August 2, 2010: Grantown-On-Spey to Ballindalloch
Boat of Cromdale crossing
We had been invited to head down to the Dunallan House breakfast table as early as 7:45 and so we did to – knowing that we had a very long day ahead of us. It was still overcast outside but at least there was no moisture when we lugged our packs downstairs, said goodbye, and began our walk. It was 8:30 and we had some fifteen miles to go. At the back of our minds we also had a growing apprehension about one spot some four miles from the end – when we were due to cross the Burn of Coire Seillach – having read the following in Meggary and Strachan: “If its stepping stones are submerged…test the depth of water with a pole before deciding whether it’s safe to cross with care…keep your boots on but remove socks and insoles to keep them dry.” We worried about this crossing much of the day.
We retraced our steps to the Way itself, again passing the golf course (just then receiving a last minute manicure) and passing the interesting curling ponds – a thin watery surface that, in time, would receive an icy cover so that the famous sport could be practiced here. Then we entered the delightful precincts of Anagach Wood, a truly charming pine tree paradise with well-tended tracks and footpaths that provided some speedy progress. Once again Gavan sounded out the milestones, but they did seem to advance very slowly today.
We emerged from the wood after three miles and dropped down for our first visit of the day with the Spey itself – just as the Kirk road spanned its waters. On the opposite side we passed another church and another cemetery, continuing forward toward the village of Cromdale on our own parallel channel at the roadside. The foxgloves had both purple and white varieties on the embankment at our side here. We dropped down to cross under the road and here we began a stretch on the abandoned railway embankment with a visit to the old Cromdale station itself.
It was always interesting to see what uses these old stations were being put to today. Cromdale’s was now a private house but someone had lovingly restored the trackside ambience of yesteryear by posting all sorts of period signs and other features that made the place a truly charming spot. Now we had to continue forward for another mile before taking a sharp right up to the busy A95. We crossed the street, dodging the huge lorries, and
headed uphill in another forested section, the Tom an Uird Wood, with the highway and river soon far below us on the left. Both of these contoured to the east and so did our wide track. From this height we had some outstanding views of the valley below.
After our descent we entered farming territory but here the footing was less sure and we bobbed up and down on juicy surfaces, though occasionally there were stepping stones. Our progress was further inhibited by an irksome series of obstacles in the form of a new type of pedestrian gate – one which invited the user to spread its two halves apart before stepping through. Gavan wanted to call these metal objects stiles, but I refused – except for two occasions when you also had to use a step or two to make progress through all the metal. The consequence was that gates enjoyed a lopsided victory over stiles 72-2!
It soon became obvious that the need for all these impediments to ordinary progress and, indeed, the banishment of Speyside Way walkers to such unwelcoming surfaces, was partly down to the reluctance of the local farmer to let walkers use more straightforward routes through his cows and sheep. Gavan was incensed over this treatment and began referring to Farmer McFuckface, and (when I downloaded his photos a few days later) he had even taken a picture of his own hand – giving the farmer the finger.
Gavan studies the guidebook as we pass through the Mains of Dalvey farm.
After we had passed the halfway mark we neared a stream and found some surfaces on which to rest our bottoms: it was lunchtime. I was just opening my tuna sandwich when we met two walkers coming the other way. They were Germans and they seemed to like the up and down of today’s route, contrasting it favorably with the more humane gradients we had yet to experience. Our chat with them had one happy outcome – for they were able to tell us that the dreaded ford, since the writing of our guidebook, had been spanned by a wooden footbridge!
Much relieved, we now continued forward, entering the Woods of Knockfrink and continuing our passage through grazing land and birches as the sun made ever greater efforts to penetrate the scene. At one spot I met a hippie chap who was sitting by the trackside, a fire going on his little stove as he prepared an afternoon cup of tea. At last we could look down at the famous burn, crossing it on the new bridge to face the last of the steep inclines for the day. First we had more stepping stones, then tracks through the sheep, then a very steep grassy ride straight up the hillside.
It seemed that there had been some slight rerouting, perhaps because of the bridge, for mile 28 never seemed to come, even though we were bouncing downhill on a wide track toward the A95 again. It had, at any rate, taken an hour to get from mile 27 to mile 28 and here I overtook Gavan in the outrage department; I don’t trust most mileage estimates on maps anyway but this measurement was surely wrong.
The stick was very useful to me as I began this ascent –
after crossing the Burn of Coire Seillach footbridge.
Our track curved around to the north, rising to parallel the highway and then crossing it at the top of a hill. We now dropped down to a path below the Tormore Distillery, passing by a field full of curious cows, many of whom rushed up to the fence to have a look at us. As we headed west, gently downhill in patchy woodland, we were nearing the river again and we were soon perched above it as we again reached the embankment of the old railway. This fortunately provided some easier walking for the end of the day, though it was on the dark side under the cover of all the trees.
Our next problem was locating the right spot to look for our b&b. As we neared some signs of civilization on the outskirts of the hamlet of Ballindalloch Gavan wondered if we shouldn’t be leaving the Way and looking for a road above it. I argued that this we must certainly do. We turned right at a convenient spot and took a track uphill. Gavan often has a way of throwing his arms open in a gesture of delighted triumph – and so he did now. For we now emerged, after only a few yards, at the entrance to the very spot we were searching for, Cragganmore House. “Good call!” he said.
We continued up the driveway to the large house facing us, with a variety of winged creatures (ducks, chickens, even a guinea fowl) scattering before us. It was 5:30; we had been walking for nine hours and had completed fifteen miles – as our host soon confirmed. We were soon lead upstairs and into our room at one corner of the establishment, the famous nearby Cragganmore Distillery in clear view from one of our windows.
I had to pare down the little toenail on my right foot and add some tape to a sore spot here. Then Gavan made tea again and I took a shower in the rather antique bathroom and relaxed a bit in a room that had a good deal of ancient furniture fighting for space amid walls coated in a deep red wallpaper. There were little bedside lights but it was hard to get enough light to read from them and so I tried phoning Linda, who was watching Fritz the dog for me instead – “no network coverage.”
Cragganmore House is famous for its cuisine and at 7:00 we descended for a lovely meal (though at £28.00 a head somewhat pricey.) Helen, our landlady, took our orders while hubby, in his checked chef’s trousers, did the cooking. The seafood starter, including smoked salmon and scallops, was sumptuous. Then I had the medallions of beef and Gavan the lamb. He had a crème brulee for dessert and I a lovely cake with ice cream on the side. We had been told that we could bring our own alcohol, a matter that proved its irrelevance as soon as Gavan announced that he couldn’t mix this substance with his pills. Two glasses of red wine were provided gratis, however, and, with Gavan’s permission, I drank both of them.
At the next table a couple with German accents were dining. I couldn’t quite figure out their provenance until I was told they came from Switzerland. He spoke English with an American accent. They had spent the previous night at out next b&b and said we would be well taken care of. There was a lot of talk with Helen about the dangers faced by her barnyard. No foxes, evidently, but nearby farm dogs and crows were a menace.
After our lovely repast we headed back up stairs and I spread all the plush curtains over the windows. I took two Excedrin, listened to my Ipod, read a little and, by 9:00 again, it was lights out.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: