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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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…
Faced with the end of our adventure and a six-hour drive home, we woke quite reluctantly on Sunday. However, we had a saving grace: during my waiting-for-Ryan-to-wake-up perusal of our Lake District climbing guide, I’d come across a crag that was on the way back and only a five-minute walk-in from the road and on our way back. Naturally, it was impossible not to incorporate it into our morning.
The discovery of Raven Crag at Langdale almost made up for the fact we’d missed out on climbing Corvus (see previous posts – I’ve probably lamented this fact in all of them). We left Glenridding early, made our way to Chapel Stile and tucked into the tiny roadside parking spot, from which we could see the crag just up a bracken-covered hill. The bare rock face lured us up, the unmistakeable clink of trad gear rattling noisily.
We chose a 37m, two-pitch climb, Route 2, graded HS 4b and supposedly “one of the finest at the grade in Langdale”. I led the first pitch, which went up a corner groove and pulled out over a corner to an arête. It was quite straightforward and the rock was solid, and I found a nice thick tree on a ledge to belay from. I brought Ryan up and he led the second pitch.
It turned out that this pitch was a little more exposed, and one section in particular was quite hairy – a traverse of several metres, diagonally across and up a blank face with teeny little holds and zero gear placement. Ry made it up without issue, although there were a couple of disco-leg moments when I expected to catch his fall. He took a long time setting up a belay at the top, and it was only when I joined him up there that I saw that the anchor-building opportunities were very few.
Once I was up we took a moment to rave about how good it felt to climb, and another moment to admire the sweeping, green Langdale Valley. It was a walk-off crag, so we half-walked, half slid through the ferns to retrieve our stuff from the bottom of the climb, then plodded back to the van.
We twisted along the narrow roads to Grasmere village and bought a load of the famous Grasmere gingerbread for our families. I could go on about this gingerbread – a work colleague once brought some in and having tasted its chewy, sweet, gingery goodness, I wasn’t going to leave the Lakes empty handed. There was a queue for the tiny, old-fashioned shop, right in the middle of the pretty village of Grasmere, which – although a bit touristy – was once home to poet William Wordsworth, and is probably worth returning to with a bit more time.
Satisfied with having found a multipitch climb and loaded up with gingerbread, we reluctantly left the Lake District. We fuelled up at Kendal early afternoon and arrived home just in time for tea, having killed the driving time by listening to the excellent audiobook of Aron Ralston’s 127 hours. So concludes a wonderful adventure – and we were fortunate enough to return with all eight limbs.
Thanks to our unplanned late night and the sorry state I was in (see last paragraph of previous post) we got up later than intended. By the time we’d queued for a parking ticket (a terrible experience), packed a couple of small rucksacks and set off towards Helvellyn along Mires Beck, the footpaths were heinously busy.
We looked up in horror at the multi-coloured ribbon of people stretching up the hill in front of us, cursing the fact that we hadn’t started earlier. People bumbled up in Doc Martens, flashy Nikes and clothing that looked a little too sparkly to be on the side of a mountain. We took every opportunity we could to overtake, flying past people grappling with umbrellas and theme-park type ponchos as it started to rain.
I think it’s wonderful that people are getting outdoors and appreciating our beautiful, wild landscapes, so long as everyone is respectful. Litter makes me furious, as do call-outs to Mountain Rescue due to inappropriate clothing and preparation. It sounds hypocritical as we were up there too, but this time, there were just a few too many people traipsing up for my liking.
Helvellyn in the clouds, Striding Edge on the left and Catstye Cam on the right
We did the steep climb onto Birkhouse Moor in good time, barely saying a word to each other as we rushed up for some less populated breathing space. The throng had subsided by the time the distinctive, jagged profile of Striding Edge came into view, so we slowed the pace and started to appreciate the rugged, green landscape. Helvellyn towered in the clouds above the black, slightly eerie Red Tarn, which sat between the two sharp ridges that lead up the mountain, Striding and Swirral Edge.
I’ve done Striding Edge once before, but Ryan hadn’t and he was a little disappointed. It’s a good, fun scramble, but there’s no real exposure and it feels very safe. The rock is good and we only needed to use our hands in a couple of places. I think it would have been a lot more fun if there were fewer people up there, as we got held up a lot and the busy-ness detracted from the wild, unforgiving feel that a rocky ridge should have. We noted all the crampon scratches on the rock and decided that it’d be a good one to come back to in winter.
At the end of the ridge, which is about half a mile long, we overtook some more groups and climbed up Helvellyn proper. On the summit plateau there’s a touching memorial to Foxie the dog whose master, in 1805, fell from the mountain and was found three months later with Foxie still barking by his side.
