Scotland's Isle of Mull offers visitors a wild and rugged adventure.
Photo / Getty Images
Scotland's Isle of Mull offers visitors a wild and rugged adventure.
Photo / Getty Images
Anabel Dean knows that Kiwis will fully appreciate - and respect - the wild and rugged majesty of Scotland’s Isle of Mull, even if her 21-year-old son does not.
The Atlantic Ocean is straining to unleash the full weight of its power upon one bleak and chilly hill.
It’s not just any hill. It’s Ben More, a towering pyramid that rises to 1174 metres on the Isle of Mull in Scotland, and it’s about to become the hardest climb of my life.
There’s a mortal hazard that hasn’t been foreseen. It’s not a flood warning, not a snow blizzard, it’s a 21-year-old climber who isn’t taking the mountain seriously enough.
My son descends from the MacDonald clan of Mull. He has the DNA of kinfolk whose power once stretched so wide that it was second only to the Kings of Scotland and England.
The mountain calls for conquest so he’s rapidly ascending Benmore Burn, aiming for the northwest ridge, springing over boulders with the agility of a goat. It’s a relentlessly steep route, escalating 1000m in about 4km, but he’s a kid without map or compass and soon he’s way ahead on the wrong track heading towards a steep-sided gully.
“Come back,” I shout into a roaring jet-stream of wind and sleet. “It’s this way. Stay together!” He catches words unspooling in air, swivels and catapults downwards, angrily retracing hard-won steps. “It’s not a mountain,” he yells, spinning topwards again. “It’s just a hill.”
I suddenly remember the tartan-smart waiter at the Isle of Mull Hotel at Craignure. “When the weather closes in, you need to stay put,” he cautioned, sonorous words twinkling over breakfast clatter. “I’ve seen Americans with sandshoes go up that mountain – nay good – be prepared.”
My son is in sandshoes striding heroically into clouds. “If I get lost I’ll just go down,” he shrieks over his shoulder. “It’s not hard, is it?”
Then he is gone; swallowed in a shroud of dismal mist.
The summit of Ben More on a semi-clear day. Photo / Getty Images
My son isn’t prepared. He shoved the only warmth into my backpack at base camp, so now he’s in a tempest without layers, without water, without food. Training has revolved around bacon and beer.
The rain beats down. The only way to stay alive on this treeless ‘scape - without a foil survival blanket or a square of chocolate - is to curl into a tight ball. And wait.
I would flee this pitiless slope had my young’n not faded into white. He is nowhere to be seen in the monotony of scree scattered across the remnant of a volcanic explosion dating back 60 million years. There is nowhere to go but up. And up.
Visibility shrinks to 20 metres, no 10 metres. Time ticks on and then, somewhere around 700 metres, I recall that I am not alone. The other MacDonald on this climb is my husband. He’s ahead, deluded, thinks he’s a guide following an invisible trail without markers.
We don’t have a transmitter to send out a signal if there’s a fall down a ravine or a twisted ankle in a stream. I could phone the Mountain Rescue man who appears on the nightly news reminding adventurers about freezing off fingers with frostbite when not equipped with Gore-Tex, thermals, fleeces, goggles, beanies, space food, penknives, nuts. And oranges. And a pencil to write last thoughts on the back of a shopping docket. Yes, and a satellite phone.
Kiwis will appreciate the raw and untouched landscape of the Isle of Mull.
Photo / Getty Images
Thoughts turn to loved ones but are unexpectedly disturbed by a vision: two blurred figures floating like angels to earth at 1000 metres. They’re wearing matching all-weather gear, purpose and intention chiselled into their frozen jaws. I’m shouting a tale of woe as they pass by, but they’re not stopping for anyone, not in the eye of this storm.
“A boy is lost,” I screech at the top of my lungs. “Is he ahead?” The saturated man stops. Water streams down his face and runs under his collar. Rain pours from his pointed finger as if from a spout. “He’s way down there below,” he bellows. “We passed him on the path.”
MacDonald blinks at me. “We can’t go back now, we’re almost there!” he implores. He’s got the DNA and he’s setting a feverish pace on the final approach towards the top. I look below, take a last breath, step into white.
Ben More is one of 282 mountains in Scotland known as a Monro because the summit peaks higher than 914.4 metres (3000 feet).
We’ve climbed Ben Nevis - the highest Monro at 1345 metres - and Mount Snowdon in Wales. We’ve hiked a bit of the Annapurna Circuit in Nepal, scaled Mount Kosciusko in Australia, and survived Mount Gower on Lord Howe Island (twice).
