Mountain 5: Helvellyn

This blog was written as part of a series ahead of the launch of Twisted Mountains, my new collection of mountain-themed short stories. You can order a copy here – and if you’re quick, you’ll also get a cloth badge and bookmark!

What makes a mountain special?

The obvious answer is height. George Mallory’s explanation as to why he wanted to climb Everest has been distilled down to three famous words – “Because it’s there” – but his full answer is perhaps more revealing:

“Because it’s there… Everest is the highest mountain in the world, and no man has reached its summit. Its existence is a challenge.”

People always want the biggest one. It’s the reason that hundreds of thousands clamber up Yr Wyddfa every year – some even waiting an hour for their turn on the summit – when there are plenty of other (dare I say better?) mountains close by. It’s why I climbed Ben Nevis, and even explains why I took off my top at the summit in driving, freezing rain: for the brief honour of being the highest topless person in Britain. Mountains can drive us to do strange things.

It isn’t just height that makes certain peaks stand out, though. There’s also appearance; some are simply more spectacular than others. Ben Cruachan, Ben Arthur, Mam Tor and Roseberry Topping all fit snugly into this category. But here’s the thing – when you climb them, you don’t get that view. One of the most photographed peaks in the UK is Buachaille Etive Mòr, with its distinctive scarred face. But when you’re climbing it, you can’t see it. So it cannot just be looks, either.

Helvellyn summit. Image by Patrick Routledge from Pixabay

Despite humans’ desperate attempt to control / destroy every environment on Earth, mountains have retained their sense of otherness. They are still places where humans rarely dwell for long, spaces that do not belong to – or welcome – us. The higher reaches remain, by and large, free from the worst blights of civilisation, and even mountain-dwelling communities stick to the valleys in between them. This undoubtedly adds to their charm – we are only ever there briefly, which leaves us wanting more.

And this is part of what gives mountains a cherished place in our hearts: the unique experiences they give us. While height and looks play a role, it is our time spent on a mountain that matters the most. The memories we gather, the feelings we take away. The special moments that will never be lost. And many of my most exhilarating mountain moments took place on a well-trodden spot in the centre of the Lakes: Helvellyn.

Fourteen years old, a Duke of Edinburgh expedition. On day one we romp from Buttermere to Borrowdale via Fleetwith Pike. Blasting sunshine from start to finish. Why did I bother carrying heavy spare trousers in my backpack in such fine weather? I resolve not to make that mistake again.

Helvellyn in snow. Image by Steve Slater from Pixabay

Next day, barely halfway up Birk Side, and I am getting a sub-zero lesson about the changeability of English summer weather. Thick, porridgey cloud is condensing to form icy droplets on my legs. My soaked shorts chafe red rings halfway down thighs and my anorak is fucking useless. As we approach Helvllyn’s summit, I’m shivering, miserable and hallucinating about those trousers, still rolled-up as a makeshift pillow in my tent. When an older member of our group kindly pulls out his spare pair for me, I actually weep. Never have I been so thankful for someone else’s trousers.

Fast forward fifteen years and I am back on Helvellyn. The day walkers head down as I go the other way, the autumn sun finally dropping just as I reach the top. And this time it’s just me. The mountain and me. I pitch my tent somewhere near Brown Cove, fetch water, fiddle about with my kit. Make tea. Drink tea. Make some more, just because. And then, mug in hand, I wander into the darkness.

Mountains are different at night. They feel much closer, more encompassing. The views, the reason that so many head into them, are gone. All I can see is what my head torch illuminates. Tussocks of grass; the fluorescent flash of a sheep’s eyes; my tent, twitching in the wind a few metres away.

The lack of views creates a space for the sounds, which are more pronounced at this hour. Birds call to each other; I don’t recognise them, but promise myself that I will learn their names (even though I know I will never get round to it). I can smell the outdoors and feel its dampness. But I cannot see it. This famous mountain has been reduced to the few metres around me.

I feel more than simply alone; I feel isolated. Civilisation is not far in terms of distance, but reaching it would be arduous at night. I think back to the pub in Patterdale, where I drank last night. I wonder who is there now, and for a moment wish I was with them. But I’m here for the night, and whatever it might send my way.

I am, at least, prepared for Helvellyn this time. Sleeping bag, thermal liner, spare hat. Enough snacks and sweets to last me two nights, even though I’m only planning on one. A book and replacement batteries for the head torch.

It’s still a strange experience, though. Helvellyn is one of England’s most popular peaks – and no one else is here, no one is on their way. For the next twelve hours, I have it to myself. It’s dark, windy and a little eery. I’ve wild camped alone several times, but nowhere quite like this. Helvellyn has granted me another unforgettable experience.

There are mountains higher than Helvellyn, even within the Lakes. More spectacular ones as well, although its two edges, Striding and Swirral, give it some points in this regard. But of all the mountains in England, Helvellyn is the one that I think of the most – because of the memories I have of it, the time I have spent on it. Experiences that others may recognise, but no one else can ever truly share. And it is these that make mountains special.

