Haven’t  moaned about rubbish in bothies for a wee while, so indulge me…

Went in to Corrour this weekend to change over the toilet bag, walking in on Saturday morning from Bob Scott’s and arriving just before lunchtime, somewhat moist from the rain, and knackered from the 8kg of coal in my sack.

There was plenty to do at the toilet. Various ongoing problems there meant the normal changover, moving a 20kg bag of human waste through a narrow passage from one side of the building to the other, was more difficult than normal. The public area of the toilet was overdue a clean-out too, so that took another hour or so.

That was all planned for though.

What wasn’t planned was the large bag of rubbish hanging up in the storm porch.

Halfway down the bag of rubbish

You can see from the photos, it was a rancid mess inside, and absolutely crawling with small blackflies which were finding plenty sustenance and a great breeding environment in all the food waste in the packets and tins which had been crammed and forced into the bag.

Most of the flies flew, but you can see them crawling over the sauce bottle

A sticky, rancid mess in the bag

Now you can’t just burn a bag of rubbish like that – all it needs is a gas cannister in there and you’ve lost both the bothy and yourself – so I had to pick through the horrible, sticky, crawling mess and feed everything onto the fire bit by bit. It was literally four hours – four hours – before I needed to put any other fuel on the fire, apart from some mouse-chewed packets of food left on the shelves. And the abandoned sleeping bag wouldn’t burn very well, so that was carried out on Sunday along with all the tin cans, some of which I had to put through the fire anyway to get rid of the stinking food and flies. Crushed, the tins filled the 10k sack the coal had been in.

So far so distressingly normal. Neil Findlay and I had been out at Corrour five weeks earlier, so all that rubbish had been left in that time.

But it hadn’t just been left there. Someone had taken it all and very deliberately – determinedly even – crammed it in, just like they were tidying up.

…And then they left it.

My take is that they hung it all up on a hook on the wall thinking that would keep it out of the way of mice. And that they probably walked out thinking they had done something, if not exactly good, then at least next best to good, because, after all, they wouldn’t have room for all that rubbish in their rucksack. (And no-one in their right mind would put that shit in their rucksack.)

Utter crap!

That’s the most charitable take on it and it’s bullshit.

The reason all that rubbish was left was slovenly laziness. There was nothing there that couldn’t have been burned or carried out at the time before. So no excuse at all for the people whose rubbish it was.

Even if it was someone else who ‘cleared up’ and put it in the bag, what the hell was he thinking about? Even out of reach of mice (progress of a sort I suppose) it was a breeding ground for flies – and there were, literally, hundreds, if not even thousands of them.

So let’s get this straight:

DO NOT leave rubbish in a bothy.

DO NOT leave unused food in a bothy.

DO NOT leave that nearly-empty gas cannister (I took six out from Corrour this morning)

DO NOT leave bottles of meths etc. (Even more dangerous, because some idiot is going to try to get the fire lit with it and burn the place down)

DO NOT leave unwanted gear or clothes. In the last eight years I alone have removed at least five tents, half a dozen sleeping bags and enough items of clothing to dress a bloody scout troop.

Sounds negative? Well tough.

Everyone who looks after bothies has the same problem again and again: rubbish. Rubbish left by people who call themselves hikers, hill-walkers, climbers, bothy folk. Rubbish left by people who are very often the same people that decry folk leaving rubbish in bothies.

Bothies are hugely vulnerable. It doesn’t take much at all to change a bothy from a nice, clean, welcoming shelter to a rancid hole that you don’t like to put your sleeping bag down in. So treat it like that. Treat it like you actually care rather than like some bloody parasite, using what others have provided and shitting on their effort. Because if you are one of those people who close your eyes to the rubbish you’ve left  when you walk away from a bothy, or who gathers rubbish together and then still leaves it, you get no respect from me.

Ach, I’m sick of moaning. So to end on a positive note, Saturday night in Corrour was a good bothy night in spite of everything that had gone before. Andy and Calum from Dalkeith arrived in the afternoon, relative newcomers to hillwalking and staying in their first bothy, thrilled to bits with it and great company right through the evening. Then at 10.30 pm, long after dark, three Londoners arrived, knackered. They’d taken the overnight bus to Aviemore, walked from there up onto Cairngorm, headed out to McDui, getting overtaken by darkness halfway there but carrying on to the top before dropping down off the side into the Lairig Ghru, down the steep boulderfield that must have been purgatory in the dark and wet, to arrive at the bothy hoping it wouldn’t be too full to get a bed. On Sunday morning these guys headed back out to Aviemore, to catch the bus back down south; they would arrive in London at 7am on Monday and two of them would go straight from the bus station to work. Now that is keen.

And I’m delighted to say that all five – Andy and Calum, and the three Londoners – enjoyed their first night in a bothy, were determined to come back for more… and took all their rubbish home with them!

Corrour Bothy – a great place. Please help keep it that way

PS…

After writing this I was asked to write a similar post for the UKHillwalking website. Same idea, but developed the idea of who’s responsible. You can read it here

Ruighe-aiteachain bothy from the south. Due for renovation

Long anticipated plans to improve and extend Ruighe Aiteachain Bothy in Glen Feshie have been approved by the Cairngorm National Park Authority.

The popular Feshie Bothy, as it is commonly known, will have a stone-built porch added on the north side (where the existing entrance is), housing a flight of stairs to sleeping accommodation upstairs, along with a small wood store.

The existing two ground floor rooms will be retained, but with a new wood floor, new windows and doors, built-in bunks in both rooms, and new wood-burning stoves installed in both rooms, using the existing chimney.

The plans, submitted by Glenfeshie Estate Ltd, were approved by the CNPA on Friday, 13th November.

The MBA learned several years ago that the estate owner, Danish clothing millionaire Anders Holch Povlsen, intended to carry out a professional renovation of the bothy, but information had been scant since then. Assurances had been given to the maintenance organiser that the bothy would remain open to all as at present, but there’s no denying there were suspicions it would end up a paying bunkhouse or similar.

Similar suspicions occurred to Kincraig and Vicinity Community Council, which was anxious that the bothy remain free to the public as a mountain refuge. But the report to the CNPA planning committee contained the reassurance from Glenfeshie Estate:  “Your sentiments are also ours! The bothy will continue as an open to all overnight refuge but on this occasion safe to use. The wood store is to allow for a small supply of dry wood to prevent our visitors cutting down any more ancient Caledonian pines.”

The report from CNPA officials further notes: “It is important to note that the applicant does not seek permission for a change of use of the building. The building shall remain in use as a bothy and any permission granted for this proposal would not permit a change of use to occur.”

Backing those statements is Mr Povlsen’s record since purchasing the estate in 2006, meeting with a favourable response for conservation efforts which have seen a radical reduction in deer numbers and resultant transformation of Glen Feshie with a heartening level of regeneration. He has also in the last couple of years created a much appreciated, non-boggy version of the path into the bothy from Achlean, up the east side of the Feshie, and still has plans to rebuilt the Carnachuin Bridge to link to the road on the west side of the glen.

Timescales for the bothy renovation aren’t known yet, but the planner’s report and supporting papers for the application, along with drawings of the proposals, can be seen at http://cairngorms.co.uk/resource/docs/boardpapers/05112015/20150192GlenfeshieBothyV1.0.pdf

Just a very brief post from a far flung outpost of the Cairngorms where the internet is frustratingly slow.

For anyone who hasn’t already heard via Facebook, BBC Scotland will shortly be showing an hour-long documentary about bothies in Scotland.

Filmed over the best part of a year by Jack Archer, working with MBA volunteers and bothy afficionados from a’ the airts, it promises to be a great insight into bothy culture and the lives of the people who look after the bothies.

Yours truly can be seen suited up for the Corrour Bothy bog change, but there are plenty normal(ish) people in there too, with some great bothies across Scotland. Haven’t seen it all myself yet, but the brief clips available on the BBC website promise an hour well spent when it’s shown on BBC Scotland on December 9th.

It’ll be on iPlayer soon after and you’ll be able to see it at this link: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06s1762  You can also see four brief teasers here in advance of the big event.

The cause of it all: 70 per cent fat, 30 per cent salt, 100 per cent pure gastronomic bliss. The rowie, buttery or morning roll. Aitkens do them best.

The more alert of you will have noticed that a YouTube link to the documentary Bothy Life appeared on this blog a few days ago – and quickly disappeared again.

Frustrating, I know, especially for foreign readers who can’t get access to iPlayer, but I was asked to remove the link for copyright reasons and because it caused problems for Jack Archer, who made the film.

UK viewers can still, until 23 January at least, see it on iPlayer at http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b06s1762 .

However Jack has been in touch with a wee consolation prize – the full version of the Aitken’s Morning Roll Song as he filmed it at Allt Sheicheachan during the making of Bothy Life. In the event, for reasons of length, abusive language and musical taste, it hit the cutting room floor (if there is such a place in these digital days), but Jack has resurrected it and YouTubed it for posterity.

For the uninitiated, and as explained at the start of this clip, the Aitken’s Morning Roll Song started out as a harmless wee song about… well, you can guess. To that our resident piper, Ian Shand, added an extra verse about Neil Findlay, who looks after Bob Scott’s Bothy.

Then it just exploded, more than doubling in size as Kenny Freeman wrote yet more verses, about a number of the regular characters in the Eastern Highlands branch of the MBA.

Jack filmed the first full performance, which is presented here, but the damned thing has just kept growing and the last performance I heard, at the Bob Scott’s Bothy Mark III 10th anniversary ceilidh, was over 10 minutes long! That’s long enough to put some prog rock epics to shame!

But enough preamble. On with the show…

A Sea King in action (not on the rescue described below)

Just been reading a blogpost by Heavy Whalley, a retired legend from the RAF Mountain Rescue, writing a fond farewell to the Sea King helicopters which join him in retirement on December 31.

Well worth reading Heavy’s story, but it also reminded me of my one dalliance with mountain rescue many moons ago on Lochnagar, when a group of us were so glad and grateful to see a great piece of flying.

It was winter, must have been the early to mid-eighties. I was staying in the Gelder Shiel with my then regular climbing partner, Kevin, and a newcomer to winter climbing, Dave. The weekend hadn’t got off to a great start. We hadn’t been to the Gelder before and, after a long trudge through heavy snow we arrived at a bothy that didn’t seem any warmer inside than out. Things didn’t get any better when Dave forgot he had wrapped the whisky in his sleeping bag ‘for safety’, and shook the bag out, sending our sole source of alcoholic comfort crashing to the cobbled floor. It was a long and bitterly cold night.

The morning, perversely, wasn’t so cold. As we trudged slowly up the hill towards Lochnagar’s famed North-East Corrie we were aware of a rise in temperature, with the snow getting softer. Struggling under a heavy load of climbing gear, and not feeling at all fit, I was making heavy weather of it and wasn’t too disappointed when we decided to call off our climb.

We’d reached the foot of Central Buttress, a Grade II climb we thought we might manage, but were unsure whether the snow was stable enough. There was no avalanche forecast in those days, but there was an increasing awareness of the problem and we knew from the guidebook that there was some ground higher up the buttress that could be prone to avalanche in poor conditions. We hummed and heyed for a bit, but when a small snowslide came down the shallow gully above us we decided on the instant.

We might have gotten away, too, if we hadn’t looked back at the cliffs as we neared the loch. Kevin and I both saw the two guys fannying about at the foot of the cliffs, both wondered what they were doing, and both realised at the same time that maybe they weren’t just fannying about.

One was lowering the other down the snow slope above the First Aid Box – and it didn’t look like it was just for the practice.

We headed back up and by the time we reached the First Aid Box the two guys were both there, and several others were arriving from where they’d been abandoning neighbouring climbs. (It wasn’t just us who thought the snow condition wasn’t very good.)

It transpired one of the pair we’d seen had been leading up the first pitch of Shadow Buttress A. He said the snow hadn’t been very good, but he’d just got to a point where he had two good axe placements, and had his feet in pretty well… “And then I fell”. Hmm. So how good were those placements?

