Matchmaker for the Mountains

 

                                   Sgór  an Lochain Uaine – May 11th 1975

It was around 3am. The tent was billowing in a breeze which had suddenly translated itself into a wind. Below me, under a clear moon, was the long, sleek, shining finger of Loch Avon, one of the Cairngorms’ many iconic views.

Of course, I couldn’t see the loch, because of the tent, but then, suddenly, I could see the loch. The tent had gone, snatched by the wind, rolling madly across the mountainside, snagging on boulders, changing direction, no clear destination, just the need to escape, like a drunk seeking the way out of a desperate situation.

This was not good.

I had pitched the tent four or five hours previously, having been assured that it was idiot proof, though I had never attempted such a task before. It was a new model, being tested for its efficiency. Well, it had failed the test, it wasn’t idiot proof, and I was the idiot who proved it.

I sat there surrounded by the remains of my belongings. What was I supposed to do now?

A shadow appeared next to me, it was the man who had set me the test with the tent.

“Gather your stuff and follow me.”

So myself and five sixth year pupils  scrabbled about and followed him up the slope to the Shelter Stone, under which we  spent the rest of the night dozing, singing, and telling stories.

The moral of this tale, I suppose, is: if your tent blows away in the middle of the night, it’s helpful to be camping with Cameron McNeish.  I remembered this incident when I attended the  launch of  ‘There’s always the hills’, his “some kind of autobiography”, in Edinburgh last week.

It struck me that, while the impact of an author and broadcaster can be quite clearly defined, what is often hidden is the effect a public figure may have on individuals. In my case, Cameron’s influence was huge.

Most folk in Scotland are, at the very least, aware of our hills and mountains. Even in the most urbanised areas in the central belt, the hills are seldom more than 45 minutes away, and many of the country’s residents live in highland regions. Beyond that, there are those who utilise the hills for pastimes like photography or art or weekend breaks in spa hotels, those who  pursue outdoor hobbies like skiing, hillwalking, mountain biking and fishing, and those for whom Scotland’s outdoors is an adventure playground for mountain or rock climbing, munro bagging, sailing or diving, and hang gliding

It is safe to say the hills and mountains are very visible to Scots – not just in our geography, but, for many, in our psyche. Folk like Cameron have done much to encourage this interest in our great natural assets, but the relationship between people and countryside, like all relationships, has moved and flexed with the times.

For my first six years, I was a city boy, brought up in Edinburgh’s Piershill. Then I moved to England, and for eighteen months, ran free through countryside around our small village in central Lancashire. This was when my interest in the outdoors was first aroused. After that I lived for ten years in a prosperous seaside resort, which had its own, more suburban, outdoor attractions.

However, at 18, I returned to Edinburgh, to university, and, reacquainting myself with Scotland, became more aware of our mountains and hills. I had friends who came from the highlands and islands, or the west coast, and others who disappeared each weekend to walk in the hills. This was all new to me – like Scottish history, our geography is largely invisible to folk in England, so my early twenties involved a steep learning curve as far as the country of my birth was involved.

However, I had seldom, if ever, wandered any further north than Dundee, and university, along with weekend football, and playing in a band, was taking up my time, so, despite a developing fascination with the hills, I still had no practical experience of them.

Then, in November 1971 there occurred an incident which left an indelible mark on those in Scotland who were interested in the hills, particularly those involved in teaching or working with young people. An Outdoor Education group from Ainslie Park High School, in north Edinburgh, were on a weekend expedition, based at Lothian’s Outdoor Centre at Lagganlia.

At the time, Outdoor Education was becoming increasingly popular in schools and for youth groups – a reflection of projects like Outward Bound and the Duke of Edinburgh Award scheme. It was a kind of generational follow on from the love of walking developed between  the wars by city folk as an escape from industrial grime, which spawned the growth of various and varying Scottish climbing clubs which built on the original Cairngorm Club and  the Scottish Mountaineering Club, both of which dated from the late 1880s.