Never, in all my life, have I been so relieved to reach a summit. This one is obscured by a fog scudding like talcum powder puffed into air. There is no view of the magnificent Sound of Mull, Staffa, Ulva, the Ross of Mull or Iona in the distance, so instead we take a hurried “selfie” of red-rimmed eyes and frost-buffeted cheeks.
There’s not much to tell about descent through slimy torrents and chocolatey quicksand except that going down hurts more than going up.
Five hours into this gruelling misadventure, about halfway down, splodges of white paint are splattered like smashed onion across rocks. They are path markers. The clouds are lifting over a gorgeous view and, I’m pretty sure, there’s a heraldic chorus. There’s a tiny red dot down by the sea.
The outlook is brighter at sea level: Tobermory on the Isle of Mull. Photo / Getty Images
It’s MacDonald the Younger, looking up, starting to climb again. We meet in a tiny splodge of sunlight. The youth is half-smiling, half-frowning; questioning as if a parent. Where did you go? Why didn’t you wait? Did you go the wrong way? Did you get to the top?
Somehow, somewhere way up high, we had walked right past each other. He had stayed on the invisible track and returned to base when his climbing companions failed to appear.
Back at sea level, the good-gear angels had given him a slice of cake and water, then dashed off to bag another Monro on the Isle of Skye. Our boy skipped stones on the shore of Loch Na Keal. And waited.
I want to shake his hand; praise him for doing the sensible thing; promise him that “one day you’ll see your earthly kingdom stretching all the way to the sea.” Instead, I keep it simple.
“Ben More is not just a hill,” I say.
Details: Scotland
Getting there
Most visitors travel to the Isle of Mull by a 45-minute crossing from the maritime town of Oban with the Caledonian MacBrayne car ferry.
The Island Pods are a perfect base for an ultimate island retreat in a sustainable luxury pod – a smart step up from camping - on the banks of Loch Na Keal. islandpods.co.uk
The newly renovated, lavish and spacious 4-star Isle of Mull Hotel and Spa boasts coastal views of Craignure Bay from a central location close to the ferry terminal. crerarhotels.com/isle-of-mull-hotel-spa
Visit
Ten minutes by ferry from Fionnphort on the south-westerly tip of Mull you will discover Iona. It’s a delightful drawcard with an unchanged landscape, a 13th-century abbey and burial site of ancient kings, idyllic beaches and spectacular wildlife. calmac.co.uk
Another boat trip from Mull to Staffa Island reveals the extraordinary majesty of Fingal’s Cave. The Turus Mara boat cruises on to Lunga, the largest of the Treshnish Isles, one of the most accessible and fascinating seabird colonies in Scotland (inclusive of puffins, guillemots, razorbills, kittiwakes, fulmars and shags). Operating from April 2023. www.turusmara.com/
Oban is an easy 2.5-hour road trip from Glasgow. Photo / Getty Images
While you’re there
Oban is an easy 2.5-hour road trip from Glasgow, a dynamic hub risen from the wreckage of the industrial age as a city that really knows how to party.
Glasgow’s cathedral is a medieval jewel box, and nearby, the Necropolis is a macabrely-grand Victorian garden cemetery for those with a taste for tombs. Thread your way through the graveyard with ivy-shrouded cherubs and half-fallen angels for a sky-high view of Glasgow’s ancient and modern bits all muddled together.
Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery was mercifully spared the bombs of WWII, standing much the same since 1901, and remains one of the city’s most popular attractions. It’s another Victorian masterpiece packed with an eclectic collection of 8,000 exhibits including works by Salvador Dali and Glasgow’s own Charles Rennie Mackintosh.
Mackintosh’s fingerprints are all over Glasgow. His most famous example, the School of Art, was brought back from the brink after a fire and the excellent Willow Tea Rooms reopened last year having been faithfully restored to Mackintosh’s original 1903 design.
George Square is the place of protest and celebration that helps orient newcomers to the city. The central quadrant known as Merchant City - formerly an area of warehouses and food markets – is a lively entertainment quarter. As the city’s self-titled Style Mile, along with Sauchiehall and Argyle streets, it is unapologetically focused on glitzy international brands.
A few minutes east of the gleaming Merchant City district, the West End is one of the glitziest bits of Glasgow, and the Finnieston area is nicely crowded with good places to eat. Cail Bruich ended Glasgow’s 17-year wait for a Michelin star (recognised in the 2021 guide).
