The Bothy (Part One)

When we get aff the train at Crianlarich the rain’s stoatin aff the grun an cascadin aff the station roof. It overwhelms the gutterin an spews oer the sides, creatin an aqueous partition between the platform an the stairs leadin tae the path ootside.

Runnin through the watter, we laugh like school weans; the fresh air an expanse ay the surroundins gien us the license - takin us back tae when everyday wis like this; nae cares, nae worries, the cynicism ay adulthood yet tae rear its heid.

Pearcey had doorstepped me wan night efter work, sais McDade wanted us tae go oan a wee trip the gither tae clear the air, ma avoidance ay him efter the kerry oan in the park evidently hittin hame wae him.

The fact that it wis his twinty first birthday party comin up, or the party ay the year as he’d billed it, might have had somethin tae dae wae it.

Efter initially dismissin the idea oot ay haun, ah’d eventually relented in the interests ay social harmony. Tae be honest, so far it’d been a good laugh, huvin the craic wae the two ay them oan the train oan the waiy up.

It wis good tae get away fae things fur a bit. Joe’s face hud drapped when ah telt him ah couldnae work the weekend but he came roon tae the idea eventually. Some cunt needs tae tell him that overtime’s no compulsory. Nae danger man. ‘Where, exactly ur ye takin us McDade?’ ah sais, still no privy tae the specifics ay oor destination.

‘Wouldn’t you like tae know?’ he sais, pogoin up an doon like a fuckin punk rocker. ‘This way chaps, Tallyhoo old boy!’ he sais in a mock upper class, English accent, pointin alang the road whilst moderatin the jumpin aboot tae a mare recognisable wide-o swagger.

We turn the corner at the bottom ay the road ootside the hotel an troop purposefully taewards the ootskirts ay the village. A polis motor drives taewards us wae a couple ay coppers in it. Ah instinctively check ma peripheral vision fur an escape route but tae ma surprise the driver gies us a friendly nod ay the heid an they continue oan their waiy.

The rain begins tae abate an the clouds open up, lettin through several blades ay sunlight, illuminatin the dreich landscape instantaneously. ‘Where ur we gonae kip then? Ah brought a sleepin bag like ye sais but this isnae the weather fur sleepin under the stars. No fuckin danger.’ ah sais, apprehension creepin in.

‘Aye, that’s whit ah wis thinkin.’ Pearcey sais, lookin at me in shared concern.

‘An how come we didnae bring a tent? Ah don’t like where this is gaun.’ ah sais, catchin up tae McDade an pullin him back by his shoulder.

‘We don’t need a tent where we’re gaun.’ he sais, smilin an lightin a joint, inhalin deeply.

‘Fuck sake McDade, don’t keep us in suspense any longer then, eh? Where ur we gaun?’ ah sais, tirin ay his pish.

‘Oer there.’ he sais, pointin tae the mountain that towers oer us.

‘Ah’m no gaun up that bastarn thing, ye aff yer nut?’ ah sais.

‘We’re no gaun up it Danny, mare. . . roon it. There’s a bit ay a hike involved but it’ll be nae bother tae you Danny boy. Widnae huv invited ye otherwise. Ah’m no sure aboot that freckly cunt, mind.’ he sais, noddin taewards Pearcey.

‘Don’t worry aboot me ya clown. Ah’m a wiry cunt, fuckin thoroughbred, me. Just show me the waiy an we’ll see if you kin keep up porky.’ Pearcey sais, pokin him in the stomach an surgin ahead, takin the lead.

He fucks off in front, takin great chafe inducin strides leavin me an McDade tae walk in silence, the crunch ay oor shoes oan the gravelly path an the whistle ay the wind in oor ears the only accompanyin noise.

The early spring sun nears its pinnacle in the sky an bathes the heather strewn mountains in its light, its reach racin across the surface ay them as the clouds part, chased an harried away by the North Atlantic winds blawin in fae the West.

Up high, near the summit, there’s a bird ay prey. An eagle ah reckon, hingin in the air in defiance ay the blustery conditions. It hovers, suspended in silent anticipation afore divin fearlessly, drappin like a fuckin stane, vanishin behind the brow ay a lower hill.

Takin a draw oan whit remains ay the soggy joint McDade gied me, ah stare intently - hopefully.

Ah keep whit ah’ve witnessed tae masel. McDade will only say somethin stupit an destroy the moment.

It rises again suddenly, it’s broad wing span magnificent, their surface area poundin the air, elevatin it effortlessly wae each powerful stroke higher intae the sky.

It kerries somethin in its talons - a hare mibbe - soarin higher an higher, afore drappin it suddenly, swoopin back doon an catchin it in a fluid, wheelin motion. ‘Did ye fuckin see that?’ McDade sais, excitedly.

‘Naw, whit is it?’ ah sais, lyin.

‘It wis a bird, fuck knows a big fuckin. . .’

‘A bird?’ ah sais, wae derision an he draps the subject, lookin embarrassed.

Ah don’t know whit ah did it fur, other than that’s whit he would’ve done tae me. There’s some rarely spoken ay, unwritten code amongst cunts like us that dictates that ye cannae openly express awe an wonder at that in life which elicit such responses; the majestic flight ay a golden eagle; the enrapturin beauty an grandeur ay a sunkissed mountainside; or indeed, the skeletal fingers ay light that penetrate through dissipatin cloud, piercin through the smirr, creatin a fragmented rainbow in their descent intae the glen below.

Tae openly express wonderment at such things, is tae invite ridicule an mockery. That wis the preserve ay poofs an burds.

