Tag: exploring

Aberdeen

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May 2019

I missed Scotland and as I was working up north anyway, I took advantage of cheap flights from Manchester to Aberdeen. I fell in love with the country a couple of years ago and as a climbing friend recently moved there, I hoped to squeeze a climb in.

I spent Friday exploring all the corners of Aberdeen on foot, running (a very slow) 20km round the city. The buildings are made of dark grey granite blocks, which make everything seem very dull on a cloudy day but glisten prettily in the sun. Shiny new cars sit outside rows of houses lining the leafy streets, which have a clean, homely feel, and regular shops and eateries give the place a pleasant, quiet bustle.

One long, wide street seems to form the heart of the city, lined with everything from posh Thai restaurants to Wetherspoons to high street stores to haberdashers. Four lanes of cars and a constant stream of pedestrians give it a buzzing atmosphere, livelier than that of the suburbs, but somehow it doesn’t really feel like a city. Grand old buildings shoulder smart, modern ones, there are lots of churches, and I was never worryingly far from a pub.

Just a few minutes from the centre are the docks, boasting a rich history and filled with all sorts of boats. A long (extremely long if you’re running) sandy beach stretches along the east coast, punctuated by groynes, seabirds and the occasional surfer. I stopped at an estuary nature reserve at the northern end in the hope of seeing gannets or skuas, then headed back via Old Aberdeen through the pretty, cobbled streets of the university.

I ran back through the bustling streets looking the most Scottish I’ve ever looked – wearing black, white and blue, with a box of oats (staple snack) from Aldi tucked under one arm. Aberdeen successfully explored, I ended that day rigorously assessing a selection of the city’s pubs (variable types, would recommend most), making pub friends and as far as I can remember, having a lovely time.

Favourite fact: “Aberdeen” comes from the Gaelic “Aber”, meaning river confluence, and an amalgamation of “Dee” and “Don”, the two rivers that meet the sea there. Thanks to my geeky habit of reading all the info boards.

Verdict on Aberdeen: 9/10. Would have been 10/10 if I’d seen gannets and skuas.

Great Gable, Lake District

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I had one three-quarter day left in the Lakes and wanted to climb Great Gable or Bowfell. I decided on Great Gable as I could start at Seathwaite; I’d never approached these fells from the north, and as lovely as Wasdale is I wanted to see somewhere new.

I drove from Coniston and parked along the road just down from Seathwaite. I fell in love with the little cottages and farmyard feel of the hamlet, with its roaming chickens, stone walls and sleepy dogs. It sits nestled quietly in a valley carpeted by lush, green fields beneath wild, rocky ridges, alive with the sound of whispering rivers and rushing waterfalls, and feels a bit “F-you society”. Perfect.

I took the Gillercomb route as I’d read something that recommended it. I climbed the steep path which goes up the east side of the valley, through fields, over rocks and past a waterfall, and found myself on a gently ascending moorland plateau covered in the sandy-yellow grass that only grows in wild places. It rained but I didn’t mind; it meant I had the mountain (almost) to myself.

It got steeper and at the top of a ridge I made the mistake that I’ve made too many times before – to assume. This time I decided that the thick, green footpath on the map must be the obvious, well-trodden footpath on the ground at the top of the slope I’d just climbed, and that I was at spot x. I turned left, and it turns out I’d been a short distance from spot x at spot y, as I found myself inadvertently summiting a different hill – Base Brown.

Exasperated, I backtracked along the ridge and tramped up Great Gable’s little sister, Green Gable. After a quick detour to the fog-shrouded summit cairn, I descended the path south west and reached “windy gap”, a narrow gulley between the steep shoulders of the two Gables. It couldn’t be more aptly named – it was like all the wind in Cumbria was concentrated into that little gap, where it rushed and howled relentlessly as if it were trying to turn me into a squawking little human kite.

I escaped the noise and wind-beating by scrabbling round the side of Great Gable, which loomed ominously over me like a steep, rocky monster, shrouded in thick cloud. Then the all-too-common near-summit occurrence reared its smug, ugly head: the path became indistinguishable from the rock-strewn, scrambley mountainside. Footing was quite poor; steep, wet and loose, and I narrowly avoided a rockfall which, although small, would have knocked me a long, bone-breakingly hard way down the near-sheer edge.

I decided to stop searching for the path and climb directly upwards. Perilous but the right decision, as I realised when a tall cairn suddenly appeared through the fog. Relieved, I followed a series of just-visible cairns to the summit, which is marked only by a mountaineers’ memorial.

