GLADMAN

Boxing Day morning under a leaden, South Walian sky, with cloud base low enough to prevent fleeing to the hills, is not the most inspiring of times, it has to be said. Only one thing for it, then.... to paraphrase the lovely Cerys Matthews... ‘Things are strange, I’m starting to worry. This could be a case of going to Sully’. Well, my mum’s always said I’m a bit like Mulder from the X-Files. Not sure if that’s a compliment or not, to be honest.

Sully Island is another of those locations which may well take those unfamiliar with the delights of The Glamorgan coastline by surprise, set as it is between the capital city (to the north) and Barry Island (think Gavin and Stacy, if you must) to the west. With due respect to the locals, I’m sure they’d agree scenic beauty wouldn’t be the first topic of conversation when mentioning the locality... nevertheless it is here. There is also danger for the unwary in the form of one of the highest tidal ranges in Britain (my thanks to the Mam C’s husband – who works nearby – for that nugget of information, duly exposing my general ignorance of local marine matters). To be fair, the prominent signs round about make this crystal clear. People have drowned crossing to Sully Island. Simple as that.

Initially there doesn’t seem any chance of me getting more than a distant view of the ‘promontory’ fort occupying the left hand (eastern) portion of the island, as viewed from the quayside. Yeah, the tide is right in, the island, well.... an island. However the sun pokes from behind the cloud mantle, encouraging me to take a few shots from the beach. Then, wandering down the breakwater – as you do – I have the crazy (and no doubt suicidally dangerous) idea that it might be possible to wade. However, clearly, it would be impossible to venture further without coffee, so a return to the car is required. Several minutes later the decision is academic, a broad causeway of rock now linking island to shore. Jeez. That is fast.

Passing Carl’s skeletal boat, I head eastwards along the island, the far (southern) flank of which is being inexorably smashed to oblivion by the Bristol Channel.... fort ‘n all. Guess the sea wants Sully Island back, then. Coflein reckons there are three cross-ramparts isolating the far eastern section of the island from the hinterland, although I can only positively identify two. These are quite substantial, relatively speaking, although considerably overgrown with brambles – and, sadly, featuring quite a bit of rubbish. The highest point of the enclosure is crowned by what I take to possibly be the remains of a Bronze Age round barrow. Surprisingly, Coflein (very) tentatively agrees. If we are correct, it is a suitable location for VIP burial, with the natural, craggy defences of the fort falling way sharply to the water, the sea views expansive towards Flat Holm etc. Looking to the south along the disintegrating, southern flank the view is more industrial, with Barry’s factory chimneys lying beyond the sound. Yeah, times have changed since people actually occupied this spot. But it still remains an extraordinary place to eat Boxing Day lunch. And that’s a fact. No need to get Mulder and Scully onto Sully to solve that one.

Just make sure you keep one eye permanently upon that crazy tide!

It’s truly sad when unsavoury, extraneous events overshadow a visit to a site. But, hey, these things happen within a flawed society such as ours, do they not? Tell me about it. Quite how we can (rightly) demonise moronic hooligans for rampaging in our city centres when the so called ‘higher echelons’ (ha!) act like mindless, sub-humans... having a jolly good time hunting a creature to its death for FUN ... is beyond me. It really is. Evil is as evil does, Forrest. It therefore makes my skin crawl to have to share the environs of Coedcae Gaer with such fox hunting degenerates this Christmas Eve afternoon.

There are two saving graces, however. Firstly, the fox doubles back away from the pursuing creatures, paradoxically sat astride beautiful mounts, and casts me a glance as he/she tries to save itself, proceeding to lead them a merry dance in the process. Yeah, a flawed, instinctive executioner when loose in the chicken coop – I doubt if many would blame a farmer blasting the fox with his shotgun on sight – but civilised human beings are supposed to know better than to engage in sheer, retributive blood lust, are we not? QED! I give you the fox hunter! And you can keep ‘em the hell away from me upon a public common. Can we stop the cavalry this Christmas? Seems not, my friends. Seems not.

With apologies for the above.... the second saving grace is the unexpected quality of the hillfort of Coedcae Gaer. A little to the north-east of the great urban sprawl that is Bridgend, it’s taken me years to find this, so my thanks to the two TMA’ers to proceed me here. The setting is fine, a typical South Walian coastal juxtaposition of industry and sweeping, green hillside, the latter prevalent to the north where the Nant Ciwc has carved the deep valley of Cwm Rhydymilwyr. Phalanxes of wind turbines dominate the summit of Mynydd Maendy to the north-east, the ridge, according to the map, also boasting a ‘tumulus’. Another, smaller ‘enclosure’ sits above Hoel-y-Cyw some way to the west. Far to the south, the Glamorgan coastline is crowned by a myriad promontory ‘cliff forts’. Clearly there was a lot going on in ancient times...

So much for the location. The earthworks are pretty good, too. No, they’re better than that, the univallate defences rising to an impressive 3m in places, a counterscarp duly emphasising the ditch. Unfortunately a double barbed-wire fence impedes access, and, seeing as the farmer is on site (at least I think it’s the farmer, maybe not), I’m forced to have a conversation. Needless to say he’s not aware this is a ‘hillfort’. But then perhaps that is not so surprising....

I first came to South Weald Camp to see the ramparts adorned with the bluebells of Spring... unfortunately, however, I left knowing that I would have to return at some point in order to settle unfinished business. If you’ve read the miscellaneous post you’ll be aware that this Late Iron Age enclosure has not had an easy ride into the 21st Century. Far from it. Now medieval alterations, I can accept.... but a cricket pitch occupying the eastern half of an Essex plateau fort? Do me a favour. People supposedly intelligent enough to play cricket should really know better, should they not? Having said that, though, this Modern Antiquarian should have had the balls to highlight this discrepancy back in April. But, to my shame, I bottled it and went away with the job half done.

Consequently I engineer the return home this New Year’s Day – following a morning at Old Harlow’s fine round barrow – so as to pass through Brentwood. A little before the town a minor road leaves the A128 to literally bisect South Weald Camp. It is possible to park just south of the enclosure, from whence a rather idiosyncratic stile affords a visit to the western half of the camp. To avail yourself of the eastern half, walk back up the road and make for the cricket club pavilion, G&Ts at the ready. As it happens, today being New Year’s Day and all, there is no one around. So I reckon no-one is therefore going to mind me having a quick look at my local heritage. A metal gate to the south gives access to a muddy track following the outside perimeter of the camp. Although badly damaged, the south-eastern arc of the bank is still pretty substantial... the eastern defences more so, although possible medieval amendments should be bourne in mind, I guess. Only to the north is the bank truly trashed, having the indignity of being sandwiched between practice cricket nets. Howzat? Very nearly ‘out’. But not quite.

It begins to rain... as forecasted.... and then, to all intents and purposes, monsoon. Which I don’t recall being mentioned. But there you are. Nevertheless I can’t leave without another visit to the western half of the camp, if only for the sake of continuity. No bluebells on this occasion, the ramparts rising stark within the landscape, trees offering skeletal profiles in Winter raiment. My dodgy ‘hillfort-allocation’ waterproofs begin to give way under the prolonged onslaught of the rain. But it is of little consequence. I am happy I’ve now seen the whole picture, as it were.

Yeah, poor South Weald Camp may have been dealt a poor hand by fate, but I reckon it’s still well worth an hour or so of anyone’s time.

‘All is quiet on New Year’s Day’... so sang that wee Irish fella, Bono... before he began hanging out with politicians, saving the world and indulging in other such important matters. Not to mention wearing silly specs. But I guess his heart’s in the right place, a bit like the Bronze Age round barrow at Old Harlow, despite a continual cacophony of noise from the nearby kennels rendering the opening line of U2’s seasonal song fanciful, at best.

Last year’s ongoing attempt to discover more of my ancient Essex heritage somehow did not include a visit to Harlow... what with the mighty Wallbury just up the road. So what better time to remedy that omission than on the first day of the new year? As with most Essex monuments, the Old Harrow barrow is tucked away from the gaze of the passing motorist, although whether such seclusion mirrors its erectors’ original intention is perhaps something we will never know. Was there always a screen of foliage adding a veneer of mystery to the site, the lowland equivalent of the mountain top cairn being set back from the skyline? Or were these great earthern barrows meant to act as a beacon, dominating the landscape?

Upon arrival, my first impression is that the mound is a lot more substantial than I anticipated [hopefully the scale image gives a good indication], both in respect of height and area covered. Several trees have made the ancient soil their home, the radiating branches of one such youngster curiously reminding me of a natural representation of Bryn Cader Faner. The summit is covered by bramble, although not to an excessive extent, the western flanks more or less clear, allowing space to sit and take in the surroundings. A large pond – or small lake – to the east adds a water feature, although a ‘work shop’ area of some description to the north might be an issue on other days. The aforementioned hounds eventually shut up, the only disturbance then the occasional, friendly local passing by, together with cars in the middle distance. Beyond, upon waste ground to the south-west(ish), air photography had apparently highlighted what was thought to be the course of a cursus, perhaps the least understood of all monuments. I take a look, but see nothing. Perhaps this is not surprising since Essex HER now reckons the linear crop marks probably represent much more recent ‘tracks’. More’s the pity.....

Access to the Old Harlow Barrow is easy.... once you’ve sorted somewhere to park, that is. From Junction 7 of the M11 take the A414 towards Harlow. At the fourth roundabout (with school to the right) turn right upon the B183 (Gilden Way) and, beyond another roundabout, the site is within trees a little to the right, beside a public footpath. I carried on a little further and parked down the next left, walking back. Note that there is ‘official’ access, so no need to climb any fences. Happy New Year!

Arenig Fach is always going to remain in the shadow of its big sister across Llyn Celyn, the latter attracting far more visitors, assuming my own experiences – not to mention inclusion within numerous guide books – are reasonably representative. Such is life, I guess. We’re never going to overcome the general human tendency to believe that ‘biggest is best’, to take things (and situations) at face value. And, of course, Arenig Fawr is a fine mountain, crowned by the remains of a Bronze Age cairn and dominating the shoreline of the reservoir, whilst the smaller peak is all but invisible to the passing motorist upon the A4212. All I’m saying is that Arenig Fach is very much worth primary focus as well, providing a much more intimate experience, with no reduction in quality of landscape... just on a somewhat smaller scale. To prove the point, take the (very) minor road traversing The Migneint (literally, ‘The Bog’) to descend towards the Machno valley... where the mountain suddenly takes Centre Stage, as if this brutal, hostile – not to mention wet! – landscape and the peak are inextricably linked. From this direction it’s hard to see how any ‘stonehead’ would not want to see the Bronze Age cairn upon THAT?

Suffice to say I have wanted to return ever since a short visit way back in 1995. But then you never seem to get around to things, do you? Carnedd Llewelyn may have usurped perfect conditions for a visit the day before, but for some reason I simply must see Carnedd y Bachgen before I return home. Hell, the weather doesn’t look that bad today. Does it?

It has to be said that, despite rising to the relatively modest height of 2,260ft, Arenig Fach does not tolerate visitors lightly. A-ha! Perhaps that’s why it receives so few, then? The first problem, appropriately enough, occurs right at the start.... where to begin? Unless you are a fan of long distance bog bashing – and fancy following the Afon Serw to approach from the north-west (I’m not) – the only real, practical option that I’m aware of is from the A4212, near the north-western tip of Llyn Celyn. Driving north, I park at the entrance to a concrete track [at approx SH413845] and take a very obscure (unsigned) public footpath opposite a corrugated iron sheepfold, a little north of a prominent waterside boulder, just before power lines cross the road. Advance uphill, with pylons rising above to right and left, cross a lateral footpath and.... basically..... continue roughly uphill to the west, keeping north of Beudy Fron-wen. At (very approximately) SH840413, I chance upon what looks to me a possible trashed, round cairn, or perhaps hut circle? Maybe. Needless to say, what with fence posts piled on top of what looked like the remnants of a cist, the site – if indeed it is a monument – is in a very sorry condition. A small, ruined, drystone structure stands forlornly to my left, a substantial drystone wall impedes progress westwards (there’s a gap a little to the south) towards the ridge of Bryn Du. Skirting the high ground to the right, I eventually arrive at the hidden jewel that is Llyn Arenig Fach, just as the sun breaks through the overcast mantle to flood the landscape with light, drab colours suddenly metamorphosised into hues of indescribable intensity. Worth the effort alone, despite the cloud base which is now swirling across the crest of the majestic cliffline which towers above the lake. This crest must now be attained.

The obvious route is to ascend by a fenceline to the left [although the right hand option is probably easier in retrospect], not as easy as it at first appears, the terrain deep heather, concealing many an ankle twisting undulation. Eventually I reach the top and realise how far conditions have deteriorated, particularly in respect of the wind. Pretty bad. However Carnedd y Bachgen calls and I’ve a fence line as a guide. I follow this to a junction with another, cross over as best I can and head approx westwards to the summit and the Bronze Age cairn. Although clearly heavily robbed – there’s an dry-stone shelter at the actual summit, together with an OS trig point – the monument remains impressive, utilising the form of the crag upon which it stands in the same manner as Foel Grach, and to equally great effect. The interior of the cairn is somewhat camouflaged by moss, but nonetheless appears somewhat hollow, albeit with some substantial stones in situ. Yeah, I’m glad I came. Trouble is, Nature appears progressively peeved by the impertinence of my presence......

Sure, the wind is severe, the lowland drizzle transformed into horizontal, lashing rain. But, hey.... this is Wales. So I’m not expecting to be picked up and dumped unceremoniously on my back as I attempt to venture towards the trig! Point taken, mam. Subsequently I decide the best place to be is on my back within the cairn to see if this front will pass and afford me the views I crave. It doesn’t and I am therefore denied the vistas, too. It’s also somewhat difficult to eat lunch, but I refuse, on point of principle, to use the shelter. Oh no. If you talk the talk, you have to walk the walk. And besides... Carnedd y Bachgen is incredibly, evocatively ethereal today, what with the mist swirling around. Eventually, however, I must begin the descent, shaken and most definitely – definitively, even – stirred. But the waterproofs hold and, after pausing lakeside to reflect upon past times with mum and dad, I reach the car none the worse for wear.

So, yes. Arenig Fach is very much worth the effort. Even in some of the worst conditions Snowdonia can throw at the traveller.... I reckon you can suss why this isolated summit was chosen as ‘somewhere special’. Quite simply, it is.

As alluded to in previous fieldnotes, it is perhaps somewhat ironic that the great, domed summit plateau of Carnedd Llewelyn is not crowned by a monument more ‘worthy’ of the position.... particularly bearing in mind the association with the Princes Llewelyn (never been quite sure which was given the honour, if not both?) and the much more substantial cairn gracing Foel Grach, below to the north. But there you are. The Bronze Age peoples of Snowdonia did behave in strange and wondrous ways, did they not? And, of course, the Carnedd Llewelyn cairn has undoubtedly suffered far more erosion from the boots of walkers than the much more obscurely sited Foel Grach monument, not only surmounting the highest peak of Y Carneddau, but also standing at the ‘crossroads’ of four of the range’s main ridges. Yeah, it was a suitable spot, all right.

I reckon most aficionados of the mountain would agree that the most exciting route to the summit is via Pen Yr Ole Wen, the most taxing probably the very long approach from Bont Newydd to the north. Another possibility, however, is a high level circuit of Cwm Eigiau. I arrived by way of the northern arc of this last option this time around, via a very worthwhile diversion to Foel Grach en-route, descending in more or less the same manner.

Carnedd Llewelyn’s Bronze Age cairn surveys a brutal landscape of rock. Gone are the grassy, whaleback ridges of the northern Carneddau, the main ridge, connecting the sentinel peak to its neighbour, Carnedd Dafydd, narrow and precipitous in comparison, anticipating Tryfan and Y Glyderau across the Ogwen valley. Ha! This truly is a warrior’s grave, a spot suitable for martial heroes hewn out of the metaphorical granite. Hell, for Arthur himself, even. Never mind Llewelyn. All is on a grand scale... save the cairn itself... the towering crags of Ysgolion Duon (’The Black Ladders’) visible across Cwm Llafar to the south west, the be-cairned summit of Carnedd Dafydd rising above; the vistas stretching to all points of the compass, none more so than toward a veritable tsunami of cloud pouring over Tryfan to periodically engulf me, sat upon this stone pile, in clammy, opaque vapour. I feel terribly vulnerable (Carnedd Llewelyn is notoriously difficult to navigate from in mist, so please have your compass bearings to hand), yet paradoxically more alive than I’ve probably ever been, at least in recent memory. The cloud suddenly disperses, as if a drawn up by an unseen, giant hand, leaving a ‘Brocken Spectre’ of myself in the void above Ffynnon Llyffant. It is a special moment. Yeah, clearly it’s not the size, but where you put it that counts. At least in respect of Bronze Age cairns....

