A sharp elbow penetrated my sleeping bag, and as I struggled into consciousness, I registered the dulcet tones of Mady proclaiming porridge to be ready. The rigours of the previous night's singsong proved too much as I promptly returned to sleep between each course of breakfast and was reawakened in a progressively more aggrieved manner.

Several hours later I emerged from the Nalley to the domestic bustle of Glenbrittle camp life - alas still too early to miss the interminable wrangles over suitable climbs and socially acceptable parties. About 11:30 am the Presidential clique (ie: those who in theory are allowed to hear the President and Secretary declare: "I can't possibly climb that! Why don't you?" - but in practice...) wandered off towards Coir' a' Ghrunnda.

The sun shimmered in the traditionally cloudless Skye; the magic isles floated remote on a glass grey sea breathing island mystic with every reflected ray; the Cuillin reared jagged and inspiring, a grim majesty above the tortured heat of the moor and corrie. And in this set staggered along four climbers whose thoughts were not perhaps so beautifully inclined.

We had intended to visit the Coir' a' Ghrunnda loch itself but nothing can keep a keen climber from his chosen route; or perhaps because it seemed such a long and tiring walk in the heat we decided that the foot of the White Slab Route was an infinitely superior venue for our lunch. We watched two hard people tackling the Direct Route, and feeling we could not reasonably delay longer, argued about who should climb.

It was decided that Andrew and I being in nee d of confidence should climb together so I led off to the usual helpful barrage of "It looks steep / Why don't you use that small sloping hold? / Do you know your runner has fallen out? / etc." The seashells with which I liberally bestrewed the route were not totally incidental. As the route continued up a series of magnificent ledges and cracks the splendour of the corrie opened beneath us to a foreground of ever steepening slabs and (very) thin air. About this time Mady was indignantly heard to demand of Steve if he really needed to use six belays to bring her up (or was it two?). By Pinnacle Rake, Andrew and I seemed to be somewhat ahead despite an interesting new technique introduced on the pitch below. This consisted of a presidential exercise in ultra safe climbing and featured ten runners in 100 feet of rope: then occurred the technical hitch and an urgent request to the peacefully snoozing second to unbelay, climb up and remove the two bottom runners and thus allow the rope to move again.

We then proceeded to the top of the climb and settled down to await the arrival of the other half of our climbing party. They appeared annoyed, muttering and throwing moss at us a (long) while later.

An incredible to visit our Loch Coir' a' Ghrunnda on the way back to Glen Brittle was then proposed and adopted. It ended somewhat prematurely 200 feet back down the mountain when a female member of the party displayed a certain reluctance to proceed - or was it a secret desire to rush back to camp and cook us another superb dinner. Shortly after, our worthy leader suggested that we return to the Nalley, and as we weaved back down the ridge, this seemed an unusually excellent idea.