The Curious Case of Rose and Laurie

Shades of Rose and Laurie?
(Unknown Climbers, Arran’s A’Chir Ridge)

A Victorian Murder-Mystery in the Mountains of Arran

This blog concerns a true story - a real-life crime drama - which brought infamy to the otherwise sedate Isle of Arran during Victorian times. I remember hearing rumours of this incident during my own early visits to Arran over a century later, vague whispers which I quietly filed away as folklore or local legend. I was interested, yes, but was far too busy holiday-making to pay it much heed.

All of this changed during 2022’s annual trip to the island, when I picked up a copy of Calum Smith’s 2020 book, The Goatfell Murder, in an Arran bookstore. I devoured the contents eagerly, and found that the tale which emerged - sordid as it was - held a certain allure. This was perhaps fuelled by my love of the island’s wee hills, which formed an unlikely cradle for the crime. For me, this pocket wilderness had always been a happy place… yet it’s funny how the mystique of mountains, especially if swayed by brooding skies or a sombre frame of mind, is often tempered by menace.

But how did I relate to the incident itself? And why did it grab me so much? It was hardly trending news. In fact, occurring high on a mountain, so long ago, this grim affair was the very definition of a ‘cold case’.

Yet if the drama seemed remote from my world in terms of time - not only distant but sepia-tinged - it was less separated in space. I discovered that, since my very first adventures on Arran back in 1998, I’d trodden the same granite peaks on which events had unfolded. More than this, I’d literally crossed paths with the story’s two main protagonists. And unlike the wider world, this rocky arena had remained largely unchanged through the intervening decades, the summits stony-faced and impassive as progress marched on far below.

Arran Intrigue

The whole episode was puzzling, too… a curious case of ‘Arran Intrigue’. On a practical level, the treacherous slopes of the Goatfell range were undoubtedly central to the tragic outcome all those years ago - yet the underlying narrative, like the terrain, concealed devious twists and turns. To what extent was this merely a mountaineering accident, as opposed to something altogether more sinister? And if it was sinister, did that automatically make it murder? Generations on, these simple unresolved questions remain at the heart of the mystery.

Brooding Skies (Glen Sannox)… glimpses of Arran’s wild scenery will hopefully frame a more ‘compelling telling’ of this tale! ;-)

I should also stress just how unusual this case really is. While murder-mysteries are ten-a-penny in TV drama or literary fiction, this is the only known murder trial resulting from a real-life incident in the British hills. Yes, similar occurrences have occasionally been reported from semi-wild, urbanised landscapes such as Arthur’s Seat (in Edinburgh). And in extreme cases, remote tracts of woodland or moorland have inevitably (horribly) been used to dispose of bodies. Yet our high mountains have remained mercifully free of serious crime… with this single grisly exception! :-0

Scene of the Crime…
Arran’s Goatfell Range forms a backdrop to craggy Cìr Mhòr
(Viewed from the summit slopes of Caisteal Abhail)

Given the acknowledged influence of The Goatfell Murder, I should credit Calum Smith - plus his own varied sources - with many of the details outlined below. Yet I don’t want this blog to purely précis Smith’s book (which I recommend, by the way, despite my lack of commission!). Instead, my prompt for writing this piece is the realisation that, like an alpine dot-to-dot, I’d unwittingly traced much of the route followed by Rose and Laurie on that fateful day back in Victorian times. With a fair wind, I might be able to add some insights from a humble hill wanderer’s perspective? And even if not, there’s a certain novelty to viewing 19th century events (and landscapes) through a 21st century lens.

Talking of lenses… as you might have guessed, I’ve managed to unearth a few archived holiday snaps with which to illustrate the scene of the crime (although I was merrily oblivious to this when I took them!). In their own modest manner, without disrespecting the tragedy of the underlying story, I hope that these images might also serve to celebrate the grandeur of Arran’s scenery. The island may be small in scale, but it isn’t called Scotland in Miniature for nothing! :-)

Hill-snaps and Smith’s book aside, the final catalyst for this blog came during my May 2023 Arran trip, when I at last visited the old cemetery at the entrance to Glen Sannox. This patch of hallowed ground is hidden away from the road, although easily accessible from the track which winds its way into this most stunning of glens. I’d previously stumbled past on a number of occasions, but was always hurrying to or from the hills in various states of excitement or fatigue. This time I was on a more leisurely family outing, with the opportunity of slowing down and taking things in. And besides, having by now absorbed The Goatfell Murder, I knew that I wanted to pay homage to a certain grave. Perhaps more of a shrine than a grave, poignantly marked by a lone granite boulder.

Acting the Goat(fell)…
the cover of Calum Smith’s otherwise meticulous book, ‘The Goatfell Murder’, actually depicts the Rosa Pinnacle on neighbouring Cìr Mhòr; this is my own take on it from September 2018

Before I circle back to this final resting place, and explain why it moved me so much, it’s only fitting that I should replay events from the beginning. First and foremost, this means exploring the history and ramifications of the incident itself, and better acquainting ourselves with the scene of the crime. For a crime it certainly was. The thing which is less clear cut, and which continues to provide intrigue to this day, is the nature and scale of that crime.

The Bonnie Clyde

To tell this tale properly, we first have to wind back the clock to the summer of 1889. The Industrial Revolution is in full swing… and for all of its hardship and grime, the concept of the decadent summer holiday has arrived for those who are lucky enough to escape the city smog for a week or two. In this part of the world - around the Firth of Clyde - the sight-seeing craze has met the golden age of the paddle steamer, with the annual Glasgow Fair spilling over into booming coastal resorts such as Largs, Dunoon and Millport. Or Rothesay, on the Isle of Bute, where a 32-year-old English tourist named Edwin Robert Rose has taken up residence at an exclusive seafront hotel.

Edwin Rose - known to family and friends as Ned - works as a London builder’s clerk, but has been drawn to Scotland by his well-to-do employer’s son (a Reverend Goodman). Ned is a natty dresser, a well groomed single man with luxuriant Victorian moustache. Seemingly affable and unassuming, he quickly strikes up friendships with fellow guests: most notably, a pair of young gents from Linlithgow named Francis Mickel and William Thom. Their shared Rothesay hotel, the Glenburn Hydropathic, apparently looks as grand as it sounds.

A View to Die For…
the shapely peak of Goatfell -
Arran’s highest point -
is glimpsed from a shady corner
of a different cemetery,
at the entrance to Glen Rosa

Many accounts of this era are a little clichéd, leading us to imagine our Glenburn gadabouts serenading young ladies along the prom before retiring for a game of tennis or a tootle round the bay. Such stereotypes can easily obscure the real lives beneath - though, to be fair, reports do indicate that Ned is particularly fond of his tennis suit and yachting cap!

Either way, as a teetotaler who carries a ‘medicinal’ hip-flask, we can surmise that behind Ned’s straight-laced persona lurks a twinkle in the eye. And the Firth of Clyde offers him the perfect getaway, being cosy and refined yet quietly exotic in its nod to the mysterious Highlands and Islands. It must seem a far cry from Ned’s crime-ridden and often squalid home city, where Jack the Ripper has been brutally stealing the headlines for the past year.

Not exactly Whitechapel… Arran’s Pirnmill Hills are a far cry from Jack the Ripper’s London - here, we are looking across Kilbrannan Sound and Kintyre to the distant Paps of Jura

At some point during the holiday, Ned and his companions steam to the renowned Isle of Arran aboard the Ivanhoe. En route, they engage in conversation with a fellow passenger, a 28-year-old pattern-maker from Glasgow who introduces himself as John Annandale.

Annandale is also a natty dresser; perhaps vainly so, with observers commenting on his unusually white teeth and penchant for wearing knickerbockers. As they chat, he and Ned possibly discover other things in common - both play the violin and are involved in Sunday school - or more likely, they bond over a shared love of landscape as their boat draws level with Arran and steams past the esteemed scenic marvels of Glen Sannox and the surrounding granite peaks.

If Ned and John are both drawn to the high life, the jagged profile of Arran’s northern mountains dangles the carrot of a literal high life. Here is an obvious challenge to anyone seeking adventure, bringing a wedge of Highland wilderness to the otherwise genteel surroundings. And if vanity or one-upmanship does indeed play a part, these hills could conceal some mountain-sized bragging rights. It soon becomes clear that their initial day-trip just won’t do the place justice.

So Ned and John decide to come straight back to Arran for a few days, seemingly on a whim or a dare, to explore the island and ‘bag’ its highest summit. John indicates that he’s climbed it before, which bestows a certain authority and makes him the pair’s de-facto guide.

Having returned to Arran, John secures basic lodgings in a Brodick outbuilding owned by a Mrs Walker. Space is at a premium, but Ned is granted permission to squeeze in. The accommodation is sparse, with only one bed, and John alone is offered a place at the breakfast table in the main house. Still, Ned is not disposed to complain - after all, adventure beckons. Outside the door, the impressive cone of Goatfell - their target peak - dominates the view across the bay.

The Cone of Goatfell… seen across Glenrosa Water (Brodick seashore)

The Mountains of Arran, seen from the south
Goatfell is the high, prominent peak on the right-hand (east) side

Friends In High Places

Despite forming such a quickfire friendship, we should remember that the two men are actually strangers to each other. This leaves plenty of room for secrets - and unbeknownst to Ned, John is harbouring a pretty significant one. I was careful with my words earlier when I said that Ned’s new friend ‘introduces himself’ as John Annandale - for in truth, this isn’t really his name at all. Annandale is actually John Watson Laurie, a man whose pseudonym provides cover for his nefarious activities as a petty thief. Laurie (a.k.a. Annandale) has an unfortunate habit of leaving lodgings without paying, and only a few months previously had been arrested for pilfering jewellery (settled behind the scenes by his father).

Like Ned, Laurie is currently vacationing on Bute, apparently choosing this location to keep tabs on (stalk?) a young woman who’d turned down his advances. He is doubtless impressed to learn of Ned’s salubrious Rothesay hotel, pegging him as a wealthy lone traveller. It seems that Laurie is also something of an opportunist: when he disembarks on Arran, for example, he does so clutching a conspicuous yellow holdall which he’s believed to have ‘acquired’ from a hapless fellow passenger on the steamer. From the outset, it’s possible that Ned is being groomed for similar treatment.

They are joined on Arran by their new-found pals, Mickel and Thom, who in turn arrange introductions to noteworthy ‘friends of friends’. Mountaineering aspirations are put on hold as time passes in something of a social whirl.

One excursion finds the group in Corrie - a small coastal community beneath the eastern slopes of Goatfell - where they take tea at the holiday residence of the Gilmours, a high-flying father-and-son team. Young Andrew Gilmour is a 24-year-old medical student, while the elder Dr Gilmour (also called Andrew) is a prestigious physician and long-standing Provost and Sheriff of Linlithgow (the West Lothian home town of Mickel and Thom, famed for its grand ruined palace). Younger and elder Gilmour are each destined to feature in subsequent events, the eminent doctor in a rather grisly professional capacity.

Perhaps even topping tea with the Gilmours, another of Mickel and Thom’s friends can be found bobbing around on a private yacht in Brodick Bay. This is William Horton Smith*, an outdoor enthusiast who apparently possesses knowledge of both sailing and mountaineering. Mickel and Thom are in fact staying on the yacht, while Ned and Laurie pay it a visit. Learning of the planned Goatfell expedition, Smith sources a pair of gaiters for Ned, and possibly offers expert advice on hill-craft and local navigation. Indeed, this may be how Ned and Laurie hear of a cross-country option for linking Goatfell to the celebrated Glen Sannox (though a smattering of guidebooks describe similar routes, albeit sketchily).

*Not to be confused with WH Smith, the British ‘High Street’ retail company.

Echoes of Smith’s Yacht?
Boats in Brodick Bay, Arran…
Goatfell and Brodick Castle beyond

Aside from high tea at Corrie and shindigs on yachts, the group hang out in coffee shops and play billiards in the decadent Douglas Hotel (where I will stay myself over a century later, slightly less decadently, during my own inaugural visit to Arran). The merry gang of tourists gradually expands to comprise not only Rose and Laurie, then Mickel and Thom, but also the ever-resourceful Smith.

Sunshine and Rainbows…
Rose and Laurie’s party view Holy Isle from Lamlash in the run-up to ascending Goatfell;
here, we are on the hallowed slopes of Holy Isle, looking back to the shadowed Goatfell Range

On their penultimate day, they tramp over the hill from Brodick to Lamlash - where the hallowed form of Holy Isle dominates the bay - before tirelessly tramping back again. Ned and Laurie then continue right through Brodick and into Glen Rosa, almost forging on into the equally-esteemed Glen Sannox (which they are ever keener to view at close quarters). This is clearly the heyday of the bracing power-walk!

Reading between the lines, however, all is not sweetness and light (or even sunshine and rainbows). Yes, the group are outwardly having a rare old time as social wheels are greased and Arran reveals her hidden delights. Yet Laurie seems slightly withdrawn, complaining of toothache and occasionally disappearing for prolonged stretches. He even hints that Ned has imposed himself for the duration of their visit, casting doubt on the strength of their burgeoning friendship. (On the other hand, if Laurie is genuinely frustrated over Ned’s presence, perhaps he hasn’t invited him along to be scammed after all?)

Notwithstanding Laurie’s apparent wavering, he and Ned plan to ascend Goatfell on their final day together. Mickel repeatedly advises Ned against it, seemingly with mounting suspicion of their mutual companion. Using the Victorian vernacular, he claims that Laurie is ‘not a clean potato’. But Ned evidently wants to climb Goatfell (with or without a soiled spud), and this is his sole opportunity before returning home to the workaday bustle and busy-ness of London.

The Fateful Ascent

On the day in question - Monday 15th July - Ned and Laurie delay their expedition in order to wave off Mickel and Thom on the afternoon steamer. This makes them curiously late starting; you might say irresponsibly late, given that they intend to go right over the summit of Goatfell, traverse the knobbly ‘Stacach’ ridge, and descend via a hazardous route into Glen Sannox.

Or perhaps they set off suspiciously late, if the pair’s scheming leader actually wants to place his quarry in a remote, secluded location as darkness begins to fall? It’s certainly a possibility, though I’d be wary of reading too much into it. When I first climbed Goatfell myself, with two friends back in 1998, we only decided to ‘go for it’ after lunch in the Corrie Hotel, departing similarly late in the day. Much like our infamous forebears, we ended up traipsing over the summit and traversing the high granite blocks of ‘The Stacach’… before, in our case, stumbling back down to Corrie in the evening gloaming. Our lack of organisation was because we were basically young and carefree, not because anyone had murder in mind (though I can’t speak for my companions’ inner musings during that dark stumbling descent!). ;-)

Anyway, back to 1889, and Ned and Laurie’s own late afternoon ascent: they pick up the tourist track from Cladach (near Brodick) around 4pm, keen to make up for lost time. Onward and upward they go, through Brodick Castle’s lush woodland and out onto the heathery open hillside. Here they catch up some other walkers, a party of three with whom Ned converses while Laurie (his silent guide) presses on ahead. A short rain shower intervenes as they crest the east ridge, beyond which the terrain steepens and becomes bouldery.

Then, finally… success! Ned and Laurie are seen to reach the top around 6pm, and admire that famous view. Though Laurie remains a little quiet, they are seemingly in good spirits (if not ‘high’ spirits!).

Goatfell from Cladach Beach…
Near the start of the tourist track followed by Rose and Laurie

Popular as Goatfell is (and was, even back then), its summit has few visitors at this hour on a Monday. Curiously, however, one of Ned and Laurie’s random fellow ascensionists - from the aforementioned party of three - is a Reverend Hind from Paisley, an (alleged) associate of Ned’s friend Reverend Goodman (who knows Ned from London and drew him to the Firth of Clyde for the present holiday).

It remains unknown (to me, at least) whether this is a genuine coincidence, or indeed whether Ned and Rev Hind made the connection as they chatted. Doubtless they would have spoken either way, as people do when the shared bond of wilderness breaks down the usual barriers of privacy and reserve. It would have been ‘irreverent’ not to! :-0

“Goat-fell-it on the Mountain” (as the song goes!) - Arran’s highest peak, viewed from the Ardrossan-Brodick ferry
The solid annotated line marks the standard tourist route from Brodick (specifically Cladach), which Ned Rose and John Laurie followed (more or less) for their July 1889 ascent,
before traversing the bobbly North Ridge (‘The Stacach’) and descending on the far side of the col beyond North Goatfell.
(The dashed line denotes my own cross-country ascent route of October 2018, with descent down the solid line.)

Then, as now, the majority of successful summiteers return by simply reversing their ascent route. If they’ve climbed Goatfell via the established path from Cladach (or a similarly well-worn route from Corrie), this is by far the safest option. As mentioned, however, Ned and Laurie harbour grander aspirations. Unlike their fellow walkers, they head north from the summit, along a ridge of bobbly granite tors known as ‘The Stacach’. Beyond this they hope to descend remote, rugged terrain into Glen Sannox, either for aesthetic reasons (the glen is justifiably famed for its ‘savage grandeur’), or because one of the party has a dark ulterior motive. Either way, when Rev Hind observes the two men leaving Goatfell summit around 6:20pm, it is the last time Ned Rose is seen alive.

Planet Granite…
Approaching Goatfell summit from the south
(Rose and Laurie’s ascent is via the right-hand skyline)

The next confirmed sighting of Laurie is close to 10pm that evening. Just down off the hill, he turns up for ‘last orders’ at the Corrie Hotel, where he chats with local campers. Aside from failing to mention his missing companion, he doesn’t appear to behave suspiciously - and strangely, given later accusations, there is no sign of blood on his person or attire.

Suitably refreshed, Laurie leaves on foot for a late night trek back to Brodick. He departs his lodgings early the following morning, without settling his bill with Mrs Walker. He is seen on the Arran ferry with two bags, presumed to be his own (the yellow one stolen earlier) and Ned’s (newly stolen from their shared room). The witness who subsequently reports this is none other than young Andrew Gilmour, evidently also leaving the island (from Corrie) early that same morning. Back on dry land, Laurie and Gilmour go on to share a train compartment.

A High Wire Act…
Looking back along ‘The Stacach’
(Rose and Laurie’s route upon leaving Goatfell summit)

Initially returning to Glasgow, Laurie then resumes his holiday in Rothesay - where, bizarrely, he is observed wearing his absent friend’s tennis suit and yachting cap. It is clearly suspicious that he is in possession of his companion’s clothing, yet equally baffling that he would choose to wear these items if he had indeed just murdered their rightful owner. After all, this is a place where they share mutual friends or acquaintances, and where Ned himself was based until his recent ill-fated foray to Arran.

Then again, it may have been widely known amongst his fellow holiday-makers that Ned was returning to London shortly after his Goatfell expedition. Perhaps because of this, his sudden disappearance from Arran (or Rothesay) at first goes unnoticed. However, being from a close-knit family of seven siblings, this won’t be the case for long. Three days after his portentous climb, Ned is due to meet one of his brothers at a London train station. When he fails to arrive, frantic enquiries are made. It is quickly established that Ned has not been seen since attempting Goatfell with a man named Annandale - who did return, only to flee his lodgings. The Rose clan, with Arran police, rally over 200 volunteers for a painstaking search of the Goatfell range.

A Gruesome Discovery

The initial searches draw a blank - there’s a lot of ground to cover, much of it treacherous - but on the afternoon of Sunday 4th August, almost three weeks since Ned went missing, a gruesome discovery is made by a hill-combing Corrie fisherman (with the elder Dr Gilmour hot on his heels).

Ned’s body is found beneath a large boulder in Coire nam Fuaran, on a secluded cross-country descent route between North Goatfell and Glen Sannox. Some of his possessions, including a walking stick and torn waterproof, are strewn across the steeper slopes above. This is hazardous terrain, a landscape of gullies and granite slabs. Two mini-cliffs of 19 feet and 32 feet provide ample opportunity for a fatal fall.

The Mountains of Arran from the upper slopes of Caisteal Abhail
The small red x marks the steepening terrain on Rose and Laurie’s descent route from the skyline notch above;
the incident is focused just below this, with Rose’s boulder situated midway between the x and the ‘Coire nam Fuaran’ label.

Ground Zero - A Scene of ‘Savage Grandeur’
A Closer View of the Mullach Buidhe/North Goatfell Skyline;
X marks the start of Rose and Laurie’s fateful descent; the red F marks the location of Ned’s suspected fall, his body being concealed beneath a boulder at B.

And a fall may well have been the cause of death, for Ned clearly has non-survivable head injuries. As well as suffering multiple skull fractures, his face is barely recognisable. A subsequent post-mortem at the Corrie Hotel coach-house (courtesy of Dr Gilmour and colleague) will identify several displaced vertebrae, a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs and a buttock wound. All of the major injuries are on the body’s left-hand side.

This would usually be put down to a simple mountaineering accident, albeit an especially horrific one for poor Ned and his family.

And yet… there is clearly more to it than this.

Upon discovery, it immediately becomes apparent that Ned’s remains have not come to rest naturally beneath the boulder. He has been consciously secreted here, and a deliberate attempt made to conceal the corpse… maybe even, grotesque as it sounds, to obliterate his facial features. The entrance to the hidey-hole - known to hill-folk as a howff - is blocked by stones, leaving just a protruding arm. Some of the stones are actually on top of the body, as though crudely and coldly burying it. Rather than visual confirmation, it is the unfortunate odour of decomposition which gives the game away to the anguished searcher who makes the discovery.

Furthermore, Ned’s pockets have been turned out. It seems that he has been robbed, most likely posthumously. He is known to have carried a gold watch and chain, for example, which is conspicuous by its absence.

Roving the Goatfell Range
Goatfell (left) and North Goatfell, viewed from Mullach Buidhe… Ned’s fatal descent route starts from the col just beyond the foreground granite outcrop, dropping down steep broken ground to the right

Perhaps influenced by this litany of suspicious evidence, the doctors who initially examine Ned’s body (including the ubiquitous Dr Gilmour) conclude that his head injuries are the result of repeated blows from a heavy instrument, such as a rock. Other medical experts disagree, pronouncing the trauma consistent with a serious fall. But even if the latter is true: did he fall, or was he pushed?

We may never know the answer to this. We do know, however, that Laurie’s behaviour in the aftermath of the incident continues to elicit suspicion (to put it mildly). Upon learning that a search is underway for a missing English tourist on Goatfell, Laurie immediately quits his job and goes on the run. Leaving Glasgow - and his nearby home town of Coatbridge - he remains a fugitive for a number of weeks, travelling throughout the UK and Ireland. Laurie knows the game is up when police discover that he is synonymous with the mysterious Annandale.

(Francis Mickel helps the authorities to identify their man… while Laurie’s long-standing friend James Aitken, who knows him as Laurie and was one of the Bute holiday set, also presents the police with key evidence.)

While evading the law, Laurie protests his innocence in letters to the press. In one such letter, he claims that he left Ned on the summit of Goatfell in the company of two men from Lochranza (a village on Arran’s northern tip). Ned descends to Brodick with these strangers (or plans to), while Laurie himself heads down to Corrie to meet with friends. Laurie magnanimously declines to name these friends (which unfortunately means they can’t corroborate his story), though he may have had the Gilmours in mind (two men from Linlithgow, as opposed to Lochranza).

The Stacach Ridge leading to North Goatfell… viewed from a point just below where Ned was last seen alive by Rev Hind

The described parting on Goatfell summit clearly doesn’t tally with the eye-witness testimony of Rev Hind and other hill-walkers, though it does - if taken at face value - conveniently send Ned in the opposite direction to where his body is found.

This will prove to be the first, and perhaps least plausible, of several differing accounts which Laurie gives over the ensuing years. His shifting tales seem driven almost by whim or tactic-of-the-day, as opposed to anything more truthful. (Much later Laurie confesses to the full murder, though even this appears dubious… it occurs when he hopes to be released from prison, cognisant that an acceptance of culpability is his best chance of achieving parole.)

The hunt for Laurie garners national interest, for a while usurping even Jack the Ripper on the front pages. The press, and indeed the public, take an all-too-familiar delight in swapping one tale of murder and mayhem for another.

Laurie is finally captured in Lanarkshire on 3rd September (1889). Upon being chased and cornered by police, he unsuccessfully attempts suicide with a razorblade. In the heat of the moment, he then exclaims what might possibly be a succinct summary of the entire case:

“I robbed the man but I did not murder him!”

The Scottish court disagrees, though Laurie’s murder conviction is by the slimmest of margins: 8 Guilty verdicts against 7 Not Proven. The jury’s split decision is hardly surprising, given that the polarising accounts of defence and prosecution are equally tenuous. Laurie’s defence reverts to his story of descending Goatfell separately to Ned - effectively pleading total innocence - which does little to explain the defendant’s highly suspicious behaviour after the event. By contrast, the prosecution claims that Laurie lured poor Ned to a remote hillside and beat him to death with a rock… assisted where required by a shove over a cliff, possibly after drugging him. There is no hard evidence for this, and a motive of only petty theft.

The middle ground of a mountaineering accident combined with opportunist theft - the latter in line with Laurie’s character, and prompting ever-spiraling measures of concealment and subterfuge - does not appear to have been formally considered. Indeed, Laurie is never tried for the lesser offences of robbery or theft, despite this line of reasoning presenting far more of an open and shut case. Instead, the jury are effectively forced into an ‘all or nothing’ scenario. And while the evidence for cold-blooded murder is purely circumstantial, Laurie’s shady past and obvious evasions (including his use of the Annandale pseudonym) weigh in firmly for the prosecution.

Morning Light, Glen Rosa… for Ned and Laurie,
this peaceful arena is very much the ‘Calm Before the Storm’

All too predictably, Laurie is initially sentenced to hang… though with the clock ticking down, this is commuted to life imprisonment on grounds akin to insanity. And rightly or wrongly, in this instance, ‘life’ does indeed mean ‘life’. By the time he dies in 1930, still incarcerated at the grand old age of 69, Laurie has become Scotland’s longest-serving prisoner.

(For those interested in Laurie’s prison years, the latter part of Calum Smith’s The Goatfell Murder contains some meticulous research. This reveals Laurie to have been quite the wordsmith, many of his prison letters - by modern standards, at least - coming across as almost comically verbose.)

Gathering Storm, Glen Rosa…
Explored by Ned and Laurie the day before their fateful ascent of Goatfell

Given his lifetime in jail, and with his status as a murderer open to doubt, John Laurie may himself be an unwitting victim of this whole tragic affair. Yet what of the story’s more obvious victim, the hapless Edwin Rose?

Well, in life, Ned never did achieve his goal of treading the celebrated Glen Sannox. In death, however, his mortal remains were carried down this way. To be melodramatic, you might say that Ned completed his journey - both literally and metaphorically - through a hallowed portal to whatever lies beyond.

