2025 was quite a year! Graduating uni, climbing on the Basso thrice, (and reaching the top this time), and walking 500 miles across the Alps, lots was done, and it’s nice to look back at some of the best moments!

So many moments were on the Rock with good friends: Noah on Spigolo Fox, Ben and Dylan on Diedro Armani, Robbie on Dream of White Horses, and Santi on Lewis sea cliffs, but for me, the highlights again come down to nights spent in the mountains.

Here are my favourite camps of the year!

Camp Ibex

This first one was on Day 4 of my big walk. I was finding the first week really tough – I was overwhelmed by the challenge ahead of me! This day marked a real change in the walk – prioritising enjoyment rather than just getting to the end, drinking coffee, making a nice lunch, and nearly dying of thirst on the 2000m climb straight up from the valley after lunch. I reached the pass exhausted but euphoric and had a brief swim in the lake before settling down to watch Ibex fight for the top spot on the cliff opposite. Bliss.

Goatfell

In March, I walked the Glen Rosa skyline and camped at the top of Goatfell. It was a beautiful night, and the way the clouds moved over the hills opposite was one of those euphoric mountain moments that makes your stomach feel knotted with excitement, joy, and awe. It was made all the better by the fact that I’d been walking in the rain all day, so as the rain cleared and I reached my camp, it truly was special!

Great Lakes Camp

Mountain Perfection – there is no other way to describe this day. A beautiful ridgeline with stunning views of Lake Maggorie and a manic and insane level of happiness as I wandered across the broad shoulder. I reached the final summit laughing like a madman, looking across the entire Alps stretching on for miles and miles. I was King of my own world – my own wandering, stinky, slightly insane world.

Garbh Corrie Mor

A cup of tea in a remote hut in my favourite place in Scotland. Listening to The Lord of the Rings, relaxing in a state of pure bliss. Perfection? Pretty dam close.

Segantini

It feels wrong to include a Rifugio in the list – but this morning says it all. We went to climb a rarely repeated route staying at the Rifugio Segantini, but that didn’t quite go to plan. Luckily, the early start felt all worth it – we walked in above a sea of clouds, and it was one of those mornings which make you feel alive in a way only the mountains can.

What a day to be alive…

The Isle of Rum

10 of my favourite people, a Scottish Island, a wonderful bothy, a mighty fissure, and some of the best hills in the country. Rum was a dream and one of my favourite mountain moments of the year.

We spent the evening cooking chorizo pasta, running from hordes of midges, and just laughing about life. A really special night in the hills.

So…those are my favourite camps of the year. I spent so much time in the hills this year, and I feel immensely fortunate. Despite spending all this time in the mountains, my awe and love for them has only increased, and each day I spend on the hils brings a deep appriciation for the incredible wild spaces that surround us.

What does 2026 hold? It’s hard to say…I’ll need to do a lot of climbing in the UK working towards my MCI, and I’ll certainly try to get in another long walk (currently looking at Atlantic-Mediterranean over the Pyrenees). Most of all, I’ll try to spend as much time in wild places with good pals, after all, that is what life is about.

It’s funny how everyone relates to mountains differently. For many, the Cairngorms are not special hills; for many of my friends, in fact, they are the opposite. Round grassy lumps: uninteresting, boring, and frankly a disappointment compared to the craggy hills of Glencoe or the mighty Torridon peaks. I, of course, see things differently. From the first time I set foot on the plateau when I was 15, I fell in love.

It’s hard to quantify what makes the Cairngorms feel like a special place to me. Some of my love, no doubt, is sentimental. Time and time again, the Plateau has been a place I can go to find clarity. Despite its brutality, I always feel like I’m amongst an old friend in these hills. Each contour line I walk along holds memories of days, people, friendships, and love. The valleys here doubtlessly remind me of some of the things I have lost, but they remind me so much more of what I still have. The permanence of the plateau, despite changes in my own life, creates a place I can always go back to, measure my progress against, and feel at home in.

The Feith Buhdie, Loch A’nn, Hutchies, and Garbh Corrie. All these places bring me back to some of the happiest days of my life: that first night on the Plateau with my Dad when I was a teenager, topping out of the Needle on Shelterstone, sitting in the Garbh Corrie Refuge on an early morning, hiding from the squalls of snow and rain. The bothy nights, the hitches from Aviemore to the ski-centre, searching for a lost ice axe in the dark. They have become a place where I can go to find peace.

I think the vastness of the Plateaus gives one a freedom few that the ridges of the West rarely grant: the Cairngorms invite the wanderer to wander, to explore each nook and cranie. The walker who leaves the path is rewarded richly with peaceful and deserted valleys, small lochans to take shelter by, and genuine peace and tranquillity. Perhaps this is why, to the Munro Bagger, the Plateau is uninteresting, for if you only walk upon the highways of the munroist, the hills are, indeed, lacking.

Beyond the Plateau, the valleys too, are wild. Looking out upon Rannoch Moor from the Buchallie, it can feel like looking out upon a wasteland – a graveyard of the forest that was. You hear the scream of the A82, see the tour buses pulling into laybys, and feel an awful lot less isolated than one might hope. The lowlands of the Plateau are, for the most part, wild. Re-wilded Glens like Glen Derry and Glen Feshie are symbols of hope for environmentalists, with some of the most promising regeneration of the natural Caledonian pine-forests. To wander through these glens feels like stepping back in time, to what Scotland was like, and to what Scotland should be.

