The White Shepherd: Walking the Strathfarrar Hills

The weekend saw the appearance of the 'white shepherd', a name for the first snows of winter derived from their effectiveness at flushing grazing sheep from the high tops. The phrase dates back to a bygone era; it was the roaring of stags rather than the bleating of sheep that provided the soundtrack to Sunday's traverse of the ridge separating Strathfarrar from Glen Orrin.

The 'white shepherd': the first snows of winter on Sgur na Lapaich at the head of Glen Strathfarrar

I read about the white shepherd in the book 'Isolation Shepherd', Iain Thomson's delightful account of the years he spent as a regular shepherd in the upper reaches of Glen Strathfarrar. He was to be the last to experience this lifestyle, for the glen changed forever when Loch Monar was dammed as part of a hydroelectric scheme in the 1960s, consigning his Strathmore croft and its few acres of arable land to a watery grave. Even if the loch had not been dammed it is unlikely the softened population of today could produce people hardy enough to live the life that Thomson described, capable of working the land and raising a family so far from the comfort and convenience of civilisation.

View west along the Strathfarrar ridge to Loch Monar

Even before I became captivated by Thomson's prose, the glen captured my imagination by virtue of its inaccessibility. Vehicular access is strictly controlled by a gatekeeper who lives in a cottage beside the padlocked gate. She grants access only during British Summer Time, and even then only between particular hours, lending to the glen the air of a forbidden kingdom. This medieval arrangement is a legacy of the public money used to upgrade the glen's 20 odd km of single track road during the construction of the hydro scheme. Under the terms of a deal brokered by SNH the estates are obliged to grant access to a maximum of 25 cars per day.

Snow flurries over Glen Cannich

When walking through this country it is easy to become sentimental about the past, to lament the passing of a simpler and less commercial age. I prefer to celebrate the fact the the human dimension of this splendid tract of country has been documented and preserved. What I do regret is that not all our hills and glens have been blessed with a chronicler of Thomson's eloquence; as their rich social histories fade the lands become barren, gradually turning one man's home to another's wilderness.


Up to date information regarding access arrangements can be found on the Mountaineering Council of Scotland's website.

I was accompanied on this outing by Donald. He has put some good photos on his blog.

Bananas and Brown Dogs on Ben Nevis

The summit plateau may be infested with banana peel, but an even greater hazard plagues the area surrounding the Ben Nevis North Face car park at Torlundy and the approach up the Allt a'Mhuillin; they are practically paved with excrement.

Ben Nevis reflected in the calm waters of Loch Eil (February 2007)

The John Muir Trust announced this week that as many as 1,000 banana skins may be found on the summit plateau of Ben Nevis. The trust are not concerned that hillgoers may slip and tumble to their deaths; they are more worried about the environmental impact, claiming that the peel may take up to two years to degrade.

The specific issue of banana skins has been debated hotly on winterhighland.info.  Ukclimbing.com also has a more general thread about the issue of littering on Ben Nevis. Both have touched on the related topic of inconsiderate defecation in the hills in general and on Ben Nevis in particular.

Ben Nevis north face. Northeast Buttress (February 2006)

As Scotland's highest mountain, Ben Nevis has some of the most reliable winter climbing conditions and as such it attracts more climbers than any other. Most weekends between December and April will see literally hundreds arrive early at Torlundy to set out for a day's sport. It is this early start combined with caffeine, pre-climb nerves and a complete absence of toilet facilities that lead so many to indulge in inconsiderate al fresco bowel evacuations.

Ben Nevis north face ice climbing. Comb Gully (March 2007)

I am keen to see a waterless composting toilet installed at Torlundy, having had the pleasure of using such toilets while walking Tasmania's Overland Track. Recently I spotted what I took to be a similar facility in Scotland at Abriachan (I took a photo of Abriachan, but not the actual toilet). These toilets are engineering marvels and deserve to be more popular. A solar powered fan draws air down the pan to aid the composting process and this also results in a significant reduction in olfactory impact.

Composting toilet in Tasmania's Cradle Mountain National Park (2002)

Sadly, the provision of a composting toilet would not rein in the behaviour those who willfully seek to contaminate the outdoors. I don't think that many people would deliberately allow the brown dog to scratch and gnaw at the door until they had carried their foul cargo into the countryside, however, it would not surprise me if, having been caught unawares, some people try to exhibit, rather than conceal, their output. I am sure that we have all seen the results of this type of behaviour in public toilets - shit on the floor beside the pan or smeared up the walls. The perverted minority reponsible for such depraved acts are sure to be represented among hillgoers - for example there was a thread some time back on ukclimbing.com about a jobby right in the middle of the Ben Nevis path and I have seen one in the Glencoe carpark with my own eyes.

Now I enjoy an outdoor dump every bit as much as an indoor one, often more. I keep one of those military-style folding shovels in my van so I can ensure that any unexpected brown visitors are given a decent burial.

The Quiraing:Trotternish, Isle of Skye

Wild places are in a perpetual state of flux, yet they appear constant when considered on the timescale of our short human lives. On the eastern flanks of the Trotternish Ridge on the Isle of Skye lurks such a timeless place, the Quiraing. Its towers of kidney-textured volcanic rock enclose a collection of chasms and amphitheatres. We picked our way up steep paths, enjoying the novelty of carrying an infant through the type of scenery more usually found on a rock climb or in a winter gully. Bright images of island and sea presented themselves unexpectedly, framed between the pinnacles.

By contrast, it is rare to revisit an urban area and find it unchanged, even a tiny conurbation like Uig, the port from which the ferries linking Skye to Uist and Harris sail. My first visit to Uig was in 1993, courtesy of an audacious hitch that bordered on car-jacking. In the car park outside the village shop in Staffin we had found an elderly woman and her dog sitting in a car. She planned to drive over the hill to Uig to procure a tin of paint. We asked if we could have a lift and while our request was being considered we loaded ourselves and our packs into the back of the car. When the husband emerged from the shop he found his car fully loaded.

Fifteen years ago the shabby pub on Uig pier was typical of the Scottish hostelries of the era. The choice presented at the formica-topped bar was a simple one - lager or heavy. It has now been freshened up and re-branded. Extensive signage invites the passing tourist to enjoy good food, local beers and freshly ground coffee.
Looking back from the smoke free 21st century it seems ludicrous that joints were openly smoked as we played pool in that bar while waiting for the ferry to arrive. It is easy to think of travel only in terms of distance covered and places visited, yet our journey through life is a voyage through both time and space. Revisiting a place can suddenly bring home how much the world has changed in the intervening years. Suddenly I felt old, and my mind drifted back to the eternal spires of the Quiraing.