The lost village of Imber

We had finalised our plans the night before, sat in front of a blazing fireplace. Up early next day, quick cup of tea, then boots on and straight up on to Salisbury Plain, a ten-mile stomp and back home mid-morning for breakfast. This schedule would allow us to enjoy Wiltshire’s vast chalk plateau in near solitude, before the hordes of walkers, cyclists and rangers arrived. Hopefully we would see plenty of the wildlife that abounds on the lush, undisturbed grasslands and copses.

Standing outside at 6am on a freezing January morning, the flaws in our plan became apparent. My caffeine requirement correlates sharply with how early I rise, and the one cup of tea so far (cup, mind, not mug, and a smallish one at that) had barely raised a flicker on my internal motor. Danny, my walking companion for the day and someone I have long suspected to be of a much sturdier ilk, was thriving in the early morning darkness. Dermot the dog has unbounded energy at any hour, especially when there are rabbits about.

But our efforts paid off. Salisbury Plain is always a rewarding place for a walk, but it particularly inspiring at this early hour. The near-full moon shone brightly, illuminating the footpath, and the overhanging grasses tinkled as we crashed through their frost-covered seed heads. Soon we reached a barred gate that marks the perimeter of the army land. This is usually the point to turn left or right and head home via the outskirts of the plateau. But today, like a handful of other days each year, it marks the boundary of something a bit special. Our target was Imber, a deserted village right in the centre of Ministry of Defence land. They open it to the public for just a few days each year and this sense of something ‘forbidden’ makes it a popular trip.

As we had hoped, there was not another soul about. The ghostly outlines of discarded tanks on the hills around provided a reminder of the current land use, but as the first red-brick building appeared, we were reminded that this lonely outpost was once a thriving farming community. The building was the pub, the focus of village life until 1943. In November that year, the MOD told residents they would have to leave so that visiting American troops could practice street fighting. The villagers made this wartime sacrifice with no complaint, perhaps due to a promise that they could return post-war. But to this day, the village is devoid of residents and still used for army training. The only building still functioning is the church of St Giles, which holds services on ‘open’ days.

As we left the village, the preparations for a cycle race across the Plain were starting up, with the marshals putting out markers and generally making a lot of noise. We quickened our pace to keep ahead of them and avoid being coated in flying mud. A young deer family trotted briskly across the path in front of us; we stopped to watch them, only to have this scene of countryside idyll torn away by an expletive-laden instruction to, er, ‘go away’. Someone high up on the hillside had spotted the deer before us, and our disturbing presence had prevented a clean shot. Briefly, we considered exerting our right to be there; but he had one gun more than us. Argument settled. Comforted that we had, at least, spared the lives of the those gentle animals for another day, we hurried back to Edington for our sausages and bacon.

Getting there

Buses run to Edington, a village on the northern side of Salisbury Plain. You can also reach Imber from Warminster, which has a train station.

When to go

The outer parts of Salisbury Plain are accessible year-round, but Imber only on certain days around Christmas and New Year, Easter and the summer Bank Holidays. Check the Forever Imber website for more information.

For more photos of this walk, visit the Visitorreview page for Car Free Walks.

Island walking

The Isle of Wight is an ideal location for a car-free walk - its size means many interesting walks are easily reachable, and the remoteness of many locations and the island itself mean many of the island's inhabitants rely on the local bus and train services. The train runs along the eastern side of the island from Ryde to Shanklin, with converted tube carriages meandering along quite frequently. One company, Southern Vectis, runs the majority of the island's buses and they are quite reliable - except when it snows.

Before setting off for a January break on the island, I was told by a family member that 'it never snows on the Isle of Wight'. As we arrived at our cottage at the start of the week, laden with a rucksack each and some emergency shopping, a fellow bus passenger told us about the last time it had snowed on the island - the 1970s. But no one had reckoned with the cold snap that hit the UK over the new year, and the Isle of Wight certainly didn't escape. The good thing about all the snow was that we couldn't have used a car even if we had wanted to, so the walks we had planned were solely reliant on boots, backpacks and the emergency shopping.

Although unexpected, it was good to get some experience of snow walking as it is noticeably different to good weather trips. Progress is a lot slower than the average 3mph when you are walking through knee-deep drifts or negotiating downhill tracks with pockets of ice. So we had to plan accordingly, bearing in mind how early it gets dark, and take extra food and water. And torches. My wind-up bicycle lamp did the trick. The snow also made it harder to find the way, with many signposts coated in thick white and the terrain difficult to relate to the map - roads, tracks and fields all look pretty similar under a blanket of snow. Fortunately some gregarious locals had written signs in the snow - much appreciated.

The Isle of Wight's climate is normally far more agreeable, offering excellent year-round walking, and even in January we noticed the temperate rising in the undercliff of St Lawrence on the southern side of the island, where the variety of plants and wildlife were still evident. A palm tree with its branches laden with snow is a peculiar sight in any part of the world.

It is also a haven for birdwatching and perhaps some residents were feeling the chill beneath their feathers, because plenty were about searching for sustenance. In Niton, we saw flocks of redwings, ravens, black caps and a solitary pied wagtail. On the coast near St Catherine's lighthouse, a buzzard was circling; near the Ryde ferry terminal we spotted avocets and gulls. And there were plenty of more familiar names too - tits, blackbirds and thrushes.

The Isle of Wight is a great learning ground for the novice walker, because of the pleasant temperate climate and the (usually) well-signposted routes. The excellent bus and train network make it ideal for the car-free walker. And the impressive number of pubs, accustomed to catering for people with a friendly welcome and pint of a local brew, make it perfect for all kinds of walker.

By Penny Woods

A pilgrimage to Trainspotting

Corrour Station, on the northern edge of Rannoch Moor, lays claim as the highest station in the UK at over 1,300ft above sea level. Perhaps more famously, it also features in the film version of Irvine Welsh's bestseller 'Trainspotting', as the location where Renton, Spud, Sickboy and Tommy, in a more wholesome moment in their recreation, decide to go for a walk. As Tim's 8th favourite film ever, what a great place to follow in their film star footsteps, we thought.

The benefits of a small bit of planning shone through as we succesfully met up on board the West Highland Railway train at Rannoch Station – Tim over from his new home in Germany, me (not so) fresh from the overnight journey on the Caledonian Sleeper from London. The sight of my friend, a died-in-the-wool (and some may say, mildly self-righteous) vegetarian, armed with a bacon sandwich and cup of tea, was almost enough to move my sleep-deprived eyes to tears.

As well as being the highest station in the UK, Corrour is also said to be the most remote, with the nearest public road-head being quite some distance away. As such, it's a prime location for the adventurous walker aiming to get away from the four-wheel dependent crowds. Being a weekday in mid September, we were two of only a handful to alight here, stepping out into blue skies and with joy in our hearts. As Welsh's character Tommy says, 'Doesn't it make you proud to be Scottish?'

The weather forecast for the day had been noticably vague, so we had made no definite plans for the first of this two-day trip. But with a cloudless sky and only light winds, we hit upon a route over the hills to the bothy at Loch Ericht, returning to Loch Ossian Youth Hostel near Corrour for the following night.

Heading east from the station, the access track to the hostel was a gentle start to the day and an opportunity to loosen the limbs after the last 12 hours spent aboard a train. Our first peak of the day was Carn Dearg, which at 941m offers an impressive vista in all directions, most notably back towards Ben Nevis and the Grey Corries. Tim claims that after lunching in the lee of a comfy rock, I stole a short snooze, something I appear to be making quite a habit of on these trips!

Refreshed and revitalised, backpacks were slung across shoulders and we headed forth to ascend the twin peaks of Sgor Gaibhre and Sgor Choinnich, then on to Meall a Bhealaich, where I was reminded of the joys of the South West of England Coastal Path – the reality of travelling only a little horizontal distance forward on the map for considerable expenditure of energy. Maybe we were both lacking a bit of mountain fitness, or just getting a bit lazy after a busy summer, but we opted to divert away from the final planned peak of the day, Beinn a Chumhainn, and headed instead for the valley of Alder Burn and the footpath to Ben Alder Cottage. The night was spent there in comfort and warmth, the midges only a mild irritant that did little to distract from the beauty of the place. The stars were something to behold as they reflected off the water of the loch, and the bottle of whisky, nobly carried by me, led to a philosophical conversation and a solid sleep.

The next day dawned another fair one, and we set off at a good hour to attempt Ben Alder by way of Bealach Breabag and Sron Bealach Beithe. Disappointingly, the summits themselves were cloaked in a damp fog, so with little reason for hanging around we descended by the natural line of the mountain's western spur to find the path alongside Uisge Labhair. From here, the undulating path was surprisingly tiring as we headed downhill for several miles to Corrour Lodge. With weary limbs, the final miles around the banks of Loch Ossian were a challenge, and it was with relief and flagging energy levels that we arrived at our overnight accommodation.

