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HarperElement
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published by HarperElement 2020
FIRST EDITION
© Kerry Irving 2020
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
All photographs courtesy of the author unless otherwise credited
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
Kerry Irving asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008353490
Ebook Edition: March 2020 ISBN: 9780008353506
Version: 2020-06-08
Note to Readers
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008353490
Contents
1 Cover
2 Title Page
3 Copyright
4 Note to Readers
5 Contents
6 Dedication
7 Prologue
8 Part One
9 1 A Boy on the Beach
10 2 End of an Idyll
11 3 Hard Times
12 4 Into the Wild
13 5 School of Life
14 6 New Horizons
15 7 About Zak
16 8 Loss and Love
17 Part Two
18 9 The Accident
19 10 A Cold, Dark Place
20 11 Out of Milk
21 12 Small Steps
22 13 Max and Me
23 14 Opening Doors
24 15 The Head of Security
25 16 Lost and Found
26 17 Stay with Me
27 18 Home
28 Part Three
29 19 Beyond Ben Nevis
30 20 Max Out in the Lake District
31 21 The Great Flood
32 22 Reaching Out
33 23 And Then There was Paddy …
34 24 Meet and Greet
35 25 Star Springers
36 26 The Notorious Brown Leg Gang
37 27 From the Yard to the Palace
38 Acknowledgements
39 Picture Section
40 About the Publisher
LandmarksCoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter
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Dedication
This book is dedicated to all the animals
who have ever helped a human.
They walk beside us when we
are beside ourselves.
Prologue
‘Are you ready, Max? If anyone’s going to help me do this, it’s you.’
The dog sitting at my side looks up and meets my gaze. His tail swishes back and forth across the ground, sweeping pine needles aside. Behind us is the little tent we’ve just slept in overnight in preparation for this day. In the distance, beyond the forests, crested by snow and looming high against the dawn sky, stands a rocky summit that I hope to conquer.
Once upon a time, the prospect of hiking up Ben Nevis would be something I’d just take in my stride. People from all around the world come to this pocket of Scotland to follow the path to the top. Today, it represents something so much more than Britain’s highest mountain. For me, this is a challenge that until recently I’d have considered impossible. It is, I believe, a chance for me to face my fears.
If it wasn’t for Max, in fact, I wouldn’t be here at all.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, and so we begin our walk.
We’re up so early, there’s nobody else around. Early bars of sunshine push through the forest and fall across the path. Max trots ahead, nose to the ground and with his shoulders moving like pistons, before circling back around with an eye on me. He’s such a watchful dog. It’s characteristic of his breed, but there’s something special about this Springer Spaniel. Nobody understands me better than Max, or knows the sense of trepidation in my mind as we negotiate a stile and begin the challenge that could make or break me. Alone, it would be very easy for me to just turn around now, head home and say, ‘Yeah, it’s amazing at the top!’ and nobody would be any the wiser. With Max here, I’m reminded that I’d only be fooling myself.
I decided to leave at this time for two reasons. Moving at my pace, it’s going to take a lot longer than most for us to reach the very top. Every step I take requires care and consideration, while I’m constantly braced for a jolt of pain that could stop me dead. We’re following the pony track, which is also known as the tourist route. By mid-morning, I could expect the path that begins to zigzag across the mountain’s lower flanks to fill with hikers and that’s the main reason why I’ve set out so early. I don’t want anyone to see me but my dog. Right now, the last thing I need is for some 75-year-old carrying a big rucksack to go bounding past and then wonder what’s keeping a seemingly fit man in his forties from going at the same pace. Part of the problem, I always think, is that I look fine from the outside. In reality, I have to watch every footstep because one slip could lead to searing pain.
It’s hard for me to relax, but I never feel under pressure from Max to move faster. He’s off the lead and investigating the path as if to check it’s safe for me. He’s never been the kind of dog to race off, into a world of his own, or to leave me feeling as if I’m holding him up. Nor does he stick so rigidly at my side that I risk tripping over him. That’s not what makes him tick and one of many reasons why we’ve bonded this closely. He gives me space to breathe along with the sense that I’m not alone.
