Tilting at Windy Hills - a week in Glen Tilt

 

Beinn a’Ghlo

Our Easter group were, at least in part, staying at Forest Lodge on the Blair Atholl Estate, deep in the heart of Glen Tilt.  The spectacular location and the access to the hills made up for the terrible 8 mile drive along a potholed, unsurfaced road from Old Blair.

Climbing out of Glen Tilt

Research showed we could walk Beinn a’Ghlo directly from the lodge so that was our objective for the first day.  Fourteen of us set off up the track through the valley in good clear weather with plenty of sun about.  After 3km we came to the substantial new bridge over the river to cross and begin the ascent of Meall a’Mhuirich at 898m.  The path zigzagged up the steep hillside, coming and going but always upwards.  The final pull to the top was a slightly snowy direct line which had us puffing.  Two of our party decided that would do them for the day and turned around.  The rest of us pushed on to the first Munro, Carn nan Gabhar.  There was more snow here but all soft stuff that didn’t require any extra kit.   It was quite windy but the views were excellent all around, showing us the white summits of the big hills of the Cairngorms.

Beinn a'Ghlo summits from Meall a'Mhuirich

Carn nan Gabhar

Although we were spread out by the climb, our leading group of five found it too cold to hang around, so we pushed on.  We met our first other walkers on the descent to Bealach an Fhiodha, though they would be on their last Munro of the set if they had started from the standard place.  Just before the bealach we traversed a snowy slope and chose to get our ice axes out as insurance, though it was low risk.

Bealach an Fhiodha

There was another stiff climb up to the second Munro, the lengthily-named Bràigh Coire Chruinn-bhalgain.  Again we pushed on in the cold, though we had spotted a group descending to the bealach who could have been our party.  The descent to Coire Crom was rather unpleasant due to steepness, rockiness and a slip-inducing splatter of snow.  It was a relief to get it over with, even if we now had to make another steep ascent to pick off the last Munro, Carn Liath.  It was only the initial climb that was steep, the rest of it was a stumble over rocks up a gentle slope in a howling crosswind.  To the south we could see Scheihallion and a white-clad Ben Lawers range (I think).

I had looked at a return route via the path to the Loch Moraig car park but we had spotted a path back at Coire Crom so retraced our steps and walked out across that, eventually just taking a direct line across pathless heather towards the bridge at Clachghlas.  Unfortunately this finished with a horribly steep drop to the river, rendering legs to jelly.  It was here we caught the rest of our party who had decided it was too late in the day to try for Carn Liath (they would visit later in the week).  Just 2.5km back along the road to Forest Lodge.

22km, 8.5hrs

 

Carn a’Chlamain

The forecast wasn’t great so a short walk seemed in order.  Forest Lodge sits pretty much at the foot of Carn a’Chlamain so a group of 12 set out from the front door, walked 350m up the road then turned left at an unmarked path to hit the slopes.  It was another zigzag path up the steep valley side but this one felt easier than the previous day’s.  Better graded perhaps, or clearer.  We were soon enjoying great views along the glen and precipitously down to the lodge below our feet.  The wind picked up as we got higher and blew with some gusto as we reached the open ground towards the summit.  The cloud came in and we lost sight of the people behind us, trusting the clarity of the path to keep them on track.  The tumbled stones of the hidden summit were smothered in light snow so we just climbed any old how to the top.  The wind cut through us, discouraging any lingering about, and we dropped to the lee of the stones to find some respite.  The second group soon joined us.  We wrapped up warm and had a quick sandwich.  Meg the spaniel was shivering with cold, despite the Dryrobe coat, so Liz brought her in close for shelter.  Meg took the opportunity to snatch the sandwich out of Liz’s hand.  So much for gratitude.

Looking down on Forest Lodge

When another pair from our group made it to the top, they advised us not to wait but to stay moving.  We did so and found our way down a clearer path than we had used on the ascent.  The tearing wind made it difficult to see as my eyes were streaming and the breath was knocked out of my lungs.  I had taken my down jacket off again and was starting to feel cold.  I was in a hurry to get down again and to warm up.

Grand views from Carn a'Chlamain

We were now on the usual route up from Glen Tilt so the paths were very clear, all the more so as we dropped down, descending below the cloud and putting a mountain between us and the northerly wind.  It became a pleasant descent, to match the pleasant ascent, and bookending a testing summit.

13km, 4hrs

Descending towards Clachghlas

 

Glen Tilt – Falls of Tarf

After a recovery day off the weather still wasn’t looking great.  A group were heading over to Drumochter to bag Munros for a second day but I didn’t fancy a day in the clag, so I came up with a low-level route up the glen, around Dùn Mòr and back via the Falls of Tarf.  Jesper switched teams to join me and we walked up with Heather and David, both recovering from colds, who were just going to the Falls.