We were lucky in that by the time we reached the plateau, the cloud had lifted and we had a panoramic view of the dramatic mountainscape. The wild peaks of the Wythburn, Langdale, Borrowdale and Derwent Fells stretched in blue, hazy layers into the distance, and suddenly all the other people on the mountain seemed to fall away into insignificance.
We took a very quick trig point picture (well, three – see unsuccessful attempts below, when we both – true to form – managed to squint alternately) and continued along the plateau towards Swirral Edge, which flanks Helvellyn opposite Striding Edge. This part of the descent was a fun, but even easier and less exposed scramble than Striding Edge, and once again we had to do some overtaking. At the bottom we took the left branch of the footpath which took us up Catstye Cam, an easy 890m summit about a kilometre north east of Helvellyn.
Striding Edge
Attempt 1
Attempt 2
Swirral Edge
The way down was less busy, very picturesque and so well-trodden that we almost forgot we were in the mountains. It joined the path that we’d hiked up earlier and, apart from the lovely, mountain-green scenery that I’ve already gushed over, quite unmemorable – so much so that with hindsight I’d guess that the hike back took 20 minutes, although it must have been longer as Glenridding was over two miles away.
Up Catstye Cam
We grabbed some food from one of the two convenience shops in the village, went back to the van to escape people for a little while, then wandered down to the edge of Ullswater. We looked out over the lake as the evening crept in, taking in the serenity of the vast, glassy surface with its high, rugged, green backdrop, glowing in the late sun. We just sat for a while, reflecting on how much fun our trip had been and silently resenting the fact that it was nearly over.
We headed back up to the Traveller’s Rest for one, then back to the van for Scrabble n chill. A good way to spend a Saturday night.
Sadly, our plan to climb Corvus was thwarted by a morning of intermittent heavy rain. We were bitterly disappointed but refused to mope around doing nothing, so after a quick look on Tripadvisor we went to Castlerigg Stone Circle, which was a twenty minute drive from our camping spot in the Borrowdale valley.
Castlerigg Stone Circle
Set against a 360 degree backdrop of rolling, green mountains dappled by the shadows of clouds, this Neolithic monument was very atmospheric. The perfect circle, apparently aligned with the sun and stars, was made up of 38 stones of varying heights between 2ft and 8ft, with a clear entrance marked by two huge stones and a rectangle of standing stones within. I’m intrigued by stone circles as their ancient significance remains unknown; I read that Castlerigg could have been a religious site, trading centre or other meeting place, but there’s been little excavation work carried out there and nobody’s really sure.
Having tried and failed to fathom the mystery of the circle, we traipsed back to the van and decided to head east across the north of the national park towards Helvellyn, which we planned to climb the next day. With no real plans, we pootled along and stopped in the Ullswater valley for a walk near Aira Force, a National Trust managed waterfall.
Aira Force
We followed a well-trodden footpath down from the car park and indulged in a short circular walk which followed both banks of the rocky, babbling Aira Beck, tucked away in an impossibly green woodland. It would have been idyllic if it weren’t so busy, with people congregating and faffing on the bridges and at the edges of the water. Furious, rushing masses of white water crashed down and were pacified by the calm river below, which carved its way through the land until reaching the next drop and morphing back into an unstoppable fall.
Glenridding
Impressed by the beauty of the spot but keen to get away from people, we went back to the van and drove into Glenridding, where we would begin our hike the next day. We tucked away in the far corner of the car park, which turned out to be a great overnight spot as it was discrete and right next to a dead end grassy bit of land ending in a river. It was only mid-afternoon and having had our climbing plans cancelled we felt a little lost, so we grabbed some supplies from the shop and had a drink at a picnic table in the middle of the village.
Glenridding is an attractive but busy place situated on the north eastern side of the Lake District, tucked between the south western end of Ullswater and the high sides of the hills, pikes and fells to the west. It has a small handful of shops all clustered into a small area, and the large car park (which has public toilets, an information centre and a large picnic area) is at the heart of the village, by the Ulls Water river.
We thought it rude not to try the pubbiest-looking pub in town, especially as it was called the Traveller’s Rest, up one of the residential streets at the west end of the village. We sat outside overlooking Glenridding and the high hills on the other side of the valley, listening to the bleating of the sheep in the adjacent field and enjoying our first, second and third pints. Before we knew it, we’d been there a couple of hours and I was drunk. We ate in the cosy pub, then headed down the hill to the Inn on the Lake, where we had one before Ryan guided me back to the van.
NB: final paragraph was pieced together from Ryan’s account and snippets of memory. Alcohol-related omissions were necessary.
curiousgnome 