NVA Creative Director Angus Farquhar charts his experiences through life as a runner.

Towards winter 2016

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A strange weekend following an invite to visit Dumfries House and have dinner with Prince Charles and twelve others at the behest of a mutual patron. Ann was truly dreading it, I thought it might be an adventure and we should judge it as a one-off experience. A new ‘Chinese’ bridge is opened on the estate in pouring rain; Ann and I retire to our plush estate accommodation and knock back a few gins that we sneaked in for Dutch courage. By early evening, we are plied with champagne while being given a tour of the grand house; by the time the formal dinner comes around and I am introduced to the Prince I am already steaming.

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The next night I am back in my old stamping grounds of New Cross in south London watching Test Dept — the industrial band I played with from 1981-90 — kicking up a storm in a crowded Amersham Arms. Lots of faces I haven’t seen for decades leer into a crowded view but it is surprisingly good to hear original band members Paul and Gray scream out their anger at the current political landscape. With a few more concerts the set will build into a hefty and relevant cultural statement. I have to laugh at the brilliant contrast with the previous night of crushingly  posh Scottish revelry. I suspect I was born part Celt / part chameleon.

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As summer turns to autumn and the strength returns to my legs, I invite Al to head up to the Torridon mountain range for a few days of running. Our weekly jaunts take on a more focussed meaning, as without some decent training we will crumble in the high hills. On a perfect day we head for Ben Lui, an elegantly shaped mountain situated just to the south west of Tyndrum. It contains a  grand central cirque flanked by two sharp ridgelines to the summit and the completion of a hefty climb in any conditions. Al’s partner Julie joins us and we set off on the five mile approach road past a gold mine to reach the base of the Ben.

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Ben Lui looks benign from a distance, but as you get closer, foreshortening makes it loom quite suddenly overhead. It is a big beast of a hill, a genuine leg sapper with a good deal of steep pathwork to handle as you wind your way up the side of a tumbling burn to reach a roughly collapsed corrie at 2,000 feet. As we pick our way over streams and rockfalls Julie begins to tighten. One of the toughest and most committed amateur athletes I know — completing an Ironman in Spain — she finds it tricky going at height on uneven ground. But with encouragement all three of us reach a bealach at 3,000 feet with great views opening up to the north.

Al and Julie decide to hold it there as I plough up the increasingly vertical path to the top. Any vestiges of an earlier hangover are shaken off, and there is some fine scrambling sharpened by airy vistas looking back down the mountainside. I meet an excited couple from Nottingham who are joyfully taking in the panorama, incorporating Bidean nam Bean, the Aeonach Eigach ridge and Ben Nevis. Time for a quick descent to catch A and J up again and I feel a deal of pain in my thigh, jarred by jumping down too hard from rock to rock and tuft to tuft. It’s a solid twelve miles in total to back to the car park, with the team reunited to hobble out the last couple of miles on ever stiffening pegs. The next day I have difficulty even walking backwards downstairs. For 72 hours the muscle damage is as bad as any fast marathon.

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A couple of weeks later and it’s time for Torridon. It has been a gloriously rain free October and with little frost at night, all of the trees are still holding onto their leaves and colour. The onset of winter feels bearable. The A9 offers its usual panoply of car smashes. It is a magnet for poor driving, but luckily we witness no deaths as the traffic slows and flows again past twisted wreckage. We stay on the side of Loch Kishorn in a 70’s bachelor pad replete with pine wood ceilings and pool table. The next morning we drive north flanked by steepening mountains to Torridon village and a craft fair in the village hall. We stock up on cake and pastries and fill a flask with tea. Here we get precise directions to find the stalkers’ path that threads between the huge flanks of Liathach and Beinn Eighe, leading to Coire Mhic Fhearchair, one of the finest corries in Scotland, revealing a classic view to a towering triple buttress above.  

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We spot the ruined croft by the roadside marking the hidden entrance to the route and in the process fail to see the correct car park, which nestles behind a high verge to our left. As a result we drive on to a second car park, start at the wrong end of the walk and eventually find ourselves 2500 feet up the slopes of Beinn Eighe in shrouding mist, facing an ever steepening and leg-sapping scree run up to an invisible summit. This was meant to be a gentle ‘warm up’ day, protecting our legs, so we retreat discussing the worrying fact that it took us a good hour to figure out that we were approaching the  hill from the wrong end. This is becoming a habit.

Undaunted we set out early the next day with maps in hand, compasses primed on mobile phones and unbelievably find the correct start to reach the rising slopes of Slioch, following a gentle path for a few miles alongside a babbling river to the shores of Loch Maree.

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The immense bulk of the mountain rises above us, imposing and daunting; so it’s heads down and a dogged drive to access an upper corrie via countless steps and erratic streambound paths. After a lung busting hour we break out onto a flatter section of ground circled by a higher line of peaks beyond. The vast flanks of surrounding rock are stripped and bare, with all visible routes to the summit looking near vertical to our untrained eyes. A quick chat with two returning climbers and we quickly change our direction of ascent. We seek out a high and isolated lochan, which marks entry to a hidden series of rough zig-zagging paths taking us up and up to prepare for a final nerve-tinglingly steep push to the top. Funnelling cloud forms are being sucked upwards on strengthening winds and by the time we find the summit cairn, visibility is down to 50 feet. We meet a couple who ask if Al and I are brothers, spurred no doubt by the arrival of our long noses and similarly inane and manic chat. Every few minutes the clouds blow open and we get a tantalising glimpse of the chosen route continuing round the ridge; we plough onwards into the mist.

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You are up and beyond here, alien visitors; there is the vulnerability and re-sizing of ego that occurs on great mountains. You are but briefly passing through, privileged to experience a powerful natural setting, one that demands respect and knowledge of your strengths and limitations. As we scurry along the final narrowing ridgeline, my pulse begins to race. The wind is building in huge gusts and I wonder whether it would be better crawling over rocky sections with gaping drops down to god knows where on either side. With the added intensity of moving at speed and with lungs heaving, there is a deal of excitement as we battle onwards to reach the final cairn.

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The descent is painfully long but enthralling, demanding total concentration. Al spots a feint line through seemingly endless rock mounds, which involves lots of jumping and large stepdowns until we reconnect with the corrie floor. We stop halfway to pose for photographs and eat scrumptious cheese and plum jam rolls. By the time we reach the river again, having completed a half marathon with 3800 feet of up and down, our legs are truly shot. It being Sunday in the highlands, all the shops have closed, so we have to stop off at a pub in Loch Carron in the hope of begging some ‘foodie’ provisions. It turns out the Essex born owner, who looks like a Motorhead roadie, is a gentleman and we retire to Kishorn to make a fine paella and down a good Rioja, dancing around our bachelor pad with punk classics playing in rotation on a BBC 4 nostalgia night.

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The year ends with a final operation, a lump nestled between my ribs that has wedged in deeper than I or the surgeon had hoped. It has to come out,  but all that matters is the long term prognosis is good. 2016 has been a battle on many levels and I’m glad to see the back of it, but days like these in Torridon are such a blessing, perhaps because they can’t always be expected. My final thought on the year both personally and with the wider political malaise in mind, a quote from Raymond Williams: ‘To be truly radical is to make hope possible, rather than despair convincing’.   

Jan 9th at 4PM / reblog / 2 notes
  1. thegrimrunner posted this