Departing Storm, Glen Sannox…
A ‘Hallowed Portal’, visited by Ned only in death

After the post-mortem at the Corrie Hotel - ironically, the same establishment that Laurie had reached for post-walk refreshment (or to establish an alibi?) - Ned is laid to rest at Sannox Cemetery. Services are held at both Corrie and Sannox, attended by his brother Benjamin (who had been active in the search). A large number of local people also pay their respects. For better or worse, Ned couldn’t have remained any closer to the scene of the incident which sadly ended his life.

Supposition and Suggestion

Before I come full circle and pay my own respects at the cemetery, I’d like to consider some of the supposition and suggestion about what might have really happened all those years ago on the Goatfell range. And let me say from the outset that I don’t claim to know how events unfolded… if I’ve hinted at a hybrid accident/theft scenario, that’s largely because it’s a plausible solution that was given short thrift at the trial. But the fact is, there simply isn’t enough evidence to determine this for sure. The forensic leads have long since been lost, while the actors and witnesses can no longer be quizzed. We can only really speculate, and weigh up the odds.

Arran’s Northern Wilderness…
This vista from the Pirnmill Hills, over Loch Tanna to the distant Goatfell Range (centre), is largely unchanged since Victorian times. Back then, the island’s four highest peaks had yet to be dubbed ‘Corbetts’… however, interest in outdoor exploration was ramping up. Perhaps balancing the negativity of the ‘Goatfell Murder’, 1889 was also the year that the esteemed Scottish Mountaineering Club was formed, one of its founding members being Sir Hugh Munro (who listed all of Scotland’s 3,000-footers).

But what, if anything, can be gleaned from basic hill-walking considerations?

Well, if we focus on the case for the prosecution - that Ned was lured to a remote corner of the hills and then battered with a rock - it seems to me that two key questions arise.

Firstly, were Ned and Laurie on a viable route, one which may have been followed in the absence of pre-meditated foul play?

And secondly, is it likely that a mountaineering accident (i.e. a serious fall, as opposed to murder) might have occurred in the vicinity of where Ned’s body was found?

From my own experience of the Goatfell range, the answer to both of these questions is a resounding “Yes”.

In terms of the route, Ned and Laurie were admittedly taking a risk by heading north from Goatfell so late in the day, as opposed to simply returning to Brodick the way they’d come (or descending via the alternative path to Corrie). Yet we have evidence to suggest that they were keen to visit Glen Sannox, which in Victorian times was even more revered than it is today. And as mentioned, I can personally relate to their calculated gamble, for I’ve also departed Goatfell summit along ‘The Stacach’ as evening shadows began to lengthen.

In my case (and maybe theirs), this gamble was taken primarily because the aesthetics of a mountain route - its challenge, intricacies or even degree of circularity - can feel just as important as reaching the main summit.

So let’s say that our two hapless wanderers have their hearts set on linking Goatfell to Glen Sannox. And let’s also say that they’ve set off and are approaching the end of ‘The Stacach’, the prominent granite ridge which leads from Goatfell to its rocky sub-top of North Goatfell. Nowadays, the standard route from here to Glen Sannox firstly descends the North-West Ridge of North Goatfell to attain a key col known as ‘The Saddle’.

The Goatfell Range’s western flank, from the slopes of Cìr Mhòr
Rose and Laurie reach Goatfell summit from the far (east) side, then roughly follow the skyline to the X. From here, they descend steeply toward Coire nam Fuaran. Perhaps passing behind the summit tor of North Goatfell, they miss the usual descent route to Glen Sannox via the North-West Ridge and ‘The Saddle’.
The red F marks the location of Ned’s suspected fall; his body is later found beneath a boulder at B.

Challenging terrain around the head of Coire nam Fuaran
The prominent high point at upper right is now known as North Goatfell, though it’s an unnamed granite tor when Rose and Laurie visit this rocky arena back in July 1889. This anonymity, combined with lateness in the day or deteriorating weather, perhaps reduces their desire to reach its true top. As a consequence, by design or otherwise, they miss the established North-West Ridge (foreground), instead tackling steep craggy slopes at background left.

‘The Saddle’ is a crucial landmark for navigating Arran’s northern mountains, forming both a low point (col) between its greatest massifs (locally separating North Goatfell from Cìr Mhòr), and a high point (pass) between its greatest glens (Rosa and Sannox). On the Sannox side of ‘The Saddle’, a sharp downward scramble skirts the crags of Cìr Mhòr before spilling out into the graceful upper reaches of the glen. Then it’s just a question of ambling along the floor of the glen - a beautiful U-shaped valley, punctuated by the gurgling Sannox Burn - and if conditions are kind, admiring that starkly sublime scenery.

Glen Sannox - A Beautiful U-Shaped Valley
(Viewed from Cìr Mhòr Summit, May 2017)

This is a descent route which I followed myself in May 2019, while traversing the southern skyline of Glen Sannox. Unlike Ned and Laurie, I’d ascended the Goatfell range via its precipitous northern outlier (a peak known as Cioch na h’Oighe)… but once I’d crossed the next top along (Mullach Buidhe) and reached the vicinity of North Goatfell, I essentially faced the same decision as my famous forebears: how best to safely descend into Glen Sannox.

I elected to follow the now-standard route described above… yet it’s notable that this isn’t the line which Ned and Laurie found themselves on back in 1889. Their route - swooping into the rocky cirque of Coire nam Fuaran - is, at first glance, something of a shortcut. However, it’s also steep and awkward in its upper reaches, and thereafter largely cross-country (which means stumbling over rocks and into heather-covered hollows).

Today, ironically, I suspect Coire nam Fuaran is mostly frequented by people on Goatfell Murder walking tours! Nonetheless, it is an understandable location for inexperienced or hurried hill-walkers to be tempted into, especially in Victorian times (when there were fewer paths or guidebooks, and scant use of map-and-compass).

My own solo foray along the southern Glen Sannox skyline (May 2019), treading much the same ground as Rose and Laurie 130 years earlier;
the prominent image at top-right depicts the notorious granite ‘Rock Monster’ (as I call it), which straddles the North-West Ridge of North Goatfell.
(I wish I could credit the friendly walker who took my photo atop North Goatfell, lower-right; beyond, she did a fine job of capturing Cìr Mhòr, Caisteal Abhail and the spell-binding Witch’s Step!)

There are, moreover, very good reasons for missing the North Goatfell turn-off which marks the top of the standard route. For hill-walkers leaving Goatfell summit and traversing ‘The Stacach’, the least demanding line of attack - especially if wary of heights or short on time - is to by-pass the gnarly granite tors which punctuate the crest of the ridge, and instead follow a trail slightly lower down on the right-hand (eastern) side. The logical extension of this approach is to by-pass the actual summit of North Goatfell, and to make an inadvertent beeline for the lower of two minor cols between North Goatfell and Mullach Buidhe. And this spot directly overlooks the enticing gully which leads down into Coire nam Fuaran… i.e. the exact same route which Ned and Laurie took.

It’s sobering to think that the beautiful vista from this col - if conditions were clear - is effectively Ned’s last view…

Descent Option #1 - Cìr Mhòr and Caisteal Abhail from the vicinity of North Goatfell… the granite towers in the lower part of the image mark the daunting line of the NW Ridge

Complex Terrain - Looking back to North Goatfell from its upper NW Ridge… this is the crux of the standard descent route, which Ned and Laurie may have consciously avoided

Descent Option #2 - Overlooking the tempting gully which offers a shortcut into Coire nam Fuaran… the main difficulty (scene of the 1889 incident) is hidden, lower down to the right

It seems likely, in fact, that Ned and Laurie never intended to summit North Goatfell at all. They were essentially tourists rather than peak-baggers, and North Goatfell is basically just a sub-top. Back in 1889, it had yet to be dignified with a name. Even if they did climb it, the view looking down its NW Ridge is decidedly daunting… the upper section of the ridge comprises sheer granite towers and slabs, abutting significant cliffs to the north. This hardly presents itself as an easy option, especially if the viewer is aware that further hazardous terrain lies in wait beneath ‘The Saddle’. So in short, Ned and Laurie may have consciously chosen to avoid the modern-day standard descent route.

Scrambling The Saddle (looking down)…
Coire nam Fuaran can be seen beyond,
beneath the Mullach Buidhe-North Goatfell skyline

Scrambling The Saddle (looking up)…
This steep granite dyke forms the most viable means of bisecting the lower crags of Cìr Mhòr

If we throw in considerations of poor weather (rain or hill-fog may have blown in and made navigation difficult), and add unreliable Victorian guidebooks (some of which misplaced ‘The Saddle’ and other key features), we can see it’s not at all surprising that Ned and Laurie ended up descending sketchy ground into Coire nam Fuaran. So while we can’t rule out nefarious scheming on Laurie’s part, this is hardly a pre-condition of their being there.

As for my second question: is this a likely location for a mountaineering accident?

Well, we’ve already seen that the steep descent into Coire nam Fuaran is a landscape of gullies and granite slabs. The more precipitous sections are masked from above, including those mini-cliffs which were later measured at 19 and 32 feet. Weathered granite can erode into dangerously loose ball bearings, while earlier (perhaps ongoing?) rain showers will have made the pathless terrain slippery.

Furthermore, most hill-walking accidents occur during the descent, when momentum is directed downward and the walker is both mentally and physically tired. Factoring all of this in, and with knowledge of our duo’s presumed route from Brodick to Sannox: if I had to predict a single spot where an accident was likely to befall poor Ned, I’d point to the slopes immediately above the boulder where his body was found.

Crux of the Matter…
Precipitous granite slabs on the line of
North Goatfell’s upper NW Ridge
(not chosen as Laurie’s crime scene)

We can, of course, flip this question on its head, and instead ask: if somebody planned to push a fellow walker over a crag, where would you go in order to perform this dastardly deed?

I don’t intend to dwell on this subject, as it’s disturbingly macabre (and I don’t want to give anyone ideas!). But if you’ll indulge me just slightly… from the briefest of thought experiments, I can pinpoint a number of places on the Goatfell range that would provide a better bet than the chaotic descent into Coire nam Fuaran. Yes, the mini-cliffs and gullies of the corrie headwall are more than capable of delivering a fatal fall (as we’ve seen)… however, if an assailant actually had murder in mind, I suspect this type of terrain might be too broken or scrappy to do the job reliably.

By contrast, there are numerous precipices bordering the skyline above - from the tors of ‘The Stacach’, to the upper NW Ridge of North Goatfell, to the fearsome cliffs of the Devil’s Punchbowl (on the eastern flank of Cioch na h’Oighe) - that would be ideal candidates for a terminal fall.

Or indeed, given that Goatfell is the most populous peak on Arran (by a country mile), why visit the Goatfell range at all for this kind of sordid activity? Suitably primed, I’m sure an eager and adventurous tourist (such as Ned) could just as easily be coaxed onto neighbouring tops and ridgelines. If so, why not take your would-be victim to one of the island’s quieter granite playgrounds, where you have drops galore and are less likely to be caught in the act?

Terminal Velocity…
The upper crags of the Devil’s Punchbowl, somewhere along from Cioch na h’Oighe
(not chosen as Laurie’s crime scene)

Several such venues spring to mind, all within grasping distance of either Glen Rosa or Glen Sannox. The eastern precipices of Beinn Nuis or Beinn Tarsuinn, for instance. Or the notorious A’Chir Ridge (whose mere mention still gives me chills). Next along is Cìr Mhòr, whose Gothic grandeur - almost uniquely among Britain’s hills - offers an equally murderous North or South Face. Then there’s Caisteal Abhail, Arran’s second-highest peak, its craggy summit ‘castles’ guarding the ominous notch of the Witch’s Step (cue yet more chills!). The list goes on: we’re clearly becoming spoilt for choice…

Arran’s A’Chir Ridge…
This is the central (easier) portion, with silhouetted figures giving scale at centre left

A’Crazy Silhouette…
One of the trickier sections of the notorious A’Chir Ridge

Ceum na Caillich, Witch’s Step…
Scene of my own scariest ever scramble!

OK, so maybe Laurie wasn’t familiar with these alternative locations. Perhaps I’m over-thinking it. After all, it’s possible that the Coire nam Fuaran incident was just an opportunist shove, or an ad-hoc altercation resulting from a stressful descent. And admittedly, if the assault was pre-meditated, Laurie might have overlooked the corrie’s drawbacks, deliberately targeting a small, secluded cliff that would allow easy recovery of the body (in order to hide it and pilfer the pockets).

Either way, my real point is: these questions are at least worth asking. For the ensuing deliberation just might conclude that Coire nam Fuaran is a prime location for an accidental fall, less so for pre-meditated murder.

Then again, I may be wrong. Who can really say?

If I were a Scottish juror, I think my two-word summary would have to be: Not Proven.

Cons and Conspiracies

Before wrapping up this analysis, I should go slightly left-field and consider another angle entirely: the possibility that Ned’s untimely demise was the result of a wider plot, or (dare I say it) a conspiracy. In this scenario, Ned is a victim of mountain machinations (if you will), while Laurie himself is potentially framed.

Let me just state at this point that I’m no conspiracy theorist. Almost by definition, nearly all conspiracy theories fail the test of Occam’s Razor (a useful if imprecise maxim that the simplest solution is usually correct). These theories can also assume an unlikely degree of covert efficiency - a caricatured cunning, if you like - on the part of the alleged conspirators.

Nonetheless, we shouldn’t be too put off by the wild internet memes and mis-directions which today’s conspiracy cults seem to attract. Some conspiracies clearly do exist, and good investigators will always follow the evidence as honestly and objectively as they can. The key, I think, is never to become so wedded to your preferred theory that new evidence can’t prompt a change of mind. These days, sadly, online bubbles can all too easily provide echo chambers for this kind of polarisation and entrenchment (though I won’t delve too deeply into this particular rabbit-hole!).

Back in 1889, of course, there were no online conspiracies. And no internet trolls. These peculiarly modern-day delights would be another hundred years or so in the making. However, this doesn’t mean that Victorian trolls didn’t exist… for while culture and technology is ever-evolving, human nature is not so easily changed.

In the context of high-profile murder enquiries, the trolling was traditionally done via mysterious hoaxed letters to police or press. It happened in the Jack the Ripper case (Jack’s iconic name derives from one such letter), and it happened again in connection with the Ripper’s contemporary-in-crime: our Goatfell Murderer, John Laurie.

Yet, while the Ripper case comprised proven crimes in search of a perpetrator, the Goatfell incident comprised an alleged perpetrator in search of an unproven crime. Thus, the masked writer(s) of the Goatfell letters - some of which may have been genuine - were afforded a certain amount of wiggle room in terms of content and direction.

One such mystery letter (addressed to Sheriff Nicolson) is from somebody confessing to Ned’s murder… while another (reaching the Lord Advocate in Edinburgh) is more conspiratorially-minded. The latter, all in block capitals (and doggedly mis-spelling Mickel’s name), reads partially as follows…

“MAN FOUND DEAD AT ARRAN IS THE CARIER THAT TOOK ROSE’S BODY FROM WALKER’S HUT. NOW THEY HAVE DRUGED HIM… THE GILMOURS, MICKIL, THOM, GOODMAN ALL KNOW LAURIE AS LAURIE. HIND DID NOT NEED TO ASK ROSE, FOR GOODMAN AND HIM ARE KNOWN FOR TWO BLACGUARDS IN NEWCASTLE.

THE MAN WAS DEAD LONG BEFORE HE WAS SMASHED AND HIS BODY WAS NOT TAKEN TO THE HOLE ON MONDAY NIGHT. ASK MICKLE. WHAT HE WANTED THE SMITHS YACHT FOR… AITKEN KNOWES ALL THIS AND KNOWS ALL NAMED HERE.”

The Return of Smith’s Yacht?
Arran’s Lamlash Bay - visited by the gang
(including Rose and Laurie) back in 1889

So what do we make of these anonymous revelations (which, by accident or design, aren’t the easiest to comprehend)?

Well, I’m not sure how much of the case background was public knowledge at the time, but the letter writer certainly seems au fait with the main players and events. WALKER’S HUT presumably refers to Mrs Walker’s outbuilding, where Ned and Laurie stayed in Brodick. Then there’s the main cast of characters, who are probably due a quick recap…

• Mickel and Thom (a pair of Linlithgow holiday-makers who make Ned’s acquaintance in Rothesay and then join him and Laurie on Arran);

• The Gilmours (medical father-and-son whose Corrie holiday residence is visited by the gang; Gilmour junior later witnesses Laurie’s fleeing of the island, while Gilmour senior - eminent doctor and Sheriff of Linlithgow - examines Ned’s body and testifies that he’s been fatally assaulted);

• Rev Goodman (the son of Ned’s boss back in London, who is responsible for drawing Ned to the Firth of Clyde on holiday);

• Rev Hind (a touring Paisley clergyman, overtaken by Ned and Laurie during their fateful ascent of Goatfell; he chats with Ned and witnesses him leaving the summit with Laurie);

• William Horton Smith (sailor and mountaineer; the gang socialise aboard his yacht in Brodick Bay, where Mickel and Thom stay while visiting Arran);

• James Aitken (a long-standing friend of Laurie’s who is holidaying on Bute but doesn’t relocate to Arran; whereas Laurie is introduced to his new acquaintances as Annandale, Aitken knows him as Laurie).

Plan It with Granite…
A Fresh Perspective on the Bouldery Goatfell Massif

While I don’t pretend to have deciphered all of the letter’s contents, some of the inferred allegations may be along these lines…

• A Cast of Accomplices:-
  All of the story’s main players (except for poor Ned) apparently know Laurie’s true identity; i.e. they KNOW LAURIE AS LAURIE, being aware from the outset that Annandale is a pseudonym.
  This implies that the listed individuals are either in cahoots with Laurie (to some degree), or perhaps are using him for their own nefarious purposes (e.g. setting him up as a ‘fall guy’… no pun intended!).

• Relative Deceit:-
  As an aside, subsequent research by mountaineer and historian Robin N Campbell (for his 2001 article The Arran Murder of 1889) reveals at least a minor degree of subterfuge concerning the Gilmours. At Laurie’s trial, there is no suggestion that Gilmour Senior and Junior, as respective key witnesses, are in fact related… or that they entertained Ned and Laurie at their Corrie holiday home just a couple of days before the incident. Even if we stop short of outright conspiracy, it seems likely that the esteemed Dr Gilmour (Snr) - whose expert medical testimony is crucial in swaying the narrow murder verdict - will have formed an undeclared pre-conceived impression of the defendant.

• The Irreverent Clergymen:-
  The Reverends Goodman and Hind are actually known to each other, both being linked to (unspecified) scurrilous activities in or around Newcastle (where they did indeed used to reside).
  Since Goodman drew Ned from London to the Firth of Clyde, while Hind is with him on Goatfell, this potentially links Ned’s home/work life to events on the mountain… thus opening up wider cross-connections and motives. (It is unclear what Hind DID NOT NEED TO ASK ROSE… presumably this relates to their conversation on Goatfell?)

• A Posthumous Assault:-
  Ned dies LONG BEFORE HE WAS SMASHED… perhaps this means before his ‘fall’ injuries, or (more likely) before his face is battered with a blunt implement such as a rock (presumably in an attempt to conceal his identity). Remember, it is this assault which the prosecution sees as being central to Ned’s cause of death… yet if it happened after death, this would explain the relative lack of blood. Indeed, combining this point with the next revelation, the lack of blood on Laurie when he descends to the Corrie Hotel could be because the posthumous assault and hiding of Ned’s body hadn’t yet occurred (these being the handiwork of others after the event)…

• A Posthumous Hideaway:-
  Ned’s body WAS NOT TAKEN TO THE HOLE - i.e. it wasn’t hidden beneath the boulder - on the night of his death, i.e. Monday 15th July. If true, this would help to explain one of the more challenging ‘accepted’ sequences of events… that Laurie either witnesses or causes Ned’s death in the corrie (around 7pm?), pilfers his belongings, drags his body over rough ground to the boulder, hides it, builds a retaining wall, then descends alone in creeping darkness to the Corrie Hotel in time for 10pm (where he mingles freely with no blood about his person and no apparent sign of panic). I know people were fit and resourceful in this era (before the spread of motorised transport), yet where do we draw the line of credulity?

Dancing with the Devil…
Skirting the Devil’s Punchbowl, Cioch na h’Oighe
(Sannox Beach at far right)

• Gonna Need a Bigger Boat - The Significance of Smith’s Yacht:-
  It seems that William Horton Smith - the mountaineer with the yacht - is also being drawn into the plot. It’s unclear what his yacht is needed for (we’d need to ASK MICKLE), but it does open up opportunities for moving covertly along the coast between, say, Brodick and Corrie. It could even provide a private means of coming and going between Arran and Bute, which may be relevant if (for example) Mickel and Thom made too much of a show of leaving the island when they were waved off on the afternoon preceding Ned’s demise. As a tantalising postscript, Smith himself will later be convicted of violent assault, suggesting aggressive tendencies which - save for the ‘Goatfell Murder’ itself - are not so readily apparent in the light-fingered Laurie.

Unpicking the Plot

All things considered, you might think that the case for conspiracy is looking pretty convincing. And you might be right. But have we considered all things? I’ve hinted above that I’ve struggled to accept the timeline which is required for Laurie to have committed his dastardly deeds. And it’s true, this is a real challenge. However, it may be possible to mitigate these concerns by considering two additional factors…

Firstly, did Laurie (or other concealers of Ned’s body) really need to construct the wall of stones at the base of the boulder, or was this loose structure already present? In other words, was the boulder and its hidey-hole already in use as a makeshift shelter by shepherds, climbers or wild campers?

This question wasn’t explored at all at Laurie’s trial, though inferences can be drawn from the Goatfell searchers’ original accounts. (If the court lacked mountaineering rigour, this is ironic considering that the presiding Sheriff was Alexander Nicolson, a famed pioneer who first climbed - and lent his name to - Sgurr Alasdair, highest peak in the Cuillin of Skye.)

As highlighted in Robin Campbell’s 2001 article, the reported presence of turf between some of the piled stones implies an attempt at draught-proofing… which in turn suggests that the boulder did indeed serve as a pre-existing howff.

If so, no time-consuming collecting and arranging of stones is necessary on the part of the covert body-concealer(s). As a point for the prosecution (not that they needed it!), Laurie’s challenging timelines have become just a little bit easier.

Beware ‘Adverse Camber’
(though all in a day’s work for WH Murray!)… a granite skyscraper terminates in the precarious Rosa Pinnacle -
Cìr Mhòr, South Face

As a logical corollary to this line of thought, we might also ask ourselves whether Laurie (or accomplices) actually knew about the howff before stumbling upon it, implying a previously-unsuspected degree of pre-meditation. Certainly this would be a highly specialised piece of knowledge to possess… yet it’s not impossible.

In his classic 1951 book, Undiscovered Scotland, climber WH Murray recounts an epic ascent of the Rosa Pinnacle on neighbouring Cìr Mhòr. Looking for a bivouac beneath the mountain’s ‘cyclopean walls’, Murray boasts that one of his companions, the redoubtable Norman Tennent, “knows the size and shape and relative merits of every stone on Arran big enough to shelter man or beast”. Tennent’s boulder-lore is apparently so renowned that he “could stow away a whole mountaineering club on the bare slopes of an Arran hill.”

Such intimate familiarity with the mountains is clearly rare… though back in 1889, we do have one potential candidate in William Horton Smith, our story’s resident outdoor enthusiast. And intriguingly, just to re-iterate, Smith later picks up a criminal conviction for violent assault.

It’s admittedly tenuous, but perhaps this means that the ‘turf-in-wall’ revelation is edging us back in the direction of conspiracy after all? (As in any worthwhile plot, the same piece of evidence can be used to support opposing theories!)

Living on the Edge…
A lone (unknown) walker on Mullach Buidhe summit,
viewed from the northern end of the Goatfell massif

On the Brink… the author on Mullach Buidhe summit,
peering over the edge into Coire nam Fuaran
(whose craglets are largely hidden from above)

Taking the High Road… on North Goatfell’s upper NW Ridge, with Coire nam Fuaran below to the right; the ridge route to The Saddle goes over, or left of, the foreground pinnacle

The second consideration which might ease Laurie’s timeline is the route which he took to the Corrie Hotel (where we know he arrived before 10pm).

Since he and Ned were clearly descending into Coire nam Fuaran, which in turn leads to Glen Sannox, an assumption has often been made that this doubled as Laurie’s line of escape. Timings have been estimated accordingly; reconstructions, even. Yet this presumed route is far from the most direct line between Ned’s boulder and the Corrie Hotel. It’s rough and cross-country - not to mention being on the wrong bearing - until landing in the base of Glen Sannox far below. The glen then leads to Sannox village, whereupon a further trek along the coast is required to reach Corrie.

The Coire Lan Route to Corrie (Goatfell beyond)…
considerably easier terrain than the Coire nam Fuaran side!

Instead, by first re-ascending the headwall of Coire nam Fuaran (this is the counter-intuitive part), Laurie would have found himself on the established Coire Lan path which leads straight down the Goatfell massif’s eastern slopes to Corrie.

This is the descent route which I followed during my own first Goatfell expedition… and even on my later round of the South Glen Sannox skyline, I had this path in mind as an emergency escape in the event of injury or poor weather on the high tops (despite being parked at Sannox, not Corrie).

I wonder if this was also Laurie’s emergency exit - one which might have saved him some crucial time in his rush to order refreshments and/or establish an alibi down at the hotel bar?

For balance, I should point out that a local shepherd did report seeing a rushing man near Sannox around 9:00-9:30pm… but two female companions later contradicted this, casting doubt on the reliability of his account. One of Laurie’s own subsequent accounts mentions descending via the Coire Lan path to Corrie, so we know that he was aware of it. Robin Campbell suggests that this may have been Ned and Laurie’s intended descent route all along, regarding their fatal foray into Coire nam Fuaran as a simple navigational error. And this is plausible… the error would just involve descending west instead of east from the North Goatfell/Mullach Buidhe col, which is feasible if disorientated by poor visibility.

Yet, as with the turf-walled howff, knowledge of the Corrie descent route doesn’t really shed any light on the conspiracy angle. It might increase the odds of the single-person perpetrator (by easing Laurie’s timelines), but it doesn’t preclude the involvement of accomplices (who he may have been hurrying down to Corrie to meet). So let me briefly round off all of this conspiracy talk…

Looking down toward Corrie from the vicinity of Mullach Buidhe (the blue background isn’t sky but the Firth of Clyde!)

Now if this were a fictional crime drama - if, say, Shetland or Vera were set on Arran - we can see that a number of intriguing scenarios might present themselves. (Given the case’s age, perhaps I should instead evoke Agatha Christie… or the era-appropriate Sherlock Holmes?)

Maybe Laurie is used as a ‘patsy’, knowingly or unknowingly, to deliver Ned Rose to murderous accomplices on the Goatfell range. (This could be neatly squared with Laurie’s original account of leaving Ned with ‘two men from Lochranza’.) Laurie might still have theft in mind (of Ned’s bag from their lodgings), little suspecting that the accomplices have a wider motive for murder.

