The Austrian who went up a hill but came down a mountain

This is the long story of how an Austrian set out to learn the art of rather unprotected climbing in the country of unspoilt manhood, where longhaired and bluefaced Australians shout “freedom” whilst being gutted, where people have blood for breakfast, sheep intestines for lunch and battered, deep fried Mars bars for dinner – don´t ask me which one is the worst - and where pub locals kiss you more less gently with their forehead after grunting “Freckin´ staring at me, pal, aye?”
So you might want to grab a pint (“a” meaning ONE, Ecky) and follow the catharsis from the wasted years of sportsclimbing to the adherence to the pure ethics of trad climbing. But why leave the Holy Land (Austria, for those infidels amongst you, who only attend church for indoor climbing), birthplace of prophets like Hermann Buhl and Kurt Diemberger, in the first place? As in any classical epic, the call of a beautiful Siren was involved, coming from the distant shores of Portugal, this time, casting me away from the home of jodling and alpine skiing. Happily spending the days riding giants in Europe´s westend, it was the irresistible offer of having a look at inbred mice (yep, Inverness is not far…) for a fistful of pounds sterling that showed the way towards north of Hadrian´s wall more clearly than did the comet to the 3 kings towards the cradle (well, being dumped by the siren helped…). Neglected by the local lords of the boards (fear of skilled competition, I dare to bet) and put off by the steaming hot northern waters it was the Dirty Dozen of trad climbing who kindly adopted and showed great courtesy towards a potential fellow punter (the first and last THANK YOU in this place). After a quick introductory course in trading in one of the most shady quarries from here to John o’Groats (do not ask me about the original name of this hamlet), almost soiling myself in a very down to earth Severe, things improved and a trip to the winter climbing Mekka of Lochnagar was sound of music to my ears. Setting a new standard in Scottish (if not worldwide) mountaineering, the Perseverance rib
was attacked, the void was touched several times, but under skilful guidance of a local Mackenzie clan member (who later chucked himself down the Hawcraigs – – because he couldn´t face life after this traumatic experience) Dr Mark and I made it back to the local chippie. Several more or less successful trad excursions followed, some even leading to England (do not worry, we bolted all rocks within reach there!). Along the way, Simon the younger became an avid disciple of the only true religion.
Then came E-day (also called the longest day) in Auchinstary quarry, another outstanding jewel in the collection of picturesque climbing venues, beautifully situated at the shores of a lake and a place of worship for the local population, who sacrifice to the gods whatever in their households they may spare. Severely psyched up (or freaked out?) by Tim´s description of different ways Glaswegian pals smile, even if they don´t feel that happy, I was glad to leave the ground in order to avoid being stabbed, slit and/or circumcised and to have a go at the formidable Gold Rush. Golden it was and Tim nailed the thinly protected Midas Touch the same day, a mere cake walk for someone who had studied in Glasgow and survived without (visible) scars. Thus our children and grandchildren (if ever any unfortunate bird…) will sing about the day the E´s were conquered by their ancestors, and there are yet more to follow. The first verse has already been lain down otherwise:

The sounding cataract
Haunted them like a passion: the tall rock
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to them
An appetite, a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow’d from the eye.

Still reading? Man, you must be truly bored! Well in the end of this chapter, let me express my hope to share some soon days on the green(er?) pastures on the other side of the channel, be it to kiss the tides of the Atlantic Ocean or to climb rock with a view near a Schutzhűtte. A word must be spent here about Scottish bothy “culture”. I don´t mean to insult anyone, but I never came across more hopeless sheds, reminding me of abandoned pigsties in the Alps. But what would the true Scottish mountain experience be without having spent at least a night in one of them, what could represent the Scottish winter better, than the gloom of a rollie against the Aurora Borealis before reaching a pile of stones with the windows blown out, being the shelter for the night (that night, though, lack of sleep should be attributed to the really insane volume that can be reached by vodka fuelled snoring)? However, I´m looking forward to the day I can introduce you to the amenities of alpine huts, with mattresses, Bergsteigeressen and freshly tapped pints. But til then, may we have hell of a time in the hills and crags of the commonwealth’s finest country.