The leaders of the Ainslie Park group had different degrees of experience – as teachers or instructors – and they checked their route with the Head of the Lagganlia Centre before they left.  The programe may have been feasible given fair weather, but it proved not to be so in the heavy snow conditions which moved in. Half the group were unable to make it to the agreed Currour  bothy but managed  to reach the Curran shelter, the agreed fall back plan. The other, less experienced part of the group, feared missing the Curran if it was covered in snow, and opted to bivouac in a dip by the Feith Buidhe burn. It was to prove a fatal error.

By the end of the weekend, the news had come through that five pupils and an assistant leader had died while another leader and a pupil were lucky to survive.

At this distance, it is hard to evoke the level of shock which hit the country after this – the worst ever tragedy on Scotland’s mountains. In Edinburgh and in education circles, as well, of course, as  in the outdoors community, the sense of loss was palpable. The question was: How could this happen?

The resulting inquiries led to a tightening of requirements for expeditions to the hills – new qualifications were brought in and an even more rigorous approach was demanded,  to the extent that there was a height level imposed on group leaders without the necessary  qualifications.

For those of us heading for a career in education – or at least for me, this was a defining moment on how I thought of the hills. In what was a possibly predictable  over reaction, I saw them as symbiotic with “danger”.

To be fair, this was not just as a result of  the Feith Buidhe tragedy, but also of the prevailing ambience around mountaineering at the time. It seems strange to recall now, but in the 70s for a period, there was a group of mountaineers, many based in Scotland, or the north of England, who had a kind of rock star status, and were known to the wider public outside of climbing circles. Chris Bonnington was already establishing  a familiar presence, in the media, and through his Himalayan and other expeditions, but there were other younger climbers with an almost Byronesque “mad, bad and dangerous to know” reputation.

Foremost amongst these was probably Dougal Haston, from Currie near Edinburgh, and there was also Don Whillans, Joe Tasker, Joe Brown, Edinburgh’s Graham Tiso, who invariably equipped the expeditions,  and others who were familiar names to the general public. Needing finance and sponsorship for their expeditions, they became expert at gaining media attention and promoting an exciting profile for themselves, though the mercurial Haston was never even close to comfortable with this side of things. Occasionally, major climbs, like that on the Old Man of Hoy, were transmitted live on national television. Where now a holiday weekend’s viewing may be dominated by the tension over who might win the “Bake off”, in those days, it was often the words: “And now it’s back live to the Old Man of Hoy to see how our climbers are getting on” that quickened the pulse of the 15 million viewers.

This air of danger was to be increased by the numbers of deaths amongst the top mountaineers over the next decade or so. As was the case with motor racing at the time, it was almost as if the regular loss of heroes added  a rather morbid interest to the pastime.

With no practical experience of the mountains, it is no wonder that my admiration and interest in them was overlaid by apprehension at this stage in my life. Members of the university mountaineering club, hard drinking, and huddled over maps, while they discussed equipment, in a corner of the Meadow Bar, hardly encouraged a sanguine view of the high places.

Then, in 1975, as I completed my year of post graduate teacher training at Moray House, a friend told us of a poster in the college advertising an outdoor education residential experience for those of us who would be graduating that summer. It was to be based at Glenmore Lodge in the Cairngorms and would last for a week, with the opportunity to take part in a variety of activities under the instruction of experienced outdoor guides.

At this stage, “Cairngorms” and “Glenmore Lodge” were just words to me, but it seemed like a great opportunity, and an excellent way to round off our student careers, so we signed up for it.

It was scheduled for the last week of term – our exams finished, results known, and, for most of us, in those halcyon days, jobs acquired. It was a special time and always would have been, whatever we did. However, being introduced to the Cairngorms made it luminous in our memories.

It would be fair to say that, as our minibus approached Glenmore, we were in a mixed state of anticipation. The weather – as it would be all week – was glorious, and we had ample opportunity to appreciate the landscape on the way north on the old double track A9 which, even as late as  the 70s, was little more than a country road.

Turning off  at Aviemore, to drive through Rothiemurchus, Inverdruie, Coylumbridge and then along the shores of Loch Morlich as the range of  mountains and corries appeared under deep blue skies, is still vivid in my memory. Wow! What a place. It is a road that never fails to raise the spirits even all these years later.

