Bunkhouse, Jura

30 April - 3 May 1999

Present: Three nights: Gordon C, Tony K, Calum M, Fiona M, Steve Rd, Steve R
Two nights: Janey C, Sarah S, Jo L (tent)

Traversing the Paps

Having somehow swung a long w’end passout, I boarded the freedom express (aka Tony K’s company car) - destination the fabled Isle of Jura.

My impatience to see the mystical Paps for the first time made the journey along the twisty roads of Argyll a restless one, despite the prospect of a good forecast and a rare opportunity to "get out onto the hill". The ferry journey over to Islay made me feel that I was really on holiday. There's something about a ferry journey that transforms any journey into a wee adventure.

As we neared Islay, Gordon and I whiled away the time distillery spotting. Port Ellen, from a distance, had a picture postcard appeal to it with its whitewash cottages along the seafront - unfortunately it failed miserably to live up to one’s first impressions on closer inspection. The place had a "seen better days" feel to it, with many rundown and dilapidated buildings.

We didn’t see much of Islay as we sped across it to Port Askaig, the departure point for the late ferry to Jura. Despite being no more than a collection of a couple of houses and a hotel, it had a tranquil feel about the place. The lifeboat was anchored next to the hotel. It had a weird name, something along the lines of the "Herman Goring" - I kid you not!!! Probably named after the local foreign laird. The ferry timetable allowed for a swift pint in the local hotel, before the tiny ferry transported us across the narrow stretch of water to Jura. It was almost dark as we drove the 10 miles or so across the Island to the bunkhouse near Craighouse. The silhouette of the Paps could clearly be seen against the night sky.

Saturday; Tony K persuaded Gordon and I that a true traverse of the Paps would not be complete without taking in Corra Beinn. On the map it didn’t seem much of a detour, but distances on maps can be so deceptive; it took us a good few hours to reach its summit. However, it did give us uninterrupted views of the north end of Jura, and as far afield as Glen Coe in the north and Ireland in the south. Our joy at such a magnificent panorama was tempered with the realisation that the drop to the foot of Beinn Shiantaidh was considerable, the ascent through its scree slopes looked impenetrable, and that Beinn a Chaolais, our ultimate target, seemed along way away.

The steep descent to the col allowed for my first use of ski poles - yes those things used by old gits or those with doggy knees. Steve R had conveniently left his in the car, so I had borrowed them - thanks Steve. I was an instant convert, apart from the palaver with adjusting their length as the angle of the slope varied. We couldn’t completely avoid the scree on the way up, with one 30m stretch reminding us of Sean Connery’s punishment in the war film "The Hill". The summit cairn had hidden within it a visitor’s book. We noticed that we had just missed 3 members of the "Transpennine Gay Hillwalking Club", who had summitted earlier that day. Gordon was surprised that they would be interested in Paps, and thought they would be more at home on a certain hill in the Cairngorms (This may be too subtle or just plain homophobic!!!).

The weather improved and Tony changed into his shorts whilst Gordon and I were left with rolling up our tracksters to our knees in some psuedo-masonic ritual. Tony was left behind on the ascent up Beinn an Oir, as time was passing and the pace quickened. We spotted two fell runners headed around the Paps in the opposite direction at a fair lick. We questioned their sanity running over such rough ground in such temperatures. A leisurely late lunch was had on the summit admiring the fine panorama. Tony pointing out various features of his favourite holiday island, Coll.

Gordon and I once again struck on ahead, as we wanted to get back at a reasonable hour to prepare the dinner. The final ascent up Beinn a Chaolais was hard, as the days labours began to take their toll on our weary limbs. A brief rest and snack at the top allowed for the stupendous views to be taken in one final time before commencing the long trudge back to the hut. This took bloody ages. Gordon and I passed the time devising various methods of operating a ballot - if the case ever arose and a club meet was oversubscribed. This showed the depths we reached in order to distract our minds from our weary limbs.

SRd