Two pinpricks of light appear through the darkness. Windows. I exhale and pick up the pace a little as the bog squelches beneath me, the beam of my head torch dispersed by rods of horizontal rain. A gust of wind carries with it that faint oiliness of burning coal: someone has already lit the fire. I’m getting closer. It’s only minutes before I can push open that wooden door, slump down in front of that familiar stove, and fall asleep in a fug of wet socks and whisky. The bothy is calling, and I am coming as fast as I can.
Since moving to Scotland in 2017 (and abandoning my dreams of writing half-decent mountain literature) I have developed a deep love for bothies – those quirky little dwellings scattered across the remotest parts of the country. I was introduced to bothying at the age of 19 by my university mountaineering club, and I quickly fell head-over-heels for this rare slice of mountain culture. But, hang on, what actually is a bothy? What are they for and how did they get here?
Most bothies were originally cottages built in the mid to late 18th century as accommodation for rangers or shepherds who worked for the wealthy landowners. However, the promise of better-paid factory work during the Industrial Revolution, and later the First World War, meant that estate workers deserted the countryside in droves – leaving these cottages completely abandoned. Many landowners left these buildings unlocked, and by around 1930, recreational walkers had begun using them illicitly as overnight shelters. Seeing as these cottages were so remote and of little use commercially, landowners generally turned a blind eye to this new practice, and bothies were born. This tradition has continued, and today is managed in part by the Mountain Bothies Association, whose volunteer teams are often responsible for the refurbishment of roofs, the cleaning of chimney flumes, and the general upkeep of over 100 buildings across England, Wales and Scotland.
Many bothies look like fairytale cottages but modern Scots Law defines a bothy as “a building of no more than two storeys, which does not have any form of main electricity, piped fuel supply, and piped mains water supply; is 100 metres or more from the nearest public road, and is 100m or more from the nearest habitable building.” And while all bothies must fit these criteria, they do vary hugely in terms of style and facilities – some are those classic two-roomed cottages while others are more like big wooden sheds.
Glenpean Bothy in the West Highlands was one of the earliest renovation projects for the Mountain Bothies Association
Mountain Bothies Association
The majority have at least one fire, either an open hearth or a wood burning stove, and a select few have composting toilets. Some have an upstairs with raised wooden sleeping platforms, while some are just a single room with an earthen floor. You may have the luxury of a table and a few chairs, but don’t count on it. However, all bothies are only accessible by foot, bike or boat, and – somewhat incredibly in our day and age – are completely free to use.
As such, there’s no booking system; you turn up on the day, armed with some food, fuel and whisky, and see who’s there to share their stories with you. It’s this last point that really gives bothies their charm. Of course, in some of Scotland’s more remote glens, you might turn up to an empty room and have nothing to do but flick through the guestbook by the light of your head torch, with only the howling wind for company.
Personally, when it’s quiet, I succumb to the hold that bothies have over the bookish part of my imagination. I am Mrs Tiggywinkle, bustling and busy, making tea on the stove. I am Frodo Baggins, devouring my feast of cheese and oatcakes and whisky. I am Miss Honey, sitting next to little Matilda, gazing at the whitewashed walls and the rough, unpolished wooden floor. I am Hagrid, Goldilocks, and Snow White, and all of the other cottage-dwelling characters you can think of.
However, a bothy slightly closer to civilisation on a Friday night might become less of a setting for a Beatrix Potter story, and more of an illicit boozer, packed to the rafters with ramblers enjoying a good dram. There is little time to imagine yourself as one of the seven dwarves here; instead you’re caught up in tales of your adventures, the odd flutter of political chat, and then someone realises that two people from different parties share a postcode, or even a distant relative. Rowdier still, and no doubt lubricated by decent single malt, I’ve stumbled in upon impromptu ceilidhs, great big sing-songs and on one occasion, a fully blown bothy sesh with some IT consultants from Milton Keynes. It takes all sorts.
Gorton Bothy is east of Loch Tulla
Mountain Bothies Association
Burleywhag Bothy in the Lowther Hills
Mountain Bothies Association
As to which experience you’ll end up having? Well, it depends when and where you visit. In the low season, on a weekday in the far-flung regions, you’re naturally less likely to encounter anyone except a wandering stag, or maybe an otter or two if you’re close to water. This is an ethereal experience in itself, especially come the silence of morning, when sunlight gleams through windows and the shafts of dust rise, dancing, from the flagstones. Conversely, a bothy closer to a main road on a Friday night in June is likely to be as crowded as the Tube at rush hour, although I’d take an overflowing bothy any day of the week over screeching down the Northern line with my face rammed into someone else’s armpit.
