Category: Pursuits

Cornwall, May 2021

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May bank holiday meant a free three-day opportunity to get away in the van, our first proper trip post-lockdown easing (excepting a quick foray in the South Downs). We left on Friday evening and found an excellent, out the way overnight spot on Bodmin Moor, the car park at Crowdy Reservoir, and spent the night under a jet black sky full of stars.

Saturday 1st May

I was up at 6am to go down to the water and watch the sunrise over the reservoir, which was very tranquil in the morning mist. After a lovely little walk I went back and badgered Ryan to get up, then we ate breakfast (a Subway salad we didn’t eat the night before, not even sorry) and drove along tiny, twisty roads to the discrete parking spot for the Devil’s Jump crag just west of Bodmin Moor, near Helstone.

Climbing at Bodmin Moor

We followed the instructions in the Rockfax guide to get to the crag, which took us uphill along a path and through a farm, over a wall (in slightly the wrong place, but we worked it out) and over open moorland past a bunch of cows. We approached the crag from above and saw what looked like a nest of crows on the left hand side of the rocky outcrop. We got a bit closer, realised to my excitement that it was actually a raven’s nest, and scrambled down the steep, overgrown bank to reach the bottom of the rock face.

While gearing up at the bottom we felt a few drips and realised that we’d been pooed on by a raven, which – if anything – added to the experience. We climbed the two-pitch, 24m VDiff South East Climb, the only route in the Rockfax guide. Ryan led the first pitch up the solid granite and I led the second. It was straightforward trad climbing up an obvious crack, as far as I can remember (I’m writing this three months late), which was a good thing as we were a bit out of practice post-lockdown. I belayed Ryan up to the top of the slabby face while enjoying stunning views over a long, wooded valley. At the top we jumped across a disconcertingly wide gap, clambered down the back side of the outcrop and scrabbled back down the bank to retrieve our stuff.

Porthcurno beach

We stopped at Asda in Bodmin to do a supermarket shop, then headed south west to Porthcurno. We’d considered stopping for an explore in Penzance and Mousehole, but the former was too busy and the latter was too awkward to park in. The car park at Porthcurno is set just above the beach, which is narrow and quite deep, nestled in between two  rocky, grassy headlands. The water was Mediterranean blue, the sand glowed in the sun, and we’d found a new favourite place. We sat against the rocks on the right side of the beach and I pottered around the rockpools, considered a dip in the sea (but got no further), people watched – although it wasn’t too busy – and played Ryan at beach chess.

After a while we walked up the steep, grassy cliff on the other side of the beach and sat admiring the view on an old wartime pillbox. The bay in front of us was dream-like, with the deep blue water on the horizon fading gradually to clear azure as it stretched in to touch the yellow-grey rocks and nearly white sands of the small beaches. Having been in some form of lockdown for what felt like an age, we were so pleased to taste freedom again. With evening approaching, we walked back to the van and drove to Lands End.

Lands End

We parked on the grassy area towards the back of the large, mostly empty car park and after chatting to some other van people who’d decided to stay overnight, walked through the tourist complex to see the heathery cliffs of the UK’s most southwesterly point.. It was a very attractive place and I liked the whitewashed First & Last House sat alone against the wide sea and wild moorland, but in my opinion it was slightly spoilt by the visitor attractions, which include a Shaun the Sheep and Arthur’s Quest experience, eateries and gift shops. We took an obligatory signpost photo and went back to the van for stir fry. A bit later on we went back to watch the sunset over the sea, which was beautiful.

Sunday 2nd May

Climbing at Sennen Cove

In the morning we drove the short distance along the coast to the pretty village of Sennen, set overlooking the long stretch of white sand that is Sennen Beach. We parked in the harbour car park, grabbed our climbing gear and walked up the hill to an old coastguard lookout. The descent down to the climbing area was a steep, rocky scramble, and at the bottom we followed the large ledge around to the easy-looking climbs of Golva area on the right.

We spent the day ticking off some very easy grade climbs, including the Diff grades Junior’s Route, Senior’s Route and Staircase. We alternated leading, seconding and scrambling back down to go again. The rock was solid and the lines we took were up wide cracks – it was good to get back into the swing of trad climbing after so long, but we felt quite out of practice. Just being there was lovely after lockdown, and for a few hours the world was reduced to a high, grey-brown rock face, the deep blue sea stretched across the horizon and just us sandwiched in the middle under a clear blue sky.

Sennen Cove beach

The crag started to get busy by early afternoon, so we topped out and walked back down the hill to the van. We had lunch then walked along to Sennen Beach via a roundhouse gallery where I bought a map, and a tourist-type convenience shop where Ryan the child bought a couple of snorkels and a stunt kite.

The whitish sand sweeps across the curve of the bay in a long stretch between gentle green cliffs, and towards the back of the beach is a boulderfield made from large, sea-smoothed rocks. I spent a while collecting plastic from crevices between the rocks, mostly old rope and fishing line, and was amazed (and saddened) by how much there was.

We went back to the van, had a gin and decided to squeeze an evening climb in – I think it was the mod grade Sinner’s Route. We were pleased that the crag had emptied and glad for the late sun. Back at the van we spent the night talking, cooking (or watching Ryan cook, on my part) stir fry and playing chess. The harbour car park allowed overnight stays, so we tucked the van in a corner and slept peacefully by the sea.

Monday 3rd May

We’d hoped to go snorkelling but the sea was grey and choppy, so we thought better of it. After a good explore of the rock pools just below the harbour car park at Sennen, we started making our way slowly home.

Padstow

First we stopped at Padstow, a very pretty old fishing village on the north Cornish coast. Annoyingly but not surprisingly as it was bank holiday Monday, it was heaving with people. We parked by the lobster hatchery (sadly closed at the time) and walked the short distance to the small harbour, which is surrounded on three sides by quaint pubs, cafes and shops selling fish, chips, coffee, boaty-type clothes and a hundred million varieties of pasty. We walked round to the far side to look at the fishing boats, then headed up the narrow, bustling streets to look in some of the surf-type shops. This time Ryan the child bought a skateboard, which we’ve both since fallen off quite spectacularly.

Port Isaac

Feeling a bit peopled out, we left Padstow and drove north east along little roads to Port Isaac, where Doc Martin was filmed. We parked at the top of the hill and walked down the steep slope into the village, the majority of which sits in a tight little bowl connected to the sea by a narrow opening in the harbour wall. It was another very pretty, quaint and cosy place, with steep, narrow streets lined with a mix of quirky stone, whitewashed, painted and slated cottages.

We walked up the hill on the other side of the harbour to Doc Martin’s house (just to send a photo to Ryan’s mum) and poked around some back streets to find “squeezy belly alley”, which was once recorded as the world’s narrowest thoroughfare. Charmed by the timeless little streets, we grabbed a drink from an outdoor bar on the harbour, sat and watched the seagulls and reluctantly traipsed back up the hill to the van (via the Co-op for road snacks to dampen the back-to-work-tomorrow feeling) and headed home, refreshed in equal measures by the sea air and the taste of freedom.

Dorset Adventures, August Bank Holiday 2021

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Friday 27th August: The Square & Compass

We drove down in the evening and met our friend Gus in the car park near the Square and Compass pub at Worth Matravers. This pub is something special – I’ve mentioned it before but on reflection it deserves its own post, so I won’t go into detail. We turned up, ordered three Kiss me Kate ciders and drank in the garden, enjoying the mild summer air and sea views.

Once we were a pint or so in and approaching the giggly stage, a Spanish band started playing from a small gazebo next to us. We didn’t understand a word but appreciated some post-covid, impromptu live music, especially when the keyboardist came out with an impressive solo and the singer donned some bright yellow, horizontal-barred sunglasses with flashing rims which had no business being designed, manufactured or worn, but somehow added to the slightly trippy atmosphere.

My hazy memory suggests that we chatted to the singer and came away with some random band stickers, listened to a mind-numbingly repetitive encore song which had approximately two chords and precisely two lyrics – te and amo – , stayed until (and a bit beyond) last orders, got unintentionally drunk and (on my part) threw up outside the van. I’m not proud, so I’ll move onto the next day.

Saturday 28th August: Paddleboarding Winspit to Swanage, 6.5 miles

Gus slept in the pop-top roof of the van and reported that it was surprisingly comfy, although I suspect he’s too polite to say anything less. We had bacon and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, packed a day’s worth of paddleboarding stuff and walked the mile-or-so down the beautifully green, wild valley to the sea-level ledge at Winspit. After some exertion, the three paddleboards were pumped up and launched.

Section 1: Winspit to Dancing Ledge

We paddled away from the shore and looked back on the sheer limestone cliffs that dominate the long Purbeck coastline, topped by rolling green fields under a blue sky punctuated by fluffy, harmless-looking white clouds. The weather was dry and the sea was fairly calm, but an annoying north-easterly headwind hampered our progress and disturbed the water enough to make travelling in a straight line very difficult for me, as I’d borrowed Tom’s short-finned river/lake paddleboard.

A kayaker passed us and asked if everything was okay, which we perhaps should have taken as a warning. I told him we were fine and enjoying our trip from Winspit to Swanage and he looked at me as if I was positively mad.

