Issue 145: Ben Cruachan and the Cailleach

Pete Scullion’s look into ancient myths and legends takes him to Ben Cruachan – and a search for the Queen of Winter.

Words & Photography Pete Scullion

Sandwiched between the banks of Loch Awe and the Tyndrum-Oban railway line is a rough roadside car park overshadowed by mountains. The steep forested hillside is brimming with the bright green leaves of hardwood trees and for now, at least, the sky is blue and not leaking.

I’m awaiting the arrival of none other than the Top Chief himself, Mr Joe Barnes, for what will be a classic Pete and Joe ride, shoving a bike up some questionable lump of igneous or metamorphic rock a little too late in the day… The summit of Ben Cruachan is the destination in question, Argyll and Bute’s highest point and the realm of one of Gaelic folklore’s most prolific and consistent creator deities.

With a close connection to the land, the sea and the creatures that occupy them, the Cailleach is an anthropomorphism of the natural forces that dictate the seasons, the weather and what bounty nature could provide.

The Cailleach has many branches of legend, but generally she is Queen of Winter, Maiden of the Beasts, and responsible for the forming of mountains. Though commonly depicted as a hag in a hooded shawl, her description varies – sometimes with a single eye like a cyclops, sometimes with bones on the hem, and with either blood red or rusty-coloured teeth.

The creation part of this myth is that she formed mountains either by dropping rocks from her wicker basket, or from her creel (lobster pot), or had hewn them from the rock with her hammer to make stepping stones. Either way, if you believe the legends, then the mountains are her work. 

Why are we heading up a 1,126m (3,694ft) mountain then? Well, legend has it that Cailleach was to tend a fountain atop Ben Cruachan (meaning ‘Conical hill’), placing a rock atop it overnight. One night she fell asleep and the strath below flooded, creating both the River Awe and Loch Awe. She was turned to stone for this indiscretion and by legend it is her morbid statue that sits atop the Pass of Brander that separates Loch Awe from Taynuilt to the north west.

This was no mean feat should the legend be true, as Loch Awe is the third largest freshwater loch in Scotland behind Loch Ness and Loch Lomond in terms of surface area (38.5 sq. km/14.9 sq. mi.) and is the longest at 41 kilometres (25 miles). One has to wonder just how big this fountain was, or how long the Cailleach was asleep…

Saddle up, step up

Accessing the hill is done by one of two means. Hack up through the steep woods or ride up the dam access road. One is short and brutally steep in places, the other a long, meandering tarmac pedal. We opted for the former and immediately regretted it, the rowan trees that line the path making for some very interesting going. The only bonus to the steepness is that as there was little faff, the height gain was very quick indeed. This would typify the rest of the day – height gained the hard way, but very quickly.

Gone is the sticky heat of the previous few days and we’re back to the usual summer format in Scotland, a cold northerly wind and the bright sky above being abruptly swept away and some heavy rain making Ben Cruachan and its flanks vanish into a pall of grey. The ground underfoot is either running water, slick grass or bog… However, as soon as it’s arrived, the shower has passed and we’re met by the imposing and hulking frontage of Cruachan Dam. Built in the late fifties, it provides water for the pump storage power station that is housed under the mountain within a cavern hewn from granite.

With that, we’re welcomed by a very brief stint on wonderfully smooth tarmac for the final dam approach, and the concrete hulk ahead now offers protection from the frosty northerly wind. We spend our time enjoying the massive echoes that return from the giant concrete buttresses. From here it’s a short hack up the earthen embankment onto the dam wall itself, where the size of the corrie is in full sight for the first time. 

You could be lured into believing the legend so far, mountains hewn with a hammer, and the other legend connected to the hammer is the storms that Cailleach brings as she swings it. While we might just be unlucky with some frontal rain, it does seem like we’re being punished as the rain sweeps the mountain again.

Along the access track on the western end of the corrie we get a good look at the rock tunnels cut deep into the hill, designed to guide groundwater off the hill and into the reservoir. A serious piece of sheer brute force. Nineteen kilometres of these tunnels stretch underneath the massif here and beyond to guide water to the reservoir. Three such tunnels exist around the flanks of the corrie and while they’re low now, the rivers they create are not to be underestimated. It would be quite a sight to see these tunnels, some fifteen feet across, charging with spring snowmelt, when Cailleach the Queen of Winter begins to lose her fight against Brighde who rules the summer months.

At the most northerly of the tunnels is where the going gets less easy. The access track comes to an abrupt halt and we’re met by a sodden hill path following the thunderous burn straight up the corrie to the bealach beyond. We’ve gained over 1,300ft elevation in two miles and will be more than doubling that elevation in just over three quarters of a mile to gain the saddle. The final thousand foot stab to the summit will be in half the latter distance. Definitely a mountain of thirds that gets increasingly punchy towards the peak.

High above the reservoir we stop to refuel in a rare patch of strong sun with a light wind, knowing full well that stopping on the higher slopes will be paid in a tax of heat. The granite is the only thing dry in this part of the world, so it’s a case of picking the comfiest looking rock and chowing down on whatever our packs still hold. All around, the thunder of water making its way to the reservoir can be heard, some above ground, some below. 

The higher you go, the wetter it gets

Having taken on fuel we start the long, wet (understatement of the century) hack ever higher on the corrie walls. It’s plain to see – from a quantity of water perspective – why a dam was put in this corrie… The concept of trying to keep your feet dry disappeared long ago, and I’m left to try to keep Joe in sight. The boy has one speed and it’s always slightly faster than I can manage, in any direction and on any terrain.

