At the Well of the Fox

I left the car in the Balmoral car park and took the track that leads from the estate village south to Gelder Sheil. This was new to me, as all my previous walks up Lochnagar had been from the Spittal of Glen Muick or long days from the old campsite in Glen Doll. It was in the last days of March 2016, after a winter of heavy snow on the hills. By this time the wide moors were clear but the northern corries of Lochnagar were still plastered with snow. In fact, we were going through another cold snap and much of the snow on the tops was new.

Beyond the woods a good Land Rover track wound across  the rolling moor. In the distance, the small clump of trees around Gelder Sheil were an obvious landmark, slowly growing closer. About a kilometre from the trees there was a parting of the ways. The left fork carried on over the bealach between Conachcraig and Meikle Pap to the Spittal of Glen Muick, while my route swung round and followed the course of the Gelder burn.

Along the banks of the brawling Gelder the Queen had been out planting trees. Unfortunately, many of the young saplings had been swept away and a stretch of the gravel track damaged and repaired. I took this to have been caused by the great downpour in January of the previous year which had washed away part of the A93 between Crathie and Ballater as well as destroying the footbridges at Derry Lodge and Glen Clova

Gelder Sheil is a small shooting lodge and stables dating from Queen Victoria's time. The stables have long been used as a climbers bothy and have only recently been renovated by a group of tradesmen called the Ballater Chiels. They've done a grand job. It is now well insulated with wooden floor, walls, and a stove. Unusual for a bothy there is no communal sleeping platform but wooden bunks. I was slightly suspicious of the high, coffin like sides, but the truth was that I had the best nights sleep I've had in a bothy in one of these bunks. It kept me tight and snug and I couldn't role off my sleeping mat.

I was out at first light and stood at the edge of the trees and looked up over the moor to Lochnagar. There was not a cloud in the sky but the still hidden sun blazed on the snowy tops and corries. It was magnificent. I had to be there.




Lochnagar from Gelder Sheil. Oil on board, 2016.



I strapped my drawing board to the back of my rucksack and set off over the moor. The track soon ran out and I followed a faint, boggy path up towards the corrie. I couldn't help notice that cloud now covered the sun and mist banks were slinking in from the north east and obscuring the tops. This was not good and It was very cold. The boulder fields were snow covered and I had to exercise great care to prevent plunging into hidden holes. I struggled on, probing every footstep with a walking pole till I could see the loch which was frozen and snow covered. There was no sense of the scale of this great amphitheatre because of the mist swirling across the corrie. Occasionally the high edge of the plateau would appear and I'd think the mist was lifting but it didn't and closed in again. I brushed the snow off a boulder and sat down to sketch but knew it was a forlorn hope. I'd piled on all my warmest clothing and I can draw with thin gloves on but the wind cut through everything and I soon began to feel cold. I couldn't see anything so why risk hypothermia by hanging about? Reluctantly, I repacked my sack and followed my route back over the boulders again. I wandered down to the bothy feeling rather despondent and decided to implement 'Plan B'. The previous day I'd started a drawing of the Gelder Sheil so I finished that then went home. Although it had been a good trip I'd expected too much of the weather and from a sketching point of view had been a failure. I'd have to give this more thought.



Gelder Sheil with the bothy on the right.
Above, view of Lochnagar.





Just over a year later, in April 2017, I was back on Lochnagar. I'd risen early and arrived at the Spittal of Glen Muick just after 9am. My pack was heavy for as well as a drawing board and art kit I carried a tent. I took the 'tourist route' that crosses to Gelder Sheil. From the top of this Land Rover track, now badly eroded, a footpath cuts off to the west, climbing up over boulders and heather grouse moor. This took me some time with a heavy pack and I pitched the tent on a rare patch of gently sloping grass by the Fox's Well. This little spring is the last water before climbing onto the summit of Lochnagar.



Camp by the Fox's Well, looking down to the Spittal and Mount Keen.

After a quick snack I set off with only my drawing board on my pack and with the lightened load felt positively sprightly. The view into the corrie is dramatic but this winter had been a poor one for snow and there wasn't much in the gullies. There was, however, a sprinkling all around as it had snowed the previous night. I walked up to the rocky summit of Meikle Pap and tried to find a sheltered station with a good view of the corrie. The view was wonderful but shelter hard to find so I maun thole the bighting breeze. I managed to sit and draw for about two hours, usually long enough to make a good start to a picture which I then finish back in the studio. This time I was not happy. Drawing is a bit like sport. When you are warm and relaxed its possible to work fast and there is no separation between hand and eye. The colder you are the tenser you become and more aware of the hand not doing what the head wants. This disconnect leads to messes and mistakes. Pens are dropped, splodges appear, the wind buffets the drawing board so its impossible to make accurate marks. Pencils roll down holes between boulders and are difficult to retrieve. Eventually you begin to shiver and blurt out, even though there's no one there to hear you," THAT'S IT!" and give up in disgust.

Quite clearly drawing in extreme conditions requires different methods. I had tried one but had another up my sleeve. During the winter I'd been drawing along the Fife coast, just using pencil on A3 paper which I'd prepared previously with a wash of watercolour. This meant I could work quickly standing up and complete a sketch in a few minutes. This could then be worked up with watercolour back in the studio. This method was practical for a cold, windy climate, required the minimum of equipment and also retained a freedom and spontaneity which I like.

Lochnagar from the Meikle Pap, April 2017

I descended from my windy perch on the Big Tittie rather thankfully and started to climb the Ladder. This, of course, is not a ladder at all but a cunningly constructed track up a steep boulder field. I used to enjoy scrambling up the higgledy- pigildy granite slabs where I always seemed to make good time for less effort because it was interesting. Whoever planned this path, however, is a subtle genius and by the tilting of a rock here and moving one there has created a pathway of delight. It is virtually invisible till you are on it and carries you heavenward, or at least to the rim of the corrie. From there you can peer down the Red Spout to the dark lochan below









Looking into the corrie from the top of the Red Spout.
Pencil and watercolour, April 2017.

The path moves away from the corrie edge then starts to climb again to the summit plateau. From a big cairn you can see over to the western corrie and the rolling plateau that stretches to the Tolmounth and Glas Maol. Sir Hugh Munro, him of the 'Tables', commented that, "so elevated and flat is the range that a straight line of ten miles could be drawn from Creag Leacath ( just south of Glas Maol ) to the Meikle Pap of Lochnagar and except for about half a mile on either side of the Tolmount, the elevation is everywhere above 3000 ft. while even at these points it only falls to 2863 ft. and a dogcart could almost be driven the whole way. "

It was a fine day with high cloud and visibility was good. I did a few sketches on the broad summit and peered down the black spout then headed back again. A few minutes walking passed the cairn I realised I was on the wrong track and heading west. This was a navigational error in perfect visibility. I cut back onto the correct route reflecting that I was tired and couldn't be too careful. At the top of the ladder I met a gentleman coming up and  had a pleasant but brief chat. He looked up at me and I looked down on him, both unable to pass until the other gave way. He had, however, to press on as the day was getting late, so I stepped aside.

