Return to Corrour, 29^th May - 1^st June 1999.

Return to Corrour

James McKechnie was 13¾. Last year, his father Ian had taken him on his first Scottish mountaineering trip culminating in a weekend based at Angela Brown's distinctive bunkhouse on Corrour station, and it hadn't taken him long to discover that he loved the mountains!

So it was that they arranged another visit for the May bank holiday weekend in 1999. This time, the objectives included a visit to some of the more distant peaks such as Ben Alder, nine miles walk from Corrour. They knew from their previous visit that the first half of the route to Ben Alder is on estate tracks along the edge of Loch Ossian, so the plan included taking bicycles to reduce the walking distance and make a day return trip to Ben Alder a practical proposition.

The Journey North

Ian and James had chosen to travel north with Virgin Trains on the route through Rugby, Crewe, Preston and Carlisle to Glasgow. The journey was a pleasant experience, shared with an extended family travelling from their home in Korea to watch a ballroom dancing championship in Blackpool. The Koreans were especially impressed by the colourful patchwork of fields as the train headed north from London; some green, some the vivid yellow of rape-seed blossom, some the pastel mauve of flax.

The journey passed well enough until the southern outskirts of Glasgow, when there was a sudden loud bang followed by a lot of clattering and crashing from below the carriage, and debris was seen flying out onto the track-side. Progress then became slower and slower, and the train finally came to a halt at Polmadie, about ½ mile from its destination in Glasgow. A team of railway staff appeared on the track and started examining the train. After 15 minutes they were still there and Ian began to worry about their connection in Glasgow for the West Highland line. An enquiry through the open window provided the information that the train had hit a large obstruction placed deliberately on the track by persons unknown, and it was only luck that had kept the train from leaving the rails. The brake pipes under a carriage had been damaged and were leaking air, which was why the train had gradually slowed down. The team had now bypassed the damaged brake pipes and the train would soon be under way again.

Glasgow Central station was in an extraordinary state for a Saturday afternoon. Police were everywhere, and there were never-ending streams of people heading for trains. It was the same all the way across Glasgow and at Queen Street station where they joined their West Highland line train; large crowds, and almost as many police. Finally, curiosity prevailed and Ian asked a policeman. "Rangers – Celtic match sir. Last time they played we had big trouble…".

Putting bicycles on a West Highland line train was a new experience for Ian and James. Initially they parked the bikes in a wide section of corridor next to luggage racks. "Ye cannie leave it there, Jummie…Up the front. Ye’ll see…". And at the other end of the train, sure enough, was what could only be described as a pair of matching cycle wardrobes. At either side of the central gangway was a complex array of heavy-duty hooks, bars, and straps; each bicycle had to hang from the roof by its back wheel, then be secured against swinging as the train lurched around corners. For Ian and James, the hanging process was preceded by removal of the nine assorted bulging panniers, rucksacks and other containers attached to the two bikes, and stacking them in a corner.

With the bikes stowed, Ian and James made their way along the train to find their seats. The police presence continued, with two officers supervising the loading of the train. The train started, and they were still there. They stayed on the train for half of the journey, finally deciding it was safe at Ardlui, where they joined a southbound train to take them back to Glasgow.

Angela Brown was waiting for the train on Corrour station, looking worried. Ian thought the worst - had there been a booking mix-up? Would they have anywhere to stay the night? Angela put his mind at rest. "I hope you don't mind - every bed in the bunkhouse is taken tonight, with you two and twelve girls from Rannoch School, so you'll have to share a bunk-room with some of them. I've put you in the corner with the sixth-formers - I hope they won't disturb you too much." "No, that'll be OK." mumbled Ian, as James wondered how his school-friends would misinterpret the story if ever they got to hear of it…

The girls were charming and most helpful. They warned about the mouse, which prowled the kitchen at night looking for unprotected food. They provided a tour of the bunkhouse (neither Ian nor James liked to say that they had been there before!). And James and Ian spent an enjoyable evening up in the signal box with the older girls, hearing about their day's walk over Leum Uilleim and some of their past experiences on winter expeditions, and providing some of their own stories in exchange. Later they discovered another benefit of sharing a bunk-house with this group. Not one of them snored, an almost unheard of situation in a bunkhouse; and the younger ones, who giggled, did at least stop when they got to sleep!

