An east coast thing
I was in Inverurie for work with the next couple of days free. Obviously the Cairngorms were calling, but first a meander inland to climb Morven, an outlier on the cusp of the great agricultural patchwork of Aberdeenshire. If Lord of the Rings had been filmed in Scotland, this landscape would have doubled nicely as the Shire, a rich quilting of forest and farmland, hills and winding valleys, slow-flowing rivers, twisting roads and sudden, pretty towns hidden in the folds, sleepy today in the bright heat of August.
It's not an area I know well, but it is distinct with a strong identity and sense of itself, one Scotland of many, something of a political enigma too. Around here it's Doric, not Gaelic, I was reminded the night before. This is the north but not the Highlands; the lowlands but not the central belt. Back in the Middle Ages, when the Lord of the Isles was a major force, west coast vs. east coast was a shooting war.
Agriculture is the bedrock here and in the 19th century, the musical tradition of bothy ballads developed amongst the farm labourers of the north east. Some of these songs have had long lives too.
So anyway, the rolling heathery fringes of the Cairngorms drew nearer. From a road-end near Logie Coldstone I took the trade route up Morven. An abrupt pull through the flowering heather and churring grasshoppers leads to a levelling off then another incline to the broad summit ridge of clipped heather, crowberry and lichen. There are plenty others enjoying the hill on this windy, sunny day. The views are enormous, south from shower-strafed Bennachie to the green and gold patchwork of the east, then round to the south and the Lochnagar massif, and finally to the west and the unmistakable warty tableland of Ben Avon. I run most of the way back to the car and make it to Ballater in time for lunch. The day is still young.
Ballater feels like a place to linger on such a hot day. Rogue thunderstorms are forecast for the afternoon so I'm happy to hang around and save my walk in to the Cairngorms for the relative cool of early evening, when any storms should have cleared away. After a leisurely lunch I find a shady spot on the village green and read away the afternoon. The thunderstorms stay away so I head towards Invercauld, a couple of miles short of Braemar, and start my walk in. It's still hot as I follow the road skirting round Invercauld House. This is a wealthy estate; I watch as a sleek, black Range Rover barrels up the long driveway past an enormous black sculpture. The sculpture is creepy and seems out of place to me. It suggests - vaguely - a human torso in its curves and hollows, but I just can't place it. Bad dream stuff, alien intelligence.
It's a relief to get away from the strange, manicured heart of the estate and push up at last on rougher tracks towards the mountains. The rock fin of A'Chioch on Beinn a'Bhuird beckons me on, shaped by no hands but making an instant connection, unlike the Invercauld artefact.
The way pushes on up the Slugain water. I'm startled when a large labrador crashes out of the woods, across the track, and into the trees on the other side, hot on something's scent. A short distance on I meet the owners who seem unconcerned that their large dog is out of control and probably terrifying wildlife. Perhaps it's rose-tinted middle-aged rearview vision, but as dog ownership has increased, training seems to have declined. I like dogs - we had them when I was growing up and they came with us to the hills, bothies and camping - but to have a dog out of control would have been considered the highest-level emergency, to be dealt with immediately.
I stop for a bite to eat by the burn, at the edge of the forest. Pushing on into the open glen, the way narrows to a tight, craggy slot, past a ruined shooting lodge, then spits me out into the upper world as the light starts to wane.
I cast around for a campsite. The banks of the burn are a thickly vegetated morass haunted by savage clouds of midges. I camp on a dry, gritty promontary about 20 metres above the Quoich instead. It's a good perch with clear views down to the Quoich pinewoods. A'Chioch looms above. This isn't my favourite time of year for camping out. True to form, I'm harassed by swarms of midges each time the wind drops, so can't relax. In order to eat I'm forced to take off the headnet and literally eat on the move, walking around the tarp as I eat whatever lukewarm gloop it was I cooked up.
