Great vertical slabs of granite loom 150 metres above the water, their gunmetal-grey walls reflected in the loch’s stillness. The only sound comes from a waterfall tumbling down the rocks—until the writer lowers a foot into the shallows and fails to stifle an almighty yelp. It’s October in the Cairngorms, and the writer is about to take one of the wildest dips of their life. They have swum in the Baltic Sea and the lakes of western Sweden, but nothing has felt as invigorating and visceral as sliding into Coire an Lochain. This corrie pool, high above the Cairngorm ski station, sits at roughly the same height as the Lake District’s tallest peaks.
Its waters feed the Spey, used in some of the best single malts Scotland has to offer. The air is fresh but not bitter, the sun burning off the morning mist. It has taken two hours to reach the banks on foot: first following the well-marked path up to the summit of Cairn Lochan, then crossing an ankle-cracking boulder field before emerging onto the boggy ground around the water’s edge. The only company has been a pair of ptarmigan frightened out of the grass and the occasional jackdaw circling above.
As the writer strides through the shallows, the cold grips their legs like a vice. Vertigo sets in as they stare up at the cliffs, so they focus on breathing and opt for an ungainly flop forwards. The loch quickly deepens, and they find themselves swimming a breaststroke that couldn’t be more rudimentary. Breathe. Stroke. Kick. Breathe. Stroke. Kick. They last no more than five minutes. The cold has reached their core, so they heave themselves out, pull on layers with stiffening fingers and swig the sweet coffee brought in a flask.
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There’s something peculiarly satisfying about making such an effort for a swim that lasts barely longer than it takes to brew a cup of tea. But it’s the effort that makes the experience: the long walk, the absence of other people, the sheer scale of the cliffs and the knowledge of having reached somewhere few visitors will venture. In those five minutes, there’s no room in the writer’s head for anything beyond the water and the next breath. They shoulder the bag and head back towards the ski station, upping the pace as fog descends and Coire an Lochain disappears completely behind them.
A retreat for weary adventurers
The Cairngorms are a place that rewards effort. The writer has come to swim, hike and cycle, but has also arranged somewhere that offers ample opportunity to recover from all three. Their base is The Dell of Abernethy, a collection of self-catering properties in a restored forester’s lodge in the village of Nethy Bridge. It’s owned and run by Ross Cameron and his wife Polly. Ross suggested the expedition to Coire an Lochain, one of several local recommendations he has given. He knows these hills and forests intimately, and the writer suspects he also knows exactly how to ensure guests return with an appetite for everything The Dell has to offer.
After soaking bones in the bath and flicking through The Dell’s copy of a 1950s Cairngorms hiking guide, the writer lights the fire and connects a phone to the speakers. The soundtrack is a playlist called Woodland Wireless #31, curated by Polly, featuring an autumnal collection of folkie tracks from the likes of King Creosote and Bon Iver. With flames licking the firewood and music playing, it’s hard not to drift off. But there’s another of The Dell’s attractions to investigate, and this one involves pizza.
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Pizza, firelight, and Highland hospitality
The Gather Inn is the property’s own pop-up pub, open on Fridays from April until the end of October in a tipi on site. Ross stands behind the bar, pours a glass of red and asks about the day. “Andrew’s got a pizza on the go for you, so head outside.” Andrew runs Highland Slice, a travelling pizza oven that has been working with The Dell for the past few years.
What arrives is a crisp-based pizza loaded with haggis, prosciutto and apple chilli jam. After a day spent hauling across the Cairngorm plateau and plunging into near-freezing water, it’s precisely what is needed. There’s a particular pleasure in this combination of hard days and comfortable evenings. Food tastes better, the fire feels warmer and sleep comes more easily after hours outside.
Biking through ancient forests—and capercaillie
But the Cairngorms don’t just test endurance—they test patience. Ross has lent the writer a bike and plotted a figure-of-eight route through Abernethy Forest, the largest remaining area of ancient Caledonian woodland in Scotland. He’d mentioned that capercaillie, the enormous and increasingly rare woodland grouse, are notoriously difficult to spot. Yet an hour into the ride, a sign read: “There is a very aggressive male capercaillie ahead who has caused injuries. We advise you to turn around for your own safety.”
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Until then, the cycling has been glorious. Chaffinches and coal tits dart across the writer’s eyeline as they haul themselves up steep tracks and slide down gravel paths. Ancient trees crowd the trail, occasionally giving way to open stretches where the Cairngorms rise in the distance. It’s an extraordinary environment, a surviving fragment of the woodland that once covered vast swathes of the Highlands. Despite the warning, the writer pedals onwards towards the viewpoint Ross has recommended.
At the top, they stop for some water as a pair of walkers approach. “Did you see the capercaillie?” the writer asks. “We did,” they say. “But from far enough away that it didn’t attack.” The writer saddles up and makes their way back through the forest, eventually returning the bike to The Dell, where they bump into one of the staff. “It’s a good job you didn’t see it,” she says. “It really goes after bikes.”