Aberfeldy to Foulford Inn

Lord, grant that Marshal Wade
May, by thy mighty aid,
Victory bring.
May he sedition hush
And, like a torrent, rush
Rebellious Scots to crush.
God save the King.

General Wade built over 250 miles of road and 40 bridges in an effort to control the clans of the highlands and ward off future Jacobite rebellions. Plenty of my route so far has relied on these military foundations, but today almost all of my footsteps fell on his roads; whether just shallow depressions in the heather, wide channels though forestry or buried under the tarmac of the A822.

It started badly, after passing the hospital I was forced to sneak through someones driveway to get onto the hills. I was quickly enclosed within a maze of fields, clambering over fences to stay on what I hoped was the correct line. At one point the modern road was just the other side of a grassy field; the temptation was too much, and I was soon making easy progress on the tarmac.

The next off tarmac section went a little better, although I was once again returned to the road early by a huge boundary fence around the old gatehouse. This also put paid to finding the start of the next section through the forestry and I couldn't find any trace of the forestry tracks near the small enclosed loch. It was beginning to look like I would be spending all day on an A road and was feeling pretty sorry from myself when I spotted a tall slim stile leading into the forest.

Freed from the monotony of the A822 I was soon struggling with a vicious bog, escape routes blocked by massive deer fences and dense forestry. Tall reeds hid streams. Deep pools forced frustrating detours. I could see white clouds and open moorland in the distance, but they weren't getting any closer. Dark bog water found weaknesses in my boots as the rain worked on the rest.

Salvation came in another stile that lead onto the moorland. A subtle route led easily to ancient burial cairns. There is a certain knack to recognising the line of the now long abandoned road. After many miles of mistakes, I was beginning to think like the roadbuilders and could predict how they would deal with the many natural obstacles, then look for the faint traces of their presence.

The rest of the day was spent following the old road as it wandered off around the glen, always returning to the new modern road later on. There was a lovely section in heather next to a burbling stream. A section that climbed over the shoulder of a ridge, providing expansive views of the empty glen. The lonely hamlet of Amulree. A section over grouse moorland, ending with a simple stone bridge camouflaged by soft turf.

At Newton Bridge, the small stream is joined by the waters of the River Almond and the route enters the jaws of Sma' Glen. The road and river are squeezed into the narrow strip of flat ground at the bottom of the valley, overshadowed by rocky crags and scree. More ancient cairns and the grave of the legendary hero Ossian. Another climb to ford a burn and suddenly everything changes. The fading light of the day light up a landscape of rolling hills and wide open spaces. I have reached the lowlands, home of big skies and distant horizons.

The inn stands alone, a fitting end to a day spent away from villages and towns. I arrived in time for high tea and settled down to devour the rack of cakes in front of me.