Halfway through the Lairig Ghru and an ideal base for numerous spectacular Munros, it has to be one of Scotland’s busiest bothies, and even midweek can be jam-packed.
Most often my visits to Corrour are brief: either in and out in a day or an overnighter and away in the morning, but some additional maintenance jobs and a postponed helicopter lift meant I was there for three nights this week – two full days and a half day either end. And what a variety of visitors I met!
In no particular order, there was a young lass from Aberdeen, a French couple, a German couple, a Belgian couple, a couple from the Netherlands, five guys from Suffolk, a Canadian woman, a pair of Aberdonian guys, some more Germans and various passers by whose pedigree I never ascertained. Oh and how could I forget the guy from Wales who arrived after midnight after a pitch dark descent from Ben McDui as part of his mission to climb Scotland’s ten highest mountains in one trip. Or the two Dutch cyclists who discovered cycling through the Lairig Ghru was a far cry from designated cycle tracks.
What they all had in common was enthusiasm (by the bucket load in some cases) and an ability to get on together and have a good time sharing stories, advice and even bits and pieces to help each other out. Strangers and companions all mucking in together and coming away the richer for it.
And all thisis not to mention my fellow MO, Nic, who braved stampeding (sort of) cows to come out and help me with the main task of the visit, to empty the store of a year’s worth of human waste for helicopter airlift to Linn o Dee and then lorry transport to Aberdeen’s sewage treatment plant. We also did a big clean-out of the toilets, got rid of some metallic waste accumulated over several years, and several bags of ash from the fire. And removed some graffiti. And even managed to improvise a repair using a hammer and hand-axe instead of hammer and chisel to remove a cracked section of window frame and replace it with fresh wood to enable the window bar to be used again. All good fun.
Nic and Neil posing hammily with the helibag full of sh*t they’ve just filled from the store.
The delayed helicopter meant I had a long wait after all the jobs were done – a full day extra – but it was no hardship in a location like Corrour’s and I was never short of great company. And on the final day one of the staff of Mar Lodge Estate came out to wait for the helicopter to allow me to go home: great cooperation and assistance from the estate.
What a privilege it is to look after this bothy!
And as a wee bonus to end the trip, my pal the scabby Robin dropped by to say hello, getting under my feet as I changed my boots and then posing on the bike handlebars.
Looking down to an all but invisible Corrour Bothy from the south summit of Cairn Toul
When you’ve climbed a hill more times than you can ever remember, no matter how much you love it, it can be hard to summon the motivation to climb it again when the clag is down, rain is threatening and the wind is blowing a gale.
I’d come out to Corrour Bothy with no maintenance jobs in mind but planning to go up onto Cairn Toul and maybe round as far as the Braeriach plateau and the Wells of Dee. The walk-in on Sunday, despite the forecast, was dry, but Monday – supposed to be the better day – dawned distinctly damp, with low cloud and rain. And that wind, even down in the glen.
Right up until leaving the bothy I was settled on plan B, a walk round into the Garbh Choire and checking on the condition of the Garbh Choire Refuge, but as I walked to the stream to fill up my water bottle I looked up at where Cairn Toul should be and decided there was just a hint of thinness about the cloud and – who knows? – perhaps it might clear. Maybe I was influenced by age – you never know when, or even if you might climb it again – but on the spot I changed back to plan A. Cairn Toul it would be.
As I kept a measured pace up the back of the bothy I reflected wryly on years gone by when a couple of times I made it from bothy to the top of Devil’s Point in half an hour. It certainly wasn’t going to happen today: twenty minutes in and I was still on the bowl of Coire Odhar. On the plus side I wasn’t feeling too sore or out of breath, and it wasn’t raining, and I tackled the zig-zags up the headwall in good humour.
Coming out over the lip of the corrie was a waken-up call though, with the full force of the wind making itself felt and the cloud ceiling looming closer. I’d never intended taking in the Devil’s Point anyway and headed up towards an invisible Cairn Toul, very soon entering both cloud and rain, and chilling quickly. I’d started on with just a T-shirt and waterproof but soon stopped to don a warmer jacket under the waterproof, along with gloves and a woollen hat. Who said summer?
Ach it was good to be back though: the thin turf and wiry grass, the granite grit and boulders, and, as I reached the curving crest above the giant hollow of Coire an t-Saighdeir, the cloud lifted to reveal the waves of landscape and the steeply jutting prow of Cairn Toul itself, looking much more of a climb than it is.
As the cloud lifted I could see through between Cairn Toul and Angel’s Peak to get a first glimpse of the Garbh Choire and Coire Bhrochain of Braeriach.
The south top of Cairn Toul, only a metre or two lower than the main top but by far the more dramatic with it’s sharp eastern ridge, allowed me a look back down to a distant Corrour Bothy, where I’d started.
Zooming in on Corrour Bothy (centre of image) from the south top of Cairn ToulLooking back to the rim of Coire an t-Saighdeir. You can pick out three Czech lassies who had camped outside Corrour the night before and were headed for Angel’s Peak and Braeriach, missing out Cairn Toul.
It was still uncomfortably windy though – I’d been battered about a fair bit on the final ascent – and hunger was beginning to gnaw, so I kept going on to the main summit and its sheltering cairn where I could get out of the wind for a bite to eat.
The obligatory picture looking across to Coire Bhrochain.
The boulder sections coming from Cairn Toul down towards Angel’s Peak didn’t seem to go on as long as in my memory, and the pull up to Angel’s (I should maybe call it by the older Sgor an Lochain Uaine name that’s more favoured these days) wasn’t as hard, though I was glad to take a moment or two looking out across the great gulph of the Garbh Choire. Checking, too, that my planned descent was clear of snow. A trifle worryingly, I couldn’t pick it out from the summit, and couldn’t remember very clearly where it was but, knowing there was a nascent path at the start, I was confident I’d find it as I got closer.
Another ‘obligatory’ photo: this of the famous snow patches of the Garbh Choire Mor.
On the way down I met with a guide and her client, a woman climbing Angel’s Peak from Loch Eanaich to celebrate her seventy-fifth birthday. That’s a hefty climb but even though she wasn’t racing, she was still smiling, and a Facebook post afterwards confirmed she made the top, made it back down and was still smiling as she tucked into a can of coke and a mini-birthday cake at the car. A real inspiration.
Back on the hill, I found my descent route very easily. Since I first climbed this ridge – the west-bounding ridge of the Corrie of the Chokestone Gully – it has been written about by Jeremy Ashcroft (who confusingly called it Crown Buttress Spur), and since I last climbed it someone has marked the top with a cairn. So it’s easier found, but still needs a bit of caution: sections are steeper than many will feel comfortable with and as you get lower and the ridge steepens into rocky outcrops, you are forced into the gully, which is an occasionally mobile boulder field.
Hard to appreciate from this photo just how steep this descent is. Certainly doable, but perhaps not for the faint hearted.The cliffs of the Corrie of the Chokestone Gully above the descent ridge. The summit of Angel’s Peak is towards the left of the picture.Looking back up the descent ridge.
An added point of interest as I went down was an area of giant boulders with pink faces and sharp edges, showing they’d fallen recently, this spring or last, leaving a large, still visible scar high up on the cliffs above. Not a place to be while that was happening!
You can see the raw pink of the freshly fallen blocksLooking upwards you can see the pink scar of the rockfall in the buttress above the left hand end of the snow patch.
Having emerged from the gully and descended over a mix of rock and grass steps it was a weary and longer than remembered descent before I arrived weak-legged at the Garbh Choire Refuge and cleared up some rubbish – not much, thankfully – before sitting down for a drink and a bite to eat. About half an hour’s rest – the longest spell off my feet since starting in the morning – I felt refreshed enough to set off on the final stage, the rough, often boggy and always longer than you remember stretch back into Glen Dee and down to Corrour, finishing once more in a T-shirt and a little over eight hours since starting out.
It had been a good day. The weather wasn’t always ideal, but never bad enough to take the enjoyment away, and the cloud cleared enough to give good views. And as a bonus…? It was June and there was no shortage of wildflowers to attract the eye and lift the heart. What more could I ask from a Cairngorm day?
As an envoi, some of the flowers I enjoyed through the day.
ButterwortCow-wheatWoodruffMountain EverlastingMoss CampionStarry SaxifrageAnd to close, a beautiful Heath Orchid.
Easter Sunday in the Cairngorms: bitter wind and heavy snow.
I’ve always loved the mountains in winter, from early experience of climbing hills in the snow as a teenager to later years of more technical challenges struggling up snow and ice-choked gullies. I love the winter still, but there has always come a point when it’s time for it all to be over, for spring to move up from the lowlands and clear snow that is becoming less reliable and is outstaying its welcome.
That was this Easter Sunday. I was making the regular trek in to Corrour Bothy to change over the toilet bags. Because that was all I was planning I didn’t take the extra weight of crampons or ice axe – no hills would be climbed – but I did have an extra 10kg of supplies on top of my normal weekend rucksack, so my sense of humour was sorely tried when I was overtaken by a blizzard of wet snow within minutes of leaving the Linn o’ Dee car park. Good job I was only going as far as Bob Scott’s Bothy that afternoon: I was no longer in the mood for battling winter’s worst.
To be fair, the snow didn’t last all the way in and, though it was still a bitter wind, it did fair up considerably by the time I got to the bothy, for an evening that was livened by conversation with a Scot, a Ukranian and a Swede – and a good fire, of course.
Lots of snow and slush on the path over the side of Carn a Mhaim
Monday morning dawned with a touch of frost but, contrary to the forecast, it was almost windless. Nor had the snow lain on the track – in the glen at least – so most of the walk in to Corrour was much more pleasant than I’d expected. Once over the Luibeg (I was – just – able to cross the ford dry-shod) the fresh snow started to make its presence felt, and higher up on the pass it was a top layer on old snow, but both old and new were already beginning to melt and between the resultant slush and breaking through into underlying mud I was glad I was wearing a new and still waterproof pair of boots. It was still hard going though, and by the time I reached Corrour I just dumped my overladen rucksack and collapsed for a spell before gathering myself to make some lunch.
It was warmer on Easter Monday, but not by too much: the view down Glen Dee was still pretty wintry.
The afternoon was spent changing the toilet bags and on various odd-jobs around the bothy and toilet. The weather had definitely improved but I found it hard to get warmed up – not a problem shared by the mountains above: there was an almost constant rattle of stones and ice falling from the thawing face of the Devil’s Point.
Looking up at the constantly rattling Devil’s Point.
All the same, I gave up not long after 4pm and lit the fire. Part of my load coming in had been fuel, so I knew I had enough for the evening, which was just as well, as it took until early evening before the bothy really warmed up. By that time I was joined by two young English guys, an Englishman with a young lass from the Netherlands, and two other guys, one from the Czech Republic and the other from South Africa; quite an international gathering again and we had a fine blether in front of the fire.
Tuesday morning was time to clear up and clear out, but it was also an absolutely braw morning, with sunshine, no wind and a noticeable rise in temperature. Where I had started my journey in full waterproofs, hat and gloves, I ditched the outer layer right from the start, and soon peeled off the fleece too. I even had to roll up the sleeves on the base layer, and if the ground had been any dryer (all that melted snow had to go somewhere!) I’d have paused for a nap on the hillside as I went round Carn a Mhaim, it was that fine.
So much of the snow in the glen had melted by Tuesday morning and the air was warmer. Looking back at Devil’s Point, Cairn Toul and, at the back, Braeriach.Still winter on the tops, looking up to a snowy Coire Sputan Dearg.
The temperature will fall and rise few times yet, and there’ll be more snow to fall too no doubt – and the high hills will cling to winter for a few weeks yet – but I felt a real lift in my spirits as I wandered out. Snow was almost absent from the glens and lower slopes despite the heavy fall of two days ago. Over the three days I’d many times raised my head as I heard that distant jabber of honking, usually having to look much further away than I’d have thought to spy the lop-sided V-shapes of skeins of geese starting their journey back north for the summer. The air felt lighter too as I walked out: friendly where even just days ago it had felt forbidding, challenging. And as I wandered the trail down the Luibeg and Lui I met with several groups of map-case-bedecked, fresh-faced teenagers setting out in earnest self-reliance and very conscious independence in the first of the new season of Duke of Edinburgh Award expeditions. The welcome and surest sign of all that spring has come to the Cairngorms!
Just another Scots Pine, looking bonnie in the spring sunshine, but one with special meaning to me. This, when I was a child, was where my father and I would often stop for a second breakfast when on a wander into these hills. It was also where a friend and I stopped and sat for a rest one night, after a hard ice climb and fighting through a night-time blizzard on the plateau, and almost fell asleep leaning against the trunk.
Looking towards the summit of Ben McDui from above Loch Etchachan
It appears I’ve been wrong.
For years I’ve said it’s not the summit that matters, but this weekend I discovered that’s only partially true.
Because on Saturday I couldn’t get there. Not didn’t. Couldn’t.
But och it was glorious all the same. Absolutely glorious. Just missing the candle on top of the cake.
I hadn’t intended to go anywhere this weekend, with so many jobs needing done at home, but when I saw the forecast I couldn’t help myself. After weeks and weeks of dull, dismal, wet or stormy weather, Friday and Saturday were forecast to be cold and clear! I hadn’t been feeling very full of energy, but Friday afternoon saw me walking in to Bob Scott’s Bothy, meeting with good pals Neil Findlay, his brother Alan, and Ian Shand, along with Roger, an occasional visitor we’d met before.
As I headed in to Bob Scott’s, snow-smothered Derry Cairngorm appeared like a distant dream
Shandy was heading home on Saturday, after having been up at the Hutchison Hut in Coire Etchachan replacing a damaged door catch, and the Findlays were off too, but Saturday was as braw a morning as forecast and I decided I’d aim high but give myself get-outs. With clear blue skies it was a day for the tops, but I didn’t want to repeat an abortive walk of a few weeks back when postholing up fresh snow meant I didn’t even get up Carn Crom, let alone the target of Derry Cairngorm. So I’d make Ben McDui my notional target, but go there via Glen Derry and Coire Etchachan, a long walk-in but it meant if I didn’t feel up to it I could call it a day at the Hutchison Hut or even Loch Etchachan and still have had a reasonable leg stretch. But the ambition was always the plateau, to be up high in the clear air and snow-shrouded hills.
