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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.

Jack’s Rake – wet

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In cold grey clag we set off up Stickle Beck, intending at the least to visit Stickle Tarn, but both of us, I think – though neither of us said it out loud – intending to try for Jack’s Rake. We arrived at the tarn and had a short snack. Some young people were there; the mist was thick and cold. We walked round the side of Stickle Tarn and addressed ourselves to Jack’s Rake. This would be my fourth ascent of Jack’s Rake. I came up here alone, carrying a big bag, in May 1987. I led a party of four up in September 1989, and I brought my son up here in 2014. That took some coaxing and encouragement. I happened to mention to him the principle in scrambling and rock climbing that “hesitate and you’re lost” and he replied that he’d learned that principle from me, on this route.

I write that deliberately, for today, Jack’s Rake was cold and wet and I found it quite difficult – I was “sketched out” as my son might say; in places it was sketchy. Whilst at least the exposure was limited today because of the mist, my fingers, even in gloves, grew very cold. In several places I was stuck for some minutes, hesitating long before committing to upward moves. In wet and greasy conditions underfoot, one wants good handholds. They are generally there on an easy scramble like Jack’s Rake, but in wet gloves I was starting to loose feeling in my fingertips. Loss of handhold would have been catastrophic, whereas slipping and losing a foothold whilst retaining a good handhold, would merely have made my pulse shoot up. We got to the top in good order without really serious difficulty, me going ahead of Nat for my safe-keeping, he herding me up the route whereas on the previous occasion, our roles were reversed. This was fitting. I am not unhappy to say that I have probably gone up Jack’s Rake for the last time. It would have to be a dry summer before I venture back there.

At the top, a short snack, before continuing by compass bearing  through cold wind over cloud-strewn brown moor, overblown with rotten snow, down to the top of the Stake Pass. Down the Stake Pass into Mickleden, that most favoured of places, and along the valley of Mickleden in the slowly fading light of a winter afternoon. Even in winter I can’t walk through Mickleden without hearing sheep, without feeling the heat of summer sun on my shoulders. Then, tea for two in the bar of the Old Dungeon Ghyll, before a companionable wander through the gloom across the fields to the car park at the New Dungeon Ghyll. For a short day, a towering achievement. A good scramble, easy fellowship and safe transit over the mountains in poor weather.

From Newtonmore to Fort Augustus via Laggan and the Corrieyairack Pass

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After work, in the afternoon, to the shop to buy various bits, and then pack a bag. The rucksack, which had been 13.9kg with equipment less about two kilos of batteries, Kindle, notebook and pens and trail poles, was 22kg on the eve of departure – all up: all clothing, all food, and some water. Heavier than I anticipated, but manageable. Where had that weight crept in from? This was to be my ninth solo backpacking and wild camping adventure. To Cromford then, and by train to London.

Arriving in London I had a bit of time – trains in the UK are just not reliable enough to cut things fine and not leave plenty of time. I was at St Pancras at 19:38 for a 21:15 train out of Euston, up to Scotland. Why was I travelling from the Midlands down to London to go back up to Scotland? Because the alternative was taking the train to Crewe and picking up the sleeper there at midnight. If you’re going to wait for a couple of hours on a draughty railway station platform at night, I don’t recommend Crewe. I did that once; it won’t be happening again. I had a pint and a sausage roll in the Betjeman Arms at St Pancras, then strolled along the Euston Road to join the sleeper to Inverness, the longest train in Britain, and my carriage right at the front of the train.

I slept well enough on the train and had to hurry through my full Scottish breakfast in a paper bag. I found myself on the platform at Newtonmore at 07:15 on a drear and misty morning, barely starting to get light. I dragged on everything I had, to keep warm, and in Goretex over-trousers, gaiters, waterproof jacket, gloves and woolly hat, set off into the pre-dawn gloom. I had in reserve only a thin Rab mid-layer and at that point in the morning wondered if I had come onto the hill ill-clad. I walked out of town up onto the heath; had there been no mist this would have been glorious and scenic. You could tell it was a temperature inversion – there’s a look about the sky when you can sense that radiant blue sky and sunshine are only inches, as it were, above the steel-grey ceiling of mist.

