The Mountaineering Council of Scotland
Literary Competition 2001
by Kevin Howett
The Judges this year were President John Donohoe, National Officer Kevin Howett, Editor of ‘Climber’ magazine Bernard Newman, and past Vice President and Teacher Ingrid Parker. There were 13 entries for the prose category and 12 submitted for the poetry section. Both categories were closely contended with several entries vying for first or second place.
In the Prose category ‘Munro-Bagging’ won by a length, with a depiction of a day out that everyone will identify with. Second place was shared by two quite different articles; ‘Pastimes’ is a reminiscent repeat of a winter route which reflects on the changes in the climbing scene in the intervening time, ‘The Wendy House’ is almost a ghost story, but with a twist. Just missing out was a story of a ‘Club Meet’ by Lynda Woods of the Capricorn MC and a description of a meet in The Cuillin by Duncan Walker entitled ‘Coruisk is a wonderful Place’.
In the Poetry category the judge’s views were quite apposite and as a result there were several that came close to winning; the descriptive poems of ‘A Day on Stob Coir’an Albannaich’ by Clifford Healy and ‘Benighted’ by Ian McCabe just missing out. ‘The Lost Treasure of the High Sierra’ by Lynne Long and ‘Eight Thousand Meters’ by Helen McLaren delved deeper into “why?” and were also very close contenders. he winner was 'Kirsty' by Hamish Brown, who gains a ‘grand slam’!
1st place winner, Prose Section: Cathy Whitfield
Munro-bagging
Why do you do it? It's all too easy to think of reasons not to do it; especially at 6.00am on a Sunday when the cat is curled behind your knees and rather relying on you not getting up 'til noon. But you get up anyway, for the sole reason - just at the moment - that you arranged to pick up Fred and Mike, your regular walking partners, at 7.00am and you're damned if you'll give them an excuse to accuse you of wimping out. It seemed a good idea in the pub on Friday, but now, shivering with the cold - since even the central heating thinks it unconscionably early - you begin to have your doubts.
You get ready anyway, and thank God you packed your rucksack the night before, for at 6.00am your brain is not up to making decisions about what to take. It's all you can do to wash and dress and make your sandwiches - dry bread and thin ham - that through some alchemy of your rucksack will, in 7 hrs or so have converted themselves into Food of the Gods. But that is a long time in the future and after a bowl of cereal and a banana (nature's energy bar) you attend to the task at hand and dress carefully in your lucky thermal top. It has holes, but you wore it on that excellent day on Creag Meagaidh so you can't risk not wearing it now. Same goes for the lucky socks. Its' cold in the house so you pile layer on layer and, just in case, you stuff an extra fleece into your rucksack. Most of what you take is for just-in-case; the thicker fleece in case its cold; the thinner fleece in case it's too hot in your thicker fleece; the camera in case it's clear at the top; your binoculars in case that speck in the sky turns out to be a golden eagle; the first aid box in case you are called upon to treat a compound fracture with the contents (five band-aids, a pair of tweezers and some anti-midge cream).
You arrive only five minutes late to pick up Fred and Mike. All of you claim to have been up for hours and enthuse about the day and its prospects, pretending not to be bothered by the heavy look of the sky and the wind that is stronger and colder than the forecast. Fred, you notice, in spite of being up for hours, has not found the time to wash. Mike, you notice, has had a cooked breakfast (cooked by his wife, it turns out). The smell of both will bring on that vague travel sickness you always get on these long journeys, so you hope Mike isn't going to fart all the way as usual. But, as usual, he does.
It's a long drive. A feature of Munro bagging is that you start off with the nearest ones but then, when you no longer feel up to these early starts, the far away ones necessitate just that thing. You feel vaguely guilty about using the car and contributing to global warming, but congratulate yourself that at least there are three people in the car. In any case you suspect your use of petrol pales into significance - in global warming terms - with the emissions from Mike's bowels that he regards as a reason for jollity rather depreciation.
