Walking Home

reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 25, June 4, 2022

June 5th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 25, June 4, 2022

I stopped briefly at a bothy this afternoon and had a conversation with Simon, a man walking part of the Cape Wrath Trail. He had settled in for the day while I was planning to push ahead to the next bothy about 8 km further on. A hot day tempted me to stay, but I want to get used to much longer days as the last week will be full of them. We talked about stopping in towns, and he took the familiar line used by most trekkers— a certain contempt for “civilization” as trekking takes you out in the wild and keeps you there.

That narrative thread is strong in most of the Cape Wrath Trail discourse— its draw is the wild. Of course I’m all for the wild— I relish the solitude of wandering in what seem to be empty spaces (one of the reasons I almost always trek alone see https://walkinghome.lmc.gatech.edu/pointless-essays/solitude/). And, for example, today I saw almost no one except Simon over a 30 km walk which took me via very steep and narrow paths down the side of one of the tallest waterfall in UK, Falls of Glomach measuring in at 113 meters. I walked around lochs, slogged through more bogs, and crossed several high ridges. In other words, I got the full wild experience.

But I also want to say a word for towns. I’ve had to coordinate maps, websites and guidebooks to see just how close the SNT comes to various towns— many it deliberately misses— in order to have the chance to visit them. For me, towns (crossroads, villages, hamlets— the maps have the full gamut of place names) can be every bit as interesting as an isolated mountaintop.

The Appalachian trail only passes directly through a few towns along its 2000 mile + corridor. Resupply usually involves hitchhiking down off the ridge to towns at some distance. Towards the end of my trek, I realized how much I enjoyed staying in decrepit motels near the trail. Mattresses lumpy, television often limited, the rooms had no real appeal except there was always an old lawn chair on the walk in front of the room, facing the parking lot, where in the evening you could sit, read, and talk to the people arriving. Hardly “exciting” but a real pleasure nevertheless. Since then I’ve hiked many trails, most with a similarly fraught relationship to towns. Of course there are exceptions— the Camino de Santiago winds its way through the main street of every town it approaches (primarily to afford pilgrims the chance to pray in each of the churches on the way). But by and large on most long trails, towns are viewed as infrastructure— a place to support the wilderness seekers— and not as another sight to be seen. Just a word for towns— they can bring such pleasure.

Today no town for me. I’m sleeping in the Bendronaig Lodge bothy— a comfortable estate bothy with a flushing toilet! (Of course you have to bring buckets of water from the spring). And tomorrow I will wild camp somewhere past Craig, a crossroads I should pass mid day. But the following day brings the village of Kinlochewe, and another place to explore—a town.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 24, June 3, 2022

June 3rd, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 24, June 3, 2022

Quite possibly the most beautiful walk I’ve ever taken. Woke early as the Munro baggers were itching to get started and my bunk was just above theirs—had coffee with them later, a good lot. I was the only one walking out what for many is the last leg of the Glen Affric Way. I was expecting more bog hiking, but after a few kilometers was surprised by a well-benched track that held through the day, and what a day. I began walking up the watershed of the Allt Beithe Garbh, but so subtly, the flow changed to the west and I spent the rest of the morning descending with the Allt Grannda.

The wind had picked up in the night, coming in with the rain, so the early morning was brisk, cloudy, and damp, but it was clear the skies were going to clear, so I bopped along at a rolling pace. After a few clicks I passed a simple bothy and had a short but pleasant conversation with a couple who were finishing the Glen Affric Way that day. They were lingering over morning coffee before heading out.

Later in the day I encountered mountain bikers heading up the glen, and, closer to Morvich, the walkers were out in force. One part of the path crossed a cattle pasture with some highland cattle (or some hybrids I suspect) which included a glowering bull and many calves. I passed warily, but he seemed unconcerned, as he would be, given the place he gets to live. Later the path joined a land rover track that quickly brought me to the Morvich Campgounds, a short day earned by going long the previous two. Shower, laundry and a long walk to the Kintail Lodge for a huge meal and obligatory pints.

