Glorious information-gathering failure - The Highland Trail 2019 write up

The start of the ride was quite serene for me for once.  My friends in no short order had lost their GPX files and their pod keys and I was confused about what I was missing out on.  I flitted amongst the pack wishing others a good ride.  The mens’ field soon rushed off and a few women and occasional guy left behind picked our way through the remaining open gates and walkers who, having waited for an entire peloton to pass were now reluctant to step out of the way of one or two stragglers.

Foto (c): Mike Clarke

I got to the bottom of the hill. At Easter I’d already stopped 5 times to eat food and remove layers.  The trek around Loch Long started.  Already we saw a few riders turning back the other way.

A number of times I thought to check that my spot was on but then waited till the top of the hill where I forgot… and repeat.  It was only on reaching the reservoir dam where my Garmin GPS always screws up that I thought to check.  It was off.  I started it going and swore a bit.  At least I had the GPX to verify my route.  I thought several times about saving the file – just to make sure I had it – but didn’t want to screw up the math.  It didn't feel like a good start but it kind of took my mind off the first 40km (I later discovered it was on all the way). 

At Bridge of Balgie, I tried to persuade Alan P to come in for lunch but he refused, citing guilt for stopping so early.  I gorged on soup and wondered why I’d carried so much food when I could buy stuff here.  I’d pretty much packed my bags at home then added more at Tyndrum through habit.

I hadn’t remembered the next turn well but soon remembered the long climb and the descent to Rannoch, now soggy.  The brakes were already a little sketchy.  Balloons hung on the fence post in the rain and I felt welcomed. This sensation spread as Isla Rowntree cheered us through.  Now the start of the road to Ben Alder.

All the memories were swathed in grey.  I had no-one to describe the non-existent view to so I pedalled furiously over to the end of the trail then started the slow bump over bog and broken branches.  I was with Steven – of the big rucsac – and Cath W was behind me as I passed her having a faff on the trail. 

Steven was keen for water from the bothy but I explained the process for sourcing water.  He was happy to follow me over the moor – probably because he was too far ahead to hear me having a conversation with the tree who protected me from the evening breeze last time I was here.  It was 4pm, not 7pm when we passed the bothy.  Steven waited whilst I manhandled my bike up onto the bridge and was kind enough not to laugh when the wheel flopped over to one side and the saddle pack smacked me in the face, leaving a muddy war-paint smear on me to carry up the hill.

We caught up to Nick Bubb and John Beckley(SA) as we made our way up.  They were taking care on the drains.  My training 1 month earlier meant I had good technique sorted though I mis-judged a few.  I was running high tyre pressure just for this section and I came away puncture-free.  At the point where I bivied in the snow in April, I stopped to munch on Bombay mix in the rain.  Not wanting to remove my hand from my glove I held the bag like an apple and scoffed straight from the wrapper.

Nick grinned at me as he passed.  A few metres later he was stopped by the trail, hydrating a food sachet.  I made him realise how hungry he was.

I made a fun descent of Ben Alder.  All going swimmingly till my front wheel lodged in a rut as my body was trying to do something completely different.  As soon as the wheel hit a rock I was off and flying through the air towards another large rock in the path.

Development on the bruises 2 days later

My elbow and knee impacted the ground first followed by my back and then the back of my head or my helmet on the rock.  I was OK to get up.  I checked the bike over then we had a little walk as the stinging pain subsided and all muscles returned to normal.

We rode it out to the other bothy where, despite asbestos warnings, 3 bikes were lined up outside.  It was too early to stop and too risky to get cold.  Besides I didn’t fancy waking up in such a remote location, stiffened from my fall.  I rode on.  As I descended to some semblance of community, I remembered my brakes were shot – possibly a contributing factor to the crash.  The rain was pouring now and I was cold from the descent.  I needed somewhere warm to fix the brakes up.

I rode on across forest-covered moorland until, descending to Kinlochlaggan, I found a farmyard with a shed and a very comfy – looking haybail.  I was considering asking about sleeping in the hay when I noticed caged dogs alongside and concluded it would not be a restful night, even if they said yes. 

Thankfully just around the corner was a tree, offering what seemed like the last bit of shelter in Scotland.  I donned the Rapha vest I almost didn’t bring and the fleece from my bar bag.  Both were already wet. 

By swinging my arms I managed to get enough dexterity into my fingers to adjust my brakes and made the remainder of the descent. 