Eventually, after only a few near-death experiences on the A9, you arrive at your hill, but in spite of your early start there are at least three cars there already and coloured jackets are making their way up the track. You put on your boots and, as usual, they hurt in a different place from last time. You shiver and put on your thicker fleece, even though you know that ten minutes later you will be taking it off. And finally, after the usual argument about the best way to get out of the car park, you set off to bag your Munro.
Ten minutes later, you stop to take off your fleece. Actually, it's a good excuse to stop for although the walk-in is on a good track, Mike is setting a fast pace. You try to keep up (since you don't want to bring up his rear) but find yourself beginning to pant. Why am I doing this? You ask yourself. It won't be the last time you ask that day. You stop regularly on the way up to divest yourself of all those layers until you are down to your lucky thermal top and your joggers. All that fleece might be light to wear, but it's dammed heavy to carry. However, you know that once you've had your lunch your rucksack will be lighter again - but wish you hadn't thought about your lunch for, in spite of it being only 10 o'clock, it begins to prey on your mind.
The gradient steepens and the path becomes one grind after another. You try not to grunt. You don't have the breath for grunting. But for a while you welcome the steepening and narrowing of the path for it shuts Fred up for the first time that day. That endless moaning on about office politics was getting you down. Why do I do this with Fred and Mike? You ask yourself, forgetting your need for an incentive to get yourself up and out - and the global warming argument. After a while you wish you had the breath to talk politics. Sweat is trickling down your spine and you find yourself stopping to look at the view every few paces, and developing a sudden interest in geology. (What an interesting rock! Could that be basalt?)
But eventually the gradient eases and the narrow stony path becomes a broad muddy track that leads you into the centre of a wet peaty bealach only to abandon you to find your own way out. You leap from tussock to tussock or take long detours around liquid smears of hill, following Fred, which is a mistake, for he has longer legs than you and leaps like some demented goat across channels and pools, leaving you to flounder muddily in his wake. There is at least a mile of this before the final climb to the top which, when you reach it, turns out not to be the summit after all (which could have been predicted from your map). You are disappointed, but pretend to have known it all along, and try not to sage wearily at the cairn that marks this false peak. (Why do I do this?)
By this time the clouds have swept in and hidden the true summit. There is a darkness in the West that you suspect means rain to come, but you deny this to each other with bravado and a pretence of understanding the weather better than the BBC. (Those clouds will lift once the wind veers ..). They don't, of course, and you find yourself walking in a sea of mist that blurs your glasses and drips from your hair and you haven't the faintest idea in which direction you ought to be going. Fred does though, even though he hasn't taken out his compass. You'd like to stop and get yours out just to check, but don't want to be left behind in the mist and so you trial miserably along in his wake, not entirely convinced by that instinctive sense of direction that goes with his instinctive understanding of meteorology. Fortunately you meet some people coming down - not from the direction you are going, but no doubt they got lost on the way. (At least that's what Fred tells you later when they're out of earshot). You stop and chat about the weather, the route, the hill. They, it turns out, have already done the top out to the West you'd decided not to bother with, and are heading for their second Munro - one so far away that you hadn't even considered doing it. Fred, who has no sense of distance or timing, develops a dangerous enthusiasm for adding yet another Munro to your tally and you and Mike have a hard time talking him out of it. It would only take an extra hour, Fred declares, having not even looked at the map. But that's Fred for you. (Why do I do this with Fred and Mike?)
You set off up the stony slope, a boulder field of huge granite lumps. The bigger they are the more likely they are to tilt. You clamber up with extreme care, terrifying yourself with thoughts of breaking an ankle, since you don't have much confidence in Fred or Mike's ability to set a compound fracture using the contents of your first-aid box. They, not having your vivid imagination, go skipping on ahead leaving you behind I the mist, feeling cross and wondering why you didn't go walking on your own, since you are on your own now in any case and you wouldn't have had to put up with Mike's bowels and Fred's office politics. You feel very cross for a time (why the **** do I do this?) but after the boulder field, easier ground is reached; thin grass among stones, pale fans of scree, pink granite gravel, and you know you are near the top. The cloud seems lighter, thinner, and strangely luminous, as if you are closer than usual to the sky. Which of course you are.
Your breathing eases, the pain in your knee fades, and there is a spring in your step as you follow the faint trace of a path that leads to the summit. The mist thins and lightens and the horizon of white on white is broken by a faint grey hummock - a cairn of rocks loosely decorated by a scattering of fellow-summiteers. The wind brings you the sound of voices, strangely muffled. You walk easily to the cairn and find yourself just ahead of Fred and Mike who, having missed the path on account of Fred's unerring sense of direction, had taken a detour to the west.
And then the cloud lifts, the sun breaks through and the world goes silent. All around are peaks, layer upon layer of hills, streaked with scree and the last wings of snow. The colours are all the shades of grey and brown and dull ochres. You think them the finest colours in the world, and Fred and Mike the best mates in the world. Now you know why you are there. Why you do this.
Fred touches the cairn, muttering something under his breath you suspect to be 'one hundred and sixty three'. It's an afterthought. Later you will have the pleasure of ticking it off on our chart, planning the next assault of the next on the list. But now there are other pleasures to be felt. You let your rucksack slide to the ground and with the loss of weight almost feel as if you could fly. On cue, two ravens soar over the ridge, croaking to each other tumbling on the wind. And you think, This Is It! This is why you come, why you get up at 6.00am, drive hundreds of miles, and tramp through bog and rain. For this moment of standing on a summit beneath moving clouds and ravens with other people who are here for much the same reasons. For looking around and down and seeing in the distance other peaks that you might have climbed, might climb again, might still have to climb. And, seeing them, you have a sense of where you are, where you have come from, where you are going.
And why.
1st place winner, Poetry Section: Hamish Brown
|
Kirsty The yelled name, "Kirsty", jarred |
Joint Second Place, Prose Section: David Menteith
Pastimes
"The car park's looking a bit full Monty."
"It is, and it doesn't help with all the construction works for the funicular adding to the scrum. Most of that crowd over there aren't skiers, they look as if they'll be heading for Sneachda."
"Yeah, and the usual wintry blast is coming down Coire Cas to greet us - wonderful, typical Cairngorm!"
"Just the ingredients for a classic winter day Steve! But I don't fancy queuing in this weather, how about your bit of unfinished business in Lochain? Its nearly thirty years since our little adventure."
"OK, I'm on. It's bound to be quieter, it's a longer walk!"
"Fine. We'll maybe just call in at the ranger hut to check the avalanche forecast and weather, just in case they've changed from last night's web predictions."
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March 1972 was not a classic winter month for snow and ice climbing. Conditions were what I know now are euphemistically called 'thin'. In our innocence we had tried hard to decipher the radio 4 shipping forecast on the long drive up the old A9, but made little of it. We lacked understanding of the effects of tropical air, in numerous warm sectors, that had been stripping the cliffs of their potential build up of snow and ice. But we had blind optimism on our side, and after all March was officially a winter month.
Three of us had driven north from Durham for the weekend, to sample our first real taste of winter climbing. We had all been on the hills in winter; I had been on an ice cap in Norway; Steve had been to Greenland; we had both done grade I gullies. Bob, the third member of the party - he had been to the Alps! Together we considered ourselves ready and prepared for the great quest, little knowing or caring about wiser counsel or experience.
On the Saturday we had found our way into Coire an-t-Sneachda. The first route selected was "The Runnel", described in the Guidebook as straightforward and steep - it was steep if not straightforward, particularly the top exit chimney, but we climbed it in good time if not in good style. There had been only one other pair in the Corrie, it actually felt like a wilderness experience.
My trusty Chouinard Frost axe (with bamboo shaft) had performed well, and my new Salewa hammer (with short rubber coated handle) was, well, my new Salewa hammer - perhaps I should have gone for one of the longer, more traditional, North Wall jobs, like Bob's. Steve had read a magazine and been shopping; he was experimenting with an axe and ice dagger combination!