It must have been the combination of a well formed path, the beginnings of sunshine, the narrowness of the glen, the height of the mountains, and the non-stop waterfalls—each more impressive than the last— that turned the day exquisite. It is difficult to mark a tipping point, that move from a painful, difficult walk, to a tiresome trudge, to a lighthearted amble, to something that is close to pure joy—but that line was crossed today.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 22, June 1, 2022

June 2nd, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 22, June 1, 2022

A short distance from where I was yesterday lies Rannoch, or as the poet once designated it, “Rannoch, by Glencoe.” I try to imagine T.S. Eliot walking these hills. An American from St. Louis, desperate to be an Englishman, travels to Scotland, and surprisingly, in the first stanza evokes something of the mood that accompanies a long day’s walk on the moors:

Here the crow starves, here the patient stag

Breeds for the rifle. Between the soft moor

And the soft sky, scarcely room

To leap or soar. Substance crumbles, in the thin air

In a few lines he captures ecological, almost geological, history. The great Caledonian Forest (tonight I am sleeping next to a faint remnant of that wood—dead giant trees standing silver on the hillside) was decimated by many factors, not the least was the transformation of this land into hunting preserves— a sordid history, but here to this day, the “patient stag/ Breeds for the rifle.” I passed many on my descent into Glen Loyne.

But what Eliot does even better is capture the sublimity of these moors. Of course the sublime is an aesthetic category, one all too often invoked by nature writers, but here I’m generalizing (perhaps unfairly) the phenomenon in chemistry. Sublimation describes the change of state of matter directly from solid to gas. To me, it also describes any of those phase changes crossings— the moment of state change. The moors are sublime because they waver, almost tremble, between states. Is that spot where you are about to step solid or liquid? It usually turns out to be a little of both. Eliot’s repetition of the word “soft” here is key— softness is either tactile and can only be known by direct touching, or it is visual, indicating a lack of sharpness, clarity, focus. On these moors, “Substance crumbles, in the thin air.” Tonight I sleep in my tent by the Loyne River, in an isolated, almost magical glen that bears no marks— all is a green softness.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 21, May 31, 2022

May 31st, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 21, May 31, 2022

Equipment day—the other day I broke a trekking pole—pair of graphite Leki’s that have been around the world. I’d been concerned about them all trip, and now that I’ll be in the wilds, it seemed prudent to replace. After breakfast at the hostel, I stopped for coffee by the canal, then caught a bus to Fort William, the largest town in the region and home to several equipment shops, including Cotswolds which, though at times pricy, always has quality equipment. Got new, high-end Leki’s, a warmer hat, and laid in some super power bars to have as backup food supply in the event I get caught out in the wilds longer than anticipated.

Fort William is charming, a man playing music in the square, and lots of dayhikers as Ben Nevis looms over the town. This is also the home of the Jacobin Express, the steam train featured in the Harry Potter movies. All in all, a low key day, welcome after the rigors of the last couple.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 19, May 29, 2022

May 31st, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 19, May 29, 2022

Kingussie to Laggan

An inauspicious morning became a highlight of the trip thus far. The Duke of Gordon Hotel serves a big breakfast spread, so I delayed departure to get my dose of bacon, sausage, blood pudding, haggis, beans and eggs. The hike out of Kingussie was delightful, some well-laid and well-marked trails up and over a ridge and down to a Loch made for a good morning. Of course that set off an alarm bell or two as I’m learning you always have to pay for a good trail with something pretty close to a no trail (which is just what happened).

Soon I was striding over one of those strange treeless landscapes that seem absent of all life except heather, cotton grass, and the occasional grouse. Later the path took me to the edge of the river Allt a Chaorainn. The well-made tracks for the tourists at the mid- point soon gave way to mud, then bog, and finally no trail at all. I navigated by keeping the river to my left, occasionally crossing what seemed a path that was soon swallowed in the mire. In the distance I passed a number of derelict buildings as the sky clouded over (for the tenth time that day). The bog was becoming frustrating as there was no clear end point, though I could see in the distance what I took to be yet another derelict building. As I approached I kept hearing, cut by the wind, what was either a bird I’d never heard or people laughing loudly. The latter proved to be true as a fairly tumbled down bothy was occupied by four local men who were at the time entertaining a man and two women hikers who had just joined them. It was only midday, but most of them were clearly in their cups. Ian, one of the Bothy men invited me in, soon Michael pressed a pint of Tennents in my hand, and, as the rain opened up, we all adjourned to the bothy drawing room.

