Click here to search commentonline

 From Aberfeldy to Aberdeenshire

by Richard A A Devéria

 An account of the author’s walk from his Aberfeldy home to his sister’s home near Fyvie, Aberdeenshire, 5 - 11 May 2009. 

He is pictured below upon arrrival with his sister

Ever since I had moved to Aberfeldy I had considered the possibility of walking to my sister’s in Fyvie, Aberdeenshire.  It seemed like a challenge – I had already done the West Highland Way and walked from Barra to the Butt of Lewis, but walking to Aberdeenshire required the added task of finding my own route through the hills.  Over the previous two years I had recced the country as far as the Angus glens, but for Aberdeenshire it would have to be a matter of following the map.

Tuesday 5 May            Aberfeldy to Ballinluig

Leaving my flat with my 40 year old canvas rucksack on my back, I passed Dewar’s Distillery, famous for its White Label brand whisky, then followed the path along the banks of the Tay in a wide arc before picking up the former railway line. Proceeding along a canyon of trees just bursting into leaf, after an hour I reached the station yard of Grandtully, now the headquarters of the Scottish Canoe Association. The Association’s Treasurer, who was pinning up a notice, explained how this stretch of the Tay was very popular for river sports.  In particular, he said, the Tay at Grandtully was used for training canoeists in the slalom, or navigating between a series of gates, and I have stood on Grandtully bridge and marvelled at the skill of the young canoeists as they negotiated the cascade.

 At Haugh of Grandtully farm the railway line gave way to a mile and a half of tarmac road, before it resumed once more at Balnaguard.  This, I remembered, was where my mother had enjoyed her holidays as a girl, and I tried to imagine my grandmother and her family making their way on that train to Balnaguard halt - the sign is still there – in the years before the War.  I crossed Logierait bridge, with its plaque marking the journey of the final train on May 1, 1964.  Logierait was the birthplace of Adam Ferguson, a leading figure of the Scottish Enlightenment and host to the meeting between Scott and Burns.  I am often surprised that in the village there is nothing to mark his memory.

Wednesday 6 May       Ballinluig to Kirkmichael

Leaving Ballinluig I followed the road past Tulliemet House.  The road turned into a track and I made my way northwards until the grey waters of Loch Broom came into view below me.  But the tracks on the west side do not meet up with the tracks to the east, so I had no choice but to strike across the heather on a compass bearing, along the flanks of Sgorr Gorm to my right, with the deer fence marking the edge of a plantation on my left.

 There are few sights more beautiful in Scotland than the heather in its late summer bloom, but it was a different story as I plodded through it, stepping over the knee high woody stems, only occasionally broken by patches of pale coloured reeds in the saturated ground.  My mood was lifted by the sight of two young deer frolicking at the edge of the plantation, and I progressed eastwards, turning to follow the fence downhill and avoiding the tangled strips of orange plastic which lay close to the fence.  I found a point where I could step across the Back Burn and arrived at the stark ruins of Mains of Glenderby, a useful landmark but little else.   There was not even a stone lintel to offer shelter, and the large grey boulders just inside the doorway of the ruined building afforded little access to the open interior.  However, I was relieved to be back on a track again.  The path led through a spruce plantation and then I reached the first sign of civilisation, a settlement of wooden houses with grass growing on the roofs, some of which had Norwegian names like Stavanger and Trollhaugen, on the outskirts of Kirkmichael.

Thursday 7 May          Kirkmichael to Glenmarkie

By contrast to the previous day’s walk, my route lay eastwards along tarred roads for the most part.  The weather was bright and the first few miles uneventful.  I noticed to my surprise the disused lime quarry of Wester Bleaton, as I had not realised there were any lime deposits in that locality, and wondered to myself about the geology of the area.

 But what I really looked forward to, as I would be walking for a stretch up the A93, was morning coffee at the Dalrulzion Hotel, marked on the map as such.  I could not possibly miss a hotel with a z in the name.  The Scottish silent z is one of the few survivors of the days when Scotland was an independent kingdom, and when we not only had our own Scots language but also an additional letter of the alphabet, the yogh (3) or consonantal y.  The yogh came to be printed as a z, giving rise to names such as Monzie, Culzean, MacFadzean &c.  Imagine my disappointment when, on arriving at the building, I was greeted with a laconic note to say that Dalrulzion was no longer a hotel, but a private house.  So, no coffee for the weary traveller.

