It is tradition for my group of friends and I to go camping at least once a year, and in doing so we’ve been all over Scotland. From Glencoe to Selkirk and from Bannockburn to Fort William, we’ve seen some of the country’s most celebrated scenes and settings. Our camping expeditions have led us to some of Scotland’s most spectacular places – a far cry from the bland grey of our hometown of East Kilbride. That said, being a bunch of townies, our trips have often left us with many beer and whiskey induced sore heads. This however, is part of the appeal, as the amazing male-bonding qualities that a nice whiskey can induce are somewhat heightened by the great Scottish outdoors.
On this particular trip, amidst the throbbing headaches and late nights, I was led to a new memorable peak I wasn’t expecting at the outset – the top of a Munro.
With the agreed date of our July 2012 camping trip rapidly approaching, a quick scour of the internet led us to the website of a campsite in Inverarnan called Beinglas Farm. The campsite is two miles north from the top of Loch Lomond on the West Highland Way, and sits beneath the Grey Mares Tail surrounded by an abundance of mountains, waterfalls and wildlife. It sounded great. Game on!
The small village of Inverarnan is a place where the outdoors and people go hand-in-hand. It’s probably best known as a varied section on the West Highland Way full of farmland, forestry and riverside paths where the views of cloud caressed mountains are amazing.
Inverarnan more or less consists of Beinglas Farm and the famous Drovers Inn, which is said to have been a favourite watering hole of Rob Roy. The Drovers Inn itself resonated for me as a recent dip into my family history revealed some family ties to the building. So we hopped into the car in East Kilbride and set off towards the A82 to wind our way round Loch Lomond for Inverarnan.
Before we continue, some introductions are in order. Four of us embarked on this adventure – Ross, Chris, Scott and myself. Three of us had just recently crept over the finish line of our twenties and the other, Scott, was a relatively young pup at twenty five. I’ve known Ross since I was seven years old and we’ve always been close friends. We share a strong love of adventure and are certainly fond of explorative trips to the more remote regions of our country. Ross went to a different high school from me and it was there that he met Chris. Chris and I were introduced through Ross while Scott, Chris’ younger brother, came into the fold through sibling camaraderie. The two brothers, like myself and Ross, always fancied themselves as modern day pseudo Scottish explorers. We all arrived in Inverarnan in pretty decent physical condition and none of us were strangers to hard work. This trip to Inverarnan was the first time Scott had joined us for a camping experience and we had the misfortune to endure his driving. To be kind, I’ll say it was a high-speed stomach-churning eye-watering pant-filling rollercoaster of a journey where a sick bag would have come in use more than it would in an old Spitfire. Still, in fairness to Scott, he did get us to our destination more or less in one piece.
Beinglas farm is accessed via a delicate wooden bridge just off the A82 near the Drovers Inn. Located amidst magnificent mountain scenery 35 miles along the famous ‘West Highland Way’ and just 2 miles north of Loch Lomond, it looked like some kind of hippie commune when we approached as the sight of wigwams and a giant white tepee dominated the campsite. An elderly couple wearing floating decorate floral outfits were lurking around the campsite’s fauna and a small group of blonde curly haired children were doing laps around an old semi-collapsed wall. We decided to pick our spot, pitch our tents and then head straight to the bar to pay for our stay and partake in an evening of light refreshments. Stage one of this mini-operation revealed that the majority of Beinglas Farm is made up of boggy land. Most of the campsite was taken up by a huge semi-circle of scout tents filling half the site, the tepee also dominated a considerable amount of space and then there were various other angular tents dotted around sporadically. We wanted to distance ourselves as far as possible from the rest of the campers as we could tell that the majority of the site was made up of families and respectable travellers void of the knowledge that our trips had a tendency to veer towards the rowdy side. Ten years prior to this, on one bleary night in Glencoe, we had taken to burning our own clothes on the campfire while dancing around it as if making some sort of offering to the God of H&M. Then a couple of years later there was another fiery incident in Girvan when a gas canister exploded. It was obvious to us, as always, that the more distance between us and the other campers the better for everyone to have an agreeable camping experience.