I felt I was going slow up Glen Derry, not helped by quite a lot of ice on the path and then having to stop at the Glas Allt Mor to put crampons on – the only way to cross heavily iced stepping stones – but catching and passing a slower couple just past the wooden footbridge round the corner in Coire Etchachan improved the moral a little and when I reached the bothy I found it had taken me just under three hours, which wasn’t too shabby in the conditions. Having said that, the snow was firmer than Ian Shand had reported from his repair trip the day before, and looked good above too.
Always an irresistible sight under heavy snow: the magnificent cliffs of Creagan a Choire Etchachan
A stop for a bite to eat and I was off again. Upwards, of course. Lower Coire Etchachan and the Hutchie Hut had been in the shadow of Derry Cairngorm and the temperature had plummeted, so I was eager to get back into the sunshine. And the snow (after a thigh-deep plouter to get water from the stream) was good and getting even better.
By the time I was halfway up to the loch the snow was neve and even ice, barely taking a boot impression, and later than I should have I stopped to put the crampons back on. They were to stay on until I was off the hill.
Sunlight glinting off the icy snow surface higher in Coire Etchachan.
After a pretty miserable winter last year it was a delight to be back in such perfect snow. Crampons offered perfect security on every step and the neve levelled out all the rocks and bumps of summer to make the easiest going so far, and allow time to enjoy the different drift and erosion patterns: the sastrugi where footsteps and animal tracks had compressed fresh drift which was then eroded by the wind, leaving the denser footprints sticking up proud above the firmer underlayer; contour maps created by wind blowing away successive microlayers of barely consolidated powder; strange teardrop shaped holes on the overlayer, and the base neve itself, freeze-thawed and wind blasted into a finely rippled texture sometimes further embellished by curving sweeps of wind making fine engravings only visible under low-angled light. And over it all, fresh powder blown by the wind in long smoking coils. I have, in the past, allowed myself to spend far longer than sensible in freezing conditions, simply entranced by the myriad forms and reforms of snow.
And of course the bigger picture was glorious too: white shrouded hills rolling to infinity. Nothing half-hearted about this snow cover, with even the steeper cliffs muffled in white, creating a landscape of smooth curves, simplifying the complex textures of summer to a purity of both colour and line.
Softer snow on the lee slope blanketing boulderfieldsSpindrift smoking across the surface of the snow.Snowy hills stretching to infinity
It all sounds idyllic, and it was, but even with good solid neve to walk on the climbing was taking its toll on a body suffering from the double whammy of increasing years and decreasing exercise, and as I contoured up a lee slope the softer snow there made its presence felt. I was starting to think the top might be beyond me after all, even when I came within sight of the Sappers’ Bothy on the skyline. I was too tired, and even if there was no more than a hundred metres of height to gain the top was still about 500 metres distant. I angled more to the south to see that the descent towards Sron Riach looked in good condition, still keeping an option to go for it to the top. After all it was only 2.30pm, and I’d decided earlier on a 3pm turnaround limit. But… But… I was getting too indecisive. Not good in winter even if the now deteriorating weather was still perfectly acceptable. Dithering so much was the red flag and, paradoxically, made my mind up for me. I turned and started downhill towards the top of Sron Riach and the highway to home.
Starting downhill, but with views like this who could be downhearted.
Better snow again on the windward side of the hill made the descent unusually easy going, with firm neve masking all the boulders. Then, in a meeting almost poetic, I spied two skiers making their way uphill. One recognised me and we stopped to chat. I’d met him last summer in Bob Scott’s: he arrived there a little after dark, having run with a companion over Braeriach, Angel’s Peak, Cairn Toul, Monadh Mor and Beinn Bhrotain, before heading to Scottie’s via Sgor Mor and Sgor Dubh! And arrived still smiling.
Today was as impressive. They’d skied up Cairngorm and out to McDui, then abandoned their planned return because they were too tempted by the sight of the snow-covered ridge of Carn a Mhaim. The narrow, rocky nature of the ridge means a ski traverse must be a rare treat, so they dropped down from McDui and did it, reaching the summit of Carn a Mhaim and then dropping down the steep northern corrie to the foot of Sron Riach, which they were skinning up when they met me. Again, still smiling and having their best day, even knowing that they had all the way over McDui and the plateau before they would get back to their car.
It was a meeting that heartened me as much as it bit deep. Two young men, at their physical peak, full of power and passion… and the aging mountaineer of yesteryear, passion still as strong but my 68-year-old body starting to let me down.
Somewhat fatigued on the descent. Fierce windchill necessitated the headgear.
But, ach, you can get carried away with the poetic imagery of these things. The truth is I was never as fit as these guys anyway, and even if the body is starting to creak a bit, I hope to get up a few more hills yet – and in better style too if I can apply myself and get myself a bit fitter.
Nor was there any slinking off to hide away in obscurity and lick my wounds. I enjoyed perfect cramponing snow all the way to the foot of Sron Riach – usually a knee-killer of a descent – and made it back to Scottie’s just after dark for a much needed feed and a fine bothy night blethering with Roger in front of a good-going stove. It’s still a great life.
FOOTNOTE: Lest this seem too much like an envoi to the high tops, I did go back a fortnight later and climb to the top of Ben McDui, even being lucky enough to get another day of great weather. Life in the old dog yet it seems.
Skiing and Snowboarding in the Cairngorms National Park
By Blair Aitken, Jamie Johnston, Katie Henderson and Scott Muir
First things first: this is an excellent book. A labour of love by the four authors, all experienced ski mountaineers, it’s everything a skier or snowboarder could ask for, packed with information from the popular three main ski resorts to remote gullies where getting there is an expedition in itself, and from easy-angled runs up to extreme slopes and gullies which may only be possible under rare ideal conditions.
But more than this, it’s a challenge and an inspiration.
My skiing days are so many decades in the past I’d have to count myself as a non-skier – but reading through these pages I’m so tempted, and wish I’d kept it up all those years ago. It’s not just the descriptions and the excellent action photography: looking at the maps and photo topos of the hundreds of ski runs here, I realise how much of the Cairngorms I’ve never really seen. Just in the same way you have to be (or have been) a rock climber to really see cliffs properly – a non-climber’s eyes seem to slide over a rock face without registering the detail – reading this guide gives an insight to the ski mountaineer’s different way of looking at these familiar mountains, picking out skiable lines from a chaos of gullies, channels and outcrops, seeing possibilities where non-skiers see dead ground.
Of course seeing possibilities doesn’t necessarily translate to knowing the way, just the same as rock climbing – hence the guide book.
Logically laid out, this guide covers the majority of the National Park area (including as far east as Mount Keen and west and north to the Drumochter hills and the Monadh Liath) with clear maps and excellent topo diagrams and photos illustrating the location and character of the hundreds of described routes and gullies.
Route descriptions and clear maps – in the book at least: the blur here is caused by my scanner.
As well as being clearly named and located, the over 360 routes are graded according to steepness (low angled, medium angled, steep and extremely steep), and each has a note of its aspect, its starting altitude, and its vertical drop. After the vital statistics comes the route description, which may contain notes on desirable or essential snow conditions as well as any advice on best line or points of interest.
