The Hilltrek Blog

Our new double Ventile Jacket is named the Cuillin.

Jon Swaffield won the competition to name the jacket.

He explains why he chose the name:

‘Quite apart from the place of honour the Cuillins of Skye hold within the pantheon of Scottish Mountains, because it would remind me of perhaps the most sublime moment I have spent in the mountains anywhere.

-The summer of 1977 was that “carefree” year in the lower sixth between O Levels and A levels and I was determined to get as much out of the long holiday as I could. Luck was with me as I strung together a list of trips. First a week’s freshwater biology fieldtrip in Shropshire, then train to Cultybraggan army camp for a week of running up and down hills with the school CCF. Next a few days in Montrose with friend who had recently moved back to Scotland, before we had a week’s cruising with The Ocean Youth Club on their Scottish boat Taikoo (Oban – South Uist – Stornaway – Skye – Plockton). This would be followed by a couple of weeks camping on Skye with friends who would drive up from home. Finally I would swing through Edinburgh on the way south to crash with my brother whilst taking in some of the festival fringe.

The weather that summer was glorious. Apart from a shower whilst in Montrose it had been dry the entire time with cloudless skies and magnificent sunsets. Sailing had been a dream: crystal clear water, blue and aquamarine, birds, moonlit passages, being late and left on the dock in Portree after drinking too much Guinness with my friend’s brothers and having to beg a ride from a local out to the yacht anchored out in the bay, watching the Perseid meteor shower, the memorable moments go on and on. The OYC crew change-over had been at Plockton when we had gone out for the afternoon with elements of both crews to welcome HMS Britannia. It was the Queen’s Silver Jubilee and she was sailing round the country, dropping into Loch Carron to take a look at the massive oil rig being built. Taikoo left early Sunday morning and I had a couple of days until my friends were due. By this time I was completely out of funds so I spent a hungry night sleeping in a hollow in the woods being eaten by midges before finding a shed with a few bales of hay for the next even hungrier night. Late the next afternoon, my friends arrived and, after pledging my unborn children, they graciously fed me.

The new Cuillin Jacket

The next day we had headed across to Skye, camping on the east coast up near Staffin. We spend the next few days visiting the “sights” before one morning we headed off to Glen Brittle. Two of us were keen to scramble up a Cuillin, whilst the other two were intent on following some girls they had spied to a pottery in the hopes of making their better acquaintance. As we headed south the rocky crags and ridges of the Cuillins rose above the moor until as we rounded the major bend in the road near the Fairy Pools, they were revealed in all their glory in the brilliant, bright sun. We stopped. Nick and I got out and left Wibby and Murve to pursue the girls. The mountains were magnificent: a seemingly endless ridge consisting almost entirely of rock. No rounded grass or heather covered humps here.

Never having been to the Cuillins before, nor indeed having a map, route finding consisted of “lets head straight up the nearest hill”. The nearest hill was Sgurr Thuilm (3,159’), an outlier from the main ridge but equal in elevation. Before we could ascend the heights however we had to cross Glen Brittle itself so we stepped off the road onto the moor and scampered down to the river. This proved to be quite deep cut, flowing between and over short rock walls forming a cascade of waterfalls and deep pools that already in the cool morning looked inviting. Scrambling and jumping across we pulled up onto the southern bank and started heading south east, aiming to head up the southern slopes of the mountain as it curved away from its northern cliffs. Once on the mountain proper, the going was steep but easy and we gained height. Suddenly we saw the eagle. Gliding on wide spread wings, and only yards out from the cliffs, it appeared only 10 or fifteen feet below us As it came round you could see the glint in its eye, whilst its golden nape blazed. It cocked its head as it saw us, then calmly, gently, tilted its wings and headed off across the valley. It lasted only seconds, but in that time burned its way into the memory like runes carved in adamantine stone. We watched the eagle until it was a speck in the sky, then less than a speck. I can’t remember whether we said anything at the time, words would have only spoiled the moment, but we turned back to the climb.

In memory I seem to have floated up to the peak – I can remember no effort or sweat – and upon arrival the feeling of unreality only intensified. The light was bright, hot but not over-heating, revealing every detail of the amazing rock architecture spread before us. Peaks, buttresses, ridges, gully’s. Miles of naked rock to trap the eye and fill the mind with possibilities. From north-east to south-west the ridge ran before curving round to the south-east,leaving the eyes to continue on to the island dotted sea. A timeless vista of mountain sea and sky that makes the west coast of Scotland unforgettable.

There was no wind and the silence profound. Time slowed until the “now” became eternal. A breathless pause in the helter-skelter of life, refilling the well of contentment to be dipped into in times of stress to come.

How long we sat there I do not know. One thing only was discordant – a bright diamond speck visible on the main ridge. Suddenly time and sound came crashing in as we heard the wine of an engine starting, and the diamond was revealed as light reflecting from a helicopter’s window. The rotors sped up and we saw a black dot rise into the air and grow as it flew towards us. We had been spotted. The helicopter flew up and started to circle the peak. Inside we could see the passengers taking pictures. After it had circled for 5 minutes, like the eagle it banked and headed off across the valley. Unlike the eagle we were glad to see it go and snuggled back into the silence like a warm blanket on a cold night.

But the spell had been broken so we started to head down. Now we felt the heat radiating up from the rock and developed a thirst. By the time we struggled back to the road we were hot and dusty. Murve and Wibby were waiting for us – but said nothing of their failure with the girls. Glowing with heat we suggested a swim in the river. As we had crossed back we felt the water, warmed by the sun of the rocks to a temperature almost bathlike. We grabbed towels and headed back. If you have read any of Bill Tilman’s mountaineering books, you will know of his memorable swims. This was one of mine. The water was warm near the top, but icy if you dove down into the deep pools where the trout were hiding. The rock walls providing stances to jump from and the small falls, cascades to pummeled your back. Perfect. Unfortunately nothing perfect in life comes without payment. It was August. We were on Skye. We were in Glen Brittle. It was evening. It was windless and we were not only next to, but actually in the river. On my first camping trip to Scotland I can remember lying in my tent listening to the hum of countless midges outside. Now we heard not a hum but a throb. Midges were so dense in the air that a breath filled your mouth and caught in your throat. As you looked down at your torso it was literally black with thousands of the devils. I wonder how many people driving along the road that evening saw four naked guys streaking across the moor. As we build up a few yards lead on the ravenous hordes following, we would stop to pull on a sock, then as the swarm caught up, start sprinting again before attempting the second sock or maybe underpants fifty yards further on. Later that evening, sipping some pints I knew that this had been a day to remember. All that summer had been building experience onto of experience, culminating in a timeless moment of sublime bliss amongst the most spectacular mountains in Britain’