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"It looks like Friday night on the M6 going into Sneachda. I think we made the right choice."
"Thank goodness, that wind's wild, but it should be reasonably sheltered in the gully. There only seems to be one pair ahead of us, lets hope they're going for some buttress route."
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Our chosen route for day two had been "The Vent", in Coire an Lochain. It was given grade III in the guidebook - it was our intention to move up the grades! The success of the previous day bolstered our confidence and we headed off under an overcast sky, full of youthful vigour. The map was produced and we set a slightly lower course than the previous day to access the farther corrie. It did not take long and soon we were climbing the boulder ridge up to the base of the deep cleft that is "The Vent".
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"That other pair seem to be heading up for No 4 Buttress over the slab. Bit risky with the snow like this"
"Monty! One of them's come off!"
"Wow look at him go! ….. Hang on, it's a sack …… spewing bits of kit."
"It is! Look at that hat and overtrousers being taken by the updraft. Poor sod, the sack's done a cartwheel now, there's gear all over the place, I bet he's pig sick."
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The view up into the cleft did not bode well, there seemed to be far too much rock showing. As we got closer the middle part of the route showed old snow with a steep twisting ice pitch above. But the biggest shock was a huge chokestone low down, presumably where the start of the long ice pitch should have been.
Suddenly we felt vulnerable; we had seen no one since leaving the security of the car park, and big chokestone's were not in our winter sports plan. Somehow the huge acreage of the Great Slab below seemed to mock us, and the upward struggle through the ice age rubble that is its bordering ridge, was that much the greater. Reluctantly we pressed on.
Slowly the outline of Jean's Hut grew smaller and the corrie floor became obscured by cloud and spindrift. The weather was worsening. At the foot of the route we took a closer look; it appeared greasy, lichenous and not at all inviting, but after some discussion Bob declared it would go. We started to kit up, after all, he had been to the Alps!
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"He seems to be heading down to salvage his gear Steve. Let's go up to the snow scoop at the base of the gully and gear up."
"It's a bit different to the that first time Monty. There's a huge bank of snow at the bottom of the gully, it seems plastered."
"Yeah, the guidebook now gives The Vent III/IV, presumably in recognition of its ability to vary more than the average Scottish winter route!"
"I guess we were there at a IV time then!"
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Bob moved up under the chockstone and confirmed the rock was wet and greasy. He had a lanky frame and after a huge heave upwards somehow managed to bridge out to one of the walls. With several grunts he was up and we were left with the proposition of emulating this apparently supernatural feat from our alpine mentor.
After much struggling the reluctant tyros got over the obstacle and we all made rapid progress up a steep bank of nevé. Bob found a peg belay below steeper ground, where the snow turned to ice. He and I settled ourselves on a stance, it was Steve's turn to lead and to demonstrate the technical superiority of his chosen axe and dagger combination.
I was parked in mid gully on a shelf cut into the bank of snow, whist Bob had the belay position by the peg. Steve set off with gusto, reassured by being back on what we thought was the true medium of winter climbing. We might have noticed that the guidebook declared the upper step was of 'almost vertical ice' but the detail had somehow eluded us.
Sat facing the gully my thoughts turned to more esoteric wanderings: why was I here, the savage beauty, the seeping cold, etc. these ruminations were rudely interrupted by a general state of alarm transmitted down the rope, and the a cry of despair!
Bob appropriately took more interest in belaying. Just in time; Steve ejected from the upper gully at speed, bounced off my helmet (now tightly pressed against the snow) and landed unceremoniously just above the chokestone. The ropes tightened like steel. Bob was whipped against the gully wall, hands clenched tightly forwards, as he took the strain on his waist belay. The peg held.
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"Off you go Steve. You must have landed somewhere about here, but several feed down. Just amble up and get a belay below the upper ice pitch where you came off."
"OK Monty but I'll leave that to you this time."
"I wonder if anyone ever recovered your ice dagger?"
