Scott Ferguson Writer

An Easy Stert

We wir gittin the boat er fae Troon. I hudnae been in Arran since I was a wean, but here I um noo, wae ma aulder brer oot oan the sundeck, lookin doon at the violent churn ae water as the ferry smashes through it.

The plan was tae climb Goatfell. “An easy stert tae the hills,” ma brer’s been tellin me for aboot 40 year. For 40 year I’d given him the same response, “Aye sounds gid, let’s git a wee day sorted.”

Today, there would be nae campin at Glen Rosa, and nae crazy golf at Brodick. Just up the hill, back doon, and then a wee pint before headin hame.

I looked fae the back ae the boat tae the front, and the island’s sparklin peaks came intae view. Best bang for yer buck oan a clear day, I’d been promised since records began. A challenge, but nae real gear required. A pair ae shorts and ma gutties wid dae.

Aff we went, ma printed directions rustlin in a poly-pocket in the front zip ae ma rucksack. I was hopin I widnae need them, but nae joke, aboot two minutes after we entered the forest the path split three ways. No wantin tae luk like a dafty this early oan, I chose the middle wan and put ma heid doon. It aw worked oot, as after we’d cleared the trees, I got ma first glimpse ae the top ae the mountain. Here we go.

We started meetin folk oan their way doon. Smiley folk, who aw kinda luk the same, aw makin eye contact and sayin hello. They’ve got aw the gear. Poles, colourful coats, and obedient dugs.

As we git closer tae the top, I’m encouraged that there’s no long tae go. Thank fuck, cos I’m blowin oot ma arse. “Keep goin, wee man, yer nearly there,” I hear ma brer say.

At the top, I slap ma hawn aff the cairn and find a rubble ae rocks tae sit doon on. I squirt some Lucozade intae ma gub and luk er the sea across tae the Paps ae Jura. The reward is exquisite.

I take two sandwich bags oot ma rucksack. Wan wae ma piece, and the other wae the ashes ae ma brer. I tip a wee bit ae him oot back intae the land. The land he was a part ae, and that I’m a part ae now, too.

Next week, I’ll be at the tap ae Stob Chore Claurick, or however ye spell it, up in Fort William. I’ll be dain the same hing there, and then again at the tap ae the other fifteen Munros ma ain sleepin warrior never made it tae.

Oan the ferry, I fin masel at the back ae the boat again. This time, I luk past the churn, back towards the island I’ve just left, and I see the water settlin.

Mibbe no that easy a stert, but it will git easier.

Call of the Isles