The Angry Corrie 53: Apr-May 2002
Down at the Streap joint...? Up on Meall Horn...?
For readers of this august journal, mere sea-level shagging will clearly not be enough, and you are not alone. It was not so long ago that the authorities had to go and clean up Box Hill in Surrey which, even with its modest elevation, had become a virtual outdoor knocking shop. Mind you, with a name like that I'm surprised it wasn't done for soliciting itself. Those of us who like the hills, after all, we all like a stiff ... ah ... climb. Who does not feel that frisson of excitement as the contour lines converge, the beauty of the bealach, the lure of the lochan, the thrusting perpendicular of the summit cairn, the hard corrugated indentations of the Vibram sole...
Whoa, sorry about that. It's just that most of the "objections" to sex in the hills seem to me to be attractions. The dangers of being discovered? Tell that to the couple who made the mistake (or was it?) of taking up their positions in the path of the cross-country run of an Outward Bound course. They were still at it when the 60th teenager sweated past. And not for nothing did they have to reshoot part of the Harry Potter film in the west Highlands around Glenfinnan when a naked couple were spotted in the rushes (that's the film rushes, not the rushes on the banks of Loch Shiel). And please don't think there is anything exclusively heterosexual about this. Just ask your Ed, who recalls an encounter with two gentlemen with, um, just the one pair of shorts between them on a bracken-covered slope in the Ochils.
The discomfort? Just about every amatory sophistication above and beyond the basics seems to involve that delicious boundary between pleasure and pain. Birch twigs? There are plenty to hand. Something jagging you in the back? People, including Jamie Theakston, pay good money for that kind of thing. All that clobber you've got with you? Just because you're only rambling around the Rhinns of Kells doesn't mean that a rope and some slings and a few prussik loops (for those delicate holds) might not come in very handy. The cold? Nay, but the contrast between hot and cold ... I've suddenly thought: am I giving rather too much away here?
The best excuse I've ever heard for a bit of hillside hanky-panky was from a friend who was nearing the end of the West Highland Way and was, frankly, a bit knackered. You know how it is; you're holding everyone up, you've tried every excuse for a bit of a rest and there are only so many times you can say let's just enjoy the view for a moment. But, as she says, tip your partner the wink and before you know it you can be having a nice rest on your back, the weight's off your feet, the heather's quite comfy and no-one thinks you're just being a wuss. Plus it might slow your partner down for a bit. You may end up with an Aran pattern on your arse, but trust me, the marks fade.