The Great Outdoors – August 2019

David Friedrich’s Alpine scenes or J.M.W.

Turner’s stormy seas. Burke, Milton

and the later Romantic painters were

investigating the feelings deep within the

human when they experience that ‘passion

of fear’. It’s no wonder that man has named

so many geographical features for the devil.

The legend behind the name, however,

is usually wry, with the hapless devil often

tripping, being thwarted or outwitted, for

example by the aforementioned old lady

in Wales. The Devil’s Dyke near Brighton

has several stories behind the name. The

most common describes the devil digging

a trench to let the sea flood the churches

of the Weald, only to be disturbed by an

old woman, who lit a candle, making

the devil believe morning was coming.

The devil fled, and the last sod of earth

he threw became the Isle of Wight. The

Devil’s Punch Bowl near Hindhead was

formed when the devil stole a cauldron

from a witch (or a fairy), digging the

punchbowl to hide. The Devil’s Arrows,

standing stones near Boroughbridge

in North Yorkshire, were thrown at the

church by Satan. They missed, of course.

And the Devil’s Kitchen in Cwm Idwal

in Snowdonia is thought to have got its

name from the steam that rises out of the

chimney-like feature, straight from the

devil’s stove.

There is no taking the name Penis of the

Demon seriously, but the walk itself was a

different matter. I climbed up to Braeriach

as the sky darkened under a tablecloth of

cloud. It was late afternoon and too windy

and too late to make the run over Cairn

Toul to Corrour bothy, so I dropped down

to Loch Coire an Lochain for the night.

It was sheltered there, and, alone in the

darkness, I felt none of the fear of the bulk

above me; instead, I felt a calmness perhaps

inspired by the everlasting shelter these

mountains can provide. Or maybe it was

the whisky. Either way, a deep sleep set me

up for the climb back up to Braeriach and

Beautiful (1757) he argued that while
the ‘beautiful’ was aesthetically pleasing,
the sublime had the power to compel
and destroy us. The sublime evokes the
‘passion of fear’, especially the fear of death,
as opposed to the ‘passion of love’. The
sublime is summoned by vastness, infinity
and magnificence.
The ultimate manifestation of the
theory of the sublime is perhaps John
Milton’s Paradise Lost. The fall of man, the
temptation of Adam and Eve by the fallen
angel, the battle between the devil and
God. It’s a work that also inspired the later
Romantic painters of nature (mountainous
precipices, thunder-loaded clouds, falling
rocks), including the German Caspar

along the ridge to Sgor an Lochain Uaine,

the Angel’s Peak, anglicised no doubt as

a counter to the Devil’s Point. In between

the two is Cairn Toul, the fourth-highest

mountain in Scotland.

The skies were clearing intermittently

now, and under the clouds, the visibility

was excellent. I stood on the Devil’s Point,

as it became known after fast-thinking

John Brown, immortalised by Billy

Connolly, disguised the real name from

Queen Victoria (the OS still use it). If I was

wearing a dress coat and held a cane rather

than a bright orange Gore-Tex jacket and

Leki poles, it could have been a vision from

a Caspar David Friedrich painting.

I made myself a coffee in Corrour

bothy, debating my next move. Back along

the Lairig Ghru was one option, but with

the weather improving I chose to walk into

Gleann Laoigh Bheag so that I could see

the true aspect of the Devil’s Point, camp

low, and then have a long day climbing

back over Ben Macdui.

As I did, I wondered whether we were

losing that sense of awe. That tumbling

feeling in my stomach of a vast expanse

was still there. The forces that wrought

the Cairngorms, and the Devil’s Kitchen,

all of our ‘awe-inspiring’ features, are

unimaginable. Humans name a thing for

reference, and then load it with meaning.

Add a ‘Devil’ to the name, and it throws

elements around the cortex way beyond

a reference point. It adds humour or

suggests danger.

Of course, most names for hills were

once merely descriptive, named for a

feature or a person; names are laid, and

then translations and meanings, stories

and cultural distinctions are layered on

top like beds of rock. And be thankful

that there is a name for nearly every

geographic element in Britain. If we were

naming Ben Nevis now, our gift to future

generations could have been Mountainy

McMountainface.

The forces that wrought

the Cairngorms, and the

Devil's Kitchen, all of our

‘awe-inspiring ’ features,

are unimaginable

Photo credit: Shutterstock

PLACE NAMES

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