8 July Ben A'an

A wildering forest feathered o’er
His ruined sides and summit hoar,
While on the north, through middle air,
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

From; The Lady of the Lake
By Walter Scott

Ben A’an in the Trossachs has been neglected by the Ooters for far too long. The 14th of June 2006, was the one and only time we went as a group. Today we were to put this right.
Seven of us travelled north to the car park beside Loch Vennacher that was the starting point for the short climb of the hill. The day was to be short for in the afternoon we were visiting the incapacitated Robert to help in his recuperation – beer and pakora are well-known restoratives.
The walk was to be short and the pace easy. Yet, from the outset, Jimmy was champing at the bit, raring to go, prowling around the car park while the rest of us were drawing ourselves together. Needless to say it was Jimmy who led the way on the first part of the climb.
This first part of the climb was a delight. The path climbed through the ‘wildering forest’ of mixed deciduous and coniferous woodland that clothed the lower slopes. The sun shone above the canopy and dappled the tree trunks and forest floor with pools of brightness. The path was dry and climbed over rocks and boulders. Yes, this was a delightful part and might have been even more delightful if those at the front had set a sensible pace. Some couldn’t enjoy the delights of the woods for gasping for breath as they tried to keep up. Eventually we were split into two groups, the sane to the rear and Jimmy, Paul and Rex away in front.
We passed a young couple. ‘Hello’, said Rex. ‘Bonjour’, came the reply. For a brief second we were transported to Mosset again. The sun, the trees, the dry, stony ground and the cheery ‘Bonjour’, and we were back in La Belle France. But our reverie was broken by a shout from the rear for a ‘view stop’. We let the French couple pass us again while we gathered together for our ‘view stop’.
This was to be the pattern for the day. Climb a bit, rest a bit; climb a bit, rest a bit. And let the French couple overtake us again. Our next stop, and a fairly long stop it was for a breather, came at the bridge over the burn. The French couple passed us again.
It was noticed here that your scribbler was the only bare-head* today, everybody else sporting hats of various description. To say Johnny is proud of his hat is an understatement and every available opportunity was taken to draw our attention to it. Dressed as he was today in his desert khakis, he reminded us of somebody. Rex put his finger on it immediately. Henceforth, Johnny will be known as Indiana.

With Johnny’s hat duly admired for the umpteenth time, and not for the last, we walked on, ever upward. Somewhere in the trees we lost the sun and the day turned slightly overcast but lost none of its heat. The trees thinned and the path levelled for a bit. Then, through a gap in the foliage Ben A’an could be seen ‘heaving high his forehead bare’. And an impressive forehead it is. The naked rock rises almost vertically on our side and it looked as though there was no way up to its ‘forehead’. Yet, those who knew, that was all except Allan, knew that there was a path all the way to the top, a steep path in places but a walkable path.
Coffee was called as we cleared the trees and was taken on a level grassy area just off the path.
It took the midgies some time to find us, perhaps because, learning a lesson from last week, we all wore long trousers today. So coffee was a relaxed affair. The French couple passed us for the last time as we sat. The next we would see of them was on the summit. But, eventually the midgies found us and we knew it was time for us move on.
The flat ground didn’t last. Almost immediately after coffee we were climbing again. Who let Johnny get to the front we don’t really know but this won’t happen again. With the directional instincts of a bouncing rugby ball, he led us up a steep, rocky path only to be stopped by a rock face rising in front. We had no option but to clamber down rocks into the stony bed of a burn, much to the consternation of the lithophobes©, then clamber up more rocks on the other side to find the path we should have taken. Indiana won’t lead again.
The path continued steeply for a while yet before easing off on the east shoulder of the hill. Now we had a gentle walk and a short climb to the bare, rocky summit of the hill. What an international groups met us on top. Apart from the French couple, a cheery ‘Bon giorno’ identified an Italian family. The English pair were next followed by a Glasgow grandfather pointing out the distant hills to his grandson.
For such a low eminence, Ben A’an must have one of the best views in Scotland. Even in today’s overcast conditions the view was superb. Loch Katrine lay directly below running away to the west showing us its full eight miles length. To the south of the loch rose Ben Venue. Walter Scott describes it better than I can:

High on the south, huge Benvenue
Down on the lake in masses threw
Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurl’d,
The fragments of an earlier world;
A wildering forest feather’d o’er
His ruined sides and summit hoar.

In the distant west, the Arrochar Alps formed the horizon and in the north-west, Ben More at Crianlarich. Behind us, on the skyline, Ben Ledi showed. It’s little wonder that Scott’s poetic muse was awakened here.
Due south, in the blue distance away beyond Dumgoyne, a darker blue mass showed. Debate ensued as to what this might be. Some were for Arran but it lacked the ruggedness; some for the Renfrew Heights but it wasn’t extensive enough in the east-west direction. One even suggested the Galloway Hills. Further research by the scribe proved this to be The Rhinns of Kells in Galloway, a distance of some ninety-odd miles ATCF.
As we took lunch on the summit, we were joined by many others of differing ages and sexes. Before long, the top was crowded and it was time for us to move on again.
We shunned the tourist path we had just climbed in favour of a route less trodden, down the west side of the hill. This should have been easy but a few hundred feet from the top, Indiana found the hole. A deep hole it was, and mucky. Fortunately it was only one foot that found it but poor Indi was clarted up to the knee, his pale khaki trousers turned a dark peaty brown. Sympathy was dealt out in the usual Ooters manner.
Still we came down, on a path that was gradually being overgrown by summer greenery. What should have been a reasonably easy descent was turning into something other. Then there was the burn to cross. Then there came a point when the summer growth, bracken in this instance, became so lush that it towered above our heads. We felt like that well known African tribe trying to find a way through the jungle. If it wasn’t for the fact that there was the trace of a path visible underfoot, we might have been lost altogether in the jungle of bracken fronds. Still, as was pointed out, we would only be there until the bracken died down in the autumn.
When we left the bracken, we entered a wood. This was only slightly easier than the ferns. The path steepened and ran over slippery tree roots and boulders on its descent. At one point there came a bog which meant a diversion around it. Just as Jimmy said ‘Don’t go that....’ Indiana was already up to the knees in glaur again. Now both legs of his khakis turned dirty brown and the water seeped into his boots from the top. It just wasn’t Johnny’s day.
But the trees (and bogs) were negotiated successfully by the rest of us and we found ourselves on the loch-side road with only Johnny looking worse for wear. The mile and a half of the road back to the car park was a casual affair by comparison, broken only by a ten-minute stop at the Loch Katrine pier-head.

Robert’s garden caught the sun. When we visited him to sympathise/gloat/mock, he had pakora ready. The depute treasurer had invested in a lake of beer and a mountain of crisps all for the princely sum of £23. (Watch out keeper of the purse, this was even better value than you provided last week.) The afternoon was spent in the usual convivial Ooters way.
Robert was looking well after his operation. Perhaps he will be with us again earlier that first thought.

* While it might be humorous to make comments about the lack of hair when reading this phrase, your scribe refrained from making such. Please have the courtesy to do the same. Us skin-heads are sensitive people.

© Jim Johnstone 2009.