Glen Tilt, Lairig Ghru, the tiny bothy overlooked by the Devil and the Angels, being stunned by a landscape alone, the Monadhliath, and the approaching storm

It has been an overwhelmingly full few days, with not enough words or language itself to describe adequately the journey. I will give it a go, but the adjectives may become annoying.... 

Back in February, when I decided that I was going to go for a very long walk, there were a few places I knew I wanted to pass through, causing the route to be somewhat indirect. This past few days was at the top of the list. Being at the top of the list is an ambiguous honour though. It becomes not only about wanting to see, but also includes an element of trepidation and unfamiliarity, set out on a map that can only give the technical aspects of a landscape. It doesn't prepare you for how it will feel to be there. I had planned to walk this southwards last April, but was put off by tendonitis, and reports of vast snowfields, so I walked a roundabout route through Glen Feshie. This made it all the more a route I had to do. 

I packed up the tent early on Sunday morning, grateful for the rest in the Blair Atholl campsite, and for some familiarity - I had stayed here last year, and there was a couple in a caravan, Gill and Ian, who were there again, and remembered me. Last year they lent me clothes pegs, and this year donated generously to the fundraising. The cloud sat low on the ridge to the south, and was lifting slowly to the north, where my route took me, up steeply past Old Blair, and Old Bridge of Tilt, to a high level track through farmland and woods, to level with the track coming up from the bottom of Glen Tilt. The way for the next 16 miles or so took me north through the length of the Tilt. There was a firing range early on, the other side of the glen, which was busy this Sunday morning. The valley echoed with the sounds of gun fire, targets, and then a lingering rumble through the subsequent forest. The sun was coming out and it felt warm, and the high mountain tops above the glen soon cleared. The atmosphere made every detail clear - deep greens and greys, high passes and waterfall chasms, and dotted cairns and snow patches. People began to appear coming down the glen - a large group of mountain bikers with camping gear attached to their bikes, a couple of girls who had camped in the glen for the night, and a chap with a large rucksack, looking troubled. I wanted to ask him what the river crossing was like at the top but I sensed he wasn't in the mood for talking. I passed a group of gulls resting on rocks in the river, and later as I rested they passed me in a V shape. An hour or so on I passed them resting again, and as I rested further up I saw them being joined by a bigger flock, and they all rose and swirled, catching the light on their white feathers, before swooping over me, swirling again, and disappearing north. I reached the Bedford Bridge by 1pm, a footbridge over the Falls of Tarf, dedicated to a Francis John Bedford who at the age of 18 drowned near there in 1879. I had originally planned to camp there but it was too early and the weather forecast made me keen to cross the Geldie Burn before Monday. A group of teenage boys on D of E passed me, going south, with music blaring from one of the rucksacks. I wanted to suggest that if they have any music, it should be The Sound of Music, but I feel that may not have been appreciated. At the Bedford Bridge the glen narrows and the river is a stream, the Allt Garbh Buidhe, along which I came across three separate carcasses of small deer in different stages of decay, fur still thick and eyes empty. Eventually the path evens out onto the high moorland plain between the southern glens and the mountains to the north. Suddenly a panorama of dark mountains unfolded ahead, whilst horseflies plagued and distracted me. They know exactly where the insect repellent hasn't reached and will silently get you. Thankfully I treated myself to a tube of insect bite cream on my day off in BA. There are two smaller ford crossings which are straightforward and then the Geldie Burn looms. It's a wide river coming from the mountains above Glen Feshie to the west and is renowned for being almost impossible in spate. Fortunately it wasn't impossible as there hasn't been significant rain for a while. The trick is to cross at the widest point if it's shallow, as this is unlikely to fill your boots. If it's in spate I guess you cross anywhere that's narrow and quick enough as wading in fast water is fairly similar however deep it is, unless it's above the waist. I started to cross and then dithered and balanced and then had an argument with myself where common sense won as I was about to set up my tent anyway. I only got a little water in the boots. Just north of the crossing is a derelict barn and I remembered it had flat raised grass around it, so I pitched the tent in high winds, which eventually calmed in the shelter of the barn, and spent the evening outside writing, dodging swifts darting in and out of the window holes, and thankful for the cloud cover which made the horseflies retreat. And I saw no one else for another 24 hours, bar 2 rangers in a 4x4. Curlews flew by, high, and in the brief darkness a snipe voiced its strange call around my tent. The forewarned overnight rain turned out to be drizzle only and the Burn was no higher in the morning. 

