Film Notes: Dekalog I. This review contains spoilers!

Krzysztof Kieslowski was a Polish filmmaker who is held in enormously high regard across Europe. I first came across his work in the Three-Colours Trilogy; his trio of French films reflecting on Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, in surprising, thoughtful and enormously memorable ways. His takes on those foundational values of the French Republic were far from obvious; whimsical more than polemical; and delivered through layers of oblique symbolism as much as via revealing dialogue. I have subsequently purchased his Dekalog series, which looks equally intriguing. His premise here is not to riff on an aspect of political philosophy, or a series of ideas; but to deliver ten short films, each inspired by one of the Ten Commandments: The Dekalog. With such a brilliant filmmaker, delving into such a valuable subject, the thought of watching (and reviewing!) the results was irresistible. So far I have seen only the first one, unsurprisingly entitled; Dekalog I.

Which Commandment is being responded to is not immediately obvious in Dekalog 1; however, it soon becomes apparent that Kieslowski began at the beginning. His inspiration for this film is:

"You shall have no other gods before me. You shall not make for yourself an image in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, but showing love to a thousand generations of those who love me and keep my commandments." (Ex20:3-6)

In Jewish and Christian thought, this commandment is a defining point. Life is to be orientated not around what is within creation, but is to be centred on the creator. While creation is to be enjoyed, used and protected; when anything within that realm becomes central, defining, or ultimate; then the sin of idolatry has taken place. In some context this idolatry can be literal prostration before a carving; in ours probably a more metaphorical bowing down before such god-substitutes as wealth, knowledge, pleasure or money is in view.

But such theological points are not Kieslowski's point of departure. (**Spoiler alert**!) Rather, we meet a family consisting of father and son, (absent Mother), and much loved aunt. The Father is an academic, the son a child prodigy with a hungry mind. Questions of faith and death linger consistently in the background of this family's life. The Father is agnostic in stance, but atheistic and materialist in his actual mode of living and thinking. His sister, on the other hand, is a devout Catholic. The son, with his restless, inventive mind, asks questions, and seeks answers. When he is saddened by the death of a dog, and asks 'what is death?' and 'what is left?', he finds his father's answers to be dry and functional, lacking in mystery or wonder. "The heart stops beating", and "Memories are left", seem inadequate a response to the loss.

The core cast of the film are excellent. Henryk Baranowski as the father Krzysztof, is very convincing. He has a hefty and progressively emotional role to play which he delivers with a quiet power. Wojciech Klata plays Paweł, Krzysztof's 12 year old son, and is superb. As a child actor, he is somehow able to convey inquisitive childish joy, impudence, and wonder to adults with a disarming honesty. Child-actors don't always get this right. Maja Komorowska, plays his aunt; in another emotionally demanding role. Somehow she manages to inform the audience that Pawel's Aunt Irena has a tragic back-story, without it ever being explicitly revealed. Clinging to her faith through tears, there is a remarkable vulnerability to Irena that Komorowska pictures perfectly.

These questions of life, death and meaning come to a climax in the film (**spoiler alert**!), as death comes into the family and the surviving characters must respond to it from their worldview. Most significantly though, is the way, in which death enters the home. Without giving the whle plot away, rigorous scientific calculations are made by father and son, which demonstrate that an activity should be perfectly safe; but science lets them down. Rather, science is shown to have its limits, in terms of achieving total control over life, and sovereignty over our circumstances. The project to explain everything, gain mastery over all questions and all outcomes, and the elimination of mystery and questions of faith is held up as a failure.  Kieslowski's film here resonates profoundly with what Oxford Professor of Science and Religion, Alister McGrath says: "When science is done properly it has limits and that is the best way of preserving its identity, its integrity. I.. protest strongly against those scientists who exaggerate the explanatory capacity of science".

As such the film seems to be veering away from the thrust of the first commandment and on towards questions on suffering. It seems more concerned with theodicy than obedience to divine law. However, the underlying tension in the commandment between the creator and the created, remains central to the motivations of the two main adult characters throughout. As is typical of Kieslowski's films the proposed answers to these dilemma's are only hinted at. Firstly there is the dark shadow of family bereavement. (**spoiler alert**) Krzystof has only one child, his sister is childless (we assume); and the death of Pawel means that this family will not see another generation. Are we meant to think that the biblical curse on the generations has been invoked here? We are not told. But the mysteries go far deeper than that. In the climactic scene, in grief and anguish, Krystof tips over an altar in the Catholic chapel, sending candles scattering everywhere. His anger and confusion seem to be directed towards blaming God for not existing. The candle wax though drips down the face of Mary on the icon, and heaven appears to weep with earth in the face of death. Stunningly, Kryzystof reaches into a chalice to anoint himself with 'holy' water; but the water is frozen solid. This is an intensely stark, bold and powerful picture; and one that is open to several interpretations. One on hand, in Catholic faith the place in which the material and the spiritual meet are in the sacraments. Yet in this sacrament, the physical freezing process over-rules the act of anointing. Maybe, his materialistic mindset, continues to block off his access to the divine? Yet, on the other hand, there is a circularity in the use of ice here too. Ice had been the cause of Pawel's awful death; yet Krystof's only option is to relieve his aching, pounding head with ice from the chalice. Is Kieslowski telling us that while God permits suffering, we have no option but to go to Him for its' relief? It's certainly possible that this is what he wants us to think, as the scene is enacted before the face of the painted Madonna with her tears of wax. Either way, the spiritual eclipses the material in the face of loss; and the first commandment is vindicated.

This is a stunning, thoughtful film. Creatively shot, beautifully told, and brilliantly acted. While Kieslowski's ambition is to ask questions and promote thinking, rather than provide answers, he is asking very deep and searching questions. This film packs an emotional as well as intellectual punch; even while it probes deep spiritual waters. I am intrigued as to what the rest of the series holds.

Fields in Kinrosshire

Book Notes. Klansville, USA: The Rise and Fall of the Civil Rights-Era Ku Klux Klan by David Cunningham

There are countless books written about the Civil Rights Era, which are matched by an array of films. These tend to be biographical in nature, focusing on the life of (or a year in the life of) a Civil Rights Leader; or about specific campaigns in flashpoints such Montgomery or Selma. Another raft of publications revolves around the various Civil Rights organisations, such as SNCC, SCLC, CORE or the NAACP. All of these stories are written in the context of the continued threat of white supremacist violence; some of it spontaneous, much of it well organised. The most extreme form of this white terror was the Ku Kulx Klan, the racial terror group with a penchant for fancy dress.

