Tag: scotland

Scotland, Feb ’24: Hike up Merrick, Galloway Forest Park

Leave a comment

As usual I’m way behind on the blog, but thought – perhaps to transport myself back to the mountains and glens – that I may as well make a start on this year’s winter trip while I grieve our return. For the first time, Ryan and I had a full 14 days roaming Scotland in our van, which remains largely unconverted (although necessarily insulated). Now that we’re home it feels as if we’ve been rudely and abruptly awakened from a wonderful dream.

Saturday 3 February

We arrived at our first overnight stop in Galloway Forest Park, southeast Scotland, at 3am. The 300-mile, 9 hour drive up – punctuated by a single stop at the spectacular Tebay Services – went remarkably smoothly, save for some inevitable traffic near Birmingham, and gave me the opportunity to decide on our first destination based on the abysmal weather further north. We slept soundly and woke at the leisurely time of 10:30.

It felt so good to recommence my morning van routine: jetboil coffee, get dressed, eat cereal, make sandwiches, brush teeth, pack a rucksack and tell Ryan about the hiking plan I’d already connived. Thankfully I met no resistance – he was just as excited as I was to return to the hills. We’d never explored Galloway Forest Park before, and were keen to kick the trip off with a worthwhile reintroduction to Scotland. We were to hike up Merrick (843m), the highest summit in the southern uplands.

We had a lazy morning packing bags, chatting on the phone to Adam (Ryan’s brother, who was on his way back from a week in the Cairngorms) and enjoying the freedom of having no obligations and very few amenities in the back of the van, which contained a mattress, an awful lot of outdoor kit and no permanent fixtures. The hike looked easy, so there was no rush.

Back in Scotland: Bruce’s Stone

We’d stayed in Bruce’s Stone car park, so before we headed uphill we wandered over to see what the large, raised boulder overlooking Loch Trool was all about. Its inscription provides a summary:

In loyal remembrance of Robert the Bruce, King of Scots, whose victory in this glen over an English force in March 1307, opened the campaign of independence which he brought to a decisive close at Bannockburn on 24th June 1314.

This memorial reminded me of the utterly immersive atmosphere that seems to envelop Scotland. The rugged glens, dark lochs and unforgiving hills make its dramatic, bloody history so tangible that it sometimes feels as if a battle-waging clan of tartan-clad warriors could round a corner at any minute, rightfully raring to defend their wild lands against our English encroachment. Yet I can’t stay away – I’m completely besotted with the harsh, beautiful wilderness. As I looked down over the opaque water of Loch Trool, backed by rough hillsides and surrounded by pockets of mixed forest, I felt – even though I’d never visited this part of Scotland before – as if I’d come home.

Hike up Merrick

We tore ourselves away from the view and headed north up a narrow, rocky footpath at the end of the car park. It was a later start than usual – 1pm – but we weren’t concerned, as we had headtorches and the route looked straightforward. Merrick was signposted, so we didn’t have to do much navigation anyway.

Section 1: Buchan Burn to Culsharg Bothy

The first mile followed the rushing Buchan Burn up a steady gradient along a rocky, muddy path which required some careful foot placements to avoid the boggiest sections. We didn’t care – we were thrilled to plunge into the rugged landscape. It was difficult to believe that 24 hours beforehand I’d been sat at my desk in the south of England, which now seemed mind-numbingly dull. Perhaps that’s why the colours were so vivid, the textures so varied and the river so resounding in the otherwise absolute silence. The hillsides were a seemingly random blend of rough, golden grass, coppery bracken and clumpy, purple-brown heather, punctuated by lilac birches, deep green spruces and skeletal broadleaves. Thick mosses had beaten the grass to little hummocks along the path, and Buchan Waterfall sent white water cascading between lichen-spangled boulders down broad, narrow steps. I was at peace.

After half an hour we reached Culsharg bothy, a small building on the edge of a tall evergreen forest, which looked both cosy and desolate. It had stone walls, a neat slate roof, a central chimney, a flat, grassy area that looked like a little front garden, and two broken, ominously black windows. Inside were two rooms, each with a fireplace and chipboard ceiling, a rudimentary wooden bench and a heavily graffitied door. Overlooking the gentle valley of Buchan Burn, it would have made a lovely cottage.

Section 2: Benyellary

We hiked a short distance through the tall trees behind the bothy and emerged onto a track that led us up the steepening hillside. Dozens of clean-cut stumps either side of us suggested the recent felling of a large swathe of forest, now reminiscent of a forlorn, quiet graveyard, and the moss that had covered the floor beneath the trees had given way to short, green grass. The sun emerged, casting a soft glow over the textured landscape, and we crossed a deer fence to the relatively featureless southwest slope of the first summit, Benyellary. Its shapeless, moor-like flanks, carpeted by rough grass and heather, shone gold and red in the afternoon light and rippled in the strengthening breeze.

We continued upwards, neither of us admitting at the time that the combination of gradient and pace felt quite taxing despite the untechnical terrain. The path cut through the moor, then steepened and followed a drystone wall to the summit of Benyellary. As we climbed (feeling quite out of condition), we realised that the forecast hadn’t erred in predicting wind – it had just been buffeted away from the approach path by the surrounding hills, which no longer offered any protection. Thankfully it didn’t feel as strong as the forecast 30-40mph but was certainly noticeable. The top was marked by a cairn and the base of the cloud, which scuppered the view and just about warranted waterproof jackets, which we hastily pulled on – in between mouthfuls of cereal bar – while sheltering from the wind on the steep east side of the summit.

Section 3: Merrick

We descended the gently sloping north side of Benyellary and followed a drystone wall along the romantically named “Neive of the Spit”, which is presumably the un-dramatic col between the hills, whose summits are 2km apart. The map showed that the ground on our right dropped steeply away to the “Scars of Benyellary”, but we couldn’t see thanks to the cloud that we now occupied. After the col we began the gradual climb up foggy, boggy Merrick. Our view was divided horizontally into two halves, which dissolved into each other in the poor visibility: swathes of sandy, tufty grass and the dull grey interior of enveloping cloud.

Nevertheless, we remained delighted to be back in the hills. The dirt path to the summit was easy to follow, and after half an hour Merrick’s blurry trig point emerged into view. We took the obligatory summit photos, “rescued” a bamboo thermos that had been abandoned in a low stone shelter, decided against my half-formed plan of making the route circular – the return would have involved an inevitably boggy trek past several small lochs and across potentially uncrossable burns – and headed back the way we came.

