I stopped a wee bit early today. My shoulder is loupin’, the wind and rain were no fun on the roof as I fannied about with the pipework up there, and, I just couldn’t be arsed frankly.
So, I said to Holly did she want to see if the Amy Pond figure was in the shop? There was just enough time to nip out and have a look. “Wes!” was the reply.
True enough, although Forbidden Planet was sold out, Amy Pond was hanging in good numbers on A1 Comics’ rack in Braehead. Holly clutched one with much excitement and both hands as dad scanned the other wee folk in the same rack area. There’s the olive drab dalek with the ammo pouches and water bottle… “Would you like some tea?” it had said to the Doctor. It’s sitting in front of me as I write this, and I keep flicking my eyes up to it to see if it’s going to aske me the same question. Hey, you never know.
I sat on the roof watching the clouds whip past. Ben Lomond shouldered the bottom end on it’s upper-most slopes until after lunchtime when it finally lifted clear of the summit. I could see past it to the Glen Falloch hills, just grey shapes today though.
It’s funny how the outdoors has just disappeared. Hmm, not disappeared, just out of reach.
That’s not a bad thing either, I like breaks from stuff, even my favourite stuff, be it hills, guitar, shaving… Not because I need to recharge or regain my enthusiasm, but more that it’s nice to plan and stretch the imagination, just think about what’s coming next instead of knowing exactly. The mountain musing has involved a whole bunch of stuff which will filter through here, there and even elsewhere as time goes on. I’ll tell you, it’s funny how things turn out.
A whole bunch of gear stuff is crawling about under the carpet as well, and I’m not getting to it. All my exclusives will be older that my hat by the time I get them live, Haglöfs’ scrambling shoe, Montane’s 210g eVent smock, Terra Nova’s new… Oh wait, that’s secret ’til 2011. Sorry, what a dick am I, couldn’t resist.
Still, I am going to the annual KORS show next month, and I’ll be seeing some other stuff while I’m down south too. It’ll be gearmageddon all over again.
Talking about the notion of global disaster, we finally watched 2012 on movies-on-demand, and what a bad idea that was. I’m still hoarse from shouting at the telly.
Special effects be damned, they did the cliche avoiding move of the authorities believing the scientist at the beginning, and then sat back for the next two hours throwing paper aeroplanes at their desk fans while the tea lady plundered every other applicable film for ideas to get the thing finished. It makes The Day After Tomorrow look like a week last Wednesday.
Talking of annoying, one of these phone broker companies phoned me while I was doing anything other that talking to someone who wanted to sell me something I didn’t want. I want a phone from someone who builds masts, makes the signal bars appear on my phone, not from a middle-man who is making money without any skill or investment in a system or infrastructure. This news did not sway the salesman, who countered “Well, what would I have have to do to sell you a phone today?”
“Bring back the 70’s” I said.
The magical lady of the Highlands danced through the crags and rested by a rock, she turned back to me and her voice floated down on the cool breeze “Just a little farther, there’s a perfect pitch with a hidden spring not too far away…”
I smiled and followed her, it would be nice to get to camp and get the stove on. Clang! She floated above the summit, pointing down, urging me to look before she faded into the evening glow. I squinted towards the bright golden skyline where something moved, a wee furry thing, scurrying around, but I lost it. A few paces further on it shot from the rocks into clear view. Yes! It was real live haggis, a young one, but the long nose and asymmetrical legs were a dead giveaway. Cheered by the rare sighting, I hurried on. Clang! True enough, there was a carpet of flat grass surrounded by shapely rocks, and between these ran a trickle of cold clear water where I filled my mug and drank as I gazed around. Across the glens to each side of me I could see Ben Lomond, Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan, the Eiger, Doughnot Hill, with the four big heids of Mt Rushmore were still holding some snow in the crevices, even this late in the year. Clang! Hey?
As night fell to the sound of birds singing and the whispering whoosh of pteranadons swooping onto the settlements for slaves, the lights of distant Mos Eisley twinkled as the Millenniun Falcon shot silently from the jumble of buildings and rose into the darkness.
