The Highlands, Day 5

I'm feeling a bit concerned about today - twenty miles didn't seem too much when planning this, but now I worry I didn't really take the climb into account.  The plan is to get to the summit of Ben Avon, another Munro, and then camp somewhere the other side.  Well, no worries about getting to a campsite before the reception shuts at least.

Dangerous bridge.

The day does not start well.  Leaving Braemar I walk into woodland and pretty soon take a wrong turn, slogging uphill for twenty minutes or so before I realise.  Eventually I cross the Dee and things seem to be on the right track, although bridge issues arise again when I find one fenced off as dangerous.  It takes my weight alright, then there is an electric fence on the other side, and once over that I go the wrong way again.  Turns out the planned route is through a high gate with 'private' and 'danger of death' on it.  Well, I find an alternative route easily enough...

Waterfalls cascading down from Ben Avon.

From here it is straight up to Ben Avon, easily enough at first as I climb gently through woods and a pleasant glen.  But the hill just keeps coming, somehow this is much harder work than Cairn Gorm despite being slightly lower.  I reach the end of the glen and climb sharply to one side past an impressive series of waterfalls, only to find myself in another glen.  Finally I reach a plateau of sorts, an odd landscape of small hillocks and hollows, with 'paps' as the chap in the pub last night called them - piles of stones really - poking up here and there.  The biggest of them is the summit, and I make my way towards it, feeling rather woozy.

The summit

Well, a clamber up the summit for a photo, and a mars bar, and I feel a bit better.  Good thing as it is 6.30pm and I still have some miles to go.  The sun is setting and I find myself marching down steep, trackless heather-clad slopes in the gathering gloom, then actually climbing again to a lesser summit.  Then more steep descent, not good in the growing darkness, and when I find a little bit of grass amid some peat hags I consider calling it a day.  But I press on and soon find a proper gravel track to follow, leading down to a glen where after a mile or so I find my camp spot, at only 9.15pm.  Still time to cook up a big pot of noodles before a well deserved sleep.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

The Highlands, Day 4

Carn a'Mhaim seen from the slopes of Ben Macdui.

One good thing about camping at well over three thousand feet, it is really not far to reach my second Munro of the week, Ben Macdui.  Shame that just like Cairn Gorm yesterday, it is in a cloud... But while the climb was easy, the descent is not, a steep boulder field that I make slow progress over.  As I climb down I can see my next target, another Munro, Carn a'Mhaim.  Looks to be the high point of a knife edge ridge...

Turns out Carn a'Mhaim is an easy climb, but again the descent is horrid, and I'm very glad to reach a flat walk along a burn.  Then I come to a point where the path crosses a burn... ah, this is what that sign yesterday was about.  No help for it, I take my boots off and wade - at least there are a couple of locals to show me how it's done.  On the far bank I notice it has gone 4pm and I still have many miles to go, so, forced march for three hours it is.

Washed away bridge over Derry Burn.

I reach today's destination, Braemar, a little worse for wear.  Very nice to have a beer or three in convivial surroundings, and an excellent burger - Angus of course.  There is even live music!  I run into one of the chaps from the wading incident earlier, apparently he and his mate, whose 70th birthday it is, walked twenty miles from Aviemore today.  Hope I can still do that at such an age...

Walking along the Glen o' Dee towards Braemar.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

The Highlands, Day 3

Delightful walking outside Aviemore.

I get up and make use of the campsite's facilities - showers and tumble dryers!  Then into Aviemore for a coffee and a bit of shopping.  Some schoolkids with clipboards are questioning the many tourists, including me.  Where are you from?  London.  How did you get here?  I walked.  Not a flicker...

Heading out of town I come into some lovely walking country, a mix of sparse woodland and heather-clad moor, cut through by fast moving streams, or burns I suppose.  I have higher altitudes to head for though, so ignoring a sign warning of a washed away bridge I start climbing.

Cairn Gorm summit.

High point of the day is Cairn Gorm, my first Munro for a few years.  After an interesting scramble through a rocky gully I spot the funicular leading up the mountain, it doesn't look too high.  A little further along though it becomes clear that a deep ravine lies between me and the mountain, ah well - it is a pretty spot at the bottom at least, and not too hard work to reach the funicular base station, complete with ski school signs.  Must start planning some trips for the winter...