After a frustrating half hour Ryan and I swapped, realised to my amusement that he was heavy enough to submerge the board, then both jumped on the family-sized board that Gus had lent us. We paddled along happier, towing the other board, speaker blaring one of my questionable Spotify playlists. Gus flew ahead at an impressive speed on his racing board, which cut through the water like soft butter.

We passed some big caves, resisting the temptation to take a closer look as we realised that reaching Swanage might be an ambitious task. Hedbury Quarry seemed to take forever to pass, and eventually we reached a very busy Dancing Ledge after about an hour and a half.

Section 2: Dancing Ledge to Durlston Lighthouse

Lunch at Dancing Ledge was a good idea as it broke up the journey, lifted our spirits and gave the tens of people sitting and swimming there a chuckle as we attempted to beach and re-launch the boards over the sharp-barnacled, uneven rock ledges. Ryan’s homemade Scotch eggs went down a treat – I think he’s finally found his calling.

The wind seemed to die down along this section, which was by far the most pleasant. We paddled happily along the calm surface as the sun warmed our skin, and even when it clouded over the air was still mild. “You’re Beautiful” came on the speaker and Gus fell in the water, presumably due to James Blunt-induced overexcitement, and we watched a handful of climbers making their way up the blocky limestone cliffs. It was interesting to see the areas we usually climb from this angle because the abseil-in trad climbing at Swanage tends to feel quite lonely, as if there’s noone else on the rock, but there were quite a few people fairly close together who wouldn’t have been able to see each other.

Section 3: Durlston Lighthouse to Peveril Point (AKA Peril Point)

After another hour along the long, straight section of cliffs we reached Anvil Point and Durlston Lighthouse, which had taunted us for so long by not appearing to get any closer. This stretch changed our course from due east to north-east, so the land no longer sheltered from the chilly northeasterly wind.

It took us a painfully long time to get past some people fishing at Tilly Whim caves, then along to Durlston Head. We stoicly rejected the offer of a tow from a jetski, paddled hard as the strange little turrets of Durlston Castle on our left barely moved at all, and fought the frighteningly strong currents around the corner between Durlston Bay and the open sea.

Eventually, after some soul-destroyingly slow progress, we made it around the headland and into the less-windy-but-still-quite-choppy Durlston Bay. This was tough news to swallow as I’d forgotten that this bay lies between Durlston Head and Swanage, so had expected to turn the corner and see the finish line. Exasperated but kind of bemused, we pushed northwards along the wild, empty bay using land reference points to check that we were actually moving, watched enviously as Gus made the whole thing look easy, and regrouped just before Peveril Point to agree how to approach the treacherous-looking thin, rocky spit.

Section 4: Peveril Point to Swanage beach

Acutely aware of the lookout station directly to our left and the numerous people observing our plight, probably with a mixture of concern and amusement, we adopted a plan to paddle aggressively past the rocky finger as if striding confidently into battle. Gus went first and again made it look easy, although he later confessed that his life had flashed before his eyes and he thought the end was nigh.

Ryan and I reached the choppy water, which looked as if a frenzy of sharks were feeding just below the surface, and paddled hard. I thought things were under control until I glanced left at the rocks and realised that we were making absolutely no progress whatsoever. I irritably expressed my concern when Ryan decided to point out (using his paddle, which at that moment should have been being used as a paddle) how mesmerising the calm water ahead of us was. Recoiling at the telling-off, he returned to paddling and we made it past the choppy section, thinking we were in the clear.

As it turned out, I was right to be suspicious about the rolling, mesmerisingly calm water that appeared abruptly beyond the choppy bit. We quickly realised that the flattest sea was in fact the worst, where the currents are strongest, and I watched hopelessly as the water pulled us effortlessly back. Ryan said something along the lines of “let’s go as hard as we can”, I refrained from sarcastically replying “you reckon”, and we paddled our sorry little shoulders off to get out of the current. The paddleboard we were towing was pulling us back and it took nearly everything we had to paddle fast and hard enough to escape, but by some miracle we eventually made it out before muscle fatigue set in.

From there it was plain sailing through the gentle water of Swanage Bay. We paddled triumphantly past the people watching us near the lookout station, between the moored up boats, under the pier and onto the southern end of the busy beach. Relieved to feel solid land beneath our feet, we checked in with Gus to make sure he struggled with Peveril (later named Peril) Point too – he reassured us that he did – and we packed up our stuff.

A few celebratory drinks

We traipsed through the busy streets of Swanage and quickly found ourselves in the tucked-away garden of the White Swan with a cold pint each. The customary post-adventure, post-near-death-experience debrief ensued and we laughed about how – with hindsight – oddly enjoyable the journey had been, and how – even with hindsight – it wasn’t quite all enjoyable. A combination of all day sun, exposure to the elements, hunger, fatigue, relief and on my part lightweightedness meant that the alcohol got to us quite quickly.

We caught the bus from Swanage to Acton with our big paddleboard bags and walked a mile across a field and along a quiet road back to the van. To the others’ delight I managed to flick a big dollop of wet sheep poo up the back of my legs, thanks to my April to October flip-flop policy. We met Tom and Cam (Tom’s girlfriend) in the car park, had a discrete barbecue as we watched the sun set, then returned to the Square and Compass to while the night away. After last orders we came back to the van to talk more rubbish and play card games, but I don’t remember much of that.

Sunday 29th August: Snorkelling and climbing at Winspit

Sunday was comparatively relaxed. After breakfast the five of us walked down to the sea-level ledge at Winspit and had a dip in the sea, with varying levels of reluctance. On jumping in I dropped my snorkel mask, which was thankfully retrieved by Ryan. The others messed around while I snorkelled over colourful rocks covered in all kinds of barnacles, anemones, plants and algae, underwater forests of long, gently swaying seaweed and fish, including large, tropical-looking red, yellow, blue and green wrasse.

We sat talking, eating, drinking and people/dog watching on the flat, rocky ledge, enjoying the sun. Around mid-afternoon we persuaded a reluctant Gus to try rock climbing, so we walked up the bank to Winspit west Quarry and Ryan led Bread Knife, a grade 4 sport climb up a corner crack with a couple of tricky-ish moves for the grade. I belayed while Gus trembled his way up (in Vans as Ryan’s shoes didn’t fit him, poor boy), until he reached a difficult section and decided that the most sensible option was to come down. He did a good job of putting on a brave face – we only realised his genuine terror once he was back on the ground.

I toproped the climb, came down, then toproped again to clean it once we realised Gus wasn’t getting back on the wall. Having successfully managed to put him off climbing, we walked back up the valley to Worth Matravers, all jumped in Tom and Cam’s van and went down the road to the Scott Arms at Kingston for dinner.

We were pleased to find that their outdoor Jamaican shack was open and serving food for the first time since we’d been there, so we found a table in the busy garden overlooking Corfe Castle and ordered various jerk dishes. We were all starving and the food seemed to take an age to come, but it was so worth it once it did – I’ve never had proper Jamaican food before and it was lovely – sweet, spicy and incredibly satisfying. We enjoyed the evening sun and the lovely view (but not so much the occasional sewage smell coming from a drain in the garden) over a couple of drinks, then Tom and Cam went home ready to work the following day.

The remaining three of us walked 3 miles back to Worth Matravers as the sun was setting, through a cattlefield and along a wild, narrow, steep-sided wooded valley on a path filled with slugs and stinging nettles. I’m glad I took a headtorch because it was absolutely pitch black when I turned it off. We emerged in a field at the back of Worth and walked to the Square and Compass via the cobbled village. The rest of the evening involved mead, jelly snakes, deep conversations, admiring the mustard walls and eclectic décor and a visit to the pub’s fossil museum.

Monday 30th August: Mountain biking at Puddletown Forest

We got up, packed up, had a classic van breakfast of eggs in purgatory and headed about half an hour west to Puddletown Forest, where Gus knew some mountain bike trails.

Puddletown Forest is a large area of Forestry Commission leased woodland interspersed by bridleways, firebreaks and footpaths. It’s quite hilly and after a climb up a sandy, gravelly track, we emerged from the trees onto a high, heathery ridge. Mountain bikers have carved natural trails through the heather and the first section we did was very narrow, overgrown and scratchy, which woke us up and started the adrenaline pump.

From there we went to find a couple of bombhole-type bits with flowy jumps and steep drop-ins. I’m confident downhill but very much in the learning stage of jumping a bike, so I messed about on my own while the other two flew around all over the place. Some of the jumps looked crazy – way too ambitious for any of us – and I wonder how on earth people manage them. The ground was nice, compact dirt, but the tree roots were a bit annoying as they threatened to throw wheels off course at the most inconvenient moments.

We spent the rest of the afternoon riding around looking for more trails, which cropped up either side of the bridleways and provided some lovely singletrack riding. Some of it was quite committing (mainly because of the loose ground, roots, steepness and drop-offs) but we made it round fine. The trails have been named but the location feature of Gus’s Trail Forks app was playing up, so we had no idea where we were or how to get to each one; instead we ended up riding along until we saw something that looked good. One trail in particular had a lovely section of flowing, S-shaped berms, and another had some fun, technical rooty downhill.

I felt quite sluggish after a long weekend of exertion, drinking and a less-than-ideal amount of sleep, but I really enjoyed the riding and I’ll definitely come back. It’s the kind of place where you have to spend time to work out how to get around, but I’m sure that once you do it’s easier to link the trails together and cut down on the firebreak/gravel track riding.

Tired and hungry, we accepted that the weekend had to finish at some point and made the unanimous decision to soften this blow with a team McDonalds. We packed the bikes up after 3 hours of riding and met at Ferndown Maccies, where we ate naughty food and agreed that we can’t leave it too long until the next adventure… and so concluded a pretty epic weekend.

North Pembrokeshire, June 2021 (2/2)

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Thursday 1st July

Newgale Beach

The fog was still thick around our wild camping spot on the Preseli Hills when we woke up. We were due travel to South Pembrokeshire for the second half of the holiday and had arranged to meet mum, dad and Angus at Pembroke Castle at 1pm.  We spent the morning driving down via Newgale Beach on the west coast, with a view to seeing as much of the national park as possible.

We dropped down into Newgale after an hour’s drive through pretty farmland and parked at the large beachfront car park. Newgale is a small village in a basin that opens onto St Brides Bay, with a large, lively-looking campsite set just across the road from the beach. The beach is long, sandy and scattered with smooth pebbles. The weather was strange – still, warm and bright, but grey sea mist stopped sunlight penetrating and gave the sea and sky a serene, dream-like quality. We walked along the shore until we reached some cliffs and caves at the southern end, explored for a little bit and headed back to the van.

Pembroke Castle & Town

We stopped at Morrisons in Haverfordwest for shopping and fuel, then met the others in Pembroke early afternoon. Pembroke is a small, bustling town that still seems to revolve around the castle, which has high, well-preserved walls that tower over a long pond on one side and the high street on the other. Inside, the large, grassy courtyard is contained by walkable walls and several towers which house a lot of interesting information about the castle’s history, including some realistic mannequin scenes and the room where Henry VII was born. It has a “proper” castle feel, with its huge keep (sadly closed), dungeon room, herb garden, scattered flowerpots, battlements, towers and high walls. Definitely worth a visit.

After a thorough poke around the castle we  wandered up the high street, where we looked round an old fashioned convenience store and a tiny shop that sells handmade, surfwear type clothes. I bought a pair of yoga shorts with a honeycomb pattern and a couple of headbands, all made in the shop with organic cotton – would recommend, see the website here – https://www.iseasurfwear.co.uk/. Ryan and I then went on to the Watermans Arms pub and enjoyed a cold cider on the deck, which is raised on stilts over the edge of the pond and has a lovely view over the water, the castle and the town. We watched in amusement as a single, angry-looking swan chased a group of at least 30 much more passive swans around.

Camping, Kiting & Broad Haven South Beach

We drove a little way south along tiny roads to the new campsite, Trefalen Farm, late afternoon. This is another lovely site with sea views, basic facilities and a really remote feel. The first thing we did was find an open field near the cliffs and fly Ryan’s powerkite, as so far the weather had been record-breakingly non-windy (for Wales) and having felt a slight breeze, we were very keen to get it in the air. There wasn’t lots of wind but there was enough to have some fun for half an hour or so before going back to the van and cooking fajitas for tea.

After eating we all tramped down the hill to Broad Haven South, a deep, attractive sandy beach with dunes set way back from the sea and impressive rocks and caves on either side. We walked and footballed our way to the far side, where we explored narrow caves and clambered around on the rocks. Angus was introduced to the slimy delights of large, light-hating cave lice and we found some random sea junk wedged high in damp cave systems, including ropes, buoys, jerry cans and a tyre. Satisfied with a day spent poking around castles and caves, we went back to the campsite and played some stupid card game Angus bought at the castle gift shop, which became hilariously long-winded.

Friday 2nd July

Climbing at St Govan’s Head

Ryan, Angus and I set off from the campsite to climb at the nearby coastal crag of St Govan’s Head. We walked west along a wild section of the Pembrokeshire coast path which had lovely views of dramatic cliffs towering over little rocky beaches and coves filled with clear blue water. We’d definitely chosen the right day for it as it was dry, still and kind of sunny, kind of cloudy, so not too hot or cold. We arrived at some abseil stakes by the edge of a cliff near a military training zone and after a little bit of faff, worked out the right stake to abseil off.

We set up the rope, took what gear we needed and one by one, abseiled over the edge of the cliff. As always the most awkward bit was going over the lip, where your legs go from vertical to horizontal against the wall. The abseil was really fun – about 30m high and against a pleasantly sheer wall, with some free space to hang into in the middle, and with dramatic views of the wild, intimidating cliffs and calm sea below.

The climbs were graded quite high and described as high in the grade, so we went for easy stuff. Angus hadn’t trad climbed for ages and Ryan and I hadn’t done much at all during a year of lockdown. First Ryan led “Exit Corner”, a straightforward VDiff up a blocky corner, I seconded and Angus toproped. We abseiled down again and I led “Lemming Way”, a Severe route up another corner with a fairly exposed, awkward section which had a disconcertingly damp crack where I faffed around with some tricky gear placements.

I belayed the other two up and we abseiled down again. This time Ryan picked “Centurion”, a Severe line up a nice-looking crack with one difficult looking move under an overhanging block. He got to that move without much difficulty but got stuck there, so he came down and I had a go without any real expectation of getting any further. It was an awkward and fairly bold move involving a high right leg and some dubious holds, but I committed to it and to my surprise pulled up over the block. The finish was quite loose but otherwise fine, and I belayed Ryan and Angus up (using a munter hitch as I’d given Ryan my belay plate) feeling quite pleased with myself. As I was doing so I watched a little nervously as a cow approached and sniffed another belayer’s rope anchor at the edge of the cliff –  I didn’t want anyone to have to contend with curious cows while belaying, and I definitely didn’t want a cow to fall off a cliff. Luckily the cow lost interest and wandered back to safety.

Trad climbing always takes longer than you expect, especially when you’re a little out of practice and there are three of you. By this time we’d only done three climbs and three abseils, but it was mid-afternoon and we were getting hungry (having overlooked the value of packing lunch). We were satisfied with our taster of Pembrokeshire climbing (although Ryan and Angus slightly more so than me) so we packed up and headed for the nearest pub.

We walked west and took a detour via St Govan’s Head chapel, a tiny, ancient limestone chapel down steep steps built into the side of a cliff and perched above a small cove. It’s a striking building which merges into the cliff quite naturally, as if it’s always been there, and some of the etchings on the stone altar suggest that it’s drawn interest for a very long time.

We climbed back up the steep steps and walked north for half an hour into the village of Bosherston and found the pub, the St Govan’s Head Inn. Dad had left me a voicemail saying that he’d booked the five of us in for dinner at (unhelpfully) “the local pub” and nobody had any phone signal to find out which pub it was, so we had a couple of drinks there and after a bit of phone-waving, I received a text suggesting that we were in the right one so we stayed.

Mum and dad turned up about 6 and true to form, I was decidedly wavy after two or three ciders while Angus and Ryan were fine. The pub was lovely inside, with wooden beams and low ceilings, and the food was very good – I had dressed crab and some chocolate thing for pudding, and my only complaint was that Ryan promised me one of his prawns but ate them all before I could get there. We split the bill between Ryan, Angus and I and walked back to the campsite along a narrow, hedge-lined road, happy with a good day’s climbing and pubbing.

Saturday 3rd July

Stackpole Gardens

It was mum’s turn to pick something to do, so we ended up at Stackpole Walled Gardens. Entry is free and a lot of the gardening is done by adults with learning difficulties as part of a charity thing. It’s a nice place to go, with long greenhouses, strange plants and sculptures, and it had lots of little corners to explore. Our favourite part was the rows of fruit available to pick for free, including strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries, blackberries and tayberries. We were there for an hour or so, until we ended up getting drizzled on while waiting for mum to finish bumbling around.

Surfing at Freshwater West

Taxi of dad then took us to Freshwater West beach, where we just about found a parking spot. Ryan and I changed into wetsuits and took the surfboard and bodyboard down to the long, sandy beach just down from the car park, and waded into the rough sea. We didn’t get far at all before being batted back by the waves. The surf was beyond our skill level in that we couldn’t even get the surfboard out far enough to catch the longer waves – the ones close to shore were short and ferocious, crashing high above our heads and pulled quickly back from under our feet.

We were washing machined around for a while, which involved getting hit multiple times with the boards and noting that a hard surfboard is considerably more painful than a foamie. One such collision (with my thigh) resulted in one of the three fins snapping off the surfboard and from then our attempts at proper surfing ceased. I’d managed to stand twice, both times in the shallows, and both times for a record-breakingly short duration. Body boarding was good fun though, and less calamitous.

After about an hour of being battered by the sea, we tramped back along the beach. Dobby’s grave, consisting of a lot of stones all piled up, was up on the sand dunes to the left – apparently it’s where the scene was filmed (spoiler – Dobby dies). The sea, and our attempt to find some surfable waves, had dragged us quite a long way to the right, and annoyingly we noticed on our way back that the surf to the left had calmed down a lot to the point where surf schools had started eyeing it up.

Feeling half-starved, we grabbed lunch from the famous Café Mor burger van in the car park. I had the vegetarian burger and Ryan had the classic Mor burger with chips. The people were really friendly and the burgers were amazing, served with some kind of seaweedy pickles and relish.