Mrs. Grouse's Mountain

Ian woke not too early next morning to sunny skies, and headed for the kitchen to start making breakfast. The younger girls were already hard at work frying large quantities of bacon, sausages, mushrooms and other things to keep them fuelled during their day on the hill. James had provisioned with tins of 'ready breakfast' - a sort of cassoulet, with beans, bacon fragments and microscopic sausages in a tomato sauce. After a bowl of cereal, and taken with several slices of wholemeal bread and a large mug of tea, it was quite palatable.

The plan was to walk along to the end of the Loch Ossian, and return over the summits of Stob Gaibhre (3133ft) and Carn Dearg (3087ft). So with a good breakfast inside them, Ian and James set off along the track to the loch, then took the route along its south side. It's a good, firm track and their strides very soon became automatic as they made use of the journey to talk, and to enjoy the sights and sounds of the loch, the hills and the moor. In what seemed no time, they had arrived at the end of the loch, and were heading past the construction site for a new lodge, through the wood, and onto the slopes of Meall Nathrach Mor.

On their previous visit to Corrour, Ian and James had set out one day with the same objective as today, but were limited for time by their train home, and had turned back at Meall Nathrach Mor. This time, they used their past experience of the route to find an easier line up the slopes to the ridge, before continuing South to the summits. The lower slopes had been enclosed since last year, with 10 ft. fences, large gates, and ladder stiles; presumably some new planting was about to begin. On the way up the slopes, Ian was startled when a grouse suddenly flew out from between his feet; she was so well camouflaged he had not seen her. Ian had to look very carefully at where she had been to see her nest in a small hollow, with three round speckled eggs, just as well camouflaged as she had been. Father and son admired for a short time but did not touch, then as they continued up the hill, Mrs. Grouse returned to her task of incubating and protecting her eggs.

The route continued from the flat top of Meall Nathrach Mor, along a broad ridge over Sgor Choinnich, and onto the rocky summit of Sgor Gaibhre. It was then a gentle ascent down broad grassy slopes, across a peaty bog, and up over rough stony ground to the outcrop that forms the summit of Carn Dearg. From the summit, the descent was through grass and heather to the track leading south from Loch Ossian, the old 'Road to the Isles', and past the youth hostel to Corrour.

When Ian and James arrived back at Corrour, the girls of Rannoch were assembled on the platform. Their stay at Corrour was over, and they were to take the train back to Rannoch station for collection by the school minibus. Ian and James decided that tonight would be a good opportunity to visit the Rannoch Arms Hotel for a meal, so changed and showered quickly in time to catch the 6.29 train with the girls. After a pleasant meal in the company of other walkers, and after phoning home to report a safe arrival and a safe return from the first day on the hills, they returned to the bunkhouse for a night-cap and bed.

From Ben Alder to the Belford

The route in to Ben Alder is a long one. From Corrour, it is 4½ miles along land rover tracks to the far end of Loch Ossian, then another 4½ miles along a rough, winding path following the Uisge Labhair river to the foot of the mountain. Ian and James had brought bicycles for the track along Loch Ossian, to reduce the time and effort required for the approach. The route along the loch was pleasant, if a little rough and stony in places. They chose the north side of the loch, as the track is better and the gates are normally open or unlocked. They found a small wood beyond the lodge to leave the bikes, and chained them to a tree half way up a short slope, where they thought deer were less likely to rub against them. With rucksacks on, clothing adjusted for comfort, sticks in hand, sun protection applied, they set off up the path, past a group of small tents on the grassy levels beside the stream, and onto the path to Ben Alder.