I descended back to windy gap via the proper path, then turned right to head back down Stye Head. I love a circular hike. This path is more well-trodden than Gillercomb, passes an attractive tarn and runs parallel to a crystal clear river down a long, gentle valley into Seathwaite. I arrived back at the van wet, triumphant and sad that I had to leave the Lakes.

Then I drove to Manchester for work the following day, which is not worth writing about in itself… But after a few days in the mountains a hotel shower felt indulgent!

The Old Man of Coniston (Lake District)

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This was possibly the most heroic day of my life. It was an emotional rollercoaster that took me from 4am surrounded by wedding-drunk friends in a Blackpool kebab shop to three hours’ sleep in a hotel car park to 4pm alone at the top of a mountain.

Given the previous night’s antics, I never really expected to bag any summits that day. I left the wedding place around midday and headed to the Lakes, lonely and a little worse for wear. I had half-formed ideas about climbing the Old Man of Coniston and/or Great Gable before heading up to Scotland, so I found a quiet parking spot in Coniston and submitted to the pull of the mountain. Despite the dwindling day, hangover and rain, I couldn’t resist.

I chose a straightforward up-and-down route along the old miner’s track from Coniston, recommended by the internet. It started in an incredibly scenic valley; on my left was a hillside covered by a sea of bluebells which led steeply down to a stream flanked by bright, almost luminescent green oaks and birches. The water ran between rushing, white waterfalls and clear blue pools, and on another day I’d have jumped in like a graceful nymph gollum.

I crossed a bridge and continued along the valley, which opened up to form a wide U-shape backed by low, homely-looking ridges. An odd description but it fits – a few whitewashed miner’s cottages are nestled cosily in the low, flat plain in the middle, fronted by a wide, shallow, rocky river, and the peaks aren’t jagged or intimidating like some of the high fells. Because of this and its proximity to Coniston, this place feels wild without being isolated.

The track continued along the left bank of the valley, then got steeper, rockier and twistier as it curved around the side of a hill. Old machinery has been abandoned along the route, and the stone ruins of mining buildings remain overlooking the scrubby, heathery, rocky landscape in front of Coniston. It didn’t really feel like a proper mountain until I got to the tarn north of the summit, which the steep, long ridge loomed ominously over. From there the path got a bit more serious and it finally felt like I was climbing a mountain.

After a brief half-scramble I reached the plateau at the top and headed for a stone igloo-shaped thing. Then the Lake District repeated what it did when I summitted Helvellyn last year – caught me off guard and took my breath away. Layers of hazy blue mountains emerged from the horizon,  basking in the sultry glow coming from the moody, grey-gold sky. The view was panoramic, from the flat, glassy sea beyond wide salt plains to the west, through the rich, green pastures to the south to the mysterious, inviting mountains to the north east. The sheep were my only company and in that moment I was in heaven. The hangover was a distant memory.

After enjoying the lonely summit long enough to feel the cold, I defaulted to the Black Bull at Coniston. I flew back down the mountain, exhilarated to have defied the odds and made it up there, got the bed ready and wandered round the town before treating myself to a drink in the pub. I got funny looks from the locals but I’m used to that, and I set about planning the next day’s hike up Great Gable… Next post coming soon!

Endnote – I love all mountains but for some reason I particularly enjoyed this one. It could have been the fact that I had no expectations as I hadn’t expected to hike that day, the interesting and visible mining history, the variety of scenery, the fact I didn’t beast myself (for once) or the solitude, but I’d recommend this route to anyone and everyone – it’s beautiful, good fun and very do-able.

Scotland, Day 1: Loch Lomond & the Trossachs

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Saturday 8th December

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Practical > Pretty

We left Winchester at about 6pm, aiming to get to Lancaster that night. The drive went smoothly until Björn started making a funny whirring noise near Birmingham; a quick google search and phone call to dad suggested that either a) the power steering fluid needed topping up, or b) there was an issue with a belt and we’d have to cancel the trip. Fortunately we’d stopped for fuel anyway, so we picked up some more oil, faffed about putting it in (as the engine is under the seat) and carried on, immensely relieved that the noise had stopped. We arrived near Lancaster around 1.30am.

Sunday 9th December

We left at about 5.30am and headed into Scotland, stopping for a quick nap near Lockerbie. The drive was lovely; the road (A34(M)) was flanked by undulating, bracken-covered hills, and we were surrounded  by majestic wind turbines. Once we reached Glasgow, a brief trip into Asda (as a porridge lover I was delighted by the extent of the oats section) confirmed that we had no desire to spend much time under a roof or around humans, so we drove on to Loch Lomond and the Trossachs National Park.

