THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY
MUNRO SUMMIT
ABERFELDY
to jump out and gobble your throat. This morning, I awoke to see Aberfeldy’s golf course mired in mist thick enough to imitate complete retinal detach- ments then thought, I don’t care how long this haar sets in, I’m bagging a Munro today! Here’s how. It’s only a 33 km drive from Aberfeldy to the nature preserve parking lot where the path to Beinn Glhas kicks off. First though: see above re: Highland roads. Now add spiking anxiety from the numerous signs about Big Brother speed cameras threaten- ing hefty fines. The drive was a nervy 40 misty minutes, not some peaceful country tootle. You must pay £3 to park, even if yours is the only car in the lot or, for that matter, the only car you’ve seen in ten miles. On the bright side, I did get the best spot! Even in the haar, the wide, well-demarcated path was easy — and necessary for safety — to follow. Speaking of which: usually when hiking the Highlands, the views get better the higher you venture. This foggy day, however? Well let’s just say, there was little chance of dying from vertigo.
Mind, the experience of the climb was satisfyingly physical. Imagine a stair climbing machine that’s never consistent between strides yet slippery when wet. Now imagine it for three hours going upwards (whoops, don’t slip; there’s no one around to help, and a crisis in National Health services anyway) and two more hours coming back down. All the while, it’s like your squinting at the snowy reception on an old TV screen. For an hour, each hill disappoints when crested, showing yet another steep scramble to the top. Then that’s not the end, just another crest. But finally, we did make the summit and the slippery hike back down safely. Munro bagged? Check! The Canadian Travel Photography Honours Award for 2023? Not so much. Nonetheless, it was a hearty workout. The noise from the engine on the drive back was overpowered by my stomach’s cacophonous borborygmi. This final evening solo in the Highlands, I bought a deep fried, vein-clotting haggis supper from Aberfeldy’s local chippy — every town has one — and washed it down with cold lager, then slept like the dead. 29
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