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Had I entered some hitherto unheard-of gully as the stars were setting, and, after a day well spent in gazing in admiration at the feet and feats of my leader, had emerged in triumph at the top as the moonbeams were beginning to strike my aching head, I should at once have offered the Editor an account of a proceeding worthy alike of the Scottish Mountaineering Club and of its Journal. As, however, I had only wandered to and fro on the earth, from the Heart of Midlothian to within sight of St Kilda, viewing with admiration many of our grandest mountains, or as much of them as was visible, but failing to reach even one "Munro" peak, it required an editorial request for an article to overcome one's natural reluctance to record failures. And yet, but with due diffidence as becomes the opinion of a member of a feeble and discredited minority, let it be said, I humbly hold that he who strives to get into touch with the different mountains of Scotland, may do as much to foster in himself and to encourage in others the love of mountaineering as he who is the greatest living authority on the threescore and-ten ways of ascending Ben Brakenek, and may be a not altogether unworthy, even if an utterly insignificant, member of the Club.
The first mountains whose acquaintance I sought to make last spring were those giants of the West - Ben Lomond and the Cobbler. They were both familiar to me from my childhood, and therefore unascended, as they are still. The former I used to see when of a ripe enough age to take walks with my nurse in the West End Park, Glasgow, and of intelligence enough to warn the birds to "keep off the grass" for fear of the police. The latter was pointed out to me when at a later stage I was taken for a sail "doon the watter" by my parents. Having now children of my own, though not so highly favoured, for they live in the "haary" regions of the East Coast, I thought I ought to be able to help them with their geography lessons by describing to them in detail the features of these well-known hills.
Accordingly I set aside the February week for this purpose, and secured the companionship of Mr Alexander Moncrieff, another of the innumerable number of members of the Bar who hail from the West, whose name is already familiar to readers of the Journal as the efficient coadjutor of one of our most distinguished, successful, and respected peak-baggers.
Cowlairs Station, shortly after seven o'clock on the morning of Monday, 6th February, with the snow driving into the waiting-room, was not cheerful, nor was the prospect much better as we overlooked our sporting ground from above Ardmay. But we had the satisfaction of feeling that at any rate we were doing our best to faithfully follow the precept and example of the Club in selecting wintry conditions for attacking the hills. Our baggage was handed over at the station to the porter of the Tarbet Hotel, where we had arranged to stay in view of our second day being devoted to Ben Lomond. We ourselves tramped along frozen roads to the Arrochar Hotel, where we found the breakfast we had ordered beforehand almost ready. After having done it full justice, we had a bracing walk round the head of the loch, snow having ceased falling, and struck across the moor to the Bhalachdin Burn, which we crossed, partly on ice, below the waterfalls. The walking in the valley above them was very unpleasant, and at times dangerous. The snow was soft and caked on our boots, while the marshy ground below was covered in places with sheets of ice like glass, upon which our feet slipped without the least warning, and in spite of the utmost caution. I had more than one sudden fall, as if I had been tripped up, and I began to fear the possibility of a broken wrist. At 1,700 feet, where the corrie opens up to the left, we were completely in the dark, and indeed remain so as to our exact whereabouts on our two consecutive days. Having been advised to make the circuit of the hill from the N.E. shoulder, we kept up the right hand branch of the burn, and then began to ascend what we believe to have been the skirts of the Cobbler's Wife. The snow was now in excellent condition, and we had an enjoyable climb up the slopes to a height of about 2,200 feet.
Then the angle began to increase, and considering it was our first day out, that we were guideless and viewless, and that we had a limited amount even of what could only by euphemism be called daylight, we resolved - one of us with characteristic caution, and the other mindful of a certain New Year's Day he had spent after dark on Ben Cruachan - to rest satisfied with our modest accomplishments. There was not much glissading to be had, but we varied the monotony of the descent by one or two mild boulder climbs, found the valley in an even more slippery condition than before, enjoyed the striking Alpine landscape with the black loch in the centre, followed the stream to the bridge at its mouth, revisited the Arrochar Hotel for tea, and reached that of Tarbet to find ourselves sole occupiers of its spacious halls. The food and accommodation provided, at Club rates, was all that could be desired, and even the billiard-room was made warm and available for our amusement. We were somewhat disgusted, however, after our forethought, at being told that there are no boats on Loch Lomond in winter, but a message was sent to a ferryman at some little distance to be in readiness to row us across to the Ben after breakfast.
Next morning was wild and squally. Exit any thought of Ben Lomond; enter proposal we should return home by the first train. But this, in spite of a sleet storm, was rejected as pusillanimous, and off we set once more for the Cobbler. A thaw had begun, but the early forenoon conditions were favourable, save the mist on the heights. The wind fell, the sleet stopped, while the snow in the valley was firmer, and effectively covered the ice below. This time we kept up the corrie and tried to steer for the Cobbler himself, but the fog was as dense as ever. We were more adventuresome than the day before, and not so easily deterred by the steepness of the slopes, notwithstanding that the character of the snow had changed. Better below, as we ascended it became soft and deep. Large steps had to be dug, and these only led to frozen snow below. The upper layer, too, showed a tendency to come away in masses. Step cutting became arduous, and for mutual support two on the rope were barely sufficient.
We were also evidently, even if on a practical road to it, 400 feet from the top, and the outlook was not reassuring, so once again - retreat. Much pleasure you must have had! sneers the Philistine, but, unless absolutely devoid of the sense of beauty, he would not again repeat the cynical remark could he but have stood beside us at the foot of the cliffs as we descended - within four hours' reach of Glasgow, be it remembered. Absolute silence, unbroken by wind or water, reigned. A field of spotless snow lay at our feet. A low wall of green ice, up which we could cut steps and climb, rose beside us, and a little distance off loomed the black slabs on which no snow could lie, supported, as it were, at their base by huge pillars of blue ice, some 8 feet high and 6 feet in circumference. Behind these we could stand, and, in anticipation of the slow thaw, and in relief of our unused energy, we amused ourselves for some time hewing them away. Oh, when will Scotsmen learn that they need not wait for summer and the Alps to study and enjoy Alpine scenery!
A fortnight later I was admiring the snowy outline of the Coolins from the Court House at Lochmaddy, where I was endeavouring to discharge the onerous duties of interim Sheriff-Substitute of that outlying part of Inverness-shire. Not a ripple was on the loch, and, across the for once calm Minch, Skye and its headlands stood out in a most enticing manner. I forthwith resolved, early though the season was, to have, if possible, at least one day with John Mackenzie before returning south. But first the hills of North Uist, of Benbecula, of South Uist, and of Harris lay nearer, though scarcely easier of access. To begin with their nomenclature is interesting. Often doubtful, it is generally Scandinavian or Celtic, and usually the former. For example, the highest mountain of South Uist is the inevitable Ben More (2,034 feet), but that of Benbecula is Rueval (only 409 feet), and that of North Uist, Eaval (1,138 feet). This affix "val," a variation of the Norwegian "Fjeld," and found in Scotland and England in the form "Fell" or "Field," is much the commonest.
Thus we have, besides those already named, Stulaval (1,237 feet), and Easaval (800 feet), lying north and south of Loch Boisdale, in South Uist; Blashval (362 feet), a prominent little hill on which the Diamond Jubilee Cairn was built, Unival (458 feet), and Marrival (757 feet) in North Uist; and Uisgnaval (2,392 feet), Oreval (2,165 feet), and Ullaval (2,153 feet) in Harris. Hecla, the name of a mountain of 1,988 feet in South Uist, and of one of 700 feet in Mingulay, at the extreme south end of the Long Island, is also Scandinavian, while the source of the name Clisham (2,622 feet), between Loch Tarbert and Loch Seaforth in Harris, the highest mountain in the Outer Hebrides, seems uncertain.
Doubt also attaches to the names of North Lee and South Lee, which lie between Loch Maddy and Loch Efort. North Lee (823 feet) resembles Arthur's Seat in appearance, though of a different and vastly older geological formation, and like a lion guards the entrance to Loch Maddy on the south. Nor is it without pitches towards its summit, which might puzzle some of the rock-climbers of the Club.
To its base, one day within a week of my arrival, I was ferried across. How long it would have taken me to reach it by land I cannot say, but Loch Maddy, the mouth of which is barely a mile broad, and the maximum length of which is only six miles, has a coast line of something like 360 miles! The view from the top towards the north, east, and south is fairly extensive and pleasing, extending from the Sutherland, Teallach, and Torridon Mountains to the Coolins and on to Rum, faint in the distance. It is the outlook to the west, however, that gives real interest to the ascent. Such a prospect can be got nowhere else in the British Isles. It was not the red sunset colouring the wide Atlantic nor even the distant cliffs of lone St Kilda that excited my wonder, but the landscape or waterscape at my feet, for it was impossible to say whether land or water predominated. Comparison to a monster draughtboard, with the squares composed of water and land in about equal proportions, gives but a feeble idea of the surface of North Uist as seen from Lee. It looks as if it were hopeless to attempt to cross the island without a boat, for the road, which conducts to the west side, following the one line feasible, is only visible here and there, being in many parts hidden by the numerous islands, knolls, and peninsulas. Even its passage has been made possible only by the building of numerous causeways, or "sconsers" as they are called, across the outflows of the fresh-water lochs, and woe betide the luckless fisher, sportsman, or pedestrian who tries to make short cuts across the watery maze-like plains of North Uist!
