Tag Archives: adventure

From Keswick to Glenridding on foot: across the north Lakes, October 2026

Posted on by
Reply

Where to begin, then? At the beginning, or indeed, at the end? It is now Wednesday evening and I have come 58km from Keswick since Monday morning. It has been as planned – as long planned – although there have been three significant deviations from the original plan, for one reason or another. I very much enjoy the idea of planning something down to the last detail, and then doing it – though not being inflexible, and being open to change in the real world. As an older man going off solo hiking and wild camping in backcountry, one doesn’t just throw these trips together. One doesn’t just pack a rucksack and set off happy-go-lucky. These trips are planned, if not down to the last kilometre, then certainly down to the last hour.

I joined the 0703 to Sheffield, a rare and very useful main-line train out of Belper – there are a handful each day. At Sheffield, a coffee and something or other. Then I joined a Trans-Pennine Express train to cross the Pennines to Manchester, a class 185 diesel multiple unit with a particularly nice first class section, with cream faux-leather seats. My ticket would have had me change at Manchester Oxford Road. Common prudence as an experienced train traveller, or possibly a hunch, made me change instead at the much bigger Manchester Piccadilly – where the trains must all go anyway. Always follow hunches: My train to Penrith, at 0921, was cancelled. I was able to buy some outstanding groceries – bread, mini-oranges, baby tomatoes. The 1021 train was cancelled too. We knew by then that there had been what the railway company politely calls a “trespass incident”. We spend a minute in silence to think about the people involved, and about mental health in general. Talk to people! You’re not alone.

I got to Keswick around 2pm, around two hours late. I had to change additionally at Preston, then, of course, take the X4 bus towards Workington. From Keswick, out through Fitz Park, past a grand hotel, and upwards through leafy lanes to a right turn leading northeast over the bypass and on towards Latrigg. There were a lot of local hikers in evidence. The path led straight as a die along the edge of woods, strongly upstairs, before rising over a hillside. This is the Cumbria Way, and my route lay along it for many miles. I reached a tarmac roadhead, at NY 280253, at which point a lady in a small van was selling coffee. Laughingly I declined; I needed no last minute refreshment today and my bag in any case was pretty much stuffed with food and confectionery. Thence, straight across the moor to the first decision of the trip. Skiddaw, or not Skiddaw? As I arrived at the junction in the paths I met a fellow coming off Skiddaw, whose timing information was most useful to me. It was about 3pm. Had I gone up Skiddaw I should have not have been descending to Skiddaw House until getting on for 6pm – closing darkness. There just was not enough daylight. I opted to eschew an ascent on this particular occasion.

I followed the Cumbria Way east across the side of Lonscale Fell, before curving left and north into an immense ravine, the steep and narrow valley of the Glenderaterra Beck. It is a wild and picturesque place, but one false step and you’d be precipitated down the very steep grass to the beck far below.

Up this valley, past ruins of ancient lead mines far below, rising steadily, up past a hillside marked on the map as “Burnt horse”, onto the brown moor. It was getting on for 5pm. Skiddaw House itself is protected by a screen of trees, which were black and threatening against the greying of the sky. It is a blank-faced row of terraces in the middle of nowhere. Midweek in October, of course, it was closed. Though a hostel, distinctly unhospitable in the autumn dusk. Doubtless a delightful haven in summer. In the October witching hour around 6pm, under lowering cloud, it was eldritch and gloomy, even threatening. “Stay off the moors, lads…”

Another 2km walking was necessary to find a good camp ground. One needs access to good running water, and flat grassy ground. Neither were easily apparent on the brown moor. Plenty of water underfoot; not so much clean running water. Plenty of tussocks and hummocks and coarse moorland grass. Not so much flat and green. I found myself a spot near NY 300308, by a footbridge over a stream  – Wiley Gill – near a curious circular sheepfold full of the very greenest grass. I did not camp inside the sheepfold. I made a good camp by the babbling brook.

13/10/26

During the night there was – as forecast – tremendous violent rain (though rain always sounds worse from inside a tent than it actually is). The rain did not affect me in the slightest apart from having a wet strike in the morning. I was up by 6.15a.m and although the rain had stopped at that point, the wind had risen and was rattling away. When it came to striking the tent it was all rather difficult, and the whole lot – footprint, inner and outer – went away soaking wet. This is why we use dry bags. Not only to keep water out, but also to keep it in.

Much rain had fallen, and the stream beside which I had camped has risen in fury. My route lay northeast along the valley of the Caldew River, and this was an absolutely unfordable torrent. This was water not merely risky to cross, but white water that would sweep someone away to their doom. My intent had been to cross this river and join a path (or at least, a Right of Way – more on that later) up the Blackhazel Beck. I had not thought that the river would be unfordable, nor had I read the map closely enough to see that the two paths (the one I was walking on and the one I wanted to join) did not meet.

The two paths did not meet

I had to continue down the valley – which as can be seen from the photo, was deeply beautiful walking in very wild country – another 3km to the footbridge at a place marked “Roundhouse”. From there, up onto Bowscale Fell, though unfortunately not visiting Bowscale Tarn, the northernmost corrie tarn in the Lake District. Another time, perhaps. This was hard going uphill – but not too hard. One of the greatest advantages on the hill, of being very fit, is that I need not feel the existential dread faced by many people, even accomplished hillwalkers, when confronted with a huge climb up some steep mountainside. Up here, absolutely stupendous scenery in a forgotten and ill-visited corner of the Lake District. I saw no-one from 3pm yesterday until almost 2pm today. The weather was improving.

Whatever I did, in order to get down to the road and onwards with my day, I must perforce go to an unnamed col at NY 328291, between Bannerdale Crags and Blencathra, the head of the valleys of the Blackhazel Beck and the Glenderamackin River. Had my original plan worked, I should have got there late morning. As it was, I arrived at noon and took lunch there. Here I took the second decision, the second change of plan, of this trip – and that was, Blencathra, or not Blencathra? I was already at least ninety minutes down on a long 26km day. Had I gone over Blencathra, I would not have been descending to Threlkeld until late afternoon, with the 7 or 8 kilometres uphill over Threlkeld Common and onto Matterdale, still before me. I should have been adding complexity and uncertainty to an already long day. Though the weather looked to set fine, I opted to eschew a trip over Blencathra. This was the right decision, as we shall see.

So I descended the Glenderamackin River. This was always a backup plan in any case. The valley is very steep-sided, another deep V-shaped ravine. There are disused mines here also. As one descends, a tremendous back view develops of the Sharp Edge of Blencathra.

The river makes a very sharp turn left northwards – this is a most interesting area in terms of geology and geomorphology, quite unlike anywhere else in the Lake District. The river was also quite unfordable at this time of year. One must follow the path over a footbridge, gently up over the shoulder to a col, and then down to the road through Mousthwaite Comb. Mousthwaite Comb I know very well, having climbed Blencathra often enough. Here, early afternoon, I met the first people I had met all day, and there was a violent squall.

Here we look south from Mousthwaite Comb as the squall blows through. To the left we see the distinctive breast-shaped Great Mell Fell. My path lay to the right of this hill, all the way to the horizon and far beyond.

Down to the A66 via Lowside Farm, carefully cross the trunk road, and onwards along a metalled side road to what was clearly the old A66. The sun came out. This was pleasant valley-floor farmland. Then, about a kilometre across farmland to Wallthwaite Farm. One sees a Right of Way (a green, or pink, dashed line) on an Ordnance Survey map: does a path actually exist on the ground? This is not so easy to discern in active farmland where the landowner may have their own views about Rights of Way, notwithstanding the law, and possibly very much at odds with those of the average walker. A straight green dashed line is somewhat suspicious; it does not follow that the path – if path there even be – is nearby. There could be Rights of Way with no path; paths and Rights of Way could be congruent or nearly so, and paths can exist on the ground where in theory there is no Right of Way – at least in England.

I managed to get through without crossing barbed wire, meeting a bull, or offending or even meeting any human individuals. I crossed the former Penrith to Workington railway, unfortunately disused these five decades past, and then continued more or less due south in a straight line along the Right of Way through the lands of Highgate Farm, Highgate Close Farm, and Lobbs, climbing all the way, before once again reaching the brown common. Behind, a view of Blencathra emerged as afternoon wore on.

oplus_1048608

From the dismantled railway to the “old coach road” across Threlkeld Common, was about 3km, relentlessly uphill, very heavy going over very muddy, very wet and heavy grassy terrain with scant path. The “old coach road“ connects St. John’s in the Vale at the top of the Thirlmere valley, with Dockray and Matterdale End near Ullswater. It was a blessed relief to reach it – only a rough unmetalled road but flat, easy going, along which I could peg along at 4km/h. It ran at this point in the shelter of a line of low, unnamed hills. This line of brown hills reminded me of the four hobbits accompanying Aragorn through the “long leagues of Eriador” towards Weathertop. 

My day was almost done. I continued round the contoured road to a rough crossroads at NY 373221; instead of leaving the “old coach road” and continuing straight along a path, with my brain in late afternoon neutral, I “followed the road round” to the left, and found myself at a more formal crossroads, a road-head in fact, High Row. Here there was a small car park and a few people were in evidence. This was about a mile to the east of Dockray on the Troutbeck to Ullswater road – that road passing the famous waterfall Aira Force.

At this crossroads, right into a cul-de-sac, one of the wilder side-roads of the Lake District. This particular road is barely a kilometre in length and serves a handful of farms including the one at the roadhead, my destination: Dowthwaitehead. I had planned to camp wild in an upland valley called Deepdale, beyond Dowthwaitehead. Even when I planned this trip, it was clear that though there were paths, there was no Public Right of Way into this valley. There was always a risk that I would not be able to access the valley to camp wild, except by permission of the landowner at Dowthwaitehead. So it proved – there were people about, busy with their tasks, but I did not think they would allow me access to Deepdale, nor did I ask them directly. Wild camping has a very bad reputation in the Lake District at present, owing to the rise of social media drongos who will camp anywhere and leave their litter and worse, quite openly behind them. I seek to camp in a more sustainable and more discreet way.

But nonetheless, wild camp I must, and soon. It was well after 5pm; darkness impending and and a squall coming, and I did even know where I might camp. I was tired and worn at this point. I asked a lady shepherd for directions and she was helpful enough – there was a path out of the valley, to which she directed me. I could not camp near the farm, even on the common ground, though it was a veritable Eden by the river and the trees. I started on the path uphill out of the valley, ignored by some somewhat incurious Belted Galloway cattle, and left it after a kilometre or so to find a suitable pitch out of sight of the settlements below. I found a secluded and wild flat spot on the common land, but not secluded enough – I was careful with my lights all night. My tent was wet but dried out quickly enough. I slept very well.

14/10/26

I awoke at 0545 after a good night’s rest. I was not minded to lay slug-abed any longer; I wanted to be away before I might be spotted by any farm workers out and about below. I’d had tea, porridge and a cooked breakfast and had tidied up before 0630 – definitely peaked too early. I could not strike my tent and set off until there was enough light to do so without a torch. A moving torch up here in this dark early morning would be visible miles away. I struck camp and set off in good order, starting my hike timer at 0750.

My path lay uphill over the wet, brown, soggy moor. Gaiters were absolutely essential this trip, as were waterproof overtrousers. The path ran roughly southwest, rising literally over “Brown hills” as seen on the map. As I climbed, the wind became apparent, harsh and strong. At a broad col, there came a stone wall, drawn like a pencil line NW-SE across the landscape, with no regard whatsoever for the terrain. I was happy to hide behind it briefly for some respite from the wind, and take a mouthful of water and some chocolate. There was a stile, at NY 369193; through this stile and downhill slightly, into a wild and uninhabited side valley called Glencoyne. This strange and obscure glen has a rather curious path marching right round it, following the contours the whole way. It is quite high up, quite flat, clearly ancient, and clearly passable with care by pack animals. Far below, one can see the lower part of Ullswater.

The packhorse trail in Glencoyne: If one looks between  the two red lines on this photo, one can just see the path.

