After a mild and dank winter I woke up on the first day of meteorological spring to this.
The following is taken from the Swedish Environmental Protection Agency Website:
The mountain landscape of Sarek National Park is the most dramatic in Sweden, and the least affected by human activity. There are jagged mountain peaks, immense glaciers, deep valleys and turbulent river rapids. Nowhere else in Europe is there such a vast expanse of monumental, uninterrupted wilderness.
Sarek is strikingly alpine for Sweden with magnificent mountain ranges and narrow valleys, glaciers and wild rapids. It is a splendid piece of unspoiled wilderness. The park contains over 200 mountains over 1,800 metres. Six of Sweden’s 13 highest mountains are found here, as are about 100 glaciers.
Sarek is not recommended for beginners. Those wishing to visit the park must have considerable alpine experience and the correct equipment and should be used to spending time outdoors. Sarek is an extremely inaccessible wilderness with no facilities whatsoever for tourists. Here, you are on your own.
Well if that does not excite a backpacker then nothing will!
In August 2012 I hiked the northern most section of the famous Kungsleden Trail. After a walking for a couple of days I got a bit fed up with the crowds and took a side trail. The following three days blew me away. The scenery was spectacular and the feeling of remoteness was tangible. I wrote about that section here. Since then I have been keen to return to Arctic Sweden and Sarek looks like an area that will not disappoint.
I have been super efficient and have already booked my flights in and out of the country, keen to get the cheapest deals. The train tickets for the sleeper train have not yet been released, so that is something that I will have to organise nearer the time. Between the long journey there and back I will have ten full days in the wilderness. This will hopefully be enough to explore the National Parks wildest and remotest reaches. It will take a day or two of hiking through adjacent national parks just to reach the border of Sarek.
The last week of August and the first week of September will hopefully give me Autumn colours and lack the scourge of the mosquito. I’m also hoping that winter does not come early!
With a map now in my possession it is time to plan a suitable route. Unfortunately there are no guidebooks written in English to refer to. Recently after a Twitter request a fellow blogger wrote ‘Hiking Sarek (an Englishman’s guide)‘ which has been of great help. Mark the author has been great at answering various questions I have fired his way.
I’ll do another post once my route has been planned. In the meantime I will be exploring the following 1:100,000 map.
It can’t always be freezing mountains and boggy moors. Sometimes you have to kick back and relax whilst feeling the sun on exposed flesh. We got back yesterday from two weeks in Goa, vitamin D levels suitably topped up to keep us going until summer.
A few photos and words:
Colva beach is a popular spot for Indian tourists, the local cows also appear to enjoy it.
Betalbatim beach was the nearest stretch of sand to our hotel, nice and quite on week days.
You can’t go to Goa and not take several hundred sunset photos.
Farmland between the beach and our hotel, teaming with brightly coloured birds.
We decided that we should give this place a miss……………..
If you look towards the sky anywhere along the coast of Goa you are guaranteed to see a raptor circling overhead.
We splashed out and spent twenty four hours at an exclusive tented resort on Cola beach. An amazing place.
Rice paddy fields just behind the beach.
These guys spent ages first blessing their boat and then hauling it down to the breakers. For some reason they then changed their minds and hauled it back up again.
The beaches are full of dogs, you are guaranteed to have one sleeping under your sun lounger or giving you a hungry look whilst you are eating. I wanted to take them all home.
The tents at Cola beach. Camping does not get any more luxurious than this!
Whilst taking photographs it is easy to make an area appear to be some sort of paradise. Goa is very beautiful but it is also covered in rubbish. With the exception of the areas in front of the beach shacks, garbage pretty much covers every public space. I have to admit that it really began to piss me off……………
By the fourth day the only people who I had seen were a couple on a quad bike. The mind starts playing games under these circumstances and I began to wonder if the apocalypse had finally arrived.
If your idea of a tough backpack involves the manicured paths of the Lake District with its attendant hoards, I advise that you leave this part of Mid-Wales well alone. However if you regularly backpack with a snorkel and flippers and have the resolve to be truly alone, pop on down to these lonely moors. To ensure that they are at their wettest come in winter when the days are also at their shortest. You can be as miserable as you want and no one will know.
Day 1 – 10 kilometres with 330 metres ascent
The car park below the Claerwen dam size wise would not look out of place outside Sheffield’s Meadowhall. There was only one other car there when I arrived. Even on the hottest bank holiday weekend I can’t imagine it ever getting busy enough to fill up.
With myself and Reuben sporting packs with enough food and clothing for four days we set off up the bridleway alongside the Afon Arban.
There is nothing more irritating than within minutes of setting off you find yourself arse down on soggy ground. A wet boulder and my boots provided zero friction. Therefore my feet shot off from under me like a cartoon character slipping on a banana. Reuben paid no attention to my sorry state as he was too busy eating sheep poo.
The bridleway up the Afon Arban soon becomes little more than the fantasy of the map makers. However by contouring along the hillside a series of sheep trods led easily up the valley, avoiding the worst of the bog and tussocks. Towards the headwaters a well-defined quad bike track led the way across a reasonably well-drained ridge. We arrived at the edge of the forest with minimum fuss. I was feeling rather pleased with myself with how we had so far managed to avoid being swallowed whole by a man eating bog.
At the point where the bridleway meets the forest on the map there is simply a fence topped by barbed wire. Thankfully I had done a bit of research before setting off on Geograph and discovered that there was a gate a few hundred metres to the north. This led to a boggy ride through the forest, no sign of a bridleway at all on the ground. I was glad when we finally reached the security of a forest track which we followed south for a couple of kilometres.
The marked bridleway to the bothy also did not exist on the ground. I had been here before and found the hidden path that descends to the river though the trees. It was eerie in their confines with mist drifting though the branches, the air becoming colder as we descended.
I had the usual sense of trepidation as we approached the bothy. Who would be there and what would they be like? However as we got closer to the building it became evident that no one was in residence.
This is probably the remotest and certainly the most difficult of all the Welsh bothies to reach on foot. A quick read through the bothy book confirmed that although well used it is not visited by the bothy vandals or party goers. There had been no entries in the book so far this year, almost three weeks.
I sorted my gear, fetched water and then spent a couple of hours sawing rather wet wood. Thankfully I had brought in some kindling and fire lighters with me. Therefore with darkness falling a fire was soon blazing within the stove. With boots already saturated I was very glad I had brought along a pair of down slippers. Bothy luxury. At one point the fire was so hot that the temperature in the room raised from 5C to 7C, so tropical that I could barely see my breath anymore!
I had a moment of alarm at around 9.00pm when whilst popping out for the loo I spotted headlights coming up the valley. There is a knackered Byeway open to all traffic that runs quite close to the bothy. Along it I could see three 4X4′s slowly moving. I therefore feared that I was just about to be invaded by a large group. Thankfully they soon disappeared and I spent a long but uneventful night with just the dog for company.
Day 2 – 13 kilometres with 400 metres ascent
Rain had come by the early hours as promised and it looked totally miserable outside. I knew the weather was going to be less than favourable so had planned the first full day of the backpack to be short. Therefore I lounged in my sleeping bag until about 9.00am, none to eager to get up in the cold damp bothy.
A couple of hours was spent drinking loads of coffee and sawing some wood for the next visitors. At around 11.00am I decided that if I put off the inevitable any longer I could end up finishing the day in the dark.
It was a steep climb behind the bothy to the forestry track above. This I followed before picking up the Byeway open to all traffic. This is a bit of a waterlogged mud fest. The main problem was the several fords that have to be crossed. Although only knee-deep it meant that my boots were soon full of cold water, there was no way I was going to take them off every five minutes. Reuben had to be carried across the larger ones.
It was on this track that I saw the only people before close to the end of the fourth day. Two quad bikers working their way across one of the fords. The track got a bit too much hard work for me in the end, a parallel forestry track a more attractive option.
I had planned to take a bridleway through the forest and across the moors. However at that spot on the map I was greeted with a dense barrier of newly planted spruce. I backtracked a few hundred metres to a gate I had spotted, before an easy climb to the summit cairn of Pen-y-bwlch. It was a grey and wild panorama that greeted us along with a face full of wind.
We arrived at the abandoned farm and shearing sheds of Garreglwyd just as a violent squall swept down from the moors. Shelter was taken in a barn whilst rain battered the rusty tin roof.
The traverse of Dibyn Du was less than pleasant in the rain and I was glad to finally reach the security of the track along Llyn Egnant. The bothy was reached during the last of the grey light. Once again it was dark and deserted inside, surprising in such an accessible bothy on a Saturday. There are no trees in the vicinity and the woodshed was empty, a great disappointment as I dripped into the main room. My rucksack when taken off soon sat within a widening pool of water. Paramo is often given a bad press with regards to its waterproofness but I am glad to say I was totally dry under my Cascada. On the other hand my eVent clad legs were soaked.
The downstairs was cold and uninviting without a fire, so we quickly retired to one of the wood panelled bedrooms upstairs. With candles burning and dinner on it felt reasonable cosy (although it was only 4C up there). However I do wish that I had not read someones ghostly experiences in the bothy book. Thankfully the ‘Beware of the ghost’ graffiti on the stairs had been removed since my last visit!
I can report that nothing went bump in the night.
Day 3 – 16 kilometres with 320 metres ascent
The world was transformed the following morning, sunny skies and a slight touch of frost. It is much easier to get up, packed and going when the weather is fine. I enjoyed a couple of cups of coffee in the sun outside the bothy before setting off. It really is a lovely little building in a fine setting.
I’m glad that the weather had turned for the best as the plan for the day was a long high level tramp across the moors. The minor road gradually transforms itself into a track that deteriorates the further you go. I wanted to walk the full length of the Monk’s Trod which on my map starts in the middle of nowhere on the banks of the River Claerwen. A marked track on the map cuts a corner between the Claerddu and the Claerwen rivers before unceremoniously dumping you right in the middle of a bog. A word of warning about the Elan bogs. They are among the few that I actually consider to be dangerous. Take your time, carry walking poles and check the ground in front of you if it looks dodgy. Either that or take a dog and let him go first.
Bog safely crossed and the next major obstacle was the Afon Claerwen itself. This is a pretty big river and it has been raining for what feels like months. Due to the crossing of the bog my boots were already full of water so there was no point in removing them to keep my feet dry. I just picked a spot and waded, using poles for balance. The water was cold, especially as it splashed over my knees, soaking my trousers from just below the line of my undies. I was pleased that I got to the other side without mishap.
Reuben decided that he did not want to follow. Instead he made unhappy dog noises and ran up and down the river bank. In the end I had to cross back and then make a third crossing with 23kg of unhappy Staffy in my arms. A very wet backpacker then found a rock to sit on for half an hour to steam in the sun.
I crossed this very spot one April, sitting down to put my boots back on. I looked up to see three red kites circling overhead. As I looked down a large otter popped out of the water a couple of feet away and ran into the nearby rushes. Possibly the best wildlife encounter of my life (with the exception of seeing a rhino whilst going out for a bike ride in Nepal).
Crossing the Monk’s Trod was much more pleasant than it was all those years ago. Vehicles have since been banned and it appears that people have been respecting that ban. I remember a horrid boggy struggle for a few miles. There were still a few unpleasant stretches but in the whole the going was easy, giving the opportunity to enjoy the views along the way.
As the track dropped from the moors and crossed pastures the low winter sun lit up the surrounding hills. A fantastic moment and well worth the unpleasant rainy slog the day before.
I could make out my bothy accommodation on the other side of the reservoir, close in distance but still a long distance on foot.
An hour later and it was nearly dark when I arrived at the door. For the third night in a row I entered an empty bothy. This one had been recently re-built which meant that there was plenty of off-cuts of wood to fire up the large stove. A really enjoyable evening was spent with Reuben on a newly built bench, the fire warming our bodies. Reuben was much happier than he appears in this photo, honest!
Day 4 – 14 kilometres with 450 metres ascent
There was a weird moment in the middle of the night when I woke with a start thinking that someone was banging loudly on the door. No one was and I think (or hope) that it was the remnants of a dream.
Reuben was very happy that morning as I discovered the ball I had carried for him in the bottom of my pack, perfect for a game of bothy fetch.
There was not a breath of wind that morning, the reservoir without a single ripple to disturb its surface. Rare calm after a tempestuous few weeks. A superb location for a bothy.
Our route along the reservoir was trackless, thankfully on a steep slope of cropped grass rather than through bog and tussocks. I stopped many times to watch the reflections of the sky on the surface of the water.
All of the dams in the valley were overflowing, huge man-made waterfalls with a powerful roar. A magnificent sight.
I had planned to cross the moors on a direct route back to the car. However I was feeling a bit lazy that morning. Instead I went for a slightly longer but much easier day. The disused railway bed provided swift and pleasant walking down the valley.
Whilst stopping for a snack break the clouds that had been increasing all morning finally deposited a steady rain. Reuben hid under the bench and gave me a look that suggested that it was all my fault.
A final climb up through the forest and past a collection of telecoms related paraphernalia brought me back to the car. The sun even came back to pay a visit before I drove home.
The Mountain Bothies Association (MBA) is a fine organisation. I have purposely not mentioned the names of where I stayed, or where they are located. My usual route maps are also missing. Planning a bothy adventure? Consider joining the MBA and check out their website here.
Before setting off I had read of a special little campsite hidden away on the Ross of Mull. With its twisty single track roads Mull feels surprisingly large. It took a while to navigate the Bongo to the west. This was in part due to the stunning scenery around every bend, along with the fact that a low winter sun had made an appearance. You may have heard about the quality of the light in the Hebrides, it really is something that you have to experience yourself.
Our destination was the small and perfectly formed Uisken beach and possibly one of the finest located campsites you could hope for. Basically it is a stretch of close-cropped grass right next to the beach. With high tide the beach disappears and the sea is lapping literally a few metres from your pitch. A sign simply requests that you seek permission from the croft before pitching (I think that they ask for £2 per unit). This I duly attempted to do but no one was home.