Our stay at the YHA Loch Ossian was a real pleasure. Our welcoming host made a good fire, and the guests for the evening made for entertaining conversation. A stunning sunset and a good night's sleep cleared the head, and with the spring returning to our step, we caught the mid-morning train back to civilization.

Posting by Gary
Photos by Tim

The Keswick conundrum

Keswick presents problems for an indecisive walker. The town’s reputation as the hub of outdoors activity in the Lake District is well deserved. The giant peaks Skiddaw and Blencathra rise up to the north, provide a challenging day for anyone keen to scale the heights. To the southwest, the fells that circle the Newlands Valley form a classic horseshoe, while a stroll around Derwent Water will attract those looking for something more leisurely.

This tempting array of possible routes spun around my head as the 555 bus ambled through the Lakes. Being more familiar with the southern fells – the nearest during student days at Lancaster University – all the options were appealing. I was still undecided upon arrival at Keswick, but the imminent breaking of a fierce looking black cloud dictated that erecting the tent as swiftly as possible took priority.

The tent was positioned to avoid the rapidly expanding puddles in the Keswick campsite, but the aspect unintentionally signalled the way forward next morning. The doors opened to reveal Cat Bells glistening brightly in the morning sun. Decision made; I set off to Portinscale and the start of the Newlands Round. A bus service runs from Keswick to the foot of Cat Bells during summer months, but it would have been a shame to miss the early morning sights, sounds and smells of Overside Woods, with the few remaining bluebells struggling to compete with the wild garlic.

Cat Bells attracts the full spectrum of Lakeland walkers. Maybe it’s the easy access from Keswick, the relatively short climb, or just the indisputably cute name. Early on this overcast Sunday morning (the early rays long since departed) the carefully constructed zigzag path was rapidly filling up. Seven teenagers, heads down, rucksacks full, trudging silently in single file – they could only be a Duke of Edinburgh group, and the weary expressions and mud-splattered kit suggested they were at least three days into their expedition. Near the summit, two athletic looking men nodded a brief greeting as they hurried past, clearly heading for bigger challenges than humble Cat Bells can provide.

On Maiden Moor, I found myself having a late breakfast of Babybels and an apple next to a Dutchman heading for Buttermere. As we chatted, he told me this was his first visit to the Lake District and he was clearly enthralled.
"We have nothing like this in Holland…just look at that view", he said, gesturing towards High Spy and Dale Head.

By this time, the slate grey clouds were forming an angry mob over the summits, casting the landscape in a brooding, pallid light. I had seen the fells look more attractive, but it seemed a little churlish to quash his moment. Grinning wildly, he headed off into the murk and drizzle.

The light waves on Derwent Water were catching the few rays of sun that sneaked through, shimmering brightly in contrast to the gloom ahead. Tiring of the constant buzz of human chatter, an incessant line of hikers on all sides, I decided to drop down and return to Keswick via the lakeside. The map showed a clear path down between Maiden Moor and High Spy, so I took a bearing and veered off from the crowds heading onwards.

It felt good to be alone, a sense of rebelling against the masses – similar to playing truant from school. The walking clichés all applied – choose your own adventure, get off the beaten track, go against the flow – the experience many walkers crave. This preoccupied elation almost proved disastrous.

As I headed over the edge of Blea Crag, the valley scene attracted my attention, rather than the ground below. Instead of heading down Low White Rake, I found myself halfway down Nitting Haws, trapped on a narrow, exposed and slippery ledge. A bulging rucksack prevented an easy about-turn and scamper back up, and the free-spirited sensations of a few minutes ago quickly dispersed; solitude was now the last thing I wanted.

It took several anxious minutes, a Chaucerian selection of curses, and scrambling moves that you won’t find in any training manuals to get to the safe ground near Cockley How. Looking back, the obvious scramble down the rake was clear about 10 meters to the right; its taunting simplicity a stark contrast to the precarious drop I had been scrabbling above.

Mushroom soup was required to calm frazzled nerves and as the pan bubbled slowly, I looked over towards Skiddaw and Blencathra, both bathed in sunlight. Would I have had a more satisfying day there? Or on Castlerigg Fell, radiant in the midday sun across Derwent Water? Perhaps, but that’s the thing about Keswick – the wonderful array of options provides the perfect reason to return, again and again.

Posted by Carfreewalker

Photos by me as well

Going to walk on an egg

A fried egg sandwich with a cup of tea is a welcome snack at any time. As an unscheduled breakfast before venturing into a thunder storm for two days, it assumes previously unknown qualities – comforting, motivational and warming – not to mention a boost of caffeine and grease, those two staples of the UK diet.

Our expedition to walk across the Howgill Fells had suffered from an inauspicious start. Gary had managed less than two hours sleep on the overnight train to Carlisle, thanks to the snoring passenger in his carriage. The bus that was supposed to take us from Kirkby Stephen to Ravenstondale had sped past – the driver oblivious to our frantic hand gestures – meaning an unwelcome trudge next to the busy A685 at 7am. Dark grey clouds were swirling overhead; an ominous sign that the unpleasant forecast was likely to be correct for once.

Trying to delay the inevitable soaking, we wandered into the Black Swan Hotel in search of some comfort. Their delicious egg sandwiches rescued the trip from being abandoned in favour of two days in the pub, and all for a bargain three pounds each.

After draining the last drops from the teapot, we set off through Ravenstondale, which sits on the northern edge of the Howgill Fells. The day’s route was undecided, with no particular summit or ridge in mind. All we had planned was to ramble through territory unknown to us both until we found a suitable place to wild camp. The following day, we would complete whatever distance remained to Sedbergh, located on the southern side.

This approach to walking makes a refreshing change from a fixation on one mountainous target, or having to be back by a certain time for the bus. No rush, no pressure and time to enjoy the beautiful surroundings of the Howgills.

You have probably seen these steep, tussocky hills, even if you didn’t realise it. Anyone travelling to Penrith from the south will have noticed them sloping away to the right, opposite the more dramatic skyline of the Lake District. These fells are often overlooked in favour of their illustrious neighbours to the west, but this is to their benefit. They are much quieter, unscarred by a criss-cross of ever widening footpaths and, in the central valleys, offer a sense of solitude that is hard to find in the Lakes.

Fortunately, the forecast rain didn’t arrive until we reached The Calf, the highest point in the Howgills at 676 metres. Despite it being just past lunchtime, we decided to head for Bran Rigg to camp for the night – an afternoon doze suddenly seemed very appealing, with the rain getting heavier by the minute. A flattish hollow next to the small stream looked promising, with views down the valley to Castley and Crook of Lune – at least when the rain stopped for very brief interludes. The three dead sheep just upstream didn’t deter us – it was the only space large enough for two tents in this steep sided, v-shaped valley, and neither of us wanted to walk any further that day.

The bright sunshine next morning lasted long enough for us to take down the tents and have breakfast. By the time we reached the top of Brant Fell, however, the clouds had settled in for the day, making themselves comfortable on the rounded plateau between Arant Haw and The Calf. Heads down, we moved swiftly to the top of Cautley Spout, the highest waterfall above ground in the UK (Gaping Gill is bigger, but in a cave). This is one of the highlights of a trip to the Howgills; the path down sits alongside the series of falls, and the best viewpoints marked by the worn-away patches of grass where previous admirers have tried to capture the perfect photo.

The sun returned for the final stretch, along the valley from Cautley to Sedbergh. The warming rays lifted the scent of wild garlic into the woodland air, and wild gorse coloured the fields stretching up towards the Howgills. The contrast with the walk in to Ravenstonedale couldn’t have been starker – or maybe the warm, feel-good glow of the egg sandwiches was still working its magic. They really were that good.

Getting there
Kirkby Stephen Station is on the Leeds-Carlisle line, and there are occasional buses to Ravenstonedale (when they stop!). Sedbergh is served by many buses to all nearby towns and several villages. There are regular buses back to Kirkby Stephen to get a train home.

Where to eat, drink, sleep

There's nowhere that near Kirkby Stephen Station, but the Black Swan Hotel in Ravenstonedale offers a very warm welcome. Sedbergh has a wide selection of accommodation and places to eat, drink and be tired.

Photos by Tim and Gary, using Laura's camera

Falling for the South Downs

The Devil’s Dyke, on a sunny Saturday morning in May, is probably not the best introduction to the South Downs. People sit impatiently in their cars on the approach road, waiting for a free spot in the vast concrete car park. Ice cream vans, motorbikes and squawking children drown out any sounds of nature, although the wildlife undoubtedly knows to leaves early. This was my first experience of the South Downs, and it left me distinctly underwhelmed – was it really set to become our newest National Park?

