Scafell Girdle, 28 January 2026

21.7km, 2800m ascent, 9 hours 47 mins

The concept of 'contouring' - following a contour line around a hill is simple. Choose a contour line and follow it.  The practice is somewhat more demanding.  Firstly, it's not flat. Contouring may require edging along a steep hillside, one leg higher than the other. Nor is it always possible to stay at the same altitude - there may be a cliff or a ravine in the way. Secondly, it may cross very broken and difficult ground where no-one ventures for very good reason.  And thirdly, it's just daft. Who would want to actively avoid going up a hill and miss out on the attendant satisfaction?

 

It turns out that I would.  When you've explored most of the nooks and crannies of the Lake District, contouring offers a whole new sphere of adventuring.  And in the snow, you get the additional satisfaction of seeing your footsteps circumnavigating the hill.  It opens up a whole new chapter of exploration. What delights might I find at 500m, 550m or 600m? I settled on 750m as offering my route of choice and put it to the test.

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Account

Map 

GPX File 

Joss Naylor Lakeland Challenge, 29 December 2025

 66.45 km, 5170m ascent, 14 hours 56 mins

The Joss Naylor Lakeland Challenge route leaves Pooley Bridge to traverse 30 summits over an official distance of 48 miles and climbs 16,000 feet (77km, 4877m), although OS Maps reckons it to be 66km and 5170m of ascent. The inaugural run from Pooley Bridge to Wasdale was made by fell running legend, Joss Naylor ,in 1990, at the age of 54.  In very bad weather with heavy rain and a strong SW wind, Joss completed the run to his home at Greendale Bridge in 11 hours and 30 minutes.   The challenge is offered to fell runners over the age of 50 to complete the run in set times according to their age group, with 50 year olds getting 12 hours (demanding), 55 year olds, 15 hours; 60 year olds, 18 hours; and those above, 24 hours to complete the challenge.  Joss also stipulated that challengers should raise at least £100 for charity and be supported throughout for safety reasons.

 

 

With 343 registered completers, I could see no evidence of anyone having registered a winter completion, and having reached the age of 60 I reckoned my time had come. Read the article 

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Schedule 

Full article 

JNLC Web Site 

Full Etive Round, 2 - 4 June, 2023

100km, 11175m ascent, 58 hours

In 2005 I completed a circuit of Glen Etive from the Trilleachan slabs to Ben Starav.   12 years later, Digby Harris devised a shortened route based on the Munros from Beinn Fhionnlaidh onwards. Both constitute circuits of Glen Etive beyond the loch, and my eye couldn’t help but be drawn to a much fuller circuit of Glen Etive, taking in the loch itself.  The loch meets the sea near Oban but the last 10 miles of it are lowland country which held little attraction on the Southern side. I therefore determined that a ‘round’ from the narrowing at Bonawe would make the most logical route, given that the narrows are little more than 300m.  The ferry ceased long ago, so a kayak across the loch seemed the obvious solution – that is, it would be if it were not for the strong tidal currents requiring that I hit it at the right time. The logistical constraints therefore persuaded me to finish on the opposite side of the loch and call it a day there, making my way back to the start (20 miles) by a combination of train, hitching or walking.

 Like all such routes, it looks logical on a map, tracing a line around Loch Etive and the upper glen.  In reality, the loch and glen are often hidden, and the symmetry of the route is not perceived. Its scale is such that the continuity of the route is not perceptible on the ground. Nevertheless, it makes a grand circuit reaching all the way from Taynuilt to Glen Coe and back again.  There is much rough and trackless terrain, particularly on the lower slopes away from the Munros and the steepness is such that it has a cumulative effect beyond the bare statistics.  If I were to choose one word for this round it would be BRUTAL. It is undoubtedly the most brutal round I have undertaken due to the almost unrelenting steepness and mind-numbing quality of some of the terrain.  It also adds wild, unfrequented hills to the shorter rounds, as well as the fine ridges of Ben Cruachan. For the very fit, it would just about be achievable in 24 hours so would make a testing challenge of some character.  For me in the late twilight of such endeavours, it was enough to complete it without any concern for time, grinding my way round to end where I had started. It prompted me to reflect on why I felt compelled to do this – what calls me to do something so uncomfortable and unheralded? I’ve summarised these reflections and described my round here. 

OS Map

Article

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Round of Loch Etive, 27 February - 2 March 2023

94.8 km, 8240m ascent, 3 days

Almost 25 years ago I completed my first long round – the Bob Graham.   Since then, I’ve completed many such rounds but in latter years, age seems to have caught up with me and I've found these long rounds progressively harder.  I therefore determined that a complete circuit of Loch and Glen Etive would make a suitable last long round. The route traces a line linking major peaks around the glen, starting and finishing near Bonawe and traversing much rough and tortuously steep ground. This time I thought I'd do it as a backpack with a bivvy bag and a good sleeping bag given my lack of confidence in the endeavour. 

Mistake! Taking 4 days food and 2kg of camera gear, the rucksack weighed 14kg at the start and made a serious impediment to progress. This was compounded by starting immediately after a weekend away and the subsequent train journey. The rationale was based on the real possibility of a stupendous Northern Lights show above the clouds - something too enticing to ignore. The reality proves to be somewhat different.

 

The intended route

 

The route followed

Following a sunny afternoon, summit level mist develops just as I near the first top of Ben Cruachan at sundown, and the night is spent stumbling along in thick mist in the dark. This slowsd me considerably, requiring fierce concentration to keep on track and to avoid slipping on the icy patches.  My torch issues a weak beam, which is puzzling given that I’d just fully charged the batteries.

I am weary after the journey and a weekend away, and the night drags on.  As always, the lack of perspective and the need to focus in the darkness, elongates each rise and fall as the hours ground by.  A last thigh-busting descent of the aptly named Meall Garbh (Rough hill) leads to remote Glen Kinglass. It is now approaching 4am and I am both surprised and delighted to find a bothy like structure open.  It is clearly intended for shooting parties, being equipped with Rayburn, sink and electric light.   I doze in the soft embrace of an armchair whilst my little stove chugs away.  A suitably Scottish repast of porridge is followed by oatcakes and tea – a warming breakfast to counter the frosty environs. 

Sometime after 5am I depart feeling unrefreshed for the day ahead. I labour up a steep rough slope that eventually leads to a long, open ridge taking me to Beinn nan Aighenan.  The familiar feeling of a slight sickness and a swimming head leaves me somewhat deadened as I plod upward. This is the opposite of flow – an achingly laboured movement that draws out the discomfort. My mood is only lifted as I emerge above the mist on the summit itself. Beyond, Ben Starav rises out of a swirling sea, my Brocken spectre just beneath, adding colour to the frosty whiteness. 

Summit of Beinn nan Aighenan

The mists part as I descended the Munro bagger’s path to the bealach, leaving the sharp ridge to Ben Starav sparkling against the uniform blue of the sky.  I drop my beast of burden at the col, and unimpeded by the load, joyfully romp up the ridge with scarcely a hint of breeze. All is perfect – no people, crystal-clear air and a crest bedecked with the crunch of snow. To the South, a sea of cloud remains, topped only by the peaks of Ben Cruachan and the summit cone of Ben Lomond. The travails of the night are forgotten in the magic of the moment.  It is with regret that I turn about to retrace my steps to my pack. 

Ben Lomond poking out of the cloud

It is then that I know what lies in store. Lethargy returns and despite the brilliance of the day, I am overcome with weariness that despoils the experience.  The Southern slopes of Stob Coire an Albannaich always seem to stretch out and this occasion is no different.  By the summit I am ready for a nap and a respite from the sack. I seem to have pulled a muscle in my lower back and cannot turn to one side without a yelp of pain.  I feel cold, uninspired and utterly defeated. I had waited many hours for a recovery and none was forthcoming, so knowing of the distance and terrain remaining I conclude that the only rational option is to descend.  At this pace I would still be eking out the miles in the dark on a downwards trajectory of bodily deterioration.  I close my eyes and sit stupefied, lazily munching my way through a late lunch.  A lone walker appears, fresh with enthusiasm and unencumbered by a weighty pack. This was to prove the only person I would meet in 70 hours on the hills.  I half think about continuing then reject the idea and wander downwards toward a little top that I had no recollection of ever having visited.  I wait for the late afternoon sun to light up the rock litter, but this is not forthcoming, and I start to descend. The final slope can only be described as tortuous – deep tussocks set on a 45 degree slope and interspersed with bands of wet black rock. As the angle eases, the vegetation grows yet more troublesome, forming an assault course of ditches, tussocks, tangled trees and deer fences.  It is almost fully dark by the time I stumble out of the wood onto the sure surface of the vehicle track.  I poke around for a suitable bivvy spot, eventually finding a very sheltered location beside the river. 

