THE BOTHY Chris White

December 4th 1961. The Cairngorm Mountains. Scotland.

Large snowflakes billow and swirl around the rough stone Bothy. Beside the doorway, two figures lean forward against the wind as they consult the map. Inside the building, Pete finishes carving the wooden beam above the fireplace. PJV. Peter James Venables. Dec 4, 1961. The door bangs open, allowing a flurry of snow into the room.

‘Come on, Pete. The weather’s turning. We need to get down to the Ski Hut.’

‘Coming.’ Pete struggles with his rucksack, eases his body through the doorway and pulls the door shut with a slam.

December 2025.

I don’t take newspapers anymore, national, local, or freebies. The content always strikes me as too opinionated, too political, or simplistic and repetitive. However, this is probably an age thing, something to do with becoming old and a little intolerant. It sometimes leads me to lose track of time. So I experienced a bit of an emotional upheaval when I noticed the renewal date on the letter from my car insurers: 4th December 20125.

The 4th of December—a date, a day, a time—is locked forever in my mental wallet. I knew I would spend the next two or three days reliving events, arguing with myself that, with a little courage and a little common sense, my actions could have led to different outcomes.

Although Ruth and I shared those same events, we no longer discussed what happened. This was mainly due to prevailing thoughts, which, in turn, made me moody, tetchy, and uncomfortable with myself. Ruth experienced the opposite effect. A deep awareness steered her into a nonintrusive but supportive role. Without her, I would have been at a loss to deal with the recurring situation. But our relationship wasn’t always like that.

About a year ago, we had reached a stage in our forty-two-year marriage where we seemed to be in a rut. Maybe it was one of those milestones that marriages go through, along with the minor irritations that are highly annoying to one’s partner. Ruth would speak to me; I would answer without taking my eyes from the page or screen, grunting the minimum number of words. I would miss the important phrase describing the disasters in various parts of the world. My words were drowned out by the constant background noise of the rustling of plastic bags, the bang and clang of furniture and the clinking of cups and dishes. I said nothing as anger and frustration built up. I knew that my intolerance and cynical responses hurt Ruth. I also knew that I had to bring this situation to a halt. We needed a change. We needed to rebuild our act, together. We needed to become the loving couple who respected one another all those years ago. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to make a move. We talked, not easily, but both agreed that doing something together would be a good start. We’d travel up to Edale, book in at a B&B, and walk over Kinder Scout the next day, which we used to do regularly.

We both felt the change that day. We went shopping for a few bits and pieces needed for winter hillwalking. We had lunch in town and enjoyed a few laughs. Things picked up as we both worked at altering our attitude toward each other. We spent a couple of weeks walking locally to improve our fitness, break in our kit and engage in some serious map and compass work. After these walks, we would nearly always end up in a local pub at dusk, have a glass of wine and something to eat before coming home. Life was good.

We drove up to Edale one Friday evening and booked into a B&B at the bottom of the village. In the evening, we had a bar meal and a bottle of wine in the local pub, then went to bed early. That night, heavy snow fell on the high ground. On Saturday, we tucked into a large, fully loaded English breakfast. The panorama of a snow-covered Kinder Scout through the window excited us both, just like the old days. We finished breakfast, collected our packed lunches, filled our flasks and prepared for our walk. The weather forecast hinted at a light dusting of snow during the day. We left a route card with the B&B owner and headed out. Bearing in mind the possibility of deep snow covering Kinder, we decided to take the easy route, a slow walk up to Ringing Roger, where we would suss out the conditions and decide to carry on or return. If all was okay, we would then head west towards Grindsbrook and descend back to Edale.

The snow deepened towards the summit of Ringing Roger but was compacted enough to ensure good walking conditions and a firm foothold. A group passed us on the way down and said they had walked via Grindsbrook and, apart from a few drifts, had encountered no problems. We reached the top of the plateau, and our view of the area supported their opinion. A light snow fell. We checked the map, set the compass and off we went, looking forward to the challenge before us, knowing that if the way became difficult, we could always retrace our steps or ice axe down to a main path below.

About thirty minutes later, we were alarmed by a sudden drop in temperature. The cold penetrated our windproof clothing. We both began to shiver as the snow thickened. We took a brief refuge behind a clump of snow-covered rocks. We decided to return. I checked the map and laid the compass on our route. My heart began to thump. A mini panic set in as I looked around and saw we were in a whiteout. Ruth gave me a sharp nudge.

“What’s the matter?”

“The compass needle isn’t moving.”

The wind strengthened, and the snow swirled around us as if to lock us together. Ruth appeared worried.

“What shall we do?”