Section 4: Return

Just as we began the descent, the rain came in. We debated whether the initially innocuous mizzle would turn into anything and agreed, from hard-won experience, that it was worth donning waterproof jackets. That was the correct decision, as minutes later we were drenched and slogging through an un-forecast, cold, wind-driven onslaught, grinning ear to ear. “At least we get to test our new kit”, we rationalised, which – thanks to Christmas and a work bonus – comprised Ryan’s boots, my waterproof jacket and both our rucksacks. We embraced the Scottish weather – there’s no point trying to resist it.

The hike continued in this way until we had retraced our steps back over Benyellary and down its moor-like western flank. There the wind abated, the rain eased and the colourful landscape came back into view, seeming even brighter and more contrasting beneath a bank of thick cloud. We wound down the hillside, past the stump graveyard, through the tall forest and along the vegetated, boggy, rocky Buchan Burn path, barely drying at all in the damp air and intermittent drizzle.

We got back to the van at 4:30pm just as a narrow band of glowing, deep orange light emerged beneath the now-lilac cloud above Loch Trool, marking the last of the daylight. It was as if the sun were teasing us, reminding us that it had been there all along. It was a lovely moment, and – looking over the vivid colours of the hill-backed, forest-ringed loch, soaking wet and starting to get cold – we felt truly re-initiated back into Scotland.

Evening

We spread our wet kit out in the front of the van as best we could, using a length of paracord to make a washing line between the two side windows, and settled in the back for the evening. Dry clothes felt amazing and the hot chocolate I made tasted out of this world. Ryan cooked a lovely pasta carbonara for dinner and we snuggled into the sleeping bag, making plans to head north the following day and – given the miserable forecast all over Scotland – visit the Hunterian museum in Glasgow on our way up to the Cairngorms.

We were home.

Scotland, Feb ’23: Ullapool, Lael Forest Garden, Corrieshalloch Gorge

Leave a comment

Monday 6 February

Following the previous day’s unexpectedly adventurous excursion up Ben Wyvis, we indulged in a “rest day”. This meant exploring the area with no real agenda, so after a cup of coffee and a quick google we decided to head to Ullapool, a lochside fishing village 25 minutes northwest of our picturesque parking spot overlooking Loch Glascarnoch.

It was a fine day, although forecast to be windy up in the mountains, so we didn’t feel like we were missing out too much – particularly with Ryan’s ongoing (but thankfully improving) blister situation. The road to Ullapool was quiet and beautiful, carving through rugged hillsides carpeted in reddish heather and golden grass that glowed in the morning sun against a blue sky made wilder by smooth clouds that hung portentously over the dramatic, dark peaks and ridges of An Teallach mountain range straight ahead – another one high on the to do list. This was followed by a pretty drive along the bank of Loch Broom before arriving at the village, which is nestled on a low-lying promontory on the northern edge of the loch.

Ullapool

We parked at Tesco, which was just about the only indication (in a good way) that the village was connected to the rest of the world. A short walk through quiet, pretty, uniform streets took us to Ullapool Outdoors, a lovely independent shop where we picked up some stove gas and washing up liquid. From there we continued on to the water’s edge, which was lined by a row of whitewashed cottages overlooking a narrow, stony beach. We absorbed the tranquility as we wandered along the shore, skimming stones and marvelling like children at enormous mussel shells and seaweeds that clung to pebbles with masses of rubbery roots, all the while taking in the mountains that surrounded the loch. It was an utterly self-contained, other-worldly place.

We walked along the loch front past the ferry terminal, where a bustle of construction work was taking place, then popped into a country clothes shop, a charity shop, a small gallery and a delicatessen. We returned to the van with our bounty – a new jacket for Ryan, some charity shop clothes for me and a couple of rolls for lunch. We ate them overlooking the loch and left Ullapool feeling very tranquil.

Lael Forest Garden

Our next stop, just south of Loch Broom,  is perhaps best described as a living tree museum. Lael Forest Garden was founded in the 1870s by Victorian seed collectors who planted over 200 species from all around the world.

We pulled up in the small car park, entered through a gate and wandered the short trails, which showcased an interesting variety of trees and a wild, tumbling waterfall. Despite Scotland’s barely temperate winters the trees seemed to be thriving, perhaps because of their position up the steep eastern bank of a deep gorge. A personal highlight was the soft-barked sequoia redwoods, which – in their immense stillness – dwarfed everything else with a quiet, humbling majesty.

It only took half an hour to walk around in a loop, but there was nobody else around and that half hour felt very peaceful. I’d like to come back in spring or autumn.

Corrieshalloch Gorge & the Falls of Measach

Our next stop was a few minutes’ drive south. Corrieshalloch Gorge is a narrow, sheer-sided cut in the landscape that was formed during the ice age by a strong river flowing beneath a glacier into Loch Broom. The path from the roadside car park took us down through woodland to a narrow, 25 metre long Victorian suspension bridge that spanned the deep gorge quite spectacularly and bounced slightly underfoot.

Looking down into the vertigo-inducing 60 metre chasm below was a memorable experience. A white river rushed urgently through a narrow channel at the base of the gorge, fed by what seemed an impossibly voluminous, 45 metre high waterfall – the impressive Falls of Measach. It was wild, beautiful and, with nothing but air between my feet and the rocky water way below, quite unnerving to consider the consequences if the bridge failed.

We crossed the gorge, nipped along to a protruding, equally vertiginous platform for a good view of the bridge and the waterfall – which seemed even bigger from a distance – then crossed back and walked along the wooded brink for about half a kilometre. The gorge’s dark, sheer rock walls were covered in mosses, lichens, shrubby little plants and – wherever their audacious roots could take hold – trees, which all seemed to thrive in their damp, inaccessible sanctuary.

The path curved back on itself as it climbed towards the car park, and as we rose above the lilac birch tops we enjoyed a stunning view of the valley at the northern end of the gorge, looking back towards Ullapool. Loch Broom appeared in the V, backed by heathery slopes, and in the foreground deep green forests sprawled over undulating, yellow-brown hillsides. The air was still and once again I felt uncommonly peaceful.

North West Coast

I can’t tolerate serenity for too long, so we formulated a plan to climb another mountain the next day. Ryan had researched Beinn Alligin in Torridon, so we set off from Corrieshalloch on a 70-mile journey southwest along the not-very-direct, but scenic, road that snaked down the remote, jagged northwest coast.

As I’d hoped, the road was quiet and afforded lovely views of wild mountains, dark lochs, clear blue sea and tiny, timeless villages. We stopped briefly at the coastal village of Gairloch for a token beach trip, where the sand was pale, fine and backed by grassy dunes, then – sufficiently wind-nipped – we returned to the van and continued on to the wilderness of vast Glen Torridon, where we’d previously had an epic day mountain biking the Torridon Loop. It almost felt like going home.

