The Yorkshire Ramblers in the early 195os had one or two very interesting Whitsuntide meets at Loch Coruisk on the Isle of Skye. The
participants met at Mallaig, to be taken by boat to Loch Scavaig, and fetched back
a week later. I joined George Spenceley for two of these trips. Our ambition
was to make the celebrated traverse of the Cuillin Ridge, and in the early part
of the week we made our plans and deposited bottles of water at two places on
the route in preparation for the big day. On the eve of our attempt we turned
in early in my small army pup tent intending to set off at one in the morning.
On such occasions I need no alarm clock; I keep waking up every half hour or
so.
When we looked out at one o’clock it was obvious the weather was changing.
The wind was rising,the sky starless and overcast, and there was already a
hint of rain in the air. We cancelled the trip and when in the next hour our
predictions were confirmed and the tent began to be shaken by wind and rain we sank
deeper into our sleeping bags and soon fast asleep. It was a rough night, and
we were aware once or twice of movement about the camp, but we were snug enough
and slept on.
We turned out next morning, however, to a rather hostile
reception. Our companions, assuming we were battling it out on the hill, had conscientiously
checked our tent during the night, replacing pegs where necessary, making sure
it did not blow down. We had better luck the following year, and once again,
the plan was to leave Coruisk at one in the morning. This time we were a party
of three, as we had been joined by Crosby Fox, a sea captain by profession and
a keen mountaineer.
Our first objective was the summit of Gars-Bheinn, and we
reached it at 3am after a scramble straight up its flank. In the dark on the
way up, something hissed loudly at us and we persuaded ourselves that it was a wild
cat. By the time we got to the top, daylight had already arrived, and all
around us, so it seemed, lay the sea, dotted with islands and headlands,an
inspiring sight. There is nothing quite like being up the mountain at the
dawning of the day. One feels not only favoured but virtuous, as though the
pleasure one experiences is deserved, and not simply a gift from heaven. We had
some breakfast and moved on quietly enough, conserving our energy, for we had
much to do. We had brought a rope and a sling or two and plenty of food and
drink. I had even brought a sleeping bag, not against the possibility of bivouacking
on the ridge, but in preparation for our night out at the end.
We made good
progress over Scurr a’ Choire, Sgurr nan Eag, Caisteal a’ Gharbh-Choire, Sgurr Dubh
Beag, and Dubhs, to the Thearlaich-Dubh
gap, where we met our first bit of difficult rock, and roped up for it. We were
pleased, we were doing well, and we were soon on the summit of Sgurr Alasdair,
the highest summit in Skye. It lays off the main ridge, but we were soon back
from it and over Sgurr Mhic Choinich and An Stac to our next obstacle, the Inaccessible
Pinnacle, or ‘In Pin’ as we always called it. The long exposed scramble along the top edge of this remarkable blade of
rock brought us to an abrupt drop. A number of old furry slings marked the
abseil point. Not one of them looked worth risking one’s life on, but taken
together were reasonably safe. To avoid having to add to the collection, we arranged
one our own slings in such a way that when we passed through them all, ours was
too long to bear any weight, but was there ready in case the others gave way.
The heavier members of our party then went down, and since the old slings bore
their weight, I, the lightest, was able to take our own sling off and trust to
the old ones.
It was about this time that we began coming across men
stationed here and there along the ridge, not appearing to be going anywhere.
We passed the day and went over Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh. Somewhere along the ridge,
perhaps in the bealach by Harta Corrie, we stopped to chat with two such
loiterers, and found that they were members of the Alpine Club on a meet at
Sligachan Hotel, and that in recognition of his conquest of Everest, they were
giving John Hunt a celebratory treat by enabling him and his wife to do an
unencumbered traverse of the Cuillin Ridge. The pair were wearing espadrilles,
and carrying no ropes, food, drink or spare clothing, as these were to be
provided en route. This piece of gossip had an interesting effect upon our
little group. By our steady and purposeful progress along the ridge we had made
satisfactory time, had had no serious hold-ups, and were clearly going to make
it to Sgurr nan Gillean quite comfortably.
We could now afford to slow up a
little, take some of the pressure off, take full note of the incomparable rock
scenery. But Crosby Fox became obsessively anxious not to be overtaken by the
Hunts, and the fact that occasionally they could be discerned in the distance
behind us gave a particular urgency to his fears. We were urged to step up the
pace, and when we got to The Basteir Tooth and roped up for the rather intimidating
pitch up from the little col, the presence of another Alpine Club man waiting
there with a rope at the ready was like a goad to drive us on. I for my part,
notwithstanding the 11 eggs, was getting tired having been on the go since 1.00
am in the morning, and I had little sympathy for the idea of this finishing
spurt. But we made it and avoided the ignominy of being overtaken. On the way
down across the moor to Sligachan in the heat of the afternoon we stopped at an
inviting looking dub, stripped off and plunged into the peaty water.
We ordered dinner at the hotel. The idea was to sleep in the
heather and set off at five in the morning so as to be up Glen Sligachan before
the sun began to beat upon it, for the heat wave weather seemed certain to
continue. My friends had been offered sleeping bags by two of the Alpine Club
men we had spoken to on the ridge, and they thought it only civilised to take a
shower before using them. For my part I went straight out into the heather,
full of good food, got into my bag, and was blissfully asleep in minutes.
George and Crosby fared less well. Livened up somewhat by the shower, they were
pestered by midges and kept awake for hours. Consequently when I awoke at five,
eager to get going, they were very difficult to rouse and very grumpy. It was
for their own good, I pointed out, and in the end they had to admit it, for we
got to Loch Athain in the cool of the morning and were up on Clach Glas by the
time the full heat of the day struck us.
We were all fairly drowsy on this walk, but the interest of
the rock scrambling kept us from nodding off, and we still felt. quite strong.
As we went down the ridge of Blaven towards Camasunary an eagle lifted off a ledge
just a few feet immediately below us, and sailed off leaving us in no doubt of
its size and power. We continued on down, with the fine panorama of the sea
before us and the jagged seven mile ridge of the Cuillin to our right. We still
had the walk round to Loch Scavaig to do, but the hard work was over, and we
felt well pleased with our two days of mountain travel.
When, a day or two later, the boat came and took us all back
to Mallaig, I walked down the quay to see if I could get a herring or two for our
supper. Some fishermen were unloading their catch into barrels. They were quite
willing to let me take a few, but laughed when I tried to get hold of the
slippery fish. “Put your hand like this,” one of them said, holding his own
hand, palm up, with the fingers out and
bent up like claws, I did so and he hung a herring by its gills on each finger.
George and I, travelling in my open top Austin Tourer pulled off the road at the white sands of
Morar, and in the golden afternoon sunshine. We fried the herrings in butter
over a driftwood fire, the air full of screaming gulls clamouring for the guts and leftovers.
What I remember about that delicious meal is how rich I felt....... and how favoured.
Tom Price : CCJ 1999