Pleased by the harnessing of renewable energy! (And mountains, of course)
And delighted by the porridge aisle…
Having kayaked on Loch Lomond last year, we parked at Arrochar on the northwest bank of Loch Long and headed up a zigzag path through a pine forest towards Ben Ime and the Cobbler, part of the “Arrochar Alps”. The Cobbler is purportedly one of Scotland’s most celebrated mountains, probably because of its distinctive shape – it’s said to resemble a cobbler bending over his work, but I’m not sure I see it. It is impressive though, and I’ve noted for future that it looks great for climbing.

As we broke out of the forest and walked above the treeline, the views were stunning. Despite the winter, there was colour everywhere: the sandy yellow of the rippling grass contrasted with the rich, dark green of the forest, which contrasted with the reddish brown of the mountains, which contrasted with the calm blue-gold sky. The surrounding mountains cast enormous shadows over each other as the setting sun bathed the summits in warm, orange light and glistened on the still surface of Loch Long, and the Cobbler towered dark and dramatic over us. I see why the poets liked Scotland.

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Happiness

Unfortunately we turned round before reaching the Cobbler and Ben Ime’s summit because the light was fading and the car park ticket was running out, but the short (2ish hours) walk was well worthwhile. Back at loch level, we drove north towards Glencoe along the [famously “bonnie, bonnie”] banks of Loch Lomond and through the plains of long valleys shouldered by vast, protective mountains.

We parked for the night in a lay-by at the bottom of Buachaille Etive Mor (although we didn’t realise that until the next morning), apparently the most photographed and one of the most loved mountains in Scotland because of its typical pyramid shape, on the Glen Etive road [photos to follow in my next post].

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Dinner 4 days (literally)

Then I cooked properly in Björn for the first time ever: a big sausage and veg casserole, enough for 3-4 days’ worth of dinners. It was lovely, and we slept like logs under the most beautiful night sky I’ve ever seen – clearer than clear and black as pitch, scattered with what looked like a hundred million-billion-trillion stars. Despite all the driving, a good first day.

The view through the forest on the way up
The Cobbler
Sunset on Ben Lomond
Björn at Loch Long

A Jaunt in Jersey

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On Saturday, like all the greatest rugby players, Southampton’s ladies hopped on a flight to fulfil their fixture. I was as excited as a dog in a cattery; I hadn’t played rugby for two months, hadn’t flown for five years and I’d never been to Jersey before.

We flew from Southampton, arriving mid-morning and walking the short distance to Jersey Reds rugby club. The weather was lovely – mid-teens and sunny, clear blue skies – and the club facilities were much posher than we’re used to. We kicked off at midday and played a tough, close game of rugby; we were 14-12 down at half time and it could have gone either way, but a really solid team performance saw us triumph 22-14 as the final whistle went.

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Having made the mistake of wearing silky, billowey, vibrant red trousers with a Turkish carpet-type pattern on the plane while everyone else wore trackies, I downed a pint for “fanny of the field” and my condition deteriorated steadily from there. The next twelve hours saw us taxied to our hotel in the island’s capital, St Helier, dressed up (American theme, I was a double-denim clad cowgirl), fed, very well watered (all alcoholic) and messy; we held a tour court, made lots of friends and otherwise “bonded”. At various points I found myself submerged in a swimming pool, a jacuzzi, a water fountain and a (group) bath – I’ll spare the details.

On Sunday I woke around 6.30am and climbed out of the bed I’d crawled into about three hours before, keen to explore. I stumbled out of my teammate’s hotel room and into my own (long and innocent story), pulled on any old clothes and headed out, free map from reception in hand.

St Helier wasn’t what I expected. To me, the style and layout of the streets felt much more French than English; the buildings were mostly quite new, smart and at least three stories high, and the roads were straight and very clean. There were a handful of independent newsagent-type shops open, rather than small chain supermarkets like in England, but otherwise most places were closed. I remember the area  around the harbour having a clean, modern, upbeat feel on Saturday night, but come Sunday morning the streets were eerily quiet.

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It took about 15 minutes to walk from the Mayfair hotel to the beach, and when I got there the view was lovely. The early morning sun was rising over St Helier’s C-shaped bay, glistening on the calm water and warming the sand. Four strikingly symmetrical tower blocks framed the south east of the city, silhouetted by the low sun, and jagged rocks jutted out of the sea as if challenging boats to get into the bay. I walked out to the end of the pier, impressed by the big bathing pool structure, and admired the view.

