A day beyond l’Onda at the end of a long 1200 metre descent lies the small hamlet of Vizzavona, the half way point. Half way in distance but not in time. We took eight days to reach Vizzavona but only another five to reach the finishing line due to the easier conditions underfoot.
High above Bocce di Verdi during the complex traverse of the rocky slopes of Punta Della Cappella the cloud was so thick we could see only a few metres, making the devious twisting route in and out of gullies and around pinnacles disorientating. The wind gusting to 50mph threatened to blow us off the mountain at times and although convinced sometimes that we were heading back the way we’d come we followed the familiar red and white paint marks until the path finally descended to the shelter of a wind stunted beech wood.
The clouds lifted but the wind strengthened and we were blown all over the place on the rough traverse of Monte Formicola that followed. That night we camped below the Refuge d’Usciolu, a wildly scenic site with a splendid view of Monte Alcudina, the last mountain on the route. The wind was so wild that in the middle of the night I abandoned the shaking, rattling tent and crept under a nearby overhanging rock for a more peaceful sleep. High above the sky was fantastically sharp and clear, the stars brilliant, the Milky Way a dense wavy band of glittering points of light.
The wind dropped and the hot sun returned for the entertaining and amazingly intricate scramble along the narrow Arête a Monda, a thin spine of granite pinnacles, steep slabs, stepped gullies and huge boulders. Again I admired the skill of the route makers who had managed to weave a hiking trail through such terrain, constantly switching from one side of the ridge to the other to follow the easiest line. The ascent of 2134 metre Monte Alcudina, a big, bulky mountain with a broad shoulder was easy but the knee hammering descent down awkward slabs and rocks to the Refuge d’Asinau was tricky.
After Monte Alcudina the GR20 has one final day of glory as it rounds the spiky Aiguilles de Bavella and then climbs across the dramatic Punta Tafunta ridge to one of the most scenically sited refuges, Paliri, which lies on a high col. The Refuge de Paliri is also the strangest as the guardian has decorated the area with red and white painted rocks bearing messages, some practical (water sources), some informative (names of plants), some cryptic, some with quotations from poets and philosophers, to create a surreal wonderland.
From Paliri it’s a slow descent to the heat haze of the maquis and one last pass, the Bocca d’Usciolu. Once through this narrow gateway the journey is over and all that remains is to walk the last few hot kilometres to the little town of Conca.
Walking Sweden’s Kungsleden
Whilst southern Sweden is known as a land of forests and lakes, fewer people know that in Lapland in the north there are mountains: 1000 kilometres of them, straddling the Arctic Circle and rising to 2117 metres on Kebnekaise, the highest mountain in Arctic Scandinavia. As well as permanently snow clad peaks, Swedish Lapland has huge lakes, powerful rivers, thundering waterfalls and dense forests of birch and pine, a vast unspoilt wilderness, by far the largest remaining in western Europe.
The sheer scale can be intimidating, but a 450 kilometre long footpath runs south-north through the heart of the mountains. This is the Kungsleden, the King’s Way, which passes through four national parks - Pieljekaise, Sarek, Stora Sjöfallets and Abisko - as well as Vindelfjällens nature reserve, at 4,800 square kilometres the largest in Europe.
The trail is waymarked with pairs of cairns and large upright stones, each topped with red paint, that make route finding easy. There are bridges across the deeper rivers and rowing boats or ferries for crossing the long east-west running lakes that lie across the route. At high points there are basic wind shelters and boggy sections have duckboards laid across them, making the Kungsleden a drier walk underfoot than might be expected.
Crossing the grain of the land, the Kungsleden rises and falls as it climbs repeatedly over high ridges and passes only to descend back into forest and lake filled valleys. This makes for a great deal of ascent, but the reward is the variety of scenery the trail encompasses, from deep forest to high mountains.
Dark clouds were shrouding the peaks and rain was falling steadily when I started north along the Kungsleden late one August, incorporating it into a summer-long walk the length of Norway and Sweden. The start, among the ski lifts and snow-free pistes of the Hemavan ski resort, is inauspicious but soon the trail climbs onto open mountainside before traversing into Syterskalet. The walk up this long Glencoe-like valley was exhilarating, the scenery dramatic and mysterious and hinting at big mountains in the swirling mists.
