After publishing many excellent Challenge stories on Doodlecat, Phil finally has a go himself!
A journey across Scotland
All content © Phil Lambert 2011
We set forth
After weeks of dry, hot weather in the Highlands, and reports of raging bush fires and dry burns, I began to have a feeling that this couldn’t last and eventually all the rain that usually falls on Scotland would arrive in a rush. In other words, this would be a wet Challenge. I didn’t pack a sun hat or sunscreen. I did carefully re-treat my Paramo jacket, waterproof trews, gaiters and boots and for the first time popped a pair of Crocs into the sack (raging torrents for the crossing of). I even nikwaxed my walking trousers so that I could walk comfortably in drizzle without the need to don waterproofs. As it turned out this treatment also promotes quick drying and shrugs off beer stains, soup splashes and all the other accidental incidents that transform the well turned out hillwalker into a shambling tramp.
All good preparation as it turned out, (not because of beer and soup spillage, although there was some of that) but 2011 was indeed rather wet. In fact it rained to a greater or lesser extent every day. It blew a bit too – but more of that later.
Despite the weather, this was one of my best solo Challenges so far. I enjoy company on a walk, and often walk with my old mate Alan Sloman, but from time to time we do our own thing. And my liver lacks Al’s iron constitution. So this year I looked forward to having a few remote wild camps, and meeting new faces, postponing the serious partying until Braemar.
Alan, Andrew Walker and I live pretty close together, so we decided to repeat last year’s travel arrangements whereby we would assemble at Alan’s place, hop on the London train and catch the Caledonian Sleeper to Inverness on Wednesday evening. That would allow us to arrive bright eyed and bushy tailed on Thursday for a relaxed trundle on to our start points (Torridon for me, Strathcarron for Alan & Andy).
And so it was we arrived at Euston Station. Three men. Three rucksacks. One coffin.
Ah, I hadn’t mentioned the coffin had I?
Travelling North
Euston to Inverness to Torridon
Alan had been busy organising a “Wake for the Wild” to draw attention to the appalling despoilation of the wild land in Scotland in pursuit of enormous subsidised revenues from wind turbines. For months Alan had been working on a scheme to draw maximum publicity to this scandal, and had arranged for Shap (odd name – possibly conceived or born on the A6) a theatrical props man to build a lightweight but full sized coffin.
Unbeknownst to me until the last minute, Alan had arranged for it to be delivered to a restaurant near the station, from where we would attempt to stow it on the train. Yes – we!! I had been in Alan’s company for just over an hour, and already things were getting out of hand.
The meal at Pasta Plus was great. Shap turned up with his Land Rover just as we were finishing and we went out to unload the coffin. And a magnificent job he had made too – beautifully finished in black glossy lacquer.
I guess a coffin being delivered to a catering establishment could give the wrong impression to potential diners. As we put it down on the pavement outside the restaurant, the manageress came flying out of the door looking very flustered – aghast would be a better description. Reassurance was required.
“It’s my granny,” I explained. “She always wanted to go to Scotland, and I always said I’d take her one day. Well, a promise is a promise …”
Regrettably Alan spilled the beans and explained the true purpose. I would have preferred to have left her with my version. Anyway, I bet she remembers us next year!
We drew a small crowd on the station concourse, with several people asking what it was all about. After a while I left Al to deal with them as my granny tale was provoking mixed reactions – perhaps it was Andrew casually sitting on granny’s casket that caused offence.
At last the sleeper was in and, avoiding Kenny the ‘train manager’, the coffin stowed in the bike racks in the luggage car. “Phew,” I thought as we sat in lounge car and opened the first beers, “We’ve got away with it.” No we hadn’t. Kenny appeared at the entrance to the car, and he looked displeased.
“Does anyone here own a coffin?”
“Er … is there a problem?” enquired Al.
“Aye, I’ve got a dozen bikes booked on, and your coffin is in the way. You may have to take it off.” Kenny gave a dry grin. “I assume it’s empty, otherwise you’ll need another ticket.”
An anxious moment or two followed, but as it happened some of the cyclists failed to show up, Kenny locked the doors and we were off, toasting our good fortune, the next two weeks – and anything else that we could think of.
“What happens at Inverness, Al? ” I asked. I felt that the box had been part of my journey long enough by now.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a van organised. All we’ve got to do is pop it in the van and Davy Hamilton will deliver it to Ault-na-goire ready to be carried to Dunmaglass.”
But the coffin wasn’t to be parted from us so easily. Davy turned up at the station on cue, and we were all ready to load the casket into his van when Al got a ‘phone call. It was Katy from Ault-na-goire who is also a photographer for the local paper. Just half an hour away she said. Just want a couple of snaps she said. We breakfasted at Morrisons’ café and awaited her arrival. Then we were photographed outside the station, kidnapped in Katy’s van and taken to the Regional Council HQ to be photographed carrying, sitting on and every other thing that one can reasonably do with a coffin, whilst the departure time for the train to Strathcarron came ever closer. Eventually a couple of security guards ambled over and asked a few questions. That was our cue to wrap up and shove off.
After a bit of faffing with Katy’s van doors (the coffin kept trying to escape) Davy got us back to the station in time to throw ourselves onto the train. Lee Wells and Tony Bowe had a taxi waiting at Strathcarron which I shared with them, and when it dropped me off at the Torridon Inn they selflessly dropped off themselves off as well so that we could share severalteen beers before they toddled off to the youth hostel. We met later for a dinner at the Inn and a few more beers to fortify ourselves for the rigours to come.
Day 1
Friday 13th May – Torridon to Pollan Bhuide
After a good breakfast at the Torridon Inn I scampered off to the Youth Hostel to sign out, meeting quite a few challengers coming in the opposite direction. I had also been asked to get part of a card (there was a part at each start point) signed for the final Challenge to be organized by the ‘Great Co-Ordinator’, Roger Smith, and to collect money for a farewell gift. As I was staying at the Inn, and the YH was almost two miles away, this presented a slight logistical problem, solved by Jeff & Joke Cracknell who took charge of the card and arranged to leave the card and cash with the warden. They had evidently done a good job as almost all the signatures were present – and on the correct side of the card – and the envelope stuffed with cash. I just hoped I didn’t lose it between here and Montrose.
Signing out I met Les & Irene Aird from Dundee. We stayed pretty much in touch for the rest of the day.
