30 September A View From Cairnsmore Of Fleet

What would life be if once bereft,
Of wildness and wetness? Let them be left.
Oh, let them be left, the wildness and wet,
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Jimmy’s Caravan seemed crowded. Roomy though it is, with eleven of us (nine Ooters and two wives) sitting round, tucking into bacon rolls provided by Elizabeth, and all blethering at the same time, the living room definitely seemed crowded.
We were to meet Jimmy and Johnny at Jimmy’s Galloway hideaway and had driven down to Newton Stewart through a mixture of blue skies and a claggy drizzle that occasionally brightened the valleys but kept the hilltops hidden in blanket fog. The objective of the day was the summit of Cairnsmore of Fleet, new territory for all but Jimmy. We had chosen this particular Cairnsmore because somebody had heard of the remarkable views from it and Jimmy confirmed this to be the case, having been on its summit more times than he cared to remember. But our leader was well aware of the hill conditions this morning and had thought up alternative low-level walks, walks that greatly appealed to Allan. And by the time the Killie contingent arrived, the decision had been made. Are we not men, men of considerable calibre? Yes we are. Are we terrified of a bit of weather? No we’re not. We would conquer that mountain despite anything nature threw at us. Yet we sat long in Jimmy’s caravan and enjoyed our bacon rolls.
When we did start walking, it was already half past eleven and the fog was still down on the summit. But we had a twenty minute walk into the base of the hill for the new car park is much lower than the old one, so there was time yet for the clag to clear. We set off up the Cairnsmore House road full of the joys of living, Davie and Jimmy at the front setting a good pace. Up through a wood showing signs of autumn colour we went, round Cairnsmore Farm we went, and up to where Jimmy pointed out the old car park. He hadn’t got us lost, so far.
At the end of the track was a gate into a field. There was no sign of a path here. Our leader wasn’t lost, was he? But Jimmy opened the gate and strode purposefully across the field. Whether he had noticed the cows lying in the middle of the field before we got into it, we don’t know but he made a line that would take us right though the middle of the herd. And we followed. It wasn’t until we were nearly on him that we saw the bull, barely twenty feet from us. He raised his head, gave us a look, realised we were no threat to his harem and went back to his lazy rumination, much to the relief of some of our number who were already eyeing up escape routes. And Jimmy’s line took us through the herd to the far corner of the field where we found the path for the Cairnsmore.
The way steepened now but not excessively so and the walking was comfortable. We were in a mature conifer plantation so the views were limited; only behind us could we see the grey-green grass of the merse and equally grey water of the Cree meanders. Ahead of us, the path rose into the mist. Now Robert got to the front and set a fair old pace on the upward. Sweat built up with nowhere to go, damp air congealed in globules on fleeces and a few spots of rain were felt. It was a soggy group that stopped to don waterproofs. Perhaps Jimmy had the right idea. Rather than pull on an extra layer, he stripped off his fleece and walked in his cool-max shirt for, despite the damp, the day was far from cold and the climbing was hot. Sweat built up inside waterproofs.
We crossed the forest road, examined the stone seat commemorating Rosemary Pilkington and continued the climb in the trees of the plantation, totally unaware of the wind springing up. But when we cleared the trees, we became aware of it rather quickly. Even the hardy Jimmy was forced to get into waterproofs to cut the bite of the damp blow. Then the rain came.
Wind driven rain battered into us for a few minutes but went again before we reached the style in the fence. The waterproofs remained though, as we climbed upwards to the remains of a drystane dyke. We stopped here for the view. According to our leader the view of the windings of the Cree from here is superb. We had to take his word for that for the view today was limited to the thirty yards or so we could peer through the fog and, given the fog, wind and smirr, we didn’t linger to listen to his description of the view we might have seen. We walked on into the clag.
Walking into the clag might be one thing but the path ran with yesterday’s rainwater and we felt that we were walking into a burn as well. It was inches deep in some places and flowed down the breadth of the path making it difficult to avoid. And the ground on each side of it was just as watery. Feet as well as bodies now felt the wet. The joie de vivre of earlier had dissolved in the mist and was blown away in the wind. It was now heads down and plod upwards through the water and into the weather.