Max is here for me, just as I’m here for him. We’re doing this together because only he understands that if it all goes wrong then I tried my very best. If I’m going to fail, I’ll do so with just Max. He’s my little friend, my constant companion and guardian angel rolled into one frequently muddy, slightly smelly Spaniel.
We pick our way up the path, clambering over loose stone and steps cut into the hillside. I stop frequently just so I can get my breath and also to enjoy the view. This is something I have thought about doing for some time and it’s hard to believe I’m actually here. As the sun is only just climbing into the sky the temperature is perfect. It’s a crystal-clear day, with a freshening breeze that stiffens up as we go. I have supplies for us both, but right now, Max is focused on not dropping his stick. He’s just picked it up from a gulley and I can be sure he’ll carry it all the way to the top and back down again. Once he commits to something, he never gives up and I remind myself of this as I battle my misgivings about coming so far.
It had taken us over half a day to drive here from my home in the Lake District. The journey turned out to be torturous for me. It was probably the furthest I’d gone since my life changed so dramatically several years previously. Behind the wheel, I found that everything from braking to turning caused shooting pains to travel from my neck and radiate through my back and arms. Max travelled up front in the passenger seat beside me. It’s where he chooses to sit and I love having him by my side – especially during testing times.
Despite hours of discomfort on the road, I was excited about the trip. It’s all about my dog and me. A boys’ weekend away. It was only after we arrived at the campsite, and I had put up the tent, that the effort of just getting here caught up with me. All I wanted to do was sleep. It was the first time that Max had spent a night under canvas, however. I wasn’t even sure he’d settle. He sniffed around while I laid out my sleeping bag and his blanket. Then I invited him inside.
Max slipped in without hesitation, curled up as if this was where he belonged, and that was that.
We spent the next day just enjoying short walks through the woodland at the foot of the mountain. I needed to rest, recover my strength and prepare for the climb. I didn’t sleep much overnight, but once we had set off and left the pine trees behind us I found that my reservations about this hike started to lift. We have quite a distance to go, but Max isn’t just here for the fresh air, sights and sounds. He’s a comforting presence, content for me to move at my own pace and with something in those long looks he gives me that says: ‘I’m here for you.’
Ben Nevis is one of those mountains you can’t truly appreciate from a picture. It’s only when you’re here, looking up at the summit, that you think: ‘Wow, that’s pretty big!’ It’s a fair distance to the top and not the easiest hike. I had studied the map, only to discover that the path had been redirected due to erosion. It means I have to follow a bigger loop and I’m not prepared for that. I have to keep stopping from about a third of the way up to loosen my shoulders. This is down to the fact that I’ve been tensing my body as I walk, fearful one wrong footing would drop me to the ground in agony. At one point, where the path cuts around an outcrop, I stop and lean against it just to shake out the tension. Max is at my side immediately, looking up at me as the breeze ruffles his long ears.
‘I’m not giving up,’ I assure him. ‘Have faith, we can do this.’
The terrain begins to change as we climb higher. For one thing, the steps become bigger and more testing. So, one minute I’m walking normally and the next I’m forced out of my comfort zone as I grab at grass clumps and rocks to haul myself upwards. That’s when it starts to kick in what a big deal this is for me. At the same time, we’ve reached a point where I can look out across lochs and tarns at a seemingly infinite horizon. It makes me realise how far we’ve climbed and that there can be no stopping us now.
When we reach the mountain’s snowline, Max switches into a different gear. He loves the snow and as he hasn’t seen any since the winter, it’s a chance to come into his own as a Springer Spaniel by leaping into the drifts. It makes me smile to watch him bounding, his paws sinking into the powdery drifts, and though I can hardly follow suit, it’s enough to push me onwards.
Shortly afterwards, with one of my regular checks to see how far we’ve come, I spot a figure striding towards us. He’s a long way down, but moving so much faster than anything I could manage, and that focuses my attention. I’m happy being alone with Max, but having set off so early, I’ve got it into my head that I could be the first to reach the summit that day. I’m hardly the first to try conquering Ben Nevis, but just then I feel like a pioneer and I don’t want anyone to get there before me.
‘Let’s push on,’ I say, and not just to Max.
