Web Development by Alistair Robinson

I was a bit worried about how I’d manage on the mountain yesterday, considering that:

I’d hardly exercised at all since September (our last mountain walk);
I now had not one but two dodgy knees;
I had a cold;
I was feeling pretty run-down from all the commuting and staying up late;
It was February and I had no ice axe or crampons.

But I needn’t have worried: although it was hard-going (it always is) there was no doubt that I’d make it safely to the top, and there was barely any snow around – I was forgetting about how relatively mild it’s been this winter. In fact it was warm enough to strip down to my shirt, and it was only the cold wind at the top that forced me to add some more layers.

We walked up from the west bank of Loch Lomond at Inveruglas, where Sloy hydro-electric power station was waiting in eerie silence for the mountainside pipes to feed its turbines. I’ve always had a queer fascination with – and awestruck fear of – hydro-electric power, at some unfathomable psychological depth. Damns; mysterious underground pipes; giant sluices, valves and channels; pitiless pressures; forbidding, deadly stillnesses. And all of it big – big enough to swallow you up and drown you or crush you or mangle you. When you look at those massive structures, chambers and churning pools, none of it is nicely signposted for you, by way of explanation. The imagination runs riot: what would actually happen if I fell in there? Where would I end up if I was sucked down that overflow? In one respect it’s all designed for humans, but in another it couldn’t be much more inhuman.

But, as I say, it’s not just fear. It’s awe and wonder too, and an affection for it as an impressively mechanical, spectacular, clean way of producing energy. Which is why I can’t agree with the people who say it’s a “blot on the landscape”. There’s something about these schemes that matches the power and grandeur of the mountains and lochs themselves.

The water was black and still, as if unimaginably deep. Each of those windows has a huge turbine behind it, and the four together provide 160 megawatts of power for the Glasgow region. The energy is from the water that comes down from Loch Sloy through Ben Vorlich in a tunnel and down the side of the mountain in four huge pipes, one for each turbine. The station can go from standing still to full load in about five minutes, so it’s used for big surges in demand. Apparently, its refurbishment in the 90s ensured its operation for the next 30 or 40 years. To all you damspotters out there (yes you!), there’s some info on the web but not a great amount.

That’s Ben Lomond, showing a very different profile to the one we’re used to seeing from the south.

A cloud in the process of smothering Ben Vorlich. You can also see the dam at the head of Loch Sloy.

The great thing about winter is that the beauty of morning still hasn’t faded when you start your walk.

The rock is mainly metamorphic, showing twisted contorted layers with frequent veins of quartzite. In the language of Richard Fortey in Earth: An Intimate History, this rock has suffered.

A pose, not of a conqueror, but of a modest adventurer. Little does he know he’s about to be swallowed by a cloud that seems to be hunting him by stealth.

The choice of black and white was not subtly artistic: his shirt was a quite garish shade of red. A good photo of Stu though, I think.

Another picture of Ben Lomond.

Clouds were dancing and spinning together as they came over the mountain from the north-west and met on the other side.

The tiny figure amongst the random monumentality is Stu, distant enough not to cause visual offence with that shirt.

And this is the top, with a peak in the background which looks higher but probably isn’t. The pond was shallow but it wasn’t quite frozen solid. Remarkable in the middle of winter.

Another two views from the top.

Stu in a relaxed mood after lunch. Incidentally, I happened to bump in to Craig Black from Largs near the top of the mountain. I hadn’t seen him for years. What are the chances?

On the way down, a different kind of cloud appeared, much higher.

I recall that it wasn’t long after this photo was taken that I caught up with Stu, and we got to talking about his job, in which he examines people’s ears, tests their hearing, recommends hearing aids, and – if he’s done a good job – sells them the hearing aids. Part of this process is taking an impression of the ear. This is basically a mould of the ear from the outer bit to the drum, made using some kind of setting resin. Afterwards, he sends it to the hearing aid makers. I suggested that he take two impressions each time (he could explain this easily enough with a white lie), so that he could keep one for himself. He could then build up a collection, each ear impression mounted on a little varnished mahogany base with a brass plaque engraved minisculely with the name of the donor. Displayed on a series of shelves, this would certainly be a conversation-starter when they had guests. But why stop there? Displayed in an art gallery the collection could command a high price, as long as it was backed up with a few inarticulate statements that began with things like “I was trying to represent our ambiguous relationship with…”, and “It’s a metaphor for the way that society…”

On conceptual art, I’m definitely open to persuasion and I do try to judge works individually without prejudice, but I’ve got some serious problems with this kind of art that I can’t imagine will just go away. In case you think I’m some kind of philistine armchair sceptic when it comes to art, throwing my Daily Mail at the radio in outrage, well: above is a painting I did. It maybe ain’t much, but at least I’m trying, and I like it more than giant egg-slicers. It’s of the Quirang in Skye, or at least a doodle inspired by the memory of my walk there with Ann a couple of summers ago. It’s an odd, bewitching place on a scale small enough for the eyes and mind to take in.

We were overtaken on the way down by a young woman. She didn’t greet us in the usual upbeat, friendly way, but sarcastically, saying “nice view of the pylons eh?” This was a real downer – sarcasm like that is dark and cynical. Did she expect utter wilderness 40 minutes’ drive from Glasgow? Above you can see the sub-station and the pylons. I don’t think they’re ugly, and they’re so much a part of this area that they don’t seem out of place. I certainly do have an urge to explore the wildest wildernesses, such as Fisherfield in the far north, and the Cairngorms. But usually the marks of humankind – dams and paths and sheep – are not totally unwelcome in the Highlands, being, in any case, sparse and inconsiderable.

Padlock.

Tags: alps, arrochar, ben vane, highlands, mountains, scotland, scottish, winter
Posted in aesthetics, places, walking | 3 Comments »