Missing the Hills

Ben Ledi and the Blue Forgotten Hills

For the first time since early February, I started the day by climbing a local hill this morning. A viral infection when walking in the Lakes in February had given me chest pains and slowed me down. This was followed by feeling listless during a week in London. I decided to go to Istanbul to get some sunshine and explore the Bosphorus mega city. Again, I was feeling tired, and my limbs were aching, so I drained what was left of my stamina to haul myself around Istanbul. I returned to some glorious weather in Scotland. Normally, I would be up and out by 7:30am to climb my local micro hills on good days such as these. I could not summon up the energy and had to limit myself to the odd hour in the garden. Moreover, I was missing a few days in Fisherfield with Keith and John. Fisherfield has always been one of my favourite locations and, at this time of the year in these conditions. Wow.

This morning, the viral infection seemed to be on the wane, so I was out early on the perfect morning to climb Ben Gullipen. It is usually a sub-30-minute brisk walk once the snow and ice have departed, but today, I had already stopped five times before I was three-quarters of the way up. The man coming down was an acquaintance from Aberfoyle whom I had first met on Lime Craig on the day that Aileen had died and on several subsequent occasions. He had recently retired to the area, and I had recommended other local walks/runs, including Ben Gullipen. Billy was as friendly as ever, and we blethered for half an hour on a quite sublime April morning. We talked about running, hills, and Pete Cartwright, now a world over-70 champion, who had worked with Billy and whom I had often run with on the local trails around Aberfoyle. Today, I was only able to recommend 'This City is Ours', the Liverpool drugs crime drama on BBC to Billy. It was the only memorable event that I had enjoyed in the last few weeks.

It had taken an hour to get to the summit but the hills to the north were enticing in the blue morning light. Ben Ledi was a mere stone's throw away, and Ben Vorlich and Stuc a' Chroin were beckoning. This was my playground, my backyard that had nurtured my determination to seek the more distant adventures to all of Scotland's mountains. I watched the young lambs prancing around the summit and resolved to phone the hospital when I got home to see if I could get an earlier appointment to sort out my problem. I was able to run some of the way down, and I was pleased that my legs were still in reasonable shape. The news on the way home was of the collapse of the financial markets worldwide. Trump, what a Cockwomble.

Stuc a' Chroin and Ben Vorlich

Spring

Loch Venachar

A distant Ben Lomond

Ben Gullipen