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

April 24, 2023Leave 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

April 15, 2023April 15, 20232 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 23: Skiing at The Lecht

March 12, 20231 Comment

Thursday 2 February

Our day started in the large car park of the Lecht ski centre in the northeastern Cairngorms. Ryan slept while I made coffee and watched through the window, waiting for the ski lifts to open. It was a while before there was any activity on the neat, parallel runs that spread across the snowy hillside above us – conditions were okay (ie. there was some snow) but not perfect (there could have been more). At last a couple of primary school groups arrived, I managed to rouse Ryan and we left the van for the huge, chalet-like ski centre where we hired equipment, bought ski passes and headed for the slopes at about 11am.

Given that I’d previously spent a not-so-grand total of one day skiing, uninstructed, (see previous post – Alps, January 2020), I was a bit nervous about how I’d find it. I can be impatient and easily frustrated when I’m not instantly good at something and the Alps trip had taught me there’s a knack to snowsports that I hadn’t yet grasped. I’d have liked to try snowboarding again but I’d learnt in France that a snowboard, when attached to me, cannot travel by button lift, so I hobbled awkwardly out of the centre in stiff ski boots, clutching a pair of skis and poles, £52 poorer (which I thought was good for hire and a lift pass).

Remembering the basics

There were two green and two blue lifts open. I’d have liked to start on the low-level, shallow angle green beginner slopes, just to get a feel for skis before heading up higher, but they were swarming with small children that I didn’t want to flatten. We headed for the far left button lift “Eagle 1”, worked out the contactless ski pass turnstile system – but not before I’d nearly tripped over my own skis at least once – and grabbed a lift.

Button lifts consist of a revolving cable going up and down the hill carrying a series of dangling metal poles, each terminating in a plate-sized disc at bum-level. When the traffic light at the bottom turns green you shuffle forward, grab a pole, jam the disc between your thighs and let it pull you up the slope, still standing, poles tucked under one arm. Luckily it was quite easy to get the hang of on skis, so to my great relief and mild surprise I made it to the top without making a fool of myself.

The southwesterly wind hit us hard as we dismounted but the view was lovely: the Cairngorm plateau opened up over the brow of the hill, rolling across the horizon as a panorama of snowy peaks and heathery moorland. Dark grey cloud contrasted with the bright white snow and shafts of yellow light broke through in places, making for an atmospheric sky. Somehow inspired and suddenly full of unwarranted confidence, I snowploughed (front ski tips together, rear tips wide) my way down the blue intermediate slope, which branched halfway down to give two route options. My legs were ridiculously wide and I looked like Bambi on ice, but I was having fun. The fences lining each run – unprotected lines of battered old wooden posts jutting out at miscellaneous angles – were dubious enough to sober me into controlling my descent, which was definitely a good thing.

Unexpected improvement

This continued for several runs and I started to get a feel for the different types of snow (it was quite icy and thin in places), gradients and manoeuvres. I fell over a few times, although less than expected, and I actually found it easier than I remembered – I only got frustrated once, when I crashed and got momentarily stuck on a steep bit right by a particularly treacherous section of fence. Dragging the poles lightly behind me helped me balance and my legs inched closer together as I got the feel for it. Happy with my progress on that run, I branched left and headed for the other operational lift “Grouse”.

Grouse was a steeper lift that led to another blue run, which started off nice and gradual, then dropped into what seemed to me a near-vertical wall of icy snow. It wasn’t near vertical but it did look and feel a little beyond my skill level, so I approached it slowly and levelled out my descent as much as possible by zig-zagging down with lots of tight turns, which seemed to improve my control. Happy not to have crashed but in no rush to repeat that run immediately, I went back up the Grouse lift and took a well-travelled, gentle slope down to the top of the Eagle 1 run.

It was down this easy, scenic section that something clicked. In the Alps I’d watched people do parallel turns (where the skis remain parallel and the turn is made on one inside and one outside edge) and thought it looked so cool, but having tried unsuccessfully on those steep slopes (I’d “learnt” on blue and red runs) I was resigned to the fact that I might just be a perpetual snowplougher. However, that morning I’d googled “how to ski” and taken some basic tips from a Wikihow page, which I put into practice on this long, gentle slope. Happy that nobody was watching, I tried a parallel turn and to my utter shock, just did it. I was amazed at how natural it felt on that gradual hill, and even though I only adjusted my course slightly I was delighted. I did it again and again, thrilled that I now understood what it should feel like, and that I was in fact capable of learning to ski. I flew down the Eagle 1 blue and at the bottom I promptly informed Ryan of my success and my newfound, unbridled passion for skiing.

Triumph

We clunked our way over to the van for a quick snack and a coffee, then eagerly returned to the slopes. The resort became busier after lunch, but pleasantly so – it was helpful for me to watch competent skiers, and the only holdup happened when a couple of kids couldn’t get the hang of the button lift. We spent most of the afternoon repeating the Eagle 1 run, alternating between the left and right finishes, and I was delighted with the day’s progress. I’d gone from a slow, wide-legged snowplougher to a quicker, less cumbersome parallel turner, although I still resorted to snowploughing the steepest and thinnest sections, the bumpy bit where I accidentally caught air and the narrow passage past an exposed, person-sized hole in the ground. I still went slightly too quick a few times (a horrible feeling), once on being cut up by another skier, but somehow managed to keep control and avoid fences, holes, moguls and children. I even did the steep run again, for fun. I couldn’t get enough of it, and we reluctantly returned our gear just as the slopes emptied and the lifts closed about 4pm.

A brief note so he isn’t left out – Ryan prefers snowboarding and is way more competent and experienced on snow than me, having learnt as a child and been on several trips to the Alps. He spent the day looking annoyingly at ease as he carved smooth turns, flew nonchalantly down steep bits, practised little jumps and coached me in his inscrutably patient, encouraging manner. He even fell over a couple of times to remind me that he’s human. 10/10 would recommend to anyone looking for an unofficial coach, price negotiable.

Aviemore

From the Lecht we drove around the northwest edge of the Cairngorms to Aviemore. It was a lovely road: in the foreground wild heather blanketed undulating moorland, which often gave way to areas of dark green forest, above which layers of hazy mountains stretched out lazily beneath bluish clouds. We arrived after just under an hour and straight away everything seemed familiar, as if we’d returned home after a long trip. It’s a cosy, buzzing little town, a well-known hub for mountain seekers almost within touching distance of the Cairngorm plateau, and I’ve almost never been to Scotland without visiting.

We did a big food shop at Aldi, drove along the outdoor-shop-lined road and headed east past Loch Morlich and Glenmore Lodge to one of our favourite overnight spots overlooking Rothiemurcus forest and its basin-like valley, just below Cairngorm ski centre. Ryan cooked his signature dish – burgers – while I planned the next day’s hiking/ice climbing adventure up in Coire an t-Sneachda. Wind shook the van violently and lulled us to sleep as we reflected on our wonderful day on the snow.

I was so buzzing from the day’s skiing that I forgot to take photos of the scenery, oops

Scotland, Feb 23: Glenshee, Linn of Dee, Braemar, Tomintoul

February 16, 2023February 16, 2023Leave a comment

Happily I’ve slipped into the habit of going to Scotland every winter in search of mountaineering exploits, tourist-free roads and cold, midgeless air. 2023’s trip was preceded by two weeks of chaos as Ryan and I (with some help from my perpetually patient dad) scrambled to convert our new campervan to a point where we probably wouldn’t freeze to death in our sleep, which meant spending every non-working minute sound deadening, running cables, making thermal blinds and installing a skylight, electric hookup unit, extractor vent and vapour barrier into Vandalf the Blue. It was an utterly exhausting, all-consuming, antisocial and rewarding couple of weeks, and we left for Scotland inside our shiny silver spaceship, which contained a lot of outdoor gear and an old mattress, on Tuesday 31 January at 1:30pm.

The drive up went surprisingly quickly despite two mechanical hiccups: on returning to the van at Warwick services, the driver’s seatbelt jammed as a result of – as we discovered to my intense chagrin – my overzealous stuffing of wool insulation above the mechanism. We managed to extract the insulation from the tiny holes I’d poked it in and went on our way, relieved. All was quiet until shortly after Perth, when the full beam and fog lights decided to call it quits after nearly 9 hours of driving; vanxiety returned in full force as I googled fuse box diagrams and relay replacement costs, but on finding a layby to stay in shortly after entering the Cairngorms, we turned the engine off and on again and the truant lights returned. We settled into our tin can at 1:30am.

Wednesday 1 February

Glenshee

I woke up in another world. We’d parked in a large layby set back from the A93 between the Spittal of Glenshee and Glenshee ski centre in the southern Cairngorms. I slipped (literally, the ground was icy) out of bed and climbed a little way up a hillside to get a better view, not quite believing that after the van-related stress of the previous few weeks, we were finally in Scotland. The road snaked smoothly between vast, rolling, heather-covered hills, which sprawled around each other as if each trying to take up as much space as possible. The sun had just risen over the high, near horizon, the sky was clear, the heathery ground was thinly covered in snow, and I remembered what peace felt like.

Ryan, who had spent half the night sleepily whinging that he had cold legs while also refusing to put trousers or socks on, emerged from the van, nearly slipped on the ice, and retreated back inside. I joined him and we checked the ski forecast for Glenshee. There were only a few lifts open lower down due to a lack of snow, so we improvised a plan B and headed off to explore the Linn of Dee, a well-known beauty spot half an hour northwest of us.

We wove through the immense, rising glen, which whitened as we climbed, to Braemar village, then took a long, dead-end road to the Linn of Dee. We passed some lovely, cabin-like houses overlooking a wide, flat-bottomed valley backed by the huge, smooth humps of the Cairngorm plateau and harbouring the almost delta-like River Dee, crossed a stately stone bridge and parked in the National Trust car park (£3 for the day).

Hike around the Linn of Dee

We wanted to explore but didn’t want to use up too much time, so we took a 2-mile waymarked circular trail. From the car park it descended a short way through an enchanting pine forest brimming with mosses and lichens to the bank of the Dee, which flowed white through a short, narrow, rocky gorge, then gin clear over a wide, stony riverbed. Above the gorge stood the bridge we’d crossed, which had a single arch and was made from neat, pinkish-grey stone blocks. It was a very pretty place – I could see why it was a favourite picnic spot of Queen Victoria’s.

We followed a well-maintained footpath along the river through the verdant trees. Ryan spotted a red squirrel ahead, which – presumably on hearing my squawk of eager delight at the early sighting – shot up a tree and crept around the trunk as I tried to photograph it. After half a mile we took a track north along a different branch of the river, which widened and narrowed at intervals. Majestic Scots pines lined the banks at random, heather and blaeberry bushes blanketed the undulating ground and everywhere that wasn’t river was covered in forest or scrub; the whole place felt so alive and unadulterated.

It started sleeting but lacked conviction – I needn’t have put my waterproof on. We passed an island, a couple of waterfalls and a salmon ladder (a series of steps that allow salmon to swim up steep sections of river), then headed back to the van through another kilometre of thriving, wild forest. Backed by snow-topped mountains, it was still and serene, and I felt like a not-unwelcome outsider passing through an ancient, whispering landscape. It was so good to be back in Scotland.

Braemar

After 15 picturesque minutes we arrived back in Braemar, an almost obnoxiously quaint, pretty village nestled between high hillsides and sweeping glens that – after a handful of visits – I feel very at home in. We popped to Co-op for some snacks, had a quick look in a local craft/gift shop (of which there are several) and went to the irresistible Braemar Mountain Sports, where we somehow managed not to buy anything. Ryan treated me to coffee and cake in the adjoining, cabin-like Bothy café and we sat looking at the pretty buildings, watching the river run its wide course and planning our upcoming mountaineering exploits – the frantic build-up to the trip meant we’d done no prep, which is very unusual. A moment of cosy bliss.

Scenic route to The Lecht & Tomintoul

We wanted to make the most of the thawing snow and having scoured google for ski resorts with open lifts, we concluded that our best bet was to head up to the Lecht ski centre in the northeast of the national park. Braemar is central-south and there’s no as-the-crow-flies road due to the impassable nature of the mountain plateau, so we took the incredibly scenic and now quite familiar route around the east side of the Cairngorms. After the deep forests and wide rivers around Balmoral, the landscape opened up to a rolling panorama of endless, white-topped hills, whose lower swathes were carpeted with golden grass and red-brown heather, broken only by the occasional remote farmhouse. I felt so wonderfully small.

Having stopped just once to allow a twee-clad roadside shotgun-wielder (I wasn’t going to argue) to down a pigeon and a pheasant, which were quickly retrieved by a labrador, we arrived at the Lecht about 3pm. We went in to check that we didn’t have to pre-book ski equipment for the next day and were told by a friendly instructor that we were welcome to camp in the large car park, so with that plan in mind we watched some inconceivably-looking heavy snow ploughs darting around the slopes above, then continued a little way along the scenic road to kill some time.

Shops were closing by the time we arrived in the small, distinctly rectangular village of Tomintoul, where neat terraced houses lined the single main road. It was dead quiet, even a little eerie, so after a quick poke around a little gift shop/café we headed 10 minutes back up the road to the Lecht, nestled deep in the barely inhabited hills.

Evening at the Lecht

Our first evening in the van was lovely. I missed Björn Bongo so deeply and for the first time since selling him last August, I felt truly free. I sat on a camping chair on the mattress and did some research for the trip while Ryan cooked at the end of the bed, both of us surrounded by miscellaneous climbing and winter gear. Ryan’s lovely stew was made from burgers and leftover veg and we ate hungrily, excited to go skiing/snowboarding the next day. Life was simple and good.

Map showing the whole 12-day trip (home is the pink arrow)

Scotland, Feb ’22: Mountain biking around Aviemore

June 28, 2022Leave 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: Ice climbing at Coire an t-Sneachda – Jacobs Ladder route

June 22, 20222 Comments

Monday 7 February

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.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Cairn Gorm

June 6, 20221 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

May 14, 2022June 6, 20221 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.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Travelling up, Braemar

February 21, 2022February 22, 20221 Comment

Friday 4 February

Travelling up

It took our 12-day Scotland trip a long time to come around but when it did, it was spectacular. We drove up on Thursday night and stayed in a quiet spot we’d used before about an hour over the Scottish border, near a village called Abingdon, 7.5 hours and 410 miles later – luckily we had a clear run.

We’d made a vague plan to head up the west coast to Skye via Loch Lomond, Glen Coe and Fort William, then east to the Cairngorms. When we checked the weather in the morning it looked dire in the west and marginally less dire in the east, so we made the last minute decision to go to the Cairngorms first. We drove for an hour and a half up to Perth, through bright sunshine and heavy snow, noticing the welcome abundance of wind turbines and large swathes of semi-wild agricultural land. We’d washed and waxed the van the weekend before but we needn’t have bothered, as it was already caked in road salt from gritters like Carrie Bradthaw, which we passed on the way.

Perth to the Cairngorms

Perth is an attractive, old, very small city, which has tall, elegant buildings of reddish-yellow sandstone, plenty of greenery and the wide river Tay running through. We parked in the central car park and walked the short distance to Wetherspoons for a cheap brunch, then wandered to Mountain Warehouse to pick up some trousers for Ryan, who’d managed to lose a pair at home somewhere.

An uncannily familiar menu in “The Capital Asset”

From Perth we drove for another hour and a half to the charming village of Braemar, nestled in the heart of the Cairngorms. Farmland grew upwards into the rugged, steep rolling hills of the national park, and green fields became unboundaried patchworks of yellow grass, brown heather and dark green forest. As we drove along the smooth, wide road that snakes between the lofty slopes, we spotted a herd of about 30 young, antlered red deer. I was delighted, and we pulled over to get some photos before continuing on to Braemar.

Braemar & Creag Choinnich

We arrived in the small central car park just before 4pm and after a quick chat with a friendly local, who was selling a campervan and keen to show us some pictures from his recent trip to Skye, we decided to squeeze in a short walk recommended by our Wild Guide book. Creag Choinnich is a small (by Scottish standards – 538m), perfectly round hill overlooking the village from its north east side, accessed by a well-trodden footpath through what I consider a classic Caledonian forest. Dominated by tall, fragrant pines blanketed by clinging lichen and connected by a verdant carpet of moss and heather, interspersed with rocks and tree debris, it had that truly thriving, alive, ancient feeling that human toil and rigour has never been able to replicate through intensive forest management. Nibbled pine cones gave away the presence of evasive red squirrels, and I wished in vain for a sighting. It was as if we’d just walked into the quiet, secretive home of nature, but the weather-battered trunks and branches reminded us that for all her reclusive gentility, she’s equally powerful.

We walked along a steepening brown path of dry, softly yielding pine needles that took us past some large, mossy grey boulders before emerging above the treeline onto a heather-covered hill. We were simultaneously exposed to a cold, sleety wind and treated to a stunning view of the sun setting over the valley, which boasted the glistening, snaking river Dee and mountainous sides that ensconced cosy Braemar. Classic nature – harsh and beautiful. We climbed up to the rocky hilltop and took in our first taste of Scotland as we’d hoped to experience it.

Charmed by the beauty of the place and chilled by the breeze, we scrabbled down the hill the way we’d come up and walked back to the van, fantasising that we lived in one of the cosy cabins or cottages that sat between the forest and the village centre. Somehow mustering the willpower not to nip into the pub by the car park, we drove the mile or so up the road past the Highland games stadium to the quiet, out-the-way car park we’d found on a previous trip, overlooking the village from the other side. We spent the evening planning, eating soup and delighting at the fact we were, at last, in Scotland’s vast wilderness.

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

March 6, 2021Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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