Knoydart 1998: Between Pupil and Staff on a Stancliffe Hall Easter Expedition
There are moments when you find yourself standing between two versions of your life.
At Easter 1998, I was nineteen and in my first year at university. School was behind me, at least officially, but I had not quite left that world. I was returning to join a Stancliffe Hall School expedition to Knoydart, not as a pupil or a formal member of staff, but as something in between: a hanger-on, a friend of the organisers and an additional pair of hands.
I helped with the shopping, stores, packing, children and communal equipment, along with the endless logistical work involved in moving an expedition to one of the most remote parts of mainland Britain.
It felt natural to be there. I had grown up with these trips. My first had been to Jura in the 1980s, and from then until Knoydart I had been able to get away almost every Easter with the school. Five years earlier, aged fifteen, I had joined a previous Stancliffe expedition to Knoydart, and in 1997 I had gained my first proper experience of fell running on the Isle of Rum ridge. Returning at nineteen, everything felt familiar, but my place within it had changed.
I was old enough to help make the expedition happen, young enough to join almost every mountain run that was suggested, and still inexperienced enough to discover how far enthusiasm could carry me before exhaustion finally took over.
Looking back, this trip helped shape the way I would approach adventure for decades to come. We established a base, explored the surrounding landscape, undertook practical conservation work and built towards a longer overnight journey to a remote bothy.
It was not simply a holiday or a collection of walks. It was a small expedition built around shared responsibility, communal living and gradually increasing challenges, as well as countless daily tasks for everyone, including making our own bread and mixing large jugs of powdered milk for morning drinks.
It also involved a surprising amount of time in the pub.
Friday
My mum gave me a lift north to Stancliffe Hall. Congestion on the M1 slowed us down, but eventually we reached the school and I headed over to Charlotte’s house for the night.
Although I was no longer a pupil, arriving at Stancliffe still felt a little like coming home. The school had been the starting point for so many earlier adventures, including trips to Rum, Jura and Knoydart itself, canoeing in Matlock, weekends in Snowdonia and the Lake District, and much more.
This time, however, I was returning to help rather than simply being taken along.
I was not a formal member of staff, but I was part of the group of adults and former pupils gathered around the expedition organisers. My role was difficult to define but easy to understand: help with whatever needed doing.
There would be no shortage of work.
Saturday
Saturday began early with a trip to the cash and carry.
Feeding a large school expedition for more than a week was a serious logistical exercise. This was not a case of everyone bringing a handful of freeze-dried meals. We intended to be largely self-sufficient, which meant carrying substantial amounts of food and communal equipment.
Plastic barrels normally used for canoeing were filled with flour for making bread, powdered milk and ingredients for group meals. Rows of army kit bags held tents, stoves and other essentials. There was equipment for the hostel, supplies for the whole expedition and shared overnight kit for the planned journey to a bothy.
Everything had to be bought, divided, labelled and packed so that it could survive minibuses, trains, vans and boats before eventually reaching Knoydart.
The task had already been complicated by an unexpected intruder.
The previous evening, a cat had somehow been locked inside the outdoor-pursuits room, an old music-practice cubicle being used to store the expedition supplies. By the time we opened the door, it had damaged some of the food, eaten dried milk powder and used one of the tents as a toilet.
When the door finally opened, the cat shot outside and raced across the school car park in search of water. It found the first available puddle, drank from it and then disappeared.
It did not appear to have suffered any lasting harm, which was more than could be said for parts of the expedition equipment.
Despite the interruption, we made good progress. There were pauses for lunch and a beer, and Abi and Sav’s dropped in to say hello, but much of the expedition gradually disappeared into bags and barrels.
Eventually, we stopped work and went in search of food.
Sunday
Sunday brought a more leisurely start, followed by more packing.
We headed down to the pub for lunch and then returned for, inevitably, more packing.
The rough format of these Stancliffe trips had already become familiar to me. We would establish ourselves somewhere, explore the surrounding area and then undertake a longer journey involving a bivvy, hut or bothy. There was always a sense of building towards something.