The path curves round over a shoulder into another valley – Sticks Gill – which heads westward deeper into the hills up to Sticks Pass. In this valley, a post-industrial heritage of spoil heaps and tips. Sticks Pass is a featureless wasteland and was in the clouds. It is called Sticks Pass because the old miners and drovers erected a line of sticks over it as an aid to navigation in snow or thick mist. I arrived here at 1100. This morning’s route though interesting, was not what I had intended. I had intended to climb out of Deepdale and visit Watson’s Dodd and Stybarrow Dodd, but my altered camping position had changed all that.

From Sticks Pass uphill through the cloud and howling gale to Raise (883m). The gale force wind would remain a tangible physical presence throughout the whole traverse of the ridge down to Grizedale Tarn; relentless once out of shelter, baleful, enervating if not properly dressed. Yet not too cold: I was properly clad and not personally cold. This was not the biting, cutting wind of true winter. I started to meet a few people, mostly day hikers up from Glenridding; few if any mountaineers, as I continued over Lower Man and onto Helvellyn (950m) itself.

That said, I was feeling risk-averse. In this wind, should I turn back and go down White Side and down to Glenridding that way, or continue to Grizedale? Risk aversion is sometimes wise. It is sometimes no more than common prudence; it can be good mountaincraft. It can also be habit-forming. One would do well not to allow risk aversion to become a habit. Risk aversion is not a virtue. The facts? There was no more risk here than anywhere else, notwithstanding the wind and the altitude. I left Sticks Pass at 1100. I was dry, warm, carrying food and water and sufficient clothing, and did not need to be in Glenridding until evening. Route finding was not a problem: there is a motorway of a path over this ridge; I knew the ridge in any case, and in a number of places there are lines of cairns to guide one along. The full traverse through to Grizedale Tarn wouldn’t take even four hours in the worst likely weather. I went on.

On Helvellyn, the idiots. These big famous hills are idiot-magnets. I saw at least two or three people – older men and younger women – in shorts. I offered advice to an Italian man and his girlfriend, up from the Thirlmere side, a couple barely even capable of reading and pronouncing the word “Thirlmere”.  They were wearing trainers and windcheaters; no map, no compass, no food or water, no torch. Just mobile phones. My advice was, “go back the way you came”. A pair of harmless fools possibly: but this is why local mountain rescue teams end up being so stretched.

Over Helvellyn to Nethermost Pike and Dollywagon Pike. Around this time the gale brought with it heavy rain for a time, and I found myself hiking in shocking, dreadful conditions. My gloves were getting wet and my fingers getting cold. I’m very careful of my fingers – an attack of Reynaud’s Syndrome up here in this weather could render me unable to do the most basic tasks – zips etc – with my fingers. I switched to my heavy winter mittens – but I could not get them on, with damp or wet hands. A very tricky few minutes was spent pulling the mittens on. After that, I was OK.

Onwards through the clag and the relentless gale, until I found myself on the stairs down to Grizedale Tarn. These Lakeland staircases of local stone, so expensively and lovingly installed, are an asset to the landscape wherever they are. The prevent the unsightly erosion and ugly scars on the mountainside caused by heavy pedestrian traffic. But in the wet, going downhill, in a howling gale, I find they can be lethal. Maybe it’s just my boots.

As I dropped below the cloud deck I could see Grizedale Tarn far below, black and dour as it always is, but with conspicuous white horses at the eastern end, raised by the tremendous wind. I got to the tarn at around 2pm – three hours from Sticks Pass. These were severe, rough and very windy conditions. Descending into Grizedale, the wind, if anything, became even worse. It became not merely relentless, but capricious and malevolent, gusting to the point where I might easily be knocked over when stepping down from one place to another. Nonetheless I made a good pace down Grizedale, though much troubled initially by the wind. I was last in this valley in 1979 – only my second ever trip to the Lake District.

I crossed the footbridge and took the left-hand path on the north side of the valley continuing through pleasant terrain which became emerald-green farmland with sheep and stands of ancient tree. The path leads upwards briefly to Lanty’s Tarn, which I read afterwards in Heaton Cooper, was extended by the landowner in order to provide a year-round supply of ice for his table!

From Lanty’s it was but a few minutes walk through the rhododendrons and the woods, to the Ullswater Hotel, and my hike was done. Check-in was harmless; a South African fellow sorted me out in seconds. Through the bar to my room, where initially, I just sat, raincoat on, boots on. Then, raincoat off, boots, sweaty clothes off, kettle on. A Nice Hot of Cup of Tea. And there is a even a bath, and a nice long one at that. I poured a bath and sat in it to unwind, sipping sweet tea. I had a shower as well, to get properly clean and get some hot water on those stiff shoulder muscles.

Another successful hiking trip completed, another excellent hotel stay in prospect. I had wanted to recreate the pleasant feeling of tiredness I had when I stayed at the Old Dungeon Ghyll Hotel after my October hike a couple of years ago. I had deliberately tried to engineer that feeling, by making this hike more arduous towards the end, than at the beginning. But in the real world of course, things can often turn out slightly differently.

Day 1: Keswick to Skiddaw House, Keswick to Skiddaw House, 12km, 3 hrs 21 minutes.

Day 2 Skiddaw House to Dowthwaitehead, 25km, 9 hrs 30 minutes

Day 3 Dowthwaitehead to Glenridding via Helvellyn, 21.1km 9 hrs 30 minutes.

My kit – with the possible exception of the winter mittens which I struggled to put on when my hands were wet – performed exceptionally well. My tent, an MSR Elixir 2, did very well – it dries quickly and the base of the inner is more waterproof than it looks. My overtrousers (Berghaus Goretex, very lightweight), gaiters (Rab) and jacket (Mountain Equipment “Lhotse”) all performed in heavy weather. There is almost nothing I used that did not work well.

On the Thursday I had a train back home, out of Penrith at 1423. The fundamental unreliability of public transport in the UK means that I could not afford to take the last possible bus to catch that train – were that bus not to turn up (which would be more than possible) I’d be missing my train. So I had to take bus at 0955. So it was that after breakfast, I took bus #508 in the rain along the side of Ullswater, 45 minutes to Penrith.

Me and a college friend I once walked the whole length of Ullswater on a sunny winter Sunday morning. All 14 miles of tarmac road from Glenridding right out to junction 40 M6, in 4 hrs. But I was 19 then and I thought nothing of it.

In Penrith I looked round and sat in a cafe for a couple of hours, before retreating to the station to take train back home: an excellent few days away.

A walk round the Cairngorms starting and ending at Glenmore

Posted on by
Reply

After a half day, I checked my bag was all properly packed, and then, about 7 o’clock, set off by bus to Belper, to take train from there via Derby to Birmingham International. The ticket lady on the XC train from Derby to Birmingham New Street was most interested to hear of my forthcoming adventure, particularly with regard to the use of the Caledonian Sleeper out of Birmingham International. I got to New Street a little after 2100. We leave time for snafu when dealing with trains in the UK – they are just not reliable enough to cut things fine. In the end a delay of over half an hour leaving New Street meant I was not at Birmingham International until 2220 – the sleeper was at 2242. In it came, hauled by a VERY noisy class 92 locomotive. My berth was #9, right over the bogie, and this particular carriage was above-averagely noisy and bouncy. But I slept well enough.

At Aviemore I got down from the train.

The very first thing I saw on the platform was a sign saying “No loitering” – on a railway station. The bus up the valley to Glenmore did not leave til 0919. I had a coffee and a rather poor heated pain-au-chocolate. The bus, to my surprise, was a big double-decker intercity bus. It roared off up the shiny road and deposited me at Glenmore, opposite the campsite, at not much after 1000 hrs. I set my devices – Garmin Inreach tracker, and Garmin Vivoactive 3 watch – and set off along a good metalled road. The forecast had not been great, and I had amended my route to reflect that, at the last minute, or rather, on Sunday night. My route took me along a gravelled road past Lochan Uaine (Green Lochan) towards Ryvoan. I turned right before reaching Ryvoan, trending roughly SE along a good gravel road. I overtook a party of three schoolgirls who said they were going to Strathnethy. At the footbridge at NJ 021104 the road forks and becomes two paths. The right-hand path trends south through Strath Nethy, over The Saddle and down to Loch Avon. The left-hand path toils up the shoulders of the munro Bynack More (1090m). I reached a fork in this path at about 1220 and feeling decidedly tired, decided to take lunch. The weather was improving. At this fork, the left-hand path goes over the shoulder of the fell and down into Coire Odhar, and from there down to the Fords of Avon. The right-hand path continues over Bynack More. I followed it up over the summit in warm, clear weather. But as I sat at the top, clouds were wisping across; the clag descended as I did.

To keep clear of very steep ground and cliffs of the Leachd a Bhainne (“Milk Slabs”) on the eastern side of the mountain. I found it necessary to resort to compass work, and navigated my way out of potential difficulties using a combination of the compass and my GPS position as seen on my handset. I needed to contour along and cross a stream. I found the stream in the thick mist, and had then to climb a steep grassy hill out of its valley. A big relict snowfield stood nearby. About that time, a fighter aircraft roared overhead, though of course it not be seen. I continued through thick clag, over  drab and alien stony ground that – as I have said before – seemed to resemble the surface of Mars or Venus. Keeping on the compass, I found I needed to turn again away from the direction I was inclined to go in – I was still heading too far south for safety, heading into steeper, less favourable ground. Learning to trust the compass is an object and important lesson in mountain craft. Given that it works properly, and that you know how to use it, the compass is pretty much always right. Normally I would say “trust your instinct” but in a straight disagreement between my instinct and a compass, I’d choose the compass every time.

Loch Avon

Loch Avon came into view – compass no longer required. Then, a long tread down to the lakeside, and then a longer walk still along the north shore of the lake itself, dour and grey in this lowering weather. The path, particularly towards the head of the Loch, was dreadful. The path weaved between boulders the size of cars, and there was mud, gaping holes and narrow gaps to squeeze through – difficulties for the tired older man hauling 18kg. I saw a fisherman and gave him greeting. A bit further along, another fisherman, standing on one of the delightful golden sandy beaches that adorn Loch Avon. Four weeks, he said they’d been here. I left them to it and camped out of their sight, following the path along the loch to the river mouth – three becks fall from the corries above, to form a substantial river flowing into the loch. Seven or eight square kilometres of mountain plateau at 1100m above sea level, drain into this river. The rock scenery here is absolutely stupendous, even in the clag and cloud. Until the building of the road up to the ski centre on Cairn Gorm, this was one of the wildest and remotest lochs in Britain. Even today, just to get where I pitched my tent would be a full day’s walk from a tarmac road, in any direction. Admittedly the Ski Centre car park is only 5km away – but that’s 5km as the crow flies, over 1200m mountains, cliffs and gullies, and the summit of Cairn Gorm itself.

I pitched my tent, and for supper: firstly, a nice hot cup of tea – with milk left over from the Sleeper. Then, some fresh Tortellini (chicken and proscutto) – three-quarters of a pack designed for two people. Some red wine, and for afters, some hot chocolate with added whisky.

I slept well enough; so well in fact that I did not get up for walking until 0645 – quite late for a hill day even in summer. I figure two hours from waking up to setting off walking. There was some light cloud and clag and there had been intermittent rain during the night. I struck camp as for a “wet strike”, taking down the inner tent from the inside. I set off at 08:37, wearing waterproof overtrousers from the get-go. The path makes its way through the tremendous rocky scenery, up the hillside to Loch Etchachan. I reflected as I climbed that this was no place to fall over. It is a wild place. Mid-week in weather like this, someone else MIGHT come along this path today – in the opposite direction. Someone might come this way in the same direction as me, but not until late afternoon.

