Culbin by train

The train stuttered and swung its way from the east coast through the familiar litany of towns packed with bored and down cast commuters.  I did not care – I was not there.  A few miles north Culbin lies quiet and secret under the full moon, invisible beyond the infinity mirror windows of the train. 

I seem to remember I was having trouble with riding on sand. The back wheel was breaking away and I was tipping over. Aye, that was it. So I headed for the fire tracks and braved the mud left by the harvesters before breaking away myself into the empty still wood. I aimed for the Buckie Loch just to see. When I got there it was a stony field of downy dried thistles hiding from the sea’s next big temper behind a ridge of stones. The bike and I climbed the stones in a fluid pull on the bars and stopped, stunned and stilled.

Waves dropped quiet on the sand. Not breaking along the beach but just dropping – plop, soosh - in a single second across as far as the eye could see.  White dry sand blew along dark wet sand in swirls. Out to sea gannets speared into the white caps. Rise, cruciform, turn, spear, splash.  Fishermen in endless benediction.

I dropped the bike and sat down. The ridge top was a mosaic of small pebbles. Red granites, white quartz, layered toffee sandstones, smoothed ancient gneiss on its last journey after 3 billion years. Glaciers had gifted these stones to the sea as rough rocks ripped from Cairngorm, the tors of Avon, the hills of the great glen and many others. The sea had loved them smooth as skin, cold as their mother ice under my hand.

It was overwhelming to have all my senses competing at once.  I lay down, head on the ancient stones and closed my eyes – smell of sea, taste of salt, sound of a single wave.

 

Monster training

Culbin again

We set off from the boy racer car park in Nairn on dry sandy trails into a biting north wind. We followed a mixture of fire roads and glorious single track resembling a BMX track to Hill 99.We climbed the tower just after sunset and then set off. Neil immediately tumbled down the steps at the bottom of the tower, went over the handlebars and into the stove of two squaddies who were brewing up while in full camoflage. It takes some skill to find the one open flame in 40 square miles of forest. As Culbin settled into darkness , our lights went on and we swooped down the rest of the hill and off into the mysterious forest with only the screaming of thousands of geese for company. We reached the cars wanting more of this wonderful place.


Night terrors

Spring's frigid easterly winds continue but gave us a fine evening for a 10 mile walk up to the Orrin dam. This is a strange stretch of country - wild yet partially industrialised with the tarmac road giving rapid access into the lower reaches of the wilds of Ross. Walking up to the dam gave the feeling of entering a different country where the wildness grew with each step. Strange and empty under a bright moon. We puzzled over a light circling, disappearing and reappearing in the western sky, strange lights on the dam itself and eery noises and screams in the woods. At the dam the wind cut through all my layers and I shivered all the way back to the car. It may not have been just from the cold.

Doon the water

April brings blizzards with the Clyde coast particularly badly hit. The following week I had a fine run of 7 miles of trails on the island of Bute in spring sunshine with views out to a snow plastered Arran. Despite the sun the wind remained biting and enough snow lay on the trail to require some comedy postholing. Variety is the spice of life - but now can we have some warmth?

Culbin of the sands

Children need routine and my 3 year old boy is no different. It took a fair amount of effort to persuade him that our weekly adventure should go somewhere different to last week’s outing to the treehouses of Abriachan. I used some psychology along with the words ‘woods, beach and fire’ in quick succession and had him hooked and we were off for Culbin forest in the grey morning.

 We bundled into warm clothing and set off along the wide paths towards Tower 99 which was to be the big draw for the day. He made good pace, only halting occasionally to pick up something familiar from previous walks. ‘Old man’s beard!’ he yelled in triumph holding up a branch that was bigger than him festooned with moss. A few wobbly moments followed as he tired and then when I refused to pick up a massive pile of stones ‘for the big tower’ he descended into a wailing cry with some proper tears. I scooped him up while surruptiously dropping the stones and licked the tears from his face..’These ones on the left taste nice but the ones on the right are rubbish.’ It did not work and I left him bawling in a wee sandy hole next to the path. I got myself out of sight , crouched down and and waited and predictably he sprinted up the path and into my arms. Instantly better.

We reached the tower and climbed it nervously. My vertigo reached new heights as I scanned the slatted wood for small boy sized gaps and gripped him tight. He did not seem to like it much either as the wind bit down from the north and we headed down after some lip service to the views out as far as Caithness.

At the base of the tower the year had moved on from winter. The red trunks of the Scots pines  threw out some dappled light and meagre warmth so we huddled close on the bench to drink our flask and eat muffin treasure from the picnic box. His face looked back at me, framed with a flapped hat and lined with tears and chocolate and a challenge in his eye. ‘Are you enjoying this?’ I said fearfully. ‘Yes.’ Time to head to the beach, then.

We wandered off down a steep dune in the firm direction of the sea. He walked for a further half mile before he began to trail behind and held his arms up. By then, the wee legs had done nearly 2 miles and I could not say no so I swung him up on my shoulders and we jogged down to the edge of the water. As we stepped out from the margin of the forest the north wind picked us out. He looked up and said  ’This is a cold place.’ No fooling him today, this emerging outdoorsman. We turned quickly and found a sandy spot in the shelter of the great pines which line the shore. I scooped away the needles to make a fire pit and we construct a small pile of twigs, paper and one hidden firelighter to create the magic in front of his eyes. I thought it best to obey his mum’s instructions and prevent him from seeing the actual act in case he decided to replicate it in the living room so I distracted him with some pine cone gathering as I applied the match. The fire got going quickly and raised  a pall of smoke high in the pines.  I could picture a forestry commission swot team descending on me with beaters so I bottled it and smothered the fire quickly. We tidied the pit, packed and headed back to the car with a satisfying smoky flavour clinging to us.

We sped the journey up with joint Gruffalo recitals and some walks and some carrys get us back to the car with a sense of a day seized and a mission accomplished.   

Culbin’s aura of peace lingered on us for the rest of the day along with a faint, sweet smell of wood smoke.At the tower the seats carry a poem which summed up our day.

Hill 99

I stood one day upon the hill

And felt my shadow wheel full circle

I stood one day upon the hill

And saw the heather turn to purple

I stood one day upon the hill

And smelt the tang of marsh and sea

I stood one day upon the hill

And knew my soul returned to me

I stood one day upon the hill

And heard the coast birds pipe and call

I stood one day upon the hill

And dreamed of sailors in a squall

I stood one day upon the hill

And felt my gritted teeth bite the sand

I stand this day upon the hill

Knowing my heart rooted in this land