Listen to this article to hear the wild soundscape of the Cairngorms:

I’m crunching down a gravel path on the Speyside Way in the north of the Cairngorms. It’s a very cold and crisp autumn morning and the leaves are on the turn. The noise of the road thrums in my ears, volume turned up by the approach of the town of Nethy Bridge.

Soon, thankfully, I veer off the bigger path and into NatureScot-managed Dell Wood, and it’s as if the noise of the busy human world has suddenly been shut off.

I take out a microphone and hold it aloft to the trees and birds.

I listen.

I’m searching for something. It’s not mushrooms or flowers, though – I’m gathering sounds.

I’ll be walking around 60 kilometres overall, in two stages, to pass through a large section of the Cairngorms Connect Partnership land. It’s a pilgrimage of sorts, marking my six months with Cairngorms Connect. I’ve brought snacks, a camera and a chunky microphone.

^{Images: (left) Rosie holds the microphone up to a Juniper bush (right) the view over Rynettin, RSPB Abernethy}

I walk through Dell Wood’s dappled light. This was one of the first locations I visited - back when I started at Cairngorms Connect in the late spring - to film the delicate carpet of the rare and precious Twinflower. The birdsong is in joyful uproar, and I savour it ahead of the quieter winter months ahead.
It soon turns out that the route I’m following is dated, and the path disappears completely. All I can hear is the swishing of my legs through near-waist-high purple heather. I’m beginning to get used to sound-searching, and I love this unexpected addition as branches drag and scratch against my trousers. Soon, the path widens broadly, and a wooden sign tells me that I’m in Abernethy Forest, RSPB Scotland land, with new sounds around me. The trees are taller, and creak gently. The leaves begin a hushed whisper as the wind finally begins to pick up.

The road slopes down to the Cairngorms Connect Tree Nursery, where I’ve spent a number of sunny mornings, pulling up weeds to the soft chatter of volunteers. I turn away from it and head up the rocky path to Rynettin, rewarded with grand views of the mountains, and the breathing of wind through juniper bushes.
 
Standing near the Ryvoan bothy, a little later, I wonder how I might look, as a group of cyclists whirr past me, looking curiously. I am holding my microphone out to a spray of Broom.

It’s something of a one-sided interview at the moment, so I run a hand through it, and soon it’s chatting animatedly, seed pods rattling and rustling. There’s something intimate about talking to a plant with your hands, and I am reminded of joining fieldwork not far from here in Strath Nethy this summer, trialling different ways of planting tree seeds. We combed our hands through heather and grass to determine what was growing there; a handshake with nature, of sorts.

I pass through an unusually still and silent An Lochan Uaine, managed by Forestry and Land Scotland, populated by three walkers and an equal number of ducks. I hold my microphone out, but they paddle quietly on, sending me on my way too.

^{Image: Looking across to the mountains from the Ryvoan Pass}

Glenmore signals the end of the day. The road stretches up and away from me to Cairn Gorm, where, throughout the summer, I hiked up and over to Loch A’an, laden with Willow and Birch saplings, alongside a number of energetic and enthusiastic fellow volunteers. I’m glad I’m not up there at the moment, though, as the day is beginning to turn even more chilly. The microphone is finally stowed and my ears ring with the wind.
I’ll wait a week before I head out for the second leg.

In the meantime, I listen to what I’ve gathered so far, and I’m instantly transported back to forest and hill. Sounds are important; they feel part of landscape identity and my sense of belonging. What is the language of the Cairngorms for me?

My goal is just to listen and find out.

Sound is also a living memory, an audio link to the past. It’s for this reason that I’ve chosen it as the vessel for my reflection on my last six months living and working in this landscape.

As I begin the second half of my journey a week later, on the blustery shores of Loch Morlich, I’m struck by the stark difference in noise from when I visited a few months ago with a group of young people in the Cairngorms Connect Summer School. Splashing, screaming, tinny music, laughter – swapped now for lonely lapping shore and wind-tossed branches. It’s much colder than last week, so I head off at a good pace, following the gurgle and rush of water, both seen and unseen.

Being by yourself in silence for a number of hours can have an interesting impact on the brain. It’s not long before I forget the inherent one-sidedness of this information-gathering trip, holding the microphone up to a stoic, silent, mushroom.

^{Images: (left) A red mushroom poking out of the grass (right) "if the mushroom could talk, what would it say?": Rosie interviews a mushroom}

This walk has been more about just tracking and recording the natural processes of the landscape. It’s making me wonder - if the mushroom could talk, what would it say? Or the river, the Birch? It’s a question that we and other people in the landscape have been asking, through both scientific monitoring and through creative practice.

The sounds around me become my company. I thought I would be lonely without someone to walk with, but I only feel alone when sound drops away, as it does as I skirt the edge of Inshriach and Invereshie National Nature Reserve, managed by Naturescot, where some Pine plantation has been cleared.

This is a landscape of regeneration, though. The standing deadwood left behind is purposeful: it decays and puts nutrients back into the soil, as well as becoming homes for all sorts of life, from insects to mushrooms.

It’s quiet without the sound of trees, but that’s about to change: the Feshie Bridge waterfall grows in volume as I approach, a chaos of noise to ears more used to the subtle sounds of leaf, bird and wind.

I hurry along without stopping, craving the hush of Glenfeshie. I’ve tipped into WildLand,  and the landscape has started to get a bit more drama to it, as the river carves its route, threads of water winding and meeting and splitting.

Not far from here, on a warm September day, I worked a long but rewarding day with WildLand, pulling up fencing no longer needed in an open and connected landscape. I remember the fence posts sticking stubbornly in the ground, before finally yielding with a satisfying squelch.

^{Image: A small spider hitches a ride on the microphone}

My walk will end at Insh Marshes, so there’s not far for me to go now. I was there very recently on a foggy morning, meeting the charismatic and handsome Konik ponies. It will be a steady downhill to get there.

Before that, however, I pause to overlook Uath Lochans.

It’s a fitting spot to end my reflections on my time so far with Cairngorms Connect as, from where I stand, I can see the partnership land fan out in front of me: RSPB, Forestry and Land Scotland, Naturescot and WildLand Ltd.

I had my first meeting here on this rock, on my very first day, as a way for me to get familiarised with the landscape I’d be working in. Looking out now, six months later, I feel a real connection with this landscape, so new to me back then.
I take a moment just to listen.

I’ve walked over 60km and filled a memory card with the songs of bird, wind and loch. The last sounds I record are my boots, crunching on the gravel path, leading me to the end of my journey, and wherever this job will take me next.