Below is a log taken by Clare Breen offering a day to day account of the expedition.

Winter Resort was an artist led expedition to the Scottish highlands in March 2013. The artists stayed in Mountain Bothies and endured harsh climatic conditions in an endeavour to remain on site until the project was realised and resolved. The artists travelled with no art making materials, making the human mind in isolation the subject of the event. Due to the very remote location, the work was without an audience. Although the artists prepared for this mission, the outcome was unpredictable. Winter Resort was a self-funded follow up project to Resort, an event that took place in Portsalon, Donegal, 2012.
The Artists were Roisin Beirne, Clare Breen, David Lunney, John Ryan, Andreas Von Knobloch and Tom Watt.

This is an excerpt from the expedition log of Clare Breen.

The artists are in Corryhully Bothy. The previous day they flew from Dublin to Prestwick, took the train from Glasgow to Glenfinnan and walked 6km to Corryhully bothy in gathering darkness.

Wednesday 06/03/2013 An account of the second day of the expedition (this being the most exciting and adventurous day)

Sometime in and around 08:10 – Andreas wakes, (I can only guess at what he does during this time.)

8:45 – Tom and I get up and wash, dress, go to the toilet, talk, we see the bothy in daylight for the first time, it is absolutely beautiful, everyone with a camera begins compulsively taking pictures. I realise my camera battery is almost dead, I took too many pictures on the train (I feel like a total wilderness failure, I didn't take one interesting picture on the train).

10:00 – Everyone is up, (John last) we watch Andreas raise an emergency blanket as a flag, silver foil in the sunshine.

(The flag is beautiful, the bothy roof is lilac and blue and silver in the sun, the mountains are yellow and purple, the trees are shadowy green and the flag is foil; it looks both misplaced and deliberate. The flag joins in with us, looking jolly.) We eat breakfast, granola, porridge, tea, nuts and raisins (Lunney eats a cuppa soup he found in the bothy mixed with porridge)

10:45 – We repack our bags, leave half of the supplies behind along with some clothes, we hoist the bag onto rafters with a note to explain to anyone using the bothy before we get back that they are provisions we need (cross our fingers that noone eats them).
Planned journey:
Leave bothy at 10:30am. Walk due north along obvious trail, take trail towards Sgurr an Choire Riabhaich (852 meters) leave the trail on a steep ascent, follow the mountain ridge northwest and descend to join a trail marked on the map that leads to Oban, a bothy by the water, arrive around 16:00, relax for the evening, make work, possibly swim, enjoy some whiskey and maybe catch a fish for dinner.

Actual Journey:
11:40 – leave Corryhully bothy carrying packs, we follow the road toward Sgurr an Choire Riabhaich, we take a break along the short walk to the trail. (The pack is heavier than I imagined. I am red and tired and I think my hip might have something wrong with it. Andreas is taking pictures of us which makes me want to vomit. I am extremely sweaty after 15 minutes.)

12:00 - We leave the road and join a trail, signposted by a tiny marker, a worn groove along the hill, bald and smooth between stretches of dead yellow grass on both sides. About 5 minutes along we need another break, we remove our jumpers. It's a difficult climb, the trail zig zags along the grassy base of the mountain. I panic again about how I'll manage but there's nothing I can do. The mountain above looks enormous, Tom runs ahead and takes a picture of us from above.

John is quiet and slow with the longest legs and the biggest stride he seems to take it easy at the back, not pushing himself, quiet for most of the walking. Roisin rushes along at the front, often walking faster than everyone else, sometimes stopping and looking back and waiting for everyone to catch up. Lunney is quiet, he walks at an even pace, with a birch stick. He is wearing a cotton tracksuit that constantly slips down over his bum. Andreas jumps and bounds ahead at the front, setting a very fast pace and sometimes going above and ahead to take photos of the group, he is constantly ready to go again and has two cameras. He suggests that he climbs to the summit of the mountain and catches up with us later but the group rejects any suggestion of splitting up. Tom stays behind, although it's obvious he could go faster, probably through some sense of responsibility he is mostly at the back. He makes little jokes and answers all questions about how far it will be and how difficult it will be (mostly posed by me) in a jovial, positive way that is very relaxing. I am the slowest and the weakest and the reddest and the tiredest. My pack is too heavy and I drink too much water and sweat it all out. I suggest most of the rest stops and I took two ibuprofen before we even started, just incase.
There is not much talk at the beginning of the journey, I certainly didn't think this part would be so difficult. John agrees.
It was really, really hard work. Long, hard, difficult work. A shit load of work and it was tough. Tough, and we had to climb – miserable climbing. We sweated but continued to climb and it was a shit climb. Piece of shit climb. Terrible, horrible shitarse climb, up and up and up and up and up.
12:30: I remember that as we slowly gain height the view will get more beautiful. That keeps me going.

