Walking the Watershed

8: Hitting the wall (14th - 21st June)

Tuesday 16th June

According to Dwelly's Gaelic Dictionary, the word fannaich means to grow weak, to become fatigued. This made it an odd name for a group of hills - "Won't be long dear, just off for a walk in the Knackereds" - but one which, after sixty-six days walking, now seemed remarkably apt. I was undoubtedly tiring, both physically and mentally, with any remaining eagerness chiefly taking the form of a general longing to finish, to put each new group of hills behind me, to get the job done. Short-term, there was only worrying dullness in my mind each morning on waking - an emptiness I knew wouldn't be filled by what I was to do that day.

This might sound strange with over four-fifths of the route complete. Surely by now I was in the home straight - or at least rounding the final bend? Yes, true enough, but a more relevant athletic analogy was that of the marathon runner's wall, the sudden physiological barrier which can almost floor someone in the latter stages of a race and transform the last few miles into a seemingly interminable treadmill. Now was the time I most feared the sudden appearance of its long-distance-walking counterpart.

[page 193]

There were, however, several factors still in my favour. The previous evening's sunset had reawakened perception of constant newness in the land - something with which I was in danger of losing touch. Despite having the whole wide world of the north as my home, I sensed an increasing lack of interest in things all around - surely a corollary to my drawing ever closer in on myself mentally. The sunset would certainly help delay this process. Also, the showery airflow governing the past few days seemed now to have moved on. The tent was oven-like on waking, marking the beginning of what was, at last, to prove a completely rainless summer's day.

Thirdly, the Fannaichs were the last group of hills of which any genuine knowledge could be claimed. Although hardly encyclopaedic, one previous visit ensured a degree of reassuring familiarity - like arriving at a job interview to discover you had once been for a drink with one of the panel. The Fannaichs were also the last genuine hillwalker's hills. Everything beyond was a barren, stony wasteland where anyone arriving ill-prepared and ill-shod was in for a nasty shock. Comparisons were commonly made between the Fannaichs and Perthshire's Ben Lawers massif, and these were valid up to a point: each a high, back-to-back horseshoe ridge system, each six-Munros-in-a-day country. But the point came fairly early on. Here were no waymarked paths tripping down to walkways and car parks, no circle of roads covering for poor navigation, no well-drained corries easing the final miles of a long day. That said, in clear, dry conditions, the high, highly thought of Fannaichs constituted without doubt the most user-friendly hills of the north.

I planned splitting the group in two: a short hop over the western Munros of A'Chailleach and Sgurr Breac today followed by a longer haul across the main tops on Wednesday. In warm sunshine, wearing shorts for the first time since Knoydart, I had no ambitions beyond taking things easy.

Having cut a corner the previous evening, I now did so again by heading directly for the summit of A'Chailleach, the old woman, rather than back-tracking round to the gentler western flank. A hundred minutes accounted for the steeply concave slope, fine views all the while to the castellated buttress of Sron na Goibhre and back across Loch a'Bhraoin to An Teallach - now light and soft compared with its stark sunset blackness.

The summit view was even better, bringing the shock of the unexpected: far, far to the northeast, high above Sutherland moors, rose Ben Klibreck's distinctive cone. And away southward, beyond a still-prominent Cheesecake, a faint grey hump could only be Ben Nevis. Forty-five miles one way, sixty-five the other: not bad for a hazy, half-clear morning.

[page 194]

On along a broad ridge split by a groove-like channel, over an intermediate top to reach Sgurr Breac within the hour. Klibreck had now virtually disappeared, but was well compensated by the Cuillin's final bow, jutting over the left shoulder of Beinn Eighe.

The day's only other walkers - a young couple up from the road - were met on the path leading down to the 550m, massif-splitting pass. I thought of pushing on up the far side, over Sgurr nan Clach Geala to the A835 that evening, but to have done so would have tripled the length of the day - something even settled weather was incapable of encouraging. Besides, despite a stiff breeze on the tops, the west looking so hazily calm suggested another pleasant day tomorrow. I wandered down a path alternately boggy-dry-boggy to reach the Nest at two-thirty.

Having heard reports of this being the most commodious of all bothies, it was slightly disappointing to find half the rooms securely locked. Notices nailed to doors told visitors they were welcome one night only - which was perhaps partly why, on finishing a soup-and-cheese lunch, I opted to decant from the light, wood-panelled room with its views through to Slioch, and cart everything outside to camp on the meadow by the shore. Goodness knows what really provoked this, but the decision was certainly paid for in midge-bites later.

After-lunch drowsiness and a sore right big toe gave reason enough to shelve a silly notion to walk along the loch and climb Meall Gorm by its south ridge. I knew this to be counter-productive - the Creag Rainich sunset had more than used up the week's ration of off-route walking, and I might as well never have come down to the Nest if feeling so energetic - but the idea was only laid to rest completely once I had retreated to the sleeping-bag for a far more sensible plan: a siesta. This accounted for the afternoon, just as the cooking of chilli and the reading of an old Observer found indoors took up much of the evening. Then the breeze, westerly on pitching, swung to the east before, disastrously, dropping altogether. As it died, the midges came to life - and how!

It is difficult to convey the sheer anger and misery (or should it be midgery?) these minuscule black specks provoke. Suffice it to say I know people who would, as long as they live, only revisit the west coast in summer on pain of being coshed on the head and bundled there in chains. Wind, rain, snow, donner und blitzen: anything rather than have the blight of biters swarm around with their infuriating drill-whine, their ability to home-in on any millimetre of skin, however momentarily exposed.

[page 195]

A man who offered a lift the following evening told of there being 32,000 midges in every bush. Setting aside the fact of bushes hardly being the most common flora in the far north, there must have been half that number buzzing in my beard when I ventured out for a mid-evening pee - and the other half crawling around inside on my return. After a week in which wind had kept them at bay, they were now as bad as I could ever remember - a memory including August weeks in Glen Brittle and Arran.

I eventually retreated to the bothy, cursing not having been there all along, before dashing back outside to bring the gear indoors - whereupon the little monsters disappeared completely! Maybe it was the slight stirring of a breeze, maybe the temperature drop as another glorious sunset glowed yellow behind Slioch. Whatever the reason, they vanished as dramatically as had the big Shiel Bridge wind. Filled with a certain trepidation, I decided to risk losing another pound of flesh: I stayed out in the tent. (1)

(1) The beautiful Nest bothy was, sadly, destroyed by fire in December 1989.