Bushcraft and trig

A windswept Rachel, glad to find a trig point where it should be. The rope was for the dog, (honest!)

Yorkshire moors

Hobo stove with brew on, Rachel will be making a 'proper' fire to cook on, the camouflage sheet is a poncho over the kitchen area

Rachel having fun with her lines

Setting up bushcraft camp There is a certain frisson of excitement to be stepping out of the door with a rucksack and having no certainty as to where the day will end and shelter for the night be found. Rush hour was just getting underway as I headed across town on the underground.The tube, a mass of humanity, heading for offices, another day of toil at their city desks; more hours of the same, repetitive tedium. People, blank faced mutely suffering the crowding of personal space, jostling, shuffling to board the packed compartment. Many hide behind the freebie newspapers that abound; women hastily applying their makeup; I have never managed to make a decent job of doing my makeup on public transport and yet many women deftly apply mascara and eyeshadow with casual dexterity as the train sways and shudders through the tunnels. With my travel stained clothing and scruffy rucksack, I stand out as something different, an oddity in the days humdrum existence; eyes scan me from head to toe and then dismiss me.

St Pancras has recently had a massive rebuild and the connecting tunnels from Kings Cross a veritable rabbit warren. St Pancras station has a very long central concourse and great throngs of humanity where sweeping through. A virtual tidal wave of literally hundreds of people where relentlessly all heading in the one direction. Swimming against that mighty host was a daunting prospect, hesitate and you would be swept away and it took steely determination to plough on through. Standing by the barriers waiting for the message board to announce which platform my train would be at, I watched as more trains disgorged yet more people; all of them, as if by some primal homing instinct, heading in to the city, an ants nest, a mighty organism, man, the herd animal.
After a flurry of messages back and forward Rachel and myself had agreed to meet up in Nottingham. Rachel has, among her range of outdoor activities, a hobby of collecting trig points, what she does with them I dare not ask? A good enough reason to get out and explore and it certainly enhances the map reading skills. However, the plan was for Rachel to pick me up in Nottingham and from there we would head out, find a couple of trig points and then find a place to set up camp in a certain area of woodland.Having duly met up by late morning as planned, we set out. The afternoon was spent travelling to a variety of locations with some interesting walks through woods and fields, seeking out illusive trig points. With two trig points duly recorded we discreetly took to the woods for an overnight bushcraft camp. Bushcraft camping carries much the same ethos as any form of wild camping, leave no trace,be discreet and cause no damage. There are differences though; often a tarp of some form is used in place of a tent; these can be slightly heavier than the ultra light tarps and and much larger. The benefits are many though, the volume of space under a large tarp is immense, my tarp is 3metre by 3 and Rachel's is even larger; they offer full protection from any weather, making them ideal for winter and at the same time offer all round vision of the surrounding woods and I have often seen deer close by. In summer a lighter and smaller tarp and bivi bag often suffice.

As soon as camp was set up my small hobo stove put to use for a brew of tea while Rachel bustled around gathering wood for what she considers 'a proper fire'. Open fires are not for summer in the woods, with all the risks of a potential forest fire; at this time of the year there was no real risk and all traces would be removed the following morning. Heavy, blustery showers where sweeping through, the wind roaring in the tree tops but we where snug. When travelling solo my food is basic, lightweight dried rations; Rachel though likes to cook and prepared a sumptuous and delicious supper with caramelised prawns and baked potatoes. As is the norm. with me at the moment I had a broken nights sleep, having to get up eight or nine times during the night; at least I had time to listen the noises of the night, the call of owls, the bark of a fox, night creatures scurrying and scuffling through the leaf litter.

The following morning, after a leisurely start, Rachel introduced me to yet more joys and also the headaches of trig hunting. At one point we found ourselves revolving in circles in a brand new housing estate not even yet marked on any map. We could only surmise that the trig point, if it still existed, must be at the edge of someones back garden? It would seem trig points are illusive animals, two at least on Rachel's list had been removed by local farmers. Some lurked in the depths of hedgerows, as found out when we sought one in the middle of a pristine looking golf course. In all due respect to the golfers, no one raised an eyebrow or challenged us as we cast about, map in hand seeking the skulking trig. At another point, wandering along bridleways Rachel's keen eyes spotted a stoat, we also managed to spot a baby one too. Muddy fields where carefully negotiated, up bridleways, down paths and even roadside trig points, we sought them all at points, north, south, east and west, Rachel is a determined lass and was a sight to behold as she pored over the map, muttering incantations under her breath and having some strong words concerning farmers who remove her sought after object.