To be fair, the  size and scale of the mountains did nothing to minimise our fears of what we were about to experience.  So – awe and trepidation would be a fair description of the state we were in when we arrived at Glenmore Lodge and met the rest of our group. There were students from many Moray House courses, so one of the positives of the week would be meeting new folk and getting to know them.

In those days the Lodge was pretty spartan and you were left in little doubt that, as a National Training Centre,  this was a place of serious intent. We chose our bunks, dumped our gear, and  congregated in the main room for an introductory talk from the head of centre, Fred Harper.

The first surprise was provided by mugs of coffee and tea and huge slabs of cake. Glenmore was apparently famous for its cake!  Fred’s welcome was warm and encouraging, but again, there was the undercurrent of taking the hills seriously and operating within our abilities. The group of seriously fit looking young staff members around him, all displaying the insouciance that comes with expertise, only served to  underline the point.

He finished by suggesting on this beautiful evening we might want to take a walk later up towards An Lochan Uaine – the Green Lochan – which was only twenty minutes or so up the track behind the Lodge and a very beautiful introduction to Glenmore.

The Moray House staff divided us into groups of eight and showed us the options for each day’s activities. The possibilities ranged from going to the tops, to art and sketching opportunities, sailing instruction on Loch Morlich and practice with map reading and compass skills. On the Friday we could choose to repeat our favourite activity or, if we were fit enough, to do a day long journey across the hills taking in a number of Munros – the meaning of which had to be explained to most of us.

As a vivid demonstration of what might be termed our fear and ignorance, we agreed after the meal that we were brave enough to walk up to An Lochan Uaine – always remembering the warnings about safety.

And so it was we ventured out of the centre and in to the surroundings. We were all fully kitted out for the equivalent of a winter walk on the tops. I don’t remember the detail of what others were wearing, but my outfit is burned into my memory: climbing boots, gaiters, weather proof outdoors jacket and a green woollen balaclava. If I tell you that the temperature was around 60F and the walk to the lochan can be comfortably completed by parents wheeling a buggy, you will understand the scarcely contained mirth of the two staff members dressed in jeans and tee shirts who passed us as we left the building. It was only later that I realised that one of them was Peter Boardman who within a few months would be standing on top of Everest alongside Sirdar Pertemba.

The beauty of the lochan further convinced us that we had come to a special place and at least the gear protected us from the worst ravishes of the midgies!

The week proved to be amazing, though I never quite gained confidence in reading compass bearings. We became familiar with Cairn Gorm and Ben Macdui, and sampled Rothiemurchus and the beguiling Loch an Eilein, and Glen Feshie, tried sailing on Loch Morlich, discovered details of flora and fauna in Ryvoan, and even had a morning attempting to sketch the landscape from the lower  reaches of  Allt na Ciste.

Our leader for the sketching experience was from Moray House’s art department – and had an interesting tale of her own, although we were not aware of it at the time.  Cecile McLachlan specialised in ceramics at the college and was  an artist of some repute. However, her lasting impression on  hundreds of teachers was formed by this multi-disciplinary week at Glenmore  each May – which she organised for  more than thirty years

At that stage I didn’t know that Moray House had long promoted links with Glenmore Lodge – a subtle  but highly effective way of ensuring many of Scotland’s teachers would  have an interest in the outdoors at the very start of their  careers, and in this, Cecile had been a prime mover since the beginning, just after the war. Neither did I realise that my uncle George, when working at the Central Council for Physical Recreation, had been one of the group who planned Glenmore Lodge and its opening in 1948.

Cecile was an imposing figure – sat on the mountain with a chiffon scarf keeping in place her straw hat and encouraging our sketches, which, in my case, were fully representative of the 15% I had once attained for art at school. She was also great fun, as she demonstrated at the last evening ceilidh and a great story teller and conversationalist. We were so lucky to have had the chance to be there with her.

Two things we didn’t know about her till much later: she had worked at Bletchley Park during the war – a period of her life to which she never referred, and she had also been the original St Trinian’s school girl.

