A summer walk wearing my MacGregor plaid from Balquhidder to Glenlyon |
By Peter Lawrie, ©1997 |
An interest in Highland history quickly raises the question of communication. Although, in the past, many clansfolk may not have moved far from their native glen throughout their lives, others such as pedlars and cattle drovers did travel, usually on foot. Rob Roy who was deeply involved in the Jacobite activities in the Highlands, as well as his personal dealings travelled a great deal. Nowadays we have the benefit of many years of investment in Highland road-building, beginning with Wade, Caulfield and Telford, although not all the old routes have been developed. So what would it have been like walking these unimproved hill passes, dressed as they would have been? |
In July 1997, anxious as well, to prove to myself that I was not too old for such madness, I planned a walk from Glen Gyle, over the hills to Balquhidder, on to Glen Lyon, Rannoch and by Loch Erricht to Dalwhinnie. Optimistically I extended my planned route eastwards, by the Tarf to Braemar and then over Jock’s Roadto Glen Clova . Five days would be no problem I told my family and I would wear my MacGregor belted plaid. Then I received a request for a volunteer to represent the Clan Gregor Society at the Friends of Balquhidder Church AGM on Sunday 27th July. OK, I thought why not do that and go by the Kirkton Glen from Balquhidder directly thereafter. My family drove me to Balquhidder for the Friends AGM. I had intended leaving at 3.30 immediately the meeting closed, but there was a talk by Killin Mountain Rescue to follow. Was that prophetic or what? No, but it sounded worthwhile, so I waited to examine the contents of their rescue rucksacks and see their slides of winter rescues from the hills around Killin. They waxed lyrical about the benefits of mobile phones on the hill. They would work on all the peaks, I was told, but not in some of the glens. Good, I thought, at least on the lairig I would be able to let the family know that I was OK, or if I needed rescue! |
In Rob Roy’s time a plaid, a sword and a poke of meal was all that would be needed. By saving the weight of the sword, I could take a few extras instead. Tent, of course, sleeping bag, compass, high tech hill walking boots, waterproof poncho, several changes of underclothes, food - including a poke of meal - and a mobile phone. Yes, a mobile phone. Mary, Rob Roy’s wife, would let him off to wander the hills for weeks on end, but my Mary insisted that I kept in touch, so a mobile phone had to be included. I had to have my camping gas ring, and three spare gas cylinders (boy, are they heavy!). Then there was food for five days: rice, oatmeal, pasta, some flavourings to add interest, lots of dried fruit and nuts, coffee, dried milk, then a cup, pans, plates, cutlery, water bottle. Wow, it looks bad enough on paper - on my back it felt worse! Somehow I cannot believe that the Great Marquis and Alasdair Mac Colla Ciotach would have won any of their famous battles if their men had been encumbered by this lot. When I was in my early twenties I had traced their route from Kilcumein over the hills, bypassing Loch Oich and Loch Lochy, to the surprise and destruction of Argyll's army at the Battle of Inverlochy. I had been hard pushed to cover the ground on my own, in dry summer weather in the time that their army had taken in the depths of winter. The pack I carried then was nothing like as heavy as this one. I found that it was difficult to get it on my back without assistance or a support such as a large rock, but once it was on I decided that it did not feel quite so bad. At last, at 5.15, I set off up Kirkton Glen. The trees behind the church stopped the breeze completely and held the afternoon warmth. In no time, I was dripping and the midges congregating! The folds of the plaid on my left shoulder padded the rucksack straps, and I gathered the hanging end under the strap on my right shoulder. This kept it clear of grasping vegetation and formed a handy pouch for my map. Soon I was clear of the trees around Kirkton. The previous time I walked the Kirkton Glen it had been through mature forestry plantations. Now with the exception of isolated sections it had been clear felled, with the young growth only a few feet high. Thus, there were open vistas ahead and back across the main Balquhidder glen to Glen Buckie. The day was somewaht overcast but moderately warm with a pleasant cooling breeze in the open. The wind does penetrate this plaid, which has a relatively open texture, unlike worsted material. It had been hand-spun and hand-woven by a weaver on Loch Lomondside, and still had the feel of the natural sheep lanolin. |
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The rain began as I reached the Glen Lochay Road. On went the poncho again as I sat on the dyke by the gate to Tirai, munching nuts. Two walkers surprised me as the gate clanged, the woman carried a small light pack, but the man had none, how I envied them! The rain ceased as they crossed the field to the upper gate. I followed them. I saw them ahead, briefly, several times as I climbed the hill past the ruined settlement, once home to MacGregor kinsfolk. Later on, I was able to count five climbers on the skyline of the shoulder of Meall Ghaordaidh to the west. There was a 4 WD track, unmarked on the map ascending the hillside beside the ravine. It gradually became greener and less defined, becoming no more than a welcome greensward amidst dense bracken as the ravine to my right became less pronounced. By now my back was soaked with perspiration under the pack and the straps were biting into my shoulders. At last the land levelled, and instead of steep bracken and heather hills, a pleasant meadow stretched for almost a mile ahead. The Allt Dhuin Croisg now meandered gently along, instead of crashing noisily as it had before. On elevations on either side of the quarter mile wide strath stood the remains of the sheilings. I had visited sheiling sites before but never one so inviting and tranquil. By now it was 4pm, and I was well behind my planned timetable. Flinging the pack off beside a substantially