Day 7 – Aviemore to Derry Lodge
Awake at 4am I cogitate until six, drift off, and when at last I wake up there are three tents remaining from the seven of the night before. Mine, another belonging to a chap called Iain, who had arrived after me, and John’s. But he is not around. I leave a note to say ta-ra and crack on at 9.15am heading for the Lairig Ghru. Gradually the lacklustre legs reach cruising speed and after encountering Peter, who I met at Red Bothy, and Melvyn (Drumnadrochit) the path becomes all mine.
Lurcher’s Crag, with a grey bib of scree, to the left looms over the path, with Coire Gorm holding firm on the other side. All along the first section of the Lairig Ghru, the steepness of the sides of the valley lean over and threaten you, while when the views open out heading for the top you feel small and compromised in a giant landscape of rock. There is not a soul to be seen until the Pools of Dee, where a nod and a “guten tag” to a German walker barely ripple across the sense of solitude. Opposite the Angel’s Peak and below Ben Macdui, five minutes are spent just staring at the crags, the snow and the cloud movement. Below The Devil’s Peak, Corrour Bothy is belittled by the mountain’s soaring grey sides, wet and glistening in bright sunshine.
It was the right decision to take the Lairig Ghru, and not go for the heights of Lurcher’s Crag and on to Ben Macdui. With the Lairig Ghru’s length and stunning scenery, I can’t think of a place in the country that betters its scale and majesty. Only grey skies and rain would add another layer of foreboding about the place and the fact that there were no Land Rover tracks adds to its appeal. Beyond Devil’s Peak a path heads off down Glen Dee and eventually to White Bridge, where there are an abundance of vehicle tracks. I move off to the left, losing height and moving out of the Lairig Ghru. A pitch that was earmarked at Luibeg Bridge is occupied, and another further downstream is filled, but there are plenty around Derry Lodge a few miles along, where the Land Rover tracks reappear.
Day 8 – Derry Lodge to Braemar
One of the attributes of the Trailstar is that inside the tarp there is room to erect a clothes line, and my trousers and underwear are dry enough to wear after a night hanging on my 3mm Dyneema line. Having decided to stay the next night at Braemar, the day will be short relative to most others and also unhurried. Mervyn and Peter, who stayed at Corrour bothy, appear at Derry Lodge and join a knowledge of challengers heading for the bright lights of Mar Lodge, where there is a very sociable gathering and much tea drinking.
And the natter continues as Iain and I wander into Braemar for an early finish and plenty of time to establish a spacious pitch at the campsite. I restock at the Co-op and send off postcards and old maps and buy new maps – again – from the tourist information centre. The price of the new maps is the price of my forgetfulness.
The rump end of the afternoon is spent showering, chatting and looking at maps because the rain has moved in and the forecast for the next day is poor. A check on the foul weather route is needed.
In the evening, the Invercauld Arms is alive with challengers – the beauty of this place is that walking into the reception area gives no hint of the vibrant bar beyond. A North America cousin is leaving the hotel as I arrive because, as he says: “I can’t find the bar you told me about.” Down a corridor his face lights up as we enter the bar, the walls lined with weird and enticing whiskies, as if he has been inducted into a secret society.
There is a great craic and the time is way past midnight when I fumble and rummage – slightly the worse for wear – my way into the sleeping bag, still smiling about the man who was looking for “the Braemar kebab van”.
Day 9 – Braemar to Glen Muick
Rain and strong winds are set for the day so by way of a change from trail food I make corned beef and pickle sandwiches with fresh bread rolls collected that morning from Braemar campsite reception. To hell with gluten intolerance, sometimes only white bread will do. One sarny is scoffed waiting for the drip, drip, drip of the rain to stop. It doesn’t. Salt & vinegar crisps and a large pork pie plus apples as a nod to healthy eating are the other comfort foods in the rucksack – but like an over-excited pupil on a school trip, I am in danger of eating all my tuck by lunchtime. We have to get going or the day will be gone.
Through the rain from Braemar to the Lion’s Face and after a short, treacherous stretch of road walking on the A93, Ian and I enter the Balmoral estate with its myriad roads. Ballochbuie Forest is an ancient woodland with trees spaced fare apart, with plants growing in between and wildlife – not the usual cramped, commercial pine forests that squeeze out all life and daylight. Deer are banned in Ballochbuie (as if they know it) to protect the vegetation, but we spot a small specimen that has broken through the high fences darting for cover. Red deer, roe deer? No idea. It speeds away.
My cunning plan to nip through the forest at Craig Doin is cut short by a deep menacing ditch in a squelchy bog that is an impenetrable harsh brown and looks more evil in the overbearing rain and dark cloud. A walking pole dipped into the forbidding blackness reveals the depth of the water to be at least three feet. There is no way across. Sometimes you have to know when you are beaten. The earth here is sodden and unsettling being more akin to water, not ground. We head for a Land Rover track, one of the discreet old-fashioned kind with the green line between the twin tracks, that veers south of Ripe Hill. Ian stops for a lights, camera, action moment with his GoPro camera and we agree to meet at Gelder Shiel bothy. Out of the trees, the track is cold and exposed forcing me to don gloves and keep the head down and plod away. At a sharp left turn heading down into Glen Gelder a two-sided shepherd’s hut slides into view and, being a shield from the rain and wind, is perfect for a break. The corned beef sandwiches are unleashed while water boils for tea – simple things, but having worked up an appetite I am sat on a bench wrapped up warm with the boots, socks and feet airing as happy as a pig in muck. A cup of tea tastes so good taken outdoors in the fresh air ‑ in fact a corned beef sandwich is not bad either.
The clouds and rain slide across Lochnagar in the kind of weather that detracts all but the hardy walker and, with the visibility poor, the venue could be one of many wild places in the British Isles. Ian arrives, followed by a challenger called Neil, from Shetland (coming south to warmer climes) and after an interesting natter in which he reveals he used to work in the oil industry, he slips off into the clag in the direction of Lochnagar.
The wind picks up on the flat moor heading for Gelder Shiel bothy and the day turns into a wet, cold, demoralising one that would justify a night in the Dungeon Ghyll Hotel in the Langdale Valley quaffing Theakston’s.
At Gelder Shiel a chap from Newcastle has pitched in the lee of one of the buildings. He’ll pop into the bothy later, he says. After a struggle to open the door, a roaring fire greets us as does a bearded chap called Don. He does not recognise me, but he is a chap I met at Glen Feshie bothy – prior to the renovation – in similarly rainy conditions.
Don is set for the evening, has claimed a bed and is playing the happy families card game with three adults and a child while an energetic (are they anything but?) spaniel greets all and sundry – again and again and again. The three adults and a child family are using the bothy as a weekend retreat having walked in on the Friday. There must be an honesty box somewhere for payment.
The bothy is so comfortable, welcoming and warm and while brews are made and the fire roars a spare bunk bed beckons and the thought of staying the night sets in. Too many beers the night before in Braemar have sapped my energy. But the day, despite the gloom, is young and Ian brings me to my senses and we venture higher into the cold, demoralising driving rain. Walking across the glen floor in the Spittal of Glenmuick heading for the visitor centre, deer give the clatter of our walking poles a dismissive glance in contrast to most deer in the Highlands. Looking along the loch the area is wild and open.
Eerie stuffed hares and other fauna litter the walls of the deserted visitor centre. It crosses my mind to bed down on the floor but we head up alongside Allt Darrarie, with the rain pummelling down.
A break in the downpour coincides with finding a rough pitch by the river and my Trailstar is up on a lumpy chunk of ground in a minute. Seconds after the centre walking pole is inserted, another thunderous downpour descends, and stays for the night. To hell with a rice/pasta meal; I am too knackered and make do with a cuppa and the remaining huge slice of a pork pie, the urge to slip into the sleeping bag is too strong to resist.
itsgoodtowalk 