12:45 - It absolutely does get more beautiful. Totally, ridiculously beautiful. We stop for a snack and a rest, there is a short relief, we can use phones, there's a mild euphoria about that. Noone is entirely sure whether or not we are making good time. The packs are extremely heavy. I regret all the time that I can't ignore my body and just power through.

Steeper now, the trail is gone but this climb isn't as difficult, the ground is more uneven, steeper in places and we begin to see snow. It's funny that despite my awareness of what snow is and how it comes to be, there is still an almost childish excitement when we see it, lying in little frozen drifts in crevices. It is solid to kick and sometimes it conceals holes where water flows underneath. These are dangerous and they break away underfoot. (I am terrified of wetting my feet, I'll possibly get severely chilled, or break my ankle or get terrible blisters...)

We keep climbing, we move at different rates, Roisin rushes along ahead and Andreas climbs away up to the right, where it is steeper and more difficult, We shout at each other to come back. There is horrible, cutting wind as we climb towards the pass. Lunney begins to lead the way, the climb, although steeper than before, is easier and there is a tendency to rush and scramble on the more uneven surface. It's frightening that we are a couple of meters away from each other but it is impossible to hear a shout.

The mountains are looming and mighty infront of us. There's a valley ahead and stretching from the right there is a ridge of mountains, extending in a horseshoe, ending far to our left. The valley is directly down, directly infront of us. After a quick consultation we begin to descend, the wind feels like hands physically pushing me backwards.

13:15 - We come across more solid drifts of snow, this time Andreas takes out his bivvy bag, gets in and slides right down along a snow drift in a valley. Something snaps in the group, like an inappropriate laugh, he goes so fast. Everyone looks and laughs and follows suit.

I imagine my body like some huge elastic band, totally stretched, to the maximum, rubbery and hard and just on the verge of snapping. My brain, intent on keeping everything in check, being aware of the slightest twindge in my hip or ear or toe that might signal some unspeakable, debilitating injury that might potentially jeopardise the entire trip. With the sliding and laughing and shouting it's like the band was loosened, it didn't spring or snap, just loosened and floppy and sliding and laughing.

I started to think about my body and my mind. After the sliding I felt a little lighter, apparently I can literally put my mind above my body, I can make my body do things that it feels like it doesn't want to do.

We all read Renee Daumal's novella Mount Analogue on Andreas' suggestion before we left. He wrote enthusiastically about the philosophy of climbing, the body in relation to the mountain and the human condition, in a playful, fictional adventure story.

I felt, reading the book, he was the kind of man I'd like to be; attuned to the nuances of his own body, aware of its limitations, always attempting to push himself above and beyond what he thought he was capable of. Probably THRIVING on adventure. (Also capable of making profound, yet simple and beautiful analogies between the mountain and the human soul at the drop of a hat. An altogether witty, wise and spiritual surrealist, plus he was french; basically an absolute dreamboat.) Anyway, his advice was this:

If you slip or have a minor spill, don't interrupt your momentum but even as you right yourself recover the rhythm of your walk. Take note of the circumstances of your fall, but don't allow your body to brood on the memory. The body always tries to make itself interesting by its shivers, its breathlessness, its palpitations, its shudders, sweats, and cramps. But it is very sensitive to its master's scorn and indifference. If it feels he is not fooled by its jeremiads, if it understands that enlisting his pity is a useless effort, then it falls back into line and compliantly accomplishes its task.

14:00 – Halfway down into the valley, we made time by sledding.

The descent is more tedious, the view gets worse, the wind dies down, the feet are used in a different way. As we descend, the mountains surrounding us loom. Just. Huge. We trudge slowly, increasingly dwarfed on three sides. We're in the middle of the horseshoe. What feels like an eternity passes, those reading the map seem to be checking more often, stopping more regularly and for a longer time. I begin to get nervous, eventually we are all looking at the map, together and separately, we can't make it out.

Anyone who has used a map in the moutains will know the awesome inability of it to convey anything of their expansiveness, vastness, bleakness or the all encompassing helplessness of lostness. The little drawing is nothing in comparison.

