Trail Connections: The First UK Fjällräven Classic

Last year, BASE writer Hannah Mitchell took to the trail for the first ever UK Fjällräven Classic, finding community, companionship and a change of pace in the Highlands of Scotland.

When it comes to walking, I often lean towards solitude. There’s something about stomping entirely alone, or in the quiet company of a dog – the lack of accountability, the freedom to find my own pace and to pause to observe mushrooms or birds of prey or eat snacks in silence and at my leisure – that suits me. So, the idea of walking a 65km circular route in the bustling company of 200 strangers was a bit of a daunting prospect, I’ll admit.

Arriving at the old hunting lodge in Braemar – that would first mark our starting point and later our finish line –  felt more like stumbling upon a music festival than the hiking I was used to: rows of vans and clusters of tents, animated faces immersed in chatter and hands clutching camping mugs.

The morning of our departure, as we tramped across the dewy grass to the start line, I was surprised to hear a cacophonous orchestra of different languages and accents accompanying the bagpiper who was heralding the start of the hike. A sea of backpacks from all over the world, festooned with bright orange trail tags were gathered. First-timers and die-hard Classic hikers, sporting patches on their jackets and bags from other events around the world, were wolfing down egg butties and necking coffee in the morning sun. 

We set off en masse along forest tracks lined by the most dense population of vivid-red fly agaric toadstools I had ever seen. I wasn’t alone in stopping to admire them either. It wasn’t long before the crowds thinned out, the vast expanse of Scottish wilderness saw to that. Over those three days, we found a pace that placed us somewhere in the middle of the procession, snatching brief moments of cheerful chatter with those we passed and those that passed us. Conversation ebbed and flowed, perfectly balanced.

Hastily chugging down coffee and stuffing the soggy tent into our packs, the skies darkened on the morning of the final day. My mountain goat-like companion set off at a strong pace – it was almost as if she could smell the beer waiting at the finish line. Once again any hint of a crowd thinned out as we began retracing our steps along the gravelly track that wound its way back towards Mar Lodge. The sudden solidity of the terrain made my legs feel heavy, and conversation lulled as we absorbed the last of the fungus-flanked paths. 

Approaching the lodge, we were met by an almost eerie quiet as the flags of our basecamp danced into view. ‘Has everyone gone straight to bed?’, we joked in theatrical whispers. The near-silence was suddenly and riotously broken by clapping, whoops and cheers as walkers poured out of the communal tent to line the walkway to the finishing arch. Entirely unaccustomed to this sort of ceremony, our faint embarrassment quickly transformed to delight as our camping companions came into view, throwing their arms around us in genuine, hearty embraces. I couldn’t hide an ear-to-ear grin as we toasted our arrival with that well-earned beer that Kat had sensed many miles ago. This ceremony, by the way, was repeated for each finisher that crossed the line in their varying states of exhaustion and saturation, and in each one it prompted that same irrepressible grin.

There’s immense satisfaction and fulfilment to be found in the simplest experiences; in lingering a moment to look at the finer detail, in savouring that last sip of coffee or a conversation with a stranger-turned-friend. Walking the Classic was a gentle reminder to embrace a change of pace, to disconnect from modern distractions, schedules and our busy lives and instead connect with one another and the world beyond our doorstep. To quote Shepherd once more:

‘It’s a grand thing, to get leave to live’.