The path follows the stream, ascending gradually, through a broad valley of peaty moorland. Sometimes the path is on the edge of a low, stony cliff overlooking the stream. Sometimes it is on firm grass beside the water. Sometimes it cuts across boggy peat to avoid a loop in the river. At all times, the walker must watch his every step, for on this terrain, carelessness leads to accidents. So they proceeded up the broad valley, the mountains on either side slowly changing from heather slopes to purple ridges with rocky outcrops like ruined castles. Ahead and to the right, the nondescript mass of Ben Alder gradually came into view.

Ben Alder is a large bulk of a mountain, an extensive plateau sloping gently to a summit of 3766 ft in the east. From below, its eastern prospect is of towering cliffs and deep gullies, and it is from this direction that it is most often photographed. Seen in the distance from the road or railway at Dalwhinnie, with snow on its upper slopes, it is one of Scotland's classic mountain views. But from the west, it is just a grassy lump. This was their view, and as they approached it Ian and James began to examine the slopes in more detail, to choose the best route of ascent.

Their guidebooks had both recommended variations on the west ridge. However this involved a long walk across low-lying peat and heather before starting the ascent, and after the rain of the past two weeks it would be very wet. So they decided to continue further along the river until it came closer to the slopes, then ascend to join the west ridge near its summit. This turned out to be a good choice, and with little difficulty they reached the ridge as it began to level out on to the plateau.

Attaining a plateau on a convex slope in this way seems never ending, for the walker's viewpoint distorts his perspective of the view ahead. But at last they reached the point where they could see a vast grassy bowl ahead of them, smeared with wet snow-fields. The distant skyline was castellated with stony mounds and ridges, and it was quite impossible to tell by eye which was the highest point. Ian consulted the map and the compass, to work out where they were. They skirted the bowl, and crossed the snowfield, towards the furthest east of the piles of stones. As they walked, the vastness of the place became even more evident, their objective never seeming to come any closer.

Eventually they reached what they thought was the summit. But by now they could see another stony area that had not been visible before, further to the east, and with a cairn and a shelter marking it as a more likely candidate for the summit. Another check with the map confirmed it, and they set off again across a grassy depression and a field of hard packed glistening snow. Now, their exposure to the east wind was increasing, and it was strong, steady and cold, cutting through their clothing and chilling them to the core. Up to now, they had been quite comfortable in their shirts, but Ian quickly put on his furry jacket, woollen hat and wind proof cagoule, and James followed suit. By the time they reached the summit, they were beginning to feel warm again.

Their stay on the summit was short; just long enough to talk to a lone climber who was leaving as they arrived, to have something to eat, and to admire and photograph the views. The views were indeed superb; the air was clear and they could see the lochs and the distant hills in all directions bathed in a watery sunlight.

The descent from Ben Alder was straightforward, using landmarks on the opposite side of the valley to find the line off the plateau and onto the safest slopes. The slopes descend steeply, with terraces covered in coarse grass and heather, and occasional rocky outcrops. This terrain provides the ideal habitat for the ptarmigan, a timid member of the grouse family, which is only found at high altitudes, and in the winter months takes on a white plumage. On several occasions a ptarmigan would fly out from near the descending climbers, letting out its distinctive 'cronk' sound, and circle round to land again behind them. They noted a pair, probably building or attending a nest, and later a single bird, whose mate was nowhere to be seen.

The preceding weeks of rain had made the underlying peat very wet, and in some places this resulted in slippery patches of mossy grass. Ian had completed the descent and was at the foot of the slope, as it started to level out into the river valley. He was just congratulating himself on having descended all that way without slipping over and getting a wet bottom as usual, when it happened. He slipped on a wet patch, his right arm shot out to protect him from wet trousers and took the full dynamic force of the fall onto a large, unresisting rock hidden beneath the grass. It was all over in a moment. He knew something was wrong as he felt a wave of dizziness coming over him, clinical shock starting to close down the blood supplies to his brain. A look at the right wrist confirmed his fears. The arm was normal as far as the wrist, then the hand continued in a line displaced an inch from the line of his arm. When James arrived, Ian was sitting with his head between his knees, trying to overcome the effects of the shock. "Any good at first aid?" James looked quizzical. "Why, what's wrong?" Ian held out his right arm. "It's either broken or dislocated."

