Amateur Hikery

Waterfall

After a fairly epic lie-in, I bundled my gear back into my rucksack and headed down to the lochside road, stopping first to admire the waterfall near which I’d camped. Bounding downhill at a good clip, I appeared suddenly at the road, startling a quartet of inebriated layabouts enjoying their morning cans of Tennents around a fire beside their cars. I turned west along the road and made good time – this was mostly due to my desire to leave the filthy pigs and their lazy-camping dungpits far behind. Better indeed to draw a veil over this part of the journey. My blood seethes even now, remembering the comprehensive rape of the countryside perpetrated by the swine.

My Erstwhile Companions

At Foss I had a spot of lunch and weighed up my options. I was due at Braes of Foss the next day at 1600 hours, so I had a mountain of time to kill. I decided to turn south and head to Glengoulandie, and come along the glen below Dun Beag to below Schiehallion, pitching somewhere along the way. It seemed like a foolproof plan, and I was at Glengoulandie soon enough, after a brief stop to admire the lime kiln at Tom Phobuill. This is definitely worth a look if you’re in the area. It isn’t particularly exciting nor scenic, but I always find there’s something fascinating about defunct places of work. The neighbouring quarry is evidence of what was once a thriving trade, and many signs remain of the hive of activity the kiln must once have been, despite the fact that it has been unused for a century.

Lime Kiln

Glengoulandie caravan park was rather a disappointment, and I think this was largely due to their shop being closed. It got worse, however. My proposed route through the glen was impossible to get to, being blocked by impenetrable fences. You can, apparently, pay to get in, but, well. No thanks. I wandered a mile or so past Glengoulandie, then turned and retraced my steps along the road to the fork, where I turned left and aimed for Braes of Foss.

Encamped Below Schiehallion

Eventually I ended up camped near the path up Schiehallion, pitched within the low walls of a ruined building. I’d hoped that the wall I was pitched beside would keep off some of the wind, but after I pitched (of course) it changed direction, and it was a fairly chilly and noisy night. It had been a long and fairly mundane day (roughly 20 miles) and yet I didn’t get much sleep. Tomorrow, I vowed, will be an easy day.

Pipe

Sweating and cursing, I heaved my way to the top of Meall na Moine. I had not had a good night’s sleep, and I felt distinctly peaky. This feeling passed quickly and for most of this day I moved through knee-high heather happily. These hills are probably not the best place to find yourself at certain times of the year, unless you crave adrenal fatigue, but shooting season is still far in the future, and so I had the place to myself, barring a troupe of skittish deer. The unnatural sunshine scoured the hillsides clean and down in the valley one could see the gadgies filling out the campsites and clearings beside Loch Tummel. It was not a day for extreme effort nor long-distance walking, so instead I bobbled around to Meall a’ Charra, then down again towards the loch. Along the way I stumbled across a creepy little cabin beside Allt Lochan Sgaradh Gobhair. I followed this burn until I hit the trail leading to Duntanlich Lochan. I’d read an interesting account of a visit to the lochan here shortly before I headed out, and it had placed it firmly on my internal routecard.

Creepy Cabin

As soon as the lochan came into view I started wishing I’d thought of borrowing a rod and getting a license. It was one of the most peaceful, idyllic places I’ve ever been, and I spent several hours there, sitting and doing nothing in particular, save smoking a couple of pipes and hitting my hipflask sparingly. Occasionally, a fish breached the surface with a pop. On the top of Creag an Fhitich my monocular revealed a trio of lethargic deer.

Duntanlich Lochan

Duntanlich Lochan

As the afternoon began to wear on I abandoned the lochan regretfully and headed up to Creag an t-Sluic. Here I stopped at a stone seat for a few moments and considered my options. I could make for the gap of Sron Mhor in hope of a decent piece of grass amongst the heather in which to pitch, or I could turn down the hill and make for the greater shelter of the woods. I had a feeling it would get quite windy later on, so I followed the tree-line to Allt Aird Raineach and then down a little into the woods. I hoped to camp beside the burn, or close enough, but it was infernally difficult to find a decent spot. An hour or so fo looking dampened my spirits a little. Finally, I squeezed in between some trees.

