free to be able to rate and comment on reports (as well as access 1:25000 mapping).
I’m sure many of us have the same sort of challenge. Maybe many of us address them in the same way too.
As we work our way around the Munros close to home, the number of potential day trips diminishes. Red balloons turn blue in clusters that track the line of the A82 and the A9, or the honey-pots of Fort William and Aviemore. Their centre of gravity pulls toward where we live.
As the distance to, and between, the remaining red balloons increases , notwithstanding recent cuts in the price of petrol and diesel, the cost of reaching them rises too.
In response, sometime ago I decided that time in the car shouldn’t exceed time spent out on the hill. Now, by and large, I’ve kept to that. Longer days can be made easier by bleary-eyed earlier starts, and a spot of wild camping means multi-day trips are becoming more regular. I rule out sharing the back of the car with my bike, so that gets ejected and spends the night in the chilly outdoors.
However, every now and again, I don’t begrudge breaking that self-imposed rule, and Monday a couple of weeks ago was one such occasion.
A full weekend’s gardening meant that spending the hard-earned brownie points was a guilt-free late decision to catch the weather.
That eastern pair of Mayar and Driesh had been on my radar for a while, and lindseym’s report of catching the solar eclipse the previous week clinched the decision. Depending on rush-hour traffic in Glasgow, Perth or Dundee the timing for my self-imposed rule would be touch-and-go, but the forecast suggested that I could dawdle away the day and simply enjoy being outside for that bit longer.
- Glen Clova with Craig Mellon and Cairn Broadlands in the distance
Leaving Ayrshire by 6.00am meant that the roundabouts and junctions of Dundee were the only ones where I sat in jams listening to the Today programme. Then I headed north into a part of Scotland where I’ve never been before: Glen Clova. Remnants of snow edged the hillsides, and the crags and corries in the distance stood proud against the blue sky, crisp like an HD television picture. Dodging pheasant after pheasant that fluttered and strutted from the occasional patch of woodland, I drove into an idyllic valley.
At 9.15am I parked alongside a handful of cars already in the Glendoll car park and pondered two key questions. One I got wrong and the other I definitely called correctly.
The misjudgement was one of those better-safe-than-sorry decisions. It may no longer have technically been winter but, the weekend before I’d pulled on the crampons so they and the axe came with me. All I can say is that carrying the extra weight must have done some good.
In answering the other question I opted for the clockwise route: walking into Corrie Fee to reach Mayar first. I expected to be greeted by spectacular surroundings, and I wasn’t disappointed. Importantly, the map suggested I could be gaining metres and miles in an attractive balance. The climb up through the Glendoll Forest was likely to be less strenuous than the climb up into Corrie Kilbo, aiming to start the day with Driesh.
Once beyond Acharn, I followed the green marker posts of the woodland walks. The constant noise of the fast-flowing and cascading White Water lived up to its name. After just thirty minutes the anticipated emergence from the woodland was all I’d hoped it would be: confronted by the looming upper walls of Corrie Fee. Tracing the line of the path ahead, it wended its way toward the waterfall plunging over the crags above. Stroll over the corrie floor and simply enjoy it.
- Looking up into Corrie Fee
At times the path steepened, but the sheer power of the surroundings seemed to imbue energy by osmosis. Looking back across toward Craig Mellon, and with the bowl of the corrie below, there was yet another geography teacher’s dream: drumlins, erratics and ice-sculpted landscapes.
- Glacial drumlins and a geography teacher's dream in the bowl of Corrie Fee
Above, clouds scudded across the blue sky, reminding me of the sheltered position I was in. I knew it was likely to be chilly as I gradually rose above the spectacular waterfall and became more exposed.
- Corrie Fee's spectacular waterfall
Views to the west opened out as the angle relented and the plateau was reached. The final stretch toward the summit gave an odd sort of symmetry to the climb after the first couple of hundred metres of vertical height had been tackled in the car. The next couple of hundred metres were gradually gained through the woodland and into Corrie Fee, followed by three hundred steeper metres energised by the surroundings. The final couple of hundred metres were easily angled again, meaning the summit was achieved through more restful efforts.
- Craig Rennet and the upper rim of Corrie Fee from the final slopes of Mayar
I lingered by the cairn on the top, watching localised wintry squalls scuttle past and hoping they wouldn’t veer in my direction. The Firth of Tay glistened to the south, Broad Cairn and Lochnagar slumped across the horizon to the north, while everything to the west popped in and out of view. Mindful of making sure I made the most of the hill-time, I had the first half of an early lunch, wrapped up warm to enjoy the sun’s warmth on my face for half an hour or so, and enjoyed the peaceful solitude.
- Speckled snow slopes to the west from the summit cairn of Mayar
- Mount Keen in the distance - east from the cairn over Mayar
To the east Driesh, although ever so slightly higher, lay like a lumbering beast, looking every bit the smaller of this pair of Munros. The path, scoured into the rust coloured grass, snaked along following the line of wood and iron posts. It was a gentle saunter across to the bealach curiously named Black Skellies from where two different Burns of Kilbo can be seen flowing in opposite directions. Patchy squalls created ever-changing views in all directions but fortunately none decided to spatter me with snow or hail they were depositing.
I finished the second half of my lunch on Driesh and again, not being in any kind of hurry, wrapped up warm in the shelter of the cairn and closed my eyes: a doze interrupted on feeling and hearing the rattle of hail on my jacket.
- North to the Lochnagar group from the summit plateau of Driesh
Frustratingly Mount Keen stood proud in the east. I’d always expected to do these three together, but “best laid plans” and all that will mean another trip to cross it off my “to do” list now. A final glance round the surrounding panorama and down I headed.
Back at the bealach, the descent path scores itself diagonally across the flank of the Shank of Drumfollow. However, a more attractive and interesting route followed the spine of the ridge, allowing a view down into Corrie Fee that would otherwise have been missed.
- The Shank of Drumfollow - the diagonal line down, or over the spine?
From the Shank of Drumfollow the entire descent was laid out: down the ridge, through the forest, and past the white-painted farm buildings Acharn.
- Down Corrie Kilbo to Glendoll from the Black Skellies bealach
- Looking up into Corrie Kilbo
There’s a limit to the amount of time you can spend (or waste) descending back into Glendoll, especially once you’re enclosed by the trees, so the car park and Centre were reached in short order. The car park was surprisingly full and a coach-load of yellow tabard- clad students interrogated the information board and asking their tutor where they’d been.
Despite the wandering, sauntering and summit pottering, I’d been out for only just over five hours. I’d never felt rushed and my legs didn’t feel weary. But my rule was likely to be broken. I might have avoided anything resembling a rush-hour in either Dundee or Perth. Two out of three might not have been bad, but when the third is Glasgow you’re stuffed.