There was a lot of rain during the night but little wind, another example of the BBC hedging their bets I thought. Colin was packing up his tent at the same time and we walked on together for a while. Both of us had expected that there would be a big crowd at the bothy. Colin had ventured in during he evening to find only Geoff and Sandra Yarnell and one other; no other tents appeared. I guessed that we were probably one or two days ahead of the main field.
Feshie Wildcamp
I soon found myself walking alone and up the Glen. A lot of rain had fell during the last couple of days and the Feshie was roaring along at a fair pace. Every now and then I had to cross a feeder burn that was running very quickly and I crossed them more carefully than before. Mostly the path was quite clear expect for one slightly dodgy bit over a landslip, which involved a little scrambling, always deserving of proper concentration when you are carrying a big pack.
High in Glen Feshie
The path climbed onto higher ground, I passed over the tree line and onto wind-battered, heather upland. The rain began to fall, first as freezing rain, then as sleet and finally as snow. This was a very different landscape again, featureless, grey and dark brown. All around were high mountains, dipping in and out of the mist, and carrying a new covering of snow on their tops. The weather was strong enough to make it too uncomfortable to stop for even five minutes and my only rests came when I paused to take a photo. It was going to be a long day and I passed White Bridge in continually bad weather. I was intending to wildcamp just before the Linn of Dee but as I got there the sun began to shine. I walked on to the woods, near the bridge and car park, and there I met Geoff and Sandra. we sat in the sun and nattered for a while.
River Dee after rain
I decided that it would be nice to walk a little, and move on to Braemar. I looked at the map. It seemed to involve another five miles, or so, of road walking. Oh well, nothing for it. Geoff and Sandra had booked into the tiny Youth Hostel at Inverey; when we got there I still felt as if I wanted to go further and we waved each other good-bye. I strode off in good spirits. I had to turn down two offers of a lift into Braemar. Then a large Mercedes pulled up in front of me. Did I want a lift? I explained that I was doing the coast-to-coast, all the way on foot. "So is, this guy" came the reply. In the passenger seat was Malcolm who thought he had torn his achilles tendon. He was pretty sure that he would have to retire but was arriving in Braemar a day early; he would wait and see how it looked in the morning. We agreed to rendezvous at the Youth Hostel in Braemar (I had arranged another food drop there). I confidently predicted I'd be there soon. But this stretch of road turned out to be an absolute killer. The sun was out and the road surface warm and hard. I would be in Braemar two days ahead of schedule, but perhaps it would be nice to have a rest day.
When I arrived in Braemar I was completely wrecked; that last five miles on the road had been a real killer. I joined Malcolm at the Youth Hostel, showered and then looked at the map again. This is what happens when you're tired. If I'd studied the map properly at the Linn of Dee I'd have noticed tracks through the forest that would have taken me - no tarmac in sight - almost all the way into town. There's a message about improvising I thought. Most evenings were spent pouring over the map and studying prospective routes. Improvising in this way meant that I really didn't know the route properly and - as such - hadn't anticipated the difficulty.
We decided to sample the Fife Arms. This pub appears to be legendary amongst the pub crawl fraternity. Saturday night at the Fife is the place to be. But there had been some consternation expressed on the notice board, over the last couple of months, as the Fife Arms had been taken over by one of the large coach companies. The other - equally impressive - hotel building in Braemar was already owned by a coach company. But we'd been assured that Challengers were welcome to eat and drink in the bar; rooms wouldn't be available.
What a dive! We hobbled into the dining room and quickly realised there were no other Challengers there. After downing a pint of Guinness (to revitalise me) I went to order food. I was quite excited by the venison casserole but the barman wiped this off the blackboard before he turned to take my order. It was back to haddock and chips. The quality of fish - fried or otherwise - on this trip had been truly amazing. This stuff was truly dreadful, badly cooked, small portions and very expensive for all that.
There were two large groups in the dining room, one a coach party from Poland and, the other, a group a retired tourers. An older contingent sat at the next table, playing cards for two pence stakes. At half past nine the room emptied. We downed our drinks and set off to hobble back up to the hostel. There was noise coming from the reception hall. Here a man was playing an electronic organ and singing Radio 2 songs; the old folks were slowly dancing around the lobby. This was going to be an interesting clash of cultures on Saturday evening.
I lay in my bunk with feet that were burning. At this point I wondered whether I had done the wrong thing in wearing trail shoes but both Malcolm and Rob (another Challenger who had started in Oban) felt the same way. During the middle of the night I realised that the feet had stopped throbbing: I looked at my watch - they had taken 'till 3.00 am to recover.