At this moment, a group of six people emerged through the darkening landscape. I felt instant relief. An echoing voice carried on the wind.

“Hello there.” The group approached. Their leader reached out his hand.

“Dammed inconvenient – this white-out.”

“Not only that – my compass has packed up,” I retorted.

“Lucky we met up, we’re making our way off the mountain. Why don’t you stick with us?”

“We’d appreciate that.”

For a moment, I wondered why he used the word ‘mountain’, but following the relief of teaming up with another group, I quickly dismissed the words from my mind.

“My name’s Harry.”

“I’m Peter. This is my wife, Ruth.”

“Glad to meet you. We are about to have a brew-up and a break.”

“Go ahead.”

“Jackson!” The authoritative, somewhat insensitive tone of Harry’s voice seemed out of place.

“Yes, Sir?” The child’s face was indistinguishable through the murk. A girl’s voice, definitely.

“Do the honours with tea, Jackson.”

The wind dropped, and the temperature rose. Ruth and I stood, backs against the rocks, waiting. I watched in fascination as Jackson prepared the tea. She unpacked a seemingly brand-new Primus Stove. I haven’t seen one of those in use since the sixties. Even stranger was that she opened what appeared to be a new packet of tea and spooned it into the boiling water. Our view was blocked by the remainder of the group closing around her. Harry stood some distance away, peering into the gloom. Tin mugs were produced, and a tin of condensed milk was passed around. No one spoke. Jackson took a mug over to Harry. In no time at all, they had finished and were ready to leave.

“I thought they might have offered us a cup of tea,” said Ruth.

“Um, strange. Maybe the pot only holds six cups,” I added weakly.

Harry turned to face us.

“Everyone ready to go?”

At this point, I became aware that, except for Ruth, Jackson and I, no one had removed their rucksacks. As I looked closer, I realised they were wearing those old three-point rucksacks that were popular in the fifties/sixties. Something wasn’t right here. The only face we saw was Harry’s. I began to feel definitely uncomfortable.

Harry glanced our way.

“You okay there?”

I raise my arm in acknowledgement.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Ruth and I trudged along at the rear of the party. Again, the temperature dropped while the wind and snow increased. I became even more concerned as we walked uphill. Why? Because Kinder Scout is generally flat.

We had walked for about twenty minutes when Harry appeared before us.

“Change of plan. Let's take shelter until this storm passes. There’s a Bothy ahead – about fifteen minutes away. A bit of a climb, but we’ll make it.”

Harry’s prediction proved correct. The outline of a stone bothy appeared through the swirling snow.

Once inside, the wind's noise immediately decreased. Harry shone a torch. We found ourselves in a dark, square room with a fireplace at one end and a double bed space adjacent. A rickety table sat against one wall, and opposite ran a wooden bench set into the rough stonework.

Harry spoke.

“Pete, you take the bed space. We’ll take the bench.” Did I detect a less-than-friendly tone?

Ruth intervened.

“Let the children have the bed space. We’re okay to use the bench.”

“No need,” said Harry as he lit a couple of candles over the fireplace.

Ruth and I felt a different type of cold as we tried to make out the faces of the group in the flickering candlelight, to no avail.

“Jackson!”

I watched, incredulous, as Jackson went through the same tea-making routine. She extracted a brand-new Primus, a new packet of tea and a new can of condensed milk. She hadn’t cleaned the Primus or packed away the tea. What was happening here? A sort of terror engulfed me as my eyes locked onto Jackson’s hands. They were the hands of an old person. Wrinkled and covered in what appeared to be age spots. A cold wind blew into the room.

The children sat with their backs to us. We couldn’t make out if they were eating or drinking. We opened one of our flasks and one of the packed lunches. I thought it was a good idea to keep the other in reserve. The group huddled together on the bench, heads down, seemingly asleep. Without explanation, Harry walked out!

I made a decision and rose.

“Where are you going? Whispered Ruth in a scared voice.

“To check his map. I want some idea of where we are.” I strode to where Harry had left his map.

Again, that empty feeling as I picked it up and read the title. I staggered back to Ruth and held her tight.

“What’s the matter? Tell me?”

“It’s a map of the Cairngorms, Scotland.”

Ruth remained silent.

“We’re supposed to be in Derbyshire.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand.” I looked carefully at the fireplace.

“But I recognise the Bothy. I’ve been here before.”

“Surely they all look the same.”

“Go over to the fireplace and see if there is a carving on the right-hand side of the lintel.

Something battered against the wall of the building as the wind increased. Ruth took a torch to the fireplace. She drew in a sharp breath and returned to sit alongside me, close.

“Well?” I asked.