Loch Avon in the heart of the Cairngorms

As I got to the top, really heavy rain began to fall. I even found my “after-market rain hood” and stuck that on my rucksack, where it stayed til lunchtime. For a while it rained quite heavily. Hood up, woolly hat, gloves, full protective gear on, I continued with the wild and grey Loch Etchachan on my right. I camped here in November 1990 with two friends. What were we thinking of? We knew nothing! At Etchachan there were brief gaps in the cloud; for a while there was even a band of wan sunshine briefly illuminating the rocky headwall behind the loch. Overall though the weather looked poor. I made the decision to “down and round” rather than pursue a high altitude programme. I could not be doing with messing around with a compass in the clouds for hours, with the rain in my face. Was it the wrong decision? I certainly regretted it several times later on given how the weather improved – but it was changeable and fickle, and this is the Cairngorms. I’m hiking alone in my early sixties, carrying 18kg, and the Cairngorms are grown-up mountains. This is not the Lake District. It is doubly true here that safe is better than sorry. That said, a fall in the Lakes will kill you or cripple you just as quickly as in the Highlands. The rucksack is the issue – once you lose your balance and fall over carrying an 18kg rucksack, you’re going down. There’s no second chance. This is not a clarion call to inaction; it is not a call to non-arms, a suggestion that one should remain indoors: that’s a fool’s creed. What is it is, is a call to thinking carefully, staying alert, and preparing oneself fully for any eventuality.

I descended slowly to Coire Etchachan, through both sunlight and showers. Far below, I could see the pristine white roof of the Hutchinson hut. Halfway down, I met a lady with a friendly Labrador, and passed the time of day with her – where was she going, where was I going? Etc. She must perforce have been out of the Hutchinson bothy, or at least have camped nearby. I thought to myself – but did not ask her – how do you feed a hungry Labrador on the mountain? I arrived at the Hutchinson hut at 1100 hrs and rested here a while – there was no hurry.

The Hutchinson Refuge, built in 1954, in Coire Etchachan

Then, onwards, down into Glen Derry in improving weather. I was at the fork with the main path through the glen at 1130, and stopped for lunch at a little after noon on the fringes of some ancient Scots Fir woodland. Two American hikers passed me as I took lunch, one wearing sandals. A bit after lunch, a party of three heading north passed me. Onwards through the warm afternoon, regretting my decision to come off the high tops, I continued down to Derry Lodge, arriving a little before 1500. Derry Lodge sits in an area of magical, scenic ancient woodland. I sat still near a fallen tree trunk, grey and dry (the tree trunk, not myself) and a red squirrel hopped past cautiously. Smaller, and a good deal less tame and more delicate of tread than their cocky grey cousins in England. I saw the American pair again, another pair of hikers, and a solo hiker.

Looking north up Glen Derry

Thence, through the warm late afternoon over a good path, passable with care by a 4WD vehicle, towards Luibeg bridge. In  good weather this is a delightful garden spot, an absolutely delightful dell, a magical tree-lined vale. It seemed to me that last time I was here, I was feeling very stressed out for some reason. This time, much better: I stopped and bathed my feet in the Lethe-like waters of the river. A couple passed me walking in the opposite direction. I used some voltarol on my right shoulder.

Glen Guesachan and the Devil’s Point on the right

From Luibeg, it is a couple of hours walk over the shoulder of the hill to the Corrour bothy. As I walked in I could see Glen Guesachan ahead of me, where I had camped in 2021, and to its right, the towering ugly mountain called the Devil’s Point. I walked right into the hut and looked inside, so I could say I’d been in the Hutchinson hut and the Corrour bothy on the same day. There were two fellows inside; they welcomed me in but I preferred to camp – I had no plans to sleep in such a place. Grim indeed would be the weather before I should prefer a bothy to my tent.

I retreated back to the river and actually camped within thirty yards of the bridge. A few moments later a party of schoolgirls arrived and made to camp on the other side of the river. This is a busy place; various people passed by, and the distant tinkling laughter of this group of young women was the background sound of my evening. My second night wild is always party night. I set my tent to my satisfaction, used more Voltarol on my right shoulder, and did some Paracetamol. Then a Nice Hot Cup of Tea. I prepared my usual Lentil dahl – some onion and garlic fried in butter, to which is added about 90g of red lentils, with spices (black pepper, salt, coriander, turmeric, garam masala) added at home. Take a cup of red wine once the tea is finished. Add water and bubble away for a while.

I’ve been using the Swedish Trangia stove for over forty years and have become inured to their shortcomings. One of those shortcomings, at least of the liquid fuel version, is that it has limited control – there is but one cooking speed, full blast. Too fast a boil for lentils, which need gentle simmering. An adjustable “simmer ring” to restrict the flame is provided, but placing and particularly removing, the simmer ring, is an art form. If you place it wrong, you can’t just fish around in the flame with your fingers – you have to use the rather clumsy clip handle provided to get the simmer ring out again – by which time it may be too hot to touch. Removing it is likewise tricky, and having removed it, one has to be careful that flames don’t shoot up suddenly, not ideal if you’re in the porch of your tent on a rainy night. A word on this clip handle: I’ve always known it referred to it as a “Bulldog”. One day sometime in the 1990’s a friend of mine went into a crowded mountaineering shop to buy a spare, having lost or mislaid his. He turned to the guy in the shop and said, “Have you got a spare Trangia bulldog?”. The guy behind the counter, known to be somewhat droll, replied quick as a flash, deadpan, on a busy Saturday afternoon, “I can do you a chihuahua”…

Whilst the lentils are simmering, take 90g of gram flour (with added salt and pepper) and add about 45g of olive oil and sufficient water to make a nice smooth batter. This is going to be a Farinata – chick pea pancake. It is prepared using the Trangia lid – itself a frying pan. It’s a bit hit and miss, for a Trangia stove in the wild is unlikely to be EXACTLY level, which means that the cooking oil will tend to run down one side of the batter, risking burning the other side.

Follow all this, after a decent interval, with hot chocolate to which a wee dram has been added. And so to bed – even before 9pm. It’s not dark – still broad daylight in fact, but it only gets properly dark for an hour or so in the small hours, at this latitude and this time of year.

This morning there was no sleeping much beyond 0600, but this was not a problem given the early hour I’d gone to bed. I had my Breakfast of Champions. This is more of a food blog than it is a mountaineering blog…Take half an onion and fry it in a little butter. Roughly chop up a handful of stale bread, and throw this in the pot with the onion. Slice up some chorizo sausage and fling this in too. A little of anything else to hand – a couple of chopped tomatoes, or some spinach, is nice. Fry all that lot up nice with perhaps a little bit too much butter, and at the last moment, add some cubes of cheese. Serve with hot, sweet black coffee.