This alone would make this book an essential buy for skiers, but the authors of this book weren’t just thrill-seekers sharing spots for a quick adrenalin rush. Throughout the guide there’s a good deal of history, local culture and folklore which adds interest and depth, all coming from a sound knowledge and love of the Cairngorms.
And then there’s the introduction.
After explaining the easy to understand grading system, it talks about snow and how the way it falls and drifts, will affect the ease and safety of skiing, as will different slope aspects and terrain forms. There’s also useful advice on navigation – very different on ski from on foot! It’s great advice, and also a reminder that there is a significant element of risk involved in off piste skiing in remote locations.
Adding to the value of this book is a fascinating chapter on the history of skiing in the Cairngorms, from the pioneers to the popularisers to the heyday of the ski resorts and back to the modern trend which sees more people leaving the tows behind and going back to off piste, ski touring and extreme skiing.
It all amounts to a substantial body of knowledge excellently presented.
In fact this book had its roots 15 years ago, when one of the authors became involved in a plan for a Scotland-wide guidebook. That fell through but Jamie Johnston decided to tackle the more manageable task of doing a guide to the Cairngorms. It wasn’t much more manageable as it turned out, and despite being able to call on support and knowledge from the late Adam Watson, Jamie wasn’t getting anywhere fast. Then just last year he came across the other three authors who were independently working on a Cairngorm guide. All four joined forces and suddenly – with much burning of midnight oil – it had all come together.
And it’s one of those books which you very much can judge by looking at the cover, that perfect shot from high in one of the Braeriach gullies, skier poised to launch himself down between the jaws of a narrowing gully, with the shapely form of Cairn Toul and Angel’s Peak beyond. That standard of photography is maintained inside, with the illustrations as inspiring and informative as the text.
If you ski, get this book. If you don’t ski… you maybe still want to think about it.
There’s not, to be honest, much of a view from the site. The foreground is all low-growing heather and heath, with a couple of rounded heathery hills framing an unremarkable glen disappearing down towards an unseen Glen Ey.
Just a few paces north-west and there would open up a wide panorama of the great granite giants of the central Cairngorms that couldn’t fail lift your heart – if you were alive. But a grave doesn’t need to have a view, and this site was the final resting place of Sergeant Arthur Davies, near the source of the Allt Cristie Beag at the back of Carn Liath. It’s marked only by a rough, uninscribed stone set upright in the ground, so inconspicuous that this was my third visit to the area in an attempt to find it.
Whether it’s a tranquil rural setting or a remote and desolate place probably depends as much on the weather as personal views, but this was, over 250 years ago now, the scene of hot temper and sudden, fatal violence which saw a soldier and new husband murdered and left lying out on the hillside for months before his robbed and animal-scavenged remains were found. But for all the horror, it was a tale which ended years later with the acquittal of his probable killers over a hundred miles away in a trial which is remembered mostly for the farce of vital evidence being allegedly supplied by a ghost.
Sgt Davies’ murder took place in the still unsettled times after the 1745 Jacobite Rising. In the years after Culloden Government troops were billeted in areas of suspect loyalty all around the highlands, which very much included the area around Braemar.
In summer of 1749 Sgt Davies, of General Guise’s regiment of foot, was billeted with a company of eight men at Dubrach, a small farm on the south bank of the Dee just below the confluence with the Geldie. With him was his wife of 10 months. On September 28 of that year Sgt Davie left Dubrach with four men on a routine patrol, to meet with other soldiers from the regiment based at Spittal of Glenshee. The Sergeant, however, had a taste for hunting, and left his men while he went on a side trip with his gun. When he finally arrived at the Spittal his men had been and gone. The Corporal with the other group questioned Davies’ wisdom in travelling alone, saying that for his own part he was worried enough travelling with his men, but Davies replied that as long as he had his weapons he wasn’t afraid of anyone.
A foolish remark: he never made it home.
A search of the hills was undertaken for a number of days after he failed to appear, but it wasn’t until June the following year that his remains were found, the bones scavenged and partly scattered by animals. He was identified by his clothes and hair. Missing were his money – over fifteen guineas which he had saved and was known to carry with him at all times – and two gold rings and the silver buckles from his shoes.
The scene of the grisly discovery. The gravestone can just be seen in the foreground grass and heather towards the left of the image.
Suspicion had by this time fallen on two men, one of whom had suddenly come into enough money to take a lease on a farm. They were local men, Duncan Terig, also known as Clerk, and Alexander Bain Macdonald. They were charged in 1753 and went to trial in Edinburgh the following year.
The narrative put by the Crown held that the two men had met with Davies on the Hill of Christie (presumably Carn Liath, where the body was found) and murdered him, taking his valuables. The Crown’s difficulties lay in getting anything more than circumstantial evidence. They did have one witness, a travelling man, who claimed he and a friend, by now deceased, had been lying hidden on the hillside and had seen the two accused meet and exchange words with Davies. Davies turned and walked away, whereupon both men shot him. The witness said he and his companion fled unseen. Possible, I suppose, but it is and was then a pretty bare and open hillside, and hiding there in the presence of three men all looking for deer to shoot would have been somewhat challenging. However even if he spoke the truth, this convenient eye witness was rather less conveniently uncorroborated.
The Crown’s other source of evidence was even less credible: a ghost. Three witnesses spoke of having been visited by Sergeant Davies’ ghost, first asking that they go to where his body was and give him a decent burial and then naming the accused as his murderers. One can imagine the jury of Edinburgh tradesmen struggling with this bizarre claim, but when, in answer to a question from the Crown one witness said the ghost had spoken to him in Gaelic – a language Sgt Davies never spoke in life – their credulity was tried to breaking point. The jury found the two accused men innocent and they were freed.
It’s a story that certainly has its comic aspects, but standing in the short heather moorland looking down at the rough stone that marks where his bones lie in the thin earth there is an air of solemnity rather than levity, and it’s easy to envision the scene as three men argued and one turned away in anger before two shots rang out and musket balls slammed into flesh, ending a life in brutal violence.
The intervening quarter of a millennium between Sgt Davies’ violent death and my visit on a sunny autumn day allows a certain sense of perspective though, and contemplation wasn’t allowed to turn to gloom as I decided that, since I was so close, I’d be as well taking a wander up to the nearby summit of Carn Liath. Within just a few metres I walked into view of that jaw-dropping Cairngorm panorama I spoke of at the start of this post. The mountains stood out sharply in the autumn clarity of the air and the sight literally stopped me in my tracks, for all that I’ve been there often before. The great trenches of upper Glen Dee and Glen Derry are so obvious from here and seem to split the central Cairngorm massif into three mega-mountains. To the left there is the conglomerate of Beinn Bhrotain, Cairn Toul and Braeriach; McDui and Derry Cairngorm seem one deeply corried mountain in the central position; and Beinn a Bhuird and Ben Avon complete the trio on the right. Carn Liath offers one of my favourite viewpoints for the central Cairngorms and today was no disappointment.
The Cairn Toul-Braeriach massifA cloud-capped Ben McDui towers over Derry CairngormBeinn a Bhuird and Ben Avon complete the Cairngorm triptych.