Rachel was tired after a long session working nights and we retired to her place that night. The Saturday morning saw us out once more on the hunt. Rachel had hijacked ( borrowed) a dog to accompany us during the course of our days rambling. This time we where heading for the moors above Keighley. Some fine moorland walking, wide open spaces, the dog though was not versed in the ways of hill walking and was a little flummoxed when confronted with a high dry stone wall. He accepted though, with great equanimity, the indignity of being scooped up and passed over the wall. A lovely walk with fine views, blustery but dry. After a quick lunch we where soon heading rapidly up another hill to bag yet another trig; well at least the dog was, closely followed by Rachel, with me in the rear doing the granny shuffle, huffing and puffing. It was good to be out though and an enjoyable few days where had.

Flame and fumes

Vapalux Bialladin

Quite a while back for some unknown reason I purchased a couple of paraffin pressure lanterns; well the seller wanted to get rid of them and I made a ridiculous offer which, to my surprise was accepted. One turned out to be a fairly modern vapalux and the other was an ancient bialladin in very poor condition. Both where put away in the back of the cupboard as something to be worked on at a later date. Recently I dug them out and began some work on them. The old bialladin has had new washers fitted and a replacement hood but I am a tad hesitant in actually lighting it. The vapalux looks almost new and after checking the washers, testing for pressure in the tank, I fitted a new mantle. To be honest, I rather think the person who sold it had little idea of how these beasts actually work. Finding nothing outwardly wrong with it apart from a broken mantle, which I replaced there was only one option, actually firing it up. A quick trip to the local diy shop, unfortunately I could only buy paraffin in 4litre containers, some meths and I was ready. Lighting these pressure lanterns does involve a certain procedure; firstly, the new mantle has to be set fire to; a nice bit of smoke and scorched sort of smell wafted around the flat, next came the priming, air release valve open, meths poured in to priming cup and lit, leave well alone until almost all flame has gone, screw shut air valve and a few tentative pumps, splutter, splutter, more flame, a bit of smoke, some fumes and the lamp purred into life. After that it was case of bringing it up to full pressure and seeing what would happen, the lamp ran excellently, chucking out loads of light and heat and that slightly pungent odour that the lanterns give off. Whew! when I get up courage the ancient lamp will be worked on too, doing these sort of things on the draining board is possibly not the best way however, I have little option.

