Scotland, Feb ’22: Skye Fairy Pools to Fort William

August 16, 2022August 16, 2022Leave a comment

Thursday 10 February

We had breakfast overlooking atmospheric, moodily grey Dunvegan Loch and drove down Skye’s pretty eastern edge for 40 minutes to the Fairy Pools. On the way Ryan spotted a huge white-tailed sea eagle soar high above the van and dip below some tall pines, and to my absolute delight I just about caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared.

Our plan was to hike up to the Fairy Pools, then leave Skye for the Ben Nevis range in the hope of some half decent climbing weather the next day. We wound along a remote road, parked in a free car park near the start of the Fairy Pools walk and headed down to the wide, well-maintained tourist path.

The Fairy Pools (extended edition)

The Fairy Pools are a series of waterfalls and clear pools on the Allt Coir’ a’ Tairneilear river, which snakes up to the base of the infamous Black Cuillin mountains described in the previous day’s blog post. The pools are set beneath the vast ridges of Sgurr Thuilm, Bidein Druim nan Ramh and Bruach na Frithe, which curve around the river in a protective yet imposing C-shape. These great giants form a wild, open-ended bowl carpeted with golden grass and brownish heather, and directly in front of us at the head of the bowl stood Sgurr an Fheadain, a perfectly triangular, dark grey, child’s drawing of a mountain tucked neatly between two sloping ridges as if quietly watching over its territory from a throne. Low cloud hanging over the mysterious, snow-spangled peaks gave the place a self-contained atmosphere that made it seem like the rest of the world simply didn’t exist.

We got rained on as we started up the path, which follows the river’s left bank. I didn’t mind as it meant there were few other visitors. The deep, round, extraordinarily blue Fairy Pools sat below low, rushing white waterfalls, some wide and low, some narrow and high, and the meandering river carved relentlessly over, around and through solid rock in an endless torrent. The pools were a beautiful, crystal clear blue-green colour, and if the air temperature had been in double digits I’d have jumped in. We instantly understood its popularity as a tourist destination, although I wouldn’t want to visit on a busy summer’s day. Even beneath a cloudy sky it was worthy of a Herbal Essences advert.

The path along this extraordinary river continued for about 2.5km up to the base of the Cuillins. Our plan had been to see the pools and head back the same way, but having eyed up the map I had new designs on making the hike circular (triangular) by taking a path that follows the base of the immense ridge northward, then west across the moor and back to the van. I entreated Ryan, who rolled his eyes and followed me onto our new path.

As is standard, the rocky path became muddy then boggy, to Ryan’s great disgruntlement. We trudged and slopped along wet, tufty grassland, trying desperately to keep our feet dry. After a mild bout of whinging we suddenly spotted the dark forms of several red deer a short way ahead of us, well camouflaged against the boulder-strewn, yellow-brown heathland, and our agitation evaporated. They were such majestic animals, easily large and powerful enough to do us a mischief, yet they warily kept their distance as we blundered through their territory, and idled casually up the sleep slope to the right as we approached. Then we spotted more over to our left, watching us quietly from about thirty yards away as they chewed rhythmically in peaceful little groups.

The path had been absorbed by the wild terrain so we walked carefully through heather and bog until we reached a small river, the Allt a’Mhaim, and a parallel path which would take us southwest back towards the road. We followed it all the way down the gently sloping moorland, admiring the rolling brown wilderness that was now illuminated in the golden glow of the soft winter sun, and more red deer appeared from nowhere on either side of us. The bluish clouds over the Cuillins and the dark shadows of the undulating high ridges accentuated the warm light that fell on the mountainous bowl, giving the landscape an other-worldly, dream-like quality. It was a harsh, thriving, unadulterated place.

After walking along this path for about 2km we reached a fairytale-like waterfall set just below a thick fir forest, took a wistful look back towards the Cuillins, and rejoined the road back to the car park. What a beautiful place.

