23rd May 2019
Weather: Rain continuously all day of varying intensity, driven by a Westerly wind, fortunately mostly behind me.
I felt intimidated at the very thought of walking across the “Wild Land area” of Knockfin Heights aka Flow Country. even as I was planning the trip. I was, however, trusting Andy Robinson (the author of the book An End to End Trail) to supply a safe route, and for me to navigate it.
With waterproofs on from the start at Kinbrace station at 09:30, a two mile walk up the road, then the fun started. Traversing rough boggy ground (sedges mean deep standing water, I discovered) on the edge of a felled forest, I learned that walking close to the river provided the best drainage. There was a tricky climb over a deer fence right next to the riverbank.
With a gain in height, crossing rough heather I came across the nest of one of the many crying plovers: four neatly arranged eggs out in the open. I hurried on to an area with a beautifully circular stone sheepfold at Knockfin that would have provided 360 degree wind shelter as a campsite. I gently cursed my lack of resolve yesterday to have gone that little further.
The last ascent before reaching the plateau followed a lively stream, giving a hazy view across the lower ground and cloud-covered hills to the West. A soggy, intermittent, path finally vanished on the boggy plateau, now misty and windswept.
Using my compass I reached a candidate for the ultimate trig-point-bag at 438m on a soggy peat hag, where I hunkered down for a few mouthfuls of food and drink. It reminded me of an early experience on Kinder Scout roller-coasting the peat hags circa 1979/80. With apologies to my companion that day (you know who you are! I hadn’t learned, then, the trick of finding Kinder Gates to gain the easier route).
The easy route out of this one was to find, then follow, an East-flowing river. I succeeded in doing so, but its banks were occasionally defended by large grassy tussocks, one of which tripped me up. I fell sideways, the top section of one walking pole bearing the weight of my landing and snapping off the handle. I endured it by telling myself that this was “the last hard day”, with everything after this being relatively easy.
My curiosity to visit the “Chalybeate Springs” marked on the map was overridden by my desire for this bog-trotting ordeal, in the driving rain, to end. My boots had long since filled with water (the beading of water on the surface told me that the external waterproofing was fine, and that water was entering from the soles). Fortunately my gloves were warm when wet, but they needed wringing out occasionally. The waterproof jacket and trousers were doing their jobs admirably, meaning I was never cold nor wet inside.
I gained a yellow-stoned track (“…follow the yellow-brick road…”) that shortly led to a small valley bearing a full stream. If I thought that the walk across to Crask was the ultimate bog trot, today proved me utterly wrong.
At 3pm I was surprised to come across a hut, looking like someone’s garden summerhouse. I gratefully retreated from the wind and driving rain for a late lunch. I noticed the water on my ‘phone and wiped it down (forgetting to take off the case and doing the job properly). I had still been taking pictures regularly, even in the murky conditions.
The track descended out of the mist and the buildings of The Glutt appeared. Someone came out to let out the dogs from their fenced kennelling and seemed delighted at their freedom. He had seen me coming and stopped me for a chat. A “Derby lad” who “left the rat race when this job came up”. It’s a few miles down the track at the end of the public road, in turn miles from a town. He told me of the need for the rain because the moorland had been so dry, with large fires last year, and that Andy Robinson had visited last year researching an update to the book.
I was keen to move on and get settled for the night. He advised that Dail Righe was the only decent camping area. To go further to Dalnawillan Lodge was “asking for Mark’s dogs” to be barking at me all night.
At 1km short of Dail Righe I came across an abandoned house at Dalganachan, probably around 6.30. To cut the tale short, the place was falling apart, broken windows, holes in the ceiling and the floor covered with animal jet hardened with age.
After escorting out a dead pigeon, my phone decided it had had enough: fizzed, spat, then refused to work. I noticed that the case was full of water (probably my gloves dripping on it each time I took it out of my pocket).
After getting some water from the river in a large beer glass and jug, I found a cleanish platform to lie on out of drafts and drips as well as the ongoing wind and rain.
An almighty din, sometime around midnight I guess, made me jump out of bed fearing large-animal incursion. It turned out to be a pigeon repeatedly flying into a window in another room. After unsuccessfully trying to shoo him out, I left him to continue his ordeal and racket, retreated to bed, put ear plugs in and tried to banish thoughts of “haunted house” from my head.