These deep valleys feel wild too – as wild in places as the Plateau above. To me, the mountain extends beyond the tops, and the feel and experience of the valley is just as important, after all, it is the valley you will be confined to in a storm. I always imagine all the wildlife amongst these woodland valleys, think of the birds, the Pine Martins, the Reindeer, all roaming through the same woodland that I wander through. I dream of being amongst other creatures too: the Lynx, the Bear.

To those who see the Plateau as boring, I invite you to reconsider. Wander amongst these wonderful hills, and I have no doubt that they will reward you richly for your efforts.

It was late at night when I plotted the route. I’d just gotten back from the Cairngorms (my default weekend destination) and had uni the next day. I wanted to escape, escape from studying, from the city, from the stressed-out, urban version of myself. Find peace in the mountains and live day after day walking between beautiful places!

My idea was to walk between my three favourite mountain ranges in the Alps, Monte Bianco, Val Di Mello, and of course, my beloved Adamello-Brenta. Quickly clicking between these places revealed that it would link together some spectacular mountain scenery: the Matterhorn, Monte Rosa, Val Grande, the Orobie Alps. These were all places I’d dreamed of seeing, but never made time for – what better way to see them all then on one long walk! I was reading the excellent “Earth Beneath my Feet” at the time and Andrew’s fantastic writing gave me the inspiration to commit to this plan. I’d been umming and arring about a walk in the summer for some time, but progressively it was shrinking in length as I made other plans. I decided now, this was something I really wanted to do and blocked out the time for it.

And I’m really bloody glad I did. It’s probably been the best thing I’ve ever done. Of course, there were difficult and low moments, times when I really wanted a warm bed and dry clothes, and worst of all, a nasty bug just one week in! I felt worse than I had in years, it was boiling hot, and I was overwhelmed at the scale of the challenge – a cocktail of misfortune! This brought me to the low point of the whole trip, but it was a KEY part of the experience: the process of being miserable and then moving through and not giving up gave me confidence for the rest of the trip!

By the end, I came to realise that these uncomfortable moments highlighted the best moments of the trip: the warmth of the bivuacco or rifugio would never feel as good if you weren’t soaked to the skin from walking in the rain, that first water source after you’d run out would never be as appreciated if you weren’t hot and thirsty.

This mindset was a liberating change from climbing trips, where bad weather means you’re probably just sitting in a soggy campsite. As climbers, we tend to “fight” the weather, trying to force our own plans and principles upon the mountains. Of course, the mountain doesn’t care, and thus, often it ends in disappointment. The mindset of a long-distance hiker is different: you need to move through the heat, rain, hail, and snow. I learned to accept what the mountain gave me, appreciate it, and adapt my plans to the environment. More than ever, I developed a “oneness” with the mountains (hippie-dippie shit maybe?), and it was a wonderful feeling!

I really want to write detailed reports for each section, more for myself so the memory remains strong than for the few folk who read this blog! Nevertheless, I suspect many people won’t be that interested – so this post is a bit of a TLDR! I’ve attached some photos and told the story without too many of my mountain ramblings.

A Photo Journal

The walk started in Courmayeur. I was a mixture of absolutely terrified and overjoyed at the prospect of the journey to come!

The first day, I wandered along the Tour du Mont Blanc. It was busy, but remarkably well graded – you could ride a road bike along much of it!

The first night, I pitched looking at the Gran Jorasse. I was tired after the first day, and still feeling a bit overwhelmed!

In the next couple of days, I passed over countless beautiful passes, eventually reaching CAI Piana, a nice campsite with some really friendly young folk running it. However, psychologically, I was struggling: physically, the days were wearing me out more than I had anticipated, and I still had hundreds and hundreds of miles to go. I’d become too focused on getting the days done and existing on a tight budget: not eating enough food and spending far too much time looking at the watch!

That evening, an unexpeected phone call with Charlie cheered me up a lot. Then, I came across this wonderful post by Chris Townsend. I remembered that I was doing the walk to be in the mountains day after day, not to GET to the Brenta. Emphasis had to be on enjoying each individual day. I learned for me the KEY to long-distance walking: if each day, as much as possible, is a pleasure, the miles will take care of themselves.

The next day, I set off in good spirits and immediately got coffee and a croissant in a bar, followed by buying more food in the supermarket! As I plodded up the valley, I was amazed by the beauty, I was enjoying it again and reached a state of near bliss! Concerningly, the river was entirely dry, so I ended up having to climb 2000m straight out of the valley and over again to find water! Nevertheless I was in a blissful mood. The first psychological barrier of the walk ahd been overcome.

That night, I camped and almost cried for joy! The mountains offer rewards that nothing else can.

The next few days were social, walking with some lovely Italians who lived locally! The miles went easily and eventually I reached Val Tourneche.

Here, I was struck down by a nasty bug. It was desperately hot, I was feeling terrible, and once again felt overwhelmed by the scale of the challenge. This was the low point of the entire trip, and after yielding to an expensive hotel and having two complete rest days, I was concerned about the lost time and feeling the self-doubt once again.

As soon as I started walking again, this heavy doubt was replaced with confidence. The mountains were reminding me to focus on the present.

Reaching Alagna Valessia took 3 days, all along the Tour du Monte Rosa. The views were beautiful, but the crowds and cable-cars diminished the experience a little for me! Nevertheless, I began to find the rhythm, and each day the walking was becoming easier.

In Alagna, I decided to make the first major route change to go to a bivouac that I saw a photo of that looked nice, meaning I’d walk through an entirely different valley and set of mountains! It was rather fantastic!

Then I had to walk through the valley for a few days near roads, but rarely on them. I enjoyed the change from harsh mountain walking. Soon, I reached Val Grande, the last wilderness of the Alps.

I walked up to Alpe-Colma bivouac and planned to wait out a big storm there. The storm never really came, and a forecast told me it was going to hit tomorrow instead! At two o’clock on my rest day, I decided to try and walk the 1.5 hours to the next bivouac so I could get over the pass and down to town the following day.

Of course, the rain hit hard about 40 minutes from the bivouac. This is where I had the first taste of the “long-distance walker insane euphoria”. In the rain, perhaps the heaviest rain I’ve ever experienced, loud thunder, through a dark forest, I was in fits of laughter, singing away. The hikers who I later realised were just a few hundred metres ahead of me would have heard “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” about ten times, “Because he Lives” a fair few, and my own attempt at Lord of the Rings style walking songs too! I’d truly gone insane.

The bothy that night was cosy and warm. I lit a candle and relished the gentle candlelight, listened to an audiobook, and felt utterly at peace. I was beyond happy!

Leaving Val Grande marked the start of the “Inbetween” stretch, a week to ten days along the Great Lakes. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I was wrong!

The first day involved spectacular ridge walking to reach a summit, Pizzo Ruscada. Here, I stood atop the summit and experienced true mountain euphoria. The whole world stretched beneath my feet: I could see Val Grande, Monte Rosa, Lake Maggiore, and many distant peaks in Switzerland. I screamed and laughed like a delighted madman: a king in my own transient world. In bliss, I sang all the way to camp.

That night in camp, too, was fine, although there was an excess of ticks! A storm raged overnight, and intense thunder woke me; however, the morning brought great rewards and a fantastic view.

Lorcarno was a strange section of the walk. It felt unusual backpacking through such an urban environment. Largely, the walking was on pleasant paths, and I had a fantastic time! There was only 1 short section of road walking which I didn’t enjoy!

Aiming for Lake Como next, I crossed a short range of mountains. A “haunted” wild camp (strange voices, footsteps, and yet nothing outside the tent…) led to the hardest day of walking! On paper, being a mere 10km, I thought it would take 3-4 hours and be pretty restful! Alas, it took 10! The ground was brutally rough, scrambly, and overgrown. There were lots of ascents, and it exhausted me! I reached a small bivouac and conked out!

I was gifted a beautiful inversion the next morning, and I relished the beauty!

I spent two days waiting by Lake Como for the rain! I was bought a pizza by Marcus, a fantastically kind German! I’d tried to get into the mountains on the second day, but the access to the valley was entirely blocked by landslides!

After some serious re-routing, I walked towards a small bivouac! It was busy: one of the things I learned about Italian outdoor culture is that generally, people go to the mountains in BIG groups! You rarely see a group of 10-15 folk in the UK who aren’t on some sort of organised event, but it’s commonplace in Italy!

Here, I enjoyed a spectacular sunset, relishing the final views of Monte Rosa!

Next, I went over towards Rifugio Omio and Val di Mello. The pass I went over was enjoyably technical, but already a bit of snow was hanging about on the shady Northern side. With lots more rain due in the next couple of days, I yielded to a low route to reach Sondrio.

By now, I’d learned that low routes don’t mean bad routes. I ended up on a “wine trail” that took me through beautiful villages, offering wonderful walking experiences. It felt like a fantastic “holiday” for a few days: good food, easy miles, and a couple of nights in beds.

From Sondrio I entered the Orobie. As I walked towards Lago Venina, I had a conversation with a kind man, Achillie. Later, he drove up and brought me some pears. He was one of the nicest people I met on the entire walk!

The camp was wonderful, but cold. I felt very relaxed.

The next couple of days in the Orobie were sociable (once I joined one of the main hiking trails on the southern side of the range), but the ground was tough, and the weather was awful. Now, rifugios costing only €15, I opted to spend nights inside rather than in my tent in the storms.

The Orobie was some of the roughest and most difficult walking. The path was constantly exposed, so any slip would be serious, and the amount of climbing was frankly ridiculous. Nevertheless, upon reaching Rifugio Curo, I was completely enamoured with the challenge of the walking: it felt like a proper adventure, especially in the poor autumn weather.

I headed back North over the main ridge of the Orobie to reach Aprica, where a semi-rest day followed, walking 15km or so down the valley to Edolo.

From Edolo, I reached Rifugio Gnutti. A wonderful sociable night here followed, talking to two German lads, a mountain guide, and getting some free cake from one of the nicest Rifugio managers I’ve ever met! Somehow, he remembered me from last year even though I’d just looked around without buying anything!

Following the route of my Adamello Circuit, I reached Val di Fumo over a couple of days, with a bit more free cake along the way! The weather was truly awful, and my lightweight waterproofs were struggling to fend off the driving, driving rain.

Reaching Rifugio Care Alto was remarkably pleasant! Beautiful autumn colours and the sun made the walking feel easy!

I stayed in Rifugio Care Alto, making a trip up to the glacier and the old WW1 cannon too! The sunrise was beautiful.

I followed the Sentiero Pace to Pinzolo and then Camping FAE. A final excursion into the Dolomiti di Brenta would end my trip. I walked up through Val Brenta to Rifugio Brentei and camped beneath the mighty Crozzion di Brenta. It rained, but I didn’t mind. It felt fitting that such an epic adventure should end with some discomfort.

