FLYING THE FLAG ON FAR-FLUNG   FOINAVEN

June 2nd to 5th 2012

Foinaven, Foinaven...... some hill that one !

It's very big, very rocky, very remote.  I had seen the long grey bulk of Foinaven from Ben Hope, and it stood as a compelling objective in the furthest possible northwest reaches of the UK mainland.

Foinaven just misses Munro status by the height of your knees:- conveniently for many, perhaps, because from York it is further away than Paris and if it were a Munro it would be a fairly difficult one, and one of the most prized. We are further north here than Stornoway, and setting aside any quibble from the nearby 801-metre Cranstackie,  it's the 914-metre Foinaven which guards this island's northwest corner -- next stop Iceland !

(Map from Free World Maps: http://www.freeworldmaps.net/europe/scotland/)

After 520 miles of driving and a night in a tent north of Ullapool, Matthew, Paul & myself kicked off from lonely Gualin House on the single track road north of the mountain.  There's almost 4km of VERY boggy moorland before you can strike the north-west ridge, so we had ample cause to be thankful that there had been a long spell of unusual dry weather hereabouts. 

 

A steady chug and some weaving through rock bands brought us to the fore-summit of Ceann Garbh, at which point the  ground changed to a barren rocky terrain of shattered pinnacles and plunging screes.

After the graceful curve up to Ganu Mor, we flew the Union Flag to mark the start of the Jubilee weekend.

South of the main summit,  the mountain becomes a narrow switchback ridge for another  2.5 kilometres, sometimes only a few feet wide, with steep screes and some cliffs either side, up and down over two or three intermediate summits.

We flew the flag again as the weather was good for it !

The narrow ridge finishes with a 100-metre clamber up a narrow nose, which turns in to a scrambling section near the top.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Around this point, we decided to commit to a traverse of the whole lot, and instead of circling down and back we headed south 4km to Bealach Horn,  and the long, long walk out past Lone Farm to the single-track A838. The entire traverse was about 22km and took just over 7.5 hours.  Fortunately we didn't have to walk back a rather greater distance to the car, and many thanks to the young couple who kindly indulged our hitch-hiking !!

After a cool and breezy night on the campsite at Durness, an easy shortish day on Sunday was Ben Hope, (927 metres) - the northernmost "Munro".  Paul had quite taken to toting the Flag by this time, so we'd decided on a new strategy of taking it up all the weekend's mountains.

By doing a bit extra huffing and puffing, we got to Ben Hope's summit in 1 hour 57 minutes, giving ample time to take in the superb views (despite the very chilly wind)

Then it was dropping back down and driving a couple of miles to Dun Dornaigil Broch, the substantial remains of an Iron Age stone tower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back in Durness, we were welcomed at the Lazy Crofter bunkhouse. Excellent showers !!. Good bit of red wine too, as I remember.

Next up was Ben Loyal, another mountain Paul and I had seen from Tongue last year, and whose craggy castellated skyline just called for an ascent.  A somewhat wearying march eventually gave access to the interesting summit tors -- sensationally  vertical at one point.  Hereabouts was the only  brief rainshower and mist of our 4 days on the hills.

 

Time to head south, and for the fourth day we broke our journey in the West Highlands, to take in the Munros of Gleouraich (Mountain of Uproar) and Spidean Mialach (Peak of Lice) which neither Paul nor Matthew had been up before.  We camped wild on the shores of Loch Quoich, and whilst taking the customary dram, watched a large round golden moon spring into the velvet sky, clearly mirrored in the still waters.

A lovely evening preceded a lovely early start.  Under a cloudless sky we romped up "perhaps the finest stalkers path in the country" [Storer] which made the ascent to the west ridge of  Gleouraich feel almost effortless in the cool of the morning.

At the top, our Union Flag finally ended its Odyssey (at least with us) as we left it to fly there and committed its future to the hands of others.

90 minutes or so later, we could just make out the flag from the summit of  Spidean Mialach. But by now, time was wearing on past mid-day, and to the south the clouds were gathering. Ben Nevis, some 30 or 40 miles away, was already cloud-capped.

Time for a pork pie, then, and a smart descent. That left us time to enjoy a pint in the sunshine at the Invergarry Hotel,  well pleased with 4 fine days and 5 good hills.

But the prince of them all, no doubt about it, had been great grey Foinaven.

ANDREW