"If they did, they'd be welcome to it."
***********************
After what must have been thirty seconds Steve stood up. We were all in a slight state of shock, particularly Steve; he had just taken a 90ft fall onto a single peg. I don't know who spoke first but from above we ascertained that Steve had a gash across his forehead and he looked pretty battered. The precious dagger was still in the ice above, a lonely mark of his upward progress. Minutes later he started to creep back up the snow to join us.
As Steve struggled up, Bob and I quietly decided it was prudent to retreat, as there was obvious bleeding from his head wound. He approached the stance and looked decidedly pale. Bravely, Steve offered me the chance to complete the pitch and recover the offending instrument. I promptly declined! Bob took over; he lowered me to the security of the stance below the chokestone and Steve followed. A hasty abseil and Bob joined us; it was time to go home, tails tucked firmly between our legs.
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"You made short work of that Monty, and it was really well protected."
"These modern ice tools are something else an the new screws just go in like a dream. No contest!"
"I'll just lead through to the plateau shall I?"
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It was a slow, cold trek back to the car, but the activity seemed to revive Steve, its owner and driver. Our protestations to visit a Doctor were cast aside and a plot was made to reach Perth in four hours, seek food and continue onto Durham that night. I pulled off my ice armoured ventile jacket and replaced it with a dry wool sweater ready for the A9 ordeal. The heater in his Singer Gazelle was basic and the rear passenger in particular had a freezer like ride.
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"Thank God for Gore Tex! That wind's coming all the way from Siberia and the snow is being blasted like grit" "Just pile the kit in! We'll follow the rim of the plateau … try to drop down the Goat Track, but we'll have to watch out, there may be too much slab building on it. Hell! The surface here is just scoured ice. What time's your flight back to London?" "It leaves at 5.30. I should be home and tucked up in bed by 10.00." "Good. Lets go, we should have plenty of time to get to the airport."
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After dropping down the ski road we headed south from Aviemore in the gathering gloom, the headlights dimly picking out the first twists and turns by Loch Alvie. I settled into the back seat and tried to keep warm, but concern for Steve warned sleep away. Four and a half hours later we were searching the streets of Perth for somewhere to eat. A rather dour looking Chinese restaurant offered bleak comfort and we ate in the deserted interior. I think we reached Durham about four in the morning.
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This year Steve made another foray north to test himself against the Scottish Winter. I picked him up at Inverness Airport and the next morning we were off again to the Northern Corries. Conditions were marginal, with a lot of unconsolidated snow and little ice, but the weather was clear and crisp, we decided to brave the Sneachda queues. Arriving in the corrie slightly late, we found a gap in the chain on the only decent bit of ice - the 'Mirror Direct'. A team were just completing the pitch as we geared up and I joined one of them at the stance.
"Great pitch", I greeted him.
"Yes. The snow's a little suspect though", he replied.
"Yeah. I think we'll just escape right when you're clear", I retorted. "Where are you from?"
"Bristol University", he declared unselfconsciously, "We're in a group, up for the week, the rest are with a guide that we've hired for a few days. We were out with him yesterday brushing up on techniques and this is our first route this year."
The years unfolded. "Terrific, great way to get experience. Enjoy your week", I replied.
Joint Second Place, Prose Section: Hamish Brown
The Wendy House
There's always a feeling of relief when the last weekend of October weeps off into oblivion an' one can take to the hills in freedom again, free from possible confrontations with the Barbour-clad or the risk of rifle bullets whizzing past one's tooried top. The last is no joke. Twice in my modes lifetime of stravaiging I've had close shaves of this kind. Trouble is, with October away an' the last leaves splattered on the ground, the warm weather tends to vanish. The fieldfare flocks blow in and the sun bows out.
But we still head for the hills. There's aye another Munro or Corbett or whatever to encourage event the sanest to test the latest in coloured clothing and fancy footwear. Having a part-time job, no car, and more time than cash in the bank, such swanky weekend raids are the gabbro that dreams are made of. Mine is a schisty reality.