The morning cloud was low on the tops again though so I took my time leaving, hanging out with the swifts, and making coffee in my hat and gloves. The two rangers in the 4x4 passed by again, back West to work. They waved and I figured I wouldn't have been the only wild camper they've seen up there. 

I left, away from the familiar route, northwards, skirting the forest plantation dotted with ruined lodges, and came to the river Dee, crossing at the White Bridge, which is definitely not white. It's brown unpainted wood. I was expecting it to be as described. The way then takes a north west direction, following the upper river Dee all day. I passed the Chest of Dee, a beautiful chest of rocks gushing with crystal clear water, and rounded towards the north. The track was clear and covered in footprints and little fallen off bits of bicycle, but still there was no one around. The vast grey almost shining cliff face of Devil's Point suddenly dominated the view, marking the divide between the south and north Lairig. The whole Lairig Ghru came into view - a vast, vast high sided glen marking a pass between five of the highest mountains in the UK. After a while the wide Glen Geusachan opened out to the west, under Devil's Point, walled at the end of it by a high mountain ridge, capped with snow. And ahead the Lairig Ghru rose, Cairn Toul towering above Devil's Point, and Ben Macdui to the east. Cairn Toul has the most lingering field of snow in the UK on one of its reaches, with apparently only three reports of the mountain being snow free since the 18th century. The air was cool, and even though I was gradually ascending I was adding layers. The only wildlife I saw were lots of frogs and big black beetles, the occasional curlew or raven and a lone skylark. The Courrour bothy came into view, looking even smaller than I felt, under the looming Devil's Point. I reached it, finding the door open and a couple just leaving, whilst flying their drone over the bothy one last time. A tent was pitched outside with no resident about, and I had the whole tiny place in the whole huge landscape to myself. This soon changed as two figures appeared approaching from across the Lairig. They turned out to be Paul, a 75 year old lithe broad-Yorkshire man, out bagging his last few Monros, and Jamie, a professional mountain guide accompanying him. Jamie is out 'on the hill' every day for a living - a softly spoken big tall Scotsman from Skye. Paul started bagging the 282 Munros with his friend Alan only a few years ago, and while Alan has had to hang up his boots, Paul is 8 off finishing - or 1 off finishing by the end of this week. So he has been going climbing with Jamie and they now know each other well. Paul could talk for Yorkshire, and was regaling me with wonderful stories and hilarious undertakings, while Matthew who owned the tent, a younger Yorkshire man, arrived back. We all retreated out of the cold to make tea inside. One of the unique features of the Courrour bothy is that because it is one of the most popular in Scotland, a long drop toilet was installed in 2010, as the surrounds were becoming a biohazard. This is a Very Good Thing, obviously, but the memory of it will one day, hopefully, be erased. There is no gap in the door, meaning you have to take a torch in with you, and there are two toilet seats side by side (I have no idea why). Not only can you ever unsee what you see but you can never unsmell it either. The trick is to zip up all your pockets, cover your face, and don't, whatever you do, look down. 