A load ay fuckin shite if ye ask me but who am ah tae chainge things? The West ay Scotland rules ay workin class masculinity man. Unwritten conventions established oer time that ur seemingly beyond reproach. A strange an sometimes ambiguous phenomena, but wan that’s ingrained in his aw, etched deep intae the psyche. Stupit? Aye, but irrevocable, nae danger.

We come tae a stoap as McDade crouches doon an goes intae his bag. Pearcey’s a distant figure, still stridin oan himsel apparently wae some point tae prove. ‘Here, is he gaun the right waiy?’ ah sais, mildly concerned.

‘Mare ur less.’ McDade shrugs, pullin oot a bottle ay Bucky fae his rucksack. ‘Listen Danny, aboot whit happened in the park. . . ah just want tae say. . .’ he sais, gesticulatin wae the bottle ‘that’s oan me, ah didnae mean tae get ye involved. . .’ ah nod ma heid, listenin tae his waffle but ah know as well as he does, that that’s exactly whit he intended tae dae. Ah feel masel gettin fuckin wound up, replayin it in ma heid, ready tae gie him whit fur, but ah don’t. Insteid, ah dae the only thing ah kin tae rescue the situation fae gaun south. ‘McDade, forget aboot it. These things happen.’ ah sais, feelin the dual sensations ay relief at puttin it tae bed an fuckin annoyance at masel fur lettin the prick get away wae it.

‘Really?’ he sais in a pitch unbefittin ay the hard man persona he so desperately tries tae exude as we start walkin again. ‘Nice one ar kid. Fancy a wee stank ay vino? Aw the waiy fae Devon ye know.’ he sais in an attempt at a Mancunian accent that by the end ay the sentence has raced back up the M6 tae Glesga.

Ah’m fuckin drouth an don’t need tae think aboot it, grabbin the wine aff him an takin several gulps. Seein McDade’s face drap at ma greedy enthusiasm fur his wine gies me a wee bit ay pleasure, ah won’t lie. Small victories an that. ‘Is it a long walk tae this pitch then?’ ah sais, gien him the wine back.

‘Nah, no really. In fact, this is where we start the real hike noo.’ he sais, pointin tae a widden stile at the side ay the road. There’s a sign next tae it that sais Ben More. ‘Here, look at that ginger cunt.’ he sais noddin tae Pearcey who’s disappearin roon the bend ay the road, far in the distance. ‘HOAW FANNY BAWS! YER AWAY THE WRANG WAIY YA DOBBER!’ he shouts efter him.

We climb oer the stile an alang the path a bit afore McDade decides tae skin up while we’re waitin oan him. ‘Here mate, haud that tae ah burn in the hash.’ he sais, gien me the three skins he’s swiftly stuck the gither.

Ah pull ma airms inside ma Berghaus an haud wan side ay the jaicket oot actin as a wind breaker, leavin ma other haun free tae haud the joint.

Lookin taewards the green, boggy contours an sheer jagged cliff faces ay the Ben ah look again tae the summit which is secreted wance mare by thick, rollin cloud, remindin me ay that story, Jack an the Beanstalk ma Ma used tae read me when ah wis a wean. ‘This place is somethin else McDade. How’d ye find oot aboot it?’ ah sais.

‘No bad, eh? Ah used tae come up here wae ma da an ma uncle Jim fishin an that.’ he sais, lickin the gum ay the skins an flippin it, slidin his fingers alang the length ay it tae iron oot any creases.

A group ay walkers appear fae oer the brow ay a dip in the path kitted oot in aw the gear as he lights the joint an picks up the bottle ay wine alang wae his bag. ‘Awright troops! Good day fur it, int it?’ he sais tae them as they get tae within reachin distance.

The apparent leader ay the group offers a hauf arsed smile an ushers the rest ay them roon us. ‘Fuckin arseholes!’ McDade sais, makin sure they heard him. ‘Just tryin tae be friendly tae the cunts.’

‘They’re probably tourists, they’ll no know whit the fuck yer sayin. Mibbe next time ye should dae it waeoot wavin a bottle ay tonic aboot.’ ah sais, walkin away shakin ma heid.

‘Whit the fuck they dain noo?’ he sais, lookin back doon the path.

They’re huddled roon the stile. Two or three ay them hurriedly climb oer it, runnin oot ay view behind a hedgerow.

There’s some inaudible shoutin afore Pearcey emerges through the centre ay whit remains ay the small crowd flailin his airms aboot. ‘WHIT YIES FUCKIN LOOKIN AT?’ he shouts at the petrified lookin cunts who scramble oer the fence in pursuit ay their mates.

He’s stripped fae the waist doon wae his troosers tied roon his neck in some lunatic schemie corruption ay country club chic. ‘Ya pair ay fuckin arseholes! Whit did ye let me charge oan doon the road like a fuckin bam fur? We’re meant tae be up here huvin a laugh an that. Ah’m no here fur yies tae take the cunt oot ay. Ah’ll just head back tae the train station the noo ya pricks!’ he sais, approachin, his face fuckin beetroot.

'Never mind aw that. Whit ye stripped doon tae yer drawers fur? Nae wonder they walkers bolted. They must’ve thought ye were a fuckin screwball.’ McDade sais, proppin himsel up oan me, tears rollin doon his face laughin.

‘Ah’m fuckin roastin an ma legs ur aw chafed tae fuck fae these soakin denims, that’s how. Ah don’t know whit yies ur laughin at. It’s no funny man.’

‘Aye it fuckin is.’ McDade sais.

‘An another thing. . .’ he sais. ‘Who the fuck’s Ben More?’