Friends, collies, the RAC man
It was early when me and B gave up on any chance of sleep, due to my uncomfortable sleeping accommodation, which I barked on about in my last blog. We could hear the birds in fine voice greeting the day and I began to remember what this Munro bagging was all about. We’d get up v. v. v early, walk for hours and hours and hours – mostly uphill – with B doing lots of huffing and puffing. Then, right at the top, I had to sit in front of a pile of old stones and smile sweetly while something called a camera was pointed rudely in my direction. After that, I got a nice chunk of sausage and, at the end of the day, all my legs hurt… badly. The best bit was always the sausage.
Today, we were going up a Munro mountain called Bynack More. It’s the one in the far North East of the Cairngorms, in Scotland. We started out, like so often before, through a forest and that rang alarm bells straight away. Forests are known for forest tracks and lots of them. This renders B ultimately vulnerable in the… how do I find my way through here department. Today though, we seemed to be hitting all the landmarks spot on, for a change. Before long we came to the beautiful Lochan Uaine with its delicious, tempting, turquoise water. Al I needed to make my world complete was a ball and someone to throw it.
Not everything about Munro bagging speaks directly to my soul, especially when it becomes a dialectic struggle (hey, hey, how’s that for a young dog). Apparently, I needed to preserve my energy for the big hill, instead of going like the clappers to retrieve a ball from a Loch, LOTS of times. So we went on, with B tugging away at a reluctant Ben.
Soon we were out of the forest and making our way to the next marker. This is the spot where Bynack Stable isn’t anymore. How odd, I thought to myself, that an empty site can become a navigational reference point. However, there we were, just before the river, looking at an area of flat green ground that housed nothing at all.
On the other side of the Nethy we could see our way ahead as a clear path snaked up into the hills. Just here, over an hour into our walk, my tummy started getting hungry and B wasn’t responding to my pleading looks. It was with a heavy heart that I realised that I needed to get her trained up all over again, in the frequent administration of my treats, after not being on the Munros with her for nearly a year.
We continued to the top, though where the real top was wasn’t immediately obvious amongst the crested outcrops of granite tors. These had been spewed up from the mountain’s entails in some violent peak of seismic climatic change. Further along though, there it was, as bold as any other old pile of constructed stones, our summit cairn; out came the camera, on went my smile.
From here we could see the east facing slopes of five, out of the six, highest mountains in Scotland and, though we were well into summer, the last gasps of snow clung to hollows, like rock climbers clinging on for dear life by their fingertips.
We returned by the same route with wide open vitas right across North East Scotland.
It took us much less time to get back to the bridge over the Nethy, and the vacant landmark beyond. Once again we marched right past that lovely lochan even though I tried my best to bark, to say my legs didn’t hurt at all and I had lots of spare energy. Just when I was beginning to think that actually, a bit of shut eye wouldn’t be a bad idea after all – catching up on some of last night’s misplaced zzzs – out came the map. Its perusal – scrutinised from every angle – was accompanied by a series of deep sighs. It seemed that, just over a kilometre from our Kangoo, we had been beaten by all those forest tracks and didn’t know which one to take. After another half hour of going wrong, flapping maps, and sighs that had evolved into groans, we hit on the right path and were back at the Munromobile, with another hill in the bag and without having encountered too many mishaps.
Me and B had a short nap back at base and were then keen to get to our pit stop for tonight’s sleep-over, close to Newtonmore. A nice big dinner, route planning and some writing would see us ready for sleep, hoping to wake refreshed for the next day of adventure. Oh dear Dog, if only being away with B could be that straight forward. We stopped for petrol in Aviemore and then drove back onto the road. Jeepers Creepers, what a strange sensation assaulted me. Bump and crunch accompanied each rotation of the wheel below me. Newtonmore was off, Glenmore Holiday Park was on, as we wobbled our way off the road ASAP.
B did lots of talking down those things you humans are always tapping away at, or holding to one of your ears. It seemed that someone could come to help us but it might be four or five hours. We had broken down at the busiest time possible. 5.00pm on a Friday evening in summer. At this news I went into a bit of a decline. My tummy was v. v. v hungry and that seemed an awful long time to wait for my dinner.
As I have indicated, B does get us into some awful pickles but, it has to be said, she can come up trumps when the cards are down. Before you could say, “Where’s the RAC”, my tummy was nice and full, lunch was done for tomorrow and B’s tummy was full too. All this happened by the side of the road, from the back of our Kangoo, as myriads of people, and their dogs, were arriving at their holiday chalets. I was just settling down for a few hours kip when – after a quick bit of talking down the ear machine – a god sent mechanic rolled up nice and early. He was from a local garage sub-contracted by the RAC. Oh dearie-me, the news wasn’t good. Not only had my tyre gone for a burton but the spare we were relying on wasn’t in great shape either. There was a lot more talking with words like recovery and home casting a black cloud over our weekend. Then, after even more confusing chat, this time with the man talking into his own ear extension, I got propped up on someone called Jack and he took away my wheel. At this the butterflies in my tummy started a trapeze display on v. v. v high wires.
However, the long and the short of it was that within another hour I had a brand new tyre fitted to my wheel and, to keep the butterflies well at bay, we had a new spare tyre too. Newtonmore was back on and the words recovery and home were flung out the window for at least, we hoped, the rest of the weekend.