Mountain Days and Bothy Nights E-Book

Dave Brown

• Herausgeber: Luath Press
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 329

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Acknowledged as a classic of mountain writing, this book takes you into the bothies, howffs and dosses on the Scottish hills as Fishgut Mac, Desperate Dan and Stumpy the Big Yin stalk hill and public house, evading gamekeepers and Royalty.

Leseprobe

Mountain Days & Bothy Nights

Photographs courtesy Harry Smith

DAVE BROWN started climbing in 1960, spending much of his formative years in the Trossachs, the Arrochar Alps and Glencoe, where he met some of the great characters of the early climbing scene. He worked for the Colorado Outward Bound School as a senior instructor and later with the British Columbia Outward School. After escaping the rigours of a working life in Further Education, Dave has set up a small guiding business and earns a modest living from passing his invaluable knowledge of the hills down to new generations.

IAN R. MITCHELL started climbing and walking in the Cairngorms in the 1960s. He has an extensive knowledge of the Scottish mountains and has also scaled peaks in Iceland, Norway, the Pyrenees, Morocco and the Austrian Alps. Ian also broke free from a career in Further Education to pursue his dream of writing full-time. He is the author of eight books on mountain themes including Scotland’s Mountains Before The Mountaineers (1998), for which he won the Outdoor Writers’ Guild Award for Excellence, and On the Trail of Queen Victoria in the Highlands, both published by Luath Press.

This book is dedicated to those pictured within.

First Published 1987

Reprinted 1988

Reprinted 1989

Reprinted 1990

Reprinted 1992

Reprinted 1993

Reprinted 1995

Reprinted 1997

Reprinted 1998

Reprinted 2001

eISBN: 978-1-912387-96-0

The paper used in this book is recyclable. It is made from low chlorine pulps produced in a low energy, low emission manner from renewable forests.

Printed and bound by

J W Arrowsmith Ltd., Bristol

Typeset in 10.5 point Sabon by

S. Fairgrieve, Edinburgh, 0131 658 1763

© Dave Brown and Ian Mitchell

Cover map reproduced from Ordnance Survey material with the permission of the Controller of Her Majesty’s Stationery Office © Crown copyright MC 8868M

Illustration page 144 © Ann Thomas

All other illustrations © Euan MacArthur

Contents

Preface

What To Put Into It?

CHAPTER 1 The Caves of Arrochar

CHAPTER 2 Lochnagar and the Royal Bothy

CHAPTER 3 A Weekend Across Country

CHAPTER 4 Bothies Fabled

CHAPTER 5 Glencoe

CHAPTER 6 Dreadful Dosses

CHAPTER 7 Skye

CHAPTER 8 Beinn a Bhuird and the Secret Howff

CHAPTER 9 Ben Nevis

CHAPTER 10 Bob Scott’s

CHAPTER 11 A Winter’s Day

CHAPTER 12 A Winter’s Night

Preface to the Tenth Anniversary Edition

WHEN WE FINALLY SAWMountain Days and Bothy Nights into print in 1987, we could hardly have dared to have expected that the work would be reprinted almost every subsequent year, and would now need a further reprint after a decade, in order to meet its continuing popularity.

We were, however, quite sure when we began collectively writing the work in 1982 as described in the opening chapter ‘What to put into it?’ that we would tap into a vein of Scottish mountaineering culture which had been neglected since the appearance of Alistair Borthwick’s Always a Little Further in the 1930s. This was the great middle ground of those who could not, or simply would not, speak for themselves. It was this conviction which kept us going for five years, and through fifteen publishers’ rejections until Luath Press finally took a chance on us. The reaction to the book in terms of sales delighted us, and the glowing reviews were almost embarrassing.

Soon, virtually everyone seemed to have bought, begged, borrowed or stolen a copy, and the fanciful situation we project in the work’s opening chapter, of people actually telling stories to us in bothies, from our own book, has now happened more than once! These tales, as we heard them, experienced the fate of oral history; they were elaborated, exaggerated, inaccurate and often attributed to the wrong persons. But nevertheless, this more than anything, convinces us that the work has become an integral part of the subculture of the Scottish mountain scene, and vindicates the reason it was written.

