This is a story about how I didn’t do my first Munro.

A Munro is a mountain in Scotland that rises more than 3000 feet. It’s a badge of honour to “bag” a Munro. This particular hike at Glenshee was described as an easy Munro because you can drive most of the way up.

My husband, Rich, and my son, Oscar, had been hiking with some of his teaching colleagues over the summer, and I happened to have the day off so I decided to join them. An easy hike on a Munro, said Richard. I pictured a parking lot near the summit and a stroll along the ridge with lovely views.

We drove to the Glenshee Ski Centre, up in the Cairngorms. The views were gorgeous, even in the rain, but the mountains seemed huge. Maybe the easy one was further down the road.

While we waited for the rest of the group, Rich’s colleague pointed out an easy walk.

“You walk up to that chairlift there, and then over to that chairlift and back down.”

I chuckled. Easy, right. Rich’s colleagues had a lovely sense of humour.

She looked at me quizzically. She wasn’t joking. My heart dropped into my stomach. Good grief, if that’s an easy walk, what on earth is an easy Munro?

Still, there were four kids with us, so how bad could it be?

As the teachers and their families began to arrive, I started to worry. They were all so fit and outdoorsy looking. I’m a cheesemaker, so I’m strong, but this lot had less body fat between them then I have in my love handles.

We drove down the road to another car park. The mountain peaks here looked bigger, not smaller. Teachers started pulling out brightly-coloured wet weather gear and snapping open walking sticks while I stood there in my grey trench coat. I felt like a tourist who’d stumbled into an advertising shoot for North Face.

“We’re going up there,” said Rich’s colleague, pointing a dark cloud hanging possessively around the tallest peak.

“And then we’ll walk along that ridge and…” Her voice faded out as my inner panic set in. I fumbled through my backpack and dug out my inhaler. Bollocks, it expired in 2019. Should be fine though, right?

I took up position at the end of the line. The hike started out nice and flat. I chatted with the organiser and confessed some of my fears. She pulled out a map in a neat waterproof bag and showed me an alternate route, promising to warn me when we got there. We crossed a small stream and I congratulated myself for not falling in. Then the trail started going up. Sharply. I glanced ahead. Oscar was halfway up the first hill and the others were springing up the path like giddy mountain goats. I stared at the ground. Just concentrate on yourself Chris, one step, then another, then another. Not so bad. I enjoyed about 15 seconds of the climb before the shortness of breath kicked in. Inhaler at the ready, I took few more steps. My breaths were fast and loud in my ears. The rain pelted me in a rapid beat, like that scene in Indiana Jones were the dude rips out the poor guys heart. Surely everyone could hear me gasping for breath. Two quick puffs of my inhaler and onward. Okay, I was making ok time. I looked up. Rich and his colleague were way ahead, waiting for me. Crap.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. Speaking would use up far too much oxygen.

We carried on, the Rich and his colleague kindly slowing down to walk with me as they had chatted. I could hardly breathe and they were taking away. I knew it then. I would never make it.

We stopped at the crossroads. There was an old military road that followed an easier route. I was given the option to go the easy way and meet them at the end, or carry on with the group. A brief internal struggle took place while I struggled for breath. I could carry on, buckle down, find the inner strength and do a Munro. Or I could admit failure.

I’m not ashamed to say, I chose failure. Okay, I’m maybe slightly ashamed.

It took me 43 years to figure it out, and I’m still not that great at it, but I’m starting to feel the sweet freedom of not doing something.

It wasn’t pretty. My “easy” road was still pretty steep. And I desperately wanted to get away from the group so I could break down in tears. Bloody Scottish landscapes with no bloody trees. I struggled up the slope for a good ten minutes while they could still se me. Were they telling themselves they knew I wouldn’t make it? Were they saying it’s such a shame I let myself get into this state of globular ill-health. Or worse, were they pitying me?

As soon as they disappeared behind the slope I let go of my tenuous self-control, crying and wheezing up the road. I was full of self-loathing and directionless anger. The slope kept getting steeper and steeper, then it disappeared and I was climbing through calf-high wet grass, my feet squelching in wet shoes, tears mingling with cool rain. Not only might I be a failure, but I could be lost in the highlands for twenty years, only to be found again as an object of curiosity having finally lost the weight on a diet of heather and tubers only to have lost my marbles, speaking in an imaginary language to animals while only hissing at humans.

But, I was on a barren hill. Once I got to the top, I could basically see for 100 miles in any direction. Alas, in twenty years I’ll still be fat and (relatively) sane.

Part way up, I found a faint trail which met up with a bigger trail. My anger deflated. I couldn’t blame them for being fit and healthy and wanting to exercise their abilities. In fact, they seemed quite lovely and were probably just concerned in a reasonable kind of way. All that disgust came from me. But why? So I can’t climb a mountain. I can write a novel. I can illustrate an Aztec god. I can accurately cut 200 gram pieces of cheese for 8 hours in a row.

The rain stopped, the sun came out, I looked around and I was alone on top of the world. The steep path was behind me and the road ahead followed the ridge in gentle rises. My back straightened and my strides lengthened. A gust of wind blew my coat behind me and I felt like the Highlander. Did the Highlander have a trench coat? And long hair, and a sword and lighting powers or something? Anyway, I felt strong as hell.

I strode that ridge like I was riding the wind. To my left, tiny toy cars crept along a narrow ribbon of road, distant and inconsequential. To my right, an eagle flew below me. I was alone in my empire of heather and grass, queen of nothing, ruled by nothing.

Then I tripped over a stone and giggled at my little fantasy. Could I be having fun? I stopped and took pictures of heather and feathers and the rain-shrouded peaks around me while I bathed in sunlight. I had genial conversations with the rain, birds of prey and myself. This is normal for me. Most of the dialogue and plot of my novels were spoken aloud before they were ever written down. Crazy? Possibly. Effective? Absolutely.

This is what I said.

“I accept there are things I’m not good at.

I accept there are things I cannot do.

I accept there are good things about me.

I accept the good and the bad about myself.

I accept myself the way I am.”

This became my mantra.

“I accept myself the way I am.”

This phrase floated in my head for my entire walk on the top of the hill. When I slipped on the gravel on the way down and fell, I lay down and laughed. When I reached the car, two hours later, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I coxed my eyes and dozed in the sunshine while I waited for the others to return, and I was glad to be where I was.

When they came back, six hours after they left, I was honestly happy to see them and hear about their epic adventure, conquering not just one, but two Munros.

And I lived happily ever after.

Hah.

I wish.

I’m happy for Richard and Ozzie, and proud their accomplishment, but I be lying if I said I didn’t I feel a twinge of hurt when I hear what about all the wonderful stories and accomplishments that they had on their journey, moments I couldn’t be a part of, that I wasn’t good enough to be a part of.

But every time I think back to that time, striding the hilltop with my coat billowing behind me like a cape, the wind playing with my hair, companion to eagles, I remember that freedom.

The freedom of failure.





