Many thanks to all of you who have ordered West Highland Way DVD’s. We’ve been putting the finishing touches to the DVD today and we hope we’ll have them ready to send out by the middle of next week. We’ll then get started on our next two DVD’s - The Skye Trail and Wild Walks 2.

The West Highland way DVD was an interesting one to put together. I’ve walked the route 3 or 4 times over the years but when Richard Else went out on our various filming sorties last summer it either rained incessantly or the midges were hell, sometimes both. However, we did eventually manage to get it all filmed. It is, of course, a fabulous route, I reckon the best long distance trail in the UK and now you get an extra mile for your money’s worth. The Fort William end of the walk has been moved from the entrance to Glen Nevis to the centre of Fort William. It’s hoped that West Highland Way walkers will spend lots of dosh in the High Street shops.

The DVD will be on sale from this website, or from Mountain Media from the middle of next week - price £15.99. The DVD also includes a great film about the work of the Nevis Partnership.

I had last climbed Assynt’s Glas Bheinn as part of an unholy Corbett raid a number of years ago. We had climbed the fine tops of Quineag the day before and decided to bump Glas Bheinn off the next morning before the long drive south. I’ve realised since that’s no way to treat a mountain. Needless to say I can’t recall very much about the ascent other than being slightly annoyed that the summit wasn’t on the mountain’s corrie edge, but, inconveniently, a little beyond the edge on a flat high level plateau.

My next slight skirmish with Glas Bheinn was a couple of years ago when researching the 77 mile Sutherland Trail between Lochinver and Tongue. We had climbed the very fine stalkers’ path that runs from Inchnadamph to the high and stony bealach just east of Glas Bheinn. I had intended nipping up to the 776m summit from the bealach but the weather was deteriorating and we were keen to visit the highest waterfall in Britain, the Eas a’ Chual Aluinn, which lies a short distance below the bealach overlooking Loch Glencoul. Realising that the route from Inchnadamph was a much finer ascent line than the normal route of ascent from Loch na Gainmhich in the north, I promised myself a return visit sometime in the future.

After what felt like weeks of rain high pressure finally settled in and I made plans to visit Assynt again. I slept overnight in my old campervan near Ullapool and on a still and dry morning left Inchnadamph with hopes for clear views from the summit. But this is Scotland’s north-west in December, and whenever high pressure covers the country you can be sure this part of the highlands does its own thing. It was grey and cloudy but I didn’t care too much. After weekend after weekend of soakings I knew that at least I would stay dry today.

In many ways Inchnadamph is one of Scotland’s main geological centres of interest. It was here that John Horne and Ben Peach discovered the Moine Thrust, which explained why some older rocks were found on top of younger rocks, a curiosity that had puzzled geologists for decades. You don’t have to spend very long in Assynt to see that the shape of the land is different to anything else in the UK. The low grey hills are of archaean gneiss, and studded with countless lochs and tarns. This is the oldest of British rocks, smoother and rounded by the centuries and scored and scarred by glaciers – its rounded bosses form the plateau of Assynt.

The stalkers’ path that runs north from Inchnadaph climbs into a huge wild corrie, complete with not one but four corrie lochs and numerous tiny lochans. The grey headwall of this corrie is made up from the long ridge of Beinn-Uidhe and its north-west terminus shares the high bealach with Glas Bheinn. That’s where I was heading.

Low shafts of sunlight were lighting up the quartzite screes of Glas Bheinn’s eastern slopes as I approached, creating a rather surreal atmosphere. Bands of mist were already drifting in the the west and as I climbed the rocky slopes to the summit plateau I have expected to see a Brocken Spectre, when sunlight casts your shadow onto the mist below, creating a halo effect. But it wasn’t to be. Instead I became shrouded in mist as I reached the summit plateau and half thought I might have to get my compass out to find my way to the summit.

Now and again I like to play a little game on the hills, but only when I have a GPS which will give me my exact grid reference if required. I’m pretty convinced that we can develop a directional ‘instinct’ if we use that sense enough – after all our ancestors didn’t use a map or compass to find their way around the hills. So, working out that if I followed the corrie rims (Glas Bheinn is formed by the upthrust of several large corries, two of which face north-east) I knew that the huge summit cairn lay some distance away from the rim, between the two. I found it quite easily by simply following the highest ground, even though the mist was now thick and seemingly impenetrable.

I know this wasn’t the most difficult navigational test in the world, but I think little exercises like this help to hone the instincts and senses that most of us have lost through misuse.

