After an active couple of days skiing at the Lecht and climbing Aladdin’s Couloir, we decided to have a rest day exploring new places and giving Ryan’s sore-looking new blisters a chance to heal (graphic photo at the end of this post). From our scenic overnight spot overlooking Glenmore Forest, we drove a couple of minutes up the hill to Cairngorm ski centre, had a quick look in the large, cosy, chalet-style café, decided it was too expensive and headed back down into Aviemore. On the way we gave a hitchhiker with a broken boot a lift back to his accommodation in Glenmore Forest, then parked at Tesco and treated ourselves to a couple of tasty pies from Ashers bakery.
Loch Garten nature reserve
Ryan was keen to show me the nature reserve at Loch Garten and I was even more keen to go, so we left Aviemore (a little reluctantly, as usual) and drove 20 minutes north to the RSPB car park. Unfortunately the visitor centre was closed, but we walked up to it through mossy, lichen-covered pine forest and watched an incredible number of great, blue and coal tits feast on huge bird feeders. I was delighted when a brave coal tit landed briefly on my outstretched hand, and I wished I’d saved him some pie. I didn’t see any crested tits but I managed some relatively awful photos of the other tits and chaffinches, although I missed the greater spotted woodpecker – my wildlife photography skills could be improved:
We returned to the car park and enjoyed the Big Pines trail, which was a half-mile, there-and back footpath through the “best bits” of the forest according to the information board. It took us past some huge Scots pines which towered over a thick canopy forest on the edge of wild Loch Garten, and I was captivated by the abundance of thriving vegetation. Feeling very tranquil and (excuse the cliché) in touch with nature, we went back to the van once again and decided to head north through what was for us an uncharted part of Scotland, to the former city of Elgin.
Leaving the Cairngorms
The drive began through the northern Cairngorms, where huge grazing fields and swathes of heathland stretched between thick forests beneath rolling hills. These levelled out slightly after the pretty town of Grantown-on-Spey, and once we’d left the national park the sprawling, agricultural landscape, dotted with occasional buildings, seemed incredibly vast compared with England’s densely packed fields. We passed through the unremarkable-looking town of Forres and arrived at Elgin after just over an hour’s drive.
Elgin town
We refuelled and parked at a very busy big Tesco in the middle of Elgin town. A short walk took us onto the high street, which was old and pretty – if slightly tired – and featured a large, tiered fountain, a toga-clad statue and an impressive, six-columned church plonked in the middle of the cobbles. The yellowish-grey buildings reminded me of Inverness and the town had a pleasant buzz. Ryan grabbed some more blister plasters from Boots and we wandered towards the cathedral, stopping briefly at a couple of estate agent windows to contemplate buying a larger, cheaper, closer-to-the-mountains house than our own, and wondering why on earth anyone (including us) would choose to live in southern England rather than northern Scotland.
Elgin Cathedral
The cathedral is near the middle of the town at the end of a long, straight path that runs alongside a large, grassy park. Although most of the nave has collapsed, leaving only foundations, its two tall, graceful towers stand at the entrance, a slightly wistful reminder of architecture’s lost majesty. It was free for us to enter thanks to my English Heritage life membership (an 18th birthday gift from my incredibly generous cousin) and we wandered around for half an hour.
The two towers contained several round, high-ceilinged rooms full of old sculptures and features salvaged from the ruin, and we climbed to the top of one up a spiral stone staircase for an excellent view of Elgin and its relatively flat surroundings. To get there we went through a tiny door and walked between the towers via a narrow first or second floor passage, and it was interesting looking at the ruins to work out where other passages would have connected the various parts of the building. While we were up the tower the air smelt like rain, so we descended and shot around the rest of the cathedral.
Back on the ground it was clear where several vast columns would have supported the roof of the nave, which is now carpeted by grass and surrounded by gravestones. We walked over to the well-preserved octagonal chapter house, went inside and marvelled at its intricate arched ceiling (I’m mind-blown by our ancestors’ understanding of physics), whizzed round the rest of the grounds, where old walls stood in varying states of ruin, and left just as the deluge came.
We got utterly drenched on the 15-minute walk back to the van, although nipping into Lidl for some rugby drinks gave a moment’s respite. We’d had the audacity to venture out without waterproofs during a Scottish winter, which is a mistake I’ve made before and I’ll certainly make again. Fortunately our plans for the rest of the day involved a fair bit of driving, which gave me the chance to dry my soggy fleece.
Findhorn Foundation
From Elgin it was a 20-minute drive through flat, arable land to the Findhorn Foundation, which is situated down a long, straight road between the wide River Findhorn and Findhorn Beach. I’d read about this “ecovillage and spiritual community” online and was fascinated by the concept of an alternative type of society based around self-sufficiency and communal living. We turned right into the village and immediately it felt like a kind of holiday park, with lots of signs, narrow, tarmacked tracks, pine trees, communal buildings and a bizarrely eclectic mix of houses, huts and chalets in all shapes and sizes made from wood, stone and corrugated metal.
Findhorn Beach
We felt a bit guilty and intrusive as we drove around the Foundation, so didn’t stay long before turning back onto the long, straight road towards the pretty, coastal, almost Cornish-looking Findhorn village. We did an accidental lap around the cottage-lined streets before finding the turning for the beach, then parked up and headed over some rolling sand dunes to the edge of the North Sea.
It was grey, on-off rainy and very atmospheric. The top half of the beach was a raised stretch of smooth, multicoloured pebbles, backed by grassy dunes and a row of brightly coloured beach huts, and the bottom half was a vast, flat stretch of compact golden sand where water sat in shallow channels left by the retreating tide. The sea was calm and dark grey beneath a moody sky, which accentuated the colours of the sand and the huts, and everything was cold, wild and tranquil.
Having got sufficiently wet and chilly on our beach trip we returned to the van over the dunes, which were thick with rippling, butter-coloured grass and dark green gorse, and started our journey west. We’d finished in the Cairngorms and planned to travel across the country to do some hiking, climbing and exploring in the wilderness of the northwest highlands. We travelled along the main A96 road through Forres, Nairn and Inverness and it was dark by the time we arrived at Loch Glascarnoch, halfway between the east and west coasts of the Highlands, about an hour and a half later.
Evening
We pulled up for the night in a large roadside layby overlooking the dark, mountain-backed loch. Despite my best efforts to stream the England-Scotland six nations game I’d failed to find a way to watch the whole thing as it had already finished (thanks ITV), so we got by – having accidentally seen the score on whatsapp group chats and news headlines – watching the highlights. This was frustrating, although at least England lost (classic England – they did the same the previous year when we watched the opening game in a pub in Aviemore). Once the rugby was over we had dinner, assessed Ryan’s blister situation and planned the following day’s outing: a hike up nearby Ben Wyvis.
Waking up amongst the great, wild hills of the western Cairngorms never gets any less special, particularly with the view we had over the vast, dark forests of Rothiemurcus and Glenmore. Our plan for the day was to park at the nearby Cairn Gorm ski centre, hike into Coire an t-Sneachda and climb Aladdins Couloir, a Grade I winter route. We’d ticked off our first winter climb at Sneachda last year (Jacobs Ladder) and had really enjoyed it, so we were keen to develop our experience on snow and ice.
Walk in to Coire an t-Sneachda
We packed our bags, drove a couple of minutes up the hill and set off from the ski centre car park. I was slightly ratty at the fact it was approaching 10am as I’d have liked to start earlier, partly because I was worried about getting stuck behind another group on Aladdins Couloir (as we had on Jacobs Ladder) and partly because I’d quietly considered attempting to climb two routes in the corrie that day, or “nip up” a nearby mountain (Braeriach, 1296m) “on our way back” to the van. It wasn’t long before Ryan expressed concern that he might develop a blister, but – perhaps a little sensitive to my delay-induced mild irritability – he refused my offer of compeed. Unfortunately that is not the end of the story.
The hike into Coire an t-Sneachda is, as approaches to winter climbing routes go, short and easy, being only a couple of straight-ish miles. We followed the clear path south to the corrie, which climbed gradually up a sweeping, heathery valley. Behind us, the Cairngorm plateau dropped away to reveal the misty swathes of forest, loch and valley around Aviemore, backed by faint rolling hills that were now shrouded in cloud. We rounded a corner and Sneachda appeared ahead, a dead-end, three-sided bowl, its dark, jagged face streaked with the bright white seams of icy gullies and irregular snow patches.
From a distance we eyed up Aladdins Couloir, which follows a wide, kinked gully wrapped around the left side of Aladdin’s Buttress, a distinctive, triangular mass of rock. Along with Jacobs Ladder it’s one of the most obvious lines up the corrie face, and probably the most central. The path ended and we scrambled across a large, awkward boulderfield at the base of the wall, stopped on the last bit of flat ground and prepared to climb. This involved pulling on harnesses, crampons and helmets, selecting an arsenal of climbing nuts and slings to use as rock protection, attaching ourselves together by a short length of rope, extracting our ice axes and – on Ryan’s part – finally affixing a blister plaster.
