Living in Andalucia is not conducive to fast progress with British hill lists. Two trips to the UK had to suffice, and only one of these, in February, was a dedicated hillwalking trip, with a bunch of longstanding friends. The weather was stunning: we had seven consecutive days on the hill, unprecedented in over thirty years of mid-February highland weeks. One highlight was a superb outing on the horseshoe of Beinn na Cille, Fuar Bheinn and Creach Bheinn, on the west side of Loch Linnhe. A pint while we waited for the Corran ferry rounded off the day. A couple of days later, all 14 of us waited on a chill dawn platform at Spean Bridge for the early train to Corrour. Eleven were heading for Beinn na Lap, but for Phil Hardy, Carol Jepson and me, Leum Uilleim was a more tempting option and proved a fine hill, with the bonus of a snow bunting fly-past (we'd done Beinn na Lap before).
The final day was another delight. From the lower end of Glen Coe a bunch of us headed in to Meall Lighiche, then Col Carr and Mick Chapman suddenly announced they were off to do Sgor na h-Ulaidh, a hill that holds fond memories for me: my final Munro in June 1994. The remaining five headed for Sgorr a'Choise, after which Rob Purland and I thought we could just about manage Meall Mor as well. By the time we reached the top, dusk was virtually upon us. The descent into Glen Coe looked frighteningly steep, the slope so convex that it disappeared into uncertainty. We started down crunchy frozen grass and, thanks to Phil Hardy's advice to aim for the campsite rather than where we'd left the cars, got down unscathed in the dark. The Clachaig called.
The second trip saw us arriving in Plymouth from Santander on 1 July. Within two hours we were on top of Kit Hill, which surely gives Bishop Wilton Wold a run for the title of easiest Marilyn. You can drive to the car park by the trig, though we didn't. Of the other south-west Marilyns, Watch Croft proved to have the most fight. An obvious path leads up to the col just east of it. From there, along the broad ridge leading to the top, my shins and calves were shredded by gorse. Thinking a direct line of descent couldn't be worse, I found that it could. By the time I was swallowed by the head-high mix of bracken and bramble it was too late to do anything about it. I staggered back to the road with comprehensively lacerated legs.
A few days in southern Scotland provided great views of peregrines on both White Coomb and Broad Law. Meanwhile the Corbett total inched up to 57. The bike came into play for Green Lowther, while assorted other hills increased my New Donald total from nil to six. I snaffled Bishop Forest Hill and Bennan while my partner investigated the Glenkiln sculptures. It's not often you get to park the van ten feet from a Rodin.
Detling Hill and Cheriton Hill were easy additions during a visit to a friend in Kent just before we caught the ferry to Calais and headed south, anticipating opening the Sierra Nevada account once the summer heat had abated. And our local twin-topped hill, Cerro de los Lobos (603m and 601m), which fills the view south from our living-room window in the Sierra Cabrera, had seen 141 ascents by the year-end.