Wild women

Rachel and I had agreed to meet up for a few days over her birthday. Rachel, being in nursing, which can mean long hours and low pay, had asked that I arrive on the Wednesday late afternoon, which I duly did, stopping over at her place that night. It can be fair to say that Rachel is an enthusiastic outdoor woman, ever keen to learn new skills; thus it was that on the Thursday, after picking up essential bush craft supplies of eggs, bacon, sausages and other items of food, we headed for a wood not far from leeds. It was to be Rachel's first experience of a night out, bush craft mode, under a tarp and in a bivi bag. It was cold as we made our way through the woods, being unsure of what equipment Rachel had, meant that I had packed a extra gear and some of it did come in useful but it meant extra weight. A river threatened to bar our way but the lass was having none of it and swiftly picked her way across, whereas I struggled a tad, my old leaky boots swiftly filling up with icy water. Another river crossing and then a quick heads together to decide where to pitch; the original choice was a mite exposed to the rising wind that was sweeping down the valley; finally we opted for a fairly level space tucked in close to the wood. With the light fading fast, we divided duties and while I erected the tarps using a network of guy lines, Rachel bustled around swiftly bustled around gathering firewood. With impressive skill, using her little tinder bag and steel striker, no matches here if you please, she soon had a fire blazing merrily; equally noteworthy was the fact that she did not make a common mistake and produce too large a fire. With a compact but hot fire burning well, glowing coals where soon produced and Rachel popped in tin foil wrapped chicken and potatoes. An excellent supper of crispy chicken and baked potatoes washed down by a mug of hot chocolate. Sleet and rain, driven by the rising wind scudded down the valley but we remained comfortable. As yet the medical problems I have been experiencing made things a tad tedious during the night. Pheasants clattered off in the dark protesting loudly, something had obviously disturbed their roosting spot; owls called to one another and a dog fox barked close by, possibly he had been after the pheasants? We where awake early and did not have time to linger, Rachel's car had a hot date with the garage for it's mot before we headed up in to the Dales. We had to hustle a bit but still had time for sausages and mugs of tea before moving on. Mot over and we took to the road once more; our destination was Malham. Unable to book in to a bunkhouse or camping barn we opted for the luxury of the youth hostel and we managed a room to ourselves. Having booked in we headed around to the pub for a meal; a very rare thing for me. The night was clear and frosty with the full moon riding high; being a practical lass, Rachel made sure a few lengths of climbing rope where to hand and she kept a wary eye on me!!?? There was a heavy frost overnight, however the morning was bright and crystal clear, the clarity was amazing with stunning views of the Dales in all directions. Our first goal was Fountains Fell, the initial start from the car was a chilly one with a biting northerly wind, but the ascent up the fell side soon warmed us. The ground was heavily frozen and many areas still had quite a quantity of snow which meant some marvellous walking as we made our way upward plodding on a long avenue of hard packed nieve that would have made an excellent ski run. We joked about having failed to think about hijacking the hostel metal tea tray, it would have made an ideal sledge. Despite the cold and piercing wind, temperatures where well below zero, we where loath to leave. The panoramic views from the top where breath taking; it has been a long while since I last experienced such a mix of awesome weather and grand scenery. Our next objective was a nearby trig point, a strangely addictive pastime, akin to bagging tops but somehow different. On our way across we spent time deciphering tracks in the snow, a fox, the outline of where his tail had brushed in the snow, quite distinctive, also the spot where he had pounced searching for some unsuspecting creature below the snow cover. The spot where a hare had diagonally crossed a bank of snow and over a wall; the prints of a largish bird, quite probably a grouse and strange little runs of earth where moles had tunnelled very close to the surface. From the trig we descended to a bridleway that would lead us back to the car. Gates through the dry stone walls where heavily banked with snow which made for some interesting manoeuvring to cross them. A good day out in superb conditions. The following day was a short walk to bag another trig point and then journey back. Altogether a good couple of days out, varied and interesting and with some good company too.