When a small hut loomed up I popped inside for a bit of shelter, a move I soon regretted when the warden appeared and charged me fifteen kroner. This was the day use rate for huts along the trail whether you stayed five minutes or five hours. Although there are many such huts along the Kungsleden I intended camping most nights anyway, and that first evening I pitched the tent at the head of Syterskalet, a wonderful wilderness site. Even in the rain I wouldn’t have swopped it for a night in a hut away from the world I had come to be part of.
The trail wound across marshy lakes by way of long boardwalks and twisting bridges, slipped through dense green birch woods, and traversed open fellsides whose slopes faded into grey skies in all directions. In places the bleak scene was enlivened by the fires of bright red rowans. After three days of rain and wind I reached the small village of Ammarnäs and here, I confess, I stayed in a hotel and dried out my dripping gear.
Beyond the village I climbed onto the bleak Pennine-like moorland called Bjorkfjället. All was silent, as if waiting for something: sun? winter? rain? A few cold tarns and long whale-backed hills with small broken crags made up the view. A few reindeer browsed lethargically. There were no people and I was to see only a couple of walkers on the whole 180 kilometre stretch between Ammarnäs and Kvikkjokk. The hut chain is broken here so you have to camp. I didn’t mind. It was good to be alone in the vastness.
Solitude is best if you want to see wildlife too. Reindeer were abundant in places, though they aren’t really wild, all of them belonging to the native Sami people. Birdlife wasn’t prolific but I did see long-tailed skuas, golden eagles, capercaillie, willow grouse and ptarmigan.
Rain fell almost every day and all I could do was keep plodding through it. At the tiny hamlet of Jäkkvik I came on the first of the big lakes. Before setting out I had fondly imagined I would walk round them so as not to break the walk, but doing so would have involved difficult bushwhacking and route-finding and probably double the time. So, I took the ferries, usually just a small boat with an outboard motor run by a local man.
A small wooden sign with ‘Polecirklen’ scrawled crudely on it marked my entry into the Arctic and reminded me that this land really was as remote and empty as it felt. A long day later I arrived in Kvikkjokk, roughly half way along the trail, which also marked a turning point in the weather when the rain ceased and the sun began to shine. The second half of the walk was a joy.
North of Kvikkjokk the scenery is more impressive, with glacier-clad mountains replacing the bleak flat moorland. The first frosts brought brightness too, the birch woods becoming a magical golden forest that even in dull weather was quite overwhelming. From Kvikkjokk the path cuts through the edge of Sarek national park, a wild and beautiful area I would later return to ski.
At Aktse lake a new problem confronted me. Instead of a phone to ring for a ferry, as at other lakesides, two rowing boats were pulled up on the stony beach. I looked at them doubtfully. I couldn’t remember the last time I had tried to row a boat. There was a wardened hut the other side of the lake, three long kilometres away, but whether there was a ferry I didn’t know. Reluctantly I climbed into one of the boats and pushed it out into the calm water of a sheltered bay. I wrestled the boat out into the open lake and white capped waves swept down on me. The boat rocked alarmingly and suddenly seemed very small and fragile. I could see the shore I was trying to reach but it didn’t seem to get a
ny closer. The red buoys that marked the way had somehow drifted up the lake. No, it was the boat that was drifting, driven down the lake by the wind. I struggled to turn it back on course but to no avail.
Buffeted by waves and wind the boat eventually beached itself, for I had little to do with it, on a headland half a kilometre from where I’d set off thirty long terrifying minutes before. Highly relieved I thrashed ignominiously back along the shore. During the day five more walkers - all of them German – arrived, but none tried their hand at rowing. The next morning a ferry arrived from the far side. Shame-faced I explained what I’d done the day before and the boatman nodded, stone-faced. He had, of course, seen the beached boat as he crossed.
Further on I came to a lake, Teusajaure, without a ferry, and had to row. The water seemed only slightly choppy and it was only half a kilometre. I pushed off and was surprised and relieved to find myself on the far bank twenty minutes later.