Photos: Top (c) Patrick Routledge from Pixabay; middle (c) Steve Slater from Pixabay; bottom by me.

Mountain 4: Castle Hill

Clocking in at just over 200m Castle Hill is, by no definition, a mountain. But for many years, it played the role of one for me. It was my outdoors methadone; something to help wean me off the real thing.

I had just moved to Brighton, a city that has much to offer. A diverse array of pubs, from mirror-decked gin bars to dusty dives for old soaks; excellent restaurants serving food from any country you might fancy; the beach and the pier, both well worth visiting when the crowds are away. Then there’s the theatres, the live music, the football, the dusty old bookshops, curio shops galore… its attractions are unarguably extensive.

South Downs near Devils Dyke (c) Mark / Flickr

There are plenty who would add excellent walking to that list. The South Downs run just behind the city, trapping it between hill and sea. The long distance path that runs along their length is hugely popular, and there is no denying that the views, especially south to the sea, are impressive.

But the surrounding countryside is a little sameish. Wherever you are along the course of the Downs, you can expect the following: a wide path cut into the chalk, scruffy hedges and livestock-trimmed grass on most sides. Pleasant, but never straying anywhere close to jaw-dropping.

For me, though, there was a bigger problem with the South Downs: they are too small. They require little time or effort to ascend – you can even get a bus up there – and once up on the ridge, it’s merely a question of how far to walk until you drop down again. It all feels a little undercooked, and on a personal level, a significant regression. In just two years, I had moved from New Zealand to the Trossachs to Lancaster, close to both the Lakes and the Dales.

Then I moved to Brighton: I was beside the seaside, but often wanting to be elsewhere. My lust for mountains couldn’t be easily slaked from so far south, and nor would it ever go away. So I had to adapt, to lower my horizons – figuratively and literally – and make do with what was at hand. And when I started looking, properly looking, I realised the South Downs aren’t so bad.

Castle Hill nature reserve played a key role in this change of outlook. Getting there only involved a short bus ride from my house near Brighton’s ‘muesli mountain’. More importantly, it was quiet; on most visits, I saw only one or two other walkers, in start contrast to the numbers encountered at Devil’s Dyke, Ditchling Beacon or the cliffs of Beachy Head further east.

Castle Hill also provided something that is important to me when venturing outdoors: a sense of wilderness. Not in the environmental sense, for this is still an agricultural landscape, with the monoculture fields, vehicle tracks and farm machinery that now represent such places across the UK. But walking along its valley floors – the Bottoms of Balsdean, Standean and Falmer – the steep chalk hills on all sides cut me off from the world, at least for an hour or two.

The track through Pyecombe Golf Club, about halfway between Devil’s Dyke and Ditchling Beacon (c) diamond geezer / Flickr

As I kept returning, I began to know the valleys and slopes better. I sought out the spots most likely to have butterflies, and began to recognise the many types of wildflower in the nature reserve, even if I couldn’t name them all. I knew when the blackberries would burst through in autumn, and where the sweetest ones were found. The farm buildings and gateposts became markers along my preferred route, and without ever planning to, I began to stop at the same ones each time for coffee and whatever snack I’d brought along.

Over the years, I added further excursions to my rotation of routes in the South Downs. One was the path from Glynde to Lewes, with the steep clamber over Mount Caburn rewarded by wonderful pubs at either end. Another, the bridleways that sweep south from the twin hills of Truleigh and Edburton, best enjoyed on a long summer evening. I spent many happy days wandering these and others.

But Castle Hill remained my favourite, the place I would return to time and again. After five years in Brighton, I could even get around it without my mind straying to Scotland or the Lakes. On some visits, anyway.

As tragic tales go, I accept that “grown man has to walk among smaller hills than he’d like” is a hook unlikely to catch the eye of Hollywood’s leading directors. But anyone who shares a love of high places will surely recognise the sentiment: a fear that the mountains, and all they represent in our lives, are somehow slipping away. For me it was geographically, but also psychologically, as the carefree days of my twenties started giving way to the busier, more complicated thirties.

It happens to many of us, whether it’s due to a change of location or a lack of free time as life shifts forward; for others, it might be ill health or injury. Whatever the cause, the effect is that something once taken for granted – regular time in the mountains – is no longer there.

This tale doesn’t have a Hollywood ending either. I am writing this in Berlin, slap in the middle of one of Europe’s flattest landscapes; right now, I would happily give my right walking pole to have the South Downs a mere bus ride away. My mountains are currently all illusionary, places experienced by browsing photos and sifting through memories – or by writing short stories about them.

Hopefully the high places I long for will be more accessible at some point in the future – but that, ultimately, is down to me. The mountains, whether cloud-breaking giants or humbler efforts such as Castle Hill, remain in the exact same place they have always been. It’s we who decide how near or far away they are from us.