There was a further treat as I approached the summit cairn across the grey scree cap which presumably gives the hill its modern name: from the hidden ground opposite my approach rose a whole flock of Golden Plovers, about 40 or 50 of them, flying around the hilltop in co-ordinated, sharp-winged elegance before disappearing towards the Geldie. A lovely sight.
The flock of Golden Plovers pass in front of a cloud-capped Beinn a Ghlo to the south.
After soaking in the views for a while I turned back to the track I’d come up by and enjoyed a lo-ong freewheel on the bike down Glen Cristie, coming out at the bottom of Glen Eye with a brief cycle back to the car at Linn o’ Dee. And as a satisfying way to end a wonderful day, I had the added bonus of being able to help a driver who had been forced off the road by a bus. With one side of the car in a ditch it wasn’t getting out under its own power, but I managed to get a tow rope on and pull it out. Any day you can do a good turn is a good day.
The picture shows an old man lying in the heather looking across a loch at a great cliff face.
The cliff is the massive Creag an Dubh Loch and the man is Dod Thomson, a bothy pal of many years standing and one-time climber of these crags. We’d both turned up at the Glas Allt Sheil bothy for an MBA meeting the following day and blethered (or Dod blethered and I nodded) into the evening, mainly about the cliffs, climbs and climbers of his youth. Most of the tales centred on Creag an Dubh Loch, where Dod had climbed many routes, summer and winter. One of those was seconding the first ascent of an E7 – impressive enough even now, but an outlandishly hard route in the 1980s when it was done. So it was no surprise in the morning when Dod suggested a wander in to the Dubh Loch, just a leg stretch from the bothy.
More stories and reminiscences livened the walk in. Dod was clearly not as fit as he once was – he’s 76 after all – and by the time we reached the near end of the loch he was happy just to sit and gaze at his playground of yesteryear. He clearly enjoyed recounting his past escapades (let’s face it, Dod just enjoys talking!) but at one point he said, speaking to himself, it seemed, as much as to me: “I’ll no be back here again.”
He may or may not – he’s been through a lot and is still a tough old git – but his words came back to me this weekend as I was toiling up Sron Riach of Ben McDui wondering if the cloud that shrouded the upper reaches was going to clear or not. I’d made myself no promises about getting to the top but knew that, having started, stubbornness would almost certainly take me up there. And it occurred to me then, with legs already aching a little, that at 68 I’d reached an age when it was realism rather than pessimism to admit that I’d never know which trip on any hill would be my last visit there. I suppose anyone of any age can say the same but, with over half a century of wandering these hills, I once made a rough guesstimate that I’d been up McDui at least a hundred times, summer and winter, by all the usual and unusual routes and by rambling peregrinations that could scarcely be called routes at all, so contemplating the possibility of never again being there is not just a casual fleeting thought. It cuts deep.
Speaking with a friend just a few days earlier I’d ventured that for all my love of the whole Cairngorm area, what rugged at my heart the most was the plateaux: the wide spaces, the sense of altitude and of scale, the wave-like contours of the landscape and the granite boulder and grit surface with dotted tufts and patches of hardy plants and mosses; the distant horizons and the big skies above, the stillness of the desert or the howling battering gales of the Arctic, each with their crystal clarity or snow-blown blindness. It’s a landscape of intensity and of extremes and it makes me alive.
The beautiful austerity of the McDui plateau
That conversation had possibly influenced my choice of walk this day, and the ache in the legs had brought back the memory of Dod’s words, and both were intensified by what was turning out to be a tremendous October day. Cloud remained stubbornly around the higher tops, but it was wispy and there was sun above and the air was dry and heart-clutchingly clear. As I climbed higher on Sron Riach, that great staircase from glen to plateau, I revelled in the crunch of the granite grit under my boots, the unyielding hardness of boulder fields and my automatic shifts of balance as an unwedged boulder teetered when I stood on it. I spotted the two ptarmigan quietly sneaking off across the boulder-scree, the beginnings of their white winter plumage giving them away. I gasped aloud on looking over to the west to see shapely Cairn Toul now looming massive over the intervening slopes, and looking to the south and seeing the black Devil’s Point thrust up in front of bulging Beinn Bhrotain capped with a curve of impossibly white cloud. Oh my! If this were to be my last visit to Ben McDui, what a treasure trove of memories it was supplying. Memories upon memories: I looked across again at Cairn Toul coming clear through its veil of thin cloud and remembered being there just earlier this year, in high Coire an t-Sabhail which gives the summit its elegant curves, clambering over the block and boulder fields of the corrie bowl and then steeply up a grassy ramp set against the back wall of the corrie to finish just yards from the summit cairn. Another treasured day.
The two ptarmigan quietly sneaking off across the boulder-scree, the beginnings of their white winter plumage giving them awayShapely Cairn Toul looming massive over the intervening slopesBlack Devil’s Point thrust up in front of bulging Beinn Bhrotain capped with a curve of impossibly white cloud
Memories too of the last time I came up McDui by this route, traversing from the top of Sron Riach towards the final steep climb up near the ridge south of the Tailors’ Burn. That day was snowy and my muscles burned with the effort then too. But at some point on that section of climb I realised I relished that ache: the burn of getting there, of gaining height, of climbing that mountain, of achievement, of being alive rather than just existing.
All these memories, not overwhelming but adding depth and spice to the intensity of being alive right now, of climbing that mountain right now: the wind in my face, the placing of my feet, the push of the thighs, the upward glances taking in the changing gradient of the slope, the reveal of the changing mountainscapes opening up as I climbed. It was a day to catch at the heart, to bring exultation and tears of sheer joy and delight.
Up onto the plateau took me into the cloud, but it was thin stuff and no barrier to the sunshine from above, which gifted a subtle fogbow, nor to fleeting views of the hills around – Cairn Toul, Angel’s Peak, Braeriach – with their ephemerality making the views even more magical.
A fleeting glimpse below the cloud into the complex depths of the great Garbh Choire, Angel’s Peak sneaking into view behind the shoulder of Cairn Toul
At the top there were people – of course there were – but I sat beside them in the lee of the cairn and we said hello, a group on a guided walk with Glenmore Lodge. I chatted with an English couple loving their trip, and with the guide, who was a friend of a friend, and I took a photo for them to capture their own memories of a special day. Where was I going next, they asked. I’d started the day wondering if I’d ever get up McDui, but to be up high was such a joy it wasn’t to be abandoned too quickly. “Back over Derry Cairngorm,” I replied. I knew what a pull it can be getting up that slope from the McDui col, but I didn’t care. The high wind-sculpted clouds in the big blue sky, the endless fields of orange-pink granite, the mountains pin-sharp in the crystal-clear air, and the knowledge of those spectacular views across to the Sputan Dearg cliffs and to the rocks and slopes above Lochan Uaine… the legs could be tomorrow’s problem.
Derry Cairngorm from the north, under that big Cairngorm sky.Looking across from Derry Cairngorm to the cliffs of Coire Sputan Dearg.
And that’s how it was. The scree slope to the top of Derry Cairngorm was taken slow and steady and the long gradual descent along the ridge to the south went painlessly in the increasingly warm and windless afternoon. Back at Bob Scott’s were waiting two good close pals of many a convivial bothy night, and we were later joined by two impressively athletic hill runners and a quartet of west-coasters on their first visit to a bothy.