The stores were part of that philosophy. Carrying flour, powdered milk and substantial communal supplies allowed the expedition to operate with a degree of independence. It also meant an enormous amount of work before anyone went anywhere.
That evening, we gathered at Charlotte’s for a pre-expedition meal with Linzi, Abi, Sav’s, Ad and Emily. There was chilli, red wine and the atmosphere of a group preparing to step temporarily outside ordinary life.
Ad and I returned to Stancliffe afterwards to finish the remaining jobs.
By the time I finally went to bed, there were only four hours before we had to get up again.
It was not the most sensible preparation for the journey north.
Monday
Monday morning arrived far too soon.
I was suffering from the combined effects of too little sleep and the previous evening’s red wine, but there was no time to recover. Most of the adults went to Matlock railway station to meet the children, while I travelled to Crewe with Andrew Lamb, where the logistical challenge entered a new phase.
There were no large luggage trolleys. The lift to the platform had apparently been closed for four months, and no one seemed particularly interested in helping us move an expedition’s worth of equipment through the station.
When the rest of the group arrived, the children began carrying luggage towards the guard’s van one item at a time. Each child would select a bag, walk it to the train and then return for another.
Eventually, we realised that it was considerably more efficient to move the available trolleys and form a chain.
Somehow, every person, bag and barrel made it onto the train. I used the journey north to catch up on some much-needed sleep.
At Mallaig, the stores were transferred into Bruce’s van and then thrown onto his boat. The crossing was flat calm, and by chance we found ourselves travelling with Knoydart’s new estate manager.
There is always something special about approaching Knoydart by water. The mainland road network ends on the opposite shore, and as Mallaig disappears behind you, the ordinary rules of travel seem to change.
Everything required for the expedition had to arrive by boat or be carried in. The isolation was part inconvenience and part liberation.
At Inverie, we moved into the hostel and began unpacking.
The building was excellent in almost every respect, apart from the kitchen. The oven did not work properly, only one hob functioned reliably and the grill was decidedly temperamental.
Hungry after the journey, we searched through the bags and produced a meal involving what my diary describes as “offal tubes”, otherwise known as hot-dog sausages.
The children were eventually sent to bed. The adults then did what tired adults often did after spending an entire day moving equipment and travelling with a large group of pre-teen children.
We opened the beer and whisky.
This was my second visit to Knoydart, but we were staying in different accommodation and I was returning in a different role. The place, however, had lost none of its pull.
Tuesday
Tuesday morning began with a question from Martin.
“Rich, do you want to go for a run?”
The answer was obviously yes.
Martin, Tim and I set off towards the loch below the col leading to Barrisdale. The run was about ten miles there and back and became the first of many outings the three of us would make during the expedition.
Those runs became more significant than I realised at the time. A few months later, they would contribute to my joining Martin and Tim to complete the Welsh 3000s for the first time.
They also reinforced the style of movement that would shape much of the next decade of my life: not especially fast, but steady, sustained and capable of covering long distances through mountain terrain.
After the run came the traditional bacon butty, followed by a visit to the beach to meet the rest of the group.
After lunch, we wandered with the children down towards the pier. Following dinner, I even managed to complete some university work before heading to the pub with Sav’s, Tim, Linzi and Martin.
In the outdoor culture of the late 1990s, mountain trips and evenings in the pub often went together. Plans were discussed over pints, stories grew in the retelling, and the pub became part social centre and part expedition headquarters.
On this particular evening, Martin spent some time unsuccessfully attempting to charm the barmaid while Tim and I discussed the weather.
Our hope was to reach at least one summit the following day before conditions deteriorated.
Wednesday
The previous evening’s pub conversation led to a morning run up Sgurr Coir, rising to 796 metres above Inverie.
Martin, Tim and I headed out together.
The upper section was covered in snow, and we passed two walkers carrying ice axes. We had not planned specifically for winter mountaineering on the trip, so our equipment was more limited.
We had walking poles rather than axes and made the best of what we were carrying, moving carefully through the snow-covered ground.
Tim collected some snow and carried it back down, partly for snowball fights and partly, apparently, for use in gin and tonic.