I woke to rain again the next day, feeling sad to be leaving the mountains. As I walked from Brentei, the Mountain gifted me one last reward for my struggle.

I reached Campiglio, got a pizza, and that was the end of it! It felt surreal to finally put down the backpack and realise that I wouldn’t be walking through the Brenta and onto the next mountain range. I was not glad to be finishing: I’d fallen completely in love with the simplicity of this lifestyle. For 41 days, my world had been reduced to the contents of a backpack; I’d spent nearly every minute outside. I’d seen so many views, seen so much wildlife, and felt so connected to the seasons and fallen hard for long-distance backpacking.

With just a few days before Ben and Dylan arrived in the Dolomites to go climbing, I thought I’d slow down and spend a peaceful night in a bivuacco – basically an Italian bothy. I had a very peaceful night in a lonely and quiet part of the Brenta – a real treat! Nothing eventful happened – hence there isn’t really much to write about, but I thought I’d add some photos here.

We’d been on the boat for hours, maybe even days. The rough sea threw the tiny Sheerwater around easily: we’d rise to the crest of one wave before slamming down the rear violently, the engine cutting out. Often, we’d rock to one side, until the fabric window of the boat’s side was nearly in the water; I could see Poseidon himself looking straight at me, and I cowered. Surely we’d never make it to Rum? We hadn’t even reached Eigg…why doesn’t the mighty Calmac ferry sail on a Thursday? This small boat was surely inadequate for such a rough sea.

My companions, too, were unhappy. Ailsa and Nina both looked a little sick, but Jenny and Anisha were green. Santi was fine, eating a bacon sandwich and happily trotting around the rocking boat – I assumed he’d bribed Poseidon by sacrificing something to the sea, perhaps an old friend on a past trip. Maybe he’d do the same to one of us – to guarantee himself safe, sea-sick free passage for eternity. I tightened my grip on the barriers just in case! I wasn’t feeling too sick, but the rough sea terrified me – give me a bold trad route any day!

So…how did this terrible Sheerwater experience begin? Well, every year after exams folk in the mountaineering club go on a road trip around Scotland. This year, dinner meet was on Canna, and given a drizzily forecast, we decided to spend a few days on Rum before this. Normally, you reach Rum using a trustworthy Calamac: a mighty boat that is at ease even in the roughest seas, but alas, it does not sail to Rum on Thursday. We were doomed to a small boat sailing from Arisaig, which was surely barely sea-worthy. The journey was unpleasant, as I’ve described, and we were all heartbroken upon realising that Eigg was not our final destination. The boat continued on, initially through sheltered water, before one final half an hour stretch in violent seas. It felt endless.

At last, we arrived on Rum. The rain stopped too – and we enjoyed some sun. Tents were dried, lunch was eaten, and jalapeno jars were smashed. A fine rest after the traumatic morning sail.

We were heading for Dibidil bothy tonight, to do the Rum Cullin tomorrow. The walk to the bothy was magnificent, with views across to Eigg and up to the stunning mountains of the island.

After a swim, we reached the bothy and it was stunning (although very midgey). After seeing a large spider, I opted to pitch my tent outside, but I was glad for the shelter from the midges as I ate dinner (cooked excellently by Anisha and Jenny!). Chorizo and an ungodly amount of vegetables mixed with tomato sauce had never tasted so good!

Better than dinner was the FISSURE next to the bothy! I adopted an alternate personality, Bethyl, the elderly woman with many ex-husbands. Naturally, all ex-husbands would end up down the fissure, doomed for an eternity with Steven, the worst of all the ex-husbands. It had taken just 2 days, and I’d already lost my mind!

After a good rest, we had some quick breakfast and began the long slog up to Ainshval! It was hot, the grass was full of tics, but the views were stunning! I was overjoyed!

The connecting ridge between the subsidiary Sgurr Nan Gillean and Ashival was stunning, with occasional breaks in the cloud revealing the stunning bowl we were in! Rum was proving to be utterly majestic!

Lunch was enjoyed on top of Ashival and we continued on towards Trollaval. Initially, we went the wrong way, sticking too closely to the crest of the ridge, but a short downclimb masterfully located by Santi corrected us, and we made progress towards a stunning saddle.

A short rest was had here before tackling the climb to Trollaval. This proved to be a steep and enjoyable scramble in places, and the narrow ridge at the top was joyous!

A big climb led us up to Askival, where we enjoyed a stunning view and a few snacks!

A short but enjoyable ridge led to the final summit of the day, Hallival.

From Hallival, we descended to a saddle where I realised we’d been carrying a green-grocer’s worth of vegetables over all these hills. Anisha and Jenny produced packs of mushrooms, multiple onions, many, many peppers, TWO BLOODY CORGETTES, and OLIVE OIL! I was shocked, outraged and felt like any of my lighthearted roots had been betrayed. Is this what socialising in the mountains does? Turns you into some sort of vegetable porter?! One vegetable a week is all you need in the hills, and I have it on good authority that Chorizo is basically a tasty carrot, so that counts too 😉

After an admittedly delicious dinner, we had a quick dip before reaching Kinloch again, where we camped in the grounds of the castle and got midged horrendously.

All in all, an excellent trip that made for a great start to the Road Trip! The weather improved, and we went to Skye, then Lewis and got loads of climbing in! But Rum, at the end of the day, was the highlight for me, and it’s somewhere I really want to go back to to explore with more time and fewer vegetables…perhaps a walk around the island will need to be done sooner rather than later!