Better still there is a cafe with beer.  I drink a bottle of Cairngorm Gold, and buy another to take up the hill.  And it is quite a hill, the slog up past ski lifts takes me an hour and a half, and I'm not done... Seems I misread my map, rather than a short walk downhill it is a couple of miles over various peaks to my chosen camp spot.  Worth it though, there is springy moss to pitch on and a small loch for water, it is really rather idyllic.

Camping at 3600ft!

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

The Highlands, Day 2

A lunch hut.

The rain is coming down when I wake up, but for a wonder it stops by 9am or so, time to head off then.  It's another long day, twenty miles or so, though at least today there should be a pub at the end.  I walk along more roads, then gravel tracks, then a mile or so off piste, which of course turns out to be fairly unpleasant bog.

On the moors.

I am a little curious as to why there is no track across this section of moorland - there seem to be plenty about generally.  Perhaps the explanation comes when I reach a fence, different landowners eh.  Looks like it may be electric, so I gingerly try the back of my hand against the wire.  Nothing happens, so, I straddle the thing on my way to the other side - then feel a serious jolt of electricity course through me.  Given my position on the fence you can imagine which part of my body takes the brunt, ouch.  I manage to clamber over without touching that wire again, and before long am back on a gravel track.

Seems to be all about the grouses up here.  I pass traps designed for creatures foolish enough to prey on the precious birds, and the dug out shelters the wealthy tourists shoot them from.  There are all terrain vehicles with attached trays still covered with feathers, and even a few 'lunch huts' which allow me to escape the wind for a little while.  From the grouse moors it is downhill to Aviemore, where I have a proper campsite  And even an Italian restaurant with an all you can eat buffet, sweet.

Pizza!

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

The Highlands, Day 1

Downtown Inverness.

Right, another big one.  Don't seem to have done much walking this year, and it is also way too long since I was up a Scottish mountain.  Time to kill two birds with one stone then.  I take the quick way north, flying to Inverness - this is how airports should be, no queues, apart from the one for taxis.  I get a bus instead, and reach my hotel in time for a beer or two.  There is, of course, a wedding reception..

On a loch.

Next morning, after a massive breakfast and a bit of shopping, I head off along the river Ness.  It is very pleasant, but I have steeper walking in mind, and soon start heading up.  I get a glimpse of Loch Ness, then pass by numerous other lochs.  I fill my cunning water filter from one... and while it may be removing the disease causing nasties, the water that emerges is still yellow and peaty.

My whole route today is on roads, but hardly busy ones - indeed for the last two or three hours of walking I see no life other than sheep, rabbits and grouse (grice?).  To be fair, this road doesn't really go anywhere, and indeed my destination today is pretty much the middle of nowhere.  Reaching a suitably bleak spot I erect my tent on a flattish patch of sand, and cook up a plate of macaroni cheese - the yellow water doesn't seem to cause any problem there.  And then, to bed.

Al fresco camping.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

Beautiful Days Festival 2014

Well, I did say I might write something about one of these, so you have been warned.  And what better one to write about, Beautiful Days is a small, friendly festival which has been run by folk-rockers the Levellers for ten years or so, the idea being to return to what festivals used to be like before corporate sponsors brought us Reading and Leeds, and before Glastonbury became the size of a small town.  I've been here for the last five or so, and this year I am stewarding which should be interesting, for one thing I'm here for fully six days, turning up on Wednesday the day before the paying customers.  I pitch my tent (in crew camping!), sign in with the Oxfam people who run the stewarding team (all in a good cause you see), then head for a wander around.  Very little is open at this point, the stages are largely built but there is plenty of activity setting up the food stalls and all the weird and wonderful decor that you see at festivals.  Back to steward HQ for my briefing - don't turn up for work drunk, that sort of thing - and then, of course, to the bar.  My 'backstage access' wristband gets me into the crew bar which is very nice, sofas and everything, and I have a few beers in pleasant company before bed.

Looking towards the main stage, before the public turn up.

 Thursday is when the customers start arriving, though there won't be much music today, and in any case I have to work, in one of the campsites, until midnight.  It's not a bad way to spend a few hours, I wander around the campsite checking for dangerous fires, answer the odd question and give directions, and chat to my fellow stewards.  Even when sheltering from a brief downpour under our watchtower, it still beats sitting in an office.  Midnight comes soon enough, time to find the party - well, turns out on the first day of the festival proper there isn't much of one.  I walk past a few public bars, all just closed, then manage to find a beer or two in the crew bar just before it too closes.  It is still too early to go to bed (for reasons that will become clear) so I head to the fringes of the festival.  Not much is happening, eventually I end up dancing to a reggae / tomtom mixup in the Leviticus tent, before heading to bed.  Well, bedroll anyway...

