Following on from a school boy error, hiking in wellies, I woke up to a 90% chance of ‘Cloud Free Munro’s’. No matter how sore my feet felt, I wasn’t going to miss this. Let me welcome you to Beinn Alligin, the Jewelled Hill, a fitting name I would soon discover.

To a walker’s eye, Beinn Alligin is made up of 2 Munro’s and the Horn pinnacles. In geological terms, things are much deeper than that…

Tom na Gruagaich gained its Munro status in 1997, the year I was born. How could I not summit this today? It’s practically the same age as me. So with a sense of child-like adventure, I explored a 28 year old Munro… in geological terms, it is much older.. And I – much younger.

So being let loose from the warm, restful environment of the Torridon Youth Hostel, with a suggested route and a flask of coffee gifted to me, I was sent on my way.

I left in the perfect mindset to tackle Beinn Alligin. 

My plan? Walk it anti-clockwise, the opposite way to most hikers.

To go clockwise would mean leaving the merited Grade 5 scramble over the horn pinnacles to last and onto a steep clambering descent.. much easier to climb up than go down, I say. And I wanted to hit the Horns first, that looked like a lot of fun.

And oh boy, wow. They were nothing short of spectacular.

What was supposed to be a really windy day had completely calmed. Perfect.

Having a play up on mountain ridges is one of life’s greatest joys. The sense of exploration only grows as your bare hands grab the rock and pull you from ledge to ledge. It reminds me of birthday parties at climbing walls…

And I now wonder why did I ever not think to take that up as a hobby..

Well there’s an idea.

But back to the pinnacles.

I thanked God for what an amazing opportunity that was. They were at the exact level I felt that I needed to progress onto more technical forms of Scrambling. But fear not, you can completely bypass them and take a lower path if you’re not a confident scrambler.

Every year these mountains claim lives. People from continental Europe sometimes laugh at how “small” Britain’s mountains are, until they come here. Poor weather, complex terrain and long approaches make them every bit as serious as many bigger ranges. Scotland’s Munros demand respect.

Once I descended off the playground of pinnacles, I met my first Munro of the day – Sgùrr Mòr, the wind having now picked up and flying round the shoulder of the hillside, making me feel ever-so suffocated when it was met head-on. I stumbled up towards my first group of hill walkers that day. 

“Was it buffety over the Horns?!” A man shouted to me over the howling wind.

“No! The wind was completely dead when I scaled them. But that was Twenty Minutes ago” as I gestured towards the sky, not knowing if he could hear me clearly enough.

I couldn’t help but feel a bit smug inside. I really had been blessed with a calm wind on my first ever grade 5 scrambling session and ridge walk. On what was supposed to be a rather blustery day.

Onwards I headed. Near to the summit I stopped and turned around. Wow went through my mind as I looked back to the Horns. I was literally stumped. Only half way through the Hill Walk – I already knew I wanted to return. 

I’ve never desired to return to a Hill as much as I had that day. I just wanted to do it all over again and navigate those pinnacles. They were utterly thrilling.

Opting to walk high for as long as possible getting a good view of the southward slopes of Beinn Alligin before heading down to arrive at a place that stunned me even more so. 

I mean. It literally rooted me to the spot.

I didn’t expect to see what I saw. The Black Cleft. 

Formed at the time of a rock slide of 3,750 years ago.

I had the HUGEST of smiles on my face, feeling all giddy, fueled by the little excited heart racing inside my chest. I truly felt like a school boy, who had just heard the dinner bell go – football in hand as he raced out and hoofs the ball high into the sky. It felt like play time baby. 

Ahh fond memories.

Memories like these always make me wonder why we stop playing.

Somewhere along the way, climbing trees becomes climbing career ladders, exploring becomes commuting and curiosity gets replaced by routine.

Sure, growing up matters. But standing above the shattered rocks of the Black Cleft, I couldn’t help but feel that little spark of childhood excitement again.

With that in mind, I headed off Sgùrr Mòr and up to the 28 year old Munro Tom na Gruagaich, Hill of the Maiden.

Sheltering from the wind beneath the Cairn of the final Munro. Sandwiches and fruit for lunch. I felt freshly recharged and cared for by the Hill of the Maiden, so off I set.

It’s a simple journey. Perfect for a beginner hill-walker. A well laid out path makes both ascent and descent easy going, as always – you do need to have a level of fitness, but I have walked many paths like these and at times it can be a case of “same path- different hill”. – So I was very thankful to receive the information to take it anti clockwise from the Hostelling colleagues that morning. And as the sense of gratification sat within me, I began to reflect on that whole ‘play’ saga..

I really don’t know where to take life right now. But if I can make something that I find fun pay. Like I did when I farmed for 5 years. Maybe I can bring back some directional stability into my life, because sure. I can’t forever live in the mind of the 7 year old itching to throw Crazy Bones, trade Pokemon cards and kick footballs, growing up is inevitable.

And as I reached the car, one thing had become clear. My therapy lives in Scotland’s Munros at this time. It’s not free. It isn’t easy. But it helps.

Perhaps that’s reason enough to keep walking.

Next week, not every therapy session is gently going.

The Humbling of the Fisherfields begins..

-That Wandering Farmer