Founders Times
Now that we no longer have any Founding Members with us in the Club
and just a few who remember their days, it seems a good time to
assemble a few memories of those days - of Len Stubbs in particular.
The hills and crags have only changed a little, a lot more polish
here and there, a few big chunks of rock more on the ground, but the
activities themselves haven't changed that much.
So going backwards, we start with the first photo of the first Dinner
in 1945 at the Oddfellows Arms in Chinley [D. Seddon], featuring young
Geoff Cockcroft, Robbie Worral and Eric Flitcroft.
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Some Founders with the President in 1965. L to R, Bob Elliott,
Dennis Davis (President), Len Stubbs, Alan Simpson, Don Hoyle
and Cliff Wood. [D. Seddon/Jim Gregson]
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And now forwards in time?
Len wasn't Called Up in 1939 as he had a weak heart.
In 1949, the Club organised a coach to take us to Mar Lodge for 4
days at Easter (the fare was £3 10s return). We were to camp at
Lochain Uaine under Braeriach. We wore cut down raincoats and socks
with the feet cut out as gaiters. Our loads were heavy with supplies
of paraffin and primus stoves - our diet mainly Pom & Pemican.
Sleeping mats hadn't been invented and we slept on thick sheets of
brown paper with tar in the middle.
We set off at a brisk pace but after a few miles Len was lagging
behind - we waited for him and noticed he had gone a peculiar colour
- no doubt today a helicopter would be summoned by mobile phone. The
best we could do for him was to share out his load between us and
give him a short while to recover. Len insisted on continuing to the
campsite despite what was obviously a mild heart attack - I wish I
had know then that he was to see 85 [Pat Holt].
One might well have counted Len's 3 ton Lorry as a member
of the Club as it featured in many trips, and helped out members.
Here seen on the track to the Coniston hut. [D. Seddon].
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Helping to Remove the Woods (Cliff and Teddy). [D. Seddon].
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Wild camping was probably done more often then. With modern gear
there is little excuse, let's have another Esk Buttress meet.
This is Robbie and Plum Worral [D. Seddon].
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Outdoor meets of the time (above) and the transport used to
get to them. Cliff wood with wife 'Teddy' on bike.
But what is the hill in the background? [D. Seddon].
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Len Stubbs with Robbie Worral.
What's in the bottle?
[D. Seddon].
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Len in the 1950's [via Jim Gregson]
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A Full Week - By Len Stubbs
I had enjoyed a wonderful solo Easter holiday in the Lochnagar and
Ben Avon regions and my collection of tops had been increased by
another fourteen. Of course there is not much point in completing
such a strenuous short holiday unless you are allowed an opportunity
to brag about it. This opportunity presented itself when a K.M.C.
member, Bill Poole, who had been staying at Derry Lodge, accepted my
offer of a lift home to Manchester. During our express journey home,
my companion was thoroughly brain-washed with regards to Munroing;
the outcome of this conversation was my invitation to him to spend a
week's holiday during September somewhere in the Central Highlands;
his acceptance was forthcoming providing no better offer superseded
mine, and these are the circumstances whereby I gained a companion
for a very full and active week in the Highlands.
During the summer, despite atrocious weather conditions, Bill was
climbing exceptionally well and his weekly visits to the Pass or the
Lakes were rapidly improving his already high standard and I was
beginning to think that my suggestion for an autumn holiday in
Scotland might be overlooked for a week in the Welsh crags. This
train of thought was ruddy shattered when one evening, whilst leaning
on the bar at the club-room, my prospective companion gave voice to
his bolt-from-the-blue suggestion - that we commenced our holiday by
attempting to tread the three national summits during the same day.
This brief conversation gave rise to an event of considerable
excitement during our holiday.
