LOSING YOURSELF ON LEWIS

Juggling a frantic schedule Cubby finds time to reminisce with old friends and fit in a trip to one of his favourite climbing venues, the Isle of Lewis.

"Dave - Rab". "The weather's getting better and we found some good new crags. You'll get some great photos and you can stay with me and Chrissy at the cottage. All it will cost is the price of a five day return foot passenger ticket which is about £22 and your fuel."

It had been a frantic weeks work and in a few days I was off to Greenland with the BBC. Can I squeeze it in? "It's up to you but I think it's a missed opportunity if you don't," Rab said rather antagonistically. "Okay, let's do it. I'll come over on the last crossing on Saturday night, leave my car in Ullapool and take the first crossing back early on Wednesday morning. I've arranged to take photos of Laurance Hughes at Ardmair on Wednesday, so that will fit in nicely."

There is a very special place in my heart for the climbing on Lewis. It's a sort of land that time forgot, a place to wind down, step back in time and the people are so friendly. The ferry leaves at 5.30pm, so given the tourist traffic on the road to Inverness, a 1pm departure from Ballachulish should give me a leisurely drive, even in the mighty Fiat Panda automatic.

My head was spinning with things to do and I had already been in and out of the house several times before I finally locked the door for what I hoped would be the last time. Then the phone rang, do I go back and pick it up, or do I go? Maybe it's an emergency, better pick it up. "How's it going Mahaggar?" (that's a Berwickian Geordie dialect meaning mate or friend, to you and me). "Calumn," I replied with both sincerity and surprise in my voice. "Davy Boy," said Calumn laughing. We were both laughing.

Calumn is a big bear, now married with a couple of kids and a full-time employee with Cann UK - the industrial access company. He was one of a group of hardcore lads from Berwick and the North East. They were all characters and still are, such as Alan "Smelly Melly" McMoist, Lee "Van Cleef" Clegg, Mark "The Animal" Charleton and Dino, whose father some of you might remember as Mr Muscle Man in the sixties. You might recognise some of their names in climbing, the Amazing Adventures of Smelly Melly McMoist, in Glen Nevis for example, or Ardanfreaky on Binnein Shuas.

They lived in Fort William for a couple of years, they were a wild lot and great fun. Despite their alcoholic nocturnal habits, they'd always be up for a days climbing, or a trip away at the drop of a hat. I admired their carefree attitude to life and they would never let a lack of money get in the way! But they also climbed to a respectable level, having been weaned in the "County" and influenced by the father figure of Northumberland sandstone - Bob Smith. Within a few years of starting climbing these lads were repeating and putting up grade VI's and the occasional grade VII in winter in the far north-west, the Gorms, Glencoe and the Ben. E3's and E4's on rock and classics in the Alps, such as the Sans Nom face on the Vert, the North faces of the Matterhorn, the Eiger and the Badile to name a few.

"There's a young lad working for me in Ireland. He's a bit of a climber Davy and he knew we'd climbed together on The Screaming Ab Dabs. It made me think of you so I thought I'd call for a chat. That was an outrageous route, what a brilliant trip, the best ever," continued Calumn, wallowing in nostalgia. "You know that was one of the best times of my life Davy Boy." I had to agree. "You'll never believe this Calumn but I'm just about to go to Lewi (as we called it). "I don't believe it, that's bizarre - really?"

In 1988, Calumn, Lee and myself spent a week on the sea cliffs of western Lewis. While Dawes and Pritchard were working on The Scoop on Stron Ulladale we were battling it out on the Screaming Ab Dabs. Secretly I always wanted to do the first free ascent of The Scoop but I couldn't find another Scottish climber to share it with but in retrospect the Screaming Ab Dabs was a climb of almost equal stature and it's harder. It was the middle of June. The days are very long and when we finished the climb the moon was rising big and bright over the north Atlantic. We knew it was late but we had no idea that it was one in the morning when we arrived back at the car.

We named that last pitch the Moonlight Cooler Pitch, which is a cocktail, in fact most of the routes we did that week were named after cocktails such as Singapore Sling, Moscow Mule and Suffering Bastard. They were named after Hugh McNicol (of Mountain Technology fame) who was right into making these weird and wonderful concoctions. I lived in Tigh Phuirst near Glencoe at that time in a place I called The Studio. So called because I taught myself to paint watercolours. Actually it was a converted garage that I rented from Paul Moores, sometimes known as The Sauvage Garage (said with a French accent). The lads would visit me there and recall tall tales of their latest cocktail experiences. "We're off to Hughies for cocktails," they would say and that would be the last I'd see of them for days!