The walk out of Torridon is delightful, and made more dramatic by the black hillsides recently ravaged by wildfires. A mile back along the road took us to Annat where the real walking was to begin, but before we did Irene went to the beach to deposit a pebble that she had brought from the east coast, and to pick one to take back. I was pleased to see her sense of equilibrium, as most challengers only pick up a pebble on the west coast for a one way trip east, which must over time result in Scotland moving slowly and inexorably towards Norway. Perhaps the Challenge is all part of a Nordic plot to annexe our Caledonian brethren. Alex Salmond should be told.
The path up to Bealach na Lice and Bealach Ban leads up and over into Coire Lair. Walking at different rates, and faffing around with snacks and drinks at different times, we soon separated and I found myself alone in the beautiful Torridon landscape. The section between Bealach Ban and the Coire Lair provides a wonderful panorama of the Torridon mountains. I enjoyed every moment. Showers came and went, but never enough to make me reach for the overtrousers. Before I knew it I was walking with Les and Irene again, past my planned camp spot at the end of Coire Lair (I had planned a teatime stop and a long lazy high level camp – but it was only mid afternoon).
We plunged on down the well restored path to Achnashellach station and along the forest tracks to Craig. As we left the shelter of the trees it began to rain quite hard. Overtrousers were donned and we had a bite to eat (afternoon tea) before setting off to Pollan Bhuide – a perfect camp spot according to Les.
And so it was.
Several tents were already there. I was glad to set up my tent on a little grassy island and enjoy a late supper. As the rain pattered on the flysheet and the stream murmered with voices I sipped a whisky and tried vaguely to make out words in the endless conversations of the moving water. Just as I reached the point of understanding … I was asleep.
A good first day – and ahead of schedule too!
Day 2
Saturday 14th May – Pollan Bhuide to NH191505 by River Meig
Porridge for breakfast. Not a great success. I don’t really like the instant stuff, and I found that I haven’t the patience for the proper stuff either! Anyway, the tea was good and a pop tart toasted over the stove was fun too. I’d had a great night’s sleep, so packing was fairly leisurely (inside the tent on account of the odd rattling shower) and to my surprise the rain stopped for me to wipe down and pack the tent. Result!
The amble along to Glenuaig Lodge is pleasant enough, but it is beyond the lodge, as the river Meig gathers force and stature, that the glen opens up to a magnificent landscape. A little beyond the lodge is a ruin where, in between showers, I enjoyed a lovely ‘brew with a view’ and an early lunch. After all, I was ahead of schedule and I took pleasure in a second cuppa before the next shower came in, and then dawdled along towards my planned camp spot by the Allt na Criche.
When I reached it the stream was barreling pell mell down to the river, and a dry shod crossing was clearly impossible. I was debating whether to camp early as planned (I had spotted an excellent pitch that would leave me plenty of time for a late afternoon doze in the tent before supper) or delve deep in the pack to my buried crocs and cross now, in case the water rose even higher by morning.
My mind was made up by the arrival of Norman Reeves and Carol Mahl, who declared that their feet were so wet anyway that a few more gallons would make no difference. They forded over without further debate.
“Come on,”encouraged Norman. “It’ll only get higher by morning.”
That made the decision, so I dug around in my pack, found the crocs and embarked on a deep paddle. About halfway over I became aware that Norman was still there – camera in hand – awaiting the perfect shot of a drowning challenger. Carol had walked on.
“She said she was wet enough already, without going back in to pull you out,” remarked Norman cheerfully as he stowed his camera.
I sat down on a rock, dried my feet, and put on my warm, dry fluffy socks. The sensation of warm dry socks after a dip in freezing water is one of life’s finest pleasures. Any fool can be wet I thought as I watched Norman squelch off in pursuit of Carol. I added to the luxurious moment of schadenfreude with a fortifying draught of whisky before resuming my pleasurable wander along the river, eventually ending up at a spiffing camp site on an elevated terrace with little stream alongside. Plus a stunning view back up the valley.
A little later two tents appeared on the flat grass by the river (Anthony Cathcart and Doug Scott) so I popped over to see my new neighbours and shared a pre-prandial tot or two. Then an excellent Real Turmat Wolffish casserole and a couple of Eccles Cakes rounded off a glorious day. Shame it was still raining as this would have been a great spot to dine alfresco and relax with the hills and valley spread out in evening sunshine. Still, you can’t have perfection every day, and the sound of rain on a tent is really quite relaxing. Once again the numerous voices in the gurgling stream next to the tent lulled me to sleep with their stories of the glens and hills. Once again, just as I began to understand, I fell asleep.
Day 3
Sunday 15th May – River Meig to Coire Mhuillidh (above Strathcarron)
The Neo Air mattress has transformed the camping experience and now the only problem is waking up. Nevertheless I was breakfasted and packed by eight o’ clock! This is a record for me.
Feeling quite pleased at having the whole day for a modest mileage I relaxed into a steady pace to Corrievuic from where I had intended to take the path on the south side of Loch Beannacharain. Here I hesitated. Scanning the hillside I couldn’t see any sign of my intended path and the going looked rough, so I simply carried on along the pleasant track and little road on the north side before crossing the river to Inverchoran, where a sign bore a detailed map to guide walkers past the house and up onto the path of their choice. I was soon heading up and over to the Orrin valley.
One of the things that I love about this walk is the feeling of saying farewell to one glen as I cross a summit or bealach and seeing the next open up below. I never tire of the anticipation of the new horizon, and looking back at the country already covered. A sense of satisfaction and discovery that never palls.
I descended, crossed the bridge at NH266467 and headed for the path south up the Allt a’Bhealaich Bhig. Very handily, given the light rain and high water in the burn, there is a bridge not marked on the map at NH265466 or maybe slightly further upstream. Anyway, it’s easily spotted and saved me a wade.
The walk up to the bealach between Sgurr a’ Choire Ghlais and Carn nan Gobhar is surprisingly easy and very pleasant, with just one paddle across the stram the whole way. The path only peters out on the approach to the high area of wandering streams as the ground starts to flatten out. I was pleased to see several terrific pitches, just Akto size, in this area, as this was where my original plan had me spending the night. However, I was still ahead of schedule and after a brief stop for a late lunch and a brew I set off across the short expanse of bog immediately below the bealach. The plan now was to climb up and drop my pack at the top for an excursion up Sgurr a’ Choire Ghlais, which had temporarily shed its mantle of cloud and rain and beckoned invitingly.
I soon realised that the contours on the map can be deceptive; some contours merged together making this approach is rather steeper than I had imagined. aAs much a grassy cliff as a steep climb, and the heavy rain which resumed during the ascent had water poured over the grass which made getting a secure foothold tricky at times. But before I had even started to lose heart and temper, astonishingly, I was at the top on the little path worn by the feet of countless munroists.
