Craig Varr

Craig Varr is a truncated spur - that is a ridge cut off by the glaciers of the last ice age that finished about 10,000 years ago. The result of the ice erosion is a cliff close to Kinloch Rannoch and a ridge that leads northeast to Beinn a’ Chuallaich. The rocks of the steep southern side are quite crumbly especially near the summit and loose further down which makes rock climbing a little hazardous.

Craig Varr viewed through the arch of the bridge at Kinloch Rannoch.

You can walk up to the top of the cliffs from Browns Garage and Falls Cottage past the hydro scheme turbine house and then zig-zagging until you emerge from the birch trees onto open moorland. Alternatively you can walk up the track known as the Millennium track which goes in a loop from east of the former outdoor centre eventually finishing slightly west of Brown’s garage.

Once out of the trees the path leads to a wooden bridge where, in winter, spectacular icicles cling to the rocks and on eastwards to Craig Varr. It follows a dyke towards the summit and the final section is a steep climb to the cairn and fallen tree the mark the top.

In the lower wooded section of the walk you may well encounter typical garden birds such as - robin, wren, blackbird, song thrush, blue tit, great tit, chaffinch, goldfinch and jackdaws. In the higher birch wood there may be redstart, Wood warblers, tree creeper, nut hatches, willow warblers and chiff chaffs, all depending on the time of the year. It winter there could also be woodcock. In winter when the rowan berries are still available the winter thrushes (redwings and fieldfares) move in flocks from tree to tree.

Once on the moorland the cast of birds is different - meadow pipits do their parachuting display flights; a wheatear may flash its disappearing white rump or sit on a rock and sing; ravens may attract attention with their guttural croaking calls and aerobatics; there may be a gaggle of crows and the calls or drumming of snipe. Occasionally a Merlin hunts a meadow pipit in life or death twisting pursuit.

When you get to the summit far below in amongst the deer in the Innerhadden deer farm are dots which are mixed common gulls and black-headed gulls. In winter there will be greylag geese and Canada geese there too.

Dunalastair Water, Schiehallion and the River Tummel

From the summit of Craig Varr the views are spectacular. Look south to Schiehallion, west to Loch Rannoch and Glencoe, east to Dunalastair Water and Loch Tummel and north to Beinn a’ Chuallaich.

Kinloch Rannoch and Loch Rannoch

There is a cairn the height of a tall person and a fallen tree trunk with a rosette of roots. The trunk makes a good place to have your coffee and contemplate the vistas. The trees on the ridge are bent by the west wind, their growth responding to its irresistible Atlantic force.

Larches bending to the force of the west wind on the summit of Craig a Varr

The wind is sometimes strong enough to lean into and imagine taking off. If you need shelter drop down a little to the east.

The summit allows you to look down on the model village of Kinloch Rannoch and across to white Bunrannoch House which was once a sanatorium with a balcony for TB patients. You can see the bridge over the Tummel and the dam. You can see the Equestrian Centre and Deer Farm. You can look across the Glen to the ‘Sleeping Giant’ and see the ‘grand houses’ - Innerhadden, Craig Moor, West Tempar - all former hunting lodges, each estate had one. Many more humble houses are visible too including my own.

Craig Varr - A description

There you are, on the summit of Craig Varr looking down on the lime green, easily seen, spring bursting birches creeping like an army up the slopes. Below the two-part song of the wood warbler rises to the ear. Far below redstarts are nesting and on the moorland snipe call and drum with their curious otherworldly tail feather sounding as they dive erratically through champagne air. A line of hinds turret the ridge then file off like pheromone driven ants into the distance. The last of the plaintive calling whooper swans V their way in magestic grace north west to Iceland while most greylags head north east to Siberia. A few geese remain and fly hither and thither in honking jet fighter pair formation. Small flights of mallards consist of several drakes in abusive pursuit of a duck. Spring announces itself with curlews, oystercatchers and lapwings. Perhaps most evocative of all is the sometimes-seen cuckoo whose call reverberates around the strath like an auditory balm. Spring promises much and it does not disappoint.

There you are, where the heat bounces off the rock on the summit of Craig Varr on which the summer sun pulsates. You flop on the dry but verdant grass next to the summit cairn and looking west, the blue benevolence of Loch Rannoch sparkles in the rays. To the east three buzzards circle lazily with occasional languid beats and mew to each other whilst ever seeking food with powerful eyes. Around about the flowers bloom - tormentil, marsh lousewort, milkwort and insectivorous butterwort, its nodding purple flower belying the menace of its slippery insect engulfing leaf rosette. The deep guttural grunt of a raven reveals our largest crow watching from a rock on the ridge. Far below the village of Kinloch Rannoch is laid out like a toy and vehicles can be seen creeping in their petty pace along pencil thin roads. The Tummel snakes its tree-strewn way to the east and there lies the careless outline of Dunalastair Water nestling beneath Schiehallion’s breeze-caressed cone.

