Claire Black: ‘I got a face full of rain that felt as sharp as needles and a wind that nearly sent me flying’

I say “climb”, rather than attempt to climb because, despite the hesitation, I always get to the top. I’ve never actually given up. But in that moment I really believe I might not be able to do it.

To be fair, it only happens on a particular type of hill. It doesn’t happen on a gradual incline (give me some credit) and it doesn’t happen on a clear path, even a steep one. Maybe that’s because I’m distracted by the fact that it seems the average walker’s stride is just a bit longer than mine, since inevitably at some point my feet end up inverted, the right one on the indentation clearly meant for left feet, my left on the indentation that’s meant for the right. It’s irritatingly absorbing. Or maybe it’s because I’m competitive. If others have done it, so can I. Off the beaten track, I find it harder.

“There is no way I can walk back down this,” R says, looking sick with fear, her windswept hair a giant candy floss wrapped around her head and intermittently covering her anxiety-filled eyes.

And so we go on. I have my doubts about continuing – R has even bigger doubts about descending. As a strategy, it works.

Last year we went to Sutherland. It was magnificent – full of hospitality and sea stacks and pints of ale. As should everyone who goes to this beautiful corner of Scotland, we wanted to walk to Sandwood Bay. The UK’s most remote beach, it’s a five-mile walk from a puddle-pocked car park. We were as prepared for a hike as we’ve ever been – full waterproofs, flask of hot chocolate, Swiss army knife, bananas. But none of these helped with the psychological battle.

The weather changed a hundred times as we walked. Blue sky. Grey sky. Wind. Rain. Two wee lochs had burst their banks, swamping the paths beside them. At one point we had to take our boots and socks off and wade, lying in the heather with our feet in the air to dry them before continuing.

“I don’t think I can go any further,” R said as we contemplated yet another waterlogged path.

“You can do it,” I said, leaping over. She followed.

And then came my moment. We reached the brow of the hill that led down to the beach. My incentive had been the view of the sea. What I got was a face full of rain that felt as sharp as needles and a blast of wind that nearly sent me flying.

“I don’t think I can go any further,” I said, but the wind being so strong, the words were all blown away before R heard. We continued.

Back in the Pentlands, celebrating our arrival at the top with a swig of Ardbeg from the hip flask, we marvelled at the views and blocked our ears from the wind. And then a man ran past us. Ran. And then a woman. And then another. And then another man. Numbers pinned to their chests, mud splattered up their legs, they were racing. I suspect they were not the type of people who say, “I don’t think I can go any further.”