And best of all, any further sailing was done on a mighty CALMAC! The sea was smooth and we travelled in luxury.

University is finished. The weather is good. Extestential crisis? Brewing. There are few better ways to avoid existentialism than a long walk in the mountains. I packed 5 days of food and headed out for a long walk with no real objectives other than to explore parts of the Cairngorms I haven’t been to before.

I got the familiar M90 bus up to Aviemore and after a quick lunch, the Cairngorm Explorer bus up to the ski centre. As I walked up to 1141, the familiar feeling of peace washed over me – I would not see a road again for some time and I could totally immerse myself in the mountains.

A short walk brought me to a spectacular camp spot beneath shelterstone crag – a wonderful climbing venue. I spent the evening reading and even went for a freezing dip in Loch Avon.

After a good sleep, I woke to wonderful golden light over Shelterstone. It was stunning – awe-inspiring in a way that’s hard to describe. The sense of space and enormity in this basin is in my eyes, almost unique in the UK, and perhaps can only be found elsewhere in Corrie nan Ciste on the Ben -but that feels less remote, busier and to me less special. On this morning, I felt as though I’d already found what I was seeking on this trip – true mountain beauty. To cook breakfast and have a cup of porridge with this view above was really wonderful and brought much joy.

The walk along the shores of Loch Avon itself was beautiful. I couldn’t stop looking back and as I reached the head of the loch, I went for a swim.

The rest of the walk to Faindoran lodge was a little boring – I felt as though I was leaving the mountains behind a bit and truthfully, I was. It needed to be done though to reach the sprawling Ben Avon plateau – one of the largest areas of “wilderness” in Scotland.

I broke up the journey with a short lunch stop in the bothy and by listening to some audiobooks. I began to see tors in the distance on a spur leading to the summit of Loch Avon – I decided to walk via these to the summit of Ben Avon.

After crossing a rickety ridge, the climb began, and it was hard work – with no path to follow and deep heather, each metre felt like ten. I knew it was worth it though – the struggle would only mean the rewards would be greater.

And greater they were. As I reached the top of Ben Avon I strode across the plateau across to near the summit of Beinn a Bhurd and enjoyed a perfect wild camp. I think the views speak for themselves. I didn’t see anyone else on this wonderful day in the mountains – sometimes Scotland can feel truly wild!

The next day started with a short bimble to the summit of Beinn a Bhurd itself, then the two Munros above Glen Derry: Beinn a Chorainn and Beinn Brehac. These were not the most interesting hills and the sun glaring down made it hard work. I’d forgotten my sun lotion too so felt my skin burning. It was a hard mornings work and I was glad to descend into Glen Derry.

As I reached the trees: I paused to sit on a branch, moved by the beauty of the woodland. This spot felt perfect and I relished my surroundings.

I pitched my tent just next to the bothy and had a wonderful evening talking about Continental Trekking with a lovely chap (John) in the bothy! He gave advice such as to carry a plastic bottle to fill up with wine from refuges, and how to save gas and cook with maximum efficiency. We discussed his various meetings with Royal Family members on the Mar Lodge Estate too and overall it was a very enjoyable and social evening – nice following some days alone in the mountains. I also found some sun lotion left here by another hiker – the mountain gives!

I woke up early and headed over to Cairn a Mhaimm – a beautiful Munro with an excellent ridge walk. I broke up the stiff climb with more Lord of the Rings audiobook – as I reached the top – I was listening to the battle Sam and Frodo had with Shelob. Safe to say – it added drama as I wandered across the ridge. What a wonderful morning!

My next objective was the Devil’s Point (Or Devil’s Penis if translated directly from Gaelic). I had an enjoyable lunch at Corrour and left my heavy bag there – enabling me to progress quickly up the climb. I sunbathed on the summit briefly, then progressed down.

After a rest at Corrour, the walk to Garbh Corrie Mor Refuge proved tough and tiresome. It was hard work, and the ground was boggy. I relished the challenge, singing as I went along through waist-deep heather. I was happy!

I reached the Refuge and I knew what I had found. Mountain perfection. True mountain perfection – the perfect spot to sleep. The surroundings felt alpine in scale and the spot quickly become my favourite in the UK. I made tea, and watched the world go by, still listening to Lord of the Rings

Just as I went to sleep, I was awoken by two blokes from St Andrews who had come for a small post-work adventure. It had been a long walk to do after work, taking around 3 hours from where they had left their bikes, which was an hour’s cycle from the road! Good effort!

The morning was perfect. After tea and porridge, I left the others behind and began to climb up to Loch Uaine. I was feeling light and elated, and Angels Ridge – a grade 2 scramble – only added to it! A real perfect mountain moment! Alas – it was a little windy and I did loose my sunglasses in a particularly strong gust as they were ripped of my head!

What next? Well I bimbled down onto the Moine Mhor Plateau and bagged Mondah Mor – a nice hill with fine views! I made cous cous with fried Chorizo for lunch and listened to yet more Lord of the Rings as I wondered over the Moine Mor Plateau towards Mullach Clach a Blair.

Upon reaching the summit – I subathed for a bit, before descending down to Glen Feshie, which proved to be rather heathery. I was surprised to be greeted by many campers – all TGO challengers – and had an enjoyable and sociable evening!

The last day was straightforward – just a short 20km or so into Kingussie. It was pretty walking and I even had a swim in Glen Feshie! I must admit – I was glad to be walking – the night had been cold and I woke up to frost on the tent!