On my way to South Uist, a few days later, I had a further and less agreeable sight of the water-freaks of these remote islands. Benbecula, the sponge-like island between North Uist and South Uist, has at first sight a curiously Spanish name, but after all its termination is just another form of the familiar "Kyle," and the word, somewhat similar to Benderloch, apparently signifies the "land between the straits." Now these straits are fords at low tide, only while the "South Ford" is straight, and barely a mile wide, the "North Ford" is three and a half miles long, and very tortuous.
It was a fine moonlight night, and still some three hours from low water, when about half-past eight o'clock we drove gaily in our dogcart on to the wet sand and began the passage. My friend, who was driving, was well acquainted with the ground, and though he had previously nearly been drowned in the dark in the South Ford, he had never had a mishap in the North Ford. Nor had he ever, like so many of the inhabitants of these parts, spent a night on one of the islands with which, as distinguished from rocks, it is not too numerously studded. Accordingly he amused himself by trying to alarm me with the dangers consequent upon not steering the proper course, and the possibility of getting too near the Atlantic breakers. After a low narrow island called "The Caggan" had been crossed, the line of weed-covered stones began to disappear, a haze obscured the hills and any distant objects, and suddenly, while crossing one of the salt-water streams, the horse began to plunge, and we were evidently in a quicksand. There was nothing for it but to get out, knee-deep in the water, unyoke, and set off on foot carrying portmanteau, parcels, and wraps, leading the horse, and leaving the trap almost up to the axle in sand, and yet in a hole so circumscribed that we were able to stand close beside it without sinking.
At first, but in vain, we tried to retrace our wheelmarks to the island, and then made for Rueval (409 feet) in Benbecula, the only landmark we could see. When we at length reached a grass-grown islet, all danger was over, and our shouts attracted the notice of a crofter, who was putting his beasts to bed, but whose croft was separated from us by deep water. Presently, by a circuitous route, he reached us with two ponies and a rope, all of which he might have left behind, for when we again reached the dogcart it was so deeply buried that a spade had to be fetched. After an hour's hard work, aided by the nightly postman, who was crossing, and who came along to see what was wrong - we were only a hundred yards off the track - we got the trap out, and after midnight reached Gramisdale Temperance Inn, where the landlord sat up all night drying our clothes while we went to bed.
After breakfast we drove across Benbecula and over the South Ford without adventure, and in the afternoon, upon the conclusion of a meeting of the School Board of South Uist (of which the majority are Roman Catholic priests, who, in conformity with the wishes of the majority of the rate-payers, enforce the teaching of their own Catechism), I started from Howmore in the teeth of a strong wind for the top of Ben More. After two miles of the highroad, so as to avoid as far as possible the boggy country at the northern base of the hill, I struck up the left bank of a sluggish stream, the Abhuinn Gheatry, which rises well up the mountain side. The water-course now took the form of soft muddy slopes and deep ditches, by way of tributaries, which had to be jumped, but by slow degrees the ground became less flat, the stream more rapid, and I felt as if I was walking up a burnside in the southern uplands of Scotland. I had evidently chosen the proper route, and was rewarded by a delightful stroll; but the thick mist ahead warned me it would neither be pleasant nor profitable to prolong my walk to the summit, where I should also be again met by the wind from which I was for the time sheltered. In favourable circumstances two hours or two hours and a half should take one easily from Howmore to the top, but a whole fine day might well be spent in roaming over the group, which extends some five miles from north to south.
My next expedition was northwards, this time by steamer and bicycle. Landing with some difficulty, owing to a heavy swell, in a ferryboat at Rodel, on the south point of Harris and famous for St Clement's Church with its tombs and sculptures, I had on the whole a capital ride of twenty-four miles to Tarbert. I had been warned of the steep hills in Harris, and they are not to be treated with contempt; but again it was the flats I found most annoying, the road at one part being merged in the seashore for half a mile, while at the same place two streams had to be waded, and a biting hailstorm saw fit to come on. The clearing after the storm was very fine - the sea green and white, and the range of snowy cloudless mountains north of West Loch Tarbert standing out so impressively as to make me almost resolve to propose Tarbert for our next Christmas Meet. The hotel, too, is very comfortable, only it is still somewhat inaccessible! The following morning I verified what appeared from the map, that less than an hour's cycling or less than two hours' walking north from Tarbert, along as wild and striking a road as any in the Highlands, takes one to within two and a half miles of the top of Clisham (2,622 feet), the highest and the most easterly, but only the first of the noble line of Harris mountains. My ride, however, being an early one, in order to be back in time for the steamer, they had not yet removed their nightcaps. Another road striking left at Ardhasig Bridge, three miles from Tarbert, leads by the northern shore of West Loch Tarbert along the base of these mountains to Amhuinnsuidhe (Avonsui) Castle, the seat of Sir Samuel Scott, which is situated on the sea towards the western end of the Forest of Harris. There must be many a grand walk and climb within its wild recesses!