Photos: Top (c) Mark / Flickr, CC BY 2.0; bottom (c) diamond geezer / Flickr, CC BY 2.0

Mountain 3: Moel Siabod

Cadair Idris is a wonderful mountain. A true spectacle comprising rugged ridges and steep ascents, with a shimmering glacial lake at its heart. A walk here is an unforgettable experience.

Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never actually been there.

Daear Ddu ridge, Moel Siabod (c) Andy Harbach / Flickr

I have been to Eryri / Snowdonia many times and for myriad reasons – trips with friends, family holidays, a fundraising walk, Duke of Edinburgh expeditions – and have always ended up in its northernmost reaches. Usually, I try to see as much of a region as possible. I have walked in each of main fell groups in the Lakes, for example, and explored many different parts of Scotland. But apart from one snowy trip to the Rhinogs, I have spent all my time in north Wales in just one corner.

The obvious explanation is that this is where Wales’ biggest peaks lie – the fourteen 3,000-footers that comprise Yr Wyddfa, the Glyders and the Carneddau. But this can’t be the only reason, because these are not the mountains I go to. My favourite Welsh peak is just shy of that magic (albeit arbitrary) threshold and sits across the Nant Gwyrd valley.

Yet despite lacking a few crucial metres of height, Moel Siabod has everything that a mountain walk requires. The views are unsurpassable, especially those back across to its loftier neighbours to the west. There’s a taste of the region’s industrial history to be found, with the buildings from the abandoned Rhos slate quarry situated on the way up to Llyn-y-foel. And most routes start and finish in Capel Curig, which has pubs, cafes, a campsite and hostel, plus the legendary Joe Brown outdoors shop.

But Moel Siabod has an even better trick up its sleeve: Daear Ddu.

On the mountaineers’ continuum, I regard myself as an excellent walker and a terrible climber. I can read maps, lead groups and take decent(ish) photos. I can light a bothy fire, last out bad weather, and cover long distances without (too much) complaining. I have a respectable assortment of outdoor kit – there’s a kazoo and a bivvy bag lurking somewhere in the cellar – and have a thorough, if not fully complete, knowledge of the UK’s high places, accumulated over nearly four decades spent enjoying them.

But put me at the base of something sheer and rocky and that mountain know-how crumbles faster than a soggy flapjack. I become nervous, cautious, twitchy. I will usually be the one to put forward the case for attempting something easier: a walk perhaps, or maybe just straight to the pub? I have never fully mastered knots and belays, which reduces my status on climbing trips from ‘partner’ to ‘baggage’. And my upper body strength is poor, which has seen me shuffle up most routes on little more than knees and prayers.

Now, at the age of 43, I can finally admit the truth: I don’t really like climbing.

Scrambling is perfect for people like me. It gives us a fresh challenge, something to prevent the walking from becoming routine. It’s also a chance to taste the thrill that our rope-dangling comrades get each time they hit the crags. We get to scuff our hands and enjoy the sensations of shaking legs, vertigo and the freedom to swear a lot. All safe in the knowledge that nothing’s going to go wrong. Well, probably not.

Daear Ddu, the ridge on Moel Siabod’s southern side, is a scrambling paradise. It’s long and steep, but – and this is the crucial point – it’s not hard. Huge boulders provide meaty holds and the top is almost always in sight. Best of all, it’s exposed. The drops are steep on both sides and, especially looking east towards Llyn-y-foel, something special. You can imagine what it would be like to tumble down towards it, with virtually no fear of it actually happening. It’s the perfect mountain playground for those of us who like our adrenaline in small, manageable doses.

At some point, I’ll explore Eryri more completely. The Berwyns are overdue a visit, as are the Moelwyns. The western end of the Glyders are calling me to return, and especially Elider Fawr, after bad weather curtailed my attempt on the 3,000-footers at one short of the full fourteen. Cnicht demands further investigation, while there is more to do on Moel Hebog. And I have promised myself that one day, I will finally make it to Cadair Idris; it’s been high on my to-do list for almost as long as I’ve been walking.

That’s the plan, anyway. But some mountains have a strange, inexplicable hold over us. As soon as I next head west across Wales, I know exactly where my first stop will be. Moel Siabod and Daear Ddu. I need to be there again before I even think about going anywhere else.

Photos: Top (c) Andy Harbach / Flickr; middle (c) Gary Shipp; bottom (c) mike1105 / Flickr

Mountain 2: Eskdale Fell

This blog was written as part of a series ahead of the launch of Twisted Mountains, my new collection of mountain-themed short stories. You can order a copy here.

The Wasdale Head Inn is a beehive. Excitable punters flit about in all directions, their conversations blending to form a noisy buzz rather than decipherable words. I finish my pint quickly, but the adjacent campsite is no better. People huddle in groups outside tents, by the gate, or simply in my way. The dewy grass is awash with the lightsabre trails of their head torches. I push past them, seeking sanctuary in my sleeping bag.