Despite the presence of the KKK in many of the things I have previously read, I knew little about them in practice; such as who they were, the complexities of their motivations, their internal divisions and varieties, their history, their relationship to government, and the makeup of their membership. However, David Cunningham's "Klansville USA: The Rise and Fall of the Civil Rights Era Ku Klux Klan" is a detailed examination of this group (or rather, series of groups); who sought to resist desegregation and fight against the Brown decision, the Civil Rights Act and The Voting Rights Act of the 1950s and 60s. It is a work of meticulous studiousness, rich in source material and detailed in analysis, which until the final chapter is written with a remarkable degree of scholarly detachment.

The history of the KKK, as presented here, is one of peaks and troughs, in which the underlying continuity of violent enforcement of white hegemony with associated ritual and costume; has come and gone. While some historians have seen the KKKs of the 1870s, 1920s and 1960s as completely distinct; Cunningham suggests that the continuities in ethos, and within families is also important.

The book centres around North Carolina, as it was in this relatively progressive Southern State that the KKK expanded and recruited a mass membership like nowhere else. Much of the book is taken up with examining why such a comparatively liberal state, which sough to establish a reputation for trade and moderation quite different from Alabama or Mississippi, should become 'Klansville'; the HQ of white terrorism. The first observation is that while governers such as George Wallace in Alabama led massive resistance to Federal-led desegregation on behalf of the majority of whites who wished to defend their privilege; the compliance of the North Carolina regime channelled white resistance into more fringe or unorthodox expressions. Cunningham is anxious not to let that observation become the last word on the matter however, but probes further into the Carolina Klan. Comparisons with contemporary Florida (another more federally compliant state) reveal that soft policing at best and collaboration with the Klan, at worst; were also critical features in the extraordinary growth of the KKK. Comparisons within North Carolina itself reveal that the KKK were most successful recruiters in counties where the abolition of Jim Crow would have the most marked effects. These were where a high percentage of the population were African American, and the labour market was more competitive. Curiously though, while this was the case, Klan recruitment on an individual level was less related to direct economic threat, but also strongly related to family ties.

Cunningham then looks internally at the Klan. Specifically, he explores the various characters, factions and organisations which made up this nefarious outfit in the middle years of the Twentieth Century. By far the strongest of the Klans he examines are the United Klans of America (UKA), and their leadership, ritual, social make-up, activities, leaders and crimes are considered. The picture that emerges is that while the UKA was united in its opposition to desegregation, and weirdly obsessed with inter-racial sexual taboos, there were huge variations within the movement too. Some members were never more than fringe contributors who believed that the NAACP were a revolutionary movement which needed to be countered. At the other end of the spectrum were those for whom the UKA was the defining purpose of their lives. There were those who never moved beyond the rallies and white-only family picnics, to those who stayed behind for the covert operations, night riding, intimidation and violence. 

Cunningham also explains the Cold War context of the Civil Rights conflict in the Jim Crow South, rather well. The great threat perceived by most Americans in the 1950s onwards was of a Communist assault on them. Foreign policy and Vietnam came to dominate the narrative, but below that was the suspicion, fuelled like people like Sen. McCarthy, that there was a massive plot to undermine America from within. This narrative fuelled both sides of the Civil Rights confrontation. For Liberals, Jim Crow was a massive propaganda coup for the reds. Indeed the images of the actions of people like Eugene "Bull" Connor, were seized upon and broadcast throughout the Soviet bloc. Cuningham though explains that the KKK were also fuelled by the Red Scare, being convinced that the NAACP were merely fronts for the American Communist Party, controlled and funded by Moscow - who were using the Civil Rights issue as a way of destabilising America. As such, KKK speakers were able to perform the logical contortion that they were standing up for liberty - and be believed.

The final section of the book covers the decline of the KKK in North Carolina, which was as rapid (if less visible), than its massive growth a decade earlier. By the 1970s, it was a shadow of its former self, and by the the late 1980s had ceased to function. Cunningham notes that this was not because the participants were reconciled to the Brown decision, and the Civil Rights Acts; but rather that the battleground then changed to more subtle forms of segregation, and racism. It is true that the once mighty UKA ran out of steam, and failed to continue to mobilise white fears. Participation in UKA Klaverns, rallies, and criminal acts, declined which then led to declining funds, and dissatisfaction with the the leadership, and internal squabbles. Cunningham's book demonstrates though, the extent to which a major change in policing the KKK led to the demise of the North Carolina's once powerful UKA. As the House Unamaerican Activities Committee investigated the KKK (!), Lydon Johnson ordered that the FBI launch a COINTELPRO operation against the Klan. This in many ways, mirrorred the way in which the Bureau had interfered with the various Civil Rights groups for years. While the relatively progressive North Carolina authorities had policed the movement there was space given for the Klan to work unhindered. However (despite Hoover's reservations), the FBI played a critical role in infiltrating, confusing, dividing and disrupting the UKA. At least one major split in their ranks was directly orchestrated by a Klansman in the pay of the FBI, while the Bureau managed to imprison several key Klan organisers, speakers and recruiters, on a range of historic offences. This is a very insightful and useful piece of historical writing, and an aspect of this history about which I knew very little.

Cuningham concludes his book with a summary of the legacy of the UKA's decade of dominance in North Carolina's white cultural resistance to desegregation. He notes that the growth of the right wing Republican party as the party of white Southerners happens at this point. He also cautions against being to optimistic that the trials of Klansmen such as Byron de Beckwith indicate that America has moved on, and come to terms with its murky past. Punishing historic crimes he suggests, might be a distancing manoeuvre, which helps to avoid exposing the ills of the present. Finally, Cunningham breaks with his studied academic neutrality  - a tone in which the whole book is written. While his analysis about matter such as which professions were most represented in Klaverns, is clinical; he generally avoids value judgements about what this means. That is, until the final section in which he summarises his findings in order that we might then take the rise and fall of the UKA as a warning from history; and so be empowered to prevent its recurrence.

Civil Rights literature is greatly enhanced by books like this, which judiciously and thoroughly investigate the 'other side' of the conflict. They add greatly to our understanding of those tumultuous, and formative days. Cunningham has done a great job in assembling and analysing the evidence which tells this odd and disturbing story. The book makes the KKK emerge from the cartoonish caricature in which terms it so often portrayed, into becoming something which is far more troubling. Mere cartoons are unreal and quite unlike anyone we know. The truth is that  countless ordinary people were swept up into a hate movement with a terrorist wing, which they supported alongside doing quite ordinary things such as work, gardening and raising children. Such an observation is truly disturbing.

