Having finally finished the book on my Scottish Watershed
walk and with a visit to the giant OutDoor Show in Friedrichshafen coming up a
night out in the hills to clear my head seemed a good idea. With no plans I
spread some maps out on the floor – always a pleasure in itself – to see if
anything sprung out at me. It did. Beinn a’Chlachair. Or rather the long broad
summit ridge of Beinn a’Chlachair. I remembered it was one of the many places
stored in my memory as a potential spot for a night out ‘one day’. For Beinn a’Chlachair
that day had come. The forecast sounded perfect – barely a breeze, perhaps some
mist but mostly superb visibility. Ideal for a high camp and definitely not
good for a low one in midge season.
Beinn a’ Chlachair is in the Central Highlands, opposite
Creag Meagaidh, an hour and a half from home – well, it would have been but for
a delayed lunch in Aviemore. I set out late under cloudy skies for the long
walk-in. Beinn a’Chlachair sits well-back from the road.
After weeks of dry weather the streams were low, the ground
hard and dusty. Great swathes of white cotton grass covered flat marshy
meadows. Ahead I could patches of snow high on the walls of Coire Mor a’Chlachair.
Leaving the track I headed for the eastern arm of this corrie, a steep but easy
way to the summit ridge. This is normally boggy ground. I was in mesh trail
shoes. My feet stayed dry.
Looking back I could see a band of golden orange
light on the far horizon as the sun started to cut below the clouds. A sign of
good weather for the next day. Maybe.
On the ridge I approached the final stony rise to the summit
then pitched the tent on some mossy ground. There was no sound. Nothing. Not a
whisper of wind, not a distant bird call. Just silence amidst the vastness of
the hills.
The quiet wasn’t to last. The gentle patter of light rain
woke me during the early hours. I peered out. Mist enveloped the tent. No dawn
colours to get me up early. A few hours later I woke again. Still mist. Drops
of moisture hung on every speck of moss, shimmering in a gentle breeze. I felt
very peaceful.
The mists were beginning to lift as I wandered up to the
summit of Beinn a’Chlachair. Distant hills appeared, flat and grey under the
clouds. Looking back my tent was a tiny dark speck on the huge expanse of the
mountain.
Back in camp I had a look at the map before packing up. My
plan had been to continue on to two more Munros, Geal Charn and Creag Pitridh,
before descending back to Glen Spean and my car. Why? Because I’d always done
these three hills together in the past so it seemed obvious without thinking
about it. Between them lies the deep cleft of the Bealach Leamhain. The descent
off the eastern end of Beinn a’Chlachair to this pass is steep and rocky –
easier going up than down – or steep and grassy if you go off the northern
side. On the map I spotted a path I didn’t remember from earlier trips going
down the southern side and linking with the path through the bealach. Curious I
decided to look for it.
Finding the top of the path was quite difficult. Even using
Viewranger and GPS. The latter told me I was standing on the path. Maybe. I
couldn’t see it though. I set off, smartphone in hand. I was on the right line
and soon indications of a path appeared and then became clearer. It took a
slanting line across the slope until the angle eased and then headed straight
down. Mostly it was clear though little-used. Very occasionally there were
cairns. An old stalking path I guessed, cleverly built. It deserves more use.
Soon Loch a’Bhealaich Leamhain appeared with Geal Charn
rising above it. The path through the bealach runs high above the water, along
a terrace through steep craggy slopes. Another fine line in a grand situation.
Rocks, water, steepness, the circled head of the loch-filled corrie. Elemental.
White stars caught my attention. I looked down. Four-petalled, dark centred
flowers looked back up. Dwarf cornel. Masses of them spread over the hillside.
Emerging out of the rocks above the bealach the view opened
out and gentler slopes spread out to the forests of Glen Spean with big bulky
Beinn Teallach and Creag Meagaidh rising above them. There was just the long
walk out left. I’d lost any interest in the other Munros. The day was hot now
and plodding up more stony slopes didn’t appeal.
The walk out was flower-rich but bird-poor. Yellow
tormentil, bird’s foot trefoil, coltsfoot. The cotton grass dominating from a
distance. Pale purple orchids rising through long grass. Purple wild thyme on
stonier ground. Lower down tall foxgloves, white and purple. An occasional
little frog hoped across my path, managing to stay green and wet despite the
arid conditions. Damselflies and dragonflies skimmed over the flowers. Clegs
tried to bite me but were easily swatted away. They weren’t as determined as
they often are. Maybe the heat made them lethargic. There were no midges. A few
meadow pipits fluttered across my path, brown and inconspicuous. Twice a
skylark rose straight up, singing loudly. Up on the hill I’d seen a flock of a
dozen ptarmigan. That was it for birds. No grouse in the heather, no waders in
the bogs. I wondered why and came up with no answers.