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James looked worried. Ian carefully removed the rucksack from his back. "I’ve got some first aid items in my bag – see what you can find." James searched through the contents of the rucksack. "A tubular bandage?" He pulled a tubular elastic knee bandage out of the sack, and Ian tried it on. "Too big. Pack it out with this glove." A red glove was stuffed between the tubular bandage and the arm. "Ah – a triangular bandage!" James used his scout training to make a sling for the damaged arm. "I'd better put the rucksack back on before the sling." Ian struggled into his rucksack, and James applied the sling. With the sling in place, it didn’t provide any support to the wrist. A foam sit-mat was rolled around the arm and wrist inside the sling to give the necessary rigidity. "That’s better!"

James packed the contents back into his injured father’s rucksack, and they set off over the large hillocks of peat towards the river. They crossed the river by the same rocks they had used on the way up, and rejoined the path. The wrist was comfortable, and by now the faintness had worn off. But Ian remembered reading somewhere that shock symptoms can return. "I may get a second wave of shock, so if I pass out, you know what to do, don’t you – recovery position, monitor circulation and breathing." "OK", said James, putting on a brave face.

As they walked, the two men set about re-planning the remainder of the weekend. "We’ll go back to Corrour, get the evening train to Fort William and visit the hospital, find somewhere to stay the night in Fort William, then get the morning train back to Corrour. We should have time for a short trip like Leum Uilleim before our train home." Continuing discussion brought out some of the flaws in this plan. "What about the bikes – you can’t ride like that." Ian thought for a minute. "I’ll push mine, while you ride back to Corrour. Then you can walk back to meet me, and take my bike the rest of the way. It’ll add an hour to the time, but we should still easily get the train." With a plan in place, talk returned to the usual subjects of the mountains, their surroundings, and life in general.

By the time they reached the wood where their bikes were waiting, Ian had decided that he would try to ride his bike one-handed, if James could take most of the luggage on his bike. So that was how they progressed on the track back to Corrour; James riding the larger bike, with one rucksack on his back and one in a pannier; Ian riding James’s bike one-handed, with no luggage and with the saddle in its lowest position for stability. It worked on all but the roughest sections of the track, where some walking was necessary, and by 7.30pm the two were back at Corrour. James started cooking dinner while Ian went over to the caravan to let Angie know the situation.

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"WHAT have you been DOING?" Angie came out of the caravan looking concerned. After a brief summary of what had happened and what Ian intended to do next, Angie moved into action. "Rick will check your wrist - he's a qualified first-aider. I'll phone the hospital to let them know you're coming, and I'll find somewhere for you to stay in Fort William." Before touching the wrist, Rick asked for more details of what had happened, how the wrist appeared, and how it felt. "Well - if it's comfortable, then the best thing is to leave it as it is - opening it up could do more damage." And Angie had made a provisional booking with a hostel close to the hospital. With an inadequate 'thank you', Ian returned to the bunkhouse.

Their meal eaten and overnight bags assembled, Ian and James went out onto the platform to catch the 9.18pm train to Fort William. They were seated on the train, and the conductor came to check the tickets. Ian recognised him from their previous three journeys. "One and a half to Fort William Hospital please". The conductor looked down at the sling on Ian's arm. "What have you been doing?….."

Belford Hospital, Fort William, is conveniently located close to the station. They found the casualty department, and Ian gave his details to the receptionist. He was soon led to an examination room by a friendly nurse, and eventually a doctor appeared, a tall blond-haired young man with a slight German accent and 'Dr. Schaffner' on a badge on his open white coat. "May I see your arm?" … "Is it hurting?" … "I will remove your dressing as carefully as possible." He removed the tubular bandage, exposing the red glove, which looked like a gruesome, bloody withered hand. Seeing the look of amusement on Ian's face, he pointed at the glove and said with a smile "That hand does not look good". He then turned to the damaged wrist and his face became more serious. "What is THAT? YOU will not be going anywhere tonight, I think!"

