As blade culture infiltrates the great wilderness, is nowhere safe?

Published on Wednesday 23 July 2008 21:54

ONE of the attractions of taking to the hills – apart from the bloomin' obvious of course – is the almost total absence of neds and vandals, that malign species which so disturbs the urban peace.

According to left-wing lib-eral academics, anti-social behaviour is a symptom of poverty and deprivation.

Yet for leisure purposes the socially-deprived seem to be drawn to Blackpool, the Costa Brava and other destinations where wallets and purses need to be worked like conveyor belts, rather than our stunningly beautiful countryside – despite the latter being free to access.

Until my most recent outing in the hills, I had never once come across anything more threatening than an over- protective cow with her calf. My latest objective, Ben Cruachan, one of the most magnificent, but challenging, Munros in Argyll, changed all that.

Ben Cruachan, is one of Scotland's tallest Munros.

The start of the climb was a tough one – up a steep rutted and rocky path, made somewhat claustrophobic by the density of the forest.

When I eventually encountered quite the highest stile I had ever seen, already sweating profusely and feeling decidedly uncomfortable, I considered turning back and looking for a less challenging alternative.

But I persevered and, once over, was rewarded by open wilderness and a clear view of the summit.

From then on, my spirits lifted with every step as, occasionally looking back, beautiful, two-pronged Loch Awe and a host of rugged peaks opened up before me.

Then, about two-thirds of the way up I caught sight of a group in the middle-distance: defiant and threatening, there were 13 of them (how unlucky can a guy get?); and what was worse, they all had blades.

And what size of blades – big enough to cut a man's head off. What they were doing to birds and other wildlife I shudder to think. And as for the racket…

But then my route turned and, changing direction, I noticed they were not getting any closer, and surmised that by keeping my distance I should be safe.

Every so often they would disappear from view and I seemed to be rid of them, but as the climb continued, they would reappear, their mere presence a threat and a nuisance.

This was especially so when their antics got in the way of an otherwise magnificent view all the way across the western shore of Loch Etive to the coast and the Atlantic ocean. Just as in the cities, the excuse for carrying blades onto the hills seems to be self-preservation, although in this case it's supposed to be on behalf of us all – ie, if we don't arm ourselves with them we are all going to die from the effects of climate change.

Yes, these neds were a gang of wind turbines.

Like many Scots, I have become resigned to wind factories (forget the euphemistic "farms") despoiling the countryside close to urban areas, hoping that the Highlands and Islands (often called the last great wilderness in Western Europe) would be left alone.

But if a wind factory can be approved and set up in a hauntingly beautiful location and tourist area such as this, then it can be put anywhere – and no doubt will, given the illogical opposition to nuclear power shown by the current Scottish government.

Ironically, as I finally reached the summit and surveyed the panoramic view, another form of clean (and renewable) energy – hydro power – was being generated perhaps a couple of thousand feet below me, embedded unobtrusively in the rock, and bothering no-one.

This is the Ben Cruachan hydro-electric power station, opened in 1967. Ben Cruachan can go from standby to full production in two minutes: generating 440 megawatts, enough electricity to supply a city the size of Dundee.

And unlike wind power, in terms of net reduction in emissions, this one has actually been proven to work.