There is a temptation to rewrite, to polish, to elaborate, or to correct minor factual errors which have been pointed out to us, or to standardise/correct spelling irregularities. But in an odd way, these we hope are part of the charm of a book which is an artistic evocation, not a scholarly portrayal, of a period now lost and gone.

Similarly, it would have been tempting to have brought the reader up to date on which bothies have vanished up their own lums and which have been restored to their former glories, which have been closed, and which new ones have appeared. But that would detract from the period character of a book which has, to our great pleasure and pride, become a historical mountaineering document. We hope this tenth anniversary edition will be part of the process of a new generation coming onto the hills, linking up with the traditions of the past. And while we hope they buy the book, they are welcome to beg, borrow or steal from the stories it contains. Our subculture is a collective experience, and a collective inheritance.

Ian Mitchell

Dave Brown

May 1997

What To Put Into It?

THE PARTY HAD CLIMBED the hill, despite the bad day, and then descended to the bothy. The bothy was far from being palatial accommodation. So bad, indeed, was it that people were said to have preferred the sheep fank opposite. The bothy log book, however, explicitly forbade use of that alternative, and insisted that the dismal doss be used. The floor was liable to flood when snow drifted against the outside back wall and then melted. This the new inmates learned as they watched sodden shirts and a loaf floating away over the cobbled floor, as if trying to escape out the door. It can only ever have been a day bothy, and never a permanent dwelling. A small fire burned in the hearth. Since there was little to burn in the vicinity, heather roots and sheep shit provided a smelly reek for the company.

As is only too often the case in Scottish hills, the weather was rotten. Early winter snow was melting; the ground was a quagmire and the path into the bothy had been turned into a raging burn. Cold grey sleet was now falling. A party of four sat on a battered settee (imported from God knows where) that gave out a musty smell. Since it could only really seat two, two sat on the arms, and the comfortable places (also nearest the fire) were taken in rotation by the party. This game of musical seats helped keep circulation going.

The older half of the party, who generally tried to prolong their occupancy of the cosy recesses of the settee, were on the wine of the country. Amber nectar in copious quantities was finding its way down their throats. They were flanked by a pair of ‘haflins’, who occasionally and disrespectfully demanded their turn on the more comfortable parts of the settee, and who were imbibing quantities of orange juice. Charitably, their partners interpreted this as manifesting a desire to retain their faculties to absorb the wisdom that would be dispensed as the evening wore on.

But it was difficult to keep the conversation going; as difficult as it was to maintain the fire. Sitting with damp feet in a cobbled puddle, one of the mature duo broke the silence, and tried to flog the conversation to life. ‘This is miserable, but for a’ that, the misery does mean something. There’s tales to be told, craft to be passed on, lessons to be drawn. The next generation, like these shavers here, needs a bit o’ depth. Otherwise it’ll all become clinical and technical, a go-faster, Goretex world.’

Ears were pricked up at this, and the youths momentarily forgot their claim to comfort, as the initial sally brought forth a reply.

‘A book, that’s the thing... A bothy book,’ said his companion now happily sailing on a whisky effluvia. ‘mountain punditry, and tales oft told round bothy fires – but real fires, nae like this ane. Tales that will open doors, but nae bothy doors. Hotel doors, feather beds and hot baths. The life o’ a gentleman climber on the royalties.’

His companion in menopausal fantasy jumped up, waving an arm. ‘Aye, an’ trips tae Lunnan, tee discuss wi’ perfumed decollette wummin publishers a’ about the dialectics o’ the mountain class struggle. They love that doon there: they like a bit o’ rough.’

Each fantastic bid seemed to invite a rival out-bid. His companion came back with, ‘And in oor auld age, fan we just stroll the glens, pittin’ oor noses roun’ bothy doors and chatting indulgently wi’ the youths, we’ll meet young blades telling tales fae oor book, and pass on wi a gentle smile...’

