| The Kintyre Way | |
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By Colin Walford Day Zero Next 
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Setting the scene ....
The alarm catapulted me out of bed at four in the morning. This was uncommonly early for me, but I've always found it remarkably easy to get up when work isn't involved. Had this been a call to an early shift at one of the psychiatric wards I regularly ply my trade at, I would still have been swathed in my quilt with my eyes squeezed shut and well on the way to missing my bus. As it was, I awoke with that particular squirming sensation of excitement that I always get when about to embark on a week of something foolish.
The folly in question was the completion of a new walk along the length of a peninsula in Scotland, known as the The Kintyre Way. Open for business in this incarnation for less than a year, our attempt on it made us pioneers of a sort. Various pieces of literature describe the Kintyre Way as being of various lengths — ninety miles, seventy-five miles, and *eighty-something* miles, as it makes its way from Tarbert in the north to Dunaverty at its southern end. It had come to be known in some quarters as the Long and Winding Way, and was seven years in the making as its creator, the Forestry Commission Scotland, negotiated with twenty-eight different landowners to secure access rights for walkers. Seven years of negotiation and twenty-eight landowners for a footpath. The Scots are not to be hurried.
The pioneers in question were as follows. Myself — forty, balding, getting relaxed around the middle, but still eager to don a pair of creaky old boots and tramp around to see what our country has to offer by way of fabulous walks and capering wildlife. Then there was my brother Mark. Apply the above description, but add seven years to the beginning bit. Bod — real name Tony, though this title had been redundant amongst us since approximately 1981 — was a long-term friend; strictly speaking a long-term friend of my brother's, but I often got handed down Mark's friendships when I'd worn all of mine out. Bod is six foot three, blunt and taciturn at times, and epitomises the typical Yorkshire man. This is all very well, but he is a Midlander, born and bred in Birmingham. The fourth and final member was Jo, a cousin and, according to complete strangers, someone who looks more like me than I do. He would certainly be the one identified as my brother if the four of us were lined up, rather than Mark, who is nearly Bod-sized for a start.
That made up our group: four none-too-young geezers who had been planning this trip for the best part of a year. Actually, Mark did the planning. We all nodded and agreed it was a splendid idea and handed over lumps of cash.
The Kintyre Peninsula protrudes rather phallically from the west side of Scotland in the south-west of Argyll and Bute, by way of an isthmus a little over one mile wide. It stretches into the sea for about forty miles toward the north-east tip of Ireland, failing to tag the Emerald Isle by perhaps a dozen miles. Long and narrow — at its broadest no more than eleven miles across — it rises to a ridge along its central length, a spine of hilly moorland and forest. Its rich and fertile coasts mean it has been coveted through the ages. Early visitors arrived from Ulster well over a millennium ago. The Vikings made a sudden appearance in the eleventh century, clearly liked what they saw, and set about enthusiastically relieving the resident Pictish aristocracy of their lives, so that they could settle down themselves and introduce the locals to Scandinavian ham platters.
Now it was our turn.
I pottered about in the kitchen at my parents' house in Birmingham, where I'd been staying for a few days — making a flask of coffee, double-checking that I had everything packed (last year I forgot my waterproof Berghaus coat, a fairly significant oversight given that Mark and I were about to tackle The West Highland Way for six days), and deliberating over whether to take a book. I had taken one on the West Highland Way and it had been entirely pointless. After a day's slogging, neither of us had had any further ambitions than peeling off filthy clothes, showering, eating, getting a quick malt whisky down our necks, and crashing out as if pole-axed. I had just abandoned the book when Mark and Jo arrived at twenty to five. I was ready, but Mark had forgotten a map printout required for navigation. He logged on to Dad's computer and, as if sensing that somebody was after his poker points, Dad emerged blinking and pyjama-clad, exchanged greetings, and wandered off again. I was then at pains to disturb him a second time, because the printer had no paper and the extra supply was kept — for reasons nobody had ever explained — on top of the wardrobe in his room. After some fumbling from Mark, during which he somehow managed to thrust a sheet of paper through the printer so that it fell out of the back and waltzed lazily to the floor, we had our seven sheets of directions and could go.
I eyed the paperwork warily. I hoped it wasn't going to fall to me to be chief navigator. That is, unless they really did fancy a week's walking in Bootle.
The road to Muasdale ....
We drove off at ten past five, a little later than planned, but no real hardship. Mark had thoughtfully provided us each with a bottle of water, and I could hear Jo in the back seat gurgling away at his. There was a minute or so of silence and I turned around to ask him something. Jo's head had tipped forward so that his chin was nuzzling into his chest. His eyes were peaceably closed. Waves of steady breathing emanated from him. I was about to ask him to stop playing silly buggers when I realised he had actually fallen asleep within sixty seconds of leaving. It was remarkable, really — as if he'd been entranced by someone clicking their fingers. I left him to it. He spent the next couple of hours in this position, head sunk and hands twitching in his lap.
It was an easy journey. Mark and I chatted and listened to music and occasionally ate boiled sweets he had piled carelessly onto the dashboard. We pointed out milestones from the previous year's walk.
"This is where I realised I'd forgotten my coat," I smiled, as we passed the neon-bright structure of the RAC building near Walsall.
We hit a small hold-up before reaching the service station near Chorley where we were meeting Bod and his girlfriend Denise. Its source became apparent as we were forced to slow past a motor accident. Mark peered ahead with a look of concern.
