Anywhere else

So Suilven.  Big fat mountain or possibly hill.  I'm not particularly fussy about such details.  A challenge is what you make it.  Having driven into the Assynt area, it dominated the approach, and yes, it had to be achieved somehow. I hesitate to use the word "climbed" because to me these days that involves ropes and rock shoes and clanking of jingly jangly shiny odd things.  Walked perhaps or maybe scrambled.  I may have spent too much time mulling over my current reading matter of Muriel Grey's First Fifty about her Munro bagging exploits.  No relation to Fifty Shades of Grey I must add.  I expect she's quietly tittering about that possible connection.  Maybe she has had more sales because of it, who knows.  Readers expecting the same thing will be disappointed, but me, I'm enjoying the book, although it's the slowest read ever for me because evenings consist of the night falling around the van, followed by me turning off the light knackered by 8:30, with only a chapter read.  I'm doing worn out rather well.

This is the kind of view that drew me in.

With a little help from the Cicerone Scottish guide book and the Backpackers Highlands book I identified the perfect route.  Not the shortest route, where's the fun in that, but the route from Inverkirkaig past the Kirkaig Falls.  Picture here explains why that was a good plan ...

Autumnal or what, eh?  The route had me approach Suilven from the south side, after a walk in of over 3 hours.  It was a two dayer, so I was packing weight. 50 litre rucksack, which to my credit I did not fill, after all, just because there's room doesn't mean you should load it, does it?  And I tried to travel light, despite the obvious need for water, sleeping bag, thermarest and the just in case tent. 

After walking with that weight and feeling it in shoulders and hips, I stood at the base of the mountain (or hill, whatever ...) and thought oh shit.  This is bloody immense, it's high, it's steep and oh joy of joys, it's a scree scramble, my favorite (said with an enormous treacle coat of sarcasm).  And there I was, already feeling the weight of the world (well, OK my rucksack) on my shoulders, strength and balance all uncertain.  But there was still a hill to be scaled (neatly avoiding use of word climb there), and there was all the time in the world.  As the words at the top of my stairs at home say, Every Journey Begins with a Single Step.  In other words just start moving and then keep moving.  Simples, eh?  The ascent (see, another non climb word) was slow and painful but at least it was steady, every footstep placed with care, every angle of my body considered with rucksack weight balanced.  And I reached the first saddle (or are we calling it a Col) in the sunshine.  Which conveniently turned to cloud just as I made the west pinnacle of Suilven.  No photo opportunity there then.  A simple slide, shuffle and scamper took me down the north side, and included a lengthy chat with a tattoed and pierced geyser I found lurking on the Col (we talked about the state of our knees; I felt old), followed by a discussion with men with guns and camo gear which was a tad disconcerting if I'm honest.  I suspect my burgundy Rab Alpine jacket saved me from being shot at though by standing out from the scree and heather as the hunters eyed up the stag I nonchalently walked past.  The ongoing walk took me along peaty moors, lowland lochs, unpathed navigation to a landrover track, and just as the rain began once again to show its strength, there it was, the bothy.  Home for the night.

And because it somehow makes sense, a little Lily Allen to brighten the day.