This was interrupted by a riposte from one of the orange juice brigade. ‘And there’ll be a wee plaque one day, on the door there, announcing that The Great Bothy Book was conceived within these walls.’

‘That’s typical o’ youngsters nooadays. No respect. No ideas themsels, no crack, a’ they can do is mock. I mean, orange juice! Where’s the tradition there? They’ll be daein’ press-ups on the flair next. The least youse could dae is tae mak some tea for your elders and betters, while they discuss serious business.’

The youths went good-naturedly, one for water, and one to the table to light the primus. As well as ensuring some sustenance, this manoeuvre removed the competition for the cosy seats, and allowed their occupants to stretch out a little, and lean on arms hitherto occupied by half a doup. A musing silence descended, and then the flights of fancy began again.

The Doorway

‘We could dae it though. There’s hunners o’ books about mountaineering in Scotland, but naething about bothies and bothy life. And we’ve got...’ He calculated quickly, ‘mair than 50 years o’ experience between us. We could dae it.’

From the vicinity of the now roaring stove came the half-mocking ‘Whit’ll ye pit intae it?’

‘Jist you get on wi’ the tea, and leave the weighty matters tae the grown-ups. And bring a lump o’ cake while ye’re at it. A man could die o’ hunger here.’ The novice continued with his efforts, which imparted a cheer to the gloom, a cheer that was augmented when his companion returned with a fence post, which immmediately went on the fire. ‘I found it in the sheep fank,’ he announced, proudly.

‘Aye, its wunnerfu’ whit they teach them in the Tenderfoots nooadays,’ was the sole praise which issued de profundis from the settee.

‘Right enough, though, fit will we pit intilt? People want epics. They want finger-jamming gyrations and sagas of the loose tricouni. We canna gie them that. I mean, we’ve done a bit, but nae that.’

The fence post crackled as it burned, and the flame lit up the face of his companion. Its lines deepened in the fireglow as he thought, then replied, ‘Naw, there’s hunners o’ books like that. A lot o’ ego tripping that the mass o’ mountaineers cannae share. I think they just look at the pictures and ignore the text. Some o’ yon writing is afae bland. Nobody has written for the great middle ground. Those who’ve done a bit o’ bothying and some climbing and walking, and done it for years, or those that’s setting out tae dae it. We’ve got tae say whit the ithers havnae said, tae manufacture a tradition for the broad masses o’ mountaineers, excluding the day trippers at wan end and the tigers at the other.’

‘Bothies in particular, naebody’s written aboot them, and fit gangs on in them. And Scotland is unique in the number o’ open dosses and howffs, that gie an alternative tae club huts and youth hostels. I bet maist bothy users dinnae even ken how they got there. We could pit that intilt.’

‘Well, how did they?’ came the inquiry from the tableside, from the tenderfooted log-finder. A stunned silence of mock outrage greeted this. What, was there a man here under false pretences, so philistine as to give no thought to the origins of the shelter he was using? But the bait had been taken; they now had an audience.

‘Jist you bring that tea here, young man, and yer auld dad will tell ye aboot bothies.’

The company was arranged again on the settee, of whose recesses the older duo now had unchallenged possession. After pausing to ensure attention, one began. ‘Ye probably think they’ve aye been here, or that they biggit them because they kent ye were coming? But bothying is a fairly recent development. The early climbers and mountaineers at the turn o’ the century were from a select social group. They got their accommodation in hotels, or the lodges o’ the lairds.....

‘Mind you,’ objected his partner, ‘sometimes no. Robertson slept at Ben Alder cottage, and Seton Gordon used Corrour Bothy, though baith were inhabited then.’

‘Aye, aye, wheesht and let me get on. Even in the 1930’s, fan the number o’ mountaineers expanded dramatically, there was still little bothying. Read Borthwick’s Always a little Further, and ye’ll see that camping and hostels was fit they used then...’

‘That’s no’ right. Dan Mackay’s barn in Glencoe was an open bothy in the 30’s – Borthwick used it. And people like Nimlin and Humble were howfing in the 30’s.’