Another possible funerary cairn – Tristan’s – (again attributed much folklore) lies below, to the south-east, above the source of the Afon Llugwy. There is a further, more certain example gracing the summit of Pen Llithrig Y Wrach, beyond Pen Yr Helgi Du. These monuments lie upon the second half of the Cwm Eigiau skyline route. However I do not have the stamina today – and probably will never have again – so consequently must return the way I have come. In many respects this is a blessing in disguise since I’m thus able to truly chill out (tell me about it... it’s freezing) upon this fabulous mountain top for an extended period. Nothing to do but simply use my senses. There is an awful lot to perceive, it has to be said. Little details, like the cairn footprint suggesting an orientation toward Carnedd Dafydd... to pondering the biggest questions of all.

According to author Terry Marsh (as related within his guide ‘The Mountains of Wales’) there exists in Los Angeles (of all places) a religious sect which believes that Carnedd Llewelyn is one of nineteen ‘holy mountains’ throughout the world to endow the visitor with ‘cosmic energy’ enabling him/her to give enlightenment and unselfish service to mankind. Hmm. I’ll keep an open mind in that respect.... and would like to find out who they are and on what basis they think that.... but I have to admit a visit to Carnedd Llewelyn is memorable, to say the least. Probably need to work on the altruism, though.

Pumlumon... and the Cwmdeuddwr Hills rising above Elan... may well share the distinction of forming Wales’ true wilderness, Y Rhinogydd that of possessing, arguably, her roughest, most uncompromising terrain... but I reckon Y Carneddau is the premier mountain group in the land, all things considered. Its summits also play host to Wales’ – if not the UK’s (?) – most extremely sited Bronze Age cemetery. It is a potent combination, providing all the more reason for the megalithically-minded traveller to pay a visit, in search of that psychological ‘essence’ which prompted our ancestors to intern their VIP dead in such places. If it is indeed retained somewhere in the modern psyche, where better to unlock the mind?

Perhaps it is no coincidence that, like Pumlumon, Wales’ other – and to my mind finest – great upland Bronze Age cemetery, Y Carneddau does not advertise its attributes to the passer by.... the soaring crags, deep rocky cwms, isolated mountain tarns – even Yr Elen, the crown jewel – are all cradled within, hidden from the prying eyes of the casual tourist. Yeah, one has to actually walk the great whaleback ridges to discover what lies between. Consequently it is the brash Glyderau, the incomparable bravado of Tryfan to the fore, and Snowdon (Itself) which grab the attention and the plaudits, Y Carneddau remaining a mysterious, secret land, an unknown quantity to all but those who don the boots. The ‘lost world’ aura is all too often accentuated by the mist which rolls, unhindered, across the high, domed tops. At times like these it is advisable to keep well away... for route finding becomes a very serious business indeed.

So, what of the ancient cairns which crown a significant number of the Carneddau’s high summits? Arguably the finest, albeit restored following excavation, is that upon Drosgl to the north. However the monument which stands upon the brutal, windswept, 3,196ft summit of Foel Grach is perhaps not only the hardest to reach, but also that which – for me – best embodies the primeval ‘essence’ alluded to earlier, that which maybe invokes the instinctive ‘intuition’ signifying that here is the perfect location to perhaps enter an altered state of consciousness, to use parts of the brain not normally utilised in order to attempt to perceive something out of the ordinary. Whether this is due to shortness of breath, reduced oxygen levels, sheer fatigue, autosuggestion.... wishful thinking, even... I cannot say? What I can say is that these places affect me. Deeply.

Although approaching something like 2m in height, the great Foel Grach cairn does not dominate its surroundings like other such monuments. The scale of the latter is perhaps too great, the eye drawn across the boulder-strewn summit plateau to the striking Yr Elen across Cwm Caseg to the west.... and towards the Menai Straits, sparkling beyond the be-cairned northern ridge of Y Carneddau to the approx north-east. To the east, the cliff line of Craig y Dulyn conceals a pair of reservoirs at its foot, two of the darkest, most secretive pools of water in all Wales, the valley of the Afon Conwy and the Great Orme crowning the skyline. To the north-west there is an uninterrupted view towards an ancient settlement sited below Gryn Wigau.... the former inhabitants perhaps the people who erected this monument.... although, admittedly, there is another such settlement below to the east at Pant-y-Griafolen? Finally, Carnedd Llewleyn, summit peak of Y Carneddau rises to the south bearing the highest surviving monument in Wales. Jeez, this is some spot. If insight can be forthcoming, ‘tis the place alright. Whether the individual can make any sense of what he feels today... is another matter entirely.

Perhaps the most straightforward route to visit the Foel Grach cairn is to start from the small car park north of Llyn Eigiau and follow Cefn Tal-llyn-Eigiau to the col between the peak and Carnedd Llewelyn. A well graded, green track affords a good beginning, the traveller gaining the ridge by way of an obscure path just beyond a ladder stile. Alternatively stick with the green track all the way to Melynllyn, ascending direct to the summit to the right of the lake, although admittedly very steeply. I took the latter option this time, carrying on to Carnedd Llewleyn and returning via Cefn Tal-llyn-Eigiau. It is also possible to descend from Carnedd Llewelyn – incidentally via Tristan’s Cairn – to Pen-yr-Helgi-Du and Pen Llithrig-y-Wrach (the latter also crowned by a Bronze Age cairn), so completing the high level circuit of Cwm Eigiau. However at some 11 miles, this is a serious walk indeed. Check the map... there are other options, too.

There’s an old saying, isn’t there? That first impressions count for everything.... however I’m not so sure. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so hasty in making final judgements, take a moment or two to appreciate what may well not be readily apparent? Consider The Nantlle Ridge... a linear series of grassy summits set to the south-west of – and very much in the shadow of – the Snowdon Massif, rising over 1,000ft above. Hmm, it would appear at first glance that Nature has allocated very much a supporting role to these modest hills. However this is strictly not the case, connoisseurs of the Snowdonian landscape regularly citing The Nantlle Ridge as second only to the (frankly awesome) Crib Goch arete. What’s more, and of great interest to armchair pre-historians and ‘hands on’ stoneheads alike, is the series of Bronze Age cairns located at the ridge’s extremities..... something, of course, that the aforementioned Snowdon no longer possesses. Assuming it ever did, of course. Yeah, let’s hear it for the underdog!

The Nantlle Ridge rises to a respectable – although by no means excessive – 2,408ft at Craig Cwm Silyn, the summit crowned by the remains of one of the Bronze Age cairns alluded to above.... there is another upon Garnedd-Goch to the south-west. Paradoxically, however, it is the lowest summit (Y Garn [’The Cairn’], 2,077ft) at the extreme north-eastern apex which was chosen as the site for two of Central Snowdonia’s most substantial (remaining) funerary cairns. Clearly placement was everything for the locals, the reasons lost in the mists of time, vapours which are not exactly infrequent nowadays in a far more literal sense. Maybe it was a tad warmer then, venturing up into the hills not such an extreme undertaking in those days? Perhaps. One thing is certain, however... Nature sure hasn’t lost its wonder, its ability to take the human psyche to another level. Sheer theatre, created upon the biggest stage of all.

Significantly the true summit of Y Garn (or Carn Mynydd Drws-y-Coed, if you prefer), with exquisite views across Drws-y-Coed to Mynydd Mawr and down to Llyn-y-Dywarchen (the lake incidentally cited in Welsh folklore as once possessing a magical ‘floating island’ – unfortunately the existing island is very much linked to terra-firma)... amongst other sweeping, mesmeric vistas... was, somehow, not deemed suitable, nowadays surmounted by nothing more than a rather small, modern cairn. ‘Jeez.... what did it take to satisfy these people?’, this traveller is probably entitled to ponder as he stands, fair foaming at the mouth at the beauty of this landscape? Clearly there were other, more important criteria to be taken into consideration, the pair of ancient cairns instead situated a little to the south, duly denied the views. But also denying a skyline profile to those down below. Hmm... Perhaps that was the whole point? Bronze Age elitism superseding Neolithic all-inclusion?

So, the overwhelming presence of Yr Wyddfa Fawr (Snowdon) to the the north-east excepted, focus for visitors to the Y Garn cairns – then, as now – is firmly to the south.... The Nantlle Ridge itself. It is more than enough, the jagged crags of Mynydd Drws-y-Coed providing a deceptively difficult passage to the graceful arc and domed summit of Trum-y-Ddysgl rising beyond. Both Bronze Age cairns are large, albeit hollowed out to form the unforgivable – but completely predictable – ‘storm shelter’. But why here? Follow the ridge to the south and I’m pretty sure all will become clear..... it would appear (to me, at least) that they were simply MEANT to be viewed from the castellated rock formations of Mynydd Drws-y-Coed, the latter a natural proto-temple, perhaps? The moment is worth the effort....risk, even... but please take great care, particularly if the rock is wet. Do not underestimate the danger and ensure every footfall is sure. I carry on to Trum-y-Ddysgl for lunch and gaze across to the be-cairned Moel Hebog, Craig Cwm-Silyn and Mynydd Mawr, amongst other great landscape features. As is often the case when upon such terrain, I feel completely humbled, privileged to be here – insignificant even – yet 100ft tall at the same time! Perhaps this is a predictable reaction to what is often felt to be ‘soulless’ modern living? Or perhaps this is the way it always was? The way it was simply meant to be. I decide to return the way I came, retrospective views highlighting an immense wall of grey vapour tracking my progress. The cloud finally engulfs me as I stand upon the ancient cairns once more, a claustrophobic, ethereal world where previously the boundaries stretched to infinity. Well, at least as far as the eye could see. The mind races, but the compass bearing is true and Llyn y Gader emerges reassuringly from the gloom, below to the east.

Y Garn and its cairns are most directly reached by taking the Nantlle road from Rhyd Ddu... park roadside a little before Drws-y-Coed Uchaf farm and take the obvious, signed footpath leading up the mountainside to its left. This is very steep, but without technical difficulty. Persevere and the monuments will eventually be found beyond a transverse drystone wall, crossed by a ladder stile. If you decide to carry onto Trum-y-Ddysgl, there is an option to descend to the south and swing round back to Rhyd Ddu through forestry, via Bwlch-y-Ddwy-elor. Or, of course, if you have a car waiting at the other end, to walk the whole ridge and descend to Cwm Silyn. Needless to say a double traverse is a very serious undertaking and best left to the exceedingly fit, young or mad.

Although by no means an expert in such matters, I’d nonetheless be very surprised if the high level route crossing the main ridge of Y Berwyn at Bwlch Maen Gwynedd hasn’t been in use for millennia... travellers braving such a hostile landscape perhaps reassured by the presence of ancestors interred within numerous round cairns upon the surrounding peaks. Possibly even pausing to give thanks for safe passage at the wondrous Moel ty Uchaf before the final descent to the Dee valley? Or vice versa. Now whether the eastern section of the route was through Cwm Maen Gwynedd itself, or following the crest of the high eastern ridge of Y Berwyn (rising above it to the north) is perhaps a moot point. Needless to say there are many precedents for such high routes which may well have been far more practical back in days of yore.

Mynydd Tawr – the Hill of the Bull – is very nearly the most eastern 2,000ft summit of Y Berwyn (Moel Fferna actually just shades that distinction) and, as such, does not feature on many walking itineraries.... least of all mine for the past 20-odd years. However it has the added attraction (for Stoneheads, that is) of a quite substantial Bronze Age cairn crowning its 2,234ft summit. So guess I had to pay a visit sooner or later.

The ‘phone box at Tyn-y-fford – minus ‘phone, as I recall – to the south of the mountain (at SJ118309 where a car can be carefully parked) is a good starting point for an ascent, locals passing in well used land rovers proving to be a lot more friendly than the dogs in the nearby farm... the latter somewhat noisy blighters, it has to be said. Anyway, follow the dead end road uphill, beyond Maes farm, until a gate gives signed access to a field, forestry visible to the north encompassing the eastern flank of the mountain. The traveller can either follow a byway ascending diagonally to the left, or simply put the head down and climb VERY steeply beside the treeline, directly to the summit. Yeah, brains or brawn. I ‘choose’ brawn’ because I don’t read the map properly. Appropriate, perhaps? Incidentally one is inclined to wonder if the byway may have had an ancient origin?

Nourished by the excellent retrospective views, the summit is attained, the cairn proving to be a slight disappointment in comparison with the Pumlumon monuments visited a few days earlier. At approx 1m in height and containing a large ‘storm shelter’/ sheep shelter / shooting shelter (dunno which, although this is grouse country) the cairn is not the finest of monuments, but nevertheless still covers a fair old area. The views – northwards toward the Clwydian Hills, southwards to the beautiful Tanat valley and the rolling hills of Mid Wales and, in particular, westwards along the twisting ridge beyond Foel Wen and Tomle to the main summits of Y Berwyn – are more than worth the asking price of the ascent in their own right.

I head to the west, then, pausing at the excellent crags of Cerrig Geneugiaid for a while to savour the unbridled wildness of the landscape. Although a fenceline guides the way (handy if caught in mist) the going is tough, thanks to very poor drainage and trademark Berwyn heather. Foel Wen is supposed to possess a ‘mound’ of unknown origin (not sure it now does, to be fair), 2,431ft Tomle a small quartzite summit cairn and at least one, additional ‘mound’. Whether these are clearance or not I guess only excavation may determine. Must admit that the grassed-over example near the quartzite cairn looks too substantial to these eyes, but perhaps that’s wishful thinking in light of the ancient route hypothesis. What is certain, however, is another large, round cairn on the shoulder of Cadair Berwyn beyond the bwlch. Not to mention another crowning Cadair Bronwen to the north-west..... and several more a’top Cadair Berwyn and Moel Sych, the flanks of which dominate the whole western scene. The standing stone marking the path across the bwlch is apparently a boundary stone. But of Bronze Age origin?

So there you are... the walk arguably raises a lot more questions than it provides answers. But it is nonetheless an integral piece of the Bronze Age jigsaw of Y Berwyn. And it’s also bloody enjoyable at whatever cerebral level you care to mention. Late evening sun illuminates the Mynydd Tawr cairn as I squeeze every last moment from time before the final descent. Too late to find a camp-site for the night, I settle for the Arans’ Bwlch y Groes as the night’s stop-over ... with my beady, cormorant eye upon a possible visit to Craig-yr-Aderyn tomorrow.

Carn Fawr represents the last site visit of my day... and, furthermore, could well be the most isolated cairn upon the whole of the Pumlumon massif. You can take it as a given, then, that the vibe and ‘sense of place’ here makes the receptive traveller feel ‘on top of the world’. In a manner of speaking, of course, since this cairn is actually located just below the 2,000ft contour. But truly that is of little relevance here.

According to Coflein [see misc post] there are actually the remains of two further Bronze Age cairns upon this craggy hilltop overlooking Cwm Hengwm, the upper reaches of which are, incidentally, cited by experienced climbing author Dave Ing as the ‘wildest cwm in all Wales’. I have to admit, however, that the potent combination of Carn Fawr’s impressive dimensions and the manner in which it relates to the landscape renders the memory defective in this instance. Yeah, there can be only one. Carn Fawr not only lives up to its prosaic name... ‘Big Cairn’... but additionally has no trouble at all picking the lock of the door to the human psyche labelled ‘folk memory, cairns, pertaining to fascination of’. In short, it just looks ‘right’, you know?

