TTFN

Once again I am starting my annual blogging-break. As the kids get ready to break-up from school, and lots happening - it's time for a rest. TTFN, THM.

Venison

I have spotted the deer on Kinnoull Hill many times - they've always been to quick for me to get a photo of before though. Usually, walking with three noisy children means that all wildlife within a few miles is scared away long before it can be seen. Today, on my own, the deer I have seen through the trees before, wandered out onto the path slowly enough to get a photo in, before it spotted me and took flight.

Falcon Landing

Just something I spotted on my way home after walking the kids to school.

Ben Alder & Beinn Bheoil

Ben Alder is one of the most remote and isolated mountains of the Southern Highlands of Scotland. Miles from any public road, and guarded on each side by mountains, lochs and great moors, it requires considerable effort even to see, never mind climb! Glimpses of Alder's dark shape are only usually glimpsed from the A9, as it passes the Dalwhinnie Distillery. Here the long glacial trench which holds Loch Ericht provides one brief line-of-sight through the tangled mountain architecture to great Ben Alder beyond. Many times I have looked down Loch Ericht, and longed to be heading out into the mountains again. Likewise, the sight of distant Ben Alder, (broad, rugged, remote, threatening) always seemed like a challenge, both awaiting completion and provocatively questioning my ability so to do!

Yesterday, Mr Pickering & I decided to accept the challenge. We packed rucksacks, bikes, cars, and went North, arriving at the level crossing by Dalwhinnie Station by 9:30. The long distances involved in penetrating the Ben Alder Estate are made comparatively easy by the provision of well-maintained estate tracks. While not open to the public for vehicles, they enable the mountain-biker to cover the miles quite efficiently, and so by late morning we had passed Loch Pattack and Culra Bothy.

In retrospect it would have been worth retracing our steps, and crossing the footbridge over the Allt a Chaoil-reidhe. Deciding instead to peddle on past the bothy, we faced a tricky river crossing after abandoning the bikes. Mr Pickering crossed the river without difficulty, incident, or getting soaked. I only wish I could say the same about my effort to safely cross! A simple slip, a lack of grip, a misjudged leap between rocks and I was in. With more than ten-miles left to walk, and another ten+ to cycle, I was wet, my kit was wet, and my boots full of water. My feelings of irritation were suitably enhanced by the sight of Mr Pickering sitting on dry land chuckling merrily at the sight of my folly. He redeemed himself though, by producing from his rucksack (wonder of wonders!); a clean, dry pair of walking socks.

After a lunch break we followed the sketchy path which skirts Loch a Bealaich Bheithe, and terminates at the Bealach Breabag - the high point between Ben Alder and Beinn Bheoil. A steep (pathless) ascent from here, crosses the subsiduary top of Sron Bealach Beithe and then skirts the cliff edge above the Garbh Coire, corrie - leading to a jumble of cairns around the summit trig-point. The summit was bald, bleak, windblown and misty. The cloud cover was very patchy and intermittent though, and we enjoyed views on every side, especially of Schiehallion, The Lawers Group the Glen Lyon Hills, and out across the wilderness of Rannoch Moor. The worst view of Ben Alder is from its own summit, where its' great sculpted corries and scrambly ridges are almost entirely hidden below is huge domed top.

With conversation ranging through history, faith, politics, the Bible, children, business, education, and the foolishness of falling into fast-flowing rivers... we retraced our steps to the Bealach Breabag and contemplated the ascent of Sron Choire na h-Lolaire, the beginning of the undulating ridge leading to Beinn Bhoile. Beinn Bhoile is a charming mountain. Although overshadowed by the size of Ben Alder, Beinn Bhoile's steep, graceful ice-carved lines and position high above Loch Ericht would make it worth a visit in and of itself.

We stopped for tea on Beinn Bheoil enjoying what was fast becoming a very pleasant summer evening. The threatened three-to-four hours of steady rain had failed to materialise and even the heavy showers we could see building over Rannoch Moor were carried miles to the East of us by the westerly wind. The descent of Beinn Bheoil is fast and straightforward, once a little path running through the heather is picked up.

