Trossachs 10k

An early lead

Men's podium

Men's and Women's winners

Passing the baton

Twenty six years ago, having moved to the Trossachs and become a veteran runner (over 40), I managed to win the Trossachs 10k. It has been one of my few remaining claims on family running records as Gregor has broken most of my best times in the last two years. He had previously been third in the Trossachs 10k on two occasions but was fairly confident he could win it this year. He did so by a country mile from a good Spanish athlete in a time that easily broke my time over the hilly course. It was the occasion for finally passing the baton to the next generation with parental pride.

For the last few years I have cut back to running to three times a week at a time that suits me, first thing in the morning, and at a pace that is kind to my heart, lungs and legs. 

London's silent hypocrisy

We were in London last week on the day the homemade bucket bomb failed to explode on the District Line. The response to what was a badly executed attempt to explode a badly made bomb on the underground was both quick and on a colossal scale. The PM was involved, there were a series of Cobra meetings and London transport was disrupted for much of the day.

According to reports over 2500 police and security experts have been investigating the incident and several arrests have been made. The fear on the faces and distress of those who witnessed, or were in the proximity of the bomb, was fully understandable. However, the near-hysterical media coverage for the next few days seemed disproportionate. It raised the fear level of London residents as did the escalation of the terror level to critical by the government.

Meanwhile, on the other side of London, the Defence and Security Equipment International event was being held at the ExCel exhibition centre. It is sponsored by the Ministry of Defence, the Department for International Trade and some of the UK's largest defence equipment manufacturers. Four cabinet ministers attended as keynote speakers but there was little reporting of the event. The event used to be described as the World's largest International Arms Fair but that sobriquet seems to have sunk into oblivion following much adverse criticism of UK weapons being used in various global trouble spots resulting in the loss of thousands of innocent lives.

As well as the heavy involvement of government ministers there is high-level representation from all of the armed forces. Seven warships have sailed up the Thames for the event and the Royal Navy has a warship moored alongside as a venue for corporate hospitality This is hosted by retired, rear and real Admirals acting as or along with consultants for Britain's defence businesses. 4000 delegates were expected from all over the world with a strong presence from the Middle East and other regimes that struggle with the basic concept of democracy. The weapons and systems on display are capable of huge destruction, incorporating the latest technologies with commensurate costs: planes, helicopters, drones, missiles, radar, surveillance technology and GPS equipment. As in previous years, there were demonstrations outside the event and over 2000 police were deployed in protecting the event over five days.

The juxtaposition of these two events probably explains why the streets of London no longer have adequate community policing. However, there seems scant justification for having twice as many admirals (37) as fighting ships (19 surface combatants), although there are 10 submarines and various patrol boats. The admirals would appear to be moonlighting as ambassadors for Britain's defence industries.

The efforts of the government, the police, armed services and security services to a failed bomb threat were perhaps justified but it was a massive and costly response to random localised terrorists using intermediate technology. The duplicitous involvement of the same cast of ministers, police and armed services to promote the sale of high-technology weaponry to dubious regimes often resulting in mass killings in global trouble spots is a different matter. I do wonder whether the UK government's moral compass has been demagnetised entirely in these days of austerity.

Anderson v West Indies

Lord's Pavilion

My first visit to Lords for the final England versus West Indies Test Match. Lords prides itself on being the home of cricket, it is the epicentre of men with straw hats, white jackets and red and yellow MCC ties. We alighted from the tube station at St John's Wood, it too was from another age with its bronze art deco lined escalators built as part of London's effort to recover from the great depression in the interwar period. Lords is just a short walk up Wellington Road, dodging the Bentleys and Aston Martins in a parade of the comfortably well off cricket lovers. The ticket touts were out adding a good mark up price for tickets despite the likelihood of the cricket ending early.

We called at a discretely located Tesco Metro for some beer and tins of G&T. Champagne bottles were being swiped through the checkouts quicker than you could say, Jimmy Anderson. The crowd was a strange mix, amidst the Henry Blofield doppelgangers were lots of young city types in Saturday smart but casual clothes, a good proportion of women, and quite a lot of West Indian supporters draped in maroon jumpers and jackets.