Aladdin’s Couloir
We’d passed several groups on the hike in, so I wasn’t surprised that we found ourselves behind four other people heading up this popular, low grade route. From the boulderfield, the approach to the gully is a snow slope which, although steep and unprotected, was firm and reliable underfoot, and we caught up with the group quite quickly. Three of them had stopped on reaching the first proper belay position, which was on the left wall at the base of the gully about 100 metres up the snow slope. With that belay spot unavailable, we checked they were happy for us to climb past and continued on, moving across the wide gully to the right wall to avoid sending any loose rocks or ice chunks down onto them.
Two factors contributed to our spontaneous decision to solo the route: firstly there were no obvious placements in the rock to set up a belay, and secondly (and more importantly) we immediately felt so comfortable moving on the firm snow that we simply didn’t feel it necessary to use the rope we’d brought. The gully looks intimidating face-on, but it’s actually far from sheer – much more of a steep slide than a vertical wall, and the gradient was consistent. Decision made, we traversed from the right wall into the middle, carefully climbed over the other group’s rope (which was draped across the width of the gully), passed the fourth climber and headed upwards.
I settled into a steady rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, kicking the front points of each crampon into the ground, burying the tip of my single axe with a flick of my right wrist, planting my left fist for stability and repeating. If I wasn’t happy with a foot or axe placement I’d pause and reposition, although it felt so solid that this was probably unnecessary – two constant points of contact would have been plenty. Although it was steep – an unarrested fall would have sent me and perhaps Ryan, who was below me, careening down towards the rocks below – the movement felt natural and the position stable, so we were quite happy working our way up the firm but yielding snow, occasionally resting by angling our knees into the slope and leaning in.
When we were halfway up, the gully veered right and steepened slightly. We passed what looked like a small, frozen waterfall and continued all the way up to the lip at the top, which we pulled over at 12:15, 40 minutes after setting off up the snow slope. On our right the towering, rocky spire of Aladdin’s Seat teetered over the sheer wall of Aladdin’s Buttress, as if threatening to fall all the way down into the corrie, and two friendly climbers rested below it.
Hike back
On emerging from the gully, the Cairngorm plateau appeared in its usual character: a barren, wide, foggy wilderness strewn with small, grey boulders and a strange, soil-like covering of fine, reddish stones. I pulled off my crampons and put away my unused climbing gear, feeling a little victorious. However, although we were thrilled with the Couloir, Ryan’s heel blisters had become quite established during the climb, which dampened both our moods as we moved through the Mars-like landscape – Ryan’s because he was in pain, and mine because my secret scheme (to climb Braeriach or another route in the corrie) had been thwarted.
Fortunately the dramatic, dark face of Sneachda dropped away steeply to our right and made for easy navigation – we followed the edge for a mile or so up a gentle gradient to Cairn Lochan (1215m) , then around and down the long, sweeping ridge that forms the corrie’s west side. Interestingly Ryan and I had picked different battles: mine, without crampons, was ice, and his, with crampons, was rock. I’m still not sure who was right – there was a lot more rock, but the icy patches were so slippery that at one point I held my arms out and the strong southwesterly wind caught me like a sail, sending me sliding slowly backwards. I had a couple of minor slips coming down the ridge, one necessitating a fairly casual ice axe arrest, and I quietly wondered if I should have left the crampons on, although with hindsight I still think they would have been more hassle on rock than my boots were on ice – and I didn’t want to blunt them.
The combination of blisters, fog, wind and frustrating terrain rendered the four miles back from Aladdin’s Couloir bleak and relatively miserable, save for Ryan’s sighting of a couple of ptarmigans. Nevertheless we made it down from the plateau in fairly good time and returned to the van along the easy Ben Macdui path. Unfortunately I don’t have many photos of the way back because I managed to lock myself out of my phone for an hour, having left it in a damp pocket.
Loch Morlich
From Cairngorm ski centre we drove for 20 minutes into Aviemore for a few supplies, then back to Loch Morlich for a scenic late lunch. The loch is about a kilometre square, conveniently located on the Glenmore road and nestled between the immense, merging forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus. We pulled off the road and parked on the north bank, where a few camera-wielding birdwatchers were keenly eyeing something through large telescopes. The little car park afforded lovely views across the water and above the trees to the edge of the Cairngorm plateau, and our moods were lifted further at the prospect of some hot soup and bread.
I scrambled into the back of the van, assembled the dubious kitchen setup, heated some tinned Scotch broth for Ryan and made myself a much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich. Hunger and associated irritability dissipated, and I grabbed my binoculars and approached the water in search of whatever the birdwatchers had spotted. I returned shortly with a humble report on a few lethargic mallard ducks.
Evening
The blister-gate scandal meant that further physical activity was off the cards for the rest of the afternoon, so after a brief excursion back to Aviemore to post a house key to Ryan’s brother – who, in the process of feeding Ryan’s fish, had locked his key inside the house – we drove back up to our favourite overnight spot below the ski centre and did some planning. I cooked gnocchi in a tomato sauce with miscellaneous leftovers for dinner and we spent the evening in the usual way, scattering the van with an assortment of maps and books and checking the weather forecast at far-too-regular intervals. Contentment manifest.
Brecon Beacons, 26 August 2022: Redefining “crazy Friday nights”
August was a sad month owing to the long-put-off but inevitable sale of Björn, my beloved campervan. I felt tethered, having tasted the freedom that comes with van life, so I was looking forward to a bank holiday weekend spent camping with friends in the Brecon Beacons.
Björn the Bold 😥
Ryan and I headed up in an accidental convoy with Gus (who has featured in my blog previously) and his girlfriend Dan, after realising 20 minutes from home that they were in the car behind us. The journey was uneventful apart from a long-awaited McDonalds and a stunning sunset as we crossed the Prince of Wales Bridge. We entered Wales, got past the drabness of Newport (sorry Newport) and drove across the National Park, which became darker and wilder as we moved further west. We crossed a moor, navigated the steep, snaking, dead-end road to the small car park for Llyn y Fan Fach, hauled our crammed rucksacks out the boot and set off hiking just after 10pm.
I already felt immersed in the mountains. The car park sat in a narrow valley between high, rugged hillsides whose jet black silhouettes stood beneath a star-spattered sky, and the air was still and quiet. Our plan was to hike up to a bothy by Llyn y Fan Fach, spend the night there, and set off early in the morning for a 14.5mi/23km loop around the Camarthen Fans, the distinctive flat-topped mountains of the western Beacons.
To reach the bothy we walked up a gravel track that ran parallel to a river between long, high hillsides for 2km. At one point we turned our torches off (curiosity is a strange thing) and were plunged into a blackness so thick that it was quite disorientating. The path was uphill all the way but easy to follow and we reached our accommodation after about half an hour.
The bothy is a simple stone hut on the flat northern edge of Llyn y Fan Fach. I have a feeling that within bothy circles it’s known as being one of the less pleasant ones to stay in, probably because of its prominent location by a popular lake and its slightly disconcerting graffiti. At least “english BASTARDS”, which was sprayed on the wall last time Ryan and I stayed there, had been mostly removed.
Photo of the bothy from our last trip (October 2020)Thankfully the decor has been updated
Its single room is big enough to sleep about 12 people (if you like each other) and has a squat wooden door held in place by a rock, benches along two walls, a small fireplace in the corner and a beamed ceiling that we attached a lamp to. We were immensely relieved to find it empty as we didn’t fancy spending the night with strangers, let alone ones who might consider us “english BASTARDS” – if it had been occupied and we didn’t like its occupants, we’d have had to hike back down to the cars to get the tents. We dumped our bags, set up our mats and sleeping bags on the floor and went out into the night to assess our position.
We climbed just above the bothy to the wall of a large concrete dam overlooking the lake. It was shockingly empty, presumably as a result of the summer drought; I’ve only ever seen it full of glassy, dark water, which in daylight reflects the colossal escarpment stretching high above and along its far bank, so I was a bit sad to see only a huge, deep crater of mud and concrete. In addition there was a load of construction/engineering work going on along the path up and along the edge of the lake, but that didn’t really bother us as we couldn’t see the temporary fences and assorted debris in the dark, so it was wild enough.
The dry lake and construction debris were more than made up for when we looked back towards the valley we’d walked up, over the roof of the bothy. We’d gained about 220m elevation on the hike up, which meant that the silhouettes of the huge black hills all around us had shrunk – apart from the huge, dark escarpment towering over the lake – to reveal a wide, clear, impossibly starry sky. We stood and stared, feeling incredibly small, then went back inside to try and get some sleep.