Fighting off the desire to simply lie down and die (well that’s how it felt), I mechanically make a meal and strip off cold, wet socks, before bedding down for the night. I rue my choice of accommodation for the night.  A bivvy when, damp and exhausted is more about survival than recovery.  Nevertheless, I sleep intermittently, wrapped in the cocoon of my bag, as a hard frost grips the land.  At 4am I’ve had enough and wriggle out of my bag to begin a fight with my soaked running shoes which are by now frozen stiff.  Feeling a little refreshed I elect to experience the sunrise from Stob Dubh, a peak I’d only visited once and a potentially fine viewpoint as well as the fulcrum of the route.  At the first stile, I leave my sack and continue unencumbered up the unremittingly steep, grassy slopes that eventually lean back to an isolated summit.  The sunrise is pleasant but unspectacular – a reminder that these things can’t be forced.  A cap of cloud hangs over Bidean but elsewhere all is clear and a fine day beckons.  Though dulled, my physical deterioration is stemmed and I can embrace the day to come.  Nevertheless, I feel a lingering disappointment at abandoning my intended route, despite reason dictating otherwise.   I had learnt that my father had suffered a heart attack and there is no question of delaying my return so I need to make my booked train home.  At least I am spared the brutal slopes at the head of the glen that would undoubtedly have reduced me to a quivering jelly. 

Sunrise from Stob Dubh

Managed heather fires burn in the glen as the full light of day illuminates the surrounding peaks.  An unaccustomed warmth confirms the arrival of the meteorological spring, the hills shorn of their winter mantle.  All is brown and dead looking after the winter, yet the promise of spring is in the air, birds singing merrily in defiance of the deadness that was.  ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’ relieves the monotony of the forest roads leading up to Beinn Fhionnlaidh. I abandon the pack near Meall nan Gobhar to proceed more swiftly to the peak. The transformation in my rate of progress is marked as enjoyment replaces toil.  On the fine summit ridge, a golden eagle soars above the cliffs, unmistakeable by its wingspan – a true lord of the mountain.  I humbly continue up and down, and thence by a succession of twinkling lochans toward Ben Sgulaird.  As the afternoon eases toward evening, it brings forth a richness and harmony, aided by the gentle fall of the burbling burn.  The slabs of Beinn Trilleachain glow in the soft afternoon light, whilst behind, the truncated wedges of the Buachailles rise sternly out of the sun-graced moor.  With each passing minute, the browns turn yet richer, until nearing sunset, a royal glow envelops the moor and the mountains above. This is a thing of true awe, a moment of transfiguration and power that burns the landscape.  I race up toward Sgulaird’s summit to meet the dying sun as it dips below the horizon over Mull, leaving a deep orange glow on the seaward horizon.  And then the spectacle is over as light is swallowed by the night.  Only the lights of distant Oban and fishing trawlers twinkle against the folds of the hills.

Mull from Beinn Sgulaird

I fumble in the half-light over Sgulaird’s subsidiary tops, until I arrive at a sheltered nook just beside a bulldozed track.  There is water right beside and it makes a good bivvy site.  The moon is in the ascendancy as I relish the inner warmth that comes from a hot meal. It is already cold with a sparkling frost, so I am soon encased in my bag. Yet this time I struggle to sleep. Whether it is the cold, fatigue or the pale moonlight, it matters not, but the night passes slowly as I drift in and out of sleep.  I am not reluctant to fire up the stove before a 5:30 am departure. Cloud now obscures the sky, rendering an inky blackness to everything about.

