The Corrieyairak Pass - a memorable trek

Hugh Reekie

The tent flap opened and a quiet voice announced 'Cocoa and shaving water, sir!' It was 6 am on an overcast August morning in 1958. A camp for boys from Manchester were staying overnight at Meall Garbh, a shepherd's cottage just north of Loch Laggan. The forty boys and four schoolteachers had alighted from the train at Dalwhinnie just a few days before. The previous night's camp had been on the shores of Loch Laggan, within a stone's throw of a Victorian Mansion - that was to become the set for 'Monarch of the Glen'.

Within minutes, all the boys were rushing around, striking camp and queuing for their breakfast - porridge, bread and coffee. The protein was bacon and 'scregg': it was supposed to be scrambled eggs, but those on cooking duty had a nasty habit of creating strange concoctions, often with burnt portions, that could not justify the proper description; so, scregg it was.

By 8am, a long line of walkers was making its way up the glen, towards the Corrieyairak Pass. I was one of 5 boys assigned to the leader's tent. This particular teacher travelled the Scottish Highlands in his Black Watch kilt; he was proud of his military connections, and during the late evenings would mention, at great length, the exploits of Bonnie Prince Charlie, Butcher Cumberland and General Wade. It was a strange, but interesting, introduction to Scots history.

The sun came out as the steep climb started. We were well along General Wade's Military Road, built to diminish the possibility of clan insurrection soon after the '45; it has a zig-zag configuration in the steeper parts, The teachers were not amused when some walkers (me included) elected a shorter route by climbing straight up the mountainside. The carefully laid stones in the side gullys - and stone-arch bridges over the rushing mountain streams - reduced the possibility that the road would be washed out with a flood. It was truly a fine piece of civil engineering.

By the time of our lunch rest-stop, our climbing was finished. Many of the boys were following their individual pursuits - like bird-watching, butterfly catching or investigating the rock strata. My interest was maps, and I had one-inch maps for the full 3-week 300-mile holiday. It was a Trek rather than a Camp, with about 20 miles of travel on most days. Our final destination was Red Point near Gairloch, overlooking Raasay.

During the afternoon it was an easy walk down Glen Nevis, with the sun shining strongly through the trees. It was a pleasant change to be walking along a clearly marked path, with some shelter from the wind. We were overtaken by some climbers who were coming off Ben Nevis. As some schoolboys were only 12 years old, our pace had to be set to accommodate them and each of us carried a fully-loaded 25lb rucksack. Our night's campsite, at Fort William, was within a few minutes of the local shop; all our campsites were pre-booked, but none were 'campgrounds' as such, and access to available wood for our stone-built camp fire was very necessary.

During our dinner - mash, mince and carrots - many in the camp obtained permission to attend a Ceilidh which was, by chance, to take place that evening in the local hall. After the singing, highland dancing and pipe music, some of us were chatting to the performers during the half-time intermission.

'Can you do the highland fling?' I was asked; this was not too strange a question, as I was wearing a Maxwell tartan kilt. 'Yes' was the surprise response to the local enquirer. 'Is that so? Can ye dance for us then, jist afore the finale?' was the request. My friend Tom, who had persuaded me to go on this Scottish trek, was also a Scottish dancer, and I did not wish to perform alone; so with some arm-twisting he agreed to dance as well, and the loan of a kilt for him was arranged. The selected teenage girl, who lent Tom her kilt, was obliged to watch the performance from the wings - with a towel wrapped around her waist!

The concert continued with some 'Peurt a Beuil' the mouth music of the Gaelic highlands. As the evening drew on, many in the audience were surprised when there was an announcement 'Two Boy Scouts from Manchester will now dance the Highland Fling'. With a bagpipe introduction, we were off. As we finished with a bow, there was much foot-stamping and cheering from many sections of the audience, but especially from our own group in the back row.

We weren't Boy Scouts; we were just a bunch of schoolboys who were determined to make the most of our summer holiday. I recall that, after persuading my father to provide the funds required, I had spent a week going to school in my new hiking boots. It was explained to us that boots had to be 'broken in' and methylated spirits was to be used to 'harden up' the skin on our heels, to reduce the possibility of blisters.

There was much singing and a few ribald comments as our 'Ceilidh Party' walked back to camp, arriving just in time for our 10pm curfew. I hoped that my tired legs would be able to carry my rucksack the next morning. It had been a very memorable day.