A Day in the Hills
Gillian Whale
August in the early eighties. Early morning. Camping at Faskally. Poking my Head out of the tent. Rich earthy smell from the damp meadow and the river. Not a cloud in the sky after yesterday's rain. 'Right you lot. Ben Vrackie today. Sort yourselves out while I get breakfast.'
We were back in Scotland for the first time in eleven years. I was in seventh heaven at being in glorious Perthshire. Husband and kids, aged 11,14 and 16, had endured a long overcrowded journey in a packed car, two wet nights in fairly basic tents and two suppers of freeze dried curry. So far they were less impressed.
A Lancashire lass, I'd wandered the Lake District and North Wales in my teens and had hills and mountains in my blood. I had been bereft of rock and high ground since the children were small but the longing to be on top of somewhere had never left me. As I chivvied everyone to get going, my spirit was with my twelve-year-old self, on top of my first mountain, Coniston. The weather had been glorious, just like today and the view spanned much of the Lake District and the Lancashire coast. I remembered being almost in a trance, absorbing the sensations of rock, sky, hills and the world far below. I was made of the same stuff as the air and the earth. I was at one with it all. All those years ago my father sat down beside me, smiling to himself, saying nothing. I knew that he was feeling what I was feeling and that we were sharing a gift.
My husband is a Londoner and more at home in cities than the great outdoors. For most of the children's' upbringing we had lived and worked on the Jurassic plains of Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire and spent our holidays in the south. They were all flatlanders. This was to be their first real mountain.
I have read that Ben Vrackie is now a busy mountain but on that hot August day I don't remember meeting another soul. Middle Child was at that stage where family outings are to be endured, certainly not enjoyed. He set off silently and forged ahead all morning, careful to keep just out of sight. He occasionally let us catch up with him, grumbled and grunted, mocked our slow progress, then disappeared again into the distance. The others puffed, sweated and muttered. They thought a rocky outcrop on the way up was our goal and were not amused when I pointed out the summit on the map and in the far distance. However, as we climbed, a sense of achievement and the beauty of the day and the mountain began to take over. When we finally flopped down at the top they were triumphant. Middle Child was waiting there, wearing that air of disdain peculiar to teenage boys. We sat by the cairn and ate apples and handfuls of crunchy cereal out of the box. I'd intended to buy cereal bars but had picked up the wrong packet!
It was a perfect day to be on the top of any mountain but especially one with such a view. We were centre stage. Before us the river Garry sparkled away southwards saying farewell to the Highlands. From west to east behind us stretched the complicated crumpled terrain that makes up the southern end of the Highlands. To the east, Schehallion and Loch Rannoch, past the bulk of the Grampians then west to the firth of Tay. We spread out the map and named as much as we could, choking on the Gaelic place names.
I walked away a little and sat alone. Over by the cairn, the others whooped and laughed and chattered; elated and exhilarated. I was alight with relief that they were all finally enjoying themselves. The pure joy of being in a high place filled me once again. A sense of light and rock and air and connectedness. Then my middle child sat down by me, silent, eyes shining, breathing quietly, sharing the moment and the emotions. A gift had passed to another generation.
