And that’s how summer passed:
The great dividing range, the green, green grass
Maybe it was peace at last
Who knew?
— Ben Howard, I forget where we were

Scotland is not always toil, not always wasteland; sometimes she blazes green, and her paths are soft as moss under your feet, smelling of hyacint and dandelion. Kintail was one of those times, during that sparkling spring when Scotland tried to staunch my dripping heart.

I have so many epic stories that I wondered, what is there to say about a trip where everything goes well, where I simply enjoy myself?

The older I get, the more I appreciate precisely those stories: not the gripping, exuberant ones, but the peaceful, gentle stories, that make my insides glow like a dram of whisky.

It was a different time. When Nick still drank whisky and we stayed up until the wee hours. He with his brand new backpack of moss green, me with my buzzed blonde hairdo. I don’t know how much I’ve really changed, except that I’m happier now. I still drag Nick into the mountains in my not quite a two-person tent. Nick still brings his aeropress, and a kilo hummus. And he still makes me laugh with his silly nonsense.

During that time, I spent whatever free time I had in Scotland, and Nick would just come with me, to the furthest corners of Scotland, between his university lectures. Further, deeper into the Highlands we go this time, then on to the coast to, at long last, make the crossing to the Outer Hebrides.

The glen

Beforehand we have big plans. Take on the Five Sisters, that long ridge, before descending towards Camban Bothy. In reality we’d be happy to even get through the glen before sundown after the 4 hour bus journey.

Kintail, Cinn t-Sàile, head of the salt water, is the heart of the Highlands. You drive past it on the way to Skye, when you cross Glen Shiel, that winding, fabled one. Five pointed peaks on a row and three more next to them, the brothers, concealing what lies behind, a mountain range tucked away so far that it’s impossible to get away from there the same day, from any direction.

But the glen is not inferior, on the contrary.

It was late May and Scotland was more agreeable than ever. Brilliant blue with a soft breeze, midges nowhere to be seen. A pleasure so rare that it seemed like a fairytale.

I remember the lambs in the field, the twisting river.

I remember the waterfall, the still air.

The only sound from next to me, from Nick who is adjusting his backpack, somewhat compulsively.

I remember the green grass, the sun glow. That shone upon the earth as through the roof of heaven.

And there at the end, the red roof, and the Scot waiting on us.

The mountain

The spring night is so light, the sun so warm, that we need no fire, but bothy is not quite bothy without one. To study the map there with a glass of whisky.

We offer the Scot a dram as well, but he has a mission. He has walked a long way, over the Affric Kintail Way from Loch Ness. Tomorrow morning he will complete the route. After a brief chat he retires to his chamber, and we to ours.

We too have a mission, but that doesn’t refrain us.

Tomorrow, Nick will – for the first time – climb one, two, perhaps even three munros. We are using the bothy to reach a group of mountains that can count themselves amongst the remotest peaks in Scotland. Sgùrr nan Ceathreamhan (1151 m), An Socach (921 m) and Mullach nan Dheiragain (982 m), at the head of the legendary Glen Affric. Climbing these hills is almost impossible without an overnight stop.

We start with the furthest peak, to increase our chances of completing all three.

It’s a bloody long approach, that is: first through the glen, up to the bealach, across a boggy corrie, and then all the way along the ridge to the hilltop cairn. Here, we come across a trailrunner, the only human we see today. And that on a day like this, where the sun makes us sweat. 26 km from where we started out yesterday, Mullach nan Dheiragain, our first munro. We quench our thirst and eat our sandwiches, more hummus than bread thanks to Nick, in this liminal, this no man’s land.

After this, we follow the ridge all the way back to reach Sgùrr nan Ceathreamhan, the highest summit of the day. The ridgeline to the top looks rather daunting, but it turns out to be a fun climb over the large boulders. Back over our shoulder we see a glen that couldn’t be more Scottish – a U-shaped valley with a meandering river.

Sgùrr nan Ceathreamhan rises above its surroundings, and from the summit you can see for miles in all directions. South of us the Brothers Ridge, glowing gloriously in the sun. An inviting sight.. maybe we climb it tomorrow after all?

The hills on the horizon are shrouded in a desert-like haze, as if they are blowing breaths of heat our way. The quivering air, the windless lull, they still my restless interior.