To be exact, artist Ronald Searle had become friendly with her family when stationed in Kirkcudbright during the war, and was particularly taken by the tales Cecile and her sister Pat would tell him. They attended a progressive school in Edinburgh, called St Trinnean’s, which was situated in St Leonard’s Hall near Holyrood Park. By the 1970’s, this was the administration area for Pollock Halls of Residence, and a place where I had spent many hours rehearsing as a musician while at university. Searle later produced drawings to illustrate the girls’ school adventures, changing the name of the school to St Trinian’s – and these, in time, became the famous films. By the time we knew her, Cecile was certainly individualistic, but betrayed few signs of a chaotic school history!

One other detail of her history, which must have caused her some private pain in the seventies, was that, for a time, she had taught art at Ainslie Park High School, so the recent tragedy must have hit her hard.

None of this we knew at the time; we just appreciated her company and repeatedly thanked her for organising such a wonderful opportunity.

On the Thursday night, we were told to choose our activity for the final day. Our group must have gained some confidence during the week, because a number of us volunteered for the “long march” that would take in four Munros and the Lairig Ghru. Given our ages, and a week spent on the hills, we were all adjudged to be fit enough to tackle the expedition. There was much chatting and mumbling from bunk to bunk that night as we tried to predict what the morning would bring, and wondered if we were over stretching our abilities.

Early next morning, after a nervous breakfast, we gathered in the meeting room. Outside, some of our colleagues were collecting materials for a leisurely day of sketching and painting, others were headed for the boathouse at Loch Morlich for an idyllic time on the water. We wondered had we made a hasty, hubris driven, decision. We wanted to challenge these mountains, but had to consider it might have been the phrase “only for the fittest” that had been the trigger for our volunteering.

Addressing us was our leader for the day. We hadn’t seen him before, but the whisper was that he was a serious mountaineer of some repute. Actually, we didn’t need that whisper: the guy in front of us reeked of mountaineer: strongly built, appropriately but not flashily dressed, he was an imposing sight. He spoke with a clipped  accent, which  turned out to be Rhodesian, and even his name fitted: “Good morning!” he said with an edge to his voice. “I’ll be leading you today, my name is Rusty Baillie.”  Rusty Baillie? What a great name for a mountaineer!

We should have been reassured by his aura of experience and control. Instead we started to wonder about his expectations: would we let him down? If he was a top climber, how would he feel about taking a group of novices out on what to him must have been foothills?

Luckily, we didn’t know he had climbed the Eiger and the Matterhorn, or indeed that he had been on the first ascent of the Old Man of Hoy, alongside Chris Bonnington and Tom Patey – the climb that had been recreated the following year in 1967 for live television.

It was a quiet but well equipped group that left the Lodge with Rusty that morning. He had detailed what lay ahead and given us a chance to withdraw if we felt it might be beyond us. I suppose the  proposed route must have been around 20 miles of hill and mountain, and none of us needed telling how difficult it would be to change our minds half way through the twelve or more hours it would take..

For the first mile or so out of the Cairn Gorm car park, I found myself near him. I have a natural urge to chatter, especially when nervous, but I made strenuous efforts to control my blethering as we headed onward. He was not taciturn, but obviously didn’t feel the need to  keep us entertained. I later heard him described as rather mystical, so who knows what thoughts he was thinking. Later on, in 1982, he would be part of a Canadian team tackling Everest when three Sherpas were killed in an avalanche. As he and Blair Griffiths – a CBC cameraman on the expedition, tried to dig out their buried colleagues, Blair was struck by a falling sérac – a sharp slab of ice – and killed not three  feet away from him. After four deaths, half the party, including Rusty, decided to abandon the attempt – a very different scenario to the “walk in the hills” he was embarking on today.

He must have been deep in thought, or maybe a little distracted, because less than half an hour into the walk, he badly turned his ankle and had to stop.

This generated a number of reactions amongst our group.

There was some surprise that a well known mountaineer might damage his ankle on such a simple expedition, and then, because we were now well up for the day’s adventure, came a fear that we might have to turn back

Never a chance of that, of course. To  someone of Rusty’s calibre and experiences, a twenty mile hike with a sprained ankle was as nothing, and we were soon on our way again. The incident seemed to have broken the tension and he became quite talkative, explaining our route, pointing out features along the way and being very supportive, despite the odd grimace caused by his injury.

