(Above) Brian circa '86
(Below) Brian 2003
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Achiltibuie, and a beautiful morning follows a beautiful
evening. John and I linger on the beach for a leisurely breakfast still enjoying
the memories of yesterday’s ascent of the ‘Old Man’. Again we refer to Ken
Halfwitt’s guidebook – this time for Stac Pollaidh – and single out
November Groves as a ‘Classic’ VS route of the day.
In what turned out to be trendsetting for the holiday we arrived at the car park
at the crack of midday – pushy ambitious alpine rockers to a man…
Rather than erode the hill and our souls by slogging up the death vertical mega
pain scree to the base of the route we opt for the new 8 lane, with picnic
sites, motorway path which eases its way up around the back of the hill and onto
the summit col; my knees quietly compose a thank you note. We get to the col.
and come down the South face a tad to rack up and get booted. A fairly easy 15
minute traverse sees us at the base of the routes. ‘Ken How the Fuck do we
Start It’ has done it again as we flail about trying to find the start.
John has a look at one option but decides it can’t be 4b – it wasn’t but I
guess that’s where we should have been. Instead I get lured into a ‘bit of a
jam crack’ on the right. It looks about hard severe – hah. As usual we have
completely misjudged the Terror-ridden Northwest Sandstone; it’s way steeper
than I thought and the rock is rougher than Big Al after a night out with Celtic
supporters. Following my success on the Old Man I again show my Higgar Tor
jamming pass; it is brushed aside and shredded by the rock. I was in real
trouble now – desperate measures were called for and I finally lost all pride
and showed it my scars from Overhanging Crack at Bowden Doors (failed!). I’m
not sure if it was affronted or impressed but for a moment it gave me an edge
and we were up. A further pitch and our thoughts that the ‘Classic’ VS was a
dark wet Clachaig Gully with attitude was being gradually confirmed. ‘Ken Just
Climb It’ gave us an ‘easy out’ of a 5a pitch out in the breeze on the
right hand edge of exposure – we took it. Great pitch and for once a soft
touch, the friction on the sandstone brilliant and the position superb as we
looked out over what must have been 2000ft of exposure. Next pitch should have
been back into Clachaig Gully copy-cat hell (Does anyone actually think that
November Groves is a good route?!), but out on the right following the logical
line of our last pitch was an alluring crack. It gave me its best ‘Come on if
you think your hard enough’ look – bastard I was hooked; it did look the
line. I recalled a conversation with JD at the dinner and figured this must be
the meat and two veg of “Jack the Ripper”, JD gave it high praise – he
didn’t look wrong, but it did look every inch an E1 pitch with no spare change
whatsoever. John sensed I was on the edge and goaded me further – it had to be
done.
“Jesus, I can’t possibly stay on”, I thought as I did yet another tough
bodily pumping bridging, jamming, laybacking move up the ever interesting, ever
changing, ever cranking crack. The friction was more outrageous than the
position – bridged out across two overhanging walls on some occasions; what a
great pitch with the crux where it should be, the last move. I land a dripping
heap on a big ledge and John agrees what a great trip up the Crag. A short pitch
and we finish on the summit – a first for both of us on the Summit of Stac
Pollaidh, weather is still perfect and we can see forever.
We scramble back to gear and plod back down the motorway path, my knees
finishing the ‘thank you’ note with a flourish.
Its back to the car and following the E1 route about an E3 drive back to
Ullapool in search for a B & B. We go by two or three marginal places before
abandoning the car and hoofing it around the town. We are put off by chincy
places with manicured lawns, gnomes and porches before happening across a bikers
welcome sign. We knock and are greeted by Beatrice a shambolic survivor of the
60’s, in her and her husbands shambolic house which has survived longer and
better. If people tell you that persistent regular use of marijuana does no harm
– see Beatrice. The women is a quasi flashback, to what I am not sure, but we
were swiftly made to feel at home and take little heed as she talks on about her
vocation as a sick animal ‘nurse’. John and I showered and shattered after
our two sonic day’s head out to the pub. We pause only to try and repeat the
picture that JD took of me on the sea wall 20 years earlier. It proves harder
with a digital which of course has a response time like that of the NHS, but
John gets a good shot – see the picture(s) on the site.
Some food and some beers, later we stagger back to the abode. We are confronted
by what appears to be a funny legged puppy on the kitchen floor – either that
or it’s a seal pup. It’s a seal pup. Its been abandoned by its Mum near
Inverness and they have driven it across to be nursed by Beatrice. The chances
of survival are low as it has ingested a lot of sand in its hunger – it
managed to look perfectly pathetic with its big beautiful eyes, despite an
overwhelming smell of fish. Unbowed and unfazed we retire for a dram and recall
Gavins and JD’s great lyrics for the seal pup song:
I want to join the Seal Pup Club
Cos the Seal Pup Club’s where its at
I want to join the Seal Pup Club
And use my baseball bat……….
Oh they don’t write them like that anymore - I guess you had to have been
there. Next morning the possible beer induced illusion is confirmed as the seal
pup is residing in one of the guests baths and emanating a solid fish smell
which is ingraining itself into everything. We enjoy our breakfast say good by
to Beatrice and the Seal, wish them well and start heading for Carnmore………..
Brian Mattock
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