As usual I’m way behind on the blog, but thought – perhaps to transport myself back to the mountains and glens – that I may as well make a start on this year’s winter trip while I grieve our return. For the first time, Ryan and I had a full 14 days roaming Scotland in our van, which remains largely unconverted (although necessarily insulated). Now that we’re home it feels as if we’ve been rudely and abruptly awakened from a wonderful dream.
Saturday 3 February
We arrived at our first overnight stop in Galloway Forest Park, southeast Scotland, at 3am. The 300-mile, 9 hour drive up – punctuated by a single stop at the spectacular Tebay Services – went remarkably smoothly, save for some inevitable traffic near Birmingham, and gave me the opportunity to decide on our first destination based on the abysmal weather further north. We slept soundly and woke at the leisurely time of 10:30.
It felt so good to recommence my morning van routine: jetboil coffee, get dressed, eat cereal, make sandwiches, brush teeth, pack a rucksack and tell Ryan about the hiking plan I’d already connived. Thankfully I met no resistance – he was just as excited as I was to return to the hills. We’d never explored Galloway Forest Park before, and were keen to kick the trip off with a worthwhile reintroduction to Scotland. We were to hike up Merrick (843m), the highest summit in the southern uplands.
We had a lazy morning packing bags, chatting on the phone to Adam (Ryan’s brother, who was on his way back from a week in the Cairngorms) and enjoying the freedom of having no obligations and very few amenities in the back of the van, which contained a mattress, an awful lot of outdoor kit and no permanent fixtures. The hike looked easy, so there was no rush.
Back in Scotland: Bruce’s Stone
We’d stayed in Bruce’s Stone car park, so before we headed uphill we wandered over to see what the large, raised boulder overlooking Loch Trool was all about. Its inscription provides a summary:
In loyal remembrance of Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, whose victory in this glen over an English force in March 1307, opened the campaign of independence which he brought to a decisive close at Bannockburn on 24th June 1314.
This memorial reminded me of the utterly immersive atmosphere that seems to envelop Scotland. The rugged glens, dark lochs and unforgiving hills make its dramatic, bloody history so tangible that it sometimes feels as if a battle-waging clan of tartan-clad warriors could round a corner at any minute, rightfully raring to defend their wild lands against our English encroachment. Yet I can’t stay away – I’m completely besotted with the harsh, beautiful wilderness. As I looked down over the opaque water of Loch Trool, backed by rough hillsides and surrounded by pockets of mixed forest, I felt – even though I’d never visited this part of Scotland before – as if I’d come home.
Hike up Merrick
We tore ourselves away from the view and headed north up a narrow, rocky footpath at the end of the car park. It was a later start than usual – 1pm – but we weren’t concerned, as we had headtorches and the route looked straightforward. Merrick was signposted, so we didn’t have to do much navigation anyway.
Section 1: Buchan Burn to Culsharg Bothy
The first mile followed the rushing Buchan Burn up a steady gradient along a rocky, muddy path which required some careful foot placements to avoid the boggiest sections. We didn’t care – we were thrilled to plunge into the rugged landscape. It was difficult to believe that 24 hours beforehand I’d been sat at my desk in the south of England, which now seemed mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps that’s why the colours were so vivid, the textures so varied and the river so resounding in the otherwise absolute silence. The hillsides were a seemingly random blend of rough, golden grass, coppery bracken and clumpy, purple-brown heather, punctuated by lilac birches, deep green spruces and skeletal broadleaves. Thick mosses had beaten the grass to little hummocks along the path, and Buchan Waterfall sent white water cascading between lichen-spangled boulders down broad, narrow steps. I was at peace.
After half an hour we reached Culsharg bothy, a small building on the edge of a tall evergreen forest, which looked both cosy and desolate. It had stone walls, a neat slate roof, a central chimney, a flat, grassy area that looked like a little front garden, and two broken, ominously black windows. Inside were two rooms, each with a fireplace and chipboard ceiling, a rudimentary wooden bench and a heavily graffitied door. Overlooking the gentle valley of Buchan Burn, it would have made a lovely cottage.
Section 2: Benyellary
We hiked a short distance through the tall trees behind the bothy and emerged onto a track that led us up the steepening hillside. Dozens of clean-cut stumps either side of us suggested the recent felling of a large swathe of forest, now reminiscent of a forlorn, quiet graveyard, and the moss that had covered the floor beneath the trees had given way to short, green grass. The sun emerged, casting a soft glow over the textured landscape, and we crossed a deer fence to the relatively featureless southwest slope of the first summit, Benyellary. Its shapeless, moor-like flanks, carpeted by rough grass and heather, shone gold and red in the afternoon light and rippled in the strengthening breeze.
We continued upwards, neither of us admitting at the time that the combination of gradient and pace felt quite taxing despite the untechnical terrain. The path cut through the moor, then steepened and followed a drystone wall to the summit of Benyellary. As we climbed (feeling quite out of condition), we realised that the forecast hadn’t erred in predicting wind – it had just been buffeted away from the approach path by the surrounding hills, which no longer offered any protection. Thankfully it didn’t feel as strong as the forecast 30-40mph but was certainly noticeable. The top was marked by a cairn and the base of the cloud, which scuppered the view and just about warranted waterproof jackets, which we hastily pulled on – in between mouthfuls of cereal bar – while sheltering from the wind on the steep east side of the summit.
Section 3: Merrick
We descended the gently sloping north side of Benyellary and followed a drystone wall along the romantically named “Neive of the Spit”, which is presumably the un-dramatic col between the hills, whose summits are 2km apart. The map showed that the ground on our right dropped steeply away to the “Scars of Benyellary”, but we couldn’t see thanks to the cloud that we now occupied. After the col we began the gradual climb up foggy, boggy Merrick. Our view was divided horizontally into two halves, which dissolved into each other in the poor visibility: swathes of sandy, tufty grass and the dull grey interior of enveloping cloud.
Nevertheless, we remained delighted to be back in the hills. The dirt path to the summit was easy to follow, and after half an hour Merrick’s blurry trig point emerged into view. We took the obligatory summit photos, “rescued” a bamboo thermos that had been abandoned in a low stone shelter, decided against my half-formed plan of making the route circular – the return would have involved an inevitably boggy trek past several small lochs and across potentially uncrossable burns – and headed back the way we came.
Section 4: Return
Just as we began the descent, the rain came in. We debated whether the initially innocuous mizzle would turn into anything and agreed, from hard-won experience, that it was worth donning waterproof jackets. That was the correct decision, as minutes later we were drenched and slogging through an un-forecast, cold, wind-driven onslaught, grinning ear to ear. “At least we get to test our new kit”, we rationalised, which – thanks to Christmas and a work bonus – comprised Ryan’s boots, my waterproof jacket and both our rucksacks. We embraced the Scottish weather – there’s no point trying to resist it.
The hike continued in this way until we had retraced our steps back over Benyellary and down its moor-like western flank. There the wind abated, the rain eased and the colourful landscape came back into view, seeming even brighter and more contrasting beneath a bank of thick cloud. We wound down the hillside, past the stump graveyard, through the tall forest and along the vegetated, boggy, rocky Buchan Burn path, barely drying at all in the damp air and intermittent drizzle.
We got back to the van at 4:30pm just as a narrow band of glowing, deep orange light emerged beneath the now-lilac cloud above Loch Trool, marking the last of the daylight. It was as if the sun were teasing us, reminding us that it had been there all along. It was a lovely moment, and – looking over the vivid colours of the hill-backed, forest-ringed loch, soaking wet and starting to get cold – we felt truly re-initiated back into Scotland.
Evening
We spread our wet kit out in the front of the van as best we could, using a length of paracord to make a washing line between the two side windows, and settled in the back for the evening. Dry clothes felt amazing and the hot chocolate I made tasted out of this world. Ryan cooked a lovely pasta carbonara for dinner and we snuggled into the sleeping bag, making plans to head north the following day and – given the miserable forecast all over Scotland – visit the Hunterian museum in Glasgow on our way up to the Cairngorms.
Following the previous day’s unexpectedly adventurous excursion up Ben Wyvis, we indulged in a “rest day”. This meant exploring the area with no real agenda, so after a cup of coffee and a quick google we decided to head to Ullapool, a lochside fishing village 25 minutes northwest of our picturesque parking spot overlooking Loch Glascarnoch.
It was a fine day, although forecast to be windy up in the mountains, so we didn’t feel like we were missing out too much – particularly with Ryan’s ongoing (but thankfully improving) blister situation. The road to Ullapool was quiet and beautiful, carving through rugged hillsides carpeted in reddish heather and golden grass that glowed in the morning sun against a blue sky made wilder by smooth clouds that hung portentously over the dramatic, dark peaks and ridges of An Teallach mountain range straight ahead – another one high on the to do list. This was followed by a pretty drive along the bank of Loch Broom before arriving at the village, which is nestled on a low-lying promontory on the northern edge of the loch.