Old Faithful
We went squelching around a corner of the campsite before choosing a spot near the far edge of the farm. I set about pitching my tent, ‘Old Faithful’, a tent I had had since the age of ten years old. Old Faithful has travelled all over the UK and has seen many a monumental camping experience. In fact, the day before we set off for Beinglas Farm, I had the stark realisation that Old Faithful was older than the eighteen year old girl I sat next to in work. Still, my tent was named Old Faithful for a reason and this was a fact I frequently informed my fellow campers on each camping experience. Working my magic on the wet grass of Beinglas, I mocked Chris’ new tent for its lack of class, and deservedly so as it was a purple monstrosity of a tent. Ross’ tent was abused for being lop-sided and poorly constructed, while we combined to laugh at Scott’s tent, which would be better served as a cheap child’s play tent. It is fair to say that the banter was well in its stride.
Pitching a tent in Loch Lomond during the summer months can be a difficult thing to do. On this occasion we struggled against the wet boggy ground and the gathering midge swarms that had taken to blackening our faces. We spent a tough twenty minutes or so just building our tents to a satisfactory level. Mine was by far the best, obviously.
Beinglas Farm sports a nice pub next to the campsite. Campers pay for their pitch at the bar and we did so while ordering a splendid round of well-earned perfectly sculpted pints of the finest foaming ale on offer in Inverarnan. The pub was full of those who enjoy the great outdoors; walkers, campers, cyclists, holidaymakers and day-trippers alike. It was positively buzzing with life. Before long we were borderline smashed and had made friends with a group of Belgian guys halfway through their journey up the West Highland Way, with whom we discussed topics ranging from International football to Swiss Drum and Bass. It was what camping is all about – a meeting of cultures in spectacular environments. The night was long and blurry.
Waking in a stuffy midge-infested tent with a banging headache is never a good thing. It was just after 8am when I crawled out of my tent and into a dark cloud of midges. I was met by the deathly faces of my friends and we quickly decided to make a dash for Beinglas’ onsite facilities. Before long we were back in the pub for breakfast but not even the morning glory of a ‘Breakfast in a Roll’ could dull the pain and sagging drag of my hangover. It’s a bad sign when all manner of sausages, bacon and potato scones can’t even dent the damage of a night before. It was a sure sorry state to be sat in.
Nonetheless, we were there to explore the countryside and from the moment we arrived on site we’d eyed the large hill overlooking the campsite as a certainty for a morning climb. Beinglas Farm Campsite sits below the Ben Glas Hill, from which it takes name, and the Grey Mares Tail Waterfall. The camp offers fine views from all parts of the site. The climb to the top of our targeted hill started at the rear of the Beinglas campsite on a thin zig-zagging stone path up the steep side of the hill. We tore up the path at a ridiculous pace. At first we made ground with rapid ease, so much so that we even began to get a little cocky about it. Then the steep slope with its sliding stones underfoot began to take its toll. The hangovers we each suffered weren’t helping much either. Eventually we made our first stop by the waterfall where a pool of water gathers invitingly. It is said that a wee dip in the ice cold water has cured many a hangover and legend has it that even the great Rob Roy shook off the excesses of the night before at the falls. The thought of it was appealing, and even considered briefly, before any chance of us giving it a bash was forgotten when we were greeted by three climbers making their way up the hill at our rear.
One glimpse of the three men, who were kitted out with clothing and equipment we knew nothing about, instantly made us feel inadequate. There we were – four aching hungover guys from East Kilbride climbing a hill wearing jeans, hoodies and the cheapest walking boots we could each lay our hands on. We didn’t have a days climbing experience between us. “Are you heading up to the top?” One of the men chirped in a pleasant Yorkshire accent. Too right we were. We let the three men shoot off ahead, partly because we were each catching our breath and partly because we didn’t want to show ourselves up as the complete novices we were. We then cracked open some bottles of Irn Bru and Lucozade, took in the view and almost instantly I felt recharged. And with smiles and laughter we each burst back into life. To the top!
When we reached what we thought was the top of the hill we were met with what seemed a whole new world. It was as if we’d completed level one of a computer game and been elevated to level two. Before us was a vast expansion of hills, mountains and a burn stretching for as far as the eye could see. It was the Trossachs and it was incredible.