After a very perfunctory " Don't worry, I'll attend to everything,"
my companion was quite content to appear on the appointed day with a
rucksack, the size of which suggested a normal camping weekend. The
first shock was sustained at the very commencement of our journey by
the car's refusal to start; after three years of monotonous
reliability and at the beginning of her greatest continuous effort
she refused to come under starter's orders. However, as so often
happens when one is in depths of despair, a guardian angel, in the
guise of a motor-mechanic neighbour, appeared; with only five minutes
to spare we obtained the new part required, our machine sprang to the
line and by 6.30 p.m. Saturday the effort began?
After a smooth journey to Wales we were fighting for ale at the P-y-G
bar at 9.15 p.m. My goodness, how the clientele of this famous
hostelry has changed over the last twenty years! Gone, alas, forever,
are the Harris coats and the Bums' climbing-jackets; the Norwegian
pullover appeared in complete command. Bill, of course, was
completely at ease, conversing about Cenotaph Comer and Cemetery
Gates. The only words I uttered were "Two Worthingtons " - pause -
then " Two Worthingtons again, please." Finally, as our holiday was
in jeopardy, I dragged him away from Cemetery Gates and swept him
along to the Pig Track.
It was 11:45 p.m. when we shared the hotel doorway with three other
brethren, who, alas, were being denied success in their efforts to
complete the Welsh 3,000'S. Conditions were vile and one of them was
near exhaustion, so instead of completing the Crib Goch ridge, they
wisely departed for the Pig Track. Just before midnight, another
group of would-be three-thousanders arrived for a dawn start.
Personally, I thought that after a few hours on Snowdon summit that
night they would probably hop it down to Llanberis direct and forget
the rest of the walk altogether. At the very appropriate time of
II:591/2 p.m. they enquired our intentions. With obvious pleasure
Bill told them, "We are now off to Scafell Pike". I don't suppose for
a minute they believed him.
On the Pig Track we caught up with the thwarted trio and helped them
down to Glaslyn before pressing on. At the car we had strong black
coffee, toast (tasting as good as ever, even at 2 am.) and a Senior
Service to wind up. A touch of the starter button and we were away at
2:30 am. precisely. The journey northwards was uneventful Our route
was the A5 to Corwen, the A5104 to Queensferry, along to Birkenhead,
under the deserted Mersey Tunnel - it was the first time Bill had
traversed this magnificent piece of civil engineering -up Scotland
Road (appropriately named on this occasion), through the signals at
red near Ormskirk, on to Preston, and eventually to the Mayfield Cafe
at Garstang for refreshments for both car and passengers. After a
short break we were off again, but by now the rain was starting good
and proper and driving became much more difficult and hazardous,
although Bill, cuddled in a Terray duvet, supported by a sleeping-bag
cushion, with his toes on the heater, was managing quite successfully
to achieve a state of somnolent first-class.
We arrived at Brackenclose after a near collision by WastWater with a
Zodiac whose driver we could only imagine was doing the same trip as
we in the reverse direction. With two ideas in mind, we delayed our
start for Scafell Pike (a) for tea and toast - a complete success;
(b) to allow the rain to cease - of course, a complete failure. We
started up Brown Tongue at 9 am. and up to that time I don't think it
could have rained more heavily. The conditions on the Pike were
bitter in the extreme (it was Fell Race day). We were cold and wet,
and there was nothing to see but rocks and rain. I was pleased to get
to Mickledore and more so to Hollow Stones, and once Brackenclose
came in sight we pressed on at great speed for shelter and warmth. A
change into dry clothing, and by 12:45 pm. we were leaving a
rain-swept Wasdale Head with two up and one to go. Very gratifying.
The pattern of the journey changed little: Bill cuddled deeper into
the soft down and listened to the radio while I stared through the
small area of windscreen not covered in mud; the mound of
cigarette-ends grew slowly larger. Through Carlisle our entry into
Scotland was heralded by a cloudburst. Water, water everywhere!
Driving conditions were extremely difficult with water now in the
brake drums and huge sprays coming from passing (and passed) lorries.