Public Service Broadcasting.

Friday, I have a good lie in, then meet up with my mate Chris (who has paid to get in, the fool) and enjoy the festival.  With a strong line up at the 'second stage' (Gabby Young, Cara Dillon, Adrian Edmonson and the wonderfully named Carolina Chocolate Drops) we pretty much stay there all day - there is food and beer (not that I drink much) and generally all is good.  The only drawback, I have to be on shift again at midnight, and then all the way through to 8am.  Well, it is good to learn that I can still enjoy the festival without drinking for hours, and I'm not missing much, barring the late night stuff - well, time for that tomorrow.  So, having done this at Glastonbury as well, I have learnt a lesson or two - on with a lot of warm layers of clothing, and back to the watchtower.  It is a long, cold and largely dull night, at least I have company, but there is really not a lot happening - I am up a watchtower in the 'quiet and family' camping area.  Up until as late as 4am people are still wandering back from the silent disco, and we do get the occasional report of breaks in the fence - no sign of the culprits though.  I keep awake thanks to regular deliveries of coffee, and eventually the sun comes up, early risers start to emerge from their tents, and at last, it is eight and I can get back to my tent.  Although I do briefly consider getting some breakfast and just not bothering with sleep...

The lovely Bimble.

Five hours or so later and I'm up and about, I now have the whole weekend free, yay.  Meeting up with Chris once more, we take in the festival sights - there are fire jugglers, giant scrap sculptures, flaming dragon heads and industrial scale bubble machines.  Reaching a favourite part of the festival, the Bimble Inn, a kind of giant elongated teepee, we have a pleasant afternoon watching the little known (but often very good) bands playing there.  Back to stage two (the Big Top) for Steeleye Span, playing songs from their rather cool Terry Pratchett collaboration 'Wintersmith'.  I'm a little sad that the 'ayurvedic' haddock chowder I'd had my eye on is sold out, never mind, almost as good is the massive 'flat cow' burger with stilton and bacon I get instead.  Then back to the Bimble, there is more live music and then a DJ - I still have the energy to dance for a while, but understandably sleep like a log back at the campsite.

All along the watchtower...

Sunday, and the fun continues.  We actually spend time at the main stage for the rather bizarre Public Service Broadcasting, then the big top for festival stalwarts 3 Daft Monkeys.  One of the meal tickets I received as part of the stewarding deal gets me a massive falafel which pretty much keeps me going all day... that and the beer.  More time is spent in the Bimble Inn, and the day flies by, as they do when you're having fun.  Not much sleep for me tonight either as I have an 8am start for my final shift - back to another watchtower in another campsite.  Quite interesting watching the site empty, the tents come down (apart from the abandoned ones), and the clean up crews sweep across removing litter from what increasingly starts to look like a country park again.  There's an unfortunate incident when a cherry picker used to dismantle the speaker stacks topples over, two people are injured and carried off in air ambulances - hopefully without permanent damage.  Not much of interest happens in my campsite though, and at 3pm I'm able to pack up my tent and start the long ride back to London.

So - in retrospect, this was all very enjoyable.  It's a great festival, and the stewarding didn't really impact at all on what I was able to see - and indeed, was often kind of fun in and of itself.  I would do this again.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.

London Triathlon, August 2014

Has been a little while since an update here hasn't it.  Well - this summer I've been using my holidays for festivals, as usual, and unlike last year I've not tried to cram some walking into every free weekend, what with there being DIY stuff that I really needed to catch up on.  I suppose I could write about the festivals... maybe for the next one.  Still, the triathlon certainly seems worth a mention.  Not the first one I've done, that was London back in 2011, then in '12 and '13 I did London again, then Birmingham, in a team with my friends Sam and Alex.  The team thing was good as I just did the cycling, the bit I'm actually good at... but this year I thought I should push myself a bit.

