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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 7: Return via Switzerland

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We packed up our stuff and left our cosy Italian apartment, sad to be homeward bound. The first part of the drive took us along a road flanked by magnificent, snowy peaks,  out of Italy via the Great St Bernard tunnel. We climbed up to it in our little VW Polo hire car, paid the toll and emerged in Switzerland 6km later.

We wound down the equally mountainous road on the other side, marvelling at the Swiss Alps. The roads were wide and smooth and large chalets made up towns and villages, boasting hotels, amenities and ski-related things. We stopped at the Relais-du-St-Bernard, a service station on the edge of a town called Martigny. It was nice to stretch my legs after an hour or so of having to concentrate on the road, rather than the stunning surroundings, but we were amazed (not in a good way) at the price of food at the service station.

The next bit of the drive took us north along flatter ground to Montreaux, a large town on the eastern side of Lake Geneva. We parked on a roadside close to the edge of the lake and got out for a wander. It felt like a well-kept place, with benches, trees, clean pavements and an attractive marina. We walked down to the lake and just stood there for a while, taking in the breathtaking view of the rippling water backed by high, jagged, snow-scattered mountains under a moody sky.

We got back in the car reluctantly and headed to Geneva along the long north side of the lake, bypassing Lausanne and hoping to get there with enough time to drop the hire car off and have a little explore. I’m writing with hindsight and I don’t remember anything notable about the drive, until we got to Geneva.

Our Air BnB and the car drop-off point was near the airport, north west of the city centre. We had quite a long, stressful time finding a petrol station and returning the car. We got to the busy part at what must have been rush hour and Google maps wasn’t being particularly helpful at finding us a petrol station. Angry Swiss drivers exacerbated the situation, so Ryan became a stressed and (sorry) fairly unhelpful passenger while I navigated the difficult-to-understand roads, conscious that there were probably Swiss driving etiquettes to which I was oblivious. Eventually we managed to fill up and return the car to the multi-storey car park drop-off point on time.

Loaded with all our stuff, we set off on foot to find our Air BnB, a very basic, student halls type apartment in a not-particularly-nice area that we’d chosen because it was within walking distance from the airport and relatively cheap (about €60, which was ridiculously expensive compared to our lovely French and Italian accommodation). We dumped our bags and, starving, didn’t bother to change before setting out to find some food.

We’d hoped to see the city centre but were exhausted and hungry from the stressful drive, so we found a bar along a main road within walking distance of the apartment. From memory this part of Geneva wasn’t anything special – I remember wide roads, slightly run-down takeaways, peeling posters and a lot of overhead wires. The bar was lovely though, a proper “local” where nobody spoke a word of English, and the wine went down a treat – as did the complementary cheese savouries and cured meats.

After a couple of drinks we found a restaurant called Da Vinci’s, just down the road. It was too posh for our salopettes and base layers but we didn’t care. For starters Ryan had porto soup, a thin broth made with port and beef stock, which was absolutely nothing to write home about – unless to warn against ever ordering porto soup. I had snails in garlic butter which were chewy but tasted nice. For mains Ryan had pasta carbonara, which was lovely, and I couldn’t resist my favourite treat – prawn cocktail. Afterwards we sat at the bar for some drinks and were pleasantly surprised when the bartender cut into a huge wheel of cheese and handed us complementary snacks, including lots of olives (another favourite).

Eventually we left the bar and went back to the apartment, exhausted and sad that the holiday was nearly over. Our flight was early the next morning and we were up at an unearthly hour, lugging bags to the airport. The bag weighed in a few kilos too heavy (always anxiety-inducing) but luckily we had a friendly baggage attendant, so Ryan put on his heavy mountain boots and we layered up even more, somehow reducing the weight to under the 20kg limit. Everything else was unremarkable; we hung around at the airport for a bit, mournfully watched Switzerland disappear through the plane window, and got picked up early from Bournemouth Airport by Ryan’s brother.

We were lucky to get abroad in 2020, given the pandemic that shocked the world just a month after we set foot in Switzerland. I’m writing 14 months late due to various diversions, so may have missed a few things out, but I’m relieved to finally have finished my Alps blog. Definitely a place to return to, as often as possible. In hindsight, even losing control of the hire car along a steep, icy back road makes a good story. 10/10 an excellent adventure.

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.

Torridon, Inverness and Aviemore: Scotland day 5, Sep ’20

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Following the previous day’s physical and emotional rollercoaster of a bike ride, we decided to have a rest day. We had breakfast in a quiet layby overlooking the lovely Upper Loch Torridon, backed by dark pine forest and the vast, dark gold Torridon hills, and decided to travel across Scotland towards the Cairngorms, ready to climb Ben Macdui the following day.

Our first stop was Torridon village, a tiny, pretty place on the edge of the loch where we picked up a few snacks (including a bottle of Irn Bru and haggis crisps) from the local shop before heading east through the belly of the great Glen Torridon.

We needed something to do during our day-long abstinence from any arduous physical pursuit, so we decided to explore Inverness. The journey from Torridon took about an hour and a half, and I was very sad to leave the dramatic glens of the west Highlands. As we drove east wild hillsides turned into huge cattlefields, fences turned land into property and the scenery softened into more gentle, habitable shapes. As we came into the city, fields gave way to concrete and bricks and we felt a thousand miles away from the wild, western glens we’d spent the last few days exploring.

We found a cheap central car park and got out for a look around. I’m not really sure what to think of Inverness. I’d been there twice before but couldn’t remember it that well. The middle is nice, with some pretty old buildings and a bustling high street, but some bits feel a little sad and run down – I suppose like most cities. The River Ness splits Inverness in two, connecting Loch Ness to the Moray Firth and the North Sea. We walked up to the castle, which was unfortunately closed due to covid and/or building work, and looked over the city’s rooves to the hulking blue mountain plateau on the horizon.

Next stop was Aviemore, perhaps the mountaineering hub of the Cairngorms, about 40 minutes south east of Inverness. It was bustling with people, many dressed in the signature bright colours of Mountain Equipment, Rab, Arcteryx and the like, and the main high street was lined with outdoors shops and cafes. We wandered round a few of the outdoorsey shops, stocked up with supplies from Tesco and drove the short distance to Loch Insh for a drink at the cosy lochside bar, where Ryan’s family had spent New Year a couple of years ago.

Keen to climb Ben Macdui (1,309m and the highest summit in the Cairngorms) and Cairn Gorm the next day, we left the bar, drove towards the mountain and found a big flat, car park overlooking Glenmore, the Rothiemurchus Forest and they Spey Valley. It was a lovely spot to watch the sun go down, cook dinner and plan our hiking route.

A quick(ish) reflection on 2020

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Well that was a year I didn’t see coming. I thought global pandemics were far-fetched works of fiction and cinema, not real, inescapable beasts that tether our ankles and incarcerate us in lonely little microcosms.

I’ve been luckier than many in that I’ve been living for the most part in a house of eight lovely people, I’ve been able to see my family and a few friends a handful of times (but not nearly as much as I’d like), and I’ve been working from home since it all kicked off in March. I’ve been unlucky in that I moved work from Reading to Bristol (same organisation, different office) in February, which meant renting a little cottage in Warminster for a grand total of three weeks before the pandemic started and I moved in with (ie. was adopted by) Ryan’s family in the New Forest.

I’ve done less “gadding around” than usual this year, although I’ve still managed a few escapes…

January: week-long trip to the Alps in January, which I’m extremely happy to have squeezed in before anyone had heard of covid. Skiing, snowboarding, winter hiking etc… amazing

February: overnight stay in the South Downs before a social trip to Butlins; a trip to London to see Touching the Void in theatre, followed by a few days in the Peak District

March: last pre-lockdown night in the van on the Dorset coast

April: nothing really, thanks lockdown (although I did spend a lot of time in and around the New Forest)

May: tried coarse fishing for the first time, went cycling and kayaking for my birthday, stayed local

June: took a week’s leave but couldn’t go far – couple of days’ bikepacking, walking and mountain boarding in the New Forest, slept in a cave on the Dorset coast

July: VAN TRIP! Great week hiking, climbing, mountain biking and canoeing in the Lake District

August: was supposed to camp in Snowdonia with the Hillbillies but weather said no so we camped in the New Forest and explored Avebury stone circle instead

September: Made it to my favourite place… Scotland! An amazing week in the van exploring the Highlands, Cairngorms and Edinburgh. Climbing, hiking, scrambling, mountain biking etc

October: Four days in Cornwall with the other Hillbilly children, exploring around the Lizard. Climbing in Dartmoor en route home

November: Lockdown #2 stifled my dreams, incarcerated once again. Managed a day’s climbing in Dorset with Angus and an overnight fishing trip

December: Lovely, much-needed van weekend away to Exmoor. Christmas was supposed to be on the Isle of Wight but last-minute-Boris said no

I’ve spent much of my “free” time running, walking, cycling, doing the odd bit of art and generally trying to a) be productive, and b) not go crazy. My blog has been neglected because the vast majority of my non-working laptop time has been spent working hard on an environmental project that I hope to launch fairly soon, but as always the intention to write about all of my adventures listed above remains. Hopefully soon.

