17 MARCH 2007, Page 61


Footsore, like the Assyrians of old as ravenous as wolves, we left the hill bright-eyed, invigorated by the cold, clean mountain air of which we’d drunk our fill and slept on the train home from Ballater. Twenty-eight miles we’d walked to Lochnagar and back, following the burbling waters of the Muick, the summit one grand hurrah. That night we fell like two starving navvies on bowls of Scotch broth, platefuls of roast beef, and Yorkshire pud, spuds, sprouts, carrots, gravy, rhubarb crumble — divine beyond belief. After a day of holy, God-like things, the benediction balm: feasting like kings.

Norman Bissett