passed with literally flying colours. Now there was a small issue of kudos at stake (“kudos” being a parochial north London gang term for someone who shows a lot of front in the face of establishment, and other gangs). The front wheel of the bike hit the log with jaw juddering force and my time was surely up, but a miracle occurred, and I was over. The kids from the estates even clapped.

A few minutes later I was on my arse and plucking leaves, bark and twigs from various parts of my clothing and skin after showing too much kudos trying to take a bend that came with a hump, logs and insecure stones. Two of the lads (remember they would have been at risk of offending) immediately dropped their bikes and helped me up, concerned that as an old person I may have needed immediate medical attention. Maybe I did, but this wasn’t the time to show it. By the end of the day everyone was exhausted, and ecstatic, at the same time. It had been a great day, but it had come to an end, nonetheless. As the saying goes, you can take the boys and girls out of London, but you can’t take London out of the boys and girls. One less day in the summer holidays when otherwise they could have been getting into trouble outside their door, but it was time to go home. I am certain that that day of taking risks in the Surrey hills would have made a small impression on these great young people, but also that it alone wouldn’t have been enough to change things in the long term. Since then, our youth services and provision has been devastated by cuts and I doubt very much if these sorts of trips still happen. I strongly suspect not.

Back in the present, after the final steep ascent the tree canopy ended and directly in front was the iconic red brick tower, built in 1765 by Richard Hull, ** a Bristol based merchant philanthropist, designed to elevate the intrepid walker over 1000 feet, and open to all (until it fell into disrepair!).

Hull’s Enlightened Folly

The walk from the pub had been about 250 metres in elevation, but little over a mile in distance. I was a bit pooped, and rather than add to the effort, chose not to climb the 65 further feet to the top of the tower. I sat on a bench just back from the trig point and took in the views to the south.

Somehow this photo managed to miss all the other walkers with their dogs

The day had brightened up a bit and the South Downs were clearly visible. Whether it was my imagination or not, and given my eyesight isn’t what it was, on a couple of occasions I was sure I could make out the wind turbines off the coast beyond Worthing. And looking far to the southeast I was sure I could see the Fire Hills at Fairlight. If so, it was quite a view. I was tempted to get a drink at the small cafe at the foot of the tower, but decided instead to wait until I was back at the Plough. After a few minutes I wandered round to the north of the tower and to another bench that I thought was slightly higher than the base of the tower and the trig point. I guessed this was the highest point and took in the view of London beyond, regretting having not brought binoculars.

The South Downs towards Brighton

Setting off back down I followed part of the mountain bike trail, where to the left more signs indicated that due to storms and other weather-related activity (rain I guess), the woods were unsafe to walkers. After a short distance an option was presented to take alternative routes. I’d forgotten that there were other paths down. A sign to the left pointed to Friday Street, a route which I had done with my old school friend and another old mate when we were in our forties.

Dead ahead was the Duke’s Warren. Sadly, I didn’t have time for the romance of a diversion towards Friday Street and so headed into Duke’s Warren and its outstanding sandy heathland.

For a few years, when I was young, I lived in Woking, located a few miles to the northwest. A pretty average town with a railway station, the oldest mosque in England, and virtually in London. Except, and brilliantly, it was almost entirely surrounded by easily accessible heathland. As a child in the 1960’s, and old enough to be out of the home all day when it wasn’t school or mid-winter, I’d spend hours either on my own or with mates on the heaths. Playing war and mods and rockers, starting fires (I know, I know!!!), exploring World War 2 pill boxes, breaking bottles (I know!!!!!!!!) and catching frogs and lizards. Very fond memories and I’m not usually much for nostalgia, but the stroll through Duke’s Warren reminded me of the beauty and richness of Surrey’s heathland. I am pretty sure there’s not as much now as there was then, but what’s left must be left. I stopped for a bit to see if there were any signs of reptile life.

Whilst my trip to Leith Hill with the school in 1973 was the first official visit, I have subsequently learned that I had been here in the 1960’s with my parents, on a day trip. Whilst I had no idea at the time that it was Leith Hill I do have a very vivid memory of us arriving at a sandy point on a hill and my mum throwing down a rug, only to realise that it had landed on a huge basking snake, which offended, did some sort of slithery thing and hissed off into the bracken. Given that it was definitely an adder, we grabbed the rug and ran. I say we ran, but in truth I dawdled, fascinated and hopeful that it might reappear. It didn’t, and whilst there are certainly adders to be found in these parts, it was far too big, and was almost certainly a grass snake.

I sat alone, but nothing happened. It didn’t matter.

The path eventually emerged from the heathland back at the cricket pitch, which was now a hive of activity. A man was out in the middle with a lawn mower, and contractors were working on the roof of the small pavilion, and from what I could tell, installing solar panels. I guess if they want to play evening 20/20 matches here against Gomshall Mill or Abinger Hammer, they’re going to need flood lights too. The old pavilion, not content with providing changing facilities, is also available to hire for parties, weddings and bat watching. And why not?