Or maybe Laurie does indeed witness Ned fall to his death (pushed or otherwise), perhaps pilfers his pockets, but then flees and reports it to associates down in Corrie… who, in return for a share of the spoils (or for other, undisclosed reasons), later revisit the scene and clean up the evidence. Now complicit, they not only hide Ned’s body, but attempt to render him unrecognisable (knowing that the bouldery hidey-hole will only delay discovery for so long).

Mullach Buidhe punches the skyline between distant Goatfell and North Goatfell; Coire nam Fuaran beckons down to the right

One of the more outlandish conspiracy theories (hinted at by the above letter) even asserts that Ned is drugged and killed back in Brodick, only later being carried up the mountain to his rocky crypt. Given that a yacht also features in this scenario (for stealthy transportation round to Corrie or Sannox), it would be reasonable to ask why disposal at sea wouldn’t have been simpler? Still - while some hypotheses will always be more plausible than others, the fact of the matter is that we just can’t say what really transpired all those years ago. Only the mystery remains, plus the hills themselves (who stoically guard their secrets).

What I will say, though, is that we should keep Occam’s Razor - that call for simplicity - firmly in mind. Just because events might have unfolded in accordance with some elaborate conspiracy, it doesn’t mean that they did. Feeling that we’re part of a select few who uniquely know the truth can be a powerful drug, especially once we’ve invested in it.

For this very reason, we should always be cautious of our own biases, and ensure that we constantly review all evidence - not just that which supports our favoured theory.

This is, of course, easier said than done!

The Shadow of Goatfell encroaches upon Cìr Mhòr… just as it encroached upon Rose and Laurie all those years ago!

There is also an ethical factor at play: if our theory tempts us to throw accusations around like spindrift - just as Ripperologists have retro-fitted a very long list of Jacks - we should bear in mind that the key players are not fictional characters after all but real people, with legacies and reputations which persist to this day.

As for Mr Laurie himself: if he were aware of a Goatfell Murder conspiracy, it’s curious that he never mentioned it in his own defence (even when facing the death penalty). Then again, if rational actions and decisions were always followed, I dare say this case wouldn’t be the perplexing paradox that it is! :-0

Top and Tail

Before concluding this tragic tale, I’d like to highlight a couple of quirks associated with the ‘top and tail’ of Ned’s hill-walking attire.

The ‘top’ is his tweed cap, which is one of the items found strewn across the steep ground above Ned’s grisly boulder. Given the presumed sequence of events, its location is no particular surprise. The surprise, however, is that the cap wasn’t merely ‘strewn’ (as though from a fall). It was folded neatly in four, weighed down by a stone, and left at the foot of what would later be called the ‘19-foot drop’. In wet conditions, it would be in the bed of a watercourse.

Such deliberate placement clearly doesn’t fit with the ‘random fall’ theory, nor with the scenario of a robber (potentially murderer) clearing up the scene of a crime. So what had happened here?

Holy Isle Haar…
As nebulous as the ‘Goatfell Murder’ case!

Alas, we can only really speculate. Maybe Ned had rested in the lee of the crag, donning a waterproof (say), and pinned down his cap to prevent it blowing away. Or maybe Laurie (or someone else?), tidying the scene after the incident, found the cap and stashed it to pick up later (after concealing Ned’s body). Or did such a person deliberately place it in the watercourse to rinse away traces of blood? Perhaps the cap had even been positioned to mark the best line of ascent, which could be relevant in fading light if a fleeing perpetrator intended to follow the route mentioned above; i.e. to regain the Coire nam Fuaran skyline, before descending on the far side of the ridge via the established Corrie path.

(I’ve occasionally used temporary markers myself in hazardous or complex terrain, if I know I’ll be returning the same way and need to identify a key navigational turning point.)

I’ll offer one more alternative… maybe the ‘19-foot drop’ is indeed the scene of Ned’s fatal fall, and the cap was left behind by a witness (presumably Laurie) as a kind of makeshift shrine. If so, it’s intriguing to consider that the incredibly callous act of plundering Ned’s pockets and hiding his body (if indeed Laurie did this) might have been offset by just a shred of humanity. Or maybe that’s naïve wishful thinking on my part?

The retrospective view which Ned never saw…
The North Goatfell skyline from the depths of Glen Sannox
(the 1889 incident occurred on the slopes at background left)

Coire nam Fuaran…
Viewed from Glen Sannox
(Ned’s bouldery ‘howff’ is marked with a B)

At the risk of sounding flippant, the other attire-related anomaly is a little more humorous (at least with the passage of time). It concerns Ned’s boots, which were removed prior to the funeral and buried beneath the waterline of a local beach. This was the handiwork of an Arran police constable, who evidently subscribed to the superstition that removing and burying a murdered person’s boots prevents their restless spirit from roaming the locale.

Unfortunately, in saving Ned from his fate of forever haunting the neighbourhood, the police had inadvertently disposed of key evidence. Forensic science was in its infancy at this point, yet it quickly transpired that analysis of the boot nails may have helped to establish whether a fatal slip had occurred on the Goatfell granite.

In more senses than one (with apologies for the pun), this must truly have been a ‘sole-destroying’ experience! ;-)

The Final Word

So now I think I have come full circle, and can return to the sanctuary of Sannox Cemetery.

Hopefully the above tragic tale helps to explain why, after so many years, I found the contemplative act of visiting Ned Rose’s grave to be so moving. Even writing about it can be emotional… and indeed, when I first drafted this concluding section for my 2023 Gallery, I realised that I was doing so on the anniversary of Ned’s death. The 134th anniversary, to be precise. How time moves on! So much changes, and yet so little…

Coming ‘Full Circle’…
Sea of Holes, Corrie Shore Sandstone

Visceral and Serene… Cioch na h’Oighe, viewed from near Sannox Cemetery

I actually thought Ned’s grave might be hard to locate, but it’s not far from the cemetery gates. It’s also highly distinctive, on account of the hefty granite boulder which was heaved down from Glen Sannox on the first anniversary of his burial. Given that poor Ned was originally deposited beneath a similar (larger) boulder, it could be argued that this unsubtle adornment is in dubious taste. Still, it aligned with the wishes of his family, and does forever link him to the wild countryside which he so wanted to explore.

The location is a suitably tranquil one, and beautiful too. In some ways, once you leave behind the island ring-road, this landscape feels as visceral and serene as it ever did. You could almost imagine that we’re still in Victorian times. There may be more mountain trails these days, bearing transient splashes of Gore-Tex, yet their incursions seem puny in the grand scheme of things. Even the old baryte mines, which once brought industrial clamour to the mouth of Glen Sannox, are now being silently reclaimed by nature.

Approaching the cemetery, the only sounds are the rushing burn, birdsong, and a gentle rustle of the trees. The solitude seems somehow fitting.

Once through those cemetery gates, I found the most poignant punch to be on an altogether smaller scale: the abundance of coins, trinkets and flowers which, even now, are left as offerings atop Ned’s final resting place. Arran is first and foremost a peaceful place, and the violent death of a tourist must have sent shock waves through its close-knit island community. Perhaps because of this - and no doubt due to the strange nature of his demise - Ned has never been forgotten. His grave serves as an eternal shrine.

Like the mystery of his death, the memory of Edwin R Rose lives on.

Sannox Cemetery and Ned’s Grave (visited in May 2023),
with Cioch na h’Oighe (Goatfell Range) looming beyond

Final Resting Place…
The Grave of Edwin R Rose
(Sannox Cemetery)

Sources / Bibliography

• The Goatfell Murder by Calum Smith (Hog’s Back Press, 2020)

• The Arran Murder of 1889 by Robin N Campbell (Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal, 2001; also available online)

• Mountaineering in Scotland / Undiscovered Scotland by WH Murray (Diadem Books compilation 1979; originally published 1947 & 1951);
  not specific to the 1889 Goatfell incident, though each book has a chapter on Arran / Cìr Mhòr (recommended for those interested in Scottish mountaineering history)

Original Material

• This blog is expanded from Arran Intrigue - The Curious Case of Rose and Laurie, first published online via my 2023 Gallery

• Additional hill-walking observations collated from my own Arran wanderings over Goatfell or neighbouring peaks and glens (1998; 2000; 2010; 2017-23)

• All accompanying photographs date from the author’s annual (spring or autumn) Arran trips of May 2017 through to May 2023 (various digital cameras)

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Shadow in the Tin

Foreword - Gargoyles in Gabbro

Welcome to my latest blog, following hot on the heels - or perhaps I should say cold on the coat-tails - of Camera on the Crags and The Ballad of Bellever Tor. A trilogy in number, if not always thematically.

In this particular blog, I’d like to ponder a variety of… well, imponderables. Tried and trusted favourites, from the sublime to the ridiculous. Such as:

• Why climb a mountain?

• How do we survive lockdown and come out the other side?

• What is the meaning of life, the universe and everything?

• Which mystical gurus are name-checked in My Sweet Lord?

• When is it cool to wear a head-torch?

• Would your imaginary friend like a biscuit?

OK, so I don’t actually answer most of these thorny questions… and come to think of it, this isn’t really a blog. Not a proper one. A blog would involve shaping these conundrums into some sort of sense, perhaps even imparting a couple of meaningful conclusions. Something grounded in reality, yet vaguely profound. The truth is, I don’t know how to do this. Reality is complicated… much too complicated for me to articulate here. So I’ve reached a compromise and instead crammed my ponderings into a short story.

Or perhaps I should call it a tall tale, since my story takes place up a mountain. Call it what you will after reading it! But don’t worry if mountains aren’t your thing, as the climbing is really just a metaphor for whatever floats your boat. Which is itself a metaphor for… well, I’m sure you get the gist!

If anyone wishes to jump straight into the short story, this foreword can be skipped by clicking here… but otherwise, I’ll present a few words and pictures by way of introduction.

In keeping with this slippery metaphor business, the story doesn’t actually name its featured mountain. Yes, there are hints and suggestions, murmurings of a Scottish island… but the peak’s true identity remains a mystery. And this is deliberate, because I wanted the narrative to be viewed as a parable, in which the landscape has a certain fairy tale quality. Why weigh it down with real-world clutter, or something as arbitrary as a scribble on a map? I wanted the setting to remain open to interpretation, in much the same way that the story’s troubled protagonist (and narrator) is not pinned down by a specific name or identity.

Mystery Mountain… it’s up there somewhere, shrouded in mist-ery!

But whereas the story and its protagonist are purely fictional, my fairy tale mountain really does exist. And what a mountain it is! This is where the act of writing the story was itself therapeutic, for I was secretly escaping lockdown to one of my favourite haunts whenever I fired up my laptop and began to type.

Below is the alpine spoiler, so please skip forward (or skip the foreword) if you’d rather not know; as a reminder, the story is available here…

SPOILER ALERT: The peak’s name is Sgurr nan Gillean, and it graces the northern end of Britain’s most dramatic mountain range: the Black Cuillin of Skye.

Isle of Skye (July 2007): The classic view from Sligachan, the usual starting point for an ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean. From here, the Northern Cuillin exudes a presence - a sense of immensity - which cannot readily be captured on camera. Indeed, this vista is so iconic that the foreground telegraph poles were removed by popular demand two years later!

From Sligachan again… angling the camera ever so slightly from the Northern Cuillin reveals the shapely cone of Marsco (where Red Cuillin meets Black!).

Looking up at the final section of Sgurr nan Gillean’s ‘Tourist Route’, or South-East Ridge. The West Ridge marks the left-hand skyline, Pinnacle Ridge the right.

Back in the summer of 1995, I was lucky enough to scale Sgurr nan Gillean with my Dad. It was a baptism of fire; a heady mix of fear and exhilaration. We were alpine novices, at least by Cuillin standards, and this was our first taste of those bristly defences. Our ascent directly inspired the story’s climbing passages. OK, so I don’t recall seeing gargoyles in the rough gabbro rock, but much of the rest is lifted straight from memory. Dramatic license aside, we really did get lost in the hill-fog and attempted to battle an impossible gully. And the feeling of trepidation on that final summit spire is definitely genuine, even if our chosen line is disparagingly known as the Tourist Route!

The Northern and Central Cuillin from Western Skye - Sgurr nan Gillean is the high, pointy one on the left!

A ‘Gorgeous’ spot for lunch… my father Nigel alongside the Basteir Gorge

For us, the actual ascent - and of course safe descent - was the story. For the tale’s protagonist, it’s more about the strange encounter at the summit. This is where the day’s literal ups and downs culminate in a moment of catharsis. But I won’t spoil it further, except to say that mountain tops are magical places!

Hidden Heart of the Cuillin… on the ‘boiler plate’ gabbro slabs of Coruisk

Loch Coruisk and the Cuillin

Wee peak with a big view… from shore to summit on Sgurr na Stri.
An area so remote that access entails a boat trip ‘Over the Sea to Skye’ from Elgol to Loch Coruisk - then hopefully back again, if we descend in time for the return voyage!
A combined sea/mountain adventure in the best traditions of explorer Bill Tilman.

I can’t speak for the story’s protagonist (not until the sequel!), but in real life our ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean opened the floodgates for many other tales of high jinks in the Black Cuillin. OK, perhaps floodgates is overstating it… given the challenges of scrambling in the Cuillin, the summits flowed by in more of a nervous trickle than a gushing torrent. Still, the ensuing years held plenty of airy (if not watery) adventures. I won’t expand too much here, except to say that Skye would subject us to soakings and sunburn; storms and swollen rivers; we’d get wedged in gullies and washed down waterslides; and my Dad would get bitten by a wild pig!

Beware that waterslide!

Rising waters beneath Bla Bheinn (the wild pig lurks unseen!)

Rewind to my first ever visit to the Misty Isle (family day-trip, July 1988).
This ‘retro’ teenage pose is on the seashore at Elgol…
Sgurr na Stri, beyond, would be climbed from here almost 20 years later.

Fast forward to our parting pilgrimage (July 2007)… my Dad polishes off the sarnies on Garbh Bheinn. This completed our set of Skye Corbetts and Munros, with one notable exception…

A Nod to our Nemesis…

The Black Cuillin of Skye is home to a dozen Munros (Scottish 3,000-footers), all but one of them (brooding Bla Bheinn) strung out along a single treacherous ridge. Like rough black pearls on a choke-chain, as my story’s narrator might have put it (doubtless blaming the phrase on the guidebook!). And while Sgurr nan Gillean is arguably the most alluring of these mighty Cuillin summits, it is not quite the highest… nor the most difficult to attain. The highest is Sgurr Alasdair, which dominates the Southern Cuillin Skye-line together with its partner-in-climb, the aptly-named Inaccessible Pinnacle of Sgurr Dearg.

Better known simply as the In Pinn, this sheer-sided plinth forms the hardest major summit in the British Isles, calling for rock-steady nerves and bona fide rock-climbing skills. We twice visited the base of its giant basalt fin, without being bold or foolhardy enough to attempt the top. Still, when we hung up our Skye-boots in 2007, we were more than happy to have raised our Cuillin Munro tally to 11 (like a cagoule-clad Spinal Tap). The In Pinn itself is our elusive bete noire, the stuff of both dreams and nightmares. I suspect it will forever remain so. Though if we ever need to evade that wild pig again, who knows where we’ll end up? :-0

The Black Cuillin’s notorious ‘In Pinn’ - nemesis of Munro-baggers everywhere!

Long in the Tooth - My Final Skye Munro (excluding the In Pinn!)

For me personally, the rocky blade of Am Basteir - ominously known as ‘The Executioner’ - proved to be a more realistic nemesis than the In Pinn. A prominent landmark of the Northern Cuillin, this is Sgurr nan Gillean’s knobbly wee neighbour (although not so wee up close!).
The picture shown here was taken in July 1996, when we scurried by en route to the higher but friendlier Bruach na Frithe. A lone climber silhouetted on Am Basteir’s exposed summit gives a sense of scale, with the overhanging fang of the Basteir Tooth to the right of the main block. I was to finally reach that climber’s airy perch 11 years later (July 2007), scrabbling along the edge in thick Scotch mist. In terms of Skye Munros, it bookended the odyssey which began with Sgurr nan Gillean back in 1995.
Oh, and one more thing (I can’t reveal how I learnt this!): if you’re texting your partner after a hard day’s hill-walk to say, “All’s well; not taking any risks”, don’t sign off by innocently adding, “Climbed Am Basteir”. They just might call your bluff and google it! :-0

A Quick Aside - Good Hues and Bad Puns

In case aspects of my short story seem unnecessarily flippant, I should briefly illustrate the state of mind which nervous tension can induce on these high-octane hill-walking trips(!)…

After we’d successfully descended Sgurr nan Gillean back in August 1995, my Dad was keen to catch up on the England-West Indies Test cricket score.

He discovered that England’s new opening batsman, Jason Gallian, had been dismissed without scoring.

We realised that, while we were up Sgurr nan Gillean, England’s hapless opener had become Score-none-Gallian!

Marsco… shapely summit, evocative Norse name!

As bad puns go, this would be rivalled on a subsequent visit to Skye, when we arrived on the island to find stunning evening light behind the flat-topped hill of Dun Caan, the highest point of neighbouring Raasay.

Naturally, the scene was described as a Dun Caan Good Hue!

(Some readers may need to google the British Olympic swimmer, Duncan Goodhew… though my wife Karen always says that if you have to explain a joke, it ain’t funny!) :-0

A Focus on Photography

The images which illustrate this blog are best described as family holiday snaps, or shots taken on the move during challenging hill-walks. While we eventually ‘went digital’ from 2007 (ironically, the year of our final Skye walking trip), most of these artefacts record our days exploring the Cuillin armed with just enthusiasm and basic point-and-shoot film cameras.

The resulting prints found their way into family albums which languished in my parents’ closet for two decades or more, only seeing the light of day during occasional trips down memory lane. (That’s a literal closet, by the way, not a dubious metaphorical one!)

After being tracked down for this blog, a selection of these fading film images were then hastily digitised… which simply means I photographed the photographs using my old Fuji bridge camera, before performing some rudimentary post-processing using Picasa.

So what am I trying to skirt around with these caveats? Basically, the pictures presented here should be viewed with a spirit of adventure rather than an expectation of technical excellence. Adventure has merit though, so I say this by way of explanation rather than apology! ;-0

An early selfie (August 1997): atop the Central Cuillin Munro of Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh, en route to the higher summit of Sgurr a’ Ghreadaidh (top right). At background left is Sgurr Alasdair, climbed in mist the previous day.

Thanks go to my father Nigel for sharing in these alpine endeavours and for taking a number of the pictures… not only the ones I’m in, but probably a few others along the way. (Unlike our Munro tally, I doubt he’s keeping count!)

Approaching Sgurr a’ Ghreadaidh

Central Cuillin Capers!

But what of our wide-eyed ascent of Sgurr nan Gillean itself, the excursion which started it all back in August of 1995? Well, shots from this climb have naturally been chosen to accompany the short story (which follows this foreword… nearly there now!). In terms of the backdrop, they directly illustrate the (mis)adventures of the story’s protagonist, and the wonderfully spiky scenery in which events unfold. As the narrator bumbles toward the summit, the illustrations give a pretty accurate portrayal of the actual ascent. But as the tale continues and becomes more dialogue-based, I’ve had to be a little more creative… thus, images from the latter part of the story sometimes jump into the narrator’s mindset or explore the wider locale, raiding other Skye-scraping adventures of similar vintage.

I even make a fleeting dash north to the eerily atmospheric Trotternish ridge - the ethereal Old Man of Storr and Quiraing - intended, perhaps tenuously, as a telescopic peek into the narrator’s field of view. These hopefully all add a certain colour and context to the narrative… and if they come across as a little dog-eared or sepia-tinged, let’s just call it part of the nostalgic charm! To paraphrase the old joke, maybe we’ll find out whether nostalgia is what it used to be after all? Either way, I like to think that these frames will somehow fit the tone of the story, whose protagonist has broader concerns than pictorial perfection.

Brief History of a Short Story

If my illustrations are historical artefacts, then so (in a way) is the short story itself. I first drafted this back in the year 2000, in the midst of a transient writing phase. It was a knowingly minimalist piece - which I liked - although I felt that something about it didn’t quite hang together. After briefly re-working the text in 2002, my softcopies disappeared into the ether… but the story survived thanks to a last-gasp print-out, which had been filed away to gather dust. Two things prompted me to resurrect it 20 years later. Firstly, I felt that my website was doing scant justice to the Cuillin of Skye, which should really be front and centre of any self-respecting UK mountain portfolio. Here was an opportunity to sneakily redress the balance - to retrospectively celebrate Skye’s surreal landscapes, with nostalgia compensating for a lack of recent visits. It’s what I’ve previously called Embracing the Golden Age…

Will it go? My Dad seeks a feasible line up - then down - Sgurr Dubh Mor, a hidden gem of the Southern Cuillin (July 1996)

And secondly - perhaps more importantly - I wanted to acknowledge the difficulties which many people have faced during the Covid pandemic. The concept of lockdown presented the tale’s protagonist with a previously-lacking back story, subject to what I believed would be a minor re-write. In the event, for better or worse, my re-write sprouted wings and became a total makeover. The end result - my revamped Shadow in the Tin (2022 Illustrated Lockdown Mix) - is presented below. Along with some further pictures of course, each of which conveys a mini-story of its own…

Never mind the Cuillin Ridge - those Cuillin corries can be just as daunting. We still don’t talk about Coire na Banachdich…

…the following year, an alternative route was sought…

…which finally led us to Sgurr na Banachdich! (1997-98)

As a final introductory word, I should acknowledge the part which serendipity plays in my story (especially this revised version). And this powerful concept - an indefinable sense of fate or destiny - isn’t purely a fictional device. The passage in which a character meets their next-door neighbour up a mountain is inspired by a real-life encounter - it happened to a former boss of mine atop Tryfan, Snowdonia. Meanwhile, just as I was fine-tuning the sections on Shackleton, his long-lost ship - HMS Endurance - was found 10,000 feet beneath the Antarctic sea-ice. She was discovered on the 100th anniversary of Shackleton’s funeral, as though awakening from a century of mournful slumber.

Dubhs Ridge from Coruisk (nice poncho!)

Ascending Sgurr Dearg’s West Ridge…

… and higher still (Sgurr Dearg West Ridge)

Final target: Garbh Bheinn

A Rocky Road ahead: the daunting prow of Sgurr Mhic Choinnich

‘Crag in the Clag’ - my Dad high on Bla Bheinn. The hairiest part of our day until that wild pig appeared! ;-)

On the Coire Lagan Skye-line -
between Sgurr Dearg / An Stac (beyond)
and Sgurr Mhic Choinnich (behind camera).
My Dad seems to be wearing that background patch of snow?

Approaching Coire a’ Ghrunnda -
rocky gateway to the Southern Cuillin!

Sgurr Alasdair across Coire Lagan

Sgurr Alasdair’s Great Stone Chute

Loch Coire a’ Ghrunnda

‘Poaching a Scramble’ on Sgurr nan Eag

Above: the Cuillin of Skye… a mini-gallery of untold stories. Sgurr nan Gillean’s story has been told (below), fictionalized but with genuine sentiment and intent!

It is, of course, purely a bonus if this wee yarn resonates with anyone in the big wide world. Its narrator enjoys a droll turn of phrase, so would no doubt manage expectations in a colourful manner. Something along the lines of, this webpage may be the least viewed site since the Invisible Man opened a Camouflage Museum. But if so, that’s OK… in keeping with the story’s underlying message, my purpose was simply to write it.

And in case anyone does make it through to the end… May Janie watch over you! :-)

Finding Tranquility - MacLeod’s Tables, Western Skye (post-Cuillin day-trip, July 2014)

Shadow in the Tin

A Short Story

The thing that annoys me about old Mrs. McCormack is that she’s always so damned cheerful. “It’ll be grand,” she’d told me, forcing a smile. “A bit of air will do you good. Blow the cobwebs away.” The other thing about Mrs. McCormack is that her cheerfulness is conducted almost entirely in clichés.

Mind you, she did hesitate when I told her which mountain I’d be attempting. “For your first outing?” she’d asked. “Are you sure that’s wise?” No, I replied, of course it isn’t wise. I’ve been wise all my life and look where it’s got me. “Well,” she’d persisted, “last summer a young man staying at Mrs. Mackay’s set off for that very peak and they brought him down in a body bag. And the year before, a nice young couple fell off the ridge. They came down in body bags too.” Whenever she spoke of death, she spoke of body bags. I had visions of a body bag factory just around the corner, secretly raking in the profits.

As if to prove her point, Mrs. McCormack disappeared into the lounge and emerged with a guidebook. It was one of those dog-eared scraps from the tiny library that she maintained for her guests. She found the page on my chosen mountain and read out loud that the final part of the ascent tapered like a Gothic cathedral. I told her I couldn’t quite picture how a Gothic cathedral tapered, and queried whether it involved a more dangerous degree of tapering than a normal cathedral. “Don’t be flippant,” she’d replied. “That’s the kind of attitude that costs lives.” To Mrs. McCormack, I’m pretty sure the riskiest part was being frivolous about cathedrals. Houses of Our Lord, she called them.

In the end we’d reached a compromise: she’d trust me to climb the mountain if I allowed her to supervise my safety precautions. The latter comprised a packed lunch and a box of plasters, which she placed in my rucksack on top of a tattered map. The packed lunch appeared sparse, and slightly too healthy, so I threw in a packet of cookies when Mrs. M wasn’t looking. When I asked if I could borrow a compass she’d rummaged around in her son’s desk, eventually producing a pair of compasses of the type used to draw circles. I didn’t like to say anything, so I dutifully stashed them away in a side pocket.

Looking back, I’m not sure whether my silent acceptance of compass-gate was a good deed or a petty protest. Either way it certainly back-fired, for a few hours later I was lost in the murk. Spits and spots had fused into rain, which had morphed into hill-fog. Scotch mist, dank and dense as Scotch broth. In other words, I found myself in the cloud rather than just being under one. Such is progress, I suppose. Anyway, I must have missed my turning up the third scree chute on the left, or whatever stupid detail the guidebook had failed to mention while it was wittering on about cathedrals. Sorry, Gothic cathedrals. Now I’d been spun around beneath the crag and didn’t know my east from west. Or my arse from my elbow, come to that.

The only possible means of progress seemed to be a vertical gully leading to a notch. If only I could reach that notch, I’d be.. well, I’d probably be stuck in it, for fearsome rock walls loomed up on all sides. But desperation does funny things to the mind. I was determined to believe that I hadn’t gone wrong after all, that the path was just a little harder than expected and would magically level out if I crested one more rise. I suppose course corrections have never been my forté.

Thankfully, that gully made the decision for me: I was forced to abandon it after the briefest of attempts. Once I’d stopped flailing around, I felt like a dead weight in a drainpipe - less human fly, more dying fly. Hmm… swirling mist, an abyss and no compass. At least, no compass of the magnetic variety. It was scant consolation that I could’ve drawn a nice neat circle on a rock.