Powerkiting at Broad Haven South

We went back to the campsite via Pembroke so that mum could grab some bits from (ie. spend an inordinate length of time in) the shop. We helped pack up the awning and for tea mum cooked a strange but very nice mix of bits that needed using up, which included buckwheat, mackerel and salad.

That evening we wandered back down to Broad Haven South beach to show the others Ryan’s powerkite. There was practically no wind but we just about managed to get it up and give dad and Angus a go. It was nice to fly it on the beach regardless and the only downside was that in my enthusiasm to take the mountain board despite the lack of wind, I graunched my heel on the axle while scooting along and it bled quite a lot.

On the walk back up the hill the heavens opened. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was like a tropical storm – we were dry one minute and drenched to the bone the next, so much so that it stopped being annoying and became funny. Once back at the vans and changed into dry clothes, we all huddled in dad’s van and spent the last evening chatting away.

Sunday 4th July

National Museum & Cardiff

We parted and left, a little sad, quite early on Sunday morning. It was grey and wet and we counted ourselves lucky that the Welsh weather had arrived just as we were leaving. Ryan and I came back via the National Museum at Cardiff as I was keen to see the city, having never been before, and thought the museum would be a good rainy day activity.

We parked in the city centre quite cheaply – £5.50 for 4 hours – and walked the short distance to the museum, through an attractive, leafy park and past the grand university and court buildings. Entry was free and it was very interesting. The ground floor was all about the natural history of Wales and housed an incredible collection of rocks and meteorites, dinosaur and prehistoric animal skeletons and information about plants, fungi and habitats. After a lot of reading I sensed Ryan’s growing impatience and we moved upstairs to the art floor.

This had lots of cabinets filled with pottery which was, in our untrained opinion, of uncertain aesthetic value. It was a bit of a labyrinth, with different rooms housing works of photography, paintings and sculptures. The work ranged from very old-looking portraits of heavy-eyelidded, curly-wigged posh people to modern paintings in blocky colours with dubious justifications as to what makes them worthy of gallery status. One exhibition featured huge paintings by a couple of artists which I thought were excellent and very poignant, having read about their cultural backgrounds, but I can’t remember their names.

After a couple of hours we left the impressive building through the large marbled, columned foyer and went for a wander around Cardiff city centre, pleased that the weather had cleared up. I thought it was a very attractive and clean city, with a young, lively atmosphere and lots going on. There were all sorts of shops, cafes and bars in a very small area and the castle was impressive, set near the centre with high, well-preserved walls. After a quick excursion to a phone shop so Ryan could sort out a new phone contract, we grabbed a subway and headed back to the van.

And so concludes our holiday in Wales. We had a lovely, busy week and it was really nice spending some time with my family, especially after lockdown(s). The two van, one tent setup worked well and we got to see a lot of Pembrokeshire, although there’s definitely more to see. I have a feeling we’ll be back…

North Pembrokeshire, June 2021 (1/2)

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This blog post (1 of 2) tells the tale of the first half of a week campervanning in Pembrokeshire, a coastal national park in west Wales, spent with Ryan (boyfriend), Mum (mother and chef), Dad (father and taxi driver) and Angus (not-so-little brother).

Ryan and I drove up as soon as he finished work on Saturday evening and we found a quiet wild camping spot near the village of Newport, where we’d be staying. The van was fully loaded with climbing gear, surfboard, bodyboard, mountain board, power kite and other miscellaneous toys, so the week was looking good.

Sunday 27th June

Parrog & Newport

We joined mum, dad and Angus at Tycanol campsite, a basic site with lots of green space and stunning views over the wide, sweeping Newport beach. First on the agenda was a walk along the Pembrokeshire coast path, conveniently accessible from the site, down to the quaint old port of Parrog. It was a tiny, pretty place, where little boats sat moored in a calm quay cut off from the sea by a sand bar and green hills perched above the cliffs and dunes across the bay.

We walked a short way up the hill to the bigger village of Newport, where the busy streets were lined by attractive stone houses, shops and cafes. We grabbed some supplies and walked back along the main road to the campsite, where we took advantage of the wind and flew Ryan’s stunt kite.

Castell Henllys

After a ploughman’s lunch, we all got into dad’s van and went to Castell Henllys Iron Age village. It was worth the £7.50 entry fee – the walk up to the village took us along an ancient stream, through leafy woodland and past the resident pig. The roundhouses were very authentic and the three talks/demonstrations on food, village life and battle were excellent. To my delight, we had a go with the slingshots and I took great joy in lobbing a lump of dough at dad. Remarkably, he still treated us to a drink and a cake at the café.

Nevern & Preselis

On the way back we stopped at a timeless hamlet called Nevern to see the bleeding yew, a remarkable, 700 year old tree in an atmospheric little churchyard which oozes blood red sap. It was simultaneously eerie and serene, a strange combination, and the sap smelt nasty on my fingers. A brief excursion across a stream and up a wooded hill took us to the site of an old motte and bailey castle, now reclaimed by nature, where only earth mounds disclosed its human past.

Still keen to explore, dad then drove us back through Newport and a little way into the Preseli Hills, where the four of us (minus mum, who had a bad knee) walked the short distance up through heathery moorland to the rocky tor of Mynydd Caregog. The plateaued landscape reminded me of Dartmoor, with its distant rolling peaks and scattered granite outcrops, and there were spectacular views over the sweeping blue curve of Newport Bay, tucked between strikingly green Dinas Head to the left and pasture-topped cliffs to the right.

Realising that it was 7pm, we hurried down to Parrog and arrived just in time to order fish and chips. After a long wait and some impatience on my part, we ate them in the van – delicious – then went back to the campsite for some drinks.

Monday 28th June

St Davids

The weather looked wet in the morning, so we decided against strenuous activity. After another bimble around Newport we drove 40 minutes west to St Davids, the smallest city in Britain with a population of 1,600. Grey stone houses and shops lined its bustling streets, which were pretty despite the overcast sky, and the old cathedral was incredible, with flagstone floors, carved and painted high ceilings and perfectly symmetrical stone arches. Ryan and I walked back up the hill to the stone cross at the city(!) centre, queued for ages to get lunch (chicken baguette and a pasty), and met the others back at the modern information centre by the car park.

Whitesands Beach

We realised that we hadn’t planned beyond St Davids, so decided last minute to visit Whitesands Beach just up the (very narrow, twisty) road. An archaeological excavation was going on at the site of an old chapel just above the beach, which is being threatened by erosion. We peered down, fascinated, on people brushing dust from thousand-year-plus old human skeletons, including that of a baby. See https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-wales-57685284 if you’re interested.

While mum and dad sat on the beach, Ryan built stone towers, Angus pottered around the rockpools and I went to explore a rocky promontory. The vertically layered slate was awkward to walk on but the excursion was worth it for the deep, coral reef-like rockpools, sea-filled tunnels and wild, remote scenery. I went over the other side of the big rocky lump, away from the beach, and looked out on a small, empty beach, wild headlands and a calm sea under a moody sky. There wasn’t a boat in sight and all that interrupted the horizon was a few small, hazy islands.

I clambered around the rocky lump and made my way back to the beach via a rockpool-bottomed tunnel, which required a short climb out the other side. We regrouped and went back to the campsite for the evening, where mum cooked vegetarian curry and we sat planning the next day’s hike.

Tuesday 29th June

Hiking in the Preseli Hills

In the morning Ryan, Angus and I were dropped off on a roadside near the village of Crymych. Our plan was to walk the bridleway that runs east to west across the spine of the Preseli Hills (sometimes – dubiously in my opinion – called Mountains) and get picked up from a pub on the other side. Meanwhile, mum and dad went to a woollen mill, much to mum’s delight and dad’s indifference.

The forecast was dry and overcast, but there was a distinctly wet-looking fog hanging over the hills as we approached. We went through a wooden gate which marked the eastern boundary of the Preselis and instantly deviated from the bridleway to climb Foeldrygarn, the first hill – a big, green, rocky lump looming in front of us – that sits slightly north of the path and is topped by a trig point, which we decided made it worth a visit. It was steep enough to break a sweat and once at the top we messed around on the rocks (at one point I got stuck a little too high and needed a spot from Angus) while Ryan experimented with his new gimbal video thing.

We rejoined the main path and headed west across the undulating moorland plateau, which was full of sheep, fog and rocky outcrops. We spotted an enormous red kite (questioning at one point whether it was a lost eagle) and a few skylarks, but it was otherwise quite barren. We stopped to pull on raincoats on account of the wet fog that engulfed the hills and thwarted what was probably a stunning view over north Pembrokeshire. The next four miles was oddly enjoyable and consisted of bleak fog, the occasional bog and passable banter.

We stopped for a strange lunch of pork pie, cheese, lamb pasty and mugshot pasta (I can’t recommend a Jetboil enough) by the edge of Pantmaenog Forest, then headed south away from the main bridleway towards Foel Cwmcerwyn, the highest peak in the Preselis and the last hill of the hike. The sun had started to burn through the fog and it was quite clear by the time we reached the top. The view was incredible, stretching out over miles of quiet valleys, green fields and dark forests, and we looked back to see the Preselis still shrouded in the isolated layer of thick white cloud we’d just emerged from.

