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.
We packed up, had one last breakfast with mum, dad and Angus and left the campsite at 8.30am. Saying goodbye to them always puts a little lump in my throat because I’m secretly a bit soft, particularly when we’d just spent such an amazing week together, so we hastened to plunge ourselves into the mountains for one last day of adventure. They were to drive home that day but we’d booked the following day off work, so the plan was to return to Napes Needle – the iconic rock pinnacle on Great Gable where we’d climbed a couple of days previously – this time to climb the classic trad route “Needle Ridge”, summit the mountain, hike across to tick off its neighbour Kirk Fell, then drive home that evening.
Hike up Great Gable (899m)
We drove deep into the dramatic Wasdale valley one last time and parked again at Wasdale Head. Great Gable loomed ahead in all its distinctive pyramidal glory, its dark, jagged upper reaches calling to us with the siren song unique to high and distant horizons. Loaded with rucksacks full of metal and rope, we hiked the easy, flat mile to its base, then started up its steep southwestern face.
Having already hiked up to Napes Needle, we were prepared for what was coming: a long, steady march up a steep grassy path to gain 450m of elevation in just one kilometre. Green fells surrounded us like towering, frozen, rolling waves, their sweeping, curved edges pitted with rocks, scrub and streams that cut across the surface like long scars. Kirk Fell loomed to the left beyond an impassably steep ravine of grass and scree, which actualised the scale of our undertaking – in terms of vertical elevation gain/loss our first 450m would be followed by a five pitch rock climb for another 350m to the summit of Great Gable, then a descent of 300m to a col between the mountains, then a climb of another 200m to summit Kirk Fell, then a loss of 700m to return to Wasdale. That’s a lot of up and down.
We reached the scree slopes two thirds of the way up the mountain after an hour’s walk, keeping a keen eye out for the practically non-existent path towards Napes Needle. We were eager to take a less treacherous route than we had done previously but I’m not sure if we actually found it. Paths can’t easily be spotted where they run across loose, steep, uneven rocks, changeable terrain where boots leave no mark, so our scrabble along the mountainside was no less perilous and awkward than before. Thankfully we were now vaguely familiar with the triangular pinnacles and seemingly endless grey rock faces of Great Gable’s southern face, so finding Napes Needle was more straightforward than last time and we breathed a sigh of relief as its distinctive form came into view.
NeedleRidge
We scrambled up to the base of the Needle, geared up and as is typical of fickle mountain weather, it started raining – that light but cold and deceptively wet kind of rain. It had been cloudy and dry until then, and we willed it to stop – climbing slippery rock is unpleasant at best. Deciding to push on before it got too wet, Ryan led the first pitch at his own request, which was probably the trickiest due to its polished, slabby nature and seeping rock. Thankfully the rain stopped as he clung to the marginally less slippery left hand side of the slab, struggling a little to find a good gear placement, then pulled through the crux to both our relief. While belaying I chatted to another couple of climbers who had turned up, then I followed up the first pitch, which was easy but admittedly a fairly bold lead due to the polished, damp surface.
The climb was graded a comfortable VDiff so we didn’t bother changing into climbing shoes – our comfy, grippy approach shoes were fine. Rather than belaying at the points shown in the climbing guide, we lengthened the pitches for the sake of speed and ease, choosing the ledges and flat sections (of which there were plenty) that seemed most sensible to us. This made the climbing more natural and allowed us to get way ahead of the other two climbers, reducing the risk of sending rocks tumbling towards them and ensuring we didn’t hold them up. I led the second pitch, an enjoyable venture up a steep crack followed by a scramble over blocky rock, and we continued in this way, alternating leads all the way up the ridge.
We absolutely love classic climbing routes due to their long, adventurous, committing nature, inspiring history, exciting exposure and exclusive views only attainable by those who love the mountains enough to truly immerse themselves. Wasdale sprawled below us, the far reaches of glassy Wast Water almost touching the horizon, and the rugged, hulking Scafell Pike range sat across the steep, deep valley of Lingmell Beck beyond the crinkly, green shoulders of Lingmell. We were so immersed in the landscape that we barely noticed the pitches going by, and before we knew it we were at what is described in the book as pitch 5, a 40m scramble along the final part of the ridge. This last section didn’t really involve any climbing so we de-harnessed, flagged the rope and effectively free soloed along a long, narrow stretch of rock and grass, moving quickly along the undulating ridgeline. It was easy but exposed, with a serious drop off either side, and lots of fun.
We pulled up onto Great Gable, whose summit is a sea of loose boulders, and walked a short way to the top, marked by a cairn and a plaque commemorating local mountaineers lost in the First World War. We sat and stared at the panoramic view of rolling fells, chatted to some hikers, then made our way down the mountain’s east side. The path was steep, awkward and almost indistinguishable among the litany of unhelpful rocks, and our knees were relieved when we reached the relatively flat col between Great Gable and Kirk Fell. We stopped here to talk to a 70+ year old solo hiker with an astoundingly long, difficult-sounding itinerary, passed the nearly-empty Beckhead Tarn, and started up the side of Kirk Fell.
Kirk Fell (802m)
It was a grassy, minimally rocky ascent up an easy but steep path to the top of Kirk Fell, a shapely mountain with smooth, regular slopes in comparison with its jagged neighbour. We made it up in about 30 minutes and stopped at the plateau on top to munch some Grasmere gingerbread, chat to a friendly northerner assessing a small mountain leader group and admire the breathtaking rolling landscape from our last summit of the trip. We looked down on the tiny buildings and patchwork fields of Wasdale Head directly below and reluctantly gathered ourselves for the final descent.
The path led us straight down the south face of the mountain in one sustained line and was long, very steep and at times quite awkward for our well-worked legs. It involved a combination of grassy “steps” and loose rocks, which required careful route-picking to avoid starting mini rockfalls, and was only a mile long but with over 700m elevation loss. Wasdale Head seemed not to get any bigger until the gradient eased slightly and the cricket-to-football-sized boulders were replaced by a sea of ferns split by a wide, grassy path – the home straight. We went through a gate at the bottom, trees rose up around us and suddenly we were back at the Wasdale Head Inn, where the babbling of an idyllic, picture-postcard stream signified the end of our time in the high fells.
We returned to the car feeling quite wistful and started for home about 4pm. It was a lovely drive out of the Lakes across the undulating eastern moors, followed by a brief stop at Broughton-in-Furness (won’t rush back) for fuel and a commiseratory McDonalds to mark the end of a wonderful trip. The drive home was mercifully uneventful once Scabbers (the beaten up old Yaris) stopped making dubious squealing noises, and we made it back in just over 7 hours.
A relatively big mountain day was the most fitting way to conclude a lovely holiday, which is something I struggle to do in words. We had such a good time exploring the Lake District with my family and managed to squeeze in a great mix of activities across the whole National Park, although as always we could have stayed there for a good deal longer – probably in perpetuity. Doubtless it won’t be too long before we’re back.