We shared Gus’s mead and settled in, four in a row. I felt a bit like a kid at a sleepover. Just before we turned the light off there was an exclamation from the vicinity of Gus that went something like “there’s a bat!”, which I giggled at and put down to his excitement, until I too spotted a shadow flitting across the ceiling. For some reason this was very funny and we watched it fly around for a while, although just for good measure we reassured each other that even Welsh bats don’t suck blood and no harm would come to us from sharing the bothy with a bat. The light went off about midnight and none of us slept much, but at least we didn’t come across any bothy-dwelling murderers.
We decided to spend our first full day exploring the city after the fiasco we’d been through to get into Spain (read here). We left the room quite late, about 10.30am, and walked through the beautiful, quiet, cobbled streets of Old Town to the cathedral, which was barely 10 minutes from our apartment.
Cathedral
We wound through medieval stone streets, past a large round turret, under a huge arch and into a castle-like courtyard. Girona Cathedral loomed above us up a flight of about a hundred wide steps, a vast, majestic building with a clean-lined, simple shape but incredible intricacy in the stone details and carved figures that watch over the city. I could see why it was chosen as a set for Game of Thrones, with its perfectly preserved, timeless grandeur.
We climbed the stairs and paid for entry (€7 each), which included a free recorded audio tour – this turned out to be well worth doing. We entered the enormous, striking Gothic nave and learnt how it was the widest of its kind in the world: the architects had decided to forego the two columned aisles usually found on either side of a cathedral. An enormous wooden organ stood in the middle behind models of the cathedral’s development, and the edges were lined with 28 different chapels dedicated to saints. They all had unique stories and contained varying styles of carving, painting and sculpture, some dramatically ornate and some strikingly simple.
After about 45 minutes walking around the nave listening to the audio tour, we went through to the cloisters, the columned walk that encloses a grassy outdoor courtyard on all four sides. My favourite part was the several wide columns pointed out by the audio guide, each of which were engraved with 360 degree carvings telling biblical stories. We went up some stone stairs into a room featuring pieces of stained glass from different periods, then back down and out of the cloisters into the tapestried, chandeliered Chapel of Hope, where the lavish, gold-gilded “bed of the Assumption of Mary” sat under a high-ceilinged tower.
The last bit took us into the cathedral treasury museum, which contained various religious artefacts – sculptures, paintings, silverware, chests and manuscripts – and notably the fascinating 12th century Creation Tapestry, depicting the months and seasons. It was all so interesting that I almost wish I’d taken notes to remember it all. We left through a corridor back onto the façade overlooking the medieval square and the red-tiled city rooves, nearly two hours after we’d entered, and went off to find some lunch.
Lunch
We walked through the pretty, cool stone streets of Old Town, crossed the river and went to Placa de la Independencia, the large, restaurant-lined square we’d found the previous night. We sat down for lunch at Konig, a reasonably priced restaurant (we decided it was possibly the Wetherspoons of Girona, but no complaints), and I had a smoked salmon, avocado and ricotta bagel while Ryan had some kind of rice, pepper and calamari salad. A couple of glasses of sangria made me quite tipsy – I blame the heat – and we relaxed (to my initial agitation) there for a while before heading off to find the city wall walk.
Medieval Walls
We went back across the river, through the old streets and behind the cathedral, where incredibly tall, thin cypress trees stood over high stone walls, little public gardens and criss-crossing footpaths. On our way up some steps we bumped into a friendly local who told us his favourite spot in Girona to get a good view of the city, so we followed his directions down the hill and up some steep steps onto a high, narrow wall near the John Lennon gardens. We walked along this wall to the highest point, where we stopped to look over the city. The cathedral sat on a hill, the highest point in Girona, and dominated the foreground, along with the high stone tower of the San Felix Basilica. Tiled rooves sprawled between swathes of bright green trees, and the horizon was shaped by distant, hazy blue mountains. It was as stunning as the heat was stifling.
We backtracked along the wall and through the peaceful John Lennon gardens, then headed east along a path set between tall, lush trees towards the main medieval wall, pausing to look at a pair of striking green monk parakeets perched on a branch above us. We got to a large stone tower by the Jardins dels Alemanys and climbed the stairs inside to the top. We stood on the tower and stared across the terracotta rooves of Old Town, large modern blocks beyond the stone buildings, and layers of rolling mountains spanning the skyline, all interspersed with leafy vegetation.
The wall ran in a long, straight line with several towers spread along it, almost all of which we climbed. The views of the city were incredible, a mix of old and new, and somehow – despite the sprawling streets and mass of buildings – it seemed small set beneath the thickly forested hills. We bimbled along the length of the medieval walk, which took about half an hour with the tower stops, and climbed down the stairs at the other end, returning to the southern part of old town.
Old Town & Tapas
We took a rambling route back to the apartment through narrow, cobbled, litter-free streets, admiring the pretty, balconied, shuttered five-storey buildings of pastel orange, beige and bare stone that sat above a diverse array of little shops and restaurants. We got back about 5pm and went for a late siesta, exhausted by the heat. We headed back out around 8pm having realised the previous evening that the Spanish eat very late.
We crossed the carp-filled river and returned to the Konig bar on Placa de la Independencia for tapas. We shared potatoes with truffle cheese sauce, squid and scallop croquettes, beef strips with peppers, prawns in coconut, ginger and lime sauce, iberian ham croquettes, grilled octopus and a little bread basket, which seemed to come free with meals as standard. I wouldn’t normally order as much meat but I was desperate to try the local dishes. It was all very nice for only €40, including half a litre of Sangria and two pints of San Miguel. We ate, drank and people watched, charmed by the social, relaxed atmosphere – people of all ages were out until late and there was a nice, quiet buzz around the square.
We crossed back to Old Town over the bridge by the Basilica and walked through castle-like streets to see the cathedral at night. A bright, warm light accentuated its geometrical edges, detailed carvings and hundred steps, making it look even more striking than in daylight. It was lovely walking through the narrow stone back roads – although the bars and restaurants were bustling, particularly in the evening, there were plenty of quiet, timeless, totally empty little alleys and streets that we could dive down, where it felt as if we had the city to ourselves.
We shared a delicious vegan ice cream (one scoop each of passionfruit, snickers and caramel) on our way back to the apartment and found ourselves in a little square listening to a Catalonian three-man band, who sang and played guitar in that distinctive twangy, lively Spanish style. The music was lovely and we sat on a little wall behind the tables that spilled across the square, where people sat, sang and waved napkins to some well-known song. I was amusedly watching a chocolate labrador hoover the floor and be retrieved by its owner for the third or fourth time when a lady suddenly appeared in front of us offering a tray of small disposable cups, so we took one each and thanked her. It was some kind of hot, thin, strong, coffee flavoured alcohol, and after one sip I donated it to Ryan.
We went back to the apartment as the band packed up, amazed by the friendliness of people – the local who stopped to tell us his favourite spot in the city, an English-speaking man we befriended in the ice cream queue who recommended the Indian restaurant where we had our last meal of the trip and the lady who’d given us a free drink, despite us obviously only stopping in the square to listen to the music. I was quite taken with Girona.
We woke in Glencoe, happy to be in my favourite place but painfully conscious that we only had one day left in Scotland. The last thing on our to do list was hike up the Cobbler, an iconic small mountain in the Trossachs range near Loch Lomond. We had poached eggs on toast and drove out of dramatic Glencoe one last time – I’ve probably over-described it in previous posts so I’ll spare the gushing detail of how beautiful it is. We headed south across marshy Rannoch Moor, where the vast, sprawling wilderness was accentuated by the rugged, rolling mountains all around.
The drive down to Loch Lomond was very scenic and I saw my much-anticipated red squirrel, although sadly it was flat as a pancake in the middle of the road. We drove along the long, winding edge of the loch and turned off towards Arrochar, a village which sits at the head of unimaginatively but accurately named Loch Long. We parked in the lochside car park and booted up, leaving the van about 12.30pm.
The first section took us on a long, steady hike up a switchback path that climbs above Loch Long and through thick birch and evergreen forest, then pops out onto open, undulating moorland covered in golden grass, brown heather and the large, grey, randomly strewn Narnain boulders. The distinctive form of the Cobbler appeared as we emerged from the trees, its dark, gnarled rocks distorting the horizon and standing in stark contrast against the pale, cloudy sky and patchy white snow.
The Cobbler, otherwise known as Ben Arthur, is so called because of the distinctive, tall, dark lump of rock that sits on the central summit of the hilly mass, which is supposed to look like a cobbler bending over at work when viewed from the east – the way we were approaching. Personally I’m not sure I see it, but it certainly is a peculiar shape.
With that iconic figure straight ahead of us, the steady hike up the hillside moor was stunning, with far-reaching views across the rolling, golden peaks of the Arrochar Alps rising all around us. We passed vast boulders and followed the gently flowing Coire a Bhalachain river for about a mile to the base of the imposing, obscure obtrusion, where snow started to appear on the ground in patches. Here we took a right fork to approach the summit from the obvious path to the north. The alternative option was a shorter but steeper route that looks on a map like it goes west up a wide gully, which looked snowy – we hadn’t taken ice axes so didn’t fancy climbing, nor ending up in an avalanche.