Boots

Schiehallion in the distance

There’s an awful feeling that is particular to crowded buses and trains: a kind of nervousness, a gathering of potential energy, that builds as you approach your destination and the time to start pushing through people and apologising is near. It often happens on crowded city buses in the late afternoon – sometimes it is hard to see just how you will possibly make your way to the door and freedom. It is no fun being the other person in this kind of situation, as you anticipate contorting your body, reducing the amount of space you occupy, to let the other through. Given the wider aisles and (generally) non-standing nature of railway-carriages, the feeling occurs less frequently when you travel by train. But on this particular journey I was accompanied by a large backpack, which increased my area whilst reducing my ability to adapt to surrounding objects. This feeling is largely connected to the desire for perfect timing – to reach the exit precisely as the doors open.

Monocular

So I was extremely nervous, approaching Pitlochry, sitting almost exactly equidistant from the doors at either end of the carriage. The penalty for missing your stop on a train, as opposed to a bus, is far higher, in that you cannot holler at the driver, nor can you quickly retrace the path of the train to your stop. In this instance, however, I timed it exactly right, and found myself standing on the platform in the afternoon sun with a sense of glorious achievement.

Helium 200 pitched near Craig Cammoch

My intentions were vague – I had three days to get to the Braes of Foss, below Schiehallion, where I was meeting my friend Stuart. My most immediate goal was to get to the other side of the River Tummel, so that I could work my way up into the hills, and so make my way below Loch Tummel, in time, to the eastern edge of Schiehallion. I hopped along to Faskally and stopped into the caravan park there to see about directions. The American girl in the shop was very nice and friendly and wholly ignorant of any way to cross the river on foot, but they did sell 25k OS maps, which was a good deal more useful than the 50k printout I had with me. So I bought one and followed it to a Coronation bridge across the river.

The woods beside Craig Cammoch witnessed the usual messing about as I looked for a pitch, and eventually I was all set up and devouring chicken curry from a can.

Sunset

One of the things that I’ve learned over the past while is the value of lightweight gear, and the importance of only taking necessities, for the most part.I’m far from a lightweight purist – I still like my creature comforts – but it does make a tremendous difference to how fast you can move and how far you can go. My gut instinct is to over-prepare and bring anything I might ever need, but this generally leads to a heavy backpack, creaking at the seams.Anyway, here’s a basic breakdown of what I’m currently working with. I have a wishlist that’s fairly hefty, though!

Highlander Explorer 85
This is one of the older models, probably around 10-15 years old, which I inherited from my Dad (NB: he’s not dead, it’s just a turn of phrase.) It holds 85 litres (as the name suggests) and it’s fairly bombproof – a good feature of a lot of the Highlander gear. It’s also surprisingly light at 1.75kg – which isn’t ultralight by any means, but when I weighed it I was expecting at least 2.2kg, which would be more in line with the current model. The reduced weight possibly has something to do with the fact that 10 years of air travel have gradually removed some of the features which it once had – like the ice axe fittings, the lid cords, and the chest buckle. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t flashy, but it sure as hell gets the job done. When it’s full, the lack of compression straps mean it’s sometimes a little bit like carrying a gorilla on your back, as it bounces around a bit. It’s slightly waterproof, but not very. I don’t really need 85l of space, and I’d love to upgrade to the OMM Villain at some point. I’ve also considered the Karrimor Panther 65l, periodically, but at the same weight it’s not really worth it.

Vango Force Ten Helium 200
This is certainly my favourite bit of kit at the moment. The more I get used to its particular quirks and get better at pitching it, the more I love it. It should be said that it isn’t at all challenging to pitch… but it takes practice and experience to pitch it well. Once you’ve mastered it, condensation problems vanish. The main problem I’ve had with it so far is that it is almost always a bit of an effort to fit the pole into both the eyelets without feeling like you’re going to break the thing. However, on my most recent trip I found out that it seems to go a lot easier if you put it in as smoothly as possible without twisting it, so I’m hoping that might be the key. I opted for the 200 over the 100 primarily because the 100 seemed by all accounts to be a little too compact, and I like to have enough space to lay out my gear, and possibly even let someone else share with me in a pinch. The Tension Band System is magic – it’s kept the tent solid as a rock in some pretty adverse conditions. I hope to do a more in depth review of the tent quite soon which hopefully might be useful to some people – I found it pretty difficult to find decent info on the tent online when I was thinking about buying it.

Generic Closed Cell Foam Mat
A while back I experienced for the first time the joy of a self-inflating mat – so much easier to sleep on than closed-cell. After a while I decided to buy one, and got what I thought was a bargain from Mountain Warehouse (the Iceland of the outdoors world.) It came with several tiny punctures and a dodgy valve, and by the time I’d fixed the holes and messed around with the valve it was too far gone to send back for a replacement. A couple of awful nights trying to sleep on my rucksack and folded clothes after the mat deflated convinced me that regardless of the brand, the chance of failure ruled out taking one on any kind of extended trip. So I reverted to closed-cell. My 1cm thick mat isn’t quite as fun to sleep on, but I can sleep quite comfortably on it nonetheless. I’ve recently cut it down a bit just to reduce bulk, slicing off the corners and making it into a 3/4 length mat with an extra rectangle for my feet/sitting on.

Mountainlife Microlite 950 Sleeping Bag
Now this was a budget buy as well, also from Mountain Warehouse. It’s actually done rather well so far – I felt it was a bit of a gamble buying it, and of course would have preferred down, but wanting it for longer trips (and also buying it back when I was having a few condensation problems with the Helium) I wanted something synthetic that didn’t mind getting a bit wet now and again. It’s rated -10c extreme and -3c to 15c comfort, but manufacturer ratings are so subjective that they don’t really mean much, so I was pleased to find it kept me very toasty on some pretty cold nights. It has slightly less filling on the bottom, too, which means it probably cuts a little weight, although “microlite” is a definite misnomer as it weighs 1.4kg.

Craghoppers Kiwi Duo Convertible Trousers
I picked these up (as Americans say) from TK Maxx. I honestly love Craghoppers gear, as I’ve had nothing but good experiences with them These trousers dry really, really fast, so fast that I don’t bother with waterproof trousers. They dry fastest in sunlight, but an hour in a sleeping bag generally dries them too. They can become shorts, but also have that effete 3/4 length option, which is always nice to have.

Craghoppers Microfleece
This is really one of the most basic, obvious pieces of clothing, but I feel it deserves a mention because I’ve had mine for about 5 years and it’s still going strong. I’ve probably worn this more than any other piece of clothing I’ve possess (with the notable exception of some dungarees I had when I was a toddler.)

Highlander Gaiters
Again, nothing fancy, just bombproof Highlander gear that does what it says on the tin. Very handy in the tent because they fit the porch area almost exactly when spread out.

OMM Kamleika Smock
A more recent and long-overdue purchase. I was fed up with rubbishy sweaty cagoules. It’s pretty breathable, not as much so as eVent fabric, but boy is it stretchy. It’s also fun to watch the raindrops bead and bounce off it. And the orange trim on black looks fantastic.

Hi-Tec Kruger Hiking Boots
My feet really seem to like the Hi-tec lasts, so I got these recently instead of some more expensive, less comfortable boots. They’re fine. Nothing too exciting. I’d really quite like to get some decent trail shoes, but the big boots make me feel like I can go anywhere (which is purely psychological.)

Campingaz Twister 270
I have the version without the Piezo ignition, which I’m fine with. It’s actually a jolly decent little stove. You get a lot longer out of the cartridges if you stay away from the full blast, which has an added benefit of not deafening you. A fully open valve burning is extremely hot, but it doesn’t actually give you a lot faster boil time. I use a bit of aluminium foil for a windbreak.

Anodised Aluminium Mug and Pot
At the moment I use a 500ml pot and a mug for almost everything. I have a aluminium frying pan too, but it doesn’t see as much use as I’d like – I wouldn’t mind some bacon butties one of these days! 500ml is about enough for pretty much every dinner I have, but I wouldn’t mind something a little narrower and a little taller, with maybe a bit more volume.

Energiser 3-LED Headtorch
Man, these things really make you wonder what we did before LEDs were so available. This thing has an incredibly bright beam, also a red light for preserving night-vision, which is very handy. It runs for about 80hrs on two AAA batteries. I bought it when I lived in Dublin, so it cost me an arm and a leg, but you can get them for a lot cheaper.

I have a lot of other kit, including iPod, camera, monocular, rucksack cover, etc, but I think this list is more than long enough already. These are the basics, and as you can see there’s a lot of room for improvement.

It was with regret and backwards glances that I left the Lairig Mor. The previous day’s exhilarating buffoonery had cemented our friendship, and I headed round the corner of Meall a Chaorainn feeling almost like I was deserting a person. I have said goodbye to many people in airports and train stations, and I have never enjoyed the sensation. This was surprisingly similar. The wild places of Scotland have a way of stealing into your heart.

The woods east of Lundavra are no longer. Deforestation on a large scale has opened out the valley. At a certain point you have the option of taking the road left down to Fort William, which gets you there quicker and easier, but I was eager to prolong my trek as long as possible so I took the track which leads into Nevis Forest. A german fellow fell off his bike, and that was about as exciting as it got for a long while. After a while I grew sick of the darkness of the overhanging trees, and I started to wonder when the bloody forest would end. A quick gander at the map revealed that I was nearly out of the woods, as it were.

The last section of the West Highland Way affords a nice view of Ben Nevis, but I couldn’t make out anyone on the path leading upwards above the campsite. Once you get onto the pavement beside the road there is really nothing to look at apart from your feet, and I limped the remaining mile or so into town. With a certain sense of purism I completely ignored the sign at the end of the Way and stomped past it. To my mind the sign is not really connected to the miles you’ve walked. Too blatant a symbol, perhaps. It almost seems a little disrespectful to the land to walk it only to girn beside a sign, as if you are somehow complicit in the beauty and majesty of this wonderful country. Hillwalking and hiking are a one-way relationship. The best we can do is to try to leave no sign of ourselves as we pass through.

In Fort William I had a bus booked for the next day, but the prospect of tabbing back along the Way to find somewhere to pitch for a night didn’t seem like much fun, so I decided to get a train back to Glasgow as soon as possible. In McDonalds I managed to make an ass of myself, spilling a full cup of Coke on the floor. The agonising ages before it hit seemed to stretch out forever. Putting my bag down I turned to find an employee who said she’d get me a new one. I apologised profusely, and she assured me it was no bother at all, but as I started in on my chips  a sidelong glance showed her cursing and muttering under her breath as she mopped. C’est la. I put it behind me and enjoyed the first meal I’d eaten in some time which didn’t include smoked sausage.

The train station was understaffed and I eavesdropped on some conversations as I prayed to God that the money I had left would be enough to get me a ticket to Glasgow. My nervousness peaked as I sat on the train and it pulled away, the ticket-collector heading down the aisle towards me. With luck, I just made the nut. The miles streamed past, familiar landmarks appearing and vanishing abruptly. It had been a pretty good trip, all things considered. I’d done half the West Highland Way in about the time it would take a fairly fit guy to do the whole thing, but I wasn’t disappointed. I hadn’t been out to break any records, just to mess about in the countryside for the sheer joy of it. I’d accomplished this goal admirably. A fun prelude to a longer series of trips which is almost upon me!