It was a remarkable experience, one of the days of my life, beyond any doubt. We crossed from Cairn Gorm (where a sudden snow squall, in May, reminded us how high up we were) to Macdui, and had our first experience of that  desolate but grand plateau, then it was  descent into the Lairig Ghru – where we all promised ourselves we would return to walk its length one day  – and up to Cairn Toul. Shortly after that,  we stopped for lunch and it was grand to lie back and rest and enjoy the wildness of the area.   Sgór an Lochain Uaine loomed above us and I asked Rusty about it: “It’s not a Munro, but if any of you would like to go up it, there’s time and it’s not difficult from here. I can stay with  the others.” A few of us fancied it – we thought it looked like a mini Eiger, and when we were walking up the narrow ridge with  a long drop below us, we felt like real mountaineers. Preparing to write this blog, I discovered it had been reclassified as a Munro in the late 90s. We climbed it as an extra, on a whim, and, over forty years later, I discover that we made the tops of not four but five Munros that day!

The picture at the head of this blog was taken on the summit of Sgór  an Lochain Uaine  that day. It’s probably the only picture I’ve had taken where I look the way I hoped I looked! I think that says something about my happy state of mind at that moment!

Then it was the trek over the flat tops  to Braeriach and eventually the long walk back to the minibus. We had been on the hill for over twelve hours and arrived home sun and wind burnt, shattered, but with an enormous sense of achievement. May 11^th 1975: we would probably never have such a momentous day again. After a shower, a mug of coffee and some of that cake, we made our way down to the shore at Loch Morlich and took some photos of our new friends – the mountains, and the people with whom we had shared them. It felt like a special bond.

After our meal, there was a ceilidh, and beer, and it all passed in a bit of a haze before we eased ourselves into our bunks. On previous nights there had been much chatter and banter – tonight there was just instant sleep.

I’m amazed to look back and realise that the following day, after our trip down the A9, I played cricket in the afternoon.

It was a special time in our lives, of course, the transition from students to working people with all the implications of that transformation. Leaving Glenmore, we were all sure we would be back – if not to the Lodge, then certainly to these mountains – such a sudden and complete falling in love leaves a lifetime of longing.

Life, of course, gets in the way.

We had to adapt to our new jobs, form relationships, deal with adult matters like household bills, mortgages and the like. The hills kept calling but the time was never available and the first cars we could eventually afford would have struggled to make it to Speyside and back in a weekend. Some folk became ardent mountaineers or hill walkers, some of us pursued sport and other pastimes, while promising ourselves we would return. Cecile’s cunning plan – to introduce student teachers to the hills so that they would develop a love they would share with their pupils was largely successful with our group.

What delight then, around five or six years later, when our headteacher, a great outdoors enthusiast himself, proposed that all of our first year pupils should enjoy a residential week of outdoor pursuits. We sampled a few possible locations till we eventually settled on a centre in Newtonmore, called Craigower Lodge. I was absolutely delighted to be returning to Speyside and to those familiar haunts.

In our first visit our pursuits were  centred around Newtonmore and Kingussie. The guy who had set up the centre was from Ayrshire and was to trade a caterer. I think he thought that we would bring our own instructors and gear.

By the second year, however, he had wised up – there was more equipment available at the Lodge, and he had hired a qualified instructor – which meant we could spend time on the various hills. And so it was that I got to meet Cameron McNeish – a story familiar to many, I would expect.

We took each of our first year classes to Craigower for a week, but it was a very full schedule, and Cameron was new to the centre and still working out expeditions – but even in the week I was there I warmed to him – it would be hard not to, as we walked the moors at the back of Newtonmore and he talked of his love of the Monadhliath

The following year, I was guidance teacher for first year and the headteacher suggested I go up to Craigower with each of the classes. That would give me three weeks in total in Newtonmore with the year group, two classes at a time – a great way to get to know them all, and demonstrative of a period when guidance was about relationships rather than tracking and monitoring.