Ditchling Beacon, the second attempt at some peace in the countryside, was not much better. A smaller car park, but this only seemed to make those queuing to get in more frustrated. Several people who had made it were indulging in that peculiarly British pastime, the in-car picnic. Why sit outside in the sunshine when you can gaze at the view through your windscreen? And all this weekend disturbance could easily be avoided; both of these popular spots are well served by buses from Brighton.

This was not what I was hoping for from my new walking playground. Before reluctantly moving to Brighton, I had spent nine months in Aberfoyle, near Scotland’s Trossachs, with the ever-changing views of Ben Lomond to cherish each morning. This was followed by a year in Lancaster, with its easy access to the Lakes and Yorkshire Dales. A humble line of chalky hills, spluttering to a high point of 280m, offered little potential excitement. There’s no doubt about it; I was pining for these places, and the South Downs were bearing the brunt.

But I am not the type to nurture a grievance after the eighteenth heartfelt rant. Joining the local Duke of Edinburgh’s Award group as a leader meant regular weekends in the Downs, discovering new places and unexpected delights: Beachy Head, with its dramatic, plunging cliffs; the glorious Arun Valley and its varied birdlife; Cuckmere Haven, perfect for (outdoor) picnics, and the nearby Friston Forest. Maybe not household names, but they carry the same importance to local people as the more exalted walking regions to the north.

The South Downs has another advantage over some of these regions; every section of its 100 miles is accessible without a car. The towns and villages that nestle either side of the ridge are almost all well served with buses or trains. This includes locally run, walker-friendly services such as the Cuckmere Community Bus. This multitude of start and finish points, combined with the geography of the Downs, makes it ideal for linear car-free walks; start at one village, up onto the ridge, then down again once you’re done for the day.

After five years of learning to love the South Downs, I found, with no little surprise, that I had a favourite walk here – Southease to Lewes, via Highdole Hill. It doesn’t make my top 20 walks, maybe not even the top 50, but a day of gentle ups and downs in one of the quieter sections of the Downs gets all the right muscles twitching. It is also one of the few places in the southeast of England where you can escape the crowds, stretch your legs, and appreciate the sounds of cows and seagulls instead of mobile phones and traffic. And for that alone, it deserves a little recognition.

Southease to Lewes
Southease Station is the perfect place to begin a car-free walk. No café, no car parks and usually no other passengers alighting, and the footpath starts at the end of the platform. How’s that for accessibility?

A short distance from here, over the old wooden bridge that spans the River Ouse, is the village of Southease, and the walk’s first highlight. St Peter’s Church was built in the early 12th Century, and is a fine example of the architecture of this time. It’s well worth exploring if you are in no rush to reach the hills.

Cross the road just out of Southease and a footpath takes you right into the South Downs Way. There’s no fixed route to follow – head along the secluded Breaky Bottom, or climb up to Highdole Hill for views over Rottingdean and the English Channel. The walk is also dotted with those features that colour a walk; look out for the path-side monument near Whiteway Bottom, in memory of another admirer of these hills. A little further along is the mysterious collection of farm buildings the southern side of Castle Hill Nature Reserve, disused except for the crows and ravens who watch as you pass.

At Castle Hill, head briefly along the South Downs Way towards Kingston near Lewes. The Juggs Inn is a handy place to refresh before the final couple of miles to Lewes. In spring evenings, you may even be treated to a display of Morris dancing in the road next to the beer garden. Mock ye not this splendid tradition; our ancient Isles would be a more cheerless place without these grown men and women who, for our entertainment, hit sticks together and wear bells round their ankles.

What's the Devil's Point? (The Cairngorms in Winter)

With the Christmas festivities and New Year passing, my thoughts turned to the weeks ahead and an irresistable urge for some adventure. A couple of phone calls to like-minded friends, and some rooting around the internet for some cheap travel tickets, and plans were set. The Cairngorms in January - time to go and buy that extra fleece . . .

To maximise time on the hills and save some annual leave for warmer times, we decided to travel north overnight using the wonderful First Scotrail Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston. We left it a little late to get a get a bargain berth (one way tickets from only £19), so we made do with a reclining chair each for only a little more money. Setting off from London just before midnight, we woke to the sound of bagpipes (or was it commuters on their way to work?) in Edinburgh seven hours later. A short stop off allowed time to get a quick breakfast, and then northwards again to our destination of Kingussie.