It is therefore sad to relate that Carn Fawr – the large one, that is (the baton is passed to other TMA members to add detail of the others) – has, despite initial appearances, not survived the passage of time as well as its two great neighbours upon Cwmbiga, having a somewhat hollow core. Nonetheless there is a lot of stone within this great stone pile, although, having said that, it is the location which really makes this a ‘must visit’ for the Citizen Cairn’d on walkabout upon Pumlumon. Situated just a little to the north of the source of the Hafren (Severn) and with Carn Hyddgen, rising across Cwm Hengwm, just one of numerous similarly blessed hills nearby, this is a spot to truly lose yourself for a while. Just make sure it’s only in a metaphorical sense, please! Map, compass and the usual kit are, needless to say, essential. But I’ve said it anyway.

If approaching from Carnfachbugeilyn... Carn Fawr is actually visible from the former looking to the approx west. Follow the fence line to the approx south-west before striking off downhill to your right. If you lose sight of the cairn, carry on until the fence line swings sharply to your left (south)... the monument is now below to your right (approx north).

Finally, thanks to Derfel for posting the images which prove local knowledge cannot really be surpassed.

Standing to the approx north west of.... and visible from.... the two great cairns crowning Pumlumon Cwmbiga, the trashed monument of Carnfachbugeilyn [’small cairn of the Bugeilyn’, the lake visible below to the north] is always going to be an anti-climax. Nevertheless a visit is still worthwhile, if only for the superb northward views to Foel Fadian (also bearing a monument – actually monuments... one Bronze Age, the other to the late Wynford Vaughan-Thomas, the celebrated correspondent and walker) and Southern Snowdonia, not to mention the aforementioned Cwmbiga cairns crowning the retrospective horizon like a pair of (more than) ample... well, you know what.

As mentioned, the cairn is seriously disturbed – hey, so would you be if you had been messed around to such an extent – although still retaining a reasonable enough volume of material to be classed ‘relatively substantial’, particularly so if it had been located anywhere else than upon the wondrous Pumlumon. A boundary marker stone stands nearby.

Perhaps the salient point, though, is that the cairn lies on the route from Pumlumon Cwmbiga to the much more impressive Carn Fawr, visible to the approx west..... bonus site, then.

Traditionally one of the ‘Three Mountains of Wales’, it’s fair to say that Pumlumon does not possess the overwhelming physical grandeur of either Cadair Idris or Snowdon, its celebrated companions in the triumvirate. Viewed from the main A44 Aberystwyth road to the south, Pumlumon displays no soaring, razor-sharp aretes, a paucity of naked rock... in fact little architectural splendour to raise the pulse and encourage the punter to don boots. No, Pumlumon’s charms are a lot more subtle, more ethereal, requiring a lot of effort from prospective suitors... like the woman who, despite lacking the classical aesthetic attributes, nonetheless holds the attention of every man in the room.... without them being able to grasp why. I guess it could be described as ‘allure’, this mass of soggy, Mid Walian high ground seemingly exerting a magnetism over humankind – the local Bronze Age inhabitants being the prime example – which transcends the manner in which we view the everyday world. How else would it have managed to be in the ‘top three’, so to speak?

I’m glad to say that there is a pretty obvious, not to say fundamental explanation as to why this should be ... the poor drainage which was so lamented by travellers of yore is paradoxically Pumlumon’s crowning asset, accounting for the massif sourcing no less than THREE major rivers in the Hafren (that is, the Severn), Wye and Rheidol. Incredible. If ever a mountain could be termed ‘Mother of Rivers’, surely Pumlumon has first bagsy? What’s more, in my opinion it should also be acknowledged as Wales’ – if not the UK’s? – greatest upland Bronze Age cemetery, even surpassing Snowdonia’s Y Carneddau. Yeah, virtually every summit is crowned by an ancient cairn, a number of which are very substantial indeed. I know of no other upland area with such a concentration of these monuments within a relatively small locale. [Suffice to say... if there is, lemme at it!]. So... what are the odds that Pumlumon’s two superlative attributes are connected.... and it was selected to be the ritual capital of the ‘Citizens Cairn’d’ because it was viewed as literally representing the very font of life back in the Bronze Age? Doesn’t sound at all far-fetched to me.

‘Pumlumon’ translates as ‘Five Stacks’, presumably a local reference to the five main summits since there are many more than that number of great Bronze Age cairns gracing the main ridge alone. Two of the finest are located at the eastern extremity of the main ridge, upon Pumlumon Cwmbiga. The southern of this pair is clearly the larger [see misc post], although both would appear to have had their upper sections rebuilt in times unknown. I can live with that since, for the most part, structural integrity would appear to have been maintained, the monuments unsullied by the shameful ‘walker’s storm shelter’. I can also live with the two quartzite ‘nipples’ which further enhance the cairns’ representation of what some might see as a pair of breasts when viewed from a distance, this perhaps reinforcing the ‘life-affirming’ symbolism’ inherent in the locale of the rising of the Afon Hafren.

The panorama surveyed by the cairns is expansive to the north, with Cadair Idris and the hills of Southern Snowdonia resplendent in serried rank under a pristine blue sky. The sadly trashed Bronze Age cairn of Carnfachbugeilyn [my next objective] rises to the north-west beyond the remains of another cairn of uncertain origin, whilst to the approx south-west the main Pumlumon ridge leads towards the major summits of the range beyond Blaenhafren, source of the river. Looking to the east, a phalanx of wind turbines crowns a hillside beyond the Hafren Forest, through which I made my approach to this wondrous spot today.

A minor road from Staylittle, a small settlement at the northern tip of Llyn Clywedog, passes a number of ‘tumuli’ – love that word – to pass Cwmbiga farm. Roadside parking is available here, a well-maintained forestry track following the right-hand bank of the Afon Biga into the back of beyond. Eventually, this encounters the headwall of the cwm, veering sharply to the left before a cascading stream. Ascend to the right of the stream as best you can to reach a parallel, higher track. In retrospect, it is advisable to trend right here for a hundred yards or so before continuing on the ascent line... in order to avoid both some very rough terrain resulting from forestry operations and several deep, transverse gulleys. Soon the northernmost Cwmbiga cairn should be visible on the horizon. Persevere and let a fenceline be your final guide....

Don’t forget to pay a visit to Blaenhafren and stand in bemused wonderment at the enormity of what it represents, the twin cairns crowning the eastern skyline as if they just HAD to be there. Choose a fine day – any other kind would be risking literally everything upon a landscape as brutal as Pumlumon – and ponder that a massive suspension bridge or two are needed to span the output of this murky pool when it reaches the Bristol Channel. To be honest my poor brain couldn’t cope with that at the time. Need to get metaphysical and build a cairn or two if I ever return, methinks.

[Update] – if you indeed choose to approach from Cwmbiga farm note that a probable Neolithic long cairn resides within the trees a little to the east.... albeit requiring quite a rough approach beside the Afon Biga.

Y Myndd Du (or The Black Mountain, to use the vernacular... this is South Wales, after all!) is a wonderfully distorted triangle of high ground bordered on the north by the fertile Tywi Valley, to the east by the fledgling Afon Tawe, and falling away to the west in a series of hilltops of ever decreasing height crowned by some impressive Bronze Age cairns. A number of stone circles are to be found sheltering beneath the great northern escarpment, not forgetting Maen Mawr, still guarding its flock overlooking the aforementioned Tawe. Yeah, Pythagoras probably wouldn’t have been best pleased with Y Mynydd Du’s wonky natural geometry. But lovers of wild country infused with enigmatic, tangible remains of past humanity will no doubt possess a different viewpoint.

Hey, hang on though. What of the conveniently forgotten southern flank? Well, aside from the impressive Saith Maen stone row to the south-east, I’ve always adopted the Paul Daniels’ stance... ‘you’ll like it, but not a lot’. However that was before the Sweetcheat posted a miscellaneous item regarding a ‘recently discovered stone circle’ upon Llorfa. Surely not? So... not that I’m overly cynical or anything – perish the thought – I simply had to go and have a look. And? In short, there’s definitely another stone circle to add to the area’s already impressive catalogue. However I would tentatively suggest there may well be a whole lot more, too. A southern companion to the Nant Tarw complex to the north, perhaps?

The approach, as you might expect by the much belated ‘recent’ discovery, is by no means a stroll. The gradient may be easy enough, but the going underfoot is anything but. Just so as you are forewarned regarding footwear, you understand? So, take the ‘Palleg Road’ north out of Gurnos (near Ystradgynlais) and, upon passing the cemetery and obligatory golf course, take the right hand fork to the isolated farm of Pen Yr Hoel. Parking is a problem, as evidenced by the numerous signs... however I chanced across the landowner who was quite happy with my arrangement upon the verge a little before the farm. I’d advise against carrying on down the track across the dodgy cattle grid. Tried this and had to reverse all the way back... not a strong point of the Gladman driving technique.

Public rights of way head north and westwards from the farm... however since it was clear the Gwys Fawr had to be crossed sooner or later, I take the latter and am immediately glad for the Gortex boots. There is no bridge and it was not possible to cross the slippery rocks without going for an unintentional paddle. Once across... shaken, the water a little more ‘stirred’.... the path follows the river’s course north for a while before veering to the north-west. There’s a reason for this, of course, but needless to say I lose the line and finish up to my left thigh in the bog. Nice. However boots and gaiters once again limit the effects to manageable levels, so on we go. Follow the dilapidated drystone wall to the right, past sheepfolds, until the deep gulley carved by the Gwys Fach is attained and easily crossed. Head uphill to the left and the first monument reached is the cairn. Not the best of the genre, granted (not by a long chalk), but not bad for starters. The stone circle lies, unseen, a little way further uphill. The first thing that struck me was that it was so obviously a stone circle, albeit featuring the trademark diminutive orthostats of the South Walian uplands. Hey, even I could see that. Could it have been previously confused with the cairn, then? To be honest you would need to be a bit of a muppet since there is not a hint of cairn material within the circumference that I could see. Coflein agrees, adding that there are ‘at least 16’ earthfast stones in the ring, although to be honest any attempt at arithmetic would be somewhat pedantic... only excavation could answer that, I think. Let’s get Tony Robinson and the gang up here....

The circle is never going to blow away those expecting a profile akin to a Scorhill or the like. This is no Carn Llechart. However, for me, the siting of this monument is way in advance of either. The serrated top of Cribarth rises to the east, guiding the gaze in a wide arc to the left, along the long escarpment of Fan Hir (the long ridge... a-ha!) to the Bronze Age cairn-crowned main summits of Fan Brycheiniog and Picws Du. The landscape possesses none of the ‘softer’ elements of the lower slopes of the Brecon Beacons or The Black Mountains further to the east. No, the vibe is one of austere beauty, devoid of pretension, brutal, even? The vista to the south and the coast is more expansive, with more obvious detail. I prefer the north.....

Venturing a little further up the ridge from the circle, a seemingly natural erratic leads me to what to these eyes looks very much like a stone row. Sceptical, as always, I check out the footings of the stones and conclude that some – in particular the smaller – look very much as if they have been artificially placed upon this hilltop. Wait, there’s more. Beyond, and to the left of this ‘stone row’, lies a large, prostrate slab of stone covering what appears to be a hollow beneath. Again, it looks to me to have been consciously shaped and placed here.... I can’t see any other naturally occurring slabs nearby. Having said that I’m no expert on geology, so these observations are obviously tentative at best. I’ve posted images under the Llorfa cairn site to allow members to comment if they so wish. Better still, go and have a look at first hand: themodernantiquarian.com/site/8146/llorfa.html

I return via the eastern bank of the Gwys Fach, fording the parent water course, appropriately enough, at the ford shown on the map at approx 784138. As earlier in the day, this is by no means easy. But when you’ve a sneaking suspicion there is a lot more to the area than previously thought, it is a small price to pay, is it not? Incidentally there are a couple of additional ‘possible’ ancient cairns nearby. Coflein reckons the southern is probably clearance... however the landscape context, with much surface rock, makes this far from certain in my view.

Many visitors come to this corner of Essex to enjoy the ‘great’ mansion that is Audley End. Hey, even I came here on a coach trip as a kid, although the miniature railway in the grounds made the more lasting impression upon the little philistine mind back then, as far as I can recall.... it’s still there. Little did I know that I’d return – some 30 years later – to see an (arguably) far more interesting edifice crowning high ground to the west.

The first thing to point out is that this substantial hillfort is set within strictly private grounds.... the ‘Strictly Private’ signs fronting the entrance driveway do kind of, er, make that crystal, as we say in these parts. It is also cloaked in a mantle of woodland so nothing is apparent to the passer-by. However the map shows some sort of building located within the enclosure, so I decide to go see whether the occupiers are willing to allow the Essex public access to one of our prehistoric treasures upon request. Is it really so much to ask, and what of the moral duty to celebrate, to share our mutual heritage? As it transpires, no-one is in.... hey ho..... so, having already taken a look at the impressive univallate defences upon the eastern arc on the way in, I return along the arguably more impressive western defences. As mentioned, the crest of the powerful bank is crowned, for the most part, by trees, their spindly roots inter-twinning to create complex structures that might be viewed as somewhat unsettling in any other context, perhaps recalling the imbedded arachnophobia inherent in the majority of our species? Here, however, Nature has created yet another artistic masterpiece contradicting its utilitarian roots, so to speak. Yeah, it looks ‘right’ and the trees are able to cling to life thanks to their own tenacity, not to mention ingenuity. Everyone’s a winner, in fact.

Sunlight plays its part in any visit to an afforested hillfort.... helps to impart a vibe within the human brain which simply does not exist upon an overcast day. Highlight and shadow lends definition to the ancient defences, Ring Hill being no exception. Sadly, however, I am conscious I’m trespassing, having failed to receive permission. A sensitive soul, I guess. However I’ve gained enough insight into this hillfort to ascertain that it is a special place indeed. Hey, spread the word. Note that I’ve placed Essex HER’s summary of the site as a miscellaneous post....

Back at the car I’m given the most ‘evil eye’ by a passing ignoramus in a pick-up truck. He receives the same in return, with interest, and thankfully doesn’t press the matter further. Yeah, this macho bullshit really is so tiresome. Now whether he was connected with Ring Hill or not, I have no idea... but courtesy costs nothing, does it not? So please be aware this is not an easy site to visit access-wise. But I’m very glad I did, and that’s a fact. I would be very interested if any member manages to catch the occupiers at home.

Cholesbury Camp is another fine Buckinghamshire Iron Age enclosure... technically a ‘plateau fort’, as opposed to ‘hillfort’... which has unfortunately been damaged by the building of a malignant church and village hall in the southern quadrant. Happily, however, the malevolent atmosphere I found at the similarly defaced, and not too distant, West Wycombe Hill is absent here. Quite the contrary, the surviving three quarters of the ancient ramparts being a joy to behold this bright morning, sunlight interacting with the fine beech trees to send a myriad shadows snaking across the ditch which separates the mainly bi-vallate defences (there would appear to be an additional bank and ditch to west and south-east, if I not mistaken?).... not to mention everywhere else, for that matter. Nice. Yeah, although the initial south-eastern arc is heavy overgrown with vegetation, the remainder of the enceinte is as aesthetically pleasing to the eye today as perhaps it is possible for any ancient fortification to be? Or to have a right to be.

The constantly changing light, and therefore colour, has my artistic consciousness – such as it is – reeling as I try to capture something of the wonder laid out before me upon the digital SLR for posterity. However as I try to do so, the archetypal ‘Tim, Nice-But-Dim’ – walking with his children, as one does – stops and eyes me curiously. Suspiciously, even... ‘what are you photographing?’ he enquires. To his credit, and before I can deliver a devastatingly acerbic ‘Morrissey-esque’ retort, he answers his own question. ‘Ah, the hillfort. I see. Jolly good’. Lucky he did so, actually, since I doubt if the aforementioned former Smiths front man would have approved of my rather feeble prospective witticism. Such is the positive vibe at Cholesbury today that everything is right with the world for a while. Can’t even think of a sarcastic comment to defend myself with...

The ‘fort is easily located within the environs of the chocolate box village. Simply head for the Village Hall – making sure you keep an eye out for the many cyclists who flock to the area at weekends (or so it would appear) – and advance up the church driveway situated to its left, from where paths access the ramparts. The interior of the enclosure is now the site of equestrian activity. But I can deal with that. Hey, I can deal with any thing at Cholesbury.

Boddington.... the name conjures up a couple of images in the Gladman mind, both rather striking. The gorgeous Melanie Sykes with a (lovely, if somewhat suggestive) mouth full of froth in those TV ads.... and Halton RAF camp, where the Mam C lived for a while in the 80’s with her thankfully long-since-ex-husband (incidentally there is a sign warning motorists of ‘troops and children crossing’. I kid you not). Of the two, the first is perhaps the most relevant to this rather splendid promontory fort, implying that one shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, so to speak.

Approaching Halton upon the B4009, I take the minor road signposted ‘Wendover Woods’. So far, so good. Passing the golf course there is a sign for a ‘pay and display’ car park on the right. Needless to say I neglect to check the map (a disturbingly common occurence when visiting these semi-urban lowland sites – guess I should have learned by now) and consequently decide to park roadside and walk in... don’t get me wrong, I simply hate car parks at ancient sites... destroys the vibe. Anyway, just over a mile later I finally arrive at the gigantic – and overwhelmingly twee – car park, having been passed en-route by a myriad cars and decide... retrospectively... that it would probably have been better to ‘bite the bullet’ and join the procession. Yeah, there’s a cafe, adventure playground, barbecue area... even a free pamphlet – with map – explaining how Boddington Camp has been utilised as a ‘Fitness Trail’. My, I can hardly wait. No, that’s a lie. Let’s get this over with. ASAP.

I head south-west along the promontory and halt in dismay at the sight of a wooden weight lifting contraption beside what appears to be a stretch of Iron Age rampart... Yeah, it’s worse than I feared. Or am I just hopelessly out of touch? Hmm, the thought has occured. I check the map (finally!) and locate the rampart proper to the north-east of the site. It is heavily overgrown with vegetation, but much more substantial than I supposed. I force my way along the summit of the bank, sunlight streaming through the thick overhead canopy, and suddenly the vibe is all encompassing. Boddington Camp is seriously reclaimed by Nature. With a bit of help from the Forestry people, I guess. And that, I think, is what has saved it from it’s banal surroundings, like a Mayan temple isolated within the rain forest...

For me the defining arc of the defences is to the south-west, the inner bank and ditch very pronounced here and (relatively) easy to access. The south and south-eastern flanks are also impressive, albeit overcome with tall – very tall – summer grasses. The odd group of rambling punters wander noisily by, but none seem to give a monkey’s about this Iron Age gem rising aloof and silent above them. Assuming they even know it’s here. The views described in the previous posts are, to all intents and purposes, non existent now due to the foliage. But the sheer scale – the length of the enclosure, the height of the surviving banks – has taken me completely by surprise at Boddington. As they say, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Joggers may ‘jog’ around the perimeter, ‘mountain bikers’ may hurtle past doing their crazy thang and ramblers may simply ramble. But it would appear Boddington Camp itself is left to its own devices. Long may it continue, I say.

Dry Hill? Although I have to confess I don’t have the annual rainfall figures for Surrey to hand – one of my many faults, I’m afraid – it would appear to be somewhat over-optimistic to assign such a name to relatively high ground (hey, any ground, in fact) in England. Unless the title is a reference to an abstinence from alcohol by locals, or a very ironic ‘in joke’ by a droll bureaucrat approving the construction of the reservoir which occupies the north-western corner? No, I didn’t think so either.

There is more to this hilltop than an unusual name, however. Assuming you’ve got a thing for large, tri-vallate Iron Age hillforts, that is. The caveat, needless to say, is that this ancient home, fortress, status symbol, is now engulfed by the almost obligatory tree cover. In addition, just the one bank survives to the approx north out of the three, thanks to agriculture. But that still leaves a overwhelming amount in situ, even after some two millennia. For me, the most impressive section of the defences covers the arc to the north-west/west, the three banks and ditches nice and upstanding here, give or take a covering of fern or two. Or three. As mentioned, the northern circuit is somewhat reduced, numerically speaking, although the surviving inner bank remains pretty substantial. The remainder of the enclosure retains its three lines of defence to varying degrees, ensuring Dry Hill will no doubt satisfy the interested travelling antiquarian. Particularly those of the ‘modern’ variety, I’d have thought? OK, the interior of the enclosure does feature a reservoir, not to mention an OS trig point to mark the 550 ft summit, but so what? The vibe is great. And it doesn’t rain, either.

I approached the site from the south, via the ‘Vanguard Way’. To be honest an OS map would be of benefit to find the relevant starting point since, heading west upon a very minor road from Cowden, I found myself having to check-off the various farm names as I went along in order to locate the ‘V’ junction where it is possible to park a couple of cars upon the grass... within said ‘V’. Head north up the surfaced farm track – personally I wouldn’t drive – passing Woodlands Farm on your right. Then veer left, beyond Beeches Farm, to ascend the hill. The rest is up to you... As for myself, I’m off for a drink. Or two. Hey, make that three, come to think of it.

Like its companion Iron Age enclosure at Holmbury, some three miles to the approx west, Anstiebury is a promontory fort, the landscape falling sharply away to the south rendering additional artifical defences all but superfluous at that point. That, however, may well be the sole similarity..... Anstiebury is thickly cloaked with woodland to the point of ‘Howard Hughes’ style reclusiveness, just the occasional local to be seen exercising his/her dog within its environs, whilst Holmbury is the focus of a multitude of weekend walkers and so-called ‘mountain-bikers’ racing along tracks between its ramparts. Poor Holmbury. In fact there is no public access to Anstiebury, as implied in jimit’s post [by the way, thanks to jimit for the prompt to visit this wonderful site]. However I am emboldened (amongst other things... ahem) by a beautiful smile from a rather attractive local emerging – with pooch – from what Dyer suggests is the enclosure’s original entrance to the approx north-east... that is on to Anstie Lane. Another encounter – with a very polite and friendly youth, restraining a not so friendly, not to mention barking (ha!) Alsatian – would suggest unofficial visits by courteous TMA-ers (is there any other kind?) are tolerated? But don’t hold me to that since, hey, it could have just been the devastating Gladman charm. C’mon, give me a break. It is at least possible. Isn’t it?

Heading anti-clockwise it is immediately apparent that the ‘Howard Hughes’ analogy is perhaps not that far off the mark; the ancient fortress, although severely overgrown, remains substantial and sophisticated within its woodland hideout .... tri-vallate except, as previously noted, to the south, where only the fore-runners of Hardrada’s beserkers would’ve attempted an assault. Yeah, I (foolishly) tested the slope myself... you would have to be a nut. The most pronounced section of the defences is currently at the approx north-west, where the banks are more or less shorn of vegetation, if not tree cover. This happy state of affairs allows the intermittent sunlight to stream through the canopy directly onto the leaf strewn ramparts. The variation of colour upon this ‘canvas’ envokes thoughts/feelings I only wish I was capable of relating with words. I therefore switch to film... sorry, digital image. Perhaps these suggest something, perhaps a hint of some repressed folk memory of life in the ancient, virgin forest which apparently once covered this planet? Legends of Herne, The Green Man and the like. Jeez, I can see where they came from, and that’s a fact.

Dyer reckons that excavation suggests Anstiebury may have been assaulted and destroyed before it was even completed, judging by the discovery of much slingshot and a destroyed inner rampart face. If this is true, the contrast between the catastrophic violence and hatred of that day and today’s peaceful, ethereal vibe is total.

Occupying a promontory a little to the south of Westerham and the 17th Century manor house of Squerryes Court, this hillfort truly was a bugger to see. And then some. But the ubiquitous ‘they’ say that nothing of any worth comes easily, do they not? Incidentally Chartwell, another fine dwelling and home to Winston Churchill for many years, lies about a mile to the approx south-east. I mention this since one of the great man’s many witticisms was apparently ‘Keep Buggering On’ – or ‘KBO’, if you prefer acronyms. Somewhat crude for a great statesman, perhaps, but highly appropriate for any Modern Antiquarian with designs on checking out the ramparts of Squerryes Park in any detail..... for, surely, this hillfort presents the biggest challenge of any Iron Age site I’ve yet visited. Ingleborough? Pah! Nowhere near, my friends.

Like the great Wallbury in deepest Essex, a thick mantle of trees ensure that the whereabouts of Squerryes Park remains incognito to all but the determined with OS map. I suggest heading south from the A25 at Wetherham upon the minor road just west of the aforementioned Squerryes Court, parking a little before the junction with the B269. Take the track approx opposite ‘Mearings’ and head roughly north-east until the route begins to descend to a house. Veer north (to your left) here and make you way uphill through the trees as best you can. The promontory fort is more or less triangular and orientated north/south, with a footpath bisecting it on this axis. From what I could determine the defences are univallate... except to the south where they are re-enforced by an additional bank protecting the easiest approach. There would also appear to be a cross-rampart – whether ancient or not, I couldn’t confirm.... but would say ‘yes’ on appearances – isolating a relatively small area to the south. An earlier enclosure, perhaps, later expanded to the north. Or a later addition delimiting an ‘inner bailey’, so to speak? Dunno.

Ok, but why is a visit here so taxing, so arduous? The infamous rhododendron is the answer to that question, combining with the woodland to construct an almost impenetrable screen across the ramparts. Only upon the south-eastern arc are the Iron Age earthworks accessible without literally forcing a passage through undergrowth. Yeah, this isn’t the Amazon forest. Although it does begin to rain a little. But it might as well be. A machete would be of great benefit, to be honest. Not quite sure how you’d explain possession of such an implement to the police, though. Several times the will begins to falter. However.... ‘KBO’. Yeah, the legacy of WS Churchill must be upheld. It is, even though it takes me some five hours to be satisfied I’ve completed this latest labour of love.

Squerryes Park is not the finest hillfort you will ever visit. No, not by a long chalk. But, as George Michael once sang, ‘it’s the ones that resist that we’d most like to kiss, wouldn’t you say?’ Nature has fully reclaimed this promontory, hill fort ‘n all. And it appears that She doesn’t want to be disturbed without a very good reason. I would strongly suggest you earn the right.

Wallbury? To be honest I don’t know where to begin trying to describe a visit to this frankly overwhelming Iron Age behemoth... an audience made all the more awe inspiring since the mighty bi-vallate ramparts are entirely hidden from the casual glance of passers-by within thick woodland. Not to mention being ‘out of bounds’ to the general public, ‘courtesy’ of the site’s occupation by a private estate, Wallbury Dells. In short, the sheer scale of what is to be found here, in this sleepy corner of Essex, leaves me gobsmacked... and that’s a fact. Yeah, Essex. Who’d have thought we’d possess an Iron Age enclosure to challenge the nation’s best? Oh, sorry. Forgot. We, the people of Essex, don’t even have access to surely the finest example of our ancient heritage .....

For better or worse, I’m no militant activist and have an aversion to blatantly disregarding ‘Private’ signs, such as to be found at the entrance to the modern driveway at Wallbury. Guess it’s how I was brought up. I therefore park near Lock Cottage and make my way northwards along the public towpath beside the River Stort, the water – and accompanying marsh – greatly enhancing the natural defences to the west of the hillfort. Approaching a footbridge a path heads uphill to the right (eastwards), glimpses of rampart materialising through foliage, also to my right. I knock at the door of the adjacent house and receive no answer...damn! Deciding it’d be rude not to have a quick look whilst I’m here, I promptly freak out at the sheer size of the aforementioned bi-vallate ramparts on view. The outer defence is powerful enough, the inner bank towering in excess of 4m, the outer face rising nearly vertical from the ditch bottom.... still, after some two millennia.

Intrigued, I follow the circumference clock-wise, the defences much more heavily overgrown here, passing what Dyer believes to be the original entrance before reaching the modern driveway. I retrace my steps and return to riverside to see if I can find a way through the marsh and vegetation. With the assistance of a fallen tree, I can... just... although the steepness of ascent emphasises what folly an assault from this direction would have represented back ‘then’. The western arc of the enclosure thus has no need of the impressive artifical defences found elsewhere. Nature already had that sussed, me-thinks, subject to a little scarping here and there, no doubt.

So, just the southern arc to have a look at, then. This can currently be accessed from the minor road (Dell Lane) with little difficulty and consists of a continuation of the powerful bi-vallate defences encountered earlier, albeit much overgrown. Sunlight filters through the canopy throwing shadows across the inner ditch, these subsequently convoluted in contact with the soaring, earthern banks of this ancient fortress. The effect is dynamic, hypnotic even, the action of light creating an ethereal parallel world which, for me, provides a most fitting analogy for Wallbury. I step back out into the sunlight and Wallbury is seemingly gone, as if hidden once again behind the mists of time.

In my opinion it deserves to be celebrated, treasured.... not kept locked away from the public gaze like some impressionist masterpiece in the private collection of a disturbed billionnaire. But then perhaps that’s just me?

Heading west through West Wycombe along the A40... doubling as the town’s High Street.... look for Chorley Road (if you fancy an ‘authentic’ climb to the site) or West Wycombe Hill Road (if you prefer to drive to the top) on your right. I choose the former (not because I’m athletic – I’m not any more – but since I haven’t done my research...), parking in the large, free car park beside a garden centre. West Wycombe Hill rises across the road to the north-east, a very steep ascent being required to reach the ramparts of the Iron Age enclosure which still crowns the summit. A large, circular and – to be honest – rather ridiculous mausoleum overlies the site at this point, relegating any appreciation of what once stood here to the realms of guesswork.

Unfortunately there’s more... the eponymous parasitical church which, together with attendant graveyard, occupies the interior of the enclosure. Thankfully, however – unlike a similar arrangement at my local hillfort of Danbury, Essex – the majority of prehistoric defences still remain upon West Wycombe Hill, albeit in an overgrown state, shamefully strewn with trash deposited by its namesake. Yeah, sadly I feel an air of malevolence here, an uneasiness exacerbated by the sound of hymns seeping from the church. These suddenly cease and I am soon confronted by a dodgy looking woman, glancing down at the camera and tripod held in my hand with obvious distaste. Looking up and consequently catching my eye she – wisely, I think, since I’m in no mood for this – decides to remain mute and move on without comment. I’m glad since I have no wish to add to the burden of the bereaved – if indeed she was – within churchyards... but I will defend myself against all dogma if forced to do so by the ignorant.

The canopy of foliage provides a shield (actual and metaphoric) from such incidents. It also cloaks some rather excellent bi-vallate ramparts protecting the western and – in particular – northern arc of the hill fort... much more powerful than I had anticipated and rising to some 3.5m to the north-east, according to Dyer. I sit upon the inner rampart drinking my coffee, amongst the twisted roots of trees clinging to life with an uncanny determination, and I am glad significant physical reminders of our pre-christian heritage remain upon West Wycombe Hill.

I guess it takes a pretty special site to follow such a gem as nearby Torbreck and – arguably – surpass it. There are a myriad factors to be taken into account, of course... all of them subjective. But, for me, Tordarroch not only rises to the challenge, but leaves it trailing in its wake with the arrogance of a megalithic Eric Cantona, so to speak. Yeah, this is one slumbering giant of a monument, if ever there was one. Needless to say, however, I very nearly don’t get an audience..... having not purchased an OS map (and thus relying on a scribbled representation of the immediate locality) I struggle to orientate myself and somehow all but convince myself that Tordarroch and Mains of Gask are actually one and the same! Muppet. Well, there can’t be two monuments that special so near to each other, can there? Er, yes. There can. In Strathnairn.

Look for the signpost to the church (of something or other – sorry I honestly can’t recall) just north of Milton of Farr on the B851. Pass this whitewashed (ha!) building and park near a grey 5-bar gate a little beyond, on the left. To your right will be a red gate (currently featuring a ‘bull in field’ sign) with a pylon visible in the field beyond. Go through this red gate and, hugging the right hand field boundary to avoid any bull-related shite, the monument will soon be yours. It is worth the effort.

At first, however, this traveller is somewhat overwhelmed by the sheer volume of stones – both upright and fallen – to be seen here. What is going on? Burl, naturally, has the answers:-

“Even in ruin, this Clava ring-cairn is impressive. The big stone circle [yeah!] is in fair condition... with seven of perhaps eleven original stones standing... inside is a badly-ruined ring-cairn, a long arc of kerbstones fallen at the south and wide gaps at the east and north....Little remains of the cairn itself.... A large kerbstone, fallen outwards....has over thirty cupmarks on what would have been its inner face...”

