Normally, when I’m out in the hills, I don’t worry too much about what the ground beneath my feet feels like. The earth I stand on is just sort of there, it’s usually pretty dependable and I take it for granted I can rely on it.
Right now, however, the one thing my mind is focussed on is what that ground is going to feel like. How hard will the rocks be? How thick is the grass? The reason for my sudden interest is that I am likely to hit that ground, fairly hard, in a moment or two.
I spent last night, dreaming in front of the fire, at Uags bothy, on the coast a few miles south of the tiny Highland community of Applecross. Uags is a lovely little bothy, nestling in a small shingle cove. Just across the gently rolling green sea is the Isle of Skye, its skyline dominated by the dark jagged Cuillin hills. The place is quiet and tranquil; what could possibly go wrong?
I emerge from the bothy in the still, early morning air, my mind still fogged by sleep and lulled by the fumes of last night’s whisky. This, it transpires, is the moment gravity has been waiting for, it’s been stalking me for months and now it’s watching me like a lion in the long grass its eyes fixed on an unwary antelope on the Serengeti.
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