Orion M.C.

Here follows a humourous account of Gavin`s first climbing trip with the Club to Glen Brittle in the early 90`s.

I initially got associated with the then Clachaig because Al Kerr (an old friend from School) was a member.
Before joining I'd done a great deal of hillwalking with friends from work, Uni, and so forth. Up to that point I'd never really thought about joining a club, but I'd decided that I wanted to do some rock climbing to improve my scrambling technique.

I went down to the Viccy bar some time in 1991. The place was absolutely jumping ... standing room only I seem to recall. I distinctly remember Alex Munro, who chatted quite amiably. It appeared that my reputation for going out in bad weather and in wild winter conditions had already reached him. I think the first thing he said on being introduced by Big Al was 'So your the madman, then', or something like that! This reputation was, and still is, I should point out, entirely unwarranted! I planned to go back the following week, but ended up getting a job in Manchester, and it was two years before I came back to stay.

Only a few weeks after joining, I went out on my first trip with the club … to Skye.


On the first day the weather was pretty poor, the usual horizontal drizzle, so we went for a walk. Alan English lent us his car, and we drove to the end of Glen Brittle and set off up to Bruach na Freithe and Am Basteir before descending to the Sligachan Inn. Jules and Alistair claimed to have a secret agreement with Bob that he would pick them up from Sligachan to take them back to the car, although when Bob and Alan left us in the morning they hadn't mentioned it at all.

Jules and Alistair had a few pints while waiting for Bob. The evening wore on and Bob did not appear, much to the indignation of my two by now drunken companions. They had, by now, managed to talk themselves into believing that Bob had given his sworn word of honour that he'd turn up for them. Eventually it became apparent that Bob was not coming to pick us up, by which time my companions were no longer in a state to walk back to the car, so the only option was for me to collect it.

I set off into the gathering gloom to trudge the five miles back over to Glen Brittle. It was pretty dark as I crossed the moor, but I made good progress and was soon nearing the car. As I approached the road a strange smell became increasingly noticeable … the smell of a dead animal. I slowed down and squinted into the gloom, but there was no sign of a corpse. Setting off again, I bounced off a peat hag and to my horror saw a white blob glimmering beneath my descending foot. Fortunately I still had one foot still attached to the to top of the peat hag, and lurched off sharply to avoid crashing into the middle of a dead sheep. A close call, and no mistake!

I drove the car back to the Sligachan Inn to find that Alistair and Jules had been turned out of the pub at closing time, and were sprawled behind the bins at the back of the hotel. On our return to the campsite at Glen Brittle my companions exacted a terrible revenge on Bob by peeing on his tent while he protested impotently from inside, the sound of cruel laughter in his ears!

After a late night staggering round Glen Brittle in the dark, the next morning was ideal for climbing. We pounded up into Corrie Laggan on the most beautiful spring morning you could hope for. Jules, Alistair, and I were to climb Cioch West (VDiff) as a rope of three. I was the third man on the rope, and not expected to lead.

We set off, and after a short distance Julian spotted some tat high up on the wall above. Smelling the booty at this range, he decided to head for it. We pawed our way up the wall and after an awesome pitch we were positioned directly below the coveted tat, swinging temptingly in the cold breeze. Jules led off on his single rope.

The way seemed quite difficult, and he traversed about over the gabbro looking for gear. Before long the rope had more zig zags in it than a child's drawing of a mountain range, and Jules was obviously not happy at all. Every few moments our distant leader stopped for a spell of strenuous rope hauling to get enough slack to make a move, and he was obviously getting far above his last runner. We were grim and silent, watching his painful progress from below. He pulled though what seemed like a mass of rope, and made a couple of moves out of sight.

We waited with baited breath. After a few seconds we heard a whoop of delight. He'd reached the stance! Alistair followed, and declared the pitch to be 'a bit nippy! But you can try it if you want!'. Looking around I could think of no alternative but to give it a try. It was desperate. The crux, at the top, was a steep corner, and by the time I arrived there my hands were frozen by the cold rock and the icy breeze. I took three falls on the corner (much to the delight of onlookers), but managed to scrabble my way up to the stance. We sat on the belay ledge like the three monkeys while the gulf below our feet gnawed at us until we were forced to set off again up easier ground.

We found out later that we'd strayed onto a route called Crembo Cracks (HVS), still described in the guide book as a '… serious climb … easily identified by signs of retreat … poorly protected'. Julian described it as his hardest lead ever. I wondered if I'd ever climb again!