The walk down was reminiscent of the hobbits leaving the Shire, with abundantly biodiverse meadows and verges on either side of us filled with all kinds of grasses, wild flowers and trees. In front and to the left was a heartwarmingly pastoral view over peaceful Welsh fields rolling way into the distance, and behind was the lush, fir-lined edge of Pantmaenog Forest.

The path dropped down through a sheep field into the village of Rosebush, where our 8.5 mile hike ended at the Tafarn Sinc pub. The community-owned pub is worth a mention in itself, with its purple corrugated iron cladding, sawdust-scattered floor and timeless décor, which includes various mysterious agricultural implements and several legs of ham hung up to cure. We had a drink while awaiting our taxi, then another when it arrived bearing mixed reviews of the woollen mill.

Newport Beach BBQ

The taxi (dad) drove us onto Newport beach, where we kicked a ball around and explored rockpools, shallow caves, a small waterfall and grassy sand dunes. Ryan and I watched England beat Germany (much to our surprise) on my phone, in terrible quality as signal was bad, while dad cooked the barbecue. We had sausages, burgers and salad (to which my contribution was foraged sea beet and dandelion), washed up in the back of the van and went for a walk along the long stretch of sand towards Parrog, which was cut off by a deep stream. The beach was practically empty and the sunset was lovely.

Wednesday 30th June

Tombstoning at Blue Lagoon

The forecast was good so we decided to get wet. We went west along the coast to Abereiddy, a tiny, pretty coastal hamlet with a small beach and a disused slate quarry which has become a hotspot for swimmers, paddlers and ledge jumpers. The quarry is called Blue Lagoon, which is a lovely if unimaginative name as it’s effectively a large bowl of clear blue water connected to the sea by a narrow channel. On the far side are two man-made platforms, once used as part of the quarry, which drop straight down into the water.

The three of us (mum and dad chose to stay at the beach) walked down into the bowl, changed and clambered over the rocks and into the cold water. We swam across to the other side, dodging swimmers, paddleboarders and a huge jellyfish, and climbed out and up to the platforms. There were a lot of people queuing for the lower one, which is about 4 or 5m high, so we went straight to the higher one, about 12m – nearly the same height as three double decker buses.

Peering straight down into the dark water below was adrenaline-inducing enough, so without hesitating we checked it was clear and one-by-one, jumped off the edge before reluctance could take hold. It’s the highest thing I’ve ever jumped off and the feeling of weightlessness was exhilarating, if a little terrifying – my instinctive fear response sent a “what the hell are you doing” type message through every fibre of my being and it felt like I was falling for an age. I hit the water the right way but it was still quite an impact due to the height of the drop, and – relieved to be alive – I swam to the surface grinning, retrieved the terrible wedgie, and hauled myself out onto the rocks like an ungainly seal. For some reason, I did it several times more.

We were probably in the water about an hour before deciding we should get back to make our pre-booked 2pm kayaking spot, so we swam back across the lagoon to our stuff on the beach. I shivered my way into my changing robe, which provided immense relief, and we walked the short distance around the coast back to the van, parked just behind Abereiddy beach.

Kayaking & Paddleboarding at Llys-y-frân

I’d booked a canoe for dad and Angus, a paddleboard for Ryan and a kayak for myself at Llys y Frân, a lake and country park at the foot of the Preseli Hills. After a brief altercation – I think the only one of the holiday – about washing up and being slightly late, we were out on the water in the warm sun. It was incredibly quiet, wild and peaceful. First we paddled up the smaller, left hand “arm” of the lake, past lush green banks with trees overhanging the water and over roots visible through the shallows – it could have been prehistoric. The only people we saw were a couple picnicking in a clearing at the end and the safety man in his powerboat.

Ryan and I swapped, then we paddled back to the bigger, wider arm of the lake, which gave a good view of the Preseli hills. It was less sheltered here and we were fighting the wind, which was fun as it was quite hard work. On one side the bank was crammed with thick, leafy trees and on the other a grassy slope was occupied by people fishing, walking and sitting on benches. We paddled as far as we could go given the 2 hour hire time, then turned around and came back. Angus treated us to a drink at the clean, modern café, then we headed on to the pub for a meal.

Tafarn Sinc & Bessie’s Pub

The food at the Tafarn Sinc was lovely and service was good, considering how early we arrived. It was a simple, proper pub menu with nothing fancy or unpronounceable (apart from the Welsh side). After a meal and a couple of drinks we headed back to the campsite via Bessie’s pub, properly called the Dyffryn Arms, nestled in the thickly wooded old valley of Cwm Gwaun.

I’ve never known a pub so cemented in time. The bar is a tiny hatch in a room with a tiled floor and granny-style floral wallpaper, filled with a hotchpotch of chairs and decorated with what would be, if hung up anywhere else, a naff old bunch of pictures (including a painting of Queen Elizabeth in her 20s, probably the most modern object in the pub). They do approximately one ale and one cider, mysteriously extracted from somewhere behind the hatch, and the unlit outside toilets are charmingly ancient, cold and dark. Our pints just about stayed upright on the wonky bench as we overlooked the field, stream and woods on the other side of the narrow valley. I think it’s one of those places that should never change.

It was our last night in North Pembrokeshire and the end of the first half of the holiday. When we got back to the campsite, Ryan and I packed up our stuff and went wild camping for a night on the Preseli Hills, where we found a small, pull-in car park hidden in thick fog. We watched Jeremy Clarkson’s Farm on my phone and planned the next day, where my next blog post begins…

Alps 2020, Day 6: Aosta Valley, Italy

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I’m writing this a year and four months late, which is quite poor even by my timekeeping standards. A lot has happened since then (global pandemics etc) and other diversions have meant that I’ve neglected my blog terribly, so consider this my effort to catch up.

We woke in our cosy Italian Air BnB, breakfasted on cereal, made coffee on the hob with a saucepan and ladle (no kettles in Italy) and drove off to find somewhere to hike. I can’t remember why we went where we did – maybe we Googled local hiking spots – but after a short drive we ended up parking in a pull-in halfway up the side of a mountainous valley. The weather was kind of grey and snowy, but visibility wasn’t too bad and we loved the remoteness of the location.

We waded through deep snow towards a forest, following what vaguely resembled a path. When we reached the trees it was as if we were transported into a winter fairytale. Dark green firs, pines and spruces towered above us, branches laden with thick snow, and as we got further in the tracks faded and the white ground ahead became pristine. It felt like we were the first people to ever set foot in the forest.

We played around, shaking snow from branches, throwing snowballs, falling over, climbing bits of rock, drinking from a stream and shuffling along the trunk of a fallen tree. It was surreal, like noone else existed. We ate feta and salad sandwiches under the shelter of a rock and, childish impulses satisfied, headed back to the car the same way we came.

I drove cautiously along the winding roads, down the side of the valley and into the town of Aosta. After a brief altercation with an uncooperative, non-English speaking parking meter, we managed to get a ticket and wander round the town. Neither of us had been to Italy before so we found it really interesting.

Aosta is an ancient place which has largely retained its Roman foundations, including thick city walls, an amphitheatre, some old gates and a regular, blocky street plan. On approaching the centre we walked through a couple of stone arches and were bemused by the juxtaposition of thousands-of-years-old architecture with modern, raised walkways and handrails. Despite this contrast the town didn’t feel fragmented or piecemeal in any way – it felt simultaneously old and new, “then” and “now” inextricably woven together and brought to life by a vibrant buzz of people, flags and shop fronts. We weaved along cobbled streets lined by four and five story buildings painted yellow, orange and beige, populated by all kinds of shops and pizza, pasta and gelato places.

We left the buzzing high streets and found the cathedral, a towering neo-classical building fronted by tall white columns topped by intricate carvings of crucifixes, wreaths, figures, books and ornaments. Set back under the large front arch is a wood panelled door surrounded by a colourful display of painted biblical scenes, framed by golden columns and another arch containing delicate statues with painted robes and faces cast upwards. I cant do it justice with few words, so here’s a picture:

We explored the side streets, intrigued by intricate architectural details and the simple, timeless elegance of the place. Snow-scattered, mountainous valley sides rose above rooves and chimneys, giving the town a self-contained, cosy feel, and statues (notably of Neptune, huge trident in hand), arches and an abundance of churches hinted at Aosta’s long, rich history.

We wandered back to the car feeling satisfied with our cultural immersion, only to find some paperwork under the windscreen wipers and a couple of police officers lingering on the street. Hearts sinking, we realised that the road was being closed for the “Fiera di Sant’Orso”, some kind of festival that had been advertised on banners around the town but which we’d paid no attention to, nor had we seen road signs warning of closures (not that we’d have understood them anyway). One of the police officers said something semi-irately in Italian, to which we replied quite uncomprehendingly in English, and she took back the paperwork and let us drive away after a bit of gesturing and what was probably a bit of a telling off.*

A 20-minute drive through the valley took us back to the Air BnB, where we had a camembert snack and researched places to go for dinner. We wanted to try proper Italian pizza and we found a pizzeria called Le Vieux Bourg in a small town called Etroubles, 15 minutes from the apartment. We got there about 7pm, found a tiny shop and picked up a couple of cartons of €2.30 wine (always classy) for later, then waded through snow to get to the restaurant.