So, large stone circle, ring cairn.... and rock art. Is there a reason not to come to Tordarroch? Well, the attitude of the landowner might be considered one for those of a nervous disposition. The monument is badly churned up by cattle, yet he has the temerity to insist visitors do not enter due to ‘lambing’ long since concluded. Short term profit more important than local heritage, perhaps? No, Tordarroch cannot be allowed to drift into obscurity... if only to ensure its survival people need to visit this dishevelled, battered beauty of a clava. Several of the circle stones remind me of Lewissian Gneiss in respect of their grain and texture.... and surely there can be no finer compliment? The kerb is thick set, featuring radial orthostats..... and then there is the fabulous cupmarked slab.

Yeah, I almost missed out on Tordarroch..... sure, that would have saved me yet another soaking. But it would also have cost me much, much more in terms of those intangible ‘things’ I believe we need to ‘top up’ on now and again in order to keep a perspective on life, you know?

Torbreck’s a site that every person with a passion for the heritage of the landscape that we – nowadays, anyway – call ‘Scotland’ will want to visit sooner or later. So it is written, so it must pass.

The inhabitants of the town of Torbreck would appear to be doing their utmost to link up with their neighbours in metropolitan Inverness to the immediate north, judging by the profusion of new housing in the vicinity. This takes me somewhat by surprise following a fortnight or so in a predominately rural environment... and to my mind such a state of affairs is a pity... but I guess people have to live somewhere and we cannot reside in the past with an ever expanding population. Somewhat disorientated, I therefore ask a passing jogger if he knows where the stone circle is... need I relate the answer? The what? So, back to the map it is, then. I guess most visitors will approach from the B862, so, after passing initial woodland (Cullaird Wood), look for a track leaving the road on the right, itself to the right of stables (said buildings currently featuring a large representation of a male appendage... whether equestrian or homo-sapien, I couldn’t say), just past power lines. Anyway, follow the track beyond buildings towards a further treeline and the stone circle will be readily apparent, set beside a timber yard away to the left as you approach.

I’m reminded in no small measure of the wonderful South Ythsie (Aberdeenshire), set upon a small mound within a field under crop. OK, perhaps the setting is not as fine as that beauty, but the Torbreck monument is arguably an even more exquisite example of a stone circle... yeah, I don’t think there can be any credible doubt regarding classification. Burl reckons the nine substantial uprights – the tallest rising a few inches above the mightily impressed traveller – form a stone circle ‘with clava affinities’. Aubrey makes this sound a bit like some pervy affliction, but hey, I like to think I’m open minded. The local collie comes to check me out and – perhaps – to make sure I’m not up to any ‘clava related debauchery’. Apparently not, since the dog appeared quite satisfied to hang out with me at this excellent artificial amphitheatre of ancient stones. The wind is up, the clouds consequently race across the heavens. Yeah, I guess there are worse pastimes than watching their inexorable passage within the exquisite sculpture that is Torbreck stone circle.

To experience dawn upon ‘The Mound’, looking north-west towards the wildlife haven of Strath Fleet, is to invoke perhaps as many variations of emotion as there are of light playing upon the sunlit water. Not surprising, perhaps, since this section of the Dornoch Firth coastline is exquisitely beautiful, not to mention graced by an obscure stone circle (Aberscross) set upon high ground the approx north. I’m heading down the Great Glen today, that great rift in the landscape which damn well nearly splits Scotland in two. But not just yet.... for some undetermined reason Strath Fleet calls me. I check the map. Ah, Achany. Well, whilst I’m in the area it’d be rude not to, I guess. The call is unspoken, never unheard.

The traveller heading westwards down Strath Fleet will eventually arrive at the ‘crossroads’ of Lairg at the southern tip of the mighty Loch Shin... the town overlooked by a fine passage grave – and a not so fine companion remnant – set high upon The Ord. Achany is much more shy and retiring than that, located beside the loch’s outflow, The River Shin, near its confluence with the Grudie Burn.... a little to the south within Achany Glen. A chambered cairn of the ‘Orkney-Cromarty’ type with a roofless, yet still pretty substantial rectangular chamber, the monument is, to my mind, perfectly located in a field alongside the quiet B864. Quiet? Yeah, Achany’s a place for those who simply want to relax and think of.... well.... guess that’s up to you. An inspirational place to inspire great thoughts? Or simply somewhere to chill out, to re-boot psyches fried by exposure to too much meaningless ‘information’ in a society that seemingly values blaggers above all else?

Having said that, it’s also a pretty fine monument, too. The cairn is substantial, albeit robbed somewhat to expose the chamber orthostats, with remains of a facade to the NNE. Yeah, I reckon so. However it’s the chambered cairn’s relationship to the landscape which, for me, is the defining attribute of Achany. It just seems ‘right’, you know? Belongs here, blends in. As you would expect in The Highlands, the flora plays its part in the overall scheme of things, too, blue bells matching the hue of a vibrant sky playing ‘tag’ with fast moving downpours.

Access is easy. If coming from Lairg, park in the entrance to forestry track ‘Grudie 42’ just before a solid, single arch stone bridge over the aforementioned Grudie Burn. The monument lies in the field beyond the bridge to the left... metal gate tied shut, or another, open, a little further down the road. Nice.

Yeah, as Greywether succinctly relates, this chambered cairn won’t blow the visitor away. Not set before the eponymous farm, an (thankfully) unseen dog howling away within said buiildings... and in close proximity to the wondrous Boath Short. Not to mention Long.

Nevertheless well worth a quick look – despite the pouring rain – since there’s clearly the remains of a chamber set upon a pretty extensive cairn here. A companion to the aforementioned Boath short cairn, in fact. According to Canmore:

‘A possibly short horned cairn with a polygonal chamber..... The cairn material has been largely removed so that a depth of only 2 or 3 feet remains....with a diameter of about 60 ft... There are various large boulders lying about the site but they do not seem to form part of the structure...In the centre there are a number of split slabs which have formed the main stones of a chamber entered from the E.... A S Henshall 1963; A A Woodham 1956’.

So there you are. It would be rude not to drop in when visiting the more impressive monuments across the road, wouldn’t it? Not when access is so easy.... and the rain has already done its worst.

So, how does one follow a morning visit to the Morangie Forest’s wonderful Carn Liath long cairn, then? Not a problem in Easter Ross... even for a Sassenach fresh out of IrnBru. Simply take your pick of some beauties.... such as the Boath cairns, perhaps?

Take the appropriately signposted ‘Boath’ road from the B9176, which heads north from the A9 coastal road near Alness. Ignore the car park for the Cnoc Fyrish monument (unless you happen to want to visit a folly apparently resembling the Gate of Negapatam in Madras, built as ‘poor relief’ for people cleared off the land by the same landowner to make way for sheep???) and carry on down/up the road until the two chambered cairns appear in a field to your right. There is, according to the map, an ‘official’ car park at the road’s terminus... however – being contrary – I parked carefully opposite the entrance to Balnagrotchen Farm. Having said that, a local soon arrived on the scene and sat upon the fence looking at me (think of Tom in Father Ted). Having left my banjo at home, I was somewhat relieved when a JCB transporter turned up and deposited every little boy’s dream, the charge duly trundling off towards the skyline wind farm upon Cnoc Gille Mo Bhrianaig.

Access to the two Boath chambered cairns is easy, although taking the direct line from the stile could end in wet feet, assuming an absence of Gortex-lined boots... better, perhaps, to take the gate to the left and approach that way? Anyway, the long cairn is the first encountered... and to be honest isn’t the finest around, with one (or two?) slabs to the east suggesting the remnants of a chamber. According to Canmore:-

‘Said to have been intact until about 1820, the cairn has been greatly robbed, and its outline is very indefinite... the remains suggest... a single long cairn about 200 ft. long (excluding the horns).... W L W Brown 1910; A A Woodham 1956; A S Henshall 1963.‘

The short cairn, a little way to the north-east, is a very different proposition, however. A large, upstanding, roughly circular cairn conceals a polygonal chamber which it is still possible to enter.... albeit through the mostly missing roof. Right on! Sadly the entrance passageway has collapsed and is not now visible from without. Nevertheless several capstones remain in situ and, despite not being the easiest monument to enter (as G says, no ladder) – and despite the torrential downpour – I was intrigued and deeply moved by this site (the OS 6” records ‘stone cist containing human bones found here AD 1863’). Removing a rusty iron bar from a recess was a small price to pay for entry. It was the least I could do. Although beginning to fail through (extreme) age, the interior stonework remains impressive, the flora even more so in its simplistic beauty... like a beautiful woman who knows she doesn’t have to strain for effect. Yeah, the rain hammers down, but it matters not. The vibe here has already penetrated deep within.........

Having spent a good portion of the previous day completely – and I mean completely – lost within Speyside forestry whilst attempting to locate the Granish clava, perhaps undertaking another, more substantial forestry trek wasn’t the most inviting prospect in the world. But then it is said that you need to get straight back on the horse after a fall.... or else you might never ride again. So, armed with a brand new 1:25K OS map, eyes focussed upon every twist and turn of the track represented upon it, off we go. Into the trees. Yeah, The Cure’s ‘A Forest’ isn’t exactly the most helpful song to have upon the brain at such a time... but I guess it’s appropriate.

In retrospect the walk is not as difficult as I fear. From the large car park at Glen Aldie, a little south-west of Tain, a waymarked ‘Burnside walk’ (blue colour-coded posts) will get the traveller as far as a footbridge beside a ford, a little downstream from a small weir. Cross this (the bridge, that is.. assuming you don’t want wet feet) and follow a dry stone wall for a short distance before veering right, then left, to gain a main forestry track heading approx north. Take the next left, then fork right and, ignoring any turnoffs, keep heading west towards (eventually) a deep gulley cradling the Allt Clachach, the route marked by occasional ‘green-coded’ posts. Nearing this – note a post bearing a green cycle motif – a green track (lots of green in these woods, as you might expect) veers steeply downhill, curving around to the left (east). Passing a couple of drystone enclosures on the right, advance uphill to your left and – hopefully – the long cairn, set within its forest clearing, will be all yours. And time will stand still. Or at least seem to.

Now I’ve been wanting to come to this obscure spot, deep within Morangie Forest, ever since seeing Strathspey’s images last October. It just looked ‘right’, you know? Perhaps the most surprising aspect is the steep angle of the hillside upon which the long cairn is located in an approx north-west/south-east alignment... no doubt this accounts for the somewhat unstable nature of the fabric compared to other such monuments. However, despite numerous indentations – and the traces of a building noted by Strathspey – the long cairn appears more or less intact. Canmore gives current dimensions as: ‘35.0m long, 14.0m wide at the NE end and 8.0m wide at the SW end... (with a).. maximum height of 2.0m near the NE end’.

With no trace of chambers/original internal features, there is not much more to add in terms of physical description. The vibe, however, has to be experienced first hand to be believed. With only a small section of hillside across the valley rising clear of forestry, views are very limited, the atmosphere that of a ‘lost world’, a ‘secret garden’ filled with bird song. Not exactly ‘silence’, then, the feeling that of stumbling upon a private act of the natural world humans once understood – and interacted with, connected with – but now, sadly, no longer do. Or even know how to?

Yeah, despite the threatened rain finally arriving at approx 2.30, I’m glad I came and penetrated the fastness of the forest shrouding this monument from casual onlookers. As Vinny Jones once said, ‘It has been emotional, Carn Liath’. Well, perhaps not the last bit.

The substantial Granish lies a little under a mile to the south of the wondrous Avielochan clava cairn; as such it ‘should’ be a relatively easy matter to combine a visit to both these fine monuments. I say ‘should’ because I unfortunately made a complete and utter hash of my – albeit ultimately successful – attempt. Jeez, what a muppet! Give me an open hillside and compass and I’ll (more often than not) find the proverbial needle.... however add forestry tracks to the equation and I usually end up just ‘getting’ the needle. However it doesn’t have to be that way... it really is quite simples, in fact. If you pay attention, that is. Stop talking at the back, Gladman.

From Avielochan... cross the railway bridge and follow the path to the right, passing Recharr farm before proceeding through a gate – again, to the right – labelled ‘Speyside Way’. Now this is the crucial part, assuming you wish to avoid wandering around for a couple of extra miles in the pouring rain upon the aforementioned Speyside Way. Nice as it is, not the place to be when totally lost and unable to fix your position. Therefore take the next (unsignposted) right, marked with a post bearing an acorn image, and ignore all subsequent deviations. This will eventually lead you to Loch nan Carraigean, where you will locate the monument overlooking its far (southern) shore. Hey, even I did in the end, so my thanks to the unnamed Scot who, albeit inadvertently, was responsible for me stumbling upon a signpost marked ‘Loch nan Carraigean 1.5 miles’. It’s only funny in retrospect, believe me.

So was it worth it? Well, as Meg Ryan (I think) exclaims in that dodgy 80’s film... “Yes!, Yes!, Yes!” Only difference is I’m not faking it. Yeah, despite the driving rain, despite the remaining couple of large circle stones of this Clava ring cairn lying prostrate upon the ground... and despite the debris from ‘happy campers’ littering the environs... this site is awesome. No, really. It is. Canmore (Henshall 1963) reckons the cairn is 56ft in diameter, and it’s clearly pretty well preserved, too. This is big by any standards. Add perhaps the most substantial retaining kerb – upon the southern arc, anyway – I’ve seen this side of Beltany and the conditions are more or less immaterial. Apart from forcing me to put away the DSLR and grab a few images on me Dad’s compact, that is.

The cairn is topped by a ‘double-trunked’ tree. Which seems appropriate, somehow. Everything is substantial about this ring cairn. Even the weather. Not to mention the walk to get here. But it doesn’t have to be like that..... if you can read a map!

Loved it here... such an unassuming monument, yet nonetheless utterly beguiling, set upon a natural, grassy knoll beneath a canopy of trees, the latter helping to diffuse the trademark Cairngorm downpour. However, unlike that much more (in)famous grassy knoll far to the west, there is no conspiracy here. Just an overwhelming aura of peace, quiet, calm..... which is pretty unexpected, considering the site is within sight of the busy A95 and the parallel A9.

Although there is, sadly, now no sign of a surrounding stone circle, Avielochan is a Clava-style passage grave, retaining a pretty substantial kerb and classic, well defined ‘womb’ chamber within. Nice. Thanks to the landowner – open gate, no barbed-wire fence – I’ve rarely encountered a more welcoming ancient site. The visitor, lying within, feels as safe and secure as.... well, a baby in its mother’s womb. Fancy that? Almost caught myself sucking my thumb, so I did.

The clava cairn name-checks the nearby loch, a fine stretch of water notable for being a favourite with, appropriately enough, water birds. Holiday homes upon the shoreline allow ‘twitchers’ to keep watch without leaving their armchairs. As a result parking is (probably) iffy, assuming the ‘no unauthorised vehicles’ sign at the A95 entrance to the estate is anything to go by. Consequently I would recommend parking in said layby and walking. Upon approaching a footbridge over a railway line (after walking alongside the northern shore line of the loch) look for what appears to be a long barrow within the field to your left, tucked up beside the track. It’s not, of course, but none the worse for that. According to Canmore records (A S Henshall 1963; C G Cash 1910) there was ‘another smaller and much robbed cairn about 36ft to the SW on an extension of the knoll; about 24ft in diameter with a few low kerbstones projecting through the roof’. Unfortunately I wasn’t aware of this addition at the time....

Note that there are the remains of a hillfort upon Tor Beag, a rocky promontory rising beyond the aforementioned roads to the approx north-west.

