The Place Where Mum’s Tree Isn’t

This is a tale of a Winter’s walk, but the story starts several weeks ago when, upon my return from the previous trip to the Highlands, grandma asked me if I had brought her any heather. She wanted it to hang next to the picture of mum’s tree, as the piece I had brought her back last time had just fallen apart when she moved it. 

Actually, I could say that this all begins much longer ago, before I was born in fact. My mum and her friends were keen hostellers, and they had lots of adventures hiking from place to place. One of these trips was to a hostel in the middle of nowhere, by a loch surrounded by mountains in the Highland of Scotland. 

Years later, for what would have been mum’s 40th birthday her friends went back, and dedicated a tree to her memory. A photo of the little rowan by the loch has been hung by my grandma’s chair ever since, a story of a fairytale faraway place, a memory of mum’s adventures, and a symbol of the love of friends. 

In the summer of 2015 I made my first journey there. Not accessible by road, the closest transport is to a little train station, just over a mile away. I remember such a joy at finding the little tree, pushing the moss aside and finding the stone hidden below in the undergrowth. A simple mountain pebble, and her name long since worn away; I wrote it back on with my sharpie. 

Almost two years later I found myself back there on my bike. In early April this time, and the Scottish winter still holding on, not yet ready to cede to the spring. I was headed to the end of the nearest road, some ten miles away, to catch the train to the hostel with Heimlich*, when I encountered two cycle tourists going the opposite way, to take the pass between the mountains. Alistair and Simon had spent the start of that day crossing some gnarly tracks on their mountain bikes, and their enthusiasm for the trail ahead was all I needed to change my mind and join them on their route to the hostel. I still regard this as a big turning point in my life, figuratively as well as literally, a full change of direction to something new. That mountain pass turned out to be one of the most epic routes I’ve ever ridden. 

That evening, the hostel was full. Everyone present had achieved something by getting there, and that feeling of fullness was one of fulfilment also. There were us cyclists, the three of us having made it through the mountains, despite a split in Alistair’s tyre! Others had walked in, a man had left his party due to an injury, and so was taking refuge in the hostel for the night, and there were some avid munro walkers, fresh from the hills. Quietly sat to one side of the room was Victoria, who had walked in too, but from John O’Groats. It had taken her one month, but she was only at the beginning of her journey, not just walking to Land’s End, but summiting the highest points of every county. It felt like an incredible sharing of stories that evening, all of us gathered together in the cosy middle room of the single-storey hostel, drying out from the soggy day, sharing the warmth of the fire and good conversation. 

Mum’s tree seemed to be the last one standing on the bank. A local stag had adopted the hostel as his territory, and seemed to enjoy nibbling at the trees, according to Jan, the hostel warden. Unlikely then, that it still was there at all! But I found it, and once again wrote ‘Mum’ onto the stone with my sharpie. 

Winter Solstice, 2019

Two and a half years have passed since my last visit. At the very instant my grandma asked me that question, “did you bring me any heather?” I could feel my adventure-mind setting to work on a plan. I was going back to that loch, and this time I was taking the children. 

They did incredibly. They always do, and I’m aware that I push them to their limits at times! We didn’t catch the train in. We didn’t take bikes. No, they hiked every step of the way from the road. We took the mountain pass on foot, the same one I’d taken on my bike years before, and we carried our overnight gear and food in our packs. 

The hike is beautiful. In every direction there are mountains. Sculpted into perfectly different shapes, near and far, and all with snow on their tops. The path brings us up to the snow line, and the children throw handfuls as we walk. Evie has joined us for this adventure. For both her and the children, it’s the biggest walk they have ever done, and I feel privileged to be sharing it with them. After some steady hours of walking, ascending, crossing streams, the loch comes into view, as beautiful as I remember it to be. We reach the hostel with daylight to spare. It’s not as busy as my last visit, but there are a few hillwalkers who have completed their days and have also arrived at this haven in the hills. The stag is there to greet us too, although he shyly wanders behind the small building as we approach. 

Later that evening, when all have gone to bed, I browse the bookshelf, hoping for a book with pretty mountain illustrations to capture my thoughts before I sleep. I find none that take my interest, and am about to give up and retire to bed as I pick up one last one. “Highpoints” sits as quietly and unassumingly as its author had sat at the side of that room years before. It takes me a moment to realise what I am holding. 

“A 3,500-mile walk from John O’Groats to Land’s End via the highest point of every county,”

reads the description inside the front cover. I look back at the author’s name, and feel an excited, warm shiver. Victoria Morris. The same Victoria I had met years before! Not only has she completed her epic journey, she has written it into a book! Leafing through the pages in my excitement, I look to see if she has included her stay at the hostel. I turn a page, and my name jumps out at me! There we are, those who all came together that evening in 2017, in this very hostel, our names and tales recalled in Victoria’s words. 

We left to catch the train the next morning. Of course, I had looked for mum’s tree as soon as we had arrived the day before and, as I had suspected, there was no sign of it; I presume the deer have nibbled it to nothing. 

However, it is the most powerful and potent absence of a tree that I know. It isn’t there, but the space that it was in is filled with stories, of adventure and achievements, of family and friendships, and of people being brought together. Old stories, new stories and, I’m quite certain, ones that are yet to be made. The place where mum’s tree isn’t remains a place that I feel deeply connected to, and I love how that remote spot by a loch is home to this hidden tapestry of tales that all weave together.

*Heimlich is my trusty steed and two-wheeled adventure companion, a beautiful Trek 520 touring bike.