Ignomious retreat

My attempt to get away over the Christmas period had been thwarted by inclement weather; National express had been apologetic but the A9 being blocked by snow and ice had meant service cancellations. Finally, in the first week of January, I managed to get away; once more heading north towards Aviemore. This was the first time in two years that I had packed my full winter kit and I was excited at the prospect of some decent winter weather. However, on the run up I was experiencing problems. For the last couple of years I have been experiencing an on going bladder problem; despite two operations things have still not been resolved and I have to yet again go back to see the surgeon. Travelling overnight on the coach I made several trips to the loo and was a tad concerned. In Aviemore I made sure I drank fluids before heading out, as per usual I really did not feel like eating, just managing a bun out of necessity. The weather was amazing, Aviemore was snow bound with over a foot of snow, great banks of snow on each side of the road which had been cleared by snowplough; pavements, forget it, it was a case of legging it down the road and jumping in to the snow bank when traffic approached. Normally I have a quite regular route when heading through the Rothiemurchas; this time though I had no option but to follow a more circuitous route. Had a look at one path, or at least where the path would have been; I could see where deer had been floundering around belly deep, tentatively tried it but with snow over three foot deep in places it was no go. It was an awesome walk through the forest; a clear sky overhead with a pale, late afternoon sun, deep snow blanketing everything and not a breath of wind meant a cathedral like hush to everything, silence utter silence, wonderful. What would normally take me a couple of hours to walk took more than twice as long. That is normal in the depths of winter; everything takes that much longer. Stopping a few times for the loo did not help matters; not easy in sub zero temperatures and wearing salopettes over my paramo trousers.It was obvious I was not going to make much distance and with time getting on and temperatures dropping, I stopped before I even made the Rothiemurchas bridge. Setting up camp in deep snow can be interesting, a flat area has to stamped down to allow a level area for the tent; by the time I got that sorted, got the tent up and some blocks of snow ready to melt for a drink, my baby thermometer was reading almost minus ten. Thermarests do not work well on ice and I find it essential to pack spare jackets and so on under the sleeping bag for insulation. My hopes that drinking plenty of fluids may have eased the bladder problem, it sounds an anomaly but lack of fluids actually acerbate the situation. Unfortunately it was not to be, the whole night was spent in and out of the tent, the problem was heightened by the fact that I was getting severe cramp each time I tried to get dressed and ram my feet in to half frozen boots. Often I ended bare footed and just dressed in a pair of thermal bottoms that I use as pyjamas in cold weather; each time meant a return to the sleeping back and trying to rearrange my insulation layers while shivering violently. Temperatures by early morning where hitting minus twenty three on average and I was getting numb, somewhere I had stepped beyond the shivering stage to the early stages of hypothermia. Dug the gas cylinder out of the sleeping bag and started melting snow to get some hot fluids down me. My first inclination was to pack up and move on, get thawed out, set up camp and rest up a bit. However, I was having difficulty co ordinating as I packed up and it was soon obvious I had little choice but to head out. That was a bitter pill to swallow. A couple of cross country skiers that I met on the way back where very concerned because they thought I was a tad wobbly and suggested calling the mrt; however I felt I was in control of things and assured them night was okay. Once back in Aviemore it was a case of a bus to Inverness and fortunately the ticket office there very kindly changed my ticket to allow me to travel that same night. To be honest I am worried, my winter trips have always been special and I love getting away but if this problem is not sorted, well, life is going to be difficult

Dales Ramble

Having been invited up to the Dales by a friend, I travelled up to Leeds on the coach where she picked me up. On our first night we stayed over at Grinton lodge YH, having the whole place to ourselves was novel experience and rather nice. The moon was riding high and shining bright tempting us out for a short walk, the night was frosty and ice covered much of the road and due to the fact we had little cold weather clothes on meant we did not linger for too long; if we had been dressed more appropriately it would have been a good night for a walk. When we returned Rachel made hot chocolate which was most welcome, especially being drunk in front of an open fire.
After a sumptuous breakfast the following morning we headed over to Garsdale, stopping at Hawes on the way. The small road leading up the valley was icy and the car struggled to get any grip. After some tricky juggling we eased the car back down to park at the side of the road and decided to walk up the valley instead of driving. Ice on the road further up made the decision a wise one. Several houses are still in use high up the fell, unfortunately most are now holiday lets. One such, now being refurbished was at one time occupied by relatives of Rachel's; so it was a nostalgic moment for her and possibly in some ways a sad one too. Beyond the last of the buildings an indistinct path led us higher up the hill to a saddle; Rachel proved very adept at finding the way ahead. By now the best of the day was gone and the light was starting to fade; also, it was obvious the weather was on the change. After some casting around we got the tents up and the stoves on for a brew. This was Rachel's first winter wild camp and later that evening, in increasingly bad weather with snow now being driven by strong winds, Rachel admitted her growing apprehension. Sitting with hot drinks and a snack in my tent we discussed the matter; I admired Rachel for her honesty; there is no point in false bravado and silently suffering. After talking things through we unanimously decided it better to pack and head back down the valley. Working swiftly by head torch we packed up camp and began to head back out. After a momentary few minutes of indecision we steered on a direct compass bearing; unfortunately directly in to the driving wind and snow, our head torches illuminating the swirling snow, lonely islands of light in the darkness. Keeping to a simple navigation technique I stayed at the rear with the compass with Rachel ahead of me. With great fortitude and patience she accepted my brief and somewhat terse commands; 'left Rachel, left, left, bear left, right a fraction, right, slow down a tad lass'. If anyone had been able to see and hear us they may well have thought I was teaching her to herd sheep, 'come by, come by, away, away, steady now, easssy'??? The one downside with steering on a direct bearing was the fact that we where negotiating some horrendous ground, bog, tussock, thick reed and small, meandering streams. A few time I plunged in to unseen bits of bog; at one point I slipped and went in to a stream. To cap it though I suddenly felt the ground quake beneath me and before I could react I sank rapidly up to my waist, yet more cold water finding its way down my trousers, struggling and unable to get a decent purchase of anything, I finally belly flopped out of the clutching ooze on to firmer ground, the bog reluctant to release its grip to the last. Staggering to my feet, Rachel and I exchanged wild and somewhat manic grins and after a couple of reassuring hugs we lurched onward. The bog monster had been deprived of its supper and we had now done the bog swim and dance, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Finally, a group of trees and the ruins of a building loomed out of the darkness confirming our position; even more important a footpath sign showed that our navigation had been correct. Shortly beyond the sign we stumbled on to a snow covered track which, although a slightly route led back down the valley and eventually back to the car. As we descended lower the snow turned to sleet and eventually driving, icy rain. Despite the late hour we knew of a pub not far back down the road and we headed straight for it. We had been thinking of trying to get a bed for the night there. The landlord though was away at a darts match and the lady behind the bar was unable to contact him. Despite our wet and disheveled appearance a somewhat inebriated local farmer propositioned us to a threesome if we went back to his farm. Rachel, with admirable aplomb, politely declined the offer; after all, this was hardly the time or the place for such things! Directed to a b&b next door we hesitantly knocked on the door and where promptly issued in and showered with kindness, mugs of hot tea being rapidly produced, no complaints as we struggled out of wet and muddy boots and foul weather gear, leaving pools of water all over the floor. A room was rapidly made ready for us and eventually, warm and dry we where able to relax and laugh and joke about the events of the day, an interesting and somewhat eventful one it had been too.