Kingussie lies to the west of the main Cairngorm plateau, and is about as typical a Scottish highland town as you can imagine. With an appetite built up from the strenuous journey, and the thought of 48 hours without such an opportunity again, we sought out the local cafe and indulged in some solid carbohydrate loading. Thanks to the ladies at Pam's Pantry for the great food and hospitality, and to their guests for their interest in our kit and our sanity!

From the town we headed south-east on the road past Ruthven Barracks. This is an impressive ruin worth a closer look, but with a long day planned to our overnight accommodation, we pressed on to Tromie Bridge and our last brush with civilisation for a couple of days. Our target for the day was the beautiful glen of the River Feshie, where Tim had recommended a lovely little bothy somewhere along the banks. The weather was deteriorating as forecast, with some strong gusts of wind blowing through the hills and dampness in the air. The conifer plantations kept off the worst, though, and we made good time. Turning right at the meeting of Glen Feshie, we headed south along the banks of the river in diminishing light in search of the elusive hut that was to be our resting place for the night.

The Mountain Bothies Association works "to maintain simple shelters in remote country for the use and benefit of all who love wild and lonely places" and what a wonderful job they do. We don't want to spoil the tranquillity of this particular place by advertising it's location, so join them, give them your money, and make use of the places they care for. Should you discover this one, you will find it warm and dry, with a wood burning fire, plenty of room to cook and sleep, and fresh water and a 'flush' toilet a few steps away (well, a bucket's supplied and the stream is only ten feet away).

Day 2 dawned bright but windy, with a wonderful pink sunrise to waken the senses. Our initial plan was to head eastwards and upwards, into the hills around Mullach Clach a Bhlair. But with an ever increasing strength to the wind, we exercised due caution and opted to stick with the glen, heading south to stay low until the wind was on our tails. As we headed further into the hills, majestic views emerge, with the promise of more to come.

We were heading for the metal bridge over the River Eidart, but before reaching this there are several wide and deep tributaries that require both care and patience to cross. However, having chosen the right travel companions for the trip, both were in evidence as we skipped across the stones, and it was only the perspiration from our heavy sacks that made us a little damp.

From the bridge, we began 'heather bashing' across the slopes of Cnapan Mor, a difficult task at the best of times made harder by the soft crust of snow. But as luck would have it, we happened across some tracks left by a passing Snowmobile, and with crampons attached we strode northwards to the pass between Leac Ghorm and Beinn Bhrotain. At this point we had planned to drop down into Glen Geusachan, but dangerous large cornices had built up on the north slopes; with the associated avalanche risks, we continued instead over the summit of Monadh Mor and gained access to the valley from the west. By that time, light was failing and we had to don our headtorches for the final miles round Devil's Point to the bothy at Corrour.

The plan was to meet some friends who had walked up from Aviemore, and we were pleased to find them with a welcome brew waiting for us. However, as is the danger with the free accommodation, another group had also arrived (although we were in no way complaining - the hardy mix of Scottish and Welsh 'Munro Baggers' had shunned the lightweight approach and lugged 10kg of coal with them to keep us all toasty warm for the night) and with the limited space in the hut, we opted to brave the elements and bivvy in the shelter of the wonderful new compostable toilet. It was a dramatic bedroom, low cloud, bitterly cold, the imposing Devil's Point looming ominously just to the south, and in the middle of the night we found that we weren't alone (insert drum roll)... in the eery twilight hours, we were woken by two sizeable deer, and thankfully not the devil, grazing just by us.

The forecast on Day 3 had changed noticeably from when we left home, and with aching limbs from the previous days exertions, we opted for the easier option off the hill, the Lairig Ghru. This long pass through the heart of the Cairngorms was once the main drove road to the south, and is a challenging excursion in it's own right. We were only tackling a section of it; easier, but not entirely without effort, as the icy conditions underfoot meant the mind couldn't wander too far, as we slipped over the pass between Sron na Lairige and Cairn Lochan at the Pools of Dee.

From this point on it was pretty much downhill towards the vast forest of the Rothiemurchus Estate. Our walk had a beautiful end as we meandered through the pines towards Loch an Eilein, and onwards to a night of relative comfort at YHA Aviemore.

The journey back to the South Coast the following day wasn't without a hitch, as it was the day that winter made a visit to London for the first time in years. But all credit to the train companies for getting us home in a timely manner for the princely sum of £32. A fitting icy end to a fantastic long weekend of true Scottish conditions. G.S.