With more the 350 miles to drive from Cambridge, it was essential to set off early. So James returned from his meeting in Huntingdon, through the Bank Holiday traffic to Cambridge, to pack and to collect me. Setting off, we detoured twice in Cambridge (once for car fuel, once for stove fuel) before heading back out into the remains of the Bank Holiday traffic on the A14.
As we rolled up the final single-track road through Glen Trool (dodging the deer as they tried to cross the road), the time was well after 3:30. There seemed little point in pitching a tent for only a few hours, so I slept in my bivvy bag and James in his car, in the empty car park.
When I awoke, the car park wasn't quite so empty; it was rapidly filling up with cars - including, soon, Pete's trusty Montego. After a monumental faff (deciding which gear to leave behind for a weekend is never quick), we left.
About a hundred yards along the track is Bruce's Stone, overlooking Loch Trool. We stopped for photographs; while we were doing that, James changed his mind about leaving all his food in his car, and ran back to fetch it. Nice one, James!
After this minor delay, we set off (again) and followed the obvious track which leads over Benyellary to the Merrick. Bright sunshine and extensive views were the order of the day, and many photographs were taken (at least, I *think* that was the excuse for the number of stops we took).
After the Merrick, we descended the sharp point of the Spear, and leaving our sacks at the intervening col, climbed Kirriereoch Hill. It was a bit less crowded here than the Merrick, and it was warmer than my previous visit (December 1992) so we took our time and admired the view.
Returning to the col, we descended to Loch Twachten (leaving James stranded on the other side when he took an "alternative" route), and made our way across the difficult ground between there and Loch Enoch. It would have been impossible to find it in the mist, so broken is the landscape at this point. On reaching the loch, we realised that we needed to be at the furthest side, so we arbitrarily chose to go around the right-hand side. About half-way around, there was a small beach, where the ladies paddled and the rest simply sat in the sun (again).
We contoured carefully through some crags to find ourselves at a col with a good clear view to the glen floor, where we hoped to spend the night.
When we finally crossed the remaining bogland, and tentatively pressed on through a blind-looking fire-break in the spruce, we arrived at Backhill of Bush. "Nice place," someone said as it came into view. "I'm looking forward to a pleasant night here."
But it wasn't to be as pleasant as we thought. Half of the floor-space was taken up by seven or eight anglers from Ayrshire - the other half by their tins of beer! It was going to be a noisy night. We escaped for a while by cooking outside in the last of the sun, on a pleasant rock that in rainier times was part of the stream-bed. Thankfully, the midges were late to arrive this year, and we weren't troubled by them.
We were troubled when we went back inside, though - the beers had been opened, and the singing had begun. Pete and I refused to be drawn by invitation to sing Ilkla' Moor - all that most of us wanted was to sleep, having had vary little the previous night.
Quote of the day: "If you're wearing shorts, then I'll put my gaiters on"
(Nicky).
Er, yes... a logical response, Nicky!
Waking in the morning, it was apparent that the weather had changed - dramatically so. The cloud-base was low, and a steady drizzle enveloped all. Someone's prediction the previous day ("We'll see more of Sunday's walk now than on Sunday") looked like being realised.
A mile or two of easy forest track were soon covered, and we found ourselves at the foot of a huge climb up Corserine.
As we climbed, we gradually left (what passed for) the views behind; it seemed that someone's prediction of the previous day ("this is a better view of tomorrow's walk than we'll get tomorrow") was exactly on-target. We made it to the white trig. point (why *do* they paint them white? Is it to hide them when it's snowy or misty?) and put our faith in a compass bearing to take us along the ridge.
It's hard to distinguish the individual summits that form the Rinns of Kells - in the mist, they all looked alike. Sufficient to say, then, that we progressed along the ridge until we felt like descending, then dropped westward into the trees.
I don't know whose bloody silly idea it was to descend through the forest (probably mine), but the gap we followed got narrower and narrower. Just as we were beginning to think it was about to hold us there, unable to continue nor to return, we broke through into a fire-break. Directed mainly by instinct, we found our way to the forestry track - just a few miles of gentle walking left, over the river and along the edge of Loch Dee.
Walking along the pleasant loch-side track, in less-pleasant persistent rain, I remarked to Pete, "I hope we have the place to ourselves, and with plenty of firewood." As we approached, it became clear that exactly one of my wishes was true - we could see a tenuous line of smoke trickling out of the chimney. It turned out that it was occupied by a slightly eccentric middle-aged couple doing the Southern Upland Way.
Quote of the day: "It's not very dry" (Margaret)
James was again way out ahead of us in the morning as we climbed Curleywee from the bothy. You don't *really* smell that bad, honest, James! We continued in beautiful sunshine over Lamachan, and back down to Loch Trool, where we found the cars as we had left them.
An excellent weekend.
Last modified: Wednesday, 25 April 2007, at 19:58 (BST)