It was more of a whim than anything else really. Why not see a bit more of Scotland on the way back to Glencoe, we thought? Why not take that road towards the Cairngorms and discover whatever was out there? And so it was, as we stuffed our shopping into Brenda’s fridge, cupboards and drawers at the Aldi supermarket car park in Inverness, that we decided to head south towards Aviemore, before striking west across the national park on the way back to Fort William. And just before we set off, a waterfall gushed out of the Google map on my phone and said, “Look at me - I’m beautiful. Why not stop here?” An hour and a quarter away, just at the time we’d be thinking about lunch with a view. I’d never heard of the place nor seen an image of it before, but the pact was sealed. We headed out of the city, and I tried to pretend I hadn't noticed the signs for Thurso and Ullapool. I’d have loved to go further north, but there wasn’t enough time left before we needed to start to head for home again.
We began the detour on a fast road that soon told us Perth was one hundred and twelve miles away, reminding us just how far from home we’d come. Even in the first miles the scenery was imposing, but there was much more to follow, the views from the windscreen gradually building the drama, dark hulking shapes rising from the horizon in purples and blacks to bury themselves from the shoulders upwards in thick bands of raincloud. There in the distance lay the beasts of the Cairngorm Mountains, huge, brutal and foreboding in a nearby parallel universe that summer seemed to have all but abandoned forever. From time to time a squall would race towards us, pitching the trees that lined the road, blustering and buffeting at our sides before giving way to splashes of sunlight, hints of pastel blue peeping out from behind the menace. Then another charge of bruised clouds, translucent sheets of soft white shimmering rain beneath them, marching with intent across the sky in our direction. There’s a saying about four seasons in a day up here, but this was more like four seasons every fifteen minutes.
The journey continued, now heading west, away from the brooding uplands and across a much quieter road, green and pastoral, foaming rivers full of the heavy rains that had followed us wherever we went on our Scottish adventure over the past seven days. Alongside the road ran the Spey, reminding us we were in whisky country. We’d already passed one famous distillery, but I was driving after all, and the chances are we’d have had to stay the night if we’d stopped there (although I’ve got a bottle waiting to be opened at home now). In time we arrived at the car park by the waterfall, and while Ali prepared lunch, I made a brief scouting mission in the direction of the thundering noise somewhere along the path. It didn’t take long to find the source, a summer torrent of black and cream, coursing down through a low gorge down a single drop and curving away into the forest. Could I get to that rock? I’d need my wellies. I’d have another look after lunch.
When, in between the rains, I returned from an appointment with a bowl of lentil soup and three slices of toasted sourdough, the water had risen considerably and the rock was completely submerged. Even with wellies it looked a bit of a stretch. I’d need another plan then. A brief scramble upwards and now I was standing above the river, watching a scene so agonisingly breathtaking. Much of my admittedly limited travels in Scotland - mostly on hiking trips - have taken me through sadly sterile Sitka Spruce forests, planted between the wars to feed demand for cheap fast growing timber, devoid of birdsong, empty of pretty much everything except for darkness and eerie silence. But this was different, alive and bright. Here, set in this stunning natural pine forest were perfectly formed bright green native firs, growing out of the low slate grey canyon walls, hovering just above the urgent River Pattack. And not for the first time, the atrocious weather we’d faced on this adventure was now my friend, making saturated greens glow and the river boil in a white fury as it battered its way down through the forest.
I suppose it must be a measure of Scotland’s almost infinite wealth of natural landscapes that this one doesn’t seem to be on the togs’ circuit. An online search found only a relatively small number of images in comparison to the likes of Glencoe, Skye and Torridon. And really, it was just by chance that we were here at all - only the sudden compulsion to try another road and explore the surroundings. Of course when you just happen upon a place, it’s easy to miss what else might lie hidden that you may have discovered with proper planning, but I’m not sure that really mattered here. Once again, it was the journey rather than the end destination that felt like a triumph. Even without stopping at the distillery along the way.
