A SEASON IN STRATHGLASS
This eBook edition published in 2013 by
Birlinn Limited
West Newington House
Newington Road
Edinburgh
EH9 1QS
www.birlinn.co.uk
Copyright © John Fowler, 2013
Photographs by Catherine Fowler and the author
The moral right of John Fowler to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85790-644-1
ISBN: 978-1-78027-157-6
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Version 1.0
for Alasdair and Sheila
CONTENTS
List of Plates
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Postscript
List of Plates
Drained of colour in the early morning light – hill and loch in Glen Affric.
Sgurr na Lapaich, distinctive landmark at the head of Glen Affric.
Sunlit islet in Glen Strathfarrar. Impressive stands of Caledonian pines like these descendants of the ancient forest survive in all three Strathglass glens.
Snow-capped Toll Creagach rises to 1054 metres between Glen Affric and Glen Cannich, here seen from a neighbouring height unnamed on the map – hence dubbed by the author No Name Hill.
Sir John Lister-Kaye, writer and naturalist, runs an upmarket field centre at Aigas. Here beside the River Affric he planned a system of woodland paths with the Forestry Commission.
Traffic! Bin day in remote Glen Cannich.
Sturdy hill-walkers Bob and Walter relax at the Backpackers’ in Cannich. ‘You can't go wrong on Mam Sodhail,’ they told the author, who followed their advice.
Frank Spencer-Nairn, landowner and deer farmer at Culligran in Glen Strathfarrar, tags a calf, with muscular aid from his farm manager, Hamish.
Colourful collection of flies for the well-equipped fisherman. Will it be Juliet today?
Dennis the gillie rests on his oars on one of the small Hill Lochs, with clients from ‘the Six’. Distant Affric hills rim the horizon.
Ex-river bailiff George tips salmon fry into the burn. Few of the thousands released this day will return as adults to spawn after the hazards of their journey to the sea.
Stuart and Tina at the threshold of their home in the woods near Tomich.
Snug's the word for the little house that Stuart built.
John MacLennan – ‘Johnny Affric’ – with stag. An expert stalker, dressed in traditional tweeds even for a heatwave.
Mosses and lichens encrust a stone near the River Bend in Glen Cannich. Such botanic gardens in miniature flourish in the damp climate of the west.
Louise, a dreamer who smiles at adversity, with Fritz (on the left). Horses are her passion.
Old Duncan – ‘Dunky Affric’ – nearing his century after a lifetime as stalker, shepherd and gillie, and now author of a fascinating country memoir.
Boris the wild boar and progeny at the trough. All gone to market now.
Russell, deer stalker for the Forestry Commission, surveys the terrain south of Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin. But this day the deer evade him.
Shinty match at Cannich. Strathglass under attack.
Sister Petra Clare, ‘hermit iconographer’, adds a last detail to her virgin and child.
Drained of colour in the early morning light – hill and loch in Glen Affric.
Sgurr na Lapaich, distinctive landmark at the head of Glen Affric.
Sunlit islet in Glen Strathfarrar. Impressive stands of Caledonian pines like these descendants of the ancient forest survive in all three Strathglass glens.
Snow-capped Toll Creagach rises to 1054 metres between Glen Affric and Glen Cannich, here seen from a neighbouring height unnamed on the map – hence dubbed by the author No Name Hill.
Sir John Lister-Kaye, writer and naturalist, runs an upmarket field centre at Aigas. Here beside the River Affric he planned a system of woodland paths with the Forestry Commission.
Traffic! Bin day in remote Glen Cannich.
Sturdy hill-walkers Bob and Walter relax at the Backpackers’ in Cannich. ‘You can't go wrong on Mam Sodhail,’ they told the author, who followed their advice.
Frank Spencer-Nairn, landowner and deer farmer at Culligran in Glen Strathfarrar, tags a calf, with muscular aid from his farm manager, Hamish.
Colourful collection of flies for the well-equipped fisherman. Will it be Juliet today?
Dennis the gillie rests on his oars on one of the small Hill Lochs, with clients from ‘the Six’. Distant Affric hills rim the horizon.
Ex-river bailiff George tips salmon fry into the burn. Few of the thousands released this day will return as adults to spawn after the hazards of their journey to the sea.
Stuart and Tina at the threshold of their home in the woods near Tomich.
Snug's the word for the little house that Stuart bu
ilt.
John MacLennan – ‘Johnny Affric’ – with stag. An expert stalker, dressed in traditional tweeds even for a heatwave.
Mosses and lichens encrust a stone near the River Bend in Glen Cannich. Such botanic gardens in miniature flourish in the damp climate of the west.
Louise, a dreamer who smiles at adversity, with Fritz (on the left). Horses are her passion.
Old Duncan – ‘Dunky Affric’ – nearing his century after a lifetime as stalker, shepherd and gillie, and now author of a fascinating country memoir.
Boris the wild boar and progeny at the trough. All gone to market now.
Russell, deer stalker for the Forestry Commission, surveys the terrain south of Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin. But this day the deer evade him.
Shinty match at Cannich. Strathglass under attack.
Sister Petra Clare, ‘hermit iconographer’, adds a last detail to her virgin and child.
INTRODUCTION
Fifteen years or so ago, I walked across the Highlands with Catherine, now my wife. We went from the Beauly Firth in the east to the west coast and stopped for the night at a remote hostel beyond Loch Affric. I made supper but, before the spaghetti was on the table, Catherine, new to walking, had fallen fast asleep, her head on the table.
Pinned to the noticeboard in the kitchen was a brief history of the area, including this:
Affric was one of a group of glens which were traditional routes from west to east.
Twelve shepherds and two gamekeepers and their families lived in West Affric in the 1850s. When cheap imports of refrigerated mutton made shepherding uneconomic and high rents could be charged from sporting tenants, West Affric became part of the massive deer forest of a Canadian railway magnate called Winans . . .
No one lives in West Affric nowadays except for hostel wardens who come and go. As for Winans the railway magnate (not Canadian but American), there will be more to tell.
My old guidebook to the mountains of the western Highlands declares that ‘Strathfarrar, Cannich and Affric are three of the longest glens in Scotland and are universally regarded as her three most beautiful’. There have been dramatic changes since the words were written but even now, in spite of widespread flooding for hydroelectricity and blanket conifer afforestation, they still ring true today.
Down these three glens pour three rivers which merge at length as the River Glass, whose dark waters flow for several miles through a flat valley or strath, hence the name Strathglass. For a while, over a decade, I made many visits to the three glens and the strath of Glass, always lured back by the grandeur of the scenery and the character of the people who live there. As a kind of shorthand, I came to style the whole area in my mind simply as ‘Affric’, a name that has a particular resonance for me. It was the first of the glens I got to know, a place of craggy hills, ancient pinewoods and many waters, almost too theatrical to be true. And so, when I used to say, on leaving home, ‘I'm going to Affric,’ my wife and friends knew what I meant and where I'd be. Sometimes Catherine came with me.
Mostly I came by way of Beauly. Beauly, beau lieu – ‘bonny place’ – and so it is. It's a small country town set in a pastoral landscape half an hour's drive from Inverness. It has a modest sense of style and a pleasant air of gentility. Here the River Glass, which started life as the Affric deep in the hills of the west, briefly becomes the River Beauly in the last stage of its long life. The hills are left behind and the sea is close. Another approach is from Drumnadrochit, a ragged village on Loch Ness where tourists decant in hope of sighting the monster. The shop tills there ring an anthem to Nessie.
This narrative is based on diaries I kept during my time in Affric and Strathglass. Because the period covers several years, the result is kaleidoscopic or impressionistic and I've not attempted to keep to a strict chronology. But I think it holds together.
It's some time since my last spell in Affric and there have been changes since. You'll find some in the postscript.
Strathglass and glens Affric, Cannich and Strathfarrar
1
There's an email from Tim.
It's been very wet in the glen over the past few weeks and now serious flooding. My cattle got trapped on a very small island and I had to swim out to them with a bale of hay and lead them swimming back to dry land – very cold! If winters continue in this vein I'm not sure how habitable parts of the highlands will be in 10 to 15 years’ time.
All the same, I go.
There are flood warnings all the way north and water sluices over the road. Past Struy, where the River Glass swings close to the road, a sheet of water has swamped road, fields and riverbank, barring the way. I'm reluctant to drive through – how deep is it?
An approaching Land Rover and trailer churn slowly through the water, throwing up bow waves. The burly driver, a farmer by the look of him, comes over as I sit watching from the car. ‘You'll get through,’ he says. ‘Keep to the crown of the road. Canny as you go.’
Cannily I go.
The well-known surroundings are transformed. Strathglass is a different country, the riverbanks broken and submerged and the strath inundated here and there. Trees stick up from pools like tropical rainforest, islets speckle lagoons where there was only dry land before and newly formed burns pouring down from the high ground swill across the road.
My temporary home for the next few nights is a caravan in Cannich village. Rain drums on the van roof overnight and, in the morning, it's raining still, though with lessened force. I was cold in bed – three degrees. No newspapers in the shop – they didn't get through – and no post. The overside road is closed and the news is that the road down to Drumnadrochit is flooded just before the village. The Beauly road could be blocked if it gets worse. There might be no way out. Marooned!
Tim takes me to meet Sheena, who farms cattle in the glen, and we stand at the gate in our wellies, in a welter of mud. Tim admits he didn't actually swim, though it was touch and go. He waded out breast high towards his stranded animals holding a heavy bale of hay above his head while two of his daughters stood at the water's edge in case of emergency. After a good deal of cajoling, wheedling, calling the cattle by their names (he named them after the girls at the forestry office, though the girls don't know that yet), the hungry heifers edged off dry land into the water and followed him back to safety. Keeping his feet was a problem and several times he was in danger of lift-off.
Tim asks Sheena if she's noticed an increase in flooding since she's farmed here. She reflects a little – no, the waters haven't risen higher over the last 15 years or so, but probably floods have been more frequent.
Tim says that, between November and December, it rained for 46 days. That's biblical. Forty days and forty nights and then Noah pushed out the ark. It hasn't come to that yet.
‘I'm going on a castration course,’ Sheena remarks casually, ‘so that I know which bits to cut off.’
Oh. It makes you wince.
In the afternoon, I venture into Glen Cannich, where there are signs that the floodwaters are receding. The hills have disgorged themselves by now. A high tidemark of litter, branches, torn-up bracken and grass shows the extent of the flooding. Everything's still sopping wet. Big spreads of water fill the low ground and the swirling river brims under the causeway to Craskie – I shan't risk a crossing.
There's a dank mistiness in the air, a ghostly calm now that the wind has died and the rain almost stopped. Brightness comes and goes in this new world. Now and again the low sun edges through, gilds the snow-streaked hilltops and freshens all the colours of the earth – the birch groves, leafless and wine-dark, golden larch, conifer woodlands vivid green, swags of withered bracken brick-red on the hillsides. Old twisted birch stems coated with grey-green lichens dip their feet in unaccustomed pools. Then rain-mist closes the shutters again.
2
No caravan this time. Where shall I stay?
A potholed lane, a farm shed smelling of dung, a tall white house. A ship's bell hangs on a rope
at the door. Clangalang!
Jane, plump, a bit short of breath (she's asthmatic), answers the bell. She and her husband Ian run their home, Comar Lodge, as a bed and breakfast and, yes, there's a bed for the night. This tower-like house at the end of a farm track was built in the 1700s. The stones in the porch wall are scored where Jacobite soldiers sharpened their dirks in the Forty-five rising.
From my room at the top, there's a view of meadow and riverbank where sometimes, says Ian, you will see an osprey fishing. Between twin beds, a cabinet opens to reveal a chamber pot decorated with green flowers, chipped on the rim. There's an old-fashioned dressing table which will do for a desk though the mirrors are off-putting. In a cupboard under the eaves are a bottle or two of wine but they're probably not meant for guests. Just stored.
Down the road in Cannich village is the Slater's Arms, where Jimmac stands behind the bar. Jimmac, a gruff burly man, was a slater until he came down from the rooftops to pull pints. Business is brisk. I meet Mike, a freelance trucker taking a fortnight off from the road, who says he's trying to get fit with a bit of biking, a bit of walking and maybe some fishing. (You get fit fishing?) Also he's reconnoitring Strathglass to see if he can settle here and make a home. He lives in Dunfermline.
The king sits in Dunfermline toun
Drinking the bluid-red wine
Across the road is the Glen Affric Hotel. No, the Glen Affric Hot-l – an ‘e’ has dropped off.
Dimmed are the bright lights of yore. All's dark in the hotel except for a chink of light under a door. Inside the poky bar, silent, bare, uncarpeted, a solitary customer sits at a plain table with a pint in front of him, talking to a young (youngish) woman behind the tiny corner bar. She has dark hair with a hint of auburn in it. On the wall behind her is a gantry holding only three upturned bottles, though there's space for five.
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