We started about ten minutes past eleven, and proceeded exactly as last year, fording the Geldie at first very frequently. The ground was wet, but not worse than last year. We had gone on very well for about an hour, when the mist thickened all round, and down came heavy, or at least beating, rain with wind. With the help of an umbrella, and waterproofs and a plaid, I kept quite dry. Dearest Albert, who walked from the time the ground became boggy, got very wet, but was none the worse for it, and we got through it much better than before; we ladies never having to get off our ponies. At length at two o’clock, just as we were entering that beautiful Glen Fishie, which at its commencement reminds one of The Burn (McInroy’s), it cleared and became quite fine and very mild. Brown waded through the Etchart leading my pony; and then two of the others, who were riding together on another pony, dropped the whole bundle of cloaks into the water!
The falls of the Stron-na-Barin, with that narrow steep glen, which you ride up, crossing at the bottom, were in great beauty. We stopped before we entered the wood, and lunched on the bank overhanging the river, where General Grey joined us, and gave us an account of his arrangements. We lunched rather hurriedly, remounted our ponies and rode a short way—till we came near to a very steep place, not very pleasant to ride. So fine! numberless little burns running down in cascades. We walked a short way, and then remounted our ponies; but as we were to keep on the other side of the river, not by the Invereshie huts, we had to get off for a few hundred yards, the path being so narrow as to make it utterly unsafe to ride. Alice’s pony already began to slip. The huts, surrounded by magnificent fir-trees, and by quantities of juniper-bushes, looked lovelier than ever; and we gazed with sorrow at their utter ruin. I felt what a delightful little encampment it must have been, and how enchanting to live in such a spot as this beautiful solitary wood in a glen surrounded by the high hills. We got off, and went into one of the huts to look at a fresco of stags of Landseer’s, over a chimney-piece. Grant, on a pony, led me through the Fishie (all the fords are deep) at the foot of the farm-houses, where we met Lord and Lady Alexander Russell last year—and where we this time found two carriages. We dismounted and entered them, and were off at five o’clock—we were to have started at four.
We four drove together by the same way as we rode last year (and nothing could be rougher for driving), quite to the second wood, which led us past Loch Inch; but we turned short of the loch to the left along the high road. Unfortunately by this time it was nearly dark, and we therefore lost a great deal of the fine scenery. We had ridden 15 miles. We drove along the road over several bridges—the Bridge of Carr, close below the ruined Castle of Ruthven, which we could just descry in the dusk—and on a long wooden bridge over the Spey to an inn at Kingussie, a very straggling place with very few cottages. Already, before we arrived there, we were struck by people standing at their cottage doors, and evidently looking out, which made us believe we were expected. At Kingussie there was a small, curious, chattering crowd of people—who, however, did not really make us out, but evidently suspected who we were. Grant and Brown kept them off the carriages, and gave them evasive answers, directing them to the wrong carriage, which was most amusing. One old gentleman, with a high wide-awake, was especially inquisitive.
We started again, and went on and on, passing through the village of Newtonmoore, where the footman McDonald[55] comes from. Here the Spey is crossed at its junction with the Truim, and then the road ascends for ten miles more to Dalwhinnie. It became cold and windy with occasional rain. At length, and not till a quarter to nine, we reached the inn of Dalwhinnie,—29 miles from where we had left our ponies,—which stands by itself, away from any village. Here, again, there were a few people assembled, and I thought they knew us; but it seems they did not, and it was only when we arrived that one of the maids recognized me. She had seen me at Aberdeen and Edinburgh. We went upstairs: the inn was much larger than at Fettercairn, but not nearly so nice and cheerful; there was a drawing-room and a dining-room; and we had a very good-sized bed-room. Albert had a dressing-room of equal size. Mary Andrews[56] (who was very useful and efficient) and Lady Churchill’s maid had a room together, every one being in the house; but unfortunately there was hardly anything to eat, and there was only tea, and two miserable starved Highland chickens, without any potatoes! No pudding, and no fun; no little maid (the two there not wishing to come in), nor our two people—who were wet and drying our and their things—to wait on us! It was not a nice supper; and the evening was wet. As it was late we soon retired to rest. Mary and Maxted (Lady Churchill’s maid) had been dining below with Grant, Brown, and Stewart (who came, the same as last time, with the maids) in the “commercial room” at the foot of the stairs. They had only the remnants of our two starved chickens!
[55] He died at Abergeldie last year of consumption; and his widow, an excellent person, daughter of Mitchell the blacksmith at Balmoral, is now my wardrobe-maid.
[56] One of my wardrobe-maids—now dresser to Princess Helena (Princess Christian). Her father was thirty-eight years with my dear uncle the King of the Belgians.
Wednesday, October 9.
A bright morning, which was very charming. Albert found, on getting up, that Cluny Macpherson, with his piper and two ladies, had arrived quite early in the morning; and, while we were dressing, we heard a drum and fife—and discovered that the newly-formed volunteers had arrived—all indicating that we were discovered. However, there was scarcely any population, and it did not signify. The fat old landlady had put on a black satin dress, with white ribbons and orange flowers! We had breakfast at a quarter to nine o’clock; at half-past nine we started. Cluny was at the door with his wife and daughters with nosegays, and the volunteers were drawn up in front of the inn. They had all assembled since Saturday afternoon!
We drove as we did yesterday. Fine and very wild scenery, high wild hills, and no habitations. We went by the Pass of Drumouchter, with fine hills on both sides and in front of us; passed between two, the one on our left called The Boar of Badenoch, and that on the right, The Athole Sow. The Pass of Drumouchter separates Perthshire from Inverness-shire.