Wasdale Head Inn (c) Andrew Hill via Flickr

Morning, and yet more humans turn up. Minibus after minibus arrives via the narrow road along Wast Water. Each fails to find a parking spot, instead belching out its passengers wherever it gets stuck. Walkers mingle, greet and gossip as men in Hi-Vis tabards holler instructions at them. Drivers shout through bus windows to one another, sharing words of friendship or critiquing each other’s parking skills. I gulp my tea too quickly, scalding the roof of my mouth. It doesn’t matter; I have to get away.

I am not against the Three Peaks Challenge in principle. It raises vast sums for a number of good causes, and I am generally in favour of anything that nurtures a love of the outdoors in people. Nor do I have anything personal against those who choose to take on the challenge.

But I don’t want to listen to their cries, their shouts, their laughter. I don’t want to engage with them, or respond to their friendly enquiries as to whether I’m doing “the challenge” as well. I don’t want to be surrounded by them, or anywhere near them. I want to be alone.

Luckily, I don’t need to endure the chaos for long. At Brackenclose, a thousand people veer east for the path up to Scafell Pike. Only one heads south towards Straighthead Gill. Within minutes – maybe five, no more than ten – the last traces of excited chatter drift out of earshot, replaced by nothing save for a gentle breeze and the occasional whine of a sheep. Perfect. Grey, chilly, noiseless bliss.

Eskdale Fell is the kind of walk I would have scorned when I was young. Up until my thirties, I wanted my mountains big and challenging – the higher and harder, the better. I still do, at times. But with passing years and weakening knees, I have taught myself to savour the other elements of the mountains: the valleys, the water, the paths that weave in and around them. The quieter corners are the ones I increasingly seek out.

Burnmoor Tarn (c) Peer Lawther via Flickr

I don’t even climb the hill, heading instead for Burnmoor Tarn. A pair of mallards skim silently away from me, my presence intruding on their own desire for a bit of peace and quiet. The water is dark and uninviting, reflecting the angry clouds overhead. This is no day for an impromptu dip.

Further along is an old stone building. Deserted? Not quite; there are signs of recent occupation. It might be a climbing hut or a mountain shelter, but no one is about to probe further. That’s fine; I’m still not in the mood for company, even of the fleeting sort. Instead I use its shelter to enjoy a wind-free lunch. A couple of hours too early, but these things don’t matter when you’re on your own.

The Lakes are for everyone to enjoy and – within reason – however they wish to do so. I don’t expect everyone to appreciate them in the same ways that I do. I do not begrudge anyone else’s right to visit the places I love. But I love those places just a little more when I have them to myself. It’s not selfishness, or an inherently antisocial nature; I’m happy to have company, as long as it’s not too chatty. Nor do I need the quietness to peruse great philosophical debates, or to consider the inherent meaning of life. I’m not too fussed what the answer to that one is.

The reason I prefer being on my own is the mountains themselves. These ancient giants were around long before we arrived, and they will still be standing once we have annihilated ourselves for good. They deserve a moment of contemplation; a little respect. This is much easier to achieve without hundreds of people charging up and down them.

Such solitude is increasingly tricky to find in the Lakes these days, as our wild places become ever more popular. But over the years, I’ve discovered a number of ways to do so. Don’t visit at weekends or during school holidays, if you have the option. Set off at lunchtime and you’ll avoid the hordes who start each day as early as possible. Seek out the corners that aren’t so well known, and avoid the hotspots that clog up walking blogs and websites. I’ve found plenty of such places in the Lakes over the years, but other than Burnmoor Tarn, I’m not going to list them here. Find them for yourself; that’s part of the fun.

Leaving the building behind, I head into Miterdale, then loop back to Eskdale Green. And my isolation for the day is over; the railway has just deposited a fresh load of day trippers at The Green station, and they are now forming a queue outside the village shop. Many exit with an ice cream, despite the unfavourable weather. The beer garden at the King George IV is similarly busy. Cars snake slowly along the valley floor, graciously waiting for the many people taking photos right in the middle of the tarmac.

I don’t mind the crowds now, at least not as much. I’ve had my sanctuary for the day. And I am confident that I’ll find more tomorrow. It’s still there, if you know where to look for it.

Looking across Eskdale Green to Fell End View From Forest How. (c) Peter Trimming via Flickr

Photos by Andrew Hill, Peer Lawther and Peter Trimming

Book preview: Twisted Mountains

** You can pre-order Twisted Mountains here – go on, you’ll enjoy it **

As a place to call home, Berlin has many entries in the ‘for’ column. Sumptuous food from every corner of the world: from Sudanese to Vietnamese and everything in between, including its very own Currywurst – which nowadays comes as a veggie option, a vegan option and any other dietary preference going. The clubs and bars, slowly reopening after the pandemic, welcome in the hordes to drink, debate and dance – and plenty more besides in this city of wild and varying tastes. There are lakes to swim in, museums to marvel at, parks and shops and sports teams. There’s even an abandoned airport, the perfect spot for flying a kite or firing up the barbecue.

There is, however, one significant, inescapable mark in Berlin’s ‘against’ column.

It’s flat. Very, very flat.