Visiting an ancient site evokes emotions which I find very difficult to put into words. I suppose I could cite the stereotypical, dumb male reticence for emotion and pretend it’s just ‘something to do’... but at the end of the day you have to answer to the inner self, you know? So what is it which inspires me to seek out yet another obscure megalithic monument, when I could be doing what ‘normal’ men do, such as a ‘thrilling’ round of golf at the course across the way, perhaps? Is it an attempt to allay the uncertainty of purpose, of meaning, even – seemingly endemic within a society shorn of the mass anaesthesia of monotheistic religious belief – by returning to the places our ancestors gathered in an attempt to assuage the very same fundamental fears they clearly shared? A desire, perhaps, to achieve some sort of continuity of human experience through exposure to the same inspiring landscape and – just perhaps – learn from their mistakes? To feel I’m actually a part of some ongoing quest, one small piece of the human jigsaw spinning through an unimaginable void on a journey to Stephen-Hawkings-knows-where. In short, perhaps I feel the need to experience raw emotion, the ‘stuff’ that defines us as a species? Or is all this just pretentious delusion? The sort of discourse that ensures a woman’s eyes glaze over so you don’t get laid? ‘That’s a fascinating hobby.... oh, is that the time?‘

Or perhaps I could just take you to the centre of Upper Lagmore and say ‘this is why I do what I do’. To be here. Right now. Yeah, when all is said and done, the Neolithic and Bronze Age inhabitants of these islands left us with perhaps the most articulate, enigmatic statements of what it really means to live upon this Earth... in the form of their standing stones, mounds and cairns. Perhaps as a species we really do ‘say it best when we say nothing at all’? For me they achieved – hell, still achieve – the reconcilliation of this apparent contradiction by forming a ‘connection’ between the observer and the landscape itself... so that we appear to observe no more but, instead, are actually directly involved with the natural occurrences of this planet. No longer just some creatures plonked upon the surface by a ‘higher entity’, but an integral part of this evolving planet, making it up as we go along... with all the responsibilities that entails. Not children any more, but adults facing reality. Daunting, isn’t it?

If you’ve struggled through the above, thank you for obliging me. For, when all is said and done, Upper Langmore blew me away primarily because of its exquisite location, set upon a steep hillside overlooking the River Avon. OK, the aforementioned golf course, below to the east (with, incidentally, the shattered remnants of Lower Lagmore chambered cairn to its north), is out of context, but the horizon of distant, rounded mountain summits says all that is necessary. The monument is a clava-style passage grave surrounded by a stone circle, of which five stones remain upright... including a fine, lichen coated monolith upon the western arc. There’s also a much taller (c12ft) stone – sadly fallen, which I guess actually makes it ‘longer’ – to the south-east, near the entrance to a ruinous passageway (with displaced lintel – according to Burl). This passageway once gave access to the central chamber within the internal ring cairn, the circumference of the latter defined by heavy kerbing. Yeah, despite the broken remnants of what once were presumably circle stones littering the site, quite a lot of the original fabric of Upper Lagmore still remains intact.

A visit to what is left is arguably all the more necessary since it would appear that the landowner does not want anyone to see it. Actions speak louder than words, with two barbed-wire fences needing to be negotiated upon the steep, uphill approach from the east [although, having said that, the lower can (currently) be stepped over, the upper ‘rolled’ under without causing any damage to visitor or fence]. It would seem these boundaries are not in place to protect the monument, since – disgracefully – junk lies within the clava’s immediate environs. I’ve a feeling I’m being watched, both from the golf pavillion and farm to the west, but nevertheless the ‘sense of place’ here is too intense to contemplate withdrawal until lack of time calls a halt. Bring it on, since I’d like to have a word with anyone who, it would seem, denies the importance of this wondrous place to Scottish heritage! Ironically, as I eventually retire to the car, I hear the sound of a vehicle’s engine, the source of which remains out of sight upon the hill I’ve just vacated.

Looking back near the memorial, across the river to the east, I notice a landrover parked by the site. Hmm. Perhaps I wasn’t being paranoid after all? Obviously, in retrospect, I must recommend an official approach for access – it would be great to understand what the issues are from the landowner’s perspective. Whatever you choose, Upper Lagmore deserves to be seen. I just wish I had more time to check out the other ruined chambered cairns in the immediate vicinity.

The way from the the summit of Mulloch Hill is, as those familiar with the landscape of Scotland might expect, not an easy skate. Even taking the (more or less) direct line to the long cairn, avoiding Scar Hill and a further cairn to its left. Having said that, matters aren’t helped by what appears to be a certain (ahem) amount of conflict between the landowner and militant local walkers (surely not tourists?), judging by several (apparently) ‘sledge- hammered’ gates and copious use of barbed-wire fences. Hmm. As a result the path is not easy to follow, several ‘back-tracks’ being required as I come across fences too high to negotiate. Well, at least without damaging you know what. Nevertheless I eventually reach the afforested Craigie and continue to the hill’s eastern tree-line, whereby, beyond yet another high, barbed-wire fence, the long cairn is visible to the right. Or is it just a dry stone wall? There’s only one way to find out.

In actual fact both scenarios are correct, a dry stone wall abutting – and no doubt constructed from – what to all the world looks like a much disturbed, horned long cairn of significant proportions – albeit with a large chunk removed from its far (southern) flank. Canmore (see Misc post) doesn’t appear 100% sure the cairn is kosher – possibly due to the existance of a much less substantial , not to mention grassy and very unconvincing, clearance ‘long cairn’ sharing the pasture to the north. To be honest I can see no reason at all to doubt a prehistoric origin, particularly since another upstanding example (The Blue Cairn) sits within Balnagowan Woods a little further to the east. But there you are. Wishful, thinking perhaps?

The cairn is located upon an angled, natural ridge – or so it would appear – offering good views towards nearby Braeroddach Loch. The bare, staring windows of Balnacraig Farm, below to the south, are a little off-putting at first.... bearing in mind the apparent landowner/walker conflict in the area. But then that’s just me, I guess. Bit of a wuss. Or perhaps worried I might turn into Michael Douglas in ‘Falling Down’ in the event of someone having too much of a go, you know? In the event, no problem and Balnacraig is a fine early afternoon hang. I decide to return to the car by heading north, towards Scar Hill. A bridge crosses a small burn only to end at a barbed-wire fence. Fortunately persons unknown have covered the offending fence with plastic tape. Which is nice.

Once across, I stumble through woodland, trending west, before picking up a grassy track heading roughly in the same direction. According to the compass, anyway. Sure enough this leads eventually to a gate beside Burnside Farm..... and tarmac. Luckily.

Having managed – somehow, or other – to survive the night without a tree falling on my head, the arrival of dawn brings conflicting emotions... relief at still being in one piece after the storm, and regret at the leaving of Aberdeenshire for the much more brutal landscape of the Cairngorms. Jeez. Let’s hope the weather improves a bit, then.

However the excellence of the Blue Cairn last evening persuades me that, perhaps, a encore upon Mulloch Hill would be a good idea prior to penetrating the fastness of The Highlands once again. I choose a different approach to The Drewbhoy... but then variety is supposedly the spice of life, is it not? At Dinnet, a small settlement astride the A93 west of Aboyne, the A97 heads north towards The Grampian Mountains. Take this and, a little before Ordie, follow a minor road to your right (east)... if you pass Monadavan Farm you’re on the right track/road (delete as appropriate)... so carry on until, upon passing a right fork to Mullochdhu Farm, it should be possible to park upon the verge. Walk up the road, which terminates at Burnside Farm, and take the obvious track to the right, passing two drystone buildings, also on your right. One assumes the fallen tree blocking the track – no doubt a victim of last night’s winds – will no longer be an issue.... judging by the sounds of a chainsaw heard later in the morning, that is. Then, just beyond the ‘backdoor’ to Mullochdhu – once again on the right – veer steeply to your left (this time) and ascend Mulloch Hill.

That’s the theory, then. Trouble is there’s a caveat... in that the traveller needs to locate a path literally hacked through the gigantic, mutant heather (at least that’s what I think it is?) to stand any chance – at all – of reaching the summit from this direction. Seriously, the vegetation is otherwise impenetrable to these eyes.... not to mention shins. So, a seemingly simple, easy visit to a small hill turns into nothing of the sort. Consequently it’s a relief to eventually see the cairn emerge upon the horizon... of another such monument, which (apparently) lies upon the western flank of the hill, there is no sign. Not surprised, to be honest. It’s therefore a pleasure to report that Drewbhoy’s estimation of the summit cairn is quite correct... it’s a sizeable stone pile crowning an excellent viewpoint, the outlook particularly fine looking westwards towards the twin lochs Davan and Kinord (the latter with crannog) and the cairn crowned, high peak of Morven. Nice. Despite a shower front sweeping in, I reckon I ken why this hilltop was chosen as a suitable spot to send someone to eternity.

I’ve a bit less time than that, however... so... upon checking the map, head approx east towards the far side of the woods spied through the gloom. If my direction finding isn’t that off kilter the reward should be another long cairn. Yeah, as Mr Cope (himself) once sang whilst careering around in that jeep... ‘I long to accept my reward’. Da!da!dah! Da!da!dah!

Following a ferocious – not to mention utterly wondrous – pounding by unfeasibly powerful winds upon Tap O’ Noth, I’m in need of somewhere a bit more, er, relaxed and sheltered for the remainder of the day. Must be getting old, I guess. Unfortunately I’ve not the time... OK, nor energy either... to undertake a Drewbhoy-style trek across the hills which rise to the north-west of Aboyne. That’s what happens when you run out of Irn-Bru, see. I therefore settle for ‘just’ The Blue Cairn instead. Well, I do appreciate a decent long cairn, me.

En-route, the overwhelming richness of Aberdeenshire’s ancient heritage is – to be frank – overwhelmingly apparent, the Culsh souterrain and Tomnaverie RSC just two highlights on offer (luckily I’ve seen the latter, but Culsh will need to wait, since these things can not be rushed). Look for a very minor – just about surfaced – road heading west from the B9094 about mid-way between Aboyne and Tomnaverie, that is almost opposite the track to Coull Home Farm. I follow the former to its terminus and then veer sharply left, taking an unmade track to Muir Cottage (the cottage is adorned with numerous car number plates). The occupier readily agrees to a request to park and gives me directions to the cairn I’ve come to see – basically head for a prominent tree just before the forestry line, cross the fence and follow to the right. Hey, even I couldn’t miss it. Which is saying something.

Approaching from the east, the sheer length of this long cairn isn’t at first apparent. However cross (another) fence and, suffice to say, it soon is. Canmore (A S Henshall 1963) has the following to say:

‘Blue Cairn is a long horned cairn, aligned ESE – WNW, composed of large boulders and generally undisturbed, with no structural features exposed. It measures 175ft in length (the horns project another 10ft at the east end) and is 60ft wide across the horns. It varies in height from 6ft at the east end to 2ft at the west end. About 40ft back from the facade a distinct, regular hollow about 3ft deep, probably an original feature, crosses the cairn.‘

Although the above is no doubt a far more succinct physical summary than I could ever hope to give – although the ‘generally undisturbed’ comment may need some revision? – it doesn’t begin to relate the incredibly peaceful atmosphere prevalent at this monument this early evening. Drewbhoy is spot on. So is the vibe. So is the weather, the sun throwing shadows to enhance form, the site sheltered from the severe winds by woodland. A lateral barbed wire fence bisects the cairn at one point, but this is of little consequence, easily stepped over.

I sit upon the Blue Cairn until 7.30pm, a build up of cloud in the previously – and appropriately enough – blue sky suggesting a change in the weather.

I awake to a promising dawn; dry, with high, broken cloud, albeit the wind having escalated quite considerably once again. The second of Aberdeenshire’s ‘legendary’ hillforts it is, then.... Tap O’ Noth. Yeah, as with the nearby Mither Tap, the ‘breast’ analogy is only too obvious upon arrival at – in fact well before – the spacious car park. Cope waxes lyrical (in the paper TMA) concerning the relationship these ‘mother hills’ had – still have, in fact – with the myriad RSCs, in various states of preservation, within visual proximity. I must admit I read this with a certain degree of cynicism at the time .... before I came and saw for myself. There really is no substitute for seeing with thine own eyes.

Drewbhoy’s notes have nailed the directions, so I won’t labour the point further.... except to say that upon the final approach the traveller has a choice of keeping to the main track, or taking a narrow ‘sheep track’ which ascends the mountainside to the right, towards the prominent ramparts crowning the summit. Note that a new ‘deer fence’ was being erected at the time of my visit – assume there will be a gate? Anyway, being impatient I took the latter route, and to be honest struggled a little in the fierce wind; however bear in mind that this conical hill, at 1,851 ft (564m), is more like a minature mountain in terms of terrain/vibe – so dress accordingly... for the worst. Yeah, after 20 odd years of walking Britain’s uplands I was certain I had all bases covered. Wrong! Suffice to say you never have everything completely sussed upon Britain’s hills.

Walking through the entrance, sited at the south-eastern corner of the great drystone ramparts, I suddenly leave the safety of the lee of the mountain and realise that, not to be outdone by Bennachie a few days earlier, Tap O’Noth is about to give me a serious ‘kicking’. With great big hob-nailed boots on! A group of youths, engaged upon some expedition or other, sit huddled below the OS triangulation pillar which crowns a section of vitrified rampart to the west. If this is their first taste of the hills, some introduction, lads! I check they are OK and proceed to take in the stunning view east to Dunnideer, the fragment of medieval tower crowning the much smaller ‘mother hill-cum-vitrified-hillfort’ clearly visible. Not to mention the iconic skyline of Bennachie itself to the approx south east. The view to the south-west is just as exquisite, ditto the other points of the compass (with a more woodland vibe), albeit into the teeth of the gale. And herein lies the problem... it is very, very difficult to stand, and impossible to move without bracing every step with trekking pole fore and aft. However I cannot leave Tap O’ Noth without traversing the mighty ramparts, the volume of stone contained within which is seriously impressive. Canmore records state that the defences consist of ‘a single wall... which may have originally been more than 20ft (6.1m) thick and encloses an area about 335ft (102m) by 105ft (32m)’. It is thus not the largest of enclosures, yet it takes me about 45 minutes to complete a circuit in, all things considered, the most extreme wind I’ve every encountered. In a way the titanic struggle I have today is appropriate... everything about Tap O’ Noth is extreme. Siting, defences, vitrification, views... and, last but not least, surely symbolism? To ensure I get the point Nature hammers it home with a very violent hail front which fair hurtles past. Strewth. I won’t forget my visit here in a hurry. Which is how it should be.

A site of this magnitude is deserving of more than the hour I have available after an afternoon at the wondrous Rothiemay. Having said that, however, an hour is purposely all the time I’ve allotted, since, despite the exquisite lighting conditions I cannot deny that I find myself somewhat ‘on edge’, uneasy even, at the way the Port Elphinstone locals treat their ancient heritage. Rubbish lies all around, violating henge bank and ditch to such a degree that I soon realise a skip would be needed to make any impact. Yeah, the vibe is all wrong, much like the henge at The Bull Ring before TMA’s Blingo recently did something about that fine site. So perhaps an hour is currently about right....

Despite such negativity, come here you must. For although one of the trio of uprights within the fine, upstanding henge earthworks, is a Pictish ‘newcomer’ (ha!), the aesthetic effect is first class, particularly when viewed under a dramatic blue sky featuring the optimum cloud cover. The henge is located to the approx south-west of the confluence of the Rivers Urie and Don, the significance of this perhaps the defining criterion way back then. Nowadays a petrol station, industrial area and housing estates form an inappropriate backdrop, masking the influence of Bennachie. [Drewbhoy’s suggestion that Port Elphinstone might have been the ‘harbour’ mentioned by Tacitus in relation to Mons Graupius is intriguing]. Of the avenue and RSC which apparently once formed part of the ritual complex here, all I can see is a single standing stone to the south.... so much has been irretrievably lost.

However an awful lot still remains.... much more than I anticipated, to be fair. As people walk their dogs, I instead take myself for a walk... much to my surprise beginning to access a vibe I thought did not – could not – exist. Things need to change here... a local stalwart needed to break the mould and rise above the overwhelming feeling of ‘who gives a monkey’s?’ Someone to reawaken local communual pride in this megalithic treasure which is still just about hanging on in there. Then perhaps there will still be hope for Broomend of Crichie? I truly hope so.

Consider this... much effort has been undertaken to build a – by all accounts – pointless cairn overlooking a nearby Kemnay housing estate. Why? To paraphrase John Lydon... why do we persist in believing illusions, when so much is for real? Could not some sponsorship be forthcoming from local business to safeguard the future of this wonderful little henge. Before it’s too late?

