August 1, 2010: Boat of Garten to Grantown-On-Spey
In the Abernethy Forest
As we began our third day we resumed our familiar chairs in the dining room of the Ravenscraig Guest House and even repeated yesterday’s menu at breakfast time. We had asked the J.G.A. lady to pick us up at 9:15 (since we had only a ten and half mile day) and our pace was therefore a more leisurely one today. Our packed lunches were ready for us again and we called Jonathan out of the kitchen to pay for yesterday’s set. Then we put the finishing touches on our backpacks, affixing the Mickledore labels that would now be used in transporting these objects forward along our route. When the bags had been deposited in the lounge of Ravenscraig we were ready to stand outside and await our ride. We did not have long to wait.
Of course the road journey to Boat of Garten followed an unfamiliar route – we seemed to approach the town from the west – but we were arrived by 9:30. It had been grey again and now there was a fine mist falling, so I used the first moments of the day’s expedition to adjust the rest of my rain costume in the front door of the Boat Hotel. Our Speyside Way walk could now continue, without interruption, in its march to the sea.
We used a back street and turned right to cross the Spey at the six mile mark (six of sixty-six), continuing forward until we had met our old friend, the B970. As on many occasions walkers had been provided with their own off-road pathway, though it seems that impatient ramblers had kicked down a fence in order to save time in crossing the highway. We now entered forest, a delightful setting, though the whizzing cars over on our left were a constant reminder that we hadn’t left civilization behind us. I was very happy to have the use of my new camera again and I took many more pictures than Gavan today – as we strained to catch any sign of the local wildlife: ospreys from a nearby sanctuary, that elusive grouse called the capercaillie, or any specimens of the resident population of red squirrels. Some of the forest was wetland and there were viewing platforms available.
We turned right to follow a track for a while, then left again to plunge more deeply into the woodland – with its log piles, heather patches, pine plantations and wildflowers. Gavan would announce the point at which we had knocked off another mile and we were able to maintain a steady pace of thirty minutes to the mile in this easy terrain. Altogether we were some two hours in the Abernethy Forest but signs of civilization began to appear when we at last hit tarmac and reached the first houses of the village of Nethy Bridge. We had by now completely failed in our hunt for ospreys or capercaillie but just as we reached the first suburban garden we spotted a red squirrel jumping from tree to tree in someone’s back yard. Gavan was more than delighted by this discovery and we had to exchange high fives.
We now reached a t-junction in the village itself and Gavan posed for a picture in front of an ornate drinking fountain. Then we crossed the Nethy Bridge, built in 1820 by Thomas Telford himself. I knew from one of our maps that there was a pub in this town and, even though Gavan was not drinking alcohol yet, we decided to have a rest here. The site referred to was the large Nethy Bridge Hotel and we found our way to its bar by climbing over the vacuum cleaners in our way. It was 12:15 and the place was not really open yet but as we wanted only Diet Cokes the barman agreed to serve us. Gavan diagnosed a heavy hangover in this chap but the rest of the staff left something to be desired as well. Three young girls and one senior servant were sprawled over the pub chairs, their purses open and their feet up on the tables in front of them, yakking away. There was the obligatory EEU head waiter (this time from Southern Europe I would say) and another chap who sat at the bar on the back of a chair, pouring over his accounts while his bare bottom cooled in the breeze.
It took a while for change to be found and then I went off in search of the loos. The ladies were now out back, smoking away, and one of them, so I was told, was sitting in a chair that blocked the entrance needed to reach the toilets. She did move. When I returned two chaps were trying to get pints out of the barman, who replied that he could not serve them until 12:30. “Oh go on,” was the reply, “by the time you’ve poured them it will be 12:30.” The barman complied.
After a thirty-minute stop we climbed over the vacuum cleaners and crossed the street to have a look at some ornamental gardens. Then we retraced our steps a little to find a roadway that ran along the side of the Spey for a short distance. A second right put us at the beginning of a long straightaway, the line of an abandoned railway line that now continued in a northerly direction for almost five miles. The scene was very beautiful, with the lovely blossoming rosebay willow herb lining much of the route and farmland on either side of our embankment. We would hear, but not see the chugging and tooting of the Strathspey Railway – unless you count the visible puffs of steam rising from the vicinity of the Broomhill Station on our left.
Nethy Bridge
We were soon walking through the territory of Bailliefurth Farm, whose proprietor, Alastair, had not only adopted a series of environmentally friendly farm practices but had let everyone know about his praiseworthy deeds in a series of information bulletins posted on signs throughout his spread. Suitably impressed we found a log and sat down to eat our sandwiches. Following a new tradition Gavan set the timer on his camera so that he could get a shot of the two of us dining al fresco.
After lunch we continued along our easy track, nearing the Spey itself for a while, passing beneath a road bridge and gradually approaching the junction of the B970 with the A85. Here we were back on paths for a descent to the Spey Valley Smokehouse, a site that (on any day other than this, a Sunday) offers tours of a spot where a good deal of the local catch becomes smoked salmon – a lox factory in short. Gavan had wanted to visit the spot but he swallowed his disappointment as we used a paved road that followed the line of a military road built by Major William Caulfeild’s redcoats in 1734. This soon lead us up to another crossing of the Spey.
Speybridge near Grantown
We were again nearing the outskirts of civilization but before reaching our objective there was one last wooded section, one that had been crisscrossed with pathways that even wheelchairs and baby carriages could use – we saw both of these. As we climbed up the hill at the end there was some confusion about a waymark post. Gavan insisted that it pointed to the right and I argued that it pointed uphill. We took the latter option and soon saw an additional post – “Good call,” Gavan said. Part of our confusion came from the fact that the instructions on how to find our accommodation were written from the point of view of the north to south walker and we were doing the opposite. Nevertheless it was not too difficult, as we passed the municipal golf course on our right, to forsake the Way for the day and to continue forward to Woodside Avenue. Here we turned left and soon located our b&b, Dunallan House. Gates had defeated stiles 13-0, it was 3:50, and we had arrived in Grantown-on-Spey.
Our landlady was working on her garden and watching granddaughter Jessica, who had her own tepee in the front yard – while hubby was studying his accounting books on the dining room table. We were shown to our room upstairs and we had a nice rest as Gavan made some tea to go with our bedside biscuits. I eventually got a signal and phoned our next landlady about our dinner requirements on the morrow, warning her not to look for us before 6:00. Then I took a shower (Gavan preferred his in the morning) and a footbath (the drain was very slow) and we got some advice on local eateries before heading into Grantown itself, only two blocks away. The town had lots of green spaces on either side of the bisecting highway and a number of interesting buildings, gardens, and the ubiquitous war memorial. As if to add insult to injury (and after enduring three days of grey skies) the sun actually broke through as we wandered about. We gave the Bengali restaurant a miss and ended up at the Garth Hotel, where a kilted piper was marching up and down in an attempt to attract customers.
We had a filling, if unspectacular meal, again sticking to Diet Cokes. I had the lamb chops and Gavan the steak; the veg seemed to have undergone some sort of petrification process. Again we disdained dessert and made our way back to Dunallan House. The tepee was now in the front hall as we climbed up to our rest after another successful day.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: