Tag: aviemore

Scotland, Feb ’23: Loch Garten, Elgin, Findhorn

Leave a comment

Saturday 4 February

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.

Scotland, Feb ’23: Climbing Aladdin’s Couloir

2 Comments

Friday 3 February

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.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Mountain biking around Aviemore

Leave a comment

Tuesday 8 February

We opted for a lie in and a chilled morning following our ice climbing foray up Jacob’s Ladder. Our roadside car park overlooking the immense Rothiemurchus forest and stunning, long Spey Valley was large and quiet enough for us to stay in bed until mid-morning, so while Ryan slept I did some research into what adventures we could embark upon next.

Ry cooked eggs in purgatory for breakfast (the BEST van brekkie going) and I pitched my proposal of an easy “rest day” bike ride. Ryan acquiesced and we drove down the hill along the now familiar Glenmore/Loch Morlich road into Aviemore, where we found a central, free parking spot opposite a bike shop. I’d researched a couple of mountain bike routes and had narrowed it down to the Burma Road loop or a route I found on Komoot called “Loch an Eilein – An Lochain Loop”. Ryan decreed that Burma Road looked like it involved too much uphill after the previous day’s excursion and in anticipation of an imminent big mountain day, so we decided on the latter.

We set off from Aviemore at 1pm, headed south through the town and joined the Old Logging Way, an off-road gravel cycle trail that goes back towards Loch Morlich and snakes around Rothiemurchus forest. We branched off right onto a singletrack path through thriving mixed woodland at Inverdruie and cycled at a leisurely pace to tiny Lochan Mor, a beautiful little lake set in a forest clearing. We’d already deviated from the route to see this lake and we were glad we did, as it was incredibly tranquil nestled in the tall green pines and bare broadleaves, whose leafless branches and twigs seemed to glow a strange lilac colour.

We continued through the trees to the quiet Loch an Eilean road and pedalled on to Loch an Eilean, a beautiful, larger loch with stony beaches, tree-lined banks and a small, overgrown castle set on an island. A couple of pretty whitewashed, mossy-rooved cottages overlooked the water, set back from the shore against a steep, wooded bank, and across the lake loomed the high, barren ridges of the Cairngorm plateau. The flat gravel track took us all the way around the loch, which was just as wild and beautiful from each side, and at its northeasternmost point we bore right onto a purple-brown heathland flanked by dark green firs.

The sun made an occasional appearance from behind the yellow-grey clouds and we enjoyed the thriving wilderness immensely. We crossed the narrow Cairngorm Club Footbridge over the wide, shallow, rocky Am Beanaidh river, then continued past purplish heather, golden grass and mixed woodland, which thickened as we climbed uphill towards Loch Morlich. Logging operations cleared the trees as we approached the loch, affording far-reaching views of the surrounding rolling peaks – the whole ride was set deep in the belly of the Spey Valley – and a lovely, rich pine smell.

We headed east along the southern bank of Loch Morlich. Forestry work necessitated a detour away from the bank which caused Ryan a significant amount of aggravation as it added a long, steady climb, which was just about made up for by the long, gravelly descent. Throughout this section red squirrel watch yielded no results, to my great disappointment. After a short ride along the Glenmore road we branched off into some trees and navigated the twisty way past Glenmore Lodge to the undulating gravel track up to An Lochan Uaine, the “Green Loch”, passing several family groups out for a walk.

Travelling up to the Green Loch would require us to double back on ourselves to return to Aviemore, but despite some protestation from Ryan I absolutely insisted on doing the route properly and not cutting the last bit out, partly because I’d wanted to see the lake ever since finding it in our Wild Guide. I’m glad we did because it was a stunning place. We pulled up on the western bank and marvelled at the incredibly bright blue-green water, which rippled gently below the high, steep scree bank of Greag nan Gall, dotted with hardy evergreens. I could see why it has its place in folklore as the colour, which (apparently) comes from fairies washing their clothes in the water, is remarkable.

It was magical but we didn’t hang about for long as I’d become acutely conscious of the soon to be dwindling daylight and the fact we still had about 9 miles back to Aviemore. We pedalled back the way we came and joined the other end of the Old Logging Road, which took us behind Glenmore Lodge and past the Reindeer Centre (sadly closed for the winter season). This track took us in a long, straight, thankfully fairly flat line parallel to the main Glenmore road and the north side of Loch Morlich, then all the way through the forest to Coylumbridge, Inverdruie and finally Aviemore. The ride was quick and a couple of these gravelly sections were particularly fun, with some sweeping corners and flowing descents.

We got back to the van shortly before 5pm in just enough daylight. It was a really lovely, non-technical, not-too-muddy gravel bike ride, Ryan’s occasional whinging aside (usually “I’m sick of hills”, “slow down you’re going too fast”, “I need a wee” or “25 miles is not a rest day”), and we decided that it’d be appropriate – almost necessary – to celebrate our cycling success and our last day around Aviemore with a trip to the pub. By some happy coincidence we’d parked right near the Balavoulin, by the Winking Owl where we’d watched rugby a few nights ago. It was extremely cosy and I learnt all about the skiing/shooting biathlon winter olympics event, which provided great entertainment on a big TV, over a Baileys coffee. For once we were reluctant to return to the van.