We sat on ragged couches, everyone talking at once. They were curious about me and the National Trail, but everyone was talking and asking about the area, the local people, and of course land politics. Present were gamekeepers, loggers, and an academic closely involved with government land policy. Soon a wee dram of whiskey (not so wee) was pressed into my hand, and we all settled into an afternoon of intense but disparate conversation. Although most were definitely not clear headed, the talk was clear, each bringing both their personal expertise linked with their longstanding friendship. And as I’ve heard from everyone thus far, there is no place they’d rather be than in the Highlands.

Talk turned explicitly to land ownership, specifically the now-large holdings by the Emir of Qater. Apparently some lax rules regarding ownership enable wealthy people to buy large parcels in Scotland, and he owns much of the land I am currently walking. The special story though is that one of my new-found friend’s grandmother, who is 92, bakes the best scones in the Highlands, and they are particularly favored by the Emir. Her secret is rancid milk, but she also bakes with a Rayburn oven, a device I encountered before in the northern part of the Pennine Way. I stayed in a farmhouse with a kitchen dominated by a Rayburn oil stove— it both made a wonderful breakfast and dried my soaking clothes. As temperatures don’t remain constant, baking on a Rayburn requires vigilance, touch, and deep understanding. Miracle of miracles, Ian produced one of her scones, buttered and ready for my enjoyment. I’ll not even try to contest their assessment, best scone I ever tasted.

In the midst of an incoherent shuffle, Michael left in his truck with the man and two women, apparently taking them back to their car. I was hoping to catch a ride down the hill to shorten my already long day. Steve assured me he would give me a ride on his return, and they all insisted on another Tennets and wee dram. Soon Ian was putting into my bag a full liter of Whyte MacKay whiskey—not taking no for an answer. My pack is now significantly heavier, but my heart lighter, just knowing these fine people.

Good to his word, Michael soon returned and I got to yellow blaze a short portion of the day’s trek, still having to make my way to the BnB that I had booked. I needed a good night’s sleep as tomorrow I’m scheduled to walk 25 miles up and over Corrieyairack Pass.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 18, May 28, 2022

May 29th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 18, May 28, 2022

The walk out of Glen Feshie to Kingussie was uneventful. Typical cloudy day with occasional showers but no strife like the previous one. I was off before anyone woke up (and I think I was sufficiently quiet for the one person who ended up sleeping in the room I was in).

The only real observation I made, apart from the mass of firewood all the houses on the way into Kingussie had stored) was the river itself. Though not a particularly long river, the Feshie is a stunning geological feature. On the South Island of New Zealand, you regularly encounter braided rivers— extreme flows of water that wash the gravel scree from adjoining mountains, forming and reforming channels almost overnight. You can never know what a river crossing might be on any given day because of the astonishing speed that channels are re-arranged, particularly in spring flood-time. On the Te Araroa, crossing braided rivers was always a time of stress and often a time of failure— knowing that failure meant walking miles out of your way to find a ford or a bridge (or failure could be drowning). I didn’t have to cross the River Feshie and unless the weather was much more severe, I doubted it would be difficult. Still, looking down on those braids brought back memories and some anxiety.

The day finished early with my arrival in Kingussie which began with late breakfast at the Sugar Bowl, then I wandered to the Duke of Gordon, a fine old hotel I’d secured cheap lodging in, and a long hot bath.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 17, May 27, 2022

May 28th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 17, May 27, 2022

Bynack Lodge to Ruigh Aiteachain

Today was definitely a tale of two treks. I woke at the Bynack Lodge ruins to rain and wind on my tent. Not being in a hurry to start (only a 21 km day), I gathered my equipment and read until the rain broke briefly. As it was bitter cold (not quite freezing) and the wind was high, I geared up with my heavy rain clothes. The morning agenda included a number of river crossings, though the rains had not been that heavy, so the waters were not unmanageable. Still, wading multiple icy rivers first thing in the morning is a less than auspicious start. Being near where Nan Shepherd was wont to roam, I thought of her remarkable descriptions of the waters of the Cairngorms. Such as “For the most appalling quality of water is its strength. I love its flash and gleam, its music, its pliancy and grace, its slap against my body; but I fear its strength.” I’ve crossed a number of rivers where I truly feared “its strength” (some where I had to turn back), but today’s rivers strength was their temperature and not their current.

