STUCHD AN LOCHAIN AND THE UPPER PART OF GLEN LYON. By F. S. GOGGS. "There they stood, ranged along the hill-sides, met For one more picture! in a sheet of flame And blew."-Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. A SINGLE word will often set one's thoughts a-roaming, and the occurrence of several black dots against which was printed the word "Tower," in Bartholomew's Map comprising Glen Lyon, has excited my imagination for several years. First I thought of a Scottish rival to the castellated Rhine, then I imagined I might have discovered the scene of Browning's well-known poem, the last stanza of which is quoted above. The glamour of romance being thus thrown over the upper part of Glen Lyon, I eagerly accepted an invitation from Munro last New Year to accompany him in a third attempt on Stuchd an Lochain. Even apart from the fact that I wished to visit this particular portion of the country, I think every member of the S.M.C. is bound out of gratitude to the compiler of Munro's Tables to assist that enthusiast in what I believe is his intention of beating Robertson's bag of all the threethousanders by equalling the latter in mountains and surpassing him in tops ascended. To find the main route or routes to Stuchd an Lochain, I turned to what I hoped were to prove the illuminating pages of the S.M.C. Guide Book. I conned the indices of the Journal, but they were innocent of any such name. I turned up Munro's Tables to make sure the hill was included in the list of the immortals. Yes, there he was right enough, No. 191. I turned afresh to the Guide Book, and diligently traced Stuchd an Lochain's neighbours: all his neighbours were duly scheduled, but not even No information" was set against him. He has been absolutely and entirely ignored. I feel I am entitled to ask our Editor for an explanation of this omission. Why this nepotism, this favouritism? * Are not all the "Munros" entitled by the mere fact of their being "Munros" to at least a mention in the Guide Book? Of course I am aware that this hill boasts at its foot no Loch Awe Hotel, no Corrie Arms or other place of popular resort replete with fireplaces in the bedrooms, hot-water bottles and other luxuries for the aged and infirm; but are our Scottish Bens to be given places of consideration according to the quality of the hotels at their base? Luxury, luxury, luxury, everything is sacrificed nowadays to the goddess Luxury: she conquered the Alps long ago, and now she is devouring the S.M.C., and the Editor, I regret to think, stands not up against her, but has fallen a victim to her blandishments. Again, on the ground of antiquity Stuchd an Lochain is entitled to an honoured place. The earliest recorded ascent of Ben Cruachan, which mountain occupies several pages in the Guide Book, took place, according to our esteemed Editor, at the beginning of the last century. I have found the record of an ascent of Stuchd an Lochain in about the year 1590. It reads as follows: "On the brow of Stuic-an-lochain-a huge rock beetling over a deep circular mountain tarn—they encountered a flock of goats. Mad Colin + [Colin Campbell of Glenlyon, d. 1596 or 1597] and his man forced them over the precipice. When surveying their work from the top of the cliff, Colin unexpectedly came behind Finlay [his attendant], and ordered him, in a threatening voice, to jump over. He knew it was useless to resist. He said quietly, and as a matter of course: 'I will, Glenlyon; but,' looking at a grey stone behind them, 'I would just like to say my prayers at yon stone first; it is so like an altar.' Colin mused, looked at the stone, and, letting go his hold, bade him go, and be back immediately. Finlay reached the stone, knelt down, muttered whatever came uppermost, and every now and then took a sly look at his master. Colin stood yet on the edge of the cliff, and kept looking on the mangled bodies of the goats. He seemed to * [The Editor of the Guide Book frankly admits he was not aware that the claims of this mountain were sufficiently great to entitle it to a place in the Guide Book. He, however, will be pleased to get a condensed report from Mr Goggs which can be printed with other additions at some future time.] Mad Colin built the Castle of Meggernie (five miles east of Stuican-lochain), probably about 1582. become horrified at his own mad work. Finlay lost not his opportunity. He stealthily crept behind his master, grasped him by the shoulders, and shouted, in a thundering voice, 'Leap after the goats.' The unhappy lunatic supplicated for mercy, in vain. Finlay's grasp was like a vice; and he so held him over the precipice, that if let go he could not recover himself, but inevitably fall over. 'Let me go this once,' supplicated Colin. 'Swear, first, you shall not circumvent me again.' 'By Mary?' 'Nay, by your father's sword.' 'By my father's sword, I swear.' 'That will do; now we go home.'"