As I turned right for Glenisla the snow shone brightly on the hills to the north.  At Nether Craig the rocks appeared as if they were about to cascade on to the road, their threatening appearance contrasting sharply with the pale yellow primroses nestling in the grass at the base of the rocks.  I crossed the picturesque Bridge of Brewlands and at Kirkton of Glenisla, although the hotel was technically closed at that time of day, the kindly South African proprietrix served me with a very welcome Coca Cola. 

Beyond West Freuchies the tarred road gave out, and I completed the last 2½ miles to Glen Markie on the dirt road.  I was surprised to find people in the UK living at the end of a gravel road. It was like being back in Zambia! 

Friday 8 May                 Glenmarkie to Glen Clova

Above Glenhead a farmer on his quad bike asked me to be mindful of “a gimmer with a wee lamb”.  I came across the gimmer (a 2 year old ewe which has had its first lamb), with the lamb lying on the ground, clearly sick, at a section of the road bounded by four metal gates.  I crept round the side of the enclosure, carefully closing the gates behind me.  The ewe approached the lamb to tend to it as best she could.  The lamb raised its little head, then it fell back.  I could only leave them, hoping that the lamb would survive.

 I picked my way over the rough ground where Glenhead Lodge used to stand.  The track  at this point was unmarked, but I had recced it earlier, and at the top of Drumshade Plantation the path emerged on to  high moorland from where a dusting of snow could be seen on the higher hills to the north.  Holding on to my glasses in the howling gale, I began the long descent to Glen Prosen.  Hares chased by the side of the path, reminding me of the beautiful sight of a mountain hare, snow white in its winter coat, which I had seen on the same path 2 years before.  From Cormuir farm the tarred road took me to Prosen village, and while enjoying some mint cake on a bench outside Prosen Church (which still holds fortnightly services) I chatted briefly to a party of walkers from Kirriemuir. 

 It was on the Minister’s Road to Glen Clova that I took a wrong turning.  High on the moor between the two glens, the path forks in two.  I had previously walked the southern branch, but the northern route appeared more direct and I struck off on an unknown track.  After a considerable time the track appeared to be climbing ever higher into the hills, leading heaven knows where.  Farther back I had noticed a stile on my right, but with no obvious path leading to it.  I returned to investigate the stile, and sure enough found a series of marker posts which I had earlier missed, leading to a path down through the forest.

 At the Clova Hotel I met a group of Boys’ Brigade leaders from Broughty Ferry, and in our conversation I mentioned how the Baden Powell organisations had given me an excellent training in fieldcraft such as map and compass work which I had used throughout my walk.

Saturday 9 May           Glen Clova to Ballater

The path upwards through Glendoll Forest led across the swollen Capel Burn, and there was no bridge.   The rocks in the burn were slippery and loose, so I made use of some larger boulders a few yards upstream.  By scraping away the moss with the heel of my boot I gained enough purchase to heave myself and my rucksack over the neighbouring boulder and gain dry ground.

 The path emerged from the forest and zigzagged steadily higher.  Encouraged by a group of walkers near the top of the ascent, I found the path began to level out, and once over the final brow I felt a gasp of elation as through the mist and rain there loomed the intersecting spurs of the hills of Aberdeenshire!  As I marched along the track of the Capel road across the high rain swept moors, the cold southerly wind drove drops of sleet on to my back and into my face.  Then, into my head came the famous words of Harry Lauder:

Keep right on to the end of the road 

Keep right on to the end

If the way be long let your heart be strong

Keep right on round the bend

If you’re tired and weary, still journey on

Till you come to your happy abode

Where all your love and your dreaming on

We’ll be there at the end of the road

 Despite the tartan caricature of Scotland which he presented, his sympathetic and encouraging words with their stirring tune gave comfort to this most unromantic of souls.

 The dark waters of Loch Muick appeared on my left, with the bulky mass of Lochnagar shrouded in cloud beyond.  At Spittal of Glenmuick, a herd of red deer grazed peacefully on the green upland pasture, and the life of the red deer as well as other wildlife is admirably illustrated in the panels of the nearby visitor centre, maintained by the Balmoral Estates. 