‘Let a man get a word in edgewyes. Ye’ve heard o’ the Highland Clearances? Or did ye nae get that in the Tenderfoots? Well, these glens were originally full o’ people, clansmen. But as the chiefs turned tae sheep and deer, they cleared the glens. But they had tae build cottages for the new shepherds and gamies, and Lodges for themselves for hunting. This lasted till about World War Two, and then the second Highland Clearances took place, and it’s this that led tae bothying. Aifter the war, ye had Land Rovers and bull-dozed tracks for them. The lairds didnae need their workers oot in the wilds ony mair. They could ship them in and oot, cut doon on wages and cottage maintenance.’

‘But there was also the Hydro and the Forestry, paying big wages. Folk wernae willing tae work for the lairds’ wages after the war.’

‘Look, fa’s telling this story, you or me? So these cottages were gradually abandoned. Ben Alder in 1940 or thereabouts. Luibeg (though that’s nae a bothy), as recently as 10 years ago. The habit o’ dossing in the buildings that were abandoned started naturally, withoot any organisation. But then ye had vandalism, bothies disappearing up their ain lums, and the wind, rain and snaw takkin their toll.’

‘And then the Mountain Bothies folk came in and started organising everything, wi’ their daft wee lists o’ bothies, encouraging folk tae flood intae bothies that were hardly used years back.’

‘I cannae agree wi’ ye there,’ came the response of his grizzled comrade. ‘Its wrang tae think that informal groups could maintain bothies, there has to be organised maintenance. The bothies that we use – that you use – would hae gone by now, but for the M.B.A. It’s true that there’s a lot mair folk gyan tae the hills, but they’d be gyan onywye. Affluence and transport means the hills are busier. Its true ye meet folk now that act as if they ain the bothy, and winna pass the time o’ day wi’ ye. Folk that never say ‘Come in aboot the fire and hae a cup o’ tea.’ But its nae M.B.A. maintenance that leads tae that.’

The argument seemed to carry some weight, for his partner replied: ‘Aye, maybe so. But still, they’re class-collaborationists, working wi’ the lairds.’

‘You use words like bothy, doss, howff – what’s the difference?’ asked one of the youths.

‘A bothy’s an auld hoose, like a cottage, that’s become empty and is maintained as climbing accommodation. It comes from the old word for a farm-labourers dwelling. A howff is a much simpler structure: a cave, a few rough boulders or a simple, purpose-built shelter, like Slugain Howff.’

‘Slugain Howff? What’s that?’

‘Oh, ye’ll have to read the book to find out!’ was the reply. ‘And doss is just a word used to cover anywhere you sleep, be it bothy or howff.’

‘You could put that about stand-offish folk in your book’, opined one of the youths.

‘We’ll put that in oor book a’ richt, and a lot mair forbye,’ was the reply.

By now the fire’s attempts to continue burning were increasingly feeble, and the party retired to their sacks, occupied with their own thoughts. In the morning the sky was lowering with sleet, and a wind blew coldly. The party decamped, and began to trudge back to waiting cars. As the younger half sped towards the col, the others still a little under the influence of the malted barley, followed behind.

‘Ye ken, it’s a guid idea. There’s lots o’ thing we could pit intilt.’

‘We’ll need a few epics and routes, though; folk expect that. And try tee work in the Queen, sex and dogs, that aye sells books.’

The col was reached as sleet began to fall, and the descent towards the glen floor was made, with a torrent underfoot.

‘One thing we’ll pit intae it is that there’s mair tae it than trudging up and doon daft wet hills,’ came between puffs, another contribution.

‘There is mair, or there was. There was the appprenticeship. Ye learned things by daeing them, by going away wi’ folk that kens, and introduced ye tae bothies and mountain craft, by practical example. And ye built up the tools o’ the trade as ye went along, making do with, and even making gear, and buying the real stuff piecemeal. Nooadays, they come ontae the hills anonymously, after passing through Outward Bound Schools and the like. They’re a danger tae life and limb. They cannae decide whit tae dae in a white-oot till they look up their Langmuir. They’re gaitered and Goretexed from heid tae tae the first time they go on a hill, even if its Bennachie or the Campsies. They go aboot in wans and twos. If its raining, they gang haim. They’re very functional aboot it a’, and there’s nae guid crack in them.’