Carn Mor Dearg Arete to Ben Nevis

While Carn Mor Dearg and Ben Nevis are hills worth climbing in their own right; the circuit of these two peaks is considered to be a Scottish classic primarily because of the amazing ridge which joins them together. This ridge, the Carn Mor Dearg Arete ('The CMD') draws walkers from around the country to stride, clamber and scramble along its airy, elevated walkway. In terms of difficulty, the CMD is rather nicely pitched in between the plodding tourist path up Nevis, and the serious climbers and mountaineers routes like Tower Ridge. It offers hillwalkers a little taste of the excitement of a little exposure, on high stunning ridges, without any technical difficulty.

There are several route options available to walkers all over these hills. We chose the tourist track up from Glen Nevis as far as the 'half way lochan', for a route looked like a good option for folk with only one car. Our circuit would bring us back down to the starting point; avoiding a long walk around the base of the mountain at the end of the day. At the half way lochan, we left the tourist path and took the track curving around the North side of Nevis itself.

The track doesn't go to Carn Mor Dearg, but curves up the glen beneath it, terminating at the climbers hut beneath Ben Nevis' stunning NE cliffs. As the track curved up the glen, we undertook a steep, heathery and slippery descent down to a ford over the Allt a Mhuillin, followed by a gruelling ascent of Carn Mor Dearg itself. There is a path up this ridge, which peels off from the main track at the foot of the glen, above the golf course. It is worth finding this, as it saves a lot of energy, as its cuts through the long heather and rough ground. The sun split the skies, and the temperatures soared as we grafted our way up Carn Mor Dearg - an ascent that never seemed to end! This ascent was made worse by the amount of height that is lost crossing the glen to the ford; every hard earned metre of which has to be re-gained. 

The other challenge of the day was to carry enough fluid. The weather forecast was exceptionally good, promising no cloud, no rain, no wind, and high visibility. I took my usual hat/gloves etc out of my pack and filled it with extra water bottles - a decision I was very glad I took, despite the excessive weight of the water. Every hundred metres climbed opened up new views. Loch Linnhe, Corpach, The Aonach's all ranged into view, but the vast cliffs of Ben Nevis looming up in front of us were hugely impressive. Eventually when the first Munro summit was gained, the CMD arete presented itself to us - and it looked absolutely stunning.

With different levels of scrambling experience in the group, we picked out way carefully along the crenellated rocky spine; with folks choosing the ridge-top, scramble or the safer path further down one side, as they wished. We all met up again at the huge cairn which marks the start of the very steep, bouldery climb up Ben Nevis. From there we trudged back down the tourist track to the car, and the long, weary drive home.

Carn Mor Dearg's Arete, is deserving of its place as a 'must-do' Scottish hill walk. This was my second attempt to climb it, as the first was abandoned because of bad weather! Its worth waiting for a good day, to enjoy the views, and have the comfort of dry, grippy rock to run about on. I would seriously avoid this route in high winds, which could pluck a walker from the ridge and send them hurtling downwards. It's not an easy day, its over 20kms, a couple of thousand metres of ascent, with real steepness and a little exposure in places. If you have the chance to do CMD, and the sun is shining, don't miss out; it is overwhelming!

The Grey Corries: Stob Ban, Stob Choire Claurigh and Stob Coire an Laoigh

The Grey Corries form part of the range of mountains which begin at Loch Trieg North of Rannoch Moor, and run all the way to Ben Nevis by the sea. The Grey Corries themselves form the centre of the range, and are rated highly by ridge-walkers in Scotland. Which ever way you approach the Grey Corries, it is a long walk, and for the distances and ascents involved, these are surprisingly busy hills. 

Parking for the usual ascent of these peaks from Corriechoille is a tricky issue. The books suggest that to taking cars up the private road in the glen, "there seems to be no objection at the time of writing", whereas lots of notices at the roadside seem to indicate otherwise. However, further up the glen there are indeed many parking spaces being used by walkers - and no-one objecting! Sadly by the time I discovered this, I had long abandoned by vehicle at Cour Bridge, and slogged the long miles in. Thankfully the route from Corriechoille through to the bothy in the Lairig Leacach is obvious, and this compensates for the fact that it seems to take an eternity to reach. The weather forecast had promised no rain and cloud-free Munros, but as I approached the bothy there was very little visibility and the threat of rain!

Stob Ban is a fine hill, which is steep, shapely and presents hard climbs from every angle. One path leads up the corrie behind the bothy towards the hill, but this area is extremely boggy and best avoided. A tiny cairn on the track beyond the bothy, marks the start of an alternative path which takes to the hill's fine NE ridge, which passes a subsidiary top before a hard pull up to the summit. Stob Ban is a lovely hill, which only escapes fame, because it hides in the shadow of its' massive neighbours.

Finding the correct route off Stob Ban and towards the main ridge of the Grey Corries took a couple of attempts in thick cloud - however once found, a northerly path was located which lead to the huge climb up Stob Choire Claurigh. As I climbed up the ridge, the clouds broke up and blew away, and the sun shone on the Grey Corries, as it would for the rest of the day. A week ago I was in the Mullardoch's with a group of friends. We managed a great walk, but were rained on, and got very cold in the process. Here, just seven days later - it was a different season altogether. Last week, the biggest risk was hypothermia; this week... sunstroke! I did this walk on my own (although inevitably fell into conversation with other walkers during the day) - there's a happy balance between solitude and company that is worth preserving, I think. Some folk think that my solitary walking trips are an indication of my status as a curmudgeonly 'Victor Meldrew' figure, but I like to think that a day of solitude is a re balancing thing which actually helps to cure me of the usual Irritable Growl Syndrome! Hopefully the next walk will be with friends, and the happy balance maintained.

The Grey Corries are - in a a word - magnificent. The whole range is a narrow twisting ridge over six kilometres long, crenellated with numerous tops, three of which have 'Munro' status in their own right. In truth, the attraction is as much the ridge that connects the tops, as the summits themselves. There is no scrambling or exposure, but the ridge-top, which in places is spectacularly narrow. has stunning views on every side. These hills have a reputation for being large, and far away from the road. What I didn't realise was just how beautiful they are. I had been expecting their sheer bulk to be presented in somewhat industrial composition; instead what I found were sweeping corries, sculpted peaks and gorgeous ridge-walking. The corries are indeed grey; except the ones where the rock has a reddish tinge to it. where they are distinctly pink.

I didn't go on to the most westerly of the peaks normally climbed on this route, having previously ascended it from Glen Nevis, via the Steall waterfall. That was a never-to-be-forgotten adventure in which one of the older members of our party had an angina attack, which led to heart surgery not long afterwards! Instead, I turned northwards from Stob Coire Easain, and meandered down the (largely pathless) ridge marked as Beinn na Socaich on the OS sheet. Two big walks in 7 days, meant that my dodgy knees were screaming for relief by the time I got down!