Lake District, June 2022 – 9/10 overall. Minus one for the fact we had to leave so soon.
We woke and repeated yesterday’s little morning walk a short way up the side of Brown Crag to look over Thirlmere valley, see the lambs and stretch the dog’s legs. The sky was grey and didn’t look too threatening, but we got a bit rained on anyway. We had breakfast and left at 10am for a walk to Cathedral Cave, which we’d found in the Wild Guide.
Langdale
After some poor direction-giving – I’m exonerating myself as a mere pawn of Google Maps – dad drove the van down a long, narrow, twisty lane off the road between Ambleside and Coniston, only to find it was a dead end. I got out and ran up the lane to make sure, only to receive the disappointing and slightly embarrassing confirmation from some hikers that we’d have to turn back the way we came. I delivered the unwelcome news and we trundled back up the lane, then took the slightly more substantial looking road to Little Langdale and found a roadside parking spot by some ludicrously nice houses.
We piled out the van and took a footpath through some very pretty meadows. Everything seemed to thrive in the idyllic Langdale valley, from buttercups and cornflowers to oak woods carpeted with bright green mosses and ferns, and the low hills lacked the intimidating, serious feel of the higher fells. The open fields were divided by drystone walls, hedgerows and babbling streams, and perfect little stone cottages dotted the hillsides. After about a kilometre we reached the dead-end lane and followed the tree-lined path west along a river for another kilometre, then attempted to scout out Cathedral Cave.
Cathedral Cave
The cave wasn’t named on my OS map, which marks it as “Quarries (disused)”, so after coming across a sign by a steep bank warning visitors to enter at their own risk, Ryan scrambled up for a closer look while I stopped to show a couple of Dutch hikers the map. For the sake of my bad-knee-d mother, we continued along the path until we came to a more obvious route up and a National Trust sign for Little Langdale Quarries. We read about the area’s slate-quarrying history between the 1500s and 1950s, then walked up the path and went through a person-sized tunnel in a large rock face to Cathedral Cave.
The tunnel opened into a large, rocky cavern with a smooth floor, roughly hewn walls and a high ceiling that sloped upwards towards a vast, raised opening at one end. A pile of jagged boulders lay strewn below this huge, open window, and through it poured broad daylight which illuminated the ferns and mosses spilling in from outside so that they shone a brilliant shade of green. The ceiling was evidently propped up by a huge, leaning pillar of rock in the middle, and on the far side a large pool of clear water reflected the rough brown walls as if manifesting the cave’s resonating echo.
I consulted the basic quarry map that I’d saved earlier and we went through another tunnel below the window, then clambered up some rocks to an open courtyard that was full of verdant foliage and enclosed on all sides by high, rocky walls. Angus, Ryan and I explored cramped, dark tunnels, looked down on Cathedral Cave from the window, and climbed as high as we could up rough steps to try and gauge the full extent of the quarry. We popped out onto a hillside from one of the upper levels and were treated to a picturesque view of tranquil Langdale, with its undulating green fields and abundance of trees. We spotted mum, dad and Bosun poking around a slate miner’s hut, which looked fairytale-like tucked between leafy, white-trunked silver birches, and reassembled for the walk back to the van.
We walked down to the path we’d taken earlier and crossed a stone bridge over the wide, shallow river. The walk back was very pleasant, along a little country lane lined with tall hedges and drystone walls, then through the idyllic hamlet of Little Langdale, with its scattering of rose-fronted cottages overlooking the gentle valley. We clambered into the van and set off for Grasmere in anticipation of some gingerbread.
Grasmere
We arrived in the village 20 minutes later and split up so mum could bimble around the little gift (tat) shops at her commendably leisurely pace. Our first stop was the famous gingerbread shop, a small cottage with railway green windowframes and a permanent queue. There’s just enough room to stand at the counter and marvel at the layers on layers of shelves stacked full of jars, bottles and paper-wrapped treats – it feels like a little portal back to the Victorian age of paper doilies, white-frilled aprons and home remedies (all containing ginger). The smell of fresh, warm gingerbread was tantalising, and we barely made it out the shop before each tucking into a sweet, spicy, chewy slice.
Gingerbread aside, Grasmere is an almost uncannily pretty village, sheltered between fells, watered by a gentle river that flows clear past the charmingly simplistic St Oswald’s church, and filled with picture postcard slate cottages, many of which make pretty little shops and cafes. Once home to Romantic poet William Wordsworth, it’s become something of a tourist attraction, with hotels, shops and even the car park bearing his name. Personally I think this hype detracts from the authenticity of the place, but as one of the horde I speak hypocritically (although I came for the gingerbread, not a poetry-themed spa day).
We walked around Wordsworth’s peaceful, almost annoyingly pleasant daffodil garden, where memorial paving stones bear the names of their sponsors, then walked to the Co-op on the far side of the village, which – as it’s such a small place – took a grand total of about three minutes. We grabbed a meal deal to stave off the torment of our remaining four pieces of gingerbread (it comes in packs of six or twelve) and walked back to the van, somehow involuntarily collecting Bosun from dad on our way. Ryan, Angus and I perched on a wall and as we ate lunch, we marvelled at mum’s ability to browse at such a stoically unhurried pace and dad’s capacity to endure (he hates shops).
Helvellyn, Nethermost Pike, High Crag, Dollywaggon Pike
When everyone was back at the van we returned to the campsite, had a cup of tea and prepared for the evening. Located in the Thirlmere Valley, the campsite was within walking distance of Helvellyn, England’s third highest peak. It forms part of a vast, hilly ridge that stretches down much of the eastern side of the Lake District like a knobbly spine. I’d climbed it a couple of times before but only from Glenridding to the east via the famous Striding Edge, so I was keen to approach from the west. We planned the route, packed our bags and set off at 4pm.
We went through the farmyard and headed up the western side of the vast landmass. We climbed steeply up a narrow path past drystone walls and lush ferns, which turned to bare rocks and rugged yellowish grass as the terrain grew higher and harsher. As the valley behind us shrank, the glassy, black water of Thirlmere Reservoir stretched between its undulating, wooded hills and ridges and distant peaks appeared on the high horizon. The gradient eased slightly and as is customary we found ourselves crossing a lot of open, boggy ground, then we joined an obvious, steep, rocky path that climbed the mountain parallel to Hevellyn Gill. The path dissolved into a kind of open, gently sloping plateau that formed the top of the ridge, where grass grew patchily, sheep roamed freely and rocks littered the ground.
