It rained heavily throughout the night but by the time I was boiling up my porridge it was dying out. The Python lads were talking about weather forecasts; Tom was listening to Radio 4 and pronouncing it to be, by far, the most reliable. There was a rather unexpected level of car activity on the lonely road outside of the tent. I shouted across to Malcolm, "When do you wanna go?". "Now", came back the reply.
The tent was packed within ten minutes. Around my was a cluster of other Aktos, making it five altogether counting mine and Malcolm's. There is something odd about Akto owners; they seem to believe that their Aktos are much happier if they are clustered together, as if they are more comfortable that way. Malcolm asked whether I'd heard the car activity. He's stuck his head out of the tent to see two, unrecognised, walkers hand over their large packs to a mystery third person who then loaded them into the boot of a car. Certainly not cricket we thought.
Spirits were high: the tarmac wasn't too bad; the open woodland made for easy toilet excursions; the lush Spey valley opened up before us; the buildings and lodges we saw were that little more impressive. We had certainly crossed into different country. We nattered incessantly. The Challenge, Challengers, the government were most open whom we focussed our irreverent comments. We were so chatty that, somewhat inexplicably, we turned right instead of left, when we were only a quarter of a mile away from the Monadhliath Arms. We strolled on another couple of miles before we realised what we had done. Turning back was hard. We'd kept up a cracking pace since the bridge but the two miles back was agony; that problem about turning back again.
The Spey glen opening up before us
As we approached the pub a horrible thought struck me. We had been pleased because we'd broken camp before the others. "You know who's going to be there before us?" I glanced through the door. There, in prime position and holding court, was Super Legend. Even allowing for our diversion he must have been moving at some pace. Grinning, Super Legend asked whether we'd missed the short cut. He was somewhat disbelieving as we explained that we had taken the short cut but had then taken the wrong turn. You could see him doubting that we'd ever make it over to the coast - the east coast that is.
The pub was everything we wanted it to be. Lunch was about to be served and the lentil soup and haddock and chips were both superb. Other Challengers appeared and soon we had quite a nice little gathering around the fireplace. Tom and his mate turned out to be the nice guys that I met at Queen Street Station, who both used ULA packs; they seem to have lost one of the other Pythons. Geoff and Sandra Yarnell appeared, along with Louise and David Kiernan. David appeared to crossing Scotland with a huge-looking video camera, which made me feel better as my Nikon SLR had received a fair amount of ridicule for being so heavy. The waitress was from Russia; one wonders what the Highlands would do without them. "You look like an Anna", said Sandra. "I am an Anna; how do you know?" She seemed mystified not really understanding the subtlety of our replies that Anna was the only Russian name any of us could think of. David entertained us by going on a rather desperate search for a bottle of Tabasco. After asking several times - to confused looks - he eventually managed to liberate a bottle from the bar; only then could he tackle his lentil soup. "Just about sums up the cultural differences with us and them", mischievously commented Super Legend.
We left Super Legend and Keith about to start on their third pints. In the short time that we had been in the pub we'd seen two beer deliveries. The coast-to-coast pub crawl brigade was clearly expected to arrive over the next couple of days. Before we left Super Legend gave us some good advice. "Remember lads, your on your holidays: no need to kill yourselves". Reflecting on this I realised that if I carried on at this speed I'd reach Montrose days ahead of schedule. There was a lot of time to amble around and to climb some Munros.
Malcolm was staying at Glentruin, a campsite I'd missed when I had been studying my maps. As ever, it looked a superb site. Malcolm had, for a while, owned a caravan. Caravan Club sites (this was one) were always superbly maintained and looked after. But they had so many annoying rules that he got rid of the caravan. Apparently, many of these sites are only given planning permission on the condition that they allow in overnight backpackers, which was something of a relief. The only other notable thing in Glentruin was the memorial to the Clan Macpherson. The monument had been constructed with stones from every part of the world in which there was a Macpherson clan group. It was an impressively large monument. The nations were anonymous save the USA which had contributed a named stone.
I left Malcolm looking forward to meeting-up with his wife and Mother-In-Law who were touring in the Spey Valley. He was getting very excited about the prospect of a restaurant meal. We hoped to bump into each other in Glen Feshie, over the next couple of days.
I had always intended to walk on to Kingussie, picking-up Wade's Military Road at Phones. But I felt that I'd done enough hard surface walking. Malcolm had pointed out a Sustrans cycle route that went through Newtonmore and Kingussie; it might be a better surface. This was a mistake as the whole of the cycle route was along tarmac, mostly along the rather unattractive route of the old road. I'd done a lot of hard surface walking over the last three days and I could feel the tell-tale signs of a road blister appearing on my left foot.
This was a hell of a slog. The only compensation was to see the lovely little town of Newtonmore, the home of TGO editor Cameron McNeish. I kept myself going for a while wondering what kind of grand residence would be home to our esteemed leader. Then I remembered that Super Legend was stopping here with friends that evening and I began to wprry about being caught as I hobbled away along the high street.
Kingussie is another couple of miles further on. Why on earth had my route taken me this far? When I was planing my accommodation I had sent of a number of internet bookings none of which ever received a reply or confirmation. Just when I was beginning to think about alternative bookings the Silverfjord Hotel, in Kingussie, came onto the TGO message board to announce that they positively welcomed walkers; I had booked there and then.
Any regrets that I had about staying here vanished the moment I found the hotel, sited just over the square from the train station. I was welcomed by a really nice young guy who told me not to worry about registration, bought me my food parcel and left me to shower and become human again. I was the only resident in the hotel. It was a nice place, a little younger than the other places that I had stayed in; a slightly trendy bar and menu; a good looking restaurant. I didn't want to move far and so eat in the hotel - alone. I ordered a meal comprising of courses that had to be cooked from fresh. It was a fabulous meal: a lovely black pudding in a cream and alcohol sauce, followed by a superb venison steak and home-made trifle. Absolute luxury. Apparently one of the bar's regulars, Derek Emersley, had completed a number of crossings and had suggested that the hotel announce themselves on the message board.
If you're planning to cross through Kingussie, do make a point of booking into the Silverfjord. Most seem to stay in the Lair's Bothy bunkhouse, but this far across I reckon you've earned some luxury. I lay on a comfortable bed, on crisp sheets, watching a TV documentary on Prince Charles and a Terry Wogan programme that celebrated fifty years of the Eurovision Song Contest!