It’s funny though; the moment I felt a genuine twinge of fear - proper life-threatening, brown-trouser-type fear - I frantically wanted to pull through. I hadn’t cared this much for as long as I could remember. All through lockdown, in fact. The truth is, I’d barely left my flat for the past couple of years. Nothing to do but watch the news and worry. And worry some more, and drink. Then drink some more, because I was worried. My job prospects evaporated, and my better half Jen (dear sweet Jen, my only truly good half) had walked out on me. This was at the height of the pandemic, when we were only allowed one walk per day, but that was all she had needed to leave. Not that I blame her. And yep, I should probably face up to it and stop joking around.

That’s what Jim, my counsellor, would say if he were here on the island. Not that I need outside help of course (except perhaps from Mountain Rescue). But I did go to the therapy sessions for a while - you know how it is, you can only summon the energy for so much resistance. Getting out and about (as they say) is key, I accept that. Best foot forward, and other platitudes. In all honesty, I just needed to meet people. But I lost confidence, and before you know it even grocery shopping is some sort of psychological trauma. You end up gravitating toward the grumpy check-out assistants because you don’t know how to converse with the chatty ones. Yeah, shame about the weather… no, my partner has wandered off with our loyalty card [which I suddenly realise is both sad and ironic]. Mumble, mumble…

OK, so maybe I did need some help. But Jim lured me into that interactive role-play stuff, which was frankly too much to handle. I’m not a child. I didn’t need to be put in a line, to bump elbows with strangers and constantly hear that dreaded echo of “Pleased to meet you…”, like it’s some kind of mantra. This might sound a little melodramatic, but it always put me in mind of the Stones bashing out ‘Sympathy for the Devil’. “Pleased to meet you / Hope you guessed my name…” Then Jagger struts around a bit… “But what’s puzzling you is just the / Nature of my game…”

Maybe that’s my problem: I don’t know the nature of my game. I definitely don’t think I’m the Devil (like in the song), but neither am I a fan of Mrs. McCormack’s evangelising. And actually, her presence on the scene - or rather, my presence on her scene - was down to Jim as well. After I walked out of the sessions and declared that I’d get away on my own terms, he put me in touch with good old Mrs. M so she could keep a watchful eye on me. Unlikely friends, Jim and Mrs. M, but I think they have some sort of charity malarkey in common. Like they both baked fruitcakes for Children in Need. (Don’t tell them I said that!)

So I’d checked in at Mrs. M’s and now here I was scaling a mountain, doing what I needed to do. Leaving the house at long last and actually going somewhere… but luckily (as if by magic), without the ordeal of meeting people. Therapy by escapism, I suppose you could call it. Wandering the wilderness. Communing with the crags. Basically, finding solace in the great outdoors. The nearest door was literally miles away, thousands of feet below my soggy boots, and I had no prospect of ever locating it through the clag. You can’t get much more outdoorsy than that!

Yet even for a seasoned adventurer like me (that was sarcasm, by the way), there comes a time to admit defeat. And it wasn’t just that the way ahead looked hopeless (if not a real-life death-trap!). A thick drizzle was starting to worm its way in through my outer shell, dampening more than just my spirits. Now that I’d stopped climbing I was shivering with cold. It had no right to be this cold; winter was long gone, and the air had felt quite balmy down at sea level. Only this wasn’t sea level, it was somewhere high in the sky. Somewhere alien.

I smiled as I recalled Mrs. McCormack’s parting words back at the guesthouse: “Now remember, turn back if it all gets a wee bit hairy. Discretion is the better part of Valhalla.” With or without invoking Valhalla, Mrs. M had been right: turn back I must. I descended clumsily through the gloom, skidding off slippery boulders and clattering down scree.

Then, something surprising happened. I won’t say incredible, because fickle weather is par for the course around the bens and glens… they say if you don’t like the current conditions, hang on for a tick and it will change. Still, I could have sworn that this pea-souper was set in for the day. But Mrs. M must have put in a good word with whoever she prays to upstairs, for the mist abruptly lifted and the cloud scudded on through. It was as though a blindfold had been removed.

What greeted me was both beautiful and enlightening. Beautiful because I could see for the first time how high I’d climbed, and how much of the island was laid out beneath me like a gigantic relief map. And enlightening because my earlier navigational error was laid bare. I only needed to descend a bit further to clear the base of the crag, then I could double-back to the right and re-ascend to the shoulder of my mountain. Provided, of course, I could muster the resolve to do so.

I don’t know what it was, but something urged me to push on upwards. It certainly wasn’t Mrs. M’s hallowed discretion, yet an inner voice told me that maybe the better part of Valhalla awaited me on high after all. Somewhere in the heavens, as it were. Strange thoughts: stop. Have a cookie. Remove waterproofs; wring them out. Rinse and repeat. Then turn and climb the scree - this time the correct river of rock - two steps up, one slide down, two steps up, one slide down… slow progress, for sure, yet progress all the same. I was even beginning to warm up and enjoy myself.

And the moment I crested that shoulder… Wow!!! Indescribable. Although I shouldn’t say that, as I’ll try to describe it anyway. I could suddenly see to the south, over the shielding slopes of my mountain to the great chain of peaks which lay beyond. These were jagged rock peaks, bare to the bone… so bare, in fact, that someone of Mrs. McCormack’s sensibilities would doubtless view them as obscenely naked. I felt insignificant on such a stage, captured by the scenery yet also captivated by it. My focus shifted from the void at my feet to the main spine of the mountain range, which curved and convulsed like a seismic stone dragon, according to Mrs. M’s guidebook. The phrase was a tad bombastic for my taste, but it conveyed the grandeur of the scene pretty well.

Beyond the peaks were glimpses of sea, reflecting whims of the sky… a smudge of shadow, a glint of tin. My eye skimmed the horizon before settling closer at hand. For here - though I hardly dared look - lay the final flourish of my ascent route. Not so much a path as a line of least resistance. It led to a serrated skyline, a succession of formidable towers, of which the main summit was the highest and spikiest. In apparent defiance of gravity, the upper slopes did indeed taper like a Gothic cathedral. The odds of a successful ascent seemed to taper along with it.

I could feel my flippancy fading: the guidebook had clearly been referring to the spire of a cathedral, and it was Gothic because it was moody. Meaning bloody terrifying. To me it resembled an alpine caricature drawn by a small child, who would surely be reminded by the teacher that reality isn’t shaped like a fairy tale. Yet here it was, in all its mythic glory.

Of course, the elephant in the room - had there been an elephant, and had there been a room - was whether to continue my ascent. Should I even attempt to scale this… this thing, which seemed to put the steep into steeple?

I decided to park this for now and instead just absorb my surroundings. Perhaps I was attuning my senses or adjusting to the vibe. I’m not usually that Zen, but something about my situation brought to mind an old college mate who had introduced me to the hills. Here’s to you, Sandy, wherever you are! Sandy always said that you shouldn’t climb a mountain for the view; that any sort of vista was just a bonus. You climbed for the experience, for the challenge and adventure, so what did it matter if you missed the view but viewed the mist (as the old adage went). But the flip side is that you’d better make the most of it when a spectacular view does emerge… not to merely see it, but to somehow feel it.

So I tried. And sure enough, hidden details began to emerge. The cooling breeze which brushed my cheek; the tiny alpine plants which colonised rock crevices; the newly-swollen burns which gurgled and hummed as they drained unseen depths beneath my feet.

I also became aware, for the first time, of how alone I was up here. Not lonely, but alone. I hadn’t spoken since my farewell to Mrs. M many hours earlier; hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the hotel which marked the start of my route. I scanned the distant moorland, and saw that the hotel - with its bittersweet blend of bar-food and bonhomie - had been reduced to a tiny white speck, swallowed by the landscape.

This is why I’d come here, of course: to experience solitude and perspective. Or perhaps that wasn’t quite it. Maybe I’d come to re-create those adventure weekends with Sandy; to re-live my college days, when I’d had strength of purpose and promise of youth. And friends. Those days were long gone. I should have kept in touch, but it wasn’t my style.

Come to think of it, I hadn’t been too sociable even back then. Sandy had belonged to the university’s Expedition Society, which I’d steadfastly refused to join. I’m just not a joiner… and anyway, it all seemed so presumptuous. I mean, they’d wander up some humble wee hill with a flask of hot tea and call it an expedition. Who did they think they were? Scott of the Antarctic? Sir Ernest Shackleton? And besides, exploration is hardly an indicator of virtue. I’d read about those early polar expeditions, and they all seemed a bit colonial and upper class (class pronounced to rhyme with farce). Their idea of diversity was to employ a working class white man to do the dishes.

Sorry, I’m starting to rant. But it’s a loaded subject, because I used to argue the point with Sandy back in the day. And yes, I know Sandy’s defence: times had been different back then, we can’t judge according to today’s cultural norms (blah, blah…). So let’s celebrate their achievements; accentuate the positive (as the song goes), eliminate the negative. Or rather, learn from the negative. And I couldn’t really take issue with that. Well, I could, but let’s not dwell on it…

Such were my thoughts as I stood on the shoulder of my mountain. At least, I believed I was standing. But as my reverie lifted, imperceptibly at first, I realised that I was actually moving. More specifically, I was continuing my ascent. This should have been a big decision, which my conscious mind had yet to grapple with… yet here I was, homing in on the spire of that Gothic cathedral. I don’t know why, but it seemed to be the only natural course of action. Call it primal instinct. Or call it a death-wish if you like… for the ridge steepened and narrowed, then narrowed and steepened. Really quite alarmingly.

My auto-pilot juddered to a halt as I scrutinized the scene before me.

The true crest of the ridge reared up ahead, and would shortly form a mighty prow. A direct assault was out of the question. An alpine novice like me probably shouldn’t even be here to consider it. Sandy would have stood back calmly and pondered that eternal climbers’ quandary: Will it go? The least desperate line of attack seemed to be a gully on the left, which constricted into a chimney before spilling out onto angled slabs. Don’t think (I thought), lest common sense prevail. Just go for it…

As I scraped and wriggled my way up, the death-wish scenario - which had briefly intruded back in the fog - became both frighteningly real and increasingly absurd. It was real because the threat of falling was real, the scrambling ever more exposed. Yet it was also absurd, because I was evidently clinging on for… well, for grim death. If anything was falling away and plunging into darkness, it was the thought of letting go.

Maybe my so-called death-wish was just a confused life-wish? If so, at least the confusion itself was familiar. Throughout the pain of lockdown, confined to my flat and defined by my moods, I’d felt like that clichéd cartoon character who hosts an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. I’m sure you know the bothersome wee buggers: one life-affirming and brimming with vitality, its counterpart equally determined to snuff out any hope. Our personal yin and yang, or Jekyll and Hyde if you prefer. Yet if my inner devil had sent me up this mountain, I could feel the mountain itself helping me to fight back. My ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ was clearly waning. The Stones song returned to my head, and as it did so that ominous backing refrain began to sound steadily more joyous: Woo-hoo!

And yes, I felt a certain masochistic thrill as I scrabbled across those airy slabs at the top of the chimney. There was a grim satisfaction in crunching through a crystalline patch of snow discarded by winter. It didn’t matter that I was short of breath, that my heart was pumping and my legs aching. These were merely physical symptoms, signs of exertion and understandable lack of fitness. It didn’t even matter that I was scared of the drop, of becoming stranded on a precipice. It was the fear of these things that would keep me safe. The danger would fuel an adrenaline rush, but the rush was not in pursuit of further danger. My quest was not that of the insatiable adrenaline junkie, intent on self-destruction. In that instant, I instead craved precision and purpose, and secure passage up this teetering spire. As to where this uplifting revelation would lead… well, let’s live for the moment and let the fates decide.

I sensed, as much as saw, that I was approaching the final few hurdles. I improvised a crab-like manoeuvre over a large block, regaining the upper crest of the ridge above the prow. The rock was rough and coarse-grained, much like the mountain itself. I was thankful that it felt dry and textured… with such a slender spire above, most of the day’s run-off had slid into the void. I was keen to avoid a similar slippery end; I clutched and grasped at handholds, measuring progress by a trail of scuffed skin.

Being a cathedral roof, the holds twisted themselves into gargoyles before my weary eyes. Some of them adopted the features of people I knew. Here was Jim, and there was Mrs. McCormack, both wearing grotesque expressions at my impertinence for being so wayward. Within a few steps, a veritable rogue’s gallery had materialised. I traversed a craggy likeness of Sandy (who didn’t deserve it), followed by the rest of the Expedition Society (who probably did). Never Jen, though. Lovely Jen could never be a gargoyle. And if that’s my idea of a compliment, no wonder she left! I sighed at her absence.

Come on, keep focus… this is no time to falter!

Pause… breathe… pause… now breathe some more.

Once my thoughts had settled, the home straight was actually pretty easy. Route-finding was a doddle: you either stuck to the crest or you fell off. I chose the crest, and I inched along it… until, steeling myself to bridge a final hiatus, I stepped onto the tiny summit.

I wasn’t sure what I would feel at this point. Mostly, I suspect, because I never truly believed that I’d make it. Not until those last delicate strides, when the sides of the spire converged and I could climb no higher. So what did I feel? Elation perhaps… or just relief? Was I buoyant or exhausted? Awe-struck by the scenery? Or intimidated by the beckoning descent? To be honest, I don’t know. It was all of these things, and none of them. Strangely, I had a better idea what Sandy would feel if he could see me right now: proud and envious. Proud that his nervous hill-walking acolyte had finally graduated, yet envious that I’d out-done the Expedition Society by conquering such a worthy foe. Just to annoy me, he’d also point out that I hadn’t actually conquered the mountain… it had merely allowed me visiting rights.

If visiting rights were a thing (Sandy’s muse persisted), maybe my presence here was part of some divine plan. And now that I was here, atop this precarious perch, I didn’t quite know why.

Neither did I expect to hear a voice. At least, it sounded like a voice. I froze. There it was again: fleeting, lost in a tug of air. Silence. Then it returned, quiet yet insistent, as though a radio dial had picked up a distant signal. I couldn’t make out the words, but I was pretty sure that it was a male voice… softly spoken, almost reverential, with a distinctive Irish lilt. I scanned the rocks before me.

The mountaintop comprised a raised parapet, only a couple of paces wide but a few yards in length. Narrow and exposed; apparently deserted. Toward the end of this parapet lay a modest heap of stones which served as the summit cairn - basically a pimple on a pyramid, yet (I began to realise) capable of concealing the odd recumbent figure. This area now held my attention. And sure enough, as I edged forward, glimpses of colour coalesced into the shape of a person. Presumably more than one person, deep in conversation.

It sounds silly - embarrassing to admit - but I wasn’t ready for this. After such a long, solitary ascent, I hadn’t been expecting it. And I had been buoyant at topping out, I knew that now… but I’d got ahead of myself with all that vanquishing demons nonsense. I’d been seduced by the thrill of overcoming that summit spire, of floating up it like a steeplejack… which is overstating things, I know, but endorphins love false bravado. The fact is, this was a different type of challenge; one which I’d been secretly avoiding while pretending to be Edmund bloody Hillary. Except that Hillary hadn’t been alone either… if this was my Everest, the time had come to meet Sherpa Tenzing and team!

I’m ashamed to say that I considered turning tail and burning rubber. (I don’t burn rubber often, although I was wearing Vibram soles!) Two things prevented me. The first was that I wanted to actually reach the cairn, to prove that I’d really done it. A small thing, yes, but peak-baggers will understand! The more significant factor was fear of betraying the ‘Contour Code’.

Since the Contour Code is made up, I should probably explain… This was a term coined by Sandy to define the ethics of conversing with strangers in hill-country. I suppose it was mostly a joke, though of the truth-spoken-in-jest variety. Put simply, wilderness areas are ringed by a magical height contour, slicing the landscape like an invisible snow-line. Above this contour we develop an instinctive urge to meet-and-greet fellow travelers, even extending to full eye contact if we feel daring. And the remarkable thing is, neither party feels freaked out or threatened by this overtly friendly behaviour. At lower altitudes the greeting might constitute a mere nod of the head or a passing “Hello”. But as height is gained and crowds become less madding (as it were), the likelihood of meaningful conversation increases… from cursory exchanges about the weather, through humdrum hill-walking anecdotes (tales of gore-tex and gaitors), to the full monty of life, the universe and everything. Until you get really high of course - Himalaya high - at which point Death Zone skullduggery tends to interrupt the flow.

Subtleties aside, one thing was clear: to turn my back on these summit strangers would constitute a blatant breach of the Contour Code. Without doubt, our contour count up here was seriously high… some might say through the roof. Unfortunately I could barely manage life, let alone the universe and everything.

I had a litmus test for situations like this, tongue-in-cheek but serviceable… What would Jim do? He’d start at the beginning and let things unfold from there. Remember the basics… the training from our group sessions. “Pleased to meet you…” - I turned the phrase over in my head - “Pleased to meet you…” It sounded oddly formal; and more than that, it wasn’t true. I wasn’t pleased to meet these people. They were called strangers for a reason. And they were intruding on my new-found triumph… destroying it, even. “Pleased to meet you” only works if it’s genuine. It’s either heartfelt or it rings hollow, like a broken promise or a forced apology.

Even so, I couldn’t deny it: I shared a unique bond with my fellow summiteers (whoever they were). We were probably the only folk in the world who would climb this particular peak on this particular day; to wish away the mist and stumble on regardless; to risk life and limb for this slender spire of gnarly rock. For this fleeting moment in time, it was our mountain. Which didn’t necessarily mean that our fates were intertwined… but surely it meant something?

With this tenuous thought, I braved a tortoise-like advance along the summit parapet. And as I did so, a huddled figure came into focus behind the cairn. A crouched, kneeling man; mid-fifties (if I had to guess), with craggy face and sparse sandy-grey beard. Fleece beanie pulled down low; rope slung over one shoulder, climbing gear hanging from his belt. And he hadn’t yet seen me; he stared intently at the ground, where an empty round biscuit tin lay next to his open rucksack. He must have just finished a snack… perhaps while juggling a phone or camera, for he appeared to be alone but continued to talk in hushed, elusive tones.

It felt wrong to disturb him… yet worse to lurk unannounced, an alpine eavesdropper hidden in plain sight. Stop stalling… just get on with it!

My greeting was as brief and bland as I could make it: “How’s it going?” Accompanied, as such banalities usually are, by an involuntary nod of the head.

The man started, snapping his body round to locate me before quickly averting his gaze. His eyes had looked moist, doleful. His chatter ceased abruptly, as though caught in the act, and didn’t resume for my benefit. No phone or camera after all. After a moment’s composure he answered my question with the slightest of shrugs, as if to say that maybe things weren’t going too badly, or maybe they were. Fair enough, it was none of my business.

“Sorry,” I said.

“No, no… you’re fine!” He held up a hand to indicate that no apology was needed. Then, silence.

I made a show of patting the cairn, as though it were a trusty canine companion. Meaning, this is why I intruded, to complete my ascent. Now I can bugger off and leave you in peace.

And I almost did leave then; I’d done my duty, shunning my inner demons by opening a dialogue. Admittedly not much of a dialogue, but there it was. Surely it wasn’t my fault that this man hadn’t signed up to the Contour Code? He was evidently preoccupied, or eccentric, or downright weird… or all of the above. All the more reason to beat a retreat and let the rarefied air absorb the awkwardness.

And yet… in a strange way (which I’m not proud of), I felt heartened by the thought that here was someone in a worse state than me. A social misfit. I’d like to claim that I was driven by an urge to help, but that would be disingenuous; the fact is, I think his vulnerability gave me confidence (if that makes sense?). Whatever the cause, I decided to give it one more go.

“So which way did you come up? The West Ridge?”

“No. Pinnacle Ridge.”

“Oh… OK.” I paused, genuinely impressed. The summit of our mountain was essentially a rocky pyramid supported by three distinct ridges. I knew from the guidebook that Pinnacle Ridge was the most daunting of these, armed with fierce barbs and bristles as it swung in from the north. The West Ridge was also the preserve of rock climbers, tumbling to a knife-edge before ushering in further unseen horrors. By contrast, my own ascent ridge was known simply as the Tourist Route. Being a graded scramble, it was presumably so named with a healthy dose of irony. Nonetheless, it marked the easiest way - the only way - of treading the summit slopes for alpine novices like me. In other words, I’d answered a calling card for wannabe mountaineers. Welcome to the Tourist Route… where the barbs are in the name, not the terrain!

Time to ‘fess up to my new friend: “I just came up the Tourist Route. But then, I haven’t really done much climbing.” I grinned, hoping it appeared self-deprecating.

“Hmm.”

“So how was Pinnacle Ridge?” I turned my head northward. “I can see the pinnacles from here. Must be tricky to solo it!”

“Oh, I didn’t solo it.” The man sounded strangely matter-of-fact. “Janie was with me. I couldn’t have done it without her.”

“Ah, right.” Here was the lightbulb moment. The man’s missing companion. He must have been addressing this Janie all along, cajoling her up the final stretch to the summit. Yet, as I stepped to the edge and surveyed the rocky ramparts of Pinnacle Ridge, something didn’t ring true. His voice hadn’t been that of one climber directing another, booming out over the void. His attention hadn’t been on Pinnacle Ridge at all. And sure enough, I could detect no hidden companion clinging to the crag. No Janie. Nobody.

“Janie’s always wanted to do Pinnacle Ridge.” This time the man spoke unprompted. “And now she has. I’m so proud of her. I’m just so proud of her.” He looked at the empty space over his shoulder. “We made it, Poppet. We finally made it!”

I don’t know if I was more surprised by the imaginary companion or the Poppet. He didn’t seem a Poppet kind of guy. Still, it takes all sorts.

“Good for you!” I tried to sound unfazed. “Good for both of you!”

Was I humoring this man or placating him? I wasn’t sure. The situation was treading a fine line between funny and disturbing. Perhaps to buy some thinking time, I removed the rucksack from my back and rummaged around for my water bottle and packet of cookies.

But the stranger was now building up steam: “Yeah, Janie planned the whole route. She’s the real climber, not me. Nothing ever phases her.” He moved to the edge, gesticulating at the scenery far below. “Her masterplan: up Pinnacle Ridge to the summit; down the West Ridge, into the corrie and back along the rim of the gorge. You can see the gorge if you crane right over - look…”

And with that he grabbed my arm, tugging me a little too roughly toward the precipice. My boots clattered and skidded over the stones, sending some of them scurrying over the drop. I could feel my legs begin to buckle.

This was no longer a toss-up between funny and disturbing; it had veered more into the realm of threatening. My mind whirred. I had youth on my side, yet this man was burly and imposing. Not to mention delusional. And more than this, he was a bona-fide climber, with the metalwork to prove it. My inner demon screamed that I shouldn’t even be here: I was just a tourist, out of my depth. An impostor. If the worst came to the worst - if he didn’t just shove me off - what did I have to take him on? Oh yeah, that’s right… a child’s pair of compasses! Which are dangerous if running in a corridor, but hardly a match for a rock hammer.

“Do you see it?” the man continued. “Do you see the gorge?”

Think fast… nothing to hand but the cookies. Placate… accept and divert…

“I can see the gorge all right. Would Janie like a biscuit?”

The stranger’s face registered momentary shock, before his expression transformed into… what was it? Understanding? Bemusement? When his reply came it was considered, almost reverential in tone: “I think Janie’s had enough biscuits for one day.” He motioned with his head, indicating the empty round biscuit tin. Then, slightly more loudly, “Haven’t you, Poppet?”

He helped me back from the edge before releasing my arm. His eyes softened. “Look, I’m sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. I’m James, by the way. James Caird.”

And with that, James Caird held out his hand. It was trembling quite badly. An elbow bump might have been more advisable, but I sensed we had bigger fish to fry. So I shook his hand earnestly, saying nothing in return. I was hardly in the mood for “Pleased to meet you…”

“Janie would shake your hand too if she could. She loves meeting people. She’s better at all this than I am.”

“I’ll bet,” I replied, mostly under my breath. “Anyway, join the club. I’m not the best at first impressions myself.”

The two of us - or three of us - slowly took stock. I swigged some water and bit into another cookie, wishing that Sandy were here to share this strange encounter and shoulder the burden of conversation. Only to him it wouldn’t be a burden, it would be open-air theatre. Sandy had thrived on the bizarre, seeing serendipity at every twist and turn. Happenstance followed him around like a benevolent stalker.

I’d even witnessed it once, first-hand. We were up a mountain together, on one of our walking weekends in Wales. A particularly remote location… somewhere in the Nether Regions, as we used to say. Anyway, we were tucking into our summit sarnies when another walker appeared. He seemed a bit mature for us students (most folk were!), but we remembered the Contour Code and got talking. Before leaving, we compared notes on where we were from. Such-and-such a county, said Sandy. Really, me too! Whereabouts? You probably won’t know it… such-and-such a town. No!! I certainly do know it! Which part of town? So we zoomed in, ever closer, and hey presto!… it turned out that Sandy and this random stranger were next-door neighbours! Yet they’d never spoken. Not until this chance encounter on a mountain top, hundreds of miles from home.

So there it was: one of Sandy’s curious little coincidences. He and the neighbour went on to become firm friends, and I dare say are still enjoying cheese and wine soirees in a cul-de-sac somewhere (or whatever it is people do with neighbours these days). Yet even that fateful episode hadn’t stretched to an imaginary friend. What would Sandy make of Janie, I wondered? I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t simply write it off as delusion on the part of our stranger, this James Caird. He’d look to Janie herself for answers, arguing that even an ethereal presence - a mere shadow - can serve a rational real-world purpose.

Thinking about it, he’d probably invoke Ernest bloody Shackleton again, erstwhile hero of the Expedition Society. I remember Sandy telling me about Shackleton’s greatest expedition, calling it the Apollo13 of polar exploration… meaning that the mission was a failure, but the triumph was in battling the odds and returning home alive. A fair comparison, too, because Antarctica really had been ‘the final frontier’ back in Shackleton’s day.

On this particular expedition, the Endurance would never even make landfall. She became entombed in pack-ice; the vice constricted; and slowly but surely, the vessel was suffocated and swallowed. The crew abandoned ship, yet refused to abandon hope. Instead, they salvaged three lifeboats and hauled them over the frozen floes in search of open sea. They found it, but ended up marooned - locked down, you might say - on some godforsaken island with no supplies and no chance of rescue. No shelter either, except for their tiny upturned boats. In a desperate bid to fetch help, Shackleton formed a skeleton crew and sailed one of these flimsy wooden tubs for almost a thousand miles across the savage Southern Ocean. I forget the name of that intrepid wee skiff, but it carried them as far as South Georgia… where the surf cast them ashore on the deserted side of the island. And here’s the twist: while crossing South Georgia on foot, stumbling and flailing through alps and over glaciers, Shackleton’s party sensed the presence of a mysterious companion. They were no longer a starving gaggle of three, but a purposeful troupe of four. A ghostly stranger was lighting their way. A guardian angel, seeing them home.

So yeah, I reckon Sandy would view Janie as a guardian angel, guiding this troubled soul across Pinnacle Ridge. And hopefully down the West Ridge too, come to that. He’d doubtless look for some serendipitous connection linking Shackleton to James Caird. Good luck with that!

