Camper van drivers give a salute as they pass each other on the road.
It feels good. Like we’re part of a community. There even seems to be some sort of special wave just for us VW campers. I start waving like a fool as soon as I see what even vaguely looks like a camper van coming over the prow of the southern Highland hills in front of us.
The strangeness of our tartan van puttering along the small roads even gets sightseers turning their lenses away from the Scottish panoramas and they start taking pictures of us we judder past Loch Leven, past the soft moors. This feels good too. I feel imperious sat up here. Regal.
An official Department of Transport-type road sign by the side of the road tells us that in half a mile there is a place to stop for “Coffee and things” which seems ludicrously simple, but very sweet in its out-of-time guileless way.
Giristroula, as often, scans the cloud-picked skies above. She spends an extraordinary amount of time admiring British clouds.
Like some sort of connoisseur she recognises instantly if we’re in for a day of the fat white woolpacks. Smacking her lips at the silver-rimmed sharp ones. Or contemplating gravely the weak high streaks in the sky.
“We don’t really get clouds like this in Greece. So close and real. And your ones move so fast along the sky…”
She carries on staring out of the window at the scudding clouds. As if she’s trying to map them.
“It’s just awful when you get those endless grey skies here in Britain though. Like a low ceiling. A ceiling of cloud. Just sitting there for days.” She crinkles her nose in remembrance.
Soon we’re pulling into Fort William.
A long picket of flat, white homes – charmless, detached, unchanging bungalows set back from the road – stand in a line as welcomers to the town as we drive in.
In their rather dull, conciliatory, 1970s way, they remind me of watchful spectators lining the road in old tv footage of Royal Family visits to towns like this.
A man tends his roses. A boy in full football kit, including the boots, washes the family car on the drive.
We stop for a cup of tea at a cafe called ‘Tompson’s.’
“You pronounce the name Tom-son,” says the white-haired, white-bearded owner in his soft Scottish voice.
“Tom-per-son,” says Giristroula.
“Tom-son,” repeats the owner, smiling, lifting a schooling finger in the air.
“The p is silent,” he says. “Like in a swimming pool…” The man pauses, grinning at his joke. Looking at Giristroula, waiting for a response.
“Tom-per-son?” she tries again.
“Some of your names are very difficult you know,” Giristroula says to me, as the old owner walks away shaking his head, looking disappointed.
I tell her of a story I’d once heard of a man named Burnip who when ordering something over the phone said his name was spelled “Like turnip, with a B.”
The package arrived addressed to a Mr. Turnip-Witherby…
“Mmm,” Giristroula says, sipping at her tea staring out the window.
It should seem obvious, you would think, but we drive around looking – and can’t find – the largest mountain in Britain.
We pull over and I ask some teenagers on a bench, eating crisps, where exactly Ben Nevis is in this town.
They look embarrassed, giggle at each other. Spotty, braces on their teeth, hot in their v-neck school uniform jumpers.
“Don’t know,” they mumble.
This is getting ridiculous.
Eventually we find the Ben Nevis visitors’ centre. Park the van. And with tremulous Scottish words in our ears (“You’d better get started soon. We don’t recommend going up much later than this…”), we get ready to tackle another unnecessary – but unavoidable for our tour of British symbols – struggling ascent up boulder and crag.
Ben Nevis is steeper than Snowdon. More unforgiving. Rockier too.
The view on the left is sheer sand-coloured rock rising high above us, and to our right runs a fairly disappointing view down onto the visitor centre car park, and an unchanging landscape as we curl round the lower half of the mountain.
It’s tiring and I get annoyed at simple things, such as: why doesn’t Scotland have more majestic deep green pine trees as I imagined it would? The pine trees I can see here seem to thinly ride halfway up the slopes of the other peaks around us, and then stop. Leaving the ranges looking as if they have been plucked. Like mangy green vultures with their bald heads.
The climb is severe. Perhaps we got cocky from our other climbs, this one is testing us though.
I have half a bar of Dairy Milk and an emergency Twix in my anorak pocket. Not exactly regimental preparation.
The climb plateaus out for a while, passing a huge lake where one solitary camper has placed their small tent at the water’s edge – lucky bastard to have got what must be the best camping spot in the whole country.
Then we come up hard against the steepness again.
But the climb has turned more interesting now. Mountains all around and below us. Peaks beyond peaks. A loch cutting through these mountains, and the eclipsed peaks behind, and out to the sea. And then there’s Northern Ireland, lying beached beyond.
Ben Nevis’ interior has grown more interesting too. We pass a large falling waterfall which marks roughly the halfway point of the climb to the top, and where a group of us congregate to drink great fistfuls of water in our sweat-drench cheap climbing clothes.
A returner, coming back down the mountain, tells us that there’s a dead sheep in this stream, further up. He has an annoying, round, piggy face and currant-y eyes and chuckles to himself as he passes. No one can quite tell if he’s joking or not. Everyone’s thirst seems to be quite quickly quenched anyway.
As we near the top, the climb levels out a bit and I spot a few people snacking after their climb – rugs and thermos flasks. And even a woman walking her cat on a lead, here, 4,400 feet above the sea.
Pet lovers, tea drinkers, eccentrics. All so very British. Even on the very roof of the country.
The top of the mountain, when we finally reach it, has a large rock-strewn floor, giving an other-worldly feel. Lunar-like. There’s a gully of snow that remains, even here, now, in the summer glare.
The view really is magnificent. I think how, if I leapt off the edge and glided through the air, I would pass back down the whole country, high above everything.
The Angel of the North a speck below me; the Blackpool Tower 3,900 feet further down; climbers on the mountain top at Snowdon peering up another 900 feet at me as I passed; soaring over London’s Shard Tower even if they built it four times as tall.
It’s a great moment and I hold onto this feeling as long as I can as we stand here, before Giristroula turns to me and with silent nod of agreement between us, we decide it’s time to take the route back down.
Having come up, I guess all you can ever really do is go down again. And best not think of the futility of these things.
The descent is hard on the knees. By the time we’re down in the fields at the foot of Ben Nevis again, the sun is setting and I feel I’ve truly mounted ten St Pauls without the aid of staircase, as fellow climber John Keats once had it.
Looking back, with the peak hidden from us here at the bottom, and the sun dying behind – just the torso of the mountain visible – it doesn’t look such a big deal from here. But it was.
It really was.