intact, though roofless, sheiling, I made a cup of coffee. The sheiling’s living room was pierced with a door and window and an internal space of roughly 7 feet by 8 feet. In the central wall was a low door which, even allowing for debris on the floor, could have been no more than 3 feet high, and through which the occupants would crawl into the window-less sleeping room, about 7 feet by 5 feet. (Not much bigger than my tent). Here would have been the summer grazing for the cattle, it was all green and lush, though there were damp patches where the burns came down from the hill. Easy walking except where the meanders of the burn cut in close to the heather slope. Strangely, the blackface sheep seem to ignore it, preferring the sparse grass among the heather slopes on either side. I tried the phone again without success. I had promised my wife that I would keep in touch and the original plan had been that by now I should be at Bridge of Balgie in Glen Lyon where there was a public call box. Perhaps I should not have made such a gruelling plan. With more time to spend, I would have camped on this spot, it was so lovely and unexpected. However, I donned the pack and plodded on to the gentle rise at the end of the meadow where the burn began to tumble and clatter again. Now the ground became very broken, scarred by deep peat hags. The white bones of ancient trees gleamed where they had been exposed. The slope was quite gentle here, but it was not possible to see the deep gulleys until almost on top of them. Bright green sphagnum pools were interspersed with the black smoothness of wet peat, just beginning to crack as it dried. Periodically more powerful burns had cut through ten or more feet of peat to the underlying rock, making a deep boulder strewn gulley. What a contrast to the meadow I had just left. At a side glen on my right, behind Meall Ton Eich, there were some more sheilings and a few more acres of greenery, but nothing to compare with the meadow behind. I passed over the watershed through a desolation of deep heather, peat hags, and protruding boulders The sun emerged, briefly, in and out of the clouds. On the sheer wall of Meall nam Maigheach ahead of me, the shadows played like three huge Fingalian warriors out of Ossian’s lore. It was 5.30, the hydro-electric road to Glen Lyon was more than two miles of this terrain away. I tried the phone again, leaning back against a boulder. Still no signal as I clipped it back onto my belt. I continued my erratic course around the hags and pools for another two hundred yards before realising the phone was no longer at my belt. Panic! I must have dropped it back at the boulder. I was on a slight crest about one hundred yards above the burn, having just crossed the gully of a side stream. I flung the pack off, and tried to double back. How much easier it was without the load on my back. It was not by the rock. Or was it this boulder, or that, now there were at least five boulders which it could have been. I paced back and forwards. The heather was almost knee deep interspersed with grass tussocks. Finally I decided I would have to camp here and search again when I was less tired in the morning. Then panic again, where was the pack? Fortunately, it was a bigger target and soon found. The wind was getting up and I could not camp out here in the open. I made for the burn and found a suitable spot where a small burn tumbled out of its gully into the main burn. The coffee was so welcome, but I found I had little appetite for savoury rice. The wind got up during the night and the tent flapped a lot, though it did not rain. The morning porage was more appetising and I felt better for the sleep. I spent another hour, pack-less, searching the trackless moor for the phone, without success. But how much easier it was hopping from tussock to tussock, without the encumbrance of the pack. The wind was penetrating but I was able to arrange the plaid around my shoulders like a shawl for comfort and warmth in the early morning cool. It felt pleasant and natural on the hill, this had been what I wanted to discover. Finally at 9 o’clock I gave up searching. I shouldered the pack again and continued down the glen. The ground became steeper and broken by increasingly steep and rocky gullies. I had to make my way down one of these gullies, hopping from rock to rock in its bed, or struggling through the heather at the side, around a particularly awkward obstruction. The wide rocky bed of the Allt Breisleich was easier to cross, as was the Allt Ball a Mhuilinn (The Mill-town burn) before I climbed the slope to the tarmac hydro road. Now I could tramp along at a good pace, the sun shining, the wind lighter. At every convenient spot was a parked car or two, with its attendant tents. |
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It was good to be home again with a warm bath. I had learned a lot about the plaid on the hill, and I definitely plan to use it again. I think that I have also discovered that I am becoming too old for such ambitious trips. Next time, it will be a light load with round trips from the car. I did succeed in crossing the three passes from Balquhidder to Glen Lyon that I most wished to see. The most interesting, in terms of the dramatic contrast in terrain was the final crossing from Duncroisk to Glen Lyon. After a couple of days the thigh and calf muscles ceased to ache so much, my trousers fitted better than before and I had to make an extra hole in the straps of the Glengyle MacGregor kilt which I bought last year. Despite losing the phone, I was glad to lose the inch! [Note: In the following year, rather than walk, I took my bike in the opposite direction to complete the original plan. The bike with tent, sleeping bag and the rest were taken up Glen Clova by car, and from there, I rode and pushed the bike over Jock's Road to Braemar, and then along the upper Dee and via Glen Feshie where I camped, eventually reaching Aviemore and from there following the remnants of the military road to Inverness. Still hard going in places, but how much easier with the bike to bear the weight of tent, sleeping bag and supplies - and sadly, no belted plaid.] |