Following a hard lesson learned in the Fisherfields, a confidence-shaken wanderer hopes to regain his drive to sit upon some of Scotland’s most notable peaks.

That wanderer of course, being me.

Grief is an intriguing emotion, one we all must go through. And today, I walked with my late Grandfather in mind.

Fionn Bheinn translates to “White Hill”, but I am going to rename it the ‘OAP Munro’. As the average age of all hill-walkers who I crossed paths with were happily enjoying their retirement. Their modest, kind and wise manners partnered with them as they headed toward the summit.

I found this rather odd as I had only just lost my Grandfather a week ago and I have found it hard to allow myself to grieve.

Just by being so far from ‘home’ down south (even though a ‘home’ down south doesn’t exist), out here on the Northwest Coast, allowing myself to grieve felt strangely dangerous. However, looking back on it, I suppose grief would approach me from a different angle and make me realise something else lying deep within the hills.

Over the years I have sat down and spoken with counsellors and therapists, delved into difficult topics with friends and family, but nothing comes quite close to the intimate nature of walking and talking, particularly when out in the countryside.

Sure, walking up a hill whilst gasping for air is no such place to put the world to right, by all means – you can try – but try to live in the moment. Please.

However, I often slip into hyperdrive and move as quickly as my feet can carry me upon the hillside. So walking with the slower paced people reminds me that not everything is a race, I can take my time to live, to speak… and most importantly. To Breathe.

Here I was able to voice my thoughts and feelings with four young-at-heart, but old-in-years, hill walkers. When one conversation naturally came to an end, I simply wandered on until another began. By the time I reached the summit, I felt as though I had made friends with everyone in the world that day.

Well on that hill at least.

To hear the stories of these fellows made my heart feel heavy. It showed me how chaotic things can be in my head, where everything always feels like a rush, and that’s not really how I like to live. I have a very care-free approach to almost everything thrown my way. Hakuna Matata, if you please. And that’s why I’ve always valued the opinions of those who have lived a life of many years. They reign me in. They see my high-functioning mind and simply tell me:

“Do not panic.”

The Munro itself, is dead easy. There’s a reason why I saw so many older hill-walkers today. Once you get past the boggy start – really best left for a summer’s day when the ground has dried out.

Following the OS Map, but don’t be surprised if you veer off the path as it goes missing from time to time… or maybe that’s just my poor navigational ability. If this is such the case, head North East and aim for that really big hill on the right! You can’t go wrong.

It’s amazing really, walking up such a green munro, who would have thought how many colours of green existed?

The Northern ridge of Fionn Bheinn is, however, a reminder that this isn’t just a cuddly, soft-on-the-foot munro that anyone can walk, as beneath her green-spongey mountain face, she is a Munro tall and proud that looks out to my failures of last week, Beinn Tarsuinn and the greater munro’s of the Great Wilderness.

A quick photo-snap from the companion I summited with – who had last walked here some 30 years ago, a cheery goodbye from the couple I met half way up and a salute to the neighbouring hill where I met my oldest hill walker to-date heading for that top.

I can’t recall his name, but at 87, map and compass hanging from his neck – true old skool. How does he still do it?

Well he’s a Yorkshire man. That’s how.

Heading back down the south slope towards Achnasheen, following the quad bike tracks of the Shepherd, I felt myself beginning to accept that even though I probably won’t ever allow myself to grieve alone up here, I can at least allow myself the chance to think of my late Grandfather and think of what I’d like to achieve in life, even if it is to be on my own and hiking until I am 87.

Where would I like to go?

What would I like to see?

And more importantly, who might I meet?

Because today reminded me that sometimes the mountain isn’t the reason you remember the day.

The people are.

To a long life and prosperity

-That Wandering Farmer