On crossing Bynack Burn, I was to pass an abandoned building but soon discovered it was surrounded by cars, truck, and tents (there is a road from Baeriach). The path turned as I was to walk up Glen Geldie until the watershed shifted to Glen Feshie later in the day. The wind was now full force in my face, and as I passed the building, I was waved in by the occupants— volunteers with the Mountain Bothy’s Association—who were there to put a new roof on the structure to finish the renovation. Soon SNT walkers will bypass Bynack and sleep in the comfort of a woodstove-heated Bothy. Four men and a dog— one quite elderly—but all were strong and enthusiastic about the task at hand. I soon had a worm cup of tea and a couple of KitKat bars, as well as some good conversation about bothies and the Cairngorms (though some accents still eluded my comprehension).

Soon I found myself out in the howling, the path alternated between the occasional hard based track, a muddy mess, and a trackless bog that required GPS navigation. The landscape was imposing (what I could see of it with my narrowed raincoat/hat view was imposing but featureless). I kept hoping that, like most other days, the weather would break and the views would open up. Toward the middle, (near the watershed transition), there were some powerful waterfalls coming in on the side burns, but by and large the walk was slip-sliding shoe-sucking mud. Still there was some sort of magic drawing me to Glen Feshie, as if it were some fabled land. In the last hour of the trek, the wind abated, rain stopped, and the sun started beating down on my black rain-geared body. The path firmed and I soon found myself in front of Ruigh Aiteachain, something totally unexpected.

The Appalachian Trail has campsites every so many miles with most boasting a shelter— usually a three sided structure with a flat wooden floor where trekkers can roll out their sleeping bags and hope their nightly sleeping companions don’t snore or talk well into the night. Like the Mountain Bothy Association, the various Appalachian Trail clubs volunteer to maintain those shelters. New Zealand has a series of huts, most administered by the Department of Conservation, requiring a permit to sleep. They range from purpose built large places with bunks, cooking areas, and well-arranged living spaces. But there are also old shepherd’s or hunter’s huts, made of various materials in various states of repair. In 2015, I spent Thanksgiving day in a storm, holed up in a corrugated steel hut, chicken wire bottomed bunks, and dirt floors. The sides and door clanged all night in the wind.

Ruigh Aiteachain (a widely renowned Bothy) is the opposite of that. Once a house in Glen Feshie, famous (or infamous) as the place where, in the 1830’s, the Duchess of Bedford built a series of buildings where she could meet with her lover, the celebrated artist, Edwin Landseer. While the others are ruins, the Duchess’s house remained and was, some years ago renovated to become the palatial Bothy I slept in. On arrival to an empty house, I was unsure what the exact etiquette was. There were wooden floored rooms in the upstairs, while downstairs was a stairwell/foyer and two nearly identical rooms. Each had a wood stove connected to a central chimney, tables, chairs and wooden platforms on the opposite wall. I assumed (correctly) that I could bunk on one of the platforms.

I unpacked a little bit, and famished, I sliced cheese and salami. After a few minutes a cheerful older man appeared, introducing himself as Lindsay. He took one look at me and stated that I was walking the Scottish National Trail, noting that he could always tell (we have a lean and haggard look I guess). A Glaswegian, he had a career in industry, living all over the world, but had returned to Scotland and spent almost all of his time in Glen Feshie, staying in the Bothy and working with the various organizations and landowners on the range of transformative practices designed to rewild the area— increase tree cover and wildlife populations. He had first been in the building 50 years ago and was involved with the renovation, including the outdoor toilets which were, at the time clogged because of negligent visitors. We grabbed buckets and proceeded to pour many gallons of water into the sump, eventually clearing the clog, returning triumphantly to the house.

On return we met Dave, a Devonshire man currently living in Wales and working for an organization dedicated to the preservation of wild plants and fungi— lichens are his specialty. I went to the room with my stuff, preparing for an evening reading and an early bedtime. Moments later, Lindsay appeared, asked if I could “go through” to the next room where he promptly opened a bottle of Prosecco. Although not quite the half-way point, he wanted to celebrate that moment in my trek. Dave and his dog soon joined us, and a long conversation about various environmental initiatives in the Cairngorms in general, and Glen Feshie in particular. I wish I could recount the topics, but we definitely discussed Pine Martins, re-introduced beavers, the need for lynx, invasive beech trees, families, careers, and significant others. Lindsay soon returned with another bottle of Prosecco, and then after more stories of wandering the world, produced a bottle of his favorite Cabernet, the result of his going to university in the south of France. Some time later, Dave retired with his dog to his tent, and Lindsay and I said our good nights and farewells as I planned to leave as early as possible and, anticipating more people arriving from the city later in the night (it’s Friday).