Looking north up the Lairig Ghru with Braeriach in the distance

I set off at 0830, plugging directly up the Lairig Ghru, wearing gloves for the first half an hour or so. The skies were clear, and the western summits – Carn Toul, Angel’s Peak and then mighty Braeriach, became visible as I climbed up the pass. There were still significant snowfields in some of Braeriach’s gullies and corries, and along the cliff edge on the high tops. On the way one passes the Pools of Dee – delightful little tarns – and has to cross several boulder fields. I don’t like boulder fields; I certainly don’t like boulder fields as an older man hiking alone in wild places, carrying 18kg. I edge my way across them most carefully. I reached the top a bout 1100. Once onto the Spey side of the pass, the river disappears completely underground. There must have been a tremendous landslip sometime towards the end of the ice ages, probably before these islands were even inhabited. One descends, high up on the right or western side of the valley, descending to a place where, with a great rushing noise, the infant Spey reappears from boulders and cliffs. Here, at noon, I took lunch.

I’d walked 10km from the Corrour bothy to here and never saw a soul, and nor could I have,  given the geography. There was no-one behind me capable of catching up with me, and no-one would be coming south through the Lairig Ghru much before mid-late afternoon. But within five minutes of sitting down for my snap, I was passed by almost a dozen people. You could see them all in a line, descending into the Lairig Ghru on the path from the Chalamain Gap, all clearly off the first bus to the Cairngorm ski centre, which arrived about 1000. All of human life though, was on the mountain. The walk from the car park through the Gap is no picnic, but from right here in the Lairig Ghru, it is four hours walk just to Corrour, and that just a mean bothy; the roadhead at Linn of Dee is another 4 hours walk beyond that. I didn’t see many big rucsacs; I saw people with little knapsacks, wearing trainers. What are these people thinking of?

On the stairs up towards the Gap, more hikers including schoolboys. An older man was at the back; I passed the time of day with him, as he was clearly responsible for several parties of youngsters on the hill. Did you, he asked, encounter a party of girls last evening at Corrour? I replied that I had – thus reassured, he went on his way.

The Chalamain Gap is a strange eldritch place, particularly if one goes through it alone. It is – to borrow text from www.walkhighlands.com, “a dramatic glacial meltwater channel, renowned for its floor filled with vast, house-sized boulders. Located between the Sugar Bowl and the Lairig Ghru, it requires a physical scramble across uneven rocks and serves as a popular, rugged hiking route”.

Chalamain Gap

Navigating the boulders, with a big bag, is particularly tricky. For a time I had to put away my trail poles. After the Gap, there is a good path winding over the moor, but for a time it became very, very windy. In the distance one can see the ski centre, and the road, and the yellow bus winding its way along. Down into the valley to cross a bridge, and up again to the Sugar Bowl car park. From there, after a suitable break, I tramped slowly and painfully down the tarmac road to Glenmore, a walk of forty minutes or so, and my hike was done.

Day 1: 19.07km, 7 hr 29 minutes from Glenmore to Loch Avon via Ryvoan and Bynack More

Day 2: 19.78km, 8 hrs 8 minutes from Loch Avon to Corrour via Derry Lodge

Day 3: 18.3km, 6 hrs 31 minutes, from Corrour to Glenmore via the Lairig Ghru and the Chalamain Gap.

After my hike I stayed at the excellent Glenmore campsite, which cost £17. Good hot shower facilities, soft, flat ground on which to pitch a tent. I crossed the road to the SYHA, a large white detached house on the other side of the road, and for £26 bought me a very fine three course supper: Haggis bites, a very superior burger with great chips, and a Tiramisu, all washed down with a bottle of Cairngorm Breweries “Stag” ale. A bizarre ambience prevails in the modern youth hostel. There is a combination of the old and the new. First rate food is often available; they are generally licensed and drinking alcohol is permitted, but restaurant food may be served in a canteen atmosphere, and one has to take one’s cutlery and plate away afterwards. Doing chores is no longer required…

The next day I returned to Aviemore by bus in bright sunshine, and travelled across Scotland to Motherwell to visit a friend. And the rain came down.

Backpacking the 4000′ tops of the Cairngorms

Posted on by
5

What was I thinking of when I (a man 194cm in height) rented a Fiat 500 to make an eight hundred mile round trip drive to the Cairngorms? It is what it is, as they say: the rental cost was modest enough, at least compared to an equivalent train fare to Aviemore. I set off from my home in the English Midlands at 0458, and parked in the scrubland off the road near Whitewell, at about 1350. I stopped three times – at a service area on the M6, at Lesmahagow on the M74 (where there is a very convenient Tesco store literally at the top of the exit ramp) and at briefly at Blair Atholl in the Highlands. Very briefly – there is nothing there!

I was onto the hill before 1430 on a warm and hazy afternoon. I had a heavy carry – almost certainly 20kg; 3 kg of food (for three nights), water, and about 15kg of equipment. I was wearing new boots – Lowa Renegade GTX – and these performed superbly; not so much as a blister over 60km of walking. My route led up into Glen Einich, a route much patronised by cyclists. Several of them came whizzing past including one gentleman on one of those reclining contraptions.

View up Glen Einich

Gradually one leaves Speyside behind and enters a Cairngorm atmosphere. In preparation for this trip I had re-read a favourite of mine, W.H Murray’s excellent “Cairngorm Blizzard“. This is the story of encountering a Cairngorm snowstorm – in May. He writes of Cairn Eilrig as being the “last outpost” of the Cairngorms standing against the pines of the Forest of Rothiemurchus. I passed Cairn Eilrig and eventually could see Loch Einich itself in the distance. The first tactical navigation decision of the trip was upon me. Will I camp down here in Glen Einich, or will I climb into Coire Dhondail, seeking flat ground up there? At this point Coire Dhondail is just a promise on the map, a notch on the distant skyline. At the junction in the path lay two sturdy mountain bikes, completely unlocked.