A couple of hours later I had explored a bit more, breakfasted, packed and met my sluggish friends. With some time to kill before getting the coach to the airport, a few of us headed back to the bathing pool and I braved a swim in the flat, fresh, salty water, wearing my now infamous silky trousers. It was cool (cold) but really refreshing. I swam around for a while and only stopped because my ribs were hurting (rugby) and my un-elasticated trousers started to rip, then shivered my way back to the hotel.

The coach picked us up and took us along the south coast towards the airport, on the west of the island. What I saw of the rest of St Helier looked clean and new, and the long, golden, sandy beaches were amazingly quiet given the clear blue waters, cloudless skies and warm sun. There’s an interesting looking castle and fort that can be walked out to at low tide, and I learnt from Saturday’s taxi driver that Jersey has one of the largest tidal ranges in the world. Looking out to sea, the clear, pale blue water looked shallow for a long way out, and the shores were guarded by jagged, dark rocks. This, combined with the pale pavements and  numerous palm trees, gave the place a really Mediterranean feel.

We went through the pretty, older-looking coastal town of St Aubin and, as we had plenty of time before our flight, our driver gave us a little tour south to Noirmont point. He parked the coach and let us out for ten minutes, after which time I think everyone was sold on Jersey. We could have been in Greece; the headland overlooked a clear, azure blue bay, skirted by reddish-brown granite cliffs topped by lush, green shrubbery, yellow gorse and purple heather. I scrambled down the grippy rock to get some photos, a little bit gutted that I wasn’t there to climb.

That was about as much of Jersey as I saw; the bus journey back to the airport was unremarkable – the buildings were new and clean and there were lots of palm trees. I learnt a lot about the island from talking to various people. They have £1 notes, and the watermark on their notes is a Jersey cow. You have to have lived there for something like 10 years before you can buy property, you need special work permits and the cost of living is similar to London. The  island is only 9 miles long and 5 miles wide, with a population of just 100,000. It has its own financial and legal systems, funny tax rules, and it’s about 15 miles from France and 85 miles from England. It has its own language, which is barely used, and lots of wartime history. Apparently it’s great for surfing (along the west) and climbing.

Overall, Jersey was totally different to what I expected. I thought it’d feel like the Isle of Wight – really just an extension of England – but it felt like a totally different country. We weren’t there for long and I didn’t get the chance to run around the island like I’d hoped (my ribs were too sore) so I only saw a small part of it, but I’d recommend a visit. I’d like to come back to climb, surf and explore the coast more…

Cheddar Gorge in a Day

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Spontaneous trips rarely disappoint. A couple of weeks ago my friend Simon went to Somerset to have a high-top roof added to his VW camper. He asked the previous evening if I fancied a day trip and naturally I did, so I was up and heading West at 6am.

We dropped the van off a few miles from Weston Super Mare and walked half an hour to the nearest village, Banwell. I was vaguely aware that the town of Cheddar (I’ll try and avoid cheesy jokes) was nearby and that Cheddar Gorge was supposed to be an interesting landform, so I told the bus driver to take us there.

Cheddar village is pretty and clearly very touristy, with its plethora of shops and cafes. It’s a short and attractive walk from the gorge itself, its limestone walls towering dramatically above the buildings on three sides. The vast rock faces are interspersed with plenty of lush greenery, and the place has a rugged, isolated feel, like it could be a village nestled away in the Alps.

We had breakfast and did a bit of work in the Costa (Si’s choice) opposite Lion Rock, a distinctive hump of rock at the gorge end of the village. Admittedly it was the most picturesque Costa I’ve ever been in. With no plan to do anything specific, we wandered along the road to Gough’s Cave, a 115m deep, 3.4km long cave system. Si insisted on paying for us both to go in, so we bumbled in like stereotypical backpack-wearing tourists and made use of the free audioguides.

The cave system is really impressive, with its huge, high chambers, sci-fi-esque rock formations and dimly lit, glassy pools (I suspect they’re man-made…). The audioguide is interesting if you’re a huge geek like me, particularly the bits about how the rocks are formed and David Lafferty’s “underground endurance” world record – he stayed in the cave for 130 days in 1966. And I thought I sulked.

Chamber in Gough’s Cave
Stalactites and stalagmites

Gough’s cave took about 45minutes, after which time we were hungry already. We had a nice ploughman’s lunch in Café Gorge a couple of minutes down the road, then walked back towards the village to climb Jacob’s Ladder – the 274-step strong stairway up to the gorge walk along the top of the cliff.

