How walking up 'Cnoc Badeirach na Gaoithe' was a highlight of our recent week in the Motherland is a cause for literary concern! I mean it's hardly a Suilven or An Teallach. I don't think for a moment it's on anyones mountain bucket list, in fact I doubt if anybody has even heard of it! Perhaps I should explain a little more...

In the wee township of Trantlebeag, about 4 miles south of Melvich on the north coast of Scotland, we were in striking distance of Ben Hope, Ben Klibreck, Ben Loyal and Morvern, yet I brushed those aside in favour of a nondescript peak of just 213 metres stuck in the middle of countless square miles ubiquitous bog! To be quite honest it isn't really even a hill, the 180m contour line plateaus out at the top of the cycle track where I commenced the walk, giving an elevation of a mere 30 metres! Certainly not a giant in terms of height.

     Cnoc Badeirach na Gaoithe literally translates as Windswept Hill

You will notice from the above map that Windswept Hill holds pride of place in what is known as the Flow Country. 'Flow' comes from the Norse 'Floi' meaning 'wet'. So I suppose 'Flow Country' sounds a lot more romantic and alluring than 'Endless Bog' ! Seriously though the Flow Country is vital to the environment, it keeps tonnes of carbon contained instead of penetrating the atmosphere and contributing to the greenhouse effect. Not only that but numerous rare plant species thrive as do many birds like Dunlin, Hen Harriers and Golden Plover. This is the biggest blanket bog in Europe! It's called 'blanket' because it is largely treeless, even the areas of afforestation that you see on the map have been seriously hacked back because ecologists now realise that they shouldn't have been there in the first place.

     Flow Country looking towards the Griams

Maybe now you can put the pieces together and see what drew me to this untamed land - it is wilderness of the highest order, it has a stark beauty all of its own, it is trackless, unpeopled and fear inspiring. This was an opportunity to connect with the land as I had never done before, to feel its pulse to listen to its hearbeat, to become part of it. It was just me and the land. Nothing else.

Deb like most people to be fair, found this mission to be ostensibly pointless so she was quite happy to chill out in the sunshine at the end of the bike track but with civilisation tapered down to absolute zero, I was on my way to bag my quarry. There on the horizon was a blip on the converging monotony this was the summit cairn about one and a half miles away.

     converging monotony

It was an interesting stravaig up to the cairn, the first thing I recall was being slightly intimidated by the bog pools that were omnipresent, although the Highlands were experiencing a dry spell you still had to be careful where you put your feet, there was only a tiny margin for error. Also with it being featureless, distance in an odd kind of way was rendered static - upshot being the cairn didn't seem to be getting any nearer, but of course in the end it did and surprisingly after only about 40 mins.

There I stood on this isolated spot. It was the peculiar presence that got me. When was the last time anyone stood on this spot? A hill that noone has ever visited or even heard of but the magnetism of the ordnance survey map had drawn me up there on an invisible thread. The views aren't going to make it on to any calendar but the feeling of being in such an isolated spot so far away from the static of human activity on our mild mannered isle made it a strontian moment.

     summit of Cnoc Badeireach na Gaoithe - a giddy 213 metres!

Now in times past when a gang of us would go on bothy expeditions, there was an ignominious award for the one who did the most stupidest thing - the 'Whipping Boy' award, presented by the Court of the Golden Crampon! I recieved it several times, in fact I even recieved a special 'lifetime award'. There was only my dear friend Jamesy ( who features quite a lot in past blogs) who was on my level of daftness. My distant cousin and author Simon Ingram calls these incidents 'pratfalls'. And I had one...

I still can't quite fathom out how I became disoriented and hopelessly lost when all I had to do was walk one and a half miles in a straight line there and back. To make matters worse I was almost back to the starting point, Deb saw me in the distance and thought "my beloved has returned" then ten minutes later she thought "where the heck is he! " I think it was due to avoiding the  intermineable striations of bog, I had somehow gone way off course, my internal compass flipped, it was featureless everywhere, the map was of no use because I couldn't equate anything on the map to my locality as it was all sheer nothingness. What was I to do? Phone Deb!

"just make sure Ben Loyal is behind you and keep going forward" she said, only problem was, Ben Loyal always seemed to be behind me no matter what direction I was going in. Then out of nowhere, common sense kicked in -  climb this wee hill, Cnoc Ghual ( hill of the coal) and get a vantage point. Good idea Marky... I did just that and met Deb at the top! I had walked around in a circle. Oh dear I feel a poem coming on...

Windswept Hill

Far away from where mounains and tourism meet

there's an unbroken horizon on a sea of land

feeling the pulse of ground zero under your feet

keeping under the radar in the beauty and the bland

a stark beauty over the bare bones of creation

yet hill walkers never bother with this windswept hill

is it the snarling malevolance of each passing striation

or the feeling of desolation that is hanging there still

big skies are reflected in a loch of polished glass

you can connect with the flow but you must leave no trace

all its rough edges lay on the badge of the morass

a lonely sentinel in its own pride of place.

I suppose it could happen to anyone, just one of those oblique eccentricities. However dear Blogfans please take to heart that what is put on Blogger stays on Blogger. I don't want 'The Court of the Golden Crampon' knocking on my door!

     Deb is nosey!

KTDA, Marky.