Ullapool
We parked at Tesco, which was just about the only indication (in a good way) that the village was connected to the rest of the world. A short walk through quiet, pretty, uniform streets took us to Ullapool Outdoors, a lovely independent shop where we picked up some stove gas and washing up liquid. From there we continued on to the water’s edge, which was lined by a row of whitewashed cottages overlooking a narrow, stony beach. We absorbed the tranquility as we wandered along the shore, skimming stones and marvelling like children at enormous mussel shells and seaweeds that clung to pebbles with masses of rubbery roots, all the while taking in the mountains that surrounded the loch. It was an utterly self-contained, other-worldly place.
We walked along the loch front past the ferry terminal, where a bustle of construction work was taking place, then popped into a country clothes shop, a charity shop, a small gallery and a delicatessen. We returned to the van with our bounty – a new jacket for Ryan, some charity shop clothes for me and a couple of rolls for lunch. We ate them overlooking the loch and left Ullapool feeling very tranquil.
Lael Forest Garden
Our next stop, just south of Loch Broom, is perhaps best described as a living tree museum. Lael Forest Garden was founded in the 1870s by Victorian seed collectors who planted over 200 species from all around the world.
We pulled up in the small car park, entered through a gate and wandered the short trails, which showcased an interesting variety of trees and a wild, tumbling waterfall. Despite Scotland’s barely temperate winters the trees seemed to be thriving, perhaps because of their position up the steep eastern bank of a deep gorge. A personal highlight was the soft-barked sequoia redwoods, which – in their immense stillness – dwarfed everything else with a quiet, humbling majesty.
It only took half an hour to walk around in a loop, but there was nobody else around and that half hour felt very peaceful. I’d like to come back in spring or autumn.
Corrieshalloch Gorge & the Falls of Measach
Our next stop was a few minutes’ drive south. Corrieshalloch Gorge is a narrow, sheer-sided cut in the landscape that was formed during the ice age by a strong river flowing beneath a glacier into Loch Broom. The path from the roadside car park took us down through woodland to a narrow, 25 metre long Victorian suspension bridge that spanned the deep gorge quite spectacularly and bounced slightly underfoot.
Looking down into the vertigo-inducing 60 metre chasm below was a memorable experience. A white river rushed urgently through a narrow channel at the base of the gorge, fed by what seemed an impossibly voluminous, 45 metre high waterfall – the impressive Falls of Measach. It was wild, beautiful and, with nothing but air between my feet and the rocky water way below, quite unnerving to consider the consequences if the bridge failed.
We crossed the gorge, nipped along to a protruding, equally vertiginous platform for a good view of the bridge and the waterfall – which seemed even bigger from a distance – then crossed back and walked along the wooded brink for about half a kilometre. The gorge’s dark, sheer rock walls were covered in mosses, lichens, shrubby little plants and – wherever their audacious roots could take hold – trees, which all seemed to thrive in their damp, inaccessible sanctuary.
The path curved back on itself as it climbed towards the car park, and as we rose above the lilac birch tops we enjoyed a stunning view of the valley at the northern end of the gorge, looking back towards Ullapool. Loch Broom appeared in the V, backed by heathery slopes, and in the foreground deep green forests sprawled over undulating, yellow-brown hillsides. The air was still and once again I felt uncommonly peaceful.
North West Coast
I can’t tolerate serenity for too long, so we formulated a plan to climb another mountain the next day. Ryan had researched Beinn Alligin in Torridon, so we set off from Corrieshalloch on a 70-mile journey southwest along the not-very-direct, but scenic, road that snaked down the remote, jagged northwest coast.
As I’d hoped, the road was quiet and afforded lovely views of wild mountains, dark lochs, clear blue sea and tiny, timeless villages. We stopped briefly at the coastal village of Gairloch for a token beach trip, where the sand was pale, fine and backed by grassy dunes, then – sufficiently wind-nipped – we returned to the van and continued on to the wilderness of vast Glen Torridon, where we’d previously had an epic day mountain biking the Torridon Loop. It almost felt like going home.
We drove a short way up the hill behind Torridon village to the Beinn Alligin car park, arriving about 6pm. Ryan cooked sausage pasta and we spent a couple of hours researching the mountain, then went to bed early in anticipation of a 6am start. Like I said, serenity doesn’t last long.
Disclaimer: Strap in – this was a difficult, lengthy post to write as I wanted to do justice to the intricacy and other-worldly beauty of Plitvice. Please excuse my rambling descriptions, inclusion of utterly unpronounceable names and repetitive variations of “blue”, “green” and “clear”…
Wednesday 5 July
After researching Plitvice Lakes, we’d initially decided that 40€ each was too much to pay to visit a National Park. However, I’d seen some photos and the seed had been planted, which meant (as it always does) that I’d inevitably reverse that decision. I decided to treat us to the trip on the conditions that Ryan a) get up early, and b) drive us there without damaging the rental car.
The journey
We were on our way by 6am. The 1h40 journey was traffic-free, which was just what Ryan needed to get used to driving on the “wrong” side of the road. We joined the tunnel-ridden E71 motorway shortly after leaving still, peaceful Starigrad, nestled between the Paklenica mountains and an inlet of the Adriatic sea, and entered Lika-Senj County to the north, which was – to our mild surprise – shrouded in early morning fog.
We arrived at Plitvice at 7:30am, parked very carefully at Entrance 1 and made our way to the chalet-style ticket office. There was already a long-ish queue and I was concerned that having made the journey without booking, we’d come across some issue that would prevent our visit. My foreboding was not unwarranted as the card machine didn’t like my bank card, but luckily a different card worked and we received tickets after an anxious few minutes.
We passed through the entrance and went straight to the information boards showing seven waymarked hiking routes, which I’d already researched online. We naturally picked the longest, an 18km trail that circumnavigates nearly all the lakes and cuts out the land trains and electric boats (bar one) that shortcut around the park. Having photographed the board, we wandered over to the start of the trail and were instantly blown away by the landscape.
Lower Lakes: Veliki Slap waterfall to Milanovac
If we’d have been in a cartoon, our jaws would have hit the floor. A vast limestone valley opened up below us, pale rock walls rising from large pools that were bluer than blue and so clear that we could see the bottom from our high vantage point. These pools were set at different levels, and fell into each other via multitudinous cascades that tumbled as vertical columns of pure white water so bright that they seemed to emit light. A forest of the lushest, most brilliant green covered every inch of land that wasn’t rock or water, almost glowing, and across the valley the highest waterfall, Veliki Slap, dropped out of the trees at eye-level and disappeared behind a vegetation-covered, natural limestone dam, which held the torrent back from a series of small, tiered, turquoise pools set low in the basin. A distant mountain ridge stretched hazily across the horizon, just visible above the forested valley side, beneath clouds of white and lilac-grey interspersed by occasional blue patches. It was as if the sky, in deference, reflected the land.
We followed the handrailed, switchback walkway down the side of the valley, feeling as though we were dropping into a real life Avatar set. It was already getting busy so we were keen to see Veliki Slap, “Big Waterfall”, before the crowds descended. The lakes grew in size and clarity as we approached from above and looked impossibly, almost unnaturally blue. We reached a rustic (but solid) boardwalk across the water between Novakovića brod lake, which was level with us, and the Korana river, which was set low in the valley and fed by an abundance of falls bursting improbably from invisible sources concealed by leafy vegetation. We wandered along this boardwalk marvelling at everything: the lakes, the falls and the incredible variety of water grasses and leafy plants on either side of us. It was impossibly beautiful.
The boardwalk snaked around a sheer limestone face to Veliki Slap, a 78-metre high column of water surrounded by tens of narrower, only slightly shorter falls. It was utterly magnificent: I wondered how there was enough water on Earth to feed this powerful, constant giant, which erupted from the clifftop treeline high above. Once we’d gazed in sufficient awe we snapped a couple of photos and returned to the boardwalk, aiming to break away from the growing number of tourists collecting at the base of the unimaginatively but accurately named Big Waterfall.
We followed the boardwalk along the western side of Kaluđerovac lake, still awestruck by the water, and crossed a low limestone barrier between tiered pools to a path along the eastern side. The shallows were gin clear, melting to translucent turquoise and almost opaque blue-green in the middle as the lakes deepened. Fish basked nonchalantly in the open water, and the perfectly flat surface reflected pale rock walls and green forest across the valley.
The path bordered Gavanovac and Milanovac lakes under a leafy canopy and we walked past several tantalising, dark caves set into pale limestone walls on either side of the valley. The number of visitors had dwindled, as we’d predicted, and after a kilometre we crossed another low dam via a boardwalk over shallows brimming with vegetation. Wide, multi-columned Slapovi Milke Trnine and Milanovači Slap waterfalls rushed out of these shallows below us, connecting great Kozjack lake to its smaller sister Milanovac about six metres below, and I was in awe at how the rock held these vast waters back from each other.
Upper Lakes: Kozjak to forest trail
We followed the edge of enormous, irregularly shaped Kozjak to a large visitor area containing dozens of picnic tables, wooden food kiosks, a gift shop, toilet block and the first boat station, where tens of people queued to cross the lake. Happy not to join this rush, we continued along the western edge for a couple of kilometres, snaking round the lake’s undulating border through the fringe of a rich beech forest. We drank in the quiet serenity of the flat water and almost overwhelming brightness of the blues and greens, feeling utterly content now that there was nobody else around, save for the occasional pair of other visitors looking to experience the place in solitude.
The path climbed a short way into the trees, affording stunning views over Kozjak, which – now that the sun had emerged – was a perfect mirror of the verdant forest on the opposite bank. I was amazed by the biodiversity of the woodland, where all kinds of low plants, shrubs and fungi covered the floor beneath a glowing canopy. We had a good view of thickly forested Štefanijin otok, the park’s sole small island, before finding another waterfall about eight metres in height and width tucked away – somehow subtly – in a leafy corner.
We climbed a set of stone steps up into the forest, then walked down a bank and found the ferry dock, where most visitors disembarked having caught the boat across Kozjak. We had a minor disagreement over which way to go – I was keen to continue on Route K but Ryan was concerned that we’d miss out on the waterfalls, so wanted to go with the throng along the low path by Burgeti lake. I conceded at first but after about a hundred metres became stressed by the influx of slow-walking people constantly stopping for photos, so – to Ryan’s initial chagrin, but eventual approval – we turned back, climbed the wooded bank above the busy path and continued on a quiet, sun-dappled trail beneath towering, impossibly green trees.
Upper Lakes: Forest trail to Okrugljak
After a short way we came to a clearing and looked down across the glassy blue water of lagoon-like Gradinsko lake to Veliki Prštavac, the second highest fall in the park, which formed a wide series of white pillars erupting from the forest above. To call it a fairytale scene wouldn’t do it justice. The path then continued for a few kilometres under a high beech canopy that covered a steep bank overlooking a multitude of smaller lakes, which formed a watery patchwork that filled the valley floor, separated by snaking, leafy rock barriers. I was looking out enthusiastically for grizzly bears, featured in the National Park’s logo, but (to my disappointment) was only successful in spotting some large bracket fungi and some pretty nine-spotted moths:
Any remaining sourness from our disagreement dissipated the minute we emerged at another clearing, where the path turned sharply left before descending to the popular trails. We gazed over the blue glass of lake Ciginovac, surrounded by rising green forests, and above it, the vast, hanging lake of Prošćansko – almost as big as Kozjak, and just as irregularly shaped – whose mirrored surface shone into the sky, the unimaginable weight of water impossibly suspended by a steadfast limestone dam. It was as if the rock stoically kept the lakes in check, permitting water to move between levels via numerous regulated falls, but had no control over the vegetation, which spread on all but its most vertical surfaces and encroached in the shallows as if showing off its leafy mastery of the landscape.* I pointed out to Ryan, blissfully aware of my capacity to irritate, that we’d never have seen Prošćansko on the popular trails. I think he forgave me.
*This later made sense, on learning about the formation of tufa barriers – no spoilers here, you’ll have to read on
We wandered down the hill through more forest, paused at a viewpoint over three of the little patchwork lakes to admire more falls bursting from various treelines, took a couple of switchback turns and emerged back onto the tourist route by the edge of Okrugljak lake, where we rejoined the steady flow of visitors.
Upper Lakes: Okrugljak to Galovac
Another curving, handrailed boardwalk granted passage across the green strip of vegetation between small, bright blue Veliko jezero and Batinovac lakes, and I was delighted to see a two-foot long brown snake zipping effortlessly through the clear shallows in a graceful S-shape between roots and reeds.
Having crossed the water, a path took us slightly away from the azure lakes into a rainforest-like area of woodland, then north along the eastern side of Galovac, where an information board taught us how the limestone dams between water levels are actually called “tufas”. They are formed by a gradual build-up of calcium carbonate deposits from moss, invertebrates, bacteria and the blue-green algae that give the water its bright blue colour. These barriers are estimated to be 6,000-7,000 years old and grow at an average rate of 13.5mm per year. It was as if the science behind the landscape was necessarily explained to convince visitors of its reality.
Water tumbled in tens of narrow pillars down the tufa at the head of Galovac, its vertical course replicated by green columns of grass and moss that hung over the side of the dam. Yellow, pink and purple wildflowers climbed the tall, grassy bank below the forest edge, and fallen trees below the water’s surface accentuated its blue clarity, the long forms of their majestic trunks fully visible as they stretched far from the bank. We skirted along the edge of the lake, passing a photogenic trio of goosanders (it was strange to see a UK-dwelling bird in this exotic place), and stopped for our customary holiday lunch of highly processed ham and cheese sandwiches on a fallen tree trunk just off the path, overlooking an irresistible little lagoon.
Veliki Prštavac waterfall and Upper Lakes: Galovac to Kozjak
We didn’t hang around for too long, noting the presence of several large ants, before continuing past the gin clear shallows at the northern end of Galovac. The path took us through a wooded area between lakes, past another high, grassy waterfall and down a steep bank onto a busy, snaking boardwalk between Galovac and Gradinsko, where completely colourless water flowed steadily beneath our feet. We ambled along at the slow pace of the single-file line, approaching the base of 28-metre high Veliki Prštavac, which we’d seen earlier from high in the forest. It had looked quite tranquil from a distance, but proximity betrayed its intensity as white water rushed urgently in a wide, multi-columned wall into the pool below, its fine spray relieving us of the hot sun. Again, vegetation was everywhere: trees grew above the falls, grasses hung low over the edge of the barrier, mosses concealed every inch of rock and rhubarb-leaved water plants (I’m a poor botanist) crammed the edges of clear pools.
We passed a small crowd taking photos of the waterfall and continued on the boardwalk, which twisted tightly between several small, clear pools lined by reeds and slim, pale-trunked trees. Numerous falls poured from forest-topped tufas thick with hanging, trickling grasses and opportunistic shrubs, bursting from every nook and cranny that would take a root, and every inch of ground was covered by what seemed like a hundred different plant species. It was fascinating, and I wished desperately (despite the in-fittingly rustic boardwalk) that I could have seen the park before the age of tourism and slipped into its cool, clear, blue-green waters.
We wandered through this surreal, intensely detailed, prehistoric oasis until the boardwalk straightened along the edge of Gradinsko. A path took us through verdant pine and beech forest to the boat station at the southern end of Kozjak, and after a short wait we boarded and sat at the front of the electric boat as it carved smoothly across a narrow section of the lake past Štefanijin otok island to the eastern bank.
Return from Kozjak
After a quick loo break at a chalet-style café, we set off north on the quiet, shady path back to the park entrance. This trail hugged the eastern edge of the lake, and on clambering onto an overhanging tree for a terribly touristy photo, I – to Ryan’s great amusement – very nearly overbalanced and fell in. I dismounted quickly, muttering something about how a rucksack affects balance, and we continued on the final 4km stretch. Highlights of this last section include a dice snake slithering through the water a couple of feet away from us, more fallen trees emphasising the clarity of the lake, which shelved steeply on this side, and stunning views of waterfall-backed, dazzling blue depths as we climbed into the leafy forest above Milanovac, Gavanovac and Kaluđerovac on a high path parallel to the lakeside route we’d taken that morning.
We reached a viewpoint overlooking the curving boardwalk that crosses the pale turquoise water to Veliki Slap, which was now suffused with a long, moving string of ant-like people. This vantage point gave us a new perspective over the tiered series of green-and-white-dammed lakes stretching up the valley, and it seemed impossible that the high, pale limestone walls on the opposite bank could hold the weight of the immense leafy forest that climbed towards the sky like a long, green afro. Returning to the entrance above that first-described view of Veliki Slap was like being struck by déjà vu, or suddenly remembering a striking dream. I thought that if, even I’d looked over that verdant, rocky, watery basin a thousand times, I’d never not be awestruck.
We tore ourselves away from the view and after a quick peruse of the gift shop, we returned to the car. I expressed my disproportionate fury at paying for seven hours’ parking despite being just a couple of minutes over six, and we started the drive back to Starigrad at 1:30pm.
Journey back to Starigrad
On the return journey, we were astonished by the beautiful countryside that had been concealed by the morning’s fog. For some reason I’d thought the landscape would have been quite arid, but the lush fields, swathes of forest and abundance of shrubs and wildflowers revealed my naivety. Rolling hills and yellow-green meadows all around us were backed by the undulating, forest-covered Velebit mountains, which stretched in a wide panorama across the horizon ahead. Remote farm buildings were scattered thinly across the countryside and we drove past lots of quaint little roadside stalls selling homemade cheese and honey.
We passed through a couple of peaceful-looking villages containing stone churches, several hotels and large buildings painted pastel orange and yellow, guessing nervously at the uncertain speed limit. At the risk of sounding like a naïve British tourist (again), I thought it looked very “European”, not dissimilar to parts of France or Switzerland. We joined the motorway and cruised back to Starigrad, enjoying mountain views the whole way, Ryan’s driving confidence having soared to the point he was willing to overtake the occasional car and sing merrily (if poorly) as the road snaked into the now-familiar little town.
We picked up a couple of supplies from the supermarket and returned to the apartment, where we relaxed for a couple of hours, making the most of the air con. We had our customary dinner of cheap, tasty slop, this time a rudimentary paella with rice, fake sausage and tomato sauce, then headed into town for a swim.
Evening: sea swim and surprise street party
We walked all the way along the pretty seafront, past the market by the main quay, and stopped on a concrete block jutting into the water between small, stony beaches backed by a leafy walkway and a little seafront campsite. I swam around while Ryan watched a snorkeler collect clams and stash them on the beach under (presumably) his mother’s straw hat. The sun dropped into the sea at the foot of the dark, jagged Velebit ridge that stretched behind the town, casting a soft orange glow between the deep, textured blue of the water and the smooth pastel sky. It was indescribably tranquil.
When the sun disappeared, we walked up a quiet street past rustic stone and whitewashed houses, then headed back to the town centre via the main road. It was a very homely place: washing hung in colourful lines from the verandas of terracotta-rooved houses, small, cosy restaurants served pizza and seafood, children of all ages played football in a small, fenced sports court and people congregated in little groups on the pavement, laughing and smoking.
Back at the main quay, which we’d only seen quiet and still under a hot sun, we stumbled into what felt like a random, Wednesday night street festival. It was 9pm but the seafront was alive with lit-up stalls selling all kinds of peculiar little gifts and edible treats. Open-fronted restaurants served food and drink to tables that had popped up across the walkway and people milled around everywhere. We bought a curly fried potato on a stick, which was spicy, salty and greasy but in a delicious way, and listened to an excellent live band that had popped up on a small seafront stage. Children and adults danced to the music and people wandered around left, right and centre with ice creams, pushchairs and dogs on leads. We finally felt like we understood the culture, and it was so charming.
We’d have liked to stay all night, but had ambitious designs on the towering vertical face of Anića Kuk in Paklenica National Park the following day. It would be our first “big wall” climb and we knew that it’d require a good night’s sleep, so we left the party after half an hour. We returned to the apartment, packed our rucksacks and went to bed feeling a strange mix of extreme contentment after our wonderful day, and intense anticipation for what we knew was to follow – “an epic”.
Our apartment was so close to Paklenica National Park that we were desperate to venture there as soon as possible. The plan for the day was to hike for six kilometres up to Manita Peć, a show cave set high in the hills at an altitude of 570m, then to come back down and find some easy sport climbing.
Hiking in Paklenica: trail to Manita Peć
We left at 8:30am and headed toward the dramatic, lumpy skyline of the rocky national park, which was just a 10 minute walk up the road. After a gradual climb, the road curved and dipped down into the mouth of a great canyon and we came to a small building, where we each paid the 20€ fee for three days’ entry to the park – we thought it a bit steep at first, but it later transpired to be well worth the money.
View up the road towards Paklenica
Once inside the park the narrow road followed the gentle curves of the canyon, which cleaved a natural rift between towering hills and vast limestone faces. We walked uphill alongside the Paklenica River, which trickled below us in a leafy valley brimming with all kinds of shrubs and trees, notably fragrant pines and verdant beeches. The constant trill of cicadas saturated the warm air, and after 20 minutes we reached the final small car park and the tarmacked road became a wide, gravel footpath.
The climbing looked wonderful. Vast rock walls rose steeply up on either side of us, spanned by tens of bolted routes – the Klanci area. The gorge was so narrow that the left hand wall could be climbed from the path and the even steeper, higher right hand wall was accessible through a strip of tall beech trees. I’d never been anywhere like it: everything was so high and enormous, yet the canyon was so inescapably steep-sided that it could have felt claustrophobic. I felt exquisitely tiny in that leafy, rocky paradise – even the sky seemed small.
We passed a little gift shop and a toilet block cut into the wall on our left, then the “Underground Secrets of Paklenica”, a visitor centre set in old bunkers built by the Yugoslav army in 1950-53 during the period of political tension between Yugoslavia and the Soviet Union. We didn’t go in as we were so enthralled with the canyon itself, but I wish we’d gone back there.
Shortly after the visitor area, the gravel path became a well-maintained cobbled trail. We continued up it, marvelling at the impossibly high sides of the gorge and the incredible abundance of vegetation despite the apparent lack of soil. We passed a ranger leading a pack horse laden with panniers, somehow navigating the uneven cobbles with nonchalant ease, and followed the path as it wound uphill around jutting rock faces. After 15 minutes we rounded a corner and the gargantuan face of Anića Kuk – the 350m vertical wall we’d eyed the previous day from the Mirila stones –loomed over the valley on our right hand side, and an information board showed the lines of several quite serious climbing routes. In all its dark terror, it planted a seed in our minds, and at that moment we knew – even if we hadn’t yet acknowledged it – that we’d be back there soon. The sight of it was inspiration enough.
Anića Kuk
The trail curved round to the left, through the thickly forested lower reaches of the canyon, and I felt as if I’d never been anywhere so green. I paused to address a blister, then we continued through the canopy for about a kilometre, skirting past families until a sign told us to take a left fork to the cave. From here the path climbed up the left hand side of the gorge, first through more verdant forest, then ascending above the trees in a steep, narrow and increasingly tight switchback that afforded breathtaking views of the canyon, which widened to an immense valley of rock and shrub, with layered peaks stretching left and right across the high, undulating horizon. We revelled in this new, completely unfamiliar landscape.
Manita Peć cave
After a mile of twisting and turning up the hill, overtaking lots of people on the way, we reached a large, distinctive finger of rock that towered into the sky like a church spire, then rounded a corner and arrived at the entrance to the cave. You can only enter as part of a guided group tour, and we arrived just in time to join a group of about 30 people. This was very fortunate, as otherwise we’d have had to wait half an hour until the next lot went in – we were so “just in time” that the guide told us we could pay the 5€ fee after the tour.
Our luck struck again when the guide offered the tour in English or Croatian, and we were surprised when the majority vote was for English. We entered at the back of the line through a narrow passage and descended into the cave, our eyes taking a few minutes to adjust to the darkness, and were led down into an enormous chamber. The group spread along a handrailed walkway that curved around the edge of the chamber, so everyone had a clear view of the vast, open, dimly lit space.
Hundreds of long, sharp stalactites hung from the ceiling like icicles, looking ready to fall at any minute, and lumpy, cactus-like stalagmites rose from the floor as if reaching up to touch them. The guide’s voice rung from across the chamber, and he explained how they grow from carboniferous deposits dissolved in water droplets at a rate of 1mm every 5-10 years, which would make some of the innocuous-looking structures – which were over a metre tall – about 10,000 years old.
We followed the line around the edge of the cave and descended through another low, narrow passage into a second, cathedral-like chamber, which was smaller but even more grandiose, with a high ceiling and walls formed of regular, clumped stalactites and rounded, vertical columns. The rock formations were fascinating: “the witch” brooded in front of us, an irregular mass that looked like a large-nosed woman hunched eerily still in the middle of a room, and the left wall was spanned by “the organ”, a series of multitudinous towering columns stretching from floor to ceiling that resembled organ pipes. I was in awe of the age and grandeur of these natural structures.
Shallow pools of gin clear water spread across the floor, providing a strange habitat for tiny, invisible creatures – incredibly, the barren-looking cave is home to 52 species of invertebrate. While waving a flickering torch over various rock features, the guide explained how this cave had never been inhabited by humans due to its dampness and constant 10 degree temperature – it would have been impossible to heat the space to stay warm and dry. Being English and used to miserable, damp cold, we were just about the only visitors still in shorts and t-shirts, relieved by the coolness of the air.
After half an hour in the blessed cool, we filed back up to the first chamber and out of the narrow entrance into the hot, blinding day, very impressed with the magnificent caves and the engaging tour. We grabbed the guide, who had started attempting to organise the large group milling outside for the next tour, paid our 5€ and slipped past the crowd onto the path we’d come up. Our plan was to return to the Klanci area to climb some of the single pitch sport routes we’d walked past that morning.
Hike down from Manita Peć
We started back down the gravelly switchback, excitedly noting the drop where the loose, rocky valley side fell steeply away to the left of the path. Happy to have made it to the cave in good time (it was only open from 10:00-13:00), we descended at a leisurely pace, taking in the dramatic peaks, faces and drops of the canyon and the lush richness of the forest. We read all the information boards, which told of the park’s abundant flora, fauna and rock formations, and had a budget sandwich (tiny slices of bread, processed cheese and a slice of reformed sausage – surprisingly delicious) on a bench overlooking the valley.
At the bottom of the switchback we plunged into the trees that fill the valley basin and, on our way back through the forest canopy, slipped through a small, natural rock arch to a little clearing just off the path. It was almost too idyllic to be real: an umbrella of young beech leaves glowed green as they shaded us from the burning sun, the Paklenica River flowed smoothly into a crystal clear pool over rounded stones and the vast face of Anića Kuk rose above the trees in the V of the valley under a clear blue sky. I went to investigate a little waterfall below the pool, then found a way of cooling off without undressing or getting my clothes wet – I kneeled in the river, ankles raised on a rock, and submerged my arms in a kind of press-up position, relishing the cool water. We sat here for a few minutes, enjoying the peace, then returned to the path and headed down the valley in search of some climbing.
As I kneeled in the water, my legs disappeared
Sport climbing in the Klanci area
On the way down we stopped to fill a bottle from a pipe in the ground, which provided pure, cold drinking water from the river, scrambled up a large boulder for a clear view of – once again – the mesmerising Anića Kuk, and had a second sandwich while watching some climbers on the steep right hand wall of the Klanci area. After a short rest we left the shade of the tall beech trees and perused the sunny left hand wall for a nice looking, relatively low grade climb. We decided not to spend 30€ on a guidebook as several routes were helpfully named and graded by little triangular plaques at the bottom of the wall. I chose “Banana Split”, an interesting-looking, eight-draw 5c with varied features.
I harnessed up and started the climb while Ryan belayed from the gravel path that runs through the canyon, just down the hill from the little gift shop. We climbed with two 60m half ropes, which we’d bought with Anića Kuk in mind – this was good practice (if a little awkward for a straight-up sport route) as we’re used to a single rope. The rock was solid but quite polished, which made it feel hard for the grade. Luckily I climbed boldly that day and wasn’t bothered by clipping in awkward positions (which is not always the case!). The limestone was different from the Dorset rock we’re used to: there were no dubious-looking loose blocks, small, juggy pockets provided good holds, and random cracks made for interesting, balancey movements and some high feet as I moved left and right up the wall. I thoroughly enjoyed the route, despite having to rest at the final clip after tiring my forearms out looking for holds.
Ryan lowered me to the ground, then led the route up to the last bolt while I, rooted to the belay, batted away a large, bitey looking insect and got to grips with the two ropes and our new mega jul belay device. He couldn’t work out the final sequence to the ramshorn anchor at the top, and after some frustration, much deliberation and the odd bit of swearing, he came down so I could (to my reluctance) re-climb the route and retrieve the quickdraws.
Evening
Unfortunately this knocked Ryan’s confidence, which doesn’t happen often, so we called it a day and silently pondered over Anića Kuk. We headed back down the canyon at 4:30pm and returned to the apartment, where I cooked a memorably good improvised spaghetti carbonara with cream cheese, unthinkably processed sausage, fried tomato and rosemary pinched from a bush on the pavement. We had a frank discussion about Anića Kuk, agreed to postpone until the time felt right, and made plans to get up early the following day to drive to Plitvice Lakes.
That evening we walked down to the seafront and sat on the wall to watch the sunset. I ate fresh plums and apricots, drank more of our new favourite, Somersby cider, and swam around as the sun – which looked much bigger than usual – dipped into the sea. It cast a warm, orange glow over the calm water, and the long, jagged ridge behind Starigrad climbed in a layered, grey-blue haze into Paklenica. I thought once again how lovely everything was.
Garmin got confused in the canyon, hence the squiggliness of the route
Following the stress of preparing for our last minute holiday, it was blissful to wake up in our peaceful Croatian apartment with no urgent responsibilities. I did battle with the window blind and the coffee machine, two of my arch-nemeses (objects that I always struggle to operate, no matter the make/model), and ate cereal while Ryan worked on getting up.
Starigrad town
Our plan was to walk into central Starigrad on a reconnaissance mission – a term I used to help justify a relaxing day in this wild, exciting country – to gather information on the area and obtain a local map. We left the apartment at 9am and headed down the road towards the sea, drinking in everything about the place: the constant croaky hum of cicadas, the generously spaced out buildings, the variety of shrubs and trees, the clean streets and the hot sun. Most houses were painted white or cream, with red tiled rooves, verandas and shuttered windows. The gardens contained large, stone-chimneyed outdoor ovens, seating areas and abundant vegetable patches filled with all kinds of produce, and several residents had set up little stalls selling homemade jams, liqueurs, oils and home-grown fruit and veg. I was instantly sold on the place.
We walked past houses, campsites, cafes, supermarkets, restaurants and a petrol station, all lined up along the main E65 road through the long, narrow town, which is sandwiched between the Velebit mountains and a large inlet of the Adriatic Sea. On reaching the town centre we were drawn straight to the water, which was calm and impossibly clear. Little boats were moored in little quays and a small tourist market spread along the wide waterfront walkway, but – unlike other places we’ve visited – nobody tried to draw us in, despite our apparently obvious Englishness (throughout the week lots of people greeted us with “hello” rather than the Croatian “dobar dan”).
Remembering our mission, we peeled away from the inviting water and headed for the tourist information centre across the road. We picked up some leaflets and free maps, which we perused on a little wall outside. One of them described a 3-mile circular hike from Starigrad to the Mirila, a series of stone monuments in the Velebit foothills dedicated to the departed relatives of local people. I pitched the idea to Ryan, who must have inwardly rolled his eyes before agreeing.
Starigrad-Mirila hiking trail
We returned to the little market to buy a much-needed pair of sunglasses each, then headed up a peaceful, residential street to the start of the hike, examining the sun-drenched, productive, leafy gardens along the way. We followed a quiet road which climbed above the town, tried some not-quite-ripe fruit from a wild fig tree, and stopped at a viewpoint to gaze contentedly at the view. Orange rooves sprawled among lush trees, and we looked across the flat, blue water to the stretch of semi-arid mainland on the other side of the inlet. In, that moment, we knew that the hassle of travelling was well worthwhile.
We left the road and took a narrow gravel trail into the Velebit foothills and Paklenica National Park. It didn’t take long for me to regret – for once – wearing flip flops, as they became quite greasy under my hot feet and much of the route involved balancing across large, uneven boulders, but the karst limestone was too sharp to go barefoot. This, however, wasn’t my main concern: I was busy concentrating on not being bitten, having glimpsed a sandy brown snake (which I retrospectively identified as probably a balkan whip or aesculapian – both non-venomous) slither into a crevice a few metres away.
I struggled along, holding Ryan up for once, but I was far too happy to turn back. The way was marked by intermittent red paint on the rocks and required some careful route-finding – at one point we lost it in a boulderfield, so Ryan acted as scout while I examined a snakeskin and fended off a large hornet. We were keen not to stray as I’d read of unexploded land mines off the trails within Paklenica, but thankfully we regained the path and continued up the hill. I developed a snake-scaring tactic, which involved picking up handfuls of stones and tossing them onto the path a short way ahead to frighten off any lurking creatures prior to the arrival of my feet – this seemed to work, as apart from a few scratches I remained unscathed and unbitten.
After about a mile of this precarious fun we reached the mirila stones, which are set in a kind of basin between the hills of Mali Vitrenik and Veliki Vitrenik. This was our first taste of Paklenica’s beautiful wilderness: high, rounded hills of pale grey rock and dark green shrub dominated the landscape and the valley ahead of us brimmed with lush vegetation, filled with the ever-present buzz of cicadas. The bare, 350m vertical face of Anica Kuk instantly drew our attention, rising prominently above the valley and looking – from a climber’s point of view – both ominous and irresistible. We perceived (correctly, as we’d find out that coming Thursday) that Paklenica would become a very special place.
The stones themselves are small and so in-fitting that they could almost be missed among the textured, busy scenery. They were placed by the people of the mountain hamlets in the 17th to 20th centuries in memory of their loved ones, and the tradition was that the bodies must be carried there without stopping – a strenuous task – to greet the sun for the last time. Stone tablets were laid at the head and feet (the people must have been quite short), carved with various symbols, then the bodies were returned to local graveyards. It was believed that the souls of the deceased would remain at the site of the mirila, which the families visited more often than the actual graves.
There were several of these stones dotted around a small area, and I found the markings – mostly circles and crosses, some celtic-looking – mysterious and very interesting. It felt serene, poignant and strangely humbling, and I informed Ryan of my desire for a similar ritual in the event of my inevitable snake-induced demise.
After a thorough and respectful poke around we headed back down another rocky path towards Starigrad. I was interrupted during a “wild wee” (as my mum calls it) by the jingling of a large, multicoloured goatherd passing across the valley above us, led by a tanned, bare-chested man wielding a crook, the first person we’d seen since setting out on the mountain trail. The way down was otherwise uneventful and very pleasant, save for my continued struggle across rocks in sweaty flip flops, which I had to fix a few times after pulling the strap through the sole – this was very frustrating.
We were back on tarmac after about a mile, and as we walked through quiet streets we observed yet more thriving vegetable gardens thick with tomatoes, cucumbers, melons, grapevines and – strangely, I thought – cabbages. I was delighted to find a scarce swallowtail butterfly, retrospectively identified, basking on the street, with large, zebra-striped wings and two long tail points. We returned to the town centre and went straight to the sea for a dip.
First swim
The waterfront at Starigrad was unlike any I’ve seen. A wall stretched along the length of the perfect little town, with a 4-5 foot drop down to the clear, blue water, and the walkways were peppered with trees, flowers, benches and bins. Small, square concrete sections jutted into the sea at regular intervals, providing moorings for several boats, separated by slipways and little grey pebble beaches. Because the front was broken up in this way, it never felt too busy despite lots of people – mostly Croatians on holiday, it seemed – having set up inflatable mats (there was no sand) and towels.
We followed a wide walkway from the little tourist market to a small, empty beach between two mooring blocks and settled on the wall. Houses, a small restaurant and a pretty cream church were set back from the water on the other side of a quiet road, and I watched a young man on a moped cross himself as he rode past – the majority of Croatian people are Catholic.
I was in the sea within minutes and wore flip flops until it was deep enough to swim, as I’d read of painful sea urchins and noticed that children, paddleboarders and bobbers-around were all wearing water shoes. Once treading water I awkwardly fastened them to my bikini, then went exploring. The water was mild – a great relief in the 30 degree heat – and incredibly clear. Little fish shoaled and sniffed around, avoiding me, and I could see spiky urchins and squishy anemones among the pebbles at the bottom. Warm and cool currents came and went as I swam about, and I didn’t get far from the shore before it got too deep to see the bottom.
A balmy afternoon/evening
After my dip I munched crisps on the wall while Ryan bobbed around, then we headed back to the apartment via a little climbing shop, where I bought a map of Paklenica. We drank fruity cider and had an early dinner of sheep cheese ravioli (delicious), then sat out on the veranda and did our first real bit of holiday planning. We sprawled maps, leaflets and books across the table, ate slices of melon and came up with a rough itinerary for the rest of the trip.
In the evening we walked up the road towards the official entrance to Paklenica, which was just 15 minutes from our apartment. Its towering, lumpy rock faces loomed invitingly above the large houses on the outskirts of the town, where locals lounged on verandas as they watched the world go by and enjoyed the balmy air. A series of old stone buildings sat quaintly below the vast backdrop of the national park, the town’s final outpost before the great, rocky canyon that cleaves southern Paklenica in two, and people drank on a square of decking under a leafy tree. There was a lovely, quiet buzz of community where everybody seemed to spend the evening casually socialising outdoors, rather than tucked up in their homes.
We turned left onto a quiet, leafy road and returned to the seafront along attractive residential streets, noting again how spaced out the houses were – no greedy developers rubbed their hands together for a few square feet in this undefiled place. We stood on the sea wall and watched the sun dip behind smooth lilac clouds, then fall into the flat sea at the toe of a long, jagged mountain ridge that rose up high behind the town. In finding Starigrad, we’d stumbled across a little slice of paradise.
At the time of beginning this post (11 July), if you’d told me two weeks ago that we were about to spend a week in Croatia, I’d hardly have believed it. We found out on Friday 23 June that Ryan had managed to get annual leave for the first week of July and my work confirmed the following Wednesday. This was excellent news, as on Tuesday night we’d booked the cheapest flights we could find from Bournemouth airport – we were off to Zadar, Croatia, that coming Sunday.
We’d had minimal planning time as I was at a conference all week, but in the evenings we’d managed to book flights, accommodation and – with some difficulty – car hire. Ryan picked me up from Salisbury train station on Saturday afternoon and we rushed to Southampton to collect a Croatia climbing book from a friend and buy a pair of 60m half ropes, having discovered that Zadar County is a renowned destination for climbers. To say that packing was stressful is an understatement: the evening was spent – not without argument – trying to squeeze two 3kg ropes, a bunch of climbing equipment (the majority of which is metal), hiking gear and (minimal) clothing into our 20kg hold bag and two small cabin rucksacks.
Sunday 2 July
Our friend Cam picked us up at 9am and dropped us off at the airport, full of nervousness about the weight of the hold bag and size of the cabin bags. Fortunately both were fine, but on realising that I might have left a very much prohibited lighter in a pouch of hiking stuff, I spent the entire two-and-a-half hour flight expecting that our hold bag wouldn’t turn up in Croatia. After a stressful wait, we flew at 1pm, landed at 4:30 local time, and were immensely relieved when our bag appeared on the conveyor belt.
First impressions were good: towards the end of the flight I’d caught glimpses of multitudinous islands, azure sea and sprawling mountains from my aisle seat at the front of the plane, and Zadar airport was pleasantly tiny and clean. We sat on a grassy patch at the front of the airport as we waited until 6pm to pick up our hire car, and I spent the whole time marvelling at lizards, snails, bugs, moths, pine cones, cacti, flowery shrubs and long trains of large ants making their way up and down the pine trees that shaded us from the warm sun.
We picked up our pre-booked car at 6pm, and – although the rental man was very friendly – we were once again racked with anxiety at the revelation of having to put down a €1,100 deposit, at least some of which we’d lose in the event of anything happening to the brand new Renault Clio – even a tiny scratch – due to paying with a debit card. We were quite unlucky in this regard, as we were hard-pressed to find a hire place that accepted debit cards: I have a credit card but unfortunately my driving licence expired a couple of weeks before and I hadn’t yet been able to renew it thanks to DVLA’s hopeless systems, but Ryan only had a debit card, which meant we ended up paying about £100 more than if a) my licence was valid, or b) he had a credit card. I’m waffling on about this because it remains a sore subject. Lesson learnt: use a credit card in the driver’s name to hire cars abroad.
Spot the lizardSpot the antsA terrible selection of wildlife photography, captured as we waited to collect the car
The 45 minute drive through rural Zadar County to Starigrad, the town where we were staying, would have been interesting and far more enjoyable if we weren’t reeling from the pressure of not damaging the car. Ryan had never driven on the “wrong” side of the road before and found it very strange at first, mainly getting the road positioning right – I found the same thing when I drove abroad for the first time in the Alps. Being so new and fancy, the car kept emitting beeps seemingly at random, which we later discovered was an indication that he was straying towards the lines at the edge of the road. Speed limit signs were few and far between, and for the first time in, I believe, his entire life, he welcomed some gentle back-seat driving.
We stopped at a supermarket on the way, parking as far from the entrance as possible in order to preserve the car. We were yet to realise how welcoming and friendly the Croatian people are, and felt very conspicuous and foreign among aisles of unfamiliar cheeses, meats and dry goods. We picked up some supplies, including fruit, pasta, bread, a kilogram of dubious-looking reformed sausage, cheap cheese, cheaper wine, frozen seafood risotto for that evening and crisps of an unidentifiable flavour, and continued our journey to Starigrad.
Screenshot of a video of the fresh counter, found in most supermarketsA limited selection of photos showing the drive between the airport and Starigrad – I spent most of the time gripping the edge of the seat in poorly concealed abject terror
We arrived at our accommodation at 8pm and were greeted by our host, a smiling Croatian lady who barely spoke a word of English but welcomed us warmly, showed us into our apartment, taught me how to pronounce “hvala” (thank you) after I clearly failed miserably, indicated that an unlabelled glass bottle of thick, dark red liquid was a gift for us, then returned to the ground floor veranda where she’d been sitting out with her family. On her leaving, we decided that the liquid was a kind of cherry brandy. The apartment was perfect: a simple, clean bedroom with a little kitchen and bathroom in a family home, the first floor of which had been split into three apartments. It felt like an authentic stay in a Croatian house, with the added advantage of privacy – we were free to come and go as we pleased without disturbing anyone, as the first floor had its own staircase and veranda looking down onto the street below, which was quiet except for the constant trill of cicadas. With the car parked safely on the drive, we finally relaxed.
I cooked seafood risotto with chunks of the mysterious sausage for dinner and we crashed on the huge bed, exhausted by the stress of overcoming various travelling hurdles and relieved at the effectiveness of the room’s air conditioning unit. After the last minute planning, rushing around to collect climbing gear, packing stress, airport stress, lighter-in-bag concerns, car anxiety and anticipation of finding our accommodation as we’d hoped it to be, we could scarcely believe that we’d made it to Croatia. Our holiday had begun.
Taken the day we left, hence Ryan’s glum expressionOur accommodation
After an active couple of days skiing at the Lecht and climbing Aladdin’s Couloir, we decided to have a rest day exploring new places and giving Ryan’s sore-looking new blisters a chance to heal (graphic photo at the end of this post). From our scenic overnight spot overlooking Glenmore Forest, we drove a couple of minutes up the hill to Cairngorm ski centre, had a quick look in the large, cosy, chalet-style café, decided it was too expensive and headed back down into Aviemore. On the way we gave a hitchhiker with a broken boot a lift back to his accommodation in Glenmore Forest, then parked at Tesco and treated ourselves to a couple of tasty pies from Ashers bakery.