Even at its highest point, Germany’s capital reaches a meagre 120 metres. And the Arkenberg isn’t even a real hill, just a dump for building waste. The rest of Berlin, aside from a few little nubbins, offers barely so much as an incline. Which is great if you’re cycling, but for those like me who want nothing more than to be among mountains, it soon becomes dispiriting.

I long for the mountains. I ache for them at times, and some days simply sit somewhere quiet to think about them. About those I have climbed, the ones still on my list. The ones I have camped on, the ones I have run over, the ones upon which I have rebuilt stone walls or relaid footpaths. There are even a few I have gone beneath, grubbing about in their caves.

I think about people, too. I can divide my friends into two rough groups: those with whom I bonded through a shared love of walking, and those who I have dragged out on at least one walk. When I conjure up memories of an old friend, more often than not we’re on a hill. Camping, chatting, walking. Boiling tea and undercooking pasta. Scrutinising maps and debating which route we’ll take tomorrow.

There’s the mountain strangers as well, those chance encounters that colour days in the hills. The old boy I met in Ardnish who was gathering mussels from the loch shore. The young couple who let me pitch my tent in their Lake District garden, because the nearest campsite was “fuckin’ miles away, mate”. The farmer on a quad bike who treated me to a tirade of expletive-heavy vitriol because I’d strayed slightly from the path across his land. The mountain guide whose ambition was to climb 281 Munros, because “everyone else I know climbs two-hundred and eighty-two”.

*The cover of Twisted Mountains, designed by Rhiannon Hughes*

My new book, Twisted Mountains, is inspired by these mountain memories. The characters are all creations, but I have climbed each one of the peaks on which these short stories are set. The descriptions are also based on my own days of walking: sunny days and wet days, and naturally the majority that were foggy, cloudy, windy, drizzly, blustery…

I drew on other experiences while writing, too. The epic struggles, and those days that were over all too quickly. From the overflowing campsites to the single green tent pitched alone, far away from everything else.

The sixteen short stories in Twisted Mountains don’t describe routes or recount walks I have done. There are plenty of books that fill that niche. Instead, they tell the tales of people who, for one reason or another, find themselves in the mountains. Walkers and climbers, of course, but also a runner, a farmer, a biker, a conservationist; there are even a few mountain refuseniks in there.

Those who love mountains should find something in there that chimes with their own memories; others may find a character that draws them in. If you do read the book, I’d be delighted to know what you think: which stories you like and which ones you didn’t, the characters you warmed to, and those I didn’t get right. All writers want to hear from their readers; it helps us improve and also massages our egos.

More than that, I hope you like them. I certainly enjoyed writing them. Berlin may not offer much in terms of lofty inspiration, but the mountains are never that far away.

Twisted Mountains will be published in October 2021 by Little Peak Press and you can read the first story here.

*Gary and Patrik, two of my dearest mountain friends, in the Brecon Beacons*

Mountain 1: An Teallach

This blog was written as part of a series ahead of the launch of Twisted Mountains, my new collection of mountain-themed short stories. You can order a copy here.

For sports stars, it’s known as being on top of your game. In writing, it’s referred to as a creative peak. Neil Tennant of Pet Shop Boys described it for musicians as the “imperial phase”: that spell during which you are unbeatable, unstoppable and everything you do is fantastic.

My imperial phase as a walker was 2002. I was young, healthy and, for the first time, had a bit of spare money, even after buying my first car. And after three months exploring the peaks of New Zealand, I had just moved to Scotland, meaning the finest mountains the UK has to offer were a short(er) distance away. One of them, Ben Lomond, was almost on my doorstep. I could get up early, climb it, and be back down at a time that still fell within the realm of breakfast.

Ben Ledi, Ben Arthur and Ben Cruachan were also close to Aberfoyle, where I was enjoying a stress-free job at an outdoor centre. There was no longer any need to allocate a whole weekend for a trip to the hills; a midweek afternoon was enough, if we skived off work early (which we often did). And during the long hours of Scottish summer daylight, some of the smaller hills in the Trossachs – Ben A’an, Ben Venue – could even be scaled after a night in the pub.

*An Teallach (c) Jonathan Stonehouse / Flickr*

Walking assumed a new role in life. It was no longer something that needed planning and saving for long in advance. It could be done on the hop, with whoever else happened to be about. Which hill? Any of them; there are hundreds to choose from in Scotland. There was no need to constantly check the weather forecast, either. If it was good, we went; if not, it could wait for another day. From our base near Scotland’s central belt, only the biggest and remotest hills required any planning.

And the one I had in my sights, from the moment I arrived in the country, was An Teallach.

This mountain had fascinated me since I was twelve, when a supply teacher with a lesson to fill showed us the film ‘Duel with An Teallach’. It’s a harrowing account of a climber, Iain Ogilvie, who attempts to rescue his two friends after a fall on the mountain. At the time, the film struck me for many reasons: the beauty of Scotland in winter; the courage of one person to save two others. Small snippets from the film stayed with me, such as when Ogilvie finds sugar lumps in his pocket, “a soggy mush of blood, snow and sugar” which keep him going at a critical stage. The film was also an early lesson that not all stories end happily.