There is a distinct outline of initials carved into the wood. “PJV. December 4 1961,” she whispered.

I remained silent, unable to process the information mentally.

“What are we going to do? What does it all mean?”

“I was here in sixty-one.”

“Go on.”

“A group of schoolchildren died in an accident the following year.”

“But why us? What do they want with us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we could help somehow.”

“But they don’t exist. They’re, they’re, ghosts.”

“Maybe they exist in some other form, like a kind of landlocked Flying Dutchman.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Can you think of anything else?”

“No.”

I came to a decision.

“We need to go.”

“What about the children?”

“We take them with us.”

“What about Harry?”

“Harry’s not here”. I turned to face the group. “Jackson! Jackson!”

Jackson, features still hidden, rose.

“We’re moving out. Follow us.”

We struggled out into the snowstorm. The group, with Jackson in front, dropped behind.

I could make out the faint imprint of our footsteps leading to the original clump of rocks where we had first taken shelter. Ruth and I stopped and looked back. The group huddled together some way away.

We heard voices through the wind's whistling.

“Hello there. We’re mountain rescue, searching for a group of children and their teacher. Have you seen anyone?”

Silence except for the wind. My throat dried up. I had to force myself to tell a desperate lie.

“No.”

Ruth interrupted. “But,”. I held her tightly.

“Shush”

“Where are you headed?” The voice sounded fainter.

“Grindsbrook.”

“You need to walk on a westerly bearing.”

I spoke quickly to Ruth. “The compass. Get the compass out of the side pocket of my rucksack.”

“But it doesn’t work.”

“Quick, get it.”

Ruth passed me the compass.

“It’s working. It’s working. Come on. We need to go.”

“The children!” Ruth looked to where they were standing.

“They’ve gone!”

“Go carefully,” the voice of the Mountain Rescue Leader was fainter.”

“Why didn’t you tell them about the children?” I struggled for an answer.

“Because they weren’t who they seemed to be.”

“In what way?”

“Look around you.”

“What am I looking for?”

“There were two groups of people on either side of us.”

“And?”

“We are surrounded by virgin snow. There aren’t any footprints or tracks. You can see Edale below, and the wind has gone. We’ll go back via Ringing Roger. Come on, Ruth, It’s getting late, let’s go.”

Ever since that day, something nagged at my mind. Time and again, I tried to pin it down, but the images and pointers I searched for never materialised. Then, one day, I walked into the kitchen. Ruth, making tea at the worktop, gave out a sudden sob. Concerned, I quickly eased myself beside and a little behind her. Before I could say or do anything, the full horror of the events on Kinder Scout hit me in a jumble of thoughts and images.

Before me, I saw the picture of Jackson’s hands, slightly wrinkled with a row of age spots behind the knuckles. I gasped. Why hadn’t I made the connection before? Why?

I shifted my glance to Ruth’s hands and realised what my mind had hidden from me. At this point, the full horror hit me. Ruth’s maiden name? Jackson.

The following week, I arrived home one day, back from work. I called out her name; no reply. I dashed upstairs, but no one was there. I opened the wardrobes; all her clothes seemed to be there, as did the various drawers and cupboards. I rushed back downstairs and checked the dining room. There, spread out on the table, lay a map of the Cairngorms. A red circle indicated the Bothy's position!

I never saw her again.

***

Epilogue

Cairngorm Tragedy

The Scottish Highlands can be an unforgiving place, even for those well-equipped and with qualified instructors guiding them: sometimes there is only so much that can be done in the face of the very harshest weather conditions.

A party of six Edinburgh school pupils staying in Aviemore set out to climb Cairn Gorm, the sixth-highest peak in Britain, with two instructors to assist them. They had aimed to reach the safety of a hut close to the summit on Saturday. Unfortunately, they encountered thick snow, which proved softer than expected, making progress slow and exhausting. In addition, the weather turned against them. The result was inevitable; they never made it.

This was not one of those parties setting out ill-prepared that incredibly regularly come to grief; they had reasonable equipment. But despite digging themselves a shelter in the snow, the blizzards, some of the worst in years, reduced their efforts to almost nothing. They had to face the elements with little protection for two nights before rescuers could venture onto the mountain.

Amazingly, the lead instructor, who had gone for help when the weather finally abated slightly, and a 15-year-old boy, survived. Both had bad exposure and terrible frost-bite injuries. But five other children aged 14 and 15 and the 19-year-old assistant instructor all died

Weather forecasts today are much more accurate than in 1962, and the danger of being surprised by such blizzards is far less; but the danger is still there, and all the winter-gear in the world is of limited value when wintry nature turns against walkers.