We drove a short way up the hill behind Torridon village to the Beinn Alligin car park, arriving about 6pm. Ryan cooked sausage pasta and we spent a couple of hours researching the mountain, then went to bed early in anticipation of a 6am start. Like I said, serenity doesn’t last long.

Scotland, Feb ’23: Hiking Ben Wyvis

2 Comments

Sunday 5 February

We awoke to an incredibly tranquil view over Loch Glascarnoch, whose glassy surface reflected a sky of blue-grey that melted to lilac-pink at the eastern horizon, betraying the previously uncertain existence of the Scottish sun. The air was strangely still and the steep brown slopes across the loch were capped by snow which seemed to glow in the morning light. It looked like a good, clear day for a hike. Given Ryan’s ongoing blister situation, we decided to tackle the relatively easy-looking Ben Wyvis, which was just down the road from our scenic overnight spot.

The Ascent

We drove east for 10 minutes and stopped in the car park for Ben Wyvis mountain and nature reserve. We had our usual disagreement over timings, as I’d hoped for an earlier start but Ryan – who is generally immovable before 8am and will often complain on being disturbed until around 9 – appreciates a lie in, so unfortunately the hike began about 10:30 with some sourness. The first section took us on a clear path which followed the rocky, birch-lined Allt a’ Bhealaich Mhoir river through verdant pine forest for a couple of kilometres, then popped out onto open, grassy heathland at the base of the mountain, which loomed ahead looking bulky, steep and rugged.

The gradient continued moderately for another half kilometre, then steepened as the path began to wind up the western side of the hill. We stopped a couple of times to de-layer, snack on cereal bars and take in the growing view behind us over rolling, heather and forest covered hills, which were backed by snow-capped mountains that stretched for tens of miles across a clear horizon under a layer of flat, pale grey cloud. We powered upwards, still in a silent state of bitterness which thankfully started to dissipate with altitude and the emerging view.

The path zig-zagged up the steep mountainside for a hot, sweaty mile and the view seemed to grow with each turn. Over the valley between Ben Wyvis and adjacent Tom na Callich we could now see distant mountains to the southeast – the Cairngorm plateau – which spanned the skyline in broad, hazy swathes and stood out against a bright, yellow-orange glow hanging beneath a flat ceiling of thin cloud. We stopped for a quick chat with a friendly man out with his dog, who told us that of all the several times he’d climbed Ben Wyvis, today was the clearest. Happy at this news, we continued up the steep path and reached An Cabar (946m), the first summit of the range, at about 12:30.

The wind hit us quite suddenly at the top, so we layered up and quickly continued northeast along a wide, icy ridge towards Glas Leathad Mor (1046m). It was a little slippery, but not quite enough to warrant pulling out our crampons. We munched some sandwiches – I had peanut butter and jam and Ryan had cheese – and tramped up the long, easy slope for another mile to the next summit, passing a few other hikers and heeding the sign back at An Cabar that told us to keep to the footpath to protect the sensitive flora. The wind was so bitter that even through my gloves my hands were stinging, so I balled them up and shoved them under my arms.

A sunken trig point marked the snowy summit of Glas Leathad Mor, which we reached at 1pm. Along the ridge the view had developed into a 360 degree panorama of distant mountains, some snow capped and all stretching in hazy layers under a smooth, striated sky that looked as though it had been painted in several shades of blue-grey watercolour. The brush strokes parted occasionally, revealing a pale blue canvas that faded to orange near the horizon. It was almost as lovely as the land.

An Unplanned Summit

Now for my confession: I hadn’t been in the Ben Wyvis area before and the hike was a last minute plan, so – my research having confirmed that it was a beginner-level hike on easy terrain – we’d gone up without a paper map. I wouldn’t normally condone this, but the weather looked so reliably clear, the mountain so whale-back-shaped and isolated, and the route so well-walked that we were quite comfortable with just a phone (we had a power bank and charger) and a good sense of direction. This of itself wasn’t an issue, but it meant that we hadn’t planned the hike as meticulously as usual, so at the summit of the munro I gave Ryan the familiar and perhaps inevitable look that suggested “shall we just pop up that other mountain over there”.

He capitulated and off we went over the back of the hill towards Tom a Choinnich (953m), a munro top one mile to the north. It was a straightforward but fairly steep yomp down into a col and up the next snowy mountainside, but the decision was controversial enough to rekindle some of the morning’s tension. After half an hour of relative silence we were at the next summit, which is where we made what was, with hindsight, the wrong decision.

The Bog Slog

We had three options: retrace our steps back the way we came (which I intensely dislike doing), take a path that would take us back to the van via a long, c.8.5mi detour around Loch Bealach Culaidh, or follow a drystone wall with what looked like a path running alongside it that headed for the van as the crow flies. With Ryan’s blister in mind, we picked option 3, hoping that the path would continue, or at least that the terrain would be relatively amenable.

The path did not continue and the terrain was not even remotely amenable. We clambered awkwardly across a large, icy boulderfield, following the wall for half a kilometre until it just stopped. What was type 1 fun quite quickly slipped firmly into the type 2 category, but we decided that we’d gone too far to turn around so continued in a straight line – firstly downhill across more awkward rocks, then through damp, knee-high moss, grass and heather. Hoping desperately that we weren’t a) damaging the vegetation, and b) being scrutinised by distant onlookers, we slogged across the landscape, slowly and as carefully as possible.

Under other circumstances the colourful, diverse vegetation underfoot would have been fascinating and the mountain scenery breathtaking in the yellowish afternoon light, but at the time the route we chose was simply long, awkward and wet. With every step requiring a high knee and careful foot placement, the going was slow and I felt terribly guilty about deviating from the path. After what felt like an age we reached a stream that cut a little valley into the wild scrubland, which provided some relief as we felt a bit more discrete lower down. We followed a deer path down river, frequently treading in bits of bog and at one point tiptoeing along a small but sheer, muddy drop above the water, and reached the edge of Garbat Forest after a couple of long, arduous miles.

Garbat Forest

We followed a dilapidated fence south for another even boggier mile, then clambered warily over a very rotten stile that led us into the forest. According to the map on my phone, the fire break we’d found should have led us to a path that would cut through the woods and rejoin the path we’d hiked in on, but it looked like neither the fire break nor the path had been used for a long time as both were overgrown and wet. We had another awkward mile ahead.

Despite our exasperation at yet more trailblazing, the forest was fascinating. Tall, densely packed pines formed a canopy above an undulating, mossy carpet, which was reddened by years’ worth of fallen needles, and hundreds of twiggy offshoots harboured masses of pale, green-grey lichen. These offshoots stuck out from the tree trunks and made passage quite difficult as they were both prolific and pointy, so we slipped through carefully – sometimes deploying Matrix-worthy manoeuvres – in an effort to minimise damage and remain unstabbed, while also avoiding huge marshy areas that somehow submerged the trunks without drowning the trees. It felt ancient, atmospheric, serene and slightly eerie.