With Ian's arrangements for the night fixed, it was time for James to find the hostel and establish himself there. The nurse gave him directions, and took him to the hospital entrance to make sure he understood them. He returned later to report that he had signed in to his hostel, and had a key to get back in. In return, Ian gave him an update on the wrist. It had been x-rayed and was badly broken. Ian would remain in hospital overnight in case of complications and to avoid doing more damage. The wrist would be straightened and plastered the following morning. That was all James needed to know, and he bade his father goodnight and returned to his home for the night.

The Black Sausage

The following morning, Ian woke early despite a disturbed night. It had taken some time, and a couple of visits from the nurse, to get his arm supported in a position where it wasn't causing pain. Eventually he had fallen asleep, only to wake sensing movement from the bed opposite. A small elderly man, who was recovering from two broken legs and couldn't walk unaided, was out of bed and making his escape at his fastest speed possible. Ian called for a nurse, and there then followed an hour of antics with screens and commodes, before he was back in bed. Then another voice started, calling out firmly but politely for information, as if addressing his secretary. "What TIME is it?" … "Why am I HERE?" … "Am I on a SHIP?" To attempt to answer only added more confusion to an already confused mind. Eventually, Ian called a nurse, who helped the owner of the voice to get comfortable, and he drifted back to sleep.

James had had a better night; then after paying his hostel fee he had bought his breakfast in Tesco, and eaten it in the street to the sound of pipers warming up their bagpipes. When he arrived at the hospital to check on his charge, they decided they had better phone home, so James went to find the phone and wheeled it back to the bed. "Hello, Ian here … I'm in Fort William hospital … I had a slight accident yesterday and my arm's a bit broken … They’ll be straightening it later this morning" (no emotive words like 'operation'…) "and we hope to be on the train tonight as planned … We'll keep you posted … Bye."

The consultant orthopaedic surgeon arrived on his morning round with his registrar, and with Dr. Schaffner who had been on duty in casualty the previous night. Ian knew he had to get in on the right foot with this team if he was to be dealt with in time for the evening train. "Good morning." … "Yes, I slipped and fell on wet ground, and my arm took the full force of the fall." … "At the foot of Ben Alder." There followed an animated discussion among the three doctors, each seeking to show a knowledge of the geography, geology, meteorology or aesthetic merit of Ben Alder and its surroundings. Ian took part in the discussion as appropriate, all candidates came out with good marks in every subject, and the doctors achieved their aim of putting their patient at ease.

Then down to business. "How long will it take to fix the arm? Only - we're booked on the train home tonight, leaving Fort William about 5." There was an intake of breath from the medical team. "Mmm, that's tight." Ian couldn't conceal a look of disappointment. "Well, if it can't be done, it can't be done - but…" But the challenge was enough. The doctors went into a huddle to review the options, and came back with a plan. "We can fit you in between two other operations at about mid-day. If we use a technique called Bier's block, the operation can be done under local anaesthetic. That way, you could be recovered in time to get your train. But we can't promise anything…."

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It was time for the operation. Ian lay ready on the table in his paper theatre gown. The assistant surgeon introduced himself as Dr. Wilson. He was in his forties, short and stockily built, with a shock of black hair. He had been a medical officer in the army, and was full of anecdotes from his army career. The anaesthetist was in his thirties, thin and ascetic looking, with mousy hair and an imperfect complexion. He gave the impression in all he did of being careful and meticulous.

While they waited for the consultant surgeon, they exchanged army and hospital stories, and Ian was given a summary of what to expect. "We'll be using Bier's block to give the local anaesthetic, a procedure in which we push a tight tube we call 'the Black Sausage' over your arm to squeeze out as much blood as possible. A collar is then tightened around your upper arm to stop the blood from getting back in, and the tube is removed. Anaesthetic is injected into a vein, and diffuses around the empty and isolated blood vessels of the arm. Then we manipulate the wrist to get your bones back into position." Ian felt he ought to ask a question to show he was listening. "How long can the arm survive without blood?" The doctor smiled. "The arm can last quite a long time - about three to four hours. But it's a lot less for some other parts of the body!"