But more than anything, it was the mountain that snatched my attention and wouldn’t let go. It looked so wild, so vast, so alien; did places like that really exist in the UK? I knew back then that I wanted to climb that one more than any other.

*Hillwalkers on An Teallach (c) a.poll_o / Flickr*

I set off with Mark and Stevie, two friends from the outdoor centre, on a balmy September weekend. An Teallach is a long way, even from central Scotland, and during the hours driving up, I was anxious. Not about the challenge ahead – An Teallach poses few dangers for an experienced walker, at least outside of the winter months – but about my expectations of it. Thirteen years is a long time to carry a torch; could the mountain live up to the importance it had held in my mind for so long? After six months in Scotland, I was becoming spoiled by the riches on offer. What if it turned out not to be special, but just another mountain?

An Teallach, “just another mountain”. Ha. This is not, by any criteria, Just Another Mountain. This is a titan, a beast, a vision: an iconic, stand-out mountain in a country full of them. As we set off from our overnight camp on the shores of Loch Broom, it was immediately clear that this was going to be something else. Ben Nevis, Ben Arthur, Beinn Narnain… all climbed, all fine hills. But they had nothing on An Teallach.

We moved quickly up Sail Mhòr to gain the main ridge, a distinctive line of imposing triangular peaks. And, under a blazing autumn sky, we scrambled along it. The whole thing. Only at the far end, with the sun just starting to dip, did it occur to us that we still had to get down. I can’t remember which way we descended; we hadn’t paid much heed to our map. We had been lost, in the best possible way, on the mountain. Playing on its rocks, sipping from its streams, absorbing a little of its magic.

It gave me a sense of foolish pride – one that remains with me today – to discover later on that many guidebooks recommend tackling An Teallach over two days, or attempting just a section of the ridge. But Mark, Stevie and I did it in one go.

My imperial phase didn’t last much longer – a move back to England and more demands on my free time saw to that – but that day was its pinnacle. I had waited for it a long time, and it didn’t disappoint. Mountains as grand as An Teallach never do.

*An Teallach ridge from Sail Liath (c) a.poll_o / Flickr*

My collection of short stories, Twisted Mountains, will be published in October 2021 by Little Peak Press. You can read the first story here.

Photos

Top: Jonathan Stonehouse, used under CC license 2.0 (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Bottom: a.poll_o, used under CC license 2.0 (CC BY-SA 2.0)

Book review: Firelight On Dark Water

Bill Allerton, Cybermouse Books, 2015

You need a few things when writing your first novel. First, you need a story, preferably a good one (and one that hasn’t been written too often before). Next, you need the free time and motivation to actually start typing those words that have been dancing around in your head. A computer is also handy, of course.

But those only gets you so far. You also need a bit of luck. And mine was meeting Bill.

I contacted him while fishing around for publishers in the north. Despite not knowing me, and having his own books to work on (plus undoubtedly a hundred other things he could be doing), he offered to take a look at my draft. A day later, it came back with guidance suggestions and criticisms. He managed to see instantly what needed doing, and edited sections to show me how. Switch to the present tense; cut out the redundancy; add a little nuance; slow it down a touch. All excellent advice, delivered frankly and free of charge. All things I would never have spotted myself, too, no matter how many read-throughs I gave it.

More useful still was the encouragement, which came amid a wave of rejection emails. Keep going; stick with it; try this publisher; get it finished, one way or another. I did. Maybe I would have done anyway, but a firm-yet-friendly kick along the way was very welcome.

Bill’s input, already above what I could reasonably expect from a stranger, didn’t stop there. For reasons unknown (other than he’s a thoroughly decent chap), he showed me how to typeset for publication and offered to design a cover for me. He patiently talked me through each step, and once the text was with the printer, he quietly went away and made a podcast of the first chapter. Just as a favour. Like I said, a thoroughly decent chap.

I would probably have bought one of Bill’s own books anyway at that point, as a way to show my gratitude. But I was also keen to explore his writing in more detail, to see what else could be gleaned. I started with his collection of short stories, Firelight On Dark Water; there are several more to choose from.

At this point, it would be easy for this post to become a sycophantic letter of appreciation. Experienced author helps debut author, who writes gushing review in return, etc etc… log rolling, I think it’s called. So I’ll start my review by stating that I didn’t like all of the stories. One or two passed me by: I either missed or misunderstood what it was trying to say. Yet these were few and far between; overall, this is a thoroughly enjoyable collection.

It’s an unusual one, too, at least when compared with the books I usually read. It’s mostly set in and around Bill’s northern home, and the themes covered – motorbike parts, ageing – are not typical literary staples. The thread that binds them all together, though, is the dialogue. Each character, however briefly they appear, is distinctive instantly in the way the author writes their words and thoughts. It’s a talent, and one he has spent years mastering to the point of excellence. It stands out especially in ‘The Big Idea’, in which he pulls off the tricky feat of a dialogue between two versions of the same people.

