This is an excerpt from Ken Proudler’s Book, “A Walk from Cape Wrath to Edale” which is published by Amazon in Kindle format, and reproduced here by kind permission of the author

The Great Outdoors Challenge 1999

Ken Proudler’s journey from Strathcarron to Arbroath

Scroll down to start, or follow the links below
Introduction
Strathcarron to Glen Strathfarrar
Glen Strathfarrar to Drumnadrochit
The Monadh Liath to The Lairig Ghru
The Lairig Ghru to Braemar
Braemar to Glen Isla
Glen Isla to Arbroath

Preface to Ken Proudler’s Challenge 1999 for Doodlecat.

In 1999 I satisfied a life-ambition by planning and doing a ‘long walk’ – in fact something over 700 miles from Cape Wrath on the northwest tip of Scotland down to Edale at the foot of the Pennine Way. I arranged the route to include the 1999 Challenge. Overall, my walk split logically into four sections: Cape Wrath to Strathcarron; Strathcarron to Arbroath (on the Challenge); Arbroath to Kirk Yetholm (the northern end of the Pennine Way); then the Pennine Way down to Edale.

On my return from the walk I spent several months writing a book, recording my experience. For Doodlecat’s Challenge section I have here extracted the chapters that relate to the 1999 Challenge. The full book is available for Kindle and may be found here – or just search for ‘Proudler’ in the Amazon Kindle Store.

Since this is an extract, there may be occasions when the text references something that is outside of this edited section. I have tried to weed out such references but please excuse me if I’ve missed anything.

Ken Proudler – November 2011

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Chapter 1

Strathcarron to Glen Strathfarrar

“The two divinest things this world has got,
A lovely woman in a rural spot.”

Leigh Hunt 1784-1859

There are two styles of Challenger at the off: those younger and more recent recruits who get away with the metaphorical gun at nine o’clock sharp, to go storming up the first hill; and the older, more laid back variety, who know that the day will have more than enough hours to accommodate the miles they have planned.

On this day, Friday 14th May 1999, I was in no great hurry, and it was already after nine o’clock when I finished packing. As I left my overnight B & B at The Shieling to wander down to the Strathcarron Hotel to sign the start list I noted that Val Machin too was still getting her gear together. At the hotel, Ros Stokes was packing up her tent before wandering over to the post office.

We were old-hands the three of us, in spirit if not years. And although we were hardly tortoises we were certainly not hares. The others had all gone. The last few had passed me as I had come down, all heading upwards at a brisk pace. Watching their unnecessary haste had reminded me of a hilarious incident on the previous year’s Challenge:

Along with fifty or so others I had started the 1998 event at Mallaig. From here, most Challengers take the scheduled ferry trip across Loch Nevis to Inverie on Knoydart, for a start in the wilderness over there. The ferry leaves Mallaig at 9.50, which was not early enough for one first-timer who impatiently organised an earlier private boat, and persuaded a few others to share the crossing and the cost.

Those of us on the regular ferry were highly amused on reaching the pier at Inverie to see the early starters only just arriving on foot at the pierhead, having been dropped two miles further along the coast. Their boatman had claimed an inability to use the Inverie pier in the wind conditions, and had dropped them where he could. So the group had paid good money to gain nothing but an unwanted extra couple of miles of walking. They were not in the least amused by our laughter.

Returning from the hotel to The Shieling I picked up my pack and set off into the wilderness. From the back of the hamlet of Achintee a good path took me southwest up the hillside, climbing from sea level to 300 metres in the space of two miles, and then adding another 100 metres in a mile as it progressed eastwards into the Attadale Forest.

As with so many ‘Forests’ in Scotland the name is a misnomer in modern times, since there are no longer trees to be seen. Once upon a time, however, before men started felling trees for building ships and houses, these areas would have been covered in natural woodland.

In many places, especially on peaty ground, old bleached stumps and roots can still be seen, a reminder of the damage that man has wrought down the centuries. I am as fond as any hillgoer of standing at a viewpoint and imagining that the view before me has been unchanged down the millennia, from long before I was born; and that it will remain unchanged for centuries after I am gone. Deep down inside, however, I know that this is not true.

Man has removed most of the natural woodland that once decorated the scene, so the hills definitely do not look the same as they might have done for thousands of years. Here and there he has replaced it with unsightly rows of conifers that ruin the view and block the walker’s route. He has also added dams and reservoirs. In fact most of Scotland’s biggest lochs owe their size, or even their very presence, to man’s desire to store water. I prefer not to imagine what he will do to the view in the future.

Continuing eastwards I dropped down to a river, the Uisge Dubh, the Black Water, where a bridge crosses at high level above a gorge. The bridge was being repaired and I found myself having to take uncomfortably large steps across gaps in the planking above a ten metre drop to the rocky torrent below. The cheery couple who were doing the work had no problems: they were harnessed and safety-roped. I, however, had to pretend a lack of concern, and so conceal the tension in my bowels as I stepped and leapt ‘fearlessly’ for the opposite side.

Beyond the bridge the track contoured for a flat mile to Bendronaig Lodge which, separate from the main lodge, has a small bothy that I had visited before. I intended to lunch here, but was not yet hungry after my full cooked breakfast at The Shieling. Nevertheless I did have a drink and a biscuit, sitting outside in the sunshine. After a few minutes I was joined by Val, and a further few minutes saw Ros come strolling in, so we had a cheerful lunch party.

I enjoyed being with them, there being something about my makeup that I always feel more comfortable in the company of women, more at ease, than I am ever able to do in the company of men. Perhaps it is because I have three daughters and no sons. I have always lived in a household of women. It was a standing joke that even the dog and the hamsters were female.

The view from Bendronaig Lodge was magnificent. It lay in a broad sunny green glen with hills rising into the distance on all sides. In particular, the massif that holds the two Munros, Bidean a’ Choire Sheasgaich and Lurg Mhor could be seen to be a straightforward climb from this side. These are two of the most remote mountains, and they would be difficult to climb in a day-outing, so they therefore lend themselves to being climbed on a trip such as this.

The two women made an impromptu decision to climb the Munros together, this afternoon, leaving their packs at the base of the hill. As we reached Loch Calavie, Ros and Val dropped their packs and set off up the hillside. I stayed behind, sitting on the shore of the loch watching them.

For perhaps fifteen minutes I followed their progress as they took a diagonal line up the hillside, the afternoon sun highlighting the colours of their hill gear against the green of the slopes, until eventually they climbed out of sight. It made me feel sad to wander on alone. I had enjoyed their companionship for the last hour and a half, but now I was solo.

In one sense it was right to be alone. This remote and lonely glen, which follows the Allt Loch Calavie down to Loch Monar, is best appreciated when you can feel the loneliness, hear the silence, sense the awesome grandeur of the place, and it is impossible to do this in company.

A path follows the 350 metre contour line for five miles along the southern slopes of Lurg Mhor, occasionally passing old ruins – knee-high, grass-covered remnants of past habitation. There were more of these than are shown on the map, and at one I sat down for a few moments to capture the atmosphere of the place. I tried to imagine the people who had once lived here. Images came into my mind, prompted perhaps by old drawings and photographs seen in books, until I felt I had some kind of picture. So strong was this that I could almost hear the voices of children playing, sounds that would have carried for miles in the vast bowl of this glen.

The ruins were generally situated alongside the streams that drained the hillside, giving the buildings their water supply, and here and there in the vicinity of each tumble of stone blocks were patches of sweet grass where vegetables had perhaps been grown, or a goat or cow kept for milk. On one of these patches I eventually pitched my tent. I was still a mile or two short of a full day’s walk but I was ready to stop.

My pack had felt heavy today, because I was carrying four days’ food supplies. From Strathcarron I had carried that load up a 400 metre climb, which is never the best way to start the day, so it was hardly surprising that I was now tired. This was certainly a beautiful spot to spend the night, and I had no schedule problems. Since I had omitted the two Munros, I was actually a couple of miles ahead of the schedule I had submitted weeks earlier to the Challenge organisers.

As I cooked my evening pasta I listened to the radio. I was keen to hear the outcome of the opening match in Cricket’s World Cup, which was being held in England. This first match was between England and Sri Lanka, the existing World Champions, and England had won comfortably.

They had dismissed Sri Lanka for 204 runs, and then won by scoring 207 for 2 wickets with 3 overs to spare. Star performances for England had been by Alan Mullally, who had dismissed both Sri Lankan opening batsmen in his tally of four wickets, and captain Alec Stewart who had scored 88 runs. I was sad to be missing the tournament. Were I at home I would have been glued to the television for the duration.

The glen I was passing through runs down into Loch Monar, which I reached early on the Saturday morning, May 15th. This loch is man-made, running for some nine miles, whilst never as much as a mile wide, before it is contained by two dams at the head of Glen Strathfarrar.

At the point where I reached Loch Monar stands the lonely Pait Lodge, accessible now only by water. When I arrived there was nobody home since, apparently, the owners use it only occasionally. To continue on my route I had to pass through the gardens of the lodge and these were bright with daffodils, although the lawn was in need of a trim.

I was to learn later that the owners of the lodge had been walker-friendly down the years, tolerating the occasional shattered panes of glass where people had broken in to get out of the weather, or to spend the night. At one time they had even taken to leaving the door unlocked so that walkers could use the place more freely. This, too, had been abused when thefts had occurred.

From Pait Lodge I took a good uphill track heading south to meet the Allt Riabhachain, the river that drains three large mountains topped by An Riabhachain. On an earlier Challenge, Alan Jordan and I had reached the Allt Riabhachain at the point where it enters Loch Monar, intending to cross the river and continue along the loch shore. The water, however, had been uncrossable, and at the end of an already very tiring day we had been obliged to work our way upstream looking for a point to get over to the opposite bank. Eventually, after a mile of frustration, we had found a bridge not shown on the map, at the point where the track from Pait Lodge meets the river. Today I was armed with this knowledge and made straight for the crossing.

I crossed the bridge when I reached it then scrambled down the river bank on the other side, to find a sheltered spot for my morning break. It was a little cooler today, especially in the wind, and I lay down on the grass of the bank to offer the lowest profile to the cold air, placing myself downwind of my rucksack. I made a hot drink and ate some biscuits with it. I had some rough ground to cover next and needed to fuel myself for it. As I ate I took in the view. There was again a real air of wilderness. In every direction there were mountains for a backstop. And in the whole panorama there was no sign of human life.

My route onward from the bridge was due east for a pathless mile or so of slopes before turning south through a gap between two minor hills. On the surface this seemed an easy exercise. A superficial glance at the map showed the contours of the hill quite widely spaced, suggesting gentle slopes and a comfortable passage. But there was something to be gained from a more thoughtful study.

Closer inspection showed that the contours were wavy, in places positively wiggly. This suggested ground with lots of little ups and downs, as though I would be crossing against the grain of some large corrugated sheet, and with the possibility of bog in the troughs. I could see that this would take a lot longer to cross than was suggested by the first glance.

The going was indeed rough and I took it slowly, one step at a time, refusing to get myself lathered up in any misguided rush to get over the difficult section. I felt the benefit of my rest, and took a pride in my laid-back attitude. I accepted that a mile on rough ground could take an hour, against the twenty minutes on a good flat track. There was no point in trying to force the pace.

Eventually I reached the gap I was looking for, between the hills, and dropped down into the head of Gleann Innis an Loichel where I immediately hit on an excellent stalkers’ path. Although I still had some miles to go to my camp, and indeed it was not yet lunchtime, there was a sense of achievement in knowing that the hardest, most grinding part of the day’s work, was now done. I could relax and stroll gently down the well-tracked glen and into Glen Strathfarrar.