Note: If you’re reading this and want to accept the challenge... but don’t know where to start...why not contact Blingo – via the Forum – and see what can be done?

I missed out on Rothiemay during a short tour of north-RSC land a few years back. One of those sites that, in retrospect, I wished I had pushed a little harder to see... since the massive recumbent, according to Burl, features ‘an astonishment of megalithic art, over a hundred cupmarks and several cup and ring marks’ upon its inner face. As usual, he’s not wrong.... in respect of the ‘astonishment’ part, that is. I’ll take his word for it concerning the mathematics...

Aside from the massive, 20 ton recumbent, sadly now minus flankers, four approx 6ft circle stones still stand to give the impression of stone settings, rather than that of a bone-fide stone circle. Nevertheless they are impressive uprights, that located that to the east of the recumbent also cupmarked. However the substantial recumbent is the reason you should come to Rothiemay.... I give up counting the profusion of rock art which graces this mighty basalt block when I run out of fingers... hey, what else is a guy of my generation to do without a calculator?

The entrance to the lush pasture in which the Rothiemay ring stands now features a ‘Rothiemay Standing Stones’ sign. So access is not an issue.... assuming you’re good at opening very stiff field gates, that is. I’m not, but I can still climb. A bit. The River Deveron flows to the south beyond stables, the equine inhabitants galloping around under a striking blue sky filled with fast moving clouds serving to diffuse the sharp light. As I sit, buffeted by the wind, I ponder how great this stone circle would look if more had survived to actually ponder over. On second thoughts, though, there’s quite enough here to occupy a few hours of anyone’s time with exquisite thoughts.... verily, my cup marks runneth over.

Aberdeen is one of those places I guess I’m never destined to see in a good light.... always hammering down with rain, the precipitation dubiously complementing the granite architecture. Today is no exception, leaving me in not the best of moods as I leave the A90 north of the city, taking the B999 towards Tarves. However the open countryside raises the spirits, the sign for South Ythsie the expectations.... Ignore the official car park to the left of the minor road, unless you wish to visit the ‘Prop of Ythsie’ [a monument erected to Lord George Gordon, Prime Minister between 1852 – 1855 and copping much of the blame (unfairly, perhaps) for the disastrous Crimean War]. Instead park at the entrance to the farm track servicing the ‘Den of Ysthie’ a little beyond, to the right past a cottage. A brace of DIY ‘stone circle’ signs take it from here, indicating the way down said track. Veer left and... wow... what a beautiful little monument, iconic in profile against the skyline!

Six quite substantial stones stand upon a mound – or rather, according to Burl, the mound is heaped around the stones – the monument set within a field of cereal in serious, wind driven motion. Futhermore, Burl reckons the four tallest form a rectangle... thus South Ythsie (incidentally the latter bit is pronounced ‘icy’) might well be a ‘transitional ‘Four Poster’’. Nice. It is ceratinly a fine place to sit and watch the morning rain clouds swept away by the wind, to be replaced by blue. Who’d have thought it?

A local woman, with small children and poxy dog arrive to clamber all over the stones before leaving me in peace to watch the sky. Hey, one of the pleasures of visiting ancient sites is to actually lift your eyes above the horizontal and accept that you are just a tiny speck of humanity beneath the vastness above. Or something like that. Whatever, my proposed day’s schedule disappears into the great blue yonder, if not my psyche.

Here’s a turn-up for the books, and no mistake. A large cairn crowning a mountain summit.... and I don’t even ken it’s the ‘real deal’ at the time, so comprehensively – not to mention expertly – has it been converted into a walker’s shelter. Indeed, it could be said to represent the ‘pinnacle’ of muppetry! However Canmore is of the opinion it’s probably of prehistoric origin, an assertion that is given credence both by the siting and size of the stone pile. Bonus!

Oxen Craig, summit peak of Bennachie, lies more or less to the west of Mither Tap and is well seen from the top of the hillfort.. assuming an absence of cloud, that is. And hurricanes... Although the intervening landscape is crossed by specially constructed, signposted tracks – I assume to minimise erosion, albeit with an inevitable loss of upland aura – the walk is by no means easy this afternoon, being into the teeth of a pretty serious headwind, even in the lee of the mountain. Arriving at the summit I realise just how far conditions have deteriorated, even after leaving Mither Tap (the radio apparently reckoned the wind to be in excess of 100mph), it being more or less impossible to stand, let alone take any images of the cairn, upon the summit ridge. Ha! Perhaps that’s why Aberdeenshire is famous for its recumbent stone circles? Wise to follow suite, then, before the wind does it for me.

Nevertheless Oxen Craig is a good place to be, a fabulous vista towards the Dunnideer landscape probably the best on offer, although the image of Mither Tap in profile will no doubt stay with me for a long time. I make an attempt to find the ‘socketed’ stones, but I’m afraid Mother Nature has other ideas. Thoughts again turn to Mons Graupius and events which might have occurred upon the flanks of this windswept – hell yeah! – mountain in 84AD.... much like Harold at Senlac, what course might history have taken if things had have gone the other way? Bloody Romans.

I return to Maiden Causeway by heading approx north-east towards Craigshannoch, the landscape comprised of deep heather and very hard going underfoot. Hmm, perhaps the paths are a good idea after all? Although a ‘minature’ mountain, don’t take Bennachie lightly... in either the physical or metaphysical sense. It may well just blow you away.

Dawn arrives, bringing sunshine to Garrol Wood (or is it Mulloch Wood?), a welcome occurrence following yesterday’s torrential downpour. Consequently I decide it’s about time I took a closer look at the legendary Bennachie and see if I can determine whether it lives up to the not inconsiderable hype surrounding it. I mean, rising to just 1,733ft at Oxen Craig, yet it has its own visitor centre? Yeah, ‘there’s only one way to find out’, as the appropriately named Harry Hill might say. The drive north, through excellent, rolling countryside, is worth the effort in its own right with the name on almost every signpost seemingly familiar, thanks to Drewbhoy’s comprehensive posts. It’s therefore somewhat comical to note an apparently brand new cairn sited above an estate at Kemnay... what is that all about?

Initially I head for the ‘Bennachie Centre’, then reckon The Maiden Causeway will be a better bet, what with all the excavations opened nearby to take the new pipeline. The path from Rowantree (plenty of parking, public toilets... small hillfort, the usual) to Mither Tap is well maintained, the initial, rocky stages through woodland, then crossing the heather-clad northern ridge of the mountain to eventually ascend to the great hillfort towering above. Hmm. I reckon Bennachie’s converted me already.... but I must remain subjective. Admirable intentions, perhaps, but nonetheless blown to the four winds as soon as I see the magnificent main entrance passage and the sheer volume of collapsed rampart which encircles this mighty tor.

The preservation of the entrance, ‘barbican’ outwork aside, is breathtaking. OK, Mither Tap may not be truly ‘ancient’, at least not in the form we see it today – this view is supported by calibrated carbon dates of AD 640-780 and AD 340-540 obtained from charcoal found beneath cobbles near the entrance – but the remaining structure is still unprecedented, in my experience. Incidentally, according to Canmore, the standing stone incorporated within the northern flank of the passage may be a gatepost.... The ramparts have unfortunately been reduced to masses of tumbled stone, particularly the upper, located approx half way up the crag. Nevertheless it is abundantly clear that this was once some fortress – consider that the outer rampart is apparently 15 feet thick.

Steps assist the visitor to the summit, whereby the exquisite views immediately take centre stage. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, an exceedingly violent hail shower batters the fort , albeit for no more than a couple of minutes. People run for cover – where none exists – and are soaked to the skin. To be honest such a fate serves them right for taking such a flippant attitude to Bennachie. As the front recedes into the distance the light is simply exquisite, the atmosphere literally ‘washed’ clear of impurities. I sit awestruck, the wind speed beginning to build to extreme levels. Moving around the summit takes all my strength simply to avoid being blow over the edge. I gaze across to Oxen Craig, the summit of Bennachie and wonder if the battle of Mons Graupius actually did occur upon the flanks of this mountain in 84 AD? Yeah, Agricola might have annihilated the local tribal army with his Roman automatons, but he did not break their resistance... their will, if you like. Perhaps people really do reflect the landscape they inhabit... and – judging by Bennachie today – if the battle did take place here after all, Agricola really had no choice but to ‘jog on’.

A middle aged punter arrives and proceeds to try and take his young son to the summit. Wisely, I think, he heeds my warning not to if he ever wants to see him again! As for myself, a round of the ramparts is required. Then Oxen Craig calls.... Ooer. Do you think that’s wise, sir?

Following a serious hammering by the Aberdeenshire weather upon Cairn O’Mount, this lovely, frankly bonkers RSC is just the ticket before bedtime. Despite no let up in the downpour.

I first came here back in June 2004, and I’m pleased to say that the intervening years have not eroded the charm of the place, set within a forestry clearing, one bit. That’s right, not one bit. Unfortunately, however, like the aforementioned cairn, the Nine Stanes are too accessible to have escaped the ravages of the modern world. In the stone circle’s case, it is moronic ‘happy campers’ who are no doubt responsible for the damage, the all too clear remains of a campfire defacing what Burl describes as ‘one of the most splendid of all central spaces’ within the internal ring cairn. Indefensible, even for the most myopic of creatures. I hate to think what might happen should I ever stumble upon such a scene in progress... let’s hope it never comes to that, eh?

The monument is one of the most idiosyncratic I’ve seen... consider the analogy of a group of people being passed instructions concerning ‘how to erect an RSC’ via a game of ‘Chinese Whispers’... and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Nine Stanes was the result. Having said that, to paraphrase the great Eric Morecombe, ‘everything’s here, but not necessarily in the right order’. Yeah, architecturally speaking it would perhaps be kinder to say that the Nine Stanes is in a class of its, er, own, and leave it at that. Burl cites the sort-of-central ring cairn as ‘a travesty..... a warped oval of indifferent kerbing...badly designed’, the recumbent and flankers as ‘not on the circumference..... carelessly placed’. You get the picture. But, for me, that is precisely what gives the ring its charm, its sense of innate ‘humanity’, its overwhelming vibe which no legions of ‘Carry on Camping’ muppets can remove. It doesn’t abide by the standard RSC rules and so is therefore all wrong, yet paradoxically so right at the same time. As if it was built by you and I. Burl concurs, describing the monument as ‘wondrous to behold’. Right on, Mr B!

Suffice to say I retire for the night soggy and dripping, yet more than happy I came back to Garrol Wood for another look at this punk stone circle masterpiece.

This is quite possibly one of the easiest major upland cairns to visit in the UK, being just a very short walk from the B974. Consequently – as you would no doubt expect – it’s by no means a classic, having inevitably suffered somewhat from the unwanted attentions of motor travellers ‘stretching their legs’ – if not their minds – over the years .... note however that, most unusually, there would appear to have been little removal of mass... rather the opposite, in fact, giving the cairn a rather contemporary ‘feel’, shall we say? Yeah, somehow I don’t think they used concrete slabs back in the Bronze Age, although whether these form the remnants of an OS triangulation pillar, which apparently once crowned the cairn, is a moot point.

Despite the in truly appalling conditions of driving rain, I’m joined by several passing visitors during my hour on site... the Germans, at least, quite receptive to my ‘most probably Bronze Age’ explanations. I say ‘most probably’ because, somehow, Cairn O’Mount seems almost too well positioned to be true, perfectly located to take in a truly exceptional view towards the coast to the south. Having said that, though, Canmore appears quite convinced, so more than happy with that. The other points of the compass present vistas of rounded, heather-clad hills swept by opaque clouds of vapour this late afternoon. No doubt on better days the effect is sublime, rather than brutal... but there is no denying the vibe today.

There are a number of other cairns in the vicinity, that mentioned by Drewbhoy, immediately beside the road, a fragment of its (presumed) former self. Another, St Ringan’s Cairn, downhill to the approx south [NO 6549 7944], apparently formed the base of a Pictish Cross Slab found within during 1965. Not Bronze Age, then – unless an existing cairn was ‘recycled’ – but any surviving link to the Picts should be treasured. The latter monument suggests a long standing continuity of local ritualist practice upon this high ground which has continued to this very day in the guise of a myriad deposits of flowers and more personal offerings covering the immediate environs of Cairn O’Mount. I’m normally against such things but.... well.... the examples I looked at were so heartbreakingly poignant in content – not to mention overtly Christian (which I admit was most unexpected) – as to banish any thought of negative reservations. Hey, I guess you have to (try to) cope with the loss of loved ones in any way you can.

Cairn O’Mount. Still relevant after millennia, still serving the local community.

Unlike the (not too distant) paired Caterthun enclosures, the hillfort at Finavon is not sign-posted.... consequently I made a bit of a meal of finding it, even climbing a hill to the east before establishing where it actually was. Perhaps a proper OS map would have been a good idea, then? The effort is worth it, however, since I would cite this as a very fine hillfort indeed.

Not feeling the need to ingest anything stronger than a few pints of ‘Hobgoblin’, I’m not qualified to comment upon MatThe Cat’s previous notes... except to agree that, in my opinion, Finavon certainly does possess a haunting vibe. However, as with medieval castles, the visitor should remember that – as well as this being a home – the encircling ramparts were built for a brutal reason. Yeah, ritual, prestige and ‘bling’ surely played a part, but there have been far too many discoveries of mass graves at hillforts to confirm that it was a dangerous world back then. Finavon reflects this, the rampart (according to excavations carried out in 1933-4 by Childe) originally being approx 20’ thick and 16’ high externally. A powerful defence line indeed. Of greater interest, perhaps, is the heavily vitrified nature of the wall, vitrification being the processes by which timber-laced ramparts were fused to a very hard, glass-like substance through extreme heat – i.e. fire. The key question is, of course, whether this process occurred through storming by hostile forces, or by a deliberate act to render the rampart ‘fireproof’... or even to ‘ritually terminate’ occupation when it was felt it was time to move elsewhere? Dunno. Obviously....

Finavon remains a powerful enclosure – even factoring in what I think may be some significant internal quarry damage to the west (?) – further protected by a ‘barbican-like’ outwork to the east. A prominent internal feature is a very large cistern-cum-well. So the water supply was sorted, then. The views are excellent, particularly looking out across the coastal plains to the north, although that towards the Hill of Finavon itself isn’t bad, either. Despite – or possibly even enhanced by – the wind, the vibe is great – nay, superb – thanks in no small measure to the absence of any other visitors. No doubt a perceptive visitor to the site will sense an aura combining a feeling of well-being and of melancholia. But isn’t that to embrace the human experience itself? I believe it is.

To reach Finavon leave the A90 as indicated (the village is signposted), head uphill and park by a wooden 4-beam gate on the right-hand side of the road, just beyond a track on the left with double wooden gate. Go through the double wooden gate (past a tree with fine root structure) and head uphill to the right through a gap in the deer fence. Head towards, then past a telecom antenna and keep going...

Yesterday’s Balmuick visit was the reason I returned to Loch Turret this year, thoughts of climbing Choinneachain Hill to see its ancient cairn placed firmly upon the ‘maybe’ list, the possibility of acting upon them seemingly deteriorating as rapidly as the weather which assaults the car during the night.

However dawn brings some rays of sunlight – literally – although a patchy, white mantle coating the western flank of Glen Turret does counteract the hopeful vibe somewhat. Hmm. Snow in late May? Thought it was a bit chilly last night, but blamed it on getting old, you know? As the estate warden does his daily ‘rounds’ I decide to postpone Aberdeen for yet another day and have a go. Onward! For all Sassenachs and Kenneth IV! (well ‘Braveheart’ wasn’t exactly true, either....) The way appears straight forward enough, the Allt Choinneachain having conveniently carved a deep gulley in the mountain, the left hand flank of which – as viewed from the dam – promises a nice, natural line of ascent. Initial impressions, however, are often misleading in this game, the hillside rising above the eastern shore of Loch Turret actually cloaked in a thick covering of knee deep heather concealing hidden drops. Yeah, this is far from an easy skate, despite the mountain’s ‘modest’ (in Scottish terms) 2,582ft altitude. As I jump the Allt Choinneachain, its cascading course leads the eye unerringly northwards towards my objective. The crags of Creag Dhearg are soon reached, complete with what I assume to be a prominent glacial erratic and small (modern) cairn, not to mention superb views of Loch Turret and Ben Chonzie. To the north another, larger cairn crowns the western apex of the mountain. A well built effort, the modern origin of it is sadly betrayed by the lack of any underlying cairn spread. The real deal – Cairn Coinneachan – lies to the approx east, rising beyond wetland, the source of the aforementioned Allt Choinneachain, no less. A winding, substantial track ensures dry feet although, to be honest, it does detract a little from the wildness of this mountain plateau. As if to compensate, a series of increasingly frequent hail showers proceed to provide a violent tailwind for the final approach.