The path steepened now; steepened, but didn’t dry in any way, and water gushed over boots. Rex and Alan now took up the challenge of being leaders. It has been said before and will be said again, it is a bad move to let Rex get to the front on a climb. Today was no exception. Rex ploughed on, head down into the wind, fog and smirr. Alan, Davie and Jimmy went with him for a while but the rest were wiser and climbed at a reasonable rate. Then even Davie and Alan fell off the pace leaving only Rex and Jimmy at the front.
On the summit plateau, the path split and the fast thought it a good idea to wait for the rest, just in case. Bodies were counted as they appeared out of the clag. Davie came first followed by Paul then Robert. Some time passed before the trio of Allan, Johnny and Ronnie could be heard above the wind even before their solid shapes materialised. All nine of us were together again.
The togetherness didn’t last though. Rex and Jimmy took off like whippets and again we were strung out along the path. All came past the monument to the aircrews that lost their lives in crashes on this summit with barely a sideways glance, across the flat top and onto the summit cairn. Here we found the fast pair ensconced in the shelter provided by a drystane built enclosure. Two hours after leaving the cars, we ‘lunched’ here. Still the wind and mizzle persisted.
Two hours it took for the climb that Jimmy said would take and hour and a half. We are all well aware of Jimmy’s propensity to underestimate distance (hence Jimmy miles!) but now a new phrase has entered the language of the Ooters – ‘Jimmy hours’ are anything between a standard hour and two of the same.
The clag was still as thick as ever and our leader started to tell us of the view we should have had from this summit. ‘Looks pretty similar to the view from Windy Standard, Ben Lomond, Lowther Hill ...........’ said Davie, recounting some of our foggy climbs of the last year or two. But the cold wind and numbing fog had gotten to the leader for he had no response. And the cold was getting to us all now so it was time to move on.
Allan and Johnny left first, followed by Alan and Jimmy then Rex. The rest took a minute or two to gather themselves together and followed in the wake.
A few cold minutes were spent examining the monument to the airmen of many nationalities – German, Polish, British, Canadian, New Zealanders and Australians – who lost their lives in crashes on this particular hill. Sadly, none of the dead had reached their thirtieth birthday.
But the wind was chilling and there was the threat of more rain so we moved on. Jimmy set the pace to build up the body heat, and a cracking pace he set. He seemed determined to prove his three-hour round trip theory. Rex, Johnny, Robert and Alan went with him, the others had more sense. Eventually others saw sense, slowed to a reasonably fast speed and watched as Jimmy and Rex disappeared downward into the fog. There was no halt on this downward section for there was no need; the slope wasn’t too steep, there was no view and the wind was nippy. Anyway, the fast two were well in front and would hardly stop just to suit the rest of us. We followed as fast as our wee legs would take us. It didn’t take long to reach the tree level. In the shelter of the trees, there was no wind and the body temperature rose immediately. And it was in the shelter of the trees that we found the fast pair waiting for us.
We waited for the tail-enders to arrive and, with everybody together again, wandered down the path between the trees. The fog cleared as we approached the forest road and down the line of the forest break there was a view at last, stretching from the meanderings of the Cree immediately below us, to the high ground of the central Machars; away to the south, through a gap in the trees we could see the sun glint on the distant Solway. ‘See, told you the view was superb’ said our leader.
The sun shone in the south but no sun shone on us and we continued downward under the clag that topped our hill, downward at a much more sedate pace now. The cows were away in a corner of the field when we came to the edge of it, Johnny Bull amongst them keeping watch. We crossed the field without danger of goring this time and came to the track round the farm. An easy fifteen-minute stroll took us down through the autumn wood and back to the car park for around three.
Post walk, we retired to Johnny’s Kirkcowan retreat to partake of his legendary hospitality. Johnny and Helen supplied the lentil soup and bread, and Robert brought the apple crumble. The kitty provided the funds for liquid refreshment and a convivial hour or so was spent. The highlight of the visit was a tour of the Matthews' estate, an outhouse full of materials for renovation of the house and an enormous garden that Johnny and Helen, with a little assistance from at least one of our company, have recovered from the weeds.

Altogether, this was a different kind of day for us. Despite the climb in the cold clag, it was a good day out and our thanks must go to the suppliers of the food. Well done to all.