The Black Sausage was a soft plastic tube about the length of an arm. The consultant pushed his hand into one end of the tube, then pulled it up his arm, the annular skin of flexible black plastic rolling like the caterpillar track of a bull-dozer or tank. He carefully grasped the injured hand, then pushed the sausage back down his arm and onto Ian's. "There - your arm should be empty. You'll feel a sensation now as I tighten the collar around your upper arm to block out the blood. Your arm will turn all sorts of strange colours, but don't worry about that." The collar was tightened, and the sausage was carefully removed. "Now we're going to pump the anaesthetic into the arm…" A large syringe full of clear liquid was attached to the valve on the back of Ian's hand, and was slowly squeezed to transfer the liquid into the arm. "We have to wait a few minutes for the anaesthetic to take effect, then we can get on with the job." Dr. Wilson moved towards the table. "That reminds me of a story about…" And Ian enjoyed another anecdote from the Royal Army Medical Corps.

"I think we're ready to do the manipulation. Are you clear what is involved?" Ian had indeed thought about it, and had a pretty good idea what was coming. "I guess you grip my hand, put one foot under my armpit, and pull." Dr. Wilson smiled cautiously. "Well, yes, I think you've got the picture. I'll be holding your arm while my colleague manipulates your wrist. Tell us immediately if you feel any pain, or feel faint or breathless." And he took a firm grip around Ian's upper arm and shoulder, bracing himself against the table leg with his thigh. The consultant surgeon gripped the injured hand with both of his hands and PULLED - twisting, feeling the wrist, twisting and pulling again, until he was satisfied that the pieces of bone were back in line. The inevitable tension at the start of the procedure had caused Ian to close his eyes tightly and to grit his teeth. This in turn led to signs of rapidly escalating concern from the anaesthetist, who thought Ian had passed out. "Are you all right? … Are you ALL RIGHT? … Are you alL right?" By this time it was clear to Ian that however mediaeval the procedure might appear, it was quite painless. In fact, it was rather like being tickled! The absurdity of the situation got the better of him, and while he lay on the operating table with two men tugging and twisting his arm in opposite directions and a third shouting at him, all Ian could do was burst into fits of laughter.

As soon as the surgeon was satisfied with his work, the arm was secured in a pre-cast half-plaster, and an X-ray taken to confirm that all was well. Ian was returned to the ward and told to rest for a while, then if he felt up to it he could go. During his rest, Ian got to know his two ward-mates a little better. Both Ian and James had enjoyed the company of Jock, a small stereotype of a Scotsman with a tartan bunnet and a knobbled stick in the Harry Lauder tradition, and with a permanent sparkle in his eye and a crack for every occasion. In this he was slightly disadvantaged by having lost his voice, but that didn't deter him at all, merely increasing the time, effort and enthusiasm required to pass on details of his current cause for amusement. In the other bed was Gordon, a tall, refined man of ninety with aquiline features and a commanding tone, who had once been chairman of a large company. He had difficulty talking to strangers, but Ian spoke for a while with his daughter, who was arranging her father's return home.

There were a few formalities to deal with before they were able to go. The registrar, a slim girl with tightly waved dark hair, came to say goodbye and to hand Ian a letter explaining what had been done and what still had to be done to his wrist. The physiotherapist came with some exercises for the fingers and upper arm, charging James with the responsibility for ensuring his father did them at least three times a day. The pharmacist arrived with a bundle of assorted painkillers. The radiographer brought a large envelope containing his x-rays. And finally, Ian packed his bag and he and James left the hospital.

