GLENCOE in September? You must be kidding. The water, the midges.... You’ve a car? O.K., pick me up in Glasgow.
Never have I regretted such a short ’phone call for so long. At least the tents are waterproof, but the two-hundred-yard dash to the pub seems a long way, and they are not open yet.
Rolling over I bump into a brew:
"Funny, wasn’t there last night," then through the lingering shreds of sleep it dawn on me; someone must be up, but who on a day like this?
Glebe’s head pokes through the door:
"Chug-a-lug, breakfast in ten minutes."
I don’t like this, he’s up and cooking. Pete must want to go somewhere. Must be Fort Bill, no-one would go up the hill on a day like this. I sip my brew contentedly, putting the vague possibility of venturing out into the rain into the sleep that was still in my head.
The promised breakfast arrived, the remnants of the haggis are quite tasty and were distinguishable from the porridge that preceded it. Strange, Glebe seems to be packing his sack. He doesn’t need a compass to go to the cinema. I curl up in my pit and ignore the vision and its implications.
What! Martin as well? He can’t want to go up the hill. I’ll get some support from Pete. He’s sane and appreciates the good things in life.
Jeeze. It’s a flaming plot, he wants to go too. O.K., I might as well get in the car and persuade them to go for a fester.
"Please can we go to the cafe? It is too dangerous on the hill, Hamish would not approve... Oh, my leg. My ligament has gone again." Rats, they don’t believe me... "I’ve forgotten my boots" ... But I haven’t. As we drive up the glen my mind races in an attempt to come up with a convincing story to keep me out of the deep, wet, man-eating bogs. But my excuses get weaker and weaker. We arrive at Lagangarbh. The rain stops and the sun joins in the conspiracy. Game, Set and Match.
We all set up the Buchaille… but I refuse to enjoy myself. They say it is only a short walk, but why the ropes? I give up thinking and sink into a regular mindless stride. Over the bridge with the footprints and on across the bog by the path – path?; someone’s attempt at dry humour. Soon the water seeps through the boots and I can feel the mud and water squelching about when I move my toes. The drizzle returns, then changes to a damp mist as we enter the dull grey world of clouds. Up past the waterfall and along Curved Ridge, avoiding the puddles on the big holds.
Oh no. They’ve stopped. I hope it’s just a coincidence that we are under Rannoch Wall. The ropes are coming out, so I walk on up pretending I have not seen them. Rats, they see me and I’ll have to go across.
"What, Agag’s? You are mad." Pete hands me a rope end and it is only after I have tied on that I see he is already belayed at the font of the groove. Now that’s just not nice, I think I will keep that blade of his that he doesn’t know I’ve got.
"Please, I don’t want to go, I’m too young... Whimper... Snivel." Pete ignores me as I lick his boots trying to barter my soul and all my gear for his comfortable belay. In the end I am forced to leave him staring impassively into the mist.
Somewhat resigned to my fate, I set off. A brief struggle with an obnoxious corner that seemed to dislike me as much as I it, and I find a large ledge with a good Moac crack. I tie myself securely to the rock to stop Pete from making me lead. He comes silently up and, much to my relief, leads through, up a long ramp of wet rock. When I eventually reach him he points leftwards to a steep wall that had "crux" written all over it.
"Piece of duff," Pete says with obvious glee. That I treat with the contempt it deserves, and accidentally brushing my wet cagoule into his face, I wandered off aimlessly trying to ignore the wall. But, inevitably, I arrived at its foot. The gleam in Pete’s eye is visible through the mist and rain, forty runnerless feet away. I smooth a tape over a rounded bulge and move delicately up, finding a lovely crack that is a haven for any self-respecting nut. Feeling better, I carry on. That, next to getting up in the morning, is my biggest mistake. The wall leans out, I lean out, but by using a dubious hand jam I find my right hand fondling a beautiful jug that just demands to be pulled on. Two seconds later I had heaved, pulled, pushed and mantleshelfed cum rolled into a big puddle (or small lochen) on .html palatial ledge.
"Jeeze, that’s fun," I think, then change my mind as I remember I’m not to enjoy myself. When Pete arrives I again pass judgment on the weather and the wisdom of climbing in it, but the grin on his face shows he can see through my façade. He points out that I managed to smile when I got the nut in, and laughed when I found the jug.
Another easy pitch leads to the top, where we meet Glebe and Martin, who had done Original Route.
"Have fun?" Glebe asks.
"Well," I reply, "it’s a good route."
He seems to think that this implies I enjoyed it.
"But the conditions are bloody awful, slimy rock, nasty wind... cold... " I am still mumbling as they wander off up the Crowberry Ridge, laughing.
The walk to the top is uneventful. Silently we all relive the climb in our minds, and after losing Great Gully in typical CUMC fashion, we eventually find our way down to the Claichaig in time for a pre-prandial pint.
Sitting in the warmth of the public bar, the day’s activities retreat to a respectable distance, where one can survey them with calm and tranquility.
"We rescued a good day from the rain; better than festering in Fort Bill," someone mumbles.
"A fine mountaineering day," agreed some Murray-ite.
"Aye," I conceded, "I’m glad I persuaded youse poms to come."
The brown liquid trickled down my neck as the rest of the bar dissolved into laughter.