Giants and Nethy

In an attempt to put my ravings in context, I have stolen some science from this site here. Bold is theft, italics is commentary.

The landscape around Nethy Bridge convinces me that I am in the far north of Scotland. Of course, this is sentimental nonsense: compared to True North, this is a mild glacial valley. But walking through the woods with my host, even I can spot the path of the glacier that carved out the plateau.

The focus of the settlement lies where the river Nethy empties onto the haughlands beside the Spey but clusters of houses are widely scattered along the valleys of the Allt Mhór, Dorback and Nethy and in the forest between.

What surprises me are the fragments of information that deny my assumption that I am standing in an ancient forest. If I was alert to the width of the trees, I would probably have noticed this already. In the river, a single rotting plank marks the former location of a mill. The straight lines of the trees is another clue. Less than a century ago, this area was more like a factory, a production line, than the shining example of wilderness my urban mind believed it to be. 

The impact of glacial erosion is less obvious here than further up Strathspey but large volumes of

meltwater debris cover the ground and were the river Nethy cuts through this the terraces are enormous. The lowest of these is wisely avoided by habitations in recognition of folk memories of inundation by the Muckle Spate that damaged the Thomas Telford’s bridge in 1829 and drowned The Dell.

The past shapes the present inhabitation of the area. The advantages of watered soil are balanced against the problems of flooding. They used the river to send the cut wood down to the central belt. The river would be flooded, after a fashion, on purpose.

The Dell forms a natural corridor through the settlement. A path meanders along the river bank amongst alder, willow and hazel. The river is used by dippers and is a very attractive natural feature in the core of the settlement. Higher up the slopes of the river, there are pine, birch and juniper, with some fine veteran trees growing amongst the houses that line either side of the Nethy. These large garden trees provide habitat for tawny owls, tits and finches, and bats. Woodcock are a common sight over the houses here at dusk in spring and summer, as they fly out and back to the woods on ‘roding’ display flights.


I am unable to identify any of the varieties of wood... I peek into back gardens to look for the veteran trees. I heard an owl last night. I was pleased with myself for not mistaking it for a ghost. Far enough in, and I am slightly lost...

Densely wooded slopes and small areas of pasture back the settlement, merging into the extensive pine woodlands that cover the slopes and lower hills of the braes of Abernethy. The vicinity to the forest means that pinewood wildlife are often seen within the village; red squirrel, crested tit, great spotted woodpecker and crossbills.

Chapter 7.2: Nethy Bridge and The Real

In Nethy Bridge, and my mind is glowing. It's all downhill from here - the trip back to the train station at  Aviemore, the circuit out to the Western Isles. I chase about the tress, seeing the pieces that have been left behind by the community groups who are responding to the Giants in the Forest, and I know. This isn't the primordial woodland that traces its appearance back to a neolithic past. This is what the aftermath will look like: fragments of human activity, evocative and exciting, overpowered by the relentless growth of nature.

I like to pose and say: this is the desert of the real. I stole that from The Matrix. Intoned in the beautiful tones of Morpheus, portentous and serious, and stolen from Baudrillard. I have no idea what it means. Now I remember why I got lost in Falkland Estate. Now I know why I wanted to cycle across the northern passages of Scotland.

I have some vague idea that nature is more 'real' than the city. The desert of the real is the city, all symbols and no depth: too much spice and not enough substance, like those Glasgow curries that are like soup with chunks of meat, no vegetables. I wanted to feel the threat, the terror. I want to be hard up against the danger, the precarious nature of survival.

It's more sentimental nonsense. I posit a duality: between the inauthenticity of my urban experience and the truth of nature. The Giants are offering another standard, another perspective. Here, the clear lines of the plantation mark out how, once upon a time, wood from this forest was grown for export, to be included in the building of ships (fine masts). And the Giant, man-made but from local materials, is a symbol of a more gentle symbiosis, an art that doesn't need to force resolution or tension to make a simple point. As always, I look for the wrong qualities...

Chapter 7.1 Giants in the Forest: Lies and ignorance

There are many reasons why Nethy Bridge has become the climax of my tour to chase the Giants in the Forest. It is the furthest north that I am going to cycle - although that is not literally true. It has got a train line that still has steam engines - although there isn't actually a working station in the village. It is a tourist destination (the hotel remains the most impressive building) - although the golden years might have passed.

The small matter of this being the furthest north that I cycled: I am thinking of a metaphorical north. You know, mountains, desolate plains, barren fields, the mythical Scotland that turns up on the posters in America. It's the furthest north in so far as I know that a puncture here is going to be a problem: Forres might have the geographical edge (let's face it, a quick look at the map proves this is more vile nonsense), but Nethy has the atmosphere, the romance...