A twenty-minute break near Hamilton for a refill and tea-and-toast
session, and we were off once again. Heavy as the rain had been, even
worse was still to come. Our passage through Glasgow was at the
height of a storm, which, according to reports, was the worst Glasgow
had experienced for nearly twenty years. It did, however, keep the
streets empty. We really ran into trouble by Loch Lomond, and for the
first time it passed through my head that despite all our efforts we
might still fail to climb Nevis during the day. The village of Luss
was almost isolated by floods; fallen trees and debris littered the
road. A police djversion would have added thirty miles, but we
gambled on a route via the side lanes, and despite lengthy stretches
of water, often nine to twelve inches deep, succeeded in getting
clear and northbound once again.
Approaching the Central Highlands, a most remarkable realisation
began to penetrate my tired mind: there were clear indications of a
lovely evening; and our fast run across Rannoch Moor and down Glencoe
was, after all, really enjoyable. In my tired condition, 7s. 6d.
worth of Ballachulish Ferry felt justified, and with it a five
minutes' rest. As for Bill, never one to miss an opportunity, in full
regalia of duvet, brilliantly-coloured tartan shirt, Brigham's best
mole cords, and newly-combed hair, he treated the lassies of the
village to a sight the like of which they had not seen for years. I
enjoyed the remaining few miles to Nevis Hostel. where we arrived at
8:15 pm. to be greeted by a firm friend, and I would have been quite
happy to have erected the tent and called it a day, but Bill thrust a
torch and some chocolates and sweets at me, and departed over the
footbridge towards the Ben, with a shout of "Come on, let's get on
with it!"
The lower 2000ft of the mountain were very trying: I could not
establish any rhythm of movement whatsoever, balance was
non-existent, and progress purgatory. On reflection, I am quite
prepared to attribute this clumsiness to having sat in a moving
vehicle for such a long time that vigorous movement requiring
co-ordination of muscle and brain was not acceptable to my body. It
was fairly obvious, because for the final 1,000ft I had once again
achieved that steady motion of seemingly grinding upwards and onward
forever, somehow enjoying the effort involved. The greatest credit
must be accorded to Bill, who seemed gifted with extraordinary
eyesight for night walking. Not once did he lose the line of the path
to the summit, at which we duly arrived at 11:20 pm. Not that we
could see much, but it was certainly more pleasant than the top of
Wales or England. There was a large patch of snow at the head of one
of the gullies, a sound of water, possibly dripping over Echo Wall,
and cascading down Gardyloo Gully, distant lights and the dim outline
of the Aonachs and Cam Mor Dearg. Of course, both Bill and I were
very pleased at accomplishing what we had set out to do, with forty
minutes to spare into the bargain.
Our descent from the summit was yet another demonstration of Bill's
truly magnificent ability to pick out the track despite the darkness
and our tiredness; it was only when a decision was required from me
as to where to leave the main track in order to cross the footbridge
to our car, that we floundered and came near to the state of temper
losing. I decided we were too far downstream and suggested we
retraced our steps for half a mile or more, a decision not received
very lightly by Bill; however he agreed. Before reaching the
footbridge he gained a considerable distance on me, and my tired mind
was jerked into alertness upon hearing him shouting. I could see he
was shining his torch across the torrent and appealing for directions
to the footbridge. From a position only a few feet from my companion
I shone my light in the same direction and looked intently for the
object of his enquiry. I asked him what he could see and he replied a
light in a cottage window; I destroyed the spider's web that was
reflecting his light; we stumbled on and in a short distance
eventually crossed the bridge and were really pleased to rejoin the
"third member" of our party at 3 am.
In the car, conversation was low and tempers high. Bill, with what I
judged to be a certain amount of cynicism, remarked that his
suggestion for the holiday had now been completed. I picked up the
hint, started the car and somehow managed to drive round to Loch
Trieg, the base I had proposed for the next few days of our holiday.