It's a bit muggy too, not a good night to be entombed in a clammy bivvy bag and too-warm sleeping back, sweating and scratching my insect bites. Sleep takes a while. That Trailstar mesh inner had moved a few places up the wishlist by morning.
Next morning the cloud comes right down and drizzle sets in as I set off. I lose my appetite for Beinn a'Bhuird and Ben Avon and push east instead on a much less frequented path, over to the headwaters of the Gairn.
It's starting to clear up as I stop for lunch. A burn winds through this steep gap in the hills, overlooked by scree and crags. Trout dart through the water to hide where the burn's meanders undercut the bank. There's a lot of dry, grassy flat ground - this might have been a better spot to spend the night. A large erratic provides perfect shelter to fire up the meths stove for a brew.
Nostalgia. Was it really 26 years ago I was last here? A backpacking trip crossing the Ben Avon and Beinn a'Bhuird foothills from Gairnshiel to Linn of Quoich. It was June. A sleepless bivvy in the heather, and next day a rest stop that turned into an hour's sleep under a hot sun, awaking sunburned. Falling asleep again at Linn of Quoich as I waited to be picked up.
Carn Liath and Culardoch were two of the hills I visited that day, and that's where I head now.
If you can't climb Ben Avon, Carn Liath is the next best thing for appreciating the scale of the plateau and the profusion of tors.
Carn Liath's summit is a rough, undulating plateau with a number of tops around the same height. It's rough ground with much exposed, scored granite.
Showers trouble the Lochnagar massif in the south.
Across the Bealach Dearg, where the old route from Deeside to Tomintoul crosses, Culardoch is a different beast, a single, smooth heathery hump.
It's bright and windy, and a fine contrast to last night's sweaty midge-fest. Lonely Loch Builg is cradled by the hills to the north.
Size and scale, big skies and wide views - that's what the Cairngorms are all about. Oh, and weary trudges along never-ending estate tracks, out here in the east anyway. South of Culardoch there are Scots pine remnants, sadly unprotected as far as I could see, with plenty of old trees but no young ones. Sheep wander at will through the plantation high above Invercauld, but lower down towards Deeside they are fenced out and the forest is healthier.
Back at Invercauld, my legs were telling me this had been no lazy cop-out. Accidental wanders are often the best. It was nice to drop in on old acquaintances. Some times I love it when a plan doesn't come together.
It's not an area I know well, but it is distinct with a strong identity and sense of itself, one Scotland of many, something of a political enigma too. Around here it's Doric, not Gaelic, I was reminded the night before. This is the north but not the Highlands; the lowlands but not the central belt. Back in the Middle Ages, when the Lord of the Isles was a major force, west coast vs. east coast was a shooting war.
Agriculture is the bedrock here and in the 19th century, the musical tradition of bothy ballads developed amongst the farm labourers of the north east. Some of these songs have had long lives too.
So anyway, the rolling heathery fringes of the Cairngorms drew nearer. From a road-end near Logie Coldstone I took the trade route up Morven. An abrupt pull through the flowering heather and churring grasshoppers leads to a levelling off then another incline to the broad summit ridge of clipped heather, crowberry and lichen. There are plenty others enjoying the hill on this windy, sunny day. The views are enormous, south from shower-strafed Bennachie to the green and gold patchwork of the east, then round to the south and the Lochnagar massif, and finally to the west and the unmistakable warty tableland of Ben Avon. I run most of the way back to the car and make it to Ballater in time for lunch. The day is still young.
Ballater feels like a place to linger on such a hot day. Rogue thunderstorms are forecast for the afternoon so I'm happy to hang around and save my walk in to the Cairngorms for the relative cool of early evening, when any storms should have cleared away. After a leisurely lunch I find a shady spot on the village green and read away the afternoon. The thunderstorms stay away so I head towards Invercauld, a couple of miles short of Braemar, and start my walk in. It's still hot as I follow the road skirting round Invercauld House. This is a wealthy estate; I watch as a sleek, black Range Rover barrels up the long driveway past an enormous black sculpture. The sculpture is creepy and seems out of place to me. It suggests - vaguely - a human torso in its curves and hollows, but I just can't place it. Bad dream stuff, alien intelligence.
It's a relief to get away from the strange, manicured heart of the estate and push up at last on rougher tracks towards the mountains. The rock fin of A'Chioch on Beinn a'Bhuird beckons me on, shaped by no hands but making an instant connection, unlike the Invercauld artefact.
The way pushes on up the Slugain water. I'm startled when a large labrador crashes out of the woods, across the track, and into the trees on the other side, hot on something's scent. A short distance on I meet the owners who seem unconcerned that their large dog is out of control and probably terrifying wildlife. Perhaps it's rose-tinted middle-aged rearview vision, but as dog ownership has increased, training seems to have declined. I like dogs - we had them when I was growing up and they came with us to the hills, bothies and camping - but to have a dog out of control would have been considered the highest-level emergency, to be dealt with immediately.
I stop for a bite to eat by the burn, at the edge of the forest. Pushing on into the open glen, the way narrows to a tight, craggy slot, past a ruined shooting lodge, then spits me out into the upper world as the light starts to wane.
I cast around for a campsite. The banks of the burn are a thickly vegetated morass haunted by savage clouds of midges. I camp on a dry, gritty promontary about 20 metres above the Quoich instead. It's a good perch with clear views down to the Quoich pinewoods. A'Chioch looms above. This isn't my favourite time of year for camping out. True to form, I'm harassed by swarms of midges each time the wind drops, so can't relax. In order to eat I'm forced to take off the headnet and literally eat on the move, walking around the tarp as I eat whatever lukewarm gloop it was I cooked up.
It's a bit muggy too, not a good night to be entombed in a clammy bivvy bag and too-warm sleeping back, sweating and scratching my insect bites. Sleep takes a while. That Trailstar mesh inner had moved a few places up the wishlist by morning.
Next morning the cloud comes right down and drizzle sets in as I set off. I lose my appetite for Beinn a'Bhuird and Ben Avon and push east instead on a much less frequented path, over to the headwaters of the Gairn.
It's starting to clear up as I stop for lunch. A burn winds through this steep gap in the hills, overlooked by scree and crags. Trout dart through the water to hide where the burn's meanders undercut the bank. There's a lot of dry, grassy flat ground - this might have been a better spot to spend the night. A large erratic provides perfect shelter to fire up the meths stove for a brew.
Nostalgia. Was it really 26 years ago I was last here? A backpacking trip crossing the Ben Avon and Beinn a'Bhuird foothills from Gairnshiel to Linn of Quoich. It was June. A sleepless bivvy in the heather, and next day a rest stop that turned into an hour's sleep under a hot sun, awaking sunburned. Falling asleep again at Linn of Quoich as I waited to be picked up.
Carn Liath and Culardoch were two of the hills I visited that day, and that's where I head now.
If you can't climb Ben Avon, Carn Liath is the next best thing for appreciating the scale of the plateau and the profusion of tors.
Carn Liath's summit is a rough, undulating plateau with a number of tops around the same height. It's rough ground with much exposed, scored granite.
 |
| Beinn a'Bhuird |
Across the Bealach Dearg, where the old route from Deeside to Tomintoul crosses, Culardoch is a different beast, a single, smooth heathery hump.
It's bright and windy, and a fine contrast to last night's sweaty midge-fest. Lonely Loch Builg is cradled by the hills to the north.
Size and scale, big skies and wide views - that's what the Cairngorms are all about. Oh, and weary trudges along never-ending estate tracks, out here in the east anyway. South of Culardoch there are Scots pine remnants, sadly unprotected as far as I could see, with plenty of old trees but no young ones. Sheep wander at will through the plantation high above Invercauld, but lower down towards Deeside they are fenced out and the forest is healthier.
 |
| West towards upper Deeside |
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