Back to the mainland

It took us an hour to reach the Skye Bridge via Sligachan and Broadford Co-op, a drive that involved a lot of “wow look at that”s, referring to various lofty peaks and wild islands. Back on the mainland we drove southeast along the main A87 Old Military road that follows the length of long Lochs Alsh and Duich, then cuts through the belly of vast Glen Shiel and past lochs Cluanie, Loyne, Garry and Lochy. As we passed wonderfully named Loch Lochy the sun set over golden water, sinking below the distant peaks in a soft haze.

Almost two hours after leaving Skye we arrived at Fort William and nipped to the familiar Morrisons, then drove for 15 more minutes to Ben Nevis’s north face car park. For dinner we had a strange combination of leftover vegan bolognese, bulgur wheat and stovies – a Scottish dish made of beef, onion and potato, all minced together in a delicious (if unsightly) mush – then had a very serious discussion about what we should do the following day.

We both really wanted a big mountain day on or around Ben Nevis, either ice climbing a route like Number 2 Gully or hiking/scrambling the Carn Mor Dearg arete, but after a lot of research and consideration we decided that given the high winds and “considerable” avalanche risk on north east aspects in that area it wasn’t the day for it. We settled, after some squabbling (I was team bike, Ryan was team find somewhere else to climb), on mountain biking the famous Nevis Range trails that started from the car park we were in, which had been on my to do list for years. It was a good thing we did because we went to bed much later than planned, having spent a long time deliberating over Ben Nevis.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Inverness, Skye, Old Man of Storr

July 14, 20221 Comment

Wednesday 9 February

Inverness, Tilly

No lie-ins today, to my satisfaction and Ryan’s displeasure. Having fully exploited the Cairngorms, we planned to head west across to the Isle of Skye, a place that’s been right at the top of my “to do” list for years. We left Aviemore and drove north along the main A9 road to Inverness, parked in the small, fairly central Rainings Stairs car park we’d stopped in on a previous trip and walked down the long flight of narrow stone stairs to the town centre.

Having visited Inverness before we didn’t plan to stay for long, so Ryan got his obligatory McDonalds breakfast (which, as usual, we ended up sharing thanks to his generosity and my “I’m not that hungry” regret) and we shivered through the cold, damp, snowy street lined by attractive, tall yellow sandstone buildings, already a bit peopled out, straight back to the van.

We were in a pretty, quiet residential area on our way out of Inverness when we saw a little jack russell wandering around a road. We’re both very much animal people (generally more so than people people), so we pulled over and I approached the elderly-looking, placid little dog. Her collar told me her name was Tilly and she lived at the house she was hanging around outside, so I rung the bell and called the mobile number on her collar, both to no avail. Luckily her friendly neighbour pulled onto his drive and told me that she sometimes escapes, so he put her back in her garden and explained that he’d take her in but she doesn’t get on with his dog, a lovely little west highland terrier called Gordon. He reassured me that her florist owner was probably on a local delivery and wouldn’t be long, so feeling all warm and cosy about helping little Tilly (and instantly over whatever we’d found to argue about that morning – I can’t remember) we went on our merry way.

East to west coast

The drive across to Skye took a couple of hours and was a stunning route, mainly through open, yellow-brown moors surrounded by dramatic, rolling white peaks, several of which we eyed up as mountaineering destinations. The weather was classically Scottish – wet and claggy one minute, bright and sunny the next – and the road snaked along wild glens and through rugged little villages. Shortly before we approached Skye Ryan pulled into a small road so I could have an indecorous wee in the usual van style, only slightly hidden from any unfortunate passers by (happily there were none), and as we approached the island on the road that runs along the Loch Alsh sea inlet he stopped for his own indecorous wee, which gave me a good opportunity to photograph the striking Skye Bridge.

Skye

We crossed the bridge and headed to the Co-op at Broadford, all the while admiring the vast, watery expanse and wild little islands of the Inner Sound strait. We grabbed snacks and supplies, then drove up for nearly an hour up the northeast coast towards the Old Man of Storr.

Even under an overcast sky it was an other-worldly place. Skye is part of the Inner Hebrides archipelago, a chain of 79 islands sprawled up Scotland’s dramatic west coast. I was stunned by the fullness of the landscape, which seemed almost contradictory: there was so much land, rising out of the water and high against the horizon in its random, rugged, heather-brown and snow-white forms, yet so much water, dead flat and simultaneously light and dark. As a whole the sea reflected the bright grey sky, but the blue-black detail of the waves and ripples hinted at the mysterious depths below. It was captivating.

We snaked around the base of the red Cuillin mountains and glanced left at Sligachan to catch a glimpse of the black Cuillins, whose name alone is enough to command a sense of awe and deference. They towered over the rolling moors in jagged peaks, the indomitable kings and queens of the island. If it weren’t for the high winds and poor visibility forecast we’d certainly have set upon the infamous Cuillin Ridge traverse, but I’m not sad about having such a firm incentive to return.

The rolling moors continued on the road to Portree, a pretty, lively-looking town with lots of quirky independent shops, and beyond, where we climbed higher into thick clag and heavy snow. Ten minutes later the sky was bright blue and as the strip of water between the isles of Skye and Rasaay crept back into view, the iconic Old Man of Storr appeared ahead in his striking, bizarre elegance. We pulled up in the large visitor car park, ate some noodles and began the easy 20-minute walk up to the surreal formation of towering bare rock.

Old Man of Storr

We were surprised that a quick google yielded no climbing routes up the pinnacle (not to be confused with the Old Man of Stoer, a sea stack further north on the west cost of the Scottish mainland and something of a climbing mecca), but on closer inspection the rock has a strange, damp, crumbly texture. He stands about 50m tall and 10m wide, a brownish grey pinnacle of basalt in an ancient volcanic island of tantalising, intimidating, alien rock – The Storr. The snow that thinly covered the grassy, rocky landscape all around didn’t dare touch the dark obtrusion, which rose suddenly in jagged, triangular forms separated by sinister black gulleys. The Old Man’s upright position looked unnatural, like he should topple over any second, and as we walked right up to him we understood the story of the giant laid to rest whose thumb remained above ground, pointing to the sky. It was a strange, enigmatic, serenely beautiful yet slightly uncanny place.

The walk back the same way was breathtaking, overlooking the undulating isles of Raasay and Rona and in the distance the distinctive Black Cuillin mountains, which were framed perfectly below a curtain of thick grey cloud – even that hung respectfully above the towering peaks. Already stunned by Skye, we got back in the van and continued our drive north up the east coast of the island in the hope of seeing the Quiraing before nightfall.

Lealt Falls, the Quiraing

After about 10 minutes Ryan swung the van into a layby. He’d spotted a waterfall sign, so we went over to the viewing platform set just off the road and watched the tumbling white water of Lealt Falls rush into the Abhainn An Lethuillt river (catchy name). There were two waterfalls, a high, thin one and a wide, tiered one, both carving channels through the sweeping land and enabling trees to thrive thickly along the banks, even in this harsh landscape. The water rushed into a deep valley, at the end of which the sea sat high and blue cradled in the “V”. We watched it for a little bit, then scurried on to catch a glimpse of the Quiraing.

After a 15 minute drive past some quirky, sprawling hamlets, we were in the bizarre landscape of the Quiraing, an ancient craggy landslip near the northernmost point of the island with sweeping slopes, high cliffs and huge, random masses of bare rock. The road wound below the fascinating land formations and snaked twistily up one side. I got out the van and wandered up a small hill to take some photos, wishing that we had a bit more time for a proper explore. From there we drove across a wild, high moor and headed southwest through awful conditions in the dark – heavy snow with next to no visibility along the main A87 road – to Dunvegan, where we found an out-the-way pull-in on the bank of Loch Dunvegan, near the castle.

I cooked an improvised meal of vegan chilli con carne with bulgur wheat and we spent the night under a starry sky, which reflected off the glassy water of the loch and turned the low hills on its far bank into pitch black silhouettes. We fell in love with Skye that day.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Ice climbing at Coire an t-Sneachda – Jacobs Ladder route

June 22, 20222 Comments

Monday 7 February

True to form, I was up at the crack of dawn while Ryan remained dead to the world. I went for a little walk down the valley to enjoy the extraordinary solitude of an early Scottish morning, whose sky glowed pink to lilac to clear, pale blue over the snow-capped peaks and dark forests nestled below. I found some strange animal tracks in the snow, possibly a fox and hare:

Back at the van I woke Ryan, made breakfast, packed rucksacks for winter climbing and drove up the hill to the Cairn Gorm ski centre car park where we’d been the previous day. Our plan was to hike up to Coire an t-Sneachda corrie, a huge bowl carved out of the Cairngorm plateau by a glacier, and try a low grade ice climbing route – our first – up one of the three steep, rocky, icy walls that form the sides of the bowl. We thought about doing the well-known Fiacaill Ridge scramble, but a high crosswind was forecast so we decided against it.