We parted ways a couple of kilometres before the Falls and climbed the estate road south of Dùn Mòr.  When the road dipped down again, the Tarf valley spread out before us.  It was wide with the river meandering in shingly channels below round hills, the higher of which disappeared into clouds.  Below us a tatty, rust-roofed hut blended in with the brown of the heather and the grass.  It was a magical place, feeling abandoned and a long way from civilisation.

High valley of the River Tarf

Not knowing what to expect of the river crossing we had brought trainers.  It was deep enough to warrant them so we switched out of our boots and looked for somewhere suitable to cross.  We chose a place with three channels, none of them deeper than calf-height.  The first was cold, the second painful, the third was just numbing.  The path along the north side of the river was, as Jesper said, ‘tentative’, vanishing from time to time in the bog.  The Tarf valley narrowed and become more gorge-like.  In the distance we could see into the remote peaks between Glenshee and the Linn of Dee.  Carn an Righ looked particularly formidable, a cloud-topped bastion walled with crags and boulders.

Jesper crossing the Tarf

It was only a short descent to the valley below the Falls, which were very pretty.  The Bedford suspension bridge was a surprising construction and contrasted sharply with our damp crossing of the river higher up.  After that we made our way back to the track and stomped our way home.

21km, 6hrs

Descending to the Falls of Tarf

 

Beinn Dearg

At last, a day with a decent forecast.  Beinn Dearg was on my target list but was a long walk and therefore needed good weather.  It also necessitated a drive down the Road of Broken Cars (three of our party had incidents over the week) to Old Blair, where another part of our group, not walkers, were staying.  Parking there saved a couple of kilometres.

Timothy and Tom on the long and winding road

There were only three of us on this walk, me, Tom and his son Timothy, and we set off through the woods at a good pace, warming up quickly and shedding layers.  The track is long and winding but is a good surface, encouraging a steady trot.  I can see why you would bike it.  After almost 2 hours we arrived at Allt Scheicheachan bothy and used the picnic table for a food stop.  There was an easy crossing of the burn before following it upstream to the turn for the hill.  The path climbed steeply at first, doing its best to ease the gradient at times, at others just going head-on at the slope.  The hill opened out finally, giving us a view up to the stony, snowy pimple of the distant summit, but put us in the teeth of a headwind (is that a mixed metaphor?)  My eyes streamed, my nose ran, I hate to think how besmeared I looked, but I was locked into a struggle up the hill, head down, pounding on.  Near the top, the red stone from which the hill gets its name, disappeared beneath snow, the most consolidated we had walked on that week, and we got to the top.  There were three other people already there, a backpacker and a couple who had been at the bothy.  The immediate hills were all rather brown but further afield we could see Beinn a’Ghlo was snowier than earlier in the week and the Cairngorms to the north glowed a bright white.  We found somewhere slightly sheltered to eat but didn’t stop long for fear of getting cold.

Allt Scheicheachan Bothy

The return route I had planned was slightly different, going via Allt Slanaidh.  Tom was worried about the river crossing there, possibly projecting our tales of crossing the Tarf onto this one, possibly reliving an unpleasant experience from the past.  I didn’t want to push it so we agreed to return the way we had come, although it was longer.  Once past the bothy it got warm again and we stomped along, albeit a little more wearisome than before.  Towards the end the clouds came in, the wind got up and the odd spot of rain fell.  Thankfully it didn’t amount to much and we were back at Old Blair, ready to bump and clatter our way back to Forest Lodge.

29km, 7.5hrs

Beinn a'Ghlo from Beinn Dearg

 

Glen Tilt - Allt Mhairc

Snow was falling when I got up, not settling on the valley bottom but dusting the hills quite low down.  Cloud skulked low above the house.  It was our last day and most people were heading out sight-seeing.  I didn’t fancy the Horror Road so planned another short low-level route.  Jesper joined me again.

Allt Mhairc

We drove the good section of road (occasionally reaching 20mph) down to Marble Lodge, where we could park as part of the privilege of staying on the Atholl Estate (as per Old Blair).  From there we crossed Gaw’s Bridge and looked down at the full river crashing between impressively canted rocks.  A little way on we turned up above Allt Mhairc, which is the route up Beinn Mheadhonach, a Corbett, though we had no intention of putting ourselves through that trial.  Instead we climbed above the deep gorge up to the New Bridge (so called) which sat very picturesquely below the winding stream.  That was as far as we were going so after a snack stop we retreated back to the main glen and walked through the woods to Gilbert’s Bridge, passing ruined homesteads.

New Bridge

New Bridge

I had enjoyed these low-level walks just as much as I had enjoyed the high tops.  Staying in Glen Tilt and being reluctant to drive out of it encouraged exploration of the area.  Having seen nothing but a big valley on arrival, I was becoming fonder of the glen the more I poked into its nooks and crannies.  It would repay a good deal more exploration still.