Being the day before Hogmanay I was of course the only one there. With no facilities at all (i.e. toilets or running water) the Bongo with an emergency portaloo was the perfect accommodation.
The rest of the afternoon was spent exploring with Reuben before getting some use out of the camping chair for the only time during the week. I sat wrapped in down and watched the sun set, keeping warm with slugs of single malt until the stars came out. It was soon far too cold, magical surroundings or not and the van beckoned.
Of course dawn brought totally different conditions. When I woke the van was once more being lashed by rain and rocked by winds. The area was transformed into somewhere bleak and inhospitable after the benign evening before.
At midday a weather switch was pressed somewhere and the grey clouds lifted and the sun came out. The speed of the change was swift and dramatic. Time to open the door for the first time that day and explore more of our surroundings.
We walked no further than perhaps a couple of miles but I was in no hurry. I just wanted to poke around a few corners and see what was over the headland. Another beach was found, this time uninhabited. Somewhere to sit and eat lunch whilst Reuben tried to destroy strands of seaweed. A lovely area deserving of further exploration, perhaps when the daylight hours can be measured on the fingers of more than one hand.
Back at the van I sat for a while and contemplated what to do next. It was very tempting to stay for another night, however I was keen to see in the first day of the New Year with a hill. I packed up and set off, stopping once again at the croft to pay up. The owner was in this time and refused payment simply on the grounds that I was honest!
An area on a map marked as ‘The Wilderness’ is like a red rag to a bull where I am concerned. I therefore headed towards the National Trust for Scotland’s Burg estate. This was via a shop to pick up some locally brewed ale.
Ardmeanach Peninsular – Beinn na Sreine 521 metres
The small NTS car park is a few hundred metres down a bumpy track after the road ends. Their attitude differs from the organisation south of the border, the car park being free rather than an extortionate £7. The only downside is that it is situated on a hillside so I parked for the night at a rather jaunty angle. I celebrated New Years Eve with a couple of bottles of beer, a slug of whisky and an early night. When the New Year crept in I was fast asleep.
The forecast for the first day of 2014 was for a calm and dry morning before wind and rain swept in once more for the afternoon. I was up and packed before dawn, walking west along the track as the first of the light was cast across Loch Scridain.
I nervously passed through a group of cattle that were hogging the track and scattered through the surrounding woodland. Thankfully they barely batted their long lashed eyelids at either the dog or myself. The climb to the summit of Beinn na Sreine was relatively straightforward. A case of picking a way through various tiers of rock before walking across a wide and stony plateau. Typically the mist came down before we reached the summit, lifting once we were half way down the hill. A shame about the murky conditions as I am sure that the summit view would be superb.
I picked a more direct route back down to the van, the only difficulty being the man eating tussocks on the lower ground.
Typically once back at the van, the clouds lifted off all of the surrounding mountains and it brightened up. The promised rain did not come that afternoon, instead passing through later in the evening. Due to the short daylight hours I did not set off up another hill, instead deciding on doing a bit of sightseeing from the comfort of the Bongo. My destination was to be Calgary bay for the night.
My first stop was to have a peek of the scenery around Gribun, on the northern side of the Peninsular. It was as spectacular as I thought it would be, a place to return to backpack around the wild and uninhabited coast past the farm and Mackinnon’s cave.
It was a long drive to Calgary as I was constantly stopping along Loch Na Keal, which is a wild van camping paradise as I found out one summer a few years ago.
I have to say that I was as disappointed with Calgary bay as on my first visit. Yes it is a perfect crescent of white sand worthy of the tropics. But even on a dull winters day it was crowded, a shock after a few days of almost total solitude on the island. Winter storms have obviously battered the wild camping area, leaving it drowned under rotting seaweed. I returned the way I had come.
The high point of the road provided the perfect place to stop for the night, an exposed spot when the promised storm eventually rattled through after dark.
The storm raged until noon the following day meaning an enforced lie-in (never a bad thing in truth). Reuben was very keen to have a leg stretcher once the sun came out again.
A mobile signal showed that a major storm was coming the following day, bang on when my ferry to the mainland was scheduled. The CalMac app on my phone showed various cancellations would be likely. I therefore decided that I would drive to the terminal that afternoon and try to change my ticket. Once again I found myself stopping often to take in the views and the ever changing light.
CalMac are much more accommodating than the joke that we have for train operating companies. The guy in charge at the ferry terminal simply asked me to wait in a separate queue until everyone had checked in. After space on the boat was confirmed he swapped my ticket valid for the following day for a boarding pass. Simple. Can you imagine a train company doing that if you turned up for a different train from which you had booked?
As is traditional, CalMac fish and chips were enjoyed on the crossing back to the mainland.