Above the Clouds: The First Camp of the Year on Duncolm

Above the Clouds: The First Camp of the Year on Duncolm

There comes a point in every busy year when you realise you’ve been spending more time looking at the hills than actually being in them.

For my younger brother and I, that moment came on the evening of 27th May.

I’d finished work at 9pm and before long we were loading rucksacks, tents, sleeping bags and all the little bits and pieces that somehow become essential when you’re carrying your home on your back. This wasn’t an expedition into the wilderness. It wasn’t about distance or difficulty. It was simply our first camp of the year, a chance to escape the routines of work and family life for one night and spend some time in the Kilpatrick Hills together.

The first climb reminded us that camping is never quite as romantic as it sounds when you’re standing beside the car.

The weight of the gear bit into our shoulders almost immediately. Every step uphill felt heavier than it should have. Yet there is something strangely satisfying about that first climb. The city begins to fall away behind you, conversation settles into an easy rhythm, and with every metre gained the demands of everyday life become a little quieter.

Unfortunately, the first thing we encountered wasn’t a beautiful view.

Scattered beside the path was the evidence of recent visitors who had chosen to leave their mark on the hills. Pillows, bottles, rubbish and discarded belongings lay abandoned among the heather. It was disappointing to see, especially in a place that gives so much to those who visit it.

Without the equipment needed to carry it all away, I made a mental note of the location and decided I would return later in the week to clean what I could. The hills deserve better than that. More importantly, so does the wildlife that calls this place home.

With that thought in mind, we continued.

The evening light shifted constantly around us. Long shadows stretched across the slopes before fading into the approaching darkness. The landscape seemed to change colour every few minutes. One moment the hills glowed with the last warmth of the day; the next they were becoming silhouettes against a deepening sky.

We crossed the Slacks, skirted around Loch Humphrey and continued towards the final climb of the evening.

Ahead of us stood Duncolm.

By the time we reached the summit, natural light was almost gone. Head torches replaced sunlight and the familiar rush of setting up camp before darkness took over began. Tent poles clicked into place, pegs were driven into the ground, sleeping bags unrolled and within minutes our temporary home was standing on Scotland’s skyline.

Above us, the moon hung bright over the hills.

Below us, the lights of Glasgow sparkled in the distance.

Not a bad place to spend the night.

Waking in the Cloud

Sometime before sunrise I opened the tent door and stepped into a different world.

Cloud.

Not the dramatic clouds that photographers chase from afar, but cloud itself. We were inside it.

Visibility couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet. The familiar landmarks of the hills had disappeared completely. Duncolm, the reservoirs and the surrounding landscape had all been swallowed by a thick blanket of low cloud.

Yet through the grey there was a faint glow.

Orange.

Red.

The first hint that somewhere above us the sun was preparing to rise.

We brewed coffee and waited.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the cloud began to move. Shapes emerged. The glow intensified. Then, as though a curtain had been pulled back, the sky opened.

Suddenly the reservoirs appeared below us.

The cloud retreated across the landscape.

The morning sun flooded the hills with gold.

For a few moments it felt as though we were standing far higher than Duncolm. The clouds flowed beneath us like an ocean while the surrounding summits became islands floating above it. Looking west, the view stretched across the reservoirs, towards distant hills and a landscape still waking beneath the morning light.

We sat quietly for a while.

The coffee tasted better than it should have.

The conversation became less important than simply being there.

A few birds announced the new day while the moon slowly sank lower in the brightening sky.

There was nowhere else either of us needed to be.

The Value of Time

As we packed away camp, leaving nothing behind except flattened grass, I found myself reflecting on why this trip had mattered.

It wasn’t because of the sunrise.

It wasn’t because of the photographs.

It wasn’t even because of the camp itself.

It was the time.

When we were younger, our dad would often bring us into the Kilpatrick Hills. Trips to the Whangie and other corners of these hills felt normal back then. We never thought about how much effort it took to organise. We never considered work schedules, children, responsibilities or the countless demands that fill adult life.

We simply turned up and enjoyed it.

Now things are different.

We’re older.

We’re fathers ourselves.

Finding a date that works can feel harder than climbing the hill.

Yet standing there on Duncolm, watching the cloud roll across the reservoirs, I realised those moments had never stopped being important. If anything, they’ve become more valuable.

The hills give us something increasingly rare: uninterrupted time together.

No deadlines.

No chores.

No notifications.

Just conversation, shared experience and the simple act of walking through a landscape we’ve known for most of our lives.

Even carrying the heavy gear reminded me of old patterns. I carried more of the weight on the way up. My brother carried more on the way down. Some things never really change.

Back to the City

Eventually the tents were packed away and the walk home began.

The grass was soaked with dew.

Our boots were damp.

Our legs were a little tired.

But neither of us minded.

We stopped beside Lily Loch for one final pause before continuing towards the car. The morning light reflected from the water while the hills settled into another beautiful day.

Then, just like that, the trip was over.

The car carried us back towards Glasgow.

The hills slowly disappeared in the mirrors.

Work would begin again.

The school runs, housework, responsibilities and routines would all be waiting.

But something had changed.

Not dramatically.

Not permanently.

Just enough.

A single night above the clouds had reminded us of something easy to forget: no matter how busy life becomes, there is always value in making time for the people who matter and the places that help us remember who we are.

And sometimes, that’s reason enough to climb a hill.