CYHA News

I was a bit shocked to realise that next year is the silver jubilee of my joining CYHA. I’m not expecting any partying in the streets, but like all anniversaries it does give one cause for reflection!

Joining CYHA at the tender age of 16 I’d never been anywhere, or done much walking and I certainly didn’t have any money! It was a different bunch back then, but they all made me feel very welcome, something which I hope we still show new members today. From the original line-up you might recognise George and Roger, but we were soon joined the likes of Robert, Lorna and, just as I was heading off to university, Dave P. Each time I returned from uni, there was a slightly different array of faces, but always a warm welcome.

In the last quarter century I have evolved from a pavement plodder to a fully-fledged hill walker, largely riding on the coat-tails of those way more experienced than myself. I have learnt to map read tolerably well, plan day walks, discovered the benefits of good boots and Goretex, and above all seen most of the best countryside Britain has to offer.

Just recently I’ve embarked on a bit of a fitness campaign, partly to cure a recurring back problem and partly because I was fed up with being the sweaty one panting at the back of the group. All this has helped me to realise just how good walking is for you. The health benefits are indisputable:

1. Lower blood pressure
2. Less prone to depression
3. Fewer colds and flu
4. Reduced risk of breast cancer & senility
5. Less dangerous belly fat (well, I’m still working on that!)
6. Weight loss (walking burns getting on for 100 Calories per mile)

If all of that wasn’t reason enough, just moving helps keep joints flexible and exercise strengthens the muscles that support the joints, warding off the aches & pains as we get older.

The only catch is to gain the maximum benefits you need to walk late-for-a-bus quickly for 40mins every day. Hard to fit in for a desk jockey like me, but I enjoy a challenge…..

                                               Ali

---

Billericay Birthday Barn Dance!

There was a great turn-out of CYHA barn-dancers for Cressida’s 50^th birthday.  We showed that most of us can still remember how to strip the willow! The band were excellent, the buffet was good, and the cake sumptuous. I think I can speak for us all in thanking Cress for a great evening.  And a date for your diary: the next big birthday barn dance – George’s 60^th on 10^th October!

Dave P

Thanks to everyone who attended my birthday party and helped to make the occasion so special. I hope everyone enjoyed themselves and especially the dancing - I certainly did. Thank you for my "Pot of Gold" and all of the other thoughtful presents - beer and chocs - so many of you know me too well!!

Cressida

---

Essex Way

A hot and humid Sunday at the end of June saw seven of us meeting to walk the third stage of the Essex Way: 11 miles from Great Waltham to White Notley.

Highlights included Langleys House and park at Great Waltham where we crossed the River Chelmer, a break in the shady churchyard at Little Leighs, a pint at the Square & Compasses at Fuller Street (where the phone box is now an Essex Way information kiosk), Fairstead church with its medieval wall paintings, scenic Terling Ford, and a stroll beside the River Brain into White Notley.

We’re planning the next section, to Great Tey, on 13 September.

Dave P

 

BETWEEN HEAVEN AND HELL

Knoydart is a wild and remote peninsula on Scotland's North-west coast, bounded by Loch Hourn in the North and Loch Nevis in the south. There are two ways in, either a 20 mile slog on foot, or a boat ride, commonly by ferry, 45 minutes out of Mallaig, but in the case of our dozen CYHA adventurers, a privately hired RIB, which took a little over 15 minutes to convey us from the somewhat austere port of Mallaig to Inverie, the main settlement of Knoydart, in a sheltered bay on the peninsula's southern side.

The brevity of the journey in our fast little boat did not detract from the feeling of remoteness, akin to approaching an island, at first sight of the little string of low houses sighted through the thin rain. The feeling did not diminish after disembarking at the wooden jetty which facilitated the tiny village's access to and from the outside world, nor as we proceeded along the shore, under steel-grey skies, through the village towards the bunkhouse that was to be our base for the next few days.

This turned out to be more comfortable than I at least, had anticipated, with a wood-burning stove in the cosy sitting/drying room, a kitchen with all the usual appliances (which Trudi & her helpers were to utilise to good effect over the next few days), hot showers, and clean and comfortable dormitories. In fact the main hardship was for those too old and slow to secure a single bed or lower bunk before quicker and fitter younger members.

The weather brightened a little that afternoon, as our small party ventured out past clusters of vividly-coloured invasive rhododendrons, such a threat to the local flora, and proceeded along the coast, beneath cloud covered peaks and into its boggy hinterland. Away from the chatter of the group, the peninsula's stillness could clearly be felt, broken only the soft sound of lapping waves.