Fin

My notes from this day are scribbled and difficult to read. It was an odd day, a day of extreme highs and lows, and sometimes, paradoxically, both at the same time.

Morning came sluggishly to the woods below Sgorr an Fhuarain, damp and drizzly. As I battled towards consciousness I became aware that not all was as it should be. A buzzing pain localised itself in my head, and as I gingerly sat up a wave of nausea smacked me back down into the mat. I thought back to the previous day and thanked my past self for not munching all the painkillers, on a hunch that I might need ‘em later on. As I gulped down 2 para my thankfulness was tempered by the impression that this might be dehydration, and my previous self didn’t look so smart anymore. (Later, I decided it was probably a combination of already being ill, dehydration, not enough caffeine, and, maybe, not being quite careful enough about where I got water from.)

Zipping back the inner revealed a multitude of large black slugs complacently squatting on my gear and hanging from the flysheet. At this point I started to see the funny side. Passers by on the Way above might have been a little disturbed to hear a kind of manic, pained cackle issuing from my tent. First things first. I dealt with my new friends as humanely as possible under the circumstances, then I got a brew going. Usually that would be enough to restore contentment to my heart, but this morning was particularly challenging. It was probably the slowest I’ve ever broken camp – not helped by the fact that it was a wet morning. Squared away, I sat on a flat rock and slowly ate some chocolate, waiting to feel well enough to get on the road. After about 10 minutes I realised that it wasn’t going to happen, so I got underway anyway. Why not? Walk it off, and all that. Be a man, my son.

Temptation

The sun started to come out as I climbed upwards, and soon I was ambling into the Lairig Mor. I still felt fairly awful, but the sun had started to change the day for the better. I passed some massive slabs of rock rising up on the right of the track, and couldn’t resist prancing up them. Before I knew it my physical condition was forgotten and I was halfway up Stob Coire na h-Eirghe. I spent the rest of the morning and a lot of the afternoon wandering around the side of Stob Ban having a brilliant time. Not a soul to be seen. Later, I came back down to the Way and  walked further for a while, then climbed up a bit, northish of the ruin of Lairigmor, and found an excellent little spot to pitch (NN645124). The weather was distinctly odd by this point – as I stood on a perfect seat-shaped boulder in blinding sunlight, small flakes of snow drifted down onto my shoulders. I did some more aimless wandering, feeling, despite the remaining nausea and headache, in the best of spirits. There is something particularly thrilling and awful about the Lairig Mor. On all sides stolid mountains remind you that a man is a very small speck indeed on the face of the earth. You are very alone in the Great Pass.

At dinner, as I sat on my rock above the Way, I saw a few distant figures stumble along the trail. None of them appeared to notice me, their eyes fixed on their feet. It had been a pretty long and gruelling day, by the looks of it, and they still had a good few miles to cover before they got to their destination. I felt smug and self-sufficient. At the same time a part of me wanted to shout out to them, to run down and have a chat. It seemed very strange to pass by unnoticed in the wilderness. When darkness fell I was again awestruck. I’ve never seen that many stars in my entire life. No phone signal meant that I couldn’t send a GPS ping. That night, the Lord of the Rings scared the hell out of me, and I fell asleep expecting sword-slashes in the dark.

Beinn a Chrulaiste

I lay and listened to the other campers packing up and leaving the Kingshouse in the morning. After a quick breakfast I got my gear together and made haste to the foot of the Devil’s Staircase – one of the least aptly named paths in Scotland. The rain was coming in thicker and faster, but there was still a decent enough view up the Lairig Gartain, now fast filling with mist and cloud.

