It was a Saturday night in October and I’d been perusing the weather forecast for the coming week up in Scotland. It looked epic, so around 9 p.m., with no plan beyond a longing for wildness, I threw a few essentials into my little red van and pointed it north. On the way I messaged my friend Graham in Kinlochleven asking if he might be free to join me for a mountain day tomorrow, not expecting him to say yes but to my surprise he did. For the first time since I can remember I wouldn’t be walking a Munro alone!
The road approaching Glencoe was empty but for the deer that appeared suddenly at the verges. Their presence was a little unnerving but exhilarating at the same time.
I pulled into the all too familiar lay-by beneath the dark outline of Buachaille Etive Mòr, turned the engine off, and tucked myself under the covers in the back of the van. Outside, stags roared through the night, their calls echoing off unseen slopes. Inside, I felt that thrilling mix of exhaustion and anticipation, with six unplanned days in the hills stretching ahead of me, free of schedules, free of expectations. Just me, the mountains, and whatever each day decided to bring.

Day 1 — Binnean Mòr & Na Gruagaichean
I woke to a misty valley and the sun rising, casting a warm golden glow. I slid open the van door, boiled water on the little stove and savoured a slow coffee. The glen was still quiet except for the distant roar of stags.
A quick text to Graham to say I was on my way, followed by the mandatory stop at the Three Sisters lay-by for a photo, the kind of stop you never really tire of no matter how many times you pass through Glencoe. Twenty minutes later I was rolling up outside Graham’s house in Kinlochleven.
There are several Munros above the village, none of which I’d climbed before, so we chose the two closest: Binnean Mòr and Na Gruagaichean. It turned out to be the kind of day the Highlands rarely give you, warm, bright, cloud-free summits all around, the promise of a perfect autumn day.
From the start, the stags were ever-present. Their roaring rose and fell through the glens like waves. Every time the sound lifted, goosebumps ran down my arms. The higher we climbed, the more the views opened up.
Nala trotted ahead, tail wagging, she never strays far, always checking back, always waiting. My loyal mountain shadow.
Walking with Graham felt both familiar and surreal. We’ve known each other since we were small children making dens and exploring woodlands near home, and now, five decades lat-er, little adventures of a different kind, climbing mountains under a blue Highland sky.
Midway up, the cloud drifted in. For a brief while the world closed around us, the views dis-appeared. But it lifted again, leaving us with semi-inversion conditions. Ben Nevis and the Ring of Steall stood not far away and countless more Munros still waiting for me.
On the second summit, Graham pulled from his pack a Marmite and cheese toastie he’d made earlier, realising my chaotic last minute dash to Scotland meant I hadn’t packed much food for the walk, and he was right. Marmite is one of those things people either love or loathe, and I firmly sit with the lovers.
It’s always a bit sad to leave a summit on a day like that, but eventually we headed down, picking our way carefully over the steep, stony ground. Two couples joined us, unsure of the way, and together we descended while the stags continued to roar in the glens. Graham kept stopping to point them out, but with my terrible eyesight and my binoculars abandoned in the van, I couldn’t spot a single one!
Back in Kinlochleven, after a quick shower, I drove around the loch to one of my favourite park-ups for the night. I settled for the evening, heated up the homemade ratatouille I’d grabbed from the freezer at home and ate with the side doors open, listening to the chorus outside, Stags still calling, Geese chattering loudly on the loch. Across the water, the Pap of Glencoe rose, looking inviting. It’s not a Munro but I’d always longed to go up there, it’s such an iconic looking peak.
I toyed with the idea of climbing it the next day. Maybe, I thought. I’d decide in the mornIng.