Monday 30 November 2015
Monday 31 January 2011
Thursday 3 December 2009
Part One: The Road Least Travelled
Frank and Neil gazed out the car window at the white hills of the Pentlands closing in on them. Their thoughts were pleasantly interrupted for a moment when Frank's father remarked that the rows of fir tree sapling stakes in the ground were actually marking the graves of previous attempters. For they were embarking on something of an adventure that evening. Frank's parents were taking them to Harperrig Reservoir for them to set of on their first night hike across the Pentland Hills to West Linton, and from there, after some fortification, to take the longer return route via the Covenanter's Grave back home to West Calder.
The snow had been thin on the ground that afternoon when the boys decided upon this departure from their usual walking habits. For to follow the familiar rocky military road that marked out their route in pitch darkness was something unique and exciting for them both. So they had packed as best they knew how, Neil's mother plying him with jam sandwiches and Frank stealing a hip flask full of Glayva liqueur whisky from his father's drinks cabinet. For he knew they could eat in the pub in West Linton so a few bags of crisps and the stuff that made you feel warm sufficed for him.
The car winded along the Lang Whang road and drew up alongside the stile that was the unassuming marker of the boys' first step into their small adventure. Farewells were exchanged and words of caution were nodded to impatiently and they waved Frank's parents off. They crossed the stile and with that they had commenced their journey.
The first milestone lay ahead of them, the Cauldstane Slap, a saddle flanked by East and West Cairn Hills which loomed over the Slap in the dying light like colossal gatekeepers ominously guarding the entrance to a remote wild world. The hills were completely white against the deep blue of the twilight sky. The first stars were beginning to appear in the darker regions of the sky and by the time the boys had passed Harrperig Reservoir to their right they were immersed in darkness.
They picked their way up the slope to the brow of the Slap. They found it curious how the snow was so much deeper here than in West Calder, but decided the altitude and remoteness must be the cause. It did make walking more arduous and they had even lost the path once on their way up, but they found their way as their first destination was clearly visible - a tall stile silhouetted against the moonlit sky at the crest of the Slap. And here they rested, where they had never bothered to rest before in earlier hikes.
Neil had a sandwich, Frank ate all his crisps and they both shared a swig of whiskey. The latter of which spread a wave of warmth through their chests. They looked back at the mile or so they had walked and remarked again on the surprising depth of snow, it went nearly to their knees at some points along the way, yet it had been so shallow back home. They agreed it did make the going quite a lot tougher. Then they looked at the journey ahead. From their position on the Slap they could see far along the hanging valley. This time, however, the view didn't look at all familiar. There was no sign of the crumbly military road that snaked its way predictably to West Linton five miles away. There was only a featureless white glow where the contrasting textures of the land had been. They knew they'd be faced with this but had assumed the path would be traced out in the snow by tell tale variations in the surface of the snow. But they hadn't counted on the depth of snow.
With some consternation, they set off again. It was beginning to feel cold. Neither said it but each wished they'd threw on a few more layers before heading out. But they had just rested; the walking would soon warm them up again. So they cautiously began they're descent of the Slap into the valley, trying to feel for potholes hidden by the snow as they went. And without noticing it, they left the path.
A mile had passed since the Slap, or had it been two? It was difficult to tell, all sense of depth was lost. Objects miles away radiated the same ethereal glow as objects close by. The boys knew by now they had lost the guiding light of the path as they both had fell foul to potholes and undulations, characteristic of natural ground, made deceptively level by the thick snow. Each time they had just picked themselves up but they knew that the next hole could trap their leg awkwardly as they fell to easily fracture the bone or tear ligaments. This is a small risk all hikers face in the best conditions but they were oblivious to the underfoot conditions and were repeatedly stumbling precariously. They had been heading for what they thought was a small mound a hundred or so yards away at the other side of which to hopefully catch a glimpse of Baddinsgil Reservoir and so get their bearings again, but they never seemed to reach it. They realised that the mound was actually a small hill much further away than they had originally thought and they had been deceived by the snow. The snow which hid dangers underfoot, the snow which made every step like wading through water, the snow which was slowly melting into their clothes.
After what seemed like an age, they rounded the hill. To their utter relief in the distance they saw a black void in the snow that could only be the reservoir. They knew they weren't lost now, they had only to walk along the hill slopes on its right side and in time they would meet with the tarmac road at Baddinsgil farm. They walked with renewed enthusiasm. They tripped and fell with an increased frequency but they had grown familiar with the risk they had so cautiously managed earlier. After an hour or two, they had lost all sense of time passed or distance travelled in the monotonous white sea, they saw the homely lights of the farmhouse. They were soon on the road, where the snow was mercifully much thinner and firm enough to walk on without sinking in due to the action of recent tractor movements. The way was now certain and they marched the two miles on into West Linton without incident, save a nagging coldness around the bottom of their legs.
The pub in West Linton was in the throes of late Friday night merriment. Neil asked at the bar about hot food but the best they could get was peanuts. Their rather dishevelled appearance attracted some incoherent joking and ripples of laughter among some of the more jovial patrons. In particular, two young men, each with eccentrically long beards and denim jackets, sparked up a conversation and took it upon themselves to invite the boys to dry out their soaking socks on the mantelpiece over the log fire. The boys decided to suffer further eyebrow raising for the sake of comfort and were soon bare-footed in front of the rumbling fire happily dining on their peanuts.
