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Of the numerous whisky-centric activities I had hoped to undertake, an ascent of Ben Rinnes was among them, although I held out little hope accomplishing it. The weather had been patchy throughout the week and I have noted a slight weakening of the inclination to stride up hills on the part of my parents in recent holidays. On Thursday night, however, it was resolved that my Dad and I would see how we felt about it the following morning.Image may be NSFW.
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Misty and damp was the answer as we parked in the steep den at the mountain’s foot. Cloud had been brushed from the shoulders of Ben Rinnes and its neighbour, Meikle Conval. We had left the A95 and the civilisation of Aberlour behind to scale the mass of mountain that presides over the whole of Speyside. In our cross-country car ride we had passed Benrinnes and Glenallachie distilleries, and many more have some proximate relationship to the hill.
It is a very steep climb indeed at first which takes you to the summit of Round Hill. This warmed us up nicely. However, as Allt-a-Bhainne sprang out of the glen to our left, and then gradually began to diminish in scale, the bulk of Ben Rinnes shifted and we were pitted against the bared chompers of a vicious Westerly wind. It was this that had been ripping the clouds over the mountain’s scalp like knots of wool over a fence post. The extent of the cloud was very defined, above which we could see nothing.Image may be NSFW.
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Glad of my waterproof trousers and hoodie I passed along the ridge line looking north and east to the Spey plain, defended somewhat from the chill which seemed to be bearing down on us from the region of The Glenlivet. I was reminded of my cycle to this distillery in April when the wind had been similarly ferocious.Image may be NSFW.
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There was no false nature about the summit: it was there, alright, and there is nowhere else on the path at which you might mistake the last of the 841 feet to be. It just takes a lot of bloody-mindedness to get there. The scarves of mist had lifted partially, and I could see the black craggy crown which comprises the summit. The path itself, however, took a most direct route to get there. My Dad urged me to just carry on; he would get there in his own time. Resisting as best I could the by now gale-force winds, I picked my way from blasted boulder to blasted boulder, finally breaking the summit where a bit of shelter was granted by the rocky spurs.Image may be NSFW.
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It was not a vista of total clarity – the cloud returned now and then – but when it parted even briefly the extent of the panorama was astonishing. To the north and west, there was the Spey at Knockando. Beyond that, I could even see to the Moray Firth and the coastline of Inverness-shire. Directly north, the trig-point promised me that that way, ornamented by the names of numerous distilleries, lay Elgin and the bold blue was the North Sea. In the foreground towered the bold brick chimney of Benrinnes distillery. Spluttering, my Dad trudged towards me to share in the achievement. A couple of photographs of each of us looking nonchalent taken, and some shortbread devoured, we descended, bemoaning in a good-humoured way (sort of) how the going down again was often more uncomfortable than the ascent.
We were due back in Aberlour for the Moray food festival, although before we engaged in eating the consensus was that there should be a drink to mark the occasion. Into the Mash Tun for a father-and-son thirst-quencher, then. My Aberlour a’bunadh congratulated me appropriately.
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A damn fine way to cap off a damn fine walk.
