Isle of Arran, April 2003

The Arran ridges from Goatfell

In April 1993, about a hundred and fifty eager and not so eager science undergraduates (including me) and a succession of postgraduates and postdocs, spent a week traipsing around cold, windy and very wet Isle of Arran to be shown amazing geological sights - the giant myriapod tracks, the columnar jointing on the 'Doon, fossilised lightning strikes, Hutton's unconformity. For many it was their first and last geology field trip, for about forty it sparked a desire to finish the Cambridge Natural Sciences Tripos with an Earth Sciences degree rather than another such as my first choice of physics.

Ten years later, nine of those forty returned to Arran to celebrate the anniversary and a shared joy of rocks, walking, and most importantly, drinking.


Janey	Chris	Lesley	James

Anna	Rozza	Denise	Bells

Our accommodation was a wonderful converted gameskeeper's cottage, stable and kennels in the grounds of the magnificent Brodick Castle, a ten minute walk from the small town bustle of Brodick and at the foot of Arran's biggest hill Goatfell.

On the first day we decided to take advantage of the good weather (ie it wasn't raining and it wasn't too cold) and head straight for Goatfell's summit.


Chris stops for a rest after 100m	A cold lunch atop Goatfell	Goatfell from the north	Janey fishing from the ridge	The Witch's Step <brrr>

Goatfell is a horribly anglicised name for such a beautiful Scottish mountain, and like Snowdon and Ben Nevis the presence of a much-used "Tourist Track" unnecessarily devalues a truly rugged hill. It's a long slog up the eight hundred or so metres vertical climb from Brodick to the summit, and the open nature of the route leaves you precisely aware at all times how far it is to go. After a couple of hours we'd all made it and had a very cold and rapid lunch before heading Northwards on the buttress covered ridge to North Goatfell.

From North Goatfell the ridge drops steeply but safely down (unless you take an idiotic diversion like me) to The Saddle, which is, erm, a big broad saddle between the massif of Goatfell and the glorious spire of Cir Mhor.

By now the day was becoming sunny as the large high pressure system that was to provide beautiful weather for the rest of the week settled in. I was beginning to regret bringing all my winter kit with me, I'd had the foresight to leave my crampons and ice axe back in the Kennels, but I was still carrying full Gore-Tex and about a hundred and twelve fleeces. Why is it that the more time I spend the hills, and the more experienced I get, the more kit I wind up lugging into the wilds?


Catalogue pose, Glen Sannox behind	Dropping from Cir Mhor	Cir Mhor overwhelms Glen Rosa	Beinn Tarsuinn	Glen Rosa

Climbing Cir Mhor from The Saddle is hard. Steep, trackless and an eternity (more accurately about forty minutes) of sweating. An entertaining looking scramble at the top was bypassed by all - Chris and Paul had a crack but shamefacedly admitted defeat. From the summit all the island's peaks are visible, from Goatfell through Caisteal Abhail to Beinn Tarsuinn, with the deep glacial valleys of Glen Rosa and Glen Sannox stretching away from the base.

We dropped from Cir Mhor where Paul's knee and my laziness split the party in two, Chris and Jane opting to try a more ambitious circuit taking in Beinn Tarsuinn - digestive woes and tiring legs would foil their attempt - while the rest of us descended the length of scenic Glen Rosa in the dwindling sunlight to a welcome Gin & Tonic back at the ranch.

Looking down Glen Rosa with Goatfell on the left

The lactic acid still in the legs the next day necessitated a short, shallow stroll along the West coast. We passed the King's Cave where Robert the Bruce supposedly drew inspiration from a spider, to become Spiderman or something, my poor history education is a little hazy here. We also revisited a couple of sights from the first field trip; a felsite that looks like a sandstone (until you've been you can't appreciate quite how simultaneously interesting and dull this is) and the columnar jointing on the basalt cliff of Drumadoon. Six years since I lasted wielded a geological hammer in anger and I've still got the old lithic magic.

More importantly, it was a beautiful sunny day and I'd lightened my pack some so the stroll along the coast to the pub was most enjoyable. In the afternoon we visited some old site of archeological interest - a grassy pile of stones (and I thought geology could be dull) and lounged around in the sun some more.


Drumadoon	Kids (not ours) at Blackwaterfoot	Atop a Sacred Indian Burial Ground	The legs, the horror	Holy Isle from Lamlash

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