So I finally got that wild camp I have been after since June. It nearly didn’t happen (again), due a debilitating, hard to shift, neck pain earlier in the week, but by Friday it eased off enough to ignore it and MTFU. My destination Beinn Dubhchraigh, though I had no particular objectives for the weekend.

I have been up this way quite a few times in recent years since rediscovering it back in 2018: it’s close enough for a day trip, the woodland at the bottom is stunning, and I find encouragement in its maturing since my first visit in the 1990s. Plus, in the winter, the hill offers good ski touring (though it’s been a while since we have had enough snow this far south).

The forecast for the weekend is excellent, if on the hot side, but it’s a pleasant temperature just now as I shoulder my 14kg pack. This might seem a lot for a one night trip, and if pushed this time of the year I can manage three days in under 10kg without too much hardship, but I have long stopped obsessing about weight on these short outings.

Some of it is down to the 2kg of camera, and the Trangia, which gives me chance to cook properly — I am anticipating finding some chanterelle up in the birks, and so am carrying a couple of eggs and an onion for scrambling tomorrow morning.

Indeed, there is a fine specimen of an orange birch boletus just outside of the car park, and I hesitate whether to collect it, as that is one of my favourite mushrooms, but in the end I decide it’s too early in the day.

The next thing I run into is an (illegal) sign on a gate trying to constrain our right of access. Such sings are not uncommon these days, but this one is more credible than most, telling me I must stay on paths and must not wild camp, while threatening me with CCTV, because I am entering a Site of Special Scientific Interest.

Bullshit, total bullshit.

The SSSI designations are fundamentally about restrictions imposed on landowners, and have no bearing on the statutory right of access. In fact, the NatureScot documentation for this site explicitly doesn’t constrain ‘recreational activities … carried out responsibly in keeping with the Scottish Outdoor Access Code’. The sign is also long way from the actual SSSI boundary, which is on the other side of the railway pretty much just encompassing the pine woodland.

Signs like this really piss me off, but I am determined not to let it spoil the lovely morning.

A further along the farm track, not far from the railway crossing, I spot a couple of brown capped boleti, they look very much like edulis, but are under birks, which I’d not expect. In any case, this I can’t resist, so I pick the one that is healthy. It will mean a change of menu, for it will not keep until tomorrow in today’s heat. It’s also big enough to feed a whole family so I do not to need any more mushrooms today.

A short while after crossing the footbridge in Coille Coire Chuilc, I leave the path to cross Allt Coire Dubhchraig, heading up the hill, as I usually do, east of it. There used to be a fairly well defined path on the ridge through the woods, but it’s mostly gone now, and over the years the birk scrub has got denser; it looks to me that perhaps the grazing pressures are not as high as they were last time NatureScot assessed this place (2008).

The amateur mycologist in me notes the abundance of mushrooms in here, in particular several different species of cortinarius (webcap), a family I find fascinating, as well as frustrating, as there are some 400 of them in the UK and they are very hard to identify even using a microscope.

They also include one of the most poisonous UK mushrooms, the fools webcap; as deadly as the death cap, it somehow avoids the same limelight, yet it is very common, even ubiquitous, in Scotland’s spruce plantations. But this, unlike the woods nearer to home, is a pine and birch woodland, with a different species range; I need to return here soon for a closer look.

Above the pine woods the ground steepens, and as I slog through tall wet grass my legs and arms, that I cautiously slobbered with suntan lotion, are soon covered in black grass seeds. I expect there will be no shortage of ticks here either …

The path on the other side of the stream is getting busy, but I have the north east ridge of the hill to myself, sharing it only with a raven getting mobbed by a smaller bird that I can’t identify — I am beginning to regret not bringing the binoculars.

There is low cloud just about the summit height, and as I get near it, all the flowering grass around me is covered in tiny drops of water, giving it the look of a miniature magical forest; time to dig the camera out of the bag. The summit is busy, but there are nay views due to the low cloud; it’s a shame, for this wee hill offers great views south over Loch Lomond.

On the way down to Bealach Buidhe I strike up a conversation with a young lad from East Kilbride; a pleasant chat while we are enjoying the views of the gold mine. As much as I relish solitude in the hills, the normality of such random conversations with complete strangers is one of the things I love most about Scotland.

We part in the bealach, as he carries up Ben Oss; for me it’s time for some scrambled eggs with the boletus I found. I forgot to bring a chopping board, so the outside of the Trangia pan will have to do. While slicing the boletus, I am surprised to see the flesh in the cap is bright yellow — this not an edulis, nor the other obvious possibility, a summer boletus. It does’t matter, really, but I am curious.