I opted to climb, and up I went. After a time of climbing in the hot afternoon I was into the flatter ground of the corrie, which was sere and dry grass. There is no tarn – or “lochan” as they say in these parts. The cliffs of the headwall contained a pretty waterfall, as well two or three snowfields. It was not at all clear to me that there was a way up the headwall and onto the plateau. A trip report on https://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/ noted that the path “meanders up the headwall”, but was it passable to a man in his late fifties with less than good balance, carrying 20kg?

The headwall of Choire Dondail

I camped by the babbling brook; there was some light rain and there were occasional violent squalls and gusts of wind, followed by periods of complete silence which weather-wise, worried me more than the wind. I slept well enough – there was a sleep deficit to work off after a busy weekend – and was packed and away before 0700 the next morning.

After my breakfast coffee I set off, not finding the path that had seemed so obvious yesterday, and just went up the hillside trusting to luck. I was not hopeful, but fortunately, I soon found the path. Where one can go, another can follow – with care and a measured tread, and judicious use of trail poles. Soon enough I was up on the plateau. The clouds were down and the wind was howling, ripping along, a strong South-easterly. In these conditions up here on the western side of the Cairngorms one finds oneself climbing through an almost featureless landscape, like the surface of Mars or Venus. The only feature is the fact that the land rises. One must avoid cliffs to the left, and there are cliffs far ahead. It was time for the compass. I bore about 65 degrees – that level of accuracy would suffice. I was concerned that the wind would push me constantly to the left, but my subsequent course reveals that this did not happen. To trust the compass at any time is an act of faith in technology rather than human instinct and inclination, but in these conditions, to do so pays dividends and will save your life. In due course the easterly precipice of Braeriach became apparent in front of me, and I then turned left towards the summit. I admit that I did find the actual summit – a cairn in a featureless wasteland – by resort to the GPS on my mobile phone. The wind was harsh and sometimes bore nasty rain showers: at this point I was in full winter gear including woolen hat, snood and winter gloves, and wondering if it was going to get any colder.

This was the first serious compass work I’ve done in decades. I used a tiny (folding up to fitting in the palm of the hand) Harvey’s 1:25000 map, made of polythene. This was a life-saver. From Braeriach, another bearing, about 30 degrees, through the mist and landscape resembling alien planets, to Cairn Einich, thence broadly south to Carn na Criche and then round the ridge to Angel’s Peak and onto Cairn Toul. As I descended from Angel’s Peak, the weather started to improve, allowing me glimpses of immense cliffs and huge relict snowfields, wild ridges and the distant grey side of the Lairig Ghru.

Angel’s Peak (1258m) and Lochan Uaine

In improving weather I continued down to the col above Coire Odhar. I toyed with the idea of leaving my rucsac there and going light to the summit of the Devil’s Point, but it was so windy that there was a high likelihood that even weighing 18kg and with a fixed hip belt, the rucsac would have rolled away. It was no significant challenge to go from the col up to the summit and back down again.

The view south down the Lairig Ghru from The Devil’s Point

From there, I descended carefully into Coire Odhar – at first the path is steep and nasty, but the slope eases further down. By 4pm I was at Corrour. There were four people at Corrour; two in the bothy, two camping. I had met two people on the hill all day and seen a third person in the distance, so this was a veritable crowd. It was far too early to call it a day – though the people at Corrour clearly did not think so. I had a snack and pushed on, through light rain.

I hiked the broadly level path 5km round to Luibeg bridge, in the grey afternoon, sometimes through rain. Here my mental health failed me for some reason, and I became quite anomalously and deeply depressed. I got to Luibeg bridge grumpy in heavy rain, and with some difficulty managed to fill up my water container before pushing on again up Luibeg burn, looking for somewhere to camp. I just kept putting one step in front of the other. Eventually I found a place to stop not too far from the fords at 012952. I was so close to the burn that I could not hear rain on my tent, and the noise of the rushing water enabled deep and refreshing sleep, something I needed after a long and complex day of over 20km of walking over 11 hours.

I had breakfasted on porridge and coffee, struck camp, was packed and away hiking by seven in the morning. The route went up the ridge of Sron Riach, a geography very similar to The Band in the Lakes. The weather improved, and pretty soon, actual sunshine appeared. The primary difficulty this morning was not going uphill – that was easy enough – it were boulder fields. On a boulder field one might easily fall and bend a trail pole, or even break a leg, or worse.

Sron Riach

Above Sron Riach, one does not follow the edge – as one might automatically – but trends left and slightly uphill, and gently by degrees up to the summit of Ben Macdui. On the way, I was impressed to find a significant burn – the Allt Clach nan Taillear – quite high up, well over 3000′ above sea level, which enabled me to top up my water. I was on the summit before 0930, and considered myself early on the hill.

View from Ben Macdui across the Lairig Ghru to the western summits. Note improving weather

As I arrived, I saw another person arrive – a young Englishman with a full beard, followed shortly afterwards by a European gent carrying a full sized umbrella strapped to his rucsac. I say European deliberately – I’d suspect he was from somewhere like Alsace-Lorraine, for he sounded both German AND French. Up here on the summit there is excellent phone coverage, even to a 4G data signal, from the mast at the ski station on Cairn Gorm.

Braeriach – the classic view – seen from on Ben Macdui

From Ben Macdui to the March Burn is about 1.6km. I must have passed at least thirty people in that distance – every one of them day-trippers carrying little napsacks and some wearing trainers. It’s maybe 10km km, four hours hike, from the car park to the summit. I had not realised that the Glenmore road up to the big car parks below the ski station had made this part of the Cairngorms so accessible. In my experience over 40 years as a hillwalker and mountaineer in England, Wales and Scotland, everyone politely says hello when passing one another on the hill. That memo must not have been read by these rancid tourists. Mind I’ll give them their due – it was a lovely blue sky day and if as a tourist you’re going to do such a route as this, it would need to be on such a day. But it does irk me to see people wearing training shoes and light jackets wandering round a mountain top 1300m above sea level. It has been noted that the summit of Ben Macdui is one of the hardest in the Cairngorms to get down from safely in heavy weather.