If this had been my last hill day I couldn’t have asked for one finer but, of course, that was always no more than a theoretical possibility to be considered, not in any way a prediction. Already on Saturday night I was thinking about a wander for Sunday, and on Sunday morning the legs felt up for it, so off I went: a smaller day, sure, but another of those perfect days with no shortage of joy and moments of pure euphoria. I’ll maybe share that one next time.
Everything had been planned in advance. We knew what we wanted to accomplish, we’d gathered all the tools and materials we needed, and made sure there would be enough volunteers to do the work. All that could go wrong was the weather.
And it did.
A storm was due to blow in on Monday, just when we were expecting a helicopter to fly in and remove a year’s worth of hikers’ poo. And I only heard the helicopter was cancelled on Friday morning, literally minutes before leaving the house to drive up to Linn o Dee and a three-day work party at Corrour Bothy in the middle of the Cairngorms.
I chatted briefly about the possibilities with Mar Lodge Estate ranger Ben and by the time I reached the Linn o Dee plan B had crystalised.
The original idea was that all eight volunteers would take tools and materials in to Bob Scott’s Bothy, which, with the estate’s kind permission, we could reach by vehicle. Then on Saturday the loads would be shared out and carried on foot for two-and-a-half hours to Corrour Bothy where we could get a few jobs done and prepare the years’ worth of stored bags for uplift by helicopter on Monday.
The problem we faced was that we didn’t have control over when the helicopter could fly. The annual toilet clear-outs would cost the MBA several thousand pounds a time if we arranged it ourselves, and we’ve always been grateful of Mar Lodge Estate’s offer to tag us on as an extra lift on one of their hires (helicopters are used for various transport and survey jobs on the estate). So when Monday was deemed unflyable the estate had moved the job to Saturday morning, and if we couldn’t fit in with that we would have an indeterminate wait until another lift could be on offer.
We had to get in there straight away to get the bags ready for lifting first thing in the morning.
We couldn’t ask everyone to beast in all the way on Friday afternoon and evening, especially with the extra loads they would be carrying, but Ben the ranger came to the rescue with one of the estate vehicles: he could take myself, Nic and Juls in as far as the Robbers’ Copse – almost at the Luibeg Ford – which would give us a shorter walk-in and allow us in to get the bags sorted out that evening. And as a bonus he took some of the heavier and bulkier materials too and stashed them, halving the distance they would have to be carried on volunteers’ backs.
So the three of us arrived at Corrour about 6-ish on Friday evening. Nic – my joint maintenance organiser at Corrour – and I cooked up some much-needed grub once we got to the bothy, then suited up (disposable boiler suits and gloves) and opened up the service area to the toilet. There were ten bags of waste hanging in the store (waste being a mixture of human faeces and toilet paper – nothing else please!) and another two ‘live’ bags hanging from the toilet seats, weights varying from about 10kg to 27kg, and all had to be lifted into a helibag (like a builder’s bulk bag but with longer lifting straps). The helibag, set about 20 metres from the bothy, was full to the brim by the time all the bags were hoisted in. Then we had a clean out of the toilet area, scrubbing the stainless steel tubes and disinfecting the seats before calling it a night and getting the boiler suits and gloves on the fire. It seems wasteful – the suits cost several pounds apiece – but they invariably become soiled with faeces and, with no facilities to clean them on site, there’s no real choice.
Nic and I taking a bow, with a helibag full of shit below the Devil’s Point. Photo by Juls Stodel
It was an early rise on Saturday to make sure there were no tents left up anywhere near the bothy. Nic, Juls and I had all slept in tents or bivvy bags, and a few other walkers had pitched tents too, but luckily everyone turned out to be early risers and we soon had a clear area for the helicopter arriving. The timing was perfect: we just had time for some breakfast and then the helicopter came, landed, connected the long-line to the helibag and was away, all in the space of a few minutes, and before the main group of the work party even arrived, carrying their own kit and all we’d need for the work party.
One of the main jobs was to get in under the floor of the toilet and tackle an area of rotten panelling in the inner wall. Chronically wet because of leaks from the door at the public entrance, it had been chewed through by mice. I’d covered a couple of mouse holes previously, and then spent the best part of a day tackling more holes, patching them with fine wire mesh. The trouble was the softened stirling board panelling wouldn’t hold a nail, and all the patches kept coming out. So today the plan was to remove all the patches and rotten stirling board and do one sheet of mesh across the whole wall. Awkward work, but Ian ‘Piper’ Shand went to work with a will. We started off working together, but there really wasn’t room for us both under there, so Ian ended up spending a couple of hours in the claustrophobic and somewhat smelly ‘bowels’ of the toilet ensuring mesh was securely fixed across the whole area. After that it was panelled with wet-wall offcuts from my recent bathroom conversion, to give a cleanable surface. In the afternoon we both (but mainly Piper) used the rest of the wet-wall offcuts to line the bag storage area, making it both lighter to work in and easier to keep clean.
Ian Shand hard at work under the floor of the toilet – smelly and claustrophobic.New more hygienic lining in the waste storage area.
That was a great job on its own, but after we were both finished in there Nic went through front and back service areas and gave them as close to a deep clean as was possible.
Nic had already been busy, with Mike Elrick and Stuart Keddie, applying a new coat of wood stain to the exterior of the toilet, perched on top of a home-made (but sturdy) ladder with a paint brush attached to a stick to reach the apex of the gable end.
At full stretch. The ladder is home made, but strong and securely in place.
Everything went so smoothly that all the planned jobs were completed by late afternoon. And – just as the icing on the cake – we’d managed everything without having to turn anyone away from visiting the bothy or the toilet. (Albeit some may have been put off in advance by social media posts warning that access may be restricted.)
A cosmopolitan collection of passers by, bothy visitors, resting volunteers and Stuart Keddie still working away staining the bothy window frame.
Saturday night was time for blethers and a modest libation for those who libate, before a relatively early night, with most of us again in tents while a group of teenagers (who arrived without tents) managed to fill most of the bothy.
Sadly the glorious weather of Saturday – sunshine with enough breeze to keep the midges off through the day – didn’t last. Cloud and midges came in through the evening and rain by morning. Sunday was a wet start and the return to civilisation was less of a triumphal parade and more a tired straggle, volunteers variously laden with tools, work party rubbish, tins and bottles left by selfish bothy users, and two sleeping bags and a cheap tent left by really selfish bothy users. A bit sad, but it certainly didn’t spoil what was a great weekend, or the feeling of satisfaction that buoyed us up on the walk out, which even managed to turn sunny by the time we got to the vehicles waiting at Derry Lodge.
Last out. Neil, Nic and Juls, delighted that the rain has just stopped and the sun is appearing.
I post about this on social media and sometimes through this blog, but this post hopefully demonstrates that bothies are looked after by teams, not individuals. Not everyone who contributed to this weekend has been named in the text, but the whole team – all volunteers – were: myself, Nic Cheyne, Neil Findlay, Dave Knowles, Ian Shand, Stuart Keddie, Mike Elrick and Juls Stodel. In addition there was admin support from the MBA area organiser Allan ‘Sinbad’ Moore. On top of that we work with the support of the management of Mar Lodge Estate and in particular estate ranger Ben Dolphin. It’s a big team and a big involvement from all both in terms of time and effort and, from the MBA and Mar Lodge Estate, hard cash.