Beyond Teusajaure steep slopes closed in around the trail and I felt that I was now entering the heart of the mountains. Ahead lay the long beautiful valley of Tjäktjavagge in which I spent one glorious day, the finest of the walk. The sun shone, the snowy mountains sparkled, the tundra glistened with frost and autumn colour. Reindeer paused to watch me then leapt away. Mountains of every shape and size - spires, domes, ridges, rock walls, snow slopes - lay to either side. A couple of times I glimpsed Kebnekaise and vowed to return and climb it, one day, which I was to do on another ski tour.
I left this magnificent valley by the narrow windswept pass of Tjäktjapasset, at 1140 metres the highest point on Kungsleden. Beyond lay the golden forest of Abisko national park and then, after sixteen satisfying days, the end of Kungsleden on the shores of Torneträsk lake.
Across Scotland on the Southern Upland Way
Coast-to-coast walks are satisfying and full of purpose. There is a sea to reach, a land to cross, a clear destination. Every day you stride out knowing that you are leaving one coast farther behind while approaching another. On reaching that once distant sea you know that you have crossed the country and seen all that lies in between.
Yet despite its attractions the Southern Upland Way, Britain’s first official coast-to-coast route which was opened in 1984, is also Britain’s forgotten long distance path, seeing little of the numbers who walk the West Highland Way or the Pennine Way. When I followed the route, at the height of the summer, I was surprised to meet only a couple of other end to end walkers and only a few more day walkers. On many days I met no one.
Perhaps it’s because the name isn’t very inspiring. ‘Southern Uplands’ hardly stirs the blood or raises the spirits. The route has developed an unjustified reputation for being dull too, for spending too much time in dingy conifer plantations and on metalled roads. Whatever the reason for the low numbers it’s not valid. The SUW is a splendid walk.
I confess that I had listened to the stories and ignored the Southern Upland Way for many years. Indeed, I had rarely walked in the Southern Uplands at all, so it was with a sense of exploration and, yes, excitement that I set off from the little seaside village of Portpatrick.
Before me the trail stretched north east for 340 kilometres (212 miles) from the Irish Sea to the North Sea. The Southern Uplands consist of a series of small hill ranges split by deep south-north trending valleys. In the south the hills fade away to the Solway Firth and the English Border, to the north the Southern Upland Boundary Fault separates the hills from the Central Lowlands. This is moorland country, the hills rolling and rounded, great swells of green and brown rising above steep glaciated valleys.
The land isn’t that high, with just six summits rising above 800 metres, but it is lonely and often remote. Lowther Hill at 725 metres is the highest summit on the Southern Upland Way. Nowhere else does the route rise above even 600 metres and much is below 300 metres. This doesn’t mean this is a flat route though. My estimate of the total ascent is 9,000 metres (based on calculations from an altimeter watch), which works out at about 800 metres per day on my eleven day walk. In fact I climbed over 1200 metres on two days and the lowest daily ascent was 440 metres. The lack of high summits doesn’t mean the SUW is a gentle stroll. It requires stamina and hill knowledge. Mist can quickly cover the higher ground and the route is not all that clear on some moorland stretches.
This isn’t a route for peak baggers anyway. Rather it is one for those who love quiet countryside, a complex, changing mosaic of woods, fields, rivers, lakes, moors and hills. It’s not wilderness – human activity is apparent almost everywhere – but it is wild. Farming and forestry are the largest and most obvious human manifestations (followed, now, by wind farms). Cattle, sheep and hay are seen in abundance, as are coniferous plantations, but the last are less dull and less extensive than many think though. Forest Enterprise has planted a mix of deciduous species in many places to provide variety and a wider range of wildlife. Riparian restoration can be seen along many of the waterways too, from the Water of Trool in the west to the river Tweed and its tributaries in the east, with new trees and bushes lining the streams. I found it heartening to see this return of nature. As these trees grow both the forests and the riversides will become more attractive and less monotonous, adding to the pleasures of the walk.
