Neighbours (alive)

The way to Loch Loch is, as always, trying. With the bicycle parked at Daidhu, halfway on the way, the last human settlement, it still takes two or three hours, more, if you forget to pack your sleeping bag in plastic, it starts to rain, and you have to wait in a stinking shed with some agricultural artefacts. It's a steep hill to climb to Glen Fearnach, and the walk from Daidhu is up and down. It does not happen very often that I walk with more than ten kilograms on my back. I arrived way after sunset, and grope around for pegs in the darkness.

On the way out, I meet the people of Daidhu, a couple with several dogs. Him, working with his dog on his purpose-built dog playground, her, later in the car, with another dog. 'I saw your bike', and 'we were worried about you'. I could almost see Daidhu from the Sron nan Dias campsite, and their lights were comforting, and terrifying at the same time. 'A guy with a big pack, we heard, he is probably out for a while.' Considerate people. I sort of assumed that Daidhu was only temporarily inhabited, maybe by hunting parties, but these people live here. But what are they doing in their free time? Do they have any free time?

So far, the people in the glen have been like foxes to me, invisible, elusive, unrelatable. I see their tracks in the snow, sometimes their noises at night, or rarely the remainder of their food. That's it. There is no return to that idea. Also, it is difficult to relate to people in a normal way after several days of constant interior monologue. I'm not sure what they made of me, and I probably don't want to find out. I hope I looked marginally competent, that's all I'm trying to project. Being accidentally rescued while relaxing at Loch Loch will remain one of my nightmares.

Neighbours (dead)

When I'm done feeling sorry about not being at Loch Loch, I start thinking about my new neighbours, the former inhabitants of the shielings at Sron nan Dias. They had such a magnificent house, with two fireplaces, shed attached, an ancient gravestone nearby, that I cannot believe this was just a temporary home. Someone has spent a lot of time up here. And this is just about the only place in the valley where a winter day is not completely dark and depressing.

Who lived here? For how long? How often did they wander out towards Straloch? What did they do in their free time? Did they have any free time? I know so little. At night I imagine their noises, as they put another log on the fire (but where did that wood come from?), as they turn around under their wet and heavy blankets, as they quietly talk to each other. As the baby starts screaming. It is all I can hear at night, apart from the wind and the occasional squeak of a grouse.

Remorse

The winter camping rhythm is rigid. Go and play outside from sunrise to sunset, which here, in the hills, means from 9 to 4 - if the weather plays along. The rest of the day: murmuring in the tent, restlessness, reading, until a battery dies, either from the lamp or from the phone or my own. At night I imagine being at Loch Loch, down around the corner. Sure, the wind would be violent, the days are shorter, but I would be at the end of the world, properly, and not just on a convenient perch with a view. More and more I learn that Loch Loch in its deep and secluded valley has the function of an end for me, a resting point, a place of destruction, clinging to existence, and then regeneration. When I re-emerge after three days, it's like starting from a blank slate. A new beginning. Being awake at night, standing on top of the ridge, seeing the dark shadow in the north, I miss Loch Loch. I am in the wrong place. So close, and still not there.

There are two ways to see Loch Loch from my new campsite, either by going around the corner, staying high, or by dropping down and taking the path. For a moment I was worried that the loch had disappeared, and all I would find is a patch of mud. But, as always, the loch is just exceptionally good at hiding. Deer and deer tracks everywhere, the old campsite in good condition, the shape of the loch unchanged.

Ben Vuirich!

I've always thought I'll climb Ben Vuirich in passing, at some point. No need to force it. Ben Vuirich is the giant lump of mud at the top of Glen Loch. If I walk in from Straloch, I have to circumnavigate the west, and then the north side of the mountain. It is a pretty big fucking mountain, and still a few metres short of being able to call itself a Munro. With my campsite being right opposite Ben Vuirich, it was pretty obvious that I had to find some time to do this, finally. I don't know why I think I have to do anything.

The northern and eastern slopes, visible from my tent, are smooth and steep, with rocks and hard snow. The easy way up is from the south. That means, I'll walk around it, again, along its east flank, then up to the southern ridge. Nobody should blame me for not being thorough with this hill. As it is custom for Corbetts, Ben Vuirich doesn't have paths or anything really. It's just thick heather, moor, swamp from bottom to top. Exhausting, cold, windy, but with a beautiful view at the end. In the video of the summit, the wind is louder than my voice. A bunch of things with antlers on the top, a dozen maybe, reluctantly making way for me.

I learned that I can climb mountains in a T-shirt, even in December, if I just try to work hard. I learned that fourhundred metres gain in altitude can indeed be very hard work. That two miles through trackless moor is brutal. Okay, I already knew that, kind of. And I learned that mountain tops are, by and large, hostile places, although they might look sunny and friendly in pictures.

Christmas at Sron nan Dias

Visit number eight. It has taken a while, but I finally have learned the lesson. The Best Campsite Of The World has a flaw, and this time I take precautions. This time I build my house next to the ruins of Sron nan Dias, just out of the wind funnel, and with spectacular views over Glen Loch and Glen Fearnach and, man, Beinn A'Ghlo. What a place. Green grass on limestone, not entirely level, but soft and dry and sheltered and fantastic. At night, when the full moon was out, you could see me wandering around the ruins, in circles, pointing at things in the sky, marvelling at the stars moving against the background of the clouds, or vice versa. A light appears on the ridge above my campsite. Anyone up there? The light stumbles to the left, then stops, then moves back. A minute later the light has moved up and is now hovering above the rocks, too high for a person. I have witnessed a starrise.