Even the gentlest glens, however, can present their problems, and I had a difficult choice to think about. Ahead of me the track forked. The left fork headed north over the two Loch Monar dams before swinging back to the east and into Glen Strathfarrar. This was a clear route presenting no problems, other than that it was a metalled road.

The right fork would be a mile shorter, and would postpone arrival at the tarmac for some three miles; but it would require me to ford the River Farrar. This was a prospect that I was unsure of, although a ford was marked on the map. If I reached the ford and couldn’t cross, I would perhaps have to walk back the three miles to the fork, meaning six miles wasted all-told. Needing a decision, I chose the safe option and the extra mile, tarmac or no tarmac.

In compensation for the tarmac, the dams were interesting in themselves, and my imagination was captured by these modern engineering structures in the middle of nowhere. There appeared to be no human presence other than me. Everything was deserted, and I thought of ghost towns, and man-made outposts on far distant planets.

Downstream from the second dam there was a car park with two or three cars. One of these was occupied by two women, both very well-dressed. The driver was perhaps in her fifties whilst the passenger was an older lady. I guessed that they were a mother and daughter on a day’s outing up beautiful Glen Strathfarrar.

As I approached them the younger woman turned to her companion and they exchanged a few words before she got out and strolled in my direction. She was obviously intent on speaking to me:

“Are you walking all of the way down the glen?” she asked, smiling at me.

“I am,” I replied.

“But it must be fifteen miles,” she said, showing surprise and concern.

“Aye,” I replied. “And I’ll not be stopping there. I’m going all the way to the sea.”

“What are you up to?” she asked, giving me another nice smile.

I explained about my walk in its entirety, something I didn’t very often do because I experienced mixed reactions, and we stood talking for five or six minutes.

It was only as I walked on afterwards that I realised that she had intended to offer me a lift, and had withheld the offer once she guessed that I wouldn’t take it. And of course I wouldn’t have accepted a lift, but it was nice to know that these ladies would have taken me into their car.

Strathfarrar is a beautiful glen, large parts of it a nature reserve. As I walked, and as though they felt safe here, small herds of deer wandered close to me and the road. The hillsides were clothed with strands of natural deciduous woodland, and the ever-present River Farrar widened here and there into lochs that sparkled in the afternoon sun.

Although the glen is blighted with the motor road to the dams, access is controlled by a locked gate, which is manned and opened only for a few hours on certain days, so traffic is scarce. I strolled on eastwards through the quiet of the afternoon and early evening, heedless of everything other than the beauty of the surroundings and, eventually, the need to find somewhere to spend the night.

The keepers in this area have a reputation for being somewhat unfriendly to walkers who want to camp, so I was looking for somewhere to tuck myself away out of sight. As I grew more tired I finally came to a place opposite Loch Beannacharan where I had camped before. At this point a stream comes off the hillside with an obvious flat area some forty or fifty metres up the slopes. I knew that the place was ideal, so I clambered up and found a spot for the night, out of sight of the road, but with all of the wonderful views wide open to me.

Before I pitched my tent I tuned in to the radio. It was Saturday evening and I wanted to get the football results. The English Premier League Title was in the balance, with Manchester United poised to be Champions if they had won today’s game against Tottenham, whereas Arsenal were waiting to seize the title if United slipped up at this last hurdle. United had won by two goals to one.

It was still quite early on a sunny and pleasant evening, and I took my time over putting up the tent and unpacking my gear. Feeling relaxed after a satisfying day, I cooked and ate then settled into my sleeping bag.

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Chapter 2

Glen Strathfarrar to Drumnadrochit

“Music alone with sudden charms can bind
The wand’ring sense, and calm the troubled mind.”

William Congreve 1670-1729

After a mixed night’s sleep I ate a hearty breakfast before getting away early for once. The early departure wasn’t that I was being good. It was more that I wanted to avoid confrontation over my ‘trespass’.

I sang, whistled, and hummed my way along the road down Glen Strathfarrar, as I so often did when a solid track promoted a regular rhythmical stride. The tune would vary according to my mood and the speed I was aiming for. Favourites included ‘The Laurel and Hardy Theme’, ‘Liberty Bell (The Monty Python Theme)’, and ‘The Ode To Joy’ from Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, which was this morning’s special. It is uplifting music, and I was in an uplifted mood. As if to match my spirits the day was a humdinger. It was a sunny Sunday, warm and fresh, and it really was a day for joy.

Geoffrey Moorhouse in The Fearful Void, the story of his camel trip across the Sahara, wrote of whistling and humming ‘Colonel Bogie’, and ‘The British Grenadier’, and he often used the music to speed up his rate of progress when he was otherwise flagging. I didn’t need to speed up my progress since I had an easy day ahead of me, only ten miles or so to Struy where I was booked into the Cnoc Hotel, with a pre-posted parcel waiting for me.

I hoped to arrive for lunch. The idea of a traditional Sunday lunch in a country hotel was really appealing, and was certainly contributing to my high spirits. This was a clear demonstration of the value of having something to look forward to.

Halfway down the glen I stopped for a break, mostly to give my feet a rest from the tarmac. I found a refreshing stream and sat drinking the water. It was delicious, more delicious than beer I thought, but it is easy to think such things when you don’t have the choice. I put on my headphones and switched on the radio to pick up the news on the hour.

Two walkers had been killed the previous day in a fall on An Teallach. I had been there little more than a week ago. It was reported that they had slipped on wet grass and slid downhill before plunging over a 300 metre drop. It brought to mind an incident of my own in the Howgill fells some years earlier:

During a morning stroll from my mother-in-law’s house in Sedbergh, up a small hill called Winder, I had slipped on wet grass. I slid several hundred yards downhill before the slope eased and I was able to bring myself to a halt, considerably shaken but physically unhurt. It had happened to me on a gentle hill, with no cliffs to go over, but my descent was frightening nonetheless, because here and there the slopes had huge boulders which I was fortunate to miss.

I learned a lesson then that I feel all hill walkers should be taught: that wet grass can be just as dangerous as snow and ice. This is especially the case when you are wearing wet waterproofs, since these slide surprisingly freely. To make the problem worse, a walker on wet grass is not likely to be wearing crampons to prevent the original slip, or carrying an ice axe to arrest the subsequent slide.

Most hill walkers feel a sense of shock when they hear of somebody dying in the hills, whether the victim is known to them or not. It is a case of ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ Accidents will happen, and none of us can know whether it will be our turn next. We can only take every precaution to ensure our own safety.

The Challenge has an excellent safety record, but unbeknown to those of us on this Challenge, one of our number was to be killed only a few weeks after the event. Val Meredith, a 59-year old woman from Inverness whom I had met the previous year, was to die in a similar fall, again on An Teallach.

Sobered somewhat by the news, I took a more subdued pace to the end of Glen Strathfarrar, where I checked in to the hotel at around midday. I had the remainder of the day free now. Oh, the luxury of a half-day off! I bathed. Oh, the luxury of a nice hot bath after three days in the hills! Then I indulged myself with a couple of pints of beer in the bar before sitting down to the greedily-anticipated Roast Beef, Yorkshire Pudding, gravy, and yes, horseradish sauce. I love horseradish sauce.

With this feast I took a couple of glasses of red wine. All of this should have been enough, but the menu proclaimed Clutie Dumpling. I had heard of but never eaten Clutie Dumpling, so I determined to try it. I could, after all, afford to spend the whole afternoon sleeping. The dumpling was delicious, reminding me of Spotted Dick from school-dinner days, but with a base of suet pudding rather than sponge.

Remarkably, I didn’t sleep the afternoon away, but spent my time sorting out the parcel and my gear, and watching television. I rang my wife Philippa, of course, and made my first call to Challenge Control at the Park Hotel in Montrose. Challenge Control is manned year after year by Barbara Dawes, an angel from Glenridding in the English Lake District. Whilst it is proof of the attraction of the Challenge that many walkers give up two weeks of their precious annual holiday year after year to enter the event, it is an overwhelming tribute that Barbara gives up her holiday year after year to come along and man the control desk.

Not only does Barbara keep meticulous tabs on the progress of all of the Challengers, thereby contributing significantly to their safety, but she also hands out weather forecasts, organises help and assistance wherever it is needed, gives out great dollops of encouragement, books accommodation in Montrose, and generally mothers some two hundred and eighty people at a distance as they walk across Scotland.

We all love Barbara. Oh yes, and if anybody forgets to make a scheduled call to Challenge Control (as I woefully did one year from Glen Clova) they never, ever, make the mistake again. She sees to that, using only her tongue.

Monday 17th May was gloriously sunny. At breakfast I met the only other guest at the hotel, an older gentleman who was up for a week of trout fishing. We chatted, and I discovered that he came from near Cockermouth in the Lake District, only a couple of miles away from the village of Brigham where my wife Philippa was born and spent most of her childhood.

He bemoaned the Scottish sausage. Nowhere in Scotland, he said, could one get anything to match the Cumbrian sausage. I had to agree. Cumbrian sausage is a favourite in the Proudler household, in its huge horseshoe shaped form, big enough to shoe a cart horse, or even to feed one were horses not vegetarian.

After leaving the hotel I called in at the post office in Struy to send home a hotch-potch of socks and underwear that had been replaced in my parcel to the Cnoc Hotel. Then I set off eastwards along the minor road on the south side of the River Beauly, aiming for the village of Eskadale, some four miles away. The road was tree-lined and I enjoyed walking in the shade since the sun became hotter as the morning progressed.

From Eskadale my route now turned south up a pathless gorse-covered hillside into a region shown on the map as Eskdale Moor but known to Challengers as ‘The Heather from Hell.’ I had been here before, and didn’t especially relish being here again.

The map shows a gently hilly area with many small lochans and rocky outcrops. In area it is some seven or eight miles square, and looks reasonably straightforward. What the map doesn’t show, however, is the heather, which is thigh-deep everywhere. Nor does it show the ankle-deep bog, which is less proliferous, but which is hidden beneath the heather in some places, waiting to surprise the unsuspecting walker.

My chosen route was the best I could find in the circumstances. I headed south from Eskadale, via a sheep farm at Knockvuy. The fields here were full of lambs playing in the sunshine, their mothers calling for them as they saw me approach. At first, the lambs gazed at me, wide-eyed, unsure as to how to respond to my sudden appearance, as though I was the first human they had seen. Then they scurried in a tangle of legs and tails to find the protection of their mothers’ bodies, and the reassurance of their teats.

From the farm I followed a footpath, which then petered out all too quickly, leaving me to wade through the heather for the last mile up towards Loch Bruicheach.

This beautiful loch is set in a depression in the hills, in such isolation that I could imagine that it is rarely visited. On all sides, heather-clad slopes lead up to rocky tors, in some ways reminiscent of Dartmoor; and in several places the shores of the loch have small clumps of deciduous woodland, placed as though a Victorian artist had deliberately composed the scene for maximum effect. Here at the end of the twentieth century, the loch provides many opportunities for picture postcard photographs. I sat over a sandwich, gazing across its blue waters, the sun soothing my body and relaxing my muscles as I tried to concentrate on the loveliness of the scene, rather than the difficulties of the walking.

After a generous lunch break I plodded on through the heather, crossing the southern slopes of Meall Mor, the Big Round Hill, as I sought a pronounced corner of the Boblainy Forest. This huge area of trees is man-made, perhaps ten square miles of planted pines, and I expected that along its southern edge I would find the heather shorter. For the most part this was the case, but the route involved effort of a different type: it crossed the grain of the land, and I was therefore obliged to scramble in and out of stream gullies as I slowly made progress. At one point, a small group of deer appeared on the skyline ahead of me, peacefully grazing. I approached as quietly as I could, hoping for a photograph, but they sensed my presence and one after the other, like a row of schoolchildren jumping a long rope, they gracefully leapt over the fence and into the shade of the forest.