Cac Carn Mor, left and Cac Carn Beag, the summit, right. In
English, Little Shit and Big Shit.

Looking north from the top of the Black Spout

It was 6pm when I returned to the tent with still a couple of hours of good daylight left. I was tired and a bit fed up as I felt my drawings had been a failure. A brew and a meal of spicy rice and chorizo sausage cheered me up a bit, but I was still wondering why I did this. I looked out of a narrow gap in the tent door at a small patch of rough heather. A cold breeze was blowing so I wrapped my sleeping bag over my shoulders. Time for a dram. I poured some whisky with a dash of water from the Well of the Fox. Ah! I felt the warmth of the spirit spread around my body till I glowed all over. Time for another dram. Ah! I sat there like Buddha, smiling to myself and quietly at peace with the world. I loved my tent which was as steady as a rock and kept out the chill winds. I loved this patch of heather and the raucous, croaking grouse. I loved being here, probably the only person high on Lochnagar in this cold, Spring night. It's a grand drug, whisky, taken in the right place at the right time.

Next morning a cap of cloud clung firmly to the summit so I gave up any thought of going back up and doing more drawing. I was away early and sat down on a rock where the Lochnagar and Spittal tracks meet. The grouse were very active and noisy. They make interesting sounds, which in human speak sound like "I will, I will, I will - What?, What?, What?" then take flight and land with the classic, "Go back, Go back, Go back." Lower down I rounded a corner and stopped dead as a heard of red deer flowed over the track only a few yards away. They scrambled up the banking with a touch of wide eyed panic when they noticed me then headed up the hill. I presumed this was the same mob I'd seen the morning before cropping the haughs at the Spittal. They were still in their drab winter coats and quickly became invisible among the dark heather.

The slopes around here are managed grouse moor and just before the woods there was a big patch of moor burn. This is done by sporting estates to encourage new growth of heather and provide a variety of environment for the grouse. Among the black ash and stalks were weird clumps of sphagnum moss, not green but pinky brown in colour. Soft and spongy, they were like the life of some alien planet, surviving in a blasted, hostile landscape, which indeed, was true.

Sphagnum Moss surviving among the moor burn.

 

The path through the woods avoids the estate cottages and a good Land Rover track leads straight across the flats for a kilometre to the stand of pines around the Spittal. Now there is only one occupied house, toilets and a wooden hut serving as a Ranger and visitors centre. The Spittal, (from where we get hospitality and hospital) was a hospice or hostel established for pilgrims and travellers by the Bishop of Aberdeen back in Medieval times. The other main pass, over the Cairnwell, had a hospice at the southern end, the Spittal of Glenshee. In those days, St Andrews with its shrine was a big attraction. This all got knocked on the head with the Reformation but the community must have adapted and the religious hospice became an Inn. This would have served drovers with their herds, cadgers with strings of pack ponies, packmen, itinerant labourers as well as whole regiments of horse and foot crossing the Capel Mounth track. Archaeologists have found the remains of ten longhouses, a corn drying kiln, barn, kailyard and drove road. High on the crystal waters of the Alt Darrarie there was that essential for  medicinal purposes and civilised living, a whisky still. The Inn is thought to have closed in the 1850's.

 

As I suspected, the deer had gone. The leaden grey sky and the distant piping of Curlews gave a lonesome, sad feel to the place. This was exaggerated by a solitary pink foot goose, flying low and honking balefully which crossed the track just ahead of me. It sounded agitated and I suspect it was looking for it's palls. I arrived back at the car just after 9am, having spent almost exactly twenty four hours on Lochnagar.

Devils Point

One evening, in May 2014, I set out to drive to Linn of Dee. Unfortunately I discovered that after 1800 hours the road beyond Bridge of Cally was closed for resurfacing. I had to make a detour from Blairgowrie over to Dunkeld, up the A9 to Pitlochry then back over by Kirkmichael to Glenshee. This took an extra hour and I was not amused. As I walked into Bob Scotts bothy the gloom was descending in the Glen but the last rays of the sun blazed orange like a beacon on the summit of Derry Cairngorm. As I approached the bothy I could smell wood smoke, so I knew I would have company.



Bob Scotts bothy

When I barged in I surprised a young, red haired lad wrestling with a pine branch, trying to make it manageable for the stove. A girl sat, or was perched on one of the chairs, curiously balanced, as if about to fall off. She had a glazed, dozy look to her and a Cherokee haircut.
The place was untidy but there was no sign of rucksacks, boots or the other outdoor kit that hill walkers use. A bed duvet was spread out on the sleeping platform. I unpacked and started my stove for a brew with some oatcakes and cheese. They watched me closely. I asked, out of politeness, if they would like some and when the water boiled asked them to pass their cups. I was surprised when they said they didn't have cups. Instead he handed me an old plastic coke bottle with a ragged top. I filled this as best I could as they wolfed down the oatcakes. The lad said they'd been here for a couple of days and were using the wood stove to cook on, although I could see no sign of food.

I didn't sleep well. I was convinced they were on drugs. I was lying on the floor under the sleeping platform and sometime during the night a hand came from above and pulled out a screw of silver foil secreted behind the footstep on the platform upright. Then there was some loud sniffing. Next morning I was up early and left at 06.30. They were out for the count but had said they were going home today. With a bit of luck they'd be away by the time I came back and would have the place to myself.

There were a couple of tents at the Derry bridge and some English walkers were up and about, cooking breakfast. We started talking and I told them I was staying at the bothy. They said the odd couple had visited them yesterday, asking if they'd any spare food. They couldn't oblige as they were bound over Cairngorm and travelling lite.

I walked up Glen Derry meditating on this curiosity and becoming anxious about the kit I'd left behind. I'd heard only one storey of theft from a bothy and that was many years ago at Balaneasie in Glentilt. An itinerant tramp stole a lads good rucksack but left his own, battered object, in exchange. I had to trust them.

Returning down Glen Derry after wandering over Beinn Bhreac and Beinn a' Chaorainn I was thirsty. I was cultivating this drouth. I rarely carry beer into bothies because of the weight but this time I'd hidden a couple of cans in the burn as a well earned treat. I planned to sit around, have a leisurely meal and as the night descended light the stove and have a wee dram. What could be better?

I walked into the bothy expecting to find it empty but to my surprise they were still under the duvet, just as I left them. The lad heard me enter and sat up saying,
"We're still here."
Then he sunk under the duvet again. I went out to the burn and paced up and down. This was a conundrum. What could I do? I couldn't face spending another night with zombies. I went back in and said to them,
"Do you want a can of Beer?"
They opened the cans immediately and started drinking, sitting up in bed.
"Look," I said, "It's early yet so I've decided to go home. Do you want a lift to Braemar."
"Aye! That would be brilliant. We can get a bus to Aberdeen."
"Good. I'll just pack my kit."
Then the lad said,
"Will you take a look at my foot?"
"Sure," I said, puzzled. He thrust out a foot from the duvet. I studied it for a few seconds. It had a big, brown ,slimy patch on the top of it. I hadn't seen anything quite like this before.
"Is that a burn?"
"Aye. I spilt some boiling water on it when I was emptying the kettle."
"What's that greasy stuff on it?"
"It's the cream you put on babies bums. I got some for my son."
That was another conundrum.
"Zinc oxide should be OK, but have it cleaned and looked at in casualty when you get back to Aberdeen. It may be infected. Can you walk on it?"
"I should be alright."