After the week in Skye, undeterred by the desperate epic, and determined to find even mightier routes, we headed for Aberdour. Well, OK, so perhaps it's not quite as impressive as the Cuillin, but it has some damn fine rock. I led my first route there that day. Bob was holding the rope, and I scampered up a Diff (can't remember it's name off hand), and to my horror found a fulmar sitting on one of the ledges! Fulmars, as you maybe aware, are pretty hardy little birds ... neds amongst their kind ... prone to throwing up fish oil on their enemies. I poked my head tentatively over the ledge on which it was sitting, and retracted it rapidly in the face of a stream of puke. Unfortunately there's a limit to how far you can retreat on a climb, and I ended up plastered in fish oil. I tried to encourage the fulmar on it's way with a number 8 hex, but it was having none of it; the fiend just sat on the ledge and made 'make my day' gestures every time I popped up to look at it. Eventually I just gave in and climbed past it rapidly, while it barfed on my boots. When I got to the top of the route, I set up the belay and shouted, not without a frisson of evil glee 'Climb when you're ready, Bob'. Bob arrived about fifteen seconds later, entirely encased in Gore-Tex (including waterproof trousers). His precautions were needless ... the fulmar has exhausted it's ammunition attacking me. By the time Bob arrived, it could do little more than cough and dry retch at him. It was a warm day, and I spent the rest of the day reeking like a box of old fish on the end of a pier.


Not a particularly good start to my climbing career, but I suppose I got the worst over right at the beginning. Since then I've had some extraordinary experiences climbing, but fortunately I've not been puked on again … at least not by a Fulmer.

Just bumping this back up the forum as it`s a cracking read and it`s not had many views

In all fairness, I should point out that Julian contests the view that he set off up Crembo Cracks merely to bag the booty. Apparently he knew what he was doing all along and was therefore CRAZY. Having said that, given present circumstances, some aphorism about stones and glass houses comes to mind!

Julians version of this story is a little diferrent I agree.
I was told it in the sliggy campsite on a skye trip of me, Sarah, Julian, Abigail and Fiona.
Now after that trip I am not allowed to play button again.

And what, exactly, is 'Button'?

Ask Julian or Fiona, they banned me

If you loose one game you are a 'B' and so on and it involved grabbing money off the table and I got a little violent and a lot of beer was soaked into the fetching tarten carpet they have there - by me!

I feel compelled to put the record straight regarding Skye
1. Bob did say he would definitely pop by the Slig at the end of his day's outing. He didn't. Someone pissed on his tent but I formally deny any involvement. Actually, I had promised him earlier in the day that I would piss on his tent later, but I completely forgot to.

2. We did Crembo because there was a queue at the bottom of Cioch and I was too gallus to wait. The suggestion that there was tat to be salvaged is ridiculous, there were simply no places that tat could have been placed by any precedent lunatic.

3. Button is a dangerous and violent game. The tartan carpet under the table where we played, and where we were writhing in mortal combat, was indeed saturated in beer, snotters and blood. Amy is the club ladies champion (for now), but no match for my vice-like grip ona 5p piece, and Aberdonian with oxy-acetylene gear couldn't get a 5p off me once I have got even a fingernail onto the edge of it.

Only replying cos last statement is so so wrong.Think about it members of the jury .you lend someone a car for the day does that not make them self sufficient? We were off doing a remote and long coastal walk in north skye with no interest in what other party intended doing in borrowed car .Even if I was somehow telepathic I,d have told you to bugger off in my mind had you mentally beamed at me to pick you up pissed at the pub when you HAD A F*^£$%*ing CAR ALREADY! AND you bad, bad people did piss on my tent. STILL BLOODY ANGRY due to wet patch and constant drip on face for years through knackered membrane. yours , captain coastwalk. curse your acidic outflowings. on fabric and on paper.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!! !!.

don't remember being gifted the use of a car. Wouldn't have got into it anyway due to the amount of "adult" mags in it It wasn't that one you had coming back from Kinbreck? The heater was bust and could only stay on hottest setting. It was the hottest day of the year and we were all sunburnt - had to hang oot the windows all the way back to Glasgow, like panting dogs. Or was it the one with the bust speedo when you got a speeding ticket going to the cobbler? Naw, nae chance of me getting in a Bobmobile! I'd rather lie round the back of the bins at the slig...
As for the release of noxious fluids, mine were long gone by the time I left the bins - must have been Jules!