We walked southeast along the ridge for about a kilometre. The easy gradient gave us the chance to admire the stunning view north across Thirlmere to hulking, angular Skiddaw, which towered over the silver-grey surface of Derwentwater as it nestled between irregular slopes. The western horizon was formed of endless hazy blue peaks which all merged together in one long, enticing chain, and the nearer, greener fells rolled into one another as if the result of a single, sweeping brush stroke. The weather had been mild, still and cloudy but clear, but as we approached the summit we found ourselves pulling on raincoats to repel the suddenly wet air and squinting over the brim of the ridge to catch a glimpse of the eastern mountains through the fog. Naturally, the stone trig point crowning the top sat just above the cloud line.
We had a sandwich and some sweets in a drystone shelter near the summit, then continued south along the ridge to Nethermost Pike (891m), High Crag (884m) and the delightfully named Dollywaggon Pike (830m). This involved walking in a relatively straight line along the edge of the steep, high escarpment that forms the eastern face of the Helvellyn “spine”, whose sheer, rocky aspect is in stark contrast with the rolling, green slopes of the western side. Considering I’ve referred to the top of the ridge as a “plateau”, there was a fair amount of elevation loss and gain between Helvellyn and each of the other three summits (if they qualify as such), but the gradient was moderate and the path was easy to follow. Fortunately the fog was isolated to the very top of Helvellyn so we had clear, near-panoramic views over rugged valleys, undulating ridges and an array of countless, layered, diversely shaped peaks.
Striding Edge was particularly impressive as we looked back from Nethermost Pike, its long form stretching up to the base of Helvellyn like the blade of a serrated knife. Hardy grass grew stubbornly wherever it could establish roots, and wherever it couldn’t was dominated by sheer grey rock and loose scree. U-shaped valleys carved the hills into seemingly random, rugged shapes, and the slopes to the east flattened suddenly to common-or-garden farmland at the distant edge of the National Park, beyond the snaking curve of Ullswater.
Our modest reward for adding the three satellite peaks to our hike was a photo at each cairn. We turned around after Dollywaggon and retraced our steps up and down High Crag, Nethermost Pike and Helvellyn, then rejoined the rocky path down Helvellyn Gill. We decided to avoid the boggy ground so followed that path steeply down for about a kilometre to the edge of a forest. As the sun dipped it cast an other-worldly light over the landscape in front of us, highlighting the fluffy edges of the heavy-looking clouds, accentuating the layers of mountains over Thirlmere and bathing the rough slopes in a golden-green glow. Near the base of the slope we branched right, crossed a rocky stream and followed another path that ran parallel to a drystone wall for another kilometre, a fairly level stretch that entailed some fighting through bracken.
We rejoined the path from the farm and walked down the last steep hill to the campsite, getting back 9 miles later and – precisely in accordance with my calculation – just after 9pm. I slept contently in all my smugness.
It was the final day of our little holiday and we were determined not to waste it. With the flight home not being until 8pm, we asked our AirBnB host if we could store our small luggage bag in the hallway until the afternoon and she kindly agreed. We left about 10am for Castell De Sant Miquel, a tower on a hilltop in the middle of a vast, rolling forest. Getting there would involve a 1.5 hour hike that had been recommended to us by one of the people at the bike shop the day before, starting from the middle of Old Town.
Ascent up Les Gavarres
We walked through the quaint streets (I’m nearly done banging on about them), through the castle-like cathedral area, across a narrow dried-up river channel near the pretty John Lennon gardens and east out of the city. Within just a few minutes it felt as if we were in a rural village, walking along a quiet road lined with rustic houses which soon turned to dry, hedge-lined arable fields. After about a mile and a half we reached the edge of the Gavarres massif, a vast range of relatively low mountains covered in a dense forest of oaks, pines and other lush green vegetation, and we took a well-signposted gravel path into the trees, which provided some respite from the relentless sun.
The hike up to the tower was hot but enjoyable and it felt very exotic, given our unfamiliarity with non-British forests. Noisy cicadas filled the air with a constant, croaky hum and I was amazed by how the trees seemed to thrive despite the dry, dusty conditions. We passed a herd of goats rambling casually up a track after a goatherd, stopping to chew on leaves with their tinny goat bells tinkling. The winding, hilly route passed a couple of interesting features, including a tall double column sculpture and the ruins of medieval stone farmhouses with information boards in several languages, and at a clearing in the trees we stopped to look over the distant, sprawling red rooves of Girona backed by layers of hazy blue mountains in the Guilleries massif.
Castell de Sant Miquel
As we approached the top of the hill the gravel path turned to bare, slabby, rooty granite, then levelled out to a flattish plateau. We walked up to the castell, which sits on one of the many summits of the Gavarres. It appeared suddenly through the trees, seemingly out of nowhere, a perfectly square, three-storey stone tower with a set of exterior metal stairs leading up to the entrance on the first floor. Behind it stood the semi-intact remains of a long stone chapel, a section of old wall and a lonely information board that told us in vague terms that the tower was built in 1848 on the remains of a medieval hermitage (religious retreat). As I write this I’m surprised at how little of the history seems to have been recorded – Google offers no substantial results.
We wandered into the crumbled open end of the chapel and along to the intact-rooved end, where a large, rough-edged hole served as a window that perfectly framed the far-reaching views over rolling forest and way out to a smooth, distant sea. A small altar stood looking a little sad in the middle, and the place exuded lonely, slightly mysterious simplicity. We went back to the tower, climbed the steps and popped out on the flat, square roof.
We were prepared for the incredible views because the structures stand in a clearing that allowed us to catch glimpses of distant mountains above the treetops, but we weren’t quite prepared for the overall effect of the totally unimpeded 360 degree panorama that hit us at the top. We looked down on verdant, almost rainforest-like woodland that rolled over undulating hills all around, stretching way out to the south and east in deep green swathes. This gave way to a short length of smooth blue sea that sat in a wide valley between gently rising mountains, which – apart from that little bit of coast – stretched around us the entire length of the horizon in a long, hazy blue chain. Expanses of butter-coloured farmland and little towns formed a mosaic on flat plains and in valleys, and Girona looked strangely small tucked below the highest peaks. It was breathtaking, and so novel compared to the UK landscapes we’re used to.
Hike back to Girona
We walked around the top of the tower, taking it all in, then climbed down the metal stairs and headed back into the trees the way we came. After the rooty granite “steps” we took a right fork to make the route circular, then tramped down a wide, dusty dirt track lined with conifers and birches. After about a mile we crossed a main road and walked back to Girona along a quiet, rolling country lane, past rugged fields, large, spread-out rural houses and lots of trees occupying all the in-between bits of land that hadn’t been otherwise claimed.
As we neared the city the houses became more packed in but still large, spacious and quite plush-looking. This was clearly a well-off suburb, with clean streets, bright whitewashed walls, lovely views over the distant mountains and a startling number of private pools. We walked down the hill to the medieval area around the cathedral, glad to have squeezed such a lovely walk into our last day, and treated ourselves to a refreshing smoothie from a little shop near the basilica, which we drank overlooking the river.
Homeward bound
We reluctantly conceded that the holiday was over and walked the cobbles of Old Town one last time to collect our bag from the AirBnb. After saying goodbye to our host we squeezed into the tiny lift, went through the narrow passageway onto Placa del Raims, crossed the bridge and returned to the bus station through the long, straight, less quaint streets to the west of the river. We grabbed drinks and snacks from a tiny convenience store and waited in the air conditioned station for the bus, which was due about 3.30pm. Time dragged, partly due to the our unnecessary earliness and partly due to the Sunday afternoon quietness of the large station plaza, which was beautifully sunny yet eerily quiet and empty.
We were lucky to board when we did as the bus driver told us it was cash only, which would have left us stuck if the very kind American in front of us (who we’d already spoken to at the station) hadn’t insisted on paying our fares. As the bus took us out of the city we gazed wistfully over the long streets hectic with signs, overhead cables and shop shutters, then over dusty fields and rustic farms before reaching the airport. We hung around outside for a while, then hung around inside for a while, then finally went through security and reached the great, sprawling duty free / lounge / restaurant bit, which had huge glass windows looking out across hazy blue mountains. It was a nice, small airport, which was a huge relief given that our flight was delayed by an hour. We had a Burger King (Vegan Whopper – delicious) on a small terrace, lamented the end of our little holiday and had an uneventful flight back to Bournemouth.
Girona: 9/10 would recommend. Minus one point due to the citywide absence of triangular sandwiches, but that’s a personal thing.
We woke in Glencoe, happy to be in my favourite place but painfully conscious that we only had one day left in Scotland. The last thing on our to do list was hike up the Cobbler, an iconic small mountain in the Trossachs range near Loch Lomond. We had poached eggs on toast and drove out of dramatic Glencoe one last time – I’ve probably over-described it in previous posts so I’ll spare the gushing detail of how beautiful it is. We headed south across marshy Rannoch Moor, where the vast, sprawling wilderness was accentuated by the rugged, rolling mountains all around.
The drive down to Loch Lomond was very scenic and I saw my much-anticipated red squirrel, although sadly it was flat as a pancake in the middle of the road. We drove along the long, winding edge of the loch and turned off towards Arrochar, a village which sits at the head of unimaginatively but accurately named Loch Long. We parked in the lochside car park and booted up, leaving the van about 12.30pm.
The first section took us on a long, steady hike up a switchback path that climbs above Loch Long and through thick birch and evergreen forest, then pops out onto open, undulating moorland covered in golden grass, brown heather and the large, grey, randomly strewn Narnain boulders. The distinctive form of the Cobbler appeared as we emerged from the trees, its dark, gnarled rocks distorting the horizon and standing in stark contrast against the pale, cloudy sky and patchy white snow.
The Cobbler, otherwise known as Ben Arthur, is so called because of the distinctive, tall, dark lump of rock that sits on the central summit of the hilly mass, which is supposed to look like a cobbler bending over at work when viewed from the east – the way we were approaching. Personally I’m not sure I see it, but it certainly is a peculiar shape.
With that iconic figure straight ahead of us, the steady hike up the hillside moor was stunning, with far-reaching views across the rolling, golden peaks of the Arrochar Alps rising all around us. We passed vast boulders and followed the gently flowing Coire a Bhalachain river for about a mile to the base of the imposing, obscure obtrusion, where snow started to appear on the ground in patches. Here we took a right fork to approach the summit from the obvious path to the north. The alternative option was a shorter but steeper route that looks on a map like it goes west up a wide gully, which looked snowy – we hadn’t taken ice axes so didn’t fancy climbing, nor ending up in an avalanche.
The path continued gradually up and northwest along the river for another kilometre to the small Lochan a Chlaidheimh, which sits in the col between the Cobbler and neighbouring Beinn Narnain. Suddenly exposed to the westerly wind, able to see the deep, rolling valleys over the back of the mountain, and stood just below a thick grey curtain of clag, the place took on a whole new character – wilder, more ominous and more exciting.
We took a left fork at the col and began the steeper climb up stone “steps”, now heading south up the mountain’s north face. The snow thickened and spread as we climbed up, and the icy rocks became quite awkward to move across; luckily sensible Ryan had brought his hiking poles. Once we’d gained some height the path levelled into a narrow, slippery traverse below the lumpy North Peak, which was a little sketchy but afforded good views over the undulating brown valley below (the summits of Beinn Luibhean and Beinn Ime had been absorbed by cloud) and the Cobbler’s snow-covered northwest side, which rolled down in a vast white mass that was quite different to the iconic grey cliffs on the sheer eastern face.
We reached this white mass and made our way up, which was difficult given the steep gradient and slipperiness of the compacted snow and the unpredictable sizes, shapes and locations of the rocks hidden underneath. The snowy summit (884m) was about a kilometre on from the Lochan where we’d branched left, and we were relieved to gain it after the awkward climb. Once up there I was keen to “thread the needle”, a famous move which involves climbing through a hole in the highest pinnacle onto an exposed ledge on the sheer east face, then scrambling up to stand on the narrow rocky peak. I went partly through the hole but the conditions were way too windy and icy, so I decided against it – Ryan had already had kittens.
Pleased to have reached the top but slightly amused and exasperated to once again achieve a summit with extensive views of the inside of a cloud, we took a few photos and headed back down the way we came. It was just as awkward as the way up, if not more so, and we were relieved when we returned to the Lochan and the easier path back across the golden moor.
The walk back from there was lovely, with excellent views over the rugged hills all around. For some bizarre, probably food-related reason, Ryan, who hates running, decided to start jogging back, which we did for a few hundred metres before I became concerned about a potential shin splint (an old injury) and becoming unnecessarily sweaty. We crossed the boulder-strewn moor, looking back wistfully at the wild hills, entered the forest and took the switchback path back down to the car park.
We got back to the van about 16:30, de-kitted and drove south along the bank of stunning Loch Lomond to the town of Balloch, where we treated ourselves to a mayo chicken from McDonalds and looked for a half-decent overnight spot. Having not found anywhere, I used the Park4nite app and spotted a perfect little pull-in between Dumbarton and Helensburgh on the bank of the wide, tidal River Clyde, a 20 minute drive west. It was on a very quiet road by a sandy beach, which was a lovely, bird-rich nature reserve, and as the day faded it overlooked the twinkling lights of Greenock on the far side of the river.
I cooked vegan mince stew for dinner with bulgur wheat and veg, and to mark Valentine’s Day we lit a candle – a bit extravagant, I know. We spent a long time watching the lights of Greenock dance on the water, looking up at a clear, starry, unusually bright sky, listening to the strange wading birds, and reflecting on our lovely trip. We went to bed reluctantly, not wanting our time in Scotland to end and half-considering just living wild.
And just like that, it was over. To conclude the trip, the drive home the next day was long and uneventful – we left about 9.30am and got back to the New Forest about 6pm. As usual, I think I left my heart in Scotland. Must go back soon.