The children had spent the morning litter-picking on the beach and returned for lunch. Abi was due to arrive that afternoon, so we went down to the pier to meet her.
Later, with Nelly (Ad), Charlotte and Linzi holding the fort at the hostel, several of us headed back to the pub.
After some persuasion, the Canadian barmaid put on some decent music, improving an evening that was already progressing comfortably.
Thursday
Thursday began with tea, a hangover and speculation about the weather, without any effort to look outside.
The children headed along the coast towards Sandaig Bay, while Martin, Tim and I selected another mountain journey.
We followed the road before climbing onto a ridge over Beinn Break, Druim na Cluainairighe, Meall Gaothar and Meall nan Saighead.
From the ridge, we descended at a brisk pace towards Samadalan and continued through Doune, where Martin had stayed during an earlier visit.
Naturally, the route ended at the pub.
We stopped for a few pints and spoke with local people and some visitors camping nearby. They had apparently been on the hill with the Canadian barmaid.
Martin also made peace with a dog he had accidentally kicked the previous evening.
After returning to the hostel for food, we went back to the pub for Abi’s final night.
By now, The Old Forge had become our base of operations for planning, recovery and social life. It was the sort of place that remained vivid long after leaving: Swarfega in the toilets, radio equipment for visiting boats, and the sense that almost everyone passing through Inverie eventually ended up inside.
The mountain days and pub evenings formed their own rhythm. We ran, walked, ate, recovered, made new plans and then began again.
Friday
On Friday, I woke after a difficult night with my mood having dropped sharply. I had little desire to leave my bed. Even in my happy place, life was not always straightforward.
Eventually, I got up and joined the work of removing new rhododendron shoots.
The invasive plants were spreading through parts of the estate, and tackling them became a conservation task across more than one Easter expedition.
There was something useful about physical work when my motivation was otherwise absent. Breaking off the young shoots offered a clear, immediate task and a reason to remain active.
After lunch, there was a rush to say goodbye to Abi, followed by more food.
Later, I walked up to the church and around Loch Bhraomsgaig before descending in the evening with Tim. The usual trio then fitted in another run, this time out to the cross.
The evening was spent preparing for the most ambitious mountain journey of the week: the Ladhar Bheinn horseshoe.
Saturday
Saturday was horseshoe day.
After a large breakfast, Martin, Tim and I packed lunch and walked through Inverie into Gleannena Guiserein. From there, we scrambled onto An Diollaid and climbed into the snow.
The route continued around the horseshoe, taking in Ladhar Bheinn, Stob a Chearceill, Aonach Sgoilte, Stob an Liut Fhearna and Sgurr Coire Choinnichean. We moved smoothly, running when we could and proceeding more cautiously when required.
The weather provided almost everything it could.
There was wind, cold, snow, hail and spindrift. At other moments, the sky cleared and sunshine swept across the mountains. Conditions changed repeatedly, giving us brief views before enclosing us again.
Tim spent a considerable amount of time rolling around in the snow.
The journey was serious enough to demand concentration, but it also retained the playfulness that characterised many of our days together. We were testing ourselves, but we were enjoying it too.
On the descent, we made a slight detour.
Once again, our route took us to the pub.
From there, we spotted members of the main group returning from Inverguseran. The weather had persuaded them to abandon their higher plans and walk back along the road.
James (Sav’s) joined us for a drink before we all returned to the hostel.
I stopped at the payphone to contact my parents and try to arrange a lift for the journey home.
That evening, a ceilidh was taking place in the village hall. The children headed down with Ad, Charlotte and Linzi, while Martin, Tim, James and I arrived later.
Initially, not much appeared to be happening. Most people were sitting around the edge of the room talking, so we went to the pub instead.
It was nearly closing, but we managed a pint and spoke with Jully, the barmaid. We then returned to the village hall carrying a daysack filled with beer and whisky.
By then, local musicians were playing and singing, and the atmosphere had transformed.
I was eventually dragged into Strip the Willow before sitting around drinking and talking until it was time to return to the hostel.