Lairig Gartain

The Devil’s Staircase is essentially a very easy ascent to about 1800ft. I can’t say it was exactly fun hauling my pack up it in the rain, but I was pleasantly surprised to suddenly find myself, after navigating a few zig-zags, at the top. The weather was miserable, so without stopping I pushed on. After a while I started to catch up with people, and eventually, as the track began to turn downwards, I got faster and faster until I was foolishly bounding downhill, pack going everywhere, bouncing over occasional rocks as large as a baby’s head. I nodded hello to the family from the night before as I passed them. After nearly ending my promising career as a trail-runner for the third time, I realised that a massive pack and big boots were probably not the ideal technical equipment for this kind of tomfoolery, and I slowed it down a little bit.

The rain was more or less off now, bar the occasional drizzle, and I descended into the woods above Kinlochleven, stopping at the bridge over Allt Coire Mhorair for a spot of lunch (smoked sausage again, delightful!) and a chat with a couple of chaps who were waiting on a third who I’d passed some half-hour below, going slowly downwards. For some reason almost everyone I talk to seems to almost dislike descents more than ascents, and I’ve often found myself disingenuously nodding sagely and sympathizing with knee trouble. When, in fact, I actually don’t mind descents at all. I will probably think differently when I grow up. At any rate, their friend caught up and they headed to Kinlochleven, inviting me for a pint at the Tailrace Inn, where they were staying.

Allt Coire Mhorair

That pint sounded like a jolly good idea, but by the time I made it into Kinlochleven (after yet another conversation about how bad descents were with a woman out walking her dogs) the rain was back on. Kinlochleven is attractively situated, but it’s not exactly a beauty spot in itself. Since the industry in the town died I imagine it’s increasingly reliant on tourism, and at that point in time it resembled nothing more than a ill-looking suburb of Glasgow. After a dreary cigarette in a burnt out bus shelter, I decided to shake the dust off my feet and try and camp somewhere a little further on in the woods under Sgorr a Fhuarain.

This was finally accomplished after a lot of messing around in the woods climbing up and down looking for somewhere half-decent to pitch. The rain was on in force now and I wasted no time collecting water and getting myself in the tent. I was incredibly thirsty, and I turned to my old friend, the omnipresent hot chocolate, for comfort. Dinner consisted of supernoodles and… smoked sausage. I fell asleep to the sound of Merry and Pippin welcoming people to Isengard.

Hot Chocolate

When I woke up, I realised I had to go down to the stream to get more water for the coffee. On the way down I noticed that I was walking like an elderly gentleman. I discovered this was because my feet had been replaced by blisters. I’ve got nothing against the elderly, per se, but it was slightly discomfiting to join their ranks. I found, as I headed up the Way towards Coire Ba, that the pain became easier to ignore, and I could walk almost normally after a few hundred metres.

Coire Ba is one of the more remote parts of the West Highland Way, and in the glaring sunlight it was actually quite beautiful. Surrounded on one side by Stob a Choire Odhair, Aonach Mor and Clach Leathad amongst others, and the western edge of Rannoch Moor on the other, it could be quite easy to imagine oneself completely alone in the wilderness. In inclement weather it would be pretty miserable, but today it was majestic and exciting. So many mountains, seemingly close enough to dander over to in minutes. The Way is deceptively high at this point, around 300m.

As I started to pass on the left of Beinn Chaorach, the blisters were really starting to act up, and part of me wanted to stop and have a little seat, but I pushed myself on till I crested the rise and could see the Kingshouse Hotel down in the valley. This was now firmly a feature of the trip – feeling fit and acclimatised to the pack, but held up by my bloody feet. I stopped and had some lunch. Smoked sausage starts to lose its charm after a while when you have it for lunch and dinner every day.I treated passersby to a fun peek at my battered toes, which I’m sure they enjoyed immensely. In fact, schadenfreude possibly played a large part in their enjoyment.

The Kingshouse hotel is fairly ancient and historied, and for some reason almost every book you read that mentions it pays special attention to what Dorothy Wordsworth thought of it when she “passed through with her brother”. She didn’t like it.