After completing a very careful, and thankfully dry river crossing, we re-gained the bikes and turned for home, feeling thoroughly splendid about the whole day's adventure. Once past Culra bothy and onto the good estate tracks we began to accelerate - the thought of getting to Pitlochry in time for the fish and chips freshly inspiring tired limbs! And then it happened...

Mr Pickering's rear tyre instantly and totally deflated. This didn't appear to be an insurmountable problem until we realised that neither of us had remembered the puncture repair kit - and the car was still almost 11 miles away!

In front of us the long road to Loch Ericht and then to Dalwhinnie looked impossibly long. Behind us, the great mass of Ben Alder looked majestic in the evening light, its' ridges all picked out by the low sunlight. I cycled on to the car, in order to get within mobile range and assure respective wives that we were OK and to prevent them phoning Mountain Rescue! Thankfully before I got to the car I met one of the estate workers who gave me the code to unlock the gate to drive right up the lochside to collect the weary looking Mr Pickering and his beleaguered bicycle.

Despite the bike, and the river we managed to complete our two-Munro, 51km expedition - and sped to Pitlochry in search of food. As we drove we could feel aching legs beginning to tense and stiffen up. We got out of the car at Pitlochry and did a kind of 'geriatric shuffle' to the chippy - to the obvious amusement of an onlooker who wryly chirped "you look like broken men". That's maybe how we looked, but the chat on the way home was all about how we might organise a trip to Culra bothy - and ascent of the four mountains on the other side of Ben Alder, which have so far evaded my exploration.

Skyscape 5

Skyscape 4

Skyscape 3

Skyscape 2

Skyscape 1

Four Wings

Friarton

SKY

Birnam Hill

"Macbeth shall never vanquish’d be until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him."

Macbeth, Act 4 Sc. 1

Within half an hour's drive from Perth in either direction, lie the two hills immortalised by Shakespeare in his "Scottish Play". It was the surprising fulfilment of the strange prophecy (above), that finally led to Macbeth's undoing, if my memories of English Literature classes a quarter-of-a-century ago serve me correctly!

Our six year old daughter (sometimes known as Doris), is remarkably insightful. As we dropped the kids off at school on Friday she said, "You're going to have a lovely day without kids aren't you!?!" Indeed we were; the weather forecast was great, the rucksack was packed and a return visit to Birnam Hill was planned.

Birnam Hill itself is delightful. Although a small hill, its wooded slopes above Dunkeld and Birnam Station are steep - and require some effort to climb at a good speed in hot weather, but the hill provides fine views in every direction. At the top of the steep ascent section, as the path flattens out to wind its way along the broad tree-lined ridge to the summit, there is a rocky outcrop. From here there is a particularly fine view down to Dunkeld and its' elegant Telford Bridge built in 1802 (top picture). Likewise the views to the North and West feature some of Perthshire's most well-known peaks such as Ben Vrackie, Beinn a Ghlo and Scheihallion (above).

The only disappointment we encountered -on an otherwise idyllic short walk, was the effect that the "path upgrade" work has had on the hill itself. Firstly, unnecessary sign-posts have sprung up all over the hill (that's what maps are for!) while secondly many of the hill's lovely footpaths have been destroyed by the addition of unsightly bulldozed tracks, which is a great shame.

To be honest, in a couple of places I was actually grateful for the new tracks. There used to be two hollows on the summit-ridge which after rainfall became quagmires which were unpleasant to cross. Walkers used to pile felled logs and brushwood on the path in order to limit the extent to which their boots disappeared beneath the oozing black sludge. These sections now have drainage and re-enforced tracks crossing them!

The bulldozed track on the ascent from Dunkeld is though, another story. The steep ascent path which provided a direct assault on Birnam Hill's Eastern side, was unrelentingly steep - but visually delightful. It was an ancient, foot-worn path through the woods where regular breaks in the green canopy would provide ever-widening views as height was gained. I was horrified to see what had been done to this path. In the place of the little footpath we found a broad bulldozed track. While the original path had been remarkably straight, this new eyesore zig-zags up the hill - carving its mechanised brutal ugliness all over the face of the natural landscape. Unlike the bog-crossings further up, this appeared to be work that didn't need to be done, which has been completed with little sensitivity to the natural beauty of the hillside. I dread to think how much it cost! Birnam Hill never felt like 'Wild Country' by any means, nevertheless this further taming of the hill was most unwelcome and rather disappointing.

