REACHING SATURATION POINT WITH ARDGOUR HILL CHOICES

I ESCAPED the wall-to-wall television coverage of the World Cup and Wimbledon for a few days in the hills where I found a different kind of saturation altogether.

The rains which seem to have settled in for the summer were not constant but they were always lingering on the horizon making those little windows of calm ever more precious – and precarious.

Our base was the hostel at Corran, handy for the mountains of Ardgour with the ferry across the Narrows right on our doorstep. It's been a few years since I last made the crossing and, like almost everything since the pandemic, the price has risen dramatically so it made sense to take the car over the first day, leave it there and go back and forth as a foot passenger.

My Corbetts list offered six hill day choices over the water, but the unsettled conditions meant some of these old friends were instantly ruled out ie. the one with the river crossing, the one with the chest-high bracken. There was also a reluctance to tackle magnificent Garbh Bheinn or the equally impressive Sgurr Dhomnuill when the chance of any summit views was highly unlikely. The scene was set perfectly on the journey up through a series of heavy showers. I stopped off at Buachaille Etive Mor during a pause in the overhead hostilities to deliver the annual whisky tribute to an old friend lost in the mountains, although Thor was still hammering on the gates of Glen Coe during the no-nonsense up and down. I arrived at Corran to find the drying room already fully occupied with the gear of those who hadn't been so lucky avoiding the thunderstorms. The mission of trying to take a different approach to every second-round Corbett was set in motion next day, an ascent of Stob a' Bhealach an Sgriodain from Glen Hurich rather than the more popular route from Callop off the A830 Road to the Isles.

Heavy rain was forecast from mid afternoon, so I caught the first ferry at 6.30. The narrow road climbs high beyond the old mining settlement of Strontian, twisting and turning through dark forestry which would likely awaken nightmare flashbacks in Hansel and Gretel. And just to enhance the eerie fairytale vibe, I detoured into the deep wood to drop some books into lonely Resourie bothy. Back on the track it was so far, so good: despite water running everywhere and standing pools and puddles, it was dry and warm with promising glimpses of the heights peeking through the grey above the compact treeline and the songs of willow warbler, blackcap, goldcrest and bullfinch piercing the silence. That all changed when I turned off on to the track extension to the right. Suddenly, there was no solid ground. The grassy cover was an illusion, every step an ankle-deep squelch trying to dodge under or around fallen trees. It was a relief to reach the high deer fence. At least it was for a few seconds.

Now it was a steep, unrelenting push uphill squeezing between fence and forest while trying to avoid the deepest holes in the thick grass. There looked to be a better path on the other side but that would mean climbing the high fence twice. Besides, the arrow markers were determined to keep you on this side.

Once above the trees, there was more deep grass to contend with on the way to the ridge. The ground improved at height but the visibility disappeared and the rest of walk round to the lone rock summit was uneventful and unseen there and back.

It wasn't much easier on the return, care needed to avoid dropping into a deep hole and turning an ankle or worse. When I reached the fence, I pulled my hood down and went headfirst through the dead tree branches rather than face the slip-slide mud and grass again.

I made it back before the weather turned, but although most of my clothing had stayed dry, everything below the knee was sodden – boots, socks, gaiters, trousers and waterproofs. I had changed socks midway through the walk but that proved only temporary relief and the water was soon sloshing around again. I had reached saturation point – the water in the boots could have filled a bath.

We were greeted by high winds and heavy rain the following morning, but by early afternoon the picture had improved for an ascent of Stob Coire a' Chearcaill. Last time out we climbed this hill from Inverscaddle Bay, now it was from the shores of Loch Eil at Blaich.

Summit views justified the later start and the few sweeps of light drizzle didn't require any waterproofs but there was no respite for the feet, boots and socks again taking a very wet beating on the pathless section. The constant whistle of golden plovers throughout could easily have been construed as sympathy.

The final day decision came down to looking for the least worst walk on the way home. Ardgour had been left behind and Beinn Mhic Chasgaig in Glen Etive deserved better than this, so I stopped off at Bridge of Orchy to nip up Beinn Dorain. This was a tidy-up Munro and at least there was a path all the way. There were some dramatic glimpses through the swirling grey but mostly the heights remained invisible and the boots and socks ended up soaked through once more. Still, I'm sure I heard my feet whispering thank-you when it was all over.