Coffee was administered before bed.
Sunday
Sunday was treated as a day of rest.
I spent a good part of the morning in bed. Ad took the afternoon off and went to the pub with Charlotte, while the children completed a treasure hunt in the woods behind Inverie.
I ended up supervising three of them as they wandered around looking for clues.
Even on a rest day, a run somehow appeared in the programme. We followed the waterfront, turned right after the pub, reached a gate and ran back before adding another section along the road.
That evening, Martin and I went to The Old Forge for a couple of beers.
At last orders, a local man called Stuart offered us a lift back to the hostel. Before leaving, however, he persuaded almost everyone in the pub to tell him a story.
A couple of hours passed.
Eventually, only Stuart, the barmaid and our small group remained.
His Jeep resembled Ad’s vehicle but was in considerably worse condition. The windscreen was so dirty and cracked that being able to see through it appeared optional.
At Martin’s request, Stuart arranged for it to be cleaned. More accurately, he asked his daughter to get out and clean it.
The vehicle eventually started, and somehow we made it back to the hostel.
Monday
Monday marked the beginning of the children’s overnight expedition to Sourlies Bothy.
The morning was spent packing their personal equipment and organising the communal stores.
We then walked down to Inverie pier and boarded the West Isles boat. Near Sourlies, we transferred into a smaller vessel before unloading onto a rocky, slippery beach.
From there, it was around half an hour along the coast to the bothy.
Unfortunately, it was not empty. A man had already been staying there for several days.
Space was found, and the group settled in. The children pitched their tents and cooked their food, while the adults prepared their own meal and sat around eating and drinking. I am fairly sure this was the trip when we spent the evening eating pasta with herbs and grated cheese, accompanied by Ad’s “rocket fuel” — some kind of neat, strong spirit.
Martin was already considering the following morning.
He wanted to climb Sgurr na Ciche, and he and Ad began trying to persuade Tim and me to join him.
The evening was clear and cold. Rather than sleep inside the bothy, I decided to bivvy outside.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Tuesday
I woke during the night in a panic.
I was trapped.
My Gore-Tex bivvy bag had a diagonal zip. During the night, I had wriggled around until the fastening ended up underneath my sleeping mat. In the darkness and confusion, I could not immediately work out how to escape.
Eventually, I located the zip and managed to push my head outside. It is difficult now to recall exactly how frightening that felt. Sleeping in a bivvy has since become second nature, although modern bags with entrances at the top make this particular problem less likely.
The landscape was covered in frost. Nearby, Tim had crawled partly out of his tent, creating an equally strange shape in the night.
Morning brought Martin’s inevitable question.
Did I want to climb Sgurr na Ciche?
After some hesitation, I decided that I did.
We ate and packed a small amount of equipment. In those days, Tim’s packing often involved shoving a few things into the pockets of his waterproof jacket; I suppose that, to him, it was simply a morning run before breakfast. Tim was visibly shaking as he tried to eat, but before long the three of us were moving upwards.
The conditions followed the established pattern of the expedition: cold, snowy and changeable.
By the time we reached the summit, we were inside the cloud.
There was no grand view, only the satisfaction of knowing that we had reached the top.
We descended rapidly through the snow and arrived back at Sourlies before the rest of the expedition had left for the walk back to the hostel.
We brewed tea, rested and packed our equipment, assuring the others that we would catch them up.
James joked that he would see us at the first corner.
Initially, he was not far wrong.
The return involved the long climb to Killer Col. We eventually caught the main group after gaining some height and settled into the slow work of helping everyone across the terrain.
As the journey continued, pieces of other people’s equipment gradually appeared strapped to the outside of my rucksack.
By the time we returned to the hostel, I was completely exhausted.
Even taking off my clothes and getting into bed felt like a significant challenge.
Wednesday
On Wednesday, I woke late.
Breakfast arrived almost by accident. Food had to be carried through our sleeping area on its way between the two kitchens, so I stole items as they passed and ate in bed.
Martin and Tim had already left to climb more Munros.
I chose sleep.
