Thanks for taking the time to visit my JustGiving page. For those of you who have just given, thank you and here is the tale.
The Silver Boot is a ride by invitation only with no starting place and only a finish date, place and time. A point scoring system, for horses out, days/nights out, passes crossed and distance/speed, awards points towards the achievement of the coveted trophy. It is a test of people, equines, and personal achievement.
Things just seemed to fall into place. First there was the promise to myself and Moray that I would ride a long ride in his memory for cancer charities, there were the tales of endurance on the mystical “Silver Boot Ride”, then the shocking news of Greg’s brain tumour and the sheer impotence of being useless in the face of these evil cancers that attack the young.
The casual discussion about the Siver Boot ride late in 2010, seemed almost unreal, Claire Garnett had taken part three times and won twice, as to the rest of us, how little did we know! Early meetings and route planning seemed to do little to prepare us for the brown squiggles and blue tracery on the maps and their relationship with the land we were to travel. Basics like one or two of the climbs and descents made some impression but I believed that grit and my horse would see me through these days if nothing else did. The logistics of travelling food for the horses and suitable accommodation seemed to be more of an issue so we were surprised to find that this resolved itself quite quickly. That was it. We had the route, the plan and the team…. Team Natives to Boot.
Claire was our mentor and responsible adult having been there before, she rode Strathmore Nairn, the pony who had moved in to follow in the giant footsteps of his predecessor Riannoch. Then there was Alison Downing, well known on the endurance circuit with her lean, fighting fit Exmoor, Heathpool Pendragon. “P” as he is affectionately known, had just completed the first of his Silver Thistle Qualifiers. Kathy Tussler another Lothian SERC member with Tryggur the Icelandic horse, often noted for his stylish bunches on pleasure rides and jaunty gait, finally managed to secure animal sitters and joined us. Then there was me. Just me and Jura of Melfort, my highland X TB who was still quite naïve and full of wonder thanks to a gentle and sheltered upbringing, it was one of his many charms. He was also Barefoot. Sages shook their heads and stroked their chins… but I intended to keep him that way.
So there we were, the pages flipped by on the calendar and last minute reccies, internet research, all were behind us and we were on our way north to our first point on the map. Glenmarkie Riding Centre and Spa. In my boot were my worldly possessions for the next week. One trouser leg, stitched into a bedroll containing, wash kit, grooming kit, change of tops and underwear. The stowaway contained waterproofs and mosquito head net, neither of which I wanted to unpack and a small pouch to the front contained meagre provisions for the following morning. And one other small item…. a pair of new Barefoot Horseshoes all the way from Norway. These novel shoes or jogging boots as they called them were more like trainers with their flexible rubber sole and trainer style fabric upper. Brainchild of Equine Fusion, the theory was that they would allow the barefoot hoof to perform and flex as normal but protect from sharp stones and excessive wear. Our ride would be their testing ground.
The ponies and horses (Icelandics are all horses despite their size!) introduced themselves to each other, Tryggur to P, and Jura to everyone… prancing and dancing to show off their finer points they settled to graze in the afternoon sun. Then Nairn arrived, within half an hour he was in solitary with an ASBO to his name… we just hoped that things would settle down after a day on the trail. The hospitality at Glenmarkie was superb, good food and comfortable rooms We were surprised to learn that it was a popular “hen party” spot with riding on offer, massage and pamper sessions and superb surroundings. We slept well and rose refreshed and excited about the day ahead. Our equine partners came in eagerly and fed well. It was apparent that already Jura had formed a strong bond with Tryggur and worshipped him. We tacked up and prepared to leave with the team photo shoot showing some happily apprehensive faces, eager for the off. The great adventure had begun.
The track was easy and well defined, Claire and Kathy were principal pathfinders with their 1:50 OS maps, with Alison and I carrying a detailed synopsis of the route on 1:25 scale. Amiable tracks and cheerful banter as we all settled into the rhythm we hoped to adopt for the week to come. Jura danced a bit and P was treating it like a 30K endurance ride and desperately trying to jiggle a trot out of Alison. It was then that I spotted them… striped underpants on the track, then a brush.. then … I looked up to see the last of Alison’s rucksack contents tumble to the ground. With shrieks of laughter she disembarked and we set off to retrieve the contents which were strewn over Glen Isla like a Chinese laundry on Monday morning. Whether P just decided that Alison had not got a clue how to ride an endurance ride, we will never know but he took off in full endurance mode and charged down first one lane then another searching for the ride markers he knew should be there. At last we were all reunited and we continued our steady progress towards the lunch break at Glen Prosen.