A handy-looking log hut was bypassed.  I’d got this far and Fort Augustus still felt feasible.  Maybe not for the pizza shop but I had campsite food with me.

When I reached the trail turn off the road, two other dishevelled-looking riders were retracing.  I assumed I looked as rough but I was still riding.  I guessed they were headed to the log cabin but later, I found, it could have been Lucy and Jill heading to a sound night in the local village hall.

The next section was new to us.  Instead of the main road, a pretty climb lined with lush green grass and wild orchids led to a moorland double-track.  Kudos to the organiser, it was beautiful.

The track looked suspiciously like the Corrieyairak pass and I briefly allowed myself to believe I was going to pop out any moment at 1000m elevation with nothing left to Fort Augustus except a ripping descent.  Sadly it wasn’t to be (I knew deep down I hadn’t suffered enough Up yet) and a short descent brought us out at the canal / drainage channel at the bottom of General Wade’s military road, which  I recognised from my reccee.  The Corrieyairak lay ahead.  As the rain pelted down, I easily climbed the road where I’d had to take two cool-off stops in Easter.

I did have to get off and walk the steeper sections.  As I rolled down the other side.  I approached an odd sight, a man walking with an umbrella in a kilt, dead creatures hanging from his waist. 

As I got nearer the kilt turned to shorts, the umbrella was made of Cuban fibre.  The shoes were expensive La Sportiva trail shoes and the dead animals were his sun-hat.  We waved to eachother.

The cold of the descent combined with the pouring rain and the forecast from the Mountain Weather Information Services threat of sleet at high elevations put me off the pass.  I didn’t need to get that cold.  My hopes turned to finding the Melgarve Bothy – was it that locked building I saw last time?

I propped up my soaking bike, overjoyed to find the door at the front of the building opened and the glorious smell of wood smoke filled the air.  My gamble had paid off – I assumed anyone who got there earlier than me (in the fading light) would have gone over to Fort Augustus.  Anyone behind me would have stopped already.  There were no bikes outside.  Thinking I was alone I took the bike in the porch and stripped it of what I needed.  Inside though, a gruff Glaswegian accent answered me back with a Hello.  He sat in the corner of the dark musty room wearing an actual kilt and sporran and a black teeshirt stretched over his belly like a cross between Highlander and Rab C Nesbit. 

I wasn’t sure if I’d found the bothy or accidentally walked into his home.  The bothy didn’t look like a home it looked like a bothy – damp, no power or running water, pokey rubbish windows and very simple utilitarian furniture but then there were sofas and this guy who seemed as much a part of the bothy as the damp and the flaking windows.  I held out my hand to show I was friendly and introduced myself.  Presumably if I had invaded his home, he’d chuck me out but he responded with, “Hello Andrea, I’m Colin”, then pulled my hand towards him and went in for a kiss.  I reeled back quick enough but gently so as not to cause offence.  5 empty cans of Stella and an un-labelled wine bottle sat on the table. 

I didn’t particularly want to share the bothy for a night on my own with Colin but I did desperately want to stop.  I decided to stay long enough to cook up some dinner and only longer if someone else arrived.  I didn’t need to add drunken gropes to my already traumatic day.

Once Colin had asked me 4 times my name and where I was from I realised I was probably safe but I was still relieved when the American hiker, Nathan, arrived to join in Colin’s repetitive quiz.  I pointed out what a great job Colin had done of building a fire and was still slightly un-nerved by his “Aye, I've done you a favour alright", implying we somehow owed him one... something.  As more people joined,  the “party”, chances were I wouldn’t need to move on and Colin wouldn't be collecting payment.

None of the clothes on the drying rack above the fire got really dry but I took most items to my sleeping bag to finish off the drying process and hung my bib shorts on a hook on the wall – partly for drying and partly to ensure my most valuable (useful) items didn’t end up on the fire if Colin decided he needed a bit more warmth in the night.

Someone snored soundly for a person who didn’t feel tired and it was me who stayed awake late, my body recovering, not too many aches except for a lot of pillow (dry bag) stuffing required to support my whiplash.  It was my brain that was wide awake, telling me I was thirsty.  I hoped I’d sleep anyway but at 2am I had to sneak into Colin’s room to recover my water bottle.  He had passed out on the sofa, not quite making it *into* his sleeping bag.

Rehydrated, I fell sound asleep until Nick’s 5:30am wake up call.  I couldn’t be arsed to cook but ate one of the many flapjacks I'd packed.  Last night’s whiplash was OK and nothing else really ached badly.  The guys got away first as I tidied up my kit from the night before. 

Outside, my food bags were filled with water, the food still inside.  Raisins had turned back into grapes and the apricots had rehydrated nicely, though I suspected they would soon start to turn into Schnapps.  The cereal bars were mostly unscathed – good wrappers and stuff in ziplok bags seemed OK.  I was just a little disappointed in myself for carrying so much over the hill and not eating it yet.  I turned the bags upside down and squeezed over a pint of water out.

Up on the pass, Nick and John waved happily to me from above and I eventually caught them on the way down the descent as they were taking care with drains again.  The snow had receded to a few dirty slithers in north-facing gullies.

As I descended the rain got harder and the rivers deeper.  I moved through each or balanced my way over rocks until all the rocks started to disappear.  At the ford, the bottom of the crossing was invisible and the flow was moving fast.  I walked up and down the stream looking for somewhere narrower with rocks for me to cross but all of the rocks were submerged by at least 8 inches by water moving a 2m/s or more.  It would be impossible to put my foot on one, never mind stand on it or trust it to stay put. 

Eventually I returned to the ford and decided to take it one step at a time.  Every time I lifted a leg up to step, the free leg was dragged sideways by the flow but I managed to plant it somewhere carefully.  The water was above my knees and every so often the back of the bike also set off at 90 degrees to my direction of travel but I managed to drag it back down to earth. Gone was the drive to keep the dynamo hub dry, maintaining ground contact was priority.  It was pretty unnerving but I survived and on-balance my gear did remarkably well as my feet remained warm.  It didn’t seem like any new water had got past my OMM trousers and into my waterproof socks.  The dynamo hub survived to charge another battery.

The further I messed about pausing for crossings, the worse my brakes got, Jesus I just tightened them up!  I’d buried my tool bag but dodgy brakes weren’t a part of the plan.  I got out of the wind in the ditch where I could prop up the bike and pulled the cables through tight.  Fiona had caught me up from the Corriarack bothy – she’d left Colin early in the evening and moved over the hill.  She’d been in that bothy for 12 hours, not wishing to brave the weather at all.

The guys caught me up again, offering help which I passed-on.  I was a little pissed off I hadn’t done this last night because of the pissy rain and the cold.  Fuck, I was very pissed off I hadn’t done this at home last week!... but otherwise knew what I was doing.

From then on I held my breath at all river crossings as I had to estimate the depth and hope I wouldn’t hit a big rock.  It all went OK.  There were a few more short climbs than I remembered but I welcomed them as an excuse to have a jog to pump blood into my fingers and toes.  I still reached Fort Augustus pretty tired, wet and frazzled. 

I parked my bike at the same caf as everyone else and ordered exactly what I wanted followed by another dose of exactly what I wanted.  Two  breakfasts and two coffees in an hour – my first coffees in 3 weeks.

(c): Lucy Noble.  Me and Jill contemplating Scratchville

 Over a 2 hour period I held court with an unknown scratcher, a non-rider, Jill and Lucy, Nick and John (SA) and Cath.  I just couldn’t decide whether to quit or not.  The reports were coming in of danger, many scratches, the organiser advising that everyone should think seriously about continuing.  My biggest concern was for my injuries as well as the rising water levels and recalling a lot of rivulets and gullies across or under the road after Invermoriston… and there was that awful reservoir to come.  My nemesis.  Beyond that, I didn’t know but it would be nice to find out.

Cannich, beyond Invermoriston, where my forest bivi was at Easter, would no longer be dry and pillowy but spongey and wet.  I had no rescuers to call this time but I wasn’t ready to quit so I carried on up to Invermoriston to see how I felt.  Within 10 minutes of leaving, the sky brightened but on the well-managed Great Glen Way, torrents of water raged beneath.  I momentarily cheered up at the thought that this was doable and now my brakes were working too.  I was soon at the steep descent to Invermoriston, looking forwards to another (third) meal.  Another bike was already outside, the owner’s tent splayed out to dry on the picnic table outside but it had started raining again.