When we did the first ascent of Screaming Ab Dabs, I had to use a point of aid so we returned later that morning to do it free. When we got back to the car the Buchanans were waiting to greet us. The Buchanans were an elderly retired couple, probably in their late 70s to early 80s who lived in the little hamlet of Mungersta. They had noticed the car on previous days and knew that we were climbing on the cliffs. When we didn't return until after midnight, they feared the worst. "Well now, how are you today boys? My God, it must have been a tough climb to be back so late...aye, it must have been tough," he said smiling to himself and evidently relieved to see us all in one piece. "Well now, you had better come in for some tea and biscuits."

Typical of many Lewis homes, the Buchanans were the proud owners of a modern built kit house. In the back garden, the grassed over remains of Lazy Beds paint a picture of a bygone generation, of crofting and of hardship. At the head of the Lazy Beds stood the ruins of another house, probably of 30s design and next to that, the original Black House had been converted into a garden shed. As we entered the living room, smoldering peat emitted a strong odour so evocative of Hebredian life. Within minutes Mrs Buchanan produced a tray full of homemade oatcakes, some thick slices of cheddar cheese and a pot of tea made with tea leaves. Proudly positioned on the wall above the fireplace hung a newspaper clipping and a photograph of Mr Buchanan. We all noticed it, for in the background there was a prominent sea stack - Duncan's Stack. The island folk have always had a close affinity with the cliffs, for at one time the people would climb the rocks to harvest birds and their eggs. So much so that their livelihood depended on their ability to climb.

Secretly, I suspected old Mr Buchanan fancied himself as a bit of a climber and in some way, I think he admired us. "The man from the Times took that picture," said Mr Buchanan proudly. "You see now, there's treasure hidden somewhere beneath Duncan's Stack and The Times man came up from London to do a piece for his magazine." Lee's eyes grew wider and wider at the thought of treasure. "What kind of treasure?" enquired Lee in his boyish Berwick accent. But Mr Buchanan refrained from comment and continued to tell his story of The Times man.

The stack is connected to the mainland by an easy but very exposed narrow ridge. Old Mr Buchanan talked of scurrying across this ridge and one conjures up images of a little mountain goat, while the man from The Times magazine froze in his tracks, took a few photos and said that will do. "Och aye, he was scared alright but nothing in the world would've got him across. It's nothing really but you know what these city folk are like," said Mr Buchanan sniggering to himself. "Well anyway, he sent me a copy, aye he did that, which was kind of the man," said Mr Buchanan, inhaling a short breath and cocking his head to one side.

By the time I had finished speaking to Calumn, it was getting late so I jumped into the mighty Fiat Panda Selecta and zoomed off with my heart in my mouth while overtaking Audis and BMWs. At Drumnadrochit, all the cars in front thankfully continued straight on for Inverness but a brand new red Porsche convertible Boxer turned off towards Ullapool. Following it up the long hill I waited until round the final bend where I knew there was a long downhill straight. Gravity is very important when overtaking in the Fiat Panda. On turning the bend I floored the accelerator and as usual nothing happened. Eventually the automatic "Fire" engine whined into top gear. I started to overtake, rocking backwards and forwards in my seat with anxiety, I could feel my heart racing and temperature rising but fortunately for me, the driver of the Porsche was dawdling along. He must have thought that I was some sort of super country boy racer out to burn him off, as I passed we glanced at each other. He, suave in appearance, with a blonde lady sitting next to him in the passenger seat, me with stressed Eric stamped on my forehead. But once passed, I never saw him again! I arrived in Ullapool mentally exhausted, parked the car and boarded The Lord of the Isles.

Rab picked me up in Stornoway and then we drove to Brenish, a journey of about an hour to near the road end south of Uig. It was a lovely little cottage with a big bay window where we could watch the sun setting over the Flannan Isles and the more distant St Kilda group. One of Rab's great qualities is his zest for life, his motivation and love of climbing. We downed some food, drank a beer or two and a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. "Right, lets go fishing." So there we were on our little rocky point, almost dark and reeling in Pollock and sea trout for tomorrow's dinner. A whisky, tales of the one that got away, plans for tomorrow and then bed.

Given that it was the best weather in two weeks, Rab and Chris kindly made space for a days photography and over the next day or two we even managed to squeeze in a couple of new routes on another Rab Crag X. Not a particularly big cliff but impeccable rock and as is often the case out there, the rising tides played havoc with attempts. I had to wait until a little short of midnight before a successful ascent of the harder of two fine routes was completed. It did bring a smile to my face though. Rab drove me to Stornoway where I let myself in to a B&B at one in the morning, having pre arranged for the key to be left. Tomorrow I would be off to Greenland.

Cubby
2/8/2001