Forests may block some of the views but they make excellent habitats for wildlife including Scottish crossbills, goldcrest, siskin and short-eared owls, though they can be difficult to see amongst the trees. On the moors and hills kestrels and buzzards are common and I saw several hen harriers. Red grouse are likely to explode from the heather in many places: some of the moors, especially in the east, are managed for grouse shooting. Smaller birds include wheatear, whinchat, stonechat, skylark and meadow pipit. Dippers live on the rivers, larger water birds such as mallard ducks on the lochs. Animals are less common. I saw a few distant deer and rather more rabbits plus one large adder, lying on the path just a few steps away. Midges were surprisingly few in number, certainly compared with the Highlands, which made the eight nights I spent camping much more pleasant than expected.
There is much history as well as natural history along the way. Historic buildings, relics and artefacts line the route, from prehistoric standing stones to mines, castles, abbeys and Victorian mansions, and even the least historically inclined walker is likely to find some of them of interest. In the west there are many reminders of the bloody history of the Covenanters in the 1680s, when Presbyterian followers of the National Covenant were hunted down and killed by English government troops. Walking down a quiet forest ride it’s a sobering shock to suddenly come upon a memorial to Covenanters who were caught at prayer at this remote spot and shot. Some relics are curious and unexplained, such as the Wells of Rees in Killgallioch Forest, small drystone domes built over tiny springs in the hillside. They are guessed to have had a religious purpose as there is said to have been a chapel nearby but no one really knows. In total contrast is the great Victorian pile of Abbotsford on the banks of the river Tweed, built for Sir Walter Scott.
On long walks I usually regard towns as sources of food, showers and perhaps accommodation but otherwise to be left as quickly as possible. On the SUW this is unwise, as there is much to see in the attractive towns along the way such as the castle, the tollbooth and Britain’s oldest working post office in Sanquhar, the mining museum and old mine workings in Wanlockhead and the ruined abbey in Melrose.
Starting in the west means the weather is likely to be at your back and the sun won’t be in your eyes so this is the way I went, as do most end-to-end walkers. Initially the route heads north along the coastal cliffs but soon the route turns inland through a mix of neat sheep-cropped grassland, rough pasture, low moorland and forestry. Ahead the dark outline of the Galloway Hills draws the eye and keeps the feet moving. Two days from the start and I was there, staying in a B&B in Glentrool Village.
The SUW stays low in the Galloway Hills, running through mixed woodland beside the dark pools and swirling eddies of the Water of T
rool and then above beautiful Loch Trool with the higher heather-clad rugged knobbly hills rising on the far side. All was calm and peaceful, unlike my only previous visit here when I spent two days running round the hills in a storm on the Karrimor Mountain Marathon. Leaving the Galloway Forest Park, in which wild camping isn’t permitted, I pitched my tent on the slopes of Shield Rig with a view back over the forest and the Galloway Hills. Rain fell during the night and I woke to see wet grass sparkling in sunshine and strands of mist rising in quivering columns from the damp forest. A glorious morning when you know there is nowhere else you’d rather be.
For eight more days I wandered along the SUW, dipping down into little towns and villages, climbing up through fields and forests to moorland hills and following meandering streams. Highlights abounded: the long shaking suspension bridge over the placid Water of Ken leading into St John’s of Dalry; a glowering view of dark hills, dark forest and dark clouds from Benbrack; an exhilarating walk over Cairn Hill and Black Hill to High Countam with a feeling of freedom and escape from the confines of the valleys; the stark ragged ruins of Sanquhar Castle backlit against dark storm clouds; the bleak mining village of Wanlockhead’s whitewashed buildings glowing in the dusk on a day of torrential rain; the ‘golf ball’ domes of the radar station looming eerily out of dense mist on Lowther Hill.
Then there was the real mountain feel of the dramatic landscape of the deep ravine of the Selcoth Burn with the path high on its side and unstable hillsides all around rising into the mist; reaching Phawhope Bothy and settling down warm and snug in front of a roaring fire after a day of heavy rain and a cold wind; watching short-eared owls and hen harriers hunting in the forests and on the moors; wonderful post storm light on the purple heather patched hills across the wind whipped waters of St Mary’s Loch; camped below Blake Muir watching the large red dot of the planet Mars appear followed by a mass of brilliant stars.
Out There Page 9