Day 6: The Lairig Mor to Fort William
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
Well done! You sound as if you enjoyed it a lot. Please keep writing!
This is excellent stuff. It’s somewhat of a relief to find someone who writes so articulately about the outdoors. Keep it up!
Good lad!