Glen Prosen is a pretty scattering of houses and a whitewashed kirk on the banks of a River where the ponies grazed contentedly. Heads down with tack off, they wandered along the stream, till the cry went up…. Tryggur had decided to take a dip in the river to cool off. No harm done, we set off again up the Ministers Path, which had been trod by ecclesiastic ponies over the centuries as they carried the gospel between Glen Clova and Glen Prosen. The descent into Glen Clova was somewhat marred by the insurmountable deer fence around the woods through which the path ran but we regrouped and skirted the woods to walk the last couple of kilometres to the Glen Clova Hotel. Here the ponies had grazing in a cattle field of immense proportions and P had to overcome his fear of cows to secure the furthest corner, with his friends fending of any inquisitive calves, to ease his anxiety. If we had not seen it with our own eyes, we would not have believed it, but Jura shooed the calves any time they came to close to P. Nairn made his peace with the rest of the team and all was sweetness and light as we contemplated the days ride.
Morning dawned, soporific ponies grazing, and the glen silent. Too silent! Not a soul in the kitchens and reception as we desperately tried to access the ponies food and tack to give them an hour at least off the grass after a night on the binge in their verdant pasture. After a few hurried calls the hotel sprang into life and we breakfasted well, tacked up and prepared for the task we had all been dreading. Glen Clova lies at the foot of a sheer mountain face, atop of which lay the dark waters of Loch Brandy and our route to Inveresk and Loch Lee. To scale the first obstacle we had to negotiate a near vertical path/stairway of sharp granite rubble. The heather to either side concealed boulders and uneven ground confining our footsteps to the cruel path. Our first test.
Claire and Nairn led the way with Tryggur and Jura behind. P brought up the rear picking up the stragglers. Jura’s boots underwent the most punishing of trials as he scrambled and clambered over the rocky path, I struggled to maintain any kind of decorum as I clung to the stirrup and wheezed and puffed my way up. Pauses became more frequent and not only from us but from the ponies who found it as challenging as we did. It seemed that the summit was perpetually just over the crest ahead, but still it rolled on and on. Finally with a wheeze and groan we were there, looking onto the inky depths of Loch Brandy. We paused and ate our snack looking down on the world below, it seemed a long way away in time and distance now. The reverie was broken by a shrill cry .. “Jura!”… I turned to see Jura knees buckled and about to go down with his saddle on for a well deserved roll. The look of surprise on his face as four women descended on him, yelling, shouting and waving their arms was a picture. No harm done. We continued to the summit of Green Hill (610m) then along the ridge following a grassy path and admiring the view. Here, the first lesson was learned. The path was too easy, we were chatting and trotting for the first time and missed the turning that would take us to Invermark. Backtracking we located the tiny passage through the heather and over the burns by a series of small marker cairns to the head of the descent into Glenesk.
To date the weather had been good if slightly cool on the tops of the hills but the sun came out and wind dropped as we led the ponies down on foot, searching for the faintest of indications of a track leading over the steep and boggy descent. It would seem that there was some doubt as to who had priority on the vestigial track between Jura and I and, with a sickening crunch I misplaced my footing and fell, wrenching my ankle in the process… just what we did not need. Mounting the remainder of the scary clamber down the mountain we made the tarmac road leading to our final destination that day. The welcoming, trig and tidy Kirkton, home to Anne and Fred our hosts for the night. The blue waters of Loch Lee sparkled and excited neighs from two of Anne’s ponies welcomed our boys to their sunny field. They rolled and cantered round happy to be at liberty again.
Sipping tea on the patio with my ankle undergoing the tender ministrations of our team Matron, Kathy, the sun lifted our spirits and the hospitality warmed our hearts. Despite my rapidly bruising and swollen ankle, I felt a sense of rising optimism and an eagerness for the day to come.
The dawning showed a different day from the one we bade good night on. The hills were shrouded in cloud and a steadily increasing drizzle was fast turning to rain. All offers of payment were refused by our generous hosts who insisted that any payment was to be made to the cancer charities we rode for, we mounted and set off in the face of a steady downpour. The first leg of our ride was to Tarfside and from there heading north to the Firmouth road to Aboyne. The rain abated somewhat but the temperature had dropped dramatically and we had yet to ascend into the cloud cover.
I should say at this point that both riders and horses had settled into a routine which was to hold strictly for the next few days. Rising and feeding the horses. Breakfast and map reading, tack up and set off with strict breaks observed. The terrain permitted little more than walk with periods in and out of the saddle to relieve both horse and rider. Morning and afternoon break was observed standing with the horse and munching on chosen snacks. Lunch was a leisurely affair with riders and ponies untacked and at liberty. Nairn’s second ASBO being earned in one of these breaks when he made off with Claire’s lunch! P was the self appointed chief scout and took the “herd” to water, then they would return to mug us for lunch or anything they could scrounge. Sometimes they would snooze or wander off, heads together, grazing (particularly Jura and Tryggur who were inseparable). P even managed to find a spa and returned to us covered in bog and minus his headcollar! The approach to the evening venue, we made on foot and after food a day plan for the next day would be made. It all seemed so natural even after two days.
The slow ascent from Tarfside was into the cloud as we passed the signpost for the parting of the ways (Firmouth road to the left and Fungal road to the right). With each step up the climb to the summit of Tampie the weather deteriorated and the rain turned to sleet. Visibilty reduced and we crossed a boundary fence on the trail northwards. By now we were cold, heads bowed against the storm and our hands frozen to the reins. The path turned into a trail and as we crested the head of the valley the skies lifted sufficiently to show an unexpected sight. The valley below us was not the one we anticipated. We had taken a wrong turning somewhere in the storm.