Dawn's carving

Something else I do is wood carving. Although really a novice, there is something enjoyable in shaping and working wood. Often it is a case of trial and error. Working in the confines of a small flat bring added problems, fortunately I have no carpets, however, keeping on top of the dust and wood shavings and chippings involves a daily wash down of the flat. In the picture are a variety of Australian goldfield burls, very hard wood to work with, cutting out the actual bowl has seen wood chips flying in all directions. The chips are extremely hard and often draw blood, finding them in my mug of tea is another hazard. The large bowl was done for an acquaintance down in South Wales; she is doing a pre Christmas stall and I have provided a few bits. Getting it all down to Wales was interesting, involving a light sack barrow and a large holdall and lugging it on and off public transport. The spoons are treated with a food safe vegetable oil, mainly olive or walnut oil. The burls are treated with Danish oil to feed and enhance the wood, and given a final polish. The next project in the wings is another burl, possibly a red malee burl. These things are not cheap to produce, the wood itself is costly and because I carve by hand they involve many hours of labour. If anyone is interested they can drop me an e mail.

Gangrel on the Minigaig

Allt Mharcaidh

Allt Mharcaidh

Heading up the Minigaig

Looking down Glen Bruar

Scheicheachan bothy

Thursday 28th October. OS Explorer map 394 835737 Allt Scheicheachan bothy.