I crawled into my sleeping bag and was just drifting off when the anticipated crowd arrived, banging, talking loud into after 1:00 am— life in a Bothy.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 16, May 26, 2022

May 28th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 16, May 26, 2022

As I would be wild camping up in the Cairngorms area, I was in no real hurry to get started. Last night I made arrangements to eat in the Atholl Arms restaurant for breakfast, opting for eggs Benedict instead of another Scottish meat festival. The yoghurt and fruit were exceptional, as were my eggs. Leaving that lovely stone town, I found the path alongside the Tilt river, which was to be my hiking companion for the better part of the day.

As this was my entrance to the Cairngorms, I was expecting greater difficulty, but most of the day was on a well-made farm road slowly ascending the range, sticking close to the river. At first the glen was very narrow, the sheep stood oblivious at impossible angles on steep slopes. Slowly the landscape widened, with the path passing small farmhouses, some inhabited, others abandoned. Later it entered a forested section, reminding me of riding the train to Aviemore some years ago. I recall on passing the Atholl estate noting the dense forest. John Murray (1755-1830), fourth Duke of Atholl, who was nicknamed ‘Planter John’ was one of the first industrial tree planters in Scotland, planting millions of larch in the land abutting the Cairngorms. Planter John’s vision has clearly been carried forward as the path took me past a textbook example of modern industrial farming. On passing Forest Lodge, the largest farm I crossed, I watched as a harvester cut off scrub deciduous trees, ripping some directly out of the ground, clearing the way to cut the large old pines. The ground shook as the roots snapped, and the “useless” lumber was tossed aside. Later the path passed a huge pile of logs cut to length, partially stripped of bark, stacked, and ready to be loaded out.

Finally near the end of the trek, the water subtly shifted directions as I left the watershed of the Tilt and entered that of the Dee. There is something exhilarating about walking a river to its headwaters, something I wrote about here in one of my favorite blog posts: https://walkinghome.lmc.gatech.edu/pointless-essays/a-walker-of-rivers/

After following the Alltan t-Seilich (a tributary to the Dee) for a few short kilometers just before Bynack Burn, I came to Bynack Lodge, a ruined stone home sitting on a rise, in the middle of nowhere. The only road to it a Land Rover track. Just a circle of wind-twisted trees, crumbling walls, and sheep grazing to keep up its well-mown appearance. The wind was blowing hard and the weather alternated bright sun and brief showers. I pitched my tent in the lee of the house at what seemed the calmest spot (a relative concept). After inspecting the grounds I took shelter and read well into the evening, while my tent flapped, trembled, shook, but ultimately held.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 15, May 25, 2022

May 25th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 15, May 25, 2022

Compared to the past few days of absolutely solitary wandering, today was a veritable social hour. I have to admit, for me the draw of long-distance trekking has always been the solitude— something shared by Rousseau whose Reveries of a Solitary Walker has long served as a model for me. Over the years, solitude is something I have craved, though of late, I’m at cross-purposes, relishing my isolation but missing intensely my current life in Atlanta. Years ago I wrote a brief essay on solitude when commencing the Te Araroa trail in New Zealand: https://walkinghome.lmc.gatech.edu/pointless-essays/solitude/

The structure of trails determines to a great degree the level of solitude a walker can experience. The Te Araroa is an isolated walk, while the Camino de Santiago is a traveling party. As the Scottish National trail is a cobbling together of parts of already established trails with some complicated connections, it lacks the social continuity of those paths. As mentioned earlier, my brief overlap with the West Highland Way brought memories of the Camino, not just because of the crowd of walkers but also the support system along the trail— coffee shops, etc. set up close to the path— and of course the pub culture at the end of the day, where weary walkers gather to exchange tips, names, and sympathy.

