"Mark, I've told you, we've done more than what the Marines do!" - Former Whipping Boy.



Pre boot camp

Scotland's mountains, in my opinion, are just perfect, they're not imposed on the world stage - you can get up and down them all within a day, they are all mountains in their own right and because of not being subjected to the greedy grasp of commercialism, each one you do is like a chapter in a book, whether with your pal, wife or fellow Marine, they are a source of abiding memories and great laughs.

Driving through the Motherland in itself can be a joy. Once North of the Great Glen your cares start to fall off you like Autumn leaves. Wester Ross's mountains tend to be all bunched up like a heaving mass of geometry, whereas Sutherland's hills stand out in striking independence of each other, like giant chess pieces towering over an extravagant water world. We are talking about a land of textures and contrasts.


Strabeg - a bothy too far?

With a 550 mile drive from Lincoln, incurring a 4.30am start, we did all we could to land the right side of the meagre seven hours of daylight that the North coast of Scotland affords us in December but we didn't quite make it. A palpable buzz of excitement ensued as we were donning our kits but we knew that fading light and the unforgiving rigidity of the clock were going to force us into 'Marine' territory!

The path to Strabeg starts at the Southern end of Loch Eriboll, like most Scottish tracks it starts off on a good Land Rover track for a K or so then peters away into nothing, hence our first great mental challenge of the exercise. Navigation is all relative, it's one thing taking a compass bearing in unrivalled visibility when you can spot a ball of fluff half a mile away, it becomes a totally different matter in pitch black when darkness has re-arranged everything - ours was the latter, we weren't just Marines... we were Super Marines!

To this day I still dont know what happened only that we were hopelessly lost. I think we crossed the river thinking it was just a tributary (please tell me that's not another river) but that was all it needed to set us off on a false premise, the words of the Scandinavian Professor Osvaldo Beertins rang in our ears.. NEVER TRUST THE MAP!

But the map was fine, we were searching for a needle in a haystack. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth earlier when I uttered those immortal words "a good bothy never manifests itself without a fight" notwithstanding, the fight was on and the Marines were up for it but it got to the point where we were wondering around like lost Jews, causing us to ask ourselves - do we wonder around for hours pummeling ourselves to the point of exhaustion, searching for a speck in the darkness, or do we admit defeat and bead back? The indigo outline of Creagg na Faolinn, our starting point, stood out like a black sugar paper outline that children used to make. That was our destination, even Marines have to admit defeat.

In all this time I had heroically hauled around a rucksack full of wood for the bothy fire. As our expectation of finding the bothy deflated like a slow puncture I became more and more tempted to jettison the unnecessary ballast Picturing my dear Wife gathering and strategically packing the erstwhile rucky delayed the dreaded procedure, however we were now on our way to the Bunkhouse! " Are you going to get rid of that?"  Said my fellow Marine, reluctantly I tipped the wood out. The walk of shame had began.

As we dragged our complaining bodies back to the road I thought the most embarrassing thing about this walk of shame would be trying to explain to our friends how two Marines couldn't find a bothy that was on a track and less than two miles from the road! The prospect of a Double Whipping Boy could soon be a reality if word got back to the GCS (Golden Crampon Society) however as we cogitated this thought we came once again to a loch that resembled a human hand, with two tiny lochans attached to it. These were definite landmarks. In one all out last effort we searched for the bothy. In case of enemy attack I guarded the luggage while Jon went in under the cover of darkness. After a short lull there came back a shout. "I've found it!" It was like it had been scripted.

A fine bothy it was too, according to the bothy diary nobody had been in it for a month, maybe some had tried to find it but failed! We spaced ourselves out and began to feel human again. Intriguingly in spite of arriving without our own fuel it was the longest I've ever had a fire going in a bothy, not only did we have a fire in the evening and the morning - we also had one at 2.30 am! Yes, the officer in charge had us gathering wood from down the glen under the dancing arches of torch beams! Enjoyment was retrospective.

Strabeg Bothy

Ben Stack and a great day in the Motherland

As orange traces of dawn tinged the Western skies I smiled to myself, can such places of serene beauty still exist on earth? Strabeg sits in a strategic position, at the intersection of two straths - Strath Beag and Strath Collie na Fearha. Just set back from the river at the foot of a crag it boldly holds pride of place. In quiet torpor I strolled around it's environs, it was as quiet as Stornaway on the Sabbath, green hills creased into rippled smiles as the scenery mellowed. Life was good.