I slipped back into the tent and gazed up at the sky as… Clang! Petesy?
I woke to dawn, and the most wonderful of mornings lay in front of me, stretching to the sun as it rose slowly to flood the land with warmth and light. I saw a sea of bubbles with plastic farm animals bobbing up and down in it, foam letters fell from the sky as they dried out… Clang! Clang! Petesy are you asleep in there?
The bath drained and I sat spinning in a giant teaspoon… Petesy, It’s lunch time!!
He sat up, damn it was warm in this boilerhouse. Cough, sniff, adjust waistband, “Aye, aye, I’m coming now. I was er, fixing the er, thing there…”
He clicked the light off as the door swung shut behind him. Macaroni cheese and chips on his mind.
I’m dead on my feet tonight. This week so far has been played without a pause: 40 hours of pipes so far, more at the weekend; two nights in the hills, a late-evening meeting with a customer, a night in the studio (where if we can’t get a recording slot for the new tunes soon we are going to melt into a bubble of feedback and slaver) and then dinner at my folks tonight where Holly went loopy.
I used to be able to have 18 hours of activity in every 24, day after day and leap out from under the duvet at dawn in Bruce Lee style, ready for more. Well, apart from the time where we all fell asleep in a cooling tower on a factory roof after a very late gig.
The bass player and crew guy worked with me at the time and we were all totally burst from playing ’til after 0200 in an airless sweat hole in Glasgow. By the time we got back to base and unloaded the van it was time to put the tools back in and get going again. The day was doomed from the start, but Davy and I woke up at lunch time and staggered to the canteen while poor Rab got discovered sleeping and got a new hole punched in his arse by Jimmy. We sniggered like schoolboys ‘cos we didn’t get into trouble too.
But aye, youthful energy is wasted on us when we don’t have the perspective which age presents to us to appreciate it, and indeed exploit it properly.
I caught myself doing something very odd tonight. I’ve got some mountain bits and pieces to do in July for a couple of folk, and I was actually planning a route around what side of the ridge the sun would be shining on so I could get the right photies. The heating engineer in me got up, left the room, and flew back through the door a few seconds later with a kitchen stool to break across my teeth.
Aye, that’s better.
Bowling is like a silent movie film star. In that no one’s heard of it, but there’s lots of old photies of it kicking about.
That view above has been etched and painted many times over the past couple of hundred years. I think the piers of the Erskine Bridge would be in that horse’s way these days, but Dumbarton Rock still looks the same.
It’s gone from rural idyll to industrial conduit as seen below, and now it’s just in the way of folk wanting to get onto the A82.
But, we had our 32nd Annual Gala Day last Saturday, the sun shone, the flags were out, we paraded through the village with a pipe band (we decorated Holly’s bike trailer as a princess carriage for that) and made merry at the village hall.
Holly won a prize for her Little Mermaid outfit, the Gala Queen was crowned, hands were shaken and smiles were exchanged with old friends who always come back to the village for the day, and others were missed in the crowd. ‘Til next year anyway.
On Monday we were all back to being bad tempered commuters, but I know the community spirit is still there, underneath somewhere. Maybe there’s hope for us after all.
A dash home to get my pack and find something garish to wear and I was back on familiar ground.
I met Allan at Overtoun House for an evening wander in the Kilpatricks, a long overdue occasion. I’ve known Allan since ‘72 or ‘73, which is always fun in conversation, because he’s the only person I know that’s not a blood relation who remembers what I was like all through my school years, there is no hiding at all.
It was another beautiful warm night, but now with a very welcome breeze, and we took a meandering course under the crags, over land and through the trees to bring us eventually up to the trig point on Doughnot Hill. Ben Lomond was a distant flat pyramid seen through rays of soft light drifting through the thin layers of broken cloud.
The descent was through a blaze of bright green and a dozen shades or purple, the rhododendrons were bursting with life, their own and that of their buzzing visitors. I hadn’t noticed that the day before, had it sprung out overnight? Is it the different pace or different eyes from doing different things seeing it all a different way?