I have some good news – I was worried that keeping my beloved campervan Bjorn would be financially unviable because of the rust underneath, but a lovely local garage has given me a reasonable welding quote and booked him in for the end of Jan. I have everything crossed for our future together. In other good news, unless I mess something up I’ll qualify as a lawyer in March, which is kind of scary. I still plan to use this to save the bees, trees and seas from meddling humans.

If anyone reads this (and I don’t mind if nobody does – I write to keep a personal record of what I’ve been up to, unless anyone decides to sponsor me, in which case I’m available for negotiations) then I hope you have a happy, healthy, more certain 2021. I can’t wait for more freedom and more adventures.

Endnote: I would find some photos of highlights from this year, but quite frankly there are too many and I can’t be bothered right now (classic lockdown). Here are a couple of pictures taken on Christmas/Boxing day, just so you can put a face to these ramblings:

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.

Fort William, Eilean Donan and Shieldaig: Scotland day 3, Sep ’20

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Fort William

Following the previous day’s climb of Ben Nevis, we conceded that this should be a rest day. We woke early by the Ben Nevis Inn and drove the short distance to Fort William town centre. I’ve been there a couple of times previously, only once in decent weather, and today it was decidedly wet. We had a Wetherspoons breakfast whilst poring over the maps and Scotland Wild Guide, then poked around the shops for gifts.

Unsurprisingly, given its renown as a hub for mountaineers, mountain bikers and all sorts of other quirky people, Fort William is a bustling little town, even in the grey mizzle of the Monday morning Highlands. It has a wide range of shops and as I once discovered, plenty of pockets of history.

We bought Ryan’s dad a locally crafted drinking glass to compensate for the fact we’d gone to Scotland for his birthday, an umbrella for extra protection against the Scottish weather, and giggled at a hardened-looking old lady on a bench who was resolutely ignoring the rain’s attempts to turn her closely scrutinised newspaper to pulp.

Eilean Donan Castle

We fuelled up at Morrisons then made our way to Eilean Donan castle, an hour and a half north west. Unfortunately we saw little of the mountains and glens we passed due to the weather, but were thankful that we’d used yesterday’s sun to go climbing. Sadly a crack had mysteriously appeared on the van’s windscreen, so every little bump in the road gave us a stab of anxiety (which actually became quite amusing).

The castle is quite famous because of its picturesque position on a little island at the junction of three lochs, surrounded by mountains. Google image it for some much better photography than my own. We got tickets for £10 each and waited a little for our allotted time to go across the footbridge – visitor numbers were limited (thanks covid).

Walking across the bridge we noted that for a castle, Eilean Donan is remarkably compact, complete and cosy-looking. This is largely due to the fact that it’s still inhabited (on what basis I’m not sure) by the MacRae family, so some of it is closed to the public. The open parts are lovely – decorated as if we’d travelled back a few hundred years, with a festooned dining table, bright wall hangings, open fires and a kitchen full of tantalising-looking faux food. We weren’t allowed to take pictures inside, but I think the best word to describe the castle is atmospheric.

Once we were done inside, we circumnavigated the outer walls and dawdled back along the bridge. After a brief look around the gift shop we headed north towards Torridon; I’m not really sure why, I just wanted to go further northwest than I’d been before.

Shieldaig

We stopped after about an hour and a half at a tiny village called Shieldaig, which is mentioned in my Scotland Wild Guide. It’s miles from anywhere and its pretty, colourful cottages are spread along a small section of the Loch Shieldaig bank, which joins Loch Torridon and opens out to the sea.

Following the rough directions towards some random beach in my book, we went up past the primary school and along a footpath that follows the edge of the loch to a headland. This moorland cliff juts between Loch Shieldaig and Upper Loch Torridon, offering beautiful, wild views of both.

We wandered off the path to find the highest ground and look down on the rocky beach below. Everything was wild and rugged: landward, heath and rough grass was punctuated by grey boulders and hardy shrubs, and apart from a small opening out towards the sea, the lochs were backed by dark mountains and rocky promontories. Low cloud hid the tops of the hills and drifted intermittently, threatening to dampen our clothes, if not our spirits.