The rough going made for slow progress and a long day. I had hoped to reach Drumnadrochit early, and to get across Loch Ness before pitching my tent for the night, but that hope gradually faded as the moor held me back. By the time I reached Drumnadrochit it was after five o’clock and I guessed I would be too late to get over the loch.

Although the varying routes, start points and start times for the Challenge result in a separation of the mass of walkers, there are inevitably one or two bottlenecks where the strands of the different routes all come together, and Drumnadrochit is one of those places. The reason is that Drum provides an opportunity to hire a boat to cross Loch Ness, and most routes from the more northerly start points hit Loch Ness as an obstacle. However, these bottlenecks, which include Newtonmore, Kingussie, Aviemore and Braemar, also offer opportunities for impromptu reunion, so I wasn’t unduly concerned about being too late for the boat.

As I reached the green in the centre of the village, I found a group of Challengers sprawled about, with their packs equally strewn. I asked after the boat. This evening’s crossing was leaving at 5.30, which was of no use to me since the pier was a further two miles away. The next crossing would be at 8.30 in the morning. I readily decided to stay the night, and stopped for a few minutes chat before telephoning to book a place on the morning boat.

Looking for accommodation I was aware that there were a lot of Challengers around, and the talk was that many places were full. But I was successful at the first that I tried. Apologising for having to charge me a little more because the room was a double, a delightful young mother showed me to an equally delightful room with its own private bathroom, which I could have for £20 including the single supplement.

Having cleaned myself up I turned my attention to finding an evening meal. There are one or two nice eating places in Drum, and as I prevaricated I bumped into old friends: Brian and Eileen Reid, and their daughter Suzanne, were also about to eat, so I joined them for the evening. We had a good gossip, a good meal, and in my case a good amount to drink.

The Reids own the Lodge Hotel in Newtonmore, an establishment highly regarded by Challengers, who use it both on and off the Challenge. It is also the home for an annual Challenge Reunion at the end of October each year, and had been used for the reception when two Challengers, Bernie and Pauline Marshall, married during the Challenge a couple of years earlier.

With the meal finished I was faced with the choice of getting off to bed or staying up for a drink with a further group of old friends who had drifted up in the course of the evening. But past experience with this particular company pushed me to take the sensible choice, albeit very reluctantly, so I said my goodnights and went off to bed. I was glad of this decision the following morning at the pier. Those who made it to the boat were feeling the effects of their late night session, and one or two didn’t make it at all.

The morning news on television was of the General Election in Israel. Labour’s Ehud Barak had won a sweeping victory over the existing prime minister, right-wing Benjamin Netanyahu, who was thereby thrown out of office. I was saddened because I had followed Netanyahu’s career since a visit to Israel on a family holiday in 1988.

Whilst in Israel I had bought a paperback book by a Jonathan Netanyahu. The book was a collection of his letters, which had been published posthumously under the title Self Portrait of a Hero. They were letters to the various members of his family, including his brother Benjamin, then an up and coming politician; and had been written whilst Jonathan was serving as a young officer in the Israeli military. The letters showed a caring young man and a caring family.

In a postscript to the book it was explained how Jonathan had died. He had planned and led the commando raid on Entebbe Airport in 1976 to free 106 hostages, mostly Israelis, who had been taken from a hijacked Air France airliner. They were being held at Entebbe Airport by a mixture of international terrorists and General Idi Amin’s Ugandan soldiers. The raid was famously successful, but Jonathan was killed. The leader of the raid was the only fatality from the raiding party.

The book had had an effect on me. Thereafter, whilst I have no personal interest in Israel or things Israeli, I nonetheless took notice whenever Benjamin Netanyahu was mentioned in newspapers or on television. Having read his brother’s letters I almost felt part of his extended family. I was saddened now by the news of his rejection by the Israeli electorate.

I had long since lost the book, perhaps having lent it to somebody, but here in Drumnadrochit I resolved that when I returned home I would try to find another copy. (And such is modern technology that whilst writing these lines I paused for no more than ten or twelve minutes to switch my computer from word processing to the internet, track down a recent reprint of the book, and order it there and then. It reached me six days later.)

Twelve of us made a chattering boatload on the five-mile trip from Temple Pier, down and across Loch Ness, to a pier at Inverfarigaig. It was another sunny morning and a lot of photographs were taken in the course of the crossing. Once on the opposite shore, the party soon dispersed as different directions and different speeds were taken up. I found myself strolling along with the Reids and Richard Bannister from Cheshire, another old friend I had been pleased to meet the previous evening.

Suzanne Reid was limping with a sore knee. Whilst I pulled out my Nurofen and gave her half of my total supply, enough to get her to Aviemore and a pharmacist, Richard showed her the proper way to get maximum benefit from the walking poles she was using.

Even old hands can learn new tricks, and I learned from Richard, as he cured me of a dangerous habit. It had been my practice to put my hands through the loops on my poles before grasping the pole grip. I had developed this method to allow me to use my wrists and the heels of my hands to press down on the loops when putting weight on the poles, especially when going uphill, and I sought to help Suzanne by explaining the technique.

Richard was horrified. He’d had the benefit of training by a pole manufacturer, and was aware of a risk that had never occurred to me. If you stumble and fall over, when you have your hands through pole loops, you will probably find that your hands become trapped, and you therefore risk dislocating an elbow or shoulder. Richard had once been with another walker who had dislocated a shoulder in just such a manner. This all became obvious to me once it was explained, and I rapidly adapted my method to keep my thumbs outside of the loops so that I could release my grip on the poles very quickly in a fall.

Worryingly, I recalled an incident on a cold January day in Glen Coe, two years earlier. My feet had slid forward beneath me as I descended a wet grass slope, and as my bottom dropped to the ground my arms were jerked upwards and backwards, so that I swung from the poles with my arms twisted up my back, rather like a gymnast swinging from rings. On that day I was saved when one pole bent. Afterwards, I thought no more of the incident, regarding it as just bad luck. It never occurred to me that the problem had arisen because my hands were trapped in the loops. Nor had it occurred to me how bad the accident would have become if the pole had not bent. Even worse was the fact that I hadn’t learned from that mistake.

My onward route from Inverfarigaig was broadly east, up and over the Monadh Liath, the Grey Hills, and then down into Aviemore. I expected to take two and a half days over this stretch. The five of us stayed together for the initial minor road walk to Loch Mhor, and then over the first small hill to Dunmaglass Lodge where we parted company: Richard to head off northeast towards Boat of Garten, the Reids to head south to the bothy at Dalbeg in the Coignafearn Forest, and I to continue eastwards towards Aviemore.

It says something for the abundance of routes and personal preferences on the Challenge, and also for the problems caused occasionally by the perverse lie of the land, that people can head off in such diverse compass directions when ultimately aiming for the same stretch of coastline.

The northern end of the Monadh Liath is split into three sections by the deep valleys of two large rivers, the Findhorn and the Dulnain, which ran across my line of travel. This meant I faced a long climb, from near sea level on Loch Ness to some 800 metres on Carn Odhar, followed by a drop down to the River Findhorn. The up and down process would then be repeated twice more before Aviemore.

I didn’t mind this. I had been in these hills many times before and knew that the disadvantage of having to gain height, which in any event is always gradual here and for part of the way on good tracks, would be offset by the splendid sense of isolation and freedom that these hills normally bring. This was yet another part of the walk that I had been looking forward to. And on this day I would be happy just to get up and over the first summit: Carn Odhar.

The day became very hot as I slowly gained height. I paused from time to time: to drink from the streams, to take in the surroundings, to rest my legs, and even just to relish being on my own again, to stop just because I chose to do so, without the need to consult others. I had enjoyed the company, of course, but a few hours of it had been enough.

The afternoon was turning to early evening as at last I topped the summit plateau, at its lowest point a little to the northeast of Carn Odhar. I paused briefly, for the last time in the day, knowing that I was coming to the end of the day’s work, and one last effort would now see me through. As I rested, I looked around. The surrounding country was a mess of peat hags, although they thinned a little as the land rose to the summits of the few hills that protruded above the bulk of the range. These were inconspicuous hills, simple swellings above the peat. There were no cliffs and precipices here, nothing to excite the imagination or to make them worth exploring, but I loved them nonetheless, because their lack of excitement translates into seclusion.

Continuing east, I gradually dropped down into a vast shallow bowl of peat and heather, containing several streams. The map showed that these funneled down into one, the Allt Odhar Mor. I intended to camp alongside this stream.

Choosing one of the tributaries I followed it, wending and winding with it, knowing that this was the easiest way forward, the method of least resistance. The stream seemed to know the best way down, the gentlest if not the shortest, and that was good enough for me. After fifteen miles on the map, and all of the uphill work on such a hot day, I was very tired and in no shape to plough a straight line across the peat hags.

Eventually I reached the main body of the Allt Odhar Mor, where I found a suitable spot and settled myself down for the night. At 650 metres above sea level this was the highest camp of the trip so far, and as always when I camp high I felt as though I was up and out of the real world, in contact with the moon, the stars, and the universe.

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Chapter 3

The Monadh Liath to The Lairig Ghru

“Great things are done when men and mountains meet;
This is not done by jostling in the street.”

William Blake 1757-1827

I slept well in my tent again after two nights in beds, and after waking early I lazed away an hour in the sleeping bag, munching my way through a packet of Maryland Cookies and listening to the radio. The name of the new Poet Laureate had been announced. The choice was Andrew Motion, a respected traditionalist, and a friend of his predecessor, the late Ted Hughes. According to the report, he was Professor of Creative Writing at the University of East Anglia, and was perhaps best known for his biography of Philip Larkin.

After packing up, I checked and double-checked the patch of ground I had been using. I didn’t want to leave anything behind, such as my small bag of tent pegs, or for that matter litter of any description. In that respect I wanted to ensure that any other person passing the place after I left would be unable to detect my stay. The skull cinema showed me arriving at my site for the coming night, only to find myself without pegs for the tent; but the film must have snapped at that point because it didnt go on to show me what I would do. In practice I knew that I would cope somehow, there being a whole variety of options: perhaps I would manufacture pegs from whatever came to hand, or use stones to hold guy ropes down, even sleep without the tent; or in poor weather, roll myself up in it.

I followed the Allt Odhar Mor downhill and within minutes found a good track, going my way although not shown on the map. This was a cheery start to the day. I can’t recall ever crossing the Monadh Liath without finding a new track. Often I find two or three, and I always mark my map for future reference. This new track led me onto a known one, which in turn took me down to the Findhorn where I stopped for a midmorning break.

My plan for the day was now to get up and over the next range then down to the River Dulnain for a further night in the wild. The first task was to get across the Findhorn. This required me to follow the river for two or three miles downstream to a bridge at Coignascallan, from where a track would lead me once more up onto the heights.

Halfway to the bridge I reached the Coignafearn Old Lodge (there is a ‘new’ lodge some three miles further upstream). The Old Lodge was a hive of activity: with trucks, materials, and workmen in abundance, all engaged in what seemed to be a massive refurbishment exercise. I greeted those I passed but they all seemed too busy to chat, so I couldn’t ask what they were up to.

Once across the river I stopped for lunch, loitering for a couple of hours over it to delay my restart until the sun was past its hottest. The track then took me up a twisting and steep-sided valley, and again I found new track, running way beyond the point where the map showed the old track to end. This afternoon session then became a repeat of that on the previous day, a slow haul up a long hill onto a summit plateau, here reached just to the south of a hill, Carn nan Luibean Glas; and then a passage east into the jaws of a group of streams waiting to funnel me down to the Dulnain.