In the absence of a path we ducked and side-stepped our way through the forest in the general direction of the van, stopping a couple of times to observe some fallen trees that were in the fascinating process of being absorbed by moss, grass, lichen and an enormous ants nest. Animal paths provided the most accessible routes but seemed to start and end at random, so it took a while for us to reach the high wire fence on the edge of the forest. We climbed over it and rejoined the path we’d walked in on with some relief, then tramped the final, easy mile back to the car park along the river.

Recovery

We de-bagged and drove back to the Loch Glascarnoch pull in, slightly giddy at the relief and excitement of having climbed another munro, but more so at our adventurous choice of route. I was impressed that my boots had kept my feet almost completely dry despite the bog-trotting and I expressed my empathy towards Ryan, who had decided to test his new trail running shoes and as a result had wet feet – which I have a particular enmity towards – all afternoon.

We stuffed our shoes with newspaper, cooked a notably delicious Thai green curry and settled for the night, feeling victorious at having extracted ourselves from that difficult terrain, but also ever so slightly disappointed that we’d made the decision to chance the route in the first place. Another lesson learnt.

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

Leave a comment

Saturday 4 February

After an active couple of days skiing at the Lecht and climbing Aladdin’s Couloir, we decided to have a rest day exploring new places and giving Ryan’s sore-looking new blisters a chance to heal (graphic photo at the end of this post). From our scenic overnight spot overlooking Glenmore Forest, we drove a couple of minutes up the hill to Cairngorm ski centre, had a quick look in the large, cosy, chalet-style café, decided it was too expensive and headed back down into Aviemore. On the way we gave a hitchhiker with a broken boot a lift back to his accommodation in Glenmore Forest, then parked at Tesco and treated ourselves to a couple of tasty pies from Ashers bakery.

Loch Garten nature reserve

Ryan was keen to show me the nature reserve at Loch Garten and I was even more keen to go, so we left Aviemore (a little reluctantly, as usual) and drove 20 minutes north to the RSPB car park. Unfortunately the visitor centre was closed, but we walked up to it through mossy, lichen-covered pine forest and watched an incredible number of great, blue and coal tits feast on huge bird feeders. I was delighted when a brave coal tit landed briefly on my outstretched hand, and I wished I’d saved him some pie. I didn’t see any crested tits but I managed some relatively awful photos of the other tits and chaffinches, although I missed the greater spotted woodpecker – my wildlife photography skills could be improved:

We returned to the car park and enjoyed the Big Pines trail, which was a half-mile, there-and back footpath through the “best bits” of the forest according to the information board. It took us past some huge Scots pines which towered over a thick canopy forest on the edge of wild Loch Garten, and I was captivated by the abundance of thriving vegetation. Feeling very tranquil and (excuse the cliché) in touch with nature, we went back to the van once again and decided to head north through what was for us an uncharted part of Scotland, to the former city of Elgin.

Leaving the Cairngorms

The drive began through the northern Cairngorms, where huge grazing fields and swathes of heathland stretched between thick forests beneath rolling hills. These levelled out slightly after the pretty town of Grantown-on-Spey, and once we’d left the national park the sprawling, agricultural landscape, dotted with occasional buildings, seemed incredibly vast compared with England’s densely packed fields. We passed through the unremarkable-looking town of Forres and arrived at Elgin after just over an hour’s drive.

Elgin town

We refuelled and parked at a very busy big Tesco in the middle of Elgin town. A short walk took us onto the high street, which was old and pretty – if slightly tired – and featured a large, tiered fountain, a toga-clad statue and an impressive, six-columned church plonked in the middle of the cobbles. The yellowish-grey buildings reminded me of Inverness and the town had a pleasant buzz. Ryan grabbed some more blister plasters from Boots and we wandered towards the cathedral, stopping briefly at a couple of estate agent windows to contemplate buying a larger, cheaper, closer-to-the-mountains house than our own, and wondering why on earth anyone (including us) would choose to live in southern England rather than northern Scotland.

Elgin Cathedral

The cathedral is near the middle of the town at the end of a long, straight path that runs alongside a large, grassy park. Although most of the nave has collapsed, leaving only foundations, its two tall, graceful towers stand at the entrance, a slightly wistful reminder of architecture’s lost majesty. It was free for us to enter thanks to my English Heritage life membership (an 18th birthday gift from my incredibly generous cousin) and we wandered around for half an hour.

The two towers contained several round, high-ceilinged rooms full of old sculptures and features salvaged from the ruin, and we climbed to the top of one up a spiral stone staircase for an excellent view of Elgin and its relatively flat surroundings. To get there we went through a tiny door and walked between the towers via a narrow first or second floor passage, and it was interesting looking at the ruins to work out where other passages would have connected the various parts of the building. While we were up the tower the air smelt like rain, so we descended and shot around the rest of the cathedral.

Back on the ground it was clear where several vast columns would have supported the roof of the nave, which is now carpeted by grass and surrounded by gravestones. We walked over to the well-preserved octagonal chapter house, went inside and marvelled at its intricate arched ceiling (I’m mind-blown by our ancestors’ understanding of physics), whizzed round the rest of the grounds, where old walls stood in varying states of ruin, and left just as the deluge came.

We got utterly drenched on the 15-minute walk back to the van, although nipping into Lidl for some rugby drinks gave a moment’s respite. We’d had the audacity to venture out without waterproofs during a Scottish winter, which is a mistake I’ve made before and I’ll certainly make again. Fortunately our plans for the rest of the day involved a fair bit of driving, which gave me the chance to dry my soggy fleece.

Findhorn Foundation

From Elgin it was a 20-minute drive through flat, arable land to the Findhorn Foundation, which is situated down a long, straight road between the wide River Findhorn and Findhorn Beach. I’d read about this “ecovillage and spiritual community” online and was fascinated by the concept of an alternative type of society based around self-sufficiency and communal living. We turned right into the village and immediately it felt like a kind of holiday park, with lots of signs, narrow, tarmacked tracks, pine trees, communal buildings and a bizarrely eclectic mix of houses, huts and chalets in all shapes and sizes made from wood, stone and corrugated metal.

Findhorn Beach

We felt a bit guilty and intrusive as we drove around the Foundation, so didn’t stay long before turning back onto the long, straight road towards the pretty, coastal, almost Cornish-looking Findhorn village. We did an accidental lap around the cottage-lined streets before finding the turning for the beach, then parked up and headed over some rolling sand dunes to the edge of the North Sea.