Whatever, it oddly felt like I hadn’t been up there for ages, it’s good to be home and nice to be showing an old friend about the place too. I hope he wiped his feet at the door.
It’s going to be Kilpatricks for breakfast, lunch and dinner, the 900m contour exists only on the horizon for the next wee while. The 600m contour as well I suppose.
First up tonight was a long overdue bike trip with familiar faces Ange and Bobinson. We sweated up the usual route from Old Kilpatrick under the evening sun but I took us a detour which led east along trails which have grassed over since winter, and it was harder work than I expected. I felt a little guilty as we pushed through the bracken more than we rode, but after a rest stop at the trig point on The Slacks we were back in the saddle for some magic, fast and fun singletrack which swooped and swung its way back to the usual route. Having missed out the steep bit by adding much more distance and ascent…
The new forest trail is looking a little greener, next year it will be better still. The surface has bedded in and it’s a lot of fun and fast too. In fact, the whole route is bone dry, grippy and a joy to ride.
After slinking through the dark forest in sunglasses we arrived at the top of the run down to Overtoun House to see Ben Lomond, the Arrochar Alps and the Luss hills in shades of blue under a warm aqua sky. Cloud had been poured over Ben Vorlich like whipped cream and from one end to the other it was a vista of pure delight.
We all rode fast down to Overtoun, giggly fast, the dirt feeling secure and the rush of air cooling our bare arms and legs and sweeping the sweat from our eyebrows. We all got caught out at the same point though, the back end stepping out at a greasy spot at the burn. No face plants though, even with Ange’s sore wrist. Always a bonus.
Another change in route took us down to Garshake and then to the cycle path on the old Caledonian Railway bed, and a detour to the Clyde foreshore saw us wandering through rushes six feet high to the water’s edge as the sun sank and orange bled into all the other colours on the land.
The blue of the sky clung on, but as we had cuppas and cake at the BP garage while attempting to avoid a ravaging by midges, it too lit up in gold and pink. The longest day gives nature lots of time to practise its chops.
I’ve been cutting about the Ft Bill to Laggan stretch a few times recently, and it’s shuffled previous thoughts to the surface again. I love industrial stuff, the visit to the pipes on the recent Ben Vorlich trip was, oddly perhaps, a highlight. And the narrow gauge railway that ran from Loch Treig to the Ft Bill smelter has always caught my imagination as so much of the infrastructure still exists.
The film footage I’ve got of it in use showed the possibilities, the stories from locals about how it was sabotaged by deliberate neglect so that it wouldn’t pass into tourist use tells of a depressingly familiar attitude. So, if it can’t be a railway again without spending big bucks, couldn’t it be a proper path and cycleway? I passes through the Aonach Mor tracks anyway, but I suppose that would forever block the rail option though.
There’s a cracking collection of photies here, and an out-of-print book. I really fancy walking the route of the line from end to end, a train from Ft Bill to Fersit and then a walk back. I wonder how many fences you would have to climb and how many security men would chase you as you got further west? No summits to tick which is nice, instead there’s confrontations to collect, bridges to bag, sleepers to stockpile, rails to er, round up?
My to-do list is getting longer all the time.
First off I’d like to stick two fingers up at Race Face. I have a bucket full of their bottom brackets, every one seized solid, and as I admined the bike for Monday night’s ride the newest one was in the relentless grip of inertia on the non-drive side. I was going to replace both the bottom bracket and headset with Hope equivalents and get the frame faced at the same time later on, but financially and temporally that wasn’t working as a surprise option this weekend. Luckily Evans at the Braehead Xcapade had the new Race Face version in stock, now with fancy waterproof grease, so that was the one that went back in. So we’ll see how long that lasts.
Oh aye, the puller cap burst when I tried to extract the cranks. If I wasn’t an engineer with tools and know-how I’d have either ruined an expensive set of cranks (Race Face Deus) or have had to take a half-dismantled bike to shop where they would have hacked at it like a victorian whaler with a fresh catch five minutes before his tea break.
