My posts on the wind turbine developments in the Highlands have elicited a load of replies many of which are quite detailed and will require some reading and thought. I’ll get around to doing this at the weekend, but first I thought I’d reflect on some of my own personal experiences in this magical place.

The Monaliadth is not an area that I know well but I have walked through it in 2009 and 2010 on my coast-to-coast walks across the highlands. My first thoughts on the area came when planning my first TGO Challenge five years ago. I looked at the land on the East side of Loch Ness. The map was empty save for brown contours and rather a lot of blue lines. To my untutored eye it seemed to be not only empty but wet. There were no great peaks here but as sure as hell there would be a lot of bogs. You wouldn’t be walking here unless you liked bashing through the heather. That year I strolled over the Corriarick Pass which touches on the area. I wasn’t particularly impressed with the pass. However, as I strolled over Scotland on this and the next event a number of people began to wax lytically about the place. Fans of the Monaliadth describe it in glowing tones, making it seem almost magical.

In 2009 I climbed up from Dumnaglass with a group of friends. The Monaliadth might not be the highest hills but the climb up is long and steep and constantly reminds you that your starting point had been from sea level at the side of Ness. I was feeling dreadful after having picked up some kind o bug (I returned to Birmingham to find the place in the grip of a swine flu outbreak). But the weather was gorgeous, the skies were aquamarine blue and highlighted with the occasional fluffy white cloud. As the track climbed higher some spectacular views started to unveil themselves and it seemed that there would be an extensive view from the top of the ridge. And yes, there were sights of the occasional wind turbine and they seemed to compliment the area and the skyline. But there weren’t that many of them; it was a bit like one of those nice brochures that you can find. Colin Ibbotson, who was walking with me, told me that he’d never had bad weather in the Monaliadth. Surely that can’t have been right? Nope. The weather was always good.

 

We lunched at a shooting hit at the end of the long path. This is a well maintained hut and thought he windows are blocked out the doors were kept open as a place of refuge for walkers. For us the hut provided welcome shade from the dramatic Scottish sun.

Climbing on we followed the line of a small stream that had cut its way through the peaty landscape. The sky stayed blue. The terrain was all dazzling golds and ochres, greens and browns. We stumbled on mountain hares and in the distance saw birds of prey floating on the thermals.

My plan had been to turn at the top of the ridge and walk along it but in my feverish condition it seemed best to take a more direct route and we dropped down over the other side of the ridge and followed more streams as the headed down towards the Findhorn. By now there were four of us. We found a quiet place in the heather, a dry place next to the stream. Here we lay down in the sun and dozed. We took off our shoes and socks and tangled our feet in the crisp and razor clear water. There may not have been any of the drama of the North West here but in that sun, in the middle of the bog, it seemed as if we had reached paradise.

Eventually we descended to the Findhorn itself. Colin and Shirley wanted to push on but I was whacked. Kate and I pitched our tent on a spit of land that stretched out into the water and led us well away from the path. It was early evening now and the gentle quality of the light seemed to reflect the tobaccos and pinks of the natural landscape. The Findhorn itself was gentle and mellow. Startling beams of light shone on the water and reflected back off both tiny stones and ripples of water. Could there have been any better place to lie and come to terms with a bug?

In the evening sun I found myself thinking of my mate Pete Arnold who had recently become involved with the Findhorn community, a new age grouping who were creating their idea settlement and community where the Findhorn reached the sea. The community treat the river as a spirit and the highlights of Pete’s visits were treks up into the mountains to follow the river to its source. Lying on my mat and gazing out at the glen I could see the attraction even though there is precious new age about me.

