Beinn Bhuidhe from Glen Shira
A change from our usual protocol. No tent. There was a diabolical forecast (accurate, as it turned out) and so we went for the day-trip option. Not unreasonable for a fit party, but as things turned out, a mighty tall order for us. Towards the end of this day we could have done with our normal bale-out, although as it happened, salvation came from another quarter entirely…
Anyway, here we are heading out up the side of the Dubh Loch in Glen Shira. Ordinarily we would have cycled this, but C's hip wasn't happy about getting on or off. For those who might be wondering, though, the road is like a billiard table. Similarly smooth, at any rate, though about 5 miles longer.
Glen Shira is farmed in its lower reaches, and outside one house we saw this happy fella. I'm reminded, now looking more closely at my photograph, of the Dave Allen sketch in which a vicar has a tree growing out of his head. Except in this case it looks as if the tree is growing out o… oh dear, oh dear. Now, please trust me, I didn't consciously choose this angle. Anyway, as I say, he looks like a happy fella, and we'll leave it at that.
Where were we? Ah yes, the wonders of nature. Having passed the site of Rob Roy's house (no, in case you were wondering, we weren't invited in) we left the track and headed up the slopes of Tom a'Phiobaire. The forestry hereabouts has been cleared, and a path of sorts led nearly to the open hillside. Once there, we could look back down Glen Shira and, on the hillside opposite, an early Neolithic prototype for the Seal Art we saw lower down the glen. Can you see him, looking as if he's about to nibble Caroline's ear? Obviously the forestry moved in and disturbed their work before they could finish the whiskers and flippers, but there's little doubt in my mind that this is what we have here.
A whaleback ridge leads to Stac a Chuirn. I've seen more shapely Stacs. Here it is from the little dip between that and the main summit of Beinn Bhuide.
And from there is was a short step to the top. Hm. A short while after we got home from this trip, C was diagnosed as having… well I won't go into the details, but suffice it to say that she was Poorly. Six months on I can report that she's getting better, but at the time we really had no idea that anything was up - we just thought she was feeling weak getting over her hip op. And, of course, she's a stoic… I'll be fine when we get goingÔ… but whatever the reasons, when I look at this next shot I feel plain guilty that I'd dragged her a long way to the top of a hill. As guilty about my own blindness as I feel awed by her determination. Mea culpa.
On the way down we headed west into… a corrie remote enough to not have a name. I know it's remote because it was an undocumented square on Geograph. Here is the view over to the Cruachan group…
And down to the Allt an t Sidhein. The next obstacle looms… TREES!
A view back up the glenette, with the summit of Beinn Bhuidhe in shade on the right…
Well, we've all been here before, haven't we? That kind of anonymous forestry you have nightmares about. Shortly after this half track down…
… we came to a countouring forestry road unmarked on my (admittedly oldish) map. No landmarks to see above the trees. Hell's teeth! Which way? I got C to sit down whilst I ran ahead. No-go to the left. I ran to the right. The track went up. Oh God! Cue the kind of panic I'd normally save for the bad bit on Am Basteir. Over a shoulder, though, the track curled round and - eventually, down. My second duly followed. If I could have offered a tight rope I would have. And, do you know, I think it would have been accepted.
What we eventually got a view, this was it…
…the whole length of Glen Shira. Now, you might be thinking how attractive that vista looks. Not to us. Not then, at any rate.
It was still six miles to walk out (I know this, because I ran back up this track with my Garmin on the following morning) and things Did Not Look Good. Just past Rob Roy's house (still no hospitality on offer) we heard a wonderful sound, though. A car! Coming down the glen behind us. 'Caroline, LIMP!' I stuck a thumb out. He stopped. I couldn't see his wings, but Caroline has little doubt that he was an angel.
He and his friend had been fishing in the loch up at the top of the glen. As the glen sped blissfully by, we swapped notes.
'Where do you stay?' I asked.
'Brora'.
'Really?', I said, 'we saw Brora Rangers play Inverness when we were up there last summer'.
'Aye,' he said, '1-1. I was there too.'
Small world. It wasn't exactly a big crowd at that match, so I'm pretty sure that he's somewhere in this next shot…
Now back to that ghastly view we had back down the glen. Six months on, when the memory had receded, I chanced my arm by using it as the basis for my Christmas card to C…
She even laughed.