He packed their bedding into two small rucksacks which he wore on his back and front. The girl carried nothing but the can of beer. When we reached my old car they were excited and looked as if they were entering Dr Who's Tardus.
"I bags the front seat," said the girl. She was very young.

Over a year passed before I returned to Bob Scotts. I was a bit scunnered by my last visit but when autumn came I decided to go back. Gone were the green and midgy days of summer. There is a crispness in the autumn air and the landscape is transformed. The bracken dies back to a rich russet and the leaves of the deer grass turn brilliant orange. I had decided to make a drawing of Devils Point. I could have humped my gear into Corrour bothy which lies at it's foot but it is usually very busy. Bob Scotts would be quiet mid week and was only four miles from the road. I'd drive up in the evening, spend the night in the bothy and with only my drawing kit walk into Corrour fresh in the morning. This kept heavy load carrying to a minimum.

The weather was set fair and the bothy was empty. I was in my sleeping bag by 9pm for a good nights sleep and an early start. I was just dozing off when the door burst open and a burly man burst in. He lit a candle and I could see he was wearing a greasy bunnet and seemed slightly drunk.
"Hi! I'm Liverpool Len. I've even got the tee shirt." He pulled up his jacket to reveal a black tee shirt with 'Liverpool Len' printed on it.
"I'm Dougie," I said and leaned over the sleeping platform to shake hands.
"Hi son, do ye want a beer, or a wee dram?"
"No thanks."
"Ee, son, I've had a terrible time, a terrible time, so I have. I've been down to Ballater to the hole in the wall."
"What?"
"The hole in the wall, the hole in the wall, the cash line and I couldn't remember me number.
Ye see, ye see, it's here, I've written it in the back of the bothy book. Look! Look!"
He grabbed the grubby visitors book and started waving it about, then glanced at the back page.
"Look at that! Look at that! Someone's torn it out."
Right enough, the back page was torn out.
"Oh my God! Oh my God! Look at that. Look at that. I've written it in the front. There you are son, there you are. Look at that. There it is. There's the number there. I couldn't remember it. I couldn't remember it. Do you want a beer son? Do you want a beer?"
I began to realise it was going to be a long night. I sat up.
"Why not? I'll have a can.

He was calming down a bit now.
"Five weeks I've been in the hills, five weeks. That's not bad, is it? That's not bad."
He glanced at my kit.
"I don't use anything like sleeping mats or torches. Live off the land, I do. Live off the land. Five weeks, that's not bad, is it?"
"How do you survive?"
"Live off the land I do. Live off the land. I caught five salmon, so I did, five salmon. Even arctic char."
"Arctic char?"
"Yea, arctic char, out of Loch Etchachan."
"Where are your fishing rods?"
"I keep them hidden. Hidden near the lochs."
"Five salmon I caught."
"Good." He looked remarkably plump for someone living off the land in these hard hills.
"Ee son, I'm frozen. Do you mind if I put the stove on? Got bitter cold walking in."
"Help yourself."

Seeing that I was intent on going to sleep he snuffed out the candle and pulled a chair up as close to the stove as he could. The embers were dying but he blew on them and fed in dry wood till it burst to life again. He went out and hauled in more wood. All this time I was trying, unsuccessfully, to sleep. He went in and out of the door for wood until he had a violent blaze. This was more than was necessary for warmth. I could feel the heat of the blaze through my sleeping bag. I became a bit worried by this and spoke up.
"If you put any more wood on you'll damage the stove."
"Naw," he said, "It's them that bring in bags of coal and bank it up that do the damage."
He blundered about, bumped into things, dropped pokers, hauled in logs, fed the fire and cast a demonic, animated shadow. All the time he muttered,
"Oh my God! Oh my God! This'll never do! This'll never do."
He would sit down again then suddenly jump up and sweep the floor muttering,
"Oh my God! Oh my God! This'll never do!"
He was the stoker from Hell.

The Stoker from Hell. Oil, 54 x 46 cms.  2017

The pyromania carried on until 1am when he crawled under the sleeping platform below me and fell instantly asleep. Unfortunately he snored. These were no ordinary snores but the kind of noise you'd imagine a bull elephant or rhinoceros making. This went on for hours, punctuated by startling and not a little frightening, "YAAAARGS", as if he was dreaming of fighting something off. These horrific screams were punctuated by long, noisy farts which sounded like someone tearing curtains. I was wide awake. By this time the can of beer had passed through me and I went out for a pee. It was a clear, starry night but it seemed oppressively dark. It was about 3am. I looked up and wonder of wonders, there was a total eclipse of the moon. I mention this in passing. Back in bed the epic went on. I must have dosed a little because I remembered a few very strange dreams.

The grey light of dawn began to filter in about 7am. As I wriggled out of my sleeping bag and into my clothes he shouted up,
"What a noise your making up there!"
"Not as much as you last night."
I made a brew and offered him some tea with a biscuit. He didn't have a cup, so I gave him my spare billy. He seemed normal this morning, even relaxed and pleasant. He started talking about his life.
"I was in the R.F.A. sir," he said, "Do you know what that is?"
I did, but I couldn't help notice that I was now 'sir' and not 'son'. Probably in daylight he could see my grey hair.
"Aye," I said, "The Royal Fleet Auxiliary"
"I was at the Falklands, you know sir, the Falklands."
"Really?"
"It was terrible sir, terrible. I was on the Fort Austin. The Fort Austin. We were carrying 36000 tons of ammunition. 36000 tons! It was terrible sir, terrible."
Now I knew the Fort Austin was just half that size, but didn't intend to quibble about details.
For everyone involved the Falklands campaign was a traumatic experience. Just sitting at home, as I did, watching it on T.V. was bad enough.
"I've seen her go up the Firth of Forth to pick up stores at Crombie. It's an old ship now. It's amazing it's still in service."
This seemed to impress him.
"What do you do sir?"
"I'm an artist. I'm going up to Corrour to do some drawing."
"I'm an artist too" he said, with a certain element of pride. He rummaged in his battered rucksack and brought out a handful of photos.
"There you are sir, there you are, that's me."
The photo was of a younger him with a mass of black hair standing with one foot on a low stack of concrete suitcases. I presumed this was somewhere in Liverpool docks, probably a community arts project.
"It's about emigration, you see sir, these are the emigrants suitcases."
"Very good," I said. By this time I'd finished breakfast and was keen to get on to Corrour.
"Well, I'd better be going."
"I think I'll go up to the Hutchie, today sir."
"Fine," I said, "It'll be nice up there."

 I cut through the fresh smelling pines to the bridge and took the track up Glen Lui Beag to Currour. It was a fine morning and I put the sleepless night behind me. I found a good station with a view of Devils Point and sat there drawing for a few hours.