Did the usual shuffle up last night; this time around though there was an extra twist. My intention was to head for Blair Athol, the one problem is that there is little in the way of direct public transport in. A local bus service runs from Pitlochry and a few trains stop there. Thus I got off the coach in Aviemore with the intention of heading back to Blair on the train. With some two hours to kill for my train connection I sauntered around Aviemore, had a couple cups of coffee and wandered in to Tesco for a few nibbles and lunch break food. It is peculiar and I wonder if others do the same sort of thing? After picking up a few bread rolls and some fillings, threw a couple bars of chocolate in the basket, then though things get silly, the 'just in case' bits that get picked up as well, that extra bar of chocolate, or, in my case a Selkirk bannock that weighed a ton; odd little snack things to stow away in obscure corners of the rucksack, just in case they may be needed? Train back down to Blair Athol and by now time was getting late; it being near three o clock when I left there. However, being very aware that my intended route for the following day was a long one I wanted to push on. The day was damp and grey but mild. Working my way around to Old Blair I found the track I wanted that would lead to the bothy It climbed up through the woods and everything was dank and dripping and my enthusiasm fizzled away like a damp squib. Once clear of the woods and on to open moorland things picked up as I settled in to a steady, slow plod following the track higher and higher up the rolling moor. Stags where roaring on the hill and I smiled to myself; it was good to hear their gutteral bellowing. A black grouse gave me momentary start as it as it exploded from almost under my feet, clattering away on stubby wings with it's manic 'go back, go back' cry; saw snipe as well. This, way back in the 18th century had been the route of a military road heading for Ruthven barracks before the lower Drumochter, which is now the main A9 road, came in to being. Today, this section is just an estate track. Darkness was coming in rapidly and the cloud base was settling lower and lower, sort of spooky! At first I resisted using the head torch in the growing murk and stuck with focusing on the outline of the track. Eventually though there was little option and the beam of light stabbed out in to the inky blackness. Drizzle and light rain was falling, rain drops glistening in the glare of the torch; wisps and tendrils of thick mist swirled around me, all very atmospheric. The track began to descend and eventually the outline of the tiny bothy loomed hazily ahead, a welcome haven on a dreich night and I was thrilled to find it. With a great sigh of relief I thrust open the door and stumbled wearily inside, letting the rucksack fall to the floor with a thud. A long haul of some eight to ten miles and after a night of travelling and a late start not an easy one; however, my intended route for the morrow dictated I needed to get these few miles out of the way first. No camping tonight, soup, supper and the sleeping bag.

Friday 29th October. Glen Feshie. OS map Explorer 403. Camped GR 848941.

A very hard and difficult day, certainly I was aware that with my lack of fitness that the day would not be easy but it proved more difficult than I wanted. Was away from the bothy before nine. The morning had a dampness to it but it was not raining. Underfoot though things where very wet and in many places greasy. Followed the path that contours around Druim Dubh and dropped down to Bruar lodge. Met a lady out walking from the lodge; she invited me in for tea and toast. Oh sacrilege, shame upon me, I had to refuse, time was against me, rain was forecast for early evening and I hoped to be in glen Feshie by then. Following the track up glen Bruar was a plod and I found it a tad uninspiring. Stopping for a quick break at the head of the glen where the track ended, I was well aware of the dark, bruised, blue, black clouds ominously building up from the west and edging ever closer. A stiffish climb up the hill by Uchd na h-Analach following a fairly discernible path; care map reading was still required and the white quartzite markers where an added aid to navigation. Obviously at one time there must have a well defined track, troop movement across such open moor would have demanded it. It is hard to imagine how it must have been for those soldiers laden with all their gear, intimidating at least. The question then arises as to who first began using this high level way across the hills? Glen Feshie was one of the old drove route through the hills, this route though went up and over, shorter, but a lot more exposed to bad weather. Possibly ancient tribes and local people used it as summer route? These regions, now a lot less populated, where home to many tribes and peoples and would have been very familiar to them. The wind was beginning to rise and the rain came with it. By the time I got to the Minigaig the wind was buffeting me and the rain was sluicing down. Estate buggies had been operating in the area and they had churned the ground to a muddy mess in places. What there was left of the path was a slick, slippery morass; and it became increasingly clear that much of the actual path had disappeared. Trying to follow the buggy tracks was not a real option as they ran every which way possible. With no certainty of where the actual path was the best option was to follow its rough line by map and compass. As I descended the hill the rougher the ground became, quaking bog, peat hags, hidden hollows full of water; awful stuff to navigate through. my intention was to follow a path across and up to Cnapan Cuilce. If there was a path I never found it, the Alt na Cuilce was well up, its dark water swirling ominously. After much scouting back and forward I found a likely spot that might not be too difficult to get across, easing across to a few submerged boulders, I paused for a moment and then using the trekking poles to stabilise me I lunged for the far bank. Fortunately the water was only just above knee deep and the current not too strong, but oh my, it was cold. Following deer trails I headed up the hill and around the edge of the forestry, putting up a large stag and a few hinds that ambled off as I approached them. At least the track marked on the map above the forestry was there, however, there was no immediate sign of the lower path that led down through the forestry. By now it was getting late and darkness was not far away, the weather too was quite bad with driving rain and a strong wind. Taking stock of the situation I decided it would be quicker and easier to stick with the main track although it was longer, higher and more exposed. Following what may have been a fire break down through what looked a tangled mass of undergrowth was not really a viable option. Put up a mountain hare on the way down, it appeared to be in the transitional stage of changing from summer coat to winter; not yet white but a mottled grey. It was pitch black by the time I got down to glen Feshie; the beam of my head torch, a tiny shaft of light stabbing the darkness of the rain lashed night. By now I was running on auto pilot, one weary foot placed in front of the other, just plodding on. With the Carnachuin bridge gone it was obvious that there was no way I was going to make it down to the other bridge and back up the other side. In my mind I had a plan, being fairly familiar with the area, I had mentally marked an area suitable for an emergency camping place. Now was the time to make use of it; although not far below the houses, it was close down by the river and hidden by the trees. The tent was thrown up with no finesse and everything thrown inside. Wet gear off and in to a dry sleeping bag; just as I was about to light the stove though my legs severely cramped up. In agony I got back out of the tent and in a state of semi undress and shivering violently, I tried to ease the cramp out of my hurting legs. Tentatively easing bag in to the sleeping bag, still shivering, it is not easy to strike a match when one is shaking so; however, finally got the stove going, hot fluids, food and more hot fluids. Wearied, that is the hardest thing I have done for a while.
Saturday 30th October, camped OS explorer map 403 GR849019.

