SimonWillis.co.uk

HOME NEWSPAPERS MAGAZINES WEB SITE EXCLUSIVE VIDEO BBC EMAIL

Tour of the Cairngorms A three day ride around Britain’s biggest, highest, wildest mountains with Simon Willis. This is Britain’s Big Country.  Put your mind’s eye into Cinemascope before imagining the Cairngorms, because everything here is longer, further, wider and wilder than you first think.  It is the largest lump of land in these islands over four thousand feet high, a mountain plateau where winter conditions are officially classified as Arctic.  A place where deer stare down on bikes in disbelief, where sensitive body parts must endure repeated river crossings, and where falling off is not a good idea at all.  For heaven’s sake, you feel like you’re in an adventure movie just being there.  Whichever way you look at it, this ride is a good old-fashioned Epic. Our plan was to complete a circuit of the Cairngorms.  We weren’t going to climb any summits, or even attempt to reach the heart of the mountains.  Instead, we’d cross a series of high passes linking together different valleys, or Glens as they’re called in these parts.  We’d travel light, stay at hostels and a hotel, and the whole thing would take just three days. Day 1 Our first surprise was finding ourselves in what looked like a Disney version of the Highlands.  Pedalling from the youth hostel through Braemar was like riding across the lid of a giant shortbread tin.  The land is owned by the big Estates is groomed and managed so it looks the way everyone imagines a Scottish Glen ought to look, with impressive stately homes (Balmoral is just up the road) and horned, hairy highland cattle, originally black but selectively bred to be red by Victorian estate owners who found the colour more aesthetically pleasing.   This tame beauty ends abruptly.  The River Dee clearly got fed up with meandering peacefully down the valley and, several centuries ago, decided to rip its way into solid rock, leaving a superb little canyon with steep, rough sides, down which the river can really thrash about.  This marks the point where everything changes.  The tarmac ends, the cultivated trees disappear, and the landscape appears to expand.  I’m not sure why it is, but it looks like someone has grabbed hold of the view and stretched it out.  If I’m honest, I have to admit that it is a little intimidating, and I noticed that everyone was far less talkative as we rode into this altogether bigger picture. Our plan was to follow Glen Geldie all the way to the top of the valley, cross over into Glen Feshie, down which we’d ride to our overnight stop near Insh.  For James and Steve, this was a completely new type of riding.  They’re keen racers, used to going flat out for three hours, stopping only when they puncture or arrive back home.  So when Alister propped himself and his bike against the White Bridge and lit a roll up, their expressions executed a complete range of emotions, exhibiting a mute eloquence to make any drama coach proud.  Without uttering a word, they visually conducted the following conversation: “Why have we stopped?”  “I don¹t know, how long are we going to stand here?  He’s not going to smoke that, is he?”  “What the hell have we got into?”  “Oh well, this is probably the way they do things?  Good here, isn’t it!” Whatever time of year you ride in the Cairngorms you can be sure of two things.  Firstly, it has recently been raining.  Secondly, it will start raining again fairly soon. Unless it’s winter, in which case it will snow.  So the crossing of streams and rivers are inevitable facts of biking life and there are three methods of reaching the other side; ride, rock hop, or wade across.  Or do what Steve did - fall in.  One minute he was powering through the river creating more spray than Moses parting the Red Sea, the next he was hauling himself to his feet, dripping from helmet to gloves.  Even the best suspension forks can’t handle hitting submerged boulders full on.   Fortunately for Steve, the riding was about to get much tougher.  Land Rover track gave way to rocky single track, and the body heat generated by all the hard work quickly dried his clothes.  I’d planned this route using an old copy of Ralph Storer’s excellent book, ‘Exploring Scottish Hill Tracks’, which describes this section as “fine to walk but far too rocky to cycle”.  Since that was written, bikes have changed, and so has the path.  While it is certainly rough, and there are places where we had to push, this single track section is actually the best riding of the day.  Winding its way through the heather, the route slowly rises to an elegant cairn, marking the point where Glen Geldie ends and the descent to Glen Feshie begins. This is a wonderful wild, open place, but it came close to having a road driven through it.  In the 1720’s when General Wade was building other military roads, he surveyed this route from Deeside to Speyside, as did the engineers Telford and Mitchell in 1828, and many others up to the twentieth century.  Fortunately, the cost and the difficulty of maintenance during extreme winter conditions, have kept Glens Geldie and Feshie undefiled, at least in their upper reaches.  A long, swooping descent and another cold river crossing later, and we were powering down the road towards the hostel. Day 2 Centuries ago, Scotland was covered in so many Caledonian Pine trees that the countryside must have smelled like modern air freshener.  Most trees were cleared, and now, the best place to find such pines is the Rothiemurchus Forest.  A few years ago, a confusing array of tracks conspired to turn the place into a massive maze, but good maps and clear way marking have produced something of a mountain bike mecca.  Starting at Loch an Eilein, it’s now easy to plan and follow a route to the Cairngorm Club footbridge and on towards Loch Morlich, where the banana cake in the Glenmore Shop and Cafe makes this whole expedition worthwhile. We’d decided to spend the night in Tomintoul at the North Eastern edge of the Cairngorms and, just before the Ryvoan Bothy, we had to decide how to get there.  