The events of the Kintail expedition are widely know; however, as is the case with anything of interest to the masses, a degree of sensationalism surrounds the entire affair. It is in accordance with the final will and testament of the late Mr. C. Hewetson that this is published, an adaptation of the diary he maintained during this time. It is the hope of Mr. Hewetson’s estate that this account will put to bed some of the myths surrounding this period of his life. History has a way of distilling the exploits of man into a handful of legends (c.f. Scott, Hillary, Shackleton). I don’t believe Mr. Hewetson or any of his company realised they would soon be counted among such legends.
Friday 22 March 2019.
The day had started much like any other: my breakfast: medicinal, my company: the Telegraph. With the shakes subsiding I was able to lend aid to those who bustled about tending to the now almost clean bunkhouse. The party split, Misses Murray and Fraser sought transport in Glasgow, while Mr. Ramsay and I dined at my club. Mr. Ramsay was a man of few words, and those few were seldom worth hearing. Lunch was similar to breakfast, equally spirited, this was perhaps a result of the company, perhaps something more chronic. Either way, this made the rest of the afternoon pass in a most glorious haze and before I knew it we were on the road.
I was dragged back to reality by a thud and a shout. Before I knew what was happening, I was standing in the driving rain, a pool of oil steadily growing beneath the car. I have to thank the Dutch for the courage it took to make the 5 mile march back to civilisation. That evening was not the first nor the last time I squatted in an abandoned building. Upon arrival the company stripped, this was done under the pretence of drying wet clothes, but all know it was a power play. The building was cold, I was not elected leader. While insurers were telephoned, the kitchen was pilfered. The evening ended with a tow truck promised for the next morning.
Saturday 23 March 2019.
Our supplies have been rationed. For the first time in a long while I have not managed to make amends with the dog that bit me.
Once more the group split, Miss Fraser and I make our way back to the car in order to ferry our supplies to our lodgings. The others stayed with the telephone. It was the knowledge of what waited for me in my bag that gave me the strength to make the journey.
The hour of the tow arrived and passed, four hours later a tow truck arrived. That was the last time I saw the car. It’s death is to be envied, there is nothing more noble than to give one’s life in the line of duty [note: Mr. Hewetson would die begging for his killer to take the lives of his wife and children instead of him].
After two days we finally arrived at the bunkhouse.
Sunday 24 March 2019.
My ailment from the previous day continues. I was finally able to leave bed at 1pm. We had a short valley walk before spending an evening before the fire in the drawing room.
Monday 25 March 2019.
Slept restlessly even with a night cap. The party finally sets forth to do what must be done. The institute demands our completion of the five sisters ridge line, in accordance with this it was completed. Weather good, lunch a little solid for my tastes.
It goes without saying that this was a peak in the life of the late Mr. Hewetson. Now, at this time of mourning, it is not our place to judge the dead; however, I wish to make it abundantly clear that I do not agree with the positions the deceased would take in his later life.
Dictated not read,
Mr. J. B. Appleton-Crawford, Esq.
Acting for the estate of Mr. C. Hewetson