Devils Point and Cairn Toul. Mixed media on paper. 56 x 38 cms. 2015

A man came up the track with a dog that was limping and stopped and had a blether. The dog had hurts it's leg on Braeriach so he'd stayed over at Corrour for the night. It was packed out but someone had a guitar and there was a few drams and singing. It sounded like good fun. After this I packed up and wandered down to the bothy where I had a look around. It was many years since I'd been there and it had changed for the better. The old stone box with heather on the floor was now wood floored, wood lined and with a sleeping platform. The glorious wonder was an extension that contains a high privy. You actually have to climb up steps to get to it. I liked that. In the past, in summer, it was a foul place. Praise can not be too high for those indefatigable souls who trek in monthly to change the toilet bags

Corrour bothy and Devils Point, 2015.

The afternoon was wearing on and halfway back to Bob Scotts I grew wondrous weary. I'm sure that if I sat down I'd have nodded off but was worried that I'd fall into a fairy hill and be seduced by the Queen of the fairies and not reappear for a hundred years. Some hope. I pressed on. I was looking forward to a reviving brew with the sustenance of the country, cheese and oatcakes, followed by a leisurely meal of a more Oriental nature that I'd bought in a supermarket. I had a solitary evening planned as Liverpool Len would be up at the Hutchison Memorial Hut.

There's a clichéd saying about always expecting the unexpected. I have to admit that this one caught me completely off guard. I wandered into the bothy and for a moment I thought I'd entered an alternative universe. Although the window was open the room was thick with wood smoke. It smelt like an Arbroath smoke house. The furniture was scattered over the floor, chairs upside down, the little steel tables on their sides and the floor covered in soot, cinders and charred branches. It looked as if there had been an explosion in the stove but it was, fortunately, unharmed. Empty beer cans, wine and spirit bottles littered the floor. In the midst of this squalor lay Liverpool Len, bollock naked. I say naked, as he still had his famous T shirt on, but this was wrunkled up round his neck and hardly preserved his dignity. As well as the cinders, he lay in a pool of urine or white wine, probably both. There was no way I was going to discriminate. He made no sound or movement. I thought he was dead



Always expect the unexpected.
Off set drawing and watercolour on paper
32 x 40 cms




.
"Well blow me down," I thought, "I'd better check if the buggers croaked it."
I picked my way round to his head then knelt down and shouted,
"Len! Len! Can you hear me?"
There were slavers running down the side of his mouth and he was in a foetal position so he probably hadn't choked. He had managed to insinuate his head under one of the low, steel tables so I moved this to get at him.
"Len! Len! Are you all right?" Stupid question, really. I shook his shoulder and saw an eyelid flicker. He was alive. He started to cough and splutter and eventually an arm moved. He tried to speak. His voice was little and seemed very far away.
"Dougie, Dougie, why did you go and leave me?"
Gawd! This was pathetic. I moved my head closer to hear his whispers.
"Dougie, Dougie, I'll make you a nice bit of toast and cheese."
"What! What's that?" I bent my head closer, just to make sure I was hearing this right.
"Dougie, Dougie, I'll make you a cup of tea and a nice bit of toast and cheese."
"In your dreams pall."
I crammed my kippered sleeping bag into my rucksack and stormed off down the road. There was no doubt that he was a poor, disturbed soul, needing psychiatric help. He may have been a veteran of the Falklands campaign but there was no way I could spend another night with him.


.

The Haunted Rucksack

For many years I used my trusty Tiso 'tattie sack' rucksack. This was simplicity itself and designed for climbing and hauling up rock walls where anything that got in the way was an encumbrance. It was big enough for weekends and I lived out of it all my student years. When I bought a nylon hike tent, however, I felt I needed a rucksack more rigid and comfortable for carrying heavier loads. I bought a pack frame and  the separate canvas sack that fitted on it. It was comfortable enough but a bit awkward and spikey when travelling on public transport.

Looking north up Glen Tilt

One day I took a train to Blair Athol and walked up Glen Tilt, camping at the bridge across the Tarf. Next day I crossed the watershed from the Tilt to the Dee. The cloud was closed right down and I could see very little. It was October and the Red Deer rut was in full swing. I was surrounded by roaring, but the roarers and groaners were invisible. Soon I heard a different sound, the unmistakable, spirit lifting honking of a great skein of geese heading south through Glen Tilt. They sounded just above my head but I couldn't see them. I was overwhelmed by the feeling of taking part in a great natural process. Being alone and not being able to see these events seemed to make them more surprising and intense.

It was too early to stop at Corrour bothy so I carried on through the Lairig Ghru. I had walked this way several times before so knew what to expect. As usual, the mist was down as I boulder hopped past the Pools of Dee and started to descend the northern side. There was a stronger breeze here and I began to notice a strange sound. WOOOOOOO - WOOOOOO. It started as a low moaning and as gusts intensified rose to a loud whistle. This really worried me. In fact I was genuinely rattled. I'd read all that tosh about the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui and mentally filed it away with the Loch Ness Monster and Flying Saucers as the domain of silly, confused people and Nutters. I began to think I was one of them, but said to myself,
"Pull yourself together. There must be a rational explanation."
I tried to concentrate intensely on the sound and pinpoint exactly where it came from. Surprisingly, it came from exactly behind my left ear. The windward side. I slipped out of the pack frame and dumped it on the ground. Aha! There were holes in the aluminium tube frame so you could adjust the position of the cross bar. The wind was blowing in the holes and creating a ghostly tune. I wasn't being haunted after all. Even so, that really spooked me. I still had an irrational fear that the rucksack was haunted.

The Haunted Rucksack. Offset drawing and watercolour.

Not long after this I sold it cheaply to a friend. He kept it a little while then gave it to another friend. This friend of a friend passed it to another friend who quickly passed it on to a friend who had a friend and this friend was an obsessive Munro Bagger. He used the pack frame frequently but never completed the Munros. He ended up in a mental hospital STARK, STARING, MAD!

A BOTHY FULL OF MAGGOTS

 

 

 

When I was still at school the Cairngorms seemed far away. Although I had heard of Ben Macdhui and the mysterious Lairig Ghru this range of hills held an almost mythical status. They were beyond my horizon. One day in the High Street I bumped into Cammy and he asked,

"Do you fancy going to the Cairngorms?"

"Wow! Yes, but how do we get there?"

"Well, Davy has just passed his driving test."

Davy, like me, was still at school but his family owned a local bakers and had a wee Mini van to make deliveries.Being the youngest it was Roberts and my luck to be stuck in the back of the van lounging as best we could on sleeping bags and cushions. Our view was severely constrained out of the windscreen by the heads of Davy and Cammy. We rolled about a bit going through the bends in Glenfarg but crawled through the Sunday quiet streets of Perth. Beyond Bridge of Cally the road twisted and turned up Glenshee, hugging every hillock and round tight, twisty bends. Luckily, neither Robert or I suffered from travel sickness or the outcome could have been messy. The Mini was the perfect vehicle for these roads. It took the Devils Elbow and Cairnwell in it's stride and rolled quickly down to Braemar. We tumbled out of the back at Linn of Dee, desperate to stretch our legs

 

The woods along the Dee were a delight. I hadn't expected to see so many mature Scots Pines. As we walked to Derry Lodge I was awed by the openness. I wasn't prepared for the scale of things. Distances were longer, views wider and the tops higher than the hills I was used to. Unfortunately, although it was a mild day with a few glimpses of sun the clouds hung stubbornly to the tops. In the thick mist of late afternoon we climbed a broad, rocky ridge and reached a small cairn. This, Cammy confidently pronounced, was the summit of Derry Cairngorm. I am by nature a sceptic.