A few years ago when tracks were built all over Kinnoull Hill, they looked a bit grim. Thankfully, it wasn't long before nature began to reclaim them - and they started to blend back in with the woods around them. No doubt, a few years of wind and rain will mellow the harsh and lines of these new paths on Birnam Hill; while seasonal coverings of leaves and snow will further minimise their visual-shock.

The view from the top of Birnam Hill remains utterly delightful. In every direction gentle Perthshire lowland farming gives way to first to forestry and then grand High-level mountains. On Friday, The Big County was laid out before us like a map, as it basked in bright, clear sunlight and sweated in intense humidity. Unfortunately, we didn't have time to go on beyond the summit, and descend the other side of the hill by the Quarry to make our walk circular. We had to get back to Perth for the school pick-up and so we returned via the bulldozed track above the station. However, as little 'Doris' had predicted we did indeed have a "lovely day without kids!"

Book Notes: Deep Blues by Robert Palmer

“The Blues”: few phrases within the lexicon of musical terminology are as loaded with intrigue, mystery, myth, legend, iconic imagery and folklore. While much of this is no doubt rooted more deeply in marketing than reality, that particular current in the history of popular music still remains enormously influential, and the formative influence on all manner of subsequent music making. In all corners of the world today, singers can be heard delivering lines like, “Blues fell like rain”, or “I believe I’ll dust my broom” – singing the music of the impoverished Black underclass of the Mississippi Delta from around the time of the First World War. That extraordinary fact in itself is a story worth telling.

American musicologist and social historian Robert Palmer hit the road during the 1970s to research a book on the music he loved: The Blues. He travelled the length of the United States, visiting the farms and plantations where the Blues was born, interviewing those who were there (or their immediate successors), travelled the migration routes on which African Americans fled Northwards, and explored Chicago’s Black community from where it was first electrified, then popularised and then globalised.

The book, although 'academic' in its depth of research, is pleasantly easy reading. It brilliantly weaves the sound of the music onto the backdrop of the social history that produced it, bringing fascinating insights into the political, religious, economic and geographical landscape which not only shaped the sound but also the experiences and lyrics of the bluesmen. Palmer’s foray’s into music-theory are also written so straightforwardly that they are generally comprehensible to the non-technical reader like myself. Most fascinatingly are his descriptions of the similarities between the micro-tonal shadings of master vocalists like Muddy Waters (much imitated, seldom equalled), and some West African languages. Likewise his comparisons of African drum rhythms with the polyrhythmic explorations of early Delta Bluesmen like Charley Patton are absorbing reading.

Levee camps, floods, cotton, railroads, migration, depression, racism, the black-church, the cross-currents of different musical traditions, prison, bootlegged alcohol, juke-joints, share-cropping all form part of the detailed and fascinating picture of Delta life that Palmer describes at the start of the book. Palmer set out to trace thee roots of The Blues, and talked to collaborators of seminal figures such as Son House, Robert Johnson, visiting the estates where they grew-up and learned their music. The earliest figures he points to as players of what might be called Blues, are Charley Patton and his teacher the mysterious Henry Sloan.

Unlike many other books which seem to treat The Blues as a undifferentiated monolithic body of work, Palmer’s book is written like a family tree of the genre, demonstrating the different currents and influences that run through different types of Blues. One of the rare weaknesses of the book is Palmer’s overwhelming preference for guitar over piano blues, perhaps not doing justice to that aspect of the Blues. Nevertheless, he neatly describes the various patterns, and who influenced who, and who took Blues in new directions in its critical years between 1920 and 1960. The index reads like a who’s who of recorded American Blues! His real love is clearly the early Delta Blues of Patton, and Johnson, preserved, developed and marketed by followers such as Elmore James and Muddy Waters – what Muddy called “Deep Blues”. Muddy Waters’ many contributions to this book are worth this price in and of themselves.

For anyone who loves the Blues – this is essential reading.

My son, "Boris" got a new cricket jumper from the club this week. It's a very nice cricket jumper too. The only strange thing about it was the label (left), which along with the exciting information about the properties of the fabric also contained the curious warning, "Do Not Eat".