If only Race Face kit wasn’t so damned sexy…
That trip last week had some gear stuff that raised an eyebrow. On my feet were my #2 pair of Montrail Streaks, out of the box and onto the trail. There were fine too, bless them. Also on the feet were some Teko socks. I have nothing much to say on those as yet.
Legs were a mix of Haglöfs Mid Flex Pants and Chocolate Fish Taranaki Boxers, a combination of justice, but the upper floor were clad in something new, a Haglöfs B Tee. It’s a kinda casual thing, slightly relaxed cut, wee print decorations, but it’s in Dryskin fabric, so it looked usable. And, it was too. Very comfy all day, in fact it was my single layer all day and was fine in the glaring sun and I didn’t chill in the evening breeze as it dried either. Orange, yes.
On my back was the Macpac Amp Race 25. Here’s the thing, it is heavy where you look around at the competition these days, but I just don’t care. It’s comfy and usable, the pockets are great, the harness is stable, the bottle bungee on the shoulder strap holds my Zipshot tripod perfectly which is a godsend for shooting a route like this trip where I’m constantly setting up for timer shots.
It’s not perfect, the lid pockets could be bigger and the printed branding is really cheap and nasty, but if the fabric and stitching on this and the 40 version hold up over an extended time, these really are killer packs and well worth the extra grams.
My grande chapeau is a a Peter Storm Aussie Hat from Millets, a great thing too, really kept the sun off my neck and face and out of my eyes.
The Klean Kanteen bottles are definitely now standard issue, I had Nuun in one for the first time, although I’ve had Robinson’s in obe most days for the past couple of weeks, and they really do clean up totally odour-free every time.
Also, it occured to me that I’ve been wearing a Techtrail watch since I started the blog and it’s about time I spoke about it. So I will.
I met the guys from Zyro, Powerbar’s UK distributors at the Etape Caledonia cycling event in Pitlochry a few weeks back, and came back with samples of their new Natural Energy Bars to test.
I haven’t written them up as they’ve been in either my pack or my mouth, and with only one of each flavour left (and today, just one in total) on the trip on Monday, I thought I’d better get a photie.
PowerBar makes you think of sweaty folk, muscley folk, stern folk challenging both themselves and the patience of their friends, and the same goes for all “sports fuel” from whatever brand.
Or, it has often been that way, but times have changed, with more regular folk carry energy foods into the hills or indeed wherever. I was heartily sick of textureless sugary bars and drink mixes long ago. I went to Nuun tablets in my bottle and beef jerky in my pocket until I got a taste for the Honey Stinger gear, which is both fuel and enjoyable.
PowerBar have stepped up with the ordinary-human-friendly Natural Energy Bars, a mix of oats, fruit, pumpkin seeds and honey with other bits and pieces stuck in to give different flavours, Cacoa Crunch, Strawberry& Cranberry and the surprise addition; Sweet’n Salty Seeds & Pretzels“. I know how often I’ve craved something not-sugary on a trip, and usually Babybel or Pepperami hits the spot, but this is a refreshing (is salty refreshing?) change, so good job PowerBar.
The texture makes them feel like proper food, the flavours really are very good and I’ve had no digestion issues with them. The natural aspect is being pushed, good ingredients with no added crap or chemicals.
Whether or not you want or need sports bars is something for you, your dietitian and perhaps your aspirations, but for me it’s just compact, easy stowed on-the-move grub to keep my legs going. I like eating them when I’m out, and they seem to do the job. But it’s not a substitute, it’s just an addition to my Babybel and jerky.
Anyway, these bars were tasty. I’ll be buying some more.
Lot’s of my trips revolve around routes for Trail. Now whatever folk may opine on forums, the routes are all-new and equally importantly, not imposed upon the writer. So when I’m back in Kintail in a few weeks it’s entirely my own fault.
But first: The Easains, or This yin and That Yin.