"Are you sure this isn't a false summit?"

He was adamant. Anyway, it was growing late and we had a long way to go back. For practical and face saving reasons this had to be the summit. Years later, when it no longer mattered, I found that it wasn't.

 

Before I had my own transport travelling to and from the Cairngorms was always a problem. Sometimes these journeys were more memorable than the actual walks. When I was an Art Student in Dundee I took a train to Aviemore and walked south through the Lairig Ghru, stopping overnight at Corrour bothy. Next day I walked out to Braemar where I caught a bus to Aberdeen. I tried to get a train to Dundee but the last train had gone, so I walked back to the bus station. Unfortunately, the Dundee bus had left ages ago but the last local was going as far as Montrose. I walked out of Montrose on the road south across the bridge and climbed a hill. My feet were sore as I had ill fitting boots and big blisters on my heels. I sat down on the verge overlooking Montrose Basin and watched a team of salmon fishers netting from the beach. I took a professional interest in this as I'd done this job myself on the River Tay. The gloom of the summer night was descending and there was no traffic on the road.
"Well", I thought, "What will I do?"
I had a sleeping bag so if I couldn't get a lift I'd just go behind a dyke and crawl into my bag for the short summer night. The strange thing is, once I'd decided on this I felt wonderfully calm and content. I was about to open my rucksack when I heard a big truck grinding up the hill. I gave it the thumb and it came to a halt. The driver dropped me in east Dundee so I still had a couple of miles to walk. It was dark now and the city was quite. I scattered a plague of rabbits grazing round the gravestones as I passed by Craigie cemetery. Because of the blisters my normal lope had degenerated to a hobble as I passed along the Arbroath Road and Seagate to the Nethergate. The city centre was silent. The good people of Dundee were all abed. I saw no one. The last lap out the Perth Road to my wee slum flat in St. Peters Street was agony. I collapsed on my bed and slept solid till the late afternoon.



Corrour bothy before modernisation.

The Lairig Ghru is a very popular route and many people stop overnight at Corrour bothy. This lies at the foot of Devils Point, one of the few pointy peaks in a massif made up of eroded plateau. The first time I stayed there was my first bothy night anywhere. I was alone and it was a dark, windy night. The building was just a basic stone shelter with heather scattered on the floor. The wind howled and my solitary candle flickered in the draught. Sometime in the early morning I woke with a start. Something was loudly rustling and rummaging beside me. I shone a torch at my rucksack and saw a mouse was nibbling it's way into my food bag. It was only a very small mouse but it made a very loud noise. I considered flattening the creature angrily with a boot but relented and instead chased it away and hung my rucksack on a wall nail.  

 






Corrour Bothy in the 1980's. Oil on canvas on board. 460mm x 610mm

  

After that I stayed at the bothy many times. I'd heard it could be busy, but because I was a shift worker I was usually there midweek, so had the place to myself.

On a beautiful July afternoon I walked into Corrour from Linn of Dee with Ian Macdonald. When the bothy came into view we could see a couple of little figures outside it.
"Well, it looks as if we'll have some company tonight."
"The worst case," I said, "is a party of school kids. The place could be packed out."
I didn't think this likely. Although we knew someone else was there we were surprised, even shocked, when we stepped through the open door. Our worst fears had been realised. Although it was just about tea time the floor was crammed with seven or eight young boys. They were already in their sleeping bags, giggling, wriggling and writhing on the floor, leg wrestling and looking like demented maggots. We managed to squeeze in and prepared a meal. After a brew we climbed the slope above the bothy onto Devils Point, partly to get away from this madness. It was a wonderful, calm evening, with great views down Glen Dee.  





Looking down Glen Dee from Devils Point




A bothy full of maggots. Oil on board.

 

 We returned to find the kids quietened down a bit and we were able to squeeze in near the old fireplace. Then just when we thought no one else would turn up, a few walkers came down off the hill understandably looking for a place to lay their heads. We all squeezed up even tighter and spent a sweaty, uncomfortable night on the floor. I don't think I slept much but the day dawned bright and sunny.

 After a quick breakfast it was back up Devils Point again. The previous day had been warm but this was a scorcher, with hardly a cloud in the sky. We followed the corrie edge to Cairn Toul and frequently heard the "whup, whup, whup," of a helicopter operating somewhere below us. We spotted it flying up the Lairig Ghru, well below. Then with a sudden roar a navy blue Hunter trainer roared up the glen and we both held our breathes as the fast jet passed close below the helicopter and was soon out of sight. As we approached the summit of Cairn Toul the Royal Marines helicopter suddenly popped up out of the corrie and the pilot waved and obligingly hovered over the cairn while we took photographs.


Obliging pilot hovering for a photo shoot





From the summit we headed south west to Loch nan Stuirteag then over the bald, gravelly tops of Monadh Mor and Beinn Bhrotain. In the baking heat this last leg was more like a walk over a desert than boggy Scotland. It was one of those rare, glorious days, both mist and midge free.





Cairn Toul and Ben Macdui from the south west

 







 

 





Glen Clova, Glen Doll

 



 

The glens of Angus all have their charms. Glen Isla, Glen Prosen, Glen Clova and Glen Esk all head north into the heart of the Grampian Mountains. Although in the old days seemingly remote, they were more heavily populated than now and were through routes over the hills bringing drovers, whisky smugglers and seasonal labourers travelling to find harvest work at the lowland farms.

 

Glen Clova is best approached from Kirriemuir, an old mill town nestling in fertile Strathmore. Kirrie is famous as being the birthplace of J.M.Barrie, author of  'Peter Pan' and infamous for the mythical 'Ball of Kirriemuir', a wonderfully inventive bawdy folksong, not much sung these days.

 

The road to the glens winds through pleasant woods and cultivated land then beyond the wee fermtoun of Dykhead the terrain takes on a more upland feel. Just before Gella Bridge the road splits and by local convention those heading north hold to the western side. Now you are in the land of sheep and cattle, with grassy moorlands higher up. If you are travelling in the early morning, pheasants, partridges, rabbits and occasionally deer play daredevil on the narrow road. Then winding up and down the hillocks and through the trees you can see at a distance, at the head of the glen, the dark, foreboding slopes of Glen Doll.

 

At Milton of Clova the road turns back down the eastern side of the river South Esk. A sharp turn left, however, takes you the last three miles of single track road to the head of the Glen. Here it becomes 'Y' shaped with Glen Doll the western arm. Both glens are attractive, but Glen Doll especially is heavily planted with commercial woods. Above the trees the bluff crags of Craig Mellon, Craig Rennet and the Scorrie tower over everything. In winter, when the snow lies thick, it has a distinctly Alpine feel.

