Bravehearts: A Winter Road Trip of Scotland

Famous for its majestic peaks and stunning scenery, Torridon, in the Northwest Highlands, is a climber’s dream. But in late November, its treacherous slopes hold unexpected pitfalls for novice hiker Will McGuire.

On the journey south from Ullapool, trees suspended in ice and cloudy, frozen lochs line the road. The light is fading and we need to reach Torridon, the nearest town where we can camp for the night. A freezing fog rises from the valley and swallows the route ahead. The car in front disappears. We follow, plunging into the gloom.

The sun is setting on our dream road trip across Scotland. After Torridon we head home. I led this expedition, ticking off my bucket list of castles and stone circles. We have endured unrelenting cold and rain; however, this late in November, there are even more severe challenges. Not least of all is Jen’s souring mood. My girlfriend of three years hates being constantly cold, refuses to visit any more castles, and wants to go home. But she saw a photo in a guide book of hikers atop a Torridon munro and decided that is the experience that would make her trip.

Torridon is a small village nestled in the Northwest Highlands of Scotland, overlooking the stunning Loch Torridon. The surrounding hills are popular for climbers and photographers hoping to “bag a munro,” - meaning climb a Scottish mountain over 3000 feet. The three munros residing in the Torridon Hills are serious climbing propositions, with conditions particularly perilous through winter.

We rumble into Torridon with the light almost completely lost. The village is just a strip of road with a scattering of houses and a primary school. The Torridon Stores and Cafe is the only shop in town.

One of our biggest challenges on this trip has been finding places to pull up for the night. Most camps are closed from August till March; thankfully, the Torridon Camp Site is open all year. We find it just as we turn off the A896 towards the town. The site is unstaffed and runs entirely off donations. The nearby facilities are always open, with a shower that I’d use if it wasn’t too cold to take my clothes off. The site itself is just a paddock; tonight we have it all to ourselves.

We park up near the side where it looks grassiest. The middle of the field has descended into swamp, and I don’t fancy our chances of getting out if it rains overnight. We strap on headlamps to work in the dark. Jen is chief bag packer and car re-arranger. I leave her to it as I set the cooker on the ground and heat up our soup.

Our Ford Focus, aka Hotel Ford, doubles as accommodation. The back seats drop to furnish a makeshift bed. While it does the job, my hips are bruised from sleeping against the hard surface every night. When I shuffle Jen across and lay diagonally, my legs can just about extend. Although it lacks certain amenities like WiFi and a hair dryer, we still have plenty of privacy. A wire is nailed across the length of the windows, along which we run curtains. There’s even a late night en suite – just open the side door!

But for all the challenges overcome, Jen is still miserable. Even under the duvet, sleeping bag, hats, jackets, gloves, joggers, fluffy socks and thermals, she suffers the bitter cold.

‘I’m fffreezing,’ Jen stutters. I rub her arms.

‘You owe me a ring for this,’ she warns. Slipping her bare hands under my thermal, she holds them against my chest, like an icy grip of death over my heart. It occurs to me for the first time that we might actually die. We would be found clasped together, having failed to spoon for survival.

With some surprise, I wake alive in the morning. My parts inside the sleeping bag are mildly warm. My nose, however, is blue. As is Jen’s whole face.

A frost has swept over, freezing the swamp into a twisted scowl. Hotel Ford is dusted with ice crystals. The windows need scraping inside and out. I’d offer to help, but my hands ache, so I keep them tucked in my coat pocket. The scraper screeches as Jen drags it down the windscreen. She’s making a point. But I’m too cold to care.

‘So which one are we climbing?’ she asks, a hand perched on her hip, the other waving carelessly at the forbidding mountains- closing in around us.  The cone tops, swept with ice, plummet 3000 feet into a watery, Loch Torridon grave.

 I expected the mountain peak that we were chasing from the guide book to stand out from the rest of the hills as a challenging yet entirely achievable proposition. Trembling under their vast shadow, they all look equally improbable. I’m more than convinced of their natural spectacle from here, without closer examination from the highest summit. I agreed to visit Torridon, expecting Jen to abandon her alpine intentions on arrival.

‘We don’t actually have to,’ I suggest.

‘Yes, we do.’ Jen’s confidence is unnerving. She’s never walked up anything in her life. Not even stairs – if there’s an escalator. All the fresh air must have polluted her judgement.