I must confess, though, I wasn’t so sure. For one thing, I had my doubts that Shackleton would have called his guardian angel Poppet.

I looked round at Mr. Poppet, who’d been suspiciously quiet for the past few moments. Mouthing the odd word, though nothing certifiable. Probably lost in thought, as I had been. He was now back at the cairn, packing up his biscuit tin. It left a perfect circle where crumbs had spilled over onto the summit slab. I assumed he’d be snacked out after all that, but he produced a chocolate bar from his rucksack. I watched him snap the bar into segments through the wrapper. Then he tore it open and held out the contents for my inspection.

“Fancy some Yorkie? Janie’s favourite…”

I took a chunk. “Yorkie, eh? Not a trucker, is she?”

Whoa… way too cheeky! It had slipped out before my brain could engage…

James halted, stern-faced. He held the pose for a couple of beats, as though weighing up whether to be amused or offended. Then plonked himself down on the rim of the precipice, legs dangling in the direction of Pinnacle Ridge. And with quiet conviction, he began to speak. To really speak.

“Janie is… Janie was my wife. The best person I ever knew. She was the kindest, sweetest…” James broke off. For the first time, I noticed that he was referring to Janie in the past tense. I sat on the rock beside him, carefully recoiling my boots from the clifftop. I remained still, maintaining the silence for as long as it took.

“I thought… well, I thought it was nothing at first. We both did.” He stared absently into the void. “I tried to put her mind at rest, reassure her that everything was OK. So it was my fault that she didn’t get checked. By the time she was diagnosed, the cancer had taken hold. There was nothing we could do. Too little, too late…” James tailed off, bowing his head.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to burden you. I wouldn’t usually do this. But it all happened so fast. I mean, we’d even booked this trip. Just imagine, planning a holiday in blissful ignorance of… of the end. And all of this…” - he held out his arms, embracing the landscape - “…this was to be our grand adventure. Our mountain. As if it matters now! But Janie made me promise… said I should follow it through, and she’d be right here with me. She’d guide me along it.”

“And she has,” I offered, inadequately. “She’d be proud, seeing you now. She is proud.”

“Yeah… yeah.” James turned his head to look at me; voice breaking, eyes pleading. He forced a weak smile. More silence. I didn’t know what else to say… wasn’t even sure that he wanted me to say anything.

Eventually I shuffled forward until my legs were also dangling. And there we perched, implausibly, like a pair of rag dolls balanced on a skyscraper. We polished off the Yorkie between us, the chunks hard as bricks in the creeping coldness. I squirmed over my earlier trucker remark (goddamn marketing stereotypes!), but James waved it away. He told me more about Janie, of her ideals and aspirations. Of the small things which both hurt and heal the most. And of her playful irreverence - a refusal to stand on ceremony - which had persisted, with swelling poignancy, right through to her final journey. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a battered silver hipflask. He took a quick swig before passing it to me.

“Here… something to warm you up.”

“What is it?” I asked. “Whisky?”

“The local malt: Talisker.” He indicated our craggy surroundings. “On the rocks!”

I affected a grin-cum-groan. Then solemnly held up the flask: “Here’s to Janie!”

“To Janie!” echoed James.

And here’s to Jen, my mind unexpectedly added.

I took a large swig. The warmth trickled down my throat like liquid lava. It was powerful stuff: pungent and peaty, with a hint of seaweed which had somehow been transposed from shore to summit. Mrs. M wouldn’t approve, but what the hell. She wasn’t here.

Still, there are drawbacks to imbibing at such altitudes. As James continued to drain the Scotch, I tapped his coil of rope. “Hey, remember the West Ridge. You’re not planning to ‘drink and abseil’, are you?” I don’t know why, but I used air quotes for the ‘drink and abseil’.

“I’ll be fine. Anyway, who’s going to be patrolling the route?”

“Dunno. Scotland Yard, maybe?”

He grinned. “Funny you should say that. There did used to be a policeman on the West Ridge - a rock obelisk known as The Gendarme - but it toppled a few years ago.” He paused, as though formulating a thought. “Goes to show… even mountains age and crumble. Their permanence is… well, just an illusion. I suppose nothing lasts forever. All we really have is a series of moments. Janie said our lives were like short films… that we should enjoy every frame before the tape falls off the reel.”

This made some sort of sense, even if it was all a bit Forrest Gump. (That’s the thing about life analogies… they’re like a box of chocolates!) I said nothing in return, though gladly accepted another turn at the hipflask.

“Thanks for listening,” said James. “I think I needed it.”

“Yeah, well… people say I’m good at listening, but I reckon I’m just bad at talking!”

He smirked, fixing me with a stare. “Anyway, what about you? What are you doing up here all alone?”

“Lots of people hike alone…” I felt a little defensive. “It’s not unusual.”

“Thanks for that, Tom Jones!”

I hadn’t expected this quip, and laughed out loud - my first real belly laugh for as long as I could remember.

But James persisted: “No, seriously… what has brought you here? I don’t think it’s the climbing. Not really. So what’s your story? No one foolhardy enough to join you?”

“There used to be, but we dropped out of contact.” I thought for a moment. This wasn’t stuff I was comfortable talking about - even in my sessions with Jim - but after everything James had laid bare, it seemed a little churlish not to reciprocate. In any case, what harm could it do? I was hardly likely to encounter him again.

“I suppose I’m just getting away from it all,” I offered, slightly weakly.

“Away from what?”

“Nothing, really. Maybe that’s the problem. There’s nothing to get away from. It’s all so… predictable. The same four walls, day after day.” I sighed. “I used to have someone, way back when. Jen was the best thing in my life, ‘til lockdown happened. Or maybe that’s just an excuse. But there was a time, before all of this, when I thought we really had something. Not like you and Janie, but still… something to build on. I was going to propose, for Christ’s sake, even though I don’t really believe in marriage and all that Happy Family stuff. Then she left. Turned out I was right not to believe in happy endings.”

“So what do you believe in?”

I snorted. “I don’t really believe in anything, I suppose. Why would I? Now take Mrs. McCormack, who runs the guesthouse over there…” - I waved dismissively at the island down below - “… she believes. Flippin’ obsessed with it. Trust in the Lord, or whatever. She reckons I’m on some sort of pilgrimage… that I’ll find God up here and be magically saved.”

“Maybe you will.” James noticed my withering stare, hastily adding: “Devil’s advocate?”

This time I humphed, a little louder than intended. “I don’t know about finding God, but my mate Sandy once found his next-door neighbour up a mountain. I’m not sure there was anything holy about it though… just an unholy bloody coincidence!” I swung my legs to and fro as we passed the hipflask between us. The Talisker was starting to hit the spot.

“So how about you and Janie?” I continued. “Have the pair of you found God up here?”

James’ reply was quiet, pensive: “I think Janie has, you know. Or at least, she’s found peace. Maybe that’s the same thing.”

I considered this. “You mean an inner peace… angel on the shoulder, that sort of thing?” I remembered my earlier musings about the conflict within. Maybe this was what James was going through now, with his grief and inner voices. Maybe Janie was the angel on his shoulder, keeping him from inching forward into freefall.

“Yeah, but God isn’t just on the inside. I think that’s why we seek out places like this… to connect ourselves to the world. To breathe in the vastness of it all.” James threw his arms into the air. “I mean, just look at it. How could you not believe there’s some sort of divine purpose?”

“Now you sound like Sandy,” I said. “Or Mrs. McCormack.” But I did look, and I saw what James was getting at.

Beyond Pinnacle Ridge the mountain smoothed itself into moorland, clothing the terrain like Tweed. Further along the arm of a sea-loch reached into frame. It pointed the way to distant hills and a hint of otherworldly shapes, obscured by haze. Or perhaps I was imagining these shapes, for I knew they were out there, like primeval bones poking through the fabric of time. From this height everything was flattened out, beautiful in its simplicity yet devoid of detail. The human race, with its woes and wonders and infinite complexities, barely registered as a blip.

And this was the less dramatic side. Over our shoulders the great rock peaks played hide and seek in the cloud. Walls of black and battleship grey… a tin of paint would doubtless label the shade Alpine Steel, or some such bluster. And those flecks of white water where shafts of sunlight chased away the rain… Dancing Silk. Between these competing undercoats, I couldn’t decide whether the scene was oppressive or euphoric. Perhaps it was both. Yet the encroaching nightfall would soon smother the crags with Alpine Steel, reducing its joyous counterpart to a splash of sound and a fading spark of memory.

My eye traced the main mountain spine as it snaked away from our summit, down the West Ridge to the rock towers beyond. This was less shades of grey and more fairground attraction. It would dwarf any theme park in the world - the very comparison seemed tacky - yet I tried to conjure a tagline: a petrified rollercoaster for equally petrified passengers. I imagined generations of climbers, carefree versions of James, performing a high-wire act over these castle ramparts… battling turrets and tightropes frozen in stone.

Yet beneath my mind’s irreverence was… well, genuine reverence. This really was an astounding place. As I took it all in, mist flitted around the crenellations like ghosts. This was a day of ghosts. I thought of Janie, who had longed to tread these slopes but was present only in spirit, keeping James from the darkness. A haunted man in a haunted landscape… shadows within and shadows without.

“Perhaps the purpose is just to be here,” I suggested. “To feel that sense of… what do the French call it?”

“Je ne sais quoi.”

“I don’t know what, either.”

James shook his head, grinning despite himself. “You almost feel it, but you just can’t help yourself. You still don’t really believe, do you?” I sensed that it was a dare rather than an accusation; perhaps even an invitation.

I turned to face him. “I get Nature. Give it a capital N if you like. But if you’re talking about the spooky stuff… you know, the truth is out there… yeah, I don’t really buy it.” I paused, formulating my thoughts. “I’d be more inclined to believe in God if I knew which one to pick. I mean, there are so many of them. My old music teacher used to say there were too many Messiahs to get a Handel on. Nobody ever laughed, but he had a point. How does anyone ever choose?” In my mind the panoply of Gods were laid out like an army of stroppy miracle-workers, all refusing to strut their stuff unless you believed in them and them alone. And yes, Mrs. M would have called the flippancy police by now. Even James was rolling his eyes. I ploughed on regardless.

“Seriously though, where should we put our money? On the God with the hammer or the one with eight arms? On the Holy Ghost or that winged horse? And which miraculous superpower? Resurrection or… what’s it called, reincarnation?”

“So reincarnation’s a superpower?” James shook his head. “Not exactly a theology professor, are you?”

“Maybe I’ll be re-born as one!”

I tipped back my head and took another swig of the good stuff. Perhaps it was working a little too well; loosening my tongue a tad too much. I tried to will myself back to sobriety by focusing on the subject at hand. The trouble is, James was right… flippant remarks aside, I knew diddly squat about any of this. I should be listening and learning, not mumbling and stumbling my way along like a final-pint philosopher at closing time.

I certainly shouldn’t be babbling on about Eastern mysticism, or wherever these garbled thoughts were headed. I’d probably be quoting Sgt. Pepper next - We’re all one, and life flows on within you and without you. Karma and sanctity of life were all very well, but I could hardly base a philosophical debate on hazily-remembered George Harrison lyrics. I tried to recall the names of the gurus from My Sweet Lord, but could hear only the intro… that part where the big acoustic chords give way to slide guitar. Which is pretty catchy - maybe even spiritual - but I’ve a feeling the main message was lost on me. This was never my Sweet Lord, it was somebody else’s.

I decided to park the gurus (I think the head honcho was Harry someone?) and return to my original argument:

“But you know what I’m saying. Our beliefs are determined by a fluke of our birth. Location and culture. It’s… I don’t know, it’s like a cosmic version of the postcode lottery. So when you ask me to believe in something, to choose a God, I might as well pin the tail on a donkey.” As I said this, my mind drifted to the pantomime donkey from my old school Nativity play. For some reason I’d always been cast as the arse end. Or being a donkey, perhaps I should say the ass end?

“Well,” said James, “maybe we’ve got this all backwards.”

“How do you mean?”

“Maybe the question isn’t whether we believe in a God, but whether a God believes in us.”

I must have glazed over, for James gave a wry smile before continuing: “Look, you don’t need to choose a God. Choose any of them or none of them; I don’t care. But we all need to believe in ourselves, right?” I nodded tentatively. Where was he going with us? “The thing is, self-belief is a damn sight easier to achieve if someone is looking out for us. A helping hand, offering reassurance. You know, protecting and inspiring us. Maybe our God does this, or maybe it’s a more personal presence. Like Janie, guiding me up and over those pinnacles. Giving me purpose, even after she’s moved on. She believed in me, so I believed in myself.”

“So hang on… Janie is your God?”

James grinned ruefully. “You can put it that way if you like. I doubt Janie objects.” He cast his eyes skyward. “Do you, Poppet?”

I had a sense of deja vu as an earlier thought popped back into my head. A connection with Sandy, or at least my projection of his memory… my otherworldly musings on his behalf. I snorted involuntarily.

“What is it?”

“Sorry, nothing.” James looked inquisitive; perhaps it would be ruder not to expand… “Oh, just something I was thinking of when I reached the summit. About guardian angels… and how they appear when they’re most needed…” I wavered, but still had an avid listener looking expectant. “Well, OK then… I’d remembered Shackleton’s epic voyage when he escaped the Antarctic. You know, the famous explorer from 100 years ago, or whenever it was. He reported that a mysterious companion had helped him to safety. Like Janie’s helping you now.” James was staring incredulously. “In a good way, I mean,” I quickly added. “Do you know the story? The open boat journey to South Georgia, then crossing the island with…”

“Do I know it?” James was suddenly strident. “I’ve studied the legend of that wee boat… even went to see it in a museum. A leaky old tub, but turned out to be Shackleton’s saviour. Janie said I was obsessed with it. If you want to know why, you should look up its name!”

“You can’t leave it there, surely? Why am I hearing The Twilight Zone in my head?”

“Well, it will soon be twilight.” But he said no more; this evidently wasn’t the time. Or perhaps the mystery was more alluring than the revelation, as with magicians who refuse to explain their tricks. Instead we took further turns at the malt. The good old water of life, weaving its own brand of psychedelic magic. A giddy brand it was, too.

When James resumed his voice had softened; he leant in, looking right at me. “Hey, never mind old polar explorers, or epic boat journeys. Or me and Janie for that matter. You need to find your own story of self-belief. And you will. Just have some faith in yourself. Give your life some meaning; a purpose. It doesn’t matter what. And yep, you’ll make mistakes along the way… that’s how we learn and grow stronger. But focus on the simple stuff and the rest will fall into place.”

“Hmm… it’s that easy?”

“Of course it isn’t easy. But then, climbing this mountain wasn’t easy, was it?”

I remained stoically silent, draining the last of the Scotch and handing the silver hipflask back to James. For the first time, I noticed an embossed J on the side. I absently wondered whether this was for Janie or for James himself. It didn’t matter… either way, I was increasingly thinking about Jen. Probably just my tipsiness talking.

“So what’s to stop you contacting this Jen?” It seemed that James could read my mind. Magicians and their tricks…

“Well, there’s the restraining order.” My mock-serious expression began to slip. “Joke!”

The weak gag had masked my agitation and rising heart rate. Believing in myself was one thing, but this seemed an unimaginable leap. I needed to take things slowly; one step at a time. How could I resurrect a meaningful relationship when I couldn’t even converse with folk? When I was so broken that the very idea of a polite introduction filled me with dread?

James persisted, undiminished: “Look, I’m not saying it’s straightforward. These things never are. But you won’t know unless you try, will you? Me and Janie have come full circle, but you and Jen… well, it’s up to you. It’s your roll of the dice. Like I said, you took a punt at this mountain, and here you are… you made it!”

“I made it via the Tourist Route!” I protested. “It’s hardly the Holy Grail of mountaineering. Anyway, don’t they say the summit is only half way?”

“You’ve got me there!” conceded James. “But maybe that’s the point… the rest of your adventure stretches out ahead.”

“In a downhill slide, you mean?”

“You know fine what I mean: your path is up to you. Or down to you, if you insist!” His breath condensed and was whisked into the ether like a Will o’ the Wisp. It led my eye to a thin crescent moon which had begun to seep through the veil of day. Shadows were advancing; the wind rising and temperature falling. James had clocked it too. He sprang to his feet, oblivious to the yawning drop below. “And talking of downhill slides,” he continued, “I’d best make tracks. You ought to get going too, I reckon. Wouldn’t want to get stuck up here in the dark.”

“Jesus Christ!” I blurted. A horrible realisation had just dawned. “I never thought… I mean, I hadn’t expected to be out for so long!”

“You didn’t bring a torch, did you?” said James. It was more a statement than a question. He was just fitting a head-torch himself, adjusting it beneath his fleece beanie.

“Not unless Mrs. McCormack packed one,” I mumbled, rummaging frantically through my rucksack. “Sod it, there’s nothing. And no blanket or bivvy bag.”

As I turned in desperation toward James, I saw that he was casually holding out a second head-torch. “Here you go,” he said. “Janie’s torch. I’ve got some spare batteries here somewhere as well.”

I remained motionless, stunned, as James pressed the torch into my hand. Curiously, after everything we’d been thrashing out, I could feel myself start to crumble at this simple gesture. I couldn’t quite pinpoint my emotions: relief and gratitude, certainly, with a hint of embarrassment at my foolishness. But something else too. Maybe a slither of sadness at our imminent departure?

“I can’t take the torch,” I heard myself say. “I couldn’t possibly. I mean, it’s Janie’s…”

“She’d want you to have it,” asserted James. “Like I said, Janie was the kindest soul I ever knew. She guided me here… please, let her help you down the mountain. To light your way home.”

And with that, James Caird shouldered his rucksack, re-coiled his rope, and strode across the summit parapet. He gave the cairn a parting bow, in apparent deference, before reaching the top of the West Ridge. The start of his descent route was marked by a small arch in an outcrop of rock, like a dormer window in our cathedral roof. He clambered through, almost disappearing faster than I could say my goodbyes.

“Hey, James,” I called. “Go carefully. Janie will be with you. She’ll be watching over you.”

He paused, gazing back at me through the rock window with a look of wry confusion.

“Janie’s staying here!” came his muffled reply. James nodded in the direction of the cairn. Gently yet decisively, to the place where his tin had left a perfect circle on the slab. Then he ducked out of sight, his presence reduced to a fading clatter of stones.

I gingerly approached the cairn. And there in the dirt, concealed by the rocks, lay a grey pile of ashes. I stared dumbfounded as their surface became sculpted by the breeze, each successive gust stealing a few grains and scattering them to oblivion. Or to God-knows-where. I watched awhile longer, wondering whether to call James back and proclaim that I finally understood. It was too late for that, but I think he knew. Maybe he’d known all along. Just as I’d known, in a hidden quirk of destiny, that Shackleton’s trusty lifeboat had been called the James Caird.

The light was now rapidly failing, so I fitted my torch - Janie’s torch - and dragged myself away from the cairn. Mrs. McCormack would be starting to worry, and the thought of it bothered me. If I needed a purpose, my most immediate one was to reach safety; if not for my sake, then for hers. For all of her foibles, I realised that I was actually growing quite fond of old Mrs. M. For the first time in a long time, I looked forward to returning home.

I began a steady descent of the Tourist Route, urging myself to maintain concentration. I hesitated at the first steep section, my mind turning cartwheels as I hugged the rock. It wasn’t the crag that had stopped me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something seemed wrong… unresolved. Then it hit me. I rose, on the edge of all things, and regained the tiny summit.

At the very top of the mountain Janie’s ashes continued to flutter. I stood alongside her shrine, feeling strangely at peace.

“Pleased to meet you, Janie,” I whispered.

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The Ballad of Bellever Tor

An Ode to Dartmoor; and an Illustrated Study of…

The Power of Myth in the Landscape

Poetry and Paradox - An Introduction

This blog is inspired by the myths, legends and landscapes of deepest, darkest Dartmoor.

One poetically-named tor, in particular, will form the focus - the chapter and verse - of my deliberations. But more generally, I’ll be exploring some of the “themes and dreams” which have the power to transform our natural world into something altogether more supernatural.

Along the way, I’ll be challenging the notion of objective beauty in the landscape, and instead considering the symbiosis which exists between the great outdoors and our own place within it.

As we aim to tease out the magic within our mystical landscapes, I’ll also reveal the two key ingredients which I believe imbue a myth with its power… and attempt to make sense of the paradox which seems to ensue!

Bellever - Birth of a Modern Myth

I’ll begin by presenting a kind of home-made folk tale - a light-hearted yet tragic tome - inspired by a jumble of hilltop granite blocks known as Bellever Tor…

“Bellever Tor is a helluva tor”… the summit rocks viewed through Bellever Forest

Dartmoor is home to many fine tors, a few of them (I must admit) higher and wilder than Bellever. But Bellever Tor possesses its own unique charm, rising proudly above - and almost encircled by - the forest which shares its name. And intriguingly, Bellever has the distinction of gracing the geographical centre of the moor, perhaps according it a special seal of significance… an intangible symmetry or sense of place. As if to affirm this, an array of antiquities - hut circles, cists and standing stones - lend an air of ancient mystery to the surrounding landscape.

Bellever’s Travels - Backdrop to a Ballad (A Brief History of Rhyme)

My Bellever folk tale takes the form of a ballad, conceived partly as a wordplay exercise based around a simple rhyming couplet - Bellever Tor is a helluva tor - which I’d exchange with my Dad whenever we travelled across Dartmoor and spotted the tor.

It was the sort of silly in-joke that we’d use when driving past Tintern Abbey en route to the Brecon Beacons, when I’d ask “What’s that ruin over there?” My Dad, with his slight Somerset twang, would earnestly reply “Tintern Abbey”, to which I’d deliver the punchline: “‘Tis an abbey!”. But the Bellever quote had no punchline, so it needed something - in the event a whole poem - by way of compensation.

“The muse I will choose shall be Bellever Tor”… my father Nigel at the trig point (Aug 2021)

A tentative theme was suggested by Bellever’s relative proximity to Dartmoor Prison at Princetown, feeding into the austere reputation and ominous aura of the moor. And so a kind of apocryphal myth unfolded of a hapless prisoner (the Clown Prince o’ Prince-town) who flees the jail and attempts to seek refuge in the rocks atop the tor. But the escapee is hunted down by guards with dogs (evoking the infamously-fanged Hound of the Baskervilles), and the tor becomes a trap rather than an island of sanctuary.

To cut to the chase (so to speak), the prisoner is “hounded” to his death, falling from the rocks and being forever condemned to haunt the scene of his doom.

But rather than dissecting the poem, I should probably just present it (with apologies to any serious poets out there!)… :-)

The Ballad of Bellever Tor

Bellever Tor is a helluva tor,
It’s a rip-snortin’, ca-vortin’ swell-of-a-tor
And if, as I live, I heard tell-of-a-tor
The words I inferred would be “Bellever Tor”.

Take flight, moonless night, Dart o’er the moor,
Clown Prince o’ Prince-town, confoundin’ the law,
Back-track to black, an abyss I explore
To consume the cocoon atop Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor’s a gaol cell-of-a-tor,
It’s a honed, naked-boned “au naturel”-of-a-tor,
To hide safe inside this bare shell-of-a-tor
The muse I will choose shall be Bellever Tor.

The siren ’n’ firin’ are high’n the moor,
Surround-sound o’ hounds echo Baskerville’s roar,
I’m hunted, confronted, no weapon to draw;
I crumble, and stumble from Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor’s a death knell-of-a-tor,
It’s a putrefied, stupefied smell-of-a-tor,
Forsakin’ my Maker I fell-of’-a-tor
To sleep wi’ the Reaper ’neath Bellever Tor.

The houndin’ ’n’ poundin’ resound evermore
Cajolin’ my soul into Lucifer’s lore,
Quakes from the Underworld thunder like Thor
To break me asunder on Bellever Tor.

Bellever Tor is my Hell-of-a-tor,
It’s my shady ’n’ Hadean dwell-of-a-tor,
At this high-hurdlin’, blood-curdlin’ yell-of-a-tor
I curse the Good Verse that served Bellever Tor.

Whenever you weather that road, I implore:
Don’t roam o’er stones that darken death’s door,
For locked in those rocks is a pris’ner o’ yore;
The free-fallin’ phantom of Bellever Tor.

Evening light reveals “The free-fallin’ phantom of Bellever Tor”

The concluding section of this blog is more essay than ode, opening up the themes of the poem to explore some ideas - and I dare say a few tangents - surrounding art, photography, and the power of myth in the landscape…

The Power of Myth in the Landscape

Shifting Sands (and How to Shore Them)

It is sometimes said that the job of the photographer is to tell a story… to present an image which is about something, rather than simply of something. This is a laudable aim, but there’s also no denying that the precise nature of the visual story - much like beauty itself - will often lie in the eye of the beholder.

There are commonalities and shared tropes, of course… but at some level we all see things differently, informed by our unique combination of culture, experience and personal interest.

Or to broaden this out and put it more succinctly: art is subjective! And taste varies not just between individuals or interest groups; it shifts and mutates in accordance with the passage of time and the ebb and flow of particular trends or movements, the most prominent of which reflect a powerful yet passing zeitgeist.

Photography is a fairly new artform in the grand scheme of things, born of advances in optical physics and micro-engineering. But consider the more illustrious history of painting, which stretches back to the caves of the Upper Paleolithic. Even restricting our history to the past few hundred years, we’ve seen the Biblical epics of the Renaissance morph into Baroque, stopping off at Romanticism en route to the everyday style of Realism… then ever onward to Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art, and a myriad of weird and wonderful sub-genres which would have been unimaginable - in many cases heretical - to the eyes which first gazed in awe upon Leonardo’s Last Supper.

Devon’s Culm Valley, June 2020 - shades of John Constable’s “The Hay Wain” (without the actual Hay Wain!)?

The same parallels can be drawn across many other artforms, from sculpture to literature to music. In the case of the latter, the rise of post-war teen culture and burgeoning freedoms of the 1960s prompted a creative explosion which saw the rapid emergence of pop and rock. This radical new phenomenon partially eclipsed - yet quietly borrowed from - a kaleidoscopic jumble of earlier genres, its most original exponents successfully fusing various combinations of (take a deep breath!) classical, folk, blues, country, jazz, swing, R&B, vaudeville and World music. Underpinning these transitions is the symmetry and symbiosis of art imitating life, and life imitating art, with the urban landscapes which influenced the influencers themselves being re-defined and elevated. Consider, for example, how the public perception of London’s Abbey Road, or the “blue suburban skies” of Liverpool’s Penny Lane, have been forever altered and augmented by the legacy of swinging sixties iconography.

Yet with popular culture ever expanding, and a bewildering array of genres to choose from, what does someone mean when they declare themselves a music lover? It depends on their taste. And in Western society, dominant musical tastes have continued to change drastically between successive generations. This is much too fast to be the product of biological evolution… there is clearly something else happening here, an evolution of lifestyle, fashion and ideas.