One day the sun will shine above our heads, and a new energy will power the karaoke – Catch!!

Fifteen minutes later I was back at the bottom of the steep road and looking towards the Plough Inn. Emerging at this point in 1976, and more than ready for a well-earned pint or two, you’ll recall (surely!) that the pub had closed two minutes earlier, it was cold and teeming down with rain. The only cover at all was to be found in the public phone box. We squeezed in, with no hope in our hearts. I guess we were fortunate to be trapped in a phone box in a tiny settlement in the middle of nowhere. The chance of an operational public phone where we were from was almost nil, vandalism being an endemic hobby locally in the 1970’s. So, here was a phone that worked, and we had a few pence that now wasn’t going to get us a beer. I guarantee that if we are lucky, most of us only know one phone number. Our own mobile number. Before mobile phones you not only knew your own number but could usually recall the numbers of most of your friends, because you regularly had to call these numbers using your digits. And so it was that Bill took the initiative, and a bit of a punt, and called another friend back in London. This friend was slightly older and owned a Fiat 500 (I’d insert an image here, but you wouldn’t believe it and think I’d created it digitally). He agreed, quite why, to drive down and pick us up. Another hour or so passed, and maybe longer. There was no way of knowing if he was going to come through with the goods. By the time he eventually arrived the phone box was wetter, with condensation and cigarette smoke, on the inside than out.

Somehow, we squeezed into the tiny Fiat 500 (which in respect of cubic capacity was almost certainly smaller than the phone box), and an hour later we were back in suburbia and recovering from the ordeal in one of our regular inauspicious haunts.    

But today I had my own car and a bit of time on my hands. I fancied a tea. I walked up to the door of the pub. Hmmm. There didn’t appear to be any lights on. And when I tested the handle there seemed to be more resistance than I had anticipated. I gazed through the window and took in all the smart tables that were set out for fine diners. I was perplexed by the notion that 48 years on it still closed at 2pm? It looked less than hopeful, and the little cafe annex had closed too. I turned away just at the moment a sound came from behind the door. A woman stepped out with an enormous dog in tow. She looked like she had just woken up. “Err …sorry, I’m guessing you’re closed?” I think the woman’s initial instinct might have been to say yes, it was, but maybe she took pity and a minute or so later I was sitting on my own in the large rear garden nursing a welcome pot of tea and a packet of crisps (unsurprisingly they don’t do pork pies anymore!). Not a lot had changed except it seemed to be a bit bigger and the quality of the furniture had improved considerably. I sat and contemplated. There were no locals or Western Front survivor’s here now. Was it nostalgia or just curiosity?

I sent a text to my old school friend Bill. “When did we go to Leith Hill with the school?” Moments later the reply. “1973.” Not even a question mark. I guess some memories are bigger than others. Minds Alive. ****

* Along, I’m sure with most people, Leith Hill has always been sold to me as the highest point in southeastern England. Except, nobody has ever mentioned Walbury Hill in Berkshire, which is nine feet higher. Another bubble burst.

** Actually, apart from seeing Hugh when he was with the Stranger’s a couple of times, I haven’t seen any of ‘em!

*** Richard Hull, to my surprise, given that he hailed from Bristol, does not seem to have had direct connections to the slave trade, but after his death the estate (Leith Hill Place) was owned by William Philip Perrin, who had inherited his wealth from his father’s five Jamaican sugar plantations, and the 135 slaves who worked them. The various links to the Leith Hill tower seem to tell different tales, but either it fell into ruin after Hull’s death and Perrin then renovated it and added to the height (by 1808 it seemed he had lost his entire fortune), or it just fell into ruin and sealed up for another 70 years, or it was sealed up and not fully reopened again until 1984. We may never know.

**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XdumsNbxHJI

Cresting the County – Central Bedfordshire*

Dunstable Downs

243 metres

797 feet

2nd July 2024

Summer Thermals

A week or so earlier, on a trip back from Scotland, I had strayed a mile or so from the M1 to ascend the mighty Newtonwood Lane, the highest point in Nottinghamshire. ** Today, another county high, not a million miles from the M1. The morning had started warm and sunny, but by the time I had reached the M25 in Kent, a heavy, oppressive orangey cloud base had gathered. The sort of cloud that dystopian, post atomic war films often rely on to give that sense of a sunless world. This type of weather is beginning to be the order of the day. Last year was similar and I don’t doubt the suggestion that global warming has its part to play. Happy daze.

After leaving the M1 at junction 9 and working through some completely deserted and obviously prosperous back lanes I arrived at the carpark at the top of Dunstable Downs. I had started off in a T-shirt, but three hours later, and as I got out of the car to buy the £3.50 all day parking ticket, I decided to don a jumper and light coat. These days you need to have thermal back up, even in the middle of summer. As I turned towards the visitor’s centre, looking north, a white glider was thrown up into the sky from below the chalk scarp slope, seeking out its own thermals.

Impressive, but not as impressive as the cauliflower curry pasty that the excellent visitors centre offered as a midday snack. Vegetable curries in a Cornish style pasty is the future. You heard it here first.