We trudged forward over boggy ground and long grass and quickly realised we’d encountered a whole new physical challenge. We found ourselves on the heels of our English friends that we had met earlier but rather than join them in their ascent to wherever they were headed, we decided to abandon the path and take the most direct route towards our next target – a giant peak that towered way above us. “We’re having this” someone said. It was then that Scott’s lower leg completely disappeared into what had seemed like solid ground but was actually some sort of mound of mud impersonating a foothold. Scott’s leg was caked in mud right up to his knee and Chris, Ross and I spent a solid ten minutes laughing at him. We were like a group of giggling school boys but Scott took it in his stride, unlike his previous step.
The journey was really tough and it seemed like we weren’t getting any nearer to where we wanted to be, so much so that it prompted some sort of manic mental breakdown from Ross. He took it upon himself to run as fast as he could for as long as he could towards the foot of the hill. He did well! He made up around 400 meters worth of sodden ground before crumbling against a rock to wait for us to catch up. From that point on it was a constant uphill struggle. The climb was an angular crawl where you had to use both your hands and feet to keep progressing. Thankfully there was much to grab hold of; the grass was firm and physically grabbing hold of it then hauling yourself forward was the best way to make up the ground. Our stops became more frequent, Irn Bru was being rapidly consumed and I even cracked open a box of breakfast bars that I had procured in Glasgow the previous day. Still, we were dogged and set our sights on the peak we were creeping ever closer to.
The entire climb to this point had led me to believe that the peak we had set as our target was the top of the hill. When we reached it we realised that it was actually part of a much larger mountain. Any reasonable person in the state we were in would probably have turned back. But we had a new target – a new peak. A mountain peak. Somehow we managed to dig deep and find the reserves within ourselves to carry on. The higher we climbed the more dramatic the mountain became. The views were astounding but the almost vertical climb sucked every ounce of life from our bodies like the mountain was a vampire. No amount of fluids or breakfast bars would help and only our stubborn determination kept us climbing and climbing and climbing.
My leg muscles had tightened to the point that they felt as if they could ping off my bones while my knees, which are a bit dodgy at the best of times following a football injury, were aching as if there were blunt pins in them forcing their way out. Every step was heavier than the last and every lump of grass I scrambled to grip seemed to absorb my energy into the ravenous spirit-hungry mountain.
Every now and then I made the mistake of raising my head to find that the mountain was growing bigger and bigger, fuelled by the life and essence it stole from our bodies. All we had left was our attitude – we would not be beaten. Not while we still had skin, bones and sweat. Somehow we kept our heavy limbs moving.
By the time we were approaching the summit we’d been walking and climbing for hours. We were absolutely dieing but somehow kept our motivation to climb. Chris was struck by a bout of cramp just shy of the summit and I waited with him while he recovered as Scott and Ross pushed on to the top. I asked him if we was ok and did my best to find some sort of strength to urge not only him, but myself, up the final part of the mountain. I said: “We’ve not come all this way just to stop here.” Chris nodded and with a newfound sparkle of energy he led us towards the peak. It was our Hollywood moment and I imagine the scene will be acted out in a movie at some point by Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt.
When we reached the top Chris unleashed a gutteral scream, “Yas!” but all I could do was point to the sky and take a deep breath of the air at the top of the mountain. That’s right – the top of the mountain. All I could see for miles was other mountains shrouded in mist, hills and lochs. The weather could be seen visibly changing in panorama all around us. There were small groups of people dotted way below all headed towards different mountains. This was our mountain and we shared that summit with nobody. As I looked out at the amazing rugged landscape I chuckled to myself by thinking, “Tourism could catch on here.” We earned that view and jelly legged I stood there logging each angle of it geographically into my memory banks.
Thousands of miles high above the ground I became increasingly aware that we were probably thousands of miles away from anyone else. We were isolated entirely. At the summit it seemed as if we inhabited a new remote and lawless world. It was as if we existed for that time in a different uncivilised age where only the four of us were alive. With the awesome spectacle of the world around us came an extraordinary surrealism that left me feeling briefly detached from civilisation. It was a different realm from the one where phones ring, bosses moan and my roof leaked due to the seemingly impossibility of finding a roofer available to replace a few broken slates. This was a realm of light, space and monumental beasts that damn near kill you as you climb upon their backs. It was only when we plonked ourselves down behind a rock to eat lunch that I slipped back into some kind of normality. Society existed again. There were rules – I remembered etiquette and ate my sandwich to conform with it. Then the sense of achievement was almost overwhelming and if the mountainous vampire hadn’t sucked every last piece of energy from me I’d have punched the air to show it.
