The Bothy

I've spent seven years learning which storms are killers and which are merely brutal. Tonight's was both.

The bothy materialised out of the driving rain like a promise. Stone walls, steep roof, a stove that would crackle if we could get it lit. Rob was already hauling himself over the threshold, his climbing gear rattling. Niall followed, quiet as ever, water streaming from his jacket. I brought up the rear, ice crystals stinging my face, my legs burning from the scramble down off the ridge.

Inside, the air was still. Almost warm, compared to the chaos outside. The bothy was exactly as advertised: one room, maybe eight feet square, with a small cast-iron stove in the corner and a sleeping platform against one wall. A single window, square and dark. No electricity. No running water. Just stone and wood and the promise of shelter.

Rob was already peeling off his outer layer, his fingers clumsy with cold. "Christ. Thought we weren't going to make it for a minute there." His voice echoed slightly in the small space, then was swallowed by the storm's roar as wind screamed over the ridge.

Niall had the stove's damper open, was coaxing the kindling with the patient focus he brought to everything. "Should get a good draw," he said. "Chimney's clear."

I stripped off my waterproof, hung it from a hook near the door where it dripped onto the flagstones. My base layers were soaked through. We all were, cold seeping into bone and muscle, the kind that comes from being exposed too long on a Scottish mountain in late autumn. I could see my breath in the air, white and ghostly.

The stove popped. Then, miraculously, caught. Orange light spilled across the floor, pushing back the darkness. Rob had found a bottle of whisky in his pack, was unscrewing the cap with frozen fingers. "Medicinal," he said, grinning despite the cold. "For shock."