There is a navigational challenge to face in returning from the foot of this ridge, back to Corriechoille. While from the ridge, the large fire-break through the forestry plantation looks obvious, from in amongst it, it is more tricky. In addition to this, a deer fence across my intended route, drove me down towards the dam at Coire Chomlaidh. There is no crossing point at the dam itself, but the river can be forded a few hundred metres above it, and a path picked out on the far bank. From the dam, the service road through the woods can easily be accessed.

The old abandoned railway line through these parts is the return route recommended in most books. However, the onward march of vegetation, of planting, and forestry operations are making this thoroughfare through the dense pines, increasingly problematic. Ignoring the track-bed, I pushed on further down the dam-access road, following it past a sign to the left saying "Spean Bridge", and then taking a right turn onto another forestry road. This then meets a junction where a left turn is taken, just as the track begins to climb uphill and break out of the woodland. This track leads to the access route, coming out immediately opposite one of the unofficial carparks on the estate land. Thankfully I was guided through this woodland by two walkers (with their dog), who had done the same ridge as me, and were picking their way back to their vehicle. Even better, they had parked right up the glen, and offered me a lift back to Cour Bridge; one which I happily accepted.

With this assistance, I was back at the car, and home to Perth and the family for the evening. The Grey Corries, are a fantastic set of hills, to which I will no doubt return. Large, beautiful, and presenting a challenge to the walker - they offer in return for this effort, massive rewards in stunning mountain architecture, splendid views and a rich sense of achievement. In bright sunshine, what could be better?

Crianlarich from Perth

(click to enlarge)

Eric Bibb at The Queen's Hall, Edinburgh

Eric Bibb is a legendary acoustic blues and gospel performer who brought his band to Edinburgh last Thursday. I've heard Eric's music many times over the years, notably on a weekly radio show called, "The Gospel Blues Train" presented by my old friend Lins Honeyman. His show goes out over various local and internet radio stations around the UK. We met Lins at the gig, who had just come from interviewing Eric Bibb for his show.

The evening began with a set from Eric's daughter Yana Bibb, who sang a fine set of jazz inflections to the accompaniment of a rich, complex jazz piano. Her father might have been raised in America, and naturally root into Blues - but apparently he brought Yana up in Scandanavia where jazz is hugely influential. As she sang, and chatted, I spotted a proud father (wearing a dustintive hat) sitting a few rows in front of us!

Eric Bibb took to the stage to huge applause and got his set underway with a splendid solo rendition of "Going Down Slow" - a song I will forever associate with Ray Charles, but predates him by some decades. Its been convered by everyone from Champion Jack Dupree to Led Zep. It's a great song for Eric Bibb to re-interpret, as the lyrics are a typical blues lament; shot through with some Black Church infused soul-searching. Ray Charles sometimes ventured into that interconnecting zone between gospel and blues on tracks like Sinners Prayer; but Eric Bibb seems to be rooted in that zone, even when he forays beyond it.

After that initial solo performance, Bibb brought a whole band on to accompany his accoustic guitar and voice. He added lead guitar, double bass, and two backing vocalist for virtually the whole set; and drew on a pianist, and sax/woodwind player for some selections; and added his daughter to the vocal section for the encores. They may have been playing music rooted in African-America, but they were a geneuinely international cast of characers and talent from Sweden, Ireland, South Africa, America and Finland! Hugely talented and able to perform as a tight unit around Eric Bibb's lead, they put on a wonderful show together.

Wayfaring Stranger was a particular highlight for me. In Edinburgh, Bibb described the way in which this hymn-like song had been written 'somewhere close to here', but had been exported to America centuries ago. Someone had taught it to slave children, who had passed it on through generations of curators and performers of Black American music. The song doesn't just lament the losses of life in a cruel and unjust world, as a straight blues might. Rather, it is infused with a gospel hope of reunion on the other side of 'jordan' - that Biblical river, so often deployed in literature and song, as a metaphor for death. The slaves (said Bibb), understood this yearning, longing hope - and adopted, and adapted the song, which he then brought back to the land where it was first written. Here's a version of that song he recorded a few years ago.

In addition to slower songs like that, Bibb and band also ripped through some of his more upbeat numbers. Here's Bibb with a rather different band, doing "Don't Ever Let Nobody Drag Your Spirit Down"  

It's once again at that gospel-infused interchange, where not being turned round, might be a matter of loyalty to the gospel and hoping for heaven; but with an eye on the fact that not being turned around, was the song of the civil rights marchers here on earth too. Black theology never restricted the gospel to being something only effective after death anyway..

Civil Rights and the African American struggle to assert their dignity and achieve equality in a land to which their ancestors were brought in chains, was another significant theme of Bibb's songs on Thursday night. While some songs are straightforward protest songs, sometimes story-songs can be more powerful in connecting an audience with the lives of a distant people. Bibb's song Rosewood, was a breathtaking example of this. Despite studying (and doing some postgrad research) into race relations in American History, I had never come across the Rosewood Massacre. 

The tragic story is of a Florida town which exploded into racial conflict in 1923, was burned to the ground and never rebuilt. The lyrics Bibb assembled for this beuatifully disturbing song are lifted from a transript of the testimony of the last living survivor of the carnage. This song is haunting, sorrowful and all the more emotive for being a first-person account of a microcosm of the tragedy of racial conflict. The lines in the second verse stopped me in my tracks:

Newspapers told how many
Whites an' blacks were counted dead
But the tears had no colour - 
The tears their families shed.
Rosewood.... buried in the ashes of history.

The gig ended with Bibb's most well-known song, "Needed Time", a big full-band singalong to his version of the old spiritual song made famous by the great Lightnin' Hopkins. It's a prayer, born of desperation for the mercy and presence of Jesus - that He might 'come by here', even if only briefly. The Queen's Hall in Edinburgh was originally built as a church. As the sound of Black Gospel swept through it on Thursday night, it was as if those old stones were revisiting their original purpose. There's a great little article about The Needed Time, at Gary Burnett's Down At The Crossroads blog here.



Eric Bibb and his band put on a wonderful gig on Thursday. The self-styled "Happiest Man In The World", delivered a high-class show, full of surprises, joy, hope, sorrow, stories, protest, history, and brilliant musicianship.