I fry half of my half onion, then add the mushroom slices and a small amount of water, and stew it all for about ten minutes or so to soften it up, then stir an egg in — a meal that takes me back to the summers of my childhood. I forgot to bring salt, and black pepper would be nice too, but it’s delicious nevertheless, and with a couple of slices of sourdough it will keep me full for the rest of the day.

Trangia stove stewing mushrooms, and other camping paraphernalia, on a large stone (There is lot to be said for not going fast & light.)

The lunch view is excellent, compelling me to take a couple of pictures of the loch; we shall see, a polariser with a range finder camera is tricky. I ponder that this would be an excellent camping spot: it’s flat, there is a good water source here, and a bit of breeze to keep the midges away. (I was originally thinking of camping down near Loch Oss, but it’s too midgy for that).

But it’s far too early to think of a camp, and so I decide to head up Ben Oss; I recall there is a path going down the south side of it that comes back around to here, so I might do that.

Viewed from the slopes of the 941m point, Beinn Dubhchraig is a beautiful hill, and so the camera comes out again. Of course, by the time I dig it out and change the lens, the cloud comes over. I eventually get three frames in different light conditions, but I am not entirely sure I can make a print work with this greenery, it probably needed a Y-G filter that I didn’t bring with me. It might be worth bringing the big camera up here later in the year.

View from slopes of Ben Oss north toward Tyndrum

I get to the summit of Ben Oss just before three, unsure what to do. There is lots left in this day, and Ben Lui is tantalisingly near. Perhaps I should camp down in the bealach below it, and tomorrow head over it and return via Cononish?

It’s been a while since I was up there. My first attempt was sometime in ’97, with Linda, from the west side. But the river was in spate, and we couldn’t get over it, and then when we crossed it somewhere lower down, we got stuck in a sitka plantation and a bog, and eventually cut our loses.

I got up eventually years later in the winter with my pal Bob from the Cononish side, though I am struggling to recall now if we climbed the two ridges, or the central gully; I do recall putting the crampons on too late in the ascent! But that would have been around twenty years ago, and I am pretty sure I have’t been back since.

The only real argument against heading that way is I’ll have to trudge back along the farm / mine track …

On the way down I strike another, long, chat with a chap coming the other way, doing the three hills. We somehow get onto the subject of the paucity of trees in our landscapes. For me this is a particularly encouraging conversation, for I am beginning to notice that among the younger outdoor folk there is more willingness to question the simplicity of the aesthetic-based ecology that permeates the outdoor culture today.

The thing is, while Scotland desperately needs large scale environmental restoration, rewilding, which has been pushed on us by the outdoor influencers for decades, doesn’t offer viable solutions. We need to move beyond the pseudo-ecology of native species and the human absence panacea. But just a few years ago public questioning of this orthodoxy was guaranteed to get one shunned, perhaps things are changing.

Three more lads are plodding up, struggling with the heat; they set off from the car park at the same time I was leaving in the opposite direction, so that’s not bad going. But they still have a fair bit to go, and I am glad I am not in their shoes.

It takes me no time at all to get down to the bealach, again, far too early to be thinking of a camp. The main issue heading up any further is water.

A quick look at the OS 25k and 50k maps on my phone suggest there should be a couple of good streams emerging from the hillside at around the 800m contour line. Should they not be there, I’d have to drop back down to the bealach, but I have enough confidence in OS mapping to take that chance and carry on.

The faint path up the ridge takes me somewhat above the streams, so I leave the backpack and drop down the hill with a tote bag and my water bottles; I have 2l folding platypus, a 0.5l folding bottle for the Sawyer filter, that I usually take these days, though rarely use, and 0.5l Nalgene HDPE bottle for drinking during the day, that also doubles as my coffee cup. I reckon three litres should be enough for tonight and tomorrow morning.

There is a decomposing sheep carcass in the gully just above the first of the two streams here, so I head for the other one, to quench my thirst from a lovely clear spring more or less coming right out of the mountain. I add the three kilos to my bag, and head up looking for a suitable camping spot.

There were a few good ones lower down, but just now it’s looking like I could be in for an uncomfortable night. I am contemplating having to drop back down, yet keep heading up. My stubbornness pays off when I find what you might call a real glamping pitch: flat, level, and the views are stunning.