Hiking up

We set off at 10am and headed south along the clear, slabby path from the car park. We climbed steadily uphill towards the high plateau in front of us, and apart from the long, thickly forested Spey Valley behind, everything was vast, glacial ridges, bowls and valleys. The corrie sits two miles up this path, which was long and steady enough for us to regret our warm winter gear and pause to de-layer.

As we approached, the corrie’s intimidating black and white walls rose higher and higher, making us feel smaller and smaller. Vast swathes of snow and rock sprawled under grey clouds which hung low over the ridges ahead, making the sky above seem unusually blue and our winter coats unusually bright. It was a truly wild, unforgiving, beautiful place.

As we approached the high back wall of the corrie the path dissolved into a boulderfield – there’s nowhere to go apart from back the same way unless you’re climbing out of the bowl. We’d eyed up the “Aladdin’s Couloir” route in our guidebook but there was a large group climbing at the base and we didn’t fancy waiting around, so we headed left towards the obvious gully of “Jacobs Ladder”, a well-known classic route (grade I, **) that we’d found on youtube before the trip. After a lot of hopping, clambering and scrabbling across the boulderfield we reached the base of the route, pulled on our crampons and made our way up a steep neve ice slope to the rocky face, a short “hike” which in itself was verging on graded ice climbing territory.

The climb

Jacobs Ladder is effectively a steep ice slide about 2-4 metres wide cut into the vertical face of the corrie. Its gentle (for a climbing route) gradient and sheltered position make it a perfect first-time ice excursion, although that also meant there were a couple of other groups doing the route. We practised a couple of self-arrests, a technique that involves sticking an ice axe into the ground to achieve a controlled stop if you start sliding down the slope, then set up a belay and Ryan led the first pitch.

Once he’d set up the second belay I followed with my single Alpine axe, a lightweight hybrid which is more angled than a straight hiking axe but less aggressive than a technical climbing tool. I followed him up, frontpointing with my crampons (firmly kicking the two front spikes into the slope and standing into the boots, like climbing up steps), hacking the axe into solid ice and pulling up on the handle, and using my free fist against the slope to balance and keep the foot-foot-hand-hand rhythm. I reached the belay, swapped to two technical axes and climbed through to lead the second pitch, placing nuts and throwing slings over horns at quite run-out intervals due to the solid, comfortable feeling of neve-topped ice beneath me. There were enough rock placements on the faces either side that there was no need to use ice screws.

I really enjoyed the feeling of climbing on ice. It was completely different to rock as my focus was on maintaining a steady, rhythmic movement and sinking the contact points into solid ground, rather than searching for abstract little holds with fingers and toes. Moving one limb at a time – foot-foot-hand-hand – just took a little getting used to, as the climb was mostly easy enough to climb like a ladder, and holding my boots at a constant-90 degree angle worked up a good calf burn. I reached the end of our 40m rope surprisingly quickly and set up a belay, but made the silly mistake of sitting on a wet rock and having to endure a cold bum while belaying Ryan up. At this middle section the ice was thin and we had to be very careful not to dislodge any loose rock onto the climbers below – Scottish winters are becoming increasingly fickle.

We had to wait (slightly agonisingly) for the group in front of us to get ahead, then continued in this way to the top, a total of five near rope-length pitches. The gear placements were quite spaced throughout the climb but the ice felt solid – in terms of technicality I’d have been quite comfortable soloing the route, but it was an excellent introduction to ice climbing and I wouldn’t want to climb ropeless with another group below us.

The descent

The wind hit us like a bus as we pulled over the lip at the top, and we realised that our earlier decision not to do Fiacaill Ridge (something else to come back for) was very sensible. We de-cramponned, stuffed our gear into rucksacks and walked north along loose, rocky ground to Fiacaill a’ Coire Chais, the ridge we’d walked down after summiting Cairn Gorm the previous day. It was an entirely different place in the wind, which roared up the steep ridge to the west and across the barren plateau with relentless ferocity. As we approached the descent I was nearly blown off my feet several times. It was funny at first but as it battered us down the uneven slope I got quite bored of it – the rocky terrain meant that every step necessitated good timing and a lot of concentration. Having appreciated almost none of the incredible scenery around us, I was positively cross by the time we reached the bottom of the ridge, having been blown off my feet three times. I was aggrieved that Ryan, at one and a half times my bodyweight, was comparatively stable.

Back safe & sound

After what felt like several calendar weeks we reached the deep snow drift at the bottom, got frustrated at the difficulty of trawling through that, and joined the buggy track back to the car park. Our spirits returned very quickly out of the wind, and we were back in the van by about 5pm. We returned to our favourite car park just down the road for the third and final time, cooked a mighty fine Thai green curry and spent the evening in our usual way, eating, drinking and scheming.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Balmoral Cairns to Aviemore

May 14, 2022June 6, 20221 Comment

Saturday 5 February

We woke in our pretty, quiet spot overlooking Braemar and were up and breakfasted by 10am, which is unreasonably early by Ryan’s standards and catastrophically late by mine. It was set to be a bad weather day with all the trimmings – high winds, heavy rain, dark clouds and poor visibility, so we wrote off the idea of going up a mountain and settled on the Balmoral Cairns walk, a 6-mile hike between the 11 cairns erected in memory of Queen Victoria’s family in the thick forest of Balmoral Estate. We were particularly interested in Prince Albert’s pyramid, which we’d seen sneak peeks of in the Wild Guide.

We drove half an hour east to Balmoral, parked in a pull-in by the Royal Lochnagar Distillery, donned full waterproofs and headed towards the forest via a narrow track, which took us past some quaint cottages. A well-trodden footpath branched left and led us into the trees through a tall metal gate. The forest was reminiscent of that I described in the previous day’s blog post – vast, ancient and thriving, every inch of floor, trunk and branch covered in some kind of mossy, licheny life.

The first cairn, a neat, conical pile of rocks about three times my height belonging to Princess Beatrice, was a short walk into the forest. From there the path curved through the tall pines, climbed a hill and passed a few small, rocky crags before Prince Albert’s pyramid emerged through an opening in the trees. This opening dropped down steeply on one side to reveal a lovely panorama of rolling hills covered in dark forest, brown heather and in the distance, bright white snow. The pyramid’s perfectly straight, sharp edges and unnaturally symmetrical silhouette dominated the foreground and contrasted with the rough, irregular outlines of nature’s branches, ridges and undulations, and we were both taken aback by the size of the structure, which stood about as high as a three-storey house. Its cold, grey granite blocks were dark against the bright white sky and seemed to glisten in the light. It was a beautiful, poignant monument made mysterious – almost cult-esque – by the Egyptian-borne intrigue that surely every visitor must feel on fantasising about what probably isn’t, but could be, inside.

I informed Ryan that I expect at least an equivalent shrine in the event of my demise and we rejoined the path, already feeling pleased with our choice of rainy day activity. It snaked down the other side of the thickly wooded hill, whose trees occasionally parted to reveal the vast ridges of the mountains to the south and possibly – although I wasn’t certain – a view out to dark Lochnagar. The tall pines provided shelter from the intermittent rain and the recent storms were evidenced by many splintered and uprooted trunks, which lay like fallen giants.

We took a right at a gravel track, then a left through another tall gate. After about a kilometre we joined a narrow path that led us into the thick forest on our right and up another hill to Princess Alice’s cairn, which was much the same as Beatrice’s. It was wild, peaceful, and we didn’t see another person for quite a long time. At one point a small clearing treated us to a view of some misty, snow-capped peaks that were perfectly framed by birches, pines and a floor that was so full of rocks, moss, heather, lichen and little plants that not an inch of bare soil was visible.