Dawn on Creach Bheinn

I make stuttering progress toward the rock-littered summit of Creach Bheinn, lost in a dull mental nothingness. The night slips away. It is less of a sunrise and more of a slow emergence of light. As the sun grows higher, it breaches the clouds to the East, sending forth mystical shafts of light.  I pick good lines on the rough slopes of these final hills, moving steadily forward.  My only companions are the deer that fix an intense gaze on me I pass. Winter moves to Spring on the final descent.  Remarkably, the bright yellow of flowering gorse greets me as I reach the road.  A peace emanates from the gently lapping sea as I amble along to Connel Bridge.  This is another world of gentleness and calm.  I arrive at the station where a cat trots along the platform. At my approach, it hops onto the rails and skilfully runs along a single rail before hopping off home.  

Map of intended route

Map of route taken

Photos

The Glen Lyon Watershed 31 July – 1 August 2021

121 km, 10,000 m ascent, 47 hours 15 minutes

The fine natural line of the Glen Lyon Watershed

Glen Lyon is the largest enclosed valley in Scotland, belonging to both east and West, or perhaps to neither - a place in between the southern central and eastern Highlands, it is shunned by the masses.  It does not boast the rocky crests of Glencoe or the fierce grandeur of the Cairngorms, yet has its own subtle charm found in the woods and greenery of the lower glen.  Two groups of Munros provide a ticking feast for the avid bagger, including the justly popular Ben Lawers. Yet for the most part, this is wild untracked country of rough grass, bog and heather, where summits are hard won and little travelled. Yiannis Tridimas had established a tough round of the Corbett Hills at the western end of the glen, but my eye was drawn to the possibility of a traverse of the full watershed - a great natural line around this elongated glen, embracing 17 Munros, 8 Corbetts and a Graham.  The seed was sown and, on this occasion, the wait from germination of idea to fruition was short.  Within a week I had secured the support of my friend, Wes, and was once again on the road North to a new adventure.

The watershed lies between East and West

We park at the high point of the road to Bridge of Balgie in the hope of a midge-repelling breeze, but none is to be had.  A drizzly night eases into a grey dawn where the midges are felt but not seen. A 5 am departure is a relief to escape the clouds of midges and the confines of the tent. Tendrils of mist play with the soft outlines of the Tarmachans.  Feet soon absorb the pervasive moisture of the lush vegetation and I forlornly squelch upwards in dispiriting drizzle, somewhat fatigued by the discomfort of the night.  It all feels forced, flat, cheerless.  My mood reflects the greyness all around. I can only wait for things to change and hope for a lifting of the cloud and an accompanying rejuvenation of spirit.  For now, there is no relent in the thick blanket of mist.  Steep wet grass leads to more steep wet grass. The Munro of Meall Gheordie provides some relief, but the trackless miles to Meall nan Subh (hill of the raspberry) demand, patience and persistence. By the time I meet Wes at the hydro road I'm ready for food and company.

Challenging trackless terrain

This has the desired effect of enthusing me a little for the hours ahead, and as the clouds part, a brightness enters my spirit. I'm psychologically prepared for the drawn-out approach to Beinn Heasgarnich which marks the start of more familiar country. Not that it's easy - the Corbetts of these parts are the real monsters - lacking the travelled ways of the Munros and sporting thick tussocky grass on jarringly steep slopes. My feet feel the strain of the constant twisting and turning on the tussocks. One ankle-twisting, green wall leads to another, so I'm pleased once more to meet Wes at the far western end of the Glen.  I gorge on a tin of pears and a prepared rice and ratatouille meal as I bathe in warm evening sun. This will be my last support point until the far eastern end of Glen Lyon, so I take the time to rehydrate, eat and recover. But like on an Alpine climb, you can never really relax until you're safely back. This temporary escape from the challenge is just that- temporary - the knowledge of what lies ahead can be ignored for a brief moment, but it is always there, nagging, looming, pressing.