So it was the train, bus and post bus got me up yon glen in the first place. About 10 years ago I reckon for I was still using my big blue Tiso sack, the ultimate in rucksacks designed both to carry plenty and last for ever. Mine eventually disintegrated with the strong canvas rotting from all the sweat salt of twenty years of hiking - or backpacking as the rainbow ramblers now cry it. Yon was a super sack and I've seen me hump a bag of coal into Peem's howff with it. I'd though of going there this time but wanted to see if I could find a cave shown on the Sank of Alleric. Gordon of Craigdon was supposed to have hidden there after the Forty Five. It might make a useful howff. I knew most of the howffs and bothies in the glens.
There was no way I could afford a tent that could take the uninhibited tantrums of the hills in winter. Once I had a half-share in a Black's Mountain tent but we lost it up by Bachnagairn: went off for a day on the tops (investigating Creag an Dubh Loch actually) and came back to find it gone. We thought some blighter had pinched it till we realised an avalanche had come down and covered everything. What we found in the spring was beyond resuscitation. The only thing I've still got from then is my chipped enamel mug. Made in Taiwan.
Anyway I got off at Moodiebracks and took the stalkers' path up to Balmason and West Dulg. It ends at a ruin which used to be a braw bothy but one of the Aberdeen mob burnt it down, accidental like, when one of those new-fangled gas stoves went off like a spacecraft, stotted off several walls and landed in the hayrack. Now there's just a blacker-than-peat rectangle outlined in roughly-faced granite boulders. I had a piece there before going on for I didn't like the look of the weather. It's aye easy to be wise after events. I should have got back down to Moodiebracks. Big Mac, the keeper, would have let me use the old stable lads' bothy in an emergency, aye and had me in for a crack and a dram by the Rayburn. But hill folks are perverse critters. I hefted my rucksack and headed on up onto Meikle Corram, the patchy heather slippery from long wetting.
The Meikle Corram is actually a muckle lump, like an inverted Christmas pudding, only not so solid, and high enough that you might well take a compass bearing off it to ensure hitting any desired continuation. By its tall, white cairn all you saw was a horizon circumference about a quarter of a mile off.
A rattle of hail had me cringing in the lee of the cairn. There was a mysterious noise over my head, a slight sizzling sound (like Capella's chippie) that set the saliva glands working but when my hair began to tingle it was then that adrenaline started pumping. I was leaning on the highest object in miles an it was playing with electricity. I scarpered. Last year I'd seen what a lightning strike had done to the trig point on Mount Battock. I didn't fancy spread over the Corram in wee bits: microwaved.
My plan of reaching the Shielin of Doune was abandoned. I went, crabwise, over Lee Knowe to avoid an area where I'd scribble 'bad bogs' on my map. (It was an area that made Kinder a garden) and picked up a path I assumed led down the Wolf Burn to the relative safety of Callander Glen. If the worst came to the worst I could go down to the Lodge.
Unfortunately the black threat had turned to white clag and the clean crispness of hail to dolloped sleeting rain - about the wettest of all wets. We may not have had all the modern literature on wind-chill factors, hypothermia, etc, but kent well-enough how desperate some drenchings could be. Then my path curled round a spur and began to climb. The effort just kept me warm but I couldn't imagine where I was. I may not have been lost but I was certainly mislaid. I tried to shelter the map and make sense of things but it promptly tore in strips and my specs were splashed so I couldn't see anyway. I was shivering. Warmth was essential and, as a roaring fire or a stiff double were not available, the only other heat source mun be self-generated: movement.
I moved, striding back down the path in forced fury, the icy rain splashing into my face and its fingering dampness tickling along every crepitatious possibility. Big Mac, of the Moodiebracks, had a vulgar comment about what happened to you when a normally cosy part grew cold. Despite frantic effort I was chilling all over. My hands, in soggy woolly gloves, had become stiff with the chill. "Down! Down!" the order echoed in my brain.
