Forest-loper: Wildcamping. Part Four. Ancient roads

Friday 24th July

sound diary: https://youtu.be/hpok9K4fJ9Y

Sitting here in the meadow grasses, amongst flowering clover, dandelions, thistles and parsley, watching a delta winged bird surfing the air, catching flurries and currents, tacking over to wood`s edge where its flight merges with that of its mate. And they fly on together. As though late for their train. Ruminating, on this alluvial plain between two mountain ranges, in which I sit by the tent, sipping from a bottle of smooth, heavy red wine, I can`t imagine this creature`s life is any less brim-full of meaning and value than my own. Riding a timeless wave of instinct and nature…

This is Friday, and so I bought a bottle of wine in the Co-op in Newtonmore. I now resign myself, happily, to the possibility of finishing the lot and then rolling across the soft threshold to my bed. Here, in this particular field, I feel safer than at any other pitch so far: I`d spent much of the evening cycling back and forth between the town and back near the Glentruim turn off. At checkout I`d chatted with the elderly cashier safe behind her visor. Could she recommend a place to camp ? She couldn`t, but strongly suggested chapping on any neighbouring door, should I clock a spot. She then mentioned the 40 incidents of dirty camping around Loch Morlich the previous day. Police moving-along rowdy folk burning fires everywhere; using the forest like a toilet. I was askance as she was; wildcamping, to me, leaves not a trace. These behaviours jeopardize our precious rights. Weighed down by this, as well as by humus, oatcakes, apples, dark chocolate and this nice bottle of red, I searched self-consciously for that Goldilocks moment: for a 4 by 4 metre flat patch of green, that was not damp, and was away from traffic, secluded, livestock free, cropless, and airy.

A likely place was behind Newtonmore Camanachd Club [ camanil ]. This is Scotland`s most successful shinty club. Their mascot a Scottish Wildcat. I was picking up a faint trail of wildness. And the location Badenoch brought to mind the ruthless “Wolf”. Further on, towards Aviemore is the Highland Wildlife Park in which live the Lynx and the actual Wolf. In reaction to news of the clattycampers, I felt allied to these wild creatures. I was a cub in their club.

There is a gate leading from the stadium`s gravel carpark to pastureland ticking all my boxes. Apart from one: a notice claims there is a “cow running with the bull”. Listed alongside is the name and contact for the farmer, a Mr Montgomery, Croft of Clune. Mindful of advice at the checkout, I tried phoning twice as, although absolutely no sign of a bull or cow in the field, I didn`t want to be trampled at midnight. Answerphone both times. I let my dream field go and wandered further on.

Finally, under the arch of a railway bridge, I wandered down into an expanse of grassland. There on my right were two caravans the other side of a deer fence, skirting dark softwood plantation. In that wide field was a herd of thirty red deer, brown orange on the green. As one, they ran away at my approach, the ground thrumming. No stir from the caravans. So I explored further. Outside of any deer enclosures the fences here were small and in poor repair, and at the other side of a ferny mound was this, my ideal settlement.

It`s not just the wine, but today I feel a sense of achievement. This is my sixth consecutive night camping in solitary places. I`ve surmounted the Drumochter Pass (always in my mind associated with lean, long distance cycling nomads, sun buffeted the colour of autumn bracken). I`ve taken a somersaulting tumble over the handlebars (apple one hand, oatcake the other, weaving around an obstacle). I`ve lost weight, put on muscle tone. Have felt an uncomplicated companionship with my surroundings. And going over the Pass I`ve thought of countless ages of men and women travelling this same route from southern central highlands to the north lands. Following the herds of deer, the seasons` fruits and seeds.

One more cupful of heady wine. I`m setting quite a lot of store by this notion of the Cairngorms and its National Park: wildcamping there, sleeping deeply under ancient tree canopy. Wandering, taking photos, stopping to listen at burns and by lochside. Recording windsong and birdsong, my own conjectures and hothouse insights. But it should be good … The culmination and realisation of the journey. Which was always a stepping out from my front door at the fringes of a Peeblesshire forest, and into the ancient Caledonian forest. With its ghosts of bear, wolves, wildcat, boar and lynx. We shall see . . .