Cloud on the Summit, Mud on the Boots: Confessions of a First-Time Munro Bagger

Let's get the confession out of the way early: when I finally stood on top of my first Munro, I saw roughly four metres in any direction. Grey cloud, a cairn I nearly walked into, and a wind that had opinions about my face. Somewhere below us, I'm told, was a loch. Possibly two.

And here's the strange part — I was grinning like an idiot anyway.

What Even Is a Munro, For the Uninitiated?

A Munro is a Scottish mountain over 3,000 feet (914.4 metres, if you're being precise, and Munroists always are). There are 282 of them, named after Sir Hugh Munro, the Victorian gentleman who catalogued them in 1891 and presumably had no idea he was creating a national obsession.

'Bagging' them simply means climbing them. Collect them all and you join a club of completionists who talk about trigs and tops with the fervour of football fans discussing a title race. Over 7,000 people have 'compleated' the list — note the Scottish spelling, which purists will correct you on if you dare get it wrong.

Nobody Tells You About the Boots Thing

My first mistake was footwear, and it's the mistake most people make. I turned up in trail shoes I'd worn to walk the dog. By the halfway point, the bog myrtle was winning and my ankles were writing their resignation letters.

The Highlands don't do groomed paths the way the Lakes or Snowdonia often do. A 'path' on a Munro might be a suggestion, a rumour, a line of stones disappearing into peat. You need proper boots with ankle support, and you need to break them in before you arrive — not on the hill, which is a lesson written in blisters.

Other things nobody mentioned:

• False summits are psychological warfare. That bump ahead? Not the top. The one after that? Also not the top. Bring snacks and humility in equal measure.
• The weather up top is a different country. It can be 18°C and sunny in the car park and 6°C with horizontal drizzle on the summit. Pack layers you don't expect to need. You will need them.
• You'll spend more time going down than you think. Knees, not lungs, are the real casualty. Trekking poles aren't cheating; they're wisdom.

The Anticlimax Problem (And Why It Doesn't Matter)

There's a particular deflation in cresting a summit after two hours of effort and seeing... cloud. White nothing. A cairn and your own doubts.

But here's what keeps people coming back: the summit was never really the point. It's the moment the cloud tears open on the descent and suddenly there's a glen laid out below you, gold and green and enormous. It's the silence, broken only by a Raven's cronk. It's the bacon roll afterwards, which — and I say this as someone who's eaten in some very good restaurants — tastes better at 900 metres than anything has a right to.

The mountain gives you one good moment and asks nothing in return except respect.

Your First Munro: A Beginner's Shortlist

Don't start with the Cuillin. Please. Start gentle and build:

1. Ben Lomond — The classic starter. A clear path, a stunning loch for company, and a car park with toilets. Busy on weekends, but that's part of its charm.
2. Ben Ledi — Short, sharp, and shapely, near Callander. You'll be up and down in half a day with time for a proper lunch.
3. Schiehallion — The 'fairy hill of the Caledonians', rebuilt with a proper path most of the way. A big-feeling mountain with a friendly disposition.
4. Mount Keen — Scotland's most easterly Munro, a long but gentle walk-in from Glen Esk. Good for testing whether you've caught the bug.
5. Ben Chonzie — Quiet, rolling and often overlooked, near Crieff. Ideal if the busier hills put you off.

A Word on Etiquette, Because the Hills Are Getting Busy

The Highlands have welcomed record numbers of visitors in recent years, and a few small habits keep it pleasant for everyone:

• Park properly. If the car park is full, that's the hill telling you to try another day — not an invitation to block a gate.
• Leave no trace. All of it. Even the biodegradable-looking stuff. Even the orange peel.
• Say hello. Hill etiquette up here is simple: greet everyone you pass. It costs nothing and it's half the reason people fall in love with the place.
• Know when to turn back. The mountain will still be there next weekend. The point of Munro bagging is the doing, not the dying.

The Bit Where I Admit I'm Hooked

I've since bagged eleven Munros. My boots are broken in, my poles are scuffed, and my phone camera roll is 90% cloud inversions and 10% smug summit selfies.

I still haven't had a proper view from Schiehallion. I've been up twice. The cloud has beaten me both times.

I'll be back a third time in spring. Obviously.

Because that's the secret the Munro baggers don't put in the leaflets: the view is a bonus, not the prize. The prize is the day itself — the mud, the wind, the false summits, the company — and the slow, happy realisation that 282 of these things are sitting out there waiting for you.