I ascended the Calder River up Glen Banchor, meeting no-one, listening to the fearful noise of stags rutting. This noise reminds me, with my taste in films, of the zombie apocalypse. At one point I needed to take care fording a stream. Late morning, I was approaching a tin hut somewhere round 648984, where the map marks “township” at Dail na Seilg. A stalker strode out to speak with me. We had a polite conversation about my plans, and his plans, and I saw that I needed to change my plans. It suited me to do so, to be fair – it wasn’t simply a matter of me rolling over. That said, this is pure stalker’s country, not at all walker’s country.  I followed a tired old land-rover trail and became aware I was going in the wrong direction. I was soon lost and disoriented in the brown upland, stumbling over the heather looking at my compass. It took some close map and compass work to get me onto the right trail, a good and substantial unmade road, which I followed south-west down Strath-an-Eilich.

Early afternoon I came out at Castle Cluny, a nice-looking Scottish Baronial pile in the usual grey granite. Through the delightful autumn colours I trod through the grounds out onto the road. Without a detour, there followed a tiresome 2.5km tramp along the A86, a single track road at this point, but still with a fair amount of traffic. This brought me to Laggan, around about 3pm. From here, another tarmac road tramp of 4.5km brought me to the “Spey Dam”. I had not been aware I was walking up the Spey valley. I met no mountaineers or walkers. At this point, around 4pm, I’d been 7-8km on metalled roads and much of the rest of the distance on good unmade roads. I admit that had I known so much of this route lay along actual roads, I might have chosen differently.  

Resting by the dam, I saw a couple of cyclists whizz past. I set off along the road under the dam and arrived at a kind of industrial yard, with piles of rubble and hardcore, and big spotlights ready to be connected to a generator – there’s no mains electricity here, even though this countryside isn’t the ostensible wilderness of the Cairngorms. All around there are very robust and well-maintained deer fences, with proper access for vehicles and pedestrians at the appropriate places. At this point, early though it was, I was looking for a place to camp. I could continue along the unadopted and private metalled road along the north side of the reservoir created by the dam, or I could hike uphill into more wild country further up Glen Markie. I opted for the former. I went through a metal gate, pulling back the bolt. The bolt made a displeasing sound that in the pristine silence of that place, sounded like a lamb being slaughtered. I walked a hundred yards before repenting of my decision and turning back. Such sudden changes of mind have served me well in the past. Being willing and able to change your mind is a virtue, not a vice – don’t let anyone tell you that stubbornness is a virtue.

I detoured uphill into Glen Markie for about an hour, past a wasteland of industrial plantations, until I came across a place where I might camp. I would have to hike back downhill to the reservoir tomorrow morning, but this was more or less where I thought I would end up when planning this trip as a desktop exercise back in June. I camped near the ford of the Allt Tarsuinn Mor, just before it joined the Markie Burn, a substantial river. I had a very cramped and limited pitch, but it had the advantage of being bone-dry heather. I was just below the tributary stream as it flowed down a ravine into the main river. I could hear running water in three different registers: the roaring or rushing of the river, the chuckling of the brook over stones, and the sound of small waterfalls. In spite of the limited pitch, it was supremely comfortable and I took one of the best nights’ sleep for some years, from around 7.30p.m right around until well after 6.30a.m next morning. I had a completely dry strike and was away from camp around 9 o’clock. There was no hurry. In any case, at this time of year in this place, daylight comes late and lingers late. There was little usable daylight much before 7.30a.m.

I hiked back down to the bottom of the glen, and turned right, resuming my route of the afternoon before. There followed 12km along metalled road – a single track road through glorious, empty country – but a metalled road all the same. The adopted part of the road (that is, the part coloured in yellow on an OS map) ended at Garva Bridge. Here there was an ancient bridge of 18th century military origin. Two cyclists whizzed past. I stopped for lunch and sat between the road, the woods and the Spey, under the cathedral of a clear blue sky. Today’s weather was better than yesterday’s. The tarmac gave out at a place called Melgarve – an empty house. At this point, in the heart of the Monadliath, you’re about 16km from the main road at Laggan, and perhaps a little further from Fort Augustus.

Beyond Melgarve, first a very conspicuous “Road Closed” sign, secondly, an actual half barrier blocking the way ahead to vehicles. The road itself continues up into Corrie Yairack, though without benefit of tarmac. This is one of “General Wade’s Military Roads”; to walk this route is why I was here. The afternoon’s walking ahead of me was the crux and heart of my trip.

Corrieyairack Pass

To the chagrin of some, a mighty high-tension power line marches up the valley, into the corrie and up and over the pass. All should have access to electricity. I remember in the 1980’s hitch-hiking in the Lake District and getting a lift from an estate agent. He told me that the Friends of the Lake District – every one of them living in a home with electricity – had opposed the building of power lines over a wild valley, which would have brought electricity to houses that did not at that time have access to power. Ever since then I’ve had little patience with the sort of environmentalist who sits in comfort opposing construction that would being the same comforts to others.

