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Posts tagged ‘camping’

Love at first sight

I’ve found The One.

It’s taken years of searching and longing, numerous near misses and countless emotional highs and lows but yesterday I finally took a deep breath and committed.

The One is strong, lean, adventurous and has a name that promises off piste excitement and adventure.  How could anyone resist a  “Jazz Champagne” model in the colour of pale biscuity bubbles? Clearly not me.

It has impractical creamy leather seats, an awning for the Scottish rain, fly screens for midges, charcoal grey carpets to disguise muddy footprints and a multipurpose desk/dining table/bed which will surely become faster to manipulate as time goes by.

The fog lights, cruise control and reversing sensors are bound to be useful too. There’s a proper kitchen and a tiny washroom with minimal storage for moisturisers and shampoo. Engine? Er… Peugeot. Four wheels and probably a spare somewhere.

As with any partner the practical considerations and reliability will ultimately prove more important than initial impressions and outward appearances. But you have to fall in love first.

I’m picking in up in 10 days time.

A serious case of Camper Craving

Maybe it’s the longer light that’s fuelling the urge.

It’s been particularly strong in the last couple of days. I’ve spent hours online researching the options and poring over specialist magazines, then at night I dream of the wild sites I’ll park in, the prospect of a home and the freedom to roam.

I’ve narrowed the styles down. Again.  And tomorrow I’m going to do something about it. Yes, again. My long-suffering friend is coming with me. OK, yet again. But he’s refusing to return to the showrooms we’ve already spent days trawling through, trying the patience of salesmen, asking questions, wearing out the locks on drawers and cupboards and making permanent dents in the upholstery. Well, you need to be sure, don’t you?

Tomorrow it’s somewhere new, with styles I haven’t seen before. I’m so excited I may not sleep tonight.

Campervan, motorhome, RV; no vehicle escapes my attention. Out on the roads I’ve crawled behind the models I’m interested in for mile after mile, holding up the traffic (and often going in a direction I hadn’t intended) while I wonder how it would feel to be driving that machine, what my options would be for an overnight stop and if it’s really as good as camping. I need a home for a while but it has to be small and not too clumsy because it’ll also take the place of my dear little car and permanently packed tent.

As I walked back from the beach in the dark yesterday afternoon I saw a vehicle swing round the harbour and park up at an angle to get the best view of hills and sea and moon. It’s bigger than  the van conversion style I want but it was enough to convince me that it’s still an option in January. In Scotland.

vanThe problem is that (until now, at least) common sense kicks in before I sign the cheque and reminds me that I’d be parting with a substantial chunk of my limited resources. I don’t want an old one that’s going to cause me problems so I’m looking at new or almost new. Today’s favoured model is Globecar but I can’t predict what it’ll be after tomorrow.

I wonder if Camper Envy is a medical condition?

Hooked on the hills

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They’ve become an obsession.

Their remoteness has always been a draw: the feminine outlines or brutal  ridges, the ruins of summer sheilings on lower slopes, the  heather in autumn and the beauty of winter snow can’t fail to inspire, but this summer they’ve somehow filled all the space in my head and called me in the way the Camino de Santiago did last year.

I go to bed with a bundle of maps then pore over routes on the internet. My dreams are full of the tops I’ve climbed or the views of other hills I’ve seen from summits during the day. I check mountain forecasts and have my car permanently packed with camping gear in readiness for a rapid escape.

P1040534Heaving my body up more than 3000ft in the space of a few hours isn’t a pretty sight: there’s the red face, the sweat, endless glugging of water from hill streams, stops to catch my breath and  internal debate about why the Hell I’m doing it. For pleasure? Really?

But then when the view opens up below and there are just a few feet to go to the cairn on the top the pain is forgotten.

Yesterday, after resisting temptation for months, I bought the Scottish hillwalkers Bible: The Munros. It was my consolation for being back in the city after two days when I camped near Tyndrum and climbed Beinn Dubhchraig and Beinn Oss, two lumps of hill which were shrouded in mist in the morning but cleared to spectacular sunshine just as we reached the second summit. A few days earlier I’d climbed Ben Lomond and the weekend before it was Ben Lawers and Beinn Ghlas.

Before they were all just names: iconic views from below or pictures on calendars and in coffee table books. Now I can stare up and remember: I’ve been there and it was so much more beautiful from above.

It might be a temporary phase, a passing passion. But “The Book” is open beside me and my socks are almost dry on the line.

If the sky is clear tomorrow…

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Heading into the hills

It can take a lot of plotting, planning and scheming to find a way into one of the most spectacular pieces of wilderness in Scotland.

Unless you have the time and energy to carry a pack for days,  you first have to negotiate your way through a padlocked gate which bars entry to most vehicular traffic. Local knowledge and being able to utter  the “magic words” overcame that controversial barrier.

But the first 16 miles of bumpy road  up the Glen Strathfarrar track were just the beginning. More scheming had resulted in a rendezvous and the opportunity to hitch a lift on a boat all the way up remote Loch Monar.

View from my tent

View from my tent on the shore of Loch Calavie

That gave us a fascinating insight into the way of life for folk who live up here all year round and a summit by summit commentary.