At the March Burn at around 1115, a second decision. Will I go down off the hill now, or will I make a side trip to the summit of Cairn Gorm? From Macdui it did not look so far away – an example of how the scale of the landscape can trick the eye. The map did tell a different story – a good 6.5 km from one top to the other by path. I decided to go down, and set off thus, but then moments later, repented of the decision and turned back. I would never again be here in such great conditions as this. There might never be another opportunity. The only place to be in weather like this is on the tops. So I went up – best decision made today.

My round trip to the summit of Cairn Gorm took around two hours from the March Burn, including time for my lunch break on the summit. I deliberately pushed it along the wide, clear path, through brown, dry and sere moorland, oddly reminiscent of parts of the Dark Peak. But this countryside is 1200m above sea level – it is not the Dark Peak.

The path led across two big snowfields, and the scenery was magnificent. The secret and hidden valley containing Loch Avon over on the right – the wild heart of the Cairngorms. The high jewel of Loch Etchachan. The cliffs, the sky, the rolling fields of Scotland away to the north. I’d been here twice before – in 1990 and in 2005 – but both times, in thick fog.

The trip was all brown grassland, stupendous cliffs, white snowfields and blue skies…and tourists. There were several parties of soldiers, all conspicuously tough looking young men all with tattoos and identical rucsacs, not all of whom looked particularly in their element, particularly crossing a large snowfield. T-shirts at 1200m – and here’s me in four layers. There was a harsh wind blowing, and only in direct sunshine was there any real warmth. Along the path I rather belatedly found my sun hat and sunglasses and put them on.

Summit of Cairn Gorm

Back at the March Burn by 1400 hours, I started over the shoulder of the descent track, dropping down through the pleasant afternoon to flat ground before Lurcher’s Crag, and then, very steeply downhill into the Lairig Ghru. One might have difficulty spotting that path and keeping to it in heavy cloud – but right now, barely a cloud in the sky. Downwards over grit and rock and boulder field, to the path that leads through the Chalamain Gap. Tired now, left and back up the Lairig Ghru to where the Chalamain Gap path joins the path down the valley itself. The last bit of that was a stone staircase: I was through here in 2005 and I don’t recall that, but that was 19 years ago.

In the Lairig Ghru, off came my boots and I bathed my feet in the stream. I refilled my water container (upstream of my feet, I would add) and pushed on for the last leg back to the car. It was 1700. It had taken me three hours so far to come downhill from the March Burn. Murray wrote of the “nine mile descent to the Spey” as seeming endless. I figured it was 7km from here to the car – all downhill. On the other side of the valley are structures that look like spoil heaps – but there can be no spoil heaps in this wilderness; they are pure glacial moraines. Down and down – eventually one reaches the edge of the woods, and enters once again the Forest of Rothiemurchus, that bastion of ancient and noble Scots Firs and other aboriginal trees.

Forest of Rothiemurchus

I got to the car just before 1900, increasingly footsore, in the delicate light of evening – or late afternoon really, at this latitude and time of year.

At a crossroads in the forest, I’d stopped for a drink of water – and found that I’d left my water container back where I’d stopped up in the Lairig Ghru! Ah well! It could have been worse. Someone will benefit from it. A quick shift of clothes, swig of warm Coca-Cola deliberately left in the car for that purpose, and I was ready for the off. I drove round to the excellent campsite at Glenmore, where I had a long shower, and then, walking quite slowly, returned to my tent to cook my supper, and so to bed.

Geek details

I walked a little over sixty kilometres in a shade over 21 hours, spending from Monday afternoon to Wednesday evening on the hill. The five 4000′ peaks (Braeriach, Angels Peak, Carn Toul, Devil’s Point and Ben Macdui) took me about 24 hours peak to peak but about 48 hours car to car.

I used an Osprey Aether Pro 70 rucsac, one of the lightest expedition bags on the market at about 1.8kg empty. The fabric is unfortunately not robust enough not to get punctured. Everthing is packed in dry bags anyway; it is otherwise an outstanding bag. I have a Rab Skyehigh 700 three-season down sleeping bag, and an Therma-Rest mat. A counsel of perfection is a silk sleeping bag liner. For a few grams, packing down very small, these offer extra warmth and are useful in summer when a three-season sleeping bag has to remain unzipped. I cooked on a Trangia 27 with non-stick pans – heavy and bulky perhaps but so much easier to use on rough ground than any top-heavy miniature gas stove with separate pans. On the hill I wore a merino wool hat, a merino wool base layer and a mid layer, a fleece, walking trousers, and Goretex raincoat, overtrousers and gloves as necessary. Proving unnecessary but had to be carried nonetheless, were spare walking trousers, Goretex gaiters, a torch, and heavy winter mittens. I used Harvey’s excellent polythene Cairngorms 1:40000 and 1:25000 maps. I took two Li-Ion power packs weighing in total about 800g – unavoidable. My mobile remained in flight mode except when needed, and was actually switched off at night. I tracked my hike with a Garmin Vivoactive 4, which will not even last a full day tracking activities without a battery top-up.

I rented a Fiat 500 from Europcar, for a week, at a cost of around £286 including additional (as in beyond the statutory minimum) insurance. I would not have rented such a small car had I thought more deeply when I booked it. The kindest thing I can say about it, is that it was adequate. I burnt fuel worth £101 to drive around 800 miles. Excluding the cost of the various brown food bought to sustain me on the journey, the journey cost around £390 – approximately 50p/mile. As I’ve argued elsewhere, ground-based travel that costs substantially less than 50p/mile, is almost certainly being subsidised, either by the tax-payer, by other passengers, or by the company providing the transport. As an alternative option, the return train fare from Derby to Aviemore (in standard class) is about £220. One has then to add the cost of buses and taxis to get on and off the hill, and take into account the fact that one cannot take additional shoes or clothing without lugging them around on the hill. I also took the opportunity of visiting friends at Ballater whilst I was in Scotland, something that would have been very much more complex, if not impossible within my allowed time frame, had I took the train.