The ground alongside the Monadh Liath streams is normally grassy for a few yards on each side, before the peat hags take over and dominate. Following the streams makes sense, therefore, for ease of passage as well as navigation. So once again I left my compass in my pocket, using it only for an occasional check as I followed the sparkling water. The stream chattered and gurgled, keeping me company as it trickled gently through the moorland scene, and as I slowly made my way downhill.

The wildlife in these hills is ever-present, with grouse and hares everywhere, and I guess that the presence of new tracks owed a lot to the development of shooting. After a couple of miles I found yet another new track, bulldozed on the slopes above the northeast bank of the main stream, the Allt Tudair, and this gave me easy walking all of the way down to the River Dulnain. Here, at the junction of the two waters, stood a bothy that was shown but unnamed on the map.

The building stood on a headland perhaps ten metres above the river, and as I approached I could see a small tent pitched below the headland on a sheltered grassy stretch. A couple were lying snugly in the tent, one reading and the other heating water on a small stove. Our conversation was typical of Challengers meeting in the hills:

“Hi,” I said, as I strolled up to their tent, “I’m Ken Proudler. Are you Challengers?”

“We are,” the woman replied. “I’m Jenny Parsons, and this is Ken. Which way have you come?”

“From Drumnadrochit yesterday morning. Aviemore tomorrow,” I ventured.

“We’ve come down the Dulnain,” said Ken. “How many challenges is this for you?”

“It’ll be my sixth finish. What about you?”

“The same.” Ken put away the map he had been looking at. “Who have you seen?” he asked.

“Who haven’t I seen,” I responded. “Drumnadrochit was heaving.”

“Val Machin just left us, not half an hour ago. She wanted to make Aviemore tonight.”

Jenny removed her little kettle from the stove as it boiled over. “Would you like a brew?” she asked.

“No thanks. I’m going to get myself sorted for the night. I thought I’d try the bothy.” I turned for the building, leaving them to their evening activities. I had been interested to hear of Val Machin. I had left her behind climbing Munros with Ros several days earlier, but she was clearly now in front of me again.

The bothy was very untidy. Food remnants, half-used tins of beans and so on, were lying around. And as if to demonstrate the end-result of such thoughtlessness the tables and floor were covered in mouse droppings. I found this quite off-putting.

As I surveyed the mess I was joined by another couple, Oliver Freudenthal and Ute Juergensen from Germany. They too were Challengers, two of the growing number of entrants from overseas. They were not planning to use the bothy but intended to camp near a bridge over the Dulnain a half mile or so downstream, and after a few minutes’ conversation they left. I looked again at the bothy floor. My skull cinema showed a film of me in my sleeping bag with mice crawling all over me, chewing my ears and fingers. I chickened out and went outside to pitch my tent.

Bothies have some advantages when compared to tents. They are more spacious, with freedom to walk around and plenty of room to cook. They also save the effort of putting up and taking down a tent, which can be a big attraction in wet weather. On the other hand, a tent can be warmer and less draughty than a bothy, providing a healthier environment; and once zipped up in the inner tent one is guaranteed to be sleeping alone, not only separated from mice but also from other humans. This latter is not a light hearted consideration. I have often been woken up in bothies by people arriving very late, and then clattering around cooking, drinking, and chatting.

I was pleased to wake to another sunny day, Thursday 20th May, the seventh consecutive day of good weather. One of the reasons for holding the Challenge in the middle of May is that there is often a spell of superb spring weather at this time. It was certainly true this year, although it was to break in spectacular fashion within twenty four hours.

I decided to limit my day to reaching Aviemore, not much more than ten miles away, where I would take a half day off. I also decided that I would look for accommodation in the town, to get thoroughly clean and comfortable again after two nights in the tent. With thoughts of taking it easy, and having a leisurely day, I packed and started walking.

The Parsons had already left their site, and when I reached the bridge I could see that Oliver and Ute had also left. A few minutes later I could see the German couple, perhaps a quarter of a mile ahead of me, on the track beyond the bridge.

This track from the River Dulnain up and over the final ridge and down into Aviemore is a long and tiring slog, which I’ve heard referred to as ‘The Burmah Road.’ As one climbs, the gradient is not severe, but it is one of those ascents where the summit is always in sight but never seems to get any nearer. Today, the surface was dry and dusty after the recent warm spell.

Once I got properly onto it I could see not only Oliver and Ute ahead of me, but also Ken and Jenny, perhaps a further quarter mile ahead of them. In growing heat on what seemed to be the hottest day yet, this procession continued upwards for an hour or so, until first the Parsons, and then Oliver and Ute, topped the ascent and disappeared from my view.

Eventually I too reached the summit of the pass. After pausing for only a minute or two at the large summit cairn I pressed on. I knew there was a good stream a mile or so further along the track, and I needed water.

On reaching the stream I crossed the bridge and scrambled down the far bank to the water. As I filled my container I was charmed by the design of the bridge. It was built of stone and its central arch was perhaps twice as high as it was wide, giving the appearance of a doorway. It reminded me of toy bridges in train sets or, being of stone, of church archways. I took a photograph before making myself a sandwich.

The afternoon became hotter and hotter as I strolled on down the track towards Strathspey below. The views in front of me extended easily to the Cairngorms, only ten or twelve miles away, although there was some haze in the heat. I knew I would be up there tomorrow and was looking forward to it.

Patches of shade gave some relief as I entered woodland, just before reaching the road at Lynwilg, but this was short-lived, and I was soon out onto open tarmac for the last couple of miles into Aviemore itself. The heat then got to me in a serious way. My feet in particular were burning up, and with no more than a mile to go I felt I couldn’t continue. I sat down beneath a tree by the side of the road, removed my boots and socks, and lay back in the grass for half an hour whilst I cooled off. Lorry traffic roared past, and a police car slowed as it passed me, presumably just checking that I was OK, although perhaps the driver was wondering who I was and what I was up to.

On entering Aviemore I bought two cans of ice-cold fizzy orange from the first shop I came to. The first can I drank straight down. Then I carried the second for only a few minutes before it too was drunk. I was beginning to realise that I had allowed myself to become dehydrated. As I sauntered into the town itself I met Val coming towards me. She had taken the morning off here after a very long day the previous day, and was now on her way east again.

We chatted for a few minutes. Not only had she and Ros completed the two Munros I left them on, but they had also gone on the following day to climb three more to the north of Loch Mullardoch, and these they had done carrying full packs. After a full day they had then hurried down the third Munro in growing darkness, keen to find somewhere at a lower level to camp for the night. I was full of admiration and said so. Such is the nature of the Challenge that she and Ros, having joined forces to make an impromptu duo for those two Munro days, had then happily parted company again to pick up their respective individual routes.

Although I intended to take a half day here myself, I decided to take a break of a couple of hours before finalising that decision and actually looking for accommodation. There was no logic to this: just some sixth sense telling me to leave it for the moment, although I have to admit that it was perhaps prompted by my feelings for Aviemore. I just don’t like the place. It is too commercialised for my liking: too busy, and seemingly all concrete and advertising hoardings.

I sat for half an hour drinking coffee at a table outside Smiffy’s fish and chip restaurant, shaded by a canopy and cooled by a draught of air that seemed to be circulating only in the covered area. Then I went over to the supermarket and topped up my food stocks.

As I sat outside again, sorting out my pack and putting away the purchases, I saw the Reids coming towards me. I stood up and smiled as they approached.

“Hi, how are you getting on,” I said, looking to see whether Suzanne was still limping. She seemed a little better. Then I recalled that when I had left them they were heading for Newtonmore and Kingussie, a lot further south, and their intended route didn’t come via Aviemore. “What are you doing up here?”

“Oh, we’re taking a rest day,” said Brian. “We’ve had a problem with the tent so we came up here to get it fixed. How are you doing?” As he was speaking Suzanne had fished something out of her bag and was handing it to me. It was replacement Nurofen.

“I’ve been struggling a bit with the heat,” I said, “but you shouldn’t have bothered about this.” I held up the pack of anti-inflammatories.

“Nonsense,” Eileen said. “We were glad to have it and now we’re pleased to give you some back.” As I pushed the pack of pills into my rucksack, she continued, “The heat won’t bother you for much longer, though. Have you heard the forecast?”

“I gather it’s going to change,” I nodded.

“It’ll get a lot worse,” Brian took up the thread. “They reckon it’ll snow on the Cairngorms.”

“Are you going on” I looked at Suzanne.

“Yes, I think so,” she said, smiling at me. “Thanks again for the Nurofen. It really helped.”

Once they had left me I took out my radio and waited for a forecast for the local area. I felt the need to get the latest information, and when it came it was really bad news. The weather would break overnight with strong winds and heavy rain, which would continue for the following twenty four hours. It would then remain unsettled for several days. Disconcertingly, it also confirmed that there would be snow on the higher parts of the Cairngorms.

This was of course an important consideration. I didn’t want to be trapped this side of the Cairngorms, possibly involuntarily adding a day off tomorrow to a half day off today. I realised immediately what my best course of action would be. I had to get underway again this afternoon, and get on as far as I could.

The situation called for a review of my plans for the next few days, so I took out my maps and spent a few minutes considering the possibilities. I could see that my planned route through the Cairngorms should be scrapped, since it involved three days wandering through the wilderness in areas that would be inhospitable in really bad weather. It would be better to choose a route that would get me through more quickly, and on established tracks.

The shortest route to Braemar, my destination on the other side of these mountains, would be to go through the Lairig Ghru. If I were able to get well into the Lairig Ghru today then, snow permitting, I could get over its 835 metre summit first thing in the morning. I would then have a downhill walk on to Braemar, and that section would be safe whatever the weather. The only sensible alternative would be to avoid the Cairngorms altogether by staying north of them, perhaps even by walking roads, and heading east to hit the coast near Aberdeen, but this would have had such a devastating effect on my overall walk that I ruled it out without giving it serious thought.

With my plan made I set about getting lunch. I needed body fuel for a push up into the mountains this afternoon and evening. My overheated system had cooled down now and I was beginning to feel hungry at last. Smiffy’s had at one time been voted the best fish and chip shop in Scotland, and I had enjoyed eating there in the past, so I spent another half hour doing justice to a large plate of fish and chips, and more coffee, before finally getting ready to leave.

Having called home, and Challenge Control, I strode effortlessly out of the town, feeling the flood of energy that comes readily in the face of a challenge, and revelling in once more having a strong sense of purpose.

I set myself a steady pace, knowing that the longest distance would be achieved not by hurrying but by plodding on methodically, resting occasionally as the need arose, and avoiding exhausting myself again. The first two miles out of Aviemore were road miles, east towards Coylumbridge, until I reached the campsite just before that village. Here, I turned onto the track that would take me south into the Rothiemurchus Forest, and ultimately up to the Lairig Ghru. For once this was real forest, and I revelled in the coolness of the shade from the trees.

After half a mile or so a path forked left off the track and I followed this, heading for the Cairngorm Club Footbridge. The bridge was being painted in an attractive metallic silver, and the painters stood aside to let me cross. Since the whole of the bridge was metal they were painting it all, including the walkway, although they had painted only to one side of a central line along the length of this. As I walked across on the unpainted side I guessed that the two men would come back another day to paint the other.

In a further mile the path forked again, the left fork heading off northeast to Loch Morlich whilst the right fork, my route, headed southeast into the Lairig Ghru. I paused at the junction for fifteen minutes to have a last rest break, knowing that I had already done extremely well on the stretch since Aviemore. Once I started again I intended to carry on until I pitched for the night. I had already trekked seventeen miles in the day. Another three, for a total of twenty, would leave me with a similar distance to Braemar.