We were awake reasonably early, at 11am., but after a leisurely
breakfast we decided it was too late to chase a Munro and instead
decided to have a day drying out our clothing, cleaning the inside of
the car and patching up our companionship. All these tasks were
achieved and we quite justifiably congratulated ourselves on being in
such an excellent location to do some peak-bagging. Tuesday we chose
as the day to do the eastern group of the Grey Corries, two very fine
peaks, Stob Coire Easain (3658 ft) and Stob a' Choir Mheadhoin (3610
ft); the surprise of this expedition was the quantity of fresh-fallen
snow lying on the summits. The evening was perfection of Highland
solitude; a stroll along the shores of this exceedingly picturesque
stretch of water gave us really superb views of the Eastern Mamores
and Corrour group of hills. The following day, Wednesday, having
recovered from our weekend's loss of sleep and having the feel of
Tuesday's conquest in our blood, we adjusted our sights to a slightly
more strenuous programme for the day. A military and regular pace was
maintained along the railway track for five miles towards Loch Ossian.
Highly recommended to any member passing this way on foot is a call
at Lochtrieghead Cottage, where we enjoyed a welcome cup of tea and
sandwich, gratis of course: all the young lady requires of her all
too rare visitors is conversation. However, we had to push on and,
with a promise to return some day, strode out along the track into a
rainstorm; this ceased, and our climb to the summit of Beinn na Lap
(3066 ft) was fittingly rewarded by an excellent view down on to Loch
Ossian and the forests around Corrour Lodge. A descent into some
country not unlike Kinder Scout, wet, boggy, and peaty, then a long
steady upwards grind took us to the summit plateau of the Loch Trieg
group of hills, consisting of two Munros and two lesser tops; we got
ourselves a little involved with the mist and rain, but somehow
managed to find the safest and most direct way off to our base camp,
after a satisfying bag of five new ticks for my 3,000 table. The
evening was so peaceful that it seemed sacrilege to switch on our
transistor for the news and a check on the time.
On the Thursday, we left our Loch Trieg base, firstly to restore our
depleted food stocks, secondly to call on my friend at Aberarder Farm
at the foot of Coire Ardair on Creag Meaghaidh, thirdly to look at
this magnificent coire (and its prospects of some really difficult
rock-climbing) and finally to ascend the mountain. All these objects
achieved, we set about getting our vehicle into one of the most
remote locations in the Central Highlands.
We drove along to the main gate lodge of the Ardverikie Estate, a
huge estate embracing most of Loch Laggan and most of the country
stretching across towards Ben Alder and westwards to Loch Trieg.
Brazenly and unflinching I knocked on the huge studded door;
confronted by a typically-dressed keeper I requested permission to go
on the estate road on the far side of Loch Laggan to take some
evening photographs, and I must confess I was quite surprised when he
allowed us through. In the gathering gloom we had an exciting ride
through the actual gardens of Ardverikie Castle; without sidelights
or headlights and along an avenue overhung with trees progress was
slow and undetected. We selected the better of two tracks and slowly
moved our vehicle along it, but to our chagrin after a mile our
progress was barred by a locked gate. Forced to return to close
proximity of the castle, we were sure we should be detected and
evicted from the estate. However, still unseen, we made very slow
progress along the alternative track; it really was a test of great
patience and of resisting the strong temptation to switch on lights.
We had travelled about another mile when we were stopped by a huge
tree lying across our path. Strong determination was the master of my
soul that evening, the determination to get my car up to Lubvan that
night. The car jack and an assortment of boulders provided the
solution and eventually after a great effort, with blistered hands,
we lifted the huge tree high enough for the car to inch its way
underneath. After another three miles of rough motoring we arrived at
one of the finest camping sites in the whole of Central Highlands.
Throwing caution to the wind we pitched our tent by the light of the
headlamps and settled down under a very beautiful starlit night,
after yet another hard and exciting day. From this position at Lubvan
we had a considerable number of new tops to embrace and before we
finally got warned off we collected them all. Friday really was a
swine of a day; nevertheless we circled round taking in Creag
Peathraich (3031 ft). Mullach Coire an Iubhair (3443 ft) and a very
isolated and really grandly shaped mountain Beinn a. Chlachair (3569
ft). On the last mountain the rain turned into snow and hailstones
and I was mighty pleased to drop below the mist and spot our tent a
few hundred feet below. Once again it was a wonderful starlit night
and the peace and serenity of our surroundings made me ask many
questions of myself, particularly why I must continue to live in the
city.
