Rannoch Mountaineering Club 

www.climbrannoch.co.uk

Fit il ye dae? – The North East Leg of the Tour

by Brian Mattock - Reflection of Post Rannoch Dinner (2003) Adventure

(Straight from the pen ofBrian Mattock, typos, spellinga nd all. ED.)

Carnmore then – bloody hell, I remember back or at least think I do; Stan Pearson, Shand Boy and myself, Dragon, crux pitch out of this world.  The walk – the walk back, forever for never – 4 in a vango with Bunny – we all slept like a log.  Shand Boy on the summit with that cigarette – I’m against it, but that looked like smoking pleasure.

And now its now and we stop at Jetty crag, I can cope with the walk in but I ‘m not sure if I’m more wary of the weather or Anthrax Island – Gruniad or whatever its called if like me you live to far south to know (or care).

John and I got up a route and then John gets well on with the cray VS … and gets rained on.  A fun retreat and a nearly fun solo to re-claim our jammed sling that nearly flicked off.  Celtic grub and coffee at Poobewe and a decision/derision on Carnmore; the weather and forecast look more marginal than the word of Geoff Hoon at an enquiry….  We scrub it – were too old and cynical to want to walk 10 miles to die alone in the rain on a 1000ft VS.

We compromise on a visit to Tilleigh Cray at the North End of Lock Marie.  Its an awfully still evening, and an awfully clouded evening and within 43 seconds of racking up its awful beyond imagination.  Despite full napalm, carcinogenic death repellent, the midges all have eight engines and are coming.  Within 2 minutes John goes black , with 4 minutes I can’t see him.  The repellent is holding up but we can hardly breathe and the midges seem to be planning sacrificial genocide in order that we can be theirs…  no route is worth this (well maybe Moonraker at Torbay but were does ambition an dream collide) and we  ‘run away’ before being stripped to the bone.  Away from the crag its okay, and I celebrate it all so far by going naked in front of the mountain with a ‘swim in the loch’(See Piccy).

A day of R & R at John’s folks in Inverness and crap weather vindicates our decision to battle Carnmore – well it did for me so bollocks what you think.  The West is no longer the best, despite what Jim Morrison may have said and we’re off to Cummingston via Fort George and some part time Tourism.  Neither of us had ever been to these parts and we were gobsmacked at the size and stature of Fort George.  We’re so impressed we nearly pay the entrance fee but instead press on Eastbound.  We get to Cummingston in the afternoon and have timed the tide well.  We roll up our trousers and sleeves and crack on with some great routes (Trapeze, Stegosaurus, Doodle Diedre, Bombroof…) but there is no doubt strong arms and a weak head are beneficial and we soon wind up pumped and humbled having had a few scares on the VS’s.  Suddenly the crag is mobbed and the local ‘Moray Climbing Club’ are up for the Wednesday evening.  A helpful friendly bunch they offer us a couple of top ropes ( Diedre of Doubt) and helpful sandbags on a couple of other routes (I think Green Crack).  The long evening just drifts by and we completely lose track of time to suddenly realise that its way past 10 o’clock..  Realisation and a dash to Tim Whitakers where wine is qualified tall tales elevated further.  Our plan to crash on the floor of Tim & Liz’s spare room is thwarted by its passing resemblance to the M6 at rush hour - courtesy of the kids.  We hit the lounge floor and promptly slide everywhere on the sofa cushions on the highly polished wood.  John and I, despite the cushion waltzing through the night, sleep like logs – well maybe Canadian logs on a river.  Humiliation in the morning as we not only miss Tim going to work but miss Liz coming in from work from her night shift.  Whoops, sorry guys! We were obviously knackered.  We slip away and back up for Logie Head and choose the longer walk in as its prettier – mistake.  We just get to the crag – and it chucks it down.  Luckily we find a shelter and sit it out.  The weather is hot and steamy and it dries fairly quickly.  We’re keen and I manage to solo Sea Urchin and Sea Link before getting the rope on for Poacher, this gives me a jolt.  The rock is strange / a bit like Gogarth and I’m struggling to do it without getting pumped. Its all square with the crag and the next shower comes – we bail out and trudge back the 4 kilometres in the rain.  As we get to the car it stops…  We carry on with a drive along the coast enjoying the Cornish like coves and villages and visit some of John’s cousins in Fraserburough.  “Fit-like”, Fere-yul-bide-temarra”, “Fit-il-ye-dae”. Its fair to say I get on better in French than speaking to the old timers and I keep looking for banjo’s and the film crew from ‘Deliverance’. Luckily my stay back in 92 in Aberdeen has helped the translation and it’s a good social.  They have no room at the inn and they have a reputation to up hold so they don’t invite John and I to stay so its back to the car and the only way – South.

Before we do this we check out Fraserbough harbour and understand why there is no cod left.  Six huge ships (not boats) are in with the bridge almost overwhelmed by the latest whiz bang sonar that the Navy would probably give the nod to.  Its no longer fishing its ‘vacuuming’ on a big scale, its amazing there is anything left on the sea with that lot out there.

John and I pause briefly and ponder on this philosophical, ecological thoughtful moment and press on toward the important staples: crags and beer.  We initially find a B&B looking place on the main highway, but a brief reconnasanse checks it out to be a doss house for active and retired alcoholics. I’m gauging what could be an amusing night when Buchan, in a rare display of thoughtlessness for his wallet, legs it for the door and we press on South. We finally lux it in Cruden busy and get hammered at the never closing bar.  Morning dawns fine (or was the red glow a reflection from my eyes) with a blow out at the breakfast table but we’re still knackered.  Zombie like we get going and arrive at Meikle Parkins.  We are so impressed with the pink granite that we fall asleep after an hour at the top of the crag.  We awake give up and head back to town for a brew.  Crudin Bay is not a town and there is no café for the louche southerners to reside we get the stove out on the quay and chat with the local stone wall builder (well Stirling but he’d been there for 2 months…). He tells us of the dead sperm whale that got washed into the harbour a couple of weeks back, evidently it smelt worse than Bish’s socks after a foreign trip.  The brew and food does the trick and we get into Meikle Parkins and tick off Epistrophe, Original Route, The Bridge, Dungo, Shallow Diedre and solo a couple of the Diff’s,  Johns’ buzzing: I promised him pink granite and he’s not disappointed; I reflect that it is my first return in 11 years – not good enough.  The weeks Highland Fling is rapidly ending -  we point the Furred Mundane south to England and a Newcastle rendevous. Next year it’s a V6 Clio Northumberland Pumpstone and a Borders Bash. Brulé…

Brian Mattock