How I was swallowed by a bog and saved by a Belgian on a hike through the Cairngorms

Things tend to go wrong after a few tequila shots. The challenges are just a bit different when in the middle of the Cairngorms. 

A few miles into a two-day hike from Blair Atholl to Kingussie through the hills, I met some friendly Glaswegians at the Allt Scheicheachan Bothy who offered me a shot (or two). 

It was 6pm and I felt like a rest, so I joined in for a bit. After about an hour-long conversation putting the world to right and hearing about violent karaoke nights - the sort of chats you have when in company in a bothy - I carried on my 30-plus mile journey. 

Allt Scheicheachan Bothy near Blair Atholl in the Cairngorms | Katharine Hay

The tequila did give me a boost, but after a few miles, I realised I had sailed off in the wrong direction.

With a limited supply of water and food on my back, I took a shortcut, climbing a steep hill to get back on track. Pretty far behind schedule, I walked until daylight faded before pitching my tent.

Walking in the evening through Blair Atholl estate, you are surrounded by herds of deer roaming the hills. The estate is big on stalking, which was confirmed when I was trudging towards and squinting at what I thought was a very tame black deer, only to realise it was a target practice in the shape of one.

A herd of deer in the distance on Blair Atholl estate | Katharine Hay

I had packed just over two litres of water for the two days, which would have been enough if I hadn’t got lost. While high up on the scalp of one hill the next morning, however, I saw a brood of ptarmigan, which reassured me I was likely high enough to drink safely from a nearby brook. But I did run out of food.

Thick fog rolling in to the hilltops | Katharine Hay

Thick mist rolled in, and the path I was on kept disappearing, delaying my hike by hours. I lay down for a while in the hope it would pass, but it didn’t. I tried to follow where I thought the track was, but then would somehow stray onto what I think were trails for Highland ponies collecting deer off the hill that went in various directions.

Being teased by what appeared to be small tracks here and there, but then disappearing under thick heather, my energy started to deplete fast. At one point, my feet were so sore I flumped, rucksack and all, onto what I thought was a blanket of bright red and green moss only to find it was a bog which started to consume me slowly. At another point, it was as if an invisible hatch opened beneath my feet and I fell straight into a hole, the earth holding me at the waist, leaving my legs dangling in God knows what sort of void beneath me. Though being held like a cork in a bottle did make for a nice pause.

Hungry, tired and with no battery left in me or my phone, with about ten miles to go, I started mumbling moodily to the ground, asking for a path. Minutes later, I unexpectedly came across a wooden house hidden in some trees. A Belgian man answered the door, who explained he was house sitting while the owners were away. A spiritual soul, and a fellow hiker, he told me in difficult moments, you need to ask for guidance.

“That’s what you did,” he said, handing me some supplies before I continued on to Kingussie, feeling like the challenging hike had turned into something quite magical instead.