I had not watched a Test Match since a game at the Sydney Cricket Ground in January 1979. We were sitting on the Hill, a grassy slope that catered for the working classes, we had large Esky fully loaded with 24 bottles of beer encased in bags of ice. The sun was relentless and Derek Randall was fidgeting rather than batting. The raucous Aussi crowd hollered and cursed him, we had to top up the Esky to relieve ourselves from the heat and keep pace with the locals.

I wished it had been the West Indians playing but they had absconded to play in the Kerry Packer World series tests. They had killer bowlers as well as brilliant batsmen and fielders.I had been weaned on watching cricket at Old Trafford, Headingley and Bramall Lane. My two teams were Lancashire and the West Indies with the great Clive Lloyd playing for both of them. The West Indies just steamrolled the opposition, scoring freely, and having four quick bowlers who simply knocked down the batsman as well as the wickets. Michael Holding or 'whispering death' as he was known had, along with Dennis Lillee, the best action of any fast bowler.

So England v West Indies at Lords could not have been more different: the seats were comfortable in the Grandstand and we were square with the wicket at the Nursery end. The drink consumption was modest with wine and champagne drinkers keeping pace with the beer swillers. The crowd interaction was more about polite applause than chants and abusive comment, conversations around us seldom lingered on the cricket. The ground was festooned with adverts for finance companies, beer, cars and the lunchtime entertainment was by a band of Gurkhas. This was a fusion of the corporate world with the last vestiges of the empire.

The omens were not good for the West Indies, they have lost their mojo as cricketers and it was an inexperienced team although they had surprised England in winning the second Test. Jimmy Anderson, had already taken two wickets including his 500th Test wicket the night before making him another Lancashire legend. The West Indies were only 22 runs ahead at 93 for 3 and conditions favoured the bowlers. Jimmy bowled the first over, running up with his whippet-like approach and bowling in a controlled but menacing style. It was plain to see that having passed the 500 mark he was going to enjoy himself against the fragile West Indies batting. His second ball brought a caught behind. He proceeded to be unplayable and managed a final haul of 7 for 42, his best ever bowling figures in a Test. Even Michael Holding and Dennis Lillee would have been proud of such a performance.

The game and series was over by 4:30pm. We had seen 157 runs and 8 wickets, not the most exciting day of cricket. Nevertheless, a day at Lords was worth the wait, a relic of past pleasures in the dark days of Brexit.

St John's Wood Tube station with a better class of elevator

Four slips and a gulley

Jimmy gets another wicket

The end of summer

Game over

Celebrating victory and Jimmy's 7 wickets

Ben More (Mull)

A'Chioch and Ben More

Friday 1 September, 2017

Ascent:     1326 metres

Distance:  13 kilometres

Time:        5 hours 8 minutes

m  Ben More     966m       1hr  49mins

t    A' Chioch     867m       2hrs 27mins

g   Beinn Fhada 701m       3hrs 19mins

An early start to reach Oban for 9:00am and hopefully obtain a standby place on the 9:50am Oban to  Craignure ferry. Ben More had been on my radar for a couple of weeks if a decent day was possible and the forecast was excellent visibility with sunny periods. I obtained the penultimate place on a full ferry, the sailing was a pleasure and, as always nowadays, the staff on the Calmac ferries were helpful and friendly. The Sound of Mull is a special place. Our eldest daughter learnt to walk on a Calmac ferry as we sailed back through the Sound from our first ever family holiday on the Isle of Coll. I also have fond memories of sailing up the Sound in the Tobermory Yacht Race and again in the first leg of the Island Peaks race in 1990, probably my favourite ever ultra race. Clement weather and a calm sea made for a relaxed crossing and I paced the deck reflecting on those magic moments.