He’d fallen and slid down whatever height he’d climbed, catching his crampon points on the snow and ripping the ligaments in his ankles, leaving him in a good bit of pain and unable to walk.

There were about a dozen folk now, besides our casualty. While we lifted him into the casualty bag from the box (a thick sleeping bag with a full-length front zip and handles along the side and head) we discussed what to do next.

It was decided (though not unanimously) that the wind was too strong and unpredictably gusty to get a helicopter in to the cliffs, so while we sent the two fittest to hotfoot it to the nearest phone (no mobiles in those days) the rest of us started to carry the casualty down to the loch and around it, aiming to get him out of the bowl of the corrie onto the open hillside, where hopefully the wind would be more predictable and manageable.

For anyone who has never carried a man in a casualty bag before, the first surprise is how easy it is. With three handles either side, and one at the head and one at the foot, it seems hardly any effort at all.

The second surprise is how quickly you realise you were mistaken.

Within just a few paces of tripping over boulders, falling into holes, catching the feet of the guy in front or behind and getting a kink in your back from carrying a load one-sided. On a level road it might be bearable, but descending a steep slope of rocks and heather, with humps and holes hidden by soft, wet snow, it quickly became torture, not at all eased by the constant buffeting of the wind. Even our casualty could see how hard it was and expressed some embarrassment at causing everyone so much work – although he didn’t take up my suggestion that he jump out of the bag and take a turn with the rest of us!

A measure of our pace can be had by the fact we were still well within the bowl of the NE Corrie when the helicopter arrived. Sure enough, whenever it tried to come in over the shoulders of the corrie we could see it being tossed to the side, forcing a retreat.

After a few tries it managed to drop the winchman and a stretcher on the eastern shoulder of the corrie just a few hundred yards away. Energised by the prospect of an imminent end to our ‘ordeal’, myself and two others raced up to fetch the stretcher, clambering over a snow-clad boulder field at an unwisely brisk rate, and returning even faster: I recall at one point two of us clinging on to either side of the stretcher sliding about six feet down a boulder to land at an almost-run on the smaller rocks below.

Once we got the guy onto the stretcher he was a lot happier – he had a more stable ‘bed’ and a bottle of Entenox gas to suck on for long overdue pain relief – but we were not: the stretcher was added weight and the steel tubing was harder to keep a grip on than the webbing handles of the bag.

So we were even more grateful when we saw what I still remember as the most amazing sight: a Sea King helicopter rising out of the ground in front of us.

In fact it had been following the slope of the hill up below the lip of the corrie and came in over the edge where the angle lay back into the bowl, but from our perspective, nearing that lip from within the bowl, it really did look as though it was rising from the ground in front of us – huge, massive, noisy and oh so welcome.

I vaguely recollected having read something about having the area cleared before carrying out lifts, and had certainly seen training flights where smoke flares were dropped and different approaches were tried, but there was no messing here. The winchman signalled to us all to drop down flat and started signalling to the helicopter, which flew right over the top of us – and you have no idea how massive a Sea King is until you’ve lain underneath one – and lowered the winch wire.

If we needed a reminder of how difficult flying conditions were, while this was happening the whole helicopter just dropped about 10 feet; dropped and stopped, leaving scarcely a clean set of underwear between the whole company, but just continued as though nothing had happened. The wire reached the winchman, who clipped the stretcher and himself into it, and then they were away, seemingly whipped away by the wind and then fast dwindling in size and noise as it sped off to Aberdeen and a set of crisp, clean hospital sheets for the casualty, leaving us sweaty, soaked and exhausted on a gale-battered hillside which seemed suddenly so quiet and lonely.

And so ended my only close encounter with a Sea King. After a tired walk out from the Gelder in knee-deep slush, and a long drive to get home after midnight, we read on the Monday how the rescue had been carried out by the Sea King – assisted by Braemar Mountain Rescue Team. That must have been the easiest rescue they never did but, quite frankly, they’re welcome to it: that was a straightforward, relatively unserious incident and it was cold, wet, exhausting work. It certainly taught me to appreciate the work the rescue teams do – and impressed me hugely with the skills and dedication of the Forces’ Sea King crews. I’m sure Bristows will do a great job in future, but we should never forget the huge debt we owe the pilots and crews of the faithful Sea Kings, and of the Wessexes before them.

Looking up Glen Dee across the flood plain towards Mar Lodge (not visible).

2015 ended badly in Deeside, with major flooding affecting Braemar and Ballater and causing damage to roads and bridges.

However the mountain areas appear to have escaped relatively lightly.

On New Year’s Day, after Hogmanay at the Gelder Shiel, Walt Black and I walked in to Bob Scott’s Bothy, finding everything in good order, with the only effect of the flood being that the bothy had just experienced its quietest Hogmanay in history, with only Gus Fair and one other in attendance.

The Lui had risen with the flooding, but not nearly so high as in the damaging August 2014 flood, and didn’t come near the bothy. The temporary bridge at Derry Lodge also escaped unscathed, with the only visible damage being a few more inches of bank lost just downstream.

The temporary bridge near Derry Lodge, still secure

I spoke to a number of people on Friday and Saturday, and learned that the Hutchison Hut is okay, as is the small footbridge just below it. I didn’t hear anything specific about the metal bridge at Derry Dam but, given the relatively modest flooding in the area, I have no reason to suspect it will be damaged.

A group who came down from Carn a Mhaim reported that the bridge over the Luibeg is also undamaged.

One bridge which is affected though is the road bridge over the bottom of the Quoich. Only saw this from across the other side of the glen, but it appears that the river has cut a new channel to the east of the bridge, rendering it uncrossable.

A distant view in poor light, but you can just about make out where the river has cut a new channel to the right of the damaged bridge

There was more damage up by the Gelder Shiel, on Lochnagar. The rain must have been torrential, for even at the height of the bothy the burn rose enough to completely overrun the bridge just above the bothy and Queen’s cottage. The bridge still stands on its stone gabions, but the bank at either end has been gouged out, necessitating a clamber to get onto the bridge. The water was flowing on both sides of the Queen’s cottage (though neither it nor the bothy appear to have been inundated) and caused extensive and substantial damage to the landy track, gouging out ruts and holes over two feet deep.

The disconnected bridge beside the Gelder Shiel

I’ll update this if any more news comes in, but remember, while tracks through the hills may still be passable, check before you leave home to make sure you can get access to the hills at all. At time of writing the A93 from Aberdeen to Braemar is blocked near Crathie where a long stretch of road has been completely swept away, and at Invercauld Bridge, just east of Braemar, where the bridge is shut because of damage. Check roads here .

Addendum: From the Balmoral Castle & Estate Facebook page:
“Please be aware. The footbridges at the west end of Loch Muick have been washed away and the footbridge across the River South Esk just above Moulzie has also gone”

To finish on a lighter note, after some convoluted journeys we still managed to have a good New Year in the Gelder – including Ian Shand who had just spent a very productive day managing to save his home in Ballater from being flooded.

Teamwork! You blaw and squeeze and I’ll do the fingering.

Looking across to the east shore of Loch Lomond, where camping bans are already in place. Photo by Nick Kempe

This blog doesn’t often venture outside the Cairngorms, but recent developments in the west cast a shadow over the future of all our mountains and our access to them.

There has been a lot of argument over the decision by Aileen MacLeod MSP, Minister for the Environment in the Scottish Government, to approve controversial proposals for new byelaws in the Loch Lomond & The Trossachs National Park which will prevent people from wild camping in certain areas, principally the shores of several of the park’s lochs.

This is in response to well publicised problems with littering and vandalism, blamed on campers and anglers having barbecues and parties by the lochside and leaving huge amounts of rubbish, including fire debris, tents, air beds, clothing and, of course, beer cans and bottles.

I’m firmly convinced that the byelaws are wrong: laws already exist to deal with the problem, and the byelaws to be brought in will target the innocent along with – if not instead of – the guilty. Worse still, it sets a dangerous precedent. If it is justified to tackle littering at Loch Lomond with a camping ban then I can see no reason why it would not be justified at Loch Etive, where there are similar problems. And after Loch Etive? The doors would be open for any landowner to make a case for banning people from their land, rolling back the hard-won access rights which Scotland is so proud of.

So there are two parts to this post:

A petition you can sign opposing the introduction of the byelaws and urging the minister to reverse her decision

And, with his permission, the text of an open letter from former MCofS president and access campaigner Nick Kempe to Aileen MacLeod, again urging her to reverse her decision. It’s a long letter, but worth reading, presenting an exhaustively argued case against the byelaws. You may not agree with every point contained in it, but I believe the overall case made is overwhelmingly in favour of rejecting these byelaws as being the wrong solution to a misleadingly presented problem, and symptomatic of a national park which has been severely derailed from its original intent and now acts against the interest of Scotland’s people by threatening our access rights.

So here is Nick’s letter

Open Letter from Nick Kempe to the Environment Minister Aileen McLeod, 3/2/15

The Land Reform legislation of 2002 gave the people of Scotland and visitors not just a right to visit land but a right to stay on it overnight whether in a tent, campervan or bivvying. You are now proposing to remove that right from the most visited areas in the National Park, a National Park that was created with the aim of enabling more people to enjoy the countryside. For a Government that preaches social inclusion and a healthier more active population this is deeply ironic.

Everything that is wrong about your decision to approve byelaws banning camping around the lochs of Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park is demonstrated by your news release announcing the decision

The figure that just 3.7% of the Park is affected has been repeated ad nauseam, as if this justifies banning people. What you do not say is the 3.7% covers the lochsides, the very places where most people want to camp.

The argument that the restricted zones cover only 3.7 per cent of the park area is disingenuous. Does the whole area include the area of lochs too? And in any case, so much of the ground is not suitable for camping. Photo by Nick Kempe.

Your claim that this is for four “hotspot” areas – the four proposed management zones – is contradicted by the Park’s ranger patrol records. These show, for example, that over 23 locations on West Loch Lomond the average maximum number of tents recorded in 2013 was just three per location. There were just half a dozen places where higher levels of camping activity took place. Less than 10% of all ranger visits on West Loch Lomond (130 out of 1379 visits) recorded tents. The byelaws are about clearing people from the land, whatever the levels of use.

You are quoted as saying “The evidence that I have seen of damage caused, particularly in some of the most environmentally fragile spots in the National Park, tells a compelling tale of the need for action.” As Environment Minister you should know that our most environmentally sensitive areas are protected by being designated as Sites of Special Scientific Interest, Special Areas of Conservation or Special Conservation Areas. A map check shows there are NO nature conservation designations covering Loch Ard, Loch Chon, the head of Loch Long, the west side of Loch Lomond north of Tarbert, most of Loch Katrine and most of Loch Earn – all of which are included in the proposed camping management zones. Even where land is designated, the Government’s agency responsible for these areas, Scottish Natural Heritage, has produced no evidence that the status of these sites is threatened by people camping. The threats that are recorded in SNH’s database for the land based sites are forest operations, invasive species (rhododendron) and, most importantly, grazing animals, whether deer, goat or sheep. Yet you are treating campers, not the landowners responsible for managing grazing animals, as the threat.

Several of the lochs within the proposed management zones, such as Lochs Lubnaig and Venachar, are part of the River Teith Special Area of Conservation, protected for salmon and three species of lamprey. The main threats recorded here are forestry operations, water management and sewerage. Again no threat is recorded from campers, or even from the anglers who may catch these creatures. Ah you might think, what about camper’s poo, is that not sewerage? Well, research published last year showed there was no evidence campers along the West Highland Way were polluting our river systems. This is much better evidence than anything supplied by the Park.

Nature conservation is important. When I was involved in negotiating access rights on the National Access Forum, prior to the Land Reform Act, the first thing the landowners and public agencies claimed was that access was harmful to nature conservation. The outdoor recreational representatives on the National Access Forum demanded evidence for this. None was produced. This helped persuade the Scottish Parliament that access rights should be enshrined in legislation. There is still no evidence that people fundamentally threaten nature conservation. That people in themselves, just by being on land, threaten nature is a very strange concept anyway. It is a fact that when lots more people used to live on the land in these areas there was a lot more wildlife – but unfortunately, as Minister, you have failed to scrutinise the so-called evidence presented to you by the National Park. In essence this consists of a large number of photographs.

The Park has used and depended on photos to justify its proposals to remove people’s rights. Embedded in its press release are 225 photos of “antisocial behaviour/camping”, 16 of “responsible camping” and 4 of “improved camping”

I suspect that you, like many members of the public, will have been shocked or disgusted by some of the images in the irresponsible camping folder. Abandoned tents and cookers, upturned tents, sheets of plastic bottles strewn everywhere, wasted food. I agree: they are images of everything that is wrong with our consumer society. It’s obvious these people don’t care, or perhaps should I say don’t care when they are out in the countryside having a party. For the images tell us something else about the people doing this. They are not campers in the usual sense of the word. For backpackers or fishermen, tents and camping equipment are prized possessions, not things they would ever abandon. These are people for whom the purchase of a cheap tent and equipment is less expensive and less trouble than a flight to an eastern European city for a booze filled stag weekend. The photos also tell you the Scottish Countryside is a much safer place to drink and behave badly: why risk a weekend in an east European gaol when you can clearly still get away with this behaviour in the Park?

I do not believe that large groups drinking, which we know from the Park’s own research are predominantly young men, are that hard to detect. Have you thought why the Park has only photographed the aftermath, rather than taking photos and car registration numbers at the time? Such photos could have been used as a deterrent and as evidence by the police if any mess had been left. The wrecked camps say as much about the failures of the Park as they do about campers.

While I am a liberal on drinking, and believe there is no harm in an angler or backpacker enjoying a tipple while gazing at the sunset, I wonder too, given there is empty bottle or drink can in almost every one of these photos, why you have preferred to remove the right to camp in preference to asking local Councils to control drinking as Stirling did on east Loch Lomond?

The numbers of photos tell you something else. If this was evidence, the Park should have taken photos every time their rangers recorded people camping when out on patrol. The public could then judge what proportion of people camping cause problems. Instead the Park have presented the problems out of all context. Early last year I asked the Park about what photos they had of people camping “responsibly”. Their answer then was evasive to say the least – I can provide a copy if required. The answer now, judging by the responsible camping folder, seems to be 16 – and of these 12 of the photos were taken in campsites. So, you have taken a decision without any consideration of how many people are camping according to the Scottish Outdoor Access Code. The message, I think, is that the rights of people camping responsibly are unimportant.

In collecting photos to demonstrate “irresponsible camping” however, the Park have been rather casual in their selection of photos. These tell other stories apart from the shock and disgust the Park wanted you to feel so you supported this removal of rights:

* The very first photo in the antisocial behaviour album is taken on the south east shore of Loch Venachar, when the water is low. Who would not be influenced by such a sight? Certainly not it seems, the Park’s Convener, Linda McKay whose home is situated by the pier, known as the Quay, which you can see in the background. In the responsible camping album, the eighth photo, labelled Invertrossachs, is of this same shoreline. If you click on it, you can get a clearer view. There are two cars parked by the edge of Loch Venachar House, the property of Linda McKay which is hidden behind the trees, and what appears to be two tents on the shoreline. The photos don’t tell you that in 2014 the Park recorded 69 tents at the Quay or that the shoreline between the camera and Linda McKay’s House is owned by the National Park. Her house and this shoreline are within one of the proposed zones where camping will be banned. Linda McKay, as Park Convener, has played a key role in driving forward the bye-law proposals. How many people seeing this will believe that she has not been influenced by what happens in her backyard? I have tried to bring this to your attention, without response, but then Linda McKay is a non-Executive Director on the Government’s Strategic Board

* After the shock, a quick flick through the anti-social behaviour photos and its obvious many are of the same site from different angles. Indeed I have counted and there are 44 photos for Loch Venachar West labelled 140615 but you, like me, might not have realised this because some appear at the beginning of the album, some near the end of the first page and some on the second page. So, in what sense is this evidence of the extent of antisocial behaviour? I have not counted exactly but there are far less than 50 different examples in all. The photo “Sallochy”, where camping was banned four years ago, appears to show they cover a period of time. The photo “Inchmoan” is of one of the Loch Lomond islands where the Park says a camping ban is not justified and is outside the proposed management zones. So the Park has collected photos, any photos, to justify its proposals. 50 examples, 10 lochs, 5 years? Perhaps you could tell me and the wider public just how much “irresponsible camping” is required to justify a ban and remove access rights? When these irresponsible campers move elsewhere, will you respond to calls to ban camping there too? So, each time someone leaves a mess, will camping rights disappear? We don’t stop people driving just because they throw litter out of their car windows so how can you justify a camping ban in terms of human rights?

* A significant number of the photos in the camping/anti-social behaviour album – the Park clearly equates the two – illustrate problems that have nothing to do with camping. Several are of fly tipping, for example the photo of a heap of building materials and an enormous Jewson’s bag at the Fallen Tree layby on the A82. This will have required more work to clear than for any of the abandoned campsites, however unpleasant. Fly tipping like littering is already illegal, but the people responsible, almost certainly local residents, are much harder to catch than pesky campers.

* I hope the photo of the overflowing rubbish bin made you think. Similar ones are being used at present to illustrate “irresponsible behaviour” in the Cairngorms National Park consultation on a strategic plan for Glenmore. That all the rubbish is due to campers seems unlikely. Numbers of day visitors are far higher. But what is the mind-set of officials that sees overflowing bins as the fault of visitors rather than an issue for the local authorities who are meant to collect rubbish? Why should visitor be penalised because councils do not have the resources to fulfil their obligations? A number of photos show bags of rubbish left at laybys, including one under a sign that asks visitors to remove their rubbish. An issue yes, but a reason to remove people’s rights? A reason I would say for you to instruct the Park to develop its long delayed litter strategy, issue some consistent messages to the public, both residents and visitors, and sort out the inconsistent practices of Councils, some of which have litter bins at stopping off points and others not. I have previously written to you about this but again had no response.

* A number of other photos concern vehicles. There is a group of vehicles at Rubha Ban – so what I ask? These could be day visitors or campers. It is not an offence under traffic law to park your car up to 15 metres off road and it’s up to the landowner to control. Some landowners are happy to allow people to park in such a way but if not they can always fence off their land. If these vehicles were causing problems, the landowner could have asked them to leave and called the police if they had failed to do so. The photos of the tracks in Suie Field, a well-known place for anti-social behaviour, are interesting.…………back in 2010 Luss estates, keen supporters of camping bye laws agreed to take action to stop vehicular access. If these vehicle tracks were indeed caused by campers Luss Estates appear to have done nothing. Such tracks though are often created by land-managers, who, you may be surprised to learn, drive their vehicles off road into all sorts of places. In my experience this often causes much greater ruts than those shown. Perhaps, to address this hypocrisy, the new Land Reform Act which you are leading through the Scottish Parliament should require land-owners to have a licence to drive their vehicles off-road in the National Park? Such licences could then be withdrawn if there is any sign of landowners creating damage. I am sure this would be widely applauded and might just address the problems at Suie Field.

* While a delicate subject in polite society, such as the men and women who run the National Park, everyone needs to crap and, if you have to go in the great outdoors, the responsible way is to bury it. The photo Venachar West “the worst toilet ever seen”, which is of a camp chair with a hole cut through to create a toilet, shows how not to do it. I really do sympathise with the people who cleared this up – not a pleasant job. What the photo does not say though is that almost every visitor management survey ever done by the Park puts lack of public toilets and their opening times top of the list of visitor concerns. Indeed, as I have previously advised you, in the 5 Lochs Visitor Management Plan there was a detailed plan produced to address the problems at this very site, including installation of toilets. This was due to be delivered back in 2013-14 but nothing has happened. The message from the Park is that it is now more interested in clearing people from the land than putting in the type of visitor infrastructure that might address such problems in local hotspots such as this. I agree installing toilets might not solve the problem totally as the young men who take pleasure in leaving their shit in prominent places will no doubt continue to do so until the risk of being caught by the police makes it not worth the risk. But to put the matter in perspective, in less delicate times, there were no cludgies and all local residents went outdoors.

* The photos include a number of fires and fireplaces, and while many are clearly associated with camping, including those of tents actually burning, some could as well have been caused by day visitors. I struggle with these photos. I must admit I am personally not a fan of fires. I have seen a tent burn down, accidentally. It took a few seconds and I am not sure how the Park got photos of burning tents without catching whoever did this – but maybe they did, maybe the police were called? I am also green by inclination and think the carbon in trees would better be released slowly into the soil than suddenly into the atmosphere. On the other hand, there is nothing quite like cooking over a camp fire, the flames of a fire against a dark night are wonderful to behold and fire smoke does help keep the midges at bay! So, there are good and bad fires and this is reflected in the law: on the one hand Section 56 of Civic Government (Scotland) Act 1982 reads “Any person who lays or lights a fire in a public place so as to endanger any other person or give him reasonable cause for alarm or annoyance or so as to endanger any property shall be guilty of an offence and liable, on summary conviction, to a fine not exceeding [F1level 3 on the standard scale]” while on the other, lighting a fire is part of access rights. Advice on fires is contained in the Scottish Outdoor Access Code and part of this advises that no trace should be left of fires. The photos of burned patches and fireplaces clearly are traces but they are generally small – yes, damage, but small scale compared to the widespread use of muirburn on grouse moors, which prevents tree regeneration across much of Scotland. But muirburn, which comes under your brief as Environment Minister, is done by landowners who like to claim how responsible they are, unlike the visiting denizens of Glasgow. Am I alone in thinking the line between responsible and irresponsible is far from clear? The photos demonstrate the Park seems to be in quite a muddle about fires. Among the “responsible” camping photos, the one on the beach along from Linda McKay’s house shows two fireplaces in front of the tent with chopped logs on them while another photo shows charcoal bags. Among the “irresponsible” photos there is one of a brick fireplace, labelled Lochan Lairig Chiele, and another showing barbecue trays which have burned square patches in the grass. So when is a fireplace responsible and when is it not? How did the Park know the “responsible” fireplace would be removed completely? Is this really end of the world stuff or the product of a petty mind-set? When does an irresponsible fire – that burned patch of grass – become a criminal offence of damage? In trying to work these things out, I like to think of the past as it gives perspective: charcoal burning was once widespread here but only the expert can now detect the former mounds of ash; I think of Rob Roy, on the run from the Duke of Montrose throughout this areas, who I am sure must have lit a fire most nights. Do you on the evidence of these photos trust the Park to decide what “damage” and what “likely to cause damage” means? I don’t. In agreeing the byelaws, that appear to shift the current law and make it an offence “to light a fire that causes or is likely to cause damage anywhere in the proposed management zones” perhaps you could tell the people of Scotland and visitors what exactly it is you believe is criminal rather than the merely irresponsible. A far better solution would be for the Park to provide barbecue pits, as they do in other national parks across the world; the existence of such a pit might have prevented that photo of a scorched table top.

* Like many, my heart bleeds when I see photos of hacked trees. It’s plain stupid, as fresh cut wood does not burn. But a few sawn branches are not proof of a problem. Indeed, almost all the native woodland along the lochsides, which now are protected as sites of Special Scientific Interest, owes its existence to coppicing, the chopping of trees by humans for charcoal and tannin. Looked at from that perspective, the amount of chopping is miniscule compared to what it was. It cannot compare with the poisoning of 300-year-old beech trees on Inchtavannach in 2015 by Scottish Natural Heritage.

Yet a few chopped branches are being used to justify the removal of access rights.