So next time you put your head down for a free night’s accommodation in Corrour – or any other bothy – or that you go to ‘spend a penny’, do remember how many people have worked to make it possible for you and remember too that the very best way to say thank-you is by treating the bothy, fellow visitors and the surrounding environment with respect. Don’t leave any rubbish, food or unwanted kit and – for extra brownie points – take away any rubbish that someone else might have left. Looking after each other is how we look after ourselves.
Looking up Glen Derry to my goal: Sgurr an Lochan Uaine, with Beinn Mheadhoinn beyond.
It was one of those weekends I might not have bothered if I hadn’t already said to pals I’d be there. The weather forecast was pretty gloomy: low cloud, rain and strong winds.
But there I was: Saturday night and I was sitting in Bob Scott’s with a fine crowd of folk including the pals I’d planned to meet and two I’d not seen in years, as well as others who turned out to be great company. And most were sleeping in tents, too, so the bothy wasn’t too crowded by bedtime. What more could I have asked?
Oh yes. An absolutely superb day on the hill, with the cloud staying high and the rain hardly there at all. And a magic wander around parts of the hill I’d not visited in decades.
You know as you walk up Glen Derry how the view ahead is dominated by two hills: the rocky cone of Beinn Mheadhoinn and, just in front, the cliffs of Sgurr an Lochan Uaine. Yes, I said that right. Not Sgor an Lochain Uaine (1258m), which is a companion to Cairn Toul, but Sgurr an Lochan Uaine (983m), which is a top of Derry Cairngorm.
Anyway, I’d been there before, a couple of decades or so ago, but I figured it might stay below the forecast cloud and, well, it was a wee wander off-path and would be a change.
It was a day that gave full value. From the start I’d lacked confidence in getting many landscape views, so I concentrated on the ground around my feet: it’s a great time for flowers and there was no shortage to see, even if many required Googling or the advice of more knowledgeable pals to identify later. Lady’s Bedstraw, Starry Saxifrage, Butterwort, Wild Thyme, Eyebright, Fragrant and Heath Orchids, Bog Asphodel… The flowers of the mountains are mostly small and lack the in-your-face impact of garden flowers, but their intricate forms and delicate elegance are a quiet delight and the day would have been a treat for those alone.
The tiny, delicate flowers and leaves of eyebright, high in Coire Etchachan.
The wider views weren’t in hiding either though and there was that familiar lift of spirit as I came round the corner from Glen Derry into Coire Etchachan and into view of the dramatic cliffs of Creagan a Choire Etchachan, full of it’s classic rock climbs from the pear-shaped Bastion on the left across gullies and ribs to the Red Slabs on the right. A place of drama and memories for climbers and inspiring scenic splendour even for those who would never think of straying from the path.
That classic view of the cliffs above the Hutchison Hut – rendered a trifle atmospheric by a hazy shower.
There was a wee bit of disappointment when I arrived at the Hutchison Memorial Hut when I saw how much rubbish and unwanted kit had been left there. It wasn’t all from one person either – the haul included a cheap tent, sets of poles from two other tents and sundry dirty mess tins and cups as well as empty food tins and gas cannisters. I suppose what disappointed me as much as the original culprits was that no-one else visiting the bothy had thought to do anything about it. It was an easy matter just to burn all the flammables (including two T-shirts and some socks) in the stove and, even with my advancing years and plans to head steeply uphill, it wasn’t too much of a hardship to take all the kit and tins out in my rucksack. Maybe others could take a thought and do the same. (At least where they’re sure it IS rubbish or abandoned and there’s no doubt that anyone might be coming back for it!)
Anyway, a half hour or so at the bothy and a sweep out before I left, let my legs recover a bit before heading up the faint path that leads to the cliffs and then breaking away to climb the southern sidewall of Coire Etchachan.
Keeping to the right of the burn gives a relatively easy route between the outcrops.
At first glance it looks almost impregnable, but look longer and you can see there are ways up through the outcrops and scree chutes, most easily by following the ridge beside the largest stream coming down midway along the south wall. It is steep, but manageable with care – and at my level of fitness (or lack thereof!) a slow and steady rate of ascent was the only option anyway. It was nice to have the excuse of the saxifrage and eyebright to pause now and then, and an absolute treat to find a butterwort still in flower. Most of the butterwort I saw in the glen was past and was identified by those distinctive waxy leaves, but this one, at almost 3000 feet, still had that lovely mauvey-blue flower.
The angle at the top of the slope eases somewhat into an open corrie, but I’d been there before and wasn’t tempted to keep going upwards: the slope there may be easier angled, but it’s all deep heather hiding boulders and holes, with a fair bit of bog to enliven matters. Instead I traversed the top of the steep slope, mostly on dryish, stoney ground, before heading up with good footing to the bouldery, slabby granite top of Sgurr an Lochan Uaine.
And what views!
From the top of the corrie wall and up to and beyond the summit the views were a joy: the Cairngorms are familiar ground, but the unfamiliar viewpoint makes all the difference, with surprising juxtapositions of landscape features, such as seeing – all in line – the outlines of Creagan a Choire Etchachan, Carn Etchachan and – in the distance – the top of the Fiacaill Butress in the Northern Corries. Out to the east was a view which perfectly illustrated the origins of Beinn a Bhuird’s name – the table mountain – and the view to the south offered up the sinuous course of the Derry Burn leading through the lake-like flat mid-section of the glen to the Derry Woods at the bottom.
A conjunction of cliffs: from front to back are Creagan a Coire Etchachan, Carn Etchachan and, almost obscured by cloud, Fiacaill Buttress in the Northern Corries.The Dubh Lochan can be seen between Beinn Mheadhoinn on the left and Beinn a Chaorainn on the right, with Bynack Mor beyond.Table Mountain – Beinn a Bhuird on the skyline.From just below the summit of Sgurr an Lochan Uaine, the winding Derry Burn heading south to the Derry Woods.And looking back across Coire an Lochan Uaine to the summit of Derry Cairngorm.
I’d swithered about heading from there to the top of Derry Cairngorm but was tempted more by the steep descent into Coire an Lochan Uaine. There is a steep and loose ramp near the burn which feeds the lochan, but I had in mind a route down the slight ridge between the two sets of cliffs, where the hill turns the corner from the east face to the south. From the glen a route looks unlikely, but I’d been down this way many years before, so I knew it was a case of getting it right at the start and picking my route carefully. It’s not a way down you’d pick in poor visibility.
It’s entertaining picking a way down such steep ground, and it distracts your attention from the toll it’s taking on your knees, but I had another distraction. While concentrating on where my feet were headed I became aware of a screeching noise. Repeated screeches one after the other – and getting louder. It seemed I’d upset a peregrine falcon, for it came into sight flying towards me and then hovering above my head, screeching the whole time.
An angry peregrine, deliberately staying just out of range for a good photo.
Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to me there might still be birds with young on nests, and although I knew I was trying to avoid the cliffs the peregrine very obviously didn’t. By that time though I was about midway down the level of the cliffs, so up or down would make little difference, and I knew that my route, down heather and boulders, wouldn’t take me any nearer a cliff nest, so I kept going and sure enough the peregrine eventually lost interest. A note for the future though – it’s probably a route best avoided when there’s any chance of raptors having eggs or young.