I’ve never had pizza like it. It was perfect – a thin, light base, just the right amount of tomato sauce, melty, gooey cheese, perfectly cooked toppings and not greasy at all. I had the “Twin Peaks” (sausage and onion, I think) solely because I liked the name, and Ryan had something meaty. Prices were very reasonable – more than passable wine at €2 a glass – and the waiter was friendly, as well as English-speaking. We had gelato for dessert, which we didn’t need as the pizzas were so big, but we wanted to try it and it was also very good. I can’t emphasise enough how good the pizza was, we still think about it to this day. 10/10 would recommend. I’ll stop now as I’m getting hungry.

I drove us back to the apartment and we spent our last night in Italy drinking cheap wine and trying to get over how good the pizza was. We like Italy.

* We’ve since received a parking fine in the post (14 months later) which we’re contesting. Fun & games.

Climbing Benny Beg, Stirling Castle: Scotland Day 8, Sep ’20

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Our day started in the van on the edge of Braemar, with a conversation about climbing Lochnagar. Ryan’s knee was quite sore so after much deliberation we decided that instead of hiking the White Mounth loop, which takes in five Munros in the southeast Cairngorms, we’d head towards Edinburgh and find somewhere to rock climb.

A quick Google search later pointed us in the direction of Benny Beg, a small crag about 2 hours south of Braemar, between Perth and Stirling. We drove away from the immense, rolling peaks of the Cairngorms quite reluctantly, through miles of open farmland, and found the crag car park behind a small garden centre.

A one minute walk along the footpath at the back of the car park took us to the wall, a long section of bare rock face about 10m high that seemed to be plonked very randomly (and very conveniently) in the middle of a fairly unremarkable landscape consisting mainly of crop fields.

The climbing was really enjoyable – a series of easy single-pitch routes on solid rock. The bolts were nicely spaced (ie. very close together!) and there were plenty of low grade routes, which suited us as we didn’t fancy anything particularly hard. We alternated leading four or five climbs, from 3c to 4c, before the rain crept in and we made a hasty escape back to the van.

I’d recommend Benny Beg to anyone in the area, largely because it’s so easily accessible from the road. It would be a great place to learn to climb or to take kids because the grades are easy and the bolts are forgivingly spaced. The downside is that I imagine it gets busy at peak times in good weather.


Having decided to spend the next day exploring Edinburgh, we meandered south towards the city. We’d booked a cheap hotel and had a few hours of the afternoon left, so we took a minor detour to Stirling Castle. As castle locations go, this has to be one of the best: perched on a high rock plateau whose sheer faces rise high above the forest below on one side, and which towers over the attractive, ancient city of Stirling on the other.

I have a soft spot for castles, perhaps because every childhood holiday incorporated at least one, or perhaps it was inherited from my dad (who I tease for being a medieval relic in his own right). Stirling didn’t disappoint – it had towers, turrets, battlements, dungeons, a portcullis, a (dry) moat, a (famous) bridge, a keep, a great hall, a church, cannons, mountain views, walls you can walk around – it ticked all the castle boxes. The only shame was that most of the indoor bits were closed due to some pesky pandemic, so it’s definitely one to return to.

We got to Edinburgh in the evening, checked into the hotel and planned the next day. The van is small enough to park in a city centre car park without any fuss, but also small enough that washing facilities are very limited, so we were particularly grateful for a hot shower that night.

Mountain biking Glenlivet, Braemar village: Scotland Day 7, Sep ’20

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We spotted a poster in our overnight lay-by advertising a mountain bike trail on the nearby Glenlivet estate. The drive there was twisty but very picturesque, through seemingly endless rolling hills covered in green fields, brown heather and dark pine forest. We arrived quite early and had a bowl of soup and a bacon roll in the lovely log cabin café, which was surprisingly busy considering it was halfway up a hill in the middle of nowhere.

We set off on the trail and for a while, were a little underwhelmed. After a long, gradual climb up to “Gauger’s lookout” there was some nice, flowing singletrack along part of the blue trail through “Spooky wood”, then some flat pedalling along a gravel track to join the red trail. Then came a very long uphill section along the “Forest road”, which gave us a chance to admire the majestic pines, firs and spruces that towered above us, growing thickly on either side. It felt like we were newcomers to their ancient forest domain.

After what felt like a long time, we reached the top of the hill and the landscape opened out, spoiling us with views of rolling, sun-dappled moors, fields and rich green forests, with layers of hazy blue mountains in the distance. We stopped to run up to the viewpoint at the top of the hill, stare in awe at the vastness of everything around us, and get blown around by the wind.

The Cairngorms is a different kind of wilderness to the West Highlands, where we’d come from. Mountains roll lazily over and around each other in the distance, huge green fields hug hills where farmers have managed to tame patches of soil and brown, heather-covered moorlands stretch out to the edges of old forests where trees huddle secretively in huge, ancient communities. The rivers are wide and calm and the whole panorama gives the upland plateau a strange sense of three-dimensional enormousness, stretching both vertically and horizontally as if it was its own complete, self-contained world.

Once I had satisfied my poetic inclinations with these observations, we remounted the bikes and set off on the downhill section of the red route. Our dubiousness of the Glenlivet MTB evaporated in an instant. The next few miles were an incredible mix of very (and sometimes very, very) quick, smooth singletrack which started down the side of the open, heathery hill, then zigzagged through an immense forest, punctuated all the way by black graded features – drop-offs, jumps and steps. It was probably the longest continuous downhill section both of us has ever ridden, and we flew down it feeling high as kites.

We swapped bikes for a little bit at one point and I was reluctantly sold on the smoothness and handling ability of Ryan’s new full suspension Giant, in contrast with my 2008 hardtail, but to its credit the old Rockhopper handled everything the trail threw at it (apart from the biggest jumps and drops, which I was too chicken and probably too inexperienced to try). Having said this, the brakes were very weak following the harrowing Torridon loop that we’d completed a couple of days previously.

After what felt like a blissful age of zipping through the trees, the gradient finally levelled out and we rejoined the gravel forest road back towards the car park. I was buzzing so much from the descent that I don’t remember much of the ride back, apart from that the trees were lovely and the moorland was lovely and that if it weren’t for the gargantuan climb and the fact that we wanted to explore some other places, we’d do that downhill section again in a heartbeat.

The last noteworthy bit of the trail was back in the forest near the car park, where there’s a 1km orange section consisting of wide, smooth, flowing, huge jumps and berms, which I rolled along (admittedly quite quickly) wishing that I’d learnt how to jump before I got there. Then we were back at the cabin café, where we did a celebratory couple of laps of the little pump track before loading the bikes onto the van and leaving, a little reluctantly, for Braemar.

Braemar is a village in the middle of the Cairngorms National Park, about an hour south from the Glenlivet MTB centre. The drive was very picturesque, through the heart of the landscapes I described above (am I getting lazy?), and some of the hills were so long and steep that we had to stop a couple of times to let the van’s engine cool down, poor old thing. We drove past the Balmoral Estate where I was delighted to see my first red squirrel of the trip, then instantaneously distraught as it ran across the road and got hit by a car. It was very sad, but so quick that it wouldn’t have felt a thing. I, on the other hand, was mildly traumatised.

I’d been to Braemar a couple of times before and I wanted Ryan to see it. It’s a timeless, picture-postcard old village with some kind of royal history, nestled in the heart of the Cairngorm hills and just big enough to have a bustling atmosphere. It has a handful of independent shops, a couple of pubs and hotels, a castle, a castle ruin and a Highland games centre.

We parked in the central car park and went for a wander. We found a really interesting shop called McLean of Braemar full of traditional Scottish gifts and homeware-type bits, like antler-handled knives, drinking horns, celtic jewellery and all sorts of tartan and tweed. After a good poke around we decided that being mid-afternoon, it was time for the pub. We tried The Flying Stag but it was full, so we ended up in Farquharsons Bar and Kitchen, a lovely pub on the river right by the car park.

Covid restrictions meant that we had to sit down at a table and couldn’t end up chatting to locals at the bar, like we usually would. Nevertheless, the staff were very friendly, the cider was cold and the food was lovely. It was nice to be in a pub after a few days eating and drinking in the van, especially as lockdown had meant that we hadn’t had many pub-going opportunities all year.

We left the pub (reluctantly) and went off in search of a suitable overnight spot. We found an excellent, discrete place near a duck pond, just a few minutes out from the centre. It overlooked the village, which was tucked neatly in a bowl surrounded by high, heather-covered hills. We spent the evening relaxing with a few ciders, munching on van snacks and drunkenly expressing our appreciation of how lovely Scotland is. That night the sky was jet black and crystal clear, and the stars were breathtaking.

Ben Macdui, Cairn Gorm & Loch Morlich: Scotland day 6, Sep ’20

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We had heard from Ryan’s dad how difficult Ben Macdui could be to navigate in poor conditions, so we set off around 8:30am from the Cairngorm Mountain upper car park. It was clear and dry but the clouds hung like a heavy, grey blanket just above the tips of the distant peaks behind us. To our left was a short valley headed by a ridge of bare rock towering over a small loch, Coire an Lochain, and in front was a vast expanse of brown heather and rock-strewn, yellow-gold grass, ascending gradually towards the high horizon that hid the great plateau of Ben Macdui.