The Corbett/Munro bagging raids on Foinaven and Ben More Assynt would have to wait their turn, it was no time to be on ridges when 90mph gusts have been predicted. MWIS were using words like 'appaling' and 'tortuous' and phrases like 'it will definitely blow you over'. On reflection Ben Stack is an innocuous little hill that would give the Marines their perfect run out.

With the wind behind us we gained height effortlessly, there were two or three false summits but we sailed past these with a 'heads down hoods up' attitude but then all of a sudden the wind wasn't our friend - on the summit we were like two small school children in fear of the Schoolmaster who was about to teach us a lesson. Blown to the ground, taking a photograph was a military operation in itself! Our style of communication had also changed, having lost the power of speech we cast awkward glances at each other through our balaclavas with steely eyes, like Cats - from the ground Ben Stack comes to a point, but there is a tiny section of narrow ridge with a second summit, do we chance it and give it a go - one solitary downward gesture from me and we were on our way down off the hill!

The summit views were staggering in every direction, the land seemed to stare back at you like a television screen, it just didn't seem real. As far as Hills were concerned you could identify hundreds, like picking out old friends at a school assembly! The sky was icy silver blue the only factor that limited your view was the curvature of the earth. We were looking at the epitome of unspoilt wilderness scenery, our hearts glowed at the magnificent scale of it all.

The Scoraig Peninsular

This finger of land that juts out into the Atlantic ocean has a long and checkered history. After the brutal Highland Clearances the Scoraig peninsular was available to re-settle some of the homeless - the benevolent landowners were aware it had no protection from the elements and in their eyes was baron, waste less and uncultivatable, commendably the tenants eked out a living off the land but by the end of the second world war their line had ran it's course and the land was  again cleared.

In the 1950's the Government once again encouraged re-population of the land though in a more humane way. Ones who wanted to get off the commercial spectrum, live the 'good life' that is build their own houses, produce their own energy, grow their own food in other words be self sufficient - were welcome to be galvanized into a unique community.

This walk carolles the contours of Little Loch Broom with a wholesome jollity. Entering this stormbound secret world was like entering through the doors of a fairy tale, you have no option but to leave the cares of the world behind. This community embraces a love of humanity and nature. In effect they hold their own parliament they even have a school for all twelve children. A testimony to the power of the human spirit and perhaps in many respects an example of how we were supposed to live.

We drifted through cottage dotted slopes of inspiring hand crafted dwellings, it was like we were extras in a stage set for 'The Wizard of Oz'! I've done this walk before, the local hill Ben Ghloblach stretching up in lordly dominance, metallic blue skies over a glassy sheet of ultramarine (no pun intended),  and it was very beautiful. Surprisingly I preferred it today because the broody ambience enhanced the lands artistic potential, giving me yet more opportunities to renew my poetic licence.

Eventually the dwellings ran out and we reached the headland, all the while thus far the wind was behind us, whilst I did my best to suspend my pessimism it soon became apparent that the eight miles returning were going to be the antithesis of the eight miles getting here.

And it came to pass. The wind ratcheted up the Beaufort scale, the mercury plunged towards zero, the rain came down in torrents making for a Motherland aquatic experience like we've never experienced before. A normal Marine would never have been able to cope with this situation. The wind must have been full in our face at 70 mph, our first reaction was "we can't do it" but we had to do it! Throwing ourselves into the wind we had to fight for every step. Our energy output trebled but it was your head that forced your feet forward! Eventually we saw the most beautiful sight in the world, Jon's car! We'd done it!

Post Boot Camp

Most of you Blogfans may have realized that Jon and myself have had no military experience whatsoever, so why all the 'Marine' talk? Well obviously tongue has been placed well in cheek, I've been running the gauntlet with the Golden Crampon Society because I know only too well that when 'military comparisons' are used they are not impressed, I hope I don't end up in too much trouble

This was a perfect jaunt to showcase the North West corner of the Motherland. We did a peak, a low level walk, the Bothy experience - we had good weather, bad weather, wind and rain. Just to top it all when I rejoined my Wife on the Applecross peninsular we saw an Otter! This was my first time in 28 years of coming to the Highlands, oh and.. errr..Beevers also got spotted!

Beevers spotted in Scotland!

Keep the dream alive, Markles.