Over those six weeks, I got to know Cameron and appreciated his approach to the mountains and many other aspects of life. We had some shared interests – folk music was one, and the pupils were frequently nonplussed as the two of us traded songs we knew, our voices echoing off rocks and rising above the rattle of burns running down the mountains. We had great chats on these walks, and often in the evenings as well. He introduced me to a fine local beer: Alice Ales, requested in those far off, non-pc days, as “A pint of slack, please!”

I learned not to be afraid of the mountains, but to treat them with respect, to enjoy them for their own sake, and on my terms, whilst always knowing the limits of my outdoor abilities. You didn’t need to scramble up gullies on the end of a rope – you could walk around a lochan and sit and write poetry, if that’s what you wanted. He pointed out the history of the places we passed – empty glens once heavily peopled, the remains of the Caledonian forest, legends from Pictish times and pre-history. With the exception of his hero, Tom Weir, I have never known anyone so skilled at placing humanity in the hills and identifying the place of the hills within our humanity.

He took us to Glen Feshie, to the Falls of Pattack, Glen Tromie, Ruthven Barracks and many other places. I became comfortable in the Cairngorm landscape, though never considered myself skilled enough to lead a party on the hills.

I know now from Cameron’s autobiography that this was a strained time for him, working long days at different tasks, and with a young family, but that never showed in his dealings with us.

I had brilliant group of sixth years around this time and asked if he would take us on an overnight camping trip one weekend – and that was how we came to be  huddled under the Shelter Stone, as I described in my introduction. That weekend was a fantastic and formative experience for those pupils, some of whom still refer to it when they meet me nearly forty years later. They remember what they learned and what they experienced – the hills and lochans, the burns and scree, the views and the history – and Cameron brought it all to life with his stories and his points of information. It was visceral education – squeezing some sphagnum moss to see how it retains water, rubbing a juniper leaf between the fingers to smell the scent of gin, listening for the cry of a ptarmigan on the tops or a capercaillie in the woodland, standing still to watch the deer, helping us pronounce and understand the Gáidhlig names and terms. He was a natural teacher – still is – and he made the pupils want to learn. A number of those students – and those who met him as first years – have retained a love of the outdoors for life – what a legacy!

Years later, it was no surprise to find he shared my conviction that for Scotland to get the best out of its people and its land, it needs to take responsibility for its own governance, and hold to account politicians who, in turn,  understand the needs and priorities of all who live in our country, and make decisions to help all flourish..

And I have maintained my love affair with the Cairngorms.

                              Beautiful Loch Insh – late November afternoon 2017

I’ve never come remotely near to repeating that epic Munro walk, but I return often, to sit by the Insh marshes, or to perch on a log on Loch Morlich’s beach and remember when I was young and fit and wide eyed about life. My son sampled Coylumbridge almost before he could walk, and Cairn Gorm was his first Munro. The A9 is an easier drive now, and often in retirement we will head for those familiar places and enjoy the high we get from just being there.

With typical repetitiveness, I will walk at Loch Morlich and count off the mountains I climbed that day, naming them with reverence, greeting them as old friends rather than a threat to be avoided. I’m no mountaineer, I couldn’t even claim to be a hillwalker, but I revel in the spirituality of those mountains and corries across the loch.

         The Cairngorms tops across a frozen Loch Morlich at twilight – November 2017

One of the places Cameron and I used to talk about was County Clare on the west coast of Ireland. There is a town there called Lisdoonvarna where, every September, there is a matchmaking festival and a man known as the Matchmaker. He claims to have introduced thousands of couples over the years and brought them happiness.

I wonder how many hundreds of folk have been touched by Cameron McNeish, his knowledge and love of the mountains of our land. I wonder how many folk, like me, have had their attitude the hills formed by his skill at communicating his love of nature around us, its history, its people and its wildlife.

The Matchmaker of Lisdoonvarna may claim to have brought happiness to many couples through his introductory skills – but I doubt he could hold a candle to the matchmaking skills of Cameron McNeish – who introduced so many of us to what he loves to call his “hills of home”, and instigated a lifelong love affair.

Talk about making a difference!