The mountain lay directly south of the car park and the walk-in was long and gentle. Because the Cairngorm peaks perch on a plateau that already rises way above sea level, they don’t have the jagged drama of the western mountains and they’re generally more walkable. The gravel path was easy to follow for the first 3 or 4 miles (obviously a different story in snow), until the ground turned from grassy moorland to boulderfields. We hopped from rock to rock, reassured by the occasional cairn. The last mile was steeper and as we climbed the fog thickened, so we were glad for the many cairns that led up to the summit.

There were lots of little rock shelters at the top and after a quick trig point photo (10:30am), we huddled into one and made a brew. As is often the case with high, beautiful places, the fog ruined all our chances of appreciating the landscape and allowed us a view only of the barren, flat, rock-strewn top of the mountain. It felt like we had walked onto another planet.

We headed back down the way we came and when the steep bit levelled out, we took a right fork along a new path towards Cairn Gorm. The fog cleared as we walked past the high, glassy Lochan Buidhe, and we enjoyed a leisurely stroll for the next 2 miles along relatively flat ground. We looked back at Ben Macdui and saw that the cloud had lifted, revealing its dark, hulking peak peering over the vast expanse of yellow-brown, open land, backed by similar dark summits and veined with rivers reflecting the white cloud above.

Looking towards Cairn Gorm (over the hill on the left)

We walked along the rocky ridge that towers above Coire an Sneachda with the grassy plain on our right and a sheer drop down bare rock to our left. The last 500m up Cairn Gorm were very steep and rocky, and we summited about 1pm. At the top sits a big cairn and a weather station, which consists of a small scaffold tower with some metal contraptions sticking out of it and a big black cylinder on a raised platform. It was quite busy as a lot of people walked to the top and back from the car park, so we didn’t hang around, although the view was lovely – panoramic, the horizon formed on all sides by rolling blue mountains.

  • Looking back towards Ben Macdui from Cairn Gorm

We descended the steep-ish path north past the Ptarmigan centre and the ski lift, keeping a hopeful eye out as Ryan wanted to see a ptarmigan. Sadly the rocky, heathery ground was birdless. We finished our circular route back at the van around 2pm, had a quick nose in the visitor centre (which was largely closed due to covid) and decided to head down to Loch Morlich in the Glenmore valley for a swim.

We had set aside the whole day for our hike as we’d expected navigation to be a lot more difficult than it was, so I was happy to fit a quick swim in. There were signs at Loch Morlich warning of blue-green algae, but having been exposed without any effects before I decided to swim anyway. I wasn’t in the water for long as I was hungry and still a little wary of the algae (and the duck poo – I found myself in the middle of a flock), but the cold was exhilarating. The worst bit was peeling off my wetsuit in the car park as I shivered myself dry.

  • The way down from Cairn Gorm

Ryan wanted to camp in the same place as we had the previous night, but that was on a dead-end road and as we’d ticked Ben Macdui off I wanted to explore somewhere else. After a brief “negotiation” we decided to grab some supplies from Aviemore and take the A939 road that runs south down the east side of the Cairngorms so we could see the town of Braemar and perhaps climb Lochnagar. The drive was lovely, and after an hour or so we found a good overnight spot at a quarry just outside the village of Tomintoul.

On our customary poke around we found a sculpture on a hill above the quarry, which was like a 3D mirrored picture frame a couple of metres deep that framed the pretty hills behind it. We had tinned chicken in white wine sauce (surprisingly good), rice and veg for dinner, and my highlight of the evening was Ryan returning from a toilet trip with reports of swooping owls and screeching rabbits, and one soggy foot from the only boggy ground in the vicinity.

Mountain biking the Torridon Loop: Scotland day 4, Sep ’20

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After much deliberation about the day’s activities, we decided that taking on a renowned mountain bike route would be more fun than hiking up Liathach in the clag. The Torridon loop is a 30-mile trail around some of the vast glens of the northwest Highlands, rated on various websites as “hard”, “advanced”, “expert” and “very hard”. Irresistible.

We parked in a layby outside the pretty lochside village of Torridon and set off along the road. The first few miles took us through the belly of the vast Glen Torridon, flanked by the towering Torridon Hills. The road flowed through the valley like the river that ran alongside it (unsurprisingly enough, the River Torridon), its path dictated by the unheeding topography of this great Scottish wilderness.

Eventually we turned right off the road and cycled along the east side of Loch Clair. A couple of ownerless black labradors ran over to investigate our intrusion on their land, and we lamented the fact that we weren’t born into rich Scottish estates. We took a left along a muddy path through a wood and encountered our first hill; I spent the climb telling Ryan all about the Jacobite movement in the 17-18th century, a piece of Highland history which I find fascinating. I’ll spare the detail. At the top we realised that we’d climbed the hill unnecessarily as we’d missed a right fork which would have kept us on the flat, but it was worth it for the fast descent along a gravel track to rejoin the route.

Another bit of gentle cycling saw us across the sweeping farmland around the head of the small Loch Coulin, then along the River Coulin. By this time we were suspicious about the lack of ascent/descent/anything that felt like real mountain biking, especially on a route that was supposedly so difficult. And rightfully so – we had no idea what was to come.

The gradient gradually increased, and soon we were chugging up a steep track running parallel to the river. We reached a small bothy, had a quick nose inside, then crossed a bridge by a waterfall. It was uphill from there, along a narrow path littered with rocks large enough to render the way largely unrideable. We found ourselves on a wide, upland heath surrounded by yellow grass, purple heather and hills hidden in cloud. Then the rain came.

It crept in silently but quickly; one minute we could look back on the hills and valleys behind us, the next we were engulfed by wet mist. Eventually the ground levelled out to a high, scrubby plateau and we jumped back on the bikes.

The next section was totally unexpected and pretty epic. A long, extremely rocky couple of miles of incredibly technical downhill over big chunks of solid slickrock, with some very tight corners and definitely-don’t-want-to-fall-off steep bits. Our bikes clattered over massive rocks in a quick – slow – quick – slow pattern, and we finally understood why the route was graded difficult. It was a shame the rock was so wet as the slipperiness slowed us down, but it was an incredible trail nonetheless. I hit a rock side on and ended up over the handlebars only once, which – considering I was riding my 12 year old, bashed up hardtail – I thought was good going.

The most annoying thing was the frequent channels cut in the path, which consisted of two slabs placed vertically opposite each other with a big gap in the middle for drainage. Our rear tyres whacked the harsh edge of the slabs repeatedly, so  when the ground finally levelled out I wasn’t surprised to find a slow puncture. We pumped it up, then made our way through a forest section and across a railway track to the hamlet of Achnashellach. For some reason, it seemed strange to be in civilisation again. We munched a sandwich in a layby, swapped my inner tube and carried on west along the road for a few long, grey, very wet miles, wondering whether we were actually having a good time.

After what felt like a long time we turned right and followed a gravel track up along a river that headed into the mountains, which were ominously dark and shrouded in thick cloud. It was just about rideable, but the big, wet rocks on the path made it very awkward, and the wheel-bashing channels had returned. After a lot more time we reached the coolest bothy I’ve ever seen: a two-storey cottage with two big rooms downstairs and three “bedrooms”. It was the stuff of horror films, but would have been a great place to stay.

If we weren’t so stubborn, the next couple of hours might have seen us lose the will to live. We walked our bikes most of the way along the soaking wet, boggy, rocky path up, up and up. At first we tried to retain some element of dryness by avoiding the worst of the bog, but before long we were wading through rivers halfway up to our knees and dragging our bikes through dark mud and mire. It just kept going. The most soul-destroying part was that while the cloud above was bright grey where the light of the distant sky shone through, the cloud ahead and on all sides was dark grey. The kind of grey that announced that we were surrounded by high, steep ridges, which meant that we hadn’t reached the top of anything – we were effectively trapped in a big bowl of misery.

We stopped at the high Loch Choire Fionnaraich and did the thing we only ever do when in dire straits: had an energy gel. It perked us up enough to push on up the hill, barely speaking. After what felt like another age we pulled up onto a kind of rocky plateau pass between Maol Chean-dearg and Meall Dearg. Our relief was dampened by the pressing concern that we’d soon start losing daylight, so – happy to be back in the saddle, but still racked with anxiety and suspicion at what this wretched day would throw at us next – we pedalled along the rocky path, startled a few red deer which had inexplicably chosen this godforsaken place to graze, then flew past Loch an Eoin and another couple of small lochs (imagine the dead marshes from Lord of the Rings) which were backed by mysterious ridges. The trail was steep in places, very technical, quick and (most notably) often indistinguishable from a narrow, fast-flowing river.

Despite the treacherous weather and unforgiving terrain, we made it across the wild plateau quite quickly and relatively unscathed. I wish my GoPro hadn’t died, as we weren’t in a position to take photos and I can’t convey with words how wet, fast and rocky the trail was. We emerged on the other side of the plateau and the gradient got steeper, the rocks slipperier and the drops bigger. Our bikes (mine in particular, poor old thing – Ryan was on his new, full suspension Giant) clattered down the rocks begging for mercy, and my brakes had gotten soft to the point of uselessness. But ever since we’d been going downhill, I was secretly having a good time again.