Miles in The Mullardoch's

'The Mullardoch's' are the four Munro's which form a set of complex ridges on the North side of Loch Mullardoch. High hills, big climbs, navigation challenges to face, and the real remoteness of these peaks, makes the Mullardoch's a great challenge. My attempts to pronounce Gaelic place-names are often wrong. I had always thought the emphasis was on the first sylabble of Mullardoch; whereas I was appropriately corrected yesterday to Mullardoch. Loch Mullardoch was a natural loch at the head of Glen Cannich in the great inland mountains west of The Great Glen. The addition of a great hydro dam at the eastern end of the loch doubled its length, massively raised the height of the water and changed the glen forever.

Our day began just after 4AM, with a coffee fuelling, then long drive via Inverness, Drumnadrochit and Cannich to the North Side of the Mullardoch dam. There, waiting for us, as promised was Angus with his boat. We had decided against trying to walk the length of the loch, over notoriously difficult terrain, and booked the ferry. (http://www.lochmullardochferry.co.uk/index.html) Many of the hillwalking books do not mention this possibility as the boat service was unavailable for a few years, but is now up and running for six months of the year. It costs £25/person, but speeds down the loch and several takes hours off what is a very long day - especially when long car journey's are also required.

As he took us down the loch, Angus chatted to us about where we were going. He clearly knows these hills very well, and gave us some useful advice about routes and difficult river crossings - and actually took us further along the loch than the website advertises. He dropped us off at the foot of the climb up to the first Munro of the day, An Socach. The boat ride is great, speeding down the loch, surrounded by great peaks and really wild land, in high spirits and with a geat sense of expectation as to what the day might bring.

The loch lies at around 200m, and An Sochach is 1069m high, which gives a vigorous start to the walk. it was warm and humid as we worked our way up the hill's south ridge. One of our number bravely and optimistically went up the first climb in shorts. Many a Munro walk described on this blog are solo walks, in which I trudge around the Highlands like an anti-social grumpy old man! Rumours that a party of friends was assembled for this walk to avoid me paying £75 for the ferry on my own are purely conjecture! I am (contrary to what you may have heard) not 'overly cautious with money' to quite that extent. Happily, for such a long and remote walk, my wife was able to come - along with three excellent friends and neighbours who all happen to have children in the same class at the local school. When the curved summit ridge is made, the top is visible across the corrie - as well as the looming shape of the second hill beyond it.

The gloomy weather forecasters were right. I have often thought that MWIS forecasts are too pessimisitic, but they were exactly right on this one. Not long after we stood on top of An Socach, the clouds swirled in and the rain began. Route finding was fairly straightforward, the well-worn path leads down the Bealach 'a Bholla and into the climb up the western flanks of An Riabhachan. Although we worked hard on this climb the rain poured, the winds picked up and the temperatures plummetted. One of the group started to become very cold indeed, despite being very well encased in themal layers under Goretex, and wearing hats and gloves. We didn't hang around long on the top, but devoured some chocolate and moved on. Even our optimistic shorts-wearing friend gave in to warm trousers!

The long broad ridge of An Riabhachan terminates above the cliffs of Creagan Toll an Lochan, and the descent to the Bealach Toll an Lochan begins. Despite the only occasional visibility, the twisty, scrambly ridges through these hills never fails to inspire and keep the walk interesting. It was also great to extend some of the normal fleeting at-the-school gate conversations into decent chat.

The climb up to Sgurr na Lapaich is hard work. It throws almost 300m of climbing at the walkers already weary legs. Our party member who had got so cold on An Riabhachan needed a good hard work-out to warm up, and Sgurr na Lapaich duly obliged. This is a high and shapely mountain, which as the cloud began to break up, offered us stunning views of hills across Affric, Stratfarrar and further afield. Descending Sgurr na Lapaich also involved negotiating some extensive patches of ice and snow. Throwing all thoughts of dignity to the wind, (most of us) slid down on our backsides at an invogorating rate of knots.

Carn na Gobhar is a pleasant hill, which would fit in well somewhere like Glen Shee, but is outsized and outclassed by the ridges and scale of its Mullardoch neigbours. Yesterday though, it was the one hill which offered us great weather, shining sun and expansive views. Descending via the south ridge and a new hyro-scheme road, we made the dam about 9hrs after we had left the boat. Tired, acheing, hungry and rather pleased about the days work we had accomplished, we made a plan- and met for food in Aviemore on the way home.

A final note of thanks is due to the folks who kept an eye on our kids for th day so that we could get a whole day away in the hills.

How wet was it? You can guage this by the lack of photos on this post.

Book Notes: Talking 'Bout Your Mama by Elijah Wald

I first heard "The Dozens", courtesy of Blues pianist Speckled Red which was featured on a compilation LP I picked up as a teenager. It was a 'Best of Blues, Barrelhouse and Boogie-woogie' selection featuring the likes of Champion Jack Dupree, Roosevelt Sykes, Memphis Slim, Pinetop Smith and Meade 'Lux' Lewis. Speckled Red's "The Dirty Dozens" stood out on the LP as being..... well a bit odd actually. While many of the other tracks on that old album were instantly enjoyable, I just didn't "get" that 'dozens" song. While many of the other songs on that LP were duly played on my Dad's turntable - and recorded from vinyl onto cassette tape so that I could play them in my room - and then later take them off to University; the dozens remained inaccessible to me. It is perhaps, on reflection, more surprising that a suburban white-kid from London was listening to Roosevelt Sykes in 1985, than that I didn't understand "the dozens"! However, when I saw that OUP had published a book entitled, "Talking 'Bout Your Mama: The Dozens, Snaps and The Deep Roots of Rap", I was intrigued. That odd song had stuck in my mind for decades, and the prospect of a cultural study tracing the inter-generational developments of African-American music sounded highly promising. My interest in such cultural links was lit by Martin Scorcese's "The Blues" DVD box-set. The series had many wonderful highlights, and plenty of surprises -  Ray Charles messing around on a grand-piano with Clint Eastwood being but one. The disc I was perhaps least interested in was one which promised to look forward (rather than back) onto music which had been influenced by Blues, rather than on The Blues itself. Never really appreciating rap, I wasn't expecting much from the film. It was, however, a revelation. The Electric Mud band were re-formed by Leonard Chess, and jammed with a series of young contemporary rappers in Chicago. In that exciting and informative session as they explored the musical threads which drew them together, I had my eyes opened to rap. Much to my surprise, and delight, some of my kids watched it with me and seemed to find something in The Blues for the first time too.

Elijah Wald's book on The Dozens promised to link that Speckled Red song I had never understood, with the rap tradition; and so I was naturally fascinated. On reading the introduction of the book, I immediately understood why I didn't get the Specked Red song. For a start, it was a song, loosely based on a verbal tradition. It was referencing a form a spontaneous verbal street combat to which I had had no exposure. Furthermore, while Red had later recorded an uncensored version of the piece, what came crackling from the Vinyl I had, was a highly bowdlerised version, which made oblique references to highly inflammatory jokes/rhymes which African-American audiences in the mid-20th Century would have immediately got. There is a strange parallel with Spike Milligan sneaking obscene WWII Army jokes into The Goon Show, under the noses of the censors - by simply missing out the punchline that half the audience knew already knew; or only saying the punchline - and missing out the joke!

