Tag: winter

Scotland, Feb 23: Skiing at The Lecht

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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 ’22: The Cobbler

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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

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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: Hiking Cairn Gorm

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Sunday 6 February

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Returning from the Mountains: a stream of consciousness

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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.

Scotland, Day 4: The Cairngorms – Lochnagar

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Lord Byron eulogised this mountain in 1807:

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o’er the  mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.

In contrast, Queen Victoria wrote of Lochnagar in September 1848:

“But alas! Nothing whatever to be seen; and it was cold, and wet, and cheerless. At about twenty minutes after two we set off on our way downwards, the wind blowing a hurricane, and the mist being like rain, and everything quite dark with it”.

After experiencing Lochnagar on a bleak day in December, I agree with the poet’s “wild”, “steep” and “dark” but otherwise I’m with Queen Vic. We woke bright and early in the Spittal of Glenmuick and met our friend Mike at the Lochnagar car park before sunrise. We set off on the 10ish-mile hike in a mix of fog, drizzle and gloom, disappointed with the weather but glad for the company.

The first section took us across a flat, heather-covered plain, with Loch Muick away to the south and a dark line of trees to the north. We couldn’t see much through the fog, but I knew that Loch Muick was cradled on three sides by steep ridges; I expect it’s stunning on a clear day. Lochnagar is within a few miles of the Balmoral estate, and I could just imagine the Queen (maybe a few years ago) tearing round the track in a Landrover, or a shotgun-wielding Philip bumbling after some grouse.

It was an easygoing route  for about three miles, along a wide, stony track up a gradual incline. We branched off left about a mile east of Meikle Pap, where the track turned into a slabbed stone path. I got overexcited at catching a glimpse of a few startled red grouse, then we hit the snow and the hike got a bit more complicated.

Just as the path started getting scrambley, patches of snow appeared. Snow does a great job of concealing paths, especially when the landscape is strewn with rocks, covered in wild, tufty vegetation and bereft of other summit-seeking humans. We followed it as best we could but did a lot of guessing, aiming in the direction of “up” and “west-ish”.

The vegetation disappeared, and after scrambling up a formless sea of steep, slippery rocks, keeping close to avoid losing each other, we hit real trouble – just as I got excited at a flock of winter-white ptarmigans. Mulling over why on earth anything would choose to live up there, we struggled through an annoying mix of soft, calf-deep snow and hard, unyielding ice. As we reached a kind of plateau, the rocks grew sparse, the climb became less steep, and the already hurricane-like conditions worsened.

Lochnagar stands at a lofty 1,156m above sea level and curves around a beautiful northern corrie (I know it’s pretty thanks to Google images). The path follows the ridge along the top edge of the corrie, so the exposure is huge and complacency could result in a massive fall. This was problematic as by this time visibility was non-existent, we were ill-equipped (no crampons or axes – terrible foresight) and we didn’t know exactly where the summit was. Or where we were.

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White-out

As we pushed on, I truly understood the term “white-out” for the first time. The only way to distinguish “up” and “down” was by looking at the other two and seeing where their feet were in relation to their heads. Ice, snow, cloud and sky all merged into one disorienting, blinding, infinite nothingness, like in a dream in a film, until little dark specks appeared and I tried to blink them away. Communication was limited to shouting in each others’ ears, and any exposed inch of skin was beaten raw by the strong, bitterly icy winds.

Just when it couldn’t get any worse, it did. We reached a false summit and the ground became sheet ice. Literally like an ice rink, only harder and less flat. I’m sure we went round in circles for a bit, slipping over constantly, resorting to bum-shuffling and actually laughing at our own ridiculousness while remaining acutely aware of our proximity to the deadly edge of the ridge. Still determined to reach the summit, we paused for a painfully cold moment to check the map and decided simply to follow the compass north to where we thought it was.

This decisiveness saved the day, and as the towering pile of rocks loomed through the whiteness I almost collapsed with relief – I’ve never been so delighted to reach a trigpoint. I slipped onto my trusty old compass and snapped it, fortunately without stabbing myself, but it had done what it needed to do. We fumbled about for a quick photo, then practically flew back down the mountain, eyebrows, eyelashes and beards (even mine) heavy with ice.

I would have liked to make it a circular route and gone back along the north side of Loch Muick, but given the conditions we decided the way we came was the quickest and most certain way to the pub, and it’d look the same anyway. The fog had cleared slightly once we were back on the wide, stony track, revealing a rugged, heathery landscape. From there, the walk back was made a drag by our cold, wet-through clothes and desperation for a drink, but we reached the car park eventually. Lochnagar is definitely one to come back to on a better day, but I was glad for the adventure we had.

Semi-thawed, we drove to find a pub before heading to Perth for the night. We ended up collapsing on the sofas in the Deeside Inn at Ballater. It couldn’t have stood in starker contrast to the bleakness of a few hours earlier; the lounge was a huge room with deep red walls, thick curtains and dark wood beams, lit softly and warmed by a roaring fire. It had tartan sofas with pheasant-patterned cushions, a big Christmas tree, books, boardgames, a piano, complimentary crisps and (most importantly) cider. I think my life peaked at that moment – in there, the world was perfect.

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