The path continued gradually up and northwest along the river for another kilometre to the small Lochan a Chlaidheimh, which sits in the col between the Cobbler and neighbouring Beinn Narnain. Suddenly exposed to the westerly wind, able to see the deep, rolling valleys over the back of the mountain, and stood just below a thick grey curtain of clag, the place took on a whole new character – wilder, more ominous and more exciting.
We took a left fork at the col and began the steeper climb up stone “steps”, now heading south up the mountain’s north face. The snow thickened and spread as we climbed up, and the icy rocks became quite awkward to move across; luckily sensible Ryan had brought his hiking poles. Once we’d gained some height the path levelled into a narrow, slippery traverse below the lumpy North Peak, which was a little sketchy but afforded good views over the undulating brown valley below (the summits of Beinn Luibhean and Beinn Ime had been absorbed by cloud) and the Cobbler’s snow-covered northwest side, which rolled down in a vast white mass that was quite different to the iconic grey cliffs on the sheer eastern face.
We reached this white mass and made our way up, which was difficult given the steep gradient and slipperiness of the compacted snow and the unpredictable sizes, shapes and locations of the rocks hidden underneath. The snowy summit (884m) was about a kilometre on from the Lochan where we’d branched left, and we were relieved to gain it after the awkward climb. Once up there I was keen to “thread the needle”, a famous move which involves climbing through a hole in the highest pinnacle onto an exposed ledge on the sheer east face, then scrambling up to stand on the narrow rocky peak. I went partly through the hole but the conditions were way too windy and icy, so I decided against it – Ryan had already had kittens.
Pleased to have reached the top but slightly amused and exasperated to once again achieve a summit with extensive views of the inside of a cloud, we took a few photos and headed back down the way we came. It was just as awkward as the way up, if not more so, and we were relieved when we returned to the Lochan and the easier path back across the golden moor.
The walk back from there was lovely, with excellent views over the rugged hills all around. For some bizarre, probably food-related reason, Ryan, who hates running, decided to start jogging back, which we did for a few hundred metres before I became concerned about a potential shin splint (an old injury) and becoming unnecessarily sweaty. We crossed the boulder-strewn moor, looking back wistfully at the wild hills, entered the forest and took the switchback path back down to the car park.
We got back to the van about 16:30, de-kitted and drove south along the bank of stunning Loch Lomond to the town of Balloch, where we treated ourselves to a mayo chicken from McDonalds and looked for a half-decent overnight spot. Having not found anywhere, I used the Park4nite app and spotted a perfect little pull-in between Dumbarton and Helensburgh on the bank of the wide, tidal River Clyde, a 20 minute drive west. It was on a very quiet road by a sandy beach, which was a lovely, bird-rich nature reserve, and as the day faded it overlooked the twinkling lights of Greenock on the far side of the river.
I cooked vegan mince stew for dinner with bulgur wheat and veg, and to mark Valentine’s Day we lit a candle – a bit extravagant, I know. We spent a long time watching the lights of Greenock dance on the water, looking up at a clear, starry, unusually bright sky, listening to the strange wading birds, and reflecting on our lovely trip. We went to bed reluctantly, not wanting our time in Scotland to end and half-considering just living wild.
And just like that, it was over. To conclude the trip, the drive home the next day was long and uneventful – we left about 9.30am and got back to the New Forest about 6pm. As usual, I think I left my heart in Scotland. Must go back soon.
We had breakfast overlooking atmospheric, moodily grey Dunvegan Loch and drove down Skye’s pretty eastern edge for 40 minutes to the Fairy Pools. On the way Ryan spotted a huge white-tailed sea eagle soar high above the van and dip below some tall pines, and to my absolute delight I just about caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared.
Our plan was to hike up to the Fairy Pools, then leave Skye for the Ben Nevis range in the hope of some half decent climbing weather the next day. We wound along a remote road, parked in a free car park near the start of the Fairy Pools walk and headed down to the wide, well-maintained tourist path.
The Fairy Pools (extended edition)
The Fairy Pools are a series of waterfalls and clear pools on the Allt Coir’ a’ Tairneilear river, which snakes up to the base of the infamous Black Cuillin mountains described in the previous day’s blog post. The pools are set beneath the vast ridges of Sgurr Thuilm, Bidein Druim nan Ramh and Bruach na Frithe, which curve around the river in a protective yet imposing C-shape. These great giants form a wild, open-ended bowl carpeted with golden grass and brownish heather, and directly in front of us at the head of the bowl stood Sgurr an Fheadain, a perfectly triangular, dark grey, child’s drawing of a mountain tucked neatly between two sloping ridges as if quietly watching over its territory from a throne. Low cloud hanging over the mysterious, snow-spangled peaks gave the place a self-contained atmosphere that made it seem like the rest of the world simply didn’t exist.
We got rained on as we started up the path, which follows the river’s left bank. I didn’t mind as it meant there were few other visitors. The deep, round, extraordinarily blue Fairy Pools sat below low, rushing white waterfalls, some wide and low, some narrow and high, and the meandering river carved relentlessly over, around and through solid rock in an endless torrent. The pools were a beautiful, crystal clear blue-green colour, and if the air temperature had been in double digits I’d have jumped in. We instantly understood its popularity as a tourist destination, although I wouldn’t want to visit on a busy summer’s day. Even beneath a cloudy sky it was worthy of a Herbal Essences advert.
The path along this extraordinary river continued for about 2.5km up to the base of the Cuillins. Our plan had been to see the pools and head back the same way, but having eyed up the map I had new designs on making the hike circular (triangular) by taking a path that follows the base of the immense ridge northward, then west across the moor and back to the van. I entreated Ryan, who rolled his eyes and followed me onto our new path.
As is standard, the rocky path became muddy then boggy, to Ryan’s great disgruntlement. We trudged and slopped along wet, tufty grassland, trying desperately to keep our feet dry. After a mild bout of whinging we suddenly spotted the dark forms of several red deer a short way ahead of us, well camouflaged against the boulder-strewn, yellow-brown heathland, and our agitation evaporated. They were such majestic animals, easily large and powerful enough to do us a mischief, yet they warily kept their distance as we blundered through their territory, and idled casually up the sleep slope to the right as we approached. Then we spotted more over to our left, watching us quietly from about thirty yards away as they chewed rhythmically in peaceful little groups.
The path had been absorbed by the wild terrain so we walked carefully through heather and bog until we reached a small river, the Allt a’Mhaim, and a parallel path which would take us southwest back towards the road. We followed it all the way down the gently sloping moorland, admiring the rolling brown wilderness that was now illuminated in the golden glow of the soft winter sun, and more red deer appeared from nowhere on either side of us. The bluish clouds over the Cuillins and the dark shadows of the undulating high ridges accentuated the warm light that fell on the mountainous bowl, giving the landscape an other-worldly, dream-like quality. It was a harsh, thriving, unadulterated place.
After walking along this path for about 2km we reached a fairytale-like waterfall set just below a thick fir forest, took a wistful look back towards the Cuillins, and rejoined the road back to the car park. What a beautiful place.
Back to the mainland
It took us an hour to reach the Skye Bridge via Sligachan and Broadford Co-op, a drive that involved a lot of “wow look at that”s, referring to various lofty peaks and wild islands. Back on the mainland we drove southeast along the main A87 Old Military road that follows the length of long Lochs Alsh and Duich, then cuts through the belly of vast Glen Shiel and past lochs Cluanie, Loyne, Garry and Lochy. As we passed wonderfully named Loch Lochy the sun set over golden water, sinking below the distant peaks in a soft haze.
Almost two hours after leaving Skye we arrived at Fort William and nipped to the familiar Morrisons, then drove for 15 more minutes to Ben Nevis’s north face car park. For dinner we had a strange combination of leftover vegan bolognese, bulgur wheat and stovies – a Scottish dish made of beef, onion and potato, all minced together in a delicious (if unsightly) mush – then had a very serious discussion about what we should do the following day.
We both really wanted a big mountain day on or around Ben Nevis, either ice climbing a route like Number 2 Gully or hiking/scrambling the Carn Mor Dearg arete, but after a lot of research and consideration we decided that given the high winds and “considerable” avalanche risk on north east aspects in that area it wasn’t the day for it. We settled, after some squabbling (I was team bike, Ryan was team find somewhere else to climb), on mountain biking the famous Nevis Range trails that started from the car park we were in, which had been on my to do list for years. It was a good thing we did because we went to bed much later than planned, having spent a long time deliberating over Ben Nevis.
No lie-ins today, to my satisfaction and Ryan’s displeasure. Having fully exploited the Cairngorms, we planned to head west across to the Isle of Skye, a place that’s been right at the top of my “to do” list for years. We left Aviemore and drove north along the main A9 road to Inverness, parked in the small, fairly central Rainings Stairs car park we’d stopped in on a previous trip and walked down the long flight of narrow stone stairs to the town centre.
