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reveries of an amateur long-distance hiker

Tag Archives: Blair Atholl

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