If you’ve wandered your way back into another one of these field notes, then fair play, hopefully we’re writing complete shite. Either that or you’re procrastinating something important. Either way, welcome back. This one is a neat little recap of a weekend in Scotland, maybe something vaguely professional for once. Unlikely mind. Expect good curry, total chaos, questionable decisions, and a whole heap of type-2 fun in the snow.
The trip started in Sheffield with weather that could only be described as “biblical”. Sideways rain and windscreen wipers on panic mode, that lovely Yorkshire-grey sky that makes you wonder why you bother buying waterproofs. The drive north wasn’t glamorous. But like most good things, Scotland rewarded us the moment we arrived in Glasgow: clear skies, freezing air, and that buzz the city gets on a Friday night. We spent the evening exactly as any responsible expedition-equipment brand owners would. Inhaling a curry, nursing a few (too many) pints, and listening to live folk music. Glasgow is a vibe.
The next morning came at stupid o’clock, but we were running on that excited, slightly groggy energy you only get when you know mountains are waiting. The drive up to Glen Coe was crisp and bright, the kind of morning that tricks you into thinking you’re in a VisitScotland advert. Day one’s route was Bauchaillie Etive Beag. Sharp and direct from the first step. A proper wake up call for the calves. The wind near the top whipped up spirals of fresh snow, like someone had pressed the slow-motion button on winter. Short and sweet. Up, down, and straight into the Airbnb to defrost.
There, (Osian decided, with absolutely zero warning) to pull a full roast dinner out of thin air. No plan, no reason. Just some aggressive potato peeling. It shouldn’t have worked, but it was exactly what we needed before collapsing into bed ready for another early start.
Day two began in Ballachulish with a gentle warm-up stroll that gave no clue as to what was coming. The Beinn Bhan ridge rises slowly and then suddenly, like it was designed to lull you into a false sense of security before turning up the dial. The spine of the ridge is exposed, narrow in places, and hands-on enough to feel exciting without being a full-blown “write a will” situation. We topped out on Sgorr Bhan at 947m with sun punching through the cold air, then carried on to the summit of Sgorr Dhearg at 1024m. From there we dropped down, crossed the saddle, and climbed up again to Sgorr Dhonuill, where we finally stopped for lunch.
The view was outrageous. Crystal-clear visibility across the fjord-like arms of the west coast, snow glowing under the sun, the kind of scenery that makes you go quiet without realising. We could’ve stayed there all day. Even given current company.
You truly can’t buy moments like that.
Eventually we turned back, retraced the ridge, and followed a path through the valley separating the two Munros. It felt like walking through a giant postcard someone forgot to edit. Perfect weather, crisp air, snow that crunched like broken glass under your boots.
We wrapped the day with a celebratory pint, already knowing the weather was turning foul just in time for the long slog back to Sheffield. Classic timing.
Trips like this with their highs and lows, cold fingers and warm pubs, are good reminders of something simple: layering matters more than you think.
You sweat your way up the climbs, then freeze the moment you stop moving, especially in sub-zero temps with the wind slipping into every gap in your kit. And when the snow’s shining like a spotlight, sunglasses and suncream aren’t optional unless you enjoy squinting and burning in equal measure. This weekend hammered it home again: the mountains are going to look after you, so your gear has to.
Until next time,
Over and out.