I had to stop and take a photie of Bidean, it was dark and angry under a bright blue sky. That’s just the way it is, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The road up had been no fun, stuck behind a wind generator (I hate them both in the landscape and on the back of a truck), a 15mph bus and people looking at the scenery while relying on the rocks at the roadside to keep them on the tarmac rather than their hands on the steering wheel. There was a cycling event travelling south, an avalanche of lycra on skinny tyres, and the southbound traffic appeared to be trying to kill each one of them as they passed. Bastards.
Ft Bill was reached and scotch pie and coffee was purchased from the Nevis Bakery, I was also tempted by a Ben Nevis t-shirt from the tourist shop, the pointy alpine-style peak on it appealed to my ironic side.
I got a few bits and pieces and hit the road to Fersit (which is gaelic for “Where is it?” Hmm, might need the right accent to make that one work…).
The road down to Fersit is lovely, it’s like a little model-railway diorama with it’s twists and turns, little houses placed just-so and trees dotted around. The bridge over the river Trieg is always a bit like the lift doors opening and the lift not being there, such is the drop, but An Dubd Lochan soothes the nerves with it’s little bubble of perfectness.
Of course, the car park is also where all the local bins are kept, so it’s back to earth with a clatter.
I haven’t been on the hills on the west side of Loch Trieg for years, the last three visits saw me take different routes to the east. So it was with a mix of nostalgia where I thought back to my day in the rain with my old pal Jimi and the same excitment I always have when heading out, especially when the sky is clear and the day is long. Although, that longness is wasted on me as I was leaving the carpark at 1500hrs. “Petesy, Petesy, your feet are on fire!” “Okay, I’ll get it after this cuppa…” Aye, that’s the way to schedule stuff.
Over the bumpy moraines behind me and I was onto the old railway line next to one of the forlorn bridges. I headed north to curve round the ridge and spit in the eye of The Munro’s book route, I wanted to stravaig Coire Làire.
The railway line is fun, I like spotting the remains of the line hidden in the undergrowth, some like the bridges are obvious, but the old wooden sleepers in some places stick out of the bog like a zombies fingers reaching from the grave to steal my new hat. The industrial infrastructure has all softened over the past 60 years, it looks oddly natural, weathered stone, rusted metal, bleached wood. Nature is creeping over all of it.
When the railway curves away the track tries its best but it too gives up and fades away and as I passed what looks like an ancient cairn, it felt like I was walking into wilderness. The coire is wide, the side are high, birch clings onto the crags above, but ahead are peaks and ridges, sharp and defined, with the rubust shape of Sgurr Innse checking names at the door.
In fact, as I climbed level with it later, it looked exactly like Pieter Brueghel’s Towel of Babel.
My toes got wet as I bimbled through bog and heather, a nice feeling indeed as the sweat soaked into my hat at the other end. The high-stepping through the heather was hot work, I was warm. Every stop brought a cloud of midges around my head as if by magic, so I pushed on. My water bottles were being emptied fast. I paused at a little waterfall and held my hands under it to cool down, I filled my hat and threw it over my head. Didn’t fill my bottles.
I climbed onto the north ridge of Stob Coire Easain via grassy ledges and chunky outcrops, all the time in the shade. I stopped and had a snack, and I poured a cuppa from my flask. Cold rancid coffee. Oh how I missed the easy convenience of the instant quality joy that is mobile cookwear.
I stepped into the sunshine to a view that knocked my (damp) socks off. The horizon and everything on the way to it was there to be seen. Apart from where the big wedge of rock ahead of me blockng a bit of it, so I set off up it, crunching and squeaking my way through the tumbling slopes of gleaming scree.
There was a light breeze now, just enough to make it comfortable, and all I wore today was a t-shirt. Summit in a t-shirt, you’ve got to like that.
Stob Coire Easain is a great viewpoint, Stob á Choire Mheadhoin doesn’t really block anything but it’s own NE ridge, so there is a brilliant feeling of space and distance. I found myself triangulating my position from familiar distant shapes, but with nobody there to hear their names I just smiled and felt for those who have to suffer my helpful supply of facts when we’re out.