There was a fork in the path. Coming the other way a mere twist of boulders and heather had masked this and I'd shot off on the upward track but even taking the downward path I was none the wiser as to my true whereabouts. But it didn't matter. It led down. The stabbing cold gave up its assassination attempt. Simple drowning became a more cheerful - and likely - prospect.
A side burn gave me a scare for, thigh deep in its tawny spate, a boulder trundled onto my left foot and held me in teetering immobility. When I eventually tore free I was sent sprawling forward in splashy momentum and landed on my tummy over a boulder on the bank where I was spun round as my legs and feet were dragged downstream. My right arm, up to my oxter, lay in a puddle of water of such clarity that, in my mind, I photographed the dainty roses of sphagnum that lay below my nose. I crawled out, even laughed a bit, which only other hillgoers would probably understand.
Every burn in the hills eventually had to join some big water like the Mark, Tarff, Saughs or Esk with decent Land Rover tracks, farmers or lodges mile-stoning their comforting depths. I just needed to keep on downwards and I'd have to come to something, somewhere, "even if I have to swim for it" As I joked to myself. That such things could well go beyond a joke I knew only too well. Peter Gorrie, from Kirrie, had been drowned in the Water of Dye a year or two back. But I was still in control. It was OK.
After an hour of trudging I came on a wee wood and, what's more, I half recognised it and was sure there had been some howff hidden in its clawing depths. A faint path led off, the gurgling ditch crossed by a greasy sleeper, and twisted on over a ferny bank by some ruins. My spirits rose. It was definitely familiar from a previous visit, years ago no doubt. As soon as I saw the place I remembered. I'd called it a Wendy House then and shouted out the conceit in glad relief now.
That trip doesn't concern this one other than for explaining I'd gone into the wood to get out of the wind and found the miniature cottage. I can only think the Victorian owner of Invercross Castle (the Pullar-Guys if memory serves) had built it for their spoilt children to play in while their elders and beaters got on with the serious business of slaughtering grouse. The bare interior measure about fifteen feet by ten feet with the roof beams rather less than six foot above the once-flagged floor. As there was no door the interior was now carpeted with dry sheep droppings. There was a tiny window, glaze intact, and a hearth with a swee and an old black kettle with the cancer of a rust hole through it. No firewood though which made me sad, not just for my own predicament but for the knowledge that children no longer came to this place. It had the feel of being utterly forgotten, as lifeless as an old song sung into the wind.
Trying not to get things covered in sheep shit I struggled out of my sodden layers and a right struggle it was with numbed fingers and the adhesive quality of the wet clothing. In the end I wobbled scuddy bare on top of a soggy pile of garments, on top of my rucker, goose-pimpled as a gander and flapping my arms round myself to flair some colour back into the flesh. I'd two spare pullovers and some socks carefully protected in polythene bags so donned these, with one pullover pulled up my legs like extra-hairy long johns. I put on my underpants to hold the combination together. As the pullovers were navy surplus and my pants white I thought I probably looked like a belted Galloway.
I didn't care what I looked like. I could feel the warmth coming back like a desert sunrise chasing off an African night. Once I'd put the Primus together and held a brew in my tingling hands I wouldn't have swopped my Wendy House for Buckingham Palace. Pity I couldn't manage a fire though.
Supper was packet spaghetti with a fresh onion and some spices along with three thick slices of meat roll from johnston of Johnshaven and a cup or three of real coffee. There was a conscious smug satisfaction, to be sitting in my treasured bag, toasty-warm and replete, while a rising storm assaulted the trees outside and the burn by the gable changed its voice from alto to bass. It would be a wild night and the morning would have clothed hills and glens in muffling white. There would be a glorious if tough) hike down the glen - whichever it was - and I'd hitch home, with another good memory to place in store and a tale to tell in the Finella Arms on Thursday night.
