Ben Wyvis, again. Blowing a hooley, again. Eight of us left the car park: five men, one woman and two scrapping dogs, running along the track above Allt a’ Bhealaich Mhoir, before grinding straight up to Wyvis’s south top, An Cabar, ignoring much of the newly-laid path that winds a gentler way up the mountainside.
It was grim up there. We were pummeled by a frantic wind, running blind into a wall of mist. A night on the plateau would probably have finished me off, but for 20 minutes it was an exhilarating and uplifting experience.
After regrouping at the top, we hammered downhill, again taking the direct (and steepest) route rather than the tourist track. Around one hour and 45 minutes after setting off, we were back at the car park, musing how the conditions here could be so benign, yet so vile up top. The midges soon descended, putting an end to any chat.