And now for Skye and the Coolins! I crossed over a summer sea to Dunvegan one afternoon more like May than March, and before dark was shown through Dunvegan Castle, well worthy of a visit, both for its situation, its antiquity, and associations, and for its case of curios, its Jacobite relics, and its "thank-you" letters of Dr Samuel Johnson and Scott, now framed and hung on the drawing-room wall.
A dense fog next day delayed the steamer's sailing and my starting, and throughout marred, by obscuring the views, what even in dull cloudy weather is a splendid bicycle run by Loch Bracadale to Sligachan. "And is John Mackenzie at home?" I asked, before allowing myself to eat. "Oh, yes - at least he is at Portree." "But will he be back to-night?" I inquired. "Oh, yes." "Then I will stay until to-morrow; but are you quite sure?" "Quite sure; he is going to bury his mother to-morrow." I slept at Uig, and dreams of the Coolins, which I may never live to climb, did not unduly disturb my rest.
Snow showers next morning did not promise well for either cycling or climbing, but after breakfast I mounted my bike for a ride round the north end of Skye. How few of the hundreds who drive from Portree to the Quiraing ever take this circular tour round the fantastic and precipitous hills, of which the Quiraing is only one corner, by a coast road which passes Flora Macdonald's grave and Duntulm Castle, the ancient seat of her clan, overhanging the ocean, and which commands magnificent views of the greater part of the Long Island and of the mountains on the mainland from Gairloch to Kintail! It was bitterly cold, but bright and clear, the showers keeping at a respectful distance. After lunch by the wayside, I left my bike at the foot of the Alpine pass, which crosses the island from Staffin to Uig, and directed my steps towards probably the strangest collection of rocks and cliffs in Great Britain. Nature has hidden away these mysterious products of her Cyclopean workshop well, and the feet of sheep and of peat-gatherers have made paths which bewilder and misguide the would-be intruder. After my first ascent I found myself literally on the "Prison," looking down upon the proper portals, but shut off from them by inaccessible precipices. By a detour I got down, and having pitched upon a footpath better marked than before, I resolved to follow it wherever it might lead.
I was not surprised at being taken to the foot of a steep gully filled with screes, for even after five-and-twenty years I had vivid recollections of a veritable scramble on hands and knees, though ladies were of the party, so I promptly began to "skeel" up. I was without stick or axe, and my shoes were destitute of nails, but just at first everything seemed all right. Presently, however, as each stone I touched showed a tendency to go to the bottom, I began to think ladies must be better climbers than I gave them credit for being. The gully got steeper, a patch of green at the top seemed a long way off and I could hardly believe that the base of the Needle Rock was so far away. At length I pulled myself up on to a tableland of grass, and with amazement saw the point of the Needle, some distance below. No doubt the conditions were all favourable for being duly impressed with the grandeur, loneliness, and awesomeness of the scene; but as I was quite alone, and not a human being knew where I had gone, I am not ashamed to confess that I felt somewhat eerie on my eyry (excuse this reminiscence of Butters' Spelling Book), and disinclined to face the descent. As sheep were nibbling around, I thought there was probably some easier method of access than my gully. The true so-called "Table" was not far off, and to it I made my way, but the orthodox approach was still concealed from me. By dint of thrusting myself through a crack in the rocks I got to a gully where the foot-holds and hand-holds seemed better, and which I thought would "go" even for me. Right glad was I to get to the foot without mishap, but my pride had yet another fall, for if there is one thing more than another with which I credit myself, it is being able to find out and to point out to others the best possible route to any particular place, excluding of course routes up rock faces. It was therefore with disgust I discovered, as I stood at last beside the Needle (which I doubt even our most eel-like members being able to thread), that I had carefully avoided the easy central gully, and had, though not deliberately, ascended one side gully and descended another. Perhaps, in fairness to myself, I should explain that with suitable equipment, and at a later season of the year, my gully would probably present no difficulty whatever to our latest recruit. It still remains my last and almost my only successful "Spring Attempt."
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