Wilsons Prom

This is my account of the 504 Scottish mountains that sit between 2000 and 3000 feet. It is a work in progress as I’ve barely made a dent into this classification. I intend to update this account year by year until the task is complete.

These 504 mountains are the most exhaustive list of the Scottish peaks between 2000 and 3000 feet:

Additionally I plan to do the Donald Tops. These are the 51 hills that Percy Donald evaluated to be subsidiary tops. As Donald Tops are not regarded as separate hills they do not form part of the 504 total.

I’m in Scotland again meeting and re-supplying Alison Ashton, Adrian Ogden and Kate Wilson, at Ruigh-aiteachain bothy, on their TGO cross Scotland walk. I walk with them for half a day, taking in Mullach Clach a’ Bhlair, my first Munro since completing, before a return to the bothy, a walk out and a drive south to climb my first sub 3000 foot Scottish mountain.

Sat in a B&B on Sunday May 19th the landlady, serving me, exclaims “oh my god.” I look in the direction of her gaze, out of the window, overlooking a hotel, to witness the tail end of six naked motorcyclists whizzing through. The landlady is out like a shot to get a better view; I continue my breakfast whilst checking the menu for streaky bacon.

I meet Willy Newlands at 0900 to walk the Cobbler - one of the most famous Corbetts. "We can get to the top," I ask.

So through the mist we go with me back to my normal slow self but it is good to walk with Willy again. The route to the Cobbler takes a sweeping arc as you encroach the summit through one of its weak defences. A ridge connects its dual summits and we head for the most southerly, the highest. Stood on the plateau I look to the east and ask, "Willy this is the top?"

"That's the eye of the needle, you won't catch my going through that. It’s too exposed."

Corbett Count:	0 out of 221
Graham Count:	0 out of 224
Unique Donald Count:	0 out of 59
Donald Top Count:	0 out of 51

Corbett Count:	1 out of 221
Graham Count:	0 out of 224
Unique Donald Count:	0 out of 59
Donald Top Count:	0 out of 51

The Corbetts of Sgurr an Utha and Cruach Innse and the Graham of Glas-Charn were climbed on the TGO. This is described in my TGO 2006 write up.

Corbett Count:	3 out of 221
Graham Count:	1 out of 224
Unique Donald Count:	0 out of 59
Donald Top Count:	0 out of 51

After completing the May TGO, and having feet full of blisters to prove it, I decide to press all the easy buttons for a July trip to Scotland. A rather nice cottage, in Blairgowrie, took my eye and I booked it for two weeks. The sleeper up on the night of Friday 3^rd of July was added to the shopping list of ease coupled with a hire car, to be collected in Perth.

At 1900 on Friday evening I’m sat at my home computer checking that the 1917 from Westbury leaves on time. It duly does and I gather heavy rucksack and holdall for the stagger to Bedwyn station. I feel a sense of pride as the HST pulls into our little station. We’d campaigned for connections to and from the west and, although going east, I was pleased to board the service from Westbury.

It’s a hot, sticky evening and, with restricted luggage space, I just ware a T shirt and jeans, taking the risk that my one packed fleece will see me through two weeks. Paddington brings a transfer onto the Hammersmith and City line where a series of delays has me arriving at Euston with only two hours to spare; such is my caution at not wasting expensive onward tickets. I kill the time with not so healthy food before a very tired, hot and weary person drags himself the full length of the sleeper service to find his bunk. Whereupon he promptly wakes up and spends the seven hour journey snatching no more than an odd hour of sleep.

The romantic idea of breakfast in the early morning of Glasgow is soon relegated to a marmite panini in a Costa Coffee shop. This was all that was hot and vegetarian, and you either love it or hate it and I’m on the hate side of the fence. Needs must.

The onward trip to Perth goes smoothly with a collection by Enterprise Rent-A-Car at the station. Whisked to their offices began the start of things not going so smoothly.

“So that’s £231 plus £150 deposit, Mr Smith which gives you the two weeks and basic insurance.”

I checked my booking form then asked “But it says here it includes collision damage waiver.”

“But I just read that it included CDW. I did not think to look under any optional extras.”

“Well,” he drew that word out, “if you had you’d have seen that there was an excess for £500 which you could bring down to zero by paying an additional £10 per day or £100 for a week.”

He’s truly having a laugh I thought. Firstly it should tell you under the primary text that there is an excess, not under optional extras. And then there’s this matter of £10 a day for a week can be reduced by paying £100 instead. But before I could respond he added, “but for a two week hire we keep it at £100.”

“That’s not the contract, that’s just the booking confirmation. This is the contract,” he said tearing off a form he’d just printed which would require a magnifying glass to go through the detail.

There was no point arguing, he was not going to budge and I was not going to insure £500 for a £100 premium. A 20% of value insurance for a two-week period is a lousy rate in anybody’s money. We then go and inspect the car where he marks up any pre-existing damage on a sheet. There were just a couple of scuffs to mark down before I inspect the front valence.

I stopped myself from adding “I see you’ve washed it then.” I couldn’t be bothered with even sarcasm.

Two miles down the road I suspect that showing me how to adjust the door mirrors would have been more useful. I eventually spy the button and make it to Blairgowrie. Two hours early I take the chance to wander round and have an early lunch. It takes me awhile to sort out the geography, find a supermarket and a café for lunch.

Again being a vegetarian in Scotland does not work so well. “I’ll have the vegetable lasagne,” I say, selecting the only choice that is free of meat. She gives a grunt and I add, spying the option of French fries or baked potato, “with baked potato.”

I also order a decaffeinated coffee, which comes quickly enough to leave me to believe it is instant. It takes a few minutes before another girl brings a plate with a microwaved jacket potato and a few bits of relish. All it is missing is a baked potato and the vegetable lasagne.

“Is that right?” she asks, having caught my stare of disbelief. It takes me a few seconds to think straight, “Well I ordered vegetable lasagne with baked potato.” She calls over the girl that took my order.

“The customer says he ordered vegetable lasagne but you only put baked potato on the order.”

“So where is this on the menu?” I ask as I gesticulate towards the plate and the menu.

“You did not say you wanted a filling when you ordered,” says the girl who took my order. I’m about at the ‘god give me strength’ stage but simply add, “but that was a baked potato with a lasagne where one would not expect a filling.”

“Which filling would you like,” adds the serving girl seeing a way through this.

It was whisked off and came back with cheese. I did not follow the path of a baked potato is not a microwaved potato (it’s a jacket potato) nor did I rise to the temptation that this particular tuber would have fitted in any oven ever created – and that includes those in a dolls house. There is a phrase called ‘choose your battles’.

Lunch taken, shopping done, wandering around complete I pull into the drive of the holiday cottage proprietors; their house and cottage sharing the same grounds. I’m hoping all will be okay. Two weeks before I’d received a letter from the agents explaining there would be a £20 deposit for ‘good housekeeping’. This worried me as, having dealt with many a dodgy landlord in my time, to what I’d have to do to see the money back. I phoned and they’d contacted the landlord and he’d sent a message back via them that they had no intention of keeping my £20 if I kept the place tidy but as I was worried they’d waive it. So I arrive hoping I’d not got off on the wrong foot. I need not have worried, the Major is a charming chap and spends time showing me round the magnificent coach house, explaining where everything is and how they’d restored it. In the utility room he stops by the fire extinguisher and fire blanket and shows me in detail.

“That’s okay,” I say and add, “I’ve managed to get myself out of the four burning buildings I’ve been in.” There’s a pause as I suspect he wonders whether the £20 deposit would have been a bit on the low side anyhow.

I unpack, shower and have another walk around. I love the wooden floors, the open plan and the minimalist effect. After my escapades with cars and cafes I feel relaxed, too tired to hit the hills but just right to relax and enjoy. I settle down to write this account, engrossed I’m shaken back to the present with a small bird traversing my eyes and coming to rest against the window to my right. It’s flown in through the upper half of the stable door and is now convinced that a solid, unopenable piece of glass is the best way out. It goes through periods of calm, its tiny breath steaming the window then turns, looks at me and flutters its wings in desperation.

I’d often wondered if birds pee. One of those little queries on existence that one is either too embarrassed, or not interested enough, to ask. The bird shows me that they do, and also a good display of what they are more noted for.

Until two weeks ago I’d never handled a bird before (oh please, you know what I mean!) and now it’s three in a fortnight. The first two were on June 20^th when I visited my friend, Rona in Hove. Our normal pattern is coffee, chat, lunch, DVD, more chat, snack then I get the train home. Our day started a little differently as Rona had booked a flat viewing. Sat in her garden, waiting for the time to set off, over a coffee she casually mentioned that last night there was a crash and since she has heard noises from behind the fireplace. I took a look and found a metal panel which I pushed open, peered in and a baby seagull peered back. The 1100 flat viewing appointment was looming so we passed it sustenance in the form of moist bread. We rushed out and back, skipped lunch and phoned the RSPCA who say they will be quite awhile. We phone some other numbers and eventually are recommended Roger’s Wildlife Rescue in Woodingdean. Rona phones him and I hear one half of the conversation.

"No, I don't think we could get it back up on the roof. It's a tall three storey Victorian building and I’m in the basement flat.”

By this time I'm viewing the rest of the fireplace. Rona comes off the phone and I asked for screwdrivers. I managed to get the thing detached from the wall and lifted it away to expose Michael (the recently christened baby seagull) sat nonchalantly looking at us. He'd won my heart though as he'd been calling quietly back to his parents cries of "Where in the hell are you." We found a box, made air holes and Rona handed me gloves which gave me the hint that it was to be my job.

I started to dither, "Best be quick," said Rona. So I was, it flapped, squawked but I managed to get it in the box. It was then a case of 'fireplace refit' or drive to Woodingdean? We chose the latter, animal welfare at heart. We got very lost and the long drive distressed Michael. We arrived at Roger's to find a garage and workshop crammed with rescue animals in all states of rearing and recovery - he uses his mother's garage for overflow. There's a discrete sign saying it costs on average £45 to raise a baby bird to a state it can be released into the wild. I only had £30 on me, but he was delighted with the donation. Michael initially had an 'I wasn't expecting this, weren’t you driving me to my doom?' kind of look as he stood on the edge of a large pen with about thirty other baby seagulls milling around (mainly having fallen off roofs). He dropped down and stood in a corner but then, like a shy toddler, moved forth and was soon making friends and sharing their food.

So it was a virtuous Rona and Steve who, having had a late lunch, made their way back to Hove. As we were going through Rona's door, I made a quip.

In her lounge, things looked a little different. We can't quite explain it. Rona peered behind the fireplace which, unattached, is standing in front of the hole.

I look at her face; I know she's not joking. I went for a peer, and there is Frank, Michael's brother – if you are wondering about the naming think of “some mothers do ave em” - giving us a "And what are you going to do about me?" kind of look, "I want my broth!" Rona and I are not very demonstrative people but we hug laughing.

We'd left the box behind, so this time it’s a cat basket. Frank barely complained when I caught him and off we set to Woodingdean, again. We stopped by a cash point so I could get money to fully pay for both their board and lodging (by this time Roger's work, and shoestring operation, had touched us deeply).

He then informed us seagulls normally hatch three chicks. So it was a daunted pair of wildlife rescuers that re-entered her lounge. Thankfully no extra bird but what we then noticed was that when Frank pulled 1G coming down the chimney he displaced rather a lot of soot - and with the fireplace removed the lounge was covered.

Back to this wee chap in Blairgowrie, each time I make a move he flutters wildly then stops and turns his head towards me.

I get a pair of thermal inner gloves and just manage to catch him. Not positive enough he escapes half way between window and door. Of course it flies back to the window, the open door possessing no interest whatsoever. It lands on the little opening section at the top, which duly does not open because it is locked and no sign of keys. I move everything out of the way, make another grab which only results in him dropping to the original resting place. With confidence rising I make a firmer grab, surround his body with gloved hands, walk him to the door and launch him into the air. He takes to it and with a little chirrup flies high and away.

I then wander up to the co-op, a fair hike but the only supermarket around. Blairgowrie is a plethora of small shops serving every need. I’m glad that there is no Tesco to rip the heart out of this micro-economy.

I wake after 0800 on Sunday July 5^th, pleased to get some rest. A leisurely breakfast and kit preparation precedes the drive to the road east of Cray and the start of the ascent of Mount Blair. This is a mountain of many shoulders and I’ve chosen the gentlest. Overshooting the starting place I turn around, drive back and pull off the single-track road just on the Angus side of the Perthshire border. Out of the car I enjoy the sun from a sky of mixed blue and cloud. I take a closer look at the hire car. A Toyota Airus, an enjoyable little machine and just a few months old. Then I see that the sun picks out a series of dents in the roof. I did not spot them when I picked it up and, having only done thirty miles so far and left it parked in Blairgowrie, all thoughts of ‘conspiracy’ fly through my mind as my mind races to the worst possible scenario and the loss of £500.

It’s a disillusioned walker that takes to the hills. Choosing a hire car for ease is now causing me stress. I make good progress on a grass track, through the knee high grass, with high voltage markers at varying points. The sky is now a mottled picture of the whites and greys of high cloud. Duchray Hill, to the north, looks tempting for the afternoon but I continue to the top, resting every few minutes on its manageable slopes. The summit, which takes less than an hour and a half, is made up of a series of transmitters (which explains the high voltage cables), a trig point and a well constructed circular windbreak which serves additionally as a memorial and a semi-decayed panoramic board pointing out the more significant peaks in the area.

I return to the car and decide to give Duchray Hill a miss. It takes me about three hours to bag and the voices of my friends Rona and Kerry play on my mind. “Go careful Steve, you’ve been overdoing it.” It rains on the drive back to Blairgowrie, making the decision feel even more right.

The evening is warmer and I stroll into the centre of Blairgowrie and sit in the central park area. I read, enjoy the sun and listen to a distant pub band. On rising I turn to head back to the cottage, that’s when I see it. Blazon in bright letters, standing proud of the buildings before it is Tesco. I vow not to go there and to continue to use the co-op instead.

Monday July 6^th enters with the hint of sun and the hint of rain. I check the forecast and it’s expected that the day will be a mixture of thunder, rain and sunny spells. I set out on the same road as yesterday, passing my starting place before taking the dead end road to Auchavan with the view to climbing the Corbett of Monamenach and the Graham of Duchray Hill (also known as Mealna Letter).

With just a thin T shirt, to protect my upper body, I set off at around 1010 on the easy westerly track which gently lifts me, via the course of a stream that drains a high plateau, to the south westerly slopes of Monamenach. Resting, and taking a compass bearing, I realise that the lack of response from my Silva compass is due to all the fluid having disappeared from the bezel housing. This is the second compass, of the same make, that this has happened to inside a year. I could just be unlucky but I make a mental note to se if others have had the same problem. Fortunately I have an old Eurohike spare in my pack. It’s not that great, very sensitive which is proving the complete antitheses of its travelling companion.

Bearing set, with the hills alive with birdsong, I climb the northeast slopes, pausing only to don waterproof top, as the edge of a storm, from clouds lowering themselves on to the hill of the south, clips me in its wake. The rounded, smooth summit is shy to its presence, only the wind picking up over the top, and my altimeter, tell me I am almost there. With the summit bagged I sit and admire the rough, rocky and sunny slopes of Creag Leacach to the northwest. To the south is Mount Blair, looking menacing with a storm over its head and lightening flashing down, with the following rumble confirming the distance with my map.

To take in Duchray Hill requires a three kilometre southwesterly descent then a sharp pull up the final kilometre to its summit. I set off, in two minds as the clouds look menacing. I alert a mountain hare that bounces off in to the distance. A herd of red deer are gathered in the basin shelter of the hills; it’s around this time that they give birth.

As I descend the clouds blacken, the light drops and the time between lightening and thunder claps reduce. Kerry and Rona’s words revisit me; sometimes you need your friends to be wise for you. The exposure of Duchray Hill is not worth the risk so I head east to pick up the ascent track. It proves the right decision as the rain closes in and ensnares me as its victim. By the time I reach the car it’s a heavy downpour. The radio weather forecast and persistent crackle of each lightening strike reaffirms the correct decision was made.

Tuesday 7^th is a non-hill day and instead I meet with Val Haddon, a TGO friend, and her partner, Merv Savage. Lovely people to spend the day with we do a circuit from east of Dunkeld to Loch Ordie and back. Her daughter’s dog, Ollie a friendly bull terrier, accompanies us and is great fun – even if a little dim at times.

Merv quickly gets used to my little quips while Val plays catch up as he raises eyebrows. And the kid in me is never too far from the surface. At Loch Ordie Val clips Ollie on to his lead and holds onto him. I pick up a stick, get Ollie’s attention and throw it into the loch. He pulls while Val hangs on.

It’s a good walk round in a day of high cloud. Val and Merv, both retired, are about to set off on a bicycle ride to Australia. I think today in no way counted as a warm up. We part in Dunkeld, after a visit to a coffee shop, and I head back to Blairgowrie. I aim to pull up outside the Co-op but the few bays are taken and the rest is double yellow lines. I try Tesco, the parking is free and plentiful. They get you!

Wednesday July 8^th and it’s time to finally bag the Graham of Duchray Hill (also known as Mealna Letter). It feels like a daily commute via the A93 and B951, though I’m a late starter today, as I’m not walking until 1030.

I walk through a boggy field of buttercups, flowering thistles, moss hovering over squelchy ground and tall grasses thriving in the wet conditions. I pick my route carefully, keeping in line with the wall and fence that edges the forest plantation. The climb proper takes a varied route, avoiding the undulations of the nose of the hill. I meet the corner of the forest and, after donning my waterproof top, can follow the wall, and its offset fence, to the summit of Duchray Hill. The top appears to be right on the line of the fence, though I spy a cairn the other side. This requires a quick step from Angus to Perthshire to ensure that the mountain is claimed.

I stand and survey my walks of Sunday and Monday before heading downhill, crossing the bog and the return to the car at 1220.

Thursday July 9^th and I’m taking it easy again. A leisurely start and breakfast rules out an attempt on the Corbett of Ben Vrackie and instead Blath Bhalg, a Graham a little to its southwest, catches my eye. Travelling the almost single track A924, and using a telephone box as a navigation aid, I park at Dalnacarn and am walking at 0950.

I follow a good grassy track and, avoiding the temptation to follow spur paths, which, through experience tend to soon peter out, reach a small wooden hut with a tin roof, red with rust. It’s in dilapidated condition, windows almost out of their frames, cladding either having fallen off or tempting a prod. I try the door, it opens and the inside is good in comparison. A long bench, with accompany seats, fills the length. Candles on the table and in the windows hint at some purpose.

I shut it up and take a bearing to the summit of Blath Bhalg. The route is through heather, which I find hard going. It’s slog, rest, slog with tempting grass sections being too boggy to bother with. I make the summit line and, crossing a fence, pick off a minor bump before the summit proper. The views are extensive, Schiehallion to the west, Mount Blair and its transmitter to the northeast. To the north the mountains are in rain, heavy in comparison to the very light precipitation of my ascent. Hints of rainbows hang in the glen below.

The roof of the hut lends a handy guide as I descend through the heather. From its waypoint I pick up the track and arrive back at the car within three hours of my start.

Friday July 10^th dawns bright and sunny which has me soon out of bed, packed and driving to Kirriemuir, then minor roads to Glen Prosen, north west of the town. I have my eye on the Grahams of Cat Law and Corwharn. Stopping to check the map, and realising an error means I have to go to a spot called Spott and backtrack down the other side of the glen, I note how close I am to Glen Clova. Glen Clova has featured in two of my TGO crossings of Scotland and this is typical of me in not being able to logically connect regions.

I drive to Easter Lednathie and wonder how this place is connected with a Christian festival. Then I notice Wester Lednathie, where I drive to and park, and suppose these are geographical and not religious names. I’m walking at 0900, initially through a farmyard where, as always, dogs bark my entrance but not a soul is in sight yet I feel eyes are upon me.

I follow the track then cut up through open fields to meet the track that rises to Monthrey. It is hot and I wear a thin top and a baseball cap to keep cool. I slowly reach a digger working on the high ground; cutting a track to the summit of Cat Law. Unsure why, and fearing I might be enjoying this mountain pre-wind farm, I bypass it and follow a feint track to a gate where a conveniently placed stone allows an easy passage into an enclosure containing trig point and summit.

It’s taken an hour and twenty minutes and the views are well worth the climb. I can see right up into the Highlands in one direction and out to sea in the other. I sit with my back to the trig point with the sun gently warming me. A bee buzzes around, birds scoot past and the wind picks up the grass in waves. It starts from a distance and the rush, the swish and the moving grass pass me in a stroke. I wait in anticipation and it happens again, nature finding some cyclic formula.

I return to Monthrey and follow the track to the wide mouth of Glen Quharity. A small burn trickles through what was once a mighty river of the ice flows. It takes me a moment to spot the track north, I wonder if the bulldozer had been covering tracks as fast as it created them. It’s been an ease to follow the tracks, preferable to the heather slopes, and I make good time to the foot of Corwharn. A flowing stream allows me to re-hydrate and take on a spare supply. I survey the slope west, not too steep but it’s enough to have me frequently resting. As it levels out I swing right for the final pull to the top of Corwharn. An impressive pillar cairn sits to its east where I rest my back and survey Cat Law and my route over.

I head southwest, cutting across heather, to pick up the ascent track. It’s an easy route off and I’m soon on the main track and swinging into the steep and very narrow Glen Uig. The slopes tower above me until I reach another dried up riverbed with a burn running through its middle.

I drop back to Wester Lednathie, completing a five and a half hour round. Feeling hungry I stop in Kirriemuir for a late lunch and ice cream. It’s typical of the rural Scottish towns with some shops empty, some boarded up, some not having changed in fifty years and others giving the appearance of being modern and thriving. I don’t know if I’m tired but I have trouble picking up the local dialect and wonder if this is an enclave of Gaelic, or just Polish.

July 11^th dawns bright and sunny, appropriate for a highlight of my two weeks in Scotland. John Hutchison, who I know from The Over The Hill Club, is finishing his Munros today on Schiehallion. It’s effectively a club meet with many members converging on the Braes of Foss car park. People of different ages and states of health set off at different times with the aim of a summit rendezvous.

I make a start at 1000 and rise quickly on the well engineered path, taking in the stunning views that open up as this whale backed mountain is conquered. I find a steady pace, unusual for me who tends to walk, rest, walk, pausing only once to take on water. I’m at the summit, joining the gathering crowd, a shade before noon, quicker than my three hour 1997 ascent; I put this down to better medication and lightweight footwear.

John is half an hour behind and we all look out for his distinctive red T Shirt and companion group to step onto the final, rocky rising plateau to the summit. When he comes into sight cameras, whisky, champagne, applause and Steve Wagstaff and his accordion are at the ready for those final few steps into the hall of fame as a Munroist.

He stands, looks around, says a few words, the applause begins and the corks pop. Celebratory cake is handed around; views and memories are shared. Ben Nevis is clear to the northwest, mountains surround us doing justice to Schiehallion’s status as the most recognisable mountain in Scotland.

It takes me an hour and a half to descend, spent mainly with Sue Oxley and her dog, Susie. From there I travel on to Val and Merv’s leaving party for their cycle ride to Australia.

Monday July 13^th brings a second day of rest from walking but not a day without feeling part of the walking community. For I visit MA Harper, a TGO friend, and also catch up with her neighbours Val and Dave Machin plus Doreen Stewart who I also know via the TGO. The drive to MA’s house takes me along the B9512 that was a tiresome, lonesome and painful walk back in May. Today the road feels long, even by car. The Insh Watersports centre, that I could only look at as a haven of rest, with wistful eyes when passing in May, proves to be a let down as MA and others are forced to return their poorly prepared food.

Redemption comes in the afternoon when taking a Canadian canoe out. We circle the loch and pause to observe an osprey nest on a RSPB island. Built high in the tree we watch wings flap and await the return of a parent that had circled us earlier. The rain comes on so we paddle to the shore.

Tuesday July 14^th and I’m back on the hills again for an attempt on Ben Vuirich. A remote Corbett with a lengthy walk in from the west. I spy a shorter route, from the south, breaking off the A924 at Tarvie. A local resident, asking me to park further on as he is expecting a delivery of gravel, disturbs my parking. He’s very helpful, apologetic but I’m only too pleased to move the car away from anything that might dent the £500 excess.

At 0920 I’m striding up the tarmac path that, after passing an impressive Victorian mansion, buried in the trees, dwindles to a gravel then grass track. Rain sweeps in and I pause to don waterproofs before pressing on to a small hut. It’s likely a hunting bothy – the key is in the door so I take a look around. Wooden tables, chairs, benches and brushes fill the one room wooden structure.

Leaving the hut I disturb a young deer that sets off into the distance with a repeating bark. It stops, looks back towards me, barks and sets off again.

Underfoot is wet and I feel water seep through my trail shoes. It does not hamper my ascent rate and I pass over Druim Moor before the pull up Carn Dubh. I could avoid this but I fancy taking it in on the way around. A slight drop takes me into cloud, rising up onto the col, before the final ascent of Ben Vuirich. Ptarmigan call and take off, distant rain clouds hint at what’s in store for my return journey.

The summit is marked as having a trig point and I only confirm the location, at spot on noon, when I stand above the horseshoe summit wall, which protects the trig point. At some 30ft below Munro height I enjoy the views until a cooling wind has me setting off south, crossing boggy ground, picking up the hut, track and then the car at 1410.

July 15^th brings a day of poor weather forecast. I downgrade my ambitions of the Ben Vrackie Corbett to the Graham of Badandun Hill and a familiar drive, on the B951, past Mount Blair. I pull up near the hamlet of Fergus and take the track through a collection of buildings undergoing renovation. A short pull through a forest takes me onto a track that, although shown on the map as petering out after a mile, now winds its way to the summit of Craig Lair.

I break off the track and head southeast up the steep slopes of Badandun Hill. I climb slowly against my altimeter through short heather while being swarmed by flies. I flick them away but they return within seconds. I rest on the few rare surface rocks, batting the flies away, before I spot a track snaking down from Craig Lair that likely goes to the top of Badandun Hill. I break my steep ascent and head on a gentle diagonal to pick up the track, where a thunder clap greets me, and the easier ascent to the summit. A trig point and cairn mark the summit, but not enough wind to see off the flies. I rest briefly, take in the views across to Monamenach, Duchray Hill and the infamous Mount Blair until flashes from the easterly mountains urge me on, and descend quickly on the track to rapidly lose height. Nearing its low point I break left, onto the rough ground, and cut across to the track from Fergus. An easy walk takes me back to the car within seconds of the storm breaking overhead.

The evening brings a ride out to Letham to visit Graeme and Marion Dunsire, son and daughter in law of Val Haddon. I drive down to Perth, out towards Cupar and thread my way down to the small hamlet and call Graeme.

“Okay, I’m just trying to picture that. Can you see the hotel and the pub in the square?”

Having just driven around Letham the idea of a square and a hotel feels a bit of a farfetched luxury.

I’m thinking the evening is in ruins when Graeme adds, “it’s only a forty five minute drive.” He plies me with directions and I set off and phone again.

“Hi Graeme, it’s Steve I’m in Letham, Angus in a square with a hotel and pub.”

I get directions, easy and quick and I’m pulling up the lane where they live. And my chin is dropping as I look at their house. Well, house is not quite the word. Let’s start with the clock tower and the adjoining hall. It would be more than worthy of a slot in Channel Four’s Grand Designs programme. I’m shown in, welcomed and we sit and eat in the vast kitchen.

We discuss walking, they are soon off to do the Aonach Eagach (which I privately know as ‘The A-n-E’) in Glen Coe.

She looks a little concerned while Graeme adds, “It’s no that bad. I don’t remember anything like that.”

“We are talking the same Aonach Eagach aren’t we?” I ask in case the theme of the evening is repeating. We agree we are and that likely I was misguided over it.

It’s then time for the tour. And it is a tour, the kitchen, dinner, lounge leads onto a sitting area with office, loo and other rooms off it. A mezzanine floats above which we take the most beautiful wooden spiral staircase too and look back to where we came. Three bedrooms and a family bathroom lead off. Up another flight and the floor is completely open with internal windows looking down on to the mezzanine and the ground floor. Internal solid oak roof trusses set it off. I think we are nearly done.

“There’s more,” says Graeme. That’s when I remember the tower. It’s three or four more flights of stairs, each with floor in the tower, one with the clock, before we break onto the roof with stone battlements and a view across the village and the surrounding hills.

It was originally built as a church, never used and mothballed for a hundred years. Then it became a joiner’s workshop for sixty years before falling into disuse. It’s been an amazing project. I dare not ask how much was spent but what they’ve produced is both beautiful and likely highly desirable.

We chat some more and it comes time to depart. Passing through the utility room I notice what can only be described as a plant room. They’ve rigged up a ground thermal system to heat the water and the house. It consists of large cylinders, and an array of pumps, pipes and valves. This slips us into deep conversation until it’s time to go again.

“Head for Coupar Angus,” says Graeme. He must catch my look, “Not the Coupar in Fife, that is.”

“Yes. I’ll be fine, I checked the map and there’s only one Blairgowrie.”

Sleep comes poorly, having had three cups of coffee, to make my late night drive safe, I toss and turn and snatch two lots of two hours, finally waking with memories of disturbed sleep in Youth Hostel dormitories.

The day has dawned clear with very high cloud, the forecast rain free and I fancy a go at Ben Vrackie. It’s a fifty-minute drive to Moulin, passing its geographic and lexical neighbour Ben Vuirich, and a further few minutes to navigate track like roads to find the car park in a wooded enclave. This is an unusual mountain as its route is signposted through the woods and out onto the open hill. I climb steadily, passing lochs and burns, only resting occasionally for a sip of water or a top up of food. The path is well made, no bog or heather to negotiate. It drops slightly to the small Loch a Choire before the final steep pull to a noon rendezvous, after an hour and three quarters, with the summit of fine trig point and memorial cairn. There’s a fine circular, bronze direction finder pointing out Ben Nevis and many other hills. It feels like a spiritual place, unusual but somehow the views and the way the land drops off, leaving a rocky island of a summit gives one with the thoughts that this is a special place.