I took those three miles slowly. They were an uphill trudge coming at the end of an exhausting day, and I wanted to avoid straining my already tired muscles to the point where they might stiffen up overnight. The sun had gone now, hidden behind thickening cloud, and I was glad to see the end of it. But there was as yet no real suggestion of actual rain, or of an increase in the wind.

At 7.30 pm I reached an area of flat ground at an altitude of about 580 metres, and here I dropped my pack and pitched for the night. I was still a couple of miles in distance and 250 metres in altitude short of the summit of the Lairig Ghru, but I judged that to be about right. I didn’t want to be too high in my tent if the weather became really wild, and I had neither the daylight hours nor the energy to continue all of the way over the summit tonight.

After my fish and chip lunch I needed very little to eat, just a few biscuits before I settled into my sleeping bag. I listened to the weather report on the radio. It still predicted wind and rain to arrive during the night, but this didn’t bother me unduly. I was ready for it. With the weather on my mind I lay waiting for sleep, but after the blistering heat and the hectic activity of the evening I was hyper. It took me a while to drift off.

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Chapter 4

The Lairig Ghru to Braemar

“Thank heavens, the sun has gone in,
and I don’t have to go out and enjoy it.”

Logan Pearsall Smith 1865-19467

I woke to the sound of the tent being battered by the wind. It was just after 5 am, and although the gusts were obviously strong the tent was standing up well against them. I listened for rain, but it seemed that there was none. Carefully I slid myself to the front of the tent and looked out. It was not raining, although the sky was leaden and I could see that rain was clearly not far away. Surprised that it hadn’t yet arrived I retreated into my sleeping bag, switched on the radio, and waited for a weather report. This came fairly quickly, and it simply repeated what I had heard the previous day, that the weather was deteriorating and heavy rain was imminent.

My brain can’t have been working as fast as it should have been, or perhaps I was not yet fully awake, because I lazed for a while, and it was a few minutes before I had the obvious thought, that if the rain hadn’t arrived I had the opportunity to break camp whilst it was still dry. I had been expecting to wake up to a wet day, to have to pack up and break camp in the wet, and then to carry a heavy wet tent all day. Now I could avoid all of that.

I sprang into action. There was no need for breakfast. I could take that later somewhere along the route. Rushing to beat the onset of the rain I must have set a new record for packing up and getting away. At just after six o’clock, wearing full waterproofs, and with my pack hidden beneath its own waterproof cover, I resumed my slow haul up the Lairig Ghru.

It started raining within a minute of my starting to walk, gently at first, but gradually strengthening, until after ten minutes or so it was raining hard. With the rain came a major drop in temperature, and it can’t have been much above freezing point as I slowly gained height.

I knew that I was unlikely to be able to take long breaks in this weather, so from the outset I developed a pattern of walking for twenty minutes then resting for five. Even five minutes had me feeling cold again before the restart, but I felt that I had to take these short breaks. To just press on without rest would leave me feeling tired after a couple of hours, and I knew from experience that after three hours or more of continuous walking my 57-year-old legs would begin to seize up, and I would begin to feel exhausted and demoralised.

I have never been one to go all day without respite. I recall in the 1993 Challenge teaming up with Bill McLellan from Cupar. He and I had not met before, and have never met since, although I know from the records that he like me has challenged every year since then. Our paths simply haven’t crossed again.

On the second day of that challenge the weather was appalling. We were among a large number of Challengers who had stayed the first night in the Alltbeithe youth hostel in Glen Affric. As we left the hostel the weather was so bad that he and I agreed to stay together for the day, each feeling the desire for safety in numbers. We made slow progress, and the weather if anything got worse. At one point a bridge had been washed away and we had to make a wide detour to the next.

From time to time I felt the need to rest, whereas Bill wanted to press on. We compromised as best we could. Even at lunch Bill was reluctant to stop, although I insisted on boiling water for hot drinks; and I extended the break beyond half an hour before Bill’s silent but obvious frustration persuaded me to get going again. Eventually we made it through to our day’s destination, the isolated but always welcoming bed & breakfast house at Cougie, where we then stayed the night.

One of the things I learned that day was that different people operate in different ways; and it can’t have been a simple question of age, because Bill is over ten years older than I am. Yet he clearly could go all day without rest breaks, whilst I absolutely could not. Perhaps it is, at least in part, a matter of fitness. Bill was as fit as a whippet, and reputedly had trained with regular exceptionally high mileages, thirty or forty mile day walks, whereas I was not and had not.

For most of my ascent of the Lairig Ghru there was a good clear path, but on the last section there were intermittent boulder fields where the path vanished, and I had to pick my own way through. The boulders were wet and slippery, and I gave them my full attention since this would be no time or place to slip between two rocks and break an ankle.

Several times I thought that I was reaching the summit, only to discover that it was another false one. Eventually, a little before eight o’clock, I reached the top at last and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The weather could do its worst now, because the rest of my day would be downhill. I didn’t pause at the bealach. The wind was at its strongest here so I walked straight through, and on down the other side.

Just after the summit the path reaches The Pools of Dee, a pair of small lochans. At this point I sat in the shelter of a large boulder for a few minutes. The place was rugged and wild, with the pass hemmed in by steep hillsides of scree and rock.

On the western side the slopes soared up towards the summit of Braeriach, still some 400 metres higher; whilst those on the eastern side rose even further, almost 500 metres to the 1,309 metre summit of Ben Macdui. I knew that on those summits it would be snow that was falling, not rain. I was glad that I had not met snow. On a previous Challenge I had been over the boulder fields in the Lairig Ghru when they were covered with snow. It was much more difficult to avoid the potentially ankle-breaking misplacement of feet in such conditions.

I took stock of my situation. Although I was wearing waterproofs I was beginning to feel quite damp inside them. I had sweated myself wet during the struggle against gradient, wind, and rain. My feet were still remarkably dry inside my boots, but the leather was becoming so saturated that I knew it would be only a matter of time before my socks were wet also.

Although there were earlier options, Braemar was still in the front of my mind as the day’s destination. It was another eighteen miles away but it offered warmth, dryness, beer, good food, and friends. As I set off down the path I focused on these rewards; knowing that thinking of them would be enough to keep me going.

The wind gradually eased as I lost height and the pass broadened out. With the gradient now in my favour I began to make much better progress. In an hour or so I came in sight of the Corrour Bothy, where I intended to take advantage of the shelter to make a hot drink and have some breakfast. Then at the last moment I baulked at this. I was continuing to take five-minute rest halts, every half hour or so now that the climb was finished, and this was proving to be enough. At this stage I still didn’t want to pause for longer in the cold and wet conditions, even where there was shelter.

I also knew that a visit to the bothy would mean a floundering detour over some very boggy ground, and would add almost a mile to an already long section. Outside of the bothy there were two or three tents pitched, and I could see figures milling about. My skull cinema showed the interior teeming with steaming humans, fighting for tiny cooking spaces on the solitary small table, whilst trying to avoid standing on those who were still in their sleeping bags, in the tiny space of that bothy floor. I really didn’t fancy it at all. In truth I had the bit between my teeth now. It was only another six miles or so to Derry Lodge, another possible shelter, and I could reach that by mid-morning.

So I walked straight past Corrour; and in doing so I felt my spirits lift again. I sensed the power of my own determination. In spite of the foul weather the day was becoming a real pleasure: a day that I would remember for years to come; one of those magnificent days when I had taken on the elements and won.

Once I was past Corrour the path forked. One route continued south, following the River Dee down to its junction with the Geldie Burn at White Bridge, where it would then turn east for Braemar. I ignored that route since I had taken it on my two most recent visits, and this time I fancied something different. My chosen route would also be more direct, and therefore a mile or two shorter.

I followed the second option, a route which gradually turned southeast then east as it contoured the southern slopes of Carn a’Mhaim, Cairn of the Large Rounded Hill, a 1037 metre Munro. A good path turned this corner on the 600 metre contour, and as I followed this path the rain eased off a little.

After Carn a’Mhaim, the path dropped down towards the Luibeag Burn, and I was faced with another choice. There was a ford in the direct line, or a bridge upstream that would require a detour of perhaps half a mile overall. In this weather I knew the ford would be more of a wade, but nonetheless I chose that alternative. My feet were now wet anyway, and I preferred to avoid the extra distance.

Reaching the burn I spent a minute or so looking along the bank, just in case I might get across on the boulders that dotted the water. But it was obviously not on, so I just picked a spot and went in. At the deepest point the water came over my knees, and I could feel the power of it as it rushed downhill, from left to right as I crossed. With my poles to help I had no problems, however, and I was across in a matter of a minute or so. In my combination of waterproof trousers over waterproof gaiters, very little water found its way into my boots, and my feet felt no less comfortable than they had before the crossing.

The rain now became intermittent and the sky began to brighten. As I approached Derry Lodge a party of four women passed me, heading up into the mountains. They were carrying day sacks and I guessed that they were en route for one or more of the Munros. I supposed that if they were intent on a day in the hills they would not let the weather deter them, as indeed it hadn’t deterred me, but I hoped they would have the good sense to turn back if the conditions were just too bad.

Upon reaching Derry Lodge I again decided not to take a long break. I was determined to reach Braemar and realised that I could now do so in time for a late lunch. The thought of a good half day off was encouraging. It would be a fitting reward for getting started so early in the day, so I paused for only five minutes before leaving.

Then as I walked away a figure appeared behind me having come in from the north. Even at a distance I recognised Ros: partly from her silhouette and walking manner, but also from her red and black Rab Downpour Jacket which was identical to my own. I waited for her to reach me, glad of the chance of company, and especially the company of someone I knew and liked. It seemed that she didn’t recognise me as readily as I had recognised her because she approached me nervously, until at last she realised who I was.

She had had a disturbing experience. An inappropriately dressed stranger without rucksack or map had approached her a few moments earlier and asked seemingly ridiculous questions about routes through the Cairngorms. Although nothing untoward took place, Ros had sensed something strange about him and had worried for her own safety.

Most regular walkers have come across such people. On a Munro expedition in the wilderness between the Grey Corries and the Mamores I had once picked up a man who tagged along with me for half a day. He had only the vaguest idea of where we were, his map being a cheap motorists’ road map of Scotland. He also didn’t seem to care much about where he was going, as long as he was in the fresh air and could find food when he needed it. When we parted company I gave him all of the food I could spare, and pointed him on his way as best I could, but I felt a little uncomfortable that I could help him no further.

A group of Challengers one year encountered a man in the Ruigh-aiteachain Bothy in Glen Feshie. He scrounged food, and without being invited even ate straight from the Challengers’ cooking pots. He wandered around with an axe, threw large quantities of wood onto the bothy fire, and generally made the other occupants feel uncomfortable for the whole of a very long night. One of those Challengers, Bernie Quinn, an ex-policeman himself, informed the local police at the first opportunity, but it seemed that they already knew about the man and regarded him as harmless.

Ros had come south from the Fords of Avon, and like me she had made an early start to flee the weather. We walked along together for half an hour or so, catching up on each other’s adventures and ups and downs. Then at a sheltered spot by a side stream she decided to stop to make herself some breakfast. I was tempted to stay with her, since I had still eaten nothing since the previous evening, and that had been only a handful of biscuits. But after a moment’s thought I pushed on instead. I realised at this point that it would perhaps be best for me to continue non-stop for the remaining distance to Braemar, which was still a couple of hours away. If I stopped I would surely get cold very quickly, and in all probability my legs would seize up, making the rest of the day a lot more uncomfortable than if I just pressed on.