I reached Kingussie and went to the coop to get some crisps. I’d been craving salty foods. I felt sad to be back in civilisation – and for once – I actually felt fresh and well rested after a long time in the mountains. This trip had been about two things: firstly achieving the wonderful clarity, peace, and happiness that can only be granted by spending day and night sleeping in wild places, and secondly to practice better self care habbits. I’m planning a 40 day walk across the Alps this August and failing to look after myself adequately will lead to me being rather uncomfortable! I’d put special effort into it this time and it had been a success!

It was also a last blast around the Cairngorms for a while. These mountains have become like a second home to me and I love them dearly. After tricky weeks and stressful times, the Cairngorms have always given me solutions – or rather given me the headspace for me to work them out. Walking around them last week felt like a love-letter to these beautiful mountains – a chance to really savour each valley and woodland and explore parts I’d missed!

Unlike many of my trips, I had no fixed goals or plans, perhaps except to sleep in Garbh Corrie Refuge. This proved remarkably enjoyable and allowed me to fall into my natural rhythm without any pressure to crunch miles, although I ended up going further than I initially thought I might!

It was a fantastic week and one I’ll look back to fondly.

Climbing, especially mountaineering, is inherently dangerous. There’s no way around it. Skilled climbers—much better than I will ever be—have made simple mistakes that cost them their lives. Even climbers who have conquered the most challenging routes in the Alps have slipped on an easy Munro they’ve climbed hundreds of times or found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. For me and many others, however, climbing is worth some of that risk. We draw an imaginary line, creating a perceived safety net for when conditions shift from relatively safe—akin to the risk of driving a car—to extremely dangerous. We place this line where we feel comfortable and convince ourselves that the risk is justified. So far, for my friends and me, this gamble has turned out in our favor.

But this line – this line of risk, how is it positioned? Things that seemed unthinkable not so long ago now seem like viable routes to attempt. True, some of this is an increase in skill: a significant portion of the danger is subjective, and whilst anyone can and does make mistakes, being a better and more experienced climber means your far less likely to, but I wonder how much of it is survivor’s bias? If you do the wrong thing when you go out climbing, most of the time you’ll get away with it. It is the great cruelty of the sport that when it offers you feedback on what you are doing wrong, it is normally in the form of a grave injury or a fatality.

I’ve been lucky enough to never see an accident with my own eyes, but not so long ago, on a climbing trip I was involved with, I was calling mountain rescue for a young university student from another club who had just seen their climbing partner fall fatally during a descent. The students were new to multipitch climbing and were on a confusing descent route at night: they did nothing wrong and 99 times out of 100, would have realised that they were going the wrong way, but tragically, one slipped at the wrong time, and the mountains taught a fatal lesson. The young climbing partner’s voice on the phone was something I’ll never forget – it was animalistic, visceral, heartbreaking. What made it all the worse is this was meant to be a safe holiday for these folk – it’s not the Alps or the Himalayas, but somewhere you expect to rarely even be scared, let alone have an accident. The mountains were unspeakably cruel, but they did teach many of us a lesson that day – no route is ever worth dying for, and any route can prove fatal.

Following that logic, no one should ever go climbing again, but I still do. The benefits, the joy, and the freedom are “worth it” a lot of the time. When does a route become too dangerous? Where does one draw this imaginary line of risk that we aren’t willing to cross?. Climbing is such a powerfully emotional sport that much of the perceived risk comes from the heart, and not the head, the gut instinct of “never me” and “we’ve always been alright” can so easily overpower logic, especially with fickle conditions, short trips, and big dream routes. I’m lucky in that I’m a coward – I always imagine the worse that could happen and this gives me some buffer of safety, but I know that in reality, the wrong (or right) heuristics, the right group, psyche, and a bit of bravado could easily sway where that line is drawn, push me to get on something which is more dangerous than I’m happy to accept. How do you approach things more objectively?

I honestly don’t know. I try my best – I set rules (I use driving as a benchmark – I like my climbing to be objectively safer than driving 99% of the time), I think hard, and I’m cautious, but I know it’s not perfect. As I do more, I expect it gets easier to work out where that line is, where to say no, and what to say yes to. Confidence helps. To be at a point where the need to prove yourself has gone, in my eyes, is perhaps the biggest step in a safe mindset (and perhaps one of the biggest reasons University clubs are so dangerous).

And I think University clubs are by far the worst for it as people have only been climbing for a few years and generally have been lucky enough to get away with a lot. Not many people have seen, or even known, of a friend dying in the mountains (myself included). Death and accidents aren’t real until they happen to someone you know. Kudos, respect, and “coolness” are given to pushing it, often too far – emphasis is put on grades and sends rather than safety and style. Young men (sadly, the mountaineering world is still male-dominated, but that is starting to change) are insecure and want to prove themselves.

Where does this leave it all? What is the point of this post? It’s an acknowledgement that climbing, and especially mountaineering, is dangerous. It’s a commitment to safety: “better one more piton than one less climber” is a quote to live by. I feel amongst young climbers, the seriousness of our decisions isn’t something we talk about often enough – I know it’s difficult for me to grasp the fact that a poor choice might not just be inconvenient, it could be fatal. And finally, a request to the handful of climbers who read my blog, if anything I said resonated, let’s keep talking about it. Accidents will always happen in climbing – there are things we can’t control at all like rockfall, seracs, or just plane bad luck. If we do things like (respectfully) calling out your mate who doesn’t test the tat they ab off, being open about our own mistakes and sharing them, so others can learn, and genuinely making an effort to give as much (no, more) kudos to those who make a safe choice in bailing then those who send and “get away with it”, then maybe we can stop an accident.

