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.