As I walked on, I reflected on meeting Ros again like that. It always amazes me on the Challenge that you can meet somebody twice, several days and scores of miles apart, having walked different routes. It was almost a week since I had left Ros and Val as they climbed Lurg Mhor. Yet Val and I had arrived at the same point at the same time yesterday, and now Ros and I had done the same today. If Val had left Aviemore five minutes earlier, or if Ros had arrived at Derry Lodge five minutes later, we would have missed each other.

My journey on into Braemar took me via Mar Lodge and over the Victoria Bridge. Until recently this route had been closed to walkers, so I was walking it for the first time. A change of ownership had brought a change of policy, and with it the unlocking of the high spike-topped gate, which had previously barred the way across the bridge itself.

As I approached the lodge I overtook a group of four Challengers from Doncaster, and I walked along with them for a few minutes. Eventually they stopped to take photographs whereas I carried on walking, and gradually I left them behind. I crossed the bridge at exactly one o’clock. From there to Braemar was a four-mile road walk and I marched this in a little over an hour, reaching the Fife Arms at ten past two. I had walked twenty one miles in one long morning, through some appalling weather, and could now have that half day off.

I knew I would find the company of old friends on that Friday, and after checking into the hotel I dumped my gear in my room and headed for the bar. In the course of that afternoon a steady stream of Challengers came trooping in, having raced to get out of the hills. Shortly after I arrived, the weather became wet again, and much colder. At one point those of us enjoying the warmth of the hotel bar watched out of the window as for a few minutes the rain turned to snow, in May, on the streets of Braemar. We all knew that if it was so bad at this low altitude it would be a lot worse up in the mountains.

With telephone calls completed – to home and to Challenge Control – I wandered up to my room where I unpacked and took care of my gear, then I lazed in the bath for an hour. Afterwards, feeling thoroughly refreshed, I dressed in my social clothes, had something to eat at last, and went out to do some shopping to restore my food supplies. Whilst I was in the supermarket the power failed. The door was locked to keep out new customers whilst those of us already in the shop were allowed to wait with our purchases until after a few minutes the power was restored. Only then could we pay up and leave. The incident reminded me of an earlier experience of power failure in Braemar, in fact six years earlier during the Challenge in 1993.

When Bill McLellan and I had stayed in Cougie after that wet first Saturday in 1993, we had done so in the company of two other Challengers, Alistair West and Bill Hewitt from Aberdeen. Thereafter, as is sometimes the way of these things, Bill McLellan went off ahead on his own, whilst I stuck with Alistair and the other Bill until we finished that Challenge in St Cyrus ten days later. I enjoyed their company. Alistair in particular was always ready for a joke. He was a prankster, so we had many a good laugh.

When we reached Braemar, Alistair and Bill made for the Invercauld Arms where they were booked into double rooms for the night. Their wives were driving up in the evening for a conjugal visit. I went with them to try to book in also but, unfortunately, the receptionist had only one room to offer me, at £75 for the night (1993 remember). She was nice enough about it, although I could see that she expected me to turn it down. However, I was not about to be embarrassed in front of my new friends, or for that matter in front of this very pretty young woman, so without batting an eyelid I took it.

It was a week since we had stayed at Cougie, and I had slept in my tent every night since, so having ascertained that the hotel had a large dryer I hand washed every item of my clothing. Then I rang the receptionist to send someone up to collect the clothes and get them dried for me. I was determined to get first class service for such a large amount of my money.

With my washing collected and gone, I wrapped a bath towel around myself and lay watching television, waiting for my clothes to be returned. Suddenly the television and the lights went out. I looked out of the bedroom door to see that the hall lights were out also and realised that it was a general power failure.

After a few minutes the telephone rang. It was the receptionist. Power lines were down somewhere along the A93 to the south of Braemar and the electricity would be off for at least a couple of hours. Oh, and they were sorry but my clothes were still stuck in the dryer, which couldn’t be used on the hotel’s limited emergency power supply.

A few moments later Alistair and Bill came to collect me for a stroll into the centre of Braemar. I explained my predicament, but Alistair said I shouldn’t worry because he would sort something out for me. They left and I lay on the bed feeling sorry for myself, until another knock at the door brought me to my feet. I guessed it would be Alistair again.

It was as well that I carefully fastened the bath towel before opening the door, because it was not Alistair but the receptionist. She handed me a large carrier bag, explaining that my friends had asked her to deliver some clothes for me. I thanked her with great relief, then after closing the door I emptied the bag onto the bed. It was a receptionist’s uniform: grey jacket, grey skirt, and white blouse. There was then an explosion of laughter, male and female, from the corridor outside of my bedroom door.

In 1999 in the Fife Arms, with my shopping done, I returned to the bar for the rest of the day. Ros had now arrived, as had Richard Bannister, with whom I had parted company shortly after Loch Ness. We had lots to talk about. Others continued to come in. By early evening the bar was overflowing with Challengers. By mid-evening I was overflowing with alcohol. By ten o’clock I was in bed asleep.

---

Chapter 5

Braemar to Glen Isla

“Give me the clear blue sky over my head,
and the green turf beneath my feet,
a winding road before me,
and a three hours’ march to dinner.”

William Hazlitt 1778-1830

On the Saturday morning, May 22nd, the bulk of the rain had gone, leaving behind only the occasional light shower. The wind, however, had grown in strength overnight, and it was blowing quite strongly as Braemar slowly came to life. Many Challengers opted to take a rest day here, and to stay over for another night, but I was impatient to get away so I packed up to move on. I knew that I could always change my route to something lower level once I had a full feel for the weather, and the only way to get that feel would be to be out there.

As I settled my bill at the Fife Arms I was reminded again of my one and only stay at its upmarket neighbour in 1993. In a small but expensive way I’d had the last laugh on Alistair, Bill and that receptionist.

The two men invited me to join them and their wives for dinner in the Invercauld that night, although we would go Dutch on the cost of the food. I knew that the two men were tee total but I enquired of their ladies whether they would like some wine with the meal. It seemed that they would, so I ordered a bottle of white and a bottle of red, the cost to go to my bill, and when those bottles were empty I ordered more. Much to the chagrin of the husbands we three drinkers had a thoroughly wonderful party whilst they sat soberly with fruit juice.

When I checked out of the Invercauld the following morning the same receptionist handed me a bill for £123. Again, although in truth I couldn’t really afford even a third of such a figure, I paid up without batting an eyelid.

In 1999 my bill here at the Fife Arms was for £29, although that was for the room only.

I left Braemar by the minor road out by the golf course. Even in the strong wind there was no shortage of people wanting to play golf, and every part of the course seemed busy. The activities of the golfers gave me something to watch as I passed through, although of course there were also hills aplenty to be seen. When I did turn my eyes up to the hills I noticed immediately that even those of quite modest height had their tops covered in snow. It looked cold up there, and I could see from the speed of the clouds that the wind was strong at altitude.

After a couple of miles I reached the point of decision. My planned route would take me off to the southeast now, initially through Glen Callater to Loch Callater, then up and over Jock’s Road, an ancient right of way over the southeast Cairngorms, and a route often used by Challengers. But this section of the Cairngorms has no pass like the Lairig Ghru. So of necessity the route crosses the actual summit plateau, reaching a height of over 900 metres.

I knew that in this wind Jock’s Road would be horribly exposed. Even at my current low altitude I had already twice been sent staggering as sudden gusts caught me. And of course the showers of rain down here would be blizzards up there. It was clear that I should take an alternative route. Much as I disliked the idea of road walking there was no other sensible way, so I continued south on the A93.

As though to register their disapproval of roads my feet now became painful. First the lower outer side of my left heel began to scream at me and then, as if to join in the protest, the corresponding part of my right heel began to do the same. This was completely unexpected. Although I was carrying my usual blister supplies I had used them only once on the trip so far, and that had been precautionary when on the fourth day, up near Kylesku, I had begun to feel a soreness under my right big toe. A large Compeed plaster had taken care of that at the time.

I now stopped where a boulder gave me shelter from the wind, and carefully I stripped off my boots and socks. Each heel had a small blister. I applied Compeed plasters and reinforced them with micropore tape, knowing that this would sort them out. On thinking about it, I realised that the blisters were a product of yesterday’s efforts. I had walked too far, too quickly, and with too much water in my boots. And my high speed march into Braemar along the four miles of tarmac at the end of that day would not have helped.

The A93 is itself a pass through the Cairngorms, rising at its highest point to 665 metres, and reaching that summit at a bealach between two Munros: The Cairnwell and Glas Maol. The route to that bealach along the A93 is a fifteen minute journey in a car, but a slow ten mile uphill slog when taken on foot as I was doing. After patching up my feet I had a little under eight miles remaining before I would reach the top.

I knew already that by taking the road route today I was obliging myself to complete the Challenge on roads, which now meant sixty five miles of continuous tarmac-bashing. My new target for the day was the hotel at Spittal of Glenshee, some sixteen miles from Braemar, but I now broke that down in my mind. I was already thinking in terms of a nearer target for the morning session: the summit of the pass. By breaking that section down further, into hour-long stages, with breaks of fifteen to twenty minutes in between to give my feet a rest, I would help not only my feet but also my psychology. The system would allow me to focus on the immediate stage and forget the rest. So I set my first objective as a patch of woodland near Baddoch, where a stream crossed the road should I need water, and for the time being thought of nothing beyond that.

As I walked, the grass verges alongside me were unfenced, and since the valley was fairly wide at this point, I didn’t have the hemmed-in feeling that often comes with walking on roads. Familiar mountains dominated the views all round, their summits lit regularly by the bright sun as it appeared through gaps in the clouds. The sky where it showed was bright blue, and it looked clean after the rain that had washed it so well, with the clouds whizzing across it, sometimes fluffy and white but from time to time a menacing dark grey. I was breathing cool fresh air that had quickly cleared my head after my alcoholic excesses of the previous evening, and even with tarmac under my feet it was a real pleasure to be out.

Once or twice it tried to rain, but this never came to much. It was almost as though the wind was too strong for rain to fall. On one occasion I was blown out into the middle of the road by a strong gust, and thereafter I became wary of being blown into the path of a car. Fortunately, vehicles were few and far between, and I took to pausing and holding my balance as each went past.

At Baddoch I took a break as planned. Then in the next stage the valley narrowed and the gradient on the road, which had so far been unnoticeable, began to demand more effort. Another rest was taken after a further hour, and with surprising ease I was down to the final push to the summit of the pass.

Shortly before the top I reached the Ski Centre. From past experience I knew that the café here was unlikely to be open, but as I approached I could see several cars, and there were people milling about. This raised my hopes. It would be nice to have somewhere to sit out of the wind, and a plate of egg, bacon, sausage, chips and beans would set me up for the rest of the day. Having built up my expectations I strode eagerly towards the scene, but all of my hopes were dashed. The people were there to work on the building and the café was closed.

Reluctantly, I left the buildings behind and walked the last half mile to the summit of the pass for my next rest break. I sat in a sheltered spot to eat a sandwich, but found that I had little appetite for such plain food after the cruel experience at the Ski Centre. As I chewed I gazed around at the dreadful mess of ski-tows and buildings spoiling the slopes. The map shows the summit of The Cairnwell as a full circle viewpoint, but from where I was sitting the place looked more like an abandoned coal mine than a beauty spot.

The Cairnwell is perhaps the easiest Munro for the day walker, since its 933 metre summit is only 270 metres in altitude and two thirds of a mile in distance from the car park at the bealach. One can therefore leave the car and scramble directly up the slopes to be on the summit of the Munro in half an hour.