I went inside to call out to the owner, only to see nothing more than civilian clothed people staring back at me.  The waitress took the message that the tent was getting wet again and I went out side to lock up.  And that’s how I met the race organiser properly.  After he bundled his mostly dry tent back into its bag, I joined him at his table and ordered more food.  We stewed over pictures of waterfalls and rivers – young men staring at the torrents.  Angry foam, boulders of bitter beer-coloured water.  Someone had rescued someone else and fallen in upto his neck.   

(c) Lars Henning

 
Alan worried that the only people left on the course were Rookies but then there was the argument that anyone with a fast time to beat was not carrying enough kit and no longer interested in the race.

Alan worried that someone would misjudge it, take one risk too many and die on his watch.  As an RO it’s understandable. 

Given my unsure health, the lack of confidence in my helmet and the creeping feeling that I might not finish this, I agreed to head back to Fort Augustus with Alan.  What would happen if I got ¾  of the way around and then no-one could get across Fisherfield?  I’d almost rather quit after 3 days than quit after 6.  I was prepared to get stuck out on a hill but I wasn’t prepared to get swept off a cliff or stuck in a landslide.  It was the kind of day that, if you were making your own decisions, you wouldn’t go out because if you came to harm, mountain rescue would tell you you’d been a dick.  No-one wants a Darwin award.

So Alan and I left Invermoriston and headed back to Fort Augustus.  The trail was light and flowy and we were there in no time.  We talked of Wiltshire and all the things we could do now we weren’t racing – drinking beer being at the top of the list.

At the woods, we met Michelle with her bike.  We exchanged pleasantries and warnings and she continued on regardless.  I envied her a little but not enough to stop the quitting.  I didn’t want to ride any more.

In a wooded section of single track, Alan left me for dead. Suddenly I didn’t want to rush back to the finish. My legs were empty, my head and whiplash ached and I had pangs of back pain too.  I bumbled along the river side, listening to birdsong and smelling woodsmoke from campers with nothing better to do.  It was good to be alone for a while but Alan was waiting for me at Laggan Locks.  I pointed enthusiastically to the Eagle Barge, “I’m getting beer in there” I shouted over the wind that was now whipping up the canal.  I was showing the organiser bits of Scotland he didn’t know about. 

Pic (c): Alan Goldsmith - Me propping up the bar.

I didn’t really know what meal this was but Lasagne seemed the thing to eat.  We were soon joined by others – a stream of dripping wet riders in for a pint, in for a scratch.  We loitered near the stairs so as not to drip too much on the carpet.  One by one we all drifted off to find accommodation or lifts, waiting for trains in the morning.  I joked with Alan that I might ride through the night to get back to Tyndrum on the road but he seemed genuinely concerned that I shouldn’t.  For now the Great Glen Way was the best route anyway.  I sent him on his way so he didn’t get cold whilst I faffed with layers and electronics.

It was a long way compared to what I remember.  I attempted to stay at the Gairlochy hotel but they were full. The station didn’t offer enough cover for me to check my phone for bookings – I started to shiver and I was too exposed.  I rode on to Fort William, pouring over the seething river via the railway footbridge and climbing out of the estate I mashed my gears into the wheel for about the fifth time that day.  My bloody back wheel was loose.  Tightened up, everything seemed to be working again.  It was another problem that contributed to my scratch that was now working again.  I grumped at myself. Not impressed.

At Nevis Cycles, I pulled into the phone box to use its cover whilst I hunted for a room.  One check of the rear light indicated it was dead and that I wouldn’t be riding back to Tyndrum on the road in this fading light.  Besides which, it was a long way and I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.  My watch was long dead so I was pretty surprised when I checked my phone to realise it was 10pm.  I’d thought it was 5pm!   I’d lost some serious hours to the excitement of the day.

Nothing that involved interaction with other human beings or losing sight of my bike or removing anything from my bike, actually appealed to me.  I kind of hoped to get a campsite pod but of course the office was closed.  Still, the rain had stopped and I could at least get a warm shower, dry hair, use the hand drier to dry out some clothes and stuff my shoes with toilet paper.   I pitched my tent next to a table and locked my bike to it.

As I rung my sodden gloves under the shower to remove the grit and sweat, the waterproof membrane popped through the seam and then burst, overcome by my carelessness, conditions and a hard 15 months use.  I dried them out for the next day but stocked up on a pair of wool gloves from the shop and some marigolds instead.  So long Evans Cycles friends – you were good in your day.

The alarms were off – this was non race mode.  Still, I was awoken early by someone walking swiftly away from the bike.  Peering under the canvas, the bike was at least still there.