When I'd written up my log I snuggle down properly. The candle light glittered off the crystals I the granite walls and the beams cast a fret of Meccano shadows. Slowly my eyes grew heavy. I tried to blow out the candle from where I lay but hadn't enough puff to reach the sill. I swore - and let it be - and pulled the downy warmth of sleeping bag over my head to shut out the light. "Goodnight all!" I muttered.
Whether it was the struggle I'd had that day or over-eating or all that coffee but sleep, when it came, was fitful and as riddled with dreams as there are holes in a Gorgonzola cheese. Like a beetle I crawled in and out these caverns of disharmony. Time and time again I imagined I was back on the tops with the storm taking its way with me. My tent (which I didn't have) had been torn away and I lay in my sleeping bag under the stairs. Logic does not influence dreams, that's for sure, for I may have been under the stars but the blizzard snows were drifting over me, deathly steady and deep, the consolidating snow pressing down, blanket on blanket in weight. I would wake out of claustrophobic nightmare to the comforting snugness of Fairy Down, thank God it was only a dream, and soon drift back into sleep again - and back into the drifting snows of the mind. The dream kept repeating. I even gave it a known place: Craigmahandle, on the Firmounth road, why goodness knows as I'd only gone over that old route (from Tarfside to Dinnet) in glorious May weather.
The repetitive dream became both boring and annoying. I felt I wasn't getting any sleep at all and, try as I might with diversionary thoughts, once I'd drifted off to sleep I'd be back on that far slope with the smothering press of snow on me again till I'd panic and struggle awake feeling as feeble as a newly-released avalanche victim.
I even thought of making a brew but that would probably only hit me in the bladder and lead to having to get out the warm bag for a chilling stand at the door. I cursed the long winter night and returned, yet again, to the prison of my dream.
The weight of the snow on me was unbearable now. I could hardly breathe. My nose itched. I tried to give it a rub but my hands were pinned. The heat was intolerable too however illogical that should have been. I saw myself in a coffin then, with the wrong size of lid so when they began to spade in the soil (only it was snow, not soil) the lid dropped neatly within the sides of the coffin to crush down on my body. I woke screaming.
Or was I awake? I tried to find and use my hanky only I couldn't move either of my arms up. And I was gasping for breath, a desperate panic for I just couldn't tell dream from reality, death from life. I swore something awful and clearly heard myself. I had to be awake then. Or was that part of the dream? I bit my lip. It hurt. I blinked my eyes, slowly, faster, to order. I was awake, surely to God. Then had I been struck with paralysis? I really couldn't move my arms. They were pinned to my side, quite definitely. I could wiggle my fingers, and my toes it came to that, I could swing my head from side to side, but that was all. For the rest I seemed held in a vice. I'd been embalmed or something. This was madness not dreaming. I began to struggle against the grasping warmth of my bag. I had to get my face out to the air. But I couldn't. Was I drowning then?
Perhaps I did become mad, in brief panic, for with unnatural strength I forced my hands up to my face, the weight went from my chest and I tore open the top of my sleeping bag to gulp in the night air. The air stank. I groped for matches then realised I'd left the candle stump to burn itself out (I'd no torch). I could both hear and feel movement, other movement, not mine. I found the box of matches and struck one with a shaky hand. It flared and spluttered and went out. The third time I succeeded, let the flame really catch and held the match back over my head to see if the Goya-nightmares or Hieronymous Bosch horrors existed in reality as in my dreams. I was met by a cluster of golden orbs, pairs of yellow eyes all round my bed. No need for electricity. My hair stood on end.
My mouth opened to scream but what came out was laughter. Somewhat hysterical laughter. The laughter was relief. The wee house was full of stinking ewes, like myself seeking shelter from the storm.
It was midday when I thanked the farmer who'd given me a lift as far as Kirriemuir. I didn't tell him about the mad night. I didn't tell the folks back home. Nobody in fact, till now. In Kirrie I walked down past a NTS sign saying "Birthplace of J M Barrie" - the author of Peter Pan, of the Lost Boys, of Captain Hook, of the crocodile… It seemed thoroughly appropriate to me as I thought back to my dream night in the Wendy House up in the glen.