Wald's book is enormously detailed, and covers vast terrain in its exploration of this fascinating (and sometimes disturbing) cultural phenomenon. The fact the book begins with six varying definitions of the dozens, shows how varied both the dozens are themselves, and how wide the interpretive literature has been too. Wald doesn't really attempt a simplistic explanation of the phenomenon - but rather accepts that most of the offered perspectives have something useful to say, because the thing itself is so varied. "To 'slip in the dozens' is to disparage one's family", says one definition from 1928, while another from 1968 intones:

"Dozens, playing the - A contest to see which young brother can remember or make up the greatest number of obscene, rhymed couplets reflecting on the opponent's parents. Sometimes called 'signifying' or 'mama talk'. Sometimes done with finger-snapping accompaniment. Though it may start in fun, it often attracts a crowd of admirers, and it can easily end in a fight. Not approved by parents." (p.xi)

And so Wald begins his book, "The Dozens can be tricky, aggressive, offensive, clever, brutal, funny, inventive, stupid, violent, misogynistic, psychologically intricate, deliberately misleading - or all of that at once in a single rhyming couplet" (p3). It is, by far, the most obscene book I have ever read. This is a fine read, about a cultural phenomenon which is worthy of respect - but not one with which I am entirely comfortable. Which is almost entirely the point. Some of the cited insults are crude, some are unsubtle, while others are very witty and funny. His explorations into the way in which rhyme can make the speaker almost portray himself as being disarmingly compelled to say the appalling last word in his couplet - is part of a great series of observations. The insults aimed at the hearer's Mama are especially interesting, particularly in the African-American context where many families are matriarchal, he notes. Your Mama is so ugly.... is so fat, or is pre-disposed to unusual or obscene sexual deviations are standard stuff. But what is disturbing is when dozens players would say, "Your Mama is so.... black", and mean it as an insult. It is perhaps an important reminder of why the African-American community needed their Black-Pride movement in the 1960s, and that so many of these dozens date from before that significant change.

Wald looks at street dozens, locates dozens play within the specific conditions of African-Americans in the early 20th Century, before going on to examine the dozens in literature (where it surprisingly pops out all over the place), and in music. It was here I that I finally understood what that strange Speckled Red song I had heard all those years ago was actually about! Wald looks at links between different styles of dozens, both within the USA and around the world. Fascinatingly, he finds significant links between West African verbal games and dozens, as an almost perfect parallel of what musicologists (and performers like Keb Mo) have discovered about Blues and African music. Wald is exceptionally careful not to overplay these links, and to stress that such correlations do not prove lineage - but the patterns he notes are important nevertheless.

Concluding with a set of observations about the dozens, but not limiting his explanations to just one thesis, Wald notes that The Dozens is: "a puberty ritual", "a cathartic form of group therapy and a valuable social outlet", "misogynist hate speech", "a retrograde expression of African-American self-hatred", "an art at the heart of African American expression" (pp171-80). 

"One can be disturbed or angered by the dozens, but one cannot deny the talent it has honed. African American comedy has been almost as central and influential in American culture as African American music, and much of its improvisational speed and biting edge comes out of th[is] verbal duelling" (p180)

This is a profoundly helpful paragraph when assessing the impact of rap - especially in evaluating the furore surrounding the 'parental advisory' stickers on many rap cd's, because of the extreme language - much of which is distressingly misogynistic. Understanding the links between this and the dirty dozens that Jelly Roll Morton heard in the first years of the 20th Century, helps the hearer to understand and culturally locate the difficult rap lyrics - even while wishing that they had been left behind in 1918. It stimulates a more respectful, and appreciative critique - even where strong opposition to the lyrical offences remains.

Wald has written a large, detailed and thorough analysis of this intriguing phenomenon. It is a highly engaging read, but not one for the faint-hearted if obscenity and sexual insults are not what you want to read. It leaves me wanting to go back and play that old Speckled Red song again, and see if this time I actually "get" it. Then perhaps some Champion Jack Dupree, or some Jimmy Yancey!

Film Notes: Eye In The Sky

It's a long time since I have been as completely absorbed by a film as I was by this - and I've seen some good films over the last few months too. Eye In The Sky is a political/drama/thriller which seeks to open up debate about the use of drones in war - which is an extremely important issue today. Broadly speaking, in that debate there are 'hawks', who believe that the so-called 'war on terror' justifies such strikes, even if there is 'collateral damage' (ie dead innocent people). Then there are 'doves', who oppose drone strikes, deplore the deaths of the innocent, believe that they bring western governments down to the same moral level as the terrorists - to whom they also hand huge propaganda victories.

Eye In The Sky brings this debate to life, with a tense narrative constructed around one particular drone strike against Al Shabbab terrorists in East Africa. The story is obviously inspired by the infamous shopping centre atrocity associated with British terrorist nicknamed The White Widow. The dilemma faced by military and political leaders is simply this; they believe that the terrorists (if allowed to live), will imminently kill up to 80 people. However, if they kill them, they will probably kill an innocent bystander - a beautiful little African girl, innocently selling bread in the blast zone. The 80 or 1 death probability, is complicated by the fact that

the 80 would be someone else's guilt; whereas the one would be on the hands of the main characters. Worse, the electorate would not worry about the 80, but might object to the 1.

As this situation spirals into more and more morally complex territory, the different personalities around the decision making table adopt differing positions. Helen Mirren is superb as the hawkish army chief, who is absolutely convinced that taking out these would-be suicide bombers is right. Doggedly pursuing her agenda, and arranging the facts to fit her case, she is unflinching in her soldierly belief that killing saves lives. Relaying the military perspective to government is a splendid Alan Rickman (his final film role), who grows weary of having to deal with vacillating politicians. The politicians, such as the defence minister portrayed by Jeremy Northam, continually 'refer-up' the chain of command, trying to pass the buck. Aisha Takow is superb as the Alia, the innocent in the line of fire, as is Barkhab Abdi, as the Kenyan military undercover operative. Other notable acting credits go to Aaron Paul and Phoebe Fox, who play the drone-pilots, who have to carry out the orders they are given, even when doing so shatters their psyche.

