UKH

It’s dark and raining heavily now. The bothy fire smokes for a few minutes, coughs, splutters and then dies. Charlie, my walking companion on this trip, who has been working on the fire, stares disconsolately at the cold hearth.
‘Well that’s it then, we’ve blown the on the bloody thing, chucked paraffin on it, tossed everything we can think of and still it won’t light. It’s going to be a cold night. We’ve tried every trick.’
It’s my fault, I left my kindling in the shed and it got damp and won’t light. An elementary mistake but a costly one. I’ve lugged 10 kilos of coal up the track beside the sea and finally dumped it on the floor of Glen Dubh bothy only to watch it sitting there like a bag of black rocks. Both of us are shivering, as we watch our breath misting the air in the candle light.
Charlie kicks the hearth in frustration, ‘All that coal and we’re still cold. There’s nothing else we can do, we’ve tried everything.’
I am deep in thought. I pride myself in being a Fire Master, a veteran of a thousand artic bothy nights. Lighting a bothy fire is a dark art, one only learnt through years of patient pyromania. Walking in to a bothy I am always painfully aware of the load of coal crushing into the base of my back. It presses down on you. On hills it holds you back and on descents it pushes you forwards, hurling you downhill in knee crushing jolts.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ I tell myself, picturing myself toasting my toes before a roaring fire while a storm rages outside the bothy. Tonight, that image fades like a mirage and I resign myself to a never ending frigid evening.
Then it happens, I am suddenly back in a thousand dark winter glens, like a Kung Fu Shaolin monk, I have returned, in my moment of crisis, to the temple. I remember all the battles I’ve had trying to coax fire from reluctant wood, I have blown through tubes, used newspaper to create a draft, prayed, threatened and cajoled fires into life in my many nights of travel.
At last, I remember, there is one thing I’ve not tried…

Read more here https://johndburns.wordpress.com/2016/04/11/fire-and-men/

In reply to John Burns:
Thanks John , as ever very entertaining .

In reply to John Burns:

Excellent stuff John. Glad to see you're bloging again. I think you could expand the bothy fire topic to a substanial book. I know a couple of guy who went to a bothy armed with wood, coal and whisky. Sadley they had no fire lighters or kindling. In desperation they attempted to get things going by using the whisky (Glenmorangie) which ended in failure!

In reply to Removed UserDeleted bagger:

They tried to light a fire with Glenmorngie!!! That's a criminal offence in the Highlands.

I've written the book, looking for a publisher right now.

In reply to John Burns:

Perfectly safe. What could possibly go wrong

In reply to John Burns:
Once upon a time I had been kipping in the upstairs room of [redacted] bothy, and was in the process of waking up with a stinking hangover when there was a huge explosion from downstairs. The floor shook, and there was a shower of dust from the ceiling.

Thinking that someone had blown their stove up and killed themselves we got up in record time & rushed down to find [censored] unharmed but looking a bit sheepish.

He had decided to get the fire going by filling up an empty ham slices tub with paraffin & sitting it on the hot coals. Apparently he was quite chuffed when it started smoking nicely, and it was only when it started billowing out into the room that he realised he was looking at paraffin vapour & started to get an "oh crap" feeling.

Cue him backing away slowly followed by a billowing cloud of fuel until after a few seconds it inevitably ignited.

Amazingly the building survived without so much as a broken window. The gloves and socks hanging above the fire were never the same again though.

In reply to davidbeynon:

Brilliant story. Even I have never resorted to boiling paraffin. But it's an idea!

In reply to davidbeynon: I led a public school scout group to summer camp in the Lakes. The advanced party of myself and DofE Gold sixth formers idled over breakfast in the mess tent. The dixie for tea / washing up had almost boiled dry so I topped it up from one of the several water containers. There was a loud hissing and escape of vapour. Suddenly the tent was filled with rolling banks of flame and we all shot backwards and out from the inferno. It turned out that one of the highly intelligent but completely lacking in common sense sixth formers had brought a gallon of acetate for canoe repairs and ommitted to mention having put it in a water container. After several minutes of confusion as to what had happened he came clean. Obviously the acetate had vapourised in the dixie, and when the cloud of gas filled the tent down from the roof, it eventually met with the gas flame and provided the morning's entertainment.

In reply to Mike Conlon:

I'm getting some fantastic stories here. It sounds like the whole of the outdoors is a veritable fire trap. Hope you don't mind if I add them to my blog.

In reply to davidbeynon:

"Amazingly the building survived without so much as a broken window. The gloves and socks hanging above the fire were never the same again though."

Once sat in front of the fire at Oban bothy we had damp gear steaming away nicely on the line over the hearth. The fire was putting some welcome heat. Next thing, my gloves were on fire……

In reply to John Burns:
I could have added and for this I should take full responsibility, the cooking range in the mess tent was attached to one of those 4-5ft high propane cylinders. It became apparent that I hadn't nipped up the regulator sufficiently tight. As the "Appocalypse Now" clouds of flame were filling the tent, the regulator caught fire. Although I was half way out of the tent, I ducked beneath the clearly defined cloud of flames and ran back in and turned off the bottle. I was followed round by the smell of burning moustache for the next few days ! I sometimes wonder how I survived my long scouting years without more serious mishap. PS I might add that the mess tent survived as the flaming vapour escaped into the atmosphere and the gas bottle was extinquished.PPS And for literary effect, I might add that the initial flames were preceded by a mighty Whoosh !

In reply to John Burns:

Reminded me of Kenya, many years ago. We had dug a pit to put the rubbish in, each afternoon we would put fuel on it to burn off the flammables and take away any smells that would bring animals into the camp. One day 'somebody' picked up the wrong gerry can and poured petrol into the pit by mistake. The explosion that took place woke everyone up and weeks of p-taking about lack of eyebrows have never left my memory.

In reply to John Burns:

Could you pick another made up name? There was an andy on the trip, and it wasn't him. Don't want anyone who was there thinking my memory is failing

In reply to L'Eeyore:

On reflection it was acetone and not acetate which I believe is a plastic sheet material.

In reply to John Burns:

It didn't seem that unsafe; the canister is only going to get hot once the coals have really started burning enough to give off a decent radiant heat, by which time you will no longer need the stove in place (long after it is needed, in fact). And it's easy to shield the canister from radiant heat anyway.

In reply to John Burns:

Coming from John 'Burns', I thought this was going to be about creative self immolation.

In reply to John Burns:

Brilliant. I suspect that I'd have done the same thing. Provided you pay careful attention, where's the danger?

In reply to John Burns:

We were staying in Erics barn at tremadoc and had a couple of the double burner petrol stoves... instead of filling them outside someone had filled them (with not much care) in the sink.

I came to light one a few minutes later and chucked the match into the sink......WOOOMFF. Luckily I chucked it from a distance and my hair was fine, a few others who we're closer, not so much

In reply to davidbeynon:

I'll change it. Albert?

In reply to John Burns:

I don't think I know any Alberts, so it works for me. Ta.