* I wonder if you noticed or asked why 10 of the 14 photos purporting to show responsible camping are taken on National Park campsites? In the Park’s mind-set of course “responsible camping” can only take place out of sight, in a campsite or when it’s under their control. I suggest as Minister you should ask the recreational community to send you all their photos of camping on lochshores in the National Park. It might give you another perspective. Better still, why not follow John Muir’s exhortation and go out camping yourself? Alternatively, look at the photo Loch Venachar (N) (3) taken on 4th July 2015: lots of tents, certainly, crammed together like in a campsite, and a fire is smoking in the background, but there are no signs of rubbish around the tents and – guess what – that’s a child standing by the shore! Isn’t this the sort of family friendly camping that the Park claims it wishes to promote and being prevented? The absence of photos of responsible camping is the biggest lie.

Reflecting on the photos, I think through education and policing you could prevent most of the problems the Park has illustrated. But let’s accept that not all prevention was successful; I wonder if you have considered the amount of time and cost taken to clear up abandoned campsites as illustrated in the photos? It is not much in the scheme of things. Apart from the case of Loch Venachar West on 14th June 2015, it would probably take two people less than an hour to clear any of the sites shown. Contrast this with the many hours the Park will need to employ rangers to police the byelaws. Have you considered how your decision will lead to a total waste and misuse of scarce resources because you are working against visitors, not with and for them? On east Loch Lomond, as I commented to you in my analysis of the deeply flawed review of the byelaws there, the number of ranger patrols has gone up, not down, because rangers now spend their time chasing away pesky campers, including those backpacking the West Highland Way. Indeed there are a couple of photos, entitled “cut alder” dated 7th September 2015 showing Ben Lomond in the background: it’s difficult to identify the exact location but this must have been in the area covered by the east Loch Lomond byelaws. Proof that the byelaws there have not worked or simply that many problems are attributable to day visitors? Whatever the case, resources would be far better invested in facilities that would benefit all visitors, whether toilets or litter bins, and in providing consistent messages to the public about how to reduce their impacts on the countryside.

Your press release announces you have reduced the time period the byelaws will apply each year – by just one month. I believe this is a sop to pretend you have listened. The Park’s statistics show there was very little camping, whether responsible or not, outside the summer months and the reduction in the time the byelaws applies just reinforces the fact that your decision is not properly evidence based and has been taken without any consideration of alternatives.

It is clear to me that another agenda has been at play through the entire byelaw process, one that has excluded recreational interests and the citizens of Scotland. In my view if the so-called evidence was properly scrutinised, as in a Court of Law, it would collapse. Tellingly, Lord Glennie, at the Court of Session hearing for the Holyrood campers a couple of weeks ago, was quoted as saying he drove past that campsite every day and “didn’t see any violence or vandalism”. Nor will most visitors to the National Park. Given that the implementation of the proposed byelaws will not be until March 2017 there is plenty of time for this decision to be challenged and for you or your successor to rescind it.

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So to end: another chance, if you haven’t already, to sign the petition calling on the harmful byelaws to be rescinded.

A box on tracks. Not very elegant, but a real mover on rough ground

I want one of these! It really is a delight getting out to Corrour Bothy – most of the time – but one of these would be just so much fun.

It was past time for the annual clear-out at the Corrour toilet, and along with my fellow MO Neil Findlay, and our pal Walt Black, we left Bob Scott’s on a miserable-looking Saturday morning to head out to Corrour.

Cloud so low you were afraid to stand up too quick, and intermittent rain meant there wasn’t a great deal of enthusiasm about. My enthusiasm was also tempered by the fact I was carrying about 7 or 8 kg of coal in my already full weekend rucksack. Neil and Walt were carrying coal too, but both had none too discretely emptied some out before we left Scottie’s.

A wet, murky trudge in to Corrour.

The Luibeg was crossed with no great trauma, but once we got started over the shoulder of Carn a Mhaim the snow made itself increasingly awkward. We had hoped for a freeze to make it solid, but instead it was thawing and soft, meaning whoever was out in front periodically fell through into streams, bogs and WANKS (cross-path drains, so named by one John Frae Kent, standing for Walkers’ Ankle ‘n’ Knee Snappers). By the time we finally reached Corrour all three of us were knackered and Neil had just gone thigh-deep in a slush-filled stream. As I trailed behind Walt & Neil on the final path up to the bothy door I was distracted by a rattling clattering noise as a large fall of ice came down from the face of the Devil’s Point.

I took advantage of a lazy afternoon by having a nap and we enjoyed a traditional bothy night by the fire – rather more sober than intended on Neil’s part, as his Sigg bottle of port had emptied into his rucksack during the walk-in.

Oh what fun we have on a bothy Saturday night. Neil’s dog Alfie tests the ppe, with one of the disposable facemasks

Sunday was the big day. An early rise and then we got suited up for the main event. Disposable boiler suits and rubber gloves, then into the innards of the toilet. Neil passed the bags up to me, I passed them down to Walt, and Walt laid them on the grass outside: eighteen bags of human waste ready to go. All we needed was the transport.

While we waited I scrubbed out the now empty toilet and Neil fixed some wear-and-tear damage to the windowsill and then we brewed up some more tea – which was a sure fire signal for the vehicle to appear. Even then we thought we had time – the last time a tracked vehicle came out it traveled at a stately 2 miles an hour – but this one was tramping on and the tea had to be abandoned to get the bags loaded onto helibags in the trailer.

Enjoying a brief respite before the arrival of the estate vehicle

Ready to load. Truck, trailer and bags – now it’s time to lift them on board.

Off goes the waste bags. Unfortunately the workers weren’t offered a lift out with them.

Quarter an hour of hefting bags of shit and a brief chat with Mar Lodge Estate Head Ranger Paul Bolton, and it was all over. It just remained for Neil and I to fix two new bags onto the toilet tubes and close everything up for use, then the long walk out. The weather, at least, was considerably better, but with a major thaw in progress, the snow underfoot wasn’t any easier.

The bags, taken out by Mar Lodge Estate, were to be picked up the next day by a licensed disposal contractor. And that’s it for another year, other than the monthly visits to change over the waste bags and the routine maintenance jobs that any bothy needs, along with the rubbish clear-ups that a particularly busy bothy like Corrour so unfortunately needs.

Those of us who look after Corrour – and there is a core of great volunteers besides MOs Neil F and myself – sometimes get asked by bothy users how much we’re paid for this. We’re not, of course, we do it because we’re daft, but, given the appalling weather we sometimes have to go out in and the pretty distasteful nature of the jobs we sometimes have to do, I very much doubt if you could afford to pay someone to do this shit. (Next time I head up the hills I want to climb one, not spend the time cleaning up after folk.)

POSTSCRIPT:

MRT Land Rovers and a police van near Derry Lodge on Sunday. Most of these sported a St John Scotland logo, testifying to the massive support that charity gives to mountain rescue.

A sad reminder that there were other volunteers out and about this weekend. On the way back down we passed a police team doing a line search through the woods at Luibeg Ford, and when we passed Derry Lodge this line-up of Land Rovers from various teams spoke to the ongoing search for missing walker Jim Robertson, last seen on 2nd March, whose belongings were found in Bob Scott’s. Wishing these guys good luck in their search.

There are no pictures in this post.

There are, however, some of the best pictures I’ve never taken.

It didn’t seem to matter on Friday evening when, struggling to make headway – or even to stay on my bike at times – against a gale blowing down Loch Muick, I realised I’d forgotten to pack my camera. Photography was the least of my concerns.

It mattered only slightly more on Saturday morning when the sky was blue and it looked like I’d get a walk after all. Maybe no camera, but I could do with a good walk in reasonably pleasant weather for a change.

But of course it started to matter when I first caught sight of the Dubh Loch cliffs. Despite the fact I’ve climbed there in winter and summer (the easy gullies, not the climbs which have made these some of the most renowned cliffs in Scotland) I’d never taken the Loch Muick approach before, never seen that towering, monolithic mass of seemingly vertical cliff dominating the view ahead.

The Dubh Loch itself, anywhere else, would be a lovely sight, with its golden beaches adding colour to the upper end. But at the foot of these thousand-foot cliffs it has to be content with a best supporting actress role. making the star turn look even better. And these are tremendous cliffs, changing in character as you traverse the other side of the loch, looking across whenever the rough path allows you to lift your eyes.

First South-East Gully appears, slicing off the eastern segment of the monolith. South-East Gully that was the first route I climbed there, so many years ago, because we’d driven up Glen Clova to find that icy roads didn’t mean icy gullies and, with the hills there all black we decided to head up over Broad Cairn to see what was ‘in’ at Creag an Dubh Loch. SE Gully was there: nominally a I/II snow climb, but on the day boasting a necky steep pitch with awkward exit which slowed us down at the start. We might even have called it a day, as the day was already getting shorted, but carrying on up the gully looked like being the quickest way back to Clova anyway, so on we went, Colin leading the desperately insecure pitch to flank a massive cornice at the top while I marvelled at what strange combination of wind, thaw and freeze could produce such bizarrely curved icicles as grew from an overhanging sidewall. As I pulled over the top of the route after Colin the stars had appeared, and we reached the top of Broad Cairn under a glorious sweep of starlight but lost the way down to the homeward path, stumbling down steep slopes above the Bachnagairn Bridge before finding the path again and the interminable trudge back to Clova, so footsore that when we stopped at Kirriemuir for a Chinese on the way home we were hobbling into the shop like old men. Another picture.

Back on Saturday the Dubh Loch cliffs were still changing, as, in turn, Central Gully (a braw summer’s day out with my brother-in-law Tom, who knew these hills well but had never thought to take this through-route with its high walls and great granite boulders) and then North-West Gully showed up, slicing what first showed as a massive granite wall into four distinct buttresses, each with its own character and still massive in their own rights.

Size: that’s what you get from Creag an Dubh Loch; a sense of scale, of height, of mass. Can you capture that with a compact camera? I wished I could try.

But size goes in two directions. Walking along the rough, muddy, rocky path, I came suddenly face to face with a stoat as it came towards me from behind a boulder, pure white in its winter coat, just that black tip to its tail and another black slash on its back. It did a quick about-turn as soon as it saw me, but as I passed the boulder and looked back I saw a hole under it and waited a moment until the stoat reappeared and went on its way. Ermine, and looking far far better in the photo I never took than on the robes of a ‘lord’.

As I left cliffs and stoats behind me and climbed up beside the Allt an Dubh Loch my mood dropped a bit: this was a real arse end of winter walk: the sky had hazed over and the wind blew through me but there was still a heavy thaw on, with the ground saturated and snow-bridges hiding burns while being too soft to bear my weight.  I passed the mouth of Coire Uilleim Mhoir, which cuts behind Creag an Dubh Loch and the next, nameless, choire which boasted a corniced edge and obvious avalanche debris below, then eyed up a rib on the edge of a buried stream beyond, where the angle eased off a little and looked like the soonest access to hopefully firmer snow above on Cairn Bannoch.

Eight or nine mountain hares, still in winter whites, provided pleasant distraction from the slope as I plodded up on firming snow, eventually swapping poles for an ice axe as the gradient steepened before easing onto the plateau…

Which is where the camera really came to mind.

There ahead of me, the swelling rise of the hill, irregularities smoothed out by deep snow cover, different textures flat white or glistening in the dull sunshine – and above… Above a great halo around the sun: 360 degrees of inverted rainbow, red on the inside through to the blues on the outside, fading to white and back into the grey-blue of the hazy sky. Inside the circle a darker grey.

The radius of the halo is huge. Form a fist and stretch your arm out to the sun: the sun is at one edge of your fist, the halo at the other. It’s about a third of the sky, this great halo of rainbow light above the white swell of snow. I think it doesn’t get much better than this, but then it does.

As I trudge upwards (the snow weight bearing after barely ankle depth now) the summit of Cairn Bannoch comes into view, that curiously pointy rock and cairn to be found on such a rounded hill, and it’s poking black and stark out of the snowy plain, directly below the giant halo and I’m thinking of the old Paramount Pictures mountain logo and then, and then, just as I’m burning my eyes out trying not to look at this sun-centred marvel, the vapour trail starts to appear. Inside the halo, below the sun, a jet airliner draws a shining white trail through this visual miracle and I swear it’s like an animated title sequence, the plane drawing a line through the halo like an arrow through a heart. But it’s real. It’s all real. And glorious.

And that was the picture. That was the picture. But this was one of those days that kept giving. I remember the climb up on to the nameless top north of Cairn of Gowal, when the unbroken white swell was within a few paces broken by the black serrations of boulders, lined up on the skyline like Indians ambushing the wagon train; I remember the all-round views from Broad Cairn, seeing right across to Bennachie as I chatted to the first other walker I’d seen closer than a mile away. There was also the pleasure of descending towards Sandy Hillocks, moving from winter into spring and shedding hat, gloves and, finally jacket before heading down into Coire Chash and the long slanting path. That provided the adventure for the day. When starting out I’d seen snow lay across the upper part of this path; now I got to it it was no more than a hundred yards, but for all the shallow gradient of the path it was crossing formidably steep ground and I had the axe out again, kicking bucket steps and sinking the shaft in full depth, at one point even facing in as I descended to avoid a rotten snow-bridge.

And that was it for the thrills, just a pleasant march down to the loch and an amble round the top, getting one last glimpse of Creag an Dubh Loch, still imposing when glimpsed between other hills, before going back through the woods to the Glas Allt Shiel and a well-earned seat.

A great day. But no pictures.

Massive and still winter-choked – the cliffs of Lochnagar

The great thing about heading for the hills is that even your failures can turn in great days.

Last weekend I was bound for Lochnagar, to the Gelder Shiel for the area meeting of the MBA. You’ll all be absolutely riveted to hear the minutia of bothy maintenance and administration issues we discussed on Saturday afternoon (to be fair, no-one actually fell asleep this time), so I’ll pass quickly on to the evening.

Which turned out to be rather a jolly one. The craic is always good at these meetings: catching up on old friends, gossiping about friends not there, enlarging on obsessions, swapping hill and bothy yarns and generally (and increasingly, as the cumulative effects of those modest libations take hold) blethering a whole lot of drivel.

Enlivening proceedings further was the music. These days there’s always an MP3 player about, with someone else’s music selection to slag off, but the make-up of the Eastern Area MBA is such that live music is almost guaranteed. This night Bill was there with his guitar and huge repertoire of songs, John Gifford from Callater can play guitar and sing some great antipodean songs, Hugh and Marlene from Faindouran both sing and Hugh plays guitar and a mean moothie, Ian Shand had his pipes with him, and even I got to squeak away on the penny whistle. Stan sings a great folk song or three, as does Kenny Freeman – and the rest of us all make varying qualities of noise as chorus singers.

Ian Shand on his border pipes

John Gifford takes a turn on Bill’s guitar (Bill in the foreground)

It was all just so damned fine that I’ve no idea what time I went to bed, nor what time I ruined an already tired OS map of the area by throwing up on it, but I do know it was hardly past 7am when that heartless troublemaker Neil Findlay came in from his tent to fling his dog Alfie onto my head and tell me it was time I was awake. Thanks pal. Feeling like death would have been an improvement.

No point in trying to get back to sleep though. I’d already decided Sunday would be a hill day and the cold but clear weather outside was irresistible, even in my tender state, and after rummaging about to find some food I could get down and pack a rucksack, I was heading off for the hill.

I wasn’t, initially, very successful. Suffering more from lack of sleep than hangover, I’d only been on the go for about half an hour and just a little past the end of the landy track when I stopped at a large, flat rock and succumbed to this temptation of the only dry area in sight to lie down and doze for a time, enough clothes on to fend off the chilly air, drifting in and out of consciousness to the sough of the wind and the chuckling of grouse.

Only slightly refreshed after half an hour of this, I was still moving with an ‘auld mannie’ slowness which gradually convinced me that the original plan of climbing up the north side of Lochnagar’s corrie was never going to happen. I was too slow, too hazy in the head and could see that the wind was blowing fiercely up high, fresh snow smoking off the ridges.

The massiveness of Lochnagar’s cliffs beetle over the edge of the ridge I wasn’t going to climb. I was getting blown about here and could see spindrift smoking off the ridge.

There followed one of those swithery days which saw me lunch at the outlet from Loch Lochnagar, admiring the cliffs, still winter-clad with a rim of large cornices. Looking round to the eastern lobe of the corrie there’s a great plume of spindrift clouding across the blue sky.

Clouds of spindrift show how much fresh snow had fallen

Leaving there I think that rather than retrace my steps I’ll cut across to the landy track that comes over from Loch Muick, but my trail stays high and gradually starts gaining height as I’m drawn towards the white rocky cone of Meickle Pap. Foreshortening does its usual trickery and I decide I can at least get up there. And of course I can, steepenings and rocks adding occasional interest, with snow varying between soft and deep to crusty but taking a kicked step, until finally I’m staggering up the final few feet, battered by a wind that’s increased markedly with height. The views are tremendous though, with the awesome sight of Lochnagar convincing me I’d climbed the right hill after all – no views like this from Lochnagar itself.

Looking out from the Meickle Pap across a frozen loch to the iconic cliff scene

The day hadn’t stopped giving, with the path down from the Pap giving me my first sight of the year of a lizard. Below the snowline, but not by much, it was soaking up the sunshine when my arrival caused it enough fright to cross a patch of snow to get to cover.

Not a great pic, but if you look closely you can see the lizard trying to get away but reluctant to go over the cold snow.

So, yeah: hungover, blown sideways, walking dead slow and stop, failed to climb my intended hill… but, hell, I was happy. A good hill day.

Looking past Cairn Toul and Angel’s Peak to the innermost recesses of the Garbh Choire

Glorious! Absolutely glorious.

Just when you reach that stage when the bite’s gone from winter but it won’t quite let go and allow spring to move up the hill, along comes a weekend like this: two absolutely classic winter mountaineering days!

Up for a disappointing Friday evening meeting with Mar Lodge Estate (They still want to remove the Garbh Choire Refuge), the weekend wasn’t starting well. It was good to see Cal and Andy from Dalkeith arriving at Bob Scott’s later in the evening though. Enjoyed a catch-up and a chat and we arranged to go up Ben MacDui on Saturday. Fairly new to hill-walking, they’d tried twice before, each time being dissuaded by poor visibility and lack of navigation skills.

Morning saw us heading up Glen Derry, Cal and Andy fully laden with all their kit, as they intended staying at the Hutchison Hut and climbing other hills from there on the Sunday. The blue skies of morning had disappeared as we walked and by the time we reached the Hutchie it was clear that, whatever happened, we weren’t going to get any views high up; but you’d go a long way to beat these two guys for enthusiasm and, after dumping most of their gear and us all getting a bite to eat, we set off up the track to Loch Etchachan, climbing into old, hard snow, soft, freshly-drifted snow, and snow still falling in an increasingly beefy wind.

Cal and Andy nearing the top of Coire Etchachan in worsening weather.

Loch Etchachan was  fully frozen over and, though very little above that was visible, it was obvious that snow cover was complete all the way up. No path to follow and not much in the way of footsteps to follow, so I told Cal and Andy it was time to get the map and compass out, initiating them into the wonders of walking on bearings and counting steps. We took bearings on rocks, on patches of differently coloured snow and on a companion (me) sent ahead as a marker. We got the first leg spot on and weren’t too far out on the second, which gave us a chance to go over recover techniques such as aspect of slope and reversible probes on a bearing. It was all good fun and the guys were enjoying having their eyes opened… although open eyes were seeing less and less, as visibility steadily decreased.

Cal in a disappearing world, with only a few rocks interrupting the overwhelming white.

With no boundary between snow and sky and nothing disturbing the whiteness save ourselves and a few rocks, I decided – and the lads agreed – that enough was enough. I knew from experience that a white-out on MacDui wasn’t to be taken lightly. So we worked out a safe retreat route (in this case simply follow the burn down) to get us back to Loch Etchachan and plunged down into the whiteness until the world began to appear again.

By way of consolation for the boys not getting up MacDui – again – I trailed them over to the col above Loch Avon. It was tortuous work, trudging through sometimes soft snow into the hail-sharpened teeth of a gale, but it was worth it when we got to the lip above the loch, looking down to the Shelter Stone, which we could just make out, and taking in the array of black crags surrounding the head of the glen: Carn Etchachan, An Sticil, Garbh Uisge Crags, Hell’s Lum, Stag Rocks and down to Stac an Fharaidh, across an unfrozen loch looking almost as black as the rocks contrasting against the snow and appearing and fading as the cloud rose and fell and the snow and hail allowed us to peer into the wilderness through stinging, glove-shielded eyes.

We turned and retreated to the descent into Coire Etchachan and the shelter of the Hutchie hut. I don’t know about Cal and Andy, but there was little sense of disappointment in failing to climb MacDui, just that joy and elation of having faced and endured the savagery of a Cairngorm blizzard.

Down at the hut we parted and I set off down into the more benign climes of the lower corrie and round into Glen Derry for a walk back to Scottie’s that still wasn’t finished with incident. Still a good way up the glen, I came across four young lads sitting by the side of the track, well laden with rucksacks.

“Going far?” asked I.

“The bothy,” said one.

“Corrour,” said another.

“No you’re not,” said I.

Quizzical looks gradually turned to dismayed ones as I explained they were in the wrong glen and showed them on the map where their route should have gone. They hadn’t been in any danger but, with an assessor due to check on them that evening, it could have resulted in a call-out for the rescue teams who are already busily occupied in the search for Jim Robertson, so they upped and set off down the glen with me and I pointed them across the Derry Flats to the right path. They’d added a couple of hours onto their day’s journey, but at least they would reach their campsite by the bothy before dark.

There was a fine night in the bothy, with the company including Jim Robertson’s son Paul, up with some of his friends to visit again the bothy where his father had last stayed before going missing. Lovely folk, and I hope his father is found soon to give peace to his family.

Sunday was a braw morning: cold, and a skim of fresh snow, but a blue sky tempting me out onto the hill again. A quick breakfast and I was off, leaving a note in the book to say I was bound for Derry Cairngorm.

It’s a bit of a beast, legs-wise, that start up the initial slopes of Carn Crom, but I love it all the same. You’re gaining height quickly, with views opening out behind you and soon allowing you to see over to Beinn a Bhuird. The end of the initial pull sees you on that rocky step of Creag Bad an t’Seabhaig, opening up the view west along Glen Luibeg to Carn a Mhaim and beyond to Beinn Bhrotain, then it’s an easier but steady pull to the top of Carn Crom which has one of the best sudden views ever: just come over the final few steps to the top and there they all are: the full panorama of Cairngorm giants, with Cairn Toul, Braeriach and Ben MacDui all presenting their spectacular rock-girt corries for inspection in an almost unbroken frieze of geological drama. It’s a view designed to lift the heart in an instant under any weather but, today, with the blue sky and heavy snow cover adding to the intensity it literally made me gasp.

That set of mountains remained my viewing companions throughout the pull up to the distant summit of Derry Cairngorm, the angles gradually changing and revealing and obscuring different peaks and corries as I progressed along the ridge, not too troubled by the fresh snow which was seldom more than ankle deep – a small price to pay for the purity it brought to my views.

The pristine summit cone of Derry Cairngorm under a blue sky: climbing perfection

The black face of the Devil’s Point peeks over the spine of Carn a Mhaim, with the dramatic coire and col between Beinn Bhrotain and Monadh Mor dominating the background

I’d half thought I’d meet Andy and Cal on Derry – they’d talked about it as a possible return route – so I’ll put the blame on them for me spending so much time looking north from the summit cairn. Because if I hadn’t spent so much time looking in that direction, and, of course, round the head of Coire Sputan Dearg and over to the flattened dome of MacDui, then perhaps I would have been able to congratulate myself on a good day on the hill and go home.

But I did look and I couldn’t help myself. Like a bairn who doesn’t know when to stop eating the sweeties, I left the cairn heading north, bound for MacDui.

Looking like a slender spire from this angle, Terminal Buttress dominates this image of Coire Sputan Dearg

I loved the delicate shading of this undulating, freshly drifted snow on the Derry Cairngorm/Ben MacDui col

To be fair, it wasn’t hard going. The north-facing slopes were all wind-scoured back to hard neve, taking a firmly placed boot but not giving way underfoot, and I enjoyed the steady pull up onto the plateau, distracted for a moment by the sight of one man and his dog a couple of hundred metres off. He looked for all the world like he was carrying one of those ball-throwing sticks and I was intrigued at the thought of the dog following the ball on a comic trajectory over the Sputan cliffs. I must control my thoughts better.

There was no further incident on the walk across the snowy plateau, nor back across to the top of Sron Riach for that always knee-jarring descent to truly spring-like conditions below, but the lack of yesterday’s drama didn’t mean any less pleasure. This was one of those magical, perfect hill days that live long in the memory: why we do it.

Braeriach and Coire Bhrochain from the summit. (It’s one of MacDui’s tragedies that this mightiest of the Cairngorms has such a flat top that what should be spectacular views of its neighbours are largely obscured)

Different patterns created in the wind-drifted snow

Like a choppy sea frozen in time

The cornice-fringed cliffs plunging down to Lochan Uaine

It’s been out a few months now, but I only recently came across Old Deeside Ways, the latest book by Ian Murray in his fascinating series of books on the oral history of the Cairngorms and Deeside.

Notable for their excellent collections of old photographs as well as his interviews with local people, what proved an immediate attraction to this latest volume was a number of photographs of the WWII Canadian logging camp at the mouth of the Lui where it joins the Dee.

Having been almost brought up on the ‘Old Canadian Campsite’ during the late ’60s and early ’70s, I thought I knew a bit about this site, with its ditches and old foundations, but it was an education to see the wartime photos of the lumber camp in operation, with a sawmill building much larger and more substantial than I had ever suspected, and images of the logs being rolled into the feeder ditch. I’d seen a poor quality photo of the bridge across the Dee before, but hadn’t realised it carried railway tracks when first built. The photos on this alone were worth the admission fee!

Some great images of the Canadian loggers’ camp on the Dee

But, as ever with Ian Murray’s books, there’s a whole lucky bag of delights, with bygone characters, some only just within living memory, some beyond, from Mar Lodge, Inverey and Braemar, glimpses of the Victorian huntin’ fishin’ and shootin’ guests at Mar Lodge.

I was interested in a chapter about Sandy Davidson, the 1800s logging entrepreneur turned poacher, but also in chapters on still living characters, including that most excellent of fiddle players, Paul Anderson.

Ian Murray has already published three other books: In The Shadow of Lochnagar, The Dee from the Far Cairngorms, and The Cairngorms and Their Folk, and, if this book has a fault it’s that it almost relies on the reader being familiar with these earlier works. Quite laudably, Ian tries not to regurgitate stories and information from his previous books but now and then this results in chapters or part chapters which tell only part of a story, perhaps where he has unearthed additional material on a tale told previously. But that’s a trifling complaint: these books can all be read perfectly well on their own. However, the real stature of Ian’s achievement is best seen when they are considered together, creating an unrivalled picture of the human history of the Cairngorms and upper Deeside. If you don’t already have the previous books to hand you’ll want to get them. They really are essential reading for anyone interested in this area.

Old Deeside Ways is available in bookshops or via Ian Murray’s website.

Derry Lodge – is a new lease of life on the cards?

One of the most asked questions in Glen Lui has got to be “Aren’t they doing anything with Derry Lodge?”

It hasn’t been occupied since the Cairngorm Club gave up the lease in 1967 and has been slowly going downhill ever since.

However Mar Lodge Estate has now announced long term plans to bring the building back into use, as a walkers’ hostel.

The plans were on display at an open day at Mar Lodge at the weekend, but there’s little likelihood of them taking shape in the near future – sometime in about five years time is the estimate.

Suggested layout for hostel accommodation in Derry Lodge

The basics are a hostel with 20-22 beds in two- and four-bed rooms, with the ground floor containing lounge, kitchen, dining room, meeting room, drying room , showers etc.

Additional to the toilets included within Derry Lodge, there are also plans to build a publicly accessible toilet at the green barn beside the Lodge. This would make a huge difference to the long-standing and worsening problem with human waste in an area which has for decades been popular with campers.

The area surrounding the Lodge, showing plans for a public toilet

I see, too, that the plans for the wider area include a bridge over the Lui Burn at the bottom of the landy track which goes down to the river just west of Bob Scott’s Bothy. What’s not clear is whether this is intended solely to give access to Luibeg Cottage (Bob Scott’s old house), which could be used as staff accommodation for the Derry Lodge hostel, or whether the main track will be diverted over to that side. It seems an odd idea, but the estate has said it wants to direct the footpath away from the boggy Derry Flats, where Black Grouse lek, and one option would be to take the path to the south side of the river below Derry Lodge and return it to the north side once it’s past the boggy section.

Of course, with plans so far in the future there’s a lot can change, but as of now, that’s what the estate would like to do. The reason for the delay in implementing any of this is financial: in the wake of two major floods in two years there’s still a lot of flood damage to repair, including as a priority the road bridge over the Quoich, which wasn’t covered by insurance as it wasn’t actually destroyed – the river simply shifted its course to bypass it.

There are a couple of obvious concerns about these plans.

One is the question of access. Are cars going to be driving up and down Glen Lui? The answer would appear to be a very firm no. The estate still adheres to the long walk-in principle and plans do indicate that access to the hostel will be by foot only (though presumably estate traffic will be increased to some degree).

The estate has said Bob Scott’s Bothy will not be endangered by the plans

The other concern – to some at least – is what will happen to Bob Scott’s Bothy, just a couple of hundred metres away. Estate property manager David Frew spoke about this some time ago when we were discussing matters relating to the bothy. He assured us that the estate was more than happy with the way the bothy was being run and with the fact of it being there, and he said quite categorically that the future of the bothy would not be jeopardised by any possible hostel.

So, while the devil is always in the detail, I think the plans are largely positive. Personally, I’m still not sure about increased commercialism of the area but it’s highly unlikely that this listed building would be demolished and this proposed use is probably one of the least bad. The area, after all, is already pretty busy in all but winter conditions. It will have the added advantage of cleaning up the surrounding area by virtue of a publicly accessible toilet.

And it is a nice building.

Derry Lodge and the green barn which was formerly a deer larder

Derry Lodge is one of those buildings that grew rather than was planned.

It started life as a single-storey rectangular hunting lodge at some time in the late 1700s, with a fire at each gable.

Drawings showing the historical development of the Lodge

As shooting became more important, it was enlarged in the early 1800s, rising to one-and-a-half storeys and gaining a kitchen extension, but it was the later 1800s that saw the main extensions, including the two-storey wing facing down the glen which is now the main

The guest quarters and main entrance, built in the 19th century

entrance. This section was probably accommodation for shooting parties, while the west part would have accommodated gamekeepers. A survey of the building shows clearly which rooms were for guests and which for staff, with the guests enjoying a better and more elaborate standard of room. Nor was there any direct communication between the guests in the eastern wing and the staff in the west. Having said that, the older part of the Lodge was probably the home of the head keeper, with a family staying there into the first half of the 20th century, often playing host to the naturalist Seton Gordon while he was studying the Golden Eagles. (Another visitor, back in 1859, had been Queen Victoria, returning from her celebrated trip up Ben MacDui, though she just dropped in by for a cuppa, not spending the night there.)

The lodge was requisitioned by the army during the war, afterwards lying empty (though possibly used as accommodation for seasonal gillies) until the Cairngorm Club leased it as a club hut in 1955. One of the conditions of that least was that gillies were to be accommodated during the stalking season.

While the CC had the lease they built a new kitchen and passageway at the back, linking the two sections of the building and replacing an earlier wooden structure there.

The club held the lease until 1967, by which time they had acquired Muir Cottage, their present club hut in Inverey. Sometime in the 1970s, it temporarily housed army personnel who were building a footbridge across the Derry Burn (the one destroyed in the August 2014 flood), but apart from that it has remained empty and increasingly derelict, falling prey to vandalism occasional use as a doss by walkers up until the 1980s, when a student party staying there inadvertently started a fire, which caused internal damage and damage to the roof before the fire brigade reached the scene. (I was in Bob Scott’s that night and remember the surreality of the blue flashing light coming up the glen as a full-size fire engine negotiated the landy track.)

After that it was more securely boarded up and has remained empty.

Incidentally, the green barn beside the Lodge is a former deer larder, and the Aberdeen MRT Post down the slope is on the site of the former stables.

You can also read about the Lodge on Joe Dorward’s The Upland of Mar website at http://theuplandofmar.squarespace.com/derry-lodge/

Jean’s Hut in Coire an Lochain, date unknown.

Of all the ‘lost’ bothies of the Cairngorms,  Jean’s Hut seems one of  the one most brought up in folk’s recollections.

Not one I was ever at myself, although it didn’t finally disappear until the ’80s, but there are some good historical pictures from Reg Popham and Angus Robson which are worth sharing here.

Jean’s Hut started out in Coire Cas on Cairngorm, only later being moved to the location most people remember in Coire an Lochain.

It was gifted by Dr Alasdair Smith in memory of his daughter Jean who died in a skiing accident in 1948, having fallen when the edges of her skis failed to bite while traversing a steep, icy slope.

It was built in 1951, roughly where the White Lady Shieling stands now.

Angus Robson, who contacted me in response to another post about bygone Cairngorm bothies, wrote to say his father had been involved in the building of the hut.

He said: The tarmac road ended at Coylumbridge in those days and the forestry road ended at the old Glenmore Lodge (now the SYHA). All the materials were carried up Cairngorm from the Lodge on a footpath.

Apparently, people on courses at Glenmore Lodge were roped into carrying materials up the mountain. My dad was there on a rock climbing course in 1950 and remembers he helped with carrying stuff. He says the heaviest load he carried was a bag of sand. He would have been 34 at the time.

Angus sent in this photo of the Hut, taken in 1953, when his parents were on a hill walking course at Glenmore Lodge, and there are several more photos from Reg Popham showing the carrying in of materials and the construction of the hut.

Angus Robson’s photo of his Mum and Dad at Jean’s Hut in 1953, with a Glenmore Lodge instructor

The big carry-in. Prefabricated sections of the hut being carried up the hill into Coire Cas. Love the period clothes and the sense of enthusiasm in this photo, courtesy of Reg Popham

Another photo of the young folk taking the hut in. Courtesy of Reg Popham

During construction in 1951. (Courtesy of Reg Popham)

And complete

It stood in Coire Cas for more than a decade before being edged out by ski development, and in 1964 or ’65 was moved to its final position at 981034, a little below the lochan of Coire an Lochain.

It was popular as a base for winter climbers, one climber remembering it as being furnished with rough wooden bunks, a table and benches, and a store cupboard full of food left by other climbers. But its popularity and the lack of any one person or organisation formally looking after it, meant it deteriorated through the years and by the ’80s – some say even earlier – it was in a pretty disreputable state.

There was some debate about its future, apparently prompted by a the death of three students who failed to find the hut in a fierce blizzard. (It was a hard period for mountain rescue teams, spoken of by Heavy Whalley in his blog)

It was finally demolished and removed by the Cairngorm Ranger Service removed in 1986. According to a Glasgow Herald article at the time there had been a last minute appeal by Cairngorm Mountain Rescue Team, who wanted the army to replace the dilapidated hut to be kept as a shelter and advance base for rescues.