It was grey, on-off rainy and very atmospheric. The top half of the beach was a raised stretch of smooth, multicoloured pebbles, backed by grassy dunes and a row of brightly coloured beach huts, and the bottom half was a vast, flat stretch of compact golden sand where water sat in shallow channels left by the retreating tide. The sea was calm and dark grey beneath a moody sky, which accentuated the colours of the sand and the huts, and everything was cold, wild and tranquil.

Having got sufficiently wet and chilly on our beach trip we returned to the van over the dunes, which were thick with rippling, butter-coloured grass and dark green gorse, and started our journey west. We’d finished in the Cairngorms and planned to travel across the country to do some hiking, climbing and exploring in the wilderness of the northwest highlands. We travelled along the main A96 road through Forres, Nairn and Inverness and it was dark by the time we arrived at Loch Glascarnoch, halfway between the east and west coasts of the Highlands, about an hour and a half later.

Evening

We pulled up for the night in a large roadside layby overlooking the dark, mountain-backed loch. Despite my best efforts to stream the England-Scotland six nations game I’d failed to find a way to watch the whole thing as it had already finished (thanks ITV), so we got by – having accidentally seen the score on whatsapp group chats and news headlines – watching the highlights. This was frustrating, although at least England lost (classic England – they did the same the previous year when we watched the opening game in a pub in Aviemore). Once the rugby was over we had dinner, assessed Ryan’s blister situation and planned the following day’s outing: a hike up nearby Ben Wyvis.

Scotland, Feb ’23: Climbing Aladdin’s Couloir

2 Comments

Friday 3 February

Waking up amongst the great, wild hills of the western Cairngorms never gets any less special, particularly with the view we had over the vast, dark forests of Rothiemurcus and Glenmore. Our plan for the day was to park at the nearby Cairn Gorm ski centre, hike into Coire an t-Sneachda and climb Aladdins Couloir, a Grade I winter route. We’d ticked off our first winter climb at Sneachda last year (Jacobs Ladder) and had really enjoyed it, so we were keen to develop our experience on snow and ice.

Walk in to Coire an t-Sneachda

We packed our bags, drove a couple of minutes up the hill and set off from the ski centre car park. I was slightly ratty at the fact it was approaching 10am as I’d have liked to start earlier, partly because I was worried about getting stuck behind another group on Aladdins Couloir (as we had on Jacobs Ladder) and partly because I’d quietly considered attempting to climb two routes in the corrie that day, or “nip up” a nearby mountain (Braeriach, 1296m) “on our way back” to the van. It wasn’t long before Ryan expressed concern that he might develop a blister, but – perhaps a little sensitive to my delay-induced mild irritability – he refused my offer of compeed. Unfortunately that is not the end of the story.

The hike into Coire an t-Sneachda is, as approaches to winter climbing routes go, short and easy, being only a couple of straight-ish miles. We followed the clear path south to the corrie, which climbed gradually up a sweeping, heathery valley. Behind us, the Cairngorm plateau dropped away to reveal the misty swathes of forest, loch and valley around Aviemore, backed by faint rolling hills that were now shrouded in cloud. We rounded a corner and Sneachda appeared ahead, a dead-end, three-sided bowl, its dark, jagged face streaked with the bright white seams of icy gullies and irregular snow patches.

From a distance we eyed up Aladdins Couloir, which follows a wide, kinked gully wrapped around the left side of Aladdin’s Buttress, a distinctive, triangular mass of rock. Along with Jacobs Ladder it’s one of the most obvious lines up the corrie face, and probably the most central. The path ended and we scrambled across a large, awkward boulderfield at the base of the wall, stopped on the last bit of flat ground and prepared to climb. This involved pulling on harnesses, crampons and helmets, selecting an arsenal of climbing nuts and slings to use as rock protection, attaching ourselves together by a short length of rope, extracting our ice axes and – on Ryan’s part – finally affixing a blister plaster.

Aladdin’s Couloir

We’d passed several groups on the hike in, so I wasn’t surprised that we found ourselves behind four other people heading up this popular, low grade route. From the boulderfield, the approach to the gully is a snow slope which, although steep and unprotected, was firm and reliable underfoot, and we caught up with the group quite quickly. Three of them had stopped on reaching the first proper belay position, which was on the left wall at the base of the gully about 100 metres up the snow slope. With that belay spot unavailable, we checked they were happy for us to climb past and continued on, moving across the wide gully to the right wall to avoid sending any loose rocks or ice chunks down onto them.

Two factors contributed to our spontaneous decision to solo the route: firstly there were no obvious placements in the rock to set up a belay, and secondly (and more importantly) we immediately felt so comfortable moving on the firm snow that we simply didn’t feel it necessary to use the rope we’d brought. The gully looks intimidating face-on, but it’s actually far from sheer – much more of a steep slide than a vertical wall, and the gradient was consistent. Decision made, we traversed from the right wall into the middle, carefully climbed over the other group’s rope (which was draped across the width of the gully), passed the fourth climber and headed upwards.

I settled into a steady rhythm of foot-foot-hand-hand, kicking the front points of each crampon into the ground, burying the tip of my single axe with a flick of my right wrist, planting my left fist for stability and repeating. If I wasn’t happy with a foot or axe placement I’d pause and reposition, although it felt so solid that this was probably unnecessary – two constant points of contact would have been plenty. Although it was steep – an unarrested fall would have sent me and perhaps Ryan, who was below me, careening down towards the rocks below – the movement felt natural and the position stable, so we were quite happy working our way up the firm but yielding snow, occasionally resting by angling our knees into the slope and leaning in.

When we were halfway up, the gully veered right and steepened slightly. We passed what looked like a small, frozen waterfall and continued all the way up to the lip at the top, which we pulled over at 12:15, 40 minutes after setting off up the snow slope. On our right the towering, rocky spire of Aladdin’s Seat teetered over the sheer wall of Aladdin’s Buttress, as if threatening to fall all the way down into the corrie, and two friendly climbers rested below it.

Hike back

On emerging from the gully, the Cairngorm plateau appeared in its usual character: a barren, wide, foggy wilderness strewn with small, grey boulders and a strange, soil-like covering of fine, reddish stones. I pulled off my crampons and put away my unused climbing gear, feeling a little victorious. However, although we were thrilled with the Couloir, Ryan’s heel blisters had become quite established during the climb, which dampened both our moods as we moved through the Mars-like landscape – Ryan’s because he was in pain, and mine because my secret scheme (to climb Braeriach or another route in the corrie) had been thwarted.