Besides that, Forres' Heads were in a patch of forest in the middle of a housing estate. It was beautiful, and saying that makes it sound as if I were in a bit of shrub, just off the main road. But even though I did manage to get lost in this patch, I came out fairly quickly into 'civilisation.' I ended up on the other side of the estate, but I wasn't likely to die of exposure.

And this is where the romantic notion of nature comes into my writing. Nature is at its most beautiful when it looks as if it might kill me. I spend an evening wandering around the various paths in the Nethy Bridge forest (quite a few are closed off, as they reset the soil to bear the imprint of other visitors, tramping the wilderness). There are houses in the woods. I feel like I am at the edge of civilisation. Humans are retreating, the trees are reclaiming the land and the grand designs of the twentieth century are slinking back into the woodland.

The grand green set out for the Highland Games, reputedly one of the oldest in Scotland, is like a last gasp of human resistance to the inevitable return of the Green Man. Even I can spot how the valley has been ground out by a glacier, thousands of years ago, providing a flat, wet expanse for the trees to grow. I hunch down, pretending I am a neolithic man. I bet this landscape hasn't changed for thousands of years...

"Here, in the water, you can spot the remains of the water mill. You know, a century ago, this was like a factory, a tree factory. Haven't you noticed the regularity of the trees? And this was all grazing land, too. None of the trees are thick enough to be that old..."

Thomas Hobbins takes a ride... I leave Nethy Bridge...

Thomas Hobbins made my legs ache just by watching his Land's End. Admittedly, he spends most of the performance cycling - bringing back memories of the route between Nethy Bridge and Aviemore - pausing only in recollection of idyllic childhood adventures. But the energy he brings to the story, and his natural charisma, makes the mix and match of Lord of the Rings and a spontaneous attempt to cycle from Land's End to John O'Groats ('is he a giant?' ponders Hobbins) both charming and resonant.

The simple set - a signpost and a bike fixed on a stand - is evocative of Hobbins' themes: the sense of freedom and excitement, and the loneliness and exhaustion, that come with an open road. Unlike my trip from Nethy Bridge, Hobbins' journey was spontaneous and accompanied. While I spent much of the time staring out at the surrounding countryside, before arriving in an Aviemore that feels more like a seaside resort than a lonely outpost in the Highlands, Hobbins was in earnest conversation with his travelling companion (the Sam to his Frodo, in the extended comparisons to the hobbits quest to Mordor).

Hobbins highlights his own impulsive enthusiasm - the story begins with a flashback to childhood, when LotR inspired him to cycle off to the local power station, with only a bottle of fizz and a packet of Monster Munch for rations - and the tensions of travelling long distances with a close friend. His honesty about his lack of preparation, and the conflicts between the duo, is disarming. His rendition of Blackberry Way - a song that bears resemblance to The Beatles' Penny Lane but of a darker bent - captures both the hopelessness of the long distance journey and the vague sense of togetherness that it encourages.

The constant cycling - Hobbins makes his hour long monologue into an act of endurance by whizzing the wheels around as he talks - provides a humming soundtrack to the episodic dramas. When the lights dim - the dynamic duo get lost at night - the buzz of the wheels is sinister. When he scoots into John O'Groats, it becomes triumphant. Yet all the way through the bike does not move - a startling symbol of the ambiguity of travel: however far we go, somethings never change...

It is as if Hobbins is in flight from himself, but unable to escape...

The train that went past me, an old vintage steam engine, faster than my cycle over uneven ground....

A Visual Journey Through the Forest At Nethy Bridge (Chapter 7.2)

Giants in the Forest Chapter 7.1 At Nethy Bridge

I arrive at Nethy Bridge in the late afternoon. I am staying in a bed and breakfast - although it turns out that I am the only occupant in the building and end up with a house all to myself. I resist the temptation to spend the entire evening in the bath, and stroll through the forest to the main part of the village.

It is small, but has a large public green, a hotel that doubles as the bar and a newsagent that doubles as the supermarket. Since the cash machine is out of order, I decide against a mad spending spree, and have a modest supper.

I sit outside the pub. It is a beautiful evening and a group of motorbike tourists are across the table from me. I try not to listen to their conversations, but find that I don't have an internet connection. I am forced to be sociable.