‘The big groups have gone, for sure. Another thing that’s gone is the identity o’ being a weekender, every week in life nearly, and no jist a day-outer. There was the group loyalty and cameraderie that built up. Ye knew that ye’d meet yer pals at certain pubs or bothies. And the transport was collective. Ye took the buses, and ye’d have a guid crack at the back, wi’ a bevy on the wye oot, and stopping for chips on the wye haim. Then somebody would get a van, and away ye’d go, in the days before the M.O.T., nae brakes and baldy tyres, a dozen or so o’ ye singing in the back, no feeling the cauld...’

‘That’s a bit romanticised, surely.’

‘Maybe for you dour East Coasters, but no’ for us men o’ the west. Your personalities were warped by the Cairngorm Hills, hunners of miles fae the road, wi’ nae tops. You never went past the Devil’s Elbow, and if ye did, naebody would understand that funny language ye’ speak, wi’ yer ‘Fogs and fits, and loons and quines’.’

This was too much of an assault on honour to be ignored.

‘You West Coasters are great at getting intae the boozers, but nae sea guid at getting oot and ontae the hill. The hills ye frequent are only staggering distance frae the pubs, and a’ yer bothies are visible frae the road. Jacksonville, now, that’s yer idea o’ heaven, but till you’ve been tae Bob Scott’s or the like, ye’re nae a real mountaineer. Ye even ging camping tae avoid a walk! Camping!’

As they plodded on downhill through a Forestry Commission plantation, insults were exchanged in the same vein. The cars finally hove into sight, a mile or so beyond the forest stile, where a rest was called for.

‘Why did ye no drive the damned thing up tae the gate?’

‘Maybe its us that’s changed. As ye get aulder, ye get mair cautious and plan better. Disaster, the stuff o’ adventure, comes less frequently. Numbers whittle away and social interaction gets muted. Ye re-define your objectives, pleasures become quieter than those o’ frenzied youth. They’ve got tae, or ye’d gie up.’

We could pit that intae it. And the constancy that the hills gie ye, however your life changes. Even the worst weekend gie’s ye something tae remember, some pleasure.’

Over the stile they went, and on to where the other two waited. Minds were working on ideas, silently now. As they reached the vehicles, one of their companions asked ‘How’s the book going?’

‘Mock a’ ye like, but ye wait, we’ll dae it.’

‘What’s going into it?’

There was a pause as a pair of packs was deposited on the ground. Then: ‘ ‘Whit’s gaein intae it?’ ye say. The things that arnae in ither books!’

Here is what was put into it.

CHAPTER 1

The Caves of Arrochar

STRUNG OUT UNTIDILY AROUND the east side of the head of Loch Long, its shoreline often covered with tidal debris, Arrochar has only two obvious claims to fame. These are extravagantly superior toilets, and a magnificent view of the deservedly popular hill called Ben Arthur, better known as the Cobbler – ‘The Jewel in the Crown of the Arrochar Alps’ – as one wit from the Glasgow climbing fraternity used to call it.

The Cobbler occupies a unique place in the history of Scottish climbing, for it was the focal point of its ‘great proletarian revolution’. This was the time during the ’30s and ’40s when the young Clydeside apprentices and their unemployed counterparts took up the then largely middle-class sport of rock climbing, in order to escape the dreariness of the dole or the mundane world of work. It was on the Cobbler, in the late ’40s, that the great genius of John Cunningham and his Creag Dhu contemporaries first became apparent, and it was there that Hamish MacInnes, probably to the dismay of many traditionalists, started experimenting with pitons and other pieces of ironmongery that look suspiciously like bits of motor bike.

