Tag Archives: nature

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.

Jack’s Rake – wet

Posted on by
1

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

Posted on by
Reply

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.