Perhaps had the hut been maintained it would have lasted, but even had there not been the loss of the three students, its days were likely numbered, with one climbing pal recalling it leaning over and being fit to collapse. And perhaps there’s no longer the same demand for a bothy in a corrie that most people walk in and out of in a short day – or maybe the Northern Corries are just so busy these days that no size of bothy could cope with the numbers!

Happy days! How can you not wish you were climbing in the Cairngorms in the 1950s? (Once more, picture courtesy of Reg Popham)

(Thanks to Angus and Reg for the use of their photos in this post – and their long patience in waiting for it to materialise!)

Faindouran Bothy in Glen Avon. The stove gives it a heart once more

After writing about a lost bothy in the last post, it’s good to be able to write of a bothy regained.

To be exact, Faindouran was never exactly ‘lost’, but it was a close run  thing at the start of 2013 when news came through that a large part of the gable wall had come down in a winter storm.

The east gable of Faindouran Bothy showing the damage caused in the winter storm of 2013

The situation was serious. Nothing could be done immediately because of the weather, but there was further delay while a practicable solution to the collapsed wall could be found, given the remote location.

After a lot of thought, the wall was not so much repaired as replaced: the original wall (never built as an external wall) was capped and a block and timber wall was built outside it, giving both stability and protection.

A lot of work was involved, with volunteers making a number of long journeys – it’s 16 miles up a sometimes precipitous landy track – but by the end of last year the work was all but done.

The new gable, faced with long-lasting larch.

However a very important element was still outstanding. The gable wall had also been the chimney wall. Rather than try to rebuild a chimney, it was decided to put a stove in, with a flue going through the roof. That stove was in place last year, but lacked the flue.

Last weekend a group of us met in Tomintoul on Friday night and headed up the long and winding road to Faindouran – 16 miles, but a journey of over an hour in a four-wheel-drive. MOs Hugh and Marlene were joined by Kenny Freeman, his daughter Elaine, John Gifford, Stevie the plumber, Neil Findlay and myself. On Saturday morning we were joined by Bill Sutherland, who drove up two slaters from Airdrie, newcomers to bothy life, who had been wooed with drink at Bob Scott’s and fooled into volunteering to help out with the roof.

They came to find the flue almost in place through the roof, courtesy of Stevie and Neil F and set up scaffolding to allow them to slate the quarter of the roof which had remained unfinished – not as straightforward a job as you’d think, as the ‘slates’ were irregular stone tiles of all widths and lengths.

Roofers working from scaffolding at the back of the bothy

Kenny and Hugh filling some gaps in the eaves to improve the sleeping area

By the end of the weekend the roof was all but complete (and certainly weatherproofed) and the stove had been ritually lit, quickly warming up the small bothy (albeit it was a glorious weekend weather-wise). The sleeping area in the attic was also improved.

The heart of any bothy – the fire

Across in the stable, which had been given a wooden floor to provide temporary accommodation while the bothy was uninhabitable, Neil Findlay laid a cement floor in the doorway.

Cement mixer in action outside the stable

And where all the cement went – a new floor for the doorway to match the new wooden floor, making good spillover accommodation

With a high proportion of musicians and singers in the company, we had good-going ceilidhs on both Friday and Saturday nights, making sure the revived bothy was well and truly christened.

Hugh, Marlene and Bill give song on the Saturday evening ceilidh

(There’s now a dedicated Faindouran page in the bothies section of the website.

—————–

For Neil Findlay and I it had been a two-centre holiday. We’d met at Bob Scott’s on Thursday night and went in to Corrour Bothy on Friday morning to change over the toilet there. Then we returned to Derry via Carn a Mhaim before driving round to meet the others at Tomintoul. Don’t say we never get about in this business!

On the way in to Corrour Bothy on the Friday morning. The brush was a replacement for Corrour, but we couldn’t resist the idea of sweeping up on the way in.

And finally… what the well-dressed bothy toilet cleaner wears – in Neil Findlay’s case a see-through boiler suit and pink marigolds. Pink???

A tenuous arch of snow is all that remains of a tunnel through the Feith Buidhe snow patch

Macdui was busy on Saturday. When I reached the summit cairn there must have been at least twenty folk there and lots more approaching and leaving. One group on their way off was a party led by Simon from Cairngorm Treks, who greeted me by asking where I was off to today. Hmm. Britain’s second-highest mountain might have been enough, but he obviously knows me: on Saturday the summit cairn was just on the way to where I was heading.

Within just a few minutes of leaving the summit I was on the North Top of Macdui, bypassed by the highway from Cairngorm so seldom trod, despite being only a few feet of reascent, then I was dropping down its northern slopes to one of the least visited yet easily accessible parts of the mountain, that area where the Feith Buidhe and Garbh Uisge streams gather strength before tipping down into the great chasm of Loch Avon.

I was heading for the Feith Buidhe slabs, in the hope of getting some photos of the snow tunnels and crevasses in the long-lying snow patches there. I was there a few years ago and got a few pictures like this – more a snow bridge than a tunnel.

Loch Avon through a snow bridge, 2013

But I’d seen photos Ian Cameron took there last weekend and reckoned I might get something more impressive this time around. So after walking as far as the Feith Buidhe stream on the plateau, I zigged under some outcrops back to just above the Garbh Uisge Beag and then zagged back to find the snowfield on the Feith Buidhe slabs, which had been totally invisible from above, but was quite extensive.

The slabs between the Feith Buidhe and the Garbh Uisge are an impressive feature even on their own: great sheets of granite, easy enough angled to walk on and stepped layer upon layer, sometimes rearing up in vertical walls, but often with slanting ledges or stepped corners providing surprising ways through. These steps bank out completely under winter snow, and provide enough of an anchor to stop it sliding off in spring, as it does on Coire an Lochain’s Great Slab in the nearby northern corries of Cairngorm.

Snow starting to break up into ice boulders on a heavily stepped area of the slabs

When I got up close it was a bit of a bust in terms of what I’d been looking for. A once impressive tunnel had collapsed, leaving just a slender sliver of snowbridge amidst a broken jumble of ice slabs and boulders. But the novelty of being up close to snow 10 feet deep or more (at the edges) in the middle of summer meant I wasn’t too downhearted and enjoyed an hour or so just wandering about on the slabs and ledges exploring what I could of the area. There was an interesting looking crevasse away in the middle, but with no-one else about I didn’t think it was wise to take too many chances; those ice boulders you see in the photo were very heavy – and very hard – and I didn’t fancy being under anything like that.

Nothing soft about this snow: these ice boulders were solid.

Looking out over Loch Avon from the bergschrund between ice and rock

This distant view shows the full extent of the snow patch. The broken snow boulders show the area I was exploring

After I’d amused myself for long enough around the edges of this summer snow I started heading back to base – that was a long way away at Bob Scott’s Bothy, but I had plans on the way. A few weeks earlier I’d been in the area with a friend and had climbed from the Shelter Stone up onto the plateau by a route parallel to the Garbh Uisge. We’d left the course of the burn to head over to Carn Etchachan on that occasion, but this time I wanted to follow the course of the burn further.

This is a tremendous area of Macdui. As I mentioned above, being away from the trade routes, it’s little frequented, and indeed, much of it is hidden from most places people are likely to be.

The Garbh Uisge is well named – rough water – and the ground it travels through is pretty rough too, all rock and scree with sparse vegetation, many of the hollows showing by the black moss on the stones how long they spend under snow. It’s fascinating looking at the different  states of the rock – all granite, yet showing so much variation, from bedrock slabs waterworn and smooth, to bulging outcrops with horizontal fault lines expanding into cracks and different types of blockfields, some where thinnish sheets of granite resemble a ruptured flagstone floor, others with more irregular boulders. Some rocks lie in close pieces, fractured, clearly fitting together, yet with edges so worn you know they have lain in pieces for millennia rather than mere years. It’s a place where you realise the erosion of mountains is an ongoing process rather than just an end result. Sit in the bowl of Loch Avon and look up at the cliffs all around – An Sticil, Carn Etchachan, Hell’s Lum, Stag Rocks and all the others – and there’s somehow a sense of permanence. But here, in the corrie of the Garbh Uisge Mor, you know both that you are seeing an unfinished landscape and that this mountain shaping is happening in a deep geological time that is beyond imagining. It is a wild place. In almost 50 years of coming to this mountain I have never seen anything resembling the mythical Grey Man but, if there was such a creature, this is where he would be found.

And yet it’s not a horrible place. On Saturday I walked with pleasure up the course of the Garbh Uisge Mor, delighting in the sheets of slabs, the rushing gullies, the sandy coves, the cataracts and the still pools, exclaiming at the surprise of a small lochan appearing at eye level, marveling at the bright delicacy of ferns growing in a crevice between rocks. Distant views ranged from the Cairngorm massif to the north to Beinn Mheadhoin’s tors further east, but they remained essentially a backdrop to the more intimate views of this secret corner of Ben Macdui.

When finally I left the course of the burn to contour round the buttress separating it from the main path up from Loch Etchachan and cross that to return over the top of Derry Cairngorm, there was still plenty of good walking to do, but nothing beat the highlight of those couple of hours of summer snow on granite slabs and the rough water of Macdui.

The lower reaches of the Garbh Uisge as you climb from the Loch Avon basin. (This photo was taken a few weeks earlier on a previous visit to the area)

Cataract in the lower reaches of the Garbh Uisge

The Garbh Uisge Mor, sliding over sheets of granite before joining with the Garbh Uisge Beag to tumble over the edge of the plateau

Flowing over steps in the bedrock of the mountain

Flanked by lochans

The shock of a sandy beach so high on the mountain – that’s the north top of Macdui on the right, at 1295 metres

And finally, the joy and delicacy of ferns erupting from crevices in the hard granite.

The Shelter Stone Crag and Stacan Dubha from inside one of the Feith Buidhe ice tunnels

At last – the fabled ice tunnels of the Feith Buidhe slabs.

It was a long journey. About a month ago I’d been over in that area with a friend and climbed from Loch Avon to the plateau and Carn Etchachan via the steep slopes to the east of the Garbh Uisge. Then, just after, I was reminded of the Feith Buidhe snow and ice tunnels when that chronicler of Scotland’s summer snows, Iain Cameron, posted some pictures of tunnels formed by meltwater streams running under the the large snow patch on the Feith Buidhe slabs.

So two weeks later I was back again, this time descending onto the slabs from the plateau. I saw one collapsed tunnel but nothing I could get inside without a very tight and claustrophobic crawl between wet rock and tons of ice, a prospect as unattractive as it was unsafe. It was a fascinating visit all the same, and I wrote about this summer snow on Macdui in my last blogpost… and within days heard back from Iain Cameron with a link to some photos someone had just taken of the snow tunnels I’d missed. There had been two parts to the snow patch on the slabs; I’d explored the larger, upper section, but hadn’t descended the slabs far enough to look along the smaller section on the right, which appeared to be just a wee tail to the main event. (Although a photo I took as I walked away shows quite clear indications, in retrospect, that there were probably tunnels there.)

Zoomed in on a distant view of the right hand side of the Feith Buidhe snow patch. You can see clearly the tunnel mouths along the bottom edge

So here I was, the following weekend, after a wet walk up Glen Derry and over by Loch Etchachan, heading down towards the Shelter Stone in the Loch Avon basin and coming into sight of a distant patch of snow high up  on the headwall to the left of the Hell’s Lum Crag. Even from that distance I could see tunnel mouths fringing the bottom edge of the right hand section. It was a long walk though, to get down to the glen floor and then climb back up, first following the Coire Domhain path then breaking away for the steep, rough, boggy climb up below Hell’s Lum and alongside the Feith Buidhe, crossing the stream just level with the foot of the cliffs onto a level tier of the slabs on the south bank. Bizarrely, though the Hell’s Lum cliffs were several hundred feet higher, the stepped slabs ahead of me now were the ones which made me feel small. Perhaps it’s the very fact that they are stepped and that the steps are four or five feet high, with 20 foot high walls, that gives the feeling of being a midget in a world made too large.