During this trip, I have not spoken to many people, apart from those whom I have met in connection with the Giants. I've been enjoying the solitude, the combination of sleep and reading on the trains. Human conversation, I assume, is something that I miss in the city because I am too busy on the internet. However, since arriving at Aberdeen (when I managed to snatch a few minutes on the computer in a cafe), I have not had an internet connection. I keep using my phone for emergencies (that is, a desperate look at Google Maps). This time out of the virtual world has not led to more live interaction.

It is one of the ironies that Nethy Bridge - pretty much the furthest point north on this mission - was the worst place for getting an internet connection. I think I just about managed to see the map back to the train station before I lost connection forever. It is ironic, because the village has completely linked up to the net. It has a website that is trying to write the history of every single building in the area.

(Tomorrow, I think I work out why this website is so complete. I am about to discover a great deal more about Nethy and environs than I expect).

The single main road is bounded on one side by a small forest - I'd photograph it, but there are houses dotted out between the trees, and I decide to respect their privacy. As the night comes in, and I stroll back to the bed and breakfast, I do a traditional 'getting lost in about half an acre of woodland' routine. I spend quite a bit of time looking at the large open grassland, which was laid out for the Highland Games.

Abernethy Highland Games is rumoured to be one of the oldest continuous Games in Scotland. I find out that these were instituted in the aftermath of World War II - at least in their modern format - and seem to have arrived at the same time as the Edinburgh Festival. These days, they are fairly structured, a mixture of music and events, with professional contestants arriving for 'The Heavies' (those games most associated with the Highlands).

Of course, the Games are a pull for tourists, but their timing makes me wonder whether the campaign to introduce them was more about a reiteration of local community. The participants for the Heavy games travel about between Games, and there are clear circuits through the summer. Abernethy's Games also host a clan gathering, and the need for a large open space has effectively defined the shape of the village. Nethy Bridge itself might have held onto its existence because of the Games - the space is a grand area for children to use, and it gives definition to the area.

Giants in the Forest, Chapter 7: Carrbridge to Nethy Bridge

Sitting in the late September sunshine (itself a mere memory of the blazing glory of July), tending to my damaged

leg, I ponder whether my cycle to Nethy Bridge might be the last great bike journey of the VileArts. Ironically, the trip between Carrbridge and Nethy was one of the most inspiring routes on my search for The Giants in the Forest. It might have been all main roads (and roads that I was warned to keep away from), but it passed through some of the sort of scenery that is used whenever Visit Scotland is trying to persuade Americans to come out to the Highlands.

There is one pleasure in using Google Maps - the suggested time for a trip is always generous and when I came over the hill into the small village of Nethy Bridge, I felt as if I had beaten the clock. Against this, there are the problems of having no signal and not being able to check my location, and the inevitable 'which way is north?' debate. At Carrbridge, I spent half an hour trying to work out which direction to point the bike.

Carrbridge itself is a small village, ideal for a quick dip in the river, beneath the titular bridge. Large numbers of school children eyed me suspiciously as I rode up and down the main road, trying to find a road-sign. Eventually, I work out west, and scoot alongside the river Dulnain, downhill and the road drives through the middle of forest. It's warm, another cyclist powers past me, the woods give me cover from the sun and I feel dynamic. Reaching the big road at the bottom of the hill - and the distance to Nethy Bridge seems to increase with every signpost, I make a turn to the left, and whizz back east. I can now look back at my path downhill - and the apparent forest is now reduced to a few lines of trees on the hillside.


View Larger Map

My sense of perspective is very skewed. But this is the Cairngorms National Park area, a place of extreme natural beauty. Doing the usual, and dutiful, scan of the internet, I realise that the bridge that I have left behind is the oldest stone bridge in Scotland but, apart from a spat with the BBC over inaccurate reporting of the weather, this area is not marked by the battles that I kept finding in the Borders.

I imagine, rather sentimentally, than the breath-taking vistas have a habit of distracting invading armies. I worry that the preponderance of road-side attraction involving ospreys might lead to a sudden attack of diving bombing birds of prey. But this is the most peaceful stretch of road - I don't see a car until I get to Boat of Garten. At one point, I see a cow having a sleep in a shed. I am really out in the countryside.

I am sure I can hear a steam train. It must be my imagination. I think grand thoughts about how things probably haven't changed here in thousands of years. Then I think that someone built a bridge, someone built a road... maybe things haven't changed in fifty years, then. I keep pushing myself up the hills, resisting the temptation to get off and stare into the distance, or poke around at the power station that appears, suddenly, on the crest of a small hillock. I turn, and find trees all around me. The forests look well-mannered, tended. I cycle onwards.