Bill enquired if Saturday was to be the final day of "my holiday"; I
replied that it depended on whether we finished off all the
possibilities of Munros that were within walking distance of Lubvan.
It was obvious, shortly after commencing the walk on Saturday, that
Bill intended it to be so; the thought of a hotel dinner that evening
followed by a glass of McEwan's export ale was a tremendous stimulant
but the ascent of Aonach Beag (3646 ft) was an even greater
deterrent; in any case the weather was infinitely better than the
previous day and we were delighted with the tremendous prospects of
hills all around us. We walked across to the top of Lancet Edge and
continued eastwards along an excellent ridge to tread all the points
mentioned in the S.M.C. guide. Our return to camp was the signal for
a visitor in the shape of the head keeper, who could not understand
how we had managed to get our motor car to its present position; he
was a jolly good type and we shared each other's company and
cigarettes, and a drink of tea at our tent. Naturally, he asked us to
leave the estate on the following morning, because of course his
employer was in residence at the castle. However he was of great
assistance to us for he left unlocked the gate that had been locked
on our inward journey and because of his action we were relieved of
once again jacking up the huge tree.
Our final day was perhaps as strenuous as any other day of the week.
We packed up our tent, shaved, and made ourselves presentable to
society once again. The "third member" played her part extremely well
and once she got the feel of the hard road beneath her tyres she
really enjoyed herself. Bill, ever one to get the most out of a week,
suggested a diversion to look at the new Forth Bridge, still under
construction, and also expressed a desire to ride along Princess
Street, Edinburgh.
We did both, and even after driving a further 200 miles I was forced
to agree that I too had thoroughly enjoyed a very full week.
An edited extract from an article written for the Rucksack Club
Journal, thanks to the RC for its inclusion.
[Article by Len Stubbs, probably written in 1962 when Len would have
been about 40 (KMC founded in 1944 when Len was c. 22), but obviously
still very keen and active, and wanting to Maximise the use of his
holiday time - a good example to us all. JG]
Len making a speech at a 1960's Dinner [D. Seddon].
Len: The Farewell Meet: Saturday December 1st.
The next time you pass through Manchester Airport spare a glance for
the skyline hills to the east; you should easily spot the whale back
ridge of Black Hill. Supposedly the object of Len's early hill
walking as a boy from Stockport, it is of modest height but its
position and distinctive shape make it a prominent feature, easily
recognised in views of the area: Len's choice for his final resting
place, and he had chosen well.
Saturday: A cold clear afternoon with a bit of a breeze. We moved off
from the Moorside road, following Ken making his way up the flank of
the ridge. The top is fairly level but a pile of rocks, probably an
ancient burial mound, marks a higher point. Here we gathered and at
three o'clock, with a few farewell words from Ken, Len's ashes were
poured amongst the rocks. Were there shades of others
present?-Plumber, Bowden, Milly, Dorothy Wright, Brian Ripley, Bob
Jones, Mike Peters, my friend Peter asked? Who knows? As for us, we
made our way down to the warm and cosy front parlour of Len's local,
The Bull's Head, to drink a toast, "To absent friends"
Those present: Ken Beetham, Dave Bish, John and Virginia Castick, Joe
Flynn, Mark Garrod, Jim and Sandy Gregson, Michelle Harvie, Alan Hyde
Jones, Alan Liverpool Jones, Neville McMillan, Lorna Marsland, Al
Metelko, Lester Payne, Phil Ramsbottom, Peter Scholefield, Pat and
Derek Seddon, Chris Thickett, Peter Walker.
Peter Walker
January Newsletter Index.
Copyright © 2008 Karabiner Mountaineering Club
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