This was to be our biggest mountain day of the trip. Buachaille Etive Mor is Britain’s most photographed mountain due to its perfect triangular form and solitary position between the heads of Glencoe and Glen Etive. It stands tall over wild Rannoch Moor, and although it looks like an archetypal mountain when approached from the east, it’s actually an undulating ridge with four separate summit peaks rising along its 5-mile length, two of which are Munros.
We’d hoped that the conditions would be favourable enough to ice climb up that triangular eastern face, but the wind and avalanche forecasts didn’t look too good so we decided to “hike” up the steep north face. I got up at 6am, had porridge and coffee and got ready, and eventually managed to rouse the morning-phobic Ryan. We drove the short distance up the Glen Etive road to rejoin the Glencoe road and parked in a roadside car park due north of the Buachaille.
Waiting for the snail to get out his shell
We set off south at 8am, just as the morning light crept in. We crossed a footbridge over the river Coupall and passed the iconic white Lagangarbh hut, a tiny cottage set low against the dramatic mountain backdrop that the Scottish Mountaineering Club use as accommodation. We followed the footpath south across heathery moorland, which rose gradually towards the base of the mountain. We reached a rushing stream that flowed down to the Coupall from Coire na Tuilach, the corrie whose back wall we would be climbing, and started the ascent up its wet, rocky bank.
It was a steep hike up the little river, and as is so commonly the case, the path disappeared about halfway up. We hopped between rocks as snow started to appear, thickened, and eventually covered the ground. After what felt like a long time the river disappeared and we reached the bottom of a very steep snow slope at the back of the corrie. Ice axes in hand, we hacked our way up through the knee-deep, soft, yielding neve, which felt so solid that we decided there was no need for crampons or ropes.
It was dramatically steep and very exciting, like nothing we’d ever done before. At the top the gradient quickly levelled out and we pulled over the edge onto the foggy ridge just after 10am, exhilarated by the climb and eager to see what was next. There was a marked difference in temperature once we were no longer sheltered by the corrie walls, so we pulled on coats and quickly headed east towards the summit of Stob Dearg, the Buachaille’s highest and most easterly peak – the top of that perfect triangle.
The cloud hung in a low, flat curtain just above our heads, and as we climbed it swallowed us up. We eventually reached the summit just before 11, having tramped up a kilometre of awkward, bleak terrain that varied only between thick snow and uneven rocks, having seen none of the surrounding landscape – which we knew would have been breath-taking – due to the increasingly damp clag. Pleased to have summited but slightly underwhelmed by the cloudy Stob Dearg, we headed back (depressingly) the same way. We passed a small group following our tracks to the top and agreed that it was nice to have been the first up the peak that day.
We passed our own footprints coming from Coire na Tulaich and continued southwest along the claggy ridge towards Stob na Doire, which was about a mile away. I was furious at myself for breaking my own rule – don’t let a down jacket get wet – as I’d underestimated the light snow and done just that, so I pulled on a waterproof and accepted that I deserved any damp-related suffering that would doubtless ensue. The most interesting things we saw (snow, rock and clag had all ceased to be interesting) were animal prints – most likely fox, ptarmigan or grouse and excitingly, given the immense size of them, golden eagle. Eager not to fall off the edge of the ridge, we walked on a bearing across flattish snow in near white-out conditions – the only distinction between the ground and the sky was the slight grey tinge of the all-consuming cloud.
The gradient increased steadily as we approached Stob na Doire, then steeply, requiring some awkward clambering over large rocks and careful guesswork as to whether each footstep into the snow would meet solid ground or a gap between boulders. This section seemed to last forever, and I distinctly remember noting that just then I wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable day. Time seemed a distant concept, and we were relieved when we suddenly appeared at the summit at 12.10pm.
We hurried down the peak’s long, steep, rocky southwest face into a col between Stob na Doire and Stob Coire Altruim. Pleased to feel like we had finally made some ground and noticing that the clag was just starting to thin a little in places, we crossed the col, keeping a safe distance from the obvious cornice that had formed over the ridge’s north side. The short climb to the third summit was over nice, predictable snow, which was much more enjoyable than the uneven rocks going up Stob na Doire. We reached the top at 1.10pm.
There was less elevation difference between Stob Coire Altruim and Stob na Broige, so the kilometre between the two summits felt fairly relaxed after our Stob na Doire ordeal. Here the rocky, snowy ridge narrowed significantly in the middle, making for quite an exciting and aesthetically pleasing traverse between the peaks, and the cloud occasionally lifted slightly to afford us dramatic views over the stunning, bleak glens a long way below. We reached the small, circular stone shelter at the summit of Stob na Broige at 1.30pm, then retraced our steps back to Stob Coire Altruim and the col.
The path back started somewhere in this col but it wasn’t obvious where, so avoiding the cornices we took the most agreeable-looking way down. We scrambled down into a huge, sheltered bowl and decided it was time for some food, so we stopped to share a hot flask of Ryan’s special spicy noodle-couscous mix, the perfect winter mountain snack. Feeling significantly perked up, we continued north down the steep snow slope, found a lone set of footprints and what looked like the path, and eventually descended to rockier, grassier ground.
From here the way down was just as awkward for a while, necessitating the use of ice axes for stability as we climbed down wet slabs. We were glad to have descended below the cloud line, which meant that we finally had clear views over the dramatic, immensely proportioned golden-brown glen. We were careful to keep left of the steep river that flowed white next to us, not fancying a difficult crossing or a long tramp across boggy ground at the bottom.
The slope levelled as we reached the wide valley base, and the obvious, narrow path arced right across undulating grassy, mossy, heathery ground, following the white River Coupall northeast. We walked for about 2km through the valley, feeling very small between the hulking golden masses of Buachaille Etive Beag and Buachaille Etive Mor. At one point the path ran along a narrow ridge with a sheer 6m drop-off either side, making for an interesting and varied walk back to the van, and I was excited to spot a herd of well-camoflagued red deer munching away low down on the slopes to our right. Eventually we reached the main road and walked along it for a fairly unenjoyable kilometre, keeping as far out of the way of the whizzing traffic as possible.
We got back to the van about 4pm, just before the daylight began to ebb away. Delighted with our successful big mountain day, we drove back through the Pass of Glencoe to the Co-op at Ballachulish, grabbed some snacks and went back to the Signal Rock car park (see post from our previous trip for more on Signal Rock) in the Glencoe pass – I just can’t get enough of the place. The car park is owned by the National Trust for Scotland and quite refreshingly, they allow respectful overnight camping. Surrounded by trees and tucked into a corner, we sorted out some kit, then walked a short distance along a well-pathed forest track to the Clachaig Inn for a celebratory pint.
The pub was modern and cosy, with some interesting mountain art and old ice climbing gear. I assume they do well from just our car park, let alone the actual hotel guests. We enjoyed a cold cider, managed to resist the food, and walked back to the van through the dark trees for a tasty dinner of tortellini in tomato sauce with leftover veg. Safe to say we slept well that night.