Having visited Inverness before we didn’t plan to stay for long, so Ryan got his obligatory McDonalds breakfast (which, as usual, we ended up sharing thanks to his generosity and my “I’m not that hungry” regret) and we shivered through the cold, damp, snowy street lined by attractive, tall yellow sandstone buildings, already a bit peopled out, straight back to the van.
We were in a pretty, quiet residential area on our way out of Inverness when we saw a little jack russell wandering around a road. We’re both very much animal people (generally more so than people people), so we pulled over and I approached the elderly-looking, placid little dog. Her collar told me her name was Tilly and she lived at the house she was hanging around outside, so I rung the bell and called the mobile number on her collar, both to no avail. Luckily her friendly neighbour pulled onto his drive and told me that she sometimes escapes, so he put her back in her garden and explained that he’d take her in but she doesn’t get on with his dog, a lovely little west highland terrier called Gordon. He reassured me that her florist owner was probably on a local delivery and wouldn’t be long, so feeling all warm and cosy about helping little Tilly (and instantly over whatever we’d found to argue about that morning – I can’t remember) we went on our merry way.
East to west coast
The drive across to Skye took a couple of hours and was a stunning route, mainly through open, yellow-brown moors surrounded by dramatic, rolling white peaks, several of which we eyed up as mountaineering destinations. The weather was classically Scottish – wet and claggy one minute, bright and sunny the next – and the road snaked along wild glens and through rugged little villages. Shortly before we approached Skye Ryan pulled into a small road so I could have an indecorous wee in the usual van style, only slightly hidden from any unfortunate passers by (happily there were none), and as we approached the island on the road that runs along the Loch Alsh sea inlet he stopped for his own indecorous wee, which gave me a good opportunity to photograph the striking Skye Bridge.
Skye
We crossed the bridge and headed to the Co-op at Broadford, all the while admiring the vast, watery expanse and wild little islands of the Inner Sound strait. We grabbed snacks and supplies, then drove up for nearly an hour up the northeast coast towards the Old Man of Storr.
Even under an overcast sky it was an other-worldly place. Skye is part of the Inner Hebrides archipelago, a chain of 79 islands sprawled up Scotland’s dramatic west coast. I was stunned by the fullness of the landscape, which seemed almost contradictory: there was so much land, rising out of the water and high against the horizon in its random, rugged, heather-brown and snow-white forms, yet so much water, dead flat and simultaneously light and dark. As a whole the sea reflected the bright grey sky, but the blue-black detail of the waves and ripples hinted at the mysterious depths below. It was captivating.
We snaked around the base of the red Cuillin mountains and glanced left at Sligachan to catch a glimpse of the black Cuillins, whose name alone is enough to command a sense of awe and deference. They towered over the rolling moors in jagged peaks, the indomitable kings and queens of the island. If it weren’t for the high winds and poor visibility forecast we’d certainly have set upon the infamous Cuillin Ridge traverse, but I’m not sad about having such a firm incentive to return.
The rolling moors continued on the road to Portree, a pretty, lively-looking town with lots of quirky independent shops, and beyond, where we climbed higher into thick clag and heavy snow. Ten minutes later the sky was bright blue and as the strip of water between the isles of Skye and Rasaay crept back into view, the iconic Old Man of Storr appeared ahead in his striking, bizarre elegance. We pulled up in the large visitor car park, ate some noodles and began the easy 20-minute walk up to the surreal formation of towering bare rock.
Old Man of Storr
We were surprised that a quick google yielded no climbing routes up the pinnacle (not to be confused with the Old Man of Stoer, a sea stack further north on the west cost of the Scottish mainland and something of a climbing mecca), but on closer inspection the rock has a strange, damp, crumbly texture. He stands about 50m tall and 10m wide, a brownish grey pinnacle of basalt in an ancient volcanic island of tantalising, intimidating, alien rock – The Storr. The snow that thinly covered the grassy, rocky landscape all around didn’t dare touch the dark obtrusion, which rose suddenly in jagged, triangular forms separated by sinister black gulleys. The Old Man’s upright position looked unnatural, like he should topple over any second, and as we walked right up to him we understood the story of the giant laid to rest whose thumb remained above ground, pointing to the sky. It was a strange, enigmatic, serenely beautiful yet slightly uncanny place.
The walk back the same way was breathtaking, overlooking the undulating isles of Raasay and Rona and in the distance the distinctive Black Cuillin mountains, which were framed perfectly below a curtain of thick grey cloud – even that hung respectfully above the towering peaks. Already stunned by Skye, we got back in the van and continued our drive north up the east coast of the island in the hope of seeing the Quiraing before nightfall.
Lealt Falls, the Quiraing
After about 10 minutes Ryan swung the van into a layby. He’d spotted a waterfall sign, so we went over to the viewing platform set just off the road and watched the tumbling white water of Lealt Falls rush into the Abhainn An Lethuillt river (catchy name). There were two waterfalls, a high, thin one and a wide, tiered one, both carving channels through the sweeping land and enabling trees to thrive thickly along the banks, even in this harsh landscape. The water rushed into a deep valley, at the end of which the sea sat high and blue cradled in the “V”. We watched it for a little bit, then scurried on to catch a glimpse of the Quiraing.
After a 15 minute drive past some quirky, sprawling hamlets, we were in the bizarre landscape of the Quiraing, an ancient craggy landslip near the northernmost point of the island with sweeping slopes, high cliffs and huge, random masses of bare rock. The road wound below the fascinating land formations and snaked twistily up one side. I got out the van and wandered up a small hill to take some photos, wishing that we had a bit more time for a proper explore. From there we drove across a wild, high moor and headed southwest through awful conditions in the dark – heavy snow with next to no visibility along the main A87 road – to Dunvegan, where we found an out-the-way pull-in on the bank of Loch Dunvegan, near the castle.
I cooked an improvised meal of vegan chilli con carne with bulgur wheat and we spent the night under a starry sky, which reflected off the glassy water of the loch and turned the low hills on its far bank into pitch black silhouettes. We fell in love with Skye that day.
True to form, I was up at the crack of dawn while Ryan remained dead to the world. I went for a little walk down the valley to enjoy the extraordinary solitude of an early Scottish morning, whose sky glowed pink to lilac to clear, pale blue over the snow-capped peaks and dark forests nestled below. I found some strange animal tracks in the snow, possibly a fox and hare:
Back at the van I woke Ryan, made breakfast, packed rucksacks for winter climbing and drove up the hill to the Cairn Gorm ski centre car park where we’d been the previous day. Our plan was to hike up to Coire an t-Sneachda corrie, a huge bowl carved out of the Cairngorm plateau by a glacier, and try a low grade ice climbing route – our first – up one of the three steep, rocky, icy walls that form the sides of the bowl. We thought about doing the well-known Fiacaill Ridge scramble, but a high crosswind was forecast so we decided against it.
Hiking up
We set off at 10am and headed south along the clear, slabby path from the car park. We climbed steadily uphill towards the high plateau in front of us, and apart from the long, thickly forested Spey Valley behind, everything was vast, glacial ridges, bowls and valleys. The corrie sits two miles up this path, which was long and steady enough for us to regret our warm winter gear and pause to de-layer.
As we approached, the corrie’s intimidating black and white walls rose higher and higher, making us feel smaller and smaller. Vast swathes of snow and rock sprawled under grey clouds which hung low over the ridges ahead, making the sky above seem unusually blue and our winter coats unusually bright. It was a truly wild, unforgiving, beautiful place.
As we approached the high back wall of the corrie the path dissolved into a boulderfield – there’s nowhere to go apart from back the same way unless you’re climbing out of the bowl. We’d eyed up the “Aladdin’s Couloir” route in our guidebook but there was a large group climbing at the base and we didn’t fancy waiting around, so we headed left towards the obvious gully of “Jacobs Ladder”, a well-known classic route (grade I, **) that we’d found on youtube before the trip. After a lot of hopping, clambering and scrabbling across the boulderfield we reached the base of the route, pulled on our crampons and made our way up a steep neve ice slope to the rocky face, a short “hike” which in itself was verging on graded ice climbing territory.
The climb
Jacobs Ladder is effectively a steep ice slide about 2-4 metres wide cut into the vertical face of the corrie. Its gentle (for a climbing route) gradient and sheltered position make it a perfect first-time ice excursion, although that also meant there were a couple of other groups doing the route. We practised a couple of self-arrests, a technique that involves sticking an ice axe into the ground to achieve a controlled stop if you start sliding down the slope, then set up a belay and Ryan led the first pitch.