One track climbs high over the flank of Bynack Mor and follows the Lairig an Laoigh into the boggy, rough ground of the central Cairngorms, before swinging East down Glen Avon.  It looked exciting, but we knew a long stretch would be unridable, and decided to take the alternative route through the Braes of Abernethy.  From Forest Lodge, we’d go through the small pass of Eag Mhor to Dorback Lodge, follow Glen Brown part of the way before branching off towards the Bridge of Avon just outside Tomintoul. Now it was my turn to get wet - again.  “There’s a great water splash just around the corner”, said Allister.  “We’ll hit it fast, in pairs, and it’ll make an excellent photo”.  Keen to get the shot, I went down the hill and carefully crossed the low river, taking up a crouched position on a flat rock, just to one side.  As the first riders hit the river, all I saw through the viewfinder was a wall of water rising up, and then bearing down on me, like a Hawaiian wave poised to wipe out a surfer.  It hit with such a soggy punch that I sat down in the river.  Of course, everyone else fell off their bikes with laughter.  I’d been pratting around all day, walking rather than riding the smallest streams, just in case I got my camera case wet.  Now the thing was so soaked, a salmon could have set up home in it.  Worst of all, I didn’t get the shot. Day 3 Tomintoul takes itself seriously; so it’s important get the place’s name right.  “You say it like this”, advised Robert, the barman at the Glen Avon Hotel.  “Tom -In-Towel, as in the thing you dry yourself with”.  The town is little more than one long, low street and when seven folks in lycra rode in, curtains twitched like they’d been given simultaneous electric shock therapy.  Arriving, it had seemed a dour place, but a night in the bar quickly put things right.  The welcome was warm, the beer was well kept, and the venison casserole superb.  We felt much better about Tomintoul when we came to leave, and this time when the curtains twitched, we waved. Once again, we were following an historic route, an old drove road along which herds of cattle were driven towards Deeside and over the high pass of the Bealach Dearg. At Loch Builg, the climb begins.  On the left is the mountain Culardoch, on the right is Carn Liath, and between the two is the Red Pass, in Gaelic, Bealach Dearg.  There’s a wide obvious path all the way to the top, but the mixture of loose stones and gravel will test climbing skills.  The descent, however, anyone can manage - and what a ride.  This has to be one of the best down hills in Britain, all bone shaking five miles of it.  To begin with, the loose surface of the track was like riding on a field of ball bearings, but as it firmed up, so we picked up speed.  Drainage ditches, cut into the track, were easily jumped before we shot into a forest, the carpet of pine needles suddenly silencing the roar of the tyres.  A tarmac estate road lead to the main A93, and three miles later, we were back in Braemar. While we loaded the bikes back on the cars, Alister told everyone about the humbling experience we’d had the last time he and I had ridden over that pass.  We were sitting at the top, feeling pretty pleased with ourselves, when a figure slowly pedalled over the crest of the hill.  As he drew near we saw he was an advocate of the kitchen sink cycling philosophy.  He had panniers slung front and back, a bar bag, a tent, a sleeping mat, a rucksack, and a pair of heavy leather boots.  He told us his age - sixty-eight - and that he was heading into the hills for several days.  Just to round it all off, as he disappeared into the mountains we saw that, dangling from his pannier rack, he was carrying a small folding chair, which swung too and fro in the gentle breeze.  Living proof that it’s not the bike which matters, but the engine. The Route Maps: OS sheet 36 & 43 Guidebooks: Not really necessary, but if you want to read about the history of the route, then try to get hold of a copy of Exploring Scottish Hill Tracks by Ralph Storer. The route between Glenmore and Tomintoul can be confusing. The second two days of the ride are clearly described in “Cross Scotland Trail” by John Fulton & Tim Woodcock, published by MTB Pro. Day 1  Braemar - Glenfeshie / Insh Times are what the ride took us in good weather.  Be prepared to take longer in bad weather. Distance:  36 miles   7 hours Accommodation - Braemar  Youth Hostel 01339 741659  B&B, Hotels  Best bar is in the Fife Hotel Accommodation - Glenfeshie / Insh  Insh Bunkhouse 01540 661 051  Glenfeshie Hostel 01540 651 323  (both provide meals & bedding) Day 2    Insh - Tomintoul    Distance: 36  miles    7 hrs Accommodation: Glen Avon Hotel     01807 580 218 Day 3   Tomintoul - Braemar   Distance: 23 miles   4 hours A short day to give time to travel home from Braemar. Rights of Way: The routes described are mostly Rights of Way, but deer stalking takes place from July until October, and grouse shooting from 12th August to 10th December.   If in doubt, the book ŒHeading for the Scottish Hills¹ published by the Scottish Mountaineering Trust gives the names and addresses of Factors & Keepers who may be contacted regarding access to the hills. Weather Warning: In decent weather this is a superb ride.  In “driech” weather, as they say in these parts, it could all go horribly wrong.  You know all about carrying the right equipment, but check it before setting out.  The middle of Cairngorms is not the place to discover you’ve left your compass beside the toaster. Mountain craft and navigation skills are essential.  First aid and bike repair abilities might also be tested.  It’s worth carrying a roll up emergency shelter. Glen Avon Nights I found this poem pinned to the wall of the Glen Avon Hotel bar. Crankin’ up Craighalkie On a cracklin winter night The hills an¹’ trees around me Are all bathed wi cold moonlight Not a sound disturbs the silence But ma bike tyres’ gentle hummin’ An’ the rustlin’ by the roadside When wee beasties hear me comin’ The Glen Avon bar, it brightly beckons My step, it ne’er does falter I take my place, with frost flushed face At the alchoholic’s altar