When I saw that a film has been made about the moral debate surrounding drone strikes, I assumed that it would be a straightforward dennounciation of the practice, with a strong focus on the innocent victims, and an array of gung-ho (yeee-har!) hawks, desperate for blood. In fact, what is presented is a finely balanced, and totally gripping drama; which although contrived, makes the viewer lurch between the two opinions back-and-forth several times in the course of the film. Interestingly, people I have spoken to have not been in

uniform agreement as to which side of the debate the film is ultimately on.

Some of the dialogue is brilliant. One stunning moment is the verbal conflict between the hawkish Lieutenant General Frank Benson (Alan Rickman), and the dove-ish junior minister, Angela Northman. (Monica Dolan). She finds his attitude of wanting to order killings from his armchair, "disgusting". He barks back that he's stood next to corpses in the immediate aftermath of five suicide bombings, and that she should, "never tell a soldier that he doesn't know the cost of war."

As time to prevent a suicide bombing ticks away, the tension mounts, as the fateful decision still isn't made. Without giving away the ending, the plot boils to an intense crescendo, as finally someone has to made a

decision to take innocent life; or allow others to take many more. The tension as the knife-edge decision is reached is extraordinary, carried along by intelligent writing, a good script and superb acting. At one point, I found myself gripping the arms of the chair tightly - as if on a roller-coaster.

Stunned, amazed, and perplexed by what we had seen, my wife and I stepped out of the DCA Cinema in Dundee. Blinking into the bright sunlight, we debated the film all the way home. Almost a week later, there are images from this film that seem almost burned into my memory. This is a really very, very good film.

Maspie Den

Beinn Mhanach

Ben Lui from Beinn Mhanach

Beinn Mhanach (pro-nounced byn vanach) is a Munro in the Bridge of Orchy group of hills. While the four main Munros in this group lie alongside the main A82 heading to Glen Coe, Beinn Mhanch sits hidden behind them, mostly out of sight. No-one calls this hill Orchy's hidden gem though - because 'hidden lump' would be a fairer assessment! The hill is a good few miles from the road, and is a large grassy elongated dome, lacking any distinct ridges or towering peaks. 

Beinn Mhanach has three attributes which attract walkers to its summit cairn. The first of these is the fact that it owns mythical Munro status, and so is compulsory for those who need to add ticking lists to their enjoyment of the hills. People like me, in other words! Secondly, it is a good physical challenge. The walk in is quite long and the climb from the floor of the glen to the top unrelentingly steep and hard going. The western end of the hill is in fact steep enough that the hill walking books warn against attempting a descent this way. The greatest thing about Beinn Mhanach though, is its location. The adjacent Glen Orchy hills, stretching from Ben Dorain to Beinn a'Chreachain are only the foreground of a massive mountain panorama.

There are two obvious routes towards this hill, the first is from Bridge of Orchy station, and over the bealach between Ben Dorain and Beinn and Dothaidh. This is the shortest route, but involves a lot of extra ascent. The other is to walk from the main road towards the farm at Auch, and on under the viaduct on the Crianlarich-Fort William arm of the West Highland Railway and then along the track along the Auch Achaid-innis Chaileinn which eventually reaches recently renovated farm buildings at Ais-an t-Sithean. This track fords the meandering Allt Kinglass river repeatedly, but crossing it was never a problem as it didn't reach the height of or boots. The SMC Munro book notes that when the fords are too deep, then the walker can continue up the glen by staying on the SE bank of the stream.

Once past the Ais-an t-Sithean farm buildings, the track bears round to the right, still climbing and reaches a gate, fence and weir system before descending towards the very end of Loch Lyon. At this watershed, there is a deep gully scarring the face of the hill, which leads to the lowest point on the broad ridge between the Munro summit of Beinn Mhanach at its lower top, Beinn a Chuirn. The ascent of the hill can be approached from either side of this gully. The left hand side is gentler, and reaches the summit plateau at its lowest point; but climbing on the right side of the gully (alongside a rusting iron fence) leads directly and steeply, towards the summit. We went up the steep way, and back the more gentle route.

The climb was exhausting! Although I had scraped ice off the car windscreen in Perth at 6:45AM, by 10:30AM. the sun was basting the mountains, the intense heat being held in almost completely still air. Thankfully in April we are still in the pre-midgie phase of the year! Shedding layer after layer, we made the summit, only to have a chill-wind take our temperature imbalance to the other extreme. With icy winds evaporating hot sweat from our faces, we felt our body temperature plummeting and changed in a few seconds from tropical to Arctic clothing!

The views from the top were quite amazing. Ben Lui (Beinn Laoigh) immediately draws the eye, as it is such a beautiful mountain, and is so pleasingly framed by the glen below. 

Westwards, Cruachan's shapely and majestic peaks, still snow-capped, glistened stunningly in the clear, crisp sunshine.  Northwards, the railway line across Rannoch Moor could be seen, along with the Laggan Hills. The Lawers group dominated the eastern view, while to the South the peaks which encircle the strange little village of Crianlarich, looked truly impressive.

The descent was hot and the ground quite slippery. The sun shone and heated up the grass which gave off a distinct odour - which reminded me of childhood. Once back at the head of the path, it is simply a long trudge back to the main road.

Final view of the Orchy Hills, in the wing mirror from an interminable traffic jam on the A82.

Falls of Braan

(click on image to enlarge it)

At The Hermitage, Dunkeld on the last day of the school holidays.

Romantic Seals

Applecross, Scotland.

(Click on image to view fullsize)

Book Notes: Thatcher Stole My Trousers by Alexei Sayle

"Thatcher Stole My Trousers" is the second part of Alexei Sayle's enormously entertaining memoirs, published this year as a follow-up to "Stalin Ate My Homework", which dealt with his early years. In many ways the books are quite similar, in that Sayle is a superb storyteller and raconteur whose style translates to the printed page with ease. He is effortlessly funny, and has lived the kind of extraordinary life which seems to generate more than its fair share of anecdotes which are improbable, ludicrous, and wonderful in equal turns. Like the first book, in Thatcher Stole My Trousers, Sayle is angry, Marxist, and foul-mouthed! But there are differences between the two books too.

While Stalin Ate My Homework, dealt primarily with Sayle's adventures growing up in Liverpool, and revolved around his complex relationship with his Stalinist, volatile, and almost unbelievable Mother, Molly Sayle; Thatcher..... moves on sees Sayle leave home, move to London and commence adult life. Both books have a central female character, and Molly makes way for Linda - who in the course of this book becomes his wife. While not as unhinged as his mother, Linda is clearly a force to be reckoned with! Here's a snapshot of Sayle's writing, roaming through family life, politics, the state of the economy, and all delivered in steely satirical prose.