I had done just that myself on an icy January day a few years earlier, before going on over the summit plateau to take in two other Munros that lay in the freezing cold wilderness beyond. I still have photographs taken that day, and whenever I look at them I double take. At first glance they appear to be black and white photographs, and I haven’t taken any of those for over thirty years. But careful inspection reveals a little colour and the truth emerges. Such is the drab greyness of these stony summits, and such was the icy winter greyness of the day, that an illusion had been created.

On that winter trip north I had gone on two days later to do four Munros on the other side of the pass: Carn an Tuirc, Cairn of Claise, Tolmount and Tom Buidhe, in a long and tiring round in crisp, freezing cold conditions. For safety reasons I had left my route details with Philippa. I had also suggested that if I hadn’t telephoned her by 4.30 pm, by which time it would be dark, she should call the police local to where we live near Stafford. They in turn would be able to alert the appropriate police in Scotland.

I had planned to complete the walk by three o’clock, leaving plenty of time to spare, but trudging through recent snow slowed me down, and I took a lot longer than expected to get round the four summits. It was five o’clock when I finally got back to the car, half an hour beyond the deadline I had given to Philippa. Then, in the shadow of the mountains, I was unable to get a signal on the car phone.

Wondering what action Philippa would be taking I drove for a further twenty minutes before I finally managed to speak to her. She hadn’t called the police, but had decided instead to leave it until 5.30 before taking action. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or angry.

Of course I hadn’t wanted the police to be called out on a false alarm. But if I had been lying out there in winter conditions, perhaps with a broken ankle, an hour could have meant the difference between surviving and dying. However, Philippa was so upset at the experience I had put her through that I exercised discretion. The situation had undoubtedly been far worse for her than it had been for me, so I just gave her a big hug over the phone.

From the A93 summit my route was now downhill to the Spittal of Glenshee. Initially the road dropped steeply, and it remained hemmed in as it passed through a narrow valley. As I walked I tried my radio, but with the hills towering around me the reception was poor. I entertained myself instead, by means of the skull cinema. The film was of the hot dog stand that I would surely find around the next bend in the road.

Of course I was compensating for my earlier disappointment, and after three showings of the film, in one of which the gorgeous young female attendant asked me whether there was anything else I fancied, I came back to the real world.

The downward slope of the road now eased gradually, and the valley opened up and became Gleann Beag. I tried the radio and headphones again, this time with success, so I was able to listen to the FA Cup Final from Wembley.

Manchester United were aiming for the second title of an aspired-for treble. Against Newcastle they found the going easy enough and eventually came out winners by two goals to nil. I had no personal axe to grind for either side, and the result did nothing for me, but at least I enjoyed the company of human voices, and it helped to pass the miles away.

The afternoon and my journey slowly progressed until at around five o’clock I reached the Spittal of Glenshee Hotel. This is a very large establishment, and at this time of year I expected no problem in getting a room. But as I arrived I was struck by the sight of two contrasting groups that set me wondering.

One group were dressed formally, some of the men in dress tartan whilst others wore grey morning suits with matching top hats. They carried glasses of champagne and I didn’t need to see the little bridesmaids to realise that this was a wedding party. They thronged around the building, and in and out of a large marquee situated on a lawn at the back of the hotel. Then in stark contrast to this display of elegance, a large assembly of leather-jacketed bikers stood around drinking beer, clearly holding a party of their own. Every piece of hard-standing in the area of the hotel was taken up with motor cycles, and the grass verges were hidden by a myriad small tents. It seemed that the hotel was host to a wedding reception and a biker’s convention, at the same time.

Pushing my way through a heaving mass of people I struggled to reach the reception desk. Here, the male receptionist, a young New Zealander, was looking very harassed, but he smiled brightly as I caught his eye.

“Have you a room?” I asked.

“What, a single?” he asked back.

“Yes,” I ventured, already realising from his manner that I was asking too much.

“I’m sorry,” he responded, “the only room I have left is a triple.”

“Can you let me have that at a sensible rate?” I asked.

“Not without asking the manager first, I’m sorry, and she’s pretty busy just now,” he apologised.

“Can you try to get her anyway,” I pleaded, my mind beginning to think of other possible options. He nodded, then suddenly he waved his hands frantically:

“Hang on, there she is,” he shouted, as he gestured to a woman in a green top who was fighting her way between bar and dining room.

“I’m too busy to stop,” the manager shouted back. The receptionist and I then watched her as she tried desperately to get some order into the wedding party, so that a piper could herald the entrance of the bride and groom into the dining room. The piper for his part was tuning up, whilst repeatedly looking at his watch, as though he was late for his next appointment. At that moment I felt a rough hand on my right shoulder, pushing me to one side.

“Get me the fucking manager. I want to speak to the manager,” a voice blasted in my ear above the sound of tuning bagpipes. I turned to see a female biker in full black leathers. She was young, and presumably attractive to her peers, although I was put off by the ring through her nostril and her orange and pink flaming hair. I also drew the line at her facial make-up, which was deathly white, over-painted with coal-black eyebrows, eyelashes, and lips. Normally a man who likes almost all women, I found no appeal at all in black lips.

“She’s busy at the moment,” said the receptionist, beginning to look as though he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

“It’s not fucking right,” the biker said. “We’ve paid fucking good money to stay here this weekend, but the bar staff are giving priority to the fucking wedding guests. We can’t get a fucking drink.”

“I’ll catch her when I can,” said the receptionist, politely. “I’m sorry but you’ll just have to wait.”

“Are there any bed and breakfast places nearby?” I asked, grabbing his attention again.

“I think so,” he said, clearly relieved to be able to turn his attention from the biker.”Give me a sec and I’ll have a look.” After searching through a collection of notes and notices pinned to a cork board he came up with a list of three or four and, in spite of all of the chaos around him, or possibly just glad of an excuse to turn his back on it, he proceeded to ring round these to see if he could find me a room. He had no luck for me, however, since they too were all full.

Eventually, he cornered the manager and had a few words with her. Turning back to me, he now agreed to me having the triple room at the price of a single, but warned that I wouldnt be able to obtain a meal. The wedding reception was consuming all of the hotel’s attentions, not to mention all of its food. The best that they would be able to do for me would be soup and rolls from the bar.

As he passed on this bad news the receptionist nodded his head towards the opposite side of the room, as though to show me where the bar was. My eyes instinctively followed his nod and took in the tiers of angry wedding guests and bikers, all struggling to be served. I could see that, to say the least, there was no love lost between those two parties, and the last place I wanted to be was in the middle of that scrum, carrying a bowl of soup, when the inevitable action started.

That evening, for the first time ever, I set up my own cooking equipment in a hotel room and produced an evening meal. Then I watched television. There were pictures from the FA cup final, and also pictures from the World Cup Cricket where England had been thrashed by South Africa. I was pleased that, despite the chaos in the hotel, everything in the outside world appeared normal.

I can’t say what the outcome was at the bar because I didn’t leave my room, but all was quiet in the dining area the following morning. Those who made it to breakfast seemed civilised enough to me, although the two groups stuck pointedly to their own parts of the room. After a very welcome double visit to a superb breakfast buffet, and several to the coffee percolator, I packed, paid my bill, and left.

As I tightened my waist belt in the hotel porch I read an inscription that explained the word ‘Spittal.’ I had always been curious about this, knowing that there are several Spittals in Scotland, another being the Spittal of Glen Muick only a dozen or so miles away. I had in the past looked it up in various dictionaries but had found no entry. The inscription gave it the meaning: ‘place of hospitality’, sharing with ‘hospital’ a common derivation from Latin.

I turned from the inscription and almost fell over a pair of weird-looking characters who I hadn’t seen standing behind me. The two men were unshaven, with untidy hair, and were of a generally unkempt appearance. They looked like winos, and as though to confirm that impression they were busily pouring wine from a Liebfraumilch bottle into a couple of plastic drink bottles. I knew immediately that they must be Challengers.

The pair were two of a party of three Challengers who had come in from the west the previous day, and the wine was a prize they had then won in a raffle in the hotel bar. They explained that they wanted to take it with them for a starlit party this coming evening, and as we continued to chat they told me of their exploits in the bad weather in the southwestern Cairngorms. I was really impressed that, unlike me, they had braved the hotel bar!

Pleased to have solved the long-term puzzle over ‘Spittal,’ I continued south down the A93. As always on getting started in the morning I turned my attention to the weather and the environment, and the first thing I noticed was that the wind had dropped. The sun was shining brightly, and this was clearly going to be a lovely day.

My first objective was Mount Blair. As I walked I passed some time and amused myself by trying to work some political joke around the name and insignificant height of the hill, but I failed. I also tried but couldn’t think of a hill called Hague or Ashdown, big or little, although there are plenty of Brown Hills. And of course there is a Mount Cook, which opened up interesting possibilities for rhymes, but nothing that got me excited.

So I turned to limericks, having always had a knack for inventing these, and before I reached the hill itself I had four different versions, which I recited quietly to myself in turn as I strolled along. They all started with: There was a young lass (or lad) from Mount Blair, who . . . but of course they are not fit to print.

Some time after the walk I was given one by my future son-in-law, which has the double virtue of being both publishable (just) and funny:

There was a young lad from Mount Blair,
Who liked to make love on the stair;
When the bannister broke,
He doubled his stroke,
And finished her off in mid-air.

As I composed, however, I couldn’t give my whole attention to the exercise because I was being passed by the departing bikers. Groups of five or six machines came whizzing past me every five minutes or so. I noticed a good mixture of British, German, French and Dutch licence plates, so this had obviously been an International Bikers’ Convention. Licence-plate spotting then occupied me until at last I reached Mount Blair.

Small as it was, this hill did now give me something else to think about. I had a choice of routes to go round it. After due consideration I chose to go to the northern side. This was the shorter route and, more importantly, would give me a better entrance into Glen Isla, my next objective.

I had not been in Glen Isla before, although its praises had been sung to me, and I was pleased to discover that the singers had been right. It is a very pretty glen. Like most of the other lovely glens coming out of these southern Cairngorms, Glen Isla is bounded by friendly green hills, decorated here and there with patches of woodland, gorse, and heather. White houses dot the lower slopes, surrounded by their own trees and gardens, and the whole area has a real cared-for look. If one has to walk roads, I thought as I walked through the scenery, may it always be in places as beautiful as this.

I knew that there were a couple of inns in Kirkton of Glenisla so I held off my lunch halt until I reached them, even though it was after two oclock when I did. My big breakfast had stood me in good stead. Unfortunately I saw as I reached the village that the bikers had thought down similar lines. Here they were again. But they all seemed to be standing about outside in the sunshine so, undeterred, I found a little empty back room where I was able to enjoy a couple of pints of beer, a plate of haddock and chips, and a delicious slice of strawberry cheesecake.

The beer was against my rules, since I try not to drink alcohol in the middle of a walking day, but I had been deprived of a drink in the Spittal of Glenshee. I was also contemplating staying here for the night anyway, and it was a hot day, and I was eating food with the drink, and, of course, I wanted one.

I did ask the young woman behind the bar whether I could have a room for the night, but before she could get an answer from the manager I changed my mind. I left instead and carried on along the road. I knew that my only reason for taking a room would have been a cowardly reason. In walking down the glen I had passed occasional signs banning camping, and I would have been reacting to those.

My skull cinema had shown repeated scenes of angry keepers kicking out my tent pegs, and this was giving me a complex about trespassing. But with only eleven miles walked in the day so far I now felt the need to put another five or six behind me. There would probably be no other chance of accommodation, but with lots of woodland shown on the map I expected to be able to tuck myself away somewhere.