The weather was not on our side, so we planned some rest day activities. We left our little Fort William hotel room at 10am and drove southeast for 20 minutes to the car park for Steall waterfall and wire bridge, which we’d found in the Wild Guide. The drive took us on a winding road through high-sided, picturesque Glen Nevis, with Ben Nevis towering over our left side and the thickly forested slopes of lower, but no less wild, peaks on our right. We arrived at the small, dead-end car park and set off along the well-walked, rocky path for the waterfall.
An Steall waterfall walk
The path ran above and parallel to the Water of Nevis, which flowed fast and relentless along its rocky course. Little waterfalls fed it from all around, some flowing under wooden bridges built into the path. Our 150-200m elevation gave wonderful views over the rushing white river and the deep, dramatic glen, whose high, undulating sides were a colourful patchwork of yellow grass, green pines, lilac-pink birches and orange heather under a thick grey sky, which absorbed the snowy upper reaches of the steep slopes and made the valley feel very self-contained. The path ran for a mile through leafless trees connected by lush green mosses, then curved with the river and dropped down to just above river level, where the valley floor widened slightly into a grassy plain set in a long, steep-sided basin.
We turned a corner and An Steall waterfall, the third highest in Scotland, burst from the huge, craggy valley side ahead of us, a 30 foot high, furious deluge of charging white horses. A few minor falls sat thinly either side of it like veins, but An Steall was the queen of the valley, the magnificent, roaring centrepiece. She fed the Water of Nevis with an endless torrent, giving it the energy to push its way over the rocks and around the twists of Glen Nevis.
Steall wire bridge
Steall wire bridge was on our right just before the waterfall, suspended 10 feet over the river. We waited for a couple of others to cross, then approached the pebble river bank. The bridge consists of three thick steel cables about 20 feet long, two for hands and one for feet, held across the water by a sturdy metal frame at each end. We took turns to walk out over the bridge and back, placing our feet very carefully on the wobbly metal tightrope. It was more nerve-wracking than I expected as the wires move quite a lot and there is nothing below other than a substantial fall, the rushing white river and a lot of cold, hard, wet, uncomfortable-looking rocks, but that meant it was also a lot more fun than I expected.
More people turned up so we left the bridge and retraced our steps back to the van, through that almost lower Himalayan valley. We left Glen Nevis and went back to Fort William for fuel and snacks. At the petrol station the clouds unleashed a sudden deluge of rain, possibly the most savage I’ve ever seen, and we had to wait a few moments for it to ease as it was heavy enough to obliterate all visibility. Once we could see again (only just), we decided to head towards Glencoe via Kinlochleven to climb at Ice Factor, the National Ice Climbing centre. The ice wall was fully booked but we were quite happy to squeeze some indoor rock climbing into the trip and avoid the weather.
Ice Factor, Kinlochleven
The journey south along the bank of Loch Linnhe, then east along Loch Leven, took about 40 minutes, and although the clag obscured the mountains it was nice to get a good view of the lochs. Ice Factor is oddly situated in the quirky, remote village of Kinlochleven, nestled cosily at the head of Loch Leven and closely surrounded by mountains, in a high-ceilinged, old stone aluminium works building. It’s a buzzing, modern, warm place with an indoor ice wall, climbing and bouldering wall, outdoorsey shop, cosy café and soft play area.
The climbing area wasn’t huge but it was plenty big enough, and we led (up to 6b, notably on which I slipped off above a bolt and took a pleasant little fall), toproped and autobelayed some interesting routes. The natural, rock type feature walls were particularly fun as they enabled us to practise crack climbing, which is difficult to replicate with bolt-on holds. We stayed a good couple of hours, had a coffee in the café, snuck into the small bouldering room and left before we lingered long enough in the shop to buy something unnecessary.
Glencoe
We drove west along the south bank of Loch Leven and into Glencoe, my favourite place. Sandwiched between the distinctive, imposing Three Sisters to the south and the hulking ridge of Aonach Eagach to the north, the Pass of Glencoe snakes through the dramatic valley next to the rocky River Coe. Yellowish grass grows up the lower swathes of the mountains either side but the higher reaches deny it access, their harsh, dark faces being too steep and inhospitable for anything but bare rock and snow. As usual in that vast, wild place, I felt incredibly small.
We continued east, took a turn onto the small road to Glen Etive and parked in a quiet pull-in by a wooded stream below the impossibly triangular east face of Buachaille Etive Mor, whose four colossal summits we planned to take on the following day. Ryan cooked vegan burgers for tea (delicious) and we did some planning then had an early night, buzzing for the hike.
We had breakfast overlooking atmospheric, moodily grey Dunvegan Loch and drove down Skye’s pretty eastern edge for 40 minutes to the Fairy Pools. On the way Ryan spotted a huge white-tailed sea eagle soar high above the van and dip below some tall pines, and to my absolute delight I just about caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared.
Our plan was to hike up to the Fairy Pools, then leave Skye for the Ben Nevis range in the hope of some half decent climbing weather the next day. We wound along a remote road, parked in a free car park near the start of the Fairy Pools walk and headed down to the wide, well-maintained tourist path.
The Fairy Pools (extended edition)
The Fairy Pools are a series of waterfalls and clear pools on the Allt Coir’ a’ Tairneilear river, which snakes up to the base of the infamous Black Cuillin mountains described in the previous day’s blog post. The pools are set beneath the vast ridges of Sgurr Thuilm, Bidein Druim nan Ramh and Bruach na Frithe, which curve around the river in a protective yet imposing C-shape. These great giants form a wild, open-ended bowl carpeted with golden grass and brownish heather, and directly in front of us at the head of the bowl stood Sgurr an Fheadain, a perfectly triangular, dark grey, child’s drawing of a mountain tucked neatly between two sloping ridges as if quietly watching over its territory from a throne. Low cloud hanging over the mysterious, snow-spangled peaks gave the place a self-contained atmosphere that made it seem like the rest of the world simply didn’t exist.
We got rained on as we started up the path, which follows the river’s left bank. I didn’t mind as it meant there were few other visitors. The deep, round, extraordinarily blue Fairy Pools sat below low, rushing white waterfalls, some wide and low, some narrow and high, and the meandering river carved relentlessly over, around and through solid rock in an endless torrent. The pools were a beautiful, crystal clear blue-green colour, and if the air temperature had been in double digits I’d have jumped in. We instantly understood its popularity as a tourist destination, although I wouldn’t want to visit on a busy summer’s day. Even beneath a cloudy sky it was worthy of a Herbal Essences advert.
The path along this extraordinary river continued for about 2.5km up to the base of the Cuillins. Our plan had been to see the pools and head back the same way, but having eyed up the map I had new designs on making the hike circular (triangular) by taking a path that follows the base of the immense ridge northward, then west across the moor and back to the van. I entreated Ryan, who rolled his eyes and followed me onto our new path.