Sunset over the Buachaille

For the present, I am content to delight in the rich glow of early evening when all is as it should be. I pass two campers on the ascent of Achaladair, but I'm then alone, at one with the mountains.  As the shadows grow, the colours deepen and an extensive panorama opens out to the West- Ben Cruachan, the Blackmount, Glencoe, Ben Nevis, Rannoch Moor-all imbued with deep significance, memories embedded into their shadowy forms. And as the sun sinks on the horizon, the sky is painted pink above the jagged line of mountain. The daily pattern is a timeless cycle, but each is special, a thing of wonder and awe that demands attention, cries out to the soul and calls for the silent worship of the heart. The drab dawn is a distant memory, banished by the ecstasy of this place of thinness. The moment passes, but the glow dims slowly, delaying the onset of night. I make it to the top of the steep descent to Beallach Meadhrain before bowing to the inevitable and scrabbling for my torch. Disaster! The torch fails to light. No matter- I search for my spare batteries and fumble to insert them in the torch. Up, down, all the same way, reverse it- no good. I admit defeat and with an inward sigh, start to descend the slope, lit only by my phone torch. All too soon, the slope steepens to a disconcerting angle of about 45 degrees. I can't see the gaps between the tussocks and slabs provide a further hazard.  I’m forced to abandon my poles and grope my way down, feeling for the footholds, phone in mouth. It's painstakingly slow, but I'm still moving, eating up the hours of darkness. I take stock at the pass and try the head torch once more. The old batteries yield a pitifully faint glow, but in the uphill direction this proves to be sufficient for the stagger up the impending slope, poles planted firmly to pivot my way upwards. Night draws out. There is nothing to distract my attention from the never-ending fumbling over tussocks that constitute a continual trip hazard and make for jerky, uncertain progress.

When the dawn comes, it is a gradual affair, mist obscuring summits to the East. My feet are wet, I'm moving slowly and I'm cold. It's a cheerless dawn- a thing to be endured for the promise of better times. I just keep moving, pole after pole, one plodding step after another. The rounded summits come and go until a horrific tangle of heather, tussocks and bilberries drops precipitously to the Lairig Ghallabhaich.  I emerge gratefully to the sanctuary of the dirt road, where I tuck into a second breakfast. The sun has banished the tribulations of the night, and even the steep, trackless heather cannot reverse my growing sense of content. I sample the profuse bilberries on the steep ascent of Ben Dearg, drawing on the knowledge that the trackless wandering will shortly be over, replaced by the comforting paths of the Carn Mairg Munros. A glorious summers day is underway as I join the Munro baggers on Carn Mairg. Freed from the trickery of the tussocks, I make more certain progress Eastwards. I can see Ben Vrackie and Beinn a Ghlo beyond the A9, markers of my progress from West to East. I depart from the Munro bagger trail and follow the long watershed ridge that eventually leads to the foot of Glen Lyon. By the time I reach Wes at Fortingall, it is early evening and time for tea.  

 

Lower Glen Lyon at Bridge of Lyon

We are now out of the mountains, almost a stone’s throw from the Eastern end of Loch Tay, so it feels like an end point, which, for me, it is not.  A second night beckons on the climax of the round – a traverse of the fine ridges of Ben Lawers.  Armed with a functioning torch, I set forth in the balmy evening air of summer, stiffly shuffling along the road to cross the Bridge of Lyon and from there, to follow the valley road to Fearnan.  It is all very reminiscent of long Alpine days, re-ascending out of the valley after a good feed, warmed by the evening sun and bitten by insects in steamy forests.  The track out of Fearnan is most unlike Alpine trails, however, degenerating into a thrash through bushes and stinging nettles.  I am glad to escape the trees and begin the long ascent of Meall Greigh, basking in the evening sunlight as the shadows lengthen and the golden hour approaches.  Loch Tay shimmers, fjord-like, as the slopes above turn a rich ochre and the warmth of the sun fades in a cooling breeze.  I make steady, plodding progress up to the second Munro, lifted by another magnificent sunset; but as night falls time loses meaning – minutes seem to drag by, yet hours pass in a flash.  Legs wobble on the steep descents, only propped up by poles.  The torch is a veritable car headlamp in comparison with the night before, revealing An Stac as a looming tower that spirals upwards into a mysterious mist.  The mist comes and goes, but largely grows until all is enveloped in its soft embrace.  Time ceases to matter as long as I am moving forwards, eking out the miles in a befuddled stupor through the fog.  I distract the brain from the slow death of the night by listening to ‘Tales of the Norsemen’ - the stories of Thor, the ice giants and the tricky Loki which seem supremely suited to the time and place.   There are moments when the mist clears to reveal a star-studded sky, but for the most part all is smothered by cloying fog.  On and on its goes, until I’m astonished to see a lightening in the sky that promises a new dawn. At 4:15a.m. the night is drawing to a close as I greet Wes with a knock on the van door.  