Sunday morning then - early Sunday morning.  One of my biggest worries was that my alarm would go off at 5am and I simply wouldn't be able to face getting up to do the thing, in the event though the battery in my carbon monoxide alarm picks this very moment to expire, so I am forced to get up and hunt out the source of the high pitched beeping.  Might as well go and do the tri then.  A quick cycle to Greenwich, through the foot tunnel and then along the river, and I'm at the Excel Center in good time for my 7.30 start.  Rack up my bike, attach the timing chip to my ankle, wetsuit on, and off to the start... there seems to be some sort of delay, and then my group is big enough that they have to split it in two, I'm happy to be in the second sub-group.  But by 7.35 or so I'm in the water, the hooter sounds, and we're off.

Pedalling along.

Swimming is not really my strong suit.  Bottom line is I am slow, and last time the mile swim, that the stars of the sport do in twenty minutes or so, took me an hour, including a minute or two clinging to a canoe while I got my breath back.  I have been training, but not in open water... in the event the wetsuit isn't a problem, but just as last time, swimming in a straight line is.  The route starts off straight towards the sun, not a good thing to use as a reference given it moves, and making out anything else in the glare is hard.  Several times I find myself swimming the wrong way, more than once bumping into the boundary rope, and heaven knows how much this adds to the distance.  Still, I reach the turnaround, and without the sun in my eyes things are better.  I find that my legs, which I don't use much for swimming as I get out of breath when I do, are getting kind of cold... feeding in a bit more power there I seem to go faster and am still breathing OK.  I can do this!  It is disappointing then when the next wave of swimmers, the 8am starters, begin to overtake me - well, I did start a bit late.  I pull a little to the left to let them pass, the swim continues, and eventually I reach the second turnaround.  Can't be long now, but I'm facing the sun again, not totally sure where I'm going, and the water churns with swimmers overtaking.  It is hard to get any proper stroke going and frankly this is no fun at all... I swim into a boundary rope again, reorient and then spot the exit, and put one last effort into reaching it.  Back on dry land I feel shattered, light-headed and can barely stand, let alone get my wetsuit off and run along with it - but that's what I have to do.

At least my bike is easy to find - being one of only a few left at transition.  It is so tempting just to sit down for a bit, but after pulling on my clothes, shoes and (mandatory) helmet, I grab the bike and wheel it out of the building.  Once outside I'm allowed to get on the thing, and am soon pedalling west.  This bit I can at least do - a bit.  The other competitors are still overtaking me, but probably not going twice as fast, and I seem to be making a fair pace through the wilds of East London, past Billingsgate Fish Market and on to Tower Bridge, following the route taken by the Tour de France a few weeks back.  My legs are feeling it a little though, and with a bit of a headwind this is hard work.  Still, at this pace it doesn't take long to reach Parliament Square, where I turn and now have the wind behind me.  I grab one of the fruit pastilles secreted on the bike and power along the Embankment, this is actually fun, and on reaching the Limehouse Link tunnel I manage a sustained period in top gear.  That is the first lap pretty much done, the second is shorter and barring a small disaster (the last fruit pastille on the bike has escaped somehow!), I get back to the Excel with no problems.

Running out of the Excel Centre.

It all goes a bit wrong in transition though, as I just can't find my space among the hundreds of bikes now racked up.  I could just leave my bike in any space I suppose, but I don't like to - and damn it, I want the rest of those fruit pastilles.  After wandering around for probably several minutes, I find where somebody has put their bike right on top of my stuff, grr.  At least it was a bit of a rest, and so despite the trials of the last two and a half hours I'm able to jog out of the building.  Just six miles to go... I've been running a bit, and it is just putting one foot in front of the other really, and here is where most of the spectators are which is nice, having people cheering you along does help.  It is hard though, my legs are hurting and there is a voice in the back of my mind saying, 'just walk it'.  The thought of the embarrassment of doing that in front of all these people is probably all that stops me, so I keep running, grabbing some water when I can, and eating my way through my packet of pastilles.  It is, after all, only six miles, three laps alongside the docks.  The distance actually goes by in something of a blur, and before I know it I'm turning at the halfway point of my third lap, just a mile to go.  No way I'm going to stop running now, and in fact as I pass a tent pumping out music, adrenaline kicks in and I speed up.  Coming into the building with the finish in sight, there is an odd feeling of euphoria - I guess this is why runners talk about the addiction of the thing, to be honest I am not convinced it is worth it.  Still, I manage to sprint to the line, and this year I've finished in under three and a half hours.  Rubbish it may be, but it's a personal best - keep improving at this rate and I'll be under three hours by the time I'm, er, fifty.  This assuming I ever do this crazy thing again...

With my medal, and wetsuit out to dry.

Photos to go with this post can be found here.