Once down the steeper section it was fairly easy going through the heather down to the Derry Burn, which was low enough to allow for an easy boulder hop to get across and rejoin the main path down the glen to Scottie’s and home.
However there was one more airborne encounter to liven the day. A low drone rose in volume until a rescue helicopter came into sight and flew up the glen. Presumably on exercise rather than a rescue, as, after disappearing in and out of Coire Etchachan several times it carried on north through the Lairig an Laoigh and disappeared.
The helicopter above Craig DerryAnd a closer view.
The walk down Glen Derry can be a weary trudge sometimes, but on such a great day even by the time my legs were protesting I was so enjoying the wander through the peaceful beauty of the Derry Woods that I didn’t mind the ache or the growing grumbles of hunger.
The slope up Sgor Dubh behind Luibeg Cottage. Thigh-burningly steep but with great views.
I’ve written about the Sgor Mor-Sgor Dubh massif before but it’s such a braw and extensive area that it’ll do no harm to mention it again.
I was up at Bob Scott’s for the weekend, with no bothy work planned and only vague plans for a walk since the forecast was pretty discouraging, predicting low cloud and rain on Saturday. My idea was to follow the south-west bank of the Lui Burn as far as the Black Bridge and return by the north-east bank. I’d done it some years ago in the other direction and it made for an entertaining wander – if a little wet underfoot in places – giving a totally different perspective to a very familiar glen. For most of the journey the landrover track is invisible, and following the pathless banks of the river provides a longer trip and very different and often fascinating scenery from the view from the track. And no crowds either.
Of course it didn’t work out that way this Saturday. It started well – I made my way upstream until I met and forded the Derry Burn, then followed the Luibeg as far as the vehicle ford at Luibeg Cottage, managing to cross dryshod. Great! And I started back downstream, taking some photos of Bob Scott’s Bothy from the other side. Nice.
Nice bothy – pity it’s on the wrong side of the riverScottie’s from the top of the glacial moraine opposite.
Then the rain started. Not so good. Then it got heavier and the camera went away into a plastic bag. Me too: waterproof jacket and trousers and hood up, closing me in and restricting my view. And it stayed that way all the way down until just before the Black Bridge, where I arrived somewhat moist and overheating. I’d enjoyed the journey in one sense (the test being: would you rather be here or at work?) but it was hardly a vintage experience. I was sufficiently soggy and dispirited to make the return journey by the track rather than the north-east river bank, even though the rain had by now stopped.
The day wasn’t wasted though. Back at a now empty Bob Scott’s (a couple of pals and some young lads had stayed on Friday night) I read my book and enjoyed blethering with various passers-by. The last visitors left about six-ish and after that – in what to many gossip-listeners is still one of Scotland’s most notorious party bothies – it was just me and my book. On a Saturday night.
So Sunday I would normally have had a leisurely morning, packed up and headed off down the road, but too little action on Saturday and an improved forecast for Sunday meant I was tempted. Instead of heading off down the well-worn track I would pack up and head home over Sgor Dubh. It meant carrying a big pack over the hill, but I had recent form: a few weeks back I’d been working all Saturday at Corrour, jealous of all those climbing the hills in glorious sunshine, so on the Sunday, fully laden with weekend pack augmented by various tools, a battery gun and spare batteries, and a burnt-out fire grate, I went home via Carn a Mhaim. My legs were worn away to stumps by the time I reached the Linn o’ Dee that day, but it had been worth it.
So I wasn’t too worried about managing the much smaller Sgor Dubh this weekend. It’s still a brutal start from that side though. Once more I forded the burn at Luibeg Cottage, then headed up through the woods and the steep, regenerating hillside above. With deep moss and heather in the woods and heather on the open hillside, the mostly pathless ascent is hard work but curiously satisfying at the same time, picking the best lines and enjoying the widening vistas of the main Cairngorms massif behind me.
Looking back down on the woods and Luibeg Cottage, with the beautiful Derry Woods beyondA panorama of the giants. The dark top far left is the Devil’s Point, then a shoulder of Cairn Toul, with Carn a Mhaim hiding the summit. Beyond that is Braeriach and then Ben McDui behind Carn Crom. Then the cone of Derry Cairngorm and, on the right, Beinn Mheadhoinn.
When the slope angle suddenly fell back my direct route up from Luibeg Cottage was confirmed by some modern day archaeology: the remains of Bob Scott’s television aerial. All that remains now is a galvanised metal box and two lengths of metal tubing, with some anchor points and mooring wire, but back in the ‘60s and ‘70s this was the only way head keeper Bob Scott could get television reception in Luibeg Cottage. His aerial had to be way up the hillside, almost 300 metres above the house, to pick up any signal. Hilltop aerials were a common sight in upper Glen Dee, but Bob Scott’s must have been the remotest to feature this. The aerial cable alone must have cost a fortune, and the wind and weather in that exposed location must have meant quite a few trips up to reset the antennae.
The remnants of Bob Scott’s television aerial, a thousand feet above his house.
The short, wind-scoured heather and the more gradual gradient made for easy walking from there to the summit, and the well-built horseshoe-shaped cairn made good shelter from the breeze for a bite to eat and a drink. Just after setting off roughly south-east along the broad descent ridge I paused to look up and across Glen Dee, confirming that the top seen in this direction from The Redhouse Bothy was indeed Sgor Dubh – way off in the distance I could just pick out the White Bridge and, beyond a forestry plantation, the bothy.
Is that a bothy I see?Zoom in and… yes. The Redhouse and toilet can be seen in the centre of the photo, with the White Bridge across the Dee in the lower right quadrant.
In the other direction, as I went along the slightly spongy ground, I was delighted to discover I could see right through the cleft of Clais Fearnaig. I’ve been here before but had never consciously registered the excellent view through the pass connecting Glen Lui to Glen Quoich. You can even see a glimpse of the lochan itself.
Looking right through Clais Fearnaig, with a wee glimpse of the lochan. Beyond is Glen Quoich, with Beinn a Bhuird and Ben Avon on the skyline.
The shape of the terrain was by now forcing me ever closer to the long deer fence erected a few years ago to separate the regeneration and moorland zones of Mar Lodge Estate, and I ended up following the fence, which was less aesthetically pleasing, but made for easier travelling along a slight path – increasingly important when you’re carrying a big sack. Ironically, I came across some deer scat and hoof prints on the path – on the ‘wrong’ side of the fence; instead of keeping the deer out this fence was keeping at least one in.
There had been little to see in the way of wildlife on the open hill, but I did get a wee moment or two of delight as a skylark twittered away giving me its elevator pitch for a minute or two while I passed its territory.
After a good bit of fairly painless descent (a more direct route would have taken me down a purgatorial slope of deep heather and hole) once I hit the trees I louped the fence and dropped more directly down to the Glen Dee track just before the Linn o’ Dee. It was nice to meet a young American couple from yesterday who confirmed that the campsite I’d recommended for them had been “wonderful”, and then I had a chat with one of the rangers before getting into the car and heading off home, having snatched an enjoyable day on what might just have been a disconsolate retreat.
cairngormwanderer 