Fortunately the dramatic, dark face of Sneachda dropped away steeply to our right and made for easy navigation – we followed the edge for a mile or so up a gentle gradient to Cairn Lochan (1215m) , then around  and down the long, sweeping ridge that forms the corrie’s west side. Interestingly Ryan and I had picked different battles: mine, without crampons, was ice, and his, with crampons, was rock. I’m still not sure who was right – there was a lot more rock, but the icy patches were so slippery that at one point I held my arms out and the strong southwesterly  wind caught me like a sail, sending me sliding slowly backwards. I had a couple of minor slips coming down the ridge, one necessitating a fairly casual ice axe arrest, and I quietly wondered if I should have left the crampons on, although with hindsight I still think they would have been more hassle on rock than my boots were on ice – and I didn’t want to blunt them.

The combination of blisters, fog, wind and frustrating terrain rendered the four miles back from Aladdin’s Couloir bleak and relatively miserable, save for Ryan’s sighting of a couple of ptarmigans. Nevertheless we made it down from the plateau in fairly good time and returned to the van along the easy Ben Macdui path. Unfortunately I don’t have many photos of the way back because I managed to lock myself out of my phone for an hour, having left it in a damp pocket.

Loch Morlich

From Cairngorm ski centre we drove for 20 minutes into Aviemore for a few supplies, then back to Loch Morlich for a scenic late lunch. The loch is about a kilometre square, conveniently located on the Glenmore road and nestled between the immense, merging forests of Glenmore and Rothiemurcus. We pulled off the road and parked on the north bank, where a few camera-wielding birdwatchers were keenly eyeing something through large telescopes. The little car park afforded lovely views across the water and above the trees to the edge of the Cairngorm plateau, and our moods were lifted further at the prospect of some hot soup and bread.

I scrambled into the back of the van, assembled the dubious kitchen setup, heated some tinned Scotch broth for Ryan and made myself a much-anticipated peanut butter sandwich. Hunger and associated irritability dissipated, and I grabbed my binoculars and approached the water in search of whatever the birdwatchers had spotted. I returned shortly with a humble report on a few lethargic mallard ducks.

Evening

The blister-gate scandal meant that further physical activity was off the cards for the rest of the afternoon, so after a brief excursion back to Aviemore to post a house key to Ryan’s brother – who, in the process of feeding Ryan’s fish, had locked his key inside the house – we drove back up to our favourite overnight spot below the ski centre and did some planning. I cooked gnocchi in a tomato sauce with miscellaneous leftovers for dinner and we spent the evening in the usual way, scattering the van with an assortment of maps and books and checking the weather forecast at far-too-regular intervals. Contentment manifest.

Scotland, Feb 23: Skiing at The Lecht

1 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.

Presumably mid-slip
An archetypal snowplough

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.

The “vertical” wall
Base of Eagle 1 run

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.

The person-sized hole
Getting the hang of those parallel turns

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

Leave 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)
Day 1: section of trip covered in this post

Scotland, Feb ’22: The Cobbler

Leave a comment

Monday 14 February

We woke in Glencoe, happy to be in my favourite place but painfully conscious that we only had one day left in Scotland. The last thing on our to do list was hike up the Cobbler, an iconic small mountain in the Trossachs range near Loch Lomond. We had poached eggs on toast and drove out of dramatic Glencoe one last time – I’ve probably over-described it in previous posts so I’ll spare the gushing detail of how beautiful it is. We headed south across marshy Rannoch Moor, where the vast, sprawling wilderness was accentuated by the rugged, rolling mountains all around.

The drive down to Loch Lomond was very scenic and I saw my much-anticipated red squirrel, although sadly it was flat as a pancake in the middle of the road. We drove along the long, winding edge of the loch and turned off towards Arrochar, a village which sits at the head of unimaginatively but accurately named Loch Long. We parked in the lochside car park and booted up, leaving the van about 12.30pm.

The first section took us on a long, steady hike up a switchback path that climbs above Loch Long and through thick birch and evergreen forest, then pops out onto open, undulating moorland covered in golden grass, brown heather and the large, grey, randomly strewn Narnain boulders. The distinctive form of the Cobbler appeared as we emerged from the trees, its dark, gnarled rocks distorting the horizon and standing in stark contrast against the pale, cloudy sky and patchy white snow.

The Cobbler, otherwise known as Ben Arthur, is so called because of the distinctive, tall, dark lump of rock that sits on the central summit of the hilly mass, which is supposed to look like a cobbler bending over at work when viewed from the east – the way we were approaching. Personally I’m not sure I see it, but it certainly is a peculiar shape.

With that iconic figure straight ahead of us, the steady hike up the hillside moor was stunning, with far-reaching views across the rolling, golden peaks of the Arrochar Alps rising all around us. We passed vast boulders and followed the gently flowing Coire a Bhalachain river for about a mile to the base of the imposing, obscure obtrusion, where snow started to appear on the ground in patches. Here we took a right fork to approach the summit from the obvious path to the north. The alternative option was a shorter but steeper route that looks on a map like it goes west up a wide gully, which looked snowy – we hadn’t taken ice axes so didn’t fancy climbing, nor ending up in an avalanche.

The path continued gradually up and northwest along the river for another kilometre to the small Lochan a Chlaidheimh, which sits in the col between the Cobbler and neighbouring Beinn Narnain. Suddenly exposed to the westerly wind, able to see the deep, rolling valleys over the back of the mountain, and stood just below a thick grey curtain of clag, the place took on a whole new character – wilder, more ominous and more exciting.

We took a left fork at the col and began the steeper climb up stone “steps”, now heading south up the mountain’s north face. The snow thickened and spread as we climbed up, and the icy rocks became quite awkward to move across; luckily sensible Ryan had brought his hiking poles. Once we’d gained some height the path levelled into a narrow, slippery traverse below the lumpy North Peak, which was a little sketchy but afforded good views over the undulating brown valley below (the summits of Beinn Luibhean and Beinn Ime had been absorbed by cloud) and the Cobbler’s snow-covered northwest side, which rolled down in a vast white mass that was quite different to the iconic grey cliffs on the sheer eastern face.

We reached this white mass and made our way up, which was difficult given the steep gradient and slipperiness of the compacted snow and the unpredictable sizes, shapes and locations of the rocks hidden underneath. The snowy summit (884m) was about a kilometre on from the Lochan where we’d branched left, and we were relieved to gain it after the awkward climb. Once up there I was keen to “thread the needle”, a famous move which involves climbing through a hole in the highest pinnacle onto an exposed ledge on the sheer east face, then scrambling up to stand on the narrow rocky peak. I went partly through the hole but the conditions were way too windy and icy, so I decided against it – Ryan had already had kittens.

Pleased to have reached the top but slightly amused and exasperated to once again achieve a summit with extensive views of the inside of a cloud, we took a few photos and headed back down the way we came. It was just as awkward as the way up, if not more so, and we were relieved when we returned to the Lochan and the easier path back across the golden moor.