I must confess that until I read that, I hadn't actually considered tucking into the cricket jumper next time I fancied a snack, or couldn't be bothered walking to the shops when the fridge looked a little bare. To be honest, 'Boris' would have been furious when it came to match day and he couldn't find his jumper and I would have had to admit, "Sorry son, I've eaten it".

I suppose it might be more reasonable to consider eating his old cricket jumper, after all its nice and woolly and he has outgrown it - but even this hadn't occurred until I read Kookaburra's helpful advice label. It did make me wonder though, do people actually eat sports equipment? Are there people who would genuinely consume sit down and consume and article of clothing as part of a balanced diet, and do they walk amongst us? How scared should we be?

Of course, I had never contemplated having a munch on his cricket kit. But having read the stern prohibition printed on the label, every time I see it now, I fancy sinking my teeth into its delicious looking fibres. But, I suppose, such has always been the effect of the law!

Funghi

Barnhill, Perth.

Eden on the Feugh

The River Feugh, is the closest thing I have seen to the images my young mind conjured up when I was first told the story of the Garden of Eden. Gentle hills sweep down to fertile plains, which give way to grassy banks and soft meadows through which the gentle river drifts. The only ripples on the surface of the deep silence here, are the sounds of moving water, birdsong and jumping fish.

Sitting alone in sinking light by the Feugh, everything appeared to be still - as if all but the river itself was frozen in time. But my impression did not reflect reality, but rather, showed how insensitive the usual bustle and drama had made me to the subtlety of the millions of movements of life. For the Feugh and its' banks were teeming with, brimming with, life. It's not just that I habitually take for granted the 'slow-life' of the great trees that line the banks of the river - great, grand hardwood structures which have been drawing life from the river for generations. No, there was more than that.

First there was a splash, and then another, and then more. Each one the tiny leap of a salmon, breaking the surface of the water to snatch a fly. And there they were, millions of insects darting everywhere, or resting on the water to tempt the fish to leap. Like a flash of tin-foil, the sun caught the scales of a fish as it broke the surface - too fast for cameras, and almost too fast for the human eye - and was gone. Despite the three-fold predations of man, otters and birds of prey, the river was bursting with fish.

Small birds appeared, dafting about, following incomprehensibly chaotic flight-plans and calling to each other in tumbling waterfalls of notes. A Heron glided down to the river, and perched quietly on a rock - waiting for the right moment to spear a fish. A great tree appeared to become a hologram for a moment, to allow a great owl to fly straight through its' dense branches without touching it, or making a sound. Rabbits lolloped on the grassy banks, while hares sprinted through fields and deer wandered down to the river to nervously inspect the scene - before taking fright (at who knows what), and bolting for cover in the woods.

I walked for a long time by the trees in this achingly beautiful paradise and thought how profoundly odd it is that while I was standing there in Eden, this world is riven by war, and evil. The thought even occurred that while I was standing admiring a particularly stunning tree - somewhere somebody was being tortured, and bearing unspeakable pain. I contemplated my own faults and errors too, and realised that the Garden of Eden story of a good world spoiled; isn't a curious tale from pre-history, but a commentary on contemporary life.

One of the last photos I took that night was of this row of rocks which lie across the river, in front of the cottage, where I was given permission to stay for the weekend. I went to bed thinking about a possible angle for writing about my trip, contrasting the bleak, rugged, wild reaches of the Upper Dee, where I had been hillwalking over the weekend, with these soft, tender, gentle and fruitful landscapes, lower down the river-system. Such writing plans were obliterated by the roaring sound with which I was greeted as I awoke. Overnight rain had turned the Feugh from a gentle river into a seething, boiling torrent. Where the night before it had played with the rocks, almost flirtatiously - now it scoured and assaulted the landscape. It's song was replaced by thunder. The following photo is of the same spot on the river, only hours later.

Up and up the river rose, bursting its banks and encroaching on the gardens, while carrying a great weight of mud, silt, branches, trees and fenceposts. Only myself and two clearly deranged ducks stood in the driving rain to observe the spectacle, all sensible life-forms and sentient beings hid inside their homes and lit warm fires.

This spectacle and show of power was as overwhelming as it was spectacular. I fail to see how anyone could not be deeply affected by nature in its various states like this. Anyone, like me, who thinks that the beauty of all this is not simply chance, random or unplanned - but all flows ultimately from a creator who set the processes of life running with this deliberate end in view; has reason to be doubly awe-inspired by it. The overwhelming glory of everything around me, was not the point of it all - rather it was there in order to reflect, to a degree, the glory and wonder of the mind in whom it all originated.

Beinn Bhrotain & Monadh Mor

The road from Braemar doubles-back on itself at the Linn of Dee, just before the large car park provided to allow walkers and cyclists access to the great heart of the Cairngorms National Park. Over the last few years I have come to know the track Northwards from here to Derry Lodge and Glen Lui, very well indeed. However, just at the point that the road turns back on itself and crosses the River Dee, there is another track which heads due Westwards out into wild and inhospitable territory. I have long wondered where this track went, what it was like, and what sort of adventures might lie down its path - but until yesterday had always driven on past to the familiar Derry Lodge route.

By eleven o' clock the early morning rain-storms were dying away and so I took the bike off the car roof and peddled Westwards. The map indicates that the track follows the path of the Dee, until its fork with the Geldie Burn and the first landmark of the day - The White Bridge (so called, presumably because it isn't white). A cyclable path continues on the South bank of the Dee for some miles after this, only interrupted by regular drainage cuttings which required careful handling of the bike. I passed the 'chest of Dee', with the dark shapes of cloud-enshrouded mountains beckoning me forward. At the foot of Cam Flach Beag I abandoned the bike by a little cairn. By this stage the path was so rough, I was quicker on foot. Soon the great view of the high Cairngorm peaks, and the Lairig Ghru, that great scar through the mountains came into view, so I stopped and took the photo (above). It's only a snap taken with my phone - but it does capture the grandeur and excitement of approaching the mountains!

The ascent up Beinn Bhrotain is straightforward. A maintained path splits of from the North-South track and heads Eastwards into the mountain, following the Coachan Roibidh burn. This path only climbs for a few hundred feet before disappearing into the damp heather. Nevertheless, a feint path - marked by the impressions of hundred of hill-boots basically follows the path of the stream to the broad, multi-cairned summit. Hot, humid, hungry and thirsty, I sat down and rested - basking in the broad views of Cairn-Toul and the Devil's Peak. It was here that I had to make a route-decision. Time was against me, because of my late start, however Monadh Mor looked inviting, almost tantalisingly close, and perhaps too good to resist. I had my timings worked out though, and I knew that I could not possibly manage to complete the route in the book, descending Northwards off Monadh Mor to the bealach between it and Cairn Toul, before walking back round the whole mountain. I reckoned that there was time to go onto Monadh Mor if it was possible to descend the steep corrie between these two Munros, the Coire Cath nam Fionn. A brief exploration suggested that a descend that way would indeed be possible, if a small band of ice at the top could be negotiated.

The walk to Monadh Mor proved to be longer, steeper and harder work than it had first appeared. The views across mountains in all directions, and Glen Geusachan far below were tremendous however and gave inspiration to my now-flagging limbs. The descent down the Coire Cath nam Fionn, was exceptionally steep at first, but soon gave way to more forgiving terrain, and a path appeared far sooner that the map suggested.

By the time I regained the Dee, I was struggling. Tired, dehydrated, and aching - the trek to the bike seemed endless. I usually love every minute I spend in the outdoors - but for about half an hour at this point even my insatiable enthusiasm began to wane. Climbing a hill is usually an undiluted pleasure - this one was rapidly being downgraded to an 'achievement'. Driven on by the fact that I had a deadline with sunset to meet - and therefore no opportunity to rest, I pushed my protesting limbs ever-harder. Once on the bike, it got no easier, first a headwind blew-up, which was then accompanied by driving rain. I don't think I have ever been so pleased to see my car as I was when I arrived back at the Linn of Dee almost nine hours after I had set off. Full route details of this 27mile/2 Munro route can be seen by clicking on the map (below) to enlarge it. I'm still aching..

Sron a' Choire Ghairbh & Meall na Teanga

The extra public holiday on Friday, coupled with a great weather forecast presented the ideal opportunity for taking to the hills. Sron a' Choire Ghairbh and Meall na Teanga were selected as targets, friends invited, plans made and anticipation generated! The day got off to an inauspicious start when I was woken by my neighbour ringing the doorbell wondering why I wasn't waiting at the car as agreed (I'm sure I set that alarm!). Nevertheless, within a few minutes we were loaded up running round Perth to pick up the other lads who had accepted the invitation. By mid-morning we reached Spean Bridge, turned North and then West at the famous Commando Memorial, crossed the Caledonian Canal, and parked just before the shores of Loch Arkaig.

A steep path pulls up from the car park past the Cia Aig falls, finally joining a forest track which climbs Northwards parallel with the river below. The track eventually becomes a path which becomes increasingly feint after it crosses the footbridge (shown on the OS map) to the west bank of the river. Before reaching the little tumble-down ruin of Fedden, we struck westwards across the glen to intersect the path running in from the North, swinging into the glen we were aiming for. The climb up the bealach was a slog, and we rested at glen's highpoint, and dumped our bags for the trip to the summit of Sron a Choire Ghairbh.

Sron a Choire Ghairbh is not a shapely peak, in fact it is a steep sided lump when viewed from the South. What gives it character, (as with so many Scottish mountains) is the deep, steeply cliffed corrie which bites into its Northern flank - and the awe-inspiring views the mountain offers of other peaks too numerous to mention.

In blazing, hazy-humidity, we descended to our waiting packs, and lunch! The climb opposite onto Meall na Teanga looked incredibly steep. In practice it was a manageable, if not rather a hot, long pull. Teanga itself is another hill whose gentle lines are not themselves eye-catching, but the experience of standing on its' summit and looking down at the world; makes every pound put into the petrol tank, and every aching muscle, costs worth paying!

Heading off Meall na Teanga westwards over Meall Odhar was actually the most pleasant part of the walk. A nice steep little scrabbly ridge to climb, up, wide open views, striding over grand-ridges over springy moss, in delightful sunshine, an experience we shared only with a herd of running wild deer - was just tremendous.

In retrospect we should maybe have descended westwards from Meall Odhar, but the continuing ridge Southwards was too tempting. Dropping gently towards the car, with view out over Loch Arkaig looked too good to miss. In fact it led to a very awkward few hundred metres of descent through woodland to re-gain our track back to the car. Tired aching, and in my case, rather dehydrated (despite carrying all the fluid could lift!), the shop in Spean Bridge was a welcome sight - as was the Monadliath Hotel just before Dalwhinnie, whose fine pub-grub, completed a brilliant day out.

Ah - it's just SO good to be back in the mountains....

Forgiveness

He died that we might be forgiven,

he died to make us good,

that we might go at last to heaven,

saved by his precious blood.

Pain

We may not know, we cannot tell,

what pains he had to bear,

but we believe it was for us

he hung and suffered there.

Hell on Earth

There is a Green Hill Far Away

Without a city wall

Where the dear Lord was Crucified

He died to save us all

Marriage Course - 2011

Setting the table, peeling the spuds, checking the DVD - it's Marriage Course time again for us here in Perth. This time, quite a small course - but will no doubt be just as useful for them as for couple who complete it amongst a larger crowd.

The course is a really practical guide - packed full of wisdom, with some very searching exercises for couples to work through, all with the aim of keeping a marriage alive and healthy for a lifetime. We start this new course on the day that the press are posting the latest sorry statistics about the breakdown in family life in this country.

Our experience, and the feedback from many of the couples who've done the course with us is that, entered into with a positive attitude, to get the very best from it - the course can play an invaluable role in making marriage work.

There's always a little nervous anticipation on the first night of a course, new people, new dynamics... I suspect that the guests feel a little nervous too. Hopefully tonight will kick the new course off to a flying start.

Trainspotter!

I don't care how sad you think I am! I saw these two giants simmering in the afternoon sunshine in Perth this afternoon, and thought that they looked, smelled and sounded rather splendid. The front one is Scots Guardsman, while the smaller one behind it is The Great Marquess. They were stopping at Perth for water having climbed over the mountains from Inverness. Click on the photo to enlarge and appreciate!