It’s a shame the weather was so bad, my brakes were shot, we were exhausted from lack of food and the light was fading, as otherwise the way down would have been amazing. It was unlike anything we’d done before, but we couldn’t quite appreciate it or go as quickly as we’d have liked. We’d climbed for hours and it was a long, steep descent, well worthy of any hard / expert / advanced / very hard label. As the houses of Torridon and the little silver speck of the van appeared, we made our way down the final technical slickrock descent, knackered and very relieved.

We got to the van soaked to the bone. We threw the bikes on the rack, shivered awkwardly into dry clothes and fumbled around arranging a wet bag, which everything went into. I made the best hot chocolate we’d ever tasted and we polished off a pack of shortbread in minutes, then we drove the short distance back up the hill to the picturesque layby we’d stayed in the previous night. Ryan cooked the best carbonara in the history of the universe and we didn’t take anything for granted that evening: food, warmth, dryness, cider and rest. We slept well that night.

Torridon loop conclusion: Largely unrideable. Probably a different story in good weather / a big group / plenty of daylight. Would recommend if you like Type 2 fun. Scenery is probably lovely. Oddly enough, would do again.

NB: The photos don’t do justice to the awkwardness of the trails – the awkward bits were too awkward to move along while taking pictures.

Ben Nevis climb via Tower Ridge: Scotland day 2, Sep ’20

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We parked in the North Face car park just north east of Fort William and set off through the dense, wild Leanachan forest. We practically trotted through the trees, flailing limbs at the infamous West Highland midges and – although the forest was enchanting – were keen to put as much distance as possible between our as yet unbitten skin and the river by the car park.

We emerged onto a wide sweep of heather dotted with bright green shrubbery and small broadleaf trees, backed by the majestic hump of Ben Nevis’s north face, dark against the clear blue sky. Our next destination, the CIC hut, sat neatly at the head of the valley in a cosy, three-sided bowl formed by Carn Dearg, Ben Nevis and Carn Mor Dearg, looking down the length of the Allt a Mhuilinn river to a north-westerly horizon full of hazy blue mountains. Our path up to the hut was well-maintained and parallel to the river, so there was no real prospect of getting lost. The tricky bit would be determining our target – Tower Ridge.

We had no guidebook and the previous night’s googling yielded little light on the exact location of the ridge, so we were going off a couple of vague diagrams and a singular, hand-drawn map found on google images. At the hut, where a handful of raggedy climbers and seasoned-looking walkers congregated, we munched a sandwich and identified what we were fairly certain was Tower Ridge – a narrow, protruding finger of rock that joins the high, plateaued ridge between Ben Nevis and Car Mor Dearg at a 90 degree angle.

The giveaway was the Douglas boulder, a hulking mass of rock at the base of the ridge. From the hut, we walked, then scrabbled, up the loose, rocky debris that constituted the ground. It was hard work and the ridge definitely felt further away than it had appeared. Eventually we got to the other side of the Douglas boulder, turned towards its vast east face and started climbing, now in the dark shadow of the formidable Ben. This is considered a more sensible way to gain the ridge than from the west, even though the walk-in is longer.

Buzzing at the first real bit of exposure, we stopped once we were straddling the spine of the ridge to take in the view and decide whether to get the rope out. Although the way was steep and either side of the ridge was treacherously sheer, we decided against it for this first section; the holds looked big and solid, and we were confident that it was no more than a steep scramble. It wasn’t long, however, before we got to a more questionable face on the west side of the ridge.

We roped up and I led the first pitch, which turned out to be less technical than it had looked. I set up a quick anchor and brought Ryan up safely, then we scrambled on carrying a few feet of rope between us, coils stored over shoulders, not secured to the ridge but confident with the easy climbing. We moved at a steady pace, sometimes debating whether to use the rope and, more often than not, deciding against it. On our left loomed the intimidatingly dark, sheer face of Ben Nevis, and on our right we were spoilt by seemingly endless stretches of lush heathland, green forests and blue mountains.

There was one sketchy moment when we decided that the best route was to go left around the ridge, only to realise – once I was balancing somewhat precariously above the apparently bottomless east face – that the holds were few and far between and some of the rock was loose, and that we should have gone right. Ryan quickly took the most convincing right hand route and set up an anchor, so I could climb safely out of my uncomfortable, teetering position. I wasn’t happy with my Salomon Quest boots, as they’re thick-soled and chunky – perfect for hiking but not for use as climbing shoes, as I could barely feel the rock between my feet and I didn’t trust the grip. It would have been a little too easy to tread a little too aggressively and misjudge a foothold. Ryan’s LaSportiva XXX approach shoes, on the other hand, were perfect for the purpose – grippy and flexible enough that he could feel holds with accuracy, but without the foot-choking tightness of climbing shoes.

About three-quarters of the way along, we found ourselves squeezing up a narrow tunnel on the left hand side of the ridge. After giggling at the ungainly way we each emerged from the gap, we looked up and realised that our next move wasn’t obvious. Up until now, it had seemed that there was no “right” route along the ridge, apart from that which didn’t take us too close to either of its perilous sides. Here, we were pinned to one side and faced an unlikely-looking climb upwards, or a tight traverse along the left side of the ridge, which seemed to take us downwards. We chose left, but stopped at a strange whistling sound. A moment later, a cheery-looking climber popped out of the tunnel, wearing just a pair of bright yellow shorts, trainers and a small rucksack. We asked him the way and he grinned as he told us it was not left but “up”, then proceeded to float up the wall with irritating ease. He explained that this was the most difficult move of the route, probably around VDiff, but foraged around with his arm in a crack and reassured us that there’s a good hold somewhere.

Bemused by his timely appearance and nonchalent manner, we climbed upwards after him, roped up. He was long gone by the time we’d reached the top of that section, Great Tower. Ahead of us was the bit of the ridge that we’d watched videos of, and which we were looking forward to most. Ryan led the way across the most exposed part of the route, which is a skinny arete about 50 feet long and as wide as a pavement, which drops down hundreds of sheer feet either side. It was exhilarating to walk across, and I picked each uneven step carefully – although I was on belay, the length of the traverse meant that a fall would mean a nasty swing and crash against one of the ridge’s treacherous faces.

At the end of the pavement was the famous Tower Gap, a break in the ridge that required a slight downclimb and committal step across to the other side. The holds were good, and I joined Ryan quickly. From  there, the way to the top was quite straightforward – up and over another high, but solid, grey mass, unroped. We pulled over onto the Nevis plateau elated and to the shock of several hikers.

We walked left along the flat top to the summit, which was teeming with people.  It was as if we’d suddenly plunged back into reality, the timeless thrill of the climb behind us. On the ridge, we’d overtaken a group of three and been overtaken by whistling guy, but otherwise hadn’t seen anyone up close (we could see people on the plateau from the ridge) for hours. We took in the panoramic view of endless mountains, layered on top of each other in an enticing blue haze, had a sandwich and (to our horror) queued for a quick summit picture. People eyed us with interest, and a group asked us whether we’d climbed up. I refrained from telling them that “no, I wear a harness everywhere and the rope’s for show”, and we made our way down the loose, zig-zag pony track before we got too peopled out.

The view over Glen Nevis was stunning, but unfortunately we were busy focusing on each loose, uneven step down to appreciate it fully. We passed a waterfall and came to a fork near the dark water of Lochan Meall an t-suidhe, where most people went left down the pony track. We went right, which took us east around the north face of Carn Mor Dearg and back along a long path towards the CIC hut. Before we reached the hut, we cut left down the bank to cross the river and join the path we’d come up that morning, but not as soon as we could have – we were keen to avoid finding a bog, which we’ve become uncannily adept at.

I stopped to pick a handful of bilberries, which are lovely, sweet little wild blueberries that grow on low, scrubby bushes. The walk back to the van back down the Allt a Mhullain river was beautiful, and we soaked in the wilderness of open heath speckled with lilac cornflowers, pink heather and leafy green bushes, backed by dark forest and countless mountains. Breathtaking, but still we were keen to get back; we were starving, walking on sore feet and eager to find a pub.

Eventually we reached Leanachan forest. In its late afternoon quietness, it took on a sense of mystery that we hadn’t felt earlier; it was as if the trees were watching us pass, but it was peaceful, rather than creepy. Our heightened senses took in the grassy, mossy carpet, the lichen growing abundantly on the dark side of the trees, the fungi nestling in crevices and the intricate detail on the bark of the gnarly birches and towering pines. Every time I’ve been to Scotland, I’ve noted that there’s something magical about the forests.

We got back to the van, shut out the midges and de-booted. A twenty minute drive later and we were at the Ben Nevis Inn, tucked on one bank of the valley of Glen Nevis. We were pleased to see that we could stay overnight in the Achintree Road car park, right by the pub down a dead-end road. Unfortunately the pub was full indoors and booking-only, thanks to covid, but we enjoyed a pint of Thistly Cross cider (delicious) in the garden. I’d recommend the pub – amazing location and lovely looking inside, an old barn I think. That night we cooked and enjoyed a couple of ciders in the van before collapsing into bed, exhausted. We’d been incredibly lucky to have had clear, sunny weather all day – that night, it’d be an understatement to say the rain came.