 It was on the long walk between the wooded slopes of Glen Muick that I felt just how much our family and indeed my own upbringing owe to forestry.  My father’s career had been in forestry as an engineer, and my attachment to the Highlands, our upbringing in Northern  Ireland and my years in Zambia all stemmed from this. And in Aberdeenshire too, as in most of Scotland, practically every hillside above the valley floor was planted with timber. 

 At Bridge of Muick there is a cairn to those Highland soldiers who died in the Boer War.  I thought of the great kindness that the Afrikaans people had shown me when I was travelling in South West- and South Africa, and I wondered whether that war had to be fought at all, and if a better way could not have been found.  I have often wondered what I would have done if I had lived at that time.

Sunday 10 May            Ballater to Alford

True to habit, I stuffed the Sunday papers into my rucksack before setting out eastwards down the disused railway line, now the Deeside cycleway.  The day was fine, and the snows of Lochnagar, far behind me now, shone brightly in the sun, in sharp contrast to the surrounding green pasture lands of Strathdee.   How splendid the mountain looked in the distance, I thought: it reminded me of Kilimanjaro when I had seen it thirty years before, beautiful to look at from a distance, but a different story when you are up there.

At Cambus O’May I left Royal Deeside and headed up the road.  At the Burn O’Vat Visitor Centre I discussed the former diatomite industry of Muir of Dinnet with the ranger, who showed herself to be well informed on the subject.  At Tarland I relaxed briefly over a Coca-Cola before phoning my hotel to say I was going to be late, and then I took to the road again.  Walking along a public road is very different from the hill tracks I had used previously – your way is firm and clearly defined, but you have to step out of the way of oncoming cars, waiting to see if they will give you a wave. 

At the Queen’s View I paused to enjoy the splendid panorama across the Howe of Cromar, with a last glimpse of Lochnagar, before proceeding north on minor roads.  As if to confirm my progress, when passing Norham Wood on my right, the familiar massif of Bennachie came into view.  At last I was getting nearer to my destination. 

At the derelict farm of Ladymill I found to my frustration that there was no mobile phone signal.  In a vain attempt to find a public phone I abandoned the minor roads and tramped in the evening light through Muir of Fowlis the long four miles to Alford.  As I arrived at my hotel at 9.30 pm, I was personally welcomed by the owner, but the restaurant had closed for the night.  I headed for the little supermarket and enjoyed a do it yourself supper in the comfort of my room, with television and the Sunday papers.  So I did not go hungry.

Monday 11 May          Alford to Fyvie

At Montgarrie, home of the “Oatmeal of Alford” I headed eastwards towards the wooded slopes of Bennachie.   Passing through the Lord’s Throat the only sound was the chirping of birdlife, and there was not a soul to be seen.  You do not see people in the countryside nowadays; people and animals travel by vehicle and many of the homes are owned by commuters.

At Donview car park, to save time I took a path up through the forest.  To my relief, the path intersected a broad forest road which led through the tall spruce trees in an easterly direction, to bring me out near Lavenie farm on the minor road leading north.  With Bennachie now on my left, I continued northwards, but fatigue was beginning to take its toll.  After around 2 hours I passed through Chapel of Garioch, originally named after a royal chapel endowed by Christian Bruce, the sister of King Robert. At Pitcaple I crossed the A96, then I made my way north and east to Daviot, a picturesque village perched on top of a hill.

Here, in the little bar in Daviot, my sister and brother in law came out and picked up my rucksack, and I would like to thank once more the kind gentleman who allowed me to use his mobile phone.  Relieved of my pack, I sauntered northwards. The fields of oilseed rape flowers glowed golden in the evening sun, as they stretched towards the now distant peak of Mither Tap. I climbed up to Cross of Jackston, another hamlet situated on a hilltop, as may be seen in the south of France.  My problems were not yet over, for as I passed over the top of Core Hill by the masts, the track marked on the map as running eastwards proved to be choked with gorse and broom.  In the fading light I pushed and fought my way through, scratching my hands in the process, until I passed the house of a startled farmer, no doubt wondering who on earth was passing through at that time of night.  At length I reached the main Aberdeen to Turriff road, and at 10.45 pm I arrived at my sister’s to a warm welcome, a hot meal,  a cold beer and a feeling of satisfaction that I had “walked the walk”.

RAAD    29.05.09