I looked up towards the summits, but all was mist and rain. I sat by the little crag on the col and waited for a while. I took a couple of photographs, I played with my phone (no signal of course) but all to no avail. The weather was closing in and the rain was moving from light to heavy. I am not one for clambering up to a top in zero visibility – one misty trig point looks much like any other – so I gave up on the tops and set off downwards into Coire Mhuillidh. A rough bit of walking, this, with the burns gathering strength, so I decided to get all the major stream crossings out of the way before looking for a pitch for the night. A wise decision as it turned out.
Leaving the steeper slopes, hopping across the ever more vigorous little streams on the way, I eventually picked up a path above the Allt Coire Mhuillidh just after the last major side stream, and looking down spotted a sheltered mossy flat area by the burn about 30 feet below, and with a nicely graded deer track giving easy access. That was it. The rain was pelting down now and the wind was buffeting and tugging at my pack. I was there in seconds, as the wind had planted me on my bum and I tobogganed down to the camp site. I blessed the Akto’s fast and easy pitching as I hurled myself inside and got sorted out.
And suddenly everything was alright again. The tent was squarely set up and rock solid. A hot meal, a few drams, outside for a pee and check the guylines and then ZZZZzzzzzzz…
Day 4
Monday 16th May – Coire Mhuillidh to Struy
I woke up early to the thundering roar of a jet fighter at zero altitude. But it didn’t recede. Peeking out of the tent I saw that the burn, high enough when I pitched, had doubled in volume with the overnight rain and the deafening noise was the roar of water over rock, redoubled by the echo off the walls of my little valley.
“Blimey,” I thought. “Just as well I’ve got no more river crossings today! And a nice easy day too.”
I settled back in my sleeping bag for a doze, but a couple of cups of tea with breakfast had their inevitable effect, so I decided to get moving. The rain didn’t let up this time as I packed up, but I have become adept at packing inside the Akto so before long all I had to do was drop the tent. No point in drying it as the rain was pelting down, so a sort of Hilleberg soup squelched into the Gregory’s capacious external pocket. At least I was warm and dry, and I was especially delighted that my newish Asolo boots were still doing a grand job in keeping the water out. A B&B awaited at Struy, plus a hotel and a pub.
With visions of fish and chips, a couple of pints and a soft fluffy bed I set off again in good spirits.
A tip here. The path becomes a track as you descend, but just after a gate above a small hydro dam there is an easily missed rubble track on the right which goes steeply down to the dam and stream. This is the one to take. The main track appears to go straight on, but it just peters out. Fortunately for me I spotted a chap coming up before I had gone more than a few yards along the wrong path and soon found myself down on the track that runs down the glen to Struy. In fact this is a proper tarmac road, but taken gently it is a stroll down to Struy from here along a pleasant scenic glen. After a while it stopped raining too, which was nice.
Later in the day a chap in a motor caravan stopped and asked me where he was, so I showed him on his 1:25000 map.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “I passed this power station a couple of miles back.”
“No, that must have been the one at Culligrain. You’ve got about another six miles to go. Carry on past this loch – here – and then you’ll see the power station you want. It’s right by the road with a large sign.”
“Oh, OK. Can I park easily just past there?”
I told him that he could, and asked if he planned a circuit taking in the Strathfarrar Munros, going up the same path I had come down. He did. I wished him luck and he drove on.
“Jeez, I hope his navigation on the hill is better than his navigation on the road,” I thought. But at least the cloud was breaking for my misplaced traveller, and before long I was removing waterproofs and sauntering along enjoying a pleasant spring day.
At Struy I had a choice for lunch. The hotel or the Struy Inn. Knowing that the inn was in new hands (and close to my B&B) I thought I would go there for lunch and give the new owners the benefit of my custom (which, after three days in the hills was likely to be quite profitable). It was closed on Mondays and Tuesdays!!! No mention of this on their yet-to-be-completed website I might add. I was not pleased.
A smart about face took me back over the bridge towards the Cnoc Hotel. A lady arranging flowers at the little church confirmed that the hotel was open and served food all day. Phew!
A few minutes later I was enjoying a pint (with a whisky chaser) and my fish and chips were on the way. A flickering phone signal allowed me to phone home and control too. I felt that having phoned control, I could safely lose control, so I dedicated the next hour or so to steady alcohol therapy. When my feet and hands had gone numb I concluded that I had had enough for one afternoon and toddled off to my B&B weaving ever so slightly.
En route I saw a chap in unmistakable challenge garb. It turned out to be Steve Gough in search of sustenance and I was happy to confirm that the hotel would indeed feed and water him. To my surprise he was staying at the (closed) Struy Inn. Apparently he had booked before they decided on their opening hours, and they were honouring the booking for dinner bed and breakfast. Steve suggested that I gave them a call and asked if I could join him for dinner, as dining alone in a deserted pub struck him as a forlorn end to the day. I readily agreed.
My B&B (Drumbae) was great, but alarmingly clean with lots of white furniture and pale carpets. I took off my boots and donned the Crocs (which now resided at the top of the pack) and made it to the room without soiling anything too much. Graham allowed me to dry my tent on the washing line and after a brief bit of dhobi and hanging up the damp washing I relaxed on the deep and wonderfully comfy bed with a bit of mindless telly. Bliss.
There followed a very pleasant evening. Steve’s name seemed familiar, and it transpired that we had a mutual acquaintance in Tony Bennett, with whom Steve had spent many years caving and indeed exploring new caves around the world. Top chap is Steve and we had a grand night at the Inn (well, we did have it entirely to ourselves). I lurched happily home to bed.
Day 5
Tuesday 17th May – Struy to Drumnadrochit
It was not raining this morning, so I set off fully breakfasted and feeling quite chipper. After the wildness of Torridon and the first three days, Strathfarrar and Strathglass were a delightful contrast, with mixed woodland and countless wild flowers. The countryside sparkled in the clear morning sunlight as I walked along the little lane on the eastern side of Strathglass.
In getting a bit ahead of schedule during the previous days, I had toyed with the idea of rejoining Alan and his coffin for the Wake for the Wild. Unfortunately the temptations of the fluffy bed at Drumbae and a decent dinner had tempted me to tarry at Struy, so now I was back on my original schedule. Steve was off in different direction this morning, but I was set on traversing some of the Eskdale Moor. Unfortunately my vetter’s notes had advised me that the obvious access route at Mauld had been blocked by the landowner and was currently the subject of an action by the Scottish Rights of Way Society. The implication was that a load of bolshy challengers might not help the cause (well, not at this point in the negotiation anyway) so an alternative route was needed.