 

When I first visited Glen Doll with the Kirkcaldy Mountaineering Club the bus parked in an old quarry at the end of a long strait below the Red Crags. Just round a sharp bend lay Braedownie Farm and a cattle grid. Beyond this the road became a dirt track which in a few hundred yards was faced by a locked gate. This led to the stalkers house at Moulzie , but before that the old Capel Mounth track cut up through the woods to Spittal of Gen Muick then on to Ballater by narrow tarmac road. Beyond Moulzie the track winds up below the crag of Juanjorge to the beautiful larch wood of Bachnagairn.

 

Glen Doll from below the Red Crags, Glen Clova. The Scorrie is the slope on the left, Braedownie farm at the bottom of the picture. Mixed media on paper, 38cms x 56cms.

 The road to Glen Doll, however, swings hard left at the gate over a robust bridge then passes through an avenue of tall pines to Acharn Farm. Here the road forks to the right and in a few hundred yards arrives at the old shooting lodge of Glen Doll Youth Hostel. This is as far as civilisation goes. Walking further takes you onto Jocks road, a serious hill route, especially in Spring or winter. The Tolmounth, as it is properly called, rises at Crow Craigies to over 3000 feet, then drops down sharply to Glen Callater and eventually Braemar.

 

I met Eric in a car park at the Fife side of the Tay Road Bridge. He was on his BSA Lightning 650cc while I rode my little two stroke C.Z.175cc. We had both been at Art College in Dundee and shared a flat in London for about the last five years. Haven driven  from London independently I had broken my journey visiting friends in the Lake District. There, with Chris, another college friend, I had climbed Helvellyn. It was the beginning of April, 1976 and still quite wintery.

 






The CZ 175 with Tiso 'tattie sack rucksack and mountain tent.



Over lunch at Eric's mum's we hatched a plot. We would drive to Forfar and visit friends there, then go on to Glen Doll. It was a pleasant Spring afternoon with fleecy clouds in a wide, high sky and to the north the snow capped Grampian Mountains peeped over the horizon. After years in London we just cruised along, all our senses intoxicated with the sights and smells of the fertile lands of Strathmore coming alive again.

Entering Forfar I was rudely awoken from this reverie when the clutch cable snapped. I came to an abrupt halt and as Eric had sped ahead I started pushing the bike to Colin and Laura's house. I hoped he would notice my absence and come back looking for me. Sure enough, I met up with him but found that our friends weren't in. I got on the back of the BSA and into the town centre to find Colin there. Tomorrow, Eric would take me back into Dundee to buy a cable, but for now it was a couple of pints in a pub then a big carry out of Pale Ale and back to the cottage.

The next day was over caste and gloomy as we hammered into Dundee to find a bike shop. I bought a cable, but back at the cottage discovered it didn't fit and had to file down the end to make it work. After this diversion it was on to Kirriemuir, then Glen Clova. We were enjoying the countryside but there was no doubt that it was becoming much windier. When we arrived at Glen Doll Eric sped past the camping field which had a few tents in it and motored up to the youth hostel. I knew this was a bad idea as it was a dead end and the warden didn't take kindly to noisy bikers. We pulled to a halt in the yard, where, as I had feared, the bearded warden was standing looking like a demented wizard. He was talking to some walkers and glared with contempt  at our noisy intrusion. I was shouting at Eric to turn round and go back to the camp site, while the warden was declaiming to his audience that we were everything that was bad about the world and this was exactly what he didn't like. Eric soon got the message and we turned the bikes and left them in peace. I felt guilty of having committed some terrible social transgression, but wasn't quite sure what it was

The camping field was conveniently beside the river but apart from that there was no conveniences. Sheep grazed the rough pasture but although there were a few tents the place seemed abandoned. The camp was in great disorder as violent gusts of wind came down off the Scorrie. Pots and pans were rolling merrily into the distance and the tents blew like flags in a gale. The wind was so strong that it kept blowing over the C.Z, which perched on a centre stand on rough ground was non too steady. We solved this by lashing the two bikes together with bungees. The mountain tent, however, was easy to pitch and stood as steady as a rock.

After eating we decided to wander down to the Ogilvy Arms, otherwise known as the Clova Hotel. Along the side of the road flowed a little stream, rather like a wide ditch, but running swiftly with cool, clear water. Shoals of young trout shot under the overhanging turf or hid in the lush, green  weeds. A water rat stuck his head out and regarded us with a quizzical eye. All was so fresh and clean.

About a mile from the pub an Airlie Estate Landrover pulled up and the driver offered us a lift, so we jumped in. He was a local gamekeeper, a young chap dressed in tweed breeches, jacket and deerstalker hat. He was very friendly and talked about the hardships of the deer and the young couple who died of exposure on the Tolmounth track only a fortnight earlier.

The public bar in the Clova Hotel was a small, rudimentary affair with simple wooden tables and benches but a big, blazing wood fire. We bought our pints and sat down. A party of young climbers were sprawled over the seats and in fine fettle, singing their hearts out. I guessed, correctly, that they were the occupants of the other tents and by the number of empty pint glasses littering the tables they'd been here some time. We struck up a conversation with Dave, who seemed to be the ringleader. They were mostly young tradesmen from Dundee who camped, climbed and boozed all over Scotland but this was their home turf. During a lull in the singing he jumped up and disappeared behind the bar and brought out an accordion. Although half drunk he could play quite well and was a decent singer. The hair rose on the back of my neck as he struck up 'The Road and the Miles to Dundee'

'Cauld winter was howling o'er moorland and mountain
And wild was the surge of the dark, rolling sea
When just about daybreak I spied a wee lassie
Who asked me the road and the miles to Dundee.'

When he'd finished I said,
"That was great. I'm amazed you can play so well after so much to drink"
"I'm no that pished. Ye ken, playing the accordion sobers me up. You've got to concentrate. I could even play it standing on the mantelpiece."
"You're  kidding!"
"Naw, I'll show you."

He sprang onto a bench then struggled up onto the mantelpiece above the blazing log fire and stood there swaying. Sometimes the weight of the instrument pulled him forward but he would bend his knees and pull back, then he was on one leg, then the other as his palls cheered him on. He played a few verses of the 'Bonnie Lass o' 'Fyvie' then came down. He was sweating.
"Wow! That's amazing. Dae ye want a pint?"
"Aye. Why not?"

Dancing on the mantelpiece, Glen Clova Hotel, April 1976. Indian ink and watercolour, 2016

After a lull in the proceedings he strapped on his instrument again and started to play a song I'd rarely heard before, 'Bonnie Glenshee'. It had a slow, plaintive and very beautiful tune.

"Busk, busk, bonnie lassie
And come along wi' me
An' I'll take ye tae Glen Isla
Near bonnie Glenshee.    (Chorus)

Oh, do you see yon shepherds
As they walk along
Wi' their plaids pu'd aboot them
And their sheep they graze on?

Oh, do you see yon soldiers
As they march along
Wi' their guns on their shoulders
And their broadswords hanging doon?

Oh, do you see yon high hills
All covered in snow?
They parted many a true love
And they'll soon part us twa.

When he finished the room had fallen silent. I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I had a tear in my eye.

