Enter the Haggis

With the empty weeks stretching out ahead of me, I thought it would be a good idea to take a trip. As my friend Clive and I discussed where to go while Michele was away, one wonderful, hazy, almost illicit name floated before us: Amsterdam.

Unfortunately, we had this discussion in Michele's presence, before she left, so no sooner had the word escaped my lips than the idea was squashed like so much fox poo on the sidewalk. After Michele threatened to take my passport with her when she left, we settled on a more, ahem, tame approach - hiking in Scotland.

At first, this seemed a most pleasant idea. "Just a walk up the mountain", Clive told me, "with a little scramble over a small lip at the top. No more than 4 meters." No problem. I could handle this. After all, I'd had an orienteering class in college, no more than, what, 15 years ago? I was looking forward to the trip, and even bought a new pair of hiking shoes in an area called Southampton Street, supposedly THE place to buy outdoor gear in London.

As the date of our departure drew closer, I began wearing my new boots to and from work to, you know, break them in. This was when the trouble started. "That brand's rubber's too soft," one colleague told me. "The soles shouldn't flex like that," intoned another, ominously. Convinced that I'd die of exposure, or at least end up with a serious blister, I began to worry about my fitness for this trip. After all, I get out of breath stepping up onto the curb, what was I thinking I could climb a mountain.

I'd also decided that as long as I was doing one thing I wasn't really prepared for, I might as well do two, and volunteered to drive. You may recall that they drive on the wrong side of the road here. The Brits will hasten to tell you that it's the "right" side, but in fact, it's the left side, so there's really nothing "right" about it. This was actually not as bad as having to shift with my left hand, which took quite some getting used to, especially as I haven't driven a car with a manual transmission since about 1994. Predictably, I stalled, over-revved the engine and generally made a menace of myself for the 2 hours it took to get from Glasgow up to Glencoe, the site of my expected demise.

I learned a number of things about Clive that weekend. We had remarkably similar backgrounds, we both enjoy a good whiskey. He has no compunction about raiding the breakfast bar at the Holiday Inn Express to prepare a lunch. And he lies. Not in a malicious way, but in a "gee, that's not how I remember it," way. The "walk" was variously steep, rocky, long and wet. And the "4 meter scramble" at the top was, in fact, about 200 feet of gravel scree which somehow clung to the side of the mountain at a 40 degree angle. Clung, that is, until breathed upon, at which it went coursing in sheets down the mountainside to clonk some unfortunate goat below. It was there, clinging to blades of grass and bits of rock with my eyelids, that I was convinced that I would die.

Of course, I did not die, as evidenced by this post. I did, however, make it to the top, enjoyed a nice cheese sandwich, courtesy of the fine folks at Holiday Inn Express, and marvelled at both the stupendous view and at the fact that I was still alive to enjoy it.

The descent was a bit trickier. Where going up was largely a matter of finding my way forward, going down was a matter of scrambling down on my belly while trying not to bash my head on the rocks or lose my face by dredging it through the gravel for 100 yards. After about 30 feet, I was once again convinced that my life was drawing to an unfortunate and untimely conclusion. It was at this point that we discovered The Path.

Apparently, some unknown but most generous person had cut steps into the mountain to assist just such novice climbers as myself. These, naturally, made the rest of the descent much easier, and I have still not stopped giving Clive a hard time about sending us up through the scree. But secretly, I'm grateful. Anybody can climb up steps. But clawing your way up the side of a mountain, now that deserves a cheese sandwich. And a haggis. And some black pudding. Both really tasty despite their off-putting ingredients. My recommendation: have a cheese sandwich and see how you go from there.