We were deep in conversation when we took a wrong turn and inadvertantly rejoined the gravel track, so – a little irritated by this rookie error – I insisted that we continue to the rest of the cairns by another route. We walked a short way along the track before taking a path that took us back into the forest, then along the east-facing slope of thickly wooded Craig Gowan hill for about a kilometre to Prince Leopold’s cairn, which looked out over Balmoral Castle and the wide River Dee. From there we backtracked along the same path to the Purchase Cairn, which boasted a stunning view over the Dee valley and the rolling peaks to the east. Louise’s cairn was a little way on just off the main path, and we found the final cairn – Helena’s – up the slope on our right, tucked conspicuously into the forest. We returned to the track we’d come in on via an overgrown path and an old footbridge over a steep, narrow wooded valley that was filled with fallen trees – the spoils of the recent winds.

While writing this blog post – a surprisingly lengthy process which involves a combination of memory, using maps to check routes and looking at photos to fill in gaps – I came to the sad realisation that by taking a wrong turn, we inadvertently missed out a cairn. Prince Arthur’s cairn lies on the path between Alice’s and the Purchase Cairn and it escaped our notice, which – thanks to my compulsive tendencies – means I’ll have to go back to it, which isn’t such a shame given the wild beauty of the place.

We retraced our steps along the track, past the little cottages and back along the road to the van. Naturally it rained quite heavily on us just before we got back, so we de-waterproofed, bundled inside for bread and soup, then set off across the Cairngorms. A road closure meant we had to go near the fairytale-like town of Ballater, a 15 minute drive east along the River Dee, so I insisted on using their public loos just to warrant a quick visit.

I’m ashamed at how much my only photo of Ballater doesn’t do it justice

From there we took the road north that goes past the steep, forested Pass of Ballater valley and through the eastern side of the national park via Cock Bridge (snigger) and Tomintoul. Shortly after leaving Ballater the landscape became quite dramatic in that strange, enchanting way that makes you feel very, very small. Huge, open plains of sandy yellow grass and red-brown heather rolled over enormous, undulating hills which elevated the horizon to captivating heights, and the road carved and snaked through the vast, sheep-spangled wilderness. As we came to the high northern part of the mountainous plateau the weather changed from bright sunshine, whose low rays accentuated the undulations and cast a warm, enchanting light over the golden landscape, to sudden thick, grey clag and heavy rain. We climbed higher into the cloud and the weather worsened. The steepest, twistiest bits of road were covered in an anxiety-inducing layer of snow and ice as we crawled along through a relentless blizzard, praying with an almost unprecedented intensity that Bjorn wouldn’t decide to break down on one of these merciless slopes.

After what felt like an endless time we made it out the other side and descended to Boat of Garten, where we joined the main A95 road south to Aviemore. Our relief was palpable, and we got to the buzzing, outdoorsy town in time for the 4.45pm England vs Scotland Six Nations opening game. The Winking Owl pub put the rugby on in its cosy “Bothy Bar”, where we squeezed in feeling conspicuous amid a throng of Scotland supporters, but fortunately everyone was friendly and three very loud English supporters diverted any teasing banter away from us. Watching England lose had a poignant sting in a Scottish pub, but we enjoyed the game and I was merry enough to send a glass of gin crashing down on the floor, which I insisted on cleaning up myself with a dustpan and brush from the bar.

Ryan convinced me that we should not stay in the pub for more drinks for money and hangover reasons which, although I objected at the time, was definitely a blessing with hindsight. He drove us through Aviemore and along the foresty, lochside Glenmore road up to the large, flat car park we’d stayed in previously near the Cairngorm Mountain ski centre. He did an excellent job of cooking burgers while I made myself far from useful, and we slept so well in that wild place.

Scotland, Feb ’22: Travelling up, Braemar

February 21, 2022February 22, 20221 Comment

Friday 4 February

Travelling up

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

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

Perth to the Cairngorms

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

An uncannily familiar menu in “The Capital Asset”

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

Braemar & Creag Choinnich

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

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

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

Returning from the Mountains: a stream of consciousness

February 16, 2022February 16, 20221 Comment

Never is anything so mundane as on returning from the mountains.