It has been said that a place that has no songs and stories is hardly a place at all. We were definitely in a place. I did not know it then, but this humble bar played an important part in the development of modern Scottish Literature. On a wet summers day in 1925 a young journalist from Montrose and his friend walked the thirteen miles from Kirrie to the Clova Hotel. The journalist was Christopher Grieve, but as a poet he became better known as Hugh MacDiarmid. His friend was the composer Francis George Scott. They had been walking and talking all day and now they were tired there would be dram followed by dram in front of a blazing fire. MacDiarmid had produced many lyrics in 'Braid Scots' but was looking for an 'Odysey', a great theme he could get his teeth into. His mind was like lightning striking on a bare mountain top, producing sparks but no fire. His friend Scott was the catalyst that caused an explosion. Scott suggested the theme and outline of  'A Drunk Man looks at the Thistle' which became MacDiarmid's masterwork. The seed was sown in this bar, which deserves a blue plaque.

By now it was closing time but a political argument had broken out between a smartly dressed man wearing a shirt and tie who had the temerity to opine that Trade Unions should be banned. There was roaring and hooting but Eric and I stayed out of it. He was verbally overwhelmed by the combined forces of the young climbers who were Socialists to a man. I agreed with them but it was very much a case of the Tory Daniel in a Socialist lions den and I felt sorry for him. We left the bar laughing and started on the dark walk back to the tent. The climbers had sped ahead, crammed in a car.

After an hours walk in pitch darkness we were surprised to find the camp site a blaze of light. The climbers had started a big fire and they shouted us over and threw us cans of beer. We didn't refuse. They started singing again but these had degenerated into the bawdy and downright obscene variety.
Gusts of wind came hammering down the glen so we all had to scatter or roll away from the tongues of flame that searched us out with a blizzard of sparks. Someone disappeared into the darkness to collect more wood and came back with a new sign post and threw it on the fire. I said to Dave,

"Don't you think someone will miss that?"
"Och! They're always putting bloody signs up. We've burnt two or three of them. If you don't know where your going you shouldn't be here. They're talking of making a car park. Bastards! they'll never get away with it as long as we're coming here."

They were dead set against any development, a band of wild land guerillas. It was not so much the immediate environment that they were concerned about, which was fields with sheep, ponies and cattle, but car parks meant more people. They didn't want that. I could understand.

Next morning we felt a little jaded but a hearty breakfast of porridge, sausages and beans washed down with mugs of tea set us up for the day. We wandered through the Doll forest intending to head for Corrie of Fee but probably because we were dreaming or blethering too much, missed the turn off.
This didn't bother us as we were just glad to be out and about. It looked like it might be a fine day but some blustery squalls were coming down off the hills.

Eric beside the track through the Doll forest, looking towards Corrie Fee. This view is now obscured by the mature trees.

 We had left the forest and were climbing the track opposite Craig Maude when we were engulfed by a ferocious storm of stinging sleet. Visibility was minimal and we almost collided with three teenage boys running down the track in rapid retreat. The were descending because of the weather but their morale improved remarkably when we told them it would pass and they followed us back up the hill again. Sure enough, the storm sped away down the glen and the worst of the bad weather was over for the day.



Craig Maude from near the refuge. 57cms. x 38cms. Charcoal and watercolour on paper, 1986.

At Davy Glen's bourach, a low shelter beside the path, we sat and had a snack. Another couple of lads came up and asked us the time. They were drookit, shivering with cold and carrying rucksacks with bits of kit dangling from them. One of them wore sodden suede desert boots, not ideal for crossing wet snow fields. They were walking to Braemar but had little idea of where they were or the route over the Tolmounth to Glen Callater. I showed them the way on the map and mentioned the young couple who had died on the track just two weeks earlier. For good measure I took them to the plaque on the boulder commemorating the five walkers who died in a blizzard on New Years day 1959. We were still in early April, which may be Spring in the Lowlands but up here it was still winter. They had no proper footwear, waterproofs, map, compass or even a watch. They had, however come this far and the weather seemed set fair. I wished them well.

Davy's bourach on Jocks Road. A steel door was added later.

.They plodded away over the horizon snow fields while Eric and I decided to cut back over Cairn Damff and from Craig Mellon drop down to Glen Doll near the youth hostel. This was easier said than done. The first stretch, eastward towards the Den of Altduthrie is rough terrain, although it looks benign enough. It is great heaps of boulder covered by deep heather and every footstep has to be tested and used carefully. It's an easy place to twist a knee or ankle as you suddenly plunge thigh deep in a hidden hole. After this it's an easy plod up the wide brow of Cairn Damff. There are peat hags in plenty here and a strange area of intense, black peat with bizarre clumps of pale grass sticking out of it.

Looking south to the summit of Mayar from Cairn Dampff.

  

A waterfall in a gorge near Davy Glens Bourach. 

From the summit of Craig Mellon we could see Glen Clova laid out like a map below us. The steep slope down the shallow corrie to the woods was boggy. Entry to the commercial pine forest was easy as sometime in the recent past an avalanche had swept away a deer fence and many of the trees As. this was a south facing slope there was no snow now and we startled a solitary stag that was surprised by us coming down from above. Commercial plantations are frustrating, almost impenetrable and the occasional fire brake rarely takes you where you want to go. Fortunately we found a burn where the trees grew thinner and this eventually flowed into a water tank. This was the water supply for the youth hostel so we followed the pipe down onto the road.

After a substantial plate of curry we decided to drive down to the pub. The same gang were there, already drunk as they'd been in at lunch time as well. Dave started playing his accordion but his fingers were rubbery and wouldn't do what he wanted them to. Sure enough, he began to get the hang of it and the music came fast and furious. As it was Sunday night most of his gang got up to go home but Dave and his pall had decided to stay another night as they'd be too ill to go into work tomorrow anyway. His pall seemed unconscious, slumped over the table with his face in a pool of beer. The last glimmer of sunset over Driesh was casting a red glare through the window when he lifted his head and slavered,

"Let's go an' bivy on the summit o' Driesh."

Then he slumped forward again, sound asleep. This bivouac was a lovely, romantic notion but not appropriate in the circumstances.

"He's an eejit," said Dave
"He couldnae walk twa feet tae the bar."

A little later the head came up again.

"Let's go and bivy on the summit o' Driesh."

then slumped forward again. Eventually he woke up and we were able to give them lifts to the camp on the back of the bikes.

Next morning dawned fine and sunny and as we ate breakfast we were treated to an entertainment. Surprisingly, Dave was out and about and was kicking a large aluminium cooking pot across the grass.

"Ill teach him to leave kit behind," he was muttering, "I'll teach him to leave kit behind."

He picked up a large, round stone from the river bank and held it with both hands above his head, then smashed it down with all his force onto the unfortunate pot. He was leaping about and giggling with obvious glee as he beat the pot into a flat submission. Again and again he hurled the stone down until the once copious pot was beaten into a large, flat, silvery disc.