Map

Photos 

 

Sutherland Round, 28-29 June 2021

 91.7 km, 6450m ascent, 28 hours

Sutherland – sounding like a land of the South but actually marking the far North of these Isles – home to Cape Wrath, Ben Hope (the most Northerly Munro) and latterly, the marketing genius of the North Coast 500, this is a land of empty spaces, ancient rocks, myriad lochans and dreamy shorelines.  For me, ‘The North’ somehow resounds with mystery and intrigue, exploration and adventure, a big unknown that pulls me irresistibly.  Yet like a Bunyan pilgrim, I had hitherto failed to pay more than fleeting visits, being ensnared by more accessible playgrounds. A family holiday finally provided the opportunity to rectify this omission, and scrutiny of the map revealed a satisfyingly logical natural line, linking several of the major summits, most notably the very fine shattered ridge of Foinaven, the queen of these parts.

Foinaven at sunset

Keen to put the route to the test, day two of our holiday saw me bundled out of the car and ready to go at the amenable hour of ten to ten in the morning.  Except of course, that you are never ‘ready’ to go, apprehension at what lies ahead and the vagaries of an ageing body, conspiring to create uncertainty and a vague feeling of inadequacy.  Only by pushing this aside and placing one foot in front of the other, does the journey begin.

Ready to go?

Somewhat surprisingly, the lethargy of the day before has been dispelled, and rested by an increasingly rare good night’s sleep, I make efficient progress on a splendid stalkers track. Even when this ends, the springy vegetation facilitates easy going, dried by months of fine weather which has transformed the otherwise ubiquitous bog into something far more pleasant.  The morning mist lifts steadily above the summits, banished by the ever-growing power of the sun. The lochans twinkle, birds sing merrily and all is well with the world.  Nothing interrupts the overwhelming sense of well-being. I’m in resonance with the beat of the land, moving through it, yet connected, attuned, integrated.  This feeling of at-one-ness grows as I descend to the sea, bounded by rugged rock walls and plunging waterfalls. I meet the first people at Glendhu Bothy, sunning themselves on plastic chairs, but there’s little to disturb the harmony on the run-in along the sea loch, glinting in the midday sun.  The bold buttresses of Quinag hold the gaze at the head of the loch, whilst the Stack of Glencoul protrudes thumb-like to the Southeast, beckoning for another day.

For now my thoughts are firmly centred on lunch and re-hydration, both of which are fully satisfied at my first point of support. Alison has assembled an array of goodies on the parcel shelf of the car, from which I graze as I please.  The sun beats mercilessly, more characteristic of a Mediterranean shore than the far Northwest of Scotland. I embrace the warmth, but chug slowly up the NC500, Scotland’s own Route 66, and now a procession of motorhomes, campervans and roaring motorbikes.  I’m glad to turn off the road after a couple of miles and follow the minor road down to a fish hatchery.  I pass a worker on my left and am about to join the stalkers track when I’m stopped in my tracks by a tirade of verbal abuse. I’m directed to turn around and return to the main road, since this road is closed and there are helicopters.  I never manage to ascertain quite why the presence of helicopters is relevant, but am led to believe that they are there on some sort of clandestine mission of national security.  I don’t buy this argument, and despite the intimidation, simply state that the stalker’s path is a matter of metres away and I am going to proceed to it whatever the aggressor says.  I’m undeniably shaken by this intimidation, but no gun is pointed in my direction, nor is a vicious hound released, so I determinedly jog away until the swearing hothead is nothing but an unpleasant memory.  I’m bothered by this unexpected and disturbing altercation, but the gentle miles of delightful lochan strewn terrain soon dissipate my disquiet and the world is restored to its natural rhythm.  If the previous experience was unexpected, then so is this – a delectable patchwork of crag and lochan, with the glittering sea beyond and the conical form of Ben Stack drawing ever closer.  Nothing disturbs the at-one-ness for I am alone, but yet not alone – a part of this intimate landscape. 