Just after Easter Crochail Farm I took the old forest tracks up to a rock filled little gorge at NH382345 from where it was possible to scramble up the last 100 metres or so onto the moor itself. Bogs, crags and heather made for difficult progress, and the tracks encountered of course went in entirely the wrong direction. But it is a wonderful place, and with the weather still fine I rather enjoyed picking my way across towards Lochan an Tairt … well, at first I enjoyed it … then it all got a little tedious.
The going here is tough, very tough. I had a long way to go and soon realised that I was biting off more than I wanted to chew today, so I cut down off the moor and after blundering through some uncharted forestry paths and tracks found myself on a little lane that led me (thankfully) to Bearnock. A little toddle along the road brought Kilmartin Church into view, with its well tended grounds stretching down to the loch with little paths and, luxury of luxury, lovely benches for lunch. Time for a well earned brew and a bite to eat.
The rest of the walk was a bit dull – just an amble along the road to Drumnadrochit, but I was there by 5.00pm, in good time to sort out beer, bath, bed – and an excellent dinner at the Courtyard Restaurant where I really did feel well looked after. Alas, I cannot recall what I ate, but I enjoyed it. The canadian waitress was attentive, the G&Ts really hit the spot and the wine was pretty good too.
Apart from a bit of disorientation in bogs heather and forest, this was another good day – mainly sunny with broken cloud and it only rained a little bit in the afternoon.
Day 6
Wednesday 18th May – Drumnadrochit to Glen Mazeran
This was not my planned route, but the rain over the last few days made me reflect that my projected route might be a bit boggier than usual and the following day’s plod along the Dulnain involved crossing multiple side streams, which I reckoned might well be rather tiresome with the amount of water that I had seen coming off the hills in the last couple of days.I decided to re-route via Glen Mazeran.
Arriving at Temple Pier I was hailed from the boat by Joke and Jeff Cracknell and Steve Gough and before long a boatload of challengers was bouncing and rolling over the grey choppy waters of Loch Ness to the tumbledown jetty at Inverfarigaig, pursued by a squadron of ducks. It turned out that Gordon, our skipper, fed them bread to persuade them to accompany the boat as an additional treat for his more usual tourist clientele. As I was sitting in the stern I was issued with the duck bait and soon had some new anatine friends, who took an unwanted interest in the sandwiches that I was having for breakfast. I had an interesting crossing, munching a sandwich with one hand, warding off ducks with the other and occasionally chucking bread over the stern for a bit of respite. In the end I decided to save my lunch/breakfast for later.
As it turned out Steve was heading for Glen Mazeran too, so we set out together in the warm sunshine. Not for long though, because as we dropped down to the bridge near Dunmaglass Mains we were overtaken by a fierce rainstorm. We scampered down to the bridge with its sheltering trees where Jeff and Joke were sitting on the parapet. I popped on the waterproof trews and ate some more of my packed lunch.
Then it was the long haul up the track beside the Allt Mor to the hut below Slugan Liath. Showers came and went, but the main feature of the climb up was the wind, which was becoming stronger all the time, blowing in patches of sunshine and the odd very fierce shower (mostly missing us). Jeff and Joke were well ahead as we contented ourselves with a steady trudge, but finally the rain caught up with us just as we reached the hut. I nipped out for some water then dashed back in and got the kettle on for lunch.
Already esconced around the table were Jeff and Joke and John Hesp, and the five of us enjoyed a relaxed lunch whilst rain rattled on the windows in shotgun blasts of wind and the hut creaked under the assault. “Good timing, Steve!” I beamed over a steaming cuppa.
But all good things come to an end and eventually John heaved his pack onto his back.
“I’m going outside,” he announced in Captain Oates style. “I may be some time.”
Through the streaming windows we watched his figure slowly dwindle into the rain. It began to ease and we soon followed John’s example and said farewell to this welcome refuge and headed up to the boggy top before descending into Glen Mazeran. The wind was fiercer than ever, but the sky was now ragged cloud and patches of blue and shafts of sunlight sent patches of dazzling colour scudding across the landscape. Soon we were heading down the beginning of the stream that would lead to Glen Mazeran and were rejoined by Jeff and Joke who had been delayed by the airborne departure of Jeff’s rucksack cover. This was more like it. A tearing breeze, astonishing light and the huge skies that give the Monadhliath its feeling of immense unbounded space. Two and a half miles is all it is to the track, but two and a half miles of very fine walking indeed.
“I really enjoyed that,” beamed a windswept Steve. And I was grinning too. I love these pathless stretches and made a mental note to include a lot more in my next Challenge. Blimey – not through the first week and already thinking about the next one. Oh dear. NURSE, more medication needed over here!!!
And so to glorious Glen Mazeran, with its juniper trees and winding river. It was still very windy though. Steve and I explored a deep sheltered gully, but the possible pitches looked a bit on the slope and lumpy too, so we clambered back up to the track and walked on.
“Look,” said Steve. “Jeff and Joke have found a superb spot.”
Down in the bottom of the glen in a horseshoe bend of the river was about an acre of perfectly flat cropped grass. A truly beautiful spot. Then we saw Jeff unfurl the tent which had ambitions to become a hang glider and rush off to join its friend the rucksack cover in Norway – taking Jeff with it.
“Mmmm. Might be a bit exposed,” he mused as Jeff subdued the errant Nallo.
We decided to walk on, and a twist in the track revealed a sheltered spot hard up by a steep bank. Not perfect, but acceptable enough. Tents were soon up, supper on, and we enjoyed the last of my whisky. Then the showers began again, but in compensation we were treated to a wonderful view from our tents, encircled by a brilliant rainbow.
The moment faded and the rain began in earnest, so conversation came to an end and I zipped up the tent for the night. As I did so I saw that a Laser Competition had appeared about three hundred yards further on, pitched tight against the bank like ours. Has to be a challenger I thought. Then I stopped thinking altogether and drifted off to the lullaby of wind and pattering rain.
Day 7
Thursday 19th May – Glen Mazeran to Aviemore
As our routes coincided as far as Aviemore, Steve and I had decided to walk together, and we were off in reasonable time – around 8.30 I think – and saw our neighbour setting off too. Eventually we met at Laggan Farm, Steve and I having followed the track to get there, Kirsten Patterson had opted for the river path arriving at the same time. We compared notes and walked on together enjoying a bright spring morning.