A tent and cooking equipment on a hillside

I decide to have a bit of cheese and bread as a starter, but when I get out the (already open) pack of Comte I got from the fridge this morning, I can see it’s gone off on me. I poke at it with a knife for a while to see if I could salvage some of it, but in the end decide that given my relative remoteness from the nearest loo, it’s not worth taking the chance. But the homemade (dehydrated) chilli that is for the mains is excellent.

My solitude and the illusion of remoteness is interrupted by a ping of my phone. It’s a sound I don’t immediately recognise, and can’t be bothered to check (later I discover that’s the bank telling me I got paid by the Island Darkroom gallery for selling a couple of my handmade prints; that’s nice, but not something I needed to know this very moment).

The midges are out in force, and I am in the tent by 8pm, listening to a Matt Payne podcast. It happens to be an excellent episode in conversation with a French/Italian photographer Francesco Carovillano obsessed with the Fontainebleau forest. It’s possibly one Matt’s best, and it strikes a chord with me on different levels.

A particularly bad bout of cramps.

This is not unusual for me, I have always been cramp prone. And the contortions required to get changed in a small tent pretty much always trigger it.

For many years I religiously added ‘electrolyte’ tablets to my water when hillwalking and climbing (long before that was the done thing), and it made a bugger all difference. I stopped all that about twelve years ago, after I came across Tim Noakes book Waterlogged and realised it was just billion dollars worth of snake oil. And, again, it’s made no difference.

It basically comes down to a lack of fitness relative to the effort (check) and some degree of genetics (check). The worst of it can be alleviated by a salty taste, and I have a few salt tablets in my old running first aid kit I brought along, so I chew on one of them. It passes eventually, though not fast enough.

By now the inside of the tarp it is teaming with midges, but I have managed to keep most of them out of the mesh tent, in spite of the poor design of its door (no zip along the floor side of it). But I have made the rookie mistake of leaving both my midge net and the bottoms of my convertibles in the backpack outside, and my last thought before falling asleep is I’ll be punished for that in the morning.

I sleep well all night, except for waking up a couple of times, as men of my age invariably do, the piss bottle now an invaluable piece of my camping kit (I can recommend the folding Nalgene Canteen). Sunrise is at 5.50am, so I am getting up at six.

Rising and sun and inversion

It’s a glorious morning, one of the finest camping mornings I recall, and while there is no wind, inexplicably, there are no midges either. I scramble out barefooted, my eyes feasting on the sublime early morning light. It is quiet and still. A small flock of pippits is sitting on the rocks a few meters away, and, by all accounts, doing the same as I am: just enjoying being alive.

Sunlit campsite with a tent

On days like these there is no rush. I make myself a coffee and porridge at a leisurely pace, air out my sleeping bag; and still no midges. Eventually, reluctantly, I take the tarp down, and get moving; by then it’s 8am.

It’s just a quarter of an hour hike to the summit of Ben Lui, with stunning views over the inversion, though the light is quickly losing its soft quality — it’s going to be a scorcher.

The descent from the summit is steep, loose, and requires a bit of care. Once in the bowl of Coire Gaothach it’s time to get some water. The stream nearest the path doesn’t meet my health & safety standards: there is quite a lot of aquatic vegetation in it, and that means there are nutrients in the water. And, nutrients in the water usually mean shit in some shape and form.

The next stream, however, is nice and clear, and I wash my face and get enough water for the rest of my day; and while enjoying the refreshing drink, I spot the first people coming up — it’s quarter past nine, and this is no longer my very own mountain.

Another brief conversation before hitting the farm track. From here on it’s just a plod past the mine (that looks to be shut — probably not a bad thing), until the trees just before Dalrigh. As I am about to nip into the forest for a pee, I spot a giant boletus edulis — that’s the dinner sorted then (I never did get to use that second egg). Inside the forest I again spot a good variety of mushrooms: russulas, blushers (a favourite mushroom of my mother’s, though one I do not pick myself), fly agarics, some fibre caps, and, the aforementioned, deadly fools webcap.

Further along, there are a few orange birch boleti, but they are too old, though I pick a slightly better looking one, just in case.

I am back at the car at noon. The temperature is 25C and I spare a thought for the folk doing the bigger three hill round today, it’s going to be hard going.

Thing is, though, I think not for the first time this weekend, there is always something to complain about: if it’s not wet, it too hot, or too windy, or not windy enough and too midgy. And I’d not have it any other way. 🙂