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A walk round the Cairngorms starting and ending at Glenmore

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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

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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.