The walk back from there was lovely, with excellent views over the rugged hills all around. For some bizarre, probably food-related reason, Ryan, who hates running, decided to start jogging back, which we did for a few hundred metres before I became concerned about a potential shin splint (an old injury) and becoming unnecessarily sweaty. We crossed the boulder-strewn moor, looking back wistfully at the wild hills, entered the forest and took the switchback path back down to the car park.

We got back to the van about 16:30, de-kitted and drove south along the bank of stunning Loch Lomond to the town of Balloch, where we treated ourselves to a mayo chicken from McDonalds and looked for a half-decent overnight spot. Having not found anywhere, I used the Park4nite app and spotted a perfect little pull-in between Dumbarton and Helensburgh on the bank of the wide, tidal River Clyde, a 20 minute drive west. It was on a very quiet road by a sandy beach, which was a lovely, bird-rich nature reserve, and as the day faded it overlooked the twinkling lights of Greenock on the far side of the river.

I cooked vegan mince stew for dinner with bulgur wheat and veg, and to mark Valentine’s Day we lit a candle – a bit extravagant, I know. We spent a long time watching the lights of Greenock dance on the water, looking up at a clear, starry, unusually bright sky, listening to the strange wading birds, and reflecting on our lovely trip. We went to bed reluctantly, not wanting our time in Scotland to end and half-considering just living wild.

And just like that, it was over. To conclude the trip, the drive home the next day was long and uneventful – we left about 9.30am and got back to the New Forest about 6pm. As usual, I think I left my heart in Scotland. Must go back soon.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Hiking Buachaille Etive Mor

Leave a comment

Sunday 13 February

This was to be our biggest mountain day of the trip. Buachaille Etive Mor is Britain’s most photographed mountain due to its perfect triangular form and solitary position between the heads of Glencoe and Glen Etive. It stands tall over wild Rannoch Moor, and although it looks like an archetypal mountain when approached from the east, it’s actually an undulating ridge with four separate summit peaks rising along its 5-mile length, two of which are Munros.

We’d hoped that the conditions would be favourable enough to ice climb up that triangular eastern face, but the wind and avalanche forecasts didn’t look too good so we decided to “hike” up the steep north face. I got up at 6am, had porridge and coffee and got ready, and eventually managed to rouse the morning-phobic Ryan. We drove the short distance up the Glen Etive road to rejoin the Glencoe road and parked in a roadside car park due north of the Buachaille.

Waiting for the snail to get out his shell

We set off south at 8am, just as the morning light crept in. We crossed a footbridge over the river Coupall and passed the iconic white Lagangarbh hut, a tiny cottage set low against the dramatic mountain backdrop that the Scottish Mountaineering Club use as accommodation. We followed the footpath south across heathery moorland, which rose gradually towards the base of the mountain. We reached a rushing stream that flowed down to the Coupall from Coire na Tuilach, the corrie whose back wall we would be climbing, and started the ascent up its wet, rocky bank.

It was a steep hike up the little river, and as is so commonly the case, the path disappeared about halfway up. We hopped between rocks as snow started to appear, thickened, and eventually covered the ground. After what felt like a long time the river disappeared and we reached the bottom of a very steep snow slope at the back of the corrie. Ice axes in hand, we hacked our way up through the knee-deep, soft, yielding neve, which felt so solid that we decided there was no need for crampons or ropes.

It was dramatically steep and very exciting, like nothing we’d ever done before. At the top the gradient quickly levelled out and we pulled over the edge onto the foggy ridge just after 10am, exhilarated by the climb and eager to see what was next. There was a marked difference in temperature once we were no longer sheltered by the corrie walls, so we pulled on coats and quickly headed east towards the summit of Stob Dearg, the Buachaille’s highest and most easterly peak – the top of that perfect triangle.

The cloud hung in a low, flat curtain just above our heads, and as we climbed it swallowed us up. We eventually reached the summit just before 11, having tramped up a kilometre of awkward, bleak terrain that varied only between thick snow and uneven rocks, having seen none of the surrounding landscape – which we knew would have been breath-taking – due to the increasingly damp clag. Pleased to have summited but slightly underwhelmed by the cloudy Stob Dearg, we headed back (depressingly) the same way. We passed a small group following our tracks to the top and agreed that it was nice to have been the first up the peak that day.

We passed our own footprints coming from Coire na Tulaich and continued southwest along the claggy ridge towards Stob na Doire, which was about a mile away. I was furious at myself for breaking my own rule – don’t let a down jacket get wet – as I’d underestimated the light snow and done just that, so I pulled on a waterproof and accepted that I deserved any damp-related suffering that would doubtless ensue. The most interesting things we saw (snow, rock and clag had all ceased to be interesting) were animal prints – most likely fox, ptarmigan or grouse and excitingly, given the immense size of them, golden eagle. Eager not to fall off the edge of the ridge, we walked on a bearing across flattish snow in near white-out conditions – the only distinction between the ground and the sky was the slight grey tinge of the all-consuming cloud.

The gradient increased steadily as we approached Stob na Doire, then steeply, requiring some awkward clambering over large rocks and careful guesswork as to whether each footstep into the snow would meet solid ground or a gap between boulders. This section seemed to last forever, and I distinctly remember noting that just then I wasn’t having a particularly enjoyable day. Time seemed a distant concept, and we were relieved when we suddenly appeared at the summit at 12.10pm.

We hurried down the peak’s long, steep, rocky southwest face into a col between Stob na Doire and Stob Coire Altruim. Pleased to feel like we had finally made some ground and noticing that the clag was just starting to thin a little in places, we crossed the col, keeping a safe distance from the obvious cornice that had formed over the ridge’s north side. The short climb to the third summit was over nice, predictable snow, which was much more enjoyable than the uneven rocks going up Stob na Doire. We reached the top at 1.10pm.

There was less elevation difference between Stob Coire Altruim and Stob na Broige, so the kilometre between the two summits felt fairly relaxed after our Stob na Doire ordeal. Here the rocky, snowy ridge narrowed significantly in the middle, making for quite an exciting and aesthetically pleasing traverse between the peaks, and the cloud occasionally lifted slightly to afford us dramatic views over the stunning, bleak glens a long way below. We reached the small, circular stone shelter at the summit of Stob na Broige at 1.30pm, then retraced our steps back to Stob Coire Altruim and the col.

The path back started somewhere in this col but it wasn’t obvious where, so avoiding the cornices we took the most agreeable-looking way down. We scrambled down into a huge, sheltered bowl and decided it was time for some food, so we stopped to share a hot flask of Ryan’s special spicy noodle-couscous mix, the perfect winter mountain snack. Feeling significantly perked up, we continued north down the steep snow slope, found a lone set of footprints and what looked like the path, and eventually descended to rockier, grassier ground.

