Day 295: Buachaille Etive Mor

“Sorry for waking you last night. I met two Polish guys on the West Highland Way and they got me drunk.”

My young roommate sheepishly pads down the hallway to the bathroom as I settle down with tea and toast for breakfast, delighted at the smattering of overnight snow icing the mountains visible through the kitchen window.

Deer wander close to the buildings, comfortable with visitors.

The road over the moors features in one of my favourite Bond movies, Skyfall, as 007 is on the run with M.

I could happily photograph the Buachaille Etive Mor all morning. I struggle with the pronunciation, settling on its short name: “the Buckle”.

It’s a three-mile walk to the start of the hike, where a dozen vehicles are already parked at 9 am. This is a popular climbing spot.

The pretty Lagangarbh Hut sits at the foot of the Coire na Tulaich, a steep summer route up to the ridge. There’s no way I’m attempting that grim-looking ascent today,

My path lies through the Lairig Gartain, a deep valley dividing the two Buachailles, Mòr and Beag, following the River Coupall.

Leaving the valley path, the Coire Altrium provides an alternative route up the Buckle.

The initial ascent is straightforward, taking care on the rocks, wet with the light covering of snow. There are fine views across to Buachaille Etive Beag.

Halfway up, the path changes to a scramble. My boots slide on the wet snow. I try another route, but I’m not comfortable, especially with the descent, which is already precarious. It’s frustrating to come all this way and not make it to the top in such fine weather, where the view across Rannoch Moor will be spectacular. After several minutes agonising, disappointed, I turn round. It’s not worth the risk, especially hiking alone. The mountain is not going anywhere.

I can’t waste such a beautiful day, so Plan B is to hike up Beinn a’ Chrùlaiste, a Corbett. Corbetts are Scottish mountains between 2,500 and 3,000 feet. Being wee Munros, I’m sure Ronny Corbett would have approved.

The path is gentle but not easy to follow, and I find myself on a steep slope, somewhere where you don’t want to slip and quickly turn into the hillside, continuing up the centre of the shoulder.

Despite the sun, it’s a little nippy for a dip.

On a wide plateau, I lose the path again, but the trig point is sighted.

I cut across to the north ridge, picking up the trail once more.

The views from the summit are amazing, peaks stretching to the horizon in all directions, including the view across Rannoch Moor I’d hoped for. It’s hard to get a feel for how much water there is from ground level.

A couple, around my age, rest against the rocks, sheltered from the wind. The man is one peak short of completing his second round of Munros and gives me a short tour of the surrounding mountains. I mention my failed attempt on the Buckle.

“You’re not the first to turn back at the scramble. A good call today.”

The descent to the hotel is tricky, pathless, weaving round small cliffs before making my way through the heather and bog.

The sun is low in the sky, the mountains casting shadows across the expanse of Rannoch Moor. One of those moments, like dusk at the Machrie Moor Standing Stones on the Isle of Arran, when I feel awe certainly, but something else, harder to describe, a calmness, a grounding.

Robert Macfarlane, writing in The Wild Places, crosses the Moor in the night with his father. He refers to ‘The Wilderness Letter’ written by Wallace Stegner in 1960 to the US authorities, advocating the retention of wild places, not simply for recreational and conservation purposes, but for the idea itself, something to sustain us, a place where people “got a sense of bigness outside themselves that has now in some way been lost”.

I was intrigued enough to read the full letter and some sense of what he wrote comes to me now.

Let me say something on the subject of the kinds of wilderness worth preserving. Most of those areas contemplated are in the national forests and in high mountain country. For all the usual recreational purposes, the alpine and the forest wildernesses are obviously the most important, both as genetic banks and as beauty spots. But for the spiritual renewal, the
recognition of identity, the birth of awe, other kinds will serve every bit as well. Perhaps, because they are less friendly to life, more abstractly nonhuman, they will serve even better.

The hotel hosts another Winter Wedding package, taking up the slack in the off-season, with some guests, presumably the least favourite relatives, relegated to join the backpackers in the Bunkhouse. Careful with those party dresses. The toilets here run with brown peaty water, prompting horrified discussions of brushing teeth in murky water. I’m enjoying it too much to tell them the taps run clear.

After dinner in the bar, I leave the noisy celebrations and slip outside to enjoy the sunset. From dawn to dusk, a sublime day. I’ve been blessed with so many.

Date of walk: Friday 14 March 2025.

Walk distance: 13 miles.

Total distance: 4,878 miles.