To end, Whymper put it far better than I ever could.

“Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are nought without prudence, and that a momentary negligence may destroy the happiness of a lifetime. Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.”

Climb safe.

I wrote this post a few days ago – today (the day I post) – we bailed off a route. Bold and serious climbing and being ill don’t go well in hand, and with a few years of experience behind us, it was nice to be able to happily make a safe decision that would not have been so easy to make some years ago.

I rarely write reviews – I think there is just one other on my blog, and I rarely feel compelled to write a review about a book, but I feel these two books deserve a recommendation.

I’ve read many hiking and mountain books, and whilst many are engaging and well-written, they don’t end up being page-turners, after all, the pleasure of a walk is in its simplicity. The very simplicity we all love doesn’t exactly make for engaging plots, and much of the time by the end, once the novelty of escapism has worn off, you feel a bit tired and bored.

Andrew’s books are different. There is the best part of a thousand pages detailing his 7000-mile journey from Calabria to Nordkapp in Norway, and throughout every section, reading his book was something I looked forward to and often was the highlight of my day, an escape from stress and a valuable source of wisdom. Andrew managed to capture the joys of being out in nature, the journey of self-discovery that the mountains can motivate, and capture funny and meaningful encounters.

Beyond this, the book made me (and my flatmate, who started reading it soon after me) look more deeply into nature around us. Andrew took a very relaxed and appreciative view to nature: there was no worry of how far he walked, he’d spend days in the same spot if he felt it beautiful enough, and he conveyed his pure joy and being out in the mountains. This relaxed attitude felt like an antidote to the trendy world of FKTs, mile munching, and a “faster is better” attitude to the outdoors which I’ve definitely fallen into in the past and seems to be trendy on Instagram and the like. Now, I walk slower, stop more, and have a much better time for it.

I had the pleasure of finishing the second book, on Sacred Ground, on top of Goatfell. I was deeply sad to finish – the end of the book felt like losing a companion and a friend. After a stressful day of uni, I’d climb on to the roof of my flat with a camping stove, make tea, and read a few chapters – being transported to the Apennines, Alps, or Trollheim mountains.

I’d strong reccomend you read these books yourselves – they truly are excellent and well worth the time.

As some of you may know – the Admello-Brenta is my favourite place in the world. I normally only visit in summer, but I thought I would share some photos from a visit in Spring. At this time of year, the mountains are empty and quiet, the ski runs (my views on these are unchanged – distasteful and disrespectful to nature) are barely open, and the snow is thawing rapidly. On a clear day, the views are superb

The short walk to Malga Ritorto is a wonderful outing, taking only an hour for a round trip from Patascoss. For once, the path was empty, and I could listen to the sounds of the forest and the crunch of snow beneath my feet.

Eventually – I reached the end. The view was heartbreakingly good – somewhere I’ve spent so much time transformed by the snow, still with enough greenery poking through to add to it all.

There is a great beauty in travelling through places: each morning, you rise in one place and rest your head somewhere new. To know a place deeply, you need to stay, not just for a night, but for much, much longer, perhaps a lifetime. It has been a great privilege to see these mountains wearing a different coat, a spring coat.

It has also been, in a way, sad. The mountains are quiet now, and nature seems so much happier. In my brief walks, I’ve seen more wildlife than I do on these same paths in summer. In the fact that so many people love these mountains, we drive those who belong here away. A reminder to tread lightly in nature, to leave nothing behind.

The views have gone now, and I don’t think they’ll return while I’m here. This gives the opportunity to focus on nature closer to hand and to appreciate the mountains with senses other than sight: the smell of wet pine, the sound of the rivers running high, the fresh wind on your face.

Where next? This being a climbing trip, climbing will take priority over my ponderings walking through nature for once, but trust me, they are not forgotten, and I’ll post more photos on here as I go on more wonderings through the woods.

One of the most wonderful things about time in nature is that time in wild places is worth far more than simply the number of hours you spend out. Time there is weighted differently to time in the city – a day in a wild place is more than long enough to do everything you need.

Time moves slower, perhaps is the lack of constant distraction, or just the realisation that immense pleasure can be derived from the simplest activities. Making a cup of tea is transformed from a boring activity to the highlight of an evening, finding water to drink brings immense joy and being warm in a sleeping bag brings on a feeling akin to inner peace.

The couple of days I’ve spent on Arran reminded me of this starkly. As I sit on the ferry writing this and looking back at photos, I know that the time I spent here will live on in my memory for a very long time.

As all with all my best ideas, it begun at 1am. As usual, slightly drunk Oscar was looking at maps and guidebooks: the original plan of a post dissertation Cairngorm jaunt seemed appealing but when I read about this walk, I was enticed. I could get the ferry, wild camp in Glen Rosa, to the horseshoe the next day to finish with a summit camp on Goatfell, before finally returning to Bodrick and the train home. This had the potential to be a fine few days on the hill, especially given the excellent forecast. I was positively brimming with excitement.

Travel over to the island was straightforward and as soon as I stepped off the ferry I smiled. I was free (if only for a few days) to go where I please and do as I want. With now where to be, I ambled off towards Glen Rosa, first along a beach, then quiet country lanes.

