I asked my neighbour's son ‘so, have you been to the top?’ indicating the
hill behind our houses.
‘Yeah’ he answered with all the certainty of a 14 year old, ‘but there
was nothing up there’. I didn't answer, the conversation not worth pursuing.
The first few hundred feet are heart breaking, lung stretching toil. Your
mind can think of little but the heave of your chest and flexing of your
ankles…and then it becomes a little steeper. The grass gives way to a jumble of
rocks interspersed with tortured, stunted birch trees. Small streams cut
through, making steps in the rock, although steep, the going here is slightly
easier, just watch for the loose rocks, their coating of algae making them all
the more treacherous.
With surprising suddenness you are though and on to a more level patch,
although level is a relative term up here. A small flat area with a patch of
dead bracken, red gold in the early light provides a place to take a breather.
The dog however is still keen so you press on. As you turn a woodcock flushes
from beneath your feet, the only sound the sharp flit of its wings as it falls
over the edge of the hill into the safety of the birches. Before long another
ridge rears before you, not so steep but covered in rank, knee deep heather and
tussocks of moor grass. From a distance the high lifting gait you adopt must
appear comical, but there is no one to see you. Another hundred feet sees you
to the top of this bank, as soon as you hit the crest, there is the
heartbreaking sight of yet another ridge blocking your way. This one is
unassailable without some climbing, not being in the mood for this you stroll
along the foot of the ridge until it starts to comes down to meet you. Here at
the foot of the ridge the vegetation is more sparse, huge rocks emerge like the
backs of fossilised whales, complete with a crusting of lichen barnacles.
Some call this landscape colourless; to you it’s a blazing cacophony of
shades and hues. Every tone of brown, grey, green, yellow and red is here. From
a lichen so improbably lime green to a pure white lump of quartz. From the
black, black peaty pools to the violet hues of the moor grass in the
distance…and that’s before the sun has come out to gild the tops of the nearby
mountains with a rich, regal orange glow.
You are nearing the place where the ridge has dropped to meet your
level, you can take a step up and then walk back along the top, parallel to the
path you just walked but higher. Another five minutes walk up the steady
incline of this hogs-back ridge and you come to a perfect view point. You can
see most of the loch from here, all the way to the open sea some five miles
away to the south. A creel boat is carving the water, getting out to his
grounds before the weather turns. Look north and you may see the post bus in
the distance making its way around the head of the loch just a small red smudge
against the huge conical hills beyond the road. Look to the west and try not to
feel daunted by the sheer cliffs rising behind you, their outcrops of icicles
looking like something form another world. Above the cliffs you can just see
the peaks of the mountains beyond, a dusting of snow contrasting sharply with
the elephant grey of the ancient weathered rock.
As you stand and stare an odd ‘cronk’ sounds from the distance, a pair
of ravens are dancing, the sky their ballroom. Their intricate moves cement the
bonds of the pair, another clutch of eggs will follow come the longer days. A
shape moves into view beyond them, massive, dwarfing the ravens. A little
shiver of anticipation runs through you. Is it a golden? No. The wing shape is
not quite right, the neck too short, the build too massive. Yes! It is! Your
first Sea Eagle. You watch its perfect mastery of the air for fully five
minutes until it dwindles to speck in the distance. Just that sighting makes it
worth the climb.
The dog is becoming impatient so you walk on, day dreaming a little,
perhaps about the ancient Gaels whose land this was, perhaps saying a quiet
word of greeting as you pass a small circle of jumbled stones, all that remains
of one of their hill shelters. You cannot help but marvel at their hardiness,
no Goretex or fleece then, no central heating or hot water. A commotion ahead
stops you dead…a red deer
hind with last years calf at foot has been dosing behind a rock. They gallop
off, hooves beating a tattoo on the peaty soil, pausing to look back before
they cross a ridge and vanish into the vastness of the hill. The dog stays at
heel, he knows not to chase them.
Coffee is calling so you turn for home, descending quickly, much more
quickly than the walk up. As you go down, the sounds of the sea begin to reach
you, half a dozen oystercatchers bicker over ownership of a small section of
beach, an outboard motor whirrs. The ground becomes a little less steep, less
heathery. You think back to the autumn when this area was covered with the
perfect white flowers of grass of parnasus. Each a beautiful little wedding
bell.
The dog noses a wisp of snipe into the air as we pass the rushy field,
their sharp ‘scaarp’ giving them away.
You've only been out for half an hour but you feel some justification in
scoffing down that last blackcurrant muffin when you get back into the warmth
of the kitchen.
No, there is nothing up there, at least, nothing that matters to that
adolescent boy. But for you, there is a world up there.