There was a small amount of motor traffic in the glen, clearly people out for a Sunday afternoon drive, but it didn’t bother me unduly, and I saw no more of the bikers. At one point on the road I passed a woman who was letting a couple of horses out into an adjacent field. They were beautiful animals, and on being given their freedom they pranced and rolled excitedly, in a manner that I had never before seen in adult horses. In this, they reminded me very much of Bobby and Daisy, our Golden Retrievers.

The field itself was a picture too, carpeted with meadow flowers in lush grass. I took my camera out for a photograph, and the woman was obviously pleased that I was enjoying the scene. I asked what the horses were, since they were clearly special, and was told that they were bred for carriage racing.

Increasingly throughout the walk I took an interest in the animals in the fields. I watched the lambs and calves, growing and fattening as the weeks went by. I reflected on man’s need to eat meat, whilst realising of course that if we didn’t these fields wouldn’t contain cattle and sheep at all. I knew, however, that although I was feeling an increased sensitivity towards the creatures, it wouldn’t stop me in my own carnivorous activities.

I did take to treating them in the same way as I do our dogs at home. I talked to them all of the time as though they would understand every word I was saying. I would say good morning to them, and ask whether they were having a nice day. In response to this their eyes always seemed to brighten, especially so the calves. They seemed to look at me with interest, as though they really appreciated that here was a human who was taking time out to communicate, not just to give a cursory glance in passing. Philippa was to ask me after the walk why I had taken photographs of cattle and sheep. I was to respond that it is always nice to have photographs of one’s friends.

After covering three miles down the glen from Kirkton I reached the hamlet of Dykend. I had been told at the inn that there would be no accommodation here, but nonetheless I lived in hope. There was nothing to be found, however, so I walked on, deciding now to pitch my tent at the first suitable spot. Then, as so often seemed to be the case, once the search began the suitable spots vanished.

I had passed many earlier, when I wasn’t yet ready to stop, but now each approaching possibility was seen to have flaws when I reached it. Trees would be too close together for me to pitch my tent between them, or too far apart to offer concealment. I covered another couple of miles before at last I vaulted a locked gate guarding a track into some woodland, and followed it up until I was out of sight of the road.

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Chapter 6

Glen Isla to Arbroath

“I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way, and the whale’s way where the
wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

John Masefield 1878-1967

I was beginning to smell the sea. Although I still had two long days to walk before I would reach the coast I was beginning in my thoughts to smell it, to see it, and to dip my feet in it. The end of the Challenge was close. On this Monday morning, 24th May, I was telling myself that by tomorrow afternoon I would be in Arbroath. Then there would be reunions in Montrose. Today, however, I had to continue my trudge, on through Angus, and after a good night’s sleep in my tent I was fresh and ready for anything.

As I walked I planned. Kirriemuir was some eight miles ahead on the road I was walking. It would be an ideal place to buy a good lunch. Thereafter it would be another six miles to Forfar, which could perhaps become my overnight stopping point. That would then leave eighteen miles to Arbroath tomorrow. These deliberations were only provisional of course, what would actually happen only time would tell. For the moment it would be enough to concentrate my attentions on the next few miles.

The views around me were still superb, with the green of the gently rolling hills broken here and there by great swathes of yellow gorse, purple-brown heather, and the darker green of woodland. I passed the Loch of Lintrathen, a nature reserve which clearly was well looked after, a mixture of deciduous and coniferous trees around it giving a special hue to the blue of its waters. The surface was choppy, and I realised for the first time that there was some wind about, although in the tree-lined hollow of the road I was sheltered from it. The background blue of the sky provided a picture frame for the white and grey clouds that scudded across.

Gradually, however, I left the hills behind, and the land around me became flat and agricultural. The swathes of yellow gorse now became fields of yellow rape. This still looks beautiful when in flower, but for me it has a more insidious characteristic. It brings out an allergy. I suffer not so much from hay fever in the widely understood sense as from an allergy to certain elements in the environment. The air conditioning in some buildings, air freshener sprays and other ‘chemical’ presences, even some perfumes and deodorants, cause my head to begin throbbing. Pain develops in the back of my skull, accompanied by a high-pitched whistling in my ears. I carry anti-histamines to counter the effects, but unless the symptoms are especially bad I don’t bother to take them. Today, the rape just set up a mild whistling in my ears, and a slight prickling in my chest. It was not enough to justify pills, so I tried my best to ignore it.

A second nature reserve at Loch of Kinnordy seemed familiar. I cast my mind back to the only other time I had been to Kirriemuir and I realised that I had reached a section of road that Alan Jordan and I had walked together on the Challenge in 1996. On that occasion the weather had been so appalling that we had walked the road all of the way from Pitlochry to the coast. We met Bernie Quinn for the first time in an eating house in Pitlochry, and then met him again after we and he checked into the same hotel in Kirriemuir. This was another of those coincidences. Bernie was glad of company in the heavy rain, so we stuck together for the last two days to Montrose.

It came on to rain as I reached Kirriemuir, so I quickened my steps, then ducked into the first café I found. The rain stopped after only a few minutes, but I stayed in the café for over an hour. It was small, with only two tables, and it had a friendly atmosphere. Most of the customers came for takeaway meals, a lot of them being schoolchildren.

Posters advertised ‘stovies,’ and several were purchased as I looked on, but they came out of the kitchen ready-bagged, so I couldn’t see what they were. To my chagrin I shirked the embarrassment of asking in front of all of these kids. The skull cinema showed lots of Scottish schoolchildren crowding the café window to peer in at this daft Englishman who didn’t even know what stovies were.

I ordered and ate a beefburger and chips, and drank two cups of coffee. A newspaper lay on the cutlery shelf for customers to read, so I enjoyed a half hour of reading. Then I turned my thoughts to the rest of the day. I already realised that if I continued at my present pace I would reach Forfar by mid-afternoon, and that would be too early to stop.

My mind began to probe the area beyond Forfar for somewhere else to spend the night. A longer day today would mean a shorter day tomorrow, and an earlier arrival in Arbroath. I could then get the train up the coast to Montrose.

I had walked the road from Kirriemuir to Forfar before with Alan and Bernie, but I was happy to do it again because I recalled that it had a nice feature: a proper footpath ran alongside the road, all of the way. A smartly-dressed elderly man, looking like a retired farmer, walked a hundred metres or so ahead of me. He was clutching a rolled-up newspaper, and his pace was broadly the same as mine. At a point about halfway to Forfar, he turned off up one of the farm tracks, adding fuel to my earlier thoughts. I wondered if it was his daily exercise to walk six miles to Kirriemuir and back for his paper. I reflected on my own daily exercise at home, where the dogs take me for a long walk every morning.

I was soon well into the housing estates of Forfar, and as I had predicted it was only a little after three o’clock. It would be logical to walk on to Letham, some six miles further on. This would make twenty road miles in the day, but I knew that if I had accommodation to look forward to I could manage it comfortably.

In fact I would have to have accommodation because the area looked so agricultural that another night of trespass seemed to be out of the question. I am not one for knocking at farm houses to ask whether I might pitch somewhere, not since my very first Challenge in 1981 when at a farm in Glen Lonan two terriers dashed after me, and whilst one kept me busy in front, the other nipped in behind and took a golfball-sized lump out of my leg.

The map showed a Tourist Information Office in Forfar, and surely there would be a library or somewhere that I could borrow yellow pages to look up accommodation if need be. My thoughts turned to the impact on the following day. I would have only twelve miles left to Arbroath and the end of the Challenge. I could be there before lunch, and in Montrose by early afternoon.

Philippa and the dogs had been in my thoughts all day. I was very lonely, and very tired, not so much physically as mentally. I decided I’d had enough, but I could be home tomorrow! Excited now, I added another item to my list for the public library. I should look up train times from Arbroath to Montrose, and then from Montrose to Stafford, and make up an appropriate schedule, leaving a good hour in Montrose of course for visiting Challenge Control. That would give me a target time for reaching Arbroath, and in turn I would know just how early I must leave Letham in the morning.

The library staff were very helpful and I quickly had my schedule sorted. There would be no problem at all. I could even have two hours in Montrose. The man in the Tourist Information Office was equally helpful. A new bed & breakfast house in Letham had just been registered with them. He telephoned and booked me in. I was all set to get home tomorrow.

Intoxicated with the very idea of what I was doing, I could scarcely feel the tarmac beneath my feet as I left Forfar for the six mile walk to Letham. The euphoria faded after a couple of miles, however, as my feet began to deliver the familiar burning sensation that now accompanied the later stages of long spells of road walking. I stopped for a while by the roadside. I was very tired. Letham seemed further away than I had imagined. I began to feel depressed, and by the time I finally reached my accommodation I was deep in the doldrums.

After a nice hot bath, which left me in slightly better spirits, I went off into the village to find something to eat. Of the two pubs, the first that I tried didn’t serve food. I had a pint of beer anyway. Then I crossed the road to the other pub. A menu board in the porch promised a magnificent choice. I studied it, mouth watering, before going inside. But I was too late for tonight, the kitchen had just closed, and the chef had gone home. I had another pint of beer.

Thwarted, I crossed the road again, this time to a late shop next door to the first pub. Then I returned crestfallen to my room, where I sat watching television, and eating the unappetising food that I had just bought. When the television news finished I turned my attention to my gear. I sorted it all and packed up as best I could, ready for a prompt start in the morning.

From Letham, I found a series of back lanes to take me towards Arbroath. The morning was bright, and so was I. In the centre of the village a queue was forming at the bus stop, and for the first half hour or so as I walked on there was a flurry of vehicles, which I assumed reflected people getting off to work. I was clearly back in civilisation.

At one junction a young woman in a small car was waiting to pull out but was held up by the steady stream of cars going across in front of her. As she waited she touched up her hair and make-up. I thought of Philippa, who could well be doing the same thing at this very moment. She has one particularly busy set of traffic lights on her route to work, where she often has to wait for five or ten minutes before reaching the front of the queue, and when she hasn’t had time to put on her face before leaving home she makes good use of those minutes.

In one quiet lane I saw a car parked facing me. A young woman sat in the driving seat whilst a pair of small children sat in the back. As I approached I wondered why they were sitting there like that in the middle of nowhere. Then suddenly a satchel-swinging child hurried from a track to the right and clambered into the last remaining seat, and I realised that I was watching a mother on the school run.

After nine o’clock the roads went quiet again, and I had the countryside to myself. The lane took me directly towards Arbroath, crossing a B road and then climbing imperceptibly up to the shoulder of Gairnconan Hill, which would have been an unremarkable spot were it not the highest point on the road between Letham and the sea. As I came over that shoulder I strained to see my destination. I could only just detect the built-up area of Arbroath in a landscape that was patchworked with green fields, woodland, and blazes of yellow rape. Beyond the landscape, where it met the sky, was a silver line that sparkled in the sunlight. I knew that this must be the sea.

Once in Arbroath, I headed for the seafront, which was easier said than done. Signposts for the harbour took me round in a circle. Thinking that I had made a mistake I followed the same signposts again, only to complete a second revolution of the same circle. I suppose I could have just pointed my compass and headed southeast, or taken the direction from the sun, or walked downhill, or even followed the smell of the sea, but instead I stopped and asked the way.

It seemed ridiculous that after almost two hundred miles, much of it through pathless wilderness, I was now having to ask the directions to a harbour that was only a hundred yards away. But at last I found it, and for a few minutes I took photographs before wandering past the boats and lighthouse out onto a grassy promenade. Then I lowered my pack and went to touch the sea itself. I had completed my sixth Challenge.

This Challenge section was only one quarter of an overall walk from Cape Wrath to Edale. The story of the overall walk is available for Kindle and may be found here or by searching for Proudler in the Amazon Kindle Store.

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