OSGB GRID REF. NN609379. BEN LAWERS VISITOR CENTRE

FREDDIE THE MOUNTAIN BIKER

BOTHY AT LAIRIG LEACACH

VIEW FROM CREAGUAINEACH LODGE

DUTCH VISITORS TO CREAGUAINEACH LODGE

LOCH TREIG

CORROUR STATION

WHERE THE RUCKSACK DISASTER HAPPENED

HYDROELECTRIC DAM NEAR BEN LAWERS

Shortly after leaving Spean Bridge I turned south through the tree-line to have the most wonderful vista of mountains and valleys open up to me. These were real Scottish mountains; Munros of 3,000 feet and over. Even the valleys were elevated to over 1,000 feet. I climbed steadily into them throughout the late afternoon and evening. Occasionally I would see the boot print of another walker in the mud, evidence that this wilderness is not quite so remote as the Flow Country, but the only other soul I met was a mountain biker named Freddie. I came to a mountain bothy at Lairig Leacach, but walked on as it was too early to stop. The earlier mixed weather had settled, and I was able to bathe in the radiant warmth of the evening's low sun. I continued alongside the beautiful waterfalls of Allt na Lairige until I spotted Creaguaineach Lodge, sitting on a grassy ledge at the southern end of Loch Treig. The young deer grazing nearby spotted me first and had run off by the time I reached it. The Lodge was apparently unused and sealed with padlocks, but I was content to pitch my tent on its eastern side.

I was in no hurry to leave the following morning. I took so long to get ready that, just as I lifted the rucksack onto my back, a group of Dutch hikers appeared. They had been staying at the Youth Hostel, one and a half hour's walk away, and were on their way to Spean Bridge. They were without a camera, so were pleased when I took some photographs.

My next destination was Corrour Railway Station, apparently the highest and most remote in Britain, yet civilised enough to provide me with lentil soup, carrot cake and tea in the adjacent cafe. Since there are no roads, I assume the staff must take the train to work. I had walked on for some distance before I realised that I had not paid, again, this being the second time in a week. They had even been kind enough to display a mini-poster about my trek. My reputation for dishonesty coupled with that for stupidity in publishing these misdemeanours must be growing steadily. I have put £8 into the charity fund on the cafe's behalf, but if they contact me through my web page with the necessary details I will send them a cheque.

 My path took me across the hills in a south easterly direction. It started to rain. Taking off and putting on the rucksack is no trivial task, so I had already donned my waterproof jacket as a precaution. However, by the time I put on my waterproof trousers my lower half was already thoroughly wet. The waterproofs do prevent the wind making me cold and, being breathable, my inner clothing still dries. Clever stuff. 

I eventually reached a road that took me to my overnight stop at Bridge of Gaur (pronounced Gower). I erected my tent on the manicured lawn in front of the tin-shack School House. Being Saturday tomorrow, I wasn't expecting an early morning wake-up call from the local satchel-squad. Other than a few houses, there seemed to be little else in the village. No shop. No pub. Good job that I had brought my own supply of whisky in an old plastic soap bottle.

Up and away early next morning, I continued walking south until the hill track came to an end. The next track, which would take me into Bridge of Balgie ('g' pronounced as in 'good grief') started two and a half miles away as the crow flies. In between, there was an 862m mountain called Cam Chreag. I could either embark upon a long and boggy trek around the mountain, or go straight over the top. I decided upon the latter course of action. My heavy rucksack made it a slow climb, but the ground got drier and easier to walk on at the higher elevations. The walk down was steep and hazardous so I was quite relieved when, after 3 hours, I reached the far-side track. Little more than an hour later, I was enjoying some unusual cheese and bacon soup at a Tearoom in Bridge of Balgie.

The Tearoom was also the local Post Office and shop, so I purchased some food for the evening, loaded it into my rucksack, then put the rucksack on. With a loud crack, the rucksack fell to one side. Disaster. A vital part of the support strapping had snapped. It was difficult to see how this could be repaired.

Serendipity strikes again. A chap on an adjacent table saw what was going on. He was a climber and happened to have an old climbing sling in his car. The sling turned out to be exactly the length required to replace the broken part, and I tied it in using para-cord. My saviour had left before I really had time to thank him properly.

The mishap had caused a delay, so I had to walk quickly along the mountain pass south of Bridge of Balgie to reach the Ben Lawers Visitor Centre before the light started to fail. One of the rooms of the Visitor Centre was open so, after eating, I unrolled my sleeping mat onto the concrete floor, snuggled into my sleeping bag and reached for my whisky-filled soap bottle. To my dismay it was gone. It must have fallen out when the rucksack strap broke. Tomorrow, an ascent of Ben Lawers.