I have never hiked Ben Nevis, but, as a graduate of the Canadian Forces Recruit School, I second Jos’s point.
There was a time in the deep, dark, past when I actively disliked peanut butter. To my youthful palate, its texture was repellent and its flavour too intense in exactly the wrong way. But then I joined up and found myself doing basic training in Cornwallis, Nova Scotia, in the dead of winter.
Located on the eastern shore of the Bay of Fundy, Cornwallis is scoured by a cold, wet, prevailing northwesterly wind that occasionally gives way to ferocious nor’-easters just for variety. I’m told it’s delightful in summer.
The low point of the three-month course was the ninth week, which was spent running around a training area covered with jeezly huge fir trees, juniper scrub, and — of course — snow. We were taken there by truck, but returned to camp on foot and at speed, by way of a brushy ridge known to us as Heartbreak Hill. The distance was about ten miles, and we did it in fighting order: ill-fitting winter combat clothing, steel helmet and rifle. The pace was forced march, and we trotted in the camp gate just in time to miss lunch.
In a huge gesture of compassion, the kitchen staff actually let us into the mess hall to partake of the broken meats. By the time I reached the serving hatch, there was nothing left but cold boiled eggs, oranges, crackers and peanut butter.
Thus I learned that peanut butter is actually a food of the gods. Under the right wrong circumstances.