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It's probably not too much of an exaggeration to say that the major
reason Scottish mountain climbing acquired such a romantic cachet
in the post-war era was Bill Murray's famous book of flowery reminiscence:
Mountaineering in Scotland. What Walter Scott's novels did
for Scotland's image in general, you could argue that Murray's tome
did for Scottish climbing, in that he created an enduring mythology
which, to many people, came to seem more real than the actual mountains
or climbs he was writing about.
Published in 1947 it detailed an heroic era in the late 1930s when
Murray, along with other young well-to-do Glasgow accomplices, wrested
Scottish climbing from the moribund clutches of the crusty inter-war
Scottish Mountaineering Club and projected it to new heights of
difficulty. The highlights of Murray's climbing career include the
breakthrough winter climbs of Garrick's Shelf (IV,4; 1937)
on Buachaille Etive Mor, Deep Cut Chimney (IV, 4; 1939) on
Stob Coire nam Beith and Twisting Gully (III, 4; 1946) on
Stob Coire nan Lochan, while in summer he and his companions made
the first ascent of Clachaig Gully (Severe) as well as repeats
of the hardest rock routes of the day on Ben Nevis. The influx of
new working-class talent into the post-war Scottish climbing scene,
however, meant that Murray's and his friends' reign as elite climbers
was short-lived, and the technical standards they had set in the
late 30s were rapidly superseded by the early 1950s.
However, at the same time as Murray's climbing star was on the
wane, his wider influence was just beginning, thanks to the publication
of Mountaineering in Scotland (written while incarcerated
as a Prisoner-of-War), followed four years later by Undiscovered
Scotland. These books, written from an earnestly passionate
personal viewpoint, with an intensity unprecedented in climbing
writing, were phenomenally successful and continue to be avidly
read to this day. Murray's writing style was heavily influenced
by a homespun mysticism which lends a mesmerising metaphysical other-worldliness
to his accounts of the inter- and post-war climbing scene in the
Highlands.
His romanticised view of winter climbing as a 'Tournament on Ice',
and his meditative essays on the emotional power of landscape such
as 'The Evidence of Things Not Seen', inspired many to regard the
Scottish cliffs and hills almost as sacred, magical places, imbued
with hidden meaning which could partly be decoded by the very act
of climbing. After finishing a route on Ben Nevis for example,
"We seemed to tread air... we were light of foot; we walked like
demi-gods in joyous serenity. The intensity of our exaltation seems
peculiar to the following of a great rock-climb to a climax of supreme
beauty."
In the immediate aftermath of a world war which had devastated
Europe, such quasi-religious metaphors for the healing power of
the Scottish mountains resonated with readers battered by half a
decade of attrition and austerity.
Inevitably, Murray's combination of emotionally attenuated and
over-the-top description fell somewhat from favour in the cynical
1960s & 70s when he was derided by a new generation as a hopeless
romantic. With the distance of time however, and the advent of post-modern
ironic attitudes, it's no longer uncool to admit enjoying Murray's
overblown prose. Later generations have taken to his two great books
in the same way that they might appreciate an enjoyably cheesy classic
black & white movie on a drizzly Sunday afternoon. Murray's unabashed
wallowings in the spiritual communion he feels with the Highlands
may exude the charm and innocence of another era but it's a style
which still has the power to move many readers.
Until now, the story of the man behind the books remained vague,
partly because Murray preferred to lead a quiet, isolated life in
his home on the Argyllshire coast. He had, nevertheless, been working
on an autobiography at the time of his death in 1996. The partly
finished manuscript lay untouched until publisher Ken Wilson sought
permission from Murray's wife Anne to perform an act of literary
salvage, resulting in this fascinating insight into Scotland's most
influential climbing writer.
Although it was well known that Murray commenced writing Mountaineering
in Scotland on a toilet roll while a Prisoner-of-War (and that
the Gestapo confiscated his first draft - necessitating a start
from scratch all over again) little was known of the details. Murray's
autobiography makes it clear he began writing his famous book of
climbing reminiscence as a kind of internalised escape from military
incarceration.
Indeed, there is a strong sense that Murray actually liked being
in prison - he clearly relished the discipline of a regular routine,
and lots of free time for meditation, reading and writing free from
distraction. Murray's latent spiritual leanings were also strengthened
during his imprisonment by his encounter with a fellow PoW (Herbert
Buck of the Indian Army) who encouraged him to meditate. The influence
of this encounter explains the mysticism which characterises large
parts of Mountaineering in Scotland.
After the war such was Murray's apparent institutionalisation that
he gave up his job at a bank to try life as a monk. Perhaps appropriately
(in view of many Glaswegian climbers' later predilection for its
fortified wine), he picked Buckfast Abbey in Devon for a trial period.
An unwillingness to accept the concept of Papal infallibility demanded
by the Benedictine establishment, together with a longing for the
spiritual energy he found by climbing mountains, ended the experiment
after six months.
One suspects Murray's particular brand of mysticism would have
been better lent to a Buddhist establishment on the slopes of Everest
than a Catholic monastery in southern England. He returned to Scotland
to discover his own personal retreat on the shores of Loch Goil.
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WH Murray. The Evidence of Things Not Seen, a mountaineer's
tale is published by Baton Wicks 