It’s easy to make progress on these slabs though: set at an angle that allows hands-free walking, the steps are angled into each other so that you can traverse from side to side and  zigzag upwards – which I did to reach the higher tier where the snow lay, with a row of half a dozen or more tunnels, the largest of which was up to six feet high, though steady melting meant they were only about 20 or 30 feet in length, with a bergschrund that was maybe 15 to 20 feet (which vagueness tells you I didn’t have any measuring device with me).

It’s an interesting experience entering one of these tunnels. You can put your hood up to fend off the constant dripping from the roof but you do become very aware of the mass of rock-hard ice arched over your head. I was even more aware of this natural engineering feat as I entered the largest tunnel and, halfway through, looked to my right and realised that there was a great gap through to the next-door tunnel, making a worryingly large area of unsupported roof. I couldn’t help it though – I had to crouch and crab-crawl through ‘next door’, where I was rewarded with the sight of a translucent blue skylight where the roof had grown almost thin enough to open into a hole.

Inside the largest tunnel

Looking up out of the bergschrund at the back of the snow patch – maybe about 15 feet deep.

Near the entrance of this tunnel the roof is so thin it glows a translucent blue. This photo shows well the polygonal hollows which characterise the tunnel and overhang roofs. Near front and back of the tunnels the crests between the hollows are outlines in black plant debris

Like a row of hobbit doorways

Lots to see and wonder about – not least how those polygonal hollows outlined by plant debris form in the tunnel roofs – but eventually it was time to go. The fun was prolonged with a scramble up the slabby ramps and broken boulders beside the Feith Buidhe, then it was out onto the plateau, into cloud and the windblown rain I’d been sheltered from on the slabs, wandering near blind to the summit where there were the usual crowds despite the weather.

I’d half wondered if I’d see my pal Jim Wright up there. He was doing a charity walk taking in Braeriach, Sgor an Lochain Uaine, Cairn Toul, Devil’s Point, Carn a Mhaim, Ben Macdui and Cairngorm, all in a day. I wasn’t totally surprised not to see him (it turned out he didn’t reach Macdui until after 7pm) but did see his name in the Corrour Bothy visitors’ book the following day, when I was out there to change the toilet bags. That job was made considerably easier by the assistance of Dave from Stroud, an occasional visitor to Bob Scott’s who turned up on Saturday night and foolishly volunteered to come out with me on Sunday and give me a hand, then helped carry out some rubbish. Good effort, Dave.

And finally, despite the cloud, a part of the view that makes this area so special.

If you’ve ever wondered what a Cairngorm crystal looks like in the flesh – so to speak – there’s a display of the raw and finished stones at Braemar Castle this season.

Roy Starkey, author of  Crystal Mountains (reviewed here) has put together an exhibition of Cairngorm gemstones, which features a selection of jewellery, lots of information about the stones and their history, and three of the largest surviving crystals of Cairngorm quartz, not normally on display to the public.

The display will run until October.

Braemar Castle is well worth a visit in its own right, of course.

Built in 1628 as an L-shaped tower, it was primarily a hunting lodge for the Earls of Mar, replacing the earlier 11th century castle, the ruins of which can be seen in the village.

The castle was burnt down by the Jacobites in 1689 to prevent government forces using it. It was still in ruins at the 1715 rebellion,  when the clans gathered in Braemar, but was taken over by John Farquharson in 1732. After the last Jacobite rising in 1745 he leased it to the British Army, who repaired the building and garrisoned it to quell any further thoughts of rebellion. The garrison remained some time after it was needed, and it wasn’t until 1831 that it returned to the Farquharson family.

These days it’s run as a tourist attraction by Braemar volunteers.

Braemar Castle

Sgor Mor from Carn Crom. From some elevations the long ridge looks quite dramatic, but mostly it’s the most unprepossessing of hills.

When I was a bairn my father and uncle referred to it as Finniscoor, having picked that name up from some of the local keepers. Properly, Feith na Sgor (bog stream of the peaks) is the large, open corrie to the south of the Sgor Mor-Sgor Dubh ridge, which well lives up to its name, and if people these days refer to the hill at all (it’s a Corbett, so people do climb it) it’s simply as Sgor Mor.

Anyway, I’ve had a fondness for this little regarded hill for many years, and was quite pleased to see one of its rock features crop up on twitter recently – one of several near perfectly round rock basins to be found near the summit. Honestly, they’re worth the climb just to see them alone, but they’re like so much of this hill: delights to be seen through close examination rather than from afar.

The round rock ‘basins’ near the summit of Sgor Mor. Each is about 18 inches across and flat bottomed.

Yet even when they climb it, most people seem to skim the proverbial surface. The views, especially looking north into the main Cairngorm hills, are superb, as is the case with many a smaller hill, and many may appreciate the relatively easy going between the main Sgor Mor top and the slightly lower Sgor Dubh, but it’s a hill that tends to be climbed, traversed and descended by the same linear route, leaving so much unexplored. For me, though, my acquaintance began with a treasure hunt and has continued that way ever since.

Sgor Mor is ideally placed for views into the western and central massifs of the Cairngorms. Here you’re looking across the shoulder of Carn Crom on the right and Carn a Mhaim on the left to Ben MacDui, with Braeriach in the background.

I first became aware of Sgor Mor through a trip with my father, looking for a bottle of paraffin he’d left in a cleft in the rocks at Creag Phadruig there way back in the late 1940s. He always claimed that he and his pal Bruce (I forget the second name) would sometimes take a ‘short-cut’ over Finniscoor to camp at the Robbers’ Copse, and on one of these occasions they had stashed a glass demijohn of paraffin to save weight. Long gone, of course, but back then in the late ’60s we enjoyed poking around in the broken rocky outcrops above the track west of Linn of Dee, all the time convinced we were about to strike it lucky. I confess, I’ve had a kick around that area a few times since.

Many years later a friend took me up on that hillside promising to show me something. We walked scarcely more than 10 minutes from the Linn of Dee then started up the hillside, stopping after a rough climb just before a very large boulder.

“We’re here,” he said.

“Where?” said I.

“Look at your feet,” said he.

And there, at my feet, was a Lilliputian door in a recess under the rock. Lifting the door away, we crawled into a cave large enough for three adults to sit or  sleep (if not to actually stand). The sides were built up with rocks cemented into place and the perfect wooden floor a work of art. It was a great howff, handy for a late drive up and I was saddened a few years later to find, arriving on a dark and drizzly night, to discover someone had broken down the walls and burnt out the floor.

(Proving what a small world it is, some years after that I discovered that it had been one of the Cairngorm bothy crew – Kenny Freeman – who had constructed it.)

All that’s left of Kenny’s Howff. You can see the burnt out wooden floor, but the walls have been destroyed. Entry was by crawling in at the front.

If you walk past the site of the former howff and the mythical paraffin stash, you come on two or three gullies disappearing up the hillside. I now know that down in the Lake District there are many who specialise in ‘gill scrambling’ but so many years ago it was just curiosity that led me up one of these gullies rather than any notion it was something people do. I found a rose. A rose in bloom no less. Yellow and a cultivated variety rather than wild, so who knows how it got there. It was a freak, but the whole environment in the sometimes precipitous, steep-sided gully was markedly different from that ‘outside’ on the lightly forested open hillside.

That day I kept in the groove until the angle leaned back and the banks lowered in height until I could see over the sides, looking out onto the real Feith na Sgor, a great, wide, shallow corrie. I stayed at the banks of the Allt nan Leum Eassainn until the last climb up to the spine of the hill, as so often finding the banks of a burn the driest and firmest route through boggy ground.

More recently, on the north of the hill, I’ve followed the Allt a Choire Duibh, not so steep but still offering some entertaining scrambling up the rocky stream bed and with the benefit of those superb views into the main Cairngorms, evolving as height  is gained.

The Allt a Choire Duibh offers some entertaining scrambles in the lower reaches

…and always those great views behind. This is looking up past the east face of Carn a Mhaim to Sron Riach and Coire Sputan Dearg of Ben MacDui

You could follow the burn right up to the rather boggy col between the main top and the irresistable rocky subsidiary of Creagan nan Gabhar (no goats there for many a year though), but I was tempted by a steep heather fight up to the ridge near the top.

And that ridge is a curiosity: a dry gravelly spine sandwiched between two bogs and punctuated by granite outcrops, some big enough to tempt the adventurous into some bouldering fun and collectively giving the ridge a deceivingly dramatic profile from the north.

Another piece of deception is Creag Dhoin, the slabby ribs in the wide corrie overlooking the road between Black Bridge and Derry Lodge, giving the hill a freshly scraped look as through the glaciers had not long passed.

Looking across the slabby ribs overlooking the Derry Lodge road

In fact when you get up amongst them, they lean back considerably and many can be walked up. One or two of the most westerly might offer some interesting bouldering for the determined, but mainly it’s just an interesting area to wander about it.

This slab might give some bouldering, although the steep slope at the bottom means a fall might end up a good way below the rock!

Perhaps more interesting than the slab above was this cigar of tightly rolled grass, found on the steep grassy slope below the rock. Never did figure an explanation for it, but there were several others like it.

Next time I’m up there I hope to follow what appears like a horizontal fault line making a natural traverse across the corrie. I may well get distracted (it’s happened before) but there’s a large and forbiddingly steep crag in a hidden gully to the east of the ribs which I’d like another look at too. We’ll see. The great thing about ‘Finniscoor’ is that half a century after falling into a gravel quarry at its foot on my first ever visit to the Cairngorms there are still bits I want to explore. And the great thing about the Cairngorms is that Finniscoor, Feith na Sgor, Sgor Mor, however you want to call it, is only one such hill of many. There is no end to the possibilities.

The view into Glen Luibeg

Looking down on a tiny Luibeg Cottage, once home of Bob Scott and site of the original Luibeg Bothy

The abundance of boggy ground on the hill makes it an ideal hill to go looking for the carnivorous Sundew

…and Butterwort, another carnivore

A slightly drier spot and more plants than I’d care to try and identify

Up near the plateau these clumps of rushes make fascinating rosette patterns

And finally, another look at one of the summit rock basins. I’d love to hear a convincing explanation of how these are formed: in the meantime we’ll have to stay with the notion that they were carved out by fastidious fairy folk.

Erected as a stopgap, the Derry Burn footbridge will now be a permanent feature

Last year’s ‘temporary’ bridge over the Derry Burn, near Derry Lodge, has now become permanent. And a new footpath is to be developed going around – rather than across – the Derry Flats.

ScotWays, the Scottish Rights of Way and Access Society, donated the footbridge to Mar Lodge Estate last April, as a temporary replacement for the bridge destroyed by floods the previous August.

The original plan was for this bridge to stay in place until a permanent replacement had been built but after the New Year floods at the end of 2015 left the bridge still in place, and after other options had been considered, ScotWays and Mar Lodge Estate have agreed to make this the permanent bridge.

ScotWays is keen that the banking is reinforced and the abutments strengthened – although the bridge was untouched by the last floods, the western bank was further eroded – and has also said it will fund construction of a new footbridge across the upper Quoich, which is expected to be in place by the end of November.

Both bridges will feature memorial plaques to Donald Bennet, a prominent member of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, founding member of the Mountaineering Council of Scotland and, at various times, Director, Chairman and Honorary President of ScotWays. He will be best known to most, though, as author of numerous books, including the SMC’s definitive Munro and Corbett guides. He died in 2013, aged 84.

Any funds left over after the two bridges are built will be used to divert the path that currently traverses the boggy Derry Flats, taking it down the west bank of the Derry Burn and then up the north bank of the Luibeg to join the existing path where it becomes a ‘made’ track at the corner of the plantation. This has been a long-held ambition for the estate, not only giving walkers a drier journey, but also taking them further away from the Black Grouse lecking ground on the Flats.

(Incidentally, if you’re curious about the strange triangular metal spans of the Derry Bridge, they started life as a radio mast. A great example of recycling.)