The mastery of dialogue is most clearly expressed in my favourite story in the collection, ‘Vayu Manush’, which tells of the travails of a collection of Indian villagers. The shift away in style is done so well that the reader is instantly transported from Sheffield suburbs and northern nooks without any jolt or even any turbulence.

One perk of knowing an author, even if only virtually, is that you can quiz them about details. I took advantage of this and asked Bill where in India he had set this charming little tale, which place during his travels there had inspired the story.

‘I’ve never been to India. That’s what your imagination is for.’

Yet more valuable advice from my northern mentor.

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Image by JAHuddleston / Pixabay

Our house

In 41 years I have lived in 16 houses. And never once given thought to the people who were there before me. At least, not until I moved into my current home in Friedenau. Because one of the former residents was Rosa Luxemburg.

To my embarrassment, possibly shame, her significance passed me by for the first year or so. I’d noted the memorial in the street outside – a modest iron structure stood amid a bed of red rose bushes – but never taken the time to wonder who the woman in the black-and-white photograph was. Only when walking home with a German friend did her importance strike home.

‘Rosa Luxemburg lived here? Wow.’

His faced conveyed awe, admiration; so much so that, once inside, I asked my German wife who she was, why she meant so much. As I listened, new connections dawned: with the square that takes her name in Berlin’s city centre; with the memorial outside the zoo, marking the point where her body was thrown into the Landwehr canal, a hundred years ago this week.

Berlin is a city where you are unable to escape history. No trip to see the clear waters and huge skies at Wannsee can pass untainted, knowing what occurred in the houses on the opposite bank. Any walk around the Museumsinsel is now spent looking for the bullet holes that pock the building walls; once they’ve been pointed out, they’re impossible to overlook.

And this history is found everywhere. At the end of our street is a Schuttburg, one of Berlin’s rubble mountains that provide the few elevation points in this horizontal city. Outside our door, near Rosa Luxemburg’s memorial, are the Stolpersteine that silently remember two others who were taken from our house and murdered: Gertrud and Leo Friedländer.

None of these would have been in place when Rosa Luxemburg was here; nor would the swastika we found marked on the ceiling of our cellar, a painted reminder that the place you call home does not dictate your politics.

Every month or so, a tour party calls at our building, wanting to see the place where she lived. They carry that familiar look of awe and admiration that I now understand and share.

rosa luxemburg

A good introduction to Rosa Luxemburg’s life is Red Rosa.

Track 32. If…, The Bluetones

Return to the Last Chance Saloon, 1998

Take a moment. Imagine that the Beatles wrote ‘If…’.

It’s not a huge leap to make. The song has a laid-back, shuffling bassline not a hundred miles from ‘Come Together’, and the singalong finale is positively Hey Judian. The lyrics are also Fab Four-esque, eschewing the usual boy-loves-other stuff to explore … well, I’m not 100% sure. A discussion of prison release dates, maybe?

But think what could have happened if it had come out thirty years earlier, perhaps replacing ‘Good Day Sunshine’ on Revolver or doing us all a favour and booting ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’ into touch. Today, it would be an unofficial national anthem. Kids would sing it during school assemblies; football crowds would use it to abuse referees; we would hear it regularly via the hinterland music that soundtracks our lives.

Yet I almost never hear it. Outside of dedicated Britpop shows, I don’t think I’ve ever heard it on the radio. No one I know ever hums it, no cover bands take it on. And this is an injustice, because it is the fifth-best song of the 1990s (the others being, in ascending order, ‘A Little Soul’, ‘The Man Don’t Give A Fuck’, ‘On And On’ and ‘Spice Up Your Life’*).

Bluetones 1995 So good a song is it that it can heal damaged-if-not-fully-broken hearts. I listened to the Bluetones a lot at university; partly because they were great, but there were a lot of great bands around back then. But the Bluetones were the only Britpop band that my sort-of student girlfriend deemed tolerable (sort-of my girlfriend, not sort-of a student). As a result, Return To The Last Chance Saloon got many, many repeated plays back in ’98, as I leapt to the CD player to avoid the awful alternative of it being replaced by something from the (mercifully short-lived) drum’n’bass genre.

The relationship didn’t end that well – for me, anyway, she seemed to survive easily enough – and by association, that album should have been condemned to a lifetime at the back of the drawer, never to be played lest it tugged at still-raw wounds. But even now, even though it still carries that painful whiff of rejection, I still love it. And I love ‘If…’ most of all, because it’s soaringly, achingly brilliant.

It’s curious, then, to discover that so few people share this view. It never makes listicles for the best Britpop tracks – not this one or this one or this one. And if the combined readership of NME honestly think that ‘Kandy Pop’ by bIS is a better tune, then I have little hope left for Britain.

Incredibly, ‘If…’ doesn’t even make lists of the top ten Bluetones tracks. And the official Bluetones 1998 video on YouTube has a mere 55,000 views. Respectable enough, but still only 0.003% of the total garnered for ‘Baby Shark‘. Seriously, what is wrong with people?