Passing the campsite, I soon left the asphalt behind and wandered gently along the track. The sun was shining and the pink granite of Cir Mhor loomed ahead of me. The river flowing through the Glen was stunning and as I approached it, I was greeted by the figures: two Glasgow university medical students (originally from Sri Lanka) and a women from Ukraine. One of the Glasgow lads held a Ukulele, and invited me to watch his inaugural performance. He did an excellent job at singing Riptide (I think in an attempt to impress the Ukrainian women) and it was a really lovely encounter and a good start to the trip! These would be the last people I would see for quite some time…

I pitched up by the Blue Pools, not before going for a swim in the wonderful but freezing water. I whiled away the evening, wondering up and down the Glen and relishing many cups of tea.

Day 2

I woke up before my alarm and made some tea, noticing that although mild, the tops were shrouded in cloud. As I took down the tent, the drizzle started, soon incessant. This wasn’t the weather I was banking on!

Nevertheless, progress was made up to Ben Nuis, a shapely and enjoyable peak. The broad plateau beneath the summit was stunning, and would prove an excellent spot to camp. To me, this high glens hold some of the finest experiences the walker can have in Scotland: they are often untracked, rarely traveled, and have more flora and fauna than the high tops. A fine experience to the walker!

As I reached the summit of Ben Nuiss, the clouds really came in. Visibility was now just a few metres…not what I was hoping for. But in that lies the beauty of time in the mountains: rarely if ever do you get the experience you expected. If you go out expecting this, then you will get frustrated quickly, the beauty and far reaching impact of time in the hills is the ability to appreciate the moment, to see things as a whole: those moments in the sun, or with an version feel so good BECAUSE they are fleeting. The rainy soggy plods may not be the most pleasant, but they make the feeling of dry clothes at the end of the day so much better. From everything in the mountains, you can derive something positive, developing this mindset makes it far easier to slog through days when the wind is howling and the hail is stinging your face (but, luckily for me, this was not one of those days…)

Beinn Tarunusinn next, a fairly underwhelming hill in this weather. I appreciated the feeling of air beneath my feet as I walked along the ridge.

As I dropped down to A Chir, the views cleared…not entirely but just enough to create this masterpiece of crag and cloud. I sat down in awe…what a treat!

The wet rock meant there was alas only one sensible decision: bypass the moderate rock climb along the ridge. In good conditions, or with a lighter pack, it would have made an enjoyable addition to the day, but the nature of being alone in the hills with a big back means sometimes you need to take an easier route. The bypass path was very pleasant, giving views into an excellent valley which would make a fine place to spend a night or two away from the hustle and bustle of the world.

Next, I plodded up to Cir Mhor for some lunch. It was a bit of a pull from the saddle, but the steep climb was softened by fond memories of climbing on this mountain. It is a rather excellent peak and made for a fine spot for some lunch. The views quickly disappeared however, and I spent lunch time gazing into a thick mist.

Abandoning my back, I wondered over to Caisteal Abhail, occasionally the views opening up a little and peaks and buttresses poking out through the mist. It was spectacular and dramatic: I was overjoyed with happiness.

As I returned to Cir Mhor, I saw three other walkers, two together and another solo hiker. These were the only other folk I saw on the hills today. As I reached Cir Mhor to retrieve my back, I made a minor navigational error getting off the summit. Rather than walking down for about 100m from the summit to pass down towards Goatfell on the saddle between the rocky South Ridge and the summit itself, I was drawn down an exciting looking gully scramble. Quickly: I realised this was not the optimum way, having some steps which would be too challenging for a simple walkers Corbett, but I thought it looked like an enjoyable descent, and it was indeed! Several steps required care, often requiring hand jamming and chimneying to descend each 3m or so step between the ledges. Often: I would jettison my walking poles below me to I could use both hands to aid in the scrambling. Overall, an enjoyable (but perhaps not recommendable) descent route which felt a bit like a Grade 3 scramble.

After this added excitement, I continued down to the pools on the col between Cir Mhor and Goatfell. Here, I could refill my water and make some tea before continuing up to the summit. I rested here for some time, relaxing and relishing the beautiful views that were starting to open up. I even attempted a swim – however the water was not deep enough for it.

As I walked up to Goatfell, the views cleared, and I could see across the horseshoe, down Glen Rosa and Glen Sannox and out to sea. I was euphoric. After a day of fog to get such views was more than a treat, and I relished the gentle burn in the legs as I made the 500m climb up to the summit. Between the lower summit and main summit, there are some optional scrambles (which I, of course, took). On each one, I stopped at gazed across at the view, in awe. It only got better when I reached the summit of Goatfell, and, euphoric, I set up the tent and just wandered around, in genuine awe of the way the clouds were moving over the hills.

Day 3

I awoke to a spectacular site. I couldn’t believe the view. The sense of calm and peace I got from this simple joy was immense. Once again: the mountains had given. Superficially, they had given me a view, but they had truly given so much more than that. The feeling of these mornings is challenging to put into words: the cold sting of the wind on your face, the sound of birds chirping around you, the smell of tea. Moments like this are when I’m at by happiest, and every time I have the joy of a morning or evening away from everything and on the hill, I’m immensely grateful.

I descended towards the sea in a little haze of bliss. The views were fantastic, the air was fresh. This is what it is to be in the mountains. As I wondered down, I saw some other hikers (Goatfell is a popular hill), and eventually I reached the sea where I went for a swim.

The final wonder to Bodrick was aided by some fish and chips. I was sad to return to Edinburgh, but glad for the time I’d spent out, glad to reconnect, and hey, Edinburgh really isn’t that bad.