August 4, 2010: Craigellachie to Fochabers
From the Craigellachie Forest to the sea
When the tartan blinds were retied it was obvious that the morning of our next-to-last day of walking was a promising one and so, in good spirits, we repaired to the breakfast room of Speybank House at 8:00. At an adjacent table were two ancient fishermen, regulars, who were making their own toast and bisecting their kippers. Gavan wished them a good day on the river and we brought our packs downstairs for the Mickledore folks. It was 8:40 when we said goodbye.
After an easy day yesterday I suppose it was only fair that today would be a bit more strenuous, thirteen miles of up and down. In bright morning sunshine we dropped back to the main highway and turned right, soon reaching the bridge over the River Fiddich. On the opposite bank stood the Fiddichside pub, home, until recently, of the oldest barmaid in Scotland – or so Peter had told us – and still the residence of her surviving husband. We crossed the bridge and began a steep climb into forest on tarmac. Indeed most of our progress today would be made on roads of some sort.
There was little traffic about as we pulled our way up the hill, every now and then getting a glimpse of the valley and the riverside scene below. We passed one stately pile, presumably Arndilly House (“Strictly Private”) and we were overtaken by a sputtering tractor driven by a lady farmer. Some local wit had had the original idea of altering “Passing Place” to “Pissing Place,” but because he suspected that only halfwits would be using this road he had paused to repeat the jest a number of times. Our route wound up and down and in and out but there were lovely stretches through the pines and wildflowers and the occasional bog beside the road.
Near Bridgeton
Long before we reached its precincts we could see the cluster of farm buildings at Bridgeton; these appeared a number of times in the photos we took this day but the buildings never seemed to get any closer and, though we were scheduled to pass nearby, our route down to them was hardly straightforward. After a descent we found ourselves among the crops and the cows again as we drew closer to the Spey at Boat o’Brig. Railway and car traffic both passed over the river at this point and we took pictures here too. Some kayakers were just passing beneath as we snapped away.
It was now time to hunt for a place to have our lunch. Gavan vetoed a spot atop a wall – where lorries queued at a signal that filtered their progress across the narrow bridge. We passed a reddish-looking feeder stream and then started steeply uphill again. At the first turning, however, there was a lay-by and here we sprawled on the cement and the lunch sacks were pulled out. Gavan took his usual timed photograph, this time with out backs to the camera. The sun was beating down steadily and I used this occasion to put some sun block on the back of my neck.
After lunch we continued our ascent of Tor Hill, still on tarmac, emerging at last from the forest and finding some more level footing on a high plateau above the river – with one farmstead succeeding another. Once a car stopped and the driver asked us to help him figure out just where he was. I guess he didn’t like what we told him because after a while he turned around and headed in the opposite direction. At one farm two dogs came charging up to us in the company of the farmer himself. These were Ollie, a Golden Retriever, and Alfie, an ancient black Lab. The farmer indicated that there would be nothing more than barking from either of these fellows and Ollie was ordered to bang open the gate into his front yard.
Sometimes it was not so easy to figure out from our maps what to expect in the way of ups and downs and after a fairly level stretch Gavan now threw up his arms in distress – after discovering that we still had to descend steeply into a deep canyon and re-climb it to our original height on the opposite side. So we did and, like most such climbs, it didn’t last too long. As we reached the new summit I sat down for a rest and pulled some cherry menthol gum out of my pack. Gavan actually used this moment to crash off the route in order to obtain some photos of the river scene below us. No walk in the United Kingdom is complete without the intrusive presence of overhead jets practicing in the nearby skies. By the time you have looked up these planes are in another part of the sky – such is their great speed – therefore full marks to Gavan, who actually managed to take a picture of such a plane in flight.
We now had less than two miles to go and our road made its last descent. It was getting a bit greyer as we followed local signs into the back streets of Fochabers, where I saw one ancient lady out walking with an equally elderly shaggy (and betailed) Schnauzer. At last we emerged onto the High Street. It was 4:00 and we decided to have a look around and perhaps a drink before reporting to our hotel. We passed the Bellie Parish Church and the village square but it was now spitting a bit and this put a halt to our wanderings.
Undoubtedly the chief topic of conversation between us recently had been the vexing question of how we were to get to Aberdeen Airport on the day after tomorrow – with both of us having looked at both train and bus options on the Internet and each of us having printed downloaded bus schedules. At this point Gavan favored a bus from Fochabers (number 10) rather than one from our ultimate destination, Buckie (number 305), but when a version of the latter pulled in at its stop now I backtracked to ask the driver which of the two was best and he agreed it was service 10. By this time it was really raining and so we headed west along the High Street and located our hotel, The Gordon Arms.
I have company as I sit in the pub at the Gordon Arms in Fochabers.
A short-haired girl took down our details and agreed that, though the hotel was short-staffed, she would get us drinks from the bar. Our backpacks were piled up in reception and I left my daypack and stick here too as we settled in for our pints in the dining room – Gavan choosing a Scottish beer this time. We made a dinner reservation, got our key, and headed through a maze of turns and floors until we found our room at the back.
Gavan took against this room almost immediately – denouncing it as stuffy and evil-smelling (his sense of smell is legendary). He even climbed out onto the roof to see if the cigarette butts out here (which he believed were the source of the pollution) were ordinary roll-ups or pot.
I took a shower and relaxed for a bit while Gavan experimented with the trousers press. He believed that all of his clothes had taken on the pong of the room. I couldn’t smell anything amiss.
Before dinner I went across the street for a picture of the hotel and then we went into the lounge and had another drink. There was a stuffed fox on the ledge behind me and my picture was taken here as well. In the dining room we were shown our table and we had a very nice meal – I had a mild chicken curry and a pint of Fosters. The place was obviously very popular with the locals and we had a good view of the parking lot, where many of the hotel’s customers were arriving by motorbike. I had to feel sorry for many of them for again it was raining quite hard. It took forever to get a bill and eventually we paid the barman. I failed to suggest that, as a descendent of the Gordon family (my mother’s maiden name), perhaps I shouldn’t have had to pay anything at all.
When we went back to our room we discovered that a cards night was in progress mid-floors. We couldn’t hear any of the noise from this gathering in our room but there were other problems. The sound of the power lawnmower, which had dominated proceedings in the afternoon, had been replaced by the whine of a power tool as someone worked on a nearby car. Gavan said he never heard a thing.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: