Finally.
Out in the hills again. Running under the big open skies and feeling the cool spring air in my face.
Freedom.
...
A tough few months at work had left me longing for escape to the mountains and some space and peace and solitude. Running in the mountains, alone with the elements, had always been my refuge and my sanctuary, the place where I could recover my mind and my body and spend time without relying on or bothering others.
Grabbing an unexpected lull at work, I had booked myself a week in a small cottage perched on the edge of a village in the Scottish highlands.
I'd left early the previous morning, enjoying the drive out of the city, up the country and into the mountains. Arriving in the early afternoon, I had the spent rest of the day settling into my temporary new home, buying food (and whisky) and working out the heating and the fire. It was a snug, warm cottage, set on the slope of the hill above the village, with thick grey stone walls and a view down the glen. Perfect.
Me time. Quiet. Solitude. No internet or emails. Just me and nature and the mountains. And some good local whisky.
That morning I'd caught the early bus round to the next glen, and had spent the last hour walking and jogging up the valley, slowly climbing away from civilisation. I found myself involuntarily smiling as I gently loped up the long hill.
And now, here I was, clear of the roads, and ascending through the transition land, where the world goes from farms and farmyards and on up into fields and walls and fences and finally into open moorland and mountains. I was running an old track, bordered on one side by a ditch, burgeoning with late spring growth, and on the other by an ancient dry stone wall, with a straggly wire fence on top, hung from skinny posts, the view of the broad glen beyond. Ahead of me was a small pine wood that marked the start of the moorland proper, with just small paths and sheep and rocks and deer tracks beyond.
At 55 I was no spring chicken, and there were certainly faster and more capable mountain runners than me in the world. But I'd kept fit, and my enduring love of the mountains and uplands has taken me into this sort of terrain often enough to feel at home up here. The mountains had been my refuge in the long years of my wife's illness, a place of respite where I could get away and let my mind recuperate. When she had finally passed away they had become somewhere that I could escape the pressures and other people's well-meaning but intrusive concerns and questions. I liked to think I had recovered from the worst of those days, but had never established another deep relationship, throwing myself instead at work, with running and the mountains filling the gaps in between and keeping me sane.
I had never run that day's route before, but I knew this range well enough from previous visits and with a map, a compass and my GPS watch I would be fine, even if the fog and rain rolled in.
I had briefly hesitated that morning before setting out when I saw the weather forecast. I'd planned a longish day in the mountains, some eighteen miles, and the forecast was distinctly enigmatic! It was clear that the forecasters and their computers couldn't really fathom out what was going on in the mountains that day with any confidence, and their offering was a bit vague, allowing for every option from sunshine to fog and rain, and even the possibility of hail and sleet. I'd packed and dressed accordingly. While it was sunny as I came up to the woods, my small rucksack bouncing gently on my back contained everything I'd need for a chilly day out, and even for an unplanned night if an emergency hit. Spare tights and t-shirt, an extra fleece, waterproof jacket and trousers, small stove, gas and mug, lots of high energy snacks and bars and dried coffee and soup. As ever, tucked down in the bottom of my pack, I had my emergency kit, with a foil survival blanket, first aid kit and sugary Kendal Mint Cake (probably past its Best Before date, but full of energy if I ever needed it).
As I emerged from the woods, the full panoply of the mountains revealed itself. I grinned at the view and the freedom it held. I'd been away too long. Brown moorland sloping up to grey screes and cliffs. A few white patches of still frozen winter snow. Patches of wood on the sides of the valleys. Stonechats calling their stony call from the tops of gorse bushes. Streams singing as they cascaded down slopes and into the deep chasms they had cut into the rocks over millennia, gurgling their way down to the valleys and the sea. This was my sort of space: timeless and vast. Years of walking and running and climbing in these sorts of hills let me feel at home here, whatever the weather would throw at me.
I jogged on, keeping an easy pace on the narrow mountain path. The route got steeper and rockier, and I slowed to walking as I climbed, occasionally having to use my hands on the steeper sections, passing large boulders and crossing small streams. I stopped by a stream for a break and to top up with water. There wouldn't be much chance to get water for a while once I had gained the ridge. I didn't want to run short, and wanted enough to make a hot brew at the top. I'd been running in a t-shirt and long mountain running tights, but as I stood nibbling a flapjack and sipping the cold fresh water from the stream, a chilly breeze hit me and I pulled on my windproof top for some extra warmth.
Looking away to the south I could see dark clouds gathering where there had been blue sky when I had started. My hope that the worst elements of the forecast would turn out to be wrong looked to be a little over-optimistic, and I realised that I might well be needing the waterproofs and warm gear I'd packed. But I was happy with that. In fact, it was the challenges and changes in the mountains that I loved, and I always enjoyed the satisfaction of being prepared and experienced enough to make my way through whatever the mountains threw at me, and emerge on the other side, safe and maybe a little wiser.
Water bottles full and repacked, I pulled my rucksack back onto my back, adjusted the straps so it was snug against me to avoid bouncing and rubbing, and set off again up the track. The slope had eased now, and I resumed my usual easy run, eyes alert for rocks to trip over and for places to plant my feet as I ran.
Slowly, the distance to the first peak diminished as I climbed eastwards up the ridge. There were glorious views to the north and behind me, but ahead and to the south the sky was darker and gloomier. On the next range of hills to my right I could see the dark slant of rain falling from the grey clouds. A chilly easterly wind was blowing in my face. All in all, not great signs for a comfortable run.
Instinctively, I stopped and checked the map for alternative ways off the mountain in case it all got too hard or wet or dangerous. If the worst came to the worst, once I had passed the cliffs to my right I could pick my way down the steep slope, dodging between the small crags, and then follow the valley back down to my starting point. Not a great option in poor visibility, and it would leave me on the wrong side of the mountains and a long way from my cottage, but it was doable and was a route back to safety. There was even a mountain shelter marked on the map. I hadn't been there and didn't know how much shelter it would provide. Shelters in these hills could range from just being a few walls to get out of the wind to well-maintained bothies with a solid roof, a fireplace and somewhere to sleep. Hopefully I wouldn't need it, but it was good to know it was there.
I reached the peak just as the weather arrived. Coming over the final rise I could see the cairn and a sheepfold, just as the map showed, and I was hit by the full force of the strengthening wind. As I got to the summit cairn the wind was joined by a blast of icy rain, and I hurried to the shelter of ancient dry-stone walls of the sheepfold. I hunkered down out of the wind and quickly pulled my jacket from my pack and put it on. After a moment's though I grabbed my waterproof trousers and pulled them on too. The old walls were sheltering me, but I knew that as soon as I stood up and carried on I'd be running into teeth of the wind and cold rain. Not what I had planned at all, and my mind was already turning over alternative options and routes. I could carry on and hope the weather eased, return the way I'd come, or drop into the valley. Ever optimistic, I decided to carry on for a while, at least to a point where I was past the cliffs and I could choose to divert off the ridge. Maybe this was just a squall and it would all pass. Maybe.