It’s a silent peak, and very still. The coire had been alive, big fat dragonflies chuntered past me, butterflies danced a jig over the tops of the heather, tadpoles leapt for cover as my shadow crossed their little pools. Here was barren, here was clean even. Freshly dried by the summer sun after the rains of the day before.
The climb to Stob á Choire Mheadhoin had sheep, so my last-man-alive notion disappeared, and as I left the summit so did my views of the jagged wildness to the south. The dark swooping shapes of the Grey Corries stayed with me as did the dappled slopes of Stob Coire Sgriodain. The ridge levelled out and the light took a golden tinge, birdsong drifted from near and far, I stopped for a drink. 100mm of Nuun in one bottle, 100mm of water in the other. Damn these summer ridges are dry.
I slipped my bottles back into their pockets, and as I set off a little voice spoke to me from just a few feet away. I whistled back and a little head popped up from behind a rock. I suddenly felt guilty, it was like I was ordering food in a foreign cafe and mangling the language while looking at the listener like they were an idiot for not understanding.
I sheepishly slipped away, the whistling followed me. I looked round, it was a golden plover, standing up straight, right there, quite happily singing to me. I grinned from ear to ear and whistled back again. It looked at me like I was daft and replied nonetheless. We played our little game all the way along the ridge and I ended up laughing out loud while trying to whistle. I reached the cairn at Meall Cian Dearg and it left me, its colours disappearing perfectly against the ridge as it swooped gently home.
This buttress is better climbed that descended, it’s pretty steep, the dirt is dark, peaty, slippy stuff and I used my arse as leverage on a couple of occasions. Great fun though, and when I was down, the straighforward onward trek to the end of the ridge just didn’t appeal, so I hung a right, straight down the hillside towards the loch.
The first thing I did was send something wee with brown feathers and a white bum into the air, and not long after I did it again but it was a dotterel, it tumbled across the grass feigning a broken wing to lure me away from it’s nest. I beat a hasty retreat. I’m always thoughtful when walking off-track: what am I standing on? Not the herd of deer I nearly fell on asI crested a crag anyway, they swept away to the north, their many hooves flitting across the long grass with a sound like rain falling on a tent’s flysheet.
It was a descent to delight the heart and soul, crag, heather and birch, layered and intertwined until I hopped across the burn to reach the hydro road.
Loch Trieg looks half empty, but my bottles were completely empty. I arrived back at the carpark not having repeated a single step of the route which always makes me happy. And, for once I’ll give away the title, the route looks very much the same shape as the San Marino race track.
Welcome to Scotland, ye’ll have had yer tea. Indeed, but no one told Oceans take-away in Ft Bill that the policy was to close as soon as possible, preferably while people were walking your way. It was not only open, but clean, friendly and making the food fresh for me was no hassle, even at 2200hrs on a Monday. I’ll be back, often.
It never got completely dark on the way home, and after an artic waved me by outside of Glen Coe I never saw another car (on my side of the road, the boys pushing the petrol-less Astra at Crianlarch were going the other way and were hopeful of a mate rescuing them soon) until I got to the roundabout near Duck Bay at Balloch. In fact, so used was I to sailing down the empty road, music and full-beam on, when I should have been giving way to the car there, I was thinking “Why is he on my road?” as I shot onto the roundabout right behind him like a pinball onto the table.
The next car was actually a camper van. He was doing over 70, on an empty road in the early hours. See, these bastards can drive normally, they just drive about at 25mph during the day to maintain the myth.
It was well that I was home, my mind was wandering.
0200 back at base, a good day indeed.
She floated above the summit, pointing down, urging me to look before she faded into the evening glow. I squinted towards the bright golden skyline where something moved, a wee furry thing, scurrying around, but I lost it. A few paces further on it shot from the rocks into clear view. Yes! It was real live haggis, a young one, but the long nose and asymmetrical legs were a dead giveaway. Cheered by the rare sighting, I hurried on.