During the afternoon, I began packing the expedition stores and continued after dinner.
The other adults headed to the pub, and I joined them later. The Old Forge was packed, and we spent much of the evening sitting on the floor.
After closing time, we wandered back to the hostel.
I stayed awake talking with Martin until around two in the morning. We spoke about mountains, life and whatever might come next.
Only four hours later, I had to get up and complete the final packing.
Thursday
Thursday began early as we finished packing and prepared to leave.
Tim and I waited for the Land Rover before the equipment was transferred back onto the boat.
Standing on deck, I watched Knoydart recede as we began the long journey home.
The return passed without much drama. After saying goodbye to the children and handing them back to their parents, we discovered that we could not find anywhere still open to buy takeaway food.
After everything we had organised, carried and cooked, that final logistical failure felt almost appropriate.
Some time after the expedition, it emerged that one of the aluminium pans from a Trangia stove had disappeared.
Somewhere between Stancliffe, Knoydart, Sourlies and the journey home, it had gone missing.
For reasons that remain unclear, the loss acquired its own police record.
Ad later received a telephone call asking whether he was satisfied with the way the incident had been handled.
An entire expedition had travelled successfully by road, rail and boat. Children had been fed, housed, supervised and safely returned. We had climbed snowy mountains, slept outside a bothy, crossed remote glens and carried an extraordinary amount of communal equipment.
But somewhere along the way, we lost a saucepan.
Reflections
Looking back, what I remember most clearly is the feeling of being between roles.
At fifteen, I had travelled to Knoydart as one of the young people. At nineteen, I returned as an additional adult, trusted to organise equipment, supervise children and contribute to the running of the expedition.
Yet I was also still finding my own way.
I ran into the mountains whenever Martin or Tim suggested it. I began to understand both the seriousness and the beauty of the mountains in winter, which remains my favourite season to be among them. It feels a little like riding a motorbike through the winter months, when most people have put their bikes away because of the cold and wet. Those who remain share an unspoken bond.
In the years that followed, I had many more adventures with this group of friends, and with Tim in particular: climbing on remote Hebridean islands, learning to windsurf off uninhabited islands, climbing classic rock routes in the Lakes, and doing a great deal of running and mountain biking. Later, our adventures became visits to their woodland with friends and children.
On this trip, I learnt about the dangers of underestimating winter conditions. I bivvied outside in the frost, carried an increasingly decorated rucksack back from Sourlies and occasionally discovered the limits of my energy.
The adults around me were friends, mentors and mountain companions. They showed me that leadership was not simply about walking at the front of a group.
Much of it happened quietly: packing stores late at night, helping a child carry equipment, preparing communal meals, checking that everyone was accounted for and adapting when plans changed.
The expedition also gave me a model for how adventure could work.
Establish a base. Explore the surrounding landscape. Contribute something useful. Build towards a longer journey. Spend a night outside or in a hut. Carry what you need, and help other people when their loads become too heavy.
That pattern stayed with me through later journeys in Scotland, the Alps and further afield.
The mountain runs with Tim and Martin helped lay the foundations for the Welsh 3000s later that year. The Sourlies expedition strengthened my love of bothies and multi-day journeys. The snowy Ladhar Bheinn horseshoe showed how quickly serious weather and laughter could coexist in the mountains.
Even the evenings in The Old Forge became part of the memory: plans made over pints, conversations with people we would never meet again, and stories that became slightly more elaborate each time they were told.
Most of all, Knoydart represented another step in the transition from being taken on adventures to helping make those adventures possible for others.
I had returned to a place I knew, but I was no longer quite the same person who had visited five years earlier.
Perhaps that is why certain landscapes draw us back.
They allow us to measure how far we have travelled, not only across the ground but through our own lives.
When I picture Knoydart in 1998, I see snow blowing across the Ladhar Bheinn horseshoe, frost surrounding a bivvy bag at Sourlies, the lights of The Old Forge and the wake of the boat stretching behind us as Inverie disappeared from view.
I also see a nineteen-year-old standing somewhere between pupil and leader, still learning what it meant to carry his own share of an expedition.