Loch Garten nature reserve
Ryan was keen to show me the nature reserve at Loch Garten and I was even more keen to go, so we left Aviemore (a little reluctantly, as usual) and drove 20 minutes north to the RSPB car park. Unfortunately the visitor centre was closed, but we walked up to it through mossy, lichen-covered pine forest and watched an incredible number of great, blue and coal tits feast on huge bird feeders. I was delighted when a brave coal tit landed briefly on my outstretched hand, and I wished I’d saved him some pie. I didn’t see any crested tits but I managed some relatively awful photos of the other tits and chaffinches, although I missed the greater spotted woodpecker – my wildlife photography skills could be improved:
We returned to the car park and enjoyed the Big Pines trail, which was a half-mile, there-and back footpath through the “best bits” of the forest according to the information board. It took us past some huge Scots pines which towered over a thick canopy forest on the edge of wild Loch Garten, and I was captivated by the abundance of thriving vegetation. Feeling very tranquil and (excuse the cliché) in touch with nature, we went back to the van once again and decided to head north through what was for us an uncharted part of Scotland, to the former city of Elgin.
Leaving the Cairngorms
The drive began through the northern Cairngorms, where huge grazing fields and swathes of heathland stretched between thick forests beneath rolling hills. These levelled out slightly after the pretty town of Grantown-on-Spey, and once we’d left the national park the sprawling, agricultural landscape, dotted with occasional buildings, seemed incredibly vast compared with England’s densely packed fields. We passed through the unremarkable-looking town of Forres and arrived at Elgin after just over an hour’s drive.
Elgin town
We refuelled and parked at a very busy big Tesco in the middle of Elgin town. A short walk took us onto the high street, which was old and pretty – if slightly tired – and featured a large, tiered fountain, a toga-clad statue and an impressive, six-columned church plonked in the middle of the cobbles. The yellowish-grey buildings reminded me of Inverness and the town had a pleasant buzz. Ryan grabbed some more blister plasters from Boots and we wandered towards the cathedral, stopping briefly at a couple of estate agent windows to contemplate buying a larger, cheaper, closer-to-the-mountains house than our own, and wondering why on earth anyone (including us) would choose to live in southern England rather than northern Scotland.
Elgin Cathedral
The cathedral is near the middle of the town at the end of a long, straight path that runs alongside a large, grassy park. Although most of the nave has collapsed, leaving only foundations, its two tall, graceful towers stand at the entrance, a slightly wistful reminder of architecture’s lost majesty. It was free for us to enter thanks to my English Heritage life membership (an 18th birthday gift from my incredibly generous cousin) and we wandered around for half an hour.
The two towers contained several round, high-ceilinged rooms full of old sculptures and features salvaged from the ruin, and we climbed to the top of one up a spiral stone staircase for an excellent view of Elgin and its relatively flat surroundings. To get there we went through a tiny door and walked between the towers via a narrow first or second floor passage, and it was interesting looking at the ruins to work out where other passages would have connected the various parts of the building. While we were up the tower the air smelt like rain, so we descended and shot around the rest of the cathedral.
Back on the ground it was clear where several vast columns would have supported the roof of the nave, which is now carpeted by grass and surrounded by gravestones. We walked over to the well-preserved octagonal chapter house, went inside and marvelled at its intricate arched ceiling (I’m mind-blown by our ancestors’ understanding of physics), whizzed round the rest of the grounds, where old walls stood in varying states of ruin, and left just as the deluge came.
We got utterly drenched on the 15-minute walk back to the van, although nipping into Lidl for some rugby drinks gave a moment’s respite. We’d had the audacity to venture out without waterproofs during a Scottish winter, which is a mistake I’ve made before and I’ll certainly make again. Fortunately our plans for the rest of the day involved a fair bit of driving, which gave me the chance to dry my soggy fleece.
Findhorn Foundation
From Elgin it was a 20-minute drive through flat, arable land to the Findhorn Foundation, which is situated down a long, straight road between the wide River Findhorn and Findhorn Beach. I’d read about this “ecovillage and spiritual community” online and was fascinated by the concept of an alternative type of society based around self-sufficiency and communal living. We turned right into the village and immediately it felt like a kind of holiday park, with lots of signs, narrow, tarmacked tracks, pine trees, communal buildings and a bizarrely eclectic mix of houses, huts and chalets in all shapes and sizes made from wood, stone and corrugated metal.
Findhorn Beach
We felt a bit guilty and intrusive as we drove around the Foundation, so didn’t stay long before turning back onto the long, straight road towards the pretty, coastal, almost Cornish-looking Findhorn village. We did an accidental lap around the cottage-lined streets before finding the turning for the beach, then parked up and headed over some rolling sand dunes to the edge of the North Sea.
It was grey, on-off rainy and very atmospheric. The top half of the beach was a raised stretch of smooth, multicoloured pebbles, backed by grassy dunes and a row of brightly coloured beach huts, and the bottom half was a vast, flat stretch of compact golden sand where water sat in shallow channels left by the retreating tide. The sea was calm and dark grey beneath a moody sky, which accentuated the colours of the sand and the huts, and everything was cold, wild and tranquil.
Having got sufficiently wet and chilly on our beach trip we returned to the van over the dunes, which were thick with rippling, butter-coloured grass and dark green gorse, and started our journey west. We’d finished in the Cairngorms and planned to travel across the country to do some hiking, climbing and exploring in the wilderness of the northwest highlands. We travelled along the main A96 road through Forres, Nairn and Inverness and it was dark by the time we arrived at Loch Glascarnoch, halfway between the east and west coasts of the Highlands, about an hour and a half later.
Evening
We pulled up for the night in a large roadside layby overlooking the dark, mountain-backed loch. Despite my best efforts to stream the England-Scotland six nations game I’d failed to find a way to watch the whole thing as it had already finished (thanks ITV), so we got by – having accidentally seen the score on whatsapp group chats and news headlines – watching the highlights. This was frustrating, although at least England lost (classic England – they did the same the previous year when we watched the opening game in a pub in Aviemore). Once the rugby was over we had dinner, assessed Ryan’s blister situation and planned the following day’s outing: a hike up nearby Ben Wyvis.
Waking up amongst the great, wild hills of the western Cairngorms never gets any less special, particularly with the view we had over the vast, dark forests of Rothiemurcus and Glenmore. Our plan for the day was to park at the nearby Cairn Gorm ski centre, hike into Coire an t-Sneachda and climb Aladdins Couloir, a Grade I winter route. We’d ticked off our first winter climb at Sneachda last year (Jacobs Ladder) and had really enjoyed it, so we were keen to develop our experience on snow and ice.
Walk in to Coire an t-Sneachda
We packed our bags, drove a couple of minutes up the hill and set off from the ski centre car park. I was slightly ratty at the fact it was approaching 10am as I’d have liked to start earlier, partly because I was worried about getting stuck behind another group on Aladdins Couloir (as we had on Jacobs Ladder) and partly because I’d quietly considered attempting to climb two routes in the corrie that day, or “nip up” a nearby mountain (Braeriach, 1296m) “on our way back” to the van. It wasn’t long before Ryan expressed concern that he might develop a blister, but – perhaps a little sensitive to my delay-induced mild irritability – he refused my offer of compeed. Unfortunately that is not the end of the story.
The hike into Coire an t-Sneachda is, as approaches to winter climbing routes go, short and easy, being only a couple of straight-ish miles. We followed the clear path south to the corrie, which climbed gradually up a sweeping, heathery valley. Behind us, the Cairngorm plateau dropped away to reveal the misty swathes of forest, loch and valley around Aviemore, backed by faint rolling hills that were now shrouded in cloud. We rounded a corner and Sneachda appeared ahead, a dead-end, three-sided bowl, its dark, jagged face streaked with the bright white seams of icy gullies and irregular snow patches.
From a distance we eyed up Aladdins Couloir, which follows a wide, kinked gully wrapped around the left side of Aladdin’s Buttress, a distinctive, triangular mass of rock. Along with Jacobs Ladder it’s one of the most obvious lines up the corrie face, and probably the most central. The path ended and we scrambled across a large, awkward boulderfield at the base of the wall, stopped on the last bit of flat ground and prepared to climb. This involved pulling on harnesses, crampons and helmets, selecting an arsenal of climbing nuts and slings to use as rock protection, attaching ourselves together by a short length of rope, extracting our ice axes and – on Ryan’s part – finally affixing a blister plaster.
Aladdin’s Couloir
We’d passed several groups on the hike in, so I wasn’t surprised that we found ourselves behind four other people heading up this popular, low grade route. From the boulderfield, the approach to the gully is a snow slope which, although steep and unprotected, was firm and reliable underfoot, and we caught up with the group quite quickly. Three of them had stopped on reaching the first proper belay position, which was on the left wall at the base of the gully about 100 metres up the snow slope. With that belay spot unavailable, we checked they were happy for us to climb past and continued on, moving across the wide gully to the right wall to avoid sending any loose rocks or ice chunks down onto them.