I spent a minute looking at the noticeboard that showed the various walks around the country park, with a hot cup of coffee in hand, and surrounded by young parents with babies and small children stoically taking on the conditions. My time was limited but given that I was at the top already I felt duty bound to make a token effort. Having visited this spot on at least a couple of occasions with family over the years, primarily to fly kites with kids, I had previously strolled to the woods to the west, so instead decided to explore along the ridge to the east and see where it took me. Despite the gloomy overcast conditions, a Red Kite drifted slowly overhead and the views across the plains stretching out to the north and west were impressive. If only the sun would push through?

I headed almost directly north along the chalk ridge. After 15 minutes or so I had reached a group of distinctive Neolithic and Bronze age burial mounds.

The Five Knolls – Picture enhanced to indicate how it might have looked on a brighter day!

Small hawthorn trees and wildflowers enhanced the sense of romance that could be attributed to the site, but whether it had any major significance historically I couldn’t say. Whenever I am at a pre-Romano British location, I try to put myself in the shoes (or whatever the footwear might have been) of people who may have stood there 2000 years earlier and attempt to visualise the landscape they were likely to have seen. From the Five Knolls burial mounds, and looking east, the urban sprawl of Dunstable and Luton spread towards the horizon. On this occasion my imagination was sadly not up to the task and the photo I took with the airport and Vauxhall works in the distance has no aesthetic value whatsoever. 

Motor City and Eric Morcombe’s Saturday afternoon’s entertainment. Picture unenhanced

The views in every other direction, and despite the drab conditions, were nevertheless inspiring. After weaving up, down and through the Five Knolls, the path (a small section of the long distance Icknield Way) dropped quickly towards to the end of the country park. It was the cue to turn sharp left and then along a path with garden fences to the right and thick woodland and shrubs to the left. No more than ten minutes or so of walking at a distinct ankle turning angle, the path broke cover and the view along the scarp slope reaching out to the southwest provided perfect context to the topography of the chalk. 

Intel(R) JPEG Library, version 1,5,4,36

Topography. Never use a black and white film in the SLR on a gloomy day (lesson learnt too late)

The milky white path continued southwest, hugging a contour and with the rounded forms of the chalk grassland bulwarks rising steeply to the left. The clouds had thinned too and with a hint of sun the temperature had suddenly lifted. I immediately regretted the layers I had earlier invested in.

A clearing sky and wildflower jungles

With time running away I had little time to hang around and take in the unfamiliar array of butterflies that flitted between the diversity of wildflowers, but in the distance, and in large fields about a mile on, it was impossible to ignore the impressionistic reddy, orange tones of millions of poppies.

I couldn’t possibly say if this one has been enhanced, but let’s just say the sun had gone again

The track continued to hug the fields at the foot of the slope. Chalk is the dominant bedrock in the south and east of England. 80 to 100 million years old, its thick but gentle folds appear and disappear before petering out north of York. By the time it reaches Dunstable it’s facing northwest, and beyond the clays of the Midlands and then the millstone grits, limestones and granites of the north. Compared to the 700–800-foot ramparts of the South Downs, the 300-foot scarp slopes of the Downs at Dunstable are relatively diminished but still presents an impressive feature. I had reached the field where the gliders were being prepared and launched. Throughout the time I had been walking, gliders had been catapulted into the air, or dragged up by a light aeroplane, at an astonishing frequency. Who knew that so many people seemed to have the time to take to the air on an ordinary Tuesday in June. Impressive as it was, I wasn’t tempted, but could have done with a ride back to the top.

With the time now pressing (I had grandparenting duties and a children’s concert to attend), any thoughts of a longer walk up through the woods to the west had evaporated and it was now a simple hoick straight up the slope. I say “simple” but in truth, despite being relatively fit for an old person, I had to stop a few times to regain my breath and save any wheezing embarrassment should anyone have come the other way. As you do in these moments, you turn your gaze away from the slope as if to indicate that you are simply taking in the view. As I executed this increasingly awkward move on the third occasion, in the field below another glider was being catapulted into the sky. 

Chocks away….it’s dreary Tuesday

Excitement over I bent forward, took a deep breath, and struggled on up. Eventually the slope slackened off and the visitors centre came back into view, fronted some distance away by a large abstract metal structure that may have been art, or may have been functional, or may have been both. And, without wishing to cause offence to artists and engineers alike, that’s as much as I am able to say on that.

Whatever else this dominant point represents, it is popular, does great curry pasties and its dynamic thermals will fly kites, carry gliders and give birds of prey an obvious advantage for thousands of years to come; even if the rivers rise. I was happy to have experienced it all, if only for a short while.

* Amended from Bedfordshire to Central Bedfordshire 3rd May 2025 on discovery that the old county of Bedfordshire had, some years ago, been divided into a number of Unitary Authorities.

**https://elcolmado57.wordpress.com/2024/07/05/cresting-the-county-nottinghamshire/

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Cresting the County – North Ayrshire

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