Not wanting to be hanging around too late in the morning, tiptoed quietly away from my overnight camp spot. The rain had stopped and the weather was not too bad but I was undecided as to what to do of the day. it had been in my mind to make my way back up toward the bothy and camp, allowing myself a rest day. Mulling it over I decided against it, with the amount of recent rain the possibility of yet more coming back out may have proven interesting getting out. Instead I wandered on down the glen. Followed a path around toward Allt Ruadh, everything very wet. With the rain starting again and wearied from yesterdays long day, it was an easy decision to stop early. This is not the best of places to stop, however, it will suffice for tonight. Rain is still falling, trousers and footwear still wet, wringing out wet socks and putting on wet trousers is never pleasant.

Sunday 1st November. Camped, OS explorer map 403. GR 878053.

Woke to thin, drizzly rain, insidious stuff that seems to creep in everywhere, one feels there is hardly any need for full waterproofs and yet and yet without them clothes would be soon soaked. Even though I had camped in a clear area, camping in forestry is not me favourite ideal and I was glad to be up and away. Once more a fairly easy day was in mind, making my way over to glen Mharcaidh, setting up camp and heading up Geall Charn. That had been the original plan anyway. By the time I got over to glen Mharcaidh the rain was getting steadily heavier; higher up the glen the hillside was running with water. Coming back down to the footbridge I decided to continue on lower down the glen. Although there is a path marked on the map I have never found it in the lower part of the glen. Normally I can pick my way down fairly ok, this time though the whole area was totally saturated and in places flooded. Trying to make my way over toward the trees meant wading knee deep through bog and it was actually easier to stick closer to the river, the water there only came up over my ankles and lower legs and also was not as boggy. As I was heading out in the morning I did not want to get too far in towards Aviemore. My coach was not until the early evening and I did not want to be in Aviemore much before mid afternoon. Despite all the bog and water I had a plan in mind, the big old Scots pines normally offer a haven of firm dry ground and so it proved this time. This afternoon I am comfortably camped on an island surrounded by bog and water with the rain now hammering down, curtains of it. It is colder too, I was glad to put on an extra layer when I stopped.

Monday.
Was in Aviemore by mid afternoon, managed a hot shower in the public loo, oh my, the luxury of a hot shower and clean dry clothes, putting on saturated boots and trousers this morning was unpleasant. Now the long wait for the coach. One can only drink so many cups of coffee and spend so much time in the coffee shops. As it is I have snuck in to the rail station waiting room and hoping no one pays me any mind.