Along the track by the Findhorn we came across David Boyd packing his kit, and noticed that he had eggs! “I assume they’re hard boiled,” remarked Steve. “They are now,” said David, but they were fresh when a chap driving past gave them to me. He’d been down to check on his chickens.”
Lucky blighter. If I parked myself next to a track you can be sure that I’d be run over, not given a free breakfast.
The track to the Red Bothyphoto © Phil Lambert
Then it was more upwardness along the track that slogs its way up the side of An Socach and on to Carn Dubh Ic an Deoir which at 750 metres was to be our highest point of the day. Steve was telling me about his life in Brunei, and extolling the pleasures of the evening sundowner on the veranda and so on – and this rang a bell with me. I remembered that there is a lunch hut par excellence along this track, tucked out of the wind at NH787217 … and it has a veranda! I imparted this happy news and in due course the little green building came into view.
Unfortunately it was far too windy to enjoy the veranda, but we had a pleasant elevenses inside the immaculate building – there were even tablecloths on the trestle tables and a little notice giving the locations of other lunch huts on the estate. I mentally gave the estate full marks and followed Kirsten’s example in photographing the notice for future reference.
We then enjoyed a fine if windy walk over Carn Dubh Ic an Deoir from where we watched the Burma Road to Aviemore in the far distance come and go as fierce showers blew over it.
A bit of open country over short cropped heather led us down to the Allt Tudair and then deer paths and another brief heather bash put us on a well made track to the Red Bothy for lunch. The luxury of a bothy lunch is that hot food, tea and so on are no problem to prepare, so we enjoyed a good hour here, soon being joined by John Hesp who had no doubt been off doing something manly and adventurous.
But all good things come to an end, and soon Steve, Kirsten & I set out for the slog up and over to Aviemore, leaving John as sole occupier of the bothy – but not for long, as I spotted the bustling figure of Judith Barnes heading down the track as we left.
View from the Burma Roadphoto © Phil Lambert
At the top of the Burma Road we said our farewells to Kirsten who was setting off to bag a Corbett or two en route to Kincraig. Steve & I bimbled down to Aviemore, eventually being overtaken by the loping gait of John as we approached Lynwilg. At least we thought we were approaching Lynwilg, but had got carelessly misplaced and were veering towards Ballinluig. Soon put right though, and at least there was no uphill involved in the correction.
Steve and I were feeling a bit bushed after what I reckoned at around 32k and 1000m of ascent, so we decided to try the youth hostel. Surprisingly it was full of youths, and elderly gents with packets of Werthers Originals were apparently non grata, so we booked a room each at the nearby italian restaurant’s motel type establishment. After a bit of a doze and a freshen up two very spruce looking chaps set off for the Indian restaurant, which was very good indeed, and as well as excellent food the huge bottles of Cobra beer just kept on coming.
A good end to an excellent day.
Day 8
Friday 20th May – Aviemore to Glen Luibeg
The day started badly. I was up and packed by 8.30 and decided to pop down to Tescos to buy supplies to see me through to Aviemore (I had a couple of dehydrated meals, but rather fancied some “proper food” to see me through to Braemar. Critically the whisky flask was empty, and its replenishment was uppermost in my mind.
So to the checkout with a basket full of treats – bacon flan, Cornish pastie, eccles cakes and other luxuries … plus a bottle of Talisker.
“You can’t have that,” said the checkout lady, nodding at the whisky. I thought she was joking.
“Don’t worry, I’m over eighteen – look at my grey hair.”
“No, under Scottish law we can’t sell alcohol before 10.00am.”
“Eh?”
She produced a piece of laminated card with the regulation printed on it.
“That’s Scottish legislation,” I said. “I’m English.” “Under English and indeed United Kingdom law I am entitiled to buy my whisky at any time of my choosing, outside Sundays.”
I made a lunge for the bottle, but she was too quick for me and placed it out of reach on the opposite side of the till.
“This law is ridiculous!” I exclaimed. “Who votes for these clowns?”
“Our parliament has done many good things for Scotland,” she said primly, then conceded “But I’ll admit that this wasn’t one of the best decisions that they came up with.”
“So, can’t you ring it through as something else – how about I get a kettle or something at the same price for you to scan. There’s a tenner in for you,” I added hopefully.
No deal. I sloped out of the store with my bag of comestibles with the prospect of a very dry couple of days ahead. I sat in the café having a bit of breakfast and toyed with waiting until 10 am, but looking up toward the lairig I could see that the hillsides were dusted with snow. Clearly it would be wiser to take advantage of the weather as it was now rather than risk staggering across the boulder fields in a blizzard, so off I toddled, laden with a big bag of ‘real food’. Cornish pasties, cheese & bacon flans. Mmmmmm.
As it turned out the walk was superb. Yes, it rained from time to time. Yes it was windy. Yes on occasion it snowed. But in between all of that there were periods of bright sunshine and crystal clear visibility that lit up the landscape with bright Fauvist colours.
The walk up through the Rothiemurcus Forest was as wonderful as ever. I really enjoy this vestige of the once great Caledonian Forest. I had an early lunch by the rockfall at the entrance to the lairig proper, where the stream rushes out from under a wall of boulders like a set in an Indiana Jones movie. There I was joined by father and son team Graham & Pete Lewis who were quick to follow my example and get the stove on. I figured that with the wind and showers blowing up it would be difficult to find a spot for a warming cuppa later on.
I’ve been this way, in both directions, a few times now in all weathers. Sometimes with the clouds pouring down from the plateau above giving the place a Tolkienesque atmosphere, like the walls of Mordor. Other times it has been a slog through continual rain, or crunching over snowfields being careful not to fall through, and on one superb daunder in April, brilliant sunshine. This time I had the lot in one kaleidoscope day!
Snow showers, the odd rattle of hail and squally spells of rain raced through the pass, but at the same time there were sunny spells with extraordinary clarity of light. Although rather tired by the afternoon, the sheer pleasure of the walk kept my energy levels fully charged. I bounded down from the Pools of Dee enjoying every minute of this bright and breezy day.
I was heading for Derry Lodge – not my favourite camping spot as it gets a little overpopulated, so I kept an eye open for any likely spot as I walked through Glen Luibeg. A patch of green in the heather by the river looked promising, so I plodded over. Perfect! Just had to uproot a couple of errant heather sprigs and I had an Akto sized space aligned with the blustery wind. Up went the tent. Down went my head for forty winks before dinner.