The past few days have been up and over hills and passes, skirting towns and civilization in favor of the high, uninhabited moors. Today was mostly a river walk (actually three rivers with a hill climb between two of them), passing through towns and villages. I started in Aberfeldy, wandering along the River Tay to Grandtully (where regrettably the Chocolatier shop had not yet opened). There I crossed a “weakened” bridge (there are plenty of those in the area, but apparently my crossing is not their concern) and headed up over a ridge, then down the other side to the River Tummel where I wandered Pitlochry a bit. In preparation for a couple of days in the wilds, I bought supplies at the coop, picked up some extra gear at the Hawkshead equipment shop, and had a full Scottish breakfast at the Cafe Biba. A bit weighed down—both pack and belly— I made my way out of town, down along what became the River Garry, passing through Killicrankie, ultimately arriving at Blair Atholl.

The day was full of encounters: runners on the river path out of Aberfeldy, dog walkers most everywhere, and on the streets of Pitlochry and Blair Atholl there were many serious trekkers. Outside the pub in the evening, there was a pile of well-worn fairly large Osprey packs, signaling some serious trekkers I’m surmising. The most pleasant social encounter was up on a forest road above Pitlochry. As I descended I heard many loud, talkative voices, something I’ve not encountered all this trip. On breaking for the forest, I walked into a group portrait of more than a dozen women from Canada on a town-to-town trek. Of course I volunteered to take the picture so they could all be in it. We talked a bit—they were hiking this area town to town,— fairly short days— in the highest of spirits. Given how slipping in the mud on a long grade up can be discouraging, I was happy to see their good-natured enthusiasm, something rare on tough trails.

The latter part of the day bounced from trail to minor road, to well-graded path, past farms— including a horse training facility where I stopped a bit to watch someone training to jump horses. Blair Atholl was a pleasant surprise— such beautiful stone homes with distinctive architecture. It appears much of the early part of the village was built by the same architect, probably at the behest of the Laird. The people at the campground were kind as all Scots seem to be, I took a quick turn around the castle before settling into the Bothy Bar for a heavy meal in preparation for the next few day’s privations.

T. Hugh Crawford

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 14, May 24, 2022

May 24th, 2022

Walking to Cape Wrath, Day 14, May 24, 2022

Woke at 5:00 to the crowing of a pheasant which was soon accompanied by what I took to be a mockingbird imitating R2D2. My tent was pitched behind a corrugated steel shed in the middle of an unoccupied stonewall-enclosed pasture. Of course the sun was already high (Scotland in May)— and, surprise surprise, the sun was actually shining after a couple days of dark, damp mist and some periods of straight-up torrents. Many years ago (while in high school) I took canoe trip on the Shenandoah river with three friends. One night we camped on the riverbank in a cornfield. I remember the next morning hustling to get out before the farmer caught us. His truck was crossing the bridge as we floated past (at least that is how we all remembered it). Today I woke with the same concern— even though the Scottish right-to-roam laws should have protected me, still I hustled to get packed up and out on the road before a farmer on a quad bike with a bunch of dogs appeared to question a vagabond in his pasture.

So far there have been occasional days with the morning sun bright and low, casting fantastic shadows on the landscape. My early morning was walking out of the glen up toward a highland road to take me over the pass into the Aberfeldy valley. Unfortunately the farmsteads have become commonplace even as their incredible beauty remains arresting. Out in the wilder areas, it always give me pause to see remnants of farms and homesteads, many surely predating the great Highland clearances. Those fields are now populated by sheep, even up high where the only thing that seems to grow is heather and cotton grass. Today took me up a minor road to a long undulating otherworldly plateau that then descended by the Urlar burn slowly into Aberfeldy. Toward the end all the water rushed into a series of cataracts including the Morness falls, before finally joining the River Tay just past the town.

The day’s trek was shortened by my having extended yesterday’s, so I arrived in plenty of time to get my tent pitched at the Aberfeldy Caravan Park before the afternoon rains rushed in. I showered and did my laundry — needed some relief from all that bog water, and retired to the Schiehallion Hotel Pub to plan out the next 4 days which will involve much wild hiking and serious isolation in the Cairngorms. I also plan to revisit Nan Shepherd’s account of her walks, just to get my head right for this part of the trek.

T. Hugh Crawford