Never is the sky so grey nor the land so flat.

Work doesn’t interest me. The dull documents and dull conversations I’m putting off. I’ve voluntarily shackled myself to this slow, safe life but the siren song of freedom pulls my attention to faraway, intangible landscapes. Imagine emancipation from expectations. Imagine aspirational certainty.

Perhaps the taste I had was too much. All I can think of is deep glens, ancient forests and mysterious peaks. I’m captivated and cursed by the bewitching majesty of a place remembered.

The sky tries pathetically to rain but gives up. It can’t be bothered either. It would have rained properly up there, savage, relentless and certain.

The sun tries to penetrate the cloud but can’t. It can’t be bothered either. There’s not much to look at down here anyway.

It’s too warm for February.

—

Time stopped for two weeks and waited for our return. I wish it hadn’t.

Working from home is deafeningly quiet. I wasn’t productive this morning, I just moped.

Amber asked for a walk at lunchtime as she always does. I took her. The path was muddier than before and nature seemed colourless. The road was too loud. I had to fabricate a smile for other dog walkers.

Things that should have brightened my mood only accentuated my absurd misery. Amber’s usually contagious happiness, the warm breeze, the abundant birdsong.

My despondence peaked when I walked over the bridge and looked for the trout who sits there waiting for me and Amber. He wasn’t there. Perhaps he thought I’d abandoned him.

—

Ryan’s text was a subtle turning point. There was a Twix next to the handbrake if I needed cheering up. I did, but the thought was enough. I’ll save the Twix for later as a reward for finishing work, although I’ll need to start first.

Crocuses, snowdrops and daffodils – nice, but it’s too early. Crows, collared doves, a robin, a blackbird, a dunnock. They’re okay.

I see the allotments and look forward to the house we’re buying. A glimmer, small but bright. Once that’s done we can go back to Scotland. I hope time hurries up for a while, then slows again.

I try to get over myself and decide to write down my gloom in the hope of some relief. I think it’s worked, a bit. My walk is over.

Later we need to empty the van and tackle the torrent of admin.

Now I need to do some work.

—

Acceptance is better than denial but worse than contentment. That’ll do me for now. The mountains will still be there.

Edinburgh: Scotland Day 9, Sep ’20

May 13, 2021Leave a comment

We woke in an Edinburgh hotel, excited to explore the city. Covid dictated that indoor activities would require advance booking, and we aren’t exactly “advance booking” people (we’re more “last minute”, “impulsive”, “on a whim” people), so annoyingly two of the places I’d wanted to go most – the National Museum of Scotland and Edinburgh Castle – were fully booked. I’ve been before but I know that Ryan would love both, so at least we have good reason to return.

Instead we went to the Surgeons’ Hall Museum, which was even more interesting than it looked online. Jars of every body part imaginable lined hundreds of shelves in an impressive columned, balconied hall, and we learnt about an incredible array of diseases, injuries and body-snatching stories. It was fascinating and irresistibly grotesque, and I’d recommend it as an excellent couple of hours’ excursion for anyone who isn’t squeamish.

After lunch in The Advocate pub on the high street of Edinburgh old town, we spent the afternoon exploring the city centre on foot. Of all the cities I’ve been to, I think Edinburgh, with its hilly topography and incredible architecture, is my favourite. Standing at the top of the high street, the castle feels like the centrepiece of a bustling, timeless metropolis, with clean, cobbled streets lined by tall, straight-edged, regular-windowed buildings made of attractive yellow-grey stone. Pay attention and you notice the intricately carved details on window frames, corners, rooves and chimneys. Intriguing alleyways entice you in, staircases carry you to different levels of the city and monuments boast of its illustrious history. It feels like a place of paradoxes – colourful but classy, old but impeccable, stately but quaint.

After a good poke around, we had a couple of drinks in a Wetherspoons and walked the half hour back to the hotel to drop off the presents we’d bought to atone for being in Scotland on Ryan’s brother’s and dad’s birthdays. The walk took us past the towering Scott Monument, the columned Scottish National Gallery, the busy green Princes Street Gardens, a bunch of tourist shops and some lovely, posh-looking residential streets lined with tall, (I think) Georgian townhouses.