It is a 20 mile drive to Salen and then across the narrow waist of Mull to the mesmeric beauty of Loch na Keal. I parked at Dhiseig at the start of the tourist path up Ben More. I had descended this way on three occasions but never climbed the hill from here having always approached it by the scramble up the east ridge. There were already twenty or so cars parked at the foot of the climb, I found a space on the machair above the pebbled beach about 250 metres back. A man parked next to me and was about to take his two young boys up the hill, they seemed more interested in playing on the beach. It was 11:30am when I set out and followed the path that was obvious from several groups plodding upwards. The path was suffering from the 2017 bogginess syndrome and, in an old pair of trail shoes, my feet were soaked within minutes. Although it was warm with bursts of sunshine on the lower slopes, the summit of Ben More was lost in the clouds. I kept an even pace to the summit,  stopping at 300 metres to take off a jumper and fill up with water from the sparkling burn.

I was making good progress until I met a couple of munro bashing Geordies on their descent and we engaged in friendly banter before they shot off down for some beer. This was at about 700 metres and from here the stony path is at a gradient that allows a reasonable walking pace to the summit. By now the cloud level had dropeed to about 750 metres. Arriving at the summit was like emerging into an Andrew Gormley installation with lots of randomly placed static figures silhouetted in the mist on the circumference of the circular stone shelter. It was still, a slightly eerie atmosphere prevailed, no one was speaking to each other. A dog was being fed in the summit shelter. I ate some lunch and decided that I was well ahead of schedule so that there would be time to complete the horseshoe to A'Chioch and Beinn Fhada. I began the descent down the steep rocky east ridge. Everyone else was returning via the tourist route so it was with some trepidation that I searched out the route down, visibility was about 50 metres.

It is steep with loose scree and rock faces and lots of potential routes in the rivulets of scree. It is always harder descending than climbing steep ridges like this. I was careful to check all the options before selecting my way down. After a descent of about 70 metres, the gradient lessens and a distinct path guides you across the narrow bealach to the foot of the less difficult climb up to the outlying peak of A' Chioch. It is a classic ridge traverse although today there was no chance to see anything during the crossing. At the small summit cairn I had a rest, another walker was about to leave and headed down the steep rocky ridge towards Beinn Fhada. I followed him 5 minutes later, checking the compass a couple of times to make sure I was on the correct course in the mist.

Below 700 metres I emerged from the cloud and found a path towards the bealach at 540 metres. It is quite a steep climb of 160 metres through a couple of rock bands to the summit of Beinn Fhada but the going seemed easy. I emerged above the small lochan to a pleasant summit ledge of grass and rock. I had booked the 7:15pm ferry back to Oban and even with the 20-mile drive and requirement to be at the terminal 30 minutes before embarking, I had lots of time in hand. I stayed awhile hoping that the cloud would disperse before beginning the splendid Beinn Fhada ridge walk to the north west to reach its northern top at 563 metres. From here I dropped down to Glen Beinn Fhada, it was mainly grass and heather and quite boggy lower down. I aimed for the new house by the bridge, which is where I had stopped during the Island Peak race to change from hill shoes to running shoes for the final 9 miles on the road back to the boat moored at Salen pier.

Today there was no need for any speed so I strolled back along the wonderful coastline. The sun had finally taken centre stage so Loch na Keal sparkled, the short sheep grazed grass and pebbled beach created a mood of serene satisfaction. A young couple were camping, I dropped down and beach-combed until I reached the car. I was slightly surprised, the walk had taken just over 5 hours and the latter part had been quite leisurely yet the walkhighland website had said 8 -9 hours. I had an hour or so to kill so changed, searched for any remaining food - an apple and some nuts - and then just sat on the machair grass and spoke to others as they returned from their walks. I called in at Salen to buy a drink and then reached the ferry with time in hand. The crossing back to Oban was mainly spent on deck watching the sun set over Mull and watching Oban approach at the centre of a halo of evening sunlight.

Ben More and home in a day had seemed a big outing but I was home for 10pm without feeling any effects of the exertions. The Sound of Mull had soothed them away and as a lady passenger had said to me on the deck as the sun dropped below Mull, "we are privileged".

The start at Dhiseig, Loch na Keal

The summit with random pinnacle figures

Descending the east ridge

A' Chioch from Beinn Fhada

Loch na Keal and Ulva island

Beinn Fhada and A' Chioch

Fond memories of both places

Nature's garden

Beachcombing at end of walk

Summer's end at Scarisdale 

Sunset on Sound of Mull