It was a blustery night, but once inside the tent with a full tum, sleep came quickly with thoughts of the delights of Braemar tomorrow. A pre booked room at the Fife Arms with a deep bath and unlimited hot water – and unlimited food and drink. Plus a chance to catch up on the Challenge gossip.
Day 9
Saturday 21st May – Glen Luibeg to the fleshpots of Braemar
An easy day ambling down through Derry Lodge and on to Braemar. Occasionally I bumped in to Challengers and passed a few words, but mostly I kept to myself. I was thinking quite a bit about Stan Tennant who for many years had kept Lochcallater Lodge with his pal Bill.
The lodge is, of course, the legendary “Stan & Bill’s” as many, many challengers have come to know the place, and the scene of some outrageous partying and extraordinary hospitality on the part of Stan & Bill.
Stan died of cancer earlier this year. I had recently undergone similar treatment myself (and withdrawn from a Challenge because of it). Last year Stan & I had shared a few laughs about the various indignities that we had endured as various internal bits and pieces were declared unserviceable and discarded by our surgeons. However I quickly recognised that behind the joking, Stan was seriously ill.
I can’t explain why the passing of a man that I had spent time with barely a dozen times should be so affecting. Maybe I felt that I had ducked the reaper’s scythe only for someone else to be unfairly cut down. Whatever it was, I was determined to be ready to celebrate Stan’s life with the rest of the crew on Sunday night. Stan’s wife, Jeanette, her son Ross, and of course Bill, had decided that Lochcallater Lodge would be open as usual, and I knew that all the regulars would be there. Yes, we would celebrate his life in a way that would meet with his full approval.
But on this fine morning I felt a little melancholy, so a solitary walk to Braemar suited me very well.
Then I stepped into the village and the mood lifted. I saw Alan and Andy through the misty windows of the café tucking into a good fry up with other challengers in the background. I waved to them, but did not break step. The clock was striking eleven. I swung left into the Fife Arms and ordered a Guinness. Then another. The melancholy fell away and I slipped into Braemar mode, the fuddled bonhomie that I knew would see me through to Monday. Soon the Fife filled up with Challengers, and a splendid series of reunions followed. It’s an extraordinary thing, but somehow you bump into someone that you haven’t seen for a year, and just pick up the conversation where you left off. Bizarre, but really enjoyable too.
Bingo Wings (Braemar’s finest rock band – Braemar’s only rock band) were playing at the Moorfield Hotel so I joined the merry throng there. They were short of the bass player whose wife was giving birth – I suppose he felt obliged to give the gig a miss under the circs – but they still made a fine noise.
Towards the end of the evening I found myself dancing with Alan Sloman, a sure sign that it’s time to call it a day. So I did.
Day 10
Sunday 22nd May – Braemar to Loch Callater
A Sunday off in Braemar is a pleasant respite from the discipline of walking. A good cooked breakfast was followed by another deep bath before packing my freshly laundered clothes (the result of the endless hot water and sizzling radiators that the excellent Fife Arms provides).
Some will tell you the Fife is a shabby, run down stopover for geriatric coach parties. That’s a bit harsh. As far as I was concerned it gave me a room with a bath, a clean and comfy bed, limitless hot water, fluffy towels, as much as I could eat at breakfast, and I washed and dried all my smelly gear – all for £35. Pretty good value. Bernie Roberts did even better, getting dinner as well for the same price. Given the choice of campsite, bunkhouse or the Fife, it’s a no brainer for me at those prices.
Then the routine of Sunday papers, postcards written whilst enjoying a cake and cappuccino at Taste, the surprisingly upmarket café, before returning to the Old Bakery Café for their “Challenge Special” – a choice of three main courses with tea or coffee for £5.95. Excellent nosh, friendly service. Over Saturday and Sunday I had three of these specials – well, with value like that … Top marks to the Old Bakery for making all of the TGO walkers so very welcome and for the cheery banter. I loved it!
But eventually it was time to purchase a decent bottle and set off for Loch Callater Lodge for what would, inevitably, be a wake for Stan, but hopefully a great celebration of a life lived to the full also.
I ambled down the golf course road and caught up with John Jocys. Not many people going this way, I thought. There were dire warnings of 130 mph winds for Monday, but surely no-one would let that put them off?
Evidently it had, for it was a smaller party than usual that gathered that evening (although, to be fair, quite a few had popped by earlier in the day). We soon had our tents up outside and were swiftly inside for an enjoyable, and emotional evening. Jeanette showed me photos of Stan in the Alps and other great mountain landscapes – skiing and whatever – from the 1970s onwards.
“A lot of people who come here now have only known Stan as an old man, or a sick man, but this is the Stan that I knew.” And the photos showed a young man in his prime, rejoicing in life then as he did to the end.
Later, we had toasts and tributes to Stan, and there were a few damp eyes in the house that night. Then Croydon (Mick Hopkins) said to Jeanette that he wanted to sing a song for ‘her man’ that was one of his favourites from the many nights that we had spent here.
Mick sang the Fields Of Athenry. Everyone joined in.
After which the traditional mayhem commenced. Comic verses were read, including one from McGonagall fan, Ian Cotterill, and a great western tale from Doha Jim, an expat scot from Qatar. Every performer did his ‘turn’ and eventually we launched into “The Music Man”. Drink had been taken – in considerable quantity – so Music Man was a severe test of heavily impaired memory, but we got through it. Yes, the party was as riotous as ever, Stan, and I’m sure you were there.
I managed to get back to my tent, some achievement in the confusion of green Aktos parked outside, and …. oblivion.
Thanks to Bill, Jeanette, Ross & co for a memorable night – well, I think I remember most of it.
Day 11
Monday 23rd May – Loch Callater to Glenshee
This was a foul weather alternative route. No, this was a foul weather alternative to my foul weather alternative. Today was the day of the ‘great storm’.
But before braving the incresingly restless elements it was time to say farewell to Bill who was frying sausages and bacon and dispensing tea at full pelt in the steamy crowded kitchen. Everyone was helping with the odd bit of washing up and somehow we all ended up with a splendid breakfast inside us as the wind outside began to moan and tug at the shutters and windows. I got my tent down in a rattling shower, and had to put a rock on one end to keep it grounded as I rolled it up. It looked for once as if the Met Office hadn’t exaggerated.
One last cup of tea and departure could be delayed no longer.