Today, with most climbers and walkers having access to cars, the Cobbler is a place to visit only for a day. However, in the 1930s and up until the 1960s, many people, eager for time on the hill, relied on boat, bus or hitch-hiking. As those methods of transport were slow and required relatively high expenditure of time, the Cobbler, when you got there, was a place considered worthy of a weekend’s attention. For many such week-end adventurers, accommodation was a problem. True, the Scottish Youth Hostel Association had a hostel in Glen Loin before they moved down the Loch to Ardgarten. But hostels cost money, and then there were all those rules and regulations. Tents could have solved the problem, but tents were a luxury that even the employed could not afford, and anyway they were heavy and they had to be carried about.

The Narnain Boulders

With hostels and tents excluded on the grounds of cost and inconvenience, attention turned to shelter that was both handy and free. Some favoured the loft of a barn belonging to a generous local farmer called Mr. Paterson, and though it was popular up until the mid-1960s, it was considered to be a rather unheathy place to stay. Crossing the courtyard could be hazardous. A young climber, tired from a day’s work or hiking, could be attacked by small hairy dogs intent on savaging his heels. If he survived that, he then climbed the dark stairs to the evil-smelling loft where, more likely than not, he could be confronted by some of the biggest and boldest rats known to man. Unabashed by the new arrival, they would continue about their business – stealing loaves of bread from hikers’ packs, racing around the corrugated iron sheets that covered the holes in the rotten floor, or holding wrestling contests that used to keep everyone awake at night.

Regulars at the loft used to talk about those rats as if they were merely another group with whom they shared the accommodation. Indeed, it used to be said that they wore ‘bunnets and boots’ – attire that was common to all the habituees. Others did not see the rats in the same light. One group, thinking about spending a night in the loft, turned back down the stairs when they saw the beasts. On walking away, one of their number held out his hands in the exaggerated manner used by disappointed, if not entirely honest, anglers when describing the ‘one that got away’, and was heard to say, ‘Imagine being feart of wee things like that!’

The other aspect that used to put people off the barn was that if the loft was full, there was always the temptation to sleep in a hay wagon that stood directly under the landing at the top of the stairs. The danger was that the young athletes, faculties impaired because of over-refreshment in the local bars, used to crawl out of the loft onto the landing to be sick on the innocents below. Even the rats were not too keen on that behaviour.

The barn declined in popularity, and was dealt a lethal blow one fine summer’s morning when one of its regulars appeared at the bottom of the crags on the Cobbler’s North Peak with large red lumps on his body and face. Among the horrified onlookers was one man who, despite the fact that his medical expertise was based only on a recent reading of a book about the Black Death, nevertheless felt confident enough to declare that the poor guy must have that disease, and that he must have caught it from the rats in the loft. As the afflicted one ran down the hill in terror to find a doctor, the others in the stunned crowd vowed never to use the barn again.

For those who wished to avoid such accommodation made sordid by rats and delinquent climbers, the solution lay in the many caves and stone shelters found in the Cobbler area. Most of these involve an uphill climb, but for those who did not want to expend such energy, or if the weather was bad, the obvious choice was the collection of caves and boulders known as the ‘Arrochar Caves’. These are found by following the Sugach Road, which starts near the police station on the north side of Loch Long, round to the forestry workers’ wooden houses. From there a dirt road heads up Glen Loin, turning left then right before passing a white cottage which used to be occupied by a forestry worker, but which now looks like somebody’s holiday home. The end of the road is marked by a gate beyond which there is a pylon. From this a path leads diagonally through the forest to the caves.

The journey to the Caves after nightfall was, at one time, made very hazardous by the existence of a very old and obnoxious forestry horse, whose idea of a good time was to gallop at unwary travellers as they crossed his field. This only happened at night, and many a hiker was frightened out of his wits as he heard the thundering hooves approaching from an indeterminate direction through the blackness of a moonless night.

On one such night a small band of climbers was making its way across this particular field with the aid of a torch so useless that it gave about as much light as a red-hot nail, when suddenly the surrounding silence was destroyed by the approach of this demented nag. The panic and confusion of the torch-holder was not helped when one of his companions asked for the torch. Thinking that his friend was going to save them by doing something fabulous and brave, like flashing the torch in the eyes of the malevolent creature, he handed it over gladly. The trust of this optimistic fellow was not rewarded, for as soon as his friend had the torch, he disappeared into the darkness, leaving the others to scatter in blind panic, hopefully out of the way of the approaching disaster.

