Overworked and under pressure? Dan Bailey recommends a great escape to Knoydart

Six metres up, and resting on my third piece of gear, the appeal of Glen Nevis was wearing thin. So too was my wife’s patience. From terra firma – still depressingly close - Pegs tactfully pondered my ineptitude. “I thought this was supposed to be exciting. You’re not very good, are you?” At least the midges were enjoying themselves.

Arms on their last legs, toes peddling randomly in search of purchase, I grovelled to the belay, utterly spent. Ten measly metres; a new nadir in an already low season. Unsolicited sandbags tend to upset my delicate psyche. The route? Don’t ask - it will remain my secret shame. I suddenly fancied a short break from climbing, something it’d be hard to stuff up, something that might amuse the missus without my risking life, limb or self-esteem. In a word, backpacking.

But though easier in its way, backpacking is not just a poor cousin to climbing. The best walks offer something completely different, a sense of slow measured progress, of getting deep into the nitty gritty of complex mountain country, of paring life down to the basics – geography, weather and your own two feet. Add an overnight somewhere pretty, a summit, and perhaps a bottle, and walking becomes much more than just a mode of transport. A rich blend of water and sky, scattered rock and lush vegetation, Knoydart’s gloriously inaccessible rough bounds seemed the ideal venue. There, or thereabouts.

Drive – or better, cycle – the single-track road that wiggles for miles along the beautiful shore of Loch Arkaig, and you’ll know you’re heading somewhere special. The point that tarmac peters out isn’t so much the end of the line as the root of new and exciting possibilities. From here several routes radiate into the wilds, a complex region of twisting glens and gnarled peaks that you could happily lose yourself in for days. As daylight dimmed towards murky dusk we struck off through the woods of Glen Dessarry heading for nearby A’ Chùil bothy. Around a bend a vehicle straddled the track. Snoozing in the front seat, a gamekeeper armed with rifle and night vision sight. Shades of Deliverance sprang to mind, though thankfully he was waiting to bag escaped wild boar rather than passing townies. The thought of tusked beasties snuffling in the gloom added a certain frisson to the walk; all we saw was a badger.

Next morning I’d promised a quick and easy hop to the sea. Pegs didn’t express much surprise then when our progress bogged down in peat. Climbing west through a rugged pass, the walk to Sourlies bothy proved heavy going - particularly after days of rain. My dented veneer of competence took yet another knock when I managed to miss the path, leading us cheerfully into a hazardous slimy gorge. Determined not to make a meal of something as simple as following a map we were soon back on track, following a well made old stalker’s path down towards the head of Loch Nevis. Overhead, a golden eagle wafted casually around the crags. “It’s just a seagull,” I pronounced knowingly. Pegs barely bothered to raise an eyebrow.

Ringed by superb mountains at the secluded head of a fjord-like sea loch, Sourlies is beachfront real estate to die for. It’s a bijou little number however, and today it was already occupied. We pitched up next door on close cropped turf, with a light breeze to keep the winged devils at bay and a whole afternoon of sun lounging to look forward to. It rained. But the way to a girl’s heart being through her stomach, fresh-gathered mussels mariniere and a crisp white restored some of my lost kudos.

Despite menacing weather on day three, we could hardly come this far without trying to get on top of something. Rain might not yet have been falling from the sky, but just getting to the mountain involved plenty of water, first wandering the salt marsh at the mouth of the River Carnach, then fording the stream to reach the foot of Ben Aden. This isn’t a Munro - and it has many other plus points too. Throwing down crag-studded ramparts to every point of the compass, Ben Aden is the epitome of West Highland roughness; it certainly doesn’t see a lot of traffic. The streaky rock and vertical heather of the south face wasn’t exactly inviting; instead we contoured onto the northwest spur, picking out a scrambly line with an untrodden feel, in a magnificent position far above the gorge of the River Carnach.

Ben Aden sits on the borders of Knoydart proper, at the heart of a great knobbly nothingness. The views are doubtless very special. In pea soup cloud we smelt our way eastwards, descending carefully around slabby bands (pioneering potential for the strong legged?) to reach a baffling maze of mini summits, micro crags and lochans. The long pull up Sgurr na Ciche was again mostly view-free, a disappointing way to climb what looks (from the photos) to be the area’s most spectacularly spiky Munro. The descent of the long undulating southwest ridge made up for it, as we dropped below the cloud ceiling to see distant Eigg basking in what might almost have been sunshine. Deer scattered at our approach. Back at Sourlies, we were too bushed to mind the midges.

Neither of us fancied the Glen Dessarry mud bath next morning. Instead we steered for the road less travelled, a return to Loch Arkaig via the obscure Corbett of Sgurr na h-Aide. Starting at sea level the abrupt climb to its crest is appealingly masochistic. Another ‘seagle’ led us up the slope, circling close before disappearing south over the ridge. Given a more accessible location, Sgurr na h-Aide would star in magazine articles. We’d never even heard of it before, and had no expectations. Not knowing made it all the sweeter.

“Where to now?” Pegs wondered, “You want a rematch in Glen Nevis?”
“Or we could just go home”, I ventured. 

BMC member Dan Bailey is a mountain journalist based in Fife. He is author of Scotland’s Mountain Ridges, published by Cicerone.

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