I set off in the company of Alan Sloman, Andrew Walker, Dave Wilkinson and maybe John Jocys (the memory is a bit vague as I had a wall eyed hangover at the time – soon blown away by the increasingly brisk breeze). My FWA plan was simply to hop over the Bealach Buide to the A93, along the road to Glenshee and put up the tent outside the big tourist hotel there (I had been told that they are quite OK about camping, if you ask nicely). Today though we were being buffeted down here by the lodge, and Alan said that it was likely to be extremely unpleasant by the time I got up near the bealach. A shotgun squall of rain made up my mind, and I joined them on the longer, but lower option and set off back along the track. The rest of the lads were heading off to Gelder Shiel bothy and then to the Sheiling of Mark and Tarfside – the trade route to St Cyrus.
I was determined that I would complete my intended north/south route and finish at Arbroath as planned, so we parted company at the road. They turned right, back to Braemar; I turned left into the teeth of a phenomenal gale and pouring rain.
It was bloody hard work. At times it was all I could do to stand up, let alone make headway. There was a brief interlude as the eye of the storm passed over, with sunshine for about 15 minutes, then the cloud, rain and wind returned with increasing ferocity.
By the time I reached the point where I would have hit the road if I had hopped over the bealach I had walked 10k instead of 3k, and to cap it all the descent from the top didn’t look too bad. On the other hand the wind could have caused a nasty tumble into a raging burn on the way down, so I convinced myself that the decision was the right one … mmmmm … maybe.
From here the road begins to climb from 400m to 665m at the ski centre, and to make what would normally be an easy road walk well-nigh impossible, the wind and rain combined to force me to a standstill at intervals and hang on to one of the snow posts until it subsided enough for a few more steps.
Then, glimmering through the murk I saw lights. Not a car, but lights in what appeared to be a building. It was the ski centre – and the café was open. Hallejulah! I pressed on against the weather, which was now much like being hosed with a jetwash, and required the thrust of a rugby prop forward to make progress (I played fly half, so found this heavy work). With the incentive of sandwiches, soup and beer I kept going and got inside just as the weather reached a new peak of fury.
Peace.
It was strangely quiet inside. I shook off my waterproofs and removed gaiters, hood and mountain cap. Surprisingly I was perfectly dry. I looked around. A few disconsolate motorists gazing through the misted windows, and that was about it customer wise. But behind the counter was an attractive blonde girl, a steaming vat of soup, plentiful filled rolls with optional chips, and glory of glory, a fridge full of beer.
I decided to rest awhile and regroup. A lovely lunch and a few Stellas later I was chatting with the blonde girl about the weather. Apparently a challenger had camped outside the previous night (Ron Reynolds from her description) and she told me that they had taken an American cyclist to the surgery in Braemar that morning. He had been blown off his bike and right across the car park. That didn’t sound promising for a night camping, so I asked if she had the number for the Glenshee Hotel so I could see if there might be a room.
“Are you on Vodafone?” she asked.
“Yes”
“You won’t get a signal here. All our business phones are Vodafone, and they have a real problem with the network at the moment.”
“Oh well, I’ll just plod on and take pot luck then.”
“No, no. Don’t worry – my friend works there on reception. I’ve got the number in my O2 phone. I’ll ring for you.”
And she did. There was a brief conversation ending in “Yes, he’ll be pleased with that – he’s walking so he’ll be a couple of hours.”
“Er … what have I just agreed to?” I asked.
“An en suite twin room for twenty-five quid, including breakfast.”
That girl is an angel. I didn’t ask her name, but she made my day. The afternoon now had a guaranteed happy ending, provided of course that I wasn’t blown under the wheels of a passing Lochs and Glens coach.
The walk to Glenshee wasn’t too bad once I’d got over the top of the pass. I arrived at reception – key and room were ready, and within minutes I was in the shower (and took the opportunity to get the tent crispy dry by festooning it from the picture hooks. The room overlooked the surging river and bending trees. I was glad to be enjoying the great indoors this evening. After phoning home to reassure Miss W that I was not camped on a remote hillside, I dressed in my best Hotel gear and went into the bar. After a couple of pints I settled on a steak and ale pie washed down with a couple of large glasses of Shiraz. The day suddenly seemed OK. I felt quite convivial and engaged some of my fellow guests in conversation.
Mistake.
I found myself cornered by a retired coach driver who, after years of driving busloads of pensioners around the highlands, had decided to take one of those holidays himself!
“That’s a real busman’s holiday,” I grinned.
“No, I told you, I don’t drive anymore.”
“Just a joke – you being an ex-coach driver going on a holiday in the same coach.”
“What’s funny about it?” he asked. Po faced.
I gave up and steered the conversation into safer, but far, far duller, waters. He was a quite exceptionally boring man, and over the next thirty minutes my brain began to atrophy with the minutiae of coach routes and their journey times.
When I looked around for rescue I saw that his travelling companions had taken his conversation with me as their cue to disperse to the farthest reaches of the room, leaving me marooned. One of them caught my eye and gave a sympathetic smile and winked knowingly. Obviously I had done them all a big favour, and none of them was going to help me out. Bastards.
“I think one of your mates over there is asking if you want a drink,” I said, pointing vaguely towards the winker, “I won’t join you. I’m for my bed.”
He lurched towards his hapless fellow travellers, glass in hand, and I beat a hasty retreat to my room and an hour of mindless telly. The wind moaned in the trees outside and the river roared and tumbled outside my window. I drifted off, once again with the confused murmur of watery voices lulling me to sleep
Day 12
Tuesday 24th May – Glenshee to Purgavie Farm
An ‘eat all you want’ buffet breakfast with black pudding and haggis as well as all the usual fried animal parts set me up for the day, and I was leaving the breakfast room just as the party with the ex-coach driver entered. Timing is everything.
The first part of the day was the tail end of my FWA – over via Loch Beanie to rejoin my planned route in Glen Isla. After the truly foul weather of yesterday, today was delightful. Briskly breezy, but with bright sunshine and just the odd shower blowing through. It was an easy walk over to lonely, windswept Loch Beanie, where I spotted a memorial with fresh flowers, before descending Glen Beanie and back on track in Glen Prosen.
This is now a road walk, but a pleasant one. At one point a stoat popped his head out just in front of me, and instead of instantly disappearing he trotted along the road ahead of me, occasionally looking back but quite unpeturbed by the lumbering leviathan behind him. Eventually he dived into a gap in the dry stone wall. I passed the spot, paused, and looked back. Two beady black eyes in a small pointed face returned my gaze. He was obviously waiting for me to go so he could get on with his day undisturbed, so I turned and walked on.
This is farming country now, and neat cottages and small farms adjoined the quiet lanes as I walked in a lovely spring day to Purgavie Farm, near the Loch of Lintrathen, where I had booked a bed for the night, and dinner awaited. Moira Clark greeted me on my arrival. Seemingly she was well acquainted with the Challenge, and a challenger had stayed there just the night before, with quite a lot of wet kit.