The Caves, a wonderfully strange and convoluted place, though full of dampness, were extremely popular in wet weather. They not only offered shelter and wood for comforting fires, they also provided the bored climber with a variety of diffcult ‘boulder problems’ on which he could practice his craft. The chambers most often used for sleeping in are found at the top end of the Caves, and to reach one of the most popular simply turn left at the end of the path described above. Where progress is blocked by a large rock wall, the cave is on the right. By passing through this chamber and into a rock corridor, one comes to the most famous of the Arrochar Caves. It is instantly recognisable as the large rectangular gallery in the rock about halfway up the left hand face. To gain access to it some simple rock climbing must be done up the arrete on the right. Inside, the floor of the cave is split into two, and on the upper level of the left hand side near the back, there is a small hole which, with a bit of a squeeze, allows access to an underground chamber. From here an easy descent can be made to a small underground loch. Back in the rock corridor, it is possible to follow this around to another popular chamber used by generations of climbers as a bedroom. And, indeed, although the recent growth of forest makes it difficult to follow Borthwick’s description, this may be the cave whose social life in the 1930s was so vividly recreated in his book Always a little Further.

There are some disadvantages in using the Caves. Water has to be carried over very rough ground from the stream to the northeast of the main chambers. Sometimes the caves are very damp, and they can drip during wet weather, with the result that the accommodation, even the large caves described above, could be a lot less spacious than would at first be thought. Moreover, in order to avoid the drips, would-be sleepers often found they had to lie in a very contorted fashion. Despite these drawbacks, weekends in the Caves were always lively, for there was always plenty of people with whom to share a fire, sing songs and swap tales of derring do. The breed of men who spent their time there was not the kind who were only interested in the climbing, and who would, therefore, disappear back to Glasgow if the weather was inclement. On the contrary, they considered themselves not mere climbers, but ‘weekenders’ – men who enjoyed getting out into the country and living rough. They took pride in their ability to make themselves comfortable in adverse conditions, and they enjoyed the company of like minds with whom they could have a bit of ‘crack’. Because of this, initiates hungry for tales of mountain characters and adventures could, in those caves, first hear about Tam’s crowd and the great bus conductress pie assault caper. Or they may have listened in awe to the almost mythical tales of the trials of strength between Wee Davy of the Creag Dhu and Big Jim of the S.M.C. Another favorite they might have heard was the one about Black Rab and the Burning of the Boat.

If they wanted to escape the dampness of the Caves, a small party could always make their way up the path on the right hand side of the Allt Sugach burn. At about 300 feet above the floor of Glen Loin, diagonally across from a large rhododendron bush, they would find a delightfully dry cave that accommodates three or four people. This cave used to be called the Secret Doss. Hikers and climbers new to the delights of the area got to hear about it from more knowledgeable kindred spirits who, on assessing the genuinesss of the newcomer, would tell him of the secret, warning him ‘It’s a Secret Doss, so keep it under your hat.’ After some time, however, the newcomer would find that this was not exactly the best kept secret in the world, for almost everyone he met knew about it. The location of the cave is even described in the latest rock climbing guide to Arrochar, so the Secret Doss is no secret any more.

Not everyone wanted to stay down in the glen, and the weather was not always so bad that shelter had to be sought in the Caves. For many, fine weather meant shouldering a full pack and heading up the hill to stay under one of the boulders found in what was known as the Cobbler Corrie. One of the most popular of those dosses is found under the most southerly of the two huge Narnain Stones, which, during some primeval disruption, must have trundled down from Ben Narnain to their present position on the east side of the Buttermilk Burn on the present-day path to the Cobbler.

Unfortunately, no-one seems to use this as a doss nowadays. The protecting wall which used to leave only a small hole for entry has been broken down and the floor, littered with debris left by thoughtless day visitors, is very muddy. Up until the mid-1960s, however, this place provided a solid and dry shelter for the mountain traveller and as a consequence it buzzed with life after other visitors had dropped down into the glen below.