So how do these shifting sands relate to landscape photography, which - as artforms go - is surely a fairly narrowly-defined and stable activity? After all, moors and mountains don’t tend to change very much, and the viewer (you might imagine) is either predisposed to like them or they are not. But cast your mind to Glen Coe, an undisputed modern Mecca of British mountain grandeur. When Charles Dickens toured Scotland in the mid-19th century, he wrote that the glen was “perfectly terrible”, describing it as “an awful place… there are scores of glens, high up, which form such haunts as you might imagine yourself wandering in, in the very height and madness of a fever”.

I suspect that this was not mere hubris, or a kind of inverted compliment (as it might be read today). Before the rise of widespread leisure and tourism, it seems that mountains were commonly viewed with revulsion, as a barren expanse of death and demons. Or else, in some cultures, as the sacred abode of gods… but either way, aside from the odd gothic poet seeking the sublime, few people willingly ventured onto their high summits.

Mists of Time (Glen Coe, Sept 2003)

This shot from the family film archive depicts a foggy Aonach Eagach, the notorious Notched Ridge which forms the northern headwall of the “perfectly terrible” (according to Charles Dickens) Pass of Glen Coe.

The legends of Glen Coe include that of the fabled poet Ossian - a significant figure in both Scottish and Irish mythology - who is said to have been born in a cave high on the precipitous slopes of Aonach Dubh. Another tall tale (slightly more plausible) tells of the glen’s MacDonald clan hiding stolen cattle in the “Lost Valley”, a high corrie of the mighty Bidean nam Bian whose narrow entrance is concealed by a huge fall of boulders.

Although this legendary landscape is certainly epic enough to intimidate in its own right, Dickens’ fearful take on the pass - the so-called “Glen of Weeping” - may have been swayed by his knowledge of the infamous Glen Coe Massacre of 1692. This is not a myth but a real historical event, involving the slaughter of 30 or more members of the MacDonald clan as they slept in their beds. A number of other victims succumbed to the February snows as they fled to the hills. Perpetrated by government troops who had been guests of the MacDonalds before receiving their macabre orders, this dark episode symbolises a singularly brutal betrayal of Highland hospitality. (The treacherous government forces were led by a Campbell, rival to the Glen Coe MacDonalds; a sign at the nearby Clachaig Inn still reads “No Hawkers or Campbells” - either fatalistic humour or a clear breach of discrimination laws!)

The scene of the crime could not be more fitting, as Glen Coe perfectly encapsulates a landscape rich in folkloric potential… spectacular heights, gloomy depths, Gaelic intrigue and a genuinely bloody history. Today it is regarded as a Mecca of Scottish mountaineering, attracting climbers, walkers and sight-seers from all over the world.

Contrast Dickens’ description of Glen Coe with that of Ansel Adams, the pioneering American landscape photographer, after he first visited California’s Yosemite National Park as an impressionable teenager in 1916: "the splendor of Yosemite burst upon us and it was glorious…. One wonder after another descended upon us…. There was light everywhere…”. Only a budding photographer, I suspect, would think to describe the gargantuan scenery and granite walls of Yosemite in terms of light! In the ensuing years, Adams’ evident love of nature, and his experiments in black and white tonality, would help to transform American society’s enthusiasm for the great outdoors. (Adams would forever become one with his revered mountain playground when his ashes were scattered on Yosemite’s Half Dome in 1984.)

Incidentally, Dickens’ more oppressive mindset can also serve the landscape photographer to great effect (as it did his novels). I can personally testify that wandering the heights of Glen Coe can indeed feel a little mad and fevered, which is always an exacting challenge to capture on camera. My aim here is not to pass judgment on individual points of view, but rather to highlight the changing cultural consensus which can colour the way in which landscape art - and art in general - is typically perceived by society.

Even in contemporary times, the way in which someone views a wild vista - the emotion which such a scene evokes - varies dramatically between individuals.

To illustrate the point, I’m reminded of an occasion many moons ago, when I was travelling to the Lake District for a camping holiday with friends. My companions didn’t know the Lakes very well, so I was keen to subtly share my love of the fells. Approaching from the south, I’d been waiting for our first truly breathtaking view to unfold… a point on the Windermere road where motorists can suddenly see across the lake to the stirring outline of the Langdale Pikes.

Sure enough, as the view opened up, my pal in the passenger seat exclaimed, “WOW!”.

“I know,” I said, secretly chuffed at the instant reaction; “that’s the Langdale Pikes.”

“No,” he replied; “I’ve just seen a great bay for fishing in the lake!”

I made a mental note that people are stirred by different things… and that, in future, I should probably pay more attention to foreground detail!

The “stirring outline of the Langdale Pikes”, viewed across “a great bay for fishing in the lake”. (This is actually Blea Tarn, rather than Windermere!)

Across wider society, differences in perception can be even more marked. A farmer or shepherd, tending the land for their living, will view the landscape very differently from the tourist or thrill-seeker who is there to be awed or entertained. And independently of occupation or purpose, personal sensibilities clearly come into play… some may feel themselves deeply in tune with the land, invoking Gaia and Mother Earth; while others perhaps take it all for granted, seeing only a wilderness to be tamed or a commodity to be exploited. Since the true value of art is in the interaction between artist and consumer - the feeling which is evoked by a painting or photograph, rather than the physical product itself - it becomes apparent that there are no real absolutes. Even if the artist intends to convey a specific point or emotion, the question which is raised by the artwork - the story that it tells, or the message which it imparts - is inherently unpredictable.

This is before we consider the startling impacts of the digital revolution, a new paradigm of the late 20th century which continues apace today. In terms of photography, these advances have changed everything from formatting media (film versus digital) to camera design (the rise of DSLR, mirrorless and mobiles); and from mass consumerism (enter social media) to post-processing (Hollywood-style editing at our fingertips)… all swept along on a tidal wave of uncontrollable progress.

The Relentless March of Technology

We live beneath the same night sky as our ancient forebears… yet closer at hand, the direction of travel seems exponential. A tidal wave of uncontrollable progress?

[Jupiter above M5 in Devon, 10-second exposure - August 2020]

The direction of technological travel seems exponential, and clearly cannot be halted. Yet perhaps we can mitigate its effects, and shore up those shifting sands of perception? This, I believe, is where the power of myth comes in. For myth has the power to bind, to somehow join the sensibilities of the ages and add an over-arching sense of recognition. And where myth morphs into local legend or folkore, we are presented with a framework which roots us in the past yet still makes sense - even if only on a hazy subconscious level - to the audiences of today and tomorrow. After all, this type of story-telling is ultimately about the human condition; about our place in the world, and a quest for deeper meaning. These are surely universal themes.

So when we view places which speak to us on a visceral level, we have a head start in terms of formulating a common story. Or at least, we experience a shared atmosphere - a kind of familiar ambience - which underpins our understanding of the possible stories.

Dartmoor is one such place, Glen Coe another; but there are any number of compelling legends strewn across our weathered tracts of wilderness, befitting a long history of sustenance and struggle. This is particularly true of those mystical lands which have immortalised trouble and triumph, love and loss, in Celtic verse or Pictish symbol down through the ages.

It seems to me that our instinctive reaction to certain locations or types of scenery can tune in to this intangible ethos. In the context of art and landscape photography, the underlying evolution of fashion, technique and technology merely acts as window dressing to something more fundamental… and perhaps more profound.

Mystical Celtic Lands - the enigmatic Standing Stones of Callanish adorn Scotland’s Isle of Lewis.

Sacred Sites - A Quest for Myth and Meaning

The concept of myth-in-the-landscape is perfectly exemplified by the beguiling ancient monuments which adorn our Celtic lands, all the way from the tip of Cornwall to Scotland’s Northern Isles. Cornwall is represented here by the enigmatic Lanyon Quoit (distant Bosiliack tin mine tells a contrasting story of struggle), while the Ring of Brodgar epitomises the wealth of archeological treasures to be found in the iconic “Heart of Neolithic Orkney”.

Monolithic Landscape - We may never truly know what significance the Stones of Machrie Moor, on Scotland’s Isle of Arran, held for their creators… yet the grand natural setting, calling through the ages, surely played a part in nurturing their underlying mythology?

The Mythic Paradox (or The Familiarity of Mystery)

I mentioned in this blog’s introduction that I would reveal the two key ingredients which imbue a myth with its power, and attempt to unravel the resulting paradox. A bold claim perhaps, for the ingredients of a myth are many-fold… and to be honest, I’m no social historian! Nonetheless, here is what I have in mind…

As teased in the section above, I believe that the power of a myth is derived from a combination of its familiarity and its mystery. And this is where the paradox might be seen to arise… for if something is familiar, how can it be mysterious? And if something is mysterious, how can it seem familiar?

To answer this simply, I think that maybe the mystery itself - not so much a specific mystery, but the concept of the unknowable - is the familiar component of a myth. Or indeed of any otherworldly belief, of which mythology is arguably just a subset. I say “arguably” because, by some definitions, mythology is recognised as fiction, and hence is not an otherworldly belief. But either way, it is the stories themselves which carry the power of inspiration and intrigue, not their underlying veracity. Did the Ancient Greeks really believe the literal truth of Greek Mythology? Who knows… it’s all suitably nebulous! In many cases - including perhaps Ancient Greece - I suspect that one person’s fictional myth is another’s cherished religion.

But back to the components of the paradox: The reason familiarity is important is that it anchors the myth - whether an archetypal legend or a recurring piece of folklore - in the collective human psyche. This gives us a story through the ages… a universal trope to act as a reference point, mitigating the turbulence of exponential change. For while society’s views on superstition do change (thankfully we are no longer burning witches!), and while religions do evolve (Darwin may have found this ironic!), these processes usually happen too gradually (and perhaps too begrudgingly) to register from one generation to the next.

As for the mysterious… well, who doesn’t love a good mystery? But it’s important to distinguish that I’m not talking here about mystery in the sense of a detective drama, which relies upon a satisfying solution - an unmasking of the villain - in the final denouement. Rather, superstitious belief systems rely on the mystery not being solved, and for the intrigue to be perpetuated. After all, if the answers to a paranormal phenomenon were suddenly discovered (and crucially, accepted by its adherents), then it would no longer be paranormal… the phenomenon would either be relegated to the mundane (if esoteric claims were disproved), or scientific paradigms would be shifted to accommodate the new-found revelation.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that esoteric mysteries are without answer: many worthy people have sought to illuminate the unknown, and some have succeeded to the satisfaction of themselves and others (either correctly or incorrectly). However, without a broad consensus - which is very difficult to achieve in these murky waters - the underlying mystery will on some level persist. And if the subject of the mystery itself “moves in mysterious ways”, so much the better!

It is certainly tempting to seek answers, for many of the questions surrounding supernatural or otherworldly phenomena are hugely significant. Do hauntings indicate the existence of an afterlife? Do UFO sightings imply that advanced alien lifeforms are visiting our planet? How about alleged cosmic encounters, like the 1947 Roswell Incident (now firmly entrenched in pop culture)?

Bigfoot meets The Flintstones? Or perhaps the mysterious truth - a prehistoric dinosaur footprint - is even more incredible?
[Isle of Arran, Sept 2020]

It is the importance yet evasiveness of these conundrums, and the controversy surrounding them, which makes mystical subjects so intriguing… and debate around them so supercharged. But to re-iterate, the mystery itself has the real power here, independently of its underlying truth. After all, you don’t need to believe in ghosts to be genuinely spooked when the lights are snuffed out, or the floorboards creak, in a haunted house… while a shadowy séance, suitably enacted, can disturb the most skeptical of minds. It seems that the very idea of paranormal antics is enough to send perfectly rational folk into a head-spin. Doubtless part of this is down to nurture, of being raised in a Hammer House of Horror-type culture. But I suspect nature plays a more visceral role, as though our species has long been programmed for superstition and conspiracy.

The evolutionary roots of this can be deduced by applying a little Flintstones-style logic: back when we were painting bison on cave walls, natural selection favoured those who feared that the rustling in the bushes might be a sabre-tooth tiger. Most of the time it would be something far more innocent… but caution, statistically speaking, was the more reliable survival instinct. Now introduce an idea or meme which would reinforce this sense of trepidation in impressionable little ones - a shamanistic demon-of-the-dark, say - and the children who complied were more likely to survive to nurture (and scare) offspring of their own. So ultimately, we are all descended from ancestors who were inclined to believe.

Yet this deductive logic (itself clearly a simplification) is not to disparage the value of myth and superstition. Quite the reverse, if anything. In my example, the allegorical demon-of-the-dark was a substitute for genuine peril - the story’s kernel of truth being a snarling sabre-tooth - which made the underlying message a valuable one. And yes, this core truth may have been passed on in a colourful and misleading manner, sometimes even with deliberate guile… but then, craftiness has always formed an integral part of the human condition.

The Art of Craftiness - Part 1 (Lightroom versus Darkroom)

Inevitably, the field of human deception - a “tricksy” yet tantalising subject - lends itself quite naturally to the tangled web of myth and magic. And this, in turn, feeds into the expansive canvas of landscape art. This is a broad topic, but let’s start by considering a practical modern application - a doorway to the devious, if we care to think of it that way…

I’ve highlighted above - and indeed in my previous blog, Camera on the Crags - that the digital revolution has delivered profound change to the world of photography. One impact of this change is the ease with which imagery can be manipulated and shared, with the more extreme examples of “creative editing” more likely to go viral. This leads to a number of pertinent questions: How is photography actually defined? When does it morph into something more “artful”? And what does “artful” mean in this context? The divinity of “High Art”, or the cunning of the “Artful Dodger” (to again borrow from Dickens!)?

“The Moon in Bloom” - Art or Artifice?

Nocturnal experimentation results in a blended image of the Moon rising above Earthly blooms; difficult to achieve in a single image, as exposing for the Moon’s brightness would throw the foreground into darkness.

[Devon Lockdown, April 2020]

Whatever our views on this, the fact remains that even the best modern cameras are unable to perfectly capture the dynamic range and subtlety of nature-in-the-raw. So it’s understandable that virtually all professional photographers (as well as bumbling hobbyists such as myself) prefer to control their own output, rather than rely on the automated processing of default camera settings. Perhaps digital post-processing, using contemporary tools such as Lightroom, is no different in principle to the experimentation which Ansel Adams, and other historic pioneers, were previously employing in their Darkroom?

Yet, there clearly is a difference in terms of scale and accessibility. There is a feeling that almost anything is now possible with digital post-processing, so how can we trust the veracity of the images which constantly bombard us via social media and the internet? Was the sunset really that orange; and does the model from that advert really look so perfect? Probably not… so it raises that highly-charged follow-up question: Is this giving us all false expectations of real life?

“The World Keeps Turning” - Star Trails

Long-exposure is a well-established in-camera technique, often used to deliver “artistic” rather than real-life results; this was a first attempt at blending multiple long exposures, plus “torch-painted” foreground treetops, using StarStax. It perhaps reveals our giddy place in the cosmos!

[Devon Lockdown, April 2020]

This is too big a question for me to grapple with here, of course. All I’ll say is that the veracity of an image depends, to a degree, on the integrity of those promoting it… has it been presented in good faith, or with intent to deceive? Even this promise of truth, though, can quickly dissolve and disapparate once an image enters the minefield of public domain.

The Bellever Phantom… of dubious origin (allegedly!).

Take this blog’s Bellever phantom image, for instance. I make no bogus or fanciful claims about the nature of the “ghost”, and I think its context (illustrating the poem) is pretty clear. But in principle, this could end up anywhere, supporting any number of false beliefs (especially if I’d done a better job in Photoshop!). Which brings me to another source of myth-building, beyond the text of any poem or folk tale… the old adage that a picture paints a thousand words. The catch here is that, all too often, not all of those words are honestly articulated!

It’s true that ”tricksiness” has always formed part of the artistic endeavour, especially in photography… from early grainy images of the “Cottingley fairies” (of which Arthur Conan Doyle was an advocate) to blurry shots of ghostly apparitions… or from Monsters in the Loch to those elusive UFOs, their otherworldliness seemingly tailor-made for the post-war space age.

To come clean about my humble Bellever phantom, I must admit that my initial intention of creating a “long-exposure spectre” - of leaving the shutter open to capture a spookily-moving figure - was scuppered by high winds and a reluctance for chilled fingers to faff with lens filters! Maybe next time, for this method has the advantage of delivering the end product “in-camera”, instead of requiring the blending of different shots. (I’m sure I’m not alone in spending far too much time in front of a computer screen!)

For one final take, I’ll present a version in which a little “tricksy” post-processing has been employed to simply mature the image (less space age, more old age!). :-)

The Myth in Monochrome

The best narratives are often timeless… but setting this aside, I was envisioning the ballad’s “Bellever break-out” occurring sometime in the long-lost 19th century. A certain separation from today’s workaday bustle would hopefully add an aura of romance, while linking the story more directly to the gothic intrigue of Dartmoor’s “Hound of the Baskervilles”.

Like the apparition itself, myths and legends are only really sustained by becoming a little faded around the edges… too much clarity can rob a story of its nuance, compromising the vibrant yet sepia-tinged nature of the underlying themes.

And of course, from a practical standpoint, images from yesteryear are seldom seen in glorious technicolour. For these reasons, and to help preserve the mystery and menace of the shadows, I’ve attempted here to tease out the phantom in “olde-worlde” monochrome…

The Art of Craftiness - Part 2 (Fields of Myth and Mystery)

When it comes to fields of myth and mystery, the covert land artists of my native Wiltshire could write the book (indeed, some of them have done!). These stealthy artisans - inspired by their Hampshire predecessors - are largely responsible for the elaborate crop circle designs which appear magically overnight across Southern England, as though channeling Banksy meets the X-Files.

If you can remember the 90s…
then you weren’t abducted by aliens!

My previous life as a fledgling crop circle investigator (that’s me on the left, notebook in hand… and the clues are right in front of me!); Wiltshire Downs, July 1992. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

The circles phenomenon makes for a fascinating study as a modern micro-myth. It started slowly and discretely in the late 1970s, the designs subtly evolving yet remaining mostly unnoticed over the ensuing decade. Its instigators almost quit (clearly ploughing a lonely furrow!), before their circle formations morphed into pictograms, news crews arrived and a tipping point was reached; the esoteric grapevine kicked in, bringing with it covert copycats and a myriad of colourful disciples. By the early 1990s a full-blown New Age belief system had been spawned, complete with self-anointed shamans, wide-eyed pseudo-scientists and everything in between (even regular folk finding purpose in pastures new!).

Motives and inspirations of the actual circle-makers vary… yet the collective oeuvre of these groups shows that, once mythology takes hold, the underlying narrative can spiral rapidly out of control (much like the circles themselves!).

Spirals in the Landscape… A Canvas of Wheat

The vista from Oliver’s Castle, a prominent Iron Age hill-fort near Devizes, in July 1994. Some of the finest circle formations had a strange habit of appearing wherever nature provided convenient viewing platforms!

Naturally, the Wiltshire circle-makers understand the value of mystery. This is why they don’t (as a rule) claim authorship of their nocturnal endeavours… because it would rob their creations of the power to bewitch and beguile, eroding much of their ethereal wonder. And of course cosmic harmony decrees that favoured hotspots - generally rolling chalk downlands - are rich in ancient sacred sites. Here, the circles are energised - almost tangibly so - by the aura surrounding such megalithic masterworks as Avebury, Silbury Hill and Stonehenge.

Amongst crop circle devotees or cerealogists (an eclectic group which secretly includes their makers), these enigmatic patterns are in fact regarded as temporary sacred sites… for each autumnal harvest churns their furtive existence back into the landscapes which fleetingly cradled them. Thus, their parting piece of magic is a disappearing act: there one day and gone the next, straw temples blown away in a puff of arable dust!

To avoid prematurely closing the casebook on cerealogy (the book never can be closed on a good mystery!), I should point out that unexplained circles have occasionally cropped up in the Fortean archives prior to their Great British resurgence of the late 20th century. Depending on the predilection of the observer, these cases have typically been attributed to either tornado damage or UFO landing traces. Returning to folklore, some say that an Old English pamphlet of 1678 depicts a “Mowing Devil” impishly swirling a prototype. It’s an intriguing prospect, which I’ll leave for another day; it does, however, bring me neatly on to the concept of origins…

Courts of Camelot

In speaking of a myth’s mystery, we most naturally concern ourselves with those headline-grabbing supernatural elements. However, my old friend the sabre-tooth tiger (a very real adversary to my allegorical Flintstones) hints at another aspect of the puzzle, which I’ll explore some more by considering the legend of Camelot.

The question which I’m pondering is basically this: does a myth’s origin contain a kernel of truth… and if so, how far does this extend?

To apply this to Arthurian legend: most fundamentally of all, was there really a King Arthur? Quite possibly. Did he welcome a bride called Guinevere into the Pendragon clan? Maybe (but what’s in a name?). And did Arthur share gallant quests with his “Knights of the Round Table”? More doubtful. Or receive Excalibur, his divine sword, from “The Lady of the Lake”? Hmm… a “farcical aquatic ceremony”, according to “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”!

And what of Merlin, the great wizard? Is he merely a creation, like Gandalf or Dumbledore, or did he actually exist? If the latter, was he a genuine wizard (whatever that implies), or just - to borrow a phrase of Gandalf’s - a “conjuror of cheap tricks”? We could go on… but the deeper we delve, the more impenetrable the questions begin to sound. As previously conjectured, it can be seen that the value of the myth lies in the questions themselves - that sense of the unknowable - rather than the answers.

Nonetheless, reviewing the black and white pages of literature (rather than the colourful world of myth), a little honest delving can still pay dividends. It seems that the tale of King Arthur and his noble entourage first gained traction in the 12th century, largely through a fanciful British history penned by Geoffrey of Monmouth. The narrative was further popularised in the 15th century by Sir Thomas Malory, whose classic work Le Morte d’Arthur was based on earlier, conveniently-obscure French manuscripts. We can deduce from Sir Thomas’s title that he may have harboured a vested interest in promoting the gallantry of knights! But how much of the Arthurian myth he (or Geoffrey before him) merely reported, as opposed to inventing or embellishing, is difficult to determine. Unlike Excalibur, the trail fairly quickly loses any sense of being set in stone…

We can be sure of one thing, and that is the enduring legacy which the legend of Camelot has brought about. A cynic might highlight the commercial opportunities which arise; the wealth of souvenirs and books, films and TV franchises (even that wacky stage production, Spamalot!). The suspicion that profit trumps truth is certainly valid, but it doesn’t define the myth. What interests me more is the sense of wonder which is evoked by the association of Arthurian legend with mystical landscapes such as Tintagel Castle and Glastonbury Tor. These places may not actually be ancestral homes of King Arthur… but since the quest for Camelot seems as elusive as the Holy Grail itself, they may just be the best that we can do.

“The Rain of King Arthur”… Tintagel Castle, situated on a dramatic Cornish headland (May 2021). This potential Camelot (“King Arthur’s Seat”) was visited on a day of persistent rain, so it was a pleasant surprise that this panorama emerged from the ether. But as Merlin’s Cave is magically located near the centre of the image, it’s possible that the great wizard had a hand in it! ;-)

So does the legend fuel the mystical landscape, or does the mystical landscape fuel the legend? As the years roll by, they clearly feed off each other, forever entwined by their common cultural ties. But what gave rise to the initial spark, that magical moment which enabled everything else to fall so neatly into place?

In the case of Tintagel and Glastonbury, I strongly suspect that the quirks of local topography - wild headland, or steep-sided knoll - provided both defensible terrain and spiritual sanctuary to early settlers. Over time, this led to the construction of a church - an abbey, a castle - and the concept of holy ground intensified. These sacred sites then became logical arenas in which to set tales of derring-do, handed down through the generations in popular story and song. Fast forward some more and the New Age movement finds a place of pastoral pilgrimage, the area’s natural geography and Pagan or Christian heritage by now augmented with an array of leylines, crystals and positive energy. Viewed in this light, it’s really no coincidence that Glastonbury has become synonymous with one of the foremost pop festivals in the world, an annual celebration of sound, colour and creativity. Such is the power of myth in the landscape!

“Magick of Yore”… my own pilgrimage to Glastonbury Tor, April 2018. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

There’s no doubt that the fabled Castle of Camelot - or the allied Isle of Avalon - represent particularly potent unions of legend with landscape. But I could have chosen others. The medieval folk heroes of Robin Hood and his band of curiously Merry Men, for instance, whose own gallant quest involves robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. Again, the legends associated with Robin of Loxley can be traced back to 15th century narrative ballads, enabling the story’s providence to pass a tipping point from which the mythology was destined to grow. And grow it did, all the way from Sherwood Forest to Hollywood… whose big-screen adaptations, some more scurrilous than others, have ranged from Prince of Thieves to Men in Tights. The detail may differ from Arthurian fayre, yet the archetypes are familiar. I might well have been dissecting and illustrating the tales of Robin, Little John, Friar Tuck and friends - not to mention the dastardly Sheriff of Nottingham - had my travels (both literal and literary) happened to take me in that direction.

To continue the story-telling theme, I’d like to draw this blog toward its close by considering the part which popular literature plays in shaping mythology. For if our tales of derring-do are largely cultivated on the page, perhaps there’s something in that age-old saying that the pen is mightier than the sword?

Pen and Sword

It is a given that the written word can have an incredible impact on public perception and passions, capable of eliciting love or fear, hope or suspicion, enlightenment or oppression. We only have to consider the palpable awe and aura which is attributed to sacred texts such as the Bible or Qur’an - whether or not we believe in their divine origins or promises of salvation - to appreciate that whole societies and cultures are built on the recording and transmission of powerful stories, often transcribed into a guiding set of morals and misdemeanors.

Associated with such hallowed scripture is the concept of Holy Lands, each one a spiritual heartland which forms a kind of holy matrimony between myth and landscape. In some cases the texts themselves are firmly rooted in a sense of place, such as the Dead Sea Scrolls. And indeed, the arid, desert landscapes of the Middle East are often conjured up whenever Holy Lands are considered in our minds or on the silver screen. Justifiably so, for a (holy) trinity of major world religions converge on Jerusalem; while Mecca - an Islamic place of pilgrimage - has become a metaphor for a location which inspires intense devotion. (I meant no disrespect - quite the reverse - when I earlier described Glen Coe as a “Mecca of Scottish mountaineering”.)

Yet, Holy Lands in their broader sense do not have to embody vast religious epicentres. On a smaller scale, miniature versions can be experienced at every church, synagogue, mosque or temple, wherever in the world these are located. And we have seen in this blog that a myriad of ancestral sacred sites exist all across the UK, from Neolithic Orkney and the enigmatic Western Isles, down through the mystical landscapes of Avebury and Glastonbury, and along to the farthest tip of Cornwall. Place names often eagerly hint at this rich heritage, exemplified by the proliferation of Saint pre-fixes spread far and wide across the nation; or by the obvious hallowed connotations of the repeated moniker Holy Island…

Holy Smoke… or rather Scotch Mist, forming an ethereal early morning veil around Holy Island (viewed from the neighbouring Isle of Arran, Sept 2020).