Warmed and watered, we drove back along the Glenmore road one last time and parked in a corner of the tree-lined Sugarbowl car park, just down the road from our previous overnight spot. We cooked up some very tasty fajitas and once again spent the evening revelling in the day’s success and plotting our next movements.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Cairn Gorm

1 Comment

Sunday 6 February

We woke to ice on the inside of the van windows and fog, snow and bitter wind outside, so we had a lie in. Snuggling up inside layers of clothes with nowhere to be was lovely, especially with the hob and kettle at the end of the bed. Because of the inclement weather we decided to go out for an easy hike up to the summit of Cairn Gorm as a warm up to the rest of the trip, thinking that this would enable us to recce the high parts of the Cairngorms for ice climbing.

After coffee and poached eggs on toast we drove the short way up the steep, twisty, newly gritted road to Cairngorm ski centre and kitted up for the hike. We set off around midday, just when the weather started to clear. The route began steeply up a path made of large slabs of rock that cut up and across a snowy, heathery hillside, and we quickly rose high above the ski centre building and large car park.

As we climbed higher the fog hanging over the distant slopes seemed to gradually lift, revealing a panorama of vast, rolling white hills, dark evergreen forests and in the valley behind us, the glassy blue water of Loch Morlich. We continued up the slabby path until it joined some ski runs (which were closed due to not enough snow), then reached the large, metal-roofed Ptarmigan building which houses the UK’s highest restaurant, a shop, an exhibition and viewing platforms. I imagine it’d provide a cosy rest stop if open, but it’s been closed since 2018 and is undergoing refurbishment. As if we need more reasons to go back.

We sheltered behind the building for a cereal bar break, then pushed on up the steepening slope. The path was well-laid and marked by stakes on both sides, making it almost boringly easy to follow, but this meant that we could take in the amazing formations of rime ice – where thousands of frozen ice “fingers” are formed by tiny water droplets, very cold temperatures and high winds – that clung to the thinly snow-covered boulders all around us.

As we climbed higher the sun emerged hazily through the cloud ahead and some icy cairns led the way through a boulderfield to the top of Cairn Gorm. We snapped a couple of pictures at the large summit cairn but couldn’t stop for long because the cold wind was savage. The cloud to the north of us had lifted and we were treated to a view of sprawling forests and distant snowy summits, but the high Cairngorm plateau to the south was overcast by thick grey clag that hung like an impenetrable curtain. Occasionally that curtain would lift, allowing us a glimpse across the wild, inhospitable expanse of white peaks, dark ridges and barren, rocky plains.

We’d taken the uncomplicated tourist path up, which went southeast in a fairly straight line for about 3km, so we decided to take a different route down to test our ice axes on some thicker snow and to make the hike circular – something I get very funny about. We scrabbled down Cairn Gorm’s rock-strewn west side to a very photogenic icy plateau, then bore northwest towards Fiacaill a’ Choire Chais, a finger-like ridge that slopes down to the ski centre. As we approached it the snow thickened into a knee-deep drift – very fun – until we pulled over the lip, then we navigated our way down the long, rocky ridge through intermittent fog and snow.

We enjoyed this more technical ground, particularly the deep snow drifts that had built up on the east side at the base of the ridge, until we reached the icy buggy track at the bottom of the ski runs that led us back to the car park. We de-kitted at the van and ate soup while the blowers cleared the condensation from the windscreen, then drove off down the long hill back to Aviemore along the Glenmore road. Near Loch Morlich we passed a van with a “Ross’s Garages” logo and I commented that my dad, being called Ross and owning a second hand car sales business, would like that.

We grabbed some bits from Tesco and refuelled at the petrol station. Then there was a disaster. Ryan went to turn the key and the van wouldn’t start. By some divine coincidence the Ross’s Garages van driver was filling up at the pump next to us, so we asked if he had a jump pack we could borrow. We rolled our van off the forecourt (sparks and fuel vapour don’t mix) and Mr Ross’s Garages jumped the battery. To my intense relief the engine started straight away, and we gave him all the cash we had – a fiver – and showered him with gratitude. Filled with vanxiety, I drove us down the road towards Loch Insh for about half an hour to charge the battery, then headed back along the Glenmore road to our favourite overnight spot overlooking Rothiemurcus and the Spey Valley.

We decided that keeping the blowers on full to demist the van had drawn too much current and killed the battery, which didn’t recharge properly on the way to Aviemore as it was a short, mostly downhill journey. Lesson learnt, but from that point I did get nervous every time we went to start the engine. We cooked stir fry for dinner and spent the evening planning the next day’s ice climbing route in Coire an t-Sneachda. Disaster averted.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Balmoral Cairns to Aviemore

1 Comment

Saturday 5 February

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.

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

Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • Looking back towards Ben Macdui from Cairn Gorm

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

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

  • The way down from Cairn Gorm

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

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

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

1 Comment

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.