We should probably explain now that the Head of the Black Hound is a mountain, standing at eight hundred and thirty three metres tall (precisely), adjacent to another mountain named The Slippery Witch, a bizarre and dodgy name for a hill.
At roughly nine in the hazy, crisp morning, we boarded the minibus, driven by our instructor Jez. We travelled through the stunning scenery, an artist’s canvas splashed with orange, yellow, and green. When we arrived, we were greeted by an extremely steep and daunting hill. Leaving Jez behind briefly to find a more suitable spot to park the minibus, we began our trek up the Black Hound’s vicious and snarling head.
After walking up the steep incline, our legs already burning with unfathomable fatigue, we paused at a cattle grid, observing the sheep as they grazed leisurely upon the lush green grass, waiting for Jez. He arrived promptly (also out of breath like the rest of us) and he gave us a briefing of our treacherous route to the summit. Soon, we were on our way, keeping a sustainable and rhythmic pace.
Soon, after roughly about half an hour, we parted from the level road, and continued on to off road, and more bumpy and rocky terrain. Then, we shortly arrived at a reservoir, shimmering in the sun, now just above a tall ridge of far off mountains.
Presently, after a short break, we carried on, the path narrowing, and the heights increasing. The scree and loose stones crunching under our feet, we winded up the path, following in single file, the reservoir gradually becoming smaller and smaller, and the summit becoming bigger and bigger.
After several more breaks to have a drink and eat some food, we came suddenly to a great form of jutting rock, covered with patchy moss and plants, struggling to survive in the wind which constantly battered the sides of the rocks, weathering them and wearing them down to blunt protrusions. Jez talked to us about honing in on our weaknesses and strengths, and about conquering fears.
We began our climb, using both hands and feet as much as each other, meandering through the jutting stones, careful of our footing, for one wrong placement could end badly. The wind was picking up, hurtling at us like a galloping horse.
We burst up from the forest of rocks that hemmed us in, and came to a wide plain of swaying grass, the wind bludgeoning us from all sides, and the sun beating down onto the yellowing turf. The view was breath taking, a sight of rolling hills and protruding mountains surrounded by occasional woodland, the leaves upon the trees yellow and orange, Autumn well under way. Rivers and lakes were also etched across the landscape. We stopped for about ten minutes, then began our slow and gradual descent, along the way of which, we witnessed many signs of horses, but did not see the actual wild and majestic beasts themselves.
Eventually, after an hour and a half of ankle breaking decline, we soon passed the same cattle grid we had seen many hours ago, and followed the same steep path all the way back down to the minibus, boarded, and made our way back home, saying our farewells to the Head of The Black Hound, which bared its fangs at our departing bus.
By Seb and Ben