"..... friends came up to Liverpool for the party when in 1974 Linda and I got married. We had decided to wed almost as an affectation. All the couples we knew were living together while marriage was considered to be old-fashioned and possibly fascist so we thought we'd be different. It was only slowly that as the date approached that we came to realise that marriage was a actually a huge commitment not to be taken lightly or done as a fashion statement. So by the time of the ceremony at the registry office in Brougham Terrace in Liverpool me and Linda were very solemn and a bit intimidated by the weight of the event. 

After the ceremony we, our parents, Linda's brother Jimmy and Chris Walker went to the Berni Inn in town for a steak lunch. Somebody, probably one of Linda's parents unsure of themselves in a restaurant, asked the waitress what she'd recommend for a suitable wine to accompany the low-quality beef, a badly burnt tomato and frozen peas. The woman, big and beefy herself, with a towering beehive hairdo, thought for a few moments and then replied, 'Well..... they say the rosé very good.'  

We wondered who exactly 'they' were. Perhaps, we thought, a group of worthies - philosophers, lawmakers, playwrights, and politicians who met in convocation to decide what was good and bad in the world, to pronounce accordingly and to ensure that life was free from upset. If that was the case then they'd clearly taken their eye off the ball recently because things seemed to be going to hell in a hand-cart. First of all there was the OAPEC oil embargo begun by the major oil-producing countries in response to American involvement in the Yom Kippur War between Israel, Egypt and Syria. The major victims were Canada, Japan, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom and the US. Flying and boating was banned on Sundays and the speed limit was reduced to fifty-six miles an hour, supposedly the most efficient speed to drive at but which meant that a trip to Liverpool took seven hours. Then there were the high rates of inflation so people's wages didn't keep pace with the cost of things meaning there were a lot of strikes and work-to-rules, culminating in the three-day week in which electricity was rationed to three days a week, so we had to buy our wedding clothes by candlelight. And to add to that there was a stock market crash when the FT 30 lost 73 per cent and a secondary banking crisis forced the Bank of England to bail out a number of lenders, so perhaps 'they' should have been thinking about other things than what wine went with substandard grilled meats in a cellar in North-West England.  

Linda moved her belongings into the horrible little flat in North Kensington. She did her best to try and cheer up the gloomy apartment but really it was impossible." (p89-90)

Much of the book concerns Sayle's various jobs, and the rise of his comedy career, beginning with some slightly odd sounding left-wing theatre and reviews (he apparently had a routine about Albania under Enva Hoxha); on to the Comedy Clubs he founded, and The Young Ones which made him a household name.

Coupled with this, is Sayle gradual disengagement with the political party of his youth, The Communist Party of Britain (Marxists-Lenininst). This Maoist party both was militantly communist enough to satisfy Sayle hard-left politics, but also anti-Stalinist enough to irritate his mother which seemed to make it his natural home. As this book develops however, Sayle grows increasingly wary of the intensely esoteric, dogmatic and theory-obsessed meetings of these groups - and slips out from their membership. His detachment from the CPB(M-L) seems natural and inevitable and not the great tumultuous crisis of faith that Mark Steel's exit from the Socialist Workers Party seems to have been. (which is documented in his book, What's Going On?) Rather, Sayle seems to be passionately aware of the faults, errors and corruption within capitalism - and certain a socialist alternative is credible; but bored by the ludicrous, pedantic theoretical dramas to which the far-left seem especially prone. When Linda explained that she'd never got a pension because she was sure that by the time she was old enough to need one, "Britain will inevitably be a socialist nation led by a vanguard party whose ideology is based on the teachings of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Mao Tse-Tung, and every worker will have all of their needs taken care of by the state." Sayle replied that he'd never got one because he was convinced that he'd be a famous comedian who could afford anything he wanted!

Whether he is covering British manufacturing, the rise of alternative comedy, his own career, Thatcher, Arab terrorists he has known (!), or his own absurd adventures - this book is genuinely funny and un-put-down-able. There are times when Sayle is exceptionally self-deprecating, but yet others in which he indulges in the kind of "See-I-told-you-so!" which is an essential element in any decent autobiography It's a heady mix of reminiscence, sentimentality, satire, comedy, social-history, and very angry ranting. You don't have to agree with all of Sayle's political or social views to enjoy this book either. If your palate is too delicate for swearing and communism, it'd might upset you; but with a story as good as this to tell, and a story-teller this good; what's not to enjoy?

Gleouraich

(iphone photo!)

My plan for the day was to drive home to Perth from Applecross, and climb a pair of Munros on the North side of Loch Quoich on the way. My plans did not go as expected however. Firstly, I was a little later leaving Applecross than I had hoped - and was always going to be racing to catch up. Secondly, I had great difficulty finding a shop that could sell me a compass, it took three or four attempts - which wasted more time. Then finally, I hit a really rough bit of road - and had a blow out in the car. I reached start of my walk feeling harassed!

The beginning of the track up Gleouraich is hidden amongst a dense patch of infernal rhododendrons. The estate on the Applecross peninsula are investing thousands of pounds in having their rhoddies removed, and burnt. Locals told me that these monstrous plants, which are so ubiquitous, were introduced into the Highland landscape by the Victorians. They presumably had no idea that their lovely flowering bushes would become such a menace. A small metal post marks the spot where a tiny, boggy  path leads through the bushes and out onto the open hill.

It's a remarkable path too, zig-zagging its way up the blunt nose of Sron a Chuillin, and up and over the top marked as Druim Saileach on the OS 1:25 000. The path abruptly ends at a small semi-circular stone wall underneath Gleouraich's steep sides, but although the formal path ceases, a upward stretching line of bootmarks indicates that most walkers continue on towards the summit. 

The climb here is steep, and in snowy conditions like those I had, exceptionally slippery. I was hoping from magnificent views from the ridge. The usually pessimistic Mountain Weather Information Service was suggesting a 90% chance of cloud free Munros, but alas it was not to be. I climbed up into the cloud and stayed there for the duration! The view did not reappear until my descent.

My plan to continue from the summit of Gleouraich along the ridge to Spidean Mialach were thwarted by the weather too. The edges around the summit were decorated with amazing cornices requiring careful navigation. The ongoing ridge looked a bit dicey too; and I was looking along it in two minds as to whether to go that way, when the snow started to fall heavily and visibility reduced to very little. It was obvious that as I was there on my own, it was time to retrace my steps (which as they were imprinted to clearly in the snow is meant literally).

The finest view of the day came along Loch Quioch from the track on this descent, once back under the cloud base. 

Once back at the car, I had to "limp" it home on one of those stupid half sized wheels that are limited to 50mph...... I'm sue losing 3cm of boot space would make up for this!?