By the time we reached the stalkers’s house at Pait and finally heaved on our rucksacks to walk five miles further to Loch Calavie we had taken a few shortcuts and learned a lot. Choosing a campsite beside the loch was a great piece of advice.

We pitched our tents near the shore and set off on the slog up Lurg Mhor, the 986m hill which rises straight up from the loch. It’s known  as Scotland’s most remote Munro and it’s a steep pull up to the summit cairn.

From here we were close to the neighbouring and (to me at least) terrifying Meall Mhor summit. I preferred to turn my back on it and look west instead, over the sea to Rum, Skye and the wonder of the jaggy Cuillin Ridge.

Evening view to Skye and the west from the top of Lurg Mhor

Evening view to Skye and the west from the top of Lurg Mhor

We considered tackling Bidean a’Choire Sheasgaich. It was close but would require another couple of hours of effort at the end of an already long day.

Instead we enjoyed the long walk back across a  mossy hillside carpeted with wild flowers to stop for the day and cook down beside the water. I fell asleep to the sound of birds and the scent of a Highland hillside in June. No midges. No phone signal or internet access. Just peace and the stars.

Maps, mountains and fighting fears

I bought OS Landranger Map 25 today: Glen Carron and Glen Affric.

Which means I’ve spent hours drooling over  mountains, stalker tracks and hill lochs, plotting routes, camping places and the key approaches to some of Scotland’s most remote Munros.

In gaelic they sound romantic: Carn nan Gobhar, Sgurr na Lapaidh, An Riabhachan  and An Socach. They dominate the high wilderness between Loch Mullardoch and Loch Monar in the heart of the Scottish Highlands, miles from human settlement.  If there’s time in our five day hike there’s also Lurg Mhor and Bidean a’ Coire Sheasgaich which stretch above remote Loch Calavie.

But the excitement of poring over the map and finally tackling these hills after talking about climbing them for more than 20 years is tempered with a little fear. Exposed ridge walks link some of them and are part of the deal, so I need to overcome the instinct to stay away from huge drops.

I won’t know how I’ll cope until I get there but (with a lot of teeth gritting) I did succeed in walking New Zealand’s Kepler Track ridge last December – largely because once I’d started the thought of returning over the same ground was too awful to contemplate.

Richard Bach, the author of Jonathan Livingston Seagull said: “Argue for your limitations and sure enough they’re yours”.

Well, in this year of getting on and doing the things I’ve always said I wanted to do, there’s no place to hide. No excuses.

We leave on Sunday.

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Sutherland Trail: Camping at Lone Bothy

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When you welcome the sight of an open-sided agricultural shed  spattered with wet hen dung as though it’s a four-star hotel you know you’re in trouble.

It had been a long day and Lone Bothy was locked (and uninhabitable anyway), the rain was bucketing down, a gale was howling and we were chilled and hungry. Options were somewhat limited. So we brewed up some soup in the shed and debated what to do. My main objection to sleeping there was the strutting cockered who P1030837was  proclaiming his presence and would do so again, repeatedly, from around 4am. I also figured the tent could only be warmer.

The stalker turned up in his truck and we chatted about deer numbers on the high hills while we cooked our dinner in his shed. He described the growing pressure from Scottish Natural Heritage (SNH) to cull ever higher numbers of hinds to protect vegetation – something he was reluctant to do.

He seemed pretty relaxed about us using his Argocat as a clothes drying horse and makeshift P1030840sitting room then he looked out at his hills, cheerfully forecast more snow, wished us luck and headed off to a cosy house somewhere down the glen. We looked at one another and laughed but the tent ended up doing a great job and we were warm and dry in the morning.

We didn’t take time to search for fresh eggs for breakfast (although he said we were welcome to them if we could find them) but the cockerel and his small harem tucked in to our leftovers.

We looked around and considered. The weather was closing in and we would have no more shelter for another two days so reluctantly we decided to pull out and complete the route another time.

There would be one bus passing through Achfary at 9.30am which would take us to Lairg and from there we could catch a train to Inverness.

I left the glen reluctantly, looking wistfully up to Ben Stack, Arkle and Foinaven. And vowed I’d be back.

Sutherland Trail: Suileag Bothy

Back in the bothy we were shivering. The air was damp and our bags had been too heavy to carry  fuel for the fireplace. Yet our timing had been only slightly out as I’d met people on the hill who’d had a great roaring coal fire and company the previous evening. But we were alone with only matches and a few kindlers to burn. It was barely enough.

We boiled water, made soup and pasta then at 8pm, wearing every piece of warm clothing in our rucksacks, we crawled into sleeping bags to drink hot chocolate. It was bedtime in the bothy.

P1030680Just before midnight I woke up. A full howling storm was battering our tiny stone house, torrents of rain pelting down on the noisy metal roof and rattling windows which looked out to the dark hulk of mountain. I lay and listened, absorbing the full might of the weather and idly pondering (as you do through the night) how the modern roof was attached to the ancient walls and just how secure it might be. Occasionally there would be a respite and then the wind whirled around us, sucking up enough energy to batter and blast with wave after relentless wave of fury. Rain soaked in under the shaking doorway and somewhere at the far end of the bothy another door banged all through the night.

How fortunate that we had retraced our steps and not camped as originally planned. It would mean an extra few kilometres walking in the morning but for now we were safe and dry. And finally warm.