We don’t have much further to climb, but the hiker continues to close the gap. I try not to panic, or overreach myself, because the last thing I want this far from help is to find myself locked up in agony. To focus, I kept my gaze trained on Max. I remind myself just where this began, at a point in my life that could not get any lower, and how close we are to reaching a high.
Towards the summit, the path opens up onto a stony plateau. It’s bitterly cold at this height, much of which is down to the wind chill, and so I’m glad that I’ve come out in my extreme weather hiking gear. With my eyes smarting, I sight the famous cairn a short distance ahead: a 10-foot pillar of stones that also serves as a trig point to help climbers and hikers orientate themselves. It also marks the very top of Ben Nevis. My heart begins to gallop. I check over my shoulder once again. The hiker is now close enough for me to determine it’s a young man, and yet despite his brisk pace there’s no way now that he can overtake me.
‘Max,’ I declare, and he registers my voice immediately, ‘we made it.’
I lay my hand on the cairn with Max at my side and my eyes brimming with tears. What had seemed all but unthinkable to me only recently has become a reality. We have scaled well over 1,300 metres from the campsite to be here. It’s taken us three and a half hours and I stand upon that summit a changed man, someone who could do anything from this moment on. I feel elated, relieved, and with so much love for my loyal little friend.
‘Well done!’ The voice behind me catches me by surprise. I turn to face the hiker who had been closing in on us. He beams broadly and reaches down to ruffle Max’s head.
‘Congratulations to you, too,’ I say, and smile cheekily at him. ‘You’re the second person on the summit today. The third if you include my dog.’
The hiker, a tourist from Germany, laughs and shakes my hand. We chat for a couple of minutes before he sets off to take in the view from the other side of the plateau. I am quite content to sit against the cairn, out of the wind, and just relish this moment. From my pack, I fish out a drinking bowl for Max and a thermos of water for us to share, along with some treats to mark our achievement. I let Max enjoy the gravy bones while I eat a slice of malt loaf. I had packed a banana in an outside pocket of my pack, but it turns out it’s frozen solid. I don’t keep my gloves off for long.
It’s too cold to stay at the summit for more than a few minutes. Before we leave, however, I have one final thing to do. Even before I press the phone to my ear I have tears in my eyes once again. After everything we’ve been through, my emotions are never far from the surface.
‘Ange?’ I say when my wife answers my call. ‘It’s me, Kerry. We’ve done it!’
‘Done what?’ she says after a pause and then seems to remind herself. ‘Oh, the climb.’
‘We’re at the top! Ben Nevis! Max and me, we made it all the way.’
‘Well, that’s nice,’ she says cheerily and I know just what this means. Angela works as a hairdresser from home. Her friendly but formal tone tells me she has a customer with her just then. Alone, she wouldn’t hold back like this. I smile to myself, tell her I love her and will call again when we reach the campsite. ‘Yes, that would be great,’ she says to sign off. ‘Thanks very much! I’ll see you soon.’
I stow my phone while grinning at Max. It feels like he knows just what’s going on at home as well. Then I rise carefully to my feet and look around one final time. With magnificent views across the rugged wilderness below, I feel like a king of the world and so proud to have Max alongside me. I hope he shares my sense of achievement for in recent times we have both come such a long way.
‘Let’s roll,’ I say, because this isn’t the end of our journey. With Max at my side, it’s just the beginning.
1
A Boy on the Beach
My home is in the Lake District, and also my heart. It’s where I belong, and that feeling of being rooted is so important to me. The rugged landscape is where I am happiest. It’s also seen me at a desperate low point in my life, and where I met a very special dog who changed everything. The fells shape the backdrop to the story of Max and me, along with majestic expanses of water that reflect the sky above, and yet my earliest memories aren’t from here. Those were formed far from the northwest of England, in a small coastal town called Fish Hoek on South Africa’s Cape Peninsula.
I was born in Shropshire, the youngest of three boys. I have never known why we were there when I arrived. We just didn’t stay for long enough to set down any kind of roots. My dad was a naval engineer. He spent a great deal of time at sea. Soon after my arrival in the early sixties he was posted abroad. Rather than stay behind, my mum packed up our belongings and we took the long trip by boat to start a new life halfway around the globe. As a family, we went on to spend five happy years in a world of our own.