When I arrived there were not too many people around, but a couple of chaps had pitched already in the back, and I noticed the profile of a Force Ten Helium 200 which looked rather decently pitched, so I walked over to have a chat and maybe get some tips. It was nice to revel in some Helium banter with a fellow enthusiast. Jim had the newer version, the superlight, and similar complaints/appreciations.

A chill wind had sprung up, and seeing as there aren’t many decent places to camp before the Devil’s Staircase, I decided to just pitch and take it easy for a while. As I was pitching a family showed up and it suddenly got busy.

Pitched at the Kingy

After a lazy late afternoon I got the dinner on, noodles and the ubiquitous smoked sausage. After a smoke and organising my kit I decided to go in for a pint, because why not. It went down very smoothly, and 10p less than Glasgow prices, too. Whilst there I got talking to the family, who seemed incredibly well-travelled: Brazil, Argentina, Bolivia, Peru. In the jacks an old fella sidled up and asked me “d’ye think it’ll snaw?” “I bloody well hope not,” I replied. “Ye camping?” “Aye.” “Ah well, nae luck,” he helpfully and cheerfully retorted. After that I thought it was probably time for an early night.

In the tent I worried about the next day and my feet. It was not going to be much fun if they kept on getting worse. Well, it would doubtless be fun, but not particularly speedy. It was when I was tending to them that I realised the downside of putting plasters on your toes, ie the removal. I managed to depilate my big toe.

Darkness crept, the wind picked up, and the battle for Helm’s Deep raged.

Kingshouse Hotel

Beinn Dorain

About 12 hours after I went to sleep, I woke up and got my kit together. For this trip I’d decided to rely on oat and raisin bars rather than having hot breakfasts. I generally don’t feel too hungry in the morning so eating is more of a task than an enjoyment. Of course the morning coffee is very important. Sleeping late means that you wake up fairly warm, but there’s really nothing like a cup of joe to get your blood flowing again!

The Way round past Beinn Dorain to Bridge of Orchy is nothing special. You don’t cross too many contour lines at all, and it was an easy start after the back-breaking load-lugging of the previous afternoon. I sat around for a while beside the bridge having my lunch, and it was here that I ditched about 1.5kg of food that I’d already realised I wasn’t going to eat. I’d banked on 3100 calories a day to be on the safe side, but it was a large over-estimate. It was here that I chatted to a fellow who’d started the day before from Fort William with his friend. I thought that was pretty damn good going until his mate told me he was doing John o’ Groats to Lands End, and was on day 9. Different strokes for different folks, I thought, as I shouldered the Beast and headed up the trail into the woods below Mam Carraigh.

Padlocked in case of theft.

Bridge of Orchy

Whilst just a little hill, the path up over Mam Carraigh was scorching hot and I nearly melted by the time I made it to the top and looked out over Loch Tulla.

On Mam Carraigh

Once down and just past Inveroran Hotel I stopped for a while to sort out my feet, just beside Victoria Bridge, in what looks like rather a nice little campsite in some aspects, but surely hoaching with midges in season. I’m not a massive fan of pitching right beside roads, in any case.

By this point my feet were truly chewed up by my big boots working in tandem with my pack, and they were starting to look problematic. I’d thought of making Ba Bridge by dinner time but coming up past the trees was starting to feel like an exercise in self-mutilation, so I stopped for the night a couple of klicks past Victoria Bridge. I took a chance and filled up my Camelbak from the stream at the edge of the trees, fingers crossed for no dead sheep upstream. Although, to be quite frank, along the WHW a bigger problem is human waste. It stands to reason that if 100,000 people walk it a year, a good number of them are going to be clatty sods, but it isn’t exactly pleasant to have to worry about.

Dinner that night was less exciting – rice and dehydrated vegetables with some smoked sausage chopped in, then of course some hot chocolate, and (for the first and last time) instant custard. You may never have made instant custard in a slight breeze, but if you do you’ll find it’s worse than sand at the beach. It got everywhere. It took longer to clean up than it did to make and eat, and I made a mental note to ditch the rest of them at the first opportunity.