Pathfinder General, Claire and her Aide Kathy tried to estimate our current position but to confirm it we were agreed to decend and consult the Glen’s tenants. Passing the beautifully restored Castle Ballochan and silent deserted farms we could see finally where we were. We had traversed the hills between the Firmouth road and the Fungal Road. Continuing on the Fungal Road would have been the obvious choice but for a warning that the road had been washed out. We continued doggedly to Glen Cat where a friendly farmer showed us a path across his land along a grassy track which connected to safe section of the Mounth road. This proved to be the loveliest part of our ride, descending to Aboyne along a magical woodland path. The sun warmed our frozen hands and spirits rose again. Our 20k ride had grown to 37k and take 9 hours. Never had a B&B looked as welcoming as Julia Chambers did that night!
Thankfully the next day was to be a shorter one but not without challenges. We made our way from the forest of Glen Tanar to the Mounth road which gave us one of our lovliest tracks winding almost invisibly over the heather following a gradual rise up the contours of the hills. Crossing the bogs via the markers showed us the treachery of a misplaced footstep. These paths must have claimed their victims in times gone by. The weather was warm and sunny as we rode into a busy Ballater, providing another attraction for the milling tourists. We were in good spirit as were our ponies. Tryggur had adopted his “Matron” role and taught Jura much on the trail, P had fulfilled his “scout” duties leading us over the more terrifying hazards on the trail. Nairn had fulfilled his duties as the “Colonel” stolidly marching on and Jura had kept everyone amused with his “Fotherington-Tomas” role, falling over his own feet as he watched the clouds pass or birds on the wing. The little hostel rang with light laughter.
Day Five was a more serious affair. We had to re-route as one landowner had blocked all access and the ride would be a long one. 48k lay ahead to make Mar Lodge by evening. We rose and breakfasted at 5.30 am by 6.30 we were on our way. The tracks were typical of those that we had ridden to date, rough Land Rover tracks of harsh gritty and stony composition, they took their toll on all the horses in the Silver Boot. They were beginning to show signs of tender feet and finding grass to ride on became more important. Our prayers were answered when we saw the paths change to sandy roads. Balmoral Estate was made for horses. The tracks and tethering posts in sheltered corries told us of the generations of shooting ponies, traps and riding horses who had used and still use these roads. There was almost an audible sigh of relief from our boys as they were able to stretch their legs and trot out for a good distance. The sandy tracks turned into tarmac as we reached the small country that is Balmoral, postie buzzed by and monogrammed estate workers busied about their tasks. The RAF gave us a fly past…. Rather too low, in fact much, much too low. As the roar turned to a scream the stolid ponies took fright and Tryggur, the ever steady Matron took flight depositing poor Kathy on the ground. Jura remained frozen and trembling while P and Nairn finally responded to their riders calming hands. We phoned Grampian police to advise them of a near catastrophe and ask them to prevent the return fly past. The RAF did not even seem to know of any air craft movements in that area… so we were left to wonder if Gaddafi was mounting an attack on the Queens estate!
Invercauld estate gave us a relaxing grassy ride along the banks of the Dee. Braemar on our left and on to Mar Lodge. We had by now seen some of our fellow competitors and followed their tracks, but we were exhausted after 10½ hours and close to exhaustion. The boys still managed a roll and a canter in the lush green field they had to themselves. We just hoped that it would prepare them for our final day, another gruelling 40k.
Glen Tilt is as dramatic and beautiful a place as you could hope to see. The winding Tilt is a broad shallow river but the gorge narrows and steepens to a precipitous angle. The path is walked by hikers but our stoic ponies are a different matter. We could not believe how casually they took it, we looked down to the now tumbling rapids below and stared fixedly at the narrow path, they surefootedly negotiated the crumbling path and passed scary red hikers with monstrous carapaces covering their rucksacks, taking us safely to the Falls of Tarf and a surprisingly easy ford of the confluences. Lunch was joyous and the ponies rolled in uinison after chief scout P took them to water.
Only 20 more kilometres to go. We did not know that 20 k could be that painful. The boys were tired, at each resting point or map consultation, he would look at me as we resumed with a pathetic, weary eye. My spirits were wearing thin and I felt like the worst person in the world as I refused to acknowledge his question. “Can we stop mum? I’m tired” With the Rally Field in sight we mounted again to cross the line. Sunshine and cheers greeted our arrival but all we wanted to do was to lay our boys on the green grass and thank them.
It was a pleasing sight to see Tryggur and Jura flat out snoring their heads off just 20 minutes later, I felt relieved and guilty at the same time. The team drew together and hugged each other. We had done it! Personal challenges met, funds raised, promises kept and above all our brave boys bound close to us in one more way. Third place in the competition looked like a little glace cherry on the top of our cupcake…
special thanks to our knight in his white charger - Roger
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