I hazarded a guess:
“Tall slim chap with a midlands accent?” I asked.
“Why, yes.”
“Ron Reynolds!”
“That’s the man.”
It appeared that Ron and I had routes that were very similar, although a check on the list later showed that Ron was headed for Lunan Bay rather than Arbroath.
Purgavie was perfect. My room, and indeed the whole place reminded me of farmhouses that I had stayed in as a teenager when courting various farmers’ daughters. Moira cooked a super dinner. The table mats were a curio, being illustrated verses from the notorious ballad of the “Ball of Kirriemuir”. Still, it’s nice to see a little local colour, even if it is blue (only joking – they were … discreet).
A full belly and a soft bed make an ideal combination for a good night’s sleep, and I only woke up to switch off the TV which I had put on for ten minutes for the news only to find that I was watching a B movie at 3.00am.
Day 13
Wednesday 24th May – Purgavie Farm to Letham
Kirriemuir was pleasant, approached by a path through a nature reserve, although there was no sign of a ball being held any time soon, nor were young ladies fresh from Inverness in evidence. The girls in the café let me leave my bag there whilst I wandered around and took a picture or two (well, Peter Pan had to go in the album).
Forfar was passed, the weather was passable, and then I reached Dunnichen where there is a cairn marking a nearby battle. This intrigued me. An obscure battle to commemorate I thought, I’ve never heard of it. Obviously it is considered quite important in these parts, as I was to learn.
Further on there is a really delightful footpath to Letham that skirts the purported battle site. Here there is more elaborate plaque, with a more elaborate inscription. Apparently, like most Scottish battles, it was “vital to Scotland’s development as an independent nation”. For a change, though, it didn’t involve William Wallace, Robert the Bruce or the Young Pretender, but one King Brudei, a Pictish warrior who gave King Eggfrith’s Northumbrians a pasting 1,326 years ago.
Call me a cynic if you like, but as far as I can recall from my schooldays neither England nor Scotland were even approaching nationhood at this time – that concept would have been quite alien to these people. The concepts of nationhood and freedom, as opposed to allegiance to chieftain or tribe, followed much later. So, the Battle of Nechtansmere is an interesting historic event, but hardly relevant to the modern concept of Scottish Independence.
As I looked at the battle site a local man came along walking his dogs. He spotted my pack and asked, “Are you doing the Ultimate Challenge?”
“Yes I am,” I replied, “Although it’s called the TGO Challenge these days.”
“I’ve often seen you chaps coming through every year, and always wanted to have a chat – do you know Bill Robertson?”
“Not personally, but most of us have heard of him – he’s on the walk this year. I think it’s his 30th.”
“NO! Surely not. He must be eighty by now!” (Bill is in fact 78). “He gave a talk about it a few years ago – fascinating.”
So we passed a pleasant twenty minutes of chit chat, me about the Challenge, he about the local area. He told me that despite the certainty of the plaques and cairn, not every authority was convinced that this was the battle site, and put forward some technical and tactical reasons why it might well be a couple of miles away. Such learned opinions however had entirely failed to convince the local worthies, so cairn and plaque were erected anyway. And for all I know they are in the right place.
Then my companion rounded up his impatient dogs and I set off to the Letham Hotel . I could tell I was getting near Arbroath now, as the hotel is run by Mr & Mrs Herring.
It rained all night. Sometimes hotels are great!
Day 14
Thursday 25th May – Letham to Arbroath, and a party
An early breakfast and off to Arbroath, home of the smokie and the cathedral where the Declaration of Arbroath was drawn up in 1320.
The countryside here is unremarkable, so I walked along ruminating on the local history instead, and in particular the way that modern concerns skew the interpretation of the past. The Declaration of Arbroath is a gift to the nationalist, but was it then what it appears to be now? Certainly a written appeal to the Pope to recognize Scotland’s aspirations seems rather more relevant to the nationalist cause than a bunch of Picts and Angles beating each other up. Mind you, if Robert the Bruce hadn’t been excommunicated for murdering a rival claimant to the throne, John Comyn – and in a church too – maybe the Pope would have needed less persuasion, and the declaration would never have been created.
To my mind the document is as much about putting Robert’s personal claim to the throne beyond doubt as anything more noble. This was certainly required as he had usurped the throne from the previous king, John de Balliol, who was in Papal custody at the time of Robert’s “accession” in his place. The idea advanced in the declaration that there were circumstances when Scots should be free to choose their king neatly circumvented this inconvenient truth.
So if Arbroath gives us perhaps the earliest documented expression of Scottish nationalism as it might be recognized today, it does so along with a certain duplicity of purpose. But let’s not be churlish, and finish with this great phrase translated from the Latin texts by Sir James Fergusson:
“…for, as long as but a hundred of us remain alive, never will we on any conditions be brought under English rule. It is in truth not for glory, nor riches, nor honours that we are fighting, but for freedom – for that alone, which no honest man gives up but with life itself.”
Stirring stuff … and it seems that, despite having acted as Edward I’s jailer in keeping the deposed John out of the way, the Pope was persuaded … and poor old John had conveniently died anyway.
Who would have thought back in 1320 that almost 700 years later all this would result in me being denied a bottle of scotch in a Tesco store.
The country lanes took me right into Arbroath and to the harbour, where I took a couple of photos before setting off for the cathedral. I’m ashamed to say that I encountered a pub on the way, so failed to round off my walk with an edifying contemplation of the seat of Scottish nationhood. I did however contemplate a selection of fine real ales during an excellent lunch before hopping on the train to Montrose.
At the Park Hotel the Kinnaird room was buzzing with incoming Challengers. I signed in and spent a happy hour or two meeting and greeting and generally catching up before sinking gratefully onto my bed for a doze before the big party.
And it was a great party too. The dinner was interspersed with the usual toasts and awards, but the most important were the tributes presented to Roger Smith, retiring as TGO co-ordinator after more than two decades in the job. The vetting team presented Roger with their gift and then it was time for the card from all the challengers. This had been impressively stitched together by its instigator, Humphrey Weightman, and was presented together with an engraved glass sculpture, paid for by our collection. Behind every great man is a very patient woman of course, and Roger’s wife, the stalwart Patricia found herself in a sea of flowers.
It’s wonderful to catch up with everyone, but as I chatted I realized that this walk had changed me, and in a deep and profound way.
I was completely knackered.
Time to go home.