Castles and Bothies

by Bob McHardy

Between January and March 2002 it was possible to travel anywhere on the National Express network for £10 return, if you're over 50. I'd already visited the S.W. Lancs group; now it was the turn of the Vagabonds. The bus was just two minutes late into Dundee, Magonigal's Tay was an inky black, but I was safely across. At Midcraigs I was met by Margaret; George would be in later. There's a cat and a pup named Quanto on loan from the R.N.I.B. Quanto has sharp teeth: I now have a nipped water bottle.

In the morning I was given the job of making porridge - proper stuff, with oatmeal, stirred with a 'spirckle'.

George and I set off for Perth to meet Eddie; we travelled the back roads along the south side of the Firth of Tay, dropping down into the town to a cafe on the quayside, where a few fishing boats were moored. This was a cyclists' caff: no carefully measured portions here. The three of us followed the south bank of the river, passing steel floodgates and earth embankments - all these river towns have got the jitters - then onto a cycle path through open ground. The tarmac got fresher and fresher until it ran out by a narrow stone-arched bridge. We crossed the river and would spend the rest of the day heading north, following the course of the old A9 along cycleways, tracks and sections of the old road, passing through Dunkeld to Pitlochry. The A9 trunk road now bypasses the town, which relies on tourism (me?), judging by the type of shops in the main street. We were directed up a side street to a Co-op where two days supply of food was bought. We followed the old A9 (now B8019) then onto a path through the Pass of Killecrankie, site of a battle in 1689 between the covenanters and Jacobites and the forces of King William.

We passed various plaques and stopped at the Soldier's Leap - an Olympian feat. A narrow road wound down the gorge side and crossed the River Garry by an arched stone bridge, now pedestrians only. We later rejoined the B8019 and stopped at a roadside restaurant on the lines of a Little Thief. Some time was spent perusing the menu in trying to work out the best deal, so much so that the waitress got bored and wandered off, but we persuaded her back and actually the meal wasn't bad. Afterwards George fixed his bike, which had a broken hub gear cable, to give him middle gear.

Still on the old A9 we passed through Blair Atholl to Calvine, where a brightly lit corner shop drew us in like moths to a flame. Afterwards we were following the B847 up Glen Errochty when the forecast rain arrived. A map check showed us we were half a mile from the start of our track, a double-liner taking us to Loch Con, where we arrived at 7pm. The bothy was wooden-sided but with a stone end wall incorporating a fireplace, and furnished with tables and wooden forms. Fitted benches ran around two sides of the room leaving little space for us. The previous occupants had left some firewood; Eddy produced an ingenious folding bow saw and we soon had a fire going. With our wet clothes hung up, and various pots and pans perched on the logs, the weather outside could do its worst.

The rain was still hammering down on the tin roof when we bedded down on various benches and tables. George produced some pieces of Karrimat - he must be going soft in his old age. Sometime around 11pm Eddy suddenly said "We have visitors!' Outside, lights were being shone around, the door opened, two beings entered, powerful lights shining from their foreheads and scanned the room. There was a long pause, a deathly silence, then they turned and disappeared into the night - PHEW!

The morning dawned bright and clear. After breakfast and some housework we were off, surprised to find a tent in the lee of the bothy, but with no sign of the occupants. Perhaps they only emerge at night. We retraced our route back to tarmac, then downhill to a junction to a junction where we turned southwest to Dunalastair Water. The onetime estate (public?) road was under the waters, so we took to the birchwoods, over moss-covered rocks, contouring round, then down over branches and the tops of harvested soft woods and onto a dry road, eventually coming to a bridge crossing point. The original stone bridge was missing and in its place - and looking very out of place - was a white-painted steel footbridge. Whoever erected it had had second thoughts and had placed barbed wire across both entrances and removed the floorboards for good measure. Bikes were debagged and a hazardous double-journey made: the wooden joists were three feet apart, wet and very slippery.

There was a path on the south bank and we followed a path beside the garden wall into mature woodland for a detour to McGregor's Cave. The bikes were abandoned where we reached a stream. The bridge had long since disappeared and rotting timbers lay in the water. George climbed a tree, made his way along a moss-covered bough, up some loose rocks and regained the path on the opposite side. By the time the third one got across things were getting a bit slippery. McGregor's Cave is a natural stone outcrop to which a stone wall has been added with an entrance at either end and a hole left for a window, probably built at the same time as Dunalastair Castle. The cave is high up on a wide ledge which gives commanding views of the surrounding countryside and of the castle across the tail end of Dunalastair Water. The castle is in a woodland setting and looks the part, its round towers each with an elegant, conical roof. The castle has been empty for many years but from where we were standing the fabric looked in good condition.

Returning to the bikes we found Eddy's front tyre had deflated, and in the course of repair several broken spokes were discovered. We eyed a stack of neatly chopped firewood over the garden wall before following the track back to tarmac at Crossmount. A mile up the road we turned south up a track by a farm for our next night's stay. The track dead-ends on the 2000ft contour at the bothy, but nothing is shown on recent maps. As none of us had stayed there before, and it was early February, we all hoped there would be something there. It was a steady climb over rough pasture, with a fruitless search for firewood. We reached the track end at the watershed and a stream flowing east/west. From the top of the bank a few sheets of corrugated iron were seen protruding and dropping down we found the bothy. This was stone-walled and set into the bankside. A sign warned against standing on the roof, inside the walls and concrete floor were bone-dry and there were several stackable chairs. The only disappointment was the fireplace, a tiny hearth and flue, set into the righthand corner.

We gathered armfuls of heather and did our best to heat some food. It began to snow - large white flakes - as the light faded and the temperature plummeted. In the morning Eddy took an armful of heather outside for a brew-up in the wind and sleet; George produced a stove and managed to heat some water to luke warmth before the cartridge expired. As we made ready to leave George remarked he had no wish to return.

An inch of slushy snow made for a slippery descent over rocks and thick heather. We fanned out, each looking for the best route down as the valley opened out. A river, the Alit Mor, had to be forded: George and Eddy got across and stood on the far bank, cameras at the ready, waiting for this bloke from the Deep South to make his move; well I got across with just a damp sock. Marked on the map, dotted about the valley floor in twos and threes, are shielings, defined as 'grazing ground for cattle, roughly constructed huts for shepherds or sportsmen." We saw no huts or ruins in the valley, only the Glenmore Bothy, which we visited. This had been padlocked, but had been broken into. It is a two-storey stone building; the main room having pine panelled walls and an impressive carved fireplace, a fine example of a mason's skill. On the end was stabling for three animals and the building was probably used as a base in the shooting season.

We followed a track southwards up the valley side, pausing to look back as the clouds cleared to reveal a completely snow-covered Schiehallion (1083m, 3554ft). We pushed out of the valley to begin a four-mile descent, the upper part of which had been covered with loose stones, now much of it unrideable. We dropped into the Lyon valley, hitting tarmac at Fortinghall beside a group of converted farm buildings now looking very upmarket. We crossed the river by an elegantly suspended footbridge, contoured around Drummond Hill, into the Tay valley and stopped at a corner shop in Kenmore where we bought out their entire stock of lukewarm pies and other goodies.

Meanwhile the gremlins struck George's bike again, this time loosening the left crank; with a cracked boss it would be impossible to keep the axle bolt tight. So we set off, Eddy with a wobbly front wheel and George with a wobbly crank. Once out of the valley's zig-zags it was mostly downhill, over quiet back roads until we ran out of them and onto the A85 near Perth. Here Eddy entrained for Glasgow and George phoned Margaret. Eleven hours after leaving the bothy we were sitting down to a hot meal.

Map: OS Landranger 42