One of General Wade’s original bridges

Near the foot of the pass proper, I met a cyclist, the first outdoorsperson I had spoken to in days. I had seen no walkers, nor even so much as a footprint, along this route. The crux of the pass was six zig-zags, six legs of which were at this time of day (mid-afternoon) walking directly into bright sunshine. I was bareheaded. I had not thought to bring a sun hat, though I did have sunglasses. I blazed up the zig-zags barely out of breath. I’ve had eye trouble this year, and for that reason I chose this route because it was not so physically challenging. I also reflected that I have become successively more physically fit, particularly upper body muscle tone, on each one of these nine solo camping expeditions I have undertaken since 2021. I came off the hill on that first trip and had some unpleasant muscle problems in my shoulder, and had to visit a sports physiotherapist at the cost of several hundred pounds. Since then, on the advice of the physio, I try to do regular upper body strength exercises. Coming down to the Dungeon Ghyll last October, after two hard days on the hill, I was absolutely shattered – and part of me, misses that feeling. Being immensely tired sharpens one’s appetite for the simpler comforts in life –a hot shower, clean clothes, a Nice Hot Cup of Tea, a pint of beer and a pie, a warm bed.

At the top, a squalid guard-house stood, with an open door and bunks visible inside. In the long and golden afternoon I followed the path down towards Fort Augustus. I passed a 4WD vehicle with three fellows in it clearly observing deer. Another thing I noticed which I found unusual, was overflight by a small fixed-wing aircraft – repeated overflight, three or four times. Helicopters would be unremarkable, but a light aircraft, I found unusual: this is wild country. It was certainly not a sight-seeing flight. Far more interesting and dramatic mountains are available within a few minutes flight time for even a light aircraft. My best guess, looking at the heading and direction it was taking, was that some form of commercial survey was taking place, probably of the power lines in the valley.

It was my intent to camp at a place called Lagan-a-bhainne, a wooded area of small valleys about 12km out from Fort Augustus. Still in the wilds, but off the high moors. When planning the trip I had spotted the area and thought it looked like a likely spot for a wild camp. My eye as someone with some experience in map-reading, was drawn to it. As on the map, so the reality on the ground: it was indeed a quite magical area where a narrow wooded valley cuts through the high moors. I found a spot to camp, taking quite some care that my tent could not be seen from the dirt road: it seemed to me that the three men I’d seen earlier would be employees of the landowner, and they might be driving through later on. Unlike in England, it is still perfectly legal to camp wild in Scotland, but why draw attention to yourself?

This was my second night by a babbling brook. I find the sound thereof, very restful. For supper I had my usual Indian: a spicy red lentil dhal, chick pea flour pancakes, and fresh spinach, all washed down with about 200ml of rather nice Shiraz. I always say, wild camping does not mean roughing it. Wild camping – any camping for that matter – is not, for me, a means to an end (as in merely low cost accommodation close to the mountain), but an end in itself. It is time spent alone outdoors, time spent in the wild countryside, time to collect your thoughts and prayers, time to be still. I came away carrying probably 22kg, of which 3kg was food and drink. I was not troubled thereby.

Interestingly, though I had picked a reasonably flat place to pitch, I could not settle comfortably at all – there was incipient backache, tossing and turning whichever way I lay. I moved through 180 degrees and slept like a baby. I woke up around 0600, which is too early at this time of year and latitude – there being another ninety minutes of darkness. But I was awake. I got up and prepared for my day. I had a breakfast of champions – cubes of bread, cubes of cheese, and chorizo sausage, all fried in a little olive oil and butter. Porridge of course. Black coffee. I did not have a dry strike, but it was a lovely morning and there was no rain – it was all condensation. I am using three separate dry bags for the different components of my tent – outer, inner and “footprint” (ground sheet), and this technique is a useful convenience, making the tent easier to pack in my rucksack, and ensuring that the wettest bit (generally the outer) doesn’t get the drier bits wet during the day.

Around 0800 then, onwards through the grey morning, trending ever downhill on a good road across the moor. After an hour or so, Loch Ness and Fort Augustus came into sight, and my heart fell – was it so close? I didn’t  want to arrive there mid-morning. Actually the route has not so much a sting in the tail, as the walk-out is longer than it looks on the ground. On the map it was 12km; it just didn’t look that far. On my way down I passed an estate 4WD rumbling uphill, and a cyclist labouring along. It is a long and seemingly everlasting hill from the Fort Augustus side – rather like climbing Helvellyn from the Thirlmere side.