From here the way down was just as awkward for a while, necessitating the use of ice axes for stability as we climbed down wet slabs. We were glad to have descended below the cloud line, which meant that we finally had clear views over the dramatic, immensely proportioned golden-brown glen. We were careful to keep left of the steep river that flowed white next to us, not fancying a difficult crossing or a long tramp across boggy ground at the bottom.

The slope levelled as we reached the wide valley base, and the obvious, narrow path arced right across undulating grassy, mossy, heathery ground, following the white River Coupall northeast. We walked for about 2km through the valley, feeling very small between the hulking golden masses of Buachaille Etive Beag and Buachaille Etive Mor. At one point the path ran along a narrow ridge with a sheer 6m drop-off either side, making for an interesting and varied walk back to the van, and I was excited to spot a herd of well-camoflagued red deer munching away low down on the slopes to our right. Eventually we reached the main road and walked along it for a fairly unenjoyable kilometre, keeping as far out of the way of the whizzing traffic as possible.

We got back to the van about 4pm, just before the daylight began to ebb away. Delighted with our successful big mountain day, we drove back through the Pass of Glencoe to the Co-op at Ballachulish, grabbed some snacks and went back to the Signal Rock car park (see post from our previous trip for more on Signal Rock) in the Glencoe pass – I just can’t get enough of the place. The car park is owned by the National Trust for Scotland and quite refreshingly, they allow respectful overnight camping. Surrounded by trees and tucked into a corner, we sorted out some kit, then walked a short distance along a well-pathed forest track to the Clachaig Inn for a celebratory pint.

The pub was modern and cosy, with some interesting mountain art and old ice climbing gear. I assume they do well from just our car park, let alone the actual hotel guests. We enjoyed a cold cider, managed to resist the food, and walked back to the van through the dark trees for a tasty dinner of tortellini in tomato sauce with leftover veg. Safe to say we slept well that night.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Steall Falls, indoor climbing at Kinlochleven

Leave a comment

Saturday 12 February

The weather was not on our side, so we planned some rest day activities. We left our little Fort William hotel room at 10am and drove southeast for 20 minutes to the car park for Steall waterfall and wire bridge, which we’d found in the Wild Guide. The drive took us on a winding road through high-sided, picturesque Glen Nevis, with Ben Nevis towering over our left side and the thickly forested slopes of lower, but no less wild, peaks on our right. We arrived at the small, dead-end car park and set off along the well-walked, rocky path for the waterfall.

An Steall waterfall walk

The path ran above and parallel to the Water of Nevis, which flowed fast and relentless along its rocky course. Little waterfalls fed it from all around, some flowing under wooden bridges built into the path. Our 150-200m elevation gave wonderful views over the rushing white river and the deep, dramatic glen, whose high, undulating sides were a colourful patchwork of yellow grass, green pines, lilac-pink birches and orange heather under a thick grey sky, which absorbed the snowy upper reaches of the steep slopes and made the valley feel very self-contained. The path ran for a mile through leafless trees connected by lush green mosses, then curved with the river and dropped down to just above river level, where the valley floor widened slightly into a grassy plain set in a long, steep-sided basin.

We turned a corner and An Steall waterfall, the third highest in Scotland, burst from the huge, craggy valley side ahead of us, a 30 foot high, furious deluge of charging white horses. A few minor falls sat thinly either side of it like veins, but An Steall was the queen of the valley, the magnificent, roaring centrepiece. She fed the Water of Nevis with an endless torrent, giving it the energy to push its way over the rocks and around the twists of Glen Nevis.

Steall wire bridge

Steall wire bridge was on our right just before the waterfall, suspended 10 feet over the river. We waited for a couple of others to cross, then approached the pebble river bank. The bridge consists of three thick steel cables about 20 feet long, two for hands and one for feet, held across the water by a sturdy metal frame at each end. We took turns to walk out over the bridge and back, placing our feet very carefully on the wobbly metal tightrope. It was more nerve-wracking than I expected as the wires move quite a lot and there is nothing below other than a substantial fall, the rushing white river and a lot of cold, hard, wet, uncomfortable-looking rocks, but that meant it was also a lot more fun than I expected.

More people turned up so we left the bridge and retraced our steps back to the van, through that almost lower Himalayan valley. We left Glen Nevis and went back to Fort William for fuel and snacks. At the petrol station the clouds unleashed a sudden deluge of rain, possibly the most savage I’ve ever seen, and we had to wait a few moments for it to ease as it was heavy enough to obliterate all visibility. Once we could see again (only just), we decided to head towards Glencoe via Kinlochleven to climb at Ice Factor, the National Ice Climbing centre. The ice wall was fully booked but we were quite happy to squeeze some indoor rock climbing into the trip and avoid the weather.

Ice Factor, Kinlochleven

The journey south along the bank of Loch Linnhe, then east along Loch Leven, took about 40 minutes, and although the clag obscured the mountains it was nice to get a good view of the lochs. Ice Factor is oddly situated in the quirky, remote village of Kinlochleven, nestled cosily at the head of Loch Leven and closely surrounded by mountains, in a high-ceilinged, old stone aluminium works building. It’s a buzzing, modern, warm place with an indoor ice wall, climbing and bouldering wall, outdoorsey shop, cosy café and soft play area.

The climbing area wasn’t huge but it was plenty big enough, and we led (up to 6b, notably on which I slipped off above a bolt and took a pleasant little fall), toproped and autobelayed some interesting routes. The natural, rock type feature walls were particularly fun as they enabled us to practise crack climbing, which is difficult to replicate with bolt-on holds. We stayed a good couple of hours, had a coffee in the café, snuck into the small bouldering room and left before we lingered long enough in the shop to buy something unnecessary.

Glencoe

We drove west along the south bank of Loch Leven and into Glencoe, my favourite place. Sandwiched between the distinctive, imposing Three Sisters to the south and the hulking ridge of Aonach Eagach to the north, the Pass of Glencoe snakes through the dramatic valley next to the rocky River Coe. Yellowish grass grows up the lower swathes of the mountains either side but the higher reaches deny it access, their harsh, dark faces being too steep and inhospitable for anything but bare rock and snow. As usual in that vast, wild place, I felt incredibly small.

We continued east, took a turn onto the small road to Glen Etive and parked in a quiet pull-in by a wooded stream below the impossibly triangular east face of Buachaille Etive Mor, whose four colossal summits we planned to take on the following day. Ryan cooked vegan burgers for tea (delicious) and we did some planning then had an early night, buzzing for the hike.