Once he’d set up the second belay I followed with my single Alpine axe, a lightweight hybrid which is more angled than a straight hiking axe but less aggressive than a technical climbing tool. I followed him up, frontpointing with my crampons (firmly kicking the two front spikes into the slope and standing into the boots, like climbing up steps), hacking the axe into solid ice and pulling up on the handle, and using my free fist against the slope to balance and keep the foot-foot-hand-hand rhythm. I reached the belay, swapped to two technical axes and climbed through to lead the second pitch, placing nuts and throwing slings over horns at quite run-out intervals due to the solid, comfortable feeling of neve-topped ice beneath me. There were enough rock placements on the faces either side that there was no need to use ice screws.
I really enjoyed the feeling of climbing on ice. It was completely different to rock as my focus was on maintaining a steady, rhythmic movement and sinking the contact points into solid ground, rather than searching for abstract little holds with fingers and toes. Moving one limb at a time – foot-foot-hand-hand – just took a little getting used to, as the climb was mostly easy enough to climb like a ladder, and holding my boots at a constant-90 degree angle worked up a good calf burn. I reached the end of our 40m rope surprisingly quickly and set up a belay, but made the silly mistake of sitting on a wet rock and having to endure a cold bum while belaying Ryan up. At this middle section the ice was thin and we had to be very careful not to dislodge any loose rock onto the climbers below – Scottish winters are becoming increasingly fickle.
We had to wait (slightly agonisingly) for the group in front of us to get ahead, then continued in this way to the top, a total of five near rope-length pitches. The gear placements were quite spaced throughout the climb but the ice felt solid – in terms of technicality I’d have been quite comfortable soloing the route, but it was an excellent introduction to ice climbing and I wouldn’t want to climb ropeless with another group below us.
The descent
The wind hit us like a bus as we pulled over the lip at the top, and we realised that our earlier decision not to do Fiacaill Ridge (something else to come back for) was very sensible. We de-cramponned, stuffed our gear into rucksacks and walked north along loose, rocky ground to Fiacaill a’ Coire Chais, the ridge we’d walked down after summiting Cairn Gorm the previous day. It was an entirely different place in the wind, which roared up the steep ridge to the west and across the barren plateau with relentless ferocity. As we approached the descent I was nearly blown off my feet several times. It was funny at first but as it battered us down the uneven slope I got quite bored of it – the rocky terrain meant that every step necessitated good timing and a lot of concentration. Having appreciated almost none of the incredible scenery around us, I was positively cross by the time we reached the bottom of the ridge, having been blown off my feet three times. I was aggrieved that Ryan, at one and a half times my bodyweight, was comparatively stable.
Back safe & sound
After what felt like several calendar weeks we reached the deep snow drift at the bottom, got frustrated at the difficulty of trawling through that, and joined the buggy track back to the car park. Our spirits returned very quickly out of the wind, and we were back in the van by about 5pm. We returned to our favourite car park just down the road for the third and final time, cooked a mighty fine Thai green curry and spent the evening in our usual way, eating, drinking and scheming.
We woke in our pretty, quiet spot overlooking Braemar and were up and breakfasted by 10am, which is unreasonably early by Ryan’s standards and catastrophically late by mine. It was set to be a bad weather day with all the trimmings – high winds, heavy rain, dark clouds and poor visibility, so we wrote off the idea of going up a mountain and settled on the Balmoral Cairns walk, a 6-mile hike between the 11 cairns erected in memory of Queen Victoria’s family in the thick forest of Balmoral Estate. We were particularly interested in Prince Albert’s pyramid, which we’d seen sneak peeks of in the Wild Guide.
We drove half an hour east to Balmoral, parked in a pull-in by the Royal Lochnagar Distillery, donned full waterproofs and headed towards the forest via a narrow track, which took us past some quaint cottages. A well-trodden footpath branched left and led us into the trees through a tall metal gate. The forest was reminiscent of that I described in the previous day’s blog post – vast, ancient and thriving, every inch of floor, trunk and branch covered in some kind of mossy, licheny life.
The first cairn, a neat, conical pile of rocks about three times my height belonging to Princess Beatrice, was a short walk into the forest. From there the path curved through the tall pines, climbed a hill and passed a few small, rocky crags before Prince Albert’s pyramid emerged through an opening in the trees. This opening dropped down steeply on one side to reveal a lovely panorama of rolling hills covered in dark forest, brown heather and in the distance, bright white snow. The pyramid’s perfectly straight, sharp edges and unnaturally symmetrical silhouette dominated the foreground and contrasted with the rough, irregular outlines of nature’s branches, ridges and undulations, and we were both taken aback by the size of the structure, which stood about as high as a three-storey house. Its cold, grey granite blocks were dark against the bright white sky and seemed to glisten in the light. It was a beautiful, poignant monument made mysterious – almost cult-esque – by the Egyptian-borne intrigue that surely every visitor must feel on fantasising about what probably isn’t, but could be, inside.
I informed Ryan that I expect at least an equivalent shrine in the event of my demise and we rejoined the path, already feeling pleased with our choice of rainy day activity. It snaked down the other side of the thickly wooded hill, whose trees occasionally parted to reveal the vast ridges of the mountains to the south and possibly – although I wasn’t certain – a view out to dark Lochnagar. The tall pines provided shelter from the intermittent rain and the recent storms were evidenced by many splintered and uprooted trunks, which lay like fallen giants.
We took a right at a gravel track, then a left through another tall gate. After about a kilometre we joined a narrow path that led us into the thick forest on our right and up another hill to Princess Alice’s cairn, which was much the same as Beatrice’s. It was wild, peaceful, and we didn’t see another person for quite a long time. At one point a small clearing treated us to a view of some misty, snow-capped peaks that were perfectly framed by birches, pines and a floor that was so full of rocks, moss, heather, lichen and little plants that not an inch of bare soil was visible.
We were deep in conversation when we took a wrong turn and inadvertantly rejoined the gravel track, so – a little irritated by this rookie error – I insisted that we continue to the rest of the cairns by another route. We walked a short way along the track before taking a path that took us back into the forest, then along the east-facing slope of thickly wooded Craig Gowan hill for about a kilometre to Prince Leopold’s cairn, which looked out over Balmoral Castle and the wide River Dee. From there we backtracked along the same path to the Purchase Cairn, which boasted a stunning view over the Dee valley and the rolling peaks to the east. Louise’s cairn was a little way on just off the main path, and we found the final cairn – Helena’s – up the slope on our right, tucked conspicuously into the forest. We returned to the track we’d come in on via an overgrown path and an old footbridge over a steep, narrow wooded valley that was filled with fallen trees – the spoils of the recent winds.
While writing this blog post – a surprisingly lengthy process which involves a combination of memory, using maps to check routes and looking at photos to fill in gaps – I came to the sad realisation that by taking a wrong turn, we inadvertently missed out a cairn. Prince Arthur’s cairn lies on the path between Alice’s and the Purchase Cairn and it escaped our notice, which – thanks to my compulsive tendencies – means I’ll have to go back to it, which isn’t such a shame given the wild beauty of the place.
We retraced our steps along the track, past the little cottages and back along the road to the van. Naturally it rained quite heavily on us just before we got back, so we de-waterproofed, bundled inside for bread and soup, then set off across the Cairngorms. A road closure meant we had to go near the fairytale-like town of Ballater, a 15 minute drive east along the River Dee, so I insisted on using their public loos just to warrant a quick visit.
I’m ashamed at how much my only photo of Ballater doesn’t do it justice
From there we took the road north that goes past the steep, forested Pass of Ballater valley and through the eastern side of the national park via Cock Bridge (snigger) and Tomintoul. Shortly after leaving Ballater the landscape became quite dramatic in that strange, enchanting way that makes you feel very, very small. Huge, open plains of sandy yellow grass and red-brown heather rolled over enormous, undulating hills which elevated the horizon to captivating heights, and the road carved and snaked through the vast, sheep-spangled wilderness. As we came to the high northern part of the mountainous plateau the weather changed from bright sunshine, whose low rays accentuated the undulations and cast a warm, enchanting light over the golden landscape, to sudden thick, grey clag and heavy rain. We climbed higher into the cloud and the weather worsened. The steepest, twistiest bits of road were covered in an anxiety-inducing layer of snow and ice as we crawled along through a relentless blizzard, praying with an almost unprecedented intensity that Bjorn wouldn’t decide to break down on one of these merciless slopes.
After what felt like an endless time we made it out the other side and descended to Boat of Garten, where we joined the main A95 road south to Aviemore. Our relief was palpable, and we got to the buzzing, outdoorsy town in time for the 4.45pm England vs Scotland Six Nations opening game. The Winking Owl pub put the rugby on in its cosy “Bothy Bar”, where we squeezed in feeling conspicuous amid a throng of Scotland supporters, but fortunately everyone was friendly and three very loud English supporters diverted any teasing banter away from us. Watching England lose had a poignant sting in a Scottish pub, but we enjoyed the game and I was merry enough to send a glass of gin crashing down on the floor, which I insisted on cleaning up myself with a dustpan and brush from the bar.