The road came down to another area of confused drumlins and narrow valleys full of trees, all very picturesque and rather reminiscent of the western Peak District. The road splits round a height of 228m at around 371055. General Wade went left; on a whim, I went to the right, along a 4WD road clearly very overgrown and ill-used. Well, not quite on a whim – a study of the map seemed to indicate that there was a way through some rather promising wild woods. I made the right decision! On the mountain, as 1930’s Scots climber W.H Murray noted, it sometimes pays to turn aside commonsense routine.

My path led down a long-abandoned un-made road by the side of the stream, down into the most magical valley, a beautiful and silent dell, peopled only by the sound of the rushing waters of the stream. This was the highlight of the trip! I had to carefully ford the stream. I continued, in a little trepidation that should have to turn back at the last. And indeed, the track to Culachy House was gated and very clearly marked “PRIVATE”. But there was another way – a hairpin to the right, down into another deep valley where I found, by chance as it were, the most beautiful waterfall: Culachy Falls.

From the falls a pleasant walk along a path through the woods, across the road and into a graveyard by the river. A little further on, the main road, and my walk was done.

  • Day 1: From Newtonmore to Glen Markie, 25km in 8 hrs 33 mins
  • Day 2: From Glen Markie to Lagan-a-bhainne, 27km in 8 hrs 7 mins
  • Day 3: From Lagan-a-bhainne to Fort Augustus, 12.3km in 3 hrs 28 mins.

I stayed at Morag’s Lodge in Fort Augustus, a former hotel now trading as a hostel. For a modest fee you can share an ensuite room with bunks. For slightly more money but still well below B&B prices, you can buy an entire room to yourself. Morag’s Lodge serve supper and packed lunches and a continental breakfast, and they have a drinks license. There’s a members’ kitchen as well as a proper bar, so it has the best of both worlds. The staff were super friendly and helpful.

The first time I came to Fort Augustus was in May 2012. I’d camped wild the night before further north in the Monadliath. My diary of the time records the following:

Yesterday I drove west from Aberdeen, in wonderful hot mid-20’s weather, enjoying the quiet roads and rolling wooded hills of Deeside. I pressed on over Lecht to Tomintoul through the summer afternoon to Nethy Bridge. Then over Slochd and left down minor roads towards Fort Augustus, at this point looking for somewhere to camp. I turned left again, up a minor side road, going right up over the top into the heart of a dark and wild corner of the Monadliath. The sun was behind me as I drove, and it was glorious. I found a place to camp amidst sufficient dry fallen timber for a jamboree of Scouts to make open fires. I camped in a little copse of pine above the road. It was 9.20pm and full daylight. Sunset at this latitude in late May is 9.45pm. There was sufficient wood from where I sat to make a lovely little fire, on which I prepared sirloin steak (medium) and courgettes and (alas) instant mashed potatoes. A nice S.E Australian Shiraz made it the pleasanter still. I had brought with me 2 litres of water, for there was no running water here – I could not have camped had I not brought water in myself. A couple of times, an estate factor’s landrover drove past and stopped. My fire was making a fair bit of smoke; there was no wind and the smell was unmistakable. They could not see me, and perhaps they cared less, for they did not come looking for me. I went to bed at 11p.m and woke at 5a.m, thence dreaming my way through to 7a.m. Morning was misty, yet dry. No single drop of dew fell, which was remarkable. My breakfast was bacon, mushrooms, tomato, roll and butter, served with fresh black coffee. A breakfast of champions, particularly when served outside.

What struck me most about this camp was the silence. The only noises were the calls of birds, particularly the call of cuckoos, and the sound of sheep. I set off at 8.30a.m in deep mist, back to the Great Glen, and on down to Fort Augustus, where the sun burnt the mist off, leaving a cloudless sky, a glorious summer day. I took coffee and cake at “The Scots Kitchen” in Fort Augustus, and read the paper. Could I ask for more?

An important part of this journey today was the adventure of doing it solely using public transport. I took bus Scottish CityLink bus 919 down Loch Lochy through Spean Bridge and onto Fort William. Once in Fort William I then had to wait a couple of hours for the sleeper train to London, which left on time and arrived more or less on time at Euston at 0800 the next morning. Thence along the Euston Road again and back into St Pancras station, where it was so early, there were no decent coffee shops open yet, and I had to get a coffee from Costa. Onwards home to Derby, and my trip was complete.