Activities for the following day, which began overcast and wet, varied according to inclination. The more active ventured up the rain-shrouded conical peak of Sgurr Coire Choinnichean behind Inverie, coming close to the summit, mistakenly thinking they had reached it in mist and rain which reduced visibility to a few metres. For those less physically focussed, there was a guided tour through the woodlands above Inverie by one of Knoydart's resident Rangers, providing insight into the restoration and management of the area in a sustainable manner. The replacement of the ubiquitous sitka spruce by native trees was a major feature of this process, and the green shoots of the latter could clearly be discerned within the barren acres of cleared forest. Throughout the day, relaxation and refuge from inclement weather was to be found within the welcoming walls of the Old Forge, officially mainland Britain's remotest pub, providing fresh seafood, good ale and a broad social mix of visitors and residents. Almost all of the latter appeared to newcomers, and all revelled in their adoption of the "good life".

As the weather improved, walks in various directions became more attractive. One expedition, to the western end of the bay and beyond, resulted in quantities of delicious, fresh mussels for that evening's supper.

On Tuesday morning we set off in the RIB again, travelling far round the coast to the even more remote location of Barisdale, on the northern side of the peninsula. This voyage was considerably longer than our trip to Inverie from Mallaig, and our destination even wilder, making the few scattered houses of Inverie appear almost a metropolis in comparison. Here was no jetty, only a precarious rocky outcrop, where tranquil waters allowed us to gingerly unload ourselves and our provisions. The departure of the boat with the slightly incredulous good wishes of its crew, provoked a curious, if temporary, feeling of abandonment and isolation. We really were on our own now!

With full packs and 2 days supplies we made our way a mile or so over rough tracks to the lonely white house by the Barisdale valley, which was to be our home for the next two days.

Apart from the top bunks lacking ladders to access them, resulting in those not wishing to risk life and limb who but late in claiming their bunks, having to sleep on the floor, the accommodation was again more comfortable than I, for one, had expected. Coal was available for a stove which provided hot water for cooking and washing, and a generator provided electricity for light. Gerry provided tasty and nourishing food in the evenings at Barisdale, giving Trudi a welcome break. Dave P continued to daily demonstrate his mastery of the art of porridge making, begun in Inverie, providing us with rib-sticking fuel for each day's activities.

These varied with the vagaries of the weather. Tuesday afternoon was bright enough to get us all out, on a mixture of high and low level walks. Wednesday began wet and miserable, but did not dissuade the more intrepid from an assault an assault on Luinne Bheinn, an acclaimed "Munro". Several of us hung around the house until the weather cleared in the afternoon, and then took walks in various directions. I took a solitary stroll along Barisdale valley, enjoying its sheer remoteness and wild beauty. After a couple of hours, I spread my waterproof overtrousers on the ground by the river, and sat for a while soaking up the peace and solitude of the valley in the mellow evening sunshine. Wandering back, some time later, I became aware that I was not entirely alone when I rounded a bend to encounter a trio of deer, just above the track. They stared at me curiously for a couple of minutes before racing away to more secure grazing further up the hillside.

It was only when I was back at the White house, the welcoming aroma of cooking supper in my nostrils, that I remembered the overtrousers, lying on the bank of the river, high up the valley. This was a "senior moment" which I could have done without, in view of the dismal weather prospect. Wet legs were unlikely to enhance the 10 mile slog over the pass to Inverie .

Thursday morning dawned dull and drizzly, and I decided to forgo breakfast in an attempt to retrieve the garment in question. I retraced my steps over the rough tracks to the spot where I had lingered the previous evening, taking half the time of the original leisurely journey. To my relief, the overtrousers lay where I had left them, albeit somewhat sodden from the overnight rain, but soon serviceable enough, after a speedy return to base, arriving a few minutes before the group was ready to depart.

Nevertheless, the hike over the hills in sweeping rain, carrying full pack and with several miles already under my belt (but no porridge!) was not unalloyed joy. The reputedly spectacular scenery was hidden by the weather, and the trail seemed at times to be just a long, narrow bog, but eventually a gentle descent in scattered, mud-spattered groups through the woods above Inverie, led to the shelter and warmth of the bunkhouse. After a hot shower and convivial group meal at the Old Forge I felt almost human again.

Friday dawned bright and sunny, and most of the group took full advantage of the best weather of the week to trek up to the summit of Sgurr Coire Choinnichean, for some a repeat experience, but possibly a pleasanter one. Here, at last, mobile phones could receive signals. "I'm on a mountain" must have provided a change for the recipients of the ensuing calls than the more common and mundane "I'm on the train". Once these incongruous incursions from the outside world had ceased, some of the most impressive views in Scotland could be drunk in. To the south-east could be distinguished the distant snow-flecked slope of Ben Nevis; in the north-west the long spiky castellated fortress of Skye's Cuillin ridge rose majestically from the brilliant azure of loch and sea. Surely hill-walking did not get any better than this.

It was a fitting climax to a demanding but exhilarating week.

Oh, and that title? Knoydart is flanked by Lochs Nevis (from Gaelic for Heaven) and Hourn (Gaelic for Hell).

Doug

Some pictures of our week in Knoydart: Dave's pictures, Ali's pictures