Ben Stack rising above Loch Stack

On the summit ridge a helicopter swoops in, but I am not whisked off the hill to an internment camp.  Instead, I chat amiably to workers on the telecoms mast who are engaged in a maintenance exercise, facilitated by the helicopter winching equipment in and out.  The helicopter makes two more journeys as I lollop down the broad ridge to my teatime support.

I’m well short of half-way, but this will be my last point of support, and untroubled by midges, I can sit back and enjoy a proper feed before the ardour of the night.  Mist starts to envelop Ben Stack, lending it an air of mystery, whilst my next hill, Arkle, remains clear in the soft light of evening.  I pack my new running vest to the brim, such that it is bulging at every seam, and begin the real adventure, all that has gone before being the aperitif, the warm-up act for the main show.  The feeling of content is palpable – a refreshing breeze counters the heat that seems to ooze out of the ground, and causes gentle ripples to run up rhythmically against the shore.  I stop briefly to savour the serenity, imbibing the evening air and drawing on the perfect peace. The moment is all too brief, but made all the more special by its brevity. 

The mists bubble up below Arkle

The path passes between two giant boulders in a wood, conjuring images from Tolkien, but Gandalf does not cry ‘You shall not pass’ – that’s already been said by the hatchery man – and I continue in the balmy atmosphere of a perfect summer’s evening.  I rise out of the deep shadows to chase the sun up the silvery scree. Mist swirls in and out of the valley cauldron, tops poking above the fog blanket that reaches out to the sea.  A royal highway leads onto the summit of Arkle, a line above the clouds, perfect in symmetry and form.  Opposite, the long stony ridge of Foinaven rises above the sea of mist that now envelops the valley.  Reluctantly I descend into this sea, skittering steeply down unstable scree and troublesome heather.  Mercifully this abates as the long descent proceeds, but each step down is a step to be won back.  It is now 10 pm and the sun sets a delicate pink on the rocks above.  By the time I reach the summit ridge, the sun has long set but Arkle retains a deep pink hue above the dense sea of bubbling cloud.

The afterglow beyod the sea of fog

Day is not yet ready to surrender to Night and delivers a last hurrah that tops all that has come before.  The sharp rocky ridges become dark silhouettes rising above the fog, tendrils of mist whisked across their flanks by a stiff wind.  I stumble down and then up the broken rock ridges, half-seeing, half-feeling my way with my poles.  There is an energy in the cutting wind, a spinning vortex that spits out of the cauldron.  And to the West, a deep orange glow holds the gaze, an intense line of fire marking the horizon.  Only Foinaven’s highest summits lie above the now dominant sea of fog that stretches to the Western seaboard.  There is a purity in their form – stark black pyramids rising out of the bubbling brew, and still the furnace-like glow bounds the horizon, though it is now 12:40 am. The magic continues as the moon rises to full power, gleaming brightly over the fog blanket. Mists play with the peaks, swirling unpredictably to and fro. 

Moon over Foinaven

And then the show stops, the magic is lost, the fire goes out.  I’m enveloped by the mist, not to emerge for another eleven hours.  Rocks are greased as all is gripped by a dap, insidious cold.  The torch beam bounces off the mist and my world is reduced to a dreary, grey microcosm, a repeating loop that never seems to end.  Day emerges but gradually, tentatively emerging out of the gloom.  Summits come and go, but there is a monotony in the process. Lack of sleep, the physical demands and the sameness of it all, makes for a drawn-out morning.  This is now all about finishing. There is little joy, just a determination to realise the vision.  The magical has become mechanical and the moving parts are creaking, sorely in need of service.

Finally, the gloom lifts on Ben Hee as the sun makes a re-appearance for the last couple of miles down the glen.  I meet the first person since leaving my support and then I’m back. The circle is complete, the round has become a reality, I can stop.

Photos

OS Maps Route