Weeks of stormy weather. Snow, thaw, rain, snow. And worst
of all wind, howling shrieking wind that roars through the tree tops and crashes
down mountainsides, deafening disorientating wind that upsets the balance of
body and mind. Day after day after day.
Searching the forecasts, trying to second guess the next
blast, hoping to seize any brief lull for a day in the hills that isn’t too
much of a struggle. A week ago I managed this for an afternoon. A week later I
didn’t. There was a suggestion of less stormy conditions for a few hours, at
least on the lower hills. Meall a’Bhuachaille, I thought. Always good for a
half day and the walk in and out is in the forest.
Blue sky and touches of sunshine looked promising on the
drive to Aviemore. At first. The snow came in fast and hard, within seconds I
was crawling through a blizzard, following the just visible taillights of the
vehicle in front.
In Aviemore I sat in a café watching the snow swirling. Meall
a’Bhuachaille didn’t seem attractive now. Neither did a longer drive. A shorter
walk from here appealed. Craigellachie, that steep, wooded, craggy hill that
rises above the town. Most of the walking would be in beautiful birch woods,
sheltered from the wind.
I set off in driving snow, the air thick with flakes. The
woods across a little lochan were hazy and half-hidden by the blizzard. The
muddy path wound through the trees, a dark line between the snowy trees.
Above the woods the path was snow-covered. The wind was fierce
and harsh, stinging my face. On the summit I gazed onto a bleak arctic
landscape, a different world to the town that lay not far below. I didn’t
linger.
On the descent the snow eased briefly. Some hazy sunshine
gave a touch of warmth to a rugged knoll. Back down in the forest the trees were
silent, mysterious, encompassing, welcoming.