I hope to ask a local about guided tours, but the main street is quiet; in fact, we don’t see anybody. Do all the residents leave after the season? At the Torridon Shops and Cafe I admire the range of home baked goods on display. The woman behind the counter smiles, prepared to accommodate any request.

‘Climb a Munro? Today?’ she asks, eyebrows raised. ‘You climbed in winter before?’

‘Not... really,’ I quietly admit.

‘You climbed before – ever?’

The shop lady agrees with all of my demurrals. Like any snow-capped mountain range in winter, Torridon needs to be respected with the right tools. Ice axes, crampons, rope, location beacons – even avalanche transceivers - are all essential. Changes in the weather can be quick and dramatic. We only have gumboots. And they seem to be leaking.

These warnings pose no concern for Jen. She begins a head bowed, hands fisted stomp towards the mountain range. I trot behind explaining why her efforts should be abandoned. ‘It’s crazy – we’re ill equipped – its cold -I’ll slip – we’ll die!’

She charges on regardless.

I attempt a last appeal to her sense of reason. ‘If we leave now we can reach Eilean Donan Castle by tonight!’

I’m rebuffed by a single, filthy glare.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I beg.

She hisses back. ‘Because it’s what I want!’

The Torridon Hills soar into the sky. This could very well be a hands and knees climb. The summits, dredged in ice, stand majestic. How ironic, that a source of such stunning beauty should fill me with such blood curdling dread.

A grey cloud threatens overhead. Jen crunches against the icy, pebbled dirt at the base of the hill. I realize that this is my punishment. For hurtling into this trip, putting Jen through a month of dogged discomfort, she is getting her own back. She doesn’t really want to climb this mountain. She’s just knows I really don’t want to. The lesson dawning on me, unfortunately too late, is that in a travel partnership understanding and compromise are critical.

‘I’m sorry you’re always cold,’ I start tentatively. Grovelling has proven an effective strategy in the past. But this time Jen doesn’t even slow. This sulk of hers will require deep probing.

Her foot slips on the flaking earth which spills over my gumboots.

‘I’m sorry I dragged you out here,’ I try again. ‘That it’s all just been what I want.’

She won’t even look at me. Drops of rain begin to fall. Panic rises in my chest.

‘I’m sorry that you can’t put on make up. Or wash your hair. Or paint your nails. That you feel like a boy.’

The sky cracks. The November weather is ready to unleash itself upon us. The ground will soon be too weak and slippery to walk on.

‘I’m sorry for charging off ahead at Dunrobin castle. I should have walked with you,’ I implore. ‘I see that now.’

She remains indifferent.

‘I’m sorry I put too much pepper in the soup yesterday. That you have corns between your toes and bunions on your feet.’

She shakes her head. We grip the surface to keep ourselves steady.

‘I shouldn’t have made you eat tuna sandwiches. I took us to too many castles. We cook our meals in car parks and I know that’s not fun.’

The rain is landing faster and harder. The ground is turning to mud. Is she so determined to punish me that she is willing to lead us to our doom?

‘I take too many photos. That stops now. The she-wee you have to use at night? Not anymore.’

Freezing fog, spilling from the mountain top, will soon envelop us. She’s so stubborn she doesn’t care. A stone slips into my boot but I try to ignore it. I have to end this now.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t want to buy a house!’

Jen pauses.

 ‘That you wanted a hot, beach holiday, and instead, I made you come to Scotland in winter!’

She turns and looks at me with something other than contempt, for the first time today. The stone in my foot is now killing me.

‘And I know all you really want is...’ I have to deal with the stone. I bend down and tug on my boot.

‘Yes!’ she shrieks. ‘Of course I will!’ She clamps her hands around my neck and kisses me.

The word I was about to offer – ‘compromise’- chokes in my throat.

 ‘I’m so happy,’ she sobs. I prize her claws off and catch my breath, then shake lose the stone that has inadvertently given me a second chance. The sky cracks again overhead. What choice do I have?

‘Me too.’ It’s the compromise.

Jen is delighted. With the glorious view over the loch it would be very romantic, were we not being battered with wind and sleet.

We scramble back down the mountain. An icy fog nips at our heels. Jen doesn’t mind; she can’t stop saying how excited she is to announce the news. How we will buy a house next door to her mum. Get a dog. Have a baby called Stanley. It’s been her dream road trip after all. The descent back to Hotel Ford gives me plenty of time to consider how I led us here – and the real punishment that’s about to begin.