With our sandwiches, chocolate bars, water, Lucozade and Irn Bru suitably consumed we creaked and cracked ourselves to our feet and stood proud to establish a suitable route down the mountain. It was then we noticed a path down one of the sides of the mountain. The moment squeezed our muscles further in the knowledge that there was a much easier route to the summit than the one we took. Had we stayed on the path we’d have saved ourselves the deathly life-sapping climb that we gave ourselves. What could we do but shrug our shoulders? Ah well. I suppose the sight of that mountain path only served to fuel the burning sense of pride we each felt that we’d climbed the mountain the hard way. We were real men! With that in mind the decision was taken that rather than take the path down the mountain we were to follow our philosophy of taking the most direct route. We basically ran down the side of the mountain, and at times we slid on our backsides down near vertical drops. This was the most enjoyable sequence of the day and on one plateau during our descent we even filmed a mock ninja movie. Complete with Bruce Lee sound effects, we took turns to perform various invented Kata routines on the edge of a mountainous ridge. Then we played what we claim to be Scotland’s highest ever game of Hide and Seek. The banter had returned and we were all noticeably perkier in the glory of our achievement.
We reached the bottom in a fraction of the time it took us to reach the top, and when we did we were welcomed by some of the most disgusting peat bogs any of us had ever seen. Exhausted we trudged through the thick boggy ground in search of the path back to Beinglas. I had the misfortune to land face first in a boggy puddle following a leap over a narrow section of Ben Glas Burn. It wasn’t my finest moment, and was far from a pleasant experience, although the others seemed to gain some enjoyment from it for a good fifteen minutes or so. Eventually we found the fabled path home and in time the A82 came back into focus, as did the wigwams and tepee of Beinglas Farm. After climbing a deer fence onto the steep stony path we had suffered so much on earlier, we more or less stumbled and slid down the moving stones on our heels. Like the climb, the descent seemed endless and in hindsight, it’s amazing none of us fell at that point. A fall would have resulted in certain death and we didn’t give the hill the respect it deserved.
When the ordeal came to an and we stumbled into the campsite like zombies and crawled into our tents hardly uttering a word to each other. I left my shoes outside my tent, stripped off to my boxers and slipped into my sleeping bag in order to make some vain attempt at recovery. I couldn’t sleep. I was too tired, and still too delicate from the previous evening to sleep. Instead I drifted on the surface of sleep with events from the day, and other days, replaying themselves in my head. It amused me that the only part of my body still functioning at its maximum ability was my brain. I had a new found respect for the landscape and I vowed never to use the simile ‘like climbing a mountain’ without serious consideration ever again. It also occurred to me, in a metaphor, that life is made of mountains and no challenge is impossible to meet, be it physical or emotional. It all depends on how hard you climb and if you can have a little help from others along the way. It’s funny how climbing a Munro can help you put things into perspective.
Later we shuffled towards the Drovers Inn in search of food but found the old place full of as many live bodies as there was dead stuffed ones. I wasn’t prepared for the amount of dead animals stuffed and mounted around the building, and the grim décor was accentuated by the tight corridors and rooms jammed full of guests and diners. However, the map outside the building was the most important thing for us at that moment. Throughout the day the questions, ‘What the hell is this mountain called?’, and ‘How high actually are we?’ were recurring and the map outside the Drovers Inn appeared to hold all the answers. It turned out we’d climbed Beinn Chabhair, a Munro no less, standing at 3061 feet tall. To me it signalled a fantastic achievement and the biggest surprise of the weekend. And to think we only planned to have a few drinks and go for a walk!
We jumped into the car and set off towards Crianlarich and as we did so I found myself sizing up mountains as they passed and thinking, ‘Yeah, I could take that.’. I think we each caught the Munro bug from Beinn Chabhair and it is likely that our future annual camping expeditions will involve Munros, and why not? I hadn’t realised there was so much world way above my head.
Beinn Chabhair translates from Gaelic as ‘Hill of the Hawk’ and is generally regarded as a bit of a nightmare to climb. Seasoned Munro enthusiasts don’t seem to list it as a favourite. It ranks as 244 out of 283 Munros in terms of stature but I can assure you Beinn Chabhair is a vampire of a mountain. If you decide to scale this beast I advise you to be sober, follow the path and take plenty of Irn Bru and breakfast bars!
mrpaulelliott 