The one thing I remember most about that time is the beach. The sand was the colour of bleached bone, backed by a string of pastel-painted beach huts overlooking a boundless blue bay. I learned to crawl and walk there, and splash about it in the surf under supervision from my mum. Sharks patrolled the waters around the cape, so she never let me stray. During the heat of the day, we took to the shade and drank sugar cane water. At low tide, I developed a fascination for picking over rock pools in search of crabs. Sometimes I would test my parents by smuggling home my new crustacean friends in a bucket for a sleepover under my bed.
When I think back to those formative years, it’s really just a melting pot of images, sounds, tastes and smells, from the giant clouds that would cluster over the mountain ranges to the sea salt on my skin. There is no narrative in my mind. I just remember it to be a safe and pleasant time, with no sense that everything was set to change.
We returned to the UK when my father’s navy service came to an end after years of working on ships in dock and at sea, but by then my parents felt it was time to move on. Both my mum and dad come from Penrith, a small market town just east of the Lakes in Cumbria’s Eden Valley, and so they decided to return to their roots.
Despite leaving a job he loved, my dad’s years of experience earned him solid employment in the area as a service engineer for a washing-machine manufacturer. That afforded us a nice house in a little terrace under the railway bridge within view of open countryside and the distant trace of the fells beyond. Best of all, for a lad my age, was the fact that we were just a stone’s throw from a farm. I loved to visit the animals. I was enamoured by the pigs and the chickens. I’d ask my older brothers if they would take me, but more often than not they’d each be doing their own thing. They didn’t dislike me, I was just too young for them. So, when they took off without me, I would drift down the track to the farm gate to see my livestock friends. I was quite happy on my own, I always have been. You could say that was the beginning of my life as a loner, but at the time I didn’t see it that way. In fact, once that little boy made it through the farm gate, he found himself in good company.
Talking to the animals seemed like the most natural thing in the world to me. Yes, it’s what kids do, but I’ve never grown out of it! There’s something magical when you know they’re listening. It’s a connection, and we all need those in life. More than anything, however, I loved to be outdoors. I liked the birdsong and the breeze on my face and the sense that I could go anywhere. I was happy in my own company; the kind of boy who could pick up a stick and transform it into a sword in my imagination, or create a den from branches and ferns and turn it into a castle. I was also oblivious to any sense of danger. I liked to play down by the river, where the current could pick up forcefully whenever rainwater drained off the hills. Even the abandoned steam train line was another good draw for me. It had once been the main connection between Penrith and Keswick in the Lakes. In those days, the stoker on board the train would discard lumps of coal onto the side of the track if they were too big for the firebox. Knowing that I liked to spend time there, my dad would even send me down with a bucket to pick up what I could find for the fire.
While I felt at home outside, life inside seemed increasingly uncomfortable. I would come back to find an air of tension between my parents. I was too young to understand what had come between them; I just knew something wasn’t right.
To bring us together, my dad came home one day with a Collie. We called him Rex, which was almost compulsory as a dog name in those days. I was too young to think of Rex as my dog. Still, I considered him to be one of the family. I used to take him for walks across the fields – I think we both got cabin fever quite quickly inside the house, and so it was a good excuse to get out for a short while. I didn’t feel as if I was in charge, watching him run and gambol through the grass and the reed beds. It just seemed like we were equals in the world.
We also took on a cat, but my father didn’t get on with it at all. I suspect the feeling was mutual, because the cat always made himself scarce whenever he was around. Even so, my dad considered him to be a nuisance we didn’t need. One morning, I was told the cat had gone to live on a farm across town. I remember listening to my father explain his absence while wondering what had caused the livid scratches on his forearms. Who knows? It may well be that the innocence of childhood protected me from the whole story, which was certainly the case when it came to the state of my parents’ marriage.
2
End of an Idyll
‘Get out! And don’t come back!’
When my dad shoved my mum from the house, I just stood and watched in shock. A shouting match had broken out just moments earlier, which was so intense that neither of them seemed to register that I was in the kitchen with them.
‘Stop, Dad!’ I cried, but he was too busy blocking the door with his shoulder as my mum fought to get back in. ‘Stop it!’