My arms hurt from my pack. Everyone realises individually that we are lost. The realisation creeps through the group. I don't know, they don't know. There's a river but not in the right place. We see a track, but not in the right direction. The mountain isn't in the right place, all the craggs and lines and and bumps and valleys are wrong. Nothing corresponds and are alone here, with no phone coverage and DWINDLING FOOD SUPPLIES. (In retrospect, the food we were carrying could probably have fed the group for 4 days.) I reasoned, quietly to myself, that it would at least be fun getting collected in a helicpoter.

15:30 – Andreas points out where he thinks we are on the map, where we have come down, essentially a mountain ridge too early. There are two options


1: Climb up and over, due north to 747 feet and hopefully rejoin our intended trail. (This is impossible because that mountain face is extremely craggy and rocky and steep.)

2: Follow the trail we've found to a building marked on the map by a small square. (On the map the small squares indicate buildings of any type: bothys, private residences, burned out huts.)

We decide to take our chances and follow the trail.

16:15 – We keep walking along the, it seems endless, every turn reveals another infuriating, jutting piece of land, totally obscuring the view. Roisin and Andreas keep saying "just keep following the trail, it'll lead to the lake."

17:15 - We see the house, Kinlochbeoraid, Andreas is far ahead, running towards it.

It is a tiny, stone washed cottage with a galvanised tin roof. The river snakes down beside it and the landscape is dead. It is exceptionally beautiful, but bleak. There are one or two trees and a walled area around the building. Everyone inspects the building, the atmosphere is tense, nervous, everyone is silent; eating or changing socks. The house is totally sealed shut, metal barriers locked from the inside block all the windows and doors. The front door is metal with a huge bolt and padlock. There's a tiny, dark, filthy shed attached which is open.

We each inspect the building individually. Everyone coming to their own conclusions.

We have two options:

1: Stay in the house for the night, at first light get up and cross the mountain to try join the trail, stay at Oban the next night.

2: Walk through the night.

Lunney and I are adamant that we have to stay, it is getting dark, we don't know what the weather might do and the climb looks incredibly difficult. There is also no guarantee that we can navigate to the next trail. Andreas and Roisin want to keep walking, John says he'll do whatever, Tom says he would prefer to stay.

The shed is about 2.5m x 3m, a dirt floor, stone walls and a timber frame roof covered in corrougated metal. There is a bolt on the door but, rather onimously, it is on the outside. Some go to scout out the area, use the toilet, check for phone coverage. There are 3 army camp beds in the shed, one of them has a red footprint on it, John is convinced that it is blood. The place is silent. There are no birds, no animals, no people, no insects (possibly). There is a huge bolt on the outside of the door. A vague sense of the possibility of being hacked to pieces in the night helps fuel an impressively industrious cleanup of the shack and collection of firewood. The hard work relaxes everyone, eventually chatting and laughing, we exchange ideas about how to breakup wood without a saw and how the bloody footprints might have come to be.

18:30 - A yell from inside the hut, similar to that of a prospector finally exclaiming "GOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLDDDDDDDD" but instead, and more practially, the shout is "COOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!"
The entire floor of the shed is covered in coal, not horrible filth, as we'd initially thought, but glorious, combustible, free coal. The giddy relief is similar to the post sledding buzz. We scrape it up into a bag, chatting and laughing more freely, everyone's angry and nervous energy finally, entirely dissapating.

When exploring the wilderness, a good gague of whether or not group morale is high is when the discussion returns (admittedly, primarily among the male members) to the new and creative possibilities inherent in "taking outdoor shits". They discuss with pride the rigorous selection process involved in choosing a spot, Andreas mentions an ingenious improvisation with a ladder, the one upmanship continues as it gets dark and all is forgiven.

20:00 – I cook copious amounts of mushroom risotto on the open fire, and we eat and talk. (I am struck by my inability to remember song lyrics or jokes or stories and pathetically wish I could look them up. If I can't come up with a campfire story my brain is probably most certainly turning into internet dependent gloop.)
Despite Lunney's protestations Andreas smashes the bolt on the outside of the door, there is just too much temptation for a passing axe murderer to slot it over, lock us in and come back at his leisure to chop us up. The group agrees it is for the best.

22:00 – In the dark, in the coal shed, we lie cuddled up, heads together, John tells "The Greatest Revenge Story of all Time". It is very dark and very cold, we are all alone, together. I do not sleep. Snoring is horrific, especially from John an Andreas.

01:30 – Raining ...



The group finished the hike 3 days later and arrived back in Glasgow, unharmed.