An Evening by the River - Becky Dye

I'm writing this article for three reasons. Firstly I wanted to contribute a little bit to GUMC history by appearing in this fine publication and had hoped to do so slyly by being mentioned in Diana's article-unfortunately she forgot she was my route to laziness so I have to actually put some effort in myself! I hope to clarify that anyone now in possession of a stylish (XL) Clachaig T-shirt is also indebted to me. Secondly I wanted to write an article based on non-mountaineering exploits because quite frankly I'm not a very good mountaineer. I tend to get lost on paths and once forgot one rock shoe and tried to hop up a climb. Thirdly it's quite interesting for me to actually piece together what happened on the night of the 11th/morning of the 12th of October!

Since this story does not really come from personal experience and memory I shall refer to 'my friend' as these are all stories I heard about her-it also makes it slightly less embarrassing!

I'm going to be a bit backwards and begin at the end with my friend sitting in the Clachaig on an uncharacteristically lazy Sunday afternoon. She was with three hardened Sunday skivers and a couple of freshers they were recruiting to their ways. My friend hobbled back from the bar still wondering exactly how she had acquired the scratches that made her look like she had been involved in a sado-masochistic ritual and the debilitating thorns imbedded in her feet. The previous evening my friend had finished a hard days walk and was relaxing with a glass of wine with her dinner before bed. She was feeling quite unwell and probably not in a fit state to be downing large quantities of alcohol ridiculously quickly but was swayed by-'you have to do it, we need a girl, it's in the rules.' So she found herself in the inter-uni boat race for the second year. One needs to be sufficiently drunk in the first place to be involved in these things, so naturally a fair amount of beer had to be consumed before this. Of course Glasgow won, again, although Edinburgh didn't seem to be able to grasp this simple fact and even asked the band to announce the false result! Then the error of attending the freshers meet just before her 21st birthday was realised as dirty pint action followed. Months afterwards she was still recognised "you're the girl who drank that horrible green thing in Glen Coe-you actually drank it-in one". Immediately following this an unknown source thrust a pint of snakebite (I know in this part of the world they call it diesel but I'm set in my ways) into my friend's hand. This has been known to cause bad reactions in the past and many errors of judgement have probably been at least in part to this foul mixture of lager, cider and pinkness. Luckily at this point the pub closed and the long walk home began-this is the point where blackness takes over. At some point during this night a girl was refused a hot chocolate by the landlord and was made to cry (this is important).

And so it was suggested that a refreshing swim in the river would be a good idea. My friend was not going to take part and even brought a towel along for those who did. As in a previous life she had been a lifeguard, she felt a responsibility towards them. Then somehow she had climbed over the wall and landed painfully (probably) on the matrix of thorns and brambles on the other side. She staggered to the river dressed in only her underwear with no shoes amidst a large quantity of swearing. Upon reaching the river there was a rescue to be performed and my friend dived in, risking life and limb to save the Cheese's shoe. This done she found herself being swept halfway down the river and had to battle with the current to get back to the rocks where the other bathers were swimming in quieter waters-most of them wearing slightly more clothes and having the sense to bring footwear! Returning to the bridge climbing over the wall was not an option and my friend had to be lifted the 8 feet or so to the road. On arriving there it was discovered that the swimmers clothes had been removed and my friend had to walk back to the hall in a borrowed jumper (thank-you Graham).

Well in the Clachaig the next day, bruised, scratched, battered and hungover, Becky was in no state to actually do anything and she met the owner for the first time and the hot chocolate issue became a partial crusade.

Some months later myself (I can refer to me again now because I remember this bit) and Diana met the Clachaig owner again and I decided he must compensate us for his meanness in ways that are told in another story. And for me that was (loosely) how we ended up with Clachaig T-Shirts.