Meet Report
15th to 17th September 2004 - Inverie
The boat trip to Inverie was the most uneventful part of our weekend even
though, when asked to steer, Cathy and Lesley, being girlies, didn't know
what side to drive on. Notwithstanding Lesley's efforts to overcome the
swell (not for the first time in her adult life), resulted in the author
getting soaked. On arrival Hywel helped park the boat; which required
transfer to a smaller vessel, whereupon, on landing, he got his arse soaked
- or at least that's what the skipper said. You could see where Jerome K
Jerome got the idea.
The two wettest of the company were therefore obliged to recover in The
Forge while the girls dutifully and manfully took the rucksacks up the hill
to the bunkhouse. It was with some surprise that we bumped into Rowan
Atkinson (no - not the racist ex-manager of Man U) and Hywel summed up his
full Welsh unit to ask "how's to mini then?" The response was a look that
could surgically remove testicles.
Us chaps made our way back to the bunkhouse with less than full
confidence in the pitch black, only to find that Bill and Eileen had got
lost twice (twice?) on the journey. Anyway, us chaps were sent out on the
rescue mission and found them wandering without confident direction. It was
a moment when you can appreciate the origins of the expression "like a fart
in a trance".
Saturday was not too wet. To start with anyway. Some hills were climbed.
Richard on Ladhar Bheinn, Hywell on Ben Bhuidhe, and both nice but Tim's on
Meall Buidhe. The others, including Albert and Judith and Dennis and Jenny,
did low level walks in a generally westerly direction with Cathy and Lesley
ending up in an organic collie love in. I'm not sure about Bill and Eileen,
perhaps they just went down to the gate and back, just in case. Saturday
evening was a cracking meal in The Forge.
Sunday, it f...g pissed down all day and short walks were taken with two
exceptions. Ane nice but Tim (sounds like the English Broons) walked to
Barrisdale, while the author went further and climbed the Graham which
involved a 5m freestyle (no style) swim in the river Barrisdale. This
journey, across the river, was like a triathlon without a bike. Anyway, the
idiot enjoyed it to the full with the spectacular amount of water cascading
off the hill living in the memory. After a shower, Judith's cooking hit the
spot. Can you imagine a cross between Delia Smith and a St Bernard?! Albert
can.
Sunday evening inevitably brought out the trivial pursuit and the players
relaxed into adolescent conflict. Bill won, if by nothing else than
volume.
At breakfast, about 8.20, we reflected on the boat taking us to Mallaig
at 2pm, to be told at 8.23 that we would have to take the service ferry at
11am, to be told at 8.27 that it was cancelled and that we would be leaving
at 8.50 to take a chartered boat at 9.00. Panic, but we got there, to be
transferred by little boat to big enough boat. If we hadn't been soaked
during the weekend, we were so now. Lesley claims to have got a click with
the ferryman, who turned out to be Knoydart's social worker. A quick change
in the car before coffee in the local bijou caf and a wet drive home. May I
remind you of some old and well founded nautical wisdoms? If you have false
teeth, don't hold the rope to a tarpaulin covering the rucksacks in your
mouth while you try to grab out a rail and a druid for balance - just got
the dental bill.
In conclusion, wet, windy and wonderful, but not quite a Van Morrison
weekend.