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They had now reached the next stage of their plan for getting home, and still had some fairly major details to resolve to make it work! Firstly, they were getting onto the train at Fort William, and the same train was to take them on to Glasgow. But at Corrour were their bicycles and all their belongings spread over beds, drying room, kitchen, and boot rack. They had to get all this packed and onto the train in the one or two minutes it was stopped at Corrour. They were still pondering over this as they waited on the platform at Fort William station for the train to come in from Mallaig. "WELL, what are YOU doing here?" It was Angie. She and Rick had spent the day in Fort William on shopping and other business. The train came in, and they found four seats together. When the guard came round for tickets, it was their usual man again. "We have to get our luggage from the bunk-house at Corrour, and get back on the train again. Will you be able to wait for us?" Ian made sure that his plastered arm was clearly visible. "Aye - but you'll have to be quick!" Good, that was half the problem resolved. The other half was how they could be quick, given the limited number of arms available to them. "We'll help you get the stuff on the train." said Rick. "Look, we've just bought these plastic sacks; you can throw all your gear into one, while I get the bikes for you." Ian scarcely concealed his relief. Their plan was now feasible, thanks to their good fortune in meeting up with Rick and Angie again.

As the train arrived at Corrour, they reminded the Guard of what was to be done, then leapt into action. Ian ran into the bunkroom and threw everything from their beds and from the floor into a large blue plastic sack. James went to collect the boots, and check the kitchen. Rick collected the bikes from the drying room. Everything was thrown onto the train, and with a hurried 'farewell' and 'thank you' the train was away. The bikes were hung on their hooks, the sack was emptied onto the floor, and piles of clothes, books, maps, first aid kit, and other items were distributed and packed into the cycle panniers. The train had reached Bridge of Orchy before everything was neatly stacked below the bikes.

The journey to Glasgow was enjoyable and uneventful, but the short walk from Queen Street to Central stations, pushing a heavily laden and unstable bike with one hand, was slow and awkward. This raised a concern about how they would manage the four miles across London the next morning, and they decided the best option was to ask for assistance. At Central station Ian found a phone booth. "You remember your offer to come and help us across London tomorrow morning? Well, we'd like to take you up on it." It was none too clear that Penny did remember her offer, and if she did she was regretting it. However she agreed, and Ian and James went to find their train, load the bikes, and settle into their bunks for the night.

Breakfast in Covent Garden

Penny was waiting at Euston station as the boys pushed their bikes up the slope from platform 9¾. It was a fresh, bright showery morning, and the walk across the back streets and squares of London was enjoyable. Over the years, Ian had found that the stereotypical London streets, noisy and busy with traffic, could be avoided by the walker or cyclist, and there were plenty of narrow streets, squares and pedestrian precincts where there was little or no motor traffic. They strolled through University College, Russell Square, and into Covent Garden where they were tempted by the mouth-watering smells of coffee, baking bread and frying bacon coming from the many cafes and early morning restaurants. But Penny had to get to work, and though by now they were all hungry, they resisted the temptation of breakfast in Covent Garden, and carried on over Waterloo Bridge, into the station and home to Weybridge.

For Ian and James, it had been a weekend of mixed experiences. They had enjoyed two more exceptional days together in the mountains. The broken wrist was an unfortunate ending, but these things happen, and as Ian said, "I've done pretty well getting this far through my life without breaking anything…. and it could have been worse!" They now have more happy memories of Corrour to add to those from last year, and there is no doubt that, as soon as circumstances permit - THEY WILL BE BACK!

James is admired by a stag.	Ian on the Loch Ossian track heading for Ben Alder.

View from the west ridge of Ben Alder down the Uisge Labhair valley to Loch Ossian and Corrour.

From the summit of Ben Alder, the view east across Loch Ericht to Dalwhinnie and beyond.

Returning from Ben Alder.	X-ray picture of wrist before straightening.

Post Script.

A week after returning from Corrour, Ian took his arm in to hospital for a check and found the bones had moved. They were re-aligned, and two pins pushed into the broken bone to hold it in place. This didn't stop him from going on a trip to Rome a few days later.

Six weeks after Corrour, the bone was healed and the pins and plaster were removed.

Four months after Corrour, the wrist was still undergoing physiotherapy aimed at bringing back full movement.

The moral is: don't break your wrist…

…but if you must, it couldn't happen in a nicer place than Corrour!

IDM 1999