As is standard, the rocky path became muddy then boggy, to Ryan’s great disgruntlement. We trudged and slopped along wet, tufty grassland, trying desperately to keep our feet dry. After a mild bout of whinging we suddenly spotted the dark forms of several red deer a short way ahead of us, well camouflaged against the boulder-strewn, yellow-brown heathland, and our agitation evaporated. They were such majestic animals, easily large and powerful enough to do us a mischief, yet they warily kept their distance as we blundered through their territory, and idled casually up the sleep slope to the right as we approached. Then we spotted more over to our left, watching us quietly from about thirty yards away as they chewed rhythmically in peaceful little groups.
The path had been absorbed by the wild terrain so we walked carefully through heather and bog until we reached a small river, the Allt a’Mhaim, and a parallel path which would take us southwest back towards the road. We followed it all the way down the gently sloping moorland, admiring the rolling brown wilderness that was now illuminated in the golden glow of the soft winter sun, and more red deer appeared from nowhere on either side of us. The bluish clouds over the Cuillins and the dark shadows of the undulating high ridges accentuated the warm light that fell on the mountainous bowl, giving the landscape an other-worldly, dream-like quality. It was a harsh, thriving, unadulterated place.
After walking along this path for about 2km we reached a fairytale-like waterfall set just below a thick fir forest, took a wistful look back towards the Cuillins, and rejoined the road back to the car park. What a beautiful place.
Back to the mainland
It took us an hour to reach the Skye Bridge via Sligachan and Broadford Co-op, a drive that involved a lot of “wow look at that”s, referring to various lofty peaks and wild islands. Back on the mainland we drove southeast along the main A87 Old Military road that follows the length of long Lochs Alsh and Duich, then cuts through the belly of vast Glen Shiel and past lochs Cluanie, Loyne, Garry and Lochy. As we passed wonderfully named Loch Lochy the sun set over golden water, sinking below the distant peaks in a soft haze.
Almost two hours after leaving Skye we arrived at Fort William and nipped to the familiar Morrisons, then drove for 15 more minutes to Ben Nevis’s north face car park. For dinner we had a strange combination of leftover vegan bolognese, bulgur wheat and stovies – a Scottish dish made of beef, onion and potato, all minced together in a delicious (if unsightly) mush – then had a very serious discussion about what we should do the following day.
We both really wanted a big mountain day on or around Ben Nevis, either ice climbing a route like Number 2 Gully or hiking/scrambling the Carn Mor Dearg arete, but after a lot of research and consideration we decided that given the high winds and “considerable” avalanche risk on north east aspects in that area it wasn’t the day for it. We settled, after some squabbling (I was team bike, Ryan was team find somewhere else to climb), on mountain biking the famous Nevis Range trails that started from the car park we were in, which had been on my to do list for years. It was a good thing we did because we went to bed much later than planned, having spent a long time deliberating over Ben Nevis.
No lie-ins today, to my satisfaction and Ryan’s displeasure. Having fully exploited the Cairngorms, we planned to head west across to the Isle of Skye, a place that’s been right at the top of my “to do” list for years. We left Aviemore and drove north along the main A9 road to Inverness, parked in the small, fairly central Rainings Stairs car park we’d stopped in on a previous trip and walked down the long flight of narrow stone stairs to the town centre.
Having visited Inverness before we didn’t plan to stay for long, so Ryan got his obligatory McDonalds breakfast (which, as usual, we ended up sharing thanks to his generosity and my “I’m not that hungry” regret) and we shivered through the cold, damp, snowy street lined by attractive, tall yellow sandstone buildings, already a bit peopled out, straight back to the van.
We were in a pretty, quiet residential area on our way out of Inverness when we saw a little jack russell wandering around a road. We’re both very much animal people (generally more so than people people), so we pulled over and I approached the elderly-looking, placid little dog. Her collar told me her name was Tilly and she lived at the house she was hanging around outside, so I rung the bell and called the mobile number on her collar, both to no avail. Luckily her friendly neighbour pulled onto his drive and told me that she sometimes escapes, so he put her back in her garden and explained that he’d take her in but she doesn’t get on with his dog, a lovely little west highland terrier called Gordon. He reassured me that her florist owner was probably on a local delivery and wouldn’t be long, so feeling all warm and cosy about helping little Tilly (and instantly over whatever we’d found to argue about that morning – I can’t remember) we went on our merry way.
East to west coast
The drive across to Skye took a couple of hours and was a stunning route, mainly through open, yellow-brown moors surrounded by dramatic, rolling white peaks, several of which we eyed up as mountaineering destinations. The weather was classically Scottish – wet and claggy one minute, bright and sunny the next – and the road snaked along wild glens and through rugged little villages. Shortly before we approached Skye Ryan pulled into a small road so I could have an indecorous wee in the usual van style, only slightly hidden from any unfortunate passers by (happily there were none), and as we approached the island on the road that runs along the Loch Alsh sea inlet he stopped for his own indecorous wee, which gave me a good opportunity to photograph the striking Skye Bridge.
Skye
We crossed the bridge and headed to the Co-op at Broadford, all the while admiring the vast, watery expanse and wild little islands of the Inner Sound strait. We grabbed snacks and supplies, then drove up for nearly an hour up the northeast coast towards the Old Man of Storr.
Even under an overcast sky it was an other-worldly place. Skye is part of the Inner Hebrides archipelago, a chain of 79 islands sprawled up Scotland’s dramatic west coast. I was stunned by the fullness of the landscape, which seemed almost contradictory: there was so much land, rising out of the water and high against the horizon in its random, rugged, heather-brown and snow-white forms, yet so much water, dead flat and simultaneously light and dark. As a whole the sea reflected the bright grey sky, but the blue-black detail of the waves and ripples hinted at the mysterious depths below. It was captivating.
We snaked around the base of the red Cuillin mountains and glanced left at Sligachan to catch a glimpse of the black Cuillins, whose name alone is enough to command a sense of awe and deference. They towered over the rolling moors in jagged peaks, the indomitable kings and queens of the island. If it weren’t for the high winds and poor visibility forecast we’d certainly have set upon the infamous Cuillin Ridge traverse, but I’m not sad about having such a firm incentive to return.
The rolling moors continued on the road to Portree, a pretty, lively-looking town with lots of quirky independent shops, and beyond, where we climbed higher into thick clag and heavy snow. Ten minutes later the sky was bright blue and as the strip of water between the isles of Skye and Rasaay crept back into view, the iconic Old Man of Storr appeared ahead in his striking, bizarre elegance. We pulled up in the large visitor car park, ate some noodles and began the easy 20-minute walk up to the surreal formation of towering bare rock.
