Ladhar Bheinn, my sixteenth summer

Walking in from the tarmac head of the loch past the island and narrows at Runival, ever up and down we went along the banks on a foot worn perfect path as the firth widens then closes a last time before opening, heading for the sea.

We headed for Knoydart, high rough bounds between the deeps of heaven and hell and turned the tight corner under the bulk of Carn Mairi suddenly seeing the mighty mass of Ladhar Bheinn, the mountain towering above flat sands of Barrisdale Bay, purpled stoney grey, splashed with lush green on that wet June afternoon.

Stopping at the foot of the first ridge, rising rocky at our backs, we faced out over clear blue green Loch Hourn, watching the seals below sunning themselves on the dotted islets and looking down on the rubble outlines of the old crofts of the cleared clans among the bracken, silently imagining that lost time.

So we climbed, too slow, the hard way up the sharp edge, clambering until our path led up onto a grassy coll, scree tumbling down from the rim into the corrie below, the three peaks of the steep sided mount soaring before us, verdigris vertigo cliffs falling down to the nameless silver lochin below.

Reached the triple crown late and eyes drawn skyward by a reeling raven’s loud caws and saw a looming storm away over the misty small isles beyond the Sound of Sleat rapidly rolling our way, wet, dark and menacing.

Mist engulfed us, wrapping the escarpment making us decide to stay put, out of harm’s way above the crags as squalls pushed us around. In the low lee of the parapet we cut turf and moss building a platform for our too small tent and made a low drystane horseshoe dyke to protect our canvas against the wild west wind.

We crowded into our bivouac as summer night fell, soaked heads to sweaty toes, as the wind ripped at the fabric, whistling through the guy lines securing our flapping full sky scraping shelter, sporadically sleeping, until the grim gale stilled.

Silence woke me and emerging from the crammed cover I scrambled up the damp mossy rocks again to the crest as the sun’s golden glow silhouetted far Ben More, its bright rays touching my squinting face, warming my skin.

I filled my fresh lungs with pure Atlantic air on that magnificent morning, the dawning of my own sixteenth summer, oddly serene, standing alone at one with all existence, a wiser survivor so secure on the lofty summit of Ladhar Bheinn.

(NB; Ladhar Bheinn is pronounced something like Laarven in English.)