Happily I’ve slipped into the habit of going to Scotland every winter in search of mountaineering exploits, tourist-free roads and cold, midgeless air. 2023’s trip was preceded by two weeks of chaos as Ryan and I (with some help from my perpetually patient dad) scrambled to convert our new campervan to a point where we probably wouldn’t freeze to death in our sleep, which meant spending every non-working minute sound deadening, running cables, making thermal blinds and installing a skylight, electric hookup unit, extractor vent and vapour barrier into Vandalf the Blue. It was an utterly exhausting, all-consuming, antisocial and rewarding couple of weeks, and we left for Scotland inside our shiny silver spaceship, which contained a lot of outdoor gear and an old mattress, on Tuesday 31 January at 1:30pm.

The drive up went surprisingly quickly despite two mechanical hiccups: on returning to the van at Warwick services, the driver’s seatbelt jammed as a result of – as we discovered to my intense chagrin – my overzealous stuffing of wool insulation above the mechanism. We managed to extract the insulation from the tiny holes I’d poked it in and went on our way, relieved. All was quiet until shortly after Perth, when the full beam and fog lights decided to call it quits after nearly 9 hours of driving; vanxiety returned in full force as I googled fuse box diagrams and relay replacement costs, but on finding a layby to stay in shortly after entering the Cairngorms, we turned the engine off and on again and the truant lights returned. We settled into our tin can at 1:30am.

Wednesday 1 February

Glenshee

I woke up in another world. We’d parked in a large layby set back from the A93 between the Spittal of Glenshee and Glenshee ski centre in the southern Cairngorms. I slipped (literally, the ground was icy) out of bed and climbed a little way up a hillside to get a better view, not quite believing that after the van-related stress of the previous few weeks, we were finally in Scotland. The road snaked smoothly between vast, rolling, heather-covered hills, which sprawled around each other as if each trying to take up as much space as possible. The sun had just risen over the high, near horizon, the sky was clear, the heathery ground was thinly covered in snow, and I remembered what peace felt like.

Ryan, who had spent half the night sleepily whinging that he had cold legs while also refusing to put trousers or socks on, emerged from the van, nearly slipped on the ice, and retreated back inside. I joined him and we checked the ski forecast for Glenshee. There were only a few lifts open lower down due to a lack of snow, so we improvised a plan B and headed off to explore the Linn of Dee, a well-known beauty spot half an hour northwest of us.

We wove through the immense, rising glen, which whitened as we climbed, to Braemar village, then took a long, dead-end road to the Linn of Dee. We passed some lovely, cabin-like houses overlooking a wide, flat-bottomed valley backed by the huge, smooth humps of the Cairngorm plateau and harbouring the almost delta-like River Dee, crossed a stately stone bridge and parked in the National Trust car park (£3 for the day).

Hike around the Linn of Dee

We wanted to explore but didn’t want to use up too much time, so we took a 2-mile waymarked circular trail. From the car park it descended a short way through an enchanting pine forest brimming with mosses and lichens to the bank of the Dee, which flowed white through a short, narrow, rocky gorge, then gin clear over a wide, stony riverbed. Above the gorge stood the bridge we’d crossed, which had a single arch and was made from neat, pinkish-grey stone blocks. It was a very pretty place – I could see why it was a favourite picnic spot of Queen Victoria’s.

We followed a well-maintained footpath along the river through the verdant trees. Ryan spotted a red squirrel ahead, which – presumably on hearing my squawk of eager delight at the early sighting – shot up a tree and crept around the trunk as I tried to photograph it. After half a mile we took a track north along a different branch of the river, which widened and narrowed at intervals. Majestic Scots pines lined the banks at random, heather and blaeberry bushes blanketed the undulating ground and everywhere that wasn’t river was covered in forest or scrub; the whole place felt so alive and unadulterated.

It started sleeting but lacked conviction – I needn’t have put my waterproof on. We passed an island, a couple of waterfalls and a salmon ladder (a series of steps that allow salmon to swim up steep sections of river), then headed back to the van through another kilometre of thriving, wild forest. Backed by snow-topped mountains, it was still and serene, and I felt like a not-unwelcome outsider passing through an ancient, whispering landscape. It was so good to be back in Scotland.

Braemar

After 15 picturesque minutes we arrived back in Braemar, an almost obnoxiously quaint, pretty village nestled between high hillsides and sweeping glens that – after a handful of visits – I feel very at home in. We popped to Co-op for some snacks, had a quick look in a local craft/gift shop (of which there are several) and went to the irresistible Braemar Mountain Sports, where we somehow managed not to buy anything. Ryan treated me to coffee and cake in the adjoining, cabin-like Bothy café and we sat looking at the pretty buildings, watching the river run its wide course and planning our upcoming mountaineering exploits – the frantic build-up to the trip meant we’d done no prep, which is very unusual. A moment of cosy bliss.

Scenic route to The Lecht & Tomintoul

We wanted to make the most of the thawing snow and having scoured google for ski resorts with open lifts, we concluded that our best bet was to head up to the Lecht ski centre in the northeast of the national park. Braemar is central-south and there’s no as-the-crow-flies road due to the impassable nature of the mountain plateau, so we took the incredibly scenic and now quite familiar route around the east side of the Cairngorms. After the deep forests and wide rivers around Balmoral, the landscape opened up to a rolling panorama of endless, white-topped hills, whose lower swathes were carpeted with golden grass and red-brown heather, broken only by the occasional remote farmhouse. I felt so wonderfully small.

Having stopped just once to allow a twee-clad roadside shotgun-wielder (I wasn’t going to argue) to down a pigeon and a pheasant, which were quickly retrieved by a labrador, we arrived at the Lecht about 3pm. We went in to check that we didn’t have to pre-book  ski equipment for the next day and were told by a friendly instructor that we were welcome to camp in the large car park, so with that plan in mind we watched some inconceivably-looking heavy snow ploughs darting around the slopes above, then continued a little way along the scenic road to kill some time.

Shops were closing by the time we arrived in the small, distinctly rectangular village of Tomintoul, where neat terraced houses lined the single main road. It was dead quiet, even a little eerie, so after a quick poke around a little gift shop/café we headed 10 minutes back up the road to the Lecht, nestled deep in the barely inhabited hills.

Evening at the Lecht

Our first evening in the van was lovely. I missed Björn Bongo so deeply and for the first time since selling him last August, I felt truly free. I sat on a camping chair on the mattress and did some research for the trip while Ryan cooked at the end of the bed, both of us surrounded by miscellaneous climbing and winter gear. Ryan’s lovely stew was made from burgers and leftover veg and we ate hungrily, excited to go skiing/snowboarding the next day. Life was simple and good.