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.