There you are, where the west wind is king on the summit of Craig Varr. The trees are bent to the will of the west wind. They are being stripped by an aeolian knife with a blade honed in the ocean. The dead leaf chaos dances and swirls, captive and helpless. It is a wind full of the Atlantic that takes no prisoners. With arrogant ease it scours Glen Etive and crosses Rannoch Moor with undiminished vigour before whipping the white horses on Loch Rannoch to a frenzied gallop. It is funnelled between the Sleeping Giant and Craig Varr, vibrant with the memory of sea spray. Open your coat to form wings on the summit and you can lean at crazy angles into the wind like a weathercock pointing west. Your eyes stream but you can still see the elongate expanse of Loch Rannoch, a dark grey form flecked with white where air and water battle it out. Open your mouth and your cheeks bulge ready to engulf the next nail-sharp shower that hurtles up the loch. Zephyrus is roaring with zest and verve and must be heeded.

There you are, on the summit of Craig Varr. You got there with some difficulty through frictionless snow, knee-deep on steep and slippery slopes where the path has vanished. Your lungs rebel at the cold air; your hair stiffens with ice. There is little life visible but the winter sun glints bravely off the ice crystals and hoar frost scintillates on the slumbering twigs in an incandescent spectral symphony that leaves man’s artistic undertakings to be pitied. The sky is a pale blue and paints the loch with pastel tints; the distant hills are gleaming white jagged teeth biting at the white fluffy clouds. Even now a raven calls to Odin and geese may chevron the air but the small birds are gone and the voles shelter in their tunnels beneath the snow. To the east Dunalastair Water wears a grey rim of contoured ice and Schiehallion adorns the horizon with its perfect snow clad peak. The air is still, there is a winter high, the sky is clear and night will soon bring the cold iron grip of glittering star encrusted darkness as the remaining warmth flees to space.

Evening on the summit of Craig Varr

I was sitting in my head on Craig Varr smelling America as it drifted on the west wind across the Atlantic, up Glen Etive and over Rannoch Moor.

The ravens stabbed the rain laden breeze with guttural voices and fell chaotically in total control, caressing the air with plumose fingers until it surrendered. Down below the twilight twinkled with village lights stretching and yawning to welcome the night. Eastwards I look down on gun metal grey Dunalastair Water with its clandestine subaquatic river channels, drowned bushes, walls and fields. Here, for once, man has increased biodiversity and created a nature reserve in all but name. Schiehallion towers to the south east, pyramidal enough even from this angle and ghostly grey in the falling light. A bark rings out, emanating not from a dog but from a roe buck drunk on the essence of summer evening. Red deer are silhouetted toys on the ridge.

In the surrounding hills eagles see forever to guide their swooping talon grasp of death to the hare and ptarmigan. Peregrines stoop from space on unconscious fleet, but not fleet enough, winged prey.

In vertiginous depths the Tummel snakes through fields and ‘trout rings’ join the ripples through which ospreys peer in search of prey. Sinuous waters hide wraith-like otters.

From the dark depths of premature night-shrouded woods a tawny owl unleashes its eerie quavering hoot of nocturnal mastery. Small birds shift uneasily in the bushes and mice quiver alertly in optimistic hope.

To the west, Loch Rannoch points, silver in the dying rays, at Rannoch Moor and Glencoe, dimly visible beyond. Its dark fringes speak of ancient forests resonant with oh so recent wolf howls, still echoing in the mind. The woods are black and nature’s memories tingle up the spine and raise the hackles.

Over the trees the woodcock rodes and in the marsh the snipe drum. They sound out the Atlantic air with their stiff feathers to make territorial statements. Their sounds are weirdly wonderful and literally vibrant.

Look up, the clouds separate, moonlight veneers the land and walks on other-worldly-feet across the water. The inky cloud-revealed sky grows stars minute by minute until it is night and all is different. Where did the day go? The day, where all was normal and man thought he understood. The night grasps the atavistic soul and shakes it and we are back in our place, small, wondering, fearful, ignorant, awestruck by immensity.

This is Rannoch, primeval still.