THE HIGHLANDS AND HEBRIDES - A SCOTTISH WILDERNESS

Words and Photography by Ben Collins

It’s 6am. As I sit in the passenger seat of the car, warm air blowing onto my face from the various fans in front of me on the dashboard, I fix my attention to my boots. After tying them as securely as possible, I wrap my gators over my trousers and fasten them in place. I’m about to climb Creag Meagaidh, a complex Scottish Munro of towering buttresses split by great, ice-carved gullies and harsh rocky faces, situated inside the Creag Meagaidh National Nature Reserve which lies right on the spine of the country at the watershed between east and west. It is with an ever increasing sense of forthcoming hardship that I nervously chance a glance in the direction of what I think is the summit, submerged beneath a dark, thick and unmoving shadow of mist and rain. Something in me stirs, as I think of the various nearby villages and their inhabitants, all no doubt still tucked up in their beds, wrapped in thick warm blankets, cocooned and sheltered from the weather with no plans for rising for several more hours before leisurely settling down with a steaming mug of tea and perhaps a good book.

As I open the door, I’m immediately exposed to a myriad of fresh Autumn elements; the bitter cold shock of the pre-dawn air stinging my face and nostrils. My every breath visible. The sound of my chattering teeth is only magnified by the lack of wind and my apparent solitude in the deserted car park, the only other sounds are the occasional soft hooting of an owl somewhere above me and the distant, gentle flow of a nearby burn.

If I were undertaking this little adventure in the summer months, the first yawns of the day would just be stretching over the various mountaintops that form the beautiful Glen Spean. Although not visible, the owl that dolefully accompanies my morning venture today would be replaced with a cheerful twittering of a Goldfinch, that would soon flee into the early morning as enthusiastic hill walkers eagerly make their final preparations before an exciting day in the wild and I too would certainly have a slightly more enthusiastic spring in my step. Yet, as these pleasant images get replaced with the bitter reality of what is facing me, I swing my carefully packed rucksack containing everything from emergency shelter, sandwiches, camera and a small round Celtic patterned hip flask containing the dram of whisky which will mark my true arrival at the summit, over my shoulders. I pull on my jacket and fasten my sac to my shivering body and begin my walk through the penetrating drizzle that in true Highland fashion threatens before too long to have me soaked through to the skin. But, ever the optimist I take comfort from the line in the forecast that mentioned a chance of some breaks in the cloud.

At any time of the year the highlands can be unpredictable, exposed as they are to the capricious nature of the North Atlantic weather systems. Weather and time have forged this dramatic landscape, filling it with hundreds of Glens, thousands of mountains, vast lochs, strategically placed ancient castles and historic battlefields, islands both inhabited and uninhabited, geological wonders such as Fingal’s Cave, Old Man of Storr and the Fairy Pools which all hold perfectly sound and scientific explanations for their existence yet somehow transport whomever walks among them into a timeless, almost mystical age of discovery and hidden beauty. It is a landscape that has inspired the imagination of generations into creating fairytale stories about how and why such formations and wonders came to be, passed down in folklore until they have become synonymous with the earth, ingrained into the culture and joyfully retold to the next generation.

My breathing is becoming laboured as I approach the Cairn of my first summit, Cairn Laith, yet I am beginning to allow myself to entertain the possibility of that break in the forecasted weather. Still wading through a thick layer of mist, drizzle and heather but with visibility improving with nearly every demanding step, the sheer majesty and scale of my final objective is now being unveiled to me for the first time. Relieved that I have made the height for the day I take my rucksack off and give my back a welcome rest against the side of the Cairn, watching the wind carry the mist across the landscape, allowing for brief snatches of incredible vista to reach me, the fruit of my labour is becoming visible, tangible and gratifying.

“IT CAN BE DIFFICULT TO ENJOY THE HIGHLANDS WHEN THE WEATHER TURNS AGAINST YOU. IT TAKES A DIFFERENT KIND OF STRENGTH TO REACH THE SUMMIT - IT’S A MENTAL BATTLE AS MUCH AS A PHYSICAL ONE, YET SOMEHOW THESE MOUNTAINS ARGUABLY COME INTO THEIR OWN ONCE THE WEATHER CLOSES IN.”

“(THIS) LANDSCAPE HAS INSPIRED THE IMAGINATION OF GENERATIONS INTO CREATING FAIRY TALE STORIES ABOUT HOW AND WHY SUCH WONDERS CAME TO BE, PASSED DOWN IN FOLKLORE UNTIL HAVE BECOME SYNONYMOUS WITH THE EARTH, INGRAINED INTO THE CULTURE AND JOYFULLY RETOLD TO THE NEXT GENERATION.”

These mountains have always held a very special place for me. The manner in which they dominate the land and sit, quietly brooding, defying adventurers to scale them. Winding glens twist and carve their way through the earth forming deep scars and dark lochs. Pitiful man has attempted to harness and tame this land and failed, from the ancient Pictish Kingdoms dating back to before recorded history, to violent and bloody Norse raids in the 8th century, from endless rebellious uprisings and enforced highland clearances, this wild landscape remains. Even now, these wild lands are the ultimate therapist, constantly providing harsh lessons in perspective, usually in situations which demand clear and authoritative decision-making to ensure one’s own safety and the safety of others.

As I push on to the true summit and look out over the landscape that the wind is making valiant attempts to reveal to me, I would still only be witnessing an infinitesimal proportion of the highlands and what it has to offer. Yet, as my thickly gloved hand finally lands on the small Cairn marking the summit, my mind does not dwell on the landscape that lies beneath me but forward.

Only those who climb mountains will understand the sense of euphoria and can appreciate the accomplishment at reaching an unromantic pile of stones, soaking wet, bitterly cold and hungry after hours of climbing. For the briefest moment, standing there at over a thousand metres high, you’re a king, silhouetted against the clouds, solitary, yet untouchable and mighty. As the great philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said; “Those who dance, are considered mad by those who cannot even hear the music”. It is with this sense of quite, internal satisfaction that I unscrew my hipflask and take a healthy swig of smooth warming whisky appreciating this, most beautiful part of the world. With my mind now turning to that cup of tea and book that awaits my arrival at home, I start my walk back down, along the ridge and down into the valley sharing smiles and optimistic predictions about the improving weather with other passing climbers making their way steadily upwards. It can be difficult to enjoy the Highlands when the weather turns against you, it takes a different kind of strength to reach the summit, it’s a mental battle that has to be won, just as much as physical one. Yet somehow these mountains arguably come into their own once the weather closes in. They are dramatic, rugged and sometimes uncompromising. The weather has carved and shaped these hills so it seems almost due diligence for one to climb amongst them in such conditions from time to time.