Beag’s a logical extension for anyone with spare energy on this part of Route 18. We made scratchy crampon noises all along its lovely ridge, to find a way down northwest from just short of its final summit Stob nan Cabar. Luckily we were walking away from the sunshine; sunscreen was one burden I hadn’t thought to bring. Then up the Devil’s Staircase, and there was the Pap of Glencoe standing erect against the afternoon.
One more range stands between us and journey’s end. Except that, in Scotland’s winter, you do have to adapt your plans to the weather. And extreme weather is on the way: yet another day of winter chill and cloudless blue skies. When sun runs golden along this particular range, you can’t just ignore the Mamores. We booked at Blackwater Hostel for a second night, hung the tent in the drying room, and clicked and scratched our way up the steep end of Binnein Mor.
When I was in the Western Tatras, they rather reminded me of the Mamores. Narrow ridges with wide paths, steep drops alongside, down the ridge and up the ridge and here’s another pointy peak. (The High Tatras, which are granite, are something else again.) What do you think, Alois? Tatric a bit?
The Tatras may be twice as high but, Alois explained carefully, Scotland is still much bigger for him. ‘In Scotland if you look around you see only mountains and mountains, I really love this. Also the beautiful lochs.’ Indeed, with chill sub-zero air, a sharp snow edge, Loch Leven below and a view from Mull to Schiehallion, it’s no trouble at all to forget about Scotland’s bog, our grey rain, our miserable summer midges.
A sharp dip leads into the cleavage between the twin peaks of Na Gruagaichean, ‘The Maidens’. The col is steep in and steep out, with verticality on the right, but in this superb snow the crampons can cope. On the second top we looked at birds against the blue sky. No, not an eagle: a raven. Corvus something, sorry I don’t know the Latin.
On Stob Dubh of Buachaille Etive Beag
Mamores ridgeline, towards Na Gruagaichean
‘I know raven,’ said Alois: ‘Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.’ Edgar Allen Poe is big in Moravia.
On over the easy Munro of Stob Coire a’ Chairn; and now the white mountains against blue were being buzzed round by a little yellow helicopter. The ‘copter made figure eights, Scottish-dance style, round each of the summits. It seemed to be searching for someone whose route plan had been an unhelpful ‘Mamores’. We ignored it and looked at Am Bodach. Am Bodach is translated as ‘old man’. Actually it’s the particular sort of old man you scare your babies with, the old bloke that if they carry on like that will come down the chimney when they’re asleep and get them. The climb to Am Bodach is, in summer, steep and awkward scree. Now it was hard snow, still steep, among rocky outcrops. Even the confident crampons found it a little exposed on the way up.
Winter days are short and Stob Ban is far, so we headed down Bodach’s south ridge, and found streaks of snow right down to the path.
Next day, sun still shining; Mamores still obstructing the road to Loch Linnhe. Alois, exhausted by so much sunny Scotland, took the bus to Ballachulish. Alone, I cramponed back to the ridge in a breeze stiff enough to be alarming. I’d started at dawn, so nobody else was around. The morning sky was not just blue, but blue-green, with an intensity normally got by improper use of photographic filters. This was like the Alps, except that, as Alois has pointed out, the view had lochs in, and the sub-zero sun couldn’t turn the snow to midday slush. I took a long solitary pause on Mullach nan Coirean, simply being there. South across the Aonach Eagach, Bidean looked particularly splendid. But then, so did everything else.
There are various ways down Glen Nevis. The road is simply horrid, with spruce trees on the left and the dull side of Ben Nevis opposite. The forest track is slightly less horrid, no cars but even more spruce. I took the Third Way, on the wrong side of the river – and found Glen Nevis is a beautiful place. Backlit, you don’t notice the grim spruce. The river chuckles over golden stones just loudly enough to drown out the cars on the other side. Birches make twiggy lacework against the light. It’s all later in the book as Route 12.
I visited the Old Fort, but resisted the temptation to head onwards along the new Great Glen Way. It’d be a lot less Great than Ben Lui and the Buachaille Beag. After five days, I was fit for the Nevisport carbohydrate whammy – macaroni with chips – and their pictures of Alpine ridges failed to arouse the usual jealous stirrings.
Scotland’s weather is unpredictable. So often, it leaves plans stymied and unfulfilled. We’ll have to do that blizzard plod up the West Highland Way another year.
PART 1
THE HIGH ROAD AND THE LOW
Arriving at the summit Beinn a’ Chrulaiste (Route 11) with Buachaille Etive Mor behind
MILNGAVIE TO DRYMEN
The train out to Milngavie passes through groves of weedy sycamores, with an understorey of spike-topped fencing and ground cover of brambles and plastic litter. Shrieks of the electric railway combine with warnings on the loudspeakers: don’t forget your luggage, passenger safety notices are displayed within the carriage. All this makes it quite clear why one needs to get out of Glasgow, on foot, and head north among the mountains.
It also makes it clear why, however logically sensible, one doesn’t want to start from Glasgow city centre. The Kelvin and Allander walkways would make that project possible. But we don’t need 19km (12 miles) of litter-strewn urban cycleways to remind us why we want to get northwards towards Fort William. And the start at Milngavie is surprisingly satisfying (even if the Dumbarton start, in Route 17, is even more so.)
WH WAY: MILNGAVIE TO DRYMEN
| Distance | 20km (12½ miles) |
| Approximate time | 5hr |
| Not the WH Way | 1 Campsie Fells |
| 17 Dumbarton Start |
Milngavie is part of Glasgow. From the station you pass under a main road to cafés, and a chemist’s shop, and a pedestrian precinct for those who like their pedestrianism tarmacked and lined with retail outlets. But under the wrought iron arch and down the steps, branches of trees replace branches of Next and Topshop, and over the following 13km or so (8 miles) you’re going to cross just three metalled roads.
The paths through the Mugdock Country Park are helpfully signposted. Sometimes the WH Way runs with the river to its left, and sometimes up to the right of it past small outcrops of black basalt, and under birch and oak trees well draped with greybeard lichen – this showing how unpolluted the air is even so close to Glasgow.
WH Way walkers approach Dumgoyne
Halfway through the bluebells, you’d fork right for the diversion over the Campsie Fells below. On the main path you pass Carbeth Loch, a shanty-town from the inter-war
