The Carabina Climbing Club
12/11/14
Chapter One
The Carabina Climbing Club was a 1960s team hoping to do
some mountaineering on the Isles of Skye in Scotland in the Cullin Hills. The Black and the Red ranges equally composed
of Baselite volcanic rock was made for a good climb. At Sligachan we set up a base camp to foray
into the Cullin Hills.
The Talisker distillery of Skye lent a keen edge to the expedition
for us. Nestled in between the lofty
peaks of our challenging winter exercise wearing our winter warfare issued
equipment of ice-axes our 120 foot climbing ropes often taken with us after a
day of vigorous climbing to the sometime allnight or evening celebration of Scotland the Ceilidh
Places such as Malaig, Kyleakin, Kyle of Lochalsh
and Uig especially where we would whirl away the hours after dark to the skirl
of the pipes and the line dancing such as the Gay Gordons. Frequently we would still be wearing out
heavy climbing boots and the occasional ice axe sticking from a still worn
haversack pack protrudung. Even some
time a coil of climbing ropes slung casually over one shoulder would not hinder
but would enhance the late night frolic.
Les Preston was our gallant leader driving an ancient
1950s post-war Armstrong Sidley Saphire a boxer by training! Driving to the Isles of Skye from Derby our
current base then via Carlisle to Fort William, Lochalsh and then catching the
MacBrains Ferry across the waters to Portree.
Guests of the Scottish Mountaineering Association for the few weeks over
the Hogmanay (1962) we settled down to a comfortable safe routine of enjoying
our memorable break from the English winter of drizzle and cloudy overcast
weather. Here in Scotland the sun shone
like an Indian Summmer back home with a few flecks of white or greyish cloud of
a cotton wool texture floating in the heavenly vault. A light breeze from the west gave us an
assurance of fair weather – or so we supposed!/(Photo in The Derby Evening
Telegraph).
Returning from the ‘trip’ at night in a pelting rain
storm I awoke in the passenger seat with a start to realize we were on the
verge of the road going 60 mile an hour.
The noise of the rain on the windscreen alerted me. The driver asleep at the wheel we were
blinded by a sheet of water covering the wind-shield. Leaning over ever so gently I softly poked
Les on the shoulder. He woke with a
start and immediately yet gently edged the travelling vehicle back on to the
tarmacadam – unscathed! The others in
the back seat dozed on unaware of the near miss not knowing how close we had
come to disaster and by the skin of our teeth
Hogmanay
we were invited to a party in the hills (not the Cullins) for a Celtic
celebration the ominous sounding Ceilidh
which celebration we were enthusiastic to attend.
It was to be held in a distant location and Chris
asked if we could borrow the car for the evening. Les agreed being indisposed and off we went
to our distant (?) late night assignment.
Arriving there we were generously treated to the sight of kilt wearing
scots dirks protruding out of their stockings of our hosts bulging leg
armaments.
It was 2 0r 3 in the morning even possibly 4:00 am
when we drove erratically away somewhat tidley with all that whiskey. Pulled over by police down the hill (they
were obviously waiting) but luckily soon let go as the house party was held at
the Chief of Police for the island’s home!