The monument isn’t the most impressive I’ve seen – not by a long chalk – even if the frankly awesome Tinto cairn is discounted. Canmore gives its dimensions as ‘A circular cairn 18.0m in diameter with a general height of 1.2m; a shepherd’s cairn, 0.20m high, stands on top’. Nevertheless still pretty substantial and interestingly, clearly sited so as to NOT quite give superb views into Corrie Barvick. It’s not located at the mountain’s summit, either, but a little below, to the approx south-east (the summit itself is crowned by a rather pathetic effort). Nonetheless the view from the cairn across the Creag Chaisean is sensational to these eyes. To the north-east a fine cliff-line, known as Blue Craigs, cradles a waterfall forming the nascent Barvick Burn. Another one. The water association may, of course, be coincidental... but, well.... wouldn’t it be great if these cairns were originally sited in reference to life springs?

The hail showers morph into a full on snow storm... but what an atmosphere this mountain top cairn possesses, the ‘shepherd’s cairn’ perched upon the significant footprint of its ancient forerunner providing at least some lee shelter. Eventually I begin my descent, via the obvious track crossing Creag Chaisean, which would also provide a somewhat easier alternative ascent than mine. Looking back, the Cairn Coinneachan stands in silhouetted profile above the beautiful glen of the Barvick Burn as, ignoring a left hand fork, I leave the track a little way beyond (where it begins to swing to the left)and slowly descend to Loch Turret once more. The view up the glacial glen cradling the reservoir is outstanding... OK, the original, natural loch is now long engulfed... but it is tempting to think that water, in all its forms, has held major significance here for millennia.

As I recall, I was left with a choice between visiting this excellent site and the wondrous Dunruchan standing stones last year – a bit like Ron Greenwood having to choose between Peter Shilton and Ray Clemence, you might say? Frankly – in retrospect – I was ‘on a winner’ either way, just like the former England manager. The bizarre Dunruchan monoliths eventually got the nod... and vindicated the decision by keeping the proverbial clean sheet. And then some. Nevertheless thoughts of Balmuick wouldn’t do as they were told and stay conveniently filed away in the subconscious. Oh no. Not with an (apparently) sublime mountain backdrop like that. Nothing for it, then.

I choose as my starting point the car park below the dam holding back the waters of Loch Turret, Choinneachain Hill rising to the north, crowned by a Bronze Age cairn. Crossing the dam, the track veers south for about a mile before heading west towards distant mountains ... or hills, as the Scots refer to them. Upon clearing forestry, which initially cloaks the landscape below, the expanding views help take the edge off what is actually more of a slog than I had anticipated.... some 6km either way, in fact. To see a virtually destroyed stone circle? Hmm.... perhaps this is not such a good idea after all? The seriously isolated, and consequently somewhat forlorn-looking farmhouse of Braefordie (eventually) appears below, allowing me to fix my position. A little way further on it’s time to leave the track (which later peters out to the north-west) and descend over grass and bog, maintaining an westerly direction towards a large, circular sheep enclosure below the craggy hill of Cluain. Balmuick stone circle lies – unseen – upon the low ridge beyond, still to the west, reached by a proper green track which joins another arriving from the south.

As I clamber through deep heather to the summit a deer decides not to hang around and say ‘hello’, bounding off into the distance, whilst some bird of prey circles above, keeping a watchful eye upon the intruder. Then, there it is. A single, large stone remains erect beside several other prostrate stones. And that is that. Tiompan’s observation that the monument is probably more accurately described as a ‘stone setting’ is appropriate. However, not to put too fine a point on it, the location simply blows me away! A mountainous backdrop through more or less 360 degrees instantly elevates Balmuick into the company of the finest-sited stone circles I’ve seen to date, in my opinion even challenging the likes of Ardgroom and Moel Goedog. Awesome, particularly the serrated skyline to north-west, looking across a small loch to the waters of Carroglen and Lurg Burns rushing to join the River Lednock. I sit, buffeted by the wind, and watch the sun vie for supremacy with the dark, brooding sky, neither quite able to deliver the coup de grace. Ha! This circle may not be physically impressive... but, hell, they sure knew where to put it! According to the map two cairns lie within trees below to the west. No can do – at least not this time – since that 6km return awaits me. But it is a small price to pay for an audience with this shattered, yet – for me – magnificent ancient monument.

It would appear that the locals of the small settlement of Lawers – instead of embracing this excellent little stone circle as an integral part of their heritage – regard Machuim as, at best, an inconvenience. More fool them, I say. Since, as Mr Cope observed during the course of ‘Autogedden’, ‘there are more of us a’ coming... more like me ‘.... and the horn carver could probably make a few bob by combining parking with a little horny memento of the monument itself. With a bit of foresight, that is.

Yeah, I can only confirm previous members’ posts that parking is a downright pain in the proverbial. Even though I arrived well past business hours, ‘the horned one’ was still in his lair.... and, like Greywether before me, I was worried I might place a carving where the sun don’t shine, so to speak, if he wound me up too much. However all was not lost for, since it was evening, I felt justified in breaking a cardinal rule (for once) by parking blocking a nearby field gate [just before the Lawers sign, left side of road when approaching from Kenmore – the space BigSweetie mentions in his Miscellaneous post, I think].

Access to the monument is via two field gates (both securely fastened, albeit not actually chained shut) so I guess visitors must decide for themselves whether to seek permission from the appropriate residence overlooking the site. Or not. Whatever, don’t be put off a visit since, despite the frequent, violent downpours, I was impressed with Machuim, staying for approx an hour, I guess. The five stones remaining upright are substantial... nice ‘n’ chunky... according to Burl ‘from 3ft 7ins to 4ft 10ins’ high. Several others are now fallen, sundry debris, most probably field clearance, lying within the incomplete arc. Machuim hasn’t been treated well, that’s for sure. Nevertheless it remains upon its little mound (natural, I think), the long grass the stuff a cow’s dreams are made of. Probably.

The location is pretty good, too, with Ben Lawers rearing up impressively behind, not surprisingly in much the same way as the Kiltyrie tomb to the approx south-west. Loch Tay adds the ‘water feature’. Some water feature...

Canmore (A S Henshall 1972) cites this as a ‘possible long cairn..... measuring 105’ along the ENE-WNW axis, and about 5’ high. Across the E end it is about 30’ wide, across the centre it is about 38’, and about the same across the W end’. Now I’m all for pragmatism – realism, even – and fully understand that, in the absence of dateable finds obtained through excavation, we’ll never be certain of the prehistoric ancestry of any monument.... but – bearing in mind the dimensions quoted – perhaps having the mother of all clearance cairns located in this fine spot above the River Lyon is rather more unlikely than the ‘real thing’? Perhaps.

The more-or-less dry morning at Na Carraigean becomes a volatile (very) late Spring afternoon of sunshine and violent showers. For some reason this long cairn has never really fired my imagination enough to spare the time for a visit before, although in retrospect this was perhaps due to the remnants of dyke somewhat obscuring form when viewing from the road. Not that this is a viable excuse, since it’s possible to park nearby and gates at either end of the field are (currently) both unlocked. Easy, then. What’s more this small effort will reveal a quite upstanding, substantial long cairn, looking for all the world like a long barrow in its ‘grassed-over’ state. OK, as Greywether notes, there is no hint of a chamber, but the setting, within a fertile valley surrounded by hills, is about as good as you could wish for. The course of the River Lyon is mostly obscured by trees from the long cairn.... however to my mind the pieces of the jigsaw are all in place.

Let’s just say you would have to be a first class muppet to (allegedly) wash your hands of this gorgeous landscape for the sake of a bit of power in Palestine. Mentioning no names....

Attempted to visit this fine – very fine – four poster last year.... only to find the Allean Forest ‘closed due to forestry operations’. Ha! Be warned. You wouldn’t exactly expect a forest to be closed, would you? No matter, since Clachan An Diridh saved the day then and, furthermore, gave me the opportunity to return with a more cunning plan than I had at the time, that of simply blundering through the forest on a compass bearing. Approach via Glen Fincastle! Yeah, that’ll work. Surprisingly... it does.

Glen Fincastle is reached by a signposted, minor road from the B8019 some way east of The Queen’s View (past the hotel and dam, that is). I follow said road through the sleepy valley to the farm house of Chapleton, the occupant readily agreeing to my request to park ‘so as not to block the road’. Nice one. Clearly not local, he reckons his girlfriend will be interested to know about the circle. Some guys have all the luck, eh? The road veers to the right, but I carry straight on along a rough – although no doubt still driveable – track heading west past the farm of Drumnagowan, arriving eventually at the cluster of buildings know as ‘Edintian’. Here a green track continues westwards to ascend to the forest-line, the retrospective of the glen well worth pausing a moment or so to take in, complete with a peak very reminiscent of my beloved Moel Siabod rising on the skyline. The path veers left, goes a little ‘serpentine’ for a distance, and then resumes a westward heading. Ignore a sharp, obvious left hand turn some way along and, just before the track begins to descend – having passed high ground to the right – take a relatively obscure green track to the approx north-west (right). The lovely little four poster should appear before you.... as it did for me.

Jeez. It’s a beauty, in every possible respect, the skyline to the west-south-west(ish) dominated by the seriously enigmatic Schiehallion, the mountain rising above (apparent) Gladman ancestral lands in the vicinity of Loch Rannoch. The circle stones themselves are not that tall – although those familiar with other upland ‘circles may well disagree, relatively speaking – but are nevertheless of substantial girth, shall we say? An unusual feature – for me, anyway – is the placement upon a quite significant artificial platform, or mound, even, with traces of possible kerbing visible here and there. However it is the location which ‘pushes all the right buttons’ for me. You know, I sometimes think I eulogise a little too much about sites such as this? Perhaps. However assuming some monuments were intentionally placed at locations as exquisite as Na Carraigean to achieve a desired ‘reverential’ – if not awestruck – response in a visitor, who am I to argue when I’m caught ‘hook, line and sinker?’ It’s a fair cop, guv’nor. Yeah, this isolated four poster has me truly ‘bang to rights’. Well worth the effort, especially when you can keep ‘forestry bashing’ to a minimum with an approach from the east, too. Top hang.

After my vaguely informed wanderings around South Lanarkshire it’s admittedly a little reassuring to be upon familiar ground once more. However it soon becomes clear that my assumed familiarity with the environs of Loch Tay is a little misplaced, to say the least. ‘Hang on, Tiompan reckons there’s a chambered cairn near here’ I think as I pass the (now defunct) Ben Lawers Visitor Centre turn-off on the A827 from Killin ... ‘nothing on the map... but while I’m here I guess it’d be rude not to have a look’, I conclude. Or something similar.

Needless to say – without local knowledge – it’s not as easy as that. Transposing the OS co-ordinates to my map appears to place the site within trees on the Loch Tay side of the road. It’s not. Other side, in fact. Set beyond, and obscured – not to mentioned camouflaged – by a series of rock outcrops beneath a rather iconic tree. Yeah, the tree’s the key. But what of the chambered cairn? To be honest the physical remains are not going to blow you away unless you are completely nuts about the things. Several orthostats protrude from the ground... and that is more or less that.

Except I nearly forgot to mention the overwhelming presence of the near-as-dammit 4,000ft Ben Lawers towering above to the approx north. And that, combined with the setting above the nearby loch is, I think, the real glory of the Kiltyrie tomb. The way it relates to the landscape. Or perhaps the way it helps the visitor to relate to the landscape without them even realising it? Consider this. I swear the thought never consciously occurred to me at the tomb.... yet the next morning, as I drive past the now removed Ben Lawers Visitor Centre car park (the centre’s been demolished due to lack of visitors, not the car park) I am ‘compelled’ to reverse and go climb the mountain there and then. Ben Lawers is the highest peak I’ve ever ascended in my life, by some distance. So this represents a serious challenge.

The action is seemingly on the spur of moment... or did the builders of the Kiltyrie tomb simply perfect the art of locating a monument in order to maximise relationships with the landscape as perceived by the individual? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting for a moment there are ‘mystical’ or ‘supernatural’ forces at work here. Don’t believe in such things. What I am suggesting is the tomb builders may have possessed a well developed (sophisticated, even) appreciation of how the human animal reacts to certain stimuli and located their momument to achieve optimum psycological benefit accordingly? If so, it certainly worked with me.

I approach this still substantial – although much disturbed – cairn by heading approx north-west across the moor from the Burngrange long cairn. Unlike the latter, no internal detail is now discernable within the more ‘rotund’ monument – at least not to this traveller during the course of a downpour which renders the lichen-encrusted boulders potentially lethal to the unwary. Thankfully there are no slip-ups.

Time and, in particular, animal husbandry have not been kind to this stone pile ... a large sheepfold abutting the south-eastern arc of the cairn the most significant of several animal enclosures constructed from its considerable mass... and thus disrupting profile. Nevertheless from a number of angles it is clear that this was once a very significant monument... still is, of course, although one lacking the definition originally intended. Yeah, the estimate cited by Greywether (I believe from Canmore) of probably as much as 18m in diameter and at least 2.5m in height does not, by any means, stretch credulity.

A further, less upstanding cairn is visible some way to the (very) approx east. However time has caught up with me....doesn’t it just? As I muse upon this inevitability of all inevitabilities which haunt the human condition, I conclude that there really is a whole day’s worth of sites to visit just within this ‘V’ defined by the fast flowing North Medwin and Westruther Burn alone. Much more must go unseen, at least for now. Ha! I’ve just time to take a quick look at the round cairns south of the Greens Moor long cairn (one of which is incidentally well worth the effort) before heading back to the car to continue my journey to Loch Tay. As you do.

Greywether’s notes are a succinct summary of a somewhat confusing, yet very atmospheric long cairn. The location is excellent, set upon the western flank of Horse Law, overlooking Westruther Burn, the water course needing to be crossed if the monument is approached from the Greens Moor long cairn lying virtually directly to the west (a little over half a mile distant and visible upon the horizon). Note that this did not present a great obstacle at the time of my visit and that the minimalist ‘bridge’ mentioned in G’s notes still exists.

Preconceptions are shattered immediately upon arrival, the mass of stone visible from Greens Moor turning out to be a large, drystone sheepfold standing immediately east of the cairn. No prizes for guessing the source of that, then. Orientating myself accordingly, I realise what lays before me is in fact a heavilly robbed long cairn, not the expected round variety. Not an issue, since I love long cairns, me. Even better, there are also the clearly identifiable remaining orthostats of a chamber – G and Canmore cite a possible other, although owing to the profusion of heather I’ll need to take their word on that. As regards the obvious one, the stones are substantial and aesthetic, the passage facing south – that is to the right when looking across the chamber towards the sheepfold.

As I sit and have lunch, back facing the lashing rain, the sheer, primeval ‘reality’ of the moment begins to sink into my consciousness, something infinitely more welcome than the moisture beginning to find its way inexorably through my waterproofs and dampen my knees. OK, accusations of ‘wouldn’t be such fun if this was how you had to live all the time’ hold much more than a grain of truth.... but I do think periodically reminding one’s self just how brutal Mother Nature can be – even in the limited UK sense – holds much benefit for the individual. But I digress....

Looking west I notice another, large cairn some way to the right of the Greens Moor long cairn. Must be Westruther and the next port of call. Ha! With all this rain perhaps the ‘port’ analogy is appropriate? I leave Burngrange long cairn well satisfied... sure, under finer conditions this site would provide an exceptional hang of many hours for those who like that sort of thing – like myself – but Scotland is Scotland and you have to take what you can get.