8.5km, 2hrs

Windermere – Pooley Bridge: 11th – 12th March

 

Day One: Windermere – Orrest Head – Garburn Road – Yoke – Ill Bell – Froswick – Thornthwaite Crag – Pasture Bottom – Hartsop – Patterdale: 23km

The train from Manchester worked smoothly but I was out of sorts when I arrived at Windermere all the same, noise and busyness getting too much for me somehow.  This soon faded away as I made my way out of town and through Common Wood.  I must have taken the quiet path because I saw no one until suddenly there were masses at Orrest Head, somewhere that has an uncommon number of benches for them all.  The views were a little hazy and the Coniston Fells were capped with cloud.

I didn’t hang around and, after a little bit of field and road walking, I was on the Garburn Road.  It’s a good surface and a gentle ascent so I felt I was tripping along and was also getting surprisingly warm.  Yoke was my first top and seemed to arrive without too much pain, despite my heavy bag (I don’t seem to be able to pack lightly, what with full waterproofs and microspikes – more of which later).  The head of Kentdale comes into view here and the land dropped away beneath my feet like the earth opening up before me.  It’s always a thrilling place.

Each top was another ramp up, each putting a little more fatigue in my legs, and each one taken a little more slowly, until finally I reached Thornthwaite Crag and could admire the views, knowing there was no more ascent.  The ridge stretched greyly behind me and Windermere glowed between dark fellsides like a spillage of mercury.  It was 3pm but already it felt like the day was closing down.

The descent to Threshthwaite Mouth was fairly awful.  There had been very little snow around – despite the Fell Top Assessors saying it was a good idea to bring microspikes – but there were a few very soft patches here, meaning I had to skirt around a little, being careful on the very badly eroded rock at the same time.  The drop into Pasture Bottom was a easier with the steps just being wet.  I had chosen that way down, as opposed to Hartsop Dodd or Grey Crag, as I had never been that way before.  It proved to be a pleasant route but it didn’t half go on.

From Hartstop village I simply followed valley paths before crossing into Patterdale.  The pint in the hotel didn’t taste that fresh (the cask was probably tapped at the start of the weekend) and I moved on to the hostel, passing the closed (hopefully reopening) White Lion.

At check-in the warden told me they weren’t officially doing meals but as I and a Coast to Coast walker had arrived on foot, she could prepare lasagne for us.  That did for me.  The bar was a fridge behind reception but the lounge was huge and comfortable to sit and read.  I had been put on my own in a four bunk room (it only cost £35 on special offer) as I hadn’t been able to book anything smaller.  I only saw perhaps half a dozen other people in the hostel, so I didn’t feel I was being greedy.  The closure of the Kirkstone Pass is perhaps affecting their business too.

 

Day Two: Patterdale – Sandwick – Howtown – Heughscar Hill – Dunmallard Hill – Pooley Bridge: 21km

The forecast was terrible – low cloud, strong winds, lots of rain – so I switched from Plan A, over the tops from Angle Tarn to Rampsgill Head to Loadpot Hill, to Plan B, along the lake shore.  Place Fell was covered in cloud, as were the higher hills west, and there was a light smirr of drizzle.  It seemed I had probably made the right call.

There were dramatic views across Ullswater to Sheffield Pike and lots of lovely views of the lake between trees and crags.  The path was quite undulating and rocky, not a fast route, but one full of late winter colour – grey of the sky, blue of the water, orange bracken, green moss, red branches of the newest growth of silver birch.  I took it easy but seemed to be making good progress.  There was one else out, indeed I had hardly seen anyone the day before, until I approached Sandwick when there were suddenly hordes.  I guessed that had got off the steamer there.

The rain had stopped and it felt warm.  I could look south down towards Ramps Gill and the tops looked fairly clear.  Perhaps I should have taken the chance and gone high after all.  Over on the other side of the lake Gowbarrow Fell was flirting with cloud and a blanket of it looked to be creeping down from Helvellyn to the lower hills east.

Beyond Howtown the path climbed gently up the side of Barton Fell.  The land flattened out as I ascended and gave wonderful views down Ullswater, twisting gorgeously away between grey and orange hills.  Up ahead I could see fell ponies and was surprised when a couple came over to see me at the Cockpit stone circle, even coming close enough for a pat and a stroke.  The group then led the way right up to Heughscar Hill, my planned destination (so that I could at least claim one summit, albeit an Outlying Fell).  Neither I nor the horse are very good at selfies.

From there it was an easy walk into Pooley Bridge but, with it being a shorter and easier day than I might have had, I was early, so I added an ascent of Dunmallard Hill (another Outlying Fell) to pass some time.  All that was left was a pint or two in the Sun Inn (bit pricey for Wainwright, I thought), the 508 bus to Penrith (bumping into a bloke from the hostel who had walked the north side of the lake, battling his way through the fallen trees), a couple of pints in the Fell Bar, a curry at the Raj, and a train back to Manchester.