We said farewell to the 'Pot Basher' and 'Bivy on Driesh' man then set off to do what we had intended to do yesterday, go to the Corrie of Fee. We followed a wide forest road to it's end then dived into the woods. There were several ruts winding through low branches and over roots and boulders, but most of all, bog. Eventually we crested a rise and the trees abruptly stopped at a deer fence and ladder. We crossed this and were in the corrie. A short drop led down to it's floor and a clear burn flowing over shiny gravel. After drinking our fill we sat on warm boulders by the meanders of the burn and watched the clear, ice cold water slipping past. We had all day before us but time didn't seem to mean much here, give or take an ice age or two. The corrie was a sun trap, surrounded and sheltered by high cliffs. We sprawled about lazily, making the best of it.

Corrie Fee. Oil on canvas, 102cms x 61cms. 2016

Reluctantly, we decided to move on and find a way out of the corrie. We followed the track winding through moraines in deep shadow then climbed above the flat corrie bottom to a grassy gulley that led steeply upwards. To our right a waterfall spilled over the high edge of the corrie. Eric was amusing himself during this steep plod upwards by making notes in a little sketch book while avoiding falling over. I don't know how he did it. Eventually he had to put it back in his pocket as we needed hands to traverse a steep snow slope under a small crag. This meant passing through a little waterfall which cascaded over us. Now we were able to scramble up the side of the falls which were thundering with snow melt from the high plateau. It was just a heave up over a large rock and we were level with the top of the waterfall, spectacularly tumbling and crashing down to the corrie below.

Corrie Fee, looking back down towards Glen Doll. Crayon and watercolour on paper, 1986

We rested here for a bit and enjoyed the view, knowing that the worst of the climb was over. Once out of the bogs above the corrie the ground gradually swept upwards over snow fields to the summit of Mayar. By now the sun was hidden by high, grey cloud with light flurries of snow, but nothing to worry about.

We sat in the shelter of the summit cairn of Mayar and I rummaged in the rucksack for something to eat. There wasn't much left so I pulled out our emergency rations. While in the Lake District I'd purchased a slab of Kendal Mint Cake. I'd never tasted it before so this was as good a time to try it as any. Kendal Mint Cake is not what you would call a cake at all, but a hard slab of very minty and sweet glucose and sugar. I had the deluxe version, which was enrobed in chocolate. In my mind it held an almost mythic status as I'd read about it being eaten by Ed Hillary and the first team to climb Mount Everest. We sat by the cairn, nibbling this extremely sweet sweetmeat and comparing it negatively to good Scotch Fudge or Tablet. Out of nowhere a Black Faced sheep appeared. I had scanned the horizon before sitting down and there was not a person or animal in sight. It came prancing up to us in great haste, bleating incessantly. Now this was unusual, as hill sheep are usually indifferent to people and will scurry away if they think they are threatened. This one was positively friendly and started muzzling me like a dog wanting fed.

"This is crazy" I said, "This sheep thinks it's a dog."
"Maybe it was hand reared. Then it would have no fear of humans."
"Well, we've nothing to give it. I can't imagine it would like mint cake."
"Try it and see."

I broke off a corner which the sheep gobbled down. This set off another round of bleating and muzzling. It definitely wanted more.

"Come on, let's get out of here! This is mental."

We scurried off down the hill as fast as we could but the sheep kept up with us, bleating all the way. It followed us along the flat ridge to the top of Corrie Kilbo, then up the broad slope to the summit of Driesh. It was driving us crazy. Frequently we turned and tried to shoo it away, but no amount of arm waving, swearing and shooing made any difference. It still came on. The bleating was awful. I wanted to push it over a cliff while Eric was for throwing rocks at it, but we were not murderers. If it had been quieter we'd have accepted it as an eccentric companion, but the constant bleating was driving us crazy and spoiling a good day. At last we saw a possible solution. While on the summit of Driesh three walkers appeared and we tried to pass the creature onto them. Unfortunately the summit is wide and bare with no place to hide. As soon as we started to move it was after us again, bleating incessantly. I couldn't believe it would follow us all the way down the Kilbo path, but it did, bleating incessantly.

I'd never been so glad to reach a forest with a fence round it. We crossed the style and sped into the woods as fast as we could. This flummoxed the sheep which started running up and down the fence trying to find a way through, but with no success. The bleating was awful. I actually felt bad about it, but what could we do? As we walked down through the woods it's plaintive bleating grew fainter. We could still hear it, faint and far away, an hour later when we returned to the tent.

The sheep that liked Kendal Mint Cake. Watercolour 31cms x 41cms 2016

That night the bar was dead quite, as the Wild Bunch had gone. Next morning was a stinker, blowing a gale, heavy rain and bitterly cold, but it was time to go home. Again we had a breakfast entertainment as a party of school children struggled to pitch an unruly tent which blew up and billowed in the wind.

The drive back down the glen to Kirrie was a misery so we stopped for lunch at Franchi's café. This was a traditional affair of soup, mince and tatties with peas followed by apple tart and custard. This went down well and we both felt warmer.

Back in Dundee Eric's mum made us tea while we sorted out our gear and had a much needed wash. We intended to go out. Before that, Eric wanted to visit an elderly family friend so we went there for a chat but I had to nudge him as time was passing. It was after 9 o' clock and the pubs closed at ten. We rushed to Mrs Mennies, otherwise the Speedwell Bar on the Perth Road, but the place was dead. Nothing had changed, however, and it still had the Muirhead Bone lithographs of landscapes of the Great War on the walls. We had a quick pint there then I said,

"Come on, why don't we go to the Tavern?"

which was the favourite art student bar in the Hawkhill, which we'd never been in for six years. There, nearly everything had changed. The area we knew so well had been completely demolished. Tenements, shops and Jute Mills had all gone, but by some miracle the Tavern still stood, sticking out of the desolation like a rotten tooth. A solitary gas lamp flickered outside it's door. It was bizarre.

We were in an excellent hurry when we strode in but were stopped dead in our tracks. It was just as we had left it, packed out, stinking and smoky. Some of the same, well kent faces were propped up at the bar. My immediate image was of survivors in the water clinging to a sinking lifeboat for dear life. Nothing had changed, we had never been away, but of course that wasn't true. We were greeted and treated like long lost friends and drams quickly followed pints. Then it was closing time with a big carry out and back to Dave Annan's flat. The girl from next door produced a bottle of excellent Malt and it didn't take much to make us drunk after all the fresh air. There was lots of reminiscing and catching up and Eric and Ronnie Macdonald had an argy-bargy about Nationalism. We wandered home late and drunk, but happy.

Next day Eric can't move. He's had it. I can't even get a grunt out of him. I drove back to Kinghorn and thought about what to do next. I still had a few days holiday left so the next day I drove to Edinburgh and met my pall John at an Art Gallery. Then we went to the Abbotsford Bar. I drove back the next day but didn't feel well at all. I took to my bed with gastro enteritis and had to phone my work in London to say I was ill and couldn't be back for another week.

The truth was that even the thought of driving south again was enough to make me feel ill. When driving north I had a wonderful sense of anticipation which overcame the aches and pains of the journey. Going south, however, especially entering the miles and miles of urban sprawl around London filled me with nausea and gloom. When I was fit I drove the bike to Edinburgh and put it on a London train. I travelled south in comfort and by 1830 hours I was back in the Smoke, sad to have left Scotland behind.