It does me good, the simpleness of the walk; all focus on what lies before me, the endless repetition of one foot in front of the other. And Nick, the faithful companion on my tail.

Perhaps a little too faithful – I feel Nick’s breath in my neck, and every time I stop, he nearly bumps into me. At first, I think he’s doing it on purpose, as a joke. But it goes on a little too long, and would this not be my biggest pet peeve, people walking close behind me. When I mention it, he laughes: he didn't have a clue. This is how he was trained, as a scout on Kings Peak. Always stick together, like soldiers.

But we’re not 4000 meters high in Utah, although the Scottish Highlands can feel just as rough, if not rougher. Today the skies are calm, and the rocks are like bouncy castles under our feet. We give each other space, and so we frolic down, back to the bealach where we started this morning. The sun, the mighty spring sun, is low now. We take stock: back to the bothy, or on to the final peak?

Against my expectations, Nick is content. We've had a beautiful day, and we have a while to go still, 7 kilometers to the bothy. Shouldn’t we save our energy, if we want to climb the Five Sisters tomorrow?

For me, however, the temptation is too big. An Socach is there, merely 120 meters up on this ridgeline.

It doesn’t take much to convince Nick; my mischievous eyes say enough. We sprint up the rock-riddled dome. At 921 m, An Socach isn’t a big one, but in the setting sun its views might be the best of the day: the last sun rays hitting Sgùrr nan Ceathreamhnan’s corrie, that long ridge and the pointy peak.

The sun sets behind the mountains as we descend into Glen Affric. The sky is pink and the hills orange, purple and green. At Alltbeithe there is a youth hostel, the remotest one in all of Britain. We take a peek inside, and before we know it we are pushed to the fireplace, where hikers and staff are exchanging stories. What an oasis of warmth it is amidst the wilderness of Kintail.

We take a look at the map. Tomorrow we could climb up Sgùrr a’ Bhealaich Dheirg, the first brother to the south, and continue along the ridge – 20 kilometers and 8 hilltops – all the way to Loch Duich. Here we could get on the bus to Skye, from where we’ll hopefully make the crossing to the Outer Hebrides. It would be a grand day out, an epic. Up at sunrise, while it is now already nearing midnight. Rush over the mountain ridge, anything but certain we’ll make it in time for the bus.

Swaddled in my sleeping bag, softened by the fire, I’m not too keen for it. I don’t need to surpass this day, I’m quite content here, in our wee bothy, completely ours tonight.

Yet the toil

We have a slow morning packing our rucksacks. Kintail has hid her hilltops behind clouds, sealing our decision. We say goodbye to the Five Sisters and walk back through Gleann Gniomhaidh, north around Bheinn Fhada. This route is longer and boggier than the way here, past a loch, grey in the cloudy sky.

But then we climb up Bealach an Sgàirne, the col between Meall a’ Bhealaich and A’ Ghlas-bheinn. And there, out of nowhere, the colour, the drama unfolds. A narrow cleft, rocky and bright green, wriggling between the hillsides. As if, for a moment, you step inside Middle-earth. Our pace slows down, under the spell of the colours aorund us. It doesn’t cross our minds that we might be in a hurry.

Dreaming, we descend into Gleann Choinneachain, over rocks and streams, past a wee waterfall. We talk of birds and communes, love and the mountains around. Only much later, when we’re halfway down the glen, do we glance at the clock. Then the realisation – if we wanna catch the last bus, we have not a second to lose.

We pick up te pace and fly down the trail. Trees appear, the glen flattens. I thought I still had some energy left, but suddenly I feel the 55 kilometers in my legs. The first houses of Morvich come into view, but we aren’t there yet. And time is running out. My backpack feels heavier by the second; with every step, a sharp pain shoots into my right hip.

We slog through the last kilometers. Skipping and stumbling over the road, I try to lift the weight off my hip. Nick is ahead of me, limping just as much as me. I can picture the whole thing: getting to the roadside just as the bus drives past. It wouldn’t be the first time this happens.

But we make it, with a few minutes to spare.

‘We also could’ve hitchhiked,’ Nick says, once he has stopped panting.

‘You say that now!’

And so our peaceful hike ends in a wee epic after all. It isn’t quite over yet. Because one question remains, where do we sleep tonight?

Photos shot on Fujifilm 400 with my Nikon f801.