* Obedient to Munro's fiery cross, the night of 29th December 1904 found our leader, Nelson, and myself eating the crumbs which fell from the table of a Masonic banquet in an adjoining room, into which, the "tyler" having deserted his post, one of us incautiously wandered. Luckily the intruder was the only Mason in our small party, and so survived to tell the tale. At 5.30 A.M. next day we were roused. At seven we cautiously felt our way into a two-horse machine, and were soon ploughing through the darkness up Glen Lochay. It had been a wild night of storm and rain, and the west wind was still hurling its misty cloud battalions down the glen. Ever and anon there was a lull, a few stars peeped out and were reflected in the sullen stream on our left, then with apparently redoubled force came the rain-storm sweeping down the wide glen and completely enveloping it. I did my best to use the driver as a breakwater, but to no purpose, and we huddled together in silence our close companionship being only broken by the necessity of opening several gates and recovering the driver's cap which blew away. I reconciled myself to a thorough soaking, but determined that come what might, it should not be my fault if Munro did not bag his mountain at this his third attempt. At eight precisely we reached the farm of Kenknock (745 feet), and leaving the machine to await our return, we struck up Allt Truchill, and soon found an old track† which led us well up the east side * "The Lairds of Glenlyon," Duncan Campbell, pp. 17, 18. + This track is marked on the old one-inch Ordnance Survey Map, but does not appear on the revised one-inch. It is still fairly well defined, and is certainly worth the trouble of following to any one walking over to Glenlyon from Kenknock. The track starts a quarter of a mile of the glen. The col marked by a cairn is 1,738 feet, and is half a mile beyond a small lochan which lies some distance below you to the west. Up to this point the rain had been consistently washing our faces, and we had all I think quietly resigned ourselves to what seemed our inevitable fate. Beyond the col we strained our eyes to get a view of Glen Lyon. We soon made out that there was a glen below us, and a dim wall of mountain with dull silver streaks here and there, proving the existence of burns, loomed up indefinitely on the further side. The path led to a bridge which we crossed, and soon afterwards the track withered away. The circling mists were now distinctly rolling up the hillsides, the rain abated, and hope commenced to rise from her ashes. Soon the river Lyon was clearly seen, one or two farms became visible, and the opposite hills assumed a less vague aspect. On we went with lighter hearts, making for a house we saw marked on the map named Lubreoch, and a ford close to. There is always a spice of romance and adventure in making an incursion into a little known Highland glen. The houses named on your map may have been in ruins for the last century, the fords shown thereon may only be passable on one or two occasions in the year; the fact that the map shows no bridge at the point you wish to cross is by no means satisfactory evidence that there is none, or vice versa if a bridge is shown at a particular point, what proof have you that it was not washed away yesterday or ten years ago? We were in a most delightful state of uncertainty this morning as to fords, houses, and bridges. To my mind this uncertainty is one of the chief charms in climbing or walking in the Highlands. Most of us live in towns, and our lives are calculated to the minute. Start for business at such and such a time; keep certain appointments at fixed hours; lunch at a certain place and moment; return home by a stated route at practically a fixed time; dinner at ; bed at Hurrah for a day's fling in north of Kenknock. Strike the first burn to the west of the farm, and follow it north till it forks the beginning of the track will be found 100 yards on, inside the fork. the Highlands. Unfettered and free, we go where we please. Away with your Guide Book and details of routes: the unknown for me! To come back to our journey. The day was undoubtedly clearing up rapidly, patches of blue sky appeared, the sun came out, and the hillsides were rain-pearled, sparkling as if with joy. We saw a good broad river below us, and looked up and down for a bridge. Not a sign of one! A little further, and we caught sight of a cottage which was evidently that marked Lubreoch on the map. Round another knoll and there was a boat, moored our side of the river, close to the cottage. We luckily found the shepherd at home, but he was none too eager to take us over, as the boat he told us was "nae ill to coup," which being translated by Munro for my benefit, I found to mean "easily upset." The river, at the ford where the boat was, ran deep and swift, and the navigation of the crossing undoubtedly demanded care. Our ice-axes came in useful as boathooks, and in two journeys the three of us were across. From the ferry we had the first view of our hill. The sun had drawn up the mists, several waterfalls were racing down in quivering masses of snowy white, and there stood Stuchd an Lochain revealed to our eager eyes, away back over the near hills forming the north side of Glen Lyon, with a light mantle of snow covering his summit. I looked up and down the glen expecting to see picturesque towers on knolls, but none were apparent; and as Munro anticipated we had enough to do to fill in our day and knew nothing about towers, I reluctantly dismissed them from my mind for the time being. Along the road east for half a mile, then taking again to the moor, we struck the burn, coming down Allt Camslai, above Pubil Farm, and mounting rapidly, soon reached the open moor, which stretched away to the north-east, gently sloping right up to the summit of Stuchd an Lochain. The driest route is to keep the ridge to your north, but it matters little, and each choosing our own line, an eagle welcomed us at the summit cairn (3,144 feet) at twelve-four hours after leaving Kenknock. The view is not extensive, except to the north-west, over the moor of Rannoch, lonely, bleak, and black. The winter so far had been open to an extent |