Old Man of Storr
We were surprised that a quick google yielded no climbing routes up the pinnacle (not to be confused with the Old Man of Stoer, a sea stack further north on the west cost of the Scottish mainland and something of a climbing mecca), but on closer inspection the rock has a strange, damp, crumbly texture. He stands about 50m tall and 10m wide, a brownish grey pinnacle of basalt in an ancient volcanic island of tantalising, intimidating, alien rock – The Storr. The snow that thinly covered the grassy, rocky landscape all around didn’t dare touch the dark obtrusion, which rose suddenly in jagged, triangular forms separated by sinister black gulleys. The Old Man’s upright position looked unnatural, like he should topple over any second, and as we walked right up to him we understood the story of the giant laid to rest whose thumb remained above ground, pointing to the sky. It was a strange, enigmatic, serenely beautiful yet slightly uncanny place.
The walk back the same way was breathtaking, overlooking the undulating isles of Raasay and Rona and in the distance the distinctive Black Cuillin mountains, which were framed perfectly below a curtain of thick grey cloud – even that hung respectfully above the towering peaks. Already stunned by Skye, we got back in the van and continued our drive north up the east coast of the island in the hope of seeing the Quiraing before nightfall.
Lealt Falls, the Quiraing
After about 10 minutes Ryan swung the van into a layby. He’d spotted a waterfall sign, so we went over to the viewing platform set just off the road and watched the tumbling white water of Lealt Falls rush into the Abhainn An Lethuillt river (catchy name). There were two waterfalls, a high, thin one and a wide, tiered one, both carving channels through the sweeping land and enabling trees to thrive thickly along the banks, even in this harsh landscape. The water rushed into a deep valley, at the end of which the sea sat high and blue cradled in the “V”. We watched it for a little bit, then scurried on to catch a glimpse of the Quiraing.
After a 15 minute drive past some quirky, sprawling hamlets, we were in the bizarre landscape of the Quiraing, an ancient craggy landslip near the northernmost point of the island with sweeping slopes, high cliffs and huge, random masses of bare rock. The road wound below the fascinating land formations and snaked twistily up one side. I got out the van and wandered up a small hill to take some photos, wishing that we had a bit more time for a proper explore. From there we drove across a wild, high moor and headed southwest through awful conditions in the dark – heavy snow with next to no visibility along the main A87 road – to Dunvegan, where we found an out-the-way pull-in on the bank of Loch Dunvegan, near the castle.
I cooked an improvised meal of vegan chilli con carne with bulgur wheat and we spent the night under a starry sky, which reflected off the glassy water of the loch and turned the low hills on its far bank into pitch black silhouettes. We fell in love with Skye that day.
We woke to ice on the inside of the van windows and fog, snow and bitter wind outside, so we had a lie in. Snuggling up inside layers of clothes with nowhere to be was lovely, especially with the hob and kettle at the end of the bed. Because of the inclement weather we decided to go out for an easy hike up to the summit of Cairn Gorm as a warm up to the rest of the trip, thinking that this would enable us to recce the high parts of the Cairngorms for ice climbing.
After coffee and poached eggs on toast we drove the short way up the steep, twisty, newly gritted road to Cairngorm ski centre and kitted up for the hike. We set off around midday, just when the weather started to clear. The route began steeply up a path made of large slabs of rock that cut up and across a snowy, heathery hillside, and we quickly rose high above the ski centre building and large car park.
As we climbed higher the fog hanging over the distant slopes seemed to gradually lift, revealing a panorama of vast, rolling white hills, dark evergreen forests and in the valley behind us, the glassy blue water of Loch Morlich. We continued up the slabby path until it joined some ski runs (which were closed due to not enough snow), then reached the large, metal-roofed Ptarmigan building which houses the UK’s highest restaurant, a shop, an exhibition and viewing platforms. I imagine it’d provide a cosy rest stop if open, but it’s been closed since 2018 and is undergoing refurbishment. As if we need more reasons to go back.
We sheltered behind the building for a cereal bar break, then pushed on up the steepening slope. The path was well-laid and marked by stakes on both sides, making it almost boringly easy to follow, but this meant that we could take in the amazing formations of rime ice – where thousands of frozen ice “fingers” are formed by tiny water droplets, very cold temperatures and high winds – that clung to the thinly snow-covered boulders all around us.
As we climbed higher the sun emerged hazily through the cloud ahead and some icy cairns led the way through a boulderfield to the top of Cairn Gorm. We snapped a couple of pictures at the large summit cairn but couldn’t stop for long because the cold wind was savage. The cloud to the north of us had lifted and we were treated to a view of sprawling forests and distant snowy summits, but the high Cairngorm plateau to the south was overcast by thick grey clag that hung like an impenetrable curtain. Occasionally that curtain would lift, allowing us a glimpse across the wild, inhospitable expanse of white peaks, dark ridges and barren, rocky plains.
We’d taken the uncomplicated tourist path up, which went southeast in a fairly straight line for about 3km, so we decided to take a different route down to test our ice axes on some thicker snow and to make the hike circular – something I get very funny about. We scrabbled down Cairn Gorm’s rock-strewn west side to a very photogenic icy plateau, then bore northwest towards Fiacaill a’ Choire Chais, a finger-like ridge that slopes down to the ski centre. As we approached it the snow thickened into a knee-deep drift – very fun – until we pulled over the lip, then we navigated our way down the long, rocky ridge through intermittent fog and snow.
We enjoyed this more technical ground, particularly the deep snow drifts that had built up on the east side at the base of the ridge, until we reached the icy buggy track at the bottom of the ski runs that led us back to the car park. We de-kitted at the van and ate soup while the blowers cleared the condensation from the windscreen, then drove off down the long hill back to Aviemore along the Glenmore road. Near Loch Morlich we passed a van with a “Ross’s Garages” logo and I commented that my dad, being called Ross and owning a second hand car sales business, would like that.
We grabbed some bits from Tesco and refuelled at the petrol station. Then there was a disaster. Ryan went to turn the key and the van wouldn’t start. By some divine coincidence the Ross’s Garages van driver was filling up at the pump next to us, so we asked if he had a jump pack we could borrow. We rolled our van off the forecourt (sparks and fuel vapour don’t mix) and Mr Ross’s Garages jumped the battery. To my intense relief the engine started straight away, and we gave him all the cash we had – a fiver – and showered him with gratitude. Filled with vanxiety, I drove us down the road towards Loch Insh for about half an hour to charge the battery, then headed back along the Glenmore road to our favourite overnight spot overlooking Rothiemurcus and the Spey Valley.
We decided that keeping the blowers on full to demist the van had drawn too much current and killed the battery, which didn’t recharge properly on the way to Aviemore as it was a short, mostly downhill journey. Lesson learnt, but from that point I did get nervous every time we went to start the engine. We cooked stir fry for dinner and spent the evening planning the next day’s ice climbing route in Coire an t-Sneachda. Disaster averted.
curiousgnome 