We nipped up to a randomly placed trig point, then made our way back the way we’d come just as the rain grew a little more persuasive. From Shieldaig, we drove a short distance east along the south side of Upper Loch Torridon, found a lovely camping spot in a layby overlooking the loch and settled down for the evening. I’m sure we cooked up something wonderful, although I can’t remember what it was, and had a lovely, chilled evening drinking cider and planning the next day.

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.

Glencoe: Scotland Day 1, Sep ’20

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We drove up to Scotland with ten days of freedom, no concrete plans and enough tinned soup to keep an army going for a week, and we came back (reluctantly) with twinkly eyes and tartan hearts.

The drive up from the New Forest was uneventful and went unusually quickly, for a seven-hour journey. We stayed in a layby on a quiet road about half an hour into Scotland and woke early the next day to drive to the West Highlands, stopping briefly on the bank of Loch Lomond to admire the mountains and the vast, choppy blackness of the water. Our planning had been as comprehensive as “let’s go to Glencoe and see where we end up”.

  • Sunrise in Lanarkshire
  • Morning light over Loch Lomond

Glencoe

As we approached the Highlands, hills turned into mountains and foresty, swampy, heathy wilderness crept up all around us. The horizon grew higher until rugged slopes towered over the smooth road, which snaked around the valley floor as if frightened of treading on the toes of the giants. We had reached wild country, where hulking masses of great grey rock reign over dramatic glens carpeted by reddish-purplish-brown heather and the kind of yellow-green grass that thrives on harsh weather, poor soil and general hardship. My favourite place.

No words could do justice to the drama and excitement of the route that is flanked by the impossibly mountain-shaped Buachaille Etive Mor, the towering Three Sisters, and the strikingly insignificant whitewashed Lagangarbh hut, which looks imminently susceptible to being devoured by its barren backdrop. Despite having visited a couple of times before (the very reason I insisted on returning), I gawped all the way to the visitor centre at the far end of the glen.

  • Buachaille Etive Mor
  • The Three Sisters

Here we learnt about the history of Scottish mountaineering, mountain rescue, avalanches and the infamous 1692 massacre of Glencoe, in which the McDonald clan were murdered by the same soldiers that they’d housed and fed for two weeks. The centre is newly refurbished and really interesting, and the big relief map shows how Glencoe is just one part of an immense landscape.

We drove back the way we’d come and parked by a waterfall just up the road from the Three Sisters to take in the scenery. I was keen for a decent hike but Ryan wanted a bit of a rest as we wanted to climb the following day, so after a few photos we drove back towards the visitor centre. We parked off the road and did a short, waymarked trail through a fairytale-like forest of towering pines and lush broadleaf trees that took us to Signal Rock, a big mound purportedly used by the McDonald clan as a beacon. I squinted through the trees in an unsuccessful search for a pine marten, and after a bit more gawping at the wild glen we drove through its western “entrance” to Glencoe village.

  • Signal Rock trail

The village is a funny, quirky little place with a small shop, a couple of cafes, a museum and a village hall. We parked on what I suppose is the high street and paid £3 each to visit the folk museum, a heather-thatched old croft cottage with some really interesting displays of Highland weaponry, clothing, toys, trinkets and tools. The bulk of the exhibits were in the two big rooms that made up the entire building, and a couple of outbuildings housed some other interesting bits.

On the way back to the van we stopped at a Himalayan market held in the unlikely location of Glencoe village hall, which was a deluge of colour and exotic ornaments, jewellery and clothing. Then, after a brief search – it’s not signposted – we found the impressive Glencoe massacre memorial monument.

Having decided that we’d climb Ben Nevis the next day due to a one-day window of clear weather, we drove half an hour north and camped in a quiet, pretty spot just outside Fort William. We had a humble dinner of pasta and spam in a tomato sauce and planned our route up the mountain’s North face, which would be a scramble/rock climb up the famous Tower Ridge. I look forward to writing about that…

Endnote: having researched mountaineering in Glencoe, Buachaille Etive Mor in particular has moved right to the top of my list of mountains to climb. We’d have liked to have done it this time but decided that Ben Nevis via Tower Ridge took precedence, so rather than travel back on ourselves (we wanted to head further north) we’ve firmly resolved to return at our earliest convenience…