From the summit it didn’t take long to get out of the mist and I followed the hill’s north-west ridge down towards Loch na Gainmhich and the footpath that skirts Glas Bheinn’s western slopes and runs south to Loch Assynt. With the slopes of Quineag rising to the west and the knobbly landscape of Sutherland stretching out to the north I was reminded why I love this region of Scotland so much. I think it’s probably time I walked the Sutherland Trail again.

My thanks go to the Scotsman for publishing a very nice review of my recent book, The Sutherland Trail. Check it out at http://living

.scotsman.com/features/

Outdoors-Sutherland.5989079.jp

The book is available from good bookshops or from this website’s ‘Shop’ section.

I overheard Mark Diggins from the Scottish Avalanche Information Service say on the radio the other day that the big problem at the moment for walkers and climbers was actually getting to the hills. In some places the snow is knee deep and even waist deep.

I can confirm that! I went out yesterday to a little Corbett not very far from Aviemore. Geal Charn Mor, 824 m) is a short distance from an old track that runs over the hills from Lynwilg, near Aviemore, to the River Dulnain. It’s know locally as the Burma Road. Someone had been up it in an argo-cat and smoothed the trail down a bit so my trusty snowshoes weren’t really necessary but when I stepped off this track high on the bealach it was a different story. I was instantly up to my knees in snow and it would have been a royal battle floundering and ploundering through the snow to the summit trig point.

The snowshoes saved the day, sinking into the snow a mere three or four inches. This is a great way to travel in conditions like these and it didn’t take me too long to reach the summit trig pillar, which incidentally, only peeked out from the surface of the snowpack. It made a fine seat for me to sit on and enjoy my lunch with glorious views of the snow swathed Cairngorms and the vast expanse of the white Monadh Liath stretching away to infinity, or so it seemed, in the north.

Only on the descent did I have any problem with the snowshoes and that was when I reached a little system of streams. The snow was so soft I kept breaking through to the running water below and once or twice I found myself with legs spreadeagled trying to find some traction on either side of the burn.

Despite that it was a great little outing with a temperature inversion over the Spey and morning mists playing around the tendrils and limbs of the lower birches and pines. On my descent I sat below the spreading branches of an old granny pine and shared my sandwich with a hungry flock of chaffinches, blue tits and beaatifully tiny coal tits.

Having had that great day the local temperature went down to about -20C again last night and we woke this morning to some frozen pipes and frozen diesel in the car. With no hot water and no transport the big freeze is beginning to lose its attraction. I guess it has to end sometime. I’m beginning to hope it’s soon.

Bleary eyed from working at my computer I went up the road to our glen late this afternoon, just as the sun was dropping over the horizon in a riot of colour.

Even before I got out of the front gate I knew we were in for another cold night. It wasn’t just cold it was frigid. The hairs in my nostrils immediately froze as I breathed in the cold air and when I took my gloves off to take a photograph of our ice-encrusted house my fingers went numb.

Plunging my bare hands deep into my trouser pockets I wandered up the road to the open glen, where a couple of local crofters were still battling away with their digger, clearing the road so they can get feed up to their sheep. I was just in time to enjoy the Alpenglow of the dying sun. The sky ranged from orange to navy blue in colour and the hue of the orange cast itself on the hillside and trees giving an ethereal, Arctic look to the landscape. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Glen Banchor look so savagely beautiful, so starkly magnificent.

I left the road and followed a narrow track through the snow down to the River Calder, a tributary of the Spey. I’ve lived here for over 20 years but this is the first time I’ve seen the Calder completely frozen, and snowed over. It was silent, in the grip of the cruel freeze, its tumultuous flow frozen in time by the ice. I tried to photograph it but it was just too cold to take my gloves off.

But it was good to stop for a few minutes for all was still and silent. I was overwhelmed by the sharp clarity of everything, drawn by the stark beauty of it all but I was also aware of the cruelty of the low temperatures and the cover of snow. This was what the travellers of old called the “the terror time,” when the cold became a silent killer, freezing their livestock to death. Curious how something so beautiful can be so savage.

I wandered home via the village, where a pall of smoke hung limp over the houses, the smell of burning wood in the air. Cars still looked to be abandoned on the main street, and snow is still piled up at every corner but the lights from the windows of the houses looked soft and welcoming. I put some food out for the birds and our red squirrels before going inside where a blast of warmth welcomed me home. Time to sit in front of the wood stove with a dram or two I think, and plan a hillwalk on snowshoes for tomorrow.