A few other walkers join me, various nationalities. A trio of Scots with a dog, Clover start to chat. They ask me what I’m up to. I explain I’m staying in Blairgowrie, walking Corbetts and Grahams. They are impressed I’ve made the effort from the south of England.

“Actually, I’ve done them,” I reply while munching my way through a peanut and jam sandwich. There are impressed nods and Clover moves closer and eyes my sandwich.

It’s a gift, “I’ve done the Welsh two thousand foot mountains too.” Clover moves even closer. She stares me out and gets the last bit of sandwich before begging an apple core off a group of French people. Clover’s owner is demonstrating his new GPS to the other two. He reads off the location and height.

“See this, it’s a breadcrumb trail of our route up.” I’m sure that dog picked up its ears at the mention of ‘breadcrumb trail’.

A few words are exchanged with others but largely it’s just the view we are all here for. To the north are the fine and mighty Munros of Carn Liath, Braigh Coire Chruinn-bhalgain and Carn nan Gabhar, to the south the more gentle Perthshire hills. I stay half an hour, until I feel cold and make it back to the car in just over an hour.

Friday July 17^th brings my last chance to walk. I’ve loved having the cottage, a relaxing place to spend the late afternoons and evenings. My eyes flit OS Sheet 43 for an easy Corbett to finish the fortnight on. I’ve had good use of this map as I see a series of Munros where I’d written 03/05/1994 against. Initially I have it in mind to head up to Braemar and take in Morrone – an easy Corbett which always eludes me on the TGO. However, just northwest of Spittal of Glenshee, I notice the nearer Ben Gulabin.

The trip up is familiar, passing the roads that have been my stomping ground of late. I park up, kit myself out and start the pull up the track in the chill air. The weather for the afternoon has been forecast as poor so I’m pleased for my 0950 start. It’s easy going on the track and what once finished at the remains of an old building now divides in two, one track leading around to Creagan Bheithe and the other, to the left, heading to the col between the two summits of Ben Gulabin.

The wind assists me up the steep northerly slope, meeting a path at the top. By now the wind is blustery, the straps on my pack feel abandoned to the wind. The sleeve of my jacket finds a harmony of vibration. I turn right and, having set my altimeter wrong, claim the summit earlier than anticipated in just an hour and ten minutes from the start.

I settle for a while but feel chilled through my thin top and walking shirt. I look around, likely my last Scottish summit this year. I spy Mount Blair in the distance, I don’t appear to be able to shake him off! I head down, the wind now acting as a useful brake as I descend the steep slope. I meet a couple on the first track. They confirm the poor forecast, ending my lofty ideas of taking in Morrone too. We discuss the Corbetts, I know I’ve been doing the easier ones. They confirm how remote and hard many are.

Back at the cottage it’s a leisurely afternoon of writing and gathering kit together for the trip home. I reflect on the two weeks, four Corbetts, six Grahams and of course a repeat Munro.

Saturday morning and I’ve arrived at the Enterprise Rent-A-Car depot before it opens. Fortunately it’s raining, making the dents in the roof harder to spot. I park it up a slope, away from the door. The same wee guy that served me before arrives. This is good, part of my plan.

“I’ll just go and take a wee look around the car and I’ll be back with you.”

I watch him walk to the car, as before he bends down and looks around the bodywork. His stature does not draw him to the roof, and the uphill walk to it keeps the dents over the horizon; which are now puddles in the rain. He comes back.

Corbett Count:	12 out of 221
Graham Count:	7 out of 224
Unique Donald Count:	0 out of 59
Donald Top Count:	0 out of 51

N.B. The Corbett of Meall a’Bhuachaille was climbed on a winter skills course at Glenmore Lodge (described in a separate account) and the Corbetts of Beinn Dronaig, Carn na Saobhaidhe and Carn na Fhreiceadain were climbed on the TGO. These are described in my TGO 2009 write up. On 15th July 2009, Sgurr nan Ceannaichean (NH087480) south of Glen Carron was re-surveyed by the Munro Society at 913.43m. I climbed that when it was a Munro and as it’s now likely to be re-classified a Corbett I’ve added one to my Corbett count (the total of 221 Corbetts allows for this).

The Corbetts of Sgurr na h-Aide, Carn Dearg (349967), Meallach Mhor, Carn Dearg Mor, Leathad an Taobhain, Beinn Bhreac and Conachcraig. were climbed on the TGO. This is described in my TGO 2010 write up.