Holy Island - A Place of Pilgrimage and Prayer Flags

Not to be confused with Northumberland’s iconic Lindisfarne, the Holy Island depicted here can be found in Scotland’s Firth of Clyde, anchored just offshore from the Isle of Arran. Like Lindisfarne, Arran’s Holy Isle has links to early Christianity dating back to the 6th century, when St. Molaise is reputed to have lived in a hermit’s cave tucked away on the western shore. As if to diversify its spiritual appeal, present-day Holy Isle is home to a Buddhist community who sanctify the island as a haven of peace and meditation. The only other permanent inhabitants comprise wild ponies, free-roaming goats and Soay sheep (who enjoy grazing the seaweed).

I was lucky enough to explore Holy Isle for an afternoon during September 2021, and to experience its air of tranquility away from the relative chaos of modern life. Devotional Buddhist art complements Nature on rocks above the shoreline, while the island’s uppermost point is adorned with Tibetan prayer flags which are said to release positive mantras as they flutter in the breeze.

I visited on a day of sunshine and showers, when the rainbow colours of the flags seemed to seep into the ether and illuminate the sky. I’m sure that St. Molaise would have approved! :-)

It is apt that the natural wonders of Holy Isle have converged with Buddhism, for Eastern religion has a penchant for deifying Nature. The mighty Ganges is a sacred river in Hinduism (an impressively long and winding shrine), while many Himalayan peaks are revered as the home and spiritual abode of gods. When Kangchenjunga (the world’s third highest mountain) was first ascended in 1955, the Western summiteers - Joe Brown and George Band - left the final inches untrammeled to fulfil a promise which they’d made to the Buddhist priest-kings of Sikkim. This is fitting, I think… as mountains may be ascended (if we are lucky), but they are never conquered. By any worldly measure, the pride of human ascent is surely fleeting and insignificant.

Northern Climes

Mountains also loom large in Scandinavian mythology, where immense, thunderous landscapes naturally suggest the hammer-wielding antics of the Norse god Thor. The mutability of myth is demonstrated by Thor’s crossover from the Viking world to modern pop culture, where he regularly appears as a Marvel comic-book character. A similar fate seems to have befallen trolls, another staple of Norwegian folklore, who have crossed over to Middle-earth - in suitably dark and menacing fashion - in JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings.

My Kingdom for a Norse
“The Bishop” and “The King” reign over the dramatic mountain pass of Trollstigen.

With or without pop culture, the original resonance of these Nordic myths remains undimmed back in their homelands… as symbolised by the tortuous hairpins which bisect Norway’s wild mountain pass of Trollstigen (meaning Troll Trail).

The twin peaks which tower above the pass, Bispen (The Bishop) and Kongen (The King), doubtless have stories to tell of their own. Given the meaning of “Kongen”, it is perhaps fitting that the Trollstigen road was opened in 1936 by Norway’s King Haakon VII… forever linking the fairytale romance of palace life with the shadowy underworld of the troll.

Of course, it is another irony of modern life that trolls - who traditionally dwell in dingy, dank corners, which surely have no WiFi - are now most commonly found all over the internet!

Don’t Feed The Troll
Twists and turns of the Trollstigen road, rising from the valley depths in Norway’s Romsdal region. Nearby is the notorious “Troll Wall”, whose fearsome reputation precedes it...

The Turreted Trollveggen… a very “gneiss” Wall for Trolls!

In such a wondrous landscape, it is only fitting that trolls should also claim the ultimate natural battlement… the savagely-serrated Trollveggen, or Troll Wall. The tallest vertical precipice in Europe, this fabled showpiece of gothic mountain architecture has become a kind of Holy Grail for elite climbers and base jumpers alike. Sadly - though perhaps inevitably - not all have returned to tell the tale.

As befits the Land of the Troll, it is apt that the first recorded ascent was accomplished by a Norwegian team in 1965, finishing one day ahead of marauding British rivals! In testimony to the Troll Wall’s difficulty - and also its relative remoteness - I find it curious that this feat was achieved a clear 100 years after the Alps’ celebrated centrepiece, the Matterhorn, was first scaled.

Whether or not mountain-dwelling trolls made unrecorded ascents of Trollveggen far earlier remains an open question… :-)

Faroes of the North - The Giant, The Witch but No Wardrobe

Sticking with Northern Climes, a particularly rich source of written folklore - bridging the gap somewhere between history, myth and epic yarn - can be found in the celebrated Icelandic Sagas. Originally written in Old Icelandic (an offshoot of Old Norse), these quintessentially family tales have branched out over time to cover some of the surrounding islands and archipelagos, which would have acquired otherwise-forgotten meaning to these daring sea-faring folk.

One such story, the Færeyinga Saga, was written in Iceland shortly after 1200. It concerns the far-flung Faroe Islands, and tells the tale - or recalls the origin - of two prominent sea stacks called “Risin” (The Giant) and “Kellingen” (The Witch). Although not natural bedfellows (so to speak), the Giant and Witch joined forces to pull the Faroes across the sea to Iceland. But the task proved to be a demanding one (perhaps predictably!)), and a dawn shaft of sunlight turned them both to stone. There they stand to this day, immortalised - indeed petrified - beneath the great sea cliffs of Eysturoy Island…

Iceland’s Geyser of Strokkur (July 2011)… epitomising the otherworldly, dynamic landscape which inspired the epic Icelandic Sagas. Will today’s epic story-tellers have a similarly dynamic impact on the world of future mythology?

It’s interesting to consider the part which modern story-telling - literary or cinematic fiction - might play in the wider world of future mythology. Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, for instance, have both attained the status of iconic gothic tales - pseudo-modern parables - which have perhaps become entangled with “real-world” mythic archetypes such as angels, demons and ghosts. (I mean “real-world” in the sense of being traditional and sincerely believed, whether or not they are in some way “true”.) I certainly suspect that a cursory check of children’s Hallowe’en costumes would reveal an eclectic mix of ancient and modern horrors, rooted in everything from pop culture to the primeval. Similarly, we’ve already seen how the heritage of classic medieval folk heroes such as King Arthur and Robin Hood can be largely attributed to known (albeit obscure) literary works of the 15th century. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that the creations of our more recent popular myth-makers - Tolkien, Stephen King, Philip Pullman, JK Rowling - are similarly elevated to divine or demonic status by future generations, as though leaping off the page and into the societal ether.

This might seem a fanciful claim, given how well recorded all of our lives are nowadays. By contrast, the life of Sir Thomas Malory is almost as opaque and mired in speculation as that of his fabled Arthurian knights. Plenty of wiggle-room there for creative (mis)interpretation! Compare this with authors or film-makers of today, whose daily exploits are splashed over news and social media for all to see. Their fictional creations are surely indisputably documented as such? Maybe, or maybe not… for social media works not only to inform, but to misinform. Today’s society is becoming increasingly susceptible to conspiracy and “alternative truth”, in which it is fashionable and knowing to doubt any form of official narrative. The lure of being in the know can indeed be irresistible, and of course conspiracy theories are themselves self-perpetuating… after all, anyone presenting contrary evidence has either been duped (it is assumed) or is part of the conspiracy. In the light of this, maybe today’s recognised facts - or known fictional worlds - are destined to become tomorrow’s polarising myths?

In terms of the ubiquitous connection with landscape, it’s notable that many of these fictional works are themselves rooted in a definite sense of place. I’ve discussed the association of Arthurian legend with Tintagel and Glastonbury; likewise for Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest. But even entirely fictional universes tend to adopt atmospheric real-world locations when transferred to film; such as New Zealand’s enchanted hinterland for The Lord of the Rings, or the Western Highlands of Scotland for Harry Potter. (Hogwarts was actually located in and around the aforementioned Glen Coe, which incidentally - to join the magical dots - was also a prime filming location for Monty Python and the Holy Grail!)

But returning full circle to Dartmoor, The Ballad of Bellever Tor itself mixes myth with a more contemporary literary reference. This is, of course, The Hound of the Baskervilles, whose origin is the fertile imagination of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Yet, beyond providing a fearsome foil for Sherlock Holmes, the hound is himself a manifestation of a common mythical archetype… one which is surely born of a particular place. For this foe is essentially a landscape personified in beastly form, reflecting the visceral sense of unease and foreboding which is felt in dangerous or threatening environments. And yes, The Hound of the Baskervilles may be fictional, but he is also part of a wider, very real phenomenon. Just ask his modern-day Cornish cousin, The Beast of Bodmin (if you dare!). :-0

Deepest Dartmoor - Haunt of the Hound
Looking across Dartmoor to the magnificent profile of Hound Tor (the rocks on the back left horizon). This tor’s presumed links to the “Hound of the Baskervilles” remain obscure… however, a takeaway van in a nearby car park goes by the name of “Hound of the Basket Meals”!

Granite Planet - Hay Tor “Simulacra”
Reversing the angle from the previous vista (Dartmoor, Oct 2016) reveals the mighty twin blocks of Hay Tor emerging from foreground granite boulders. Hay Tor has noticeable ghosts of its own, being the backdrop to long-abandoned granite quarries and railroads which lend the landscape a poignant reminder of its harsh industrial past. As with more ancient relics, these industrial workings are today being reclaimed by the moor and subsumed back into Nature.

The Beast of Bodmin, and similar manifestations on Dartmoor, Exmoor or further afield, are sometimes collectively known as ABCs… Alien Big Cats. This is usually taken to mean “alien” to the environment in question, rather than of extra-terrestrial origin… but let’s not rule anything out!

The wider field of Cryptozoology makes for a fascinating study, encompassing such famed “mythical” beasts as the Himalayan Yeti (or Abominable Snowman); its North American forest-dwelling relative Sasquatch (or Bigfoot); and of course, Scotland’s iconic Loch Ness Monster. Nessie was once even bestowed with a scientific moniker, Nessiteras rhombopteryx, by respected naturalist Sir Peter Scott.

Parody of a Nessie hoax… Urquhart Castle guards Scotland’s iconic Loch Ness (May 2009).

It was later pointed out that Nessiteras rhombopteryx is an anagram of “Monster hoax by Sir Peter S”… however, since Sir Peter seemed to have genuine intent, and the given name has meaning (Ness marvel with diamond-shaped flipper), I’d counter by saying that coincidences do happen (especially if we search for them). Either way, it’s all grist to the myth’s mill, as it were!

Seekers of these suspiciously-elusive creatures often quote the curious case of the Coelacanth. This prehistoric fish was believed to have been extinct for 66 million years before living specimens were found off Madagascar in 1938, swimming merrily around and apparently not even running a temperature. Evidence from the fossil record clearly needed a course correction!

Some of the Alien Big Cat stories actually require a fairly modest leap of credulity, with their “kernel of truth” (if there is one) perhaps being something as mundane as an escaped zoo animal or an unwanted exotic pet. Nessie and Bigfoot are admittedly more colourful… yet if the Coelacanth exists (so the argument goes), then why not other large beasties which are currently unrecognised by science, or are thought to have died out with the dinosaurs? Is Nessie really a Plesiosaur, for example, “locked in a loch” and stranded in time? If this sounds implausible, consider the enigmatic yet very real Giant Squid, about which so little is known… and when does this morph, in fantasy if not in fact, into the formidable Kraken?

These lines of thought take us back to the inscrutable nature of mystery… for as we ponder the existence of these mythical creatures (or other curious phenomena), each strand of the story both poses a question and leaves it tantalisingly open-ended. And this, ultimately, is why the concept of mystery is important… because it legitimises the unknown, elevating lack of definitive knowledge from a failing into something altogether more thrilling. It is a triumph of imagination over reality, allowing our intuitive hopes or fears to inject some primal adrenaline into our everyday lives.

The geographical domains of Cryptozoology also remind us of the symbiosis which surely exists between myth and landscape. I’ve mentioned that The Hound of the Baskervilles personifies the ominous aura of Dartmoor in beastly form… and the same could be said of many other mythical creatures within their respective natural environments. It is no coincidence that the Yeti inhabits the greatest mountain range on Earth, or the Sasquatch some of its darkest temperate forests. Closer to home, the Loch Ness Monster lurks deep within the UK’s most voluminous trench of fresh water, while the nation’s only deeper lake/loch hides a lesser-known monster of its own. (This is Loch Morar’s Morag, by all accounts a close but shy cousin of the celebrated Nessie.)

In terms of Highland high-jinx, it’s notable that Britain’s second loftiest mountain - Ben Macdui - is the reputed haunt of a “Big Grey Man”, more properly known as Am Fear Liath Mòr. Presumably the isolated eeriness of the Central Cairngorm plateau is more conducive to “tall tales” than the even taller - though far busier - summit of Ben Nevis.

In each case, I suspect a region’s atmosphere builds a reputation… which fuels a myth, which heightens the atmosphere… and so on, such that the growing superstition becomes an almost tangible character within the fabric of the landscape. To draw a further analogy with fiction, it is a similar phenomenon to a horror story craving a spooky location (and vice versa).

The Summit (upper left) and North Face of Ben Nevis, the “Rocky Roof of Britain” (Aug 1999). This scene may be missing Ben Macdui’s “Big Grey Man”, but is terrifying enough as it stands… with plenty of climbing mythos locked up in those epic cliffs!

This is why myths - even fantastic flights of fancy - can tell us so much about the places which they inhabit or describe. They may not provide an accurate historical record (being more akin to a kind of abstract communal memory), but there is no denying the fervour and the heart. If nothing else, they continue a tradition of story-telling which stretches back thousands of years, from humble beginnings around a camp fire, through the genesis of sacred belief systems, to the epic fantasy novels and high-tech film franchises of today.

At a local level, this is also why I seek out books of folk tales or ghost stories whenever I visit a new area (much to my wife’s amusement)… not just for the entertainment, but as a means of absorbing something of the neighbourhood’s mystique. Admittedly there can be an exploitative aspect to this, and some ghoulish accounts stand up better than others; but if approached in the right spirit (as it were), whole new dimensions can be opened up. (My favourite unintentionally-comedic book title in this genre is Haunted Swindon - but then I was born in Swindon, so possibly find it funnier than most!)

Flippancy aside, one of this blog’s central themes has been the idea that a myth’s power is not reliant on literal truth… indeed, to seek truth, in the context of myth, is actually the wrong quest. In part, this is because rational explanation is constrained by the practicalities of proof and persuasion. But beyond this, I believe there is something even more fundamental at play… for when we consider mythology, we are firmly in the realm of allegory and metaphor, of parable and symbolism. Much like Aesop’s fables, or the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen and the Brothers Grimm, we are entering a tradition in which a story’s message is paramount. It is this underlying message, artfully told, which ultimately conveys a broader truth about the human condition and our place in the big wide world… or in terms of today’s literary media, our place in the big world wide web!

Athens’ celebrated Parthenon - centrepiece of Athena’s Acropolis - displays a jarring juxtaposition of ancient and modern. (Family archives: Karen Scott & Paul Mann)

The sacred precinct of Delphi - centre of the world, according to Greek Mythology - is cradled by the rocky ramparts of Mount Parnassus. (Photo: Karen Scott)

Reconstruction of the Fables

As well as spawning the “Mother of all Mythologies”, Ancient Greece was home to Aesop (if indeed he existed!) and his fables (which do exist). Meanwhile, Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” (a Danish fairy tale dating from 1837) is commemorated through evolving styles of sculpture along the Copenhagen waterfront…

The Little Mermaid… Realism meets Surrealism?

Back to Bellever

To bookend this blog - to finish up where I began - I’d like to briefly return to The Ballad of Bellever Tor. It’s not exactly a Sgt. Pepper-style reprise (I’m missing the panache and psychedelic promise), but nonetheless this hopefully lends a certain symmetry to proceedings…

Contrived wordplay aside, it could be said that the narrative behind The Ballad of Bellever Tor takes the form of a typical folk tale… a kind of small-scale tragedy with an inevitably dark conclusion. I’ve suggested above that folk tales often morph into metaphor or parable, with the message more important than the plausibility of the story. In the case of Bellever, the underpinning parable is basically just a salutary lesson, using established tropes to illustrate the futility of cheating justice or escaping destiny… with the moody, atmospheric setting of Dartmoor acting as a natural catalyst.

Before I delve into this too deeply, I should stress that I claim no particular literary merit for the poem (which was, after all, originally conceived as a joke). Instead, what interests me is the way in which familiar myths can be used as a shorthand (some might say cliché) for conveying specific concepts or emotions. Looking back on the ballad now, it’s apparent that I instinctively borrowed a variety of supporting myths from different cultures or ideologies, which have unique qualities of their own yet share common archetypes or easily-recognised themes.

Celebrating a Rich Cultural Heritage - Story-telling traditions within the landscapes of Devon and Cornwall have diverse roots, ranging here from Paganism (Carwynnen Quoit, a.k.a. Giant’s Quoit) to Christianity (Widecombe Church).

Returning to wordplay, the poem’s main narrative arc (if that’s not too grand a label!) hinges on a subtle yet crucial distinction… the transformation of Bellever, as perceived by the protagonist, from a helluva tor to a literal Hell-of-a-tor. To help paint this picture, the verses respectively reference the Grim Reaper (which has various mythical origins), Lucifer (Judeo-Christian), Thor (Norse) and Hades (Greek), plus the aforementioned Hound of the Baskervilles (in some ways, a literary metaphor for the moor itself). It could even be argued that this is all served on a healthy bed of Paganism, with the “tricksy” spirit of Pan luring the hapless prisoner to his inevitable doom!

So actually, the story of the Bellever phantom can be viewed as a kind of micro-myth built on wider traits and traditions - or demonic archetypes - from a variety of sources. There is indeed a vast array of such source material for modern-day story-tellers to draw on, representing the rich legacy of human experience and imagination passed down through the ages. And as mentioned, it’s illuminating to note that many of these ancient legends and epic yarns - despite being crafted by disparate cultural, religious or secular communities - share common visions or values. Perhaps we are not so very different after all!

Of course, since this particular blog focusses on the power of myth in the landscape, I should acknowledge that the landscape of Dartmoor provided the initial inspiration for the ballad. The origins of the poem date back to 2014, a time when I would often join my Dad for walks on the moor and scrambles on its fine granite tors. Bellever Tor, although only occasionally visited, was frequently admired from afar as we drove by en route to a new adventure. As explained in my introduction, this was enough to spawn our jokey catchphrase, Bellever Tor is a helluva tor… which, combined with the moor’s stark reputation and proximity of the prison at Princetown, ultimately coalesced into a pun-packed narrative (of sorts!). And so, with a neat circularity which is by now familiar, the landscape inspired a myth, which itself enhances the mythology of the landscape.

“Pre-Ballad” Dartmoor Explorations, May 2014 - with my father Nigel, seen here scrambling high above Tavy Cleave…

The Freedom of Princetown - a leap of faith, somewhere between tomfoolery and high-jinx… perhaps emulating the “Bellever Phantom”? Black Tor, Dartmoor’s Meavy Valley; April 2017. (Photo: Nigel Mann)

But if The Ballad of Bellever Tor illustrates the power of myth in the landscape (however humbly), what is the power of the ballad itself? Can it really exert any meaningful influence? After all, as a home-grown folk tale, it’s hardly likely to catch on or go viral (if it did, I’d have it tested!). I have no online followers, and the subject matter is decidedly niche. Nobody in years to come is going to tread that tract of moor, feel a weird tingle in their spine, and proclaim, “Beggar me, it’s Bellever Tor… I’d better beware the free-fallin’ phantom!”

Well, the point here is that a story’s impact can still be powerfully felt on a local or personal level… it doesn’t need to be grandiose or all-embracing (or even believed). The truth is, my focus on the poem enabled me to view Bellever through fresh eyes… firstly in 2014, when I drafted most of the verses; and again during the 2021 Covid lockdown, when I re-discovered and expanded the text. This ultimately led me to re-acquaint myself with the actual tor; not just on paper (or computer screen), but in person. Without the ballad, I would never have found the impetus to escape lockdown and make that 100-mile round trip in stormy weather. And without the siren-call of that Bellever photoshoot, the lost confidence of confinement would have continued its stranglehold.

Inevitably, conditions at Bellever didn’t quite play ball; winds whipped the open terrain, while the desired Dartmoor sunset failed to ignite. Fingers were numbed as I fumbled with camera and tripod, self-consciously clad in olde-worlde clobber which I naively hoped would transform my huddled silhouette into the Bellever phantom. Yet none of this mattered… for I was once again exploring the moor with my Dad, turning back the clock to rekindle the indomitable spirit of Camera on the Crags. And that’s worth something, I think. It’s worth a lot.

As it transpired, it’s not only a pris’ner o’ yore that is locked in those rocks… more prosaically, Bellever also claimed my lens cap! And as we scoured the gloaming, our torch-beams devoured by the fading expanse of granite and heather, it occurred to me that perhaps there was some malevolent presence here after all, attempting to ensnare us. We eventually retreated in near-blackness, stumbling and weaving across the moor and through the forest… and although I knew the Bellever phantom was merely a creation, the nervous glances over my shoulder were all too real. It just goes to show that you can’t keep a good myth down! :-0

Bellever Tor “Picture-Poem”… the font, naturally, is “Baskerville Old Face”!
[King James Bible, Job 16:12: "I was at ease, but he hath broken me asunder…"]

Blogger’s Footnote:-

I should credit Tim Sandles’ Legendary Dartmoor website for publishing my initial, 2014 draft of The Ballad of Bellever Tor (which I considered complete until my 2021 revisions for the current blog).

A link to this early version of the ballad, with access to Tim’s wider compilation of Dartmoor legends, can be found here:
https://www.legendarydartmoor.co.uk/2016/03/26/bellever_poem/

Quick Disclaimer: I have no affiliations to Legendary Dartmoor, so cannot vouch for specific content… I’m sure you know the usual caveats!

Whatever your muse (Dartmoor legends or otherwise), Happy Questing! ;-)

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Camera on the Crags

Embracing the Golden Age

Welcome to my mountain photography blog, and thank you for being here. Since this is my inaugural post, I suspect it will be part blog, part introduction (or origin-story)… so please forgive me if I begin to ramble!

I’d like to kick off with some historical context, which - if everything falls into place - will hopefully come full circle by the end…

The title “Camera on the Crags” is borrowed from an Alan Hankinson book about the celebrated Abraham Brothers of Keswick. To briefly set the scene… George and Ashley Abraham pioneered early mountain photography in the late 1800s and early 1900s, long before the advent of lightweight digital cameras. Their incredible images served not only as art but as inspiration, empowering like-minded souls to head for the hills - or at least to pause for a moment’s wonder - at a time when wilderness was generally feared rather than revered.

“Camera on the Crags” (an alternative take!)…

A ghostly reflection of my camera falls onto the cliffs of Cloggy - one of the great Welsh climbing venues since the time of the Abraham Brothers - as viewed through a train window of Snowdon Mountain Railway.

(Digital image, September 2010)

(Blog photos by Paul Mann, unless credited to Nigel Mann)

The Abrahams explored the most vertiginous of Britain’s wild places, from their native Cumbrian crags to the giddy heights of Snowdonia and the Scottish Highlands. Their antics must have been vertigo-inducing, balancing bulky photographic plates on precarious ledges in the name of artistry - or perhaps out of sheer audacity? No mean climbers themselves, they were involved in a number of first ascents, including classic lines on Scafell Crag (the prime Lakeland proving ground) and Buachaille Etive Mor (an icon of Glen Coe, of which more later). And above all, they understood the value of depicting not only rock architecture but the human drama which was unfolding within it… adding scale and an intimate perspective to the natural grandeur of their surroundings.

As climbers, photographers and also authors, it could be argued that the Abraham Brothers were amongst the first mountaineering bloggers, publicising their feats and fuelling imaginations along the way. But of course blogs didn’t exist back then, nor camera phones, GPS navigation or gore-tex. To our eyes, their work gives the impression of a distant sepia-tinged era, far removed from our own. A time of chivalry, of tweed and hob-nailed boots. And this, I think, is part of the allure of the golden age… that sense of cosy familiarity yet indefinable remoteness, a closed chapter to which we somehow yearn to return.

The Ben in Black & White

A familiar theatre to the Abraham Brothers, and many subsequent pioneers… the upper reaches of Ben Nevis’ colossal North Face, viewed from the top of the 2,000-foot North-East Buttress. Note the gaggle of summiteers at upper left.

(Film image, August 1999)

Sepia-tinged Rock Architecture

The famed Triple Buttress of Coire Mhic Fhearchair, tucked away on the remote side of Beinn Eighe in Torridon. A wild and secluded arena, yet the scene of many an epic since the golden age of British rock & ice climbing.

(Film image, July 2001)

But aside from my declared love of mountain photography, why have I begun by talking about the Abraham Brothers? Well, I realised when selecting images for my website that my recent pictures seldom feature real-life mountains. Other aspects of the great outdoors are there, yes, and I love these subjects too. There are moors and beaches, moons and comets, islands and archaeology… sea stacks and standing stones, birds and bees and seals… yet relatively few plunging cliffs or jagged peaks. Have I been disingenuous in claiming mountains as my muse?

Swapping Summits for Sea Stacks - A Change of Muse?

The Old Man of Hoy may not qualify as a mountain, but it remains a celebrated climbing challenge. This 450-foot sandstone stack resides in Orkney, and was first scaled by Bonington, Baillie and Patey in 1966.

(Digital image, May 2015)

Seaside Rock

Cornwall is also famed for its dramatic coastline, mixing sandy beaches with impressive cliffs and gnarled rock formations. This is Kynance Cove… the black & white finish was applied during post-processing.

(Digital image, March 2016)

And then it struck me… in the same way that there is a bygone “golden age” of mountaineering, and lost “halcyon days” of photography, it could be argued that an earlier era - a kind of rift - can also be identified in my own personal story (and that of many others). And I don’t just mean the natural ageing process (though that’s evident too!). No, I’m talking here about the digital divide which has split the world of photography - and wider society in general - over the past couple of decades.

To cut to the chase, most of my mountain excursions were conducted in a pre-digital age, when I was better suited to exploring - being younger and perhaps a little bolder - but less well equipped to record my adventures on camera. I did take photos - quite a lot of them - but had neither the gear nor the wherewithal to make them really count. And of course, they were taken on film… which is no bad thing in itself (many legitimately prefer it), but it meant that these early images were not readily available to view on digital platforms. At least, not without scanning them in, and then applying a little post-processing to correct the worst of the resulting deficiencies. Which gives them - to be generous - a somewhat “vintage” feel!

Solid Rock, Hollow Mountain

The highest point of Argyll & Bute… Ben Cruachan’s main summit, with its twin the Taynuilt Peak (Stob Dearg), viewed during a traverse of this great mountain massif. High above its sprawling hydro-electric scheme (which dates from the 1960s), this classic view of Cruachan is largely unchanged since the golden age of mountaineering… a relic of a bygone era.