The next morning I was feeling a little better. We strolled down the river through Coignafearn. Here the biggest herd of deer I had ever seen were taking an early morning drink from the river. The bend in the river opposite seemed to be housing thousands of deer. From a distance they looked like flocks of birds. As we neared we could see a line of literally hundred of deer, already watered, taking to a higher ground in one perfect procession. We crossed the river and followed a stream up a narrow valley before branching out and following another tiny stream up through the peat. We rested at a tiny lochan at the top and then dropped down through the peat and heather to the River Dunaine, trotting alongside the river before taking the Burma Road up and over to Aviemore and the Cairngorms. As we descended we were edged on by the view of the Cairngorms shining in the sun, a gentle canopy of snow reflecting the suns from the tops. Magic.

I remember taking the Burma road with an overwhelming sense of loss. I’d be back and next time take a more prolonged stroll through this land. That night in the dodgy shack bar of the Hilton Hotel I discussed this with travel writer John Manning. He shared my enthusiasms. He told me that one of his ambitions was to take a pack full of provisions and to just spend the best part of a week ambling over the peat and the heather. I could see the point.

Last year I returned. Again I climbed up the path from Drumnaglass but this time without the aid of any swine flu. I left my lunch companions in the hut and continued to climb on the main ridge that runs from Carn Odhar and on to Carn Ghriogair. This time I reached the ridge and turned left to head for Ghriogair.

Underfoot the route was a nightmare. I dodged from peaty bog to peaty bog, following the rusty line of years old fence posts their fences having long disappeared. The going was slow. But the view, oh the views. To my right lay the wonder of the Cairngorms, the full chain of mountains laid out in a beautiful line that was parallel to my route. This time they were topped with even more snow. But to my left were the hills of the North West that I had long left behind. The skies were crisp and clear. I could see the hills at the top of Glen Affric that I had skirted just a few days before. I could literally see for miles, and miles and miles.

Carn Ghriogair is not much of a hill really but it proved to be a perfect vantage point to stop and take in the views. I sat against a summit stone and ate my sandwiches. Again the hares were darting too and fro. A sudden movement in the distance revealed a long line of deer on the move. They’d smelt me from a distance.

I was headed for Glen Mazaran. I dropped down North East of the summit to pick up a tiny stream that cut its way through the peat. Following this down it quickly became a fast running river. I turned a corner and headed East and was rewarded by a stunning view of Glen Mazaran. This may not be one of the biggest glens in the area but it is picture perfect. Near a bridge I rendezvoused with Phil Turner, Lee Well, Tony Bow and Ian Cotterill. Here again was that wonderful golden evening light. And the waters of Mazaran were just as refreshing as those of the Findhorn.

Next morning Phil and I set off early down the valley to meet the Findhorn. As we continued downstream we quickly began to loose the hills and the wild land. But we turned South and climbed high onto the moor again. A gillie engaged us in conversation to warn us that the grouse chicks were about to hatch. but the huts were open he said and he would be pleased if we used them. And they were very fine huts.

From the summit of Carn Dubh we descended into our last unspoilt stretch of peat and bog before reaching the Dunaine and the Burma Road.

Life was immeasurably better for having taken the time for an extended stroll through the Monaliadth. It is indeed a magical place, a space in which to recharge the batteries and uplift the spirit.

A few days ago I studies the Drumglass windfarm plans on Alan Sloman’s blog. My walk up to the ridge would be a walk up through turbines. The prominent view from my ridge would no longer be mountains but turbines. From Carn Ghriogair I could see a wind farm in the far off distance but one that was not slap bang in the middle of the wild land.

I rang Al up and we shared notes on our walking experiences. Al pointed out that if I could see all the hills of the NW from my ridge I’d be able to see the Drumnaglass windfarm from any one of those distant peaks! At that point the penny really dropped.

As I said yesterday if there was a road along that ridge there would be an outcry at the destruction of that view. The are wilder more lonley spots than this in the Highlands. But the Monaliadth is accessible from the resorts and bases of the Spey Valley and a quick look around the net will show you how well they are used.

I do not plan to go this way on this year’s TGO Challenge. But I must be back before the destruction starts.

i know of few more previous places to me.