A cigarette was lit, and the adventures of Frodo and Sam continued.

Above Crianlarich

I’d intended to do the West Highland Way, but I fell ill, and by the time I was well enough to start (read: not really well enough to start but too impatient to wait) I only had about 5 days left, so I decided to just meander along the last half of the way at leisure to gather a few ideas on where to go later on, to get back in the game, as it were.

The Oban train from Glasgow Queen Street rushed northwards into the good weather, startling first a deer, and then a couple of furtive gadgies, loping along the tracks clutching bottles of the usual ned elixir. Perhaps the hi-vis aspect of their patterned shell-suits serves as a kind of technical clothing. In Crianlarich station there was a general exodus from the train, bewildered and blinking in the hard light from a sun that seemed determined to make the most of a visit to Scotland. I smoked a cigarette and sat on the ground in the car park for a while, then shouldered my pack and crossed the road above the station to the path that connects back to the West Highland Way. Half a mile later I was already regretting the 18kg plus on my back. (In an effort to be as flexible as possible I was carrying a weeks worth of food. Later this seemed ironic as I lay in my tent and felt my muscles sobbing softly.)

Lochan

The path above Crianlarich through the woods is pleasant enough and hardly rough going. I stopped at one point to chat with a chap who was with three young boys – perhaps his sons. He was in a lot of pain from blisters but extolling the virtues of Compeed. I’d considered buying some the day before but it was just a tad pricy, and so I didn’t. I began to regret this decision very quickly. I noticed at least 2 very decent wildcamping possibilities. It didn’t seem very long until I came down under the viaduct, crossed the A82 and passed St Fillan’s Priory. I’d gotten my second wind and the pack wasn’t feeling so heavy. I pushed on quickly past Dal Righ, probably too quickly, because by the time I got to Tyndrum I was bloody knackered. Everyone I’d talked to seemed to be using the Travel Lite bag-carrying service, and a deep resentment began to grow in my heart every time I saw another person dawdling along without a pack. The flipside of this, of course, was that when I passed them there was a certain sense of accomplishment. Despite the fact that I was (in my eyes) crawling along painfully, I only remember 2 people passing me the whole time I was walking the way. I tabbed through Tyndrum without raising my head, eschewing all notions of hanging around for a coffee or something stronger in favour of getting somewhere to pitch as soon as possible and get the dinner on. A glance over at the little gorge of the Crom Allt made me pause as a thought hit me. “I wonder…”

Crom Allt

It was far better than I could have hoped. It really is a beautiful little place. All thoughts of food or pitching vanished as I gazed about me in delight. Eventually I pitched the tent – crammed in between the side of the gorge and the incredibly clear gurgling burn. You’d need a pretty compact tent to pitch here, luckily my Force 10 Helium 200 has just small enough a footprint to manage it. The 200 is supposedly a 2-man tent, but that’s quite clearly ridiculous. Unless by 2-man you actually mean “two amorous dwarves”. I’m frequently glad that I got the 200 over the 100, which sounds ridiculously pokey. I intend to put up a gear page where I talk about what kit I use… not so much because it’ll be new info to anyone, or because I use unique gear… but simply because I’m a massive geek when it comes to gadgetry and gear.

Beside the Crom Allt

Dinner that night tasted extraordinarily good – canned curry from M&S, the one thing I brought with me that wasn’t carefully selected for calories per pack weight. I was dead on my feet, so after faffing around for a while enjoying the surroundings with hot chocolate, I got into my bag and settled down for the night. The last thing I saw before I zipped the door closed was the setting sun turning the snow on top of Ben Oss a startling shade of pink. I always find it amazing how a nice place to pitch, some grub, and a hot chocolate can transform me from cursing and weary to contented and revived.

Night fell on the Crom Allt. The BBC adaptation of The Lord Of The Rings played in my ears. I honestly can’t think of a more evocative audiobook to listen to when you’re in a tent listening to water flow beside you, the wind picking up occasionally.