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.

21 May Loch Katrine Cycle

‘Stand! What seek ye in McGregor country?’ - Helen McGregor in Walter Scott’s ‘Rob Roy’.

The dry spell continues. But, contrary to the trend, today was overcast and there was a cool easterly breeze, not a strong breeze but there nevertheless. The option was for a bike run and Davie’s suggestion from last year that we go to McGregor country around Loch Katrine was put on schedule for today. We hoped the long journey north would be worth it. Were we disappointed?
Eleven o’clock saw us at the Loch Katrine steamer pier. The weather had improved slightly on the journey. A weak sun broke through but it was far from bright and Jimmy, the seasoned cyclist detected the direction of the breeze. His warning to the rest to take it easy for the wind would push us faster than was good for us was acknowledge by the group who then took off along the loch-shore road like schoolboys released early from class. The only thing missing was the whooping but perhaps they whooped into themselves. Jimmy and Davie were left to bring up the rear. Still, considerate souls that we are, the fast waited for the slow pair three quarters of a mile along the road. We were together now. At least until the first climb.
This first climb wasn’t too steep but it was enough to separate the men from the boys, and the boys from he who suffers on such things. Bob nearly had Jimmy off. Riding beside Davie, he never noticed Jimmy on his outside. Having said something humorous to his companion, he veered across the wheel of Jimmy causing him to brake sharply and wobble fiercely. James said something less than humorous to Robert whose ears are probably burning yet. Still no real harm done and we continued.
The road still ran through the trees and only offered the occasional glimpses of the loch and a world beyond. And, as it continued to undulate, the group would split up and come together again depending on the direction and degree of slope. Then we were out of the trees and the landscape opened up. Elevenses called, late for it was now nearly quarter to twelve, and we found a grassy slope overlooking the loch to Ben Venue beyond and sat for coffee. Ben Lomond showed, far clearer today than it was the day we climbed it at the end of April. And coffee was taken while also taking in the hillscape of the Trossachs.
It is pleasing to note that Davie’s coffee doesn’t affect his biking as it does his walking and after elevenses he continued to bring up the rear, sometimes with one companion sometimes with us all but never alone. We passed the Clan Gregor cemetery for this is McGregor country. Davie had hoped to stop here to visit but the hasty sped on regardless. We did stop at the board describing the building of the reservoir in the eighteen-fifties and Paul told us more about this and about the Royal Cottage. But some seemed in a hurry and we moved on. Then Paul picked up the pace. Alan and Robert went with him and left Davie and Jimmy to bring up the rear.
Glengyle House, built on the site of Rob Roy’s birthplace, was examined in the passing and it was good to note renovation work being carried out. Then we were round the west end of the loch and running towards Stronachlachar. Geese had been honking among the islands in the loch almost from the start and the fast three spotted a group close to the shore and stopped to look. ‘Canada geese’, said our fledgling birder confidently. All agreed but waited for confirmation from the naturalist. We are definitely turning into a group of twitchers. The obligatory Buzzard was spotted by Jimmy and Davie who were once again bringing up the rear. The fast three waited at Stronachlachar and lunch was taken here.
A cheeky wee robin joined us and fed on Robert and Davie’s peece even perching on Robert’s shoulder at one point. The shelfie wasn’t quite as tame and kept a respectful distance. But each entertained us in its own way. And this is how the peece was taken. We are definitely turning into a group of twitchers.
The sky clouded over as we sat and there was a threat of rain. But it came to nothing though the sun never appeared again. Paul was eager to visit the water intake from Loch Arklet and the Royal Cottage. A split decision saw three for the extra distance and two for the return journey. They said they would travel slowly and we believed them. Why do we continue to believe each other?
The three stalwarts set off and within the mile were dismounted examining the intake. The standard of Victorian engineering was highly thought of and the structure of the intake works was compared favourably with what we thought modern engineering would produce. But are we just auld fuddy-duddies? Then we retraced the steps, remounted and set off towards the Royal Cottage. This ‘cottage’ is a substantial building, more like a shooting lodge or country house hotel. It was built for Queen Victoria when she came to open the water works, another example of Victorian opulence. Though it is still in remarkably good condition, having been lived in until recently, it is now boarded up. The outflow from the loch towards Glasgow is here also and this had to be examined also. New, locked gates prevented a direct approach but the intrepid took a bypass route through the shrubbery. Jimmy was protecting a dodgy knee so didn’t accompany the other two. ‘Pity’, said Alan, ‘for it’s well worth a visit’. Jimmy took his word. Then we were back on the bikes for the return journey.
Meanwhile the advance two had made it as far as the Clan Gregor graveyard and stopped for a look. As Davie approached the gate, two geese took off from behind the wall with much honking and flapping of wings. Whether the geese or Davie got the bigger fright is open for discussion but Davie was asking for his brown trousers. A close inspection of the gravestones revealed some as early as the sixteen hundreds. Yet the most famous of all McGregors is not buried here. Rob Roy is buried in Balquidder. Ten minutes after the ’goosing’ the two were remounted and travelling ‘slowly’ (their word) back along the road.
Jimmy left the other two at Stronachlachar with the intention of catching the advanced pair. We were now in three groups. Davie and Robert to the front, Jimmy motoring on to close the gap and Alan and Paul trying to close the gap on Jimmy. A sparrowhawk flew across Jimmy’s path in pursuit of a pigeon. Jimmy flew on in pursuit of the first pair. He never caught them. Ten minutes after the pair arrived at the car park Jimmy arrived. Alan and Paul arrived five minutes after this having spotted the buzzard along the road. We ALL came back quicker than we went out.
Were we disappointed in the day? Not a bit of it. A thoroughly enjoyable experience, bums notwithstanding. Thirty miles for some, twenty six for others.

Refreshment was taken at the Lade Inn at Kilmahog near Callander. Some (not Jimmy) would like it recorded that Robert said something humorous (this is twice in one day) as Jimmy was in mid-swaly. The combination of swallow and laughing caused a dose of hiccups in Jimmy that persisted during refreshment and as far south as the Bothwell services on the way home. We hope he is fully recovered for next week.