The principal pastime of an evening was contests of strength and balance upon the hard problems found on the boulders. Here the dictum that climbing is a non-competitive sport was proven to be false. Groups of climbers tended to concentrate on one problem at a time, each member having a go in turn, watched intently by the others. Not only did the climber have to contend with the difficulty of the problem, but his concentration was usually assaulted by ‘advice’ which was designed for the amusement of the onlookers and the distraction of the combatant. Thus, just as he would be inching his left foot towards a minute hold, eyes full of sweat, arms rapidly disintegrating into painful and useless appendages, he would hear someone enquire about the stability of the foot on which he was standing. Often this was enough to send the unfortunate climber clattering down onto what could be a muddy landing.

The sleeping accommodation under the boulder was limited and had to be carefully arranged, with the smallest being slotted into the tapering recess at the back of the cave. Such a claustrophobic position was distasteful to some, and there is a famous story of the time when five young Glasgow climbers packed themselves under the stone for the night. Everything was peaceful enough until the small hours when everyone was wrenched from sleep by a cry from deep within the recess. ‘The boulder’s falling! The boulder’s falling!’ With hearts thumping in their chests each man suddenly threw his hands against the roof in an attempt to stop the imaginary catastrophe. Then, realising that they must have looked very peculiar lying on their backs straining to stop, with their bare hands, a multiton piece of rock from falling on them, they simultaneously burst into laughter that was both hysterical and relieved.

A few hundred yards above the Narnain Boulders the path to the Cobbler crosses the Buttermilk Burn, and then climbs the hill above diagonally until it attains some flat ground. Above is a rather rotten, shallow gully that splits a rockface in two. About halfway up the gully, on the right hand face, is a slight overhang which gives some protection to a sleeping platform known as ‘Martin’s Doss.’ Martin, the man who made this place his own, was a burly, wild-looking chap who hiked around the Arrochar hills dressed in a Glengarry and kilt. He must have been hardy, for this doss does not give much protection from the elements. Accordingly, ‘Martin’s’ was not all that popular, used only when other dosses were occupied, or by people who had run out of steam when heading for the ‘High Doss’.

However, it was occupied one moonless night by a bizarre group of climbers who professed a belief in black magic. They were always going off into bothies with their black candles and their inverted crosses, saying the Lord’s Prayer backwards in order to get old Beelzebub to show himself. Maybe they wanted to sell their souls in exchange for being good climbers, but whatever it was they were never successful in their enterprise.

On the night in question, the Narnain Boulders were occupied by some lads who were a bit sceptical, not only about blackmagic but also about the converts’ strength of belief. To test their theory, they waited until it was quite dark before making their way silently to the flat ground below Martin’s. There they spread themselves out in a semi-circle. Each man had a torch and periodically he would hold it under his face and turn it on for a few seconds. On the platform above the occupants were too busy with their hocus-pocus to notice at first, but unease began to creep through the group as one by one they caught a fleeting glimpse of a light-distorted visage apparently suspended in dark space. Eventually, after several sightings the mood of the group changed from unease to terror, and finally one tall, skinny lad with a pimply face began to croak: ‘Lads! He’s here – that’s him!’ This apparent but unexpected success of their devilish practices threw them into a terrible confusion, and as their hidden tormentors slipped away in the dark, there followed a heated conversation about what they should do.

The next day the outcome of their debate, along with an account of the night’s happenings were reported to their apparently naive ‘friends’ from the Narnain Boulders. Much to the latters’ suppressed delight, they heard how it was decided a sacrifice had to be made, and that a particular wee, harmless man should go out and confront this apparition. He went out reluctantly, protesting all the time, his eyes like silver dollars. And of course he found nothing. Despite this, the events of the previous night were reported with some satisfaction by the Martin’s crowd, who saw it as some kind of vindication of their beliefs. The others merely nodded and kept the secret of the apparitions to themselves.