Breakfast and coffee got me out of the valley and onto the route.  I’d not done this section yet and decided not to bail out on a recce since I’d come all the way here.  I climbed sharply to the hill above the campsite and stopped to eat the bag of jelly beans bought from the shop. It occurred to me I was about to take on a long ride with nothing more than jelly beans, chocolate and some not-so-dry but not-so-palatable fruit from two days ago.  Perfect training then.

A bear bones jersey made sure I was OK and reassured me that a bunch were meeting up at the Kingshouse hotel to camp / van back down to Tyndrum in the morning.

The first of many hikers lined up to tell me it’s “not far now”.  Seriously, you have no idea, it could be miles.  You’re wrong and untrue.  Stop wishing your lives away. Stop wishing my life away.

The doubletrack road narrowed through sheep pens and streaked out across forests, tree rooted and rocky. I could see the orange Bear Bones jersey bouncing over the rocks below.  The increased flow of walkers became apparent - a MacMillan Cancer walk overlapping with the English bank holiday.  I said a cheery hello to volunteers at the aid station.  I hunted for an elevated spot to eat a cereal bar and exposed my legs to the sun, considering wearing thin socks and suncream.  I managed to stay midge free in the breeze only.

Passenger

Legs out.

Wonderful remoteness

Finally, the descent to Kinlochleven presented at 2:30pm and I squirrelled between the bar (coffee) and the Co-op before pressing on.  The Hydro pipes were putting on an impressive shower at a leaky flange and the culvert into the river bellowed out peaty water.  I chatted to walkers as they reassured me with lies that I hadn’t got far to go.  At least one lady asked for my reassurance that Kinlochleven was in the bottom of the valley.

Kinlochluncheon

I don't think it's normally like that

Minor leak.

Stepping out of the forest and onto the bare hillside, the pedestrian traffic faded with the light and the thickening cloud.  It was getting too late to be out without kit.  At 6pm the rain restarted although it halted a little on the Kinlochleven side, stuck in the valley.  I reached the top 90 minutes after the last walker told me it wasn’t far. 

I knew I’d reached the top due to the presence of a French lady wearing pumps and a fashion coat and carrying a leather hand bag.  She was looking for a Cairn that wasn’t on the OS map.  Sure enough, they’d not walked far from the A84.  I rode most of the Devil’s staircase except for being overtaken by a fit guy who wanted a race update.  I got out of his way and let him carry on being unladen and fully suspended… and tried to follow his local-knowledge line.  He was polite enough to explain that the local rivers dry quickly whilst the Northern will probably remain wet for some days.

I was unaware until now that there was a bike route / West Highland Way alongside the A84.  I dropped my front wheel in some loose gravel again, the bike ditching me unceremoniously into the heather and bog.  At least there were no rocks this time, just a soggy arse.  I got up quickly to minimise the wet. 

The Kingshouse Hotel with en-suite deer

The gradual climb to the Kingshouse passed without incident and bear bones came out to meet me at the hotel.  I’d already made my mind up to carry on past – at least once I’d decided that I didn’t want to spend £165 on a room without my bike.  The campsite looked midgey and the vague odour of sewage hung in the air.  I topped up my water bottles for cooking and used the loo before heading over to the ski hill, not before readjusting the front wheel to cope with the constant dink dink of a spoke on the brake caliper.  So that wheel was loose too.

In the carpark at the ski resort I bumped into an ex-work colleague returning from a sportive.  We shook hands before I carried on past, heading out on to the moor.  There were no pods available so I took to the wild for a night under the setting sun (impending showers) and somewhere in the breeze to escape the midges.  Just as the rain got close, I found a flat piece of grass next to a stream to roll out my tent and brew up.  

Glen Etive

A timely camp stop

The final few pics of the day were amazing.  The sound of rain on my tent were even more satisfying.  I was in my sleeping bag and had dinner and a brew without setting fire to the tent or myself.  Gold.   

Gold digga

I slept soundly until 2:45 am when the sound of a passing vehicle and footsteps in the grass outside had me completely beside myself with fear – mostly that my bike was going to get nicked and partly for the violence that would ensue if I put up a fight.  The vehicle drove away though and I was glad I’d immobilised the bike with its lock and fastened it to my tent using a peg and the pole.