Fast forward up the stairs and along the rocky, uphill route towards the top of the gorge, the path opened out onto a rugged landscape of dramatic, dark grey rock faces and thriving trees, shrubs and grasses. Behind us to the West was the comparatively flat landscape of Somerset, with its green fields, lines of dark trees and red-roofed villages, and we could see for miles out to Bristol Channel.

We strayed off the path towards the jutting out “fingers” of rock that towered above Cheddar. As I got to the edge of one I was taken by surprise at just how high and steep it was – I was surrounded by sheer, vertigo-inducing drops on three sides and I could see down to the winding road way below as cars scooted along like tiny, colourful insects. I found a climbing bolt up there, so I must do some research…

A few cringe-worthy selfies later and we headed back down the way we came, delighted to have made the journey to the gorge. I’d never seen a view quite like it before. After the 274 steps down we indulged in an ice cream before venturing into Cox’s Cave, which they’ve turned into the “Dreamhunters” experience.

This was an intriguing, bizarre and more than a little creepy walk-through video “tour” that left me convinced there were some funny mushrooms in my ploughman’s. Projected videos and a slightly eerie, slightly sexual (as Simon decided) voice told the story of the cavemen who used to live there. Combined with dim, multi-coloured lights and hanging fur “doors”, this was a highly trippy experience in a place that I think would be put to better use as an avant-garde restaurant or nightclub.

Van roof nearly installed, we headed back down the gorge to the village centre, tried some cheese samples, nosed around an outdoorsy shop and and grabbed a drink in a café before hopping on the bus back to Banwell.

Overall, Cheddar Gorge was way more impressive and unique than I expected. I’d recommend a visit, although at £20 per adult I think the tickets to Gough’s Cave, Cox’s Cave and Jacob’s Ladder are overpriced. You can access the gorge walk for free from other directions and this was the part most worth seeing.

I’ll go back and explore the area more thoroughly another time as it’s just a couple of hours away from Winchester. In the meantime I’ll do some research into climbing those big limestone faces…

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On Kayaking

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There’s something so liberating and solitary about kayaking on the open water, suspended between the earth and the sky and just existing. Keep still and you’ll feel simultaneously numb and hypersensitive; weightless and isolated, but acutely aware of sound, light and the feel of the air.

 

Perhaps my favourite thing about it is having the freedom to move without diversion.  On land our direction of movement is constantly influenced by paths, roads, walls, barriers and landforms, but on the water there are no waymarkers or boundaries beyond boats, buoys and the occasional rock. Without these predetermined “invisible arrows”, you have 360 degrees of glassy expanse to carve your way through before the water swallows up your trail. You could be the first and last person to ever take that exact route; echoing the eternal Fleetwood Mac, you go your own way. You’ll know what I mean if you try it.

 

Being in such a small vessel enables you to explore places you’d otherwise never see and discover creeks, beaches, woodland and countryside you didn’t know existed. At risk of sounding like the Youtube “Gap Yah” guy (I wonder what happened to him?), you’ll feel at one with nature as you immerse yourself in a new, bustling world of plant, bird and marine life.

 

Nature, enlightenment and self-discovery aside, paddling is great for core and upper body strength because it uses muscles that are often neglected, particularly in the shoulders and back. There’s something so satisfying about stretching out your arms and pulling yourself through the water, feeling your strength translate into each powerful stroke, and the burn in your muscles is one of those oddly “nice” aches. You also use your legs a surprising amount to stabilise, brace and manoeuvre the kayak.

 

Once you settle into a rhythm the repetitive motion is really therapeutic. This, combined with the healthy dose of fresh air and gentle lapping of the water, makes it both relaxing and invigorating. I particularly like messing around on tidal rivers as there’s something refreshing and restorative about the tang of salty air – it works wonders at blowing out cobwebs caused by one too many drinks the night before.

 

All that said, it’s a surprisingly versatile activity which doesn’t have to be all about flat water and balmy air. Getting out on a choppy sea or a fast-flowing river affords plenty of opportunities to try some whitewater action, which is understandably less relaxing but (depending on your outlook) more exhilarating.

 

I got out on the water last week for the first time in a while and it reminded me how much I love everything about it, so I thought I’d pay tribute to kayaking on my blog. If I convince one person to hire, buy or borrow a kayak I’ll be delighted and I’m sure they won’t regret it. And if anyone wants someone to go with, count me in.