One thing this demonstrates is just how much competition there was back then. At times, I struggled with writing my Britpop-themed book – it’s never easy trying to pen a grubby sex scene that you know your dad is going to read – but writing about the music never caused a problem. There were so many bands, songs, gigs to choose from, so many joyful musical memories to include, that it wasn’t possible to fit them all in.

I made sure the Bluetones were included though; no question about that. (They get a live gig and the title of the final chapter, if you’ve not already read it. And if not, why not?)

This is my last chapter-based blog post and, over the course of 33 songs, I have at times wondered whether Britpop is quite as important as we Nineties aficionados think it is. Did it really, hand on heart, have a greater impact than any other musical era? I have seen thousands of people – all of them roughly 10 years older than me – pack out a field in Guildford to watch a line-up of Sinitta, Kajagoogoo and one-quarter of UB40. Trust me, they were just as excited about it as any Britpop audience I have seen. Poor fuckers.

I don’t think there is anyone out there who would credibly claim that Bros were better than Blur, or that Five Star can hold a candle to Pulp. The point is, every generation likes to think that they produced the best music.

Only mine, though – the Britpop generation – is right.

Top three Bluetones tracks (other than ‘If…’):

Bluetones 1996

* This is a joke. Number 1 is of course ‘Flying Without Wings’.

Track 31. Come Back To What You Know, Embrace

The Good Will Out, 1998

I’m nearly there. Nearly at the end.

Thirty-one tracks written, and just one more to go after this. The finishing line is in sight.

And I’m tired. Very, very tired.*

The idea behind this blog was to write regularly about music, to demonstrate to book publishers that I work constantly at my craft, hone away, engage with my audience and that they should offer me a contract.

Didn’t work.

Instead, it became a way to promote my self-published Britpop book to fans of the bands therein. And it’s worked to that end; sales are ticking along nicely (thanks, everyone).

But there’s only so many ways to approach an article about 20-plus-year-old songs, only so many angles to take. Eventually you’ll hit a wall.

This track is my wall.

Embrace I like ‘Come Back To What You Know’ but only because it has a nice tune. I have nothing deeper to share; no clever intuition about what the lyrics mean, no insights about how it shaped the musical landscape.

The band? Let’s try the band themselves. Well, they came quite late to the Britpop party of course, arriving on the scene just as– no no, I did that one with Travis a couple of weeks ago.

I like Embrace. Everyone likes Embrace (but we did that with Saint Etienne last week). The problem is, I have nothing to say about Embrace. I never listen to Embrace.

Let me think …

My ex-housemate Gordon was a fan, and played The Good Will Out more often than was strictly necessary when it came out. But I’ve already dragged him in for Ether and the Super Furries. It’s not fair to whore him out once more. Besides, does anyone care what my ex-housemate listened to two decades ago? Does anyone care what I listened to back then? Or now?

Maybe, just maybe, there’s only so much to be said about Britpop.

This next statement may be considered blasphemous in certain quarters, but … was it all that special? Do the many naysayers have a point when they say that it was all hype and little substance, that those of us who look back through Union Jack-tinted spectacles are fooling ourselves about its ongoing relevance?

Take Oasis, for example. Great tunes, shite lyrics. Go on, try reading the words to ‘Don’t Look Back In Anger’. Read them, don’t listen to them, the melody distracts you.

It’s gibberish. A soup of unrelated nouns, verbs and adjectives. Even when they’re not spouting incoherent nonsense, they’re singing rubbish. So they’re free to do whatever they choose, are they? They can sing the blues if they want?

Great. So can anyone. There are no laws against it, and it hardly demonstrates cutting-edge rebellion. But Liam, here’s the thing: you’re not singing the blues, you’re singing rock and roll. So you’re not even exercising your proclaimed free will.

Next.

Oh, Elastica. Seriously, what’s all the fuss about? They only squeezed out two albums, the Wire smash-and-grab raid and the other one that no one remembers. Robson and Jerome managed two albums in far less time, and both of theirs went to number one.

And then there’s Pulp.

Everyone loves Pulp, right? Of course they do, with all those clever word plays and knowing lyrics about the working classes and seedy council estate sex and being northern. But it’s not as it they were the first to get excited about that. Different Class was basically ‘Coronation Street: The Musical’.

Let’s be clear: Britpop was largely great because we, the fans, were young back then. To anyone born between 1973 and 1978, it formed the soundtrack to the years when we could drink without fear of the hangover, a time when every night out held the vague possibility of sex. We might think it’s special, that it crosses generational divides with its enduring brilliance but, to this day, I have yet to meet anyone more than five years younger than me who likes, cares about or ever thinks of Britpop.

I still love it, though, despite its flaws. It was still the greatest music the UK has ever produced.

Except maybe the Sixties.

But it takes me back to my youth. And I like that. After all, what’s wrong with a little nostalgia?

Top three Embrace tracks (not straying very far from the curve here, admittedly):

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* This may also have something to do with two under-threes in the house. Definitely more than twice the work of one.