Ryan convinced me that we should not stay in the pub for more drinks for money and hangover reasons which, although I objected at the time, was definitely a blessing with hindsight. He drove us through Aviemore and along the foresty, lochside Glenmore road up to the large, flat car park we’d stayed in previously near the Cairngorm Mountain ski centre. He did an excellent job of cooking burgers while I made myself far from useful, and we slept so well in that wild place.
We were raring to go for a social weekend in North Wales. My old friends Dave and Charley had planned a group trip up with the intention of climbing Tryfan and celebrating Dave’s birthday way back in 2020, which – like most other things in 2020 – was thwarted by covid. Excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion and double excited by the prospect of a long overdue reunion in the mountains, we were up and on the road by 04:15.
We collected Lee on our way up, another old friend and (as we soon found out) an excellent travelling companion totally unphased by most things, including waking up at silly o’clock to set off on random activities. We had a clear run of traffic and crossed the border by 9am. Concrete and tarmac turned into steep, forested, river-bellied valleys, and we stopped at picturesque Betws-y-Coed (a lovely little town whose praises I’ve sung previously) for a snack and a leg stretch.
From “Betsy” we drove along the familiar A5 for 20 minutes, already feeling absorbed by the thick forests and rugged valley sides that tower over the sweeping road. The sky was clear and the sun was already warm when we reached the roadside car park opposite vast, dark Llyn Ogwen, backed by the hulking mass of yellow-green Pen Yr Ole Wen (which is quite high on my to do list). We threw on our already-packed rucksacks, walked along the road to Ogwen Cottage and went through the gateway to the Glyderau mountain range.
Climbing at Idwal Slabs
The path up to Llyn Idwal is well-walked and well kept, and we were pleased to pass a big school group enjoying the sunny outdoors. The unmistakeable, stegosaurus-scale form of dark Tryfan dominated the view to our left and the high ridge of Glyder Fach and Glyder Fawr loomed ahead, curving round via the wide, black crack of Devil’s Kitchen to the equally intimidating Y Garn and Foel Goch on the right. The dark, high lake sat thus in a huge, rocky, ancient bowl overlooking the stunning Ogwen Valley. I’ve previously written about this area in more detail – see here for more of that kind of waffle.
Idwal slab is a huge rock face that lies at the head of Llyn Idwal and forms part of the south face of the towering Glyder Fach/Fawr ridge. Its sloping angle, grippy rock and solid cracks makes for good, low grade climbing, so as well as wanting to try it ourselves we thought it’d be good for Lee, who hadn’t really climbed before. We planned to do the classic route “Tennis Shoe” (HS 4b) but there were climbers already on it, so we opted for the easier “The Ordinary Route” (Diff), a “classic” that was recorded as a route way back in 1897.
We roped up and Ryan led the first pitch up a wide, easy crack. Lee followed and I cleaned the gear. Having an extra person was nice because the belayer always had someone to talk to, and I was amazed at how quickly and easily Lee picked it up – I’d been a little worried that a big multi-pitch trad route might be a bit ambitious for a new climber, but I’ve never known anyone so unfazed. Ryan and I alternated leading the route and as we climbed higher, the view of Llyn Idwal and the Ogwen Valley became increasingly impressive and the lake seemed to turn from deep black to a cool blue that contrasted with the bright, sandy yellow of the mountain grass. I could drawl on about the scenery and the captivating wilderness for a long time, but I’ll use some photos instead:
The climbing was straightforward all the way up, with the occasional slightly spicier move, and we didn’t bother changing our approach shoes for climbing shoes. It would have been quite a comfortable free solo until reaching the last couple of pitches and looking down the steep face. The gear placements were generally good (sometimes too good – I spent a good few minutes retrieving one nut) with the occasional weird bare bit where the rock seemed to change, and my last belay point was slightly dubious – I’d got to the end of our 40m rope and ended up pinning myself into an outward-facing seat by slings tightly attached to a nut and a horn either side of me. It was interesting having a third person because we had to choose belay points with space for him to sit or lean, which is something I don’t usually think about.
From the last belay point we scrambled left across less steep but rocky, slightly muddy terrain towards the misleadingly named “walk off”, which took a while to find thanks to the unhelpful description in our Rockfax guide. Eventually we spotted a couple of arrows etched into big rocks and I’m glad we did, as we wouldn’t otherwise have guessed that the way they pointed constituted a “walk”. Fortunately Lee was unfazed once again and we downclimbed a short, steep, rocky scramble that the book suggests is often abseiled. Doing so with a prawn sandwich in one hand probably wasn’t my smartest move, but I’d stopped at the top to put the book back in my bag and came across the irresistible, handy snack.
We reached the bottom unscathed and walked down the sloping bank to rejoin the path alongside Llyn Idwal. We traipsed back to the car the way we came, down the hill that climbs up to Idwal (a glacial “hanging lake” set quite high up), past Ogwen Cottage and a short way along the A5, tempted by a dip in the cool, clear water of Llyn Ogwen and once again blown away by the stunning views and the unbelievably lovely March weather.
A Yaris tour along the North Coast
We left the car park to go and find the holiday cottage via a supermarket. It was six and two threes whether we went back the way we came through Betwys-y-Coed or carried along the A5 and followed the coast around, so we opted for some new scenery and went north west along the valley to the greyish town of Bethesda, then around the top of the national park via the North Wales Expressway, a smooth, wide road that runs along the north coast with the calm, blue sea on one side and hills rising hazily on the other. It felt like we were in a foreign country or a car advert, although poor, peeling Scabbers the Yaris would never make it into one of those.
We stopped at an Asda in Conwy, although it had little right to call itself an Asda – it was barely bigger than a Spar. I was more stressed out by the prospect of shopping than I had been halfway up the rock face, so we collected various fajita ingredients and assorted alcoholic refreshments and scarpered. We found the holiday place about 20 minutes south of Conwy in the middle of nowhere (where nowhere is an agricultural paradise of grassy hills, sprawling fields and long hedgerows), reached via some remarkably steep, narrow, twisty, bumpy country roads.
The House and the Reunion
We rolled onto the wide gravel drive and realised that Charley, the friend who planned the trip, had spoilt us all. We were looking at a beautiful, long, stone barn conversion with a lovely wooden extension and a huge porch. It fronted onto a slate-pebbled yard with lovely countryside views, and had its own open barn containing a hot tub, ping pong table and gas barbecue. It had four double rooms with a shower each, two living areas, a large central kitchen, a fancy staircase, lovely stone floors and a curious way of feeling both cosy and spacious. We saved the master bedroom (complete with balcony and en-suite fit for royalty) for Dave and Charley, Lee took one of the upstairs doubles and Ryan and I had the downstairs double, for alcohol and staircase-related safety reasons on my part.
The three of us unpacked the car and relaxed on comfy sofas until the others arrived. Dave, Charley and Cooper the dalmatian turned up after about an hour, Ryan and I cooked fajitas and we agreed not to drink too much that night – we had to climb Tryfan tomorrow, and it’d be better to save ourselves for Saturday night. Then Matt turned up.
He was earlier than expected and having not seen each other for such a long time (Ryan excepted, who met everyone that day), we must have gotten overexcited because everything took a turn for the worse. Drinks flowed (everywhere) as we caught up with each other, and – although my memory is hazy at best, utterly blank at worst – I think it’s probably a good thing we had the hot tub to contain us.
Saturday 26 March
I woke at 5am on a sofa, which is strange considering Ryan had put me to bed. I woke again about 8am thanks to the delightful sound (which I’ve missed for so long) of Matt cleaning the kitchen. I stood up, fell over for no reason, woke and whinged to Ryan about my bleeding knee, wandered out to say hello to Matt and Dave, and promptly returned to bed. I woke more successfully after about an hour and went to try and make myself useful, although the boys had already removed all traces of Friday night. Someone cooked bacon and somehow we were all in Dave’s car around midday.
The drive to Tryfan was harrowing. There was no avoiding the twisty country roads from the house, but after being on the main road for a while sat nav took us off and along the Gwydyr forest track instead of through Betws-y. It was a sorry excuse for a road, especially in a car full of six hungover people. I’m quite sure it’s the twistiest, bumpiest, narrowest, steepest, roughest road in the whole world, and Charley – who was the worst of all of us – looked like she’d perish at any minute. After about four calendar years we reached the Ogwen Valley and were relieved beyond words to bail out of the car.
Tryfan
Sadly poor Charley was a write-off. She made the sensible (if inevitable) decision that she’d consumed far too much gin to be on a mountain, so the five of us left her in the roadside car park with a window cracked open and trudged off towards the steep north ridge of Tryfan.