We changed clothes and walked back into town for dinner. We went to the old and incredibly charismatic Deacon Brodie’s Tavern on the high street, which was painted white, black and gold and adorned with an eye-catching array of hanging baskets and window boxes. It was quite striking inside, with dark walls, panelled ceilings and mahogany furniture, but for all that it was also cosy and inviting, and it definitely felt like a proper pub. It was named after William Brodie, a respected and wealthy Edinburgh cabinet maker and locksmith who, by night, copied the keys he had made for his clients and stole their money. He was caught and hanged in 1788, and his double life inspired Robert Louis Stevenson to write the Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

We ate upstairs and I performed my signature move of drinking half a pint of cider and knocking the other half over. The food was divine and very reasonable – we shared a fish platter, then I had Balmoral chicken and Ryan had a burger. Not quite finished with Edinburgh, we left and went to Biddy Mulligans Irish bar at Grassmarket for another drink (or maybe two, I can’t remember). We walked back to the hotel totally enamoured with the city and already eager to return.

And so ended our trip to Scotland. We had an incredible nine days, fell in love with pretty much everywhere we went and did a whole load of cool stuff. It’s taken me an age to get round to writing about it, but now it’s done and I can get on with catching up on everything else.

To the land of glens, bens, tartan and thistles… we’ll be back.

Climbing Benny Beg, Stirling Castle: Scotland Day 8, Sep ’20

May 5, 2021Leave a comment

Our day started in the van on the edge of Braemar, with a conversation about climbing Lochnagar. Ryan’s knee was quite sore so after much deliberation we decided that instead of hiking the White Mounth loop, which takes in five Munros in the southeast Cairngorms, we’d head towards Edinburgh and find somewhere to rock climb.

A quick Google search later pointed us in the direction of Benny Beg, a small crag about 2 hours south of Braemar, between Perth and Stirling. We drove away from the immense, rolling peaks of the Cairngorms quite reluctantly, through miles of open farmland, and found the crag car park behind a small garden centre.

A one minute walk along the footpath at the back of the car park took us to the wall, a long section of bare rock face about 10m high that seemed to be plonked very randomly (and very conveniently) in the middle of a fairly unremarkable landscape consisting mainly of crop fields.

The climbing was really enjoyable – a series of easy single-pitch routes on solid rock. The bolts were nicely spaced (ie. very close together!) and there were plenty of low grade routes, which suited us as we didn’t fancy anything particularly hard. We alternated leading four or five climbs, from 3c to 4c, before the rain crept in and we made a hasty escape back to the van.

I’d recommend Benny Beg to anyone in the area, largely because it’s so easily accessible from the road. It would be a great place to learn to climb or to take kids because the grades are easy and the bolts are forgivingly spaced. The downside is that I imagine it gets busy at peak times in good weather.

Having decided to spend the next day exploring Edinburgh, we meandered south towards the city. We’d booked a cheap hotel and had a few hours of the afternoon left, so we took a minor detour to Stirling Castle. As castle locations go, this has to be one of the best: perched on a high rock plateau whose sheer faces rise high above the forest below on one side, and which towers over the attractive, ancient city of Stirling on the other.

I have a soft spot for castles, perhaps because every childhood holiday incorporated at least one, or perhaps it was inherited from my dad (who I tease for being a medieval relic in his own right). Stirling didn’t disappoint – it had towers, turrets, battlements, dungeons, a portcullis, a (dry) moat, a (famous) bridge, a keep, a great hall, a church, cannons, mountain views, walls you can walk around – it ticked all the castle boxes. The only shame was that most of the indoor bits were closed due to some pesky pandemic, so it’s definitely one to return to.

We got to Edinburgh in the evening, checked into the hotel and planned the next day. The van is small enough to park in a city centre car park without any fuss, but also small enough that washing facilities are very limited, so we were particularly grateful for a hot shower that night.

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

March 6, 2021Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 8, 2021May 5, 2021Leave a comment

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

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

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

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

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

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

Looking back towards Ben Macdui from Cairn Gorm

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

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

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

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