I was too petrified of a return visit and too high on adrenaline to do anything other than pack up my stuff and move on.  I did so with the knife on my pliers drawn and held between my teeth then sat (alone thankfully) on the bridge in pre-dawn light eating a Mars bar.  Once I'd calmed down I opted to continue with my reccee rather than run away down the road.  I'm so glad I did.

The burning pink sunrise over Rannoch and the Black Mountain made everything worthwhile.  The trail was empty as tens of hikers camped along the side of the Way slumbered in their tents.  Deer scattered across my path.  Pushing over the “big” climb after Inveroran hotel I got very hungry very soon.  It didn’t matter that the Bridge of Orchy hotel was the other side, I had run out of energy.  I brewed up water and made porridge and coffee in a mild breeze to keep midges off, with a view looking out over posh Castle-dwellers' houses.  Deer barked at me, disgruntled by me sitting on their trail.  When I looked up they backed away to wait for another moment to cough at me rudely.

The breakfast got me moving again and I dropped my bike in the heather whilst I walked to the summit cairn, looking across the Black Mount to the tourist trap that is the A84, already heaving with motorists and HGVs.  I could almost hear the piper on piper’s corner but it was too early for him to be working.

Timing couldn’t have been better.  The Bridge of Orchy Hotel had just started serving and the staff seemed delighted that I wanted to hide my sweaty bedraggled self in the corner of the bar with a direct view of my bike.  2 Irish hikers joined me and we talked midges.  I left them with some midge coil to burn in their tent on the last night of their trip. 

The last run at the trail was a little sad.  I was riding relatively well and couldn’t help wonder if earlier carelessness and pain was down to my wheels being all over the place.  My improved performance being brought on by solid wheels.  Just as quickly, thoughts turned to a comfy bed as my right knee folded with every step and my coccyx rattled with every pebble I rode over.  3 hours sleep and early morning paranoia were never going to be a great motivator. 

Back in Tyndrum I booked a camp spot early then, whilst I waited for them to do their cleaning rounds, I took to the big comfy camp chair at the back of my van and fell asleep in the mid day sun, getting sunburn for the first time on the ride.

I spent the next 2 days catching up on sleep, walking, running and welcoming some of the other riders home, including Dusty (winner) and John – one of the most lovely people I’ve met in this game – unexpectedly since he’d left his tracker off for about 5 hours.  I set a 5:20am alarm to meet Javi but he sneaked in at 4:50.  Joint 2^nd place riders also finished in darkness.

John at the bottom of the last climb.

Of course my emotions are still mixed and on balance I regret my scratch.  It may have come later anyway due to continuing on an injured body but I do regret stopping where I did.  I could have camped out at Fort Augustus or anywhere on the Cannich trail for half a day to let the water levels subside.  I probably did have the time.

When I quit I was worried about my head – which is sensible really.  Of the women who kept going beyond day 2, Jenny graham scratched from a frustrating attack by the puncture fairy which she largely tackled in pouring rain.  There’s only 1 woman left on the course who, when I scratched, was around 5 hours behind me.  It could have resulted in an interesting (potentially out-of-time) race, had my body held up.  Update: Michelle has now scratched too after the official Completion time passed.

I’ve teased my brain with ideas of returning to do an ITT this year all on my own but the idea of starting out on the Southern loop AGAIN this year and potentially not getting any further AGAIN is too much to bear.  Instead I have decided to do something more constructive and reccee the Northern loops (one or both) over time.  I got so much benefit on race day from knowing the Southern route and would have been so much more comfortable knowing the terrain.  For all that people painted me verbal descriptive pictures of life beyond Fort Augustus, it’s not the same as seeing it for myself.  So therein lays one of my targets for the rest of the year.

First finisher with a flourish

Despite the occasional dark moment, I loved the ride every much as I expected to – even the wet bits.  Obviously the crash was shit but getting up again was nothing short of a massive feeling of getting-away-with-it.  With less layers on, I’d probably have been a darker shade of red.   

The feeling of being dot-watched added-to and strained the experience in equal measure.  If I’d been alone I’d have carried on into potentially worse situations but then, my "If only I had..." solution - to stop in Fort Augustus - wasn't, in retrospect very feasible  Isla had the same thought, but really? Could I / Would I have stopped at 3pm?

Next year I need to go into it with more and less behind me – more training, more belief, probably not so much food… or kit.  One thing's for sure, if I get in, I’ll look forward to it – now more than ever before.  Probability says it’ll be drier right?