As we were sitting round chatting and cooking two big Czech men appeared, hiking the Cairngorms. With barely a word of English we managed to share out the whisky supplies and work out a sleeping arrangement, until at 9pm two more big burly Czech hikers appeared, breaking out the 'Czech whisky' which turned out to be a very potent plum liqueur. Eventually we managed a sleeping arrangement. Matthew and Jamie were outside in tents, I, being the only female, had the high sleeping platform, Paul was directly below in the alcove, and the four Czechs in a row on the floor. I was very glad we hadn't lit a fire as by the morning it was steaming in there. I packed up and dressed, warning them all so they could avert their eyes, and escaped outside to make coffee, almost avoiding the sight of burly Eastern Europeans in their pants. The morning was cold but almost clear and it was only a privilege to be able to make coffee in such a landscape first thing in the morning. Everyone else had the same idea and we all ended up outside in coats and hats, brewing up. The fresh air after that night was wonderful. Paul and Jamie departed up the mountain path off to bag five Munros, bidding a fond farewell. Paul is expecting to go into a Waterstones in a couple of years and buy my book - we thought 'The girl with the green rucksack' might be a good title. And then we all gradually departed, saying a silent thank you to that little place in that overwhelmingly huge place. 

I rejoined the track heading north, a sharper ascent now towards the summit of the Lairig. Angel's Peak came into view, after Carn Toul, and Braeriach I think behind. With Ben Macdui the other side I was surrounded by five of the ten highest peaks in the UK. This is on your doorstep people! Standing dark, unforgiving, demanding full respect, dominating everything. I couldn't help but be stunned. The next glen to the west revealed even more peaks, the Garbh Choire refuge hut just about visible in the distance. Courrour disappeared behind and I ascended steeply towards the summit of the Lairig Ghru, where the glen narrowed and eventually hid the peaks behind, and the pools of Dee at the source glinted under the silver grey bright cloud. The summit becomes a boulder field at the bealach, and I rested, with a new view of Aviemore below. I remembered that this was meant to be the highest point of my walk. It turns out it isn't - Cross Fell really was, 200 feet higher. The long descent took me into the fragrant Rothiemurchus forest, Scots pines interspersed with tight heather and blueberry bushes. I was now beside myself with tiredness and having to will every step, and I'm not entirely sure why. They weren't my longest days at all, but I think it's now becoming cumulative. Coffee and a beer in Aviemore at the first opportunity put this right. 

Today I ascended out of Aviemore and into the north Monadhliath on a wide track into the hills called the 'Burma Road', built by prisoners of war in 1940. The first ascent was straight up, steep and long, with the great panorama of Cairngorms behind, dark under the clouds. I could see from Glen Feshie all the way to the ski lift at Glenmore. The land was suddenly different - rough dry heather Moor, against rounded brown hills. At the top of the ascent I put on my hat and fleece as there was a very cold wind, and descended into vast open moor, on a track that would be visible from the moon, with single pines dotted here and there, all with the same lean as though the wind from the south east was constant. I came across a submerged wood-lined grouse butt by the track, so got in and sheltered, putting on scarf and gloves. I considered leaving a neatly written grafitti along the lines of 'Grouse have lives and families too. Be vegetarian.' But I didn't. I was grateful for the shelter. The track took me down to cross the river Dulnain and then out through river plain, forest and high track again, as the light but cold rain persisted. I joined cycle route 7, where I saw the first people all day, and was working out on the map where to wild camp when I came across an unexpected hostel at Slochd Mohr. With the now named threatened storm the temptation was too great, so I enquired and booked in. Earlier in the walk I might have seen it out, but I am getting tired. It's so very peaceful here, in spite of the fact that it's in between the railway and the A9. It makes tomorrow longer but it's an easier route into Inverness. And there are more and more days now and more to come when I am spending no money at all. So I guess it evens out. There is one other person resident here - Ian, a lovely chap, who is staying for two months, and as part of his time is assisting in a dragonfly study. The hostel is homely, with a whole assortment of pairs of Crocs of every different size at the entrance for guests to use. So I have been shuffling around in big turquoise Crocs and walking socks. Ian and I chatted over tea in the bag kitchen, straight into theology, the environment, why we do what we do. They have been trying to sell the hostel for six years, to no avail, so it keeps on going. It functions as a bike repair place and a ski centre in the winter. I would buy it if it wasn't for the money and lack of appropriate knowledge. 

It has been ominously still around the hostel, sheltered somewhat by forest, but the clouds above are moving fast and now it has started to rain. It could be a wet day tomorrow.