I walk in the rain with all my belongings to the bothy. I step inside and instantly felt peaceful. A cosy space just for myself and my creativity to enjoy for a whole week.
I am struck by how much juniper surrounds the bothy. A plant unfamiliar to me having grown up on the west coast. I only recall seeing juniper near Dundreggan on the road to Inverness. I learn that, like many things, juniper is slowly on the decline.
The journey to and from the composting loo is a wild one. Everything is damp and twinkling with rain drops. I let the heather and juniper and birch tickle my shins and fingertips as I walk. Birds chirp and tweet, fluttering amongst the trees.
The wood burning stove heats the bothy beautifully. I decide to leave the shutters open in the bothy until all the light completely goes. I love seeing the tree silhouettes against a darkening sky in the last of the daylight.
I’ve stayed in remote mountain bothies before, the stone, draughty kind. Here this bothy feels luxurious. I choose to live by candlelight and firelight as much as possible. I already start to imagine what it will feel like when I’m back to Inverness where everything is available at the simple flick of a switch.
It is so peaceful. I can only hear the crackle of the fire or the tweet of a bird. I wait for the kettle to boil. I pour over maps and placenames, hesitant to leave the warm bothy and to venture outside. But I am so glad I do.
My days are full of meandering, roaming, reflecting. I feel quite at home going off the path and exploring. I’m called to slow down. I feel calm but alert. “Slowly I have found my way in,” (Shepherd 2011: 105).
The Glenmore Forest Park (2019) leaflet explains that “just a few miles south of Glenmore, Inshriach feels completely different. The forest here is quieter and more intimate.” As I am already familiar with Glenmore, I decide to spend my whole week in the Inshriach area and to see for myself. And it is.
On the Ainmean-Àite na h-Alba (2023) website, I look for the meaning behind the name Inshriach:
English: Inshriach
Gaelic: An Innis Riabhach = ‘the speckled island’
“Inshriach, ‘brindled field’, though the name now applies to a broad stretch of moor and forest. It may be that the brindled appearance came from exposed banks of fine sand here, showing white against pinewoods, heather, and lime-rich green patches,” (MacGregor 1993 cited in Ainmean-Àite na h-Alba 2023).
At the farm, I am offered gin to taste. Sweet and delicious. I come across green and blue berries on lichen encrusted juniper bushes on my way back to the bothy. I squish one between my fingers and instantly smell the aromatic and spicy fragrance. Feeling connected to plant and place. And so, my love affair with juniper begins.
On several mornings I see what The Complete Book of British Birds (1988: 246) describes as “roving tit flocks.” Groups of birds fluttering together looking for food. Great tit. Long tailed tit. Coal tit. Gold crest.
Naming is a way of knowing. A way of loving. Squirrel. Woodpecker. Treecreeper. Bullfinch. Pixie cup lichen. Cow berries. Blaeberry bushes. Scotch Broom.
At the Uath Lochans, bright light cascades through trees creating beautiful reflections. I am surrounded by carpets of lichens.
Everyday I see luminous, electric blue skies. Like highlighters or neon lights. A different blue to my familiar west coast. I cannot believe it.
vivid dreams and vibrant colours
trails of thought threads of dreams lines in the landscape
receive reflect repeat
walking watching wintering wandering wondering
walk photograph write film draw gather chop ignite cook eat tend rest listen
be see feel touch think wonder
process of living and dwelling looking and loving surrendering
A beautiful hike in the Invereshie and Inshriach National Nature Reserve. Heading up the path near Allt Ruadh and to the top of Creag Mhigeachaidh. Wandering through ancient Caledonian pine forest and up into the hills. Walking boots filled with snow.
Golden hour at this time of year is between 2.30 – 3.30pm. Each day I slowly venture down to the River Spey to bask in the golden sunlight. And every time I return to the bothy, I feel welcomed by the juniper.
I play with astrophotography, fumbling in the dark for settings and buttons. The stars aren’t like pins, they stretch and wiggle and dance in the night sky. I smile at the experimental and unpredictable nature of my photography. I realise that during my residency, I am being led by light. Initially nervous about the lack of daylight and many hours of darkness in January, I enjoy hunkering down and the cosyness of the bothy at night. I let the light guide my activity. How far I walk. Where I go. I run towards golden light on trees. Chasing the light. Soaking it up before it’s gone until the next day. I enjoy the firelight, the flames, the sparks. I step outside and see moonlight and often starlight, and possibly planet light.
I wake up to owls hooting in the forest. The condensation on the windows has frozen. It’s -5°C. A friend gifted a copy of The Lost Spells (2020) book by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris for Christmas. I carry it with me. Speaking spells whilst out walking to Loch Gamhna and Loch an Eilein.
I feel like I am getting the chance to truly immerse myself in the Cairngorms. Giving myself simple invitations. To slow down. To notice. To breathe deeply and tune into my senses. I watch the light and weather change. Feel the air on my skin. Noticing nature constantly moving and shifting. The snow quietens everything further. Sounds are softened.
The air around the bothy seems quite still but then I see large flakes of snow swirling and dancing like feathers as they fall. I love the wee windows of the bothy showing slithers of the forested world beyond. Their shutters the colour of lichen.
The light is spectacular and ever changing. Often radiant. Like a dizzying and dazzling dream. Many blues, pinks and yellows. Soft golden yellows that trickle through the snowy trees. It feels like Narnia. That you’ve slipped from one world and into another. Everything is glistening. Time feels suspended. The world feels still.
reflecting on practice joining the dots
like constellations
familiar thoughts drift back and settle like snow gently quietly the noisy world knocked back
so that I can hear myself think
and know what makes me tick going out to go in
residencies are pathways for setting off in new directions
residency time is sacred time
a week is a long time and no time at all
“A snow day is a wild day… Here was yet another liminal space, a crossing point between the mundane and the magical. Winter, it seems, is full of them: fleeting invitations to step out of the ordinary.” – Katherine May (2020: 192)
a bushy tailed red squirrel runs from tree to tree in front of the bothy
snow showers
my desires and needs are simple
give me golden light and moonlight
lichen encrusted juniper
silver and mauve birch
that shines with water and ice
rose and electric blue skies
river rushing
birds chirping
let me awaken to the sound of an owl
hooting in the dark
let me create a bright spark
and sip tea in company with all beings
overwinter
“I knew when I had looked for a long time that I had hardly begun to see.”
– Nan Shepherd (2011: 11).
References Ainmean-Àite na h-Alba (2023) Inshriach [online]. Available from <https://www.ainmean-aite.scot/placename/inshriach/> [19 January 2023]
Cady, M. and Hume D. (eds.) (1988) The Complete Book of British Birds.
Hampshire: The Automobile Association and The Royal Society for the Protection of Birds
Forestry and Land Scotland (2019) Glenmore Forest Park: Ancient forest, high mountains and golden shores. United Kingdom: Crown Copyright
Macfarlane, R. and Morris, J. (2020) The Lost Spells. United Kingdom:
Penguin Books
May, K. (2020) Wintering: How I learned to flourish when life became frozen.
London: Rider
Shepherd, N. (2011) The Living Mountain. Edinburgh: Canongate Books
www.isabelmcleish.com @isabelmcleishart
January 2023
This residency was commissioned by Cairngorms Youth Action Team with Bothy Project, in partnership with the Cairngorms Trust and Cairngorms National Park Authority.
