Ben Lomond by Motorhome
A lovely day, a tranquil bay, a spot to while the time away.
The Ben Lomond walk from Rowardennan. Distance 7 miles. Height 3250 ft. Start from Car Park Rowardennan. Approximate time 3-4 hours. Ben Lomond is Scotland’s southernmost ‘Munro.’ ‘The Munros,’ consist of a list of 283 mountains in scotland over 3,000 feet in height compiled by the late Sir Hugh Munro. (1856 to 1919.)
It is an ambition in the minds of sturdy young men and women to climb every one of the hills on the list during their lifetime. This hobby has become known as ‘Munro Bagging.’
The Last Munro.
I dream of the thrill as I climb a sloping hill
The heather and the bracken are abounding
Warm sun upon my back I trek the worn track
A shell explodes my eardrums are apounding
Still within a dream I see a mountain stream
Tumbling to the loch down in the glen
An eagle rules the sky my hopes are soaring high
A shell explodes the cry of wounded men
My pace is strong and sure I hear a curlew on the moor
I do so wish that I had wings to fly
To rise to what I seek and perch atop the lofty peak
A shell explodes I watch a comrade die
I rest upon my task sipping whisky from a flask
Regarding the summit in my sight
In peaceful great Glencoe to climb my last Munro
A shell explodes another hellish night
Aware of creeping toxic stench
A strange white mist invades the trench
Ice cold shivers a chill so deep
I sudden feel the need to sleep
A shell explodes.
The the lads and the lassies were enjoying a breakfast of bacon and eggs;
‘Aye, ye two eejits can go and bag yer first Munro. Phemie and I are jist goin’ tae park oor arses right here and enjoy the sunshine. Isn’t that right, Phemie?’ asked Jessie.
‘Sure, Jessie, sure, Jessie, sit on oor arses,’ replied Phemie.
So the two brave lads set off up the hill;
‘Maybe we should have brought a map, Josie, we seem tae be lost?’ said Francie.
‘Dinnae ye worry, Francie, yer intellectual side-kick here has brought a compass. Follow me, Francie,’ said Josie. ‘I know a wee short-cut,’ he said.
‘Och, good, Josie, pal,’ said Francie. ‘Where did ye get the compass, Josie?’ he asked.
‘It fell oot o’ a cracker at Christmas time, Francie,’ said Josie.
A mist had descended over the boggy moor-land. The lads were now indeed lost. For over an hour they were knee-deep in mire, trudging, stumbling and falling over on the moor. Francie had lost one of his sandshoes which had been sucked from his foot in a particularly deep patch of muddy bog-land. Eventually they heard a man’s voice shouting and the sound of the barking of dogs. A figure appeared from out of the mist. He was sitting on a sled with a team of huskies harnessed to it. Dressed in a seal-skinned parka with the strap of the hood tightly drawn around his chin, he was trying to urge the animals forward as Josie approached;
‘Hey, Jimmy, could we ask ye for yer assistance, perhaps,’ Josie asked the man. ‘We seem tae be lost?’ he said.
The strange figure replied;
‘Ye’re tellin’ Me that Ye’re loast,‘ he said. ‘Away ye go, ye’re a couple o’ nutters,’ he yelled.
The mud-spattered duo arrived back at base camp. Jessie was sitting alongside the campervan soaking up the sun. She saw the two of them coming and called out to Phemie;
‘Och, Phemie, come an’ see this mess o’ eejits comin’,’ she called.
‘Sure, Jessie, sure, Jessie, I’ll be right there,’ Phemie replied. ‘Och, look at the two o’ ye,’ said Phemie. ‘Don’t come in here. Strip aff the pair o’ ye an’ I’ll hose the two o’ ye doon, ye’re baith manky,’ said Phemie.
After the two lads had been hosed down, Jessie noticed that Francie had put on his petted-lip;
‘Och, gie the wee soul a cuddle, Phemie, an’ let that be an end tae it,’ said Jessie.
View of Ben Lomond.
You may enjoy reading the adventures of Francie and Josie.