Strawberry Cottage, Glen Affric

3-5 September 1999

Millions and millions of Strawberries…

Present: Katherine G, Stuart, Pete & Helen I, Mark L, Calum & Fiona M, Bob P (and possibly others not in my archive photos)

The midges were rife when we donned the packs in beautiful Glen Affric. It's September, shouldn’t they all be dead? Never mind, the team soon set a cracking pace way beyond the air speed of your average 2mm long pest and within hours we were approaching road-end. In a close escape that nearly blackened the clubs safety record the Ilieves arrived with their hundred or so horses and ran us all over. Shame they hadn’t arrived a wee bit earlier they could have carried all the stuff.

There was an issue. I remember. Someone was in a huff…. but that was a long time ago and nobody bears such grudges in this club. Hell, we only remember the good times, which is why we are all still friends, eh? Something to do with coal, or oil, or gas, or something. Pete sorted it out though. Or was it Helen. Maybe in fact it was the beer…

Prior to the meet I had had a word. The word was sunshine. An arrangement with Him (Her, Ed!) upstairs. I promised everyone but they wouldn’t believe me. Hah! Saturday morning was out of this world. Perfectly sunny. Perfectly still. Perfectly clear. Perfectly darn perfect.

The only thing missing was the promised strawberries so we had to set out in search of them. The party split into at least two. The main team, beginners in the field of strawberry hunting, set of for a hill they could never, ever, ever, hope to spell – Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan (spell-check suggests "Sugar Nan (no spelling suggestions)"). I rest my case. The other more advanced (in many ways) team set off for much more advanced (in many ways) hills. That big one behind the hut (Mam Somethingorother) fell to the Ilieves.

We had a brilliant walk in great company but not a single strawberry to be found. The stress was a bit much. The failure. We slipped into silent strops and the party diverged from the summit. Two went that way. Two over there. Bob and I went the other way. Or more precisely the wrong way. Away from the hut and down to a shimmering sea of diamonds. Well OK, a loch actually. We fished amidst the splendour with the usual success. Trout about the size of strawberries, but none the right colour or shape.

Back at the hut we exchanged stories about strawberries and the ones that got away. We drank beer that could have looked like strawberry juice in the right light. We drank Bob’s whisky, which might have been near some strawberries in its 12 years. Some people ate some red things. But nobody really had any strawberries.

The morning was bright and clear but simply not as perfect as the morning before. So being fussy sorts we decided that breakfast in the garden was the way to spend the morning. The whole morning. And what a garden… a view to nearly but not quite die for. Who cares about the strawberries?

Mark L