The first section involved a lot of rock-hopping and scrambling, and our senses began to clear. The summit is barely a kilometre from the car park as the crow flies and the path follows a fairly straight line, but over 600m of ascent meant that the “walk” was very steep and hands-on, requiring very little progress “across” and a lot of progress “up”. Fortunately there’s no hangover cure like cool mountain air and an imminent risk of death, so we were in good spirits before long. We followed the vague path, guessing the way up every time it stopped at bare rock and taking enough breaks to fully appreciate the incredible views up and down the long, pale golden Ogwen Valley, with dark Llyn Ogwen in its belly, the rugged curve of Y Garn and Foel Goch at its head and lofty Pen yr Ole Wen forming the opposite ridge. We couldn’t have hoped for better weather – the clear skies afforded the best views I’ve ever seen of the Glyderau and Carneddau mountain ranges and the gentle breeze kept us cool.
We stopped at the self-explanatory “cannon” for an obligatory photo, rolled eyes at the false summit and scrambled up the steepening rocks, which became a little exposed on the east side. We hauled ourselves up an extremely photogenic gully, traversed some large gaps and discovered a second cannon, which we decided was even better than the first in that the drop off the edge was much more dangerous, therefore much more irresistible. We decided that standing on it ourselves was fine, but watching the others do the same was extremely nerve-wracking as the faller wouldn’t really have to deal with the catastrophe. Once Matt – probably the most giraffe-like of all of us, and the last one to go up – made his way down from that rock, we all breathed a sigh of relief.
From there it was a fairly short but awkward way along and up, and at the top Adam and Eve appeared like effigies on the rocky summit plateau. Suddenly the view was panoramic and we were delighted, not in the least bit hungover. We did the jump between them to gain the “freedom of Tryfan” (again, watching was much worse than doing, and both were much more comfortable thanlast time Ryan and I did it in climbing gear and claggy weather), fed off Lee’s magic rucksack full of miscellaneous confectionary, debated why there were eggshells on the ground until deciding that hard boiled eggs are actually an excellent mountain snack, and walked the rocky but less steep and more sociable way down the summit’s sunnier south west face, enjoying the new views over to the Glyder ridge, Y Gribin and the lovely tarn of Llyn Bochlwyd.
The rocky terrain became decidedly boggy and we did our best to avoid the worst bits (especially the deep, sudden, ankle-sized holes) until we reached the well-kept path that goes from Ogwen/Idwal Cottage up to that high lake. We amused each other, notably with stories of snakes, pheasants and bits of badger-related law (thanks Dave), and felt fully recovered from Friday. Eventually the descent levelled out and the walk to Ogwen Cottage was very pleasant, except when – to Matt and Lee’s delight – a passing dog kicked a lump of mud in my hair just as I crouched to examine some frogspawn.
Return
We reached the bottom of the path, grabbed some snacks from the kiosk at the little visitor centre and made our way back along the A5 to Charley, not sure what condition we’d find her in. Luckily sleep had revived her, but the 40 minute drive to a big Tesco near-ish the house was enough to return the rest of us to our sluggish, hungover state, and once again I didn’t enjoy the shop one bit.
Back at the house Dave and Charley cooked lasagne and we spent the evening in a more acceptable way than the previous night, although it did feature the most hectic game of beer/ping pong I’ve ever played (involving six people, five bats, a washing up bowl and ball-repellent cups) and another, more chilled dip in the hot tub.
Sunday 27 March
Moel Siabod
After a lie in and breakfast rolls, we set off about midday for Moel Siabod, a mountain known as a lovely hiking destination that has been on my list for a long time. Once again we drove into the A5 valley through Betws-y, this time parking at the Tyn y Coed pub. We walked a short way along the road, then branched off up a very steep track (a substantial warm up) which eventually brought us to a sheep-spangled moorland covered in high yellow grass. The majestic, sweeping slopes of the mountain lay ahead of us and we enjoyed a near-panoramic view over rugged, rolling peaks, which were broken up into a golden-brown-grey-green patchwork of rock, grass, heather and forest.
Thankfully the path was clear and the gradient eased, so we talked our way up to the base of Moel Siabod’s rocky northeast ridge. A large, dark tarn appeared on our left as the land rose above us on our right, and we continued on feeling a bit fellowship-of-the-ring like until we reached some ruined quarry buildings and a small, deep-looking, almost perfectly round tarn with a sheer back wall. We threw a few stones in (we’re only human) before everyone else’s feeble tosses were put to shame by Lee’s rocket launcher arm, and we carried on along the base of Moel Siabod’s long, steep southeast face through grassy, rocky, heathery terrain until we came to another, larger tarn, Llyn y Foel, the hazy blue-peaked landscape opened up in front of us, and the path disappeared.
After some careful bog avoidance we stopped at the base of the Daear Ddu ridge for a snack, then began the technical part of the ascent. We’d planned to go straight up via Daear Ddu, a grade 1 scramble, but decided at the bottom it’d be safer for us all (especially Cooper) to follow what looked like the more trodden path to the left, which was effectively a scramble up a steep boulderfield away from the ridge’s sheer drop. It was awkward in places, particularly with a slightly nervous dalmatian who wasn’t used to hopping from rock to rock across big, dark gaps, but luckily he was very agile and made it up with some persuasion.
After what felt like a long time we pulled up over the edge of the mountain’s rocky south face onto the summit plateau, which was covered in large lumps of scree and dry, hardy grass. Cooper, who was relieved to be back on solid ground, had the cheek to bound off ahead as if he’d just finished the warm up while the rest of us tramped up to the trig point. Dave in particular did a lot of tramping, as I’d spent a portion of the ascent sneaking rocks into his bag (birthday beats are so 2009), which he only discovered right at the summit. He took it like a champ, and we all gawped at the now fully panoramic view until chilled by the breeze, pointing out the distinctive shapes of Tryfan and Snowdon and the uncountable surrounding peaks, which ranged in colour from hazy grey-blue to golden-yellow to brown and dark green.
The way down was more sociable, involving a walk across to the other side of the plateau, a little bit more scrambling and Cooper-herding across rocks, then joining a clear path through rugged grassland that signified the end of the most awkward terrain. As we made our way down Siabod’s less-steep northwest face the huge, dark blue-lilac forms of the Glyderau mountain range dominated our view to the left and the golden-green Dyffryn Mymbyr valley stretched out ahead of us with its random undulations, which were sometimes rocky, sometimes heathery and sometimes foresty.
We reached an evergreen forest after a long, straight “down” section and only one snack/admire-the-view break. It had that surreal, tranquil quality only found the wildest, remotest woods. Trees, birds, shrubs, spring flowers, mosses, even the stream – everything seemed to thrive in a quiet, old, unimposing way. We walked along the forest track until we reached the bottom of the hill, where the Afon Llugwy flowed white over the fascinating rock formations it had carved. We crossed at an old bridge and walked a short distance along the road back to the cars.
Chinese n Chill
The bar at Tyn y Coed was closed but we made up for it with a drink at Y Stabblau pub in Betws-y-Coed, where we’d eaten after completing the Three Peaks Challenge three years ago. Someone had planted the Chinese takeaway seed which meant the matter was not open for negotiation as we all fancied it so much, so we went back to the house, showered and regrouped in the big kitchen. After some faff trying to find a fairly nearby takeaway that was open and answering the phone, we sent Dave and Ryan off to collect the treasure after what felt like a 10-year wait. That Chinese tasted so good.
Before we ate Charley broke the wonderful news that she’d managed to get the following morning off work, so they could stay the night rather than driving back. We had a lovely evening playing ring of fire and cards against humanity (which was particularly memorable thanks to Matt’s unrepeatable answer to the “you can’t put *blank* inside *blank*” card), talking in the kitchen for ages and polishing off an unholy amount of leftover takeaway. Once again I stumbled into bed, but thankfully this time I managed to stay there all night.
Monday 28 March
Dave and Charley left early and again Matt took the lead on cleaning up the house. We had breakfast, packed up, said bye to Matt and left at 10am. Lee, Ryan and I wanted to make the most of the day without getting home too late, so we headed through the heart of the national park to Coed y Brenin forest park and set off on the 4-mile Gain Waterfall hiking trail (but not before a quick visit to the mountain bike shop and an avowal to come back for those trails another time, having only ridden the blue Minotaur trail previously).
Gain Waterfall trail
It was a lovely, well-marked route along a gravel path that took us through high, fragrant pines, across a shrubby, heathery plain overlooking the distinctive Rhinog mountain range, down a twisty valley and along the fairytale-like Afon Gain and Afon Mawddach rivers. We passed the ruins of an old gold mine and some stunning, high waterfalls which tumbled and rushed into copper-coloured plunge pools. Like the woods on the way down from Moel Siabod it was almost absurdly tranquil and timeless, and neither a dinosaur, a medieval vagabond nor a Victorian gold panner would have looked out of place in the old forest.
Home
After a sandwich and a drink in the visitor centre, we set off home. We talked for the full four or five hours, only stopping once in a pretty town with a funny hybrid petrol station/co-op/garden centre place to get petrol and cannonball-sized scotch eggs, and the sunny drive back through the Welsh/English countryside was way better than the motorway.
All in all a top weekend with top weather, top scenery, top accommodation and top people. 10/10 would recommend.
curiousgnome 