Two factors contributed to our spontaneous decision to solo the route: firstly there were no obvious placements in the rock to set up a belay, and secondly (and more importantly) we immediately felt so comfortable moving on the firm snow that we simply didn’t feel it necessary to use the rope we’d brought. The gully looks intimidating face-on, but it’s actually far from sheer – much more of a steep slide than a vertical wall, and the gradient was consistent. Decision made, we traversed from the right wall into the middle, carefully climbed over the other group’s rope (which was draped across the width of the gully), passed the fourth climber and headed upwards.
I settled into a steady rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, kicking the front points of each crampon into the ground, burying the tip of my single axe with a flick of my right wrist, planting my left fist for stability and repeating. If I wasn’t happy with a foot or axe placement I’d pause and reposition, although it felt so solid that this was probably unnecessary – two constant points of contact would have been plenty. Although it was steep – an unarrested fall would have sent me and perhaps Ryan, who was below me, careening down towards the rocks below – the movement felt natural and the position stable, so we were quite happy working our way up the firm but yielding snow, occasionally resting by angling our knees into the slope and leaning in.
When we were halfway up, the gully veered right and steepened slightly. We passed what looked like a small, frozen waterfall and continued all the way up to the lip at the top, which we pulled over at 12:15, 40 minutes after setting off up the snow slope. On our right the towering, rocky spire of Aladdin’s Seat teetered over the sheer wall of Aladdin’s Buttress, as if threatening to fall all the way down into the corrie, and two friendly climbers rested below it.
Hike back
On emerging from the gully, the Cairngorm plateau appeared in its usual character: a barren, wide, foggy wilderness strewn with small, grey boulders and a strange, soil-like covering of fine, reddish stones. I pulled off my crampons and put away my unused climbing gear, feeling a little victorious. However, although we were thrilled with the Couloir, Ryan’s heel blisters had become quite established during the climb, which dampened both our moods as we moved through the Mars-like landscape – Ryan’s because he was in pain, and mine because my secret scheme (to climb Braeriach or another route in the corrie) had been thwarted.
Fortunately the dramatic, dark face of Sneachda dropped away steeply to our right and made for easy navigation – we followed the edge for a mile or so up a gentle gradient to Cairn Lochan (1215m) , then around and down the long, sweeping ridge that forms the corrie’s west side. Interestingly Ryan and I had picked different battles: mine, without crampons, was ice, and his, with crampons, was rock. I’m still not sure who was right – there was a lot more rock, but the icy patches were so slippery that at one point I held my arms out and the strong southwesterly wind caught me like a sail, sending me sliding slowly backwards. I had a couple of minor slips coming down the ridge, one necessitating a fairly casual ice axe arrest, and I quietly wondered if I should have left the crampons on, although with hindsight I still think they would have been more hassle on rock than my boots were on ice – and I didn’t want to blunt them.
The combination of blisters, fog, wind and frustrating terrain rendered the four miles back from Aladdin’s Couloir bleak and relatively miserable, save for Ryan’s sighting of a couple of ptarmigans. Nevertheless we made it down from the plateau in fairly good time and returned to the van along the easy Ben Macdui path. Unfortunately I don’t have many photos of the way back because I managed to lock myself out of my phone for an hour, having left it in a damp pocket.
Loch Morlich
From Cairngorm ski centre we drove for 20 minutes into Aviemore for a few supplies, then back to Loch Morlich for a scenic late lunch. The loch is about a kilometre square, conveniently located on the Glenmore road and nestled between the immense, merging forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus. We pulled off the road and parked on the north bank, where a few camera-wielding birdwatchers were keenly eyeing something through large telescopes. The little car park afforded lovely views across the water and above the trees to the edge of the Cairngorm plateau, and our moods were lifted further at the prospect of some hot soup and bread.
I scrambled into the back of the van, assembled the dubious kitchen setup, heated some tinned Scotch broth for Ryan and made myself a much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich. Hunger and associated irritability dissipated, and I grabbed my binoculars and approached the water in search of whatever the birdwatchers had spotted. I returned shortly with a humble report on a few lethargic mallard ducks.
Evening
The blister-gate scandal meant that further physical activity was off the cards for the rest of the afternoon, so after a brief excursion back to Aviemore to post a house key to Ryan’s brother – who, in the process of feeding Ryan’s fish, had locked his key inside the house – we drove back up to our favourite overnight spot below the ski centre and did some planning. I cooked gnocchi in a tomato sauce with miscellaneous leftovers for dinner and we spent the evening in the usual way, scattering the van with an assortment of maps and books and checking the weather forecast at far-too-regular intervals. Contentment manifest.
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.
Map showing the whole 12-day trip (home is the pink arrow)Day 1: section of trip covered in this post
Brecon Beacons, 26 August 2022: Redefining “crazy Friday nights”
August was a sad month owing to the long-put-off but inevitable sale of Björn, my beloved campervan. I felt tethered, having tasted the freedom that comes with van life, so I was looking forward to a bank holiday weekend spent camping with friends in the Brecon Beacons.
Björn the Bold 😥
Ryan and I headed up in an accidental convoy with Gus (who has featured in my blog previously) and his girlfriend Dan, after realising 20 minutes from home that they were in the car behind us. The journey was uneventful apart from a long-awaited McDonalds and a stunning sunset as we crossed the Prince of Wales Bridge. We entered Wales, got past the drabness of Newport (sorry Newport) and drove across the National Park, which became darker and wilder as we moved further west. We crossed a moor, navigated the steep, snaking, dead-end road to the small car park for Llyn y Fan Fach, hauled our crammed rucksacks out the boot and set off hiking just after 10pm.
I already felt immersed in the mountains. The car park sat in a narrow valley between high, rugged hillsides whose jet black silhouettes stood beneath a star-spattered sky, and the air was still and quiet. Our plan was to hike up to a bothy by Llyn y Fan Fach, spend the night there, and set off early in the morning for a 14.5mi/23km loop around the Camarthen Fans, the distinctive flat-topped mountains of the western Beacons.
To reach the bothy we walked up a gravel track that ran parallel to a river between long, high hillsides for 2km. At one point we turned our torches off (curiosity is a strange thing) and were plunged into a blackness so thick that it was quite disorientating. The path was uphill all the way but easy to follow and we reached our accommodation after about half an hour.
The bothy is a simple stone hut on the flat northern edge of Llyn y Fan Fach. I have a feeling that within bothy circles it’s known as being one of the less pleasant ones to stay in, probably because of its prominent location by a popular lake and its slightly disconcerting graffiti. At least “english BASTARDS”, which was sprayed on the wall last time Ryan and I stayed there, had been mostly removed.
Photo of the bothy from our last trip (October 2020)Thankfully the decor has been updated
Its single room is big enough to sleep about 12 people (if you like each other) and has a squat wooden door held in place by a rock, benches along two walls, a small fireplace in the corner and a beamed ceiling that we attached a lamp to. We were immensely relieved to find it empty as we didn’t fancy spending the night with strangers, let alone ones who might consider us “english BASTARDS” – if it had been occupied and we didn’t like its occupants, we’d have had to hike back down to the cars to get the tents. We dumped our bags, set up our mats and sleeping bags on the floor and went out into the night to assess our position.
We climbed just above the bothy to the wall of a large concrete dam overlooking the lake. It was shockingly empty, presumably as a result of the summer drought; I’ve only ever seen it full of glassy, dark water, which in daylight reflects the colossal escarpment stretching high above and along its far bank, so I was a bit sad to see only a huge, deep crater of mud and concrete. In addition there was a load of construction/engineering work going on along the path up and along the edge of the lake, but that didn’t really bother us as we couldn’t see the temporary fences and assorted debris in the dark, so it was wild enough.
The dry lake and construction debris were more than made up for when we looked back towards the valley we’d walked up, over the roof of the bothy. We’d gained about 220m elevation on the hike up, which meant that the silhouettes of the huge black hills all around us had shrunk – apart from the huge, dark escarpment towering over the lake – to reveal a wide, clear, impossibly starry sky. We stood and stared, feeling incredibly small, then went back inside to try and get some sleep.
We shared Gus’s mead and settled in, four in a row. I felt a bit like a kid at a sleepover. Just before we turned the light off there was an exclamation from the vicinity of Gus that went something like “there’s a bat!”, which I giggled at and put down to his excitement, until I too spotted a shadow flitting across the ceiling. For some reason this was very funny and we watched it fly around for a while, although just for good measure we reassured each other that even Welsh bats don’t suck blood and no harm would come to us from sharing the bothy with a bat. The light went off about midnight and none of us slept much, but at least we didn’t come across any bothy-dwelling murderers.
curiousgnome 