Above the near non-stop squelch is a ribbon of switchbacks that climb the steeper upper reaches of the corrie wall, the water now only heard when it crashes through the rocks beneath and all around us. Large, loose rocks now make the going very slow as the gradient seems to keep kicking up.

As I approach the bealach, Joe comes jogging over the brow in search of shelter with the rain lashing at him as he tucks in behind the rocks. The hammer swings again and another short, sharp shower really relieves us both of any body heat. We layer up as the view to the sea and the Kyles of Bute opens before us, the sun dancing between the clouds that seem to hang on Ben Cruachan’s upper reaches hiding the summit from us. We just hope some of that sun makes it our way before the summit approach, a peak hemmed in by sheer cliffs on all sides is not a good place to be in zero visibility…

Still we climb, the rocks getting larger and more stable the higher we go. I’ve left Joe to his one speed; I’m just happy to keep moving forward as the summit can’t be far, focusing on making sure my feet are solid before stepping up. I’m looking forward to not having my bike across my shoulders…

As we come closer to the summit, still shrouded in cloud at this juncture, the shattered granite is now large enough to walk across, up and along in places, meaning it’s bike across the back and balance it delicately so we can use our hands to clamber through the mess that is the ‘path’.

It’s not long before we can only see clouds above us and realise we might have actually made the summit, some 1,126m above the sea. We had climbed its full height in less than four miles and, despite the rather sad-looking trig point, we were happy to only have descending left.

The joy of reaching the top, something that was looking increasingly unlikely an hour earlier as the cloud dropped, the wind picked up and the rain lashed against our ears, peaks as the cloud lifts off the summit revealing the expansive ridge and corries between them. A walker we met on the way up said he’d seen nothing for hours and it had even snowed at one point. We’re afforded brief glimpses of Coire Chat and Coire Caorach as well as the ridge of Drochaid Ghlas. All the while the sun beams off the sea out to the west.

Blind riding turbo jank

With the cloud smothering Ben Cruachan’s peak we opt to make haste as there is clearly no sign of a fountain nearby, despite the fact that the evidence is plain to see that the Cailleach failed to tend to it properly. Water can be heard charging off the hill in the corrie below and Loch Awe shimmers in the sunlight as we start picking our way through the rocks back to a path that might actually be rideable.

Another swing of the hammer brings in an icy cold wind that chills the bones. We’re not out of the woods yet… Funnily enough, getting down the hill seems to flash by in an instant. We’re losing height far faster than we gained it, even though we’re picking our way through car-sized granite nuggets again. The wind is making staying on our feet difficult, so we slow it down again as we know there’s a hefty cliff to our left somewhere overlooking Coire Dearg.

Sooner or later, something resembling a path appears out of the mess of rocks. Wet granite sand offers plenty of grip; we just have to keep our extremities away from the many sharp edges vying for our mechs, wheels and feet. 

There’s no prizes for guessing who led out – I could try to keep up, but Joe is gone, revelling in the madness ahead of his front wheel and finding lines through the rocks at the first time of asking. A real masterclass in how to ride turbo jank entirely blind. Once again, I opt to stay feet up and rubber side down as best I can, a few stretches allowing me to let off the brakes enough to find some confidence and it’s not long before we’re back at the bealach having dropped some serious height in the blink of an eye.

Mostly out of the cloud and the wind we actually de-layer just below Bealach an Lochain and feel the grip of the Cailleach loosen as the blood returns to our hands and ears. Both took a battering on the way up; we tried to ignore it on the way down, but it wasn’t easy.

All that stands between us now and the fast, if not soaking wet, corrie bottom is the same loose, steep switchbacks we came up. Joe vanishes once again, only to be seen what looks like several hundred feet vertically below my feet. The more tired I get, the more yawning the gap between our abilities becomes. The black slop of Coire Dearg’s lower slopes is more welcome than the loose rock higher up that was constantly trying to shoot my front wheel in all directions.

Funnily enough, Joe’s got me covered here. I can see wet black dirt flying off his back tyre as he glides his luminous HB.916 through the bogs ahead as I squirm through the same. There’s plenty to catch you out here as the slimy dirt offers oversteer and understeer in equal measure. Rain ruts packed with grass are invisible until your wheels are in them, and undercuts on river banks collapse to look just like the ground around them. Joe is off, revelling in the lack of traction while I do my best to stay upright and behind my bars as the hits keep coming. 

Dam and blast

A final slither down a steep moraine bank above the Coire Dearg burn and we’re back on the dam tunnel access. It’s somewhat a relief to be back to easy rolling as the mountain looms behind us. Getting the legs moving again isn’t fun, neither is perching atop a saddle – our legs have gone to sleep in the intervening hour or two.

As we winch our way up the last of the climbs of the day, we meet a herd of red deer making their way from the reservoir banks to the higher portions of the hill. Cailleach, being Maiden of the Beasts, was known to herd deer specifically, and we wonder whether this is just a coincidence, or have we been dealing with the hag’s influence all day?

We opt not to retrace our steps back down through the rowan and oak, instead taking in the long, winding dam access track to a brief spin along the lochside road back to the vehicles. A raven picking at something on the road almost flies straight into my head along the way, missing me by inches. Our eyes are popping out of our heads.

While there was little evidence to suggest Cailleach is real, its existence is not unusual in Gaelic lore with many natural forces given names and likenesses. What this purpose serves might be more to do with the oral tradition of the cultures that create them rather than a real belief in these creator deities themselves, or perhaps an effort to understand those things that can’t quite be understood. Perhaps even, it’s simply a way of seeing off searching questions from children about the way the world works.

Whatever the case, Ben Cruachan was very wet, very windy and the beasts were many. I’d not like to scale it when the Queen of Winter is at the peak of her powers.

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