(Film image, March 2003)

On Cruachan’s Main Ridge

A mini “blocker” on the summit ridge linking Cruachan’s main summit to its secondary Munro of Stob Diamh. Not technically difficult, although hugely entertaining and demanding of respect (especially if winter conditions prevail).

(Film image, March 2003; photo by Nigel Mann)

But I should probably rewind slightly at this point, and explain a little more about the origins of my mountain obsession.

I remember being drawn to high places since early childhood, as though summits exuded a strange kind of aura. My earliest experiences of hill country must have been my native Wiltshire Downs, with occasional family forays to the Cotswolds. Visits to my Dad’s home county of Somerset introduced me to the rolling Quantocks and Mendips, while my Mum’s Scottish roots - in more distant East Lothian - opened up the magical mounds of North Berwick Law and Traprain Law. None of this was really mountain territory, although I didn’t consider this at the time (and these places are no less special for it). But a summer day-trip to South Wales whetted the appetite further… I was excited to be led to the distinctive flat top of Corn Du in the Brecon Beacons, even though nearby Pen y Fan - southern Britain’s highest point - was deemed a step too far for my tiny sunburnt legs. Then, aged 7 or 8, I was taken up Skiddaw and Snowdon during successive family holidays to the Lakes and North Wales. I became well and truly hooked, in spirit if not yet in deed.

Onwards and Upwards

On the up… from the Wiltshire Downs by way of the Quantocks, Brecon Beacons, Lakes and Snowdonia to reach the roof of Britain. Here we’re completing the CMD Arete, linking Ben Nevis to its neighbouring 4,000-foot Munro, Carn Mor Dearg.

(Film image, August 1999; photo by Nigel Mann)

Tightrope to the Ben

Looking back along the CMD Arete from the vicinity of Carn Mor Dearg. The Mamores form a hazy hinterland across the gulf of Glen Nevis, with the shadowy bulk of Ben Nevis out of frame to the right.

(Film image, August 1999)

It was a few years later, while an impressionable teenager, that I stumbled across a copy of “The High Mountains of Britain and Ireland”, by Irvine Butterfield. Essentially a walkers’ guide to every 3,000-foot summit of the British Isles, it was the selection of colour photographs which really set my pulse racing. I’d already rubbed shoulders with Snowdonia and the Lakes of course, so these sections were like re-visiting old friends. But 27 of the book’s 30 chapters were set in the faraway Scottish Highlands, and many of the images had an almost surreal quality which immediately captured my attention. I can still see those pictures now in my mind’s eye. Even the names seemed romantic and otherworldly… there was an improbable rocky pyramid called Buachaille Etive Mor, a gracefully symmetric cone named Schiehallion, a square-topped fortress known as Slioch, and two primeval sandstone-tiered behemoths proudly entitled Liathach and An Teallach. A concluding chapter on The Black Cuillin of Skye, a jumble of jagged island peaks, was so unbelievable that I wondered whether shots of the Alps or Andes had been pasted into the book by mistake. Although on second thoughts, I couldn’t imagine how these exotic ranges, formidable as they were, could possibly harbour a summit worthy of the moniker Inaccessible Pinnacle. Such an accolade, I learnt early on (only half-jokingly), was the exclusive preserve of the Cuillin!

Slioch - Head in the Clouds

Scotland’s Wild (North-)West… square-topped Slioch, viewed across the shore of Loch Maree. Taken en route to even thornier An Teallach, Slioch’s ascent would have to wait another 8 years!

(Film image, July 2001)

Hidden Heart of the Cuillin

A magical place with a fearsome reputation… Loch Coruisk, Skye, shot during a combined boat/hill adventure from Elgol (“Sea to Sgurr na Stri”). High above, the mighty Cuillin Ridge lurks unseen in the mist… the stuff of both dreams and nightmares!

(Digital image, July 2007)

From this point on, I re-doubled my efforts at consuming mountaineering literature, which was not so easy in the pre-internet age. Nonetheless, encouraged by my parents - my Dad being a fellow mountain buff - I began to amass quite a collection of books and maps. Much of this involved accounts of derring-do in the Greater Ranges, in which acclaimed alpinists across the generations pitted their wits against altitude or avalanche. Everest loomed large, from the tragic heroics of Mallory and Irvine, through Hillary and Tenzing’s crowning glory, to the colourful “modern era” (as it was then) of Bonington, Scott and Haston. These were inspirational tales, made all the more impressive because they were so far removed in scale and aspiration from my everyday reality. Dream as I might, I knew that I would never literally stand on top of the world, nor on any of the other fantastic peaks which grace the Himalaya or Karakoram (or even the Alps). For anyone who was not on the trajectory of an elite mountaineer, these were unattainable pedestals. But the British summits… that was a different story. Perhaps Ben Nevis could be my Everest, and the Black Cuillin my Mont Blanc? And crucially, not just as substitutes for higher ranges, but because I loved these modest hills of home in their own right.

My Own Personal Everest

If Ben Nevis was my Everest, then Ledge Route would be my Hillary Step. Although fairly straightforward technically (in summer at least), the route winds its way through magnificent rock scenery on the Ben’s North Face, across and behind the precipitous Carn Dearg Buttress (background right of frame).

Descent would prove to be just as big a challenge on this particular day, a southerly gale blowing in and broad-siding me on the CMD Arete!

(Film image, September 2003; photo by Nigel Mann)

One notable crossover between Himalayan exploration and homegrown hill-craft was W.H. (Bill) Murray, a Glasgow-based climber who had joined Ed Hillary on Eric Shipton’s 1951 Everest Reconnaissance. This key recce unlocked access to the Western Cwm, laying the groundwork for John Hunt’s triumphant expedition two years later. It would, however, prove to be a rare foray into the high-altitude Himalayan world for Murray, who is better remembered as a pioneer of Scottish rock and ice routes either side of the war. And just as significantly, he would write about it with passion and panache, as I would find out when I tracked down a compendium of his classic post-war books, “Mountaineering in Scotland” (1947) and “Undiscovered Scotland” (1951).

Murray’s compendium contained some noteworthy historical photographs, and I became fascinated by its cover. This depicted a lone climber with ice axe approaching the chiselled summit of Ben Lui (“Queen of the Southern Highlands”), stoically unroped despite treading an improbably steep snow slope. But mostly, it was the power of Murray’s prose which captivated me. Each chapter would describe a real-life alpine adventure which the author embarked upon with his posse of strangely redoubtable companions, who were usually just referred to by their surnames (preceded by initials if feeling frivolous). But in their own decorous way, this small group of friends were quietly revolutionising Scottish climbing, taking on a series of challenging lines - sometimes first ascents, other times epic retreats - amongst the soaring strongholds of Glen Coe, Ben Nevis or the Cuillin. And it was all told not as a boast nor an invitation to conquer, but as a kind of spiritual love letter to the landscape… and perhaps as an ode to the aesthetic philosopher within.

Queen of the Southern Highlands

The regal expanse of Ben Lui, viewed during the walk-in from Tyndrum. Years earlier, a similar shot would leap out at me from the pages of Butterfield’s “The High Mountains…”.

(Film image, March 2003)

Ben Lui - Up Close and Personal

Fellow ascensionists on the snowy summit of Ben Lui, seen from the vicinity of its slightly lower twin top.

This image has echoes of Murray’s cover shot from an earlier era, which had made such an impression in my youth. The mountain itself remains steadfast through the ages, its visitors now garbed in gore-tex rather than tweed.

(Film image, March 2003)

Looking back now, I’m curious to observe the contrasting roles which Butterfield’s and Murray’s respective books would play in shaping my young psyche. Photos aside, the guidebook format of “The High Mountains…” had very much appealed to the orderly side of my brain. It had even prompted me to learn the exact imperial heights of a whole slew of summits… a dubious party trick which, thankfully, has since been nullified by the passage of time and the march of metric revision. But the writings of Murray accessed a different place entirely, in which heart and soul were to the fore. It was as though that abstract sense of wonder which had been stirred by the distant Highlands were perfectly articulated within Murray’s prose, magnified by the camaraderie and nostalgia which his escapades evoked. And his own underlying story, it turned out, was an incredible one.

Joining the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders at the outbreak of World War II, Murray had soon found himself posted to the Middle East and North Africa. Here, during the Western Desert Campaign of 1942, he was captured by the enemy… and promptly bonded with his captor, a German tank commander, over their shared love of mountains. This didn’t prevent Murray from spending the next three years in various Prisoner of War camps, experiencing a level of hardship and deprivation which can only be imagined. Clinging to dreams of freedom - or at least psychological escape - he took solace in the wistful glow of Scotland’s pre-war climbing grounds, prompting him to furtively reminisce by putting pen to… toilet paper. Yes, Murray was a POW, and the only paper available to him was of the soggy rolled variety! After investing so much, his initial manuscript was discovered and destroyed by the Gestapo. But undeterred - perhaps remembering Robert the Bruce’s apocryphal spider - he took it all in his stride and simply started over again.

This, then, was the genesis of Murray’s “Mountaineering in Scotland”, an unlikely classic which would somehow survive the war and be published in 1947. The story behind it - once properly digested - would help to explain the air of romance, that ethereal ethos, which I’d innocently detected behind the narrative. And yes, perhaps it was slightly overblown - the circumstances would certainly excuse rose-tinted spectacles - but what did this matter? The feeling, and the inspiration, were genuine.

Undiscovered Arran

The usual big climbing venues - Glen Coe, Ben Nevis, Skye - all feature heavily in the documented exploits of W.H. Murray either side of the war. But his books also promote other prized areas of the Highlands, such as the Cairngorms, Torridon, Glen Affric, Ardgour, Rum and Arran. Of the latter, two chapters on Cir Mhor would foreshadow my own love of Arran’s wee hills many years later. In ‘Undiscovered Scotland’ (1951), Murray wrote of scaling Cir Mhor’s southern precipice via the stunning Rosa Pinnacle (with or without Rosa-tinted spectacles!):

“… Cir Mhor by the Rosa Pinnacle grew ever more desirable in my eyes, until it quite ousted every other mountain route in Scotland.”

On Murray’s actual day of ascent (June 1949), accompanied by Norman and Mona Tennent:

“… the sunshine crept down the Rosa Pinnacle until its whole eight hundred feet had been won from shadow… The rock scene at the pinnacle-shelf is as bold as any I know in Scotland. On this granite there is no blemish of vegetation. To each side, walls, corners, edges, thrust up cleanly… The sweep and lift of the crags give to the very air an added airiness…”

(Digital image, September 2018)

With this kind of armchair apprenticeship, I found the act of finally exploring the Highlands to be an almost mystical experience. It’s how I imagine a Tolkien addict might feel if they could actually inhabit Middle-earth, treading a land of myth and magic. Or a Harry Potter aficionado walking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts (which is perhaps more apt, given West Highland filming affiliations). The approach to Glen Coe still gets me every time… the A82 ribbon-like as it passes Loch Tulla and rises to the watery sweep of Rannoch Moor, before rounding a spur of the Black Mount to reveal the huge stark arrowhead of Buachaille Etive Mor. Then inching ever closer, dwarfed by the Buachaille’s gothic armour - vertical playground to the Abraham Brothers, W.H. Murray, MacInnes and Bonington and Haston and countless others - before skirting a smaller craggy cousin nicknamed the “Wee Buachaille” and descending into the sacred portal of Glen Coe itself. To the left loom the “Three Sisters”, hewn from Bidean’s bedrock like a seismic sculpture, while the crenellated ramparts of the Aonach Eagach crowd out the right. If you’re lucky, the sun will be shining… if you’re really lucky, it will be blowing a hoolie, waterfalls will be whipped inside out, and the glen’s uniquely desolate atmosphere will be complete.

The Glen Coe Road

Spiritual rite of passage… the Three Sisters of Glen Coe seen across the A82, shielding their immense parent peak of Bidean nam Bian. This layby is our starting point for an ascent of Bidean via a secluded subsidiary ridge known as Sron na Lairig; descent will be via the fabled “Lost Valley” (centre of image, between 1st and 2nd “Sister”).

(Film image, August 1999)

Dark Side of the Glen

Opposite Bidean nam Bian is the north wall of Glen Coe, crested by a crazily pinnacled arete called the Aonach Eagach (“Notched Ridge”). Here we’re exploring the western tops of the ridge, the notorious narrow section holding back the fog beyond.

(Film image, September 2003)

Above Lairig Eilde… Black Mount from the slopes of Bidean nam Bian

(Film image, August 1999)

Ascending Bidean… Sron na Lairig’s sting in the tail

(Film image, August 1999; photo Nigel Mann)

Between Bidean’s Munros; Stob Coire Sgreamhach

(Film image, August 1999; photo Nigel Mann)

Descending Bidean’s Lost Valley (Coire Gabhail, or Corrie of the Capture)

(Film image, August 1999)

Over the years an onward progression would then unfold, both literally and figuratively, through Glen Coe to the hinterland beyond… via the curving ridgelines of the Mamores and Glen Shiel, to the unearthly Skye-scapes of the Cuillin and the quartz-capped monsters of Torridon. And finally the far north, not so much mountain terrain spattered with lochs and glens, as loch-spattered terrain punctuated by isolated sentinels… an alien expanse, primeval in feel.

And so the odyssey continued, sometimes solo or with friends, usually with my Dad. But our burgeoning experience of wilderness wasn’t purely a migration upward or northward. It was about exploring hidden corners and secluded viewpoints, teasing out challenging lines of ascent. Fresh perspectives on old favourites, alongside discovery of the new. We re-acquainted ourselves with the Lakes, absorbing Wainwright’s devotional guides as we wandered the lonely (and not so lonely) fells, from High Street to Helm Crag to Helvellyn. Snowdonia too became a firm favourite, despite an inauspicious start… a wild and wintry Easter weekend, which saw abandonment of our Nant Peris campsite (tent in icy puddle!) plus abortive attempts on Snowdon and Tryfan. Yet a further last-ditch crack at Tryfan succeeded, so I ambitiously called it a draw… and more significantly, we would tread the region’s spiky skylines many more times, drawn to its wealth of fine scrambles from Crib Goch to Bristly Ridge to the Llech Ddu Spur. All amid serious and spectacular scenery, befitting an area rich in both climbing lore and Celtic legend.

South Wales would soon be re-visited as well, excursions to the Brecon Beacons bringing to mind that blistering hot trek up Corn Du as a small (tottering) tot. I would now progress beyond Corn Du to Pen y Fan itself, gazing over its far precipice and vowing to return for Cribyn (for one climb always leads to another!). Dartmoor came to dominate closer to home, becoming a local stomping ground after moving to Devon in 2003. I loved the charm and texture of its granite tors, along with the prehistoric and industrial imprints which had somehow woven themselves into the fabric of the moor. And of course there were inevitable pilgrimages to Scotland, pilgrim’s staff exchanged for ice axe as we sought the transformative properties of Southern Highland snow. For it may sound obvious, but snow really does transform the landscape… a literal blank canvas, beckoning - siren-like - toward those twin arts of mountaineering and photography.

White Mantle in the Black Mount

The transformative properties of snow and ice… approaching the wintry summit of Stob Ghabhar, a prominent Munro within the Black Mount. In the background is the upper part of the mountain’s east face, playground to the early pioneers.

(Film image, March 2003)

Stob Binnein Beckons

The view from Ben More (Crianlarich) toward its lofty twin, Stob Binnein. One final push would see us complete a particularly memorable four-day Southern Highland foray!

(Film image, March 2003)

It is often claimed that mountains are unchanging, yet each new dawn brings a different perspective for those who observe or venture out. A particular ascent route can in turn be joyous and uplifting, or outlandishly daring, or downright impossible. Vagaries of weather and light… seasonal shifts or surface conditions… local flora and fauna… these all combine with the character of the mountain, and that of its human aspirants, to conjure something truly unique. And this, I think, is a large part of the appeal. The resulting memories are always fresh, whether you’re there as wanderer, mountaineer or photographer. Or even, to paraphrase Mallory, if you’re just there.

Ben More - Big Hill, Big Vista

A hazy temperature inversion greets our arrival at the summit of Ben More, a Southern Highland giant which towers above the nearby village of Crianlarich. Here, my Dad is looking out over snow-flecked Cruach Ardrain to the distant peaks of Ben Lomond (background left) and the Arrochar Alps (background right).

(Film image, March 2003)

My own mountain memories now form an inevitable blur, although with flashes of detail where my mind chooses to hover and reflect. And the colour which emerges is not just a succession of bouldery routes… the real value can be found in the human elements along the way, measured by camaraderie rather than captured on camera. Those fleeting encounters with strangers, the shared bonds of adventure or wry exchanges in the rain. Such as the hiker we met half-way up Scafell Pike who swore blind that he was on Great Gable (the iconic view of which was just over his shoulder). Or the veteran climber on Blaven who’d been lowered into a river when his walking poles retracted. Later that same day, returning to the car triumphant at surviving a Cuillin classic, my Dad was bitten by a wild pig (and eventually saw the funny side). My own Skye mishap involved being washed down a waterslide in Coir’ a’ Ghrunnda, my backpack a giant bar of soap as it whooshed over polished slabs and left me spread-eagled, cartoon-like, in an ice-cold plunge pool. I could go on with these tales of humourous hardship, but I should probably call a halt before descending into caricature. Suffice to say that memories are there to be made!

Man(n) of Steall

Approaching the Steall Falls, which guard access to the Mamores on the southern side of Glen Nevis. A magical place long before being used as a cinematic backdrop to quidditch scenes in the “Harry Potter” franchise.

(Film image, August 1999)

Walk on the Wild Side

Viewing the Torridonian Wilderness… looking out from Beinn Alligin, over the Horns of Alligin and Beinn Dearg to distant Beinn Eighe. Liathach dips into frame at far right.

(Film image, July 2001)

The Far North… A Land Apart

“… the far north, not so much mountain terrain spattered with lochs and glens, as loch-spattered terrain punctuated by isolated sentinels… an alien expanse, primeval in feel.”

One such isolated sentinel is Stac Pollaidh, which - at just a smidge over 2,000 feet - is often described as “the perfect miniature”. This is a view from Stac Pollaidh’s shattered crest, over the “Lobster’s Claw” to Loch Lurgainn and the distant prow of An Fhidhleir. From here, the sandstone summit entails a short but sharp scramble.

(Film image, July 2001)

So there you have it; I’ve presented my case that I’m a mountain geek and not a photography geek. Mountains have led me to photography, rather than the other way around. But now that I’m here, I’ve found the world of photography has opened up an immersive quality to the outdoor experience, which at its best can feel meditative or serene. And this act of contemplation in turn brings a greater appreciation of those other subjects - the cosmos, coast and creatures - which so often serve as the photographer’s muse.

Cosmos (Part 1)

Near and far… cosmic contemplation during back garden lockdown, Devon.

(Digital composite, May 2020)

Cosmos (Part 2)

Trailblazer… Comet Neowise forges a path through Devon’s night sky.

(Digital image, July 2020)

Coast (Part 1)

Smouldering giant… Ailsa Craig, viewed from Arran’s southern shoreline.

(Digital image, September 2020)

Coast (Part 2)

Divine light and “Holy smoke”… dawn mist anoints Holy Isle, viewed from central Arran.

(Digital image, September 2020)

Creatures (Part 1)

Up close and personal… macro shot of a bee, Devon back garden.

(Digital image, August 2020)

Creatures (Part 2)

A bug’s life… macro shot of a fly, alongside the River Culm in Devon.

(Digital image, August 2020)

But what of those early photographs, our dusty “golden age” shots which pre-date the digital revolution? Well, looking back now, our methods seem decidedly quaint. On a decent-sized walk we would generally carry one roll of film containing 24 exposures, or 36 if we’d really splashed out. We might have a spare roll if the first was already in-camera and part-used, but no more than that. I certainly remember plenty of mountain walks in which we’d run out of film on the high summits, inevitably prompting a spectacular sunset or tap-dancing golden eagle (so it seemed!) during our unrecorded descent. So we had to be frugal with our frames, which meant dispensing with the luxury of repeating shots to secure backups or capture subtly-shifting moods. We also had no way of reviewing our images on the fly, which meant no means of deleting and re-taking a favoured composition. It was a case of point-and-shoot, job done, move on (which is actually quite liberating). Then we’d wait a couple of weeks to get the pictures back from the chemist, excitedly opening the envelope and viewing prints of our fading holiday high-jinks for the first time.

Take An Teallach, for instance. One of the most stunning mountains in Britain, in turn jaw-dropping and stomach-churning. It had been a dream aspiration of mine since childhood, when the snow-draped Corrag Bhuidhe Pinnacles had floored me from the pages of “The High Mountains…”. Even in summer this was a serious proposition, its size and severity prompting me to pound the streets, Rocky-style, some months in advance. When the chosen day arrived, my Dad and I prevaricated, wary of poor weather and battle-weary from our previous two days on Beinn Eighe and Beinn Alligin. We took our time driving round from Kinlochewe, stopping to view Slioch and persuading ourselves that the gently wavering cloud-base demanded immediate inaction. In truth, nervous apprehension was getting the better of us. It took blue skies in Dundonnell to prise on our boots, then thankfully adrenaline kicked in and we were away (up, up and away). Some hours later, newly-energised by a dizzying traverse of Corrag Bhuidhe, I clambered onto the leaning spire of Lord Berkeley’s Seat and tried not to wobble as my Dad teed up his shot from the ridgeline below. One quick snap, and there it was… a moment years in the making, almost written off that very morning, entrusted to a single click and then consigned to an anonymous darkroom. But my Dad had nailed it, the darkroom pulled through, and our memory of the day gained a tangible memento.

Viewing the Mist (or Missing the View)

Surveying the upper reaches of Eag Dhubh, the “Great Gash” which tears a line down the steeply-tiered ramparts of Beinn Alligin. An example of Torridon’s typically atmospheric ambience…

(Film image, July 2001; photo by Nigel Mann)

Emulating Lord Berkeley (by the “Seat” of my Pants!)

I’m not sure who Lord Berkeley was, but this is the improbably-named “Lord Berkeley’s Seat”, a teetering spire along the crenellated crest of An Teallach. A moment years in the making, frozen by a single click!

(Film image, July 2001; photo by Nigel Mann)

As an aside, our day’s adventures didn’t quite end there. We crossed An Teallach’s dual Munros, jaded yet jubilant, before joining a gaggle of fellow walkers on a breathless descent of Coire a Ghlas Thuill. Down and down we stumbled, racing deepening shadows, by now out of film and out of steam. Finally, just a stone’s throw from safety, we found ourselves hopelessly entangled in a thicket of rhododendrons. Realising that our sole means of escape was to wade the adjacent river, my Dad removed his boots and flung them across, one-by-one… only for each to curiously disappear on the far bank. Their hiding place was unwittingly unearthed when a hapless stranger - a Good Samaritan assisting our search - unleashed a scream as his leg lurched into a narrow but improbably deep hole concealed by the heather. Upon gingerly extracting his leg - which we genuinely feared might be broken - this poor man reached back in, like an anguished magician, and doggedly retrieved both of my Dad’s boots. By the time we staggered into Dundonnell Hotel, bushed and bedraggled, we’d missed last orders for food… but the kindly bar staff took one look at us and rustled up a large plate of sandwiches. All’s well that ends well (though I do still wonder about the fate of our mystery helper’s leg…)!

Reflecting on our pictures now, I view that image of Lord Berkeley’s Seat as a companion piece to the Eag Dhubh shot which my Dad had taken the previous day near the summit of Beinn Alligin. The slight twist being that the themes and moods are reversed, as though negatives of one another… swapping out a pinnacle for a gully, and blue skies for grey mist. Whilst these were certainly successes (for which I claim no credit!), there’s no denying that our photographic ethos from this pre-digital age had its limitations. We did take some account of composition, but no allowance for changing levels of brightness or poor dynamic range. We couldn’t adjust our camera’s aperture or exposure time, for example. ISO settings were a dark art, sensitivity to light being a pre-defined property of the film. Our only concession to controlling focus meant toggling to an automated mountain vista mode for anything which wasn’t a close-up (and exactly how close was a close-up anyway?). On early camera models, we couldn’t even zoom. There was certainly no switching of lenses, nor use of tripods… no burst photography, filtering, bracketing or stacking. Shooting in RAW format was an alien concept. Attempted panoramas - those grand 360-degree sweeps from on-high - were printed off all higgledy-piggledy, tones and textures clashing as they were lashed together, Blue Peter-style, using sellotape and scissors.

Arran Panorama #1 - South from Caisteal Abhail

A 10-shot digital panorama of Arran’s wee hills (perhaps a “Pan-Arran-amic”), having descended beneath the cloud-line on Caisteal Abhail. A little murky, but illustrative of an outcome which I couldn’t have achieved using the traditional sellotape-and-scissors technique!

(Digital panorama, September 2020; taken by hand, stitched using Lightroom)

Arran Panorama #2 - North from Cnoc Dubh

“Top View from Cnoc Dubh”… a reverse aspect of the first panorama, this time an 8-pic pano looking north from the moorland above Arran’s String Road. The sharp granite peak of Cir Mhor is central to both views; few British mountains (if any) can claim such a striking facade from both north and south.

(Digital panorama, September 2020; tripod-assisted, stitched using Lightroom)

So, the upshot of this dubious quality is that I’d decided not to include any crusty old film images on my website. I wanted to at least pretend that I was vaguely professional, that I’d learnt and applied some photographic techniques. These early efforts were poorly scanned (where scanned at all), and had never comprised enough resolution or dynamic range in the first place. Their digitised versions were noisy, with a pitiful number of megapixels. I simply wasn’t a photographer back then, and in any case my succession of basic cameras couldn’t cut the mustard. But actually, I came to realise that an age-old maxim rings true, from the time of the Abraham Brothers right through to the present day… that the best camera for the job is the one you have with you. And looking again at our mini-collection of mountain shots, they had heart. Maybe just to me, with my nostalgic bias, yet surely that still counts for something? Because photography is not purely about art… it’s about memories, about dreams fulfilled and good times shared. The joy of spontaneity, captured for posterity. Slightly cheesy, I know, and I could easily trot out some well-worn cliches - heart as well as art, or depth of feeling, not depth of field - but the point is, if you set out to photograph something (or someone) special to you, the rest will take care of itself. So I’ve presented a few pictures here not because they are technically great - they certainly won’t win any awards - but as a reminder that I should always strive to incorporate the same level of enthusiasm and love into my future work, whatever the subject. With or without the megapixels.

Freedom of the Hills (Dreaming of Escape)

Relaxing on Arran during a brief respite from lockdown. Inwardly reminiscing, yet with an eye to the future… a literal and metaphorical golden dawn?

(Digital image, September 2020)

In truth, I suspect that everybody of a certain vintage has a “golden age” in their lives. But let’s not mourn its passing, or hide it away… we should all learn to embrace our personal golden age, to apply its spirit to the here and now. For our current and pending ventures - whatever they may be - inevitably build on what has gone before. And most of all, while we look to the future, remember to savour every moment… for the present is tomorrow’s golden age!

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