"It's a bad one, Col."
It did look horrific. A car lay on its roof with most of its front section apparently having endured a sustained barrage from tank shells. I scanned the surrounding tarmac for lakes of blood and the odd rolling head — features of which I was fairly positive would contain an expression of glassy-eyed terror — but there was merely a group of young guys standing sheepishly together on the cordoned-off motorway. They looked as if they'd been caught scrumping apples rather than having heroically wrecked their vehicle. One of them had blood running down his face from a gash on his head, but considering the state of the car from which he had presumably just extricated himself, he was lucky. I've given myself worse hanging curtains. He was grinning like a man who had just survived some ritual of manhood, which I suppose he had.
We pulled into the services and met up with Bod and Denise. Greetings and small-talk were exchanged and engorged bladders emptied. We raided the chocolate counter and then were on our way again, waving goodbye to Denise, since this was a machismo expedition only. From here the scenery improved progressively. The Yorkshire Dales began to appear to our right with the Pennines, purple and distant, rising amongst them. A little further on, the Lake District slipped by on our left. Jo, Bod and I admired sweeps and curves of giants like Scafell Pike. It was like a promise of things to come and I felt uplifted.
Mark, as sole driver for over four hundred miles, largely had the road ahead to enjoy.
At some point Jo lapsed back into a coma and slept through the remainder of England, waking as we reached Glasgow and immediately delivering his verdict.
"It's still the same old grey, dark Glasgow I remember," he sniffed, nodding sagely.
He had spent several weeks in Scotland in his early twenties, by all accounts having a splendid time. I agreed that Glasgow did look sullen and moody — it was very murky outside. Then I realised why.
"Do you think it might be the tinted rear windows?"
Jo began a laugh which trailed away as he peered more carefully at the glass. "You know what — I think that is the reason. I'm embarrassed now."
As we negotiated the length of Loch Lomond, memories from the West Highland Way surfaced and made me grin. We'd suffered magnificently on the descent from Conic Hill — blisters, sore feet, aching muscles, the full catalogue. I strained to see the accommodation we'd stayed at the previous year, enjoying thoughts of eccentric décor and a quaint breakfast being destroyed by crude Scottish profanity, but the loch wasn't cooperating and I sat back again.
We swept around onto the Kintyre Peninsula at last. Jo recognised places from his trip all those years ago. The clouds had closed in and visibility wasn't great; we could see the shins of various hills but the glens were wearing long skirts today, like austere maids. As we progressed, we encountered hordes of people queuing for some sort of concert in the rain. A field by the road was considerably more colourful, peppered with hundreds of tents whose occupants had presumably already committed to the experience.
We came to a T-junction and turned left. I saw a peculiar name on a road sign.
"Was there ever any nuclear testing done here?" I enquired.
"No," said Bod, frowning. "Why?"
"I just saw a sign for a place called Half Life."
A few minutes later, Bod had gone with the theme.
"You mentioned Half Life," he said, consulting his road map. "There's an island called Geiger here."
"Right. I'll keep an eye out for somewhere called Isotope."
We later discovered that the island Gigha was pronounced *Gear*. It was, it turns out, not named after a unit of radioactive decay. You live and learn.
Tayinloan was where we had arranged to meet the taxi driver who would be ferrying us to and from the day's start and end points all week. We climbed out, stretching limbs that had begun to settle into the early stages of rigor mortis. As I walked about, I noticed a vast plant residing in the shady corner of someone's garden — a monster of a thing, with stems thicker than my legs, a carnivorous-looking tree fern of apparently Devonian vintage. I declined to get too close to it on the reasonable grounds that something that size might not consider its appearance of vegetative inertness to be binding. I edged away and mooched around the local shop instead, wandering vaguely past shelves of food under the watchful eyes of two shop owners who tracked my progress with the vigilance of people who have seen this kind of thing before. Before long, we had paid up our taxi arrangement, driven a short way further south, and crunched onto the gravel drive of Muasdale. We had arrived at Jura, our apartment for the week.
Settling in ....
The Kintyre Way website had described the Jura apartment as a spacious first-floor apartment sleeping five across three bedrooms. It had not mentioned being cold and smelling damp and musty on arrival, but I am being churlish, because once the heating had been on for a while the atmosphere improved considerably — departing, as Mark put it, like a tramp who has been asked to leave. The place was large and comfortable and I liked it immediately. The living area gave us a good sea view over the Sound of Gigha and I could already see rock shelves in the water below, perfect for grey or common seals. I was looking forward to seeing some, as well as dolphins and, if astronomically lucky, whales. Optimism is a wonky looking-glass at times.
We spent a while settling in, heaving luggage about, scraping shins on solid furniture and choosing rooms. Mark and I shared a twin — we had managed this on the West Highland Way without coming to blows, so there was no reason to suppose we couldn't do it again. Mark, who had been the sole driver for the entire journey, was exhausted and announced that he was going to grab a couple of hours' sleep. Bod and I decided to explore. Jo, apparently worn out by the considerable demands of sitting in a car for eight hours, also had a kip once we were out of the way.
We walked along the beach that formed a backdrop to the holiday park in front of our lounge window, heading back toward Tayinloan and just chatting and catching up, having not seen much of each other over the past three years. We came across a stretch of beach swamped with water where a beck discharged into the sea — knee-deep in places