The longer the boys stayed there the less encouraged they felt to leave. It seemed their socks weren't drying properly and the bottom of their trousers were soaked through. The distinctive tapping of hailstones could now be heard at the window. They would go on as planned.
The snow had been thin on the ground that afternoon when the boys decided upon this departure from their usual walking habits. For to follow the familiar rocky military road that marked out their route in pitch darkness was something unique and exciting for them both. So they had packed as best they knew how, Neil's mother plying him with jam sandwiches and Frank stealing a hip flask full of Glayva liqueur whisky from his father's drinks cabinet. For he knew they could eat in the pub in West Linton so a few bags of crisps and the stuff that made you feel warm sufficed for him.
The car winded along the Lang Whang road and drew up alongside the stile that was the unassuming marker of the boys' first step into their small adventure. Farewells were exchanged and words of caution were nodded to impatiently and they waved Frank's parents off. They crossed the stile and with that they had commenced their journey.
The first milestone lay ahead of them, the Cauldstane Slap, a saddle flanked by East and West Cairn Hills which loomed over the Slap in the dying light like colossal gatekeepers ominously guarding the entrance to a remote wild world. The hills were completely white against the deep blue of the twilight sky. The first stars were beginning to appear in the darker regions of the sky and by the time the boys had passed Harrperig Reservoir to their right they were immersed in darkness.
They picked their way up the slope to the brow of the Slap. They found it curious how the snow was so much deeper here than in West Calder, but decided the altitude and remoteness must be the cause. It did make walking more arduous and they had even lost the path once on their way up, but they found their way as their first destination was clearly visible - a tall stile silhouetted against the moonlit sky at the crest of the Slap. And here they rested, where they had never bothered to rest before in earlier hikes.
Neil had a sandwich, Frank ate all his crisps and they both shared a swig of whiskey. The latter of which spread a wave of warmth through their chests. They looked back at the mile or so they had walked and remarked again on the surprising depth of snow, it went nearly to their knees at some points along the way, yet it had been so shallow back home. They agreed it did make the going quite a lot tougher. Then they looked at the journey ahead. From their position on the Slap they could see far along the hanging valley. This time, however, the view didn't look at all familiar. There was no sign of the crumbly military road that snaked its way predictably to West Linton five miles away. There was only a featureless white glow where the contrasting textures of the land had been. They knew they'd be faced with this but had assumed the path would be traced out in the snow by tell tale variations in the surface of the snow. But they hadn't counted on the depth of snow.
With some consternation, they set off again. It was beginning to feel cold. Neither said it but each wished they'd threw on a few more layers before heading out. But they had just rested; the walking would soon warm them up again. So they cautiously began they're descent of the Slap into the valley, trying to feel for potholes hidden by the snow as they went. And without noticing it, they left the path.
A mile had passed since the Slap, or had it been two? It was difficult to tell, all sense of depth was lost. Objects miles away radiated the same ethereal glow as objects close by. The boys knew by now they had lost the guiding light of the path as they both had fell foul to potholes and undulations, characteristic of natural ground, made deceptively level by the thick snow. Each time they had just picked themselves up but they knew that the next hole could trap their leg awkwardly as they fell to easily fracture the bone or tear ligaments. This is a small risk all hikers face in the best conditions but they were oblivious to the underfoot conditions and were repeatedly stumbling precariously. They had been heading for what they thought was a small mound a hundred or so yards away at the other side of which to hopefully catch a glimpse of Baddinsgil Reservoir and so get their bearings again, but they never seemed to reach it. They realised that the mound was actually a small hill much further away than they had originally thought and they had been deceived by the snow. The snow which hid dangers underfoot, the snow which made every step like wading through water, the snow which was slowly melting into their clothes.
After what seemed like an age, they rounded the hill. To their utter relief in the distance they saw a black void in the snow that could only be the reservoir. They knew they weren't lost now, they had only to walk along the hill slopes on its right side and in time they would meet with the tarmac road at Baddinsgil farm. They walked with renewed enthusiasm. They tripped and fell with an increased frequency but they had grown familiar with the risk they had so cautiously managed earlier. After an hour or two, they had lost all sense of time passed or distance travelled in the monotonous white sea, they saw the homely lights of the farmhouse. They were soon on the road, where the snow was mercifully much thinner and firm enough to walk on without sinking in due to the action of recent tractor movements. The way was now certain and they marched the two miles on into West Linton without incident, save a nagging coldness around the bottom of their legs.
The pub in West Linton was in the throes of late Friday night merriment. Neil asked at the bar about hot food but the best they could get was peanuts. Their rather dishevelled appearance attracted some incoherent joking and ripples of laughter among some of the more jovial patrons. In particular, two young men, each with eccentrically long beards and denim jackets, sparked up a conversation and took it upon themselves to invite the boys to dry out their soaking socks on the mantelpiece over the log fire. The boys decided to suffer further eyebrow raising for the sake of comfort and were soon bare-footed in front of the rumbling fire happily dining on their peanuts.
The longer the boys stayed there the less encouraged they felt to leave. It seemed their socks weren't drying properly and the bottom of their trousers were soaked through. The distinctive tapping of hailstones could now be heard at the window. They would go on as planned.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)