Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

I DIDN'T expect much from Carn a' Chuilinn. My last visit to this isolated mountain in the Glendoe Forest had been a less than aethestic experience, a walk among heavy machinery carving out a hydro road.

This also involved an argument over access rights with a seemingly self-appointed site foreman who was trying to show off his imaginary authority to a female companion. 

It quickly became apparent he was not flavour of the month with the rest of the crew as they gathered enthusiastically to watch him floundering, so he attempted to change tack by citing health and safety rules (which didn't apply) then whipped off his sunglasses – it was February – to reveal an empty eye socket. “How do you think this happened then?”

Obviously I had no clue. Crocodile attack, maybe? Anyway, without waiting for my answer or giving any explanation he got in his car and sped off. The watching workies were having a good laugh and I heard then refer to him with a word that rhymed with anchor. To be fair, he may well have been a television news anchor at some point in a previous life, though I doubt this to be the case.

One said: “Health and safety? Aye, right. He managed to shoot himself in the face with a rocket at a fireworks party while blotto.”

The rest of the walk took place under oppressive grey skies and deepening snow cover, the landscape mostly invisible and unremarkable, all the way to the large summit cairn. The descent was similar but happily free from a reunion with any jobsworth Cyclops.

That was 18 years ago but I could imagine the spread of industrialisation around this area had only brought further scarring. The road now looped for miles all the way up to a specially created reservoir, while to the south-east lay the Corrieyairack Pass with its unfaltering march of electricity pylons.

The trade route to Carn a' Chuilinn follows the hydro track initially before breaking off over open ground but it's impossible to ignore the road as it remains in the eyeline all the way on to the final heights. There are a couple of other approach options – from Glen Tarff or by the Allt an Eich Dhuibh – but there is always the feeling you can't quite escape the large-scale man-made footprint.

Some things have improved. There is a properly marked parking area and a new linking path for the first part of the walk. I met only one other walker and he was on his way to see the Glendoe Eagle, a dramatic metal sculpture of a golden eagle which sits on a rock overlooking the reservoir, its wings outspread in lift-off mode, which was commissioned to celebrate the completion of the hydro scheme. 

The early sun had been overtaken by increasingly threatening cloud as I neared the summit and I was surprised to again meet the man who had been eagle hunting. He hadn't intended being here but had turned off the track too early and found himself on a natural progression up the ridge.

With the grey descending and curtains of rain sweeping in, we had a dilemma. His was whether to retrace his steps for a couple of undulating miles or return another day to find the elusive bird; mine was brought on by the view out the back window – a wonderful mosaic of lochans and outcrops in a multitude of muted but contrasting shades and hues which circled around four more summits.

It was impossible to resist this delightfully unexpected wild corner of the landscape despite the inevitability of the rain. We parted company and I headed down through the water-studded terrain. The route was complex and pathless but always easy, a constant switching of line over minor summits and around pools, squeezing between narrow channels and outflows and sections of deep peat bog, accompanied only by the odd shrill bird cry.

The rain was now heavy and unrelenting but it didn't spark any regrets of route choice. After reaching the final top, I decided I had to hunt down the eagle. Despite being marked on the map, it would be quite easy to miss when the slopes are cloaked in grey. 

I couldn't see it at first but then spotted it in the distance. My heart sank a bit when I realised that meant another re-ascent but ten minutes later I was standing under its spread wings. I had taken nearly two hours to get here from the summit of Carn a' Chuillin and I had to wonder whether my earlier companion had managed to locate it this time.

All that remained was the long, wet downhill trudge on the loops of the track. Considering the terrain I had spent the last few hours crossing, it was strange that this felt like the loneliest part of the whole day.

One final thought on a day of surprises: Carn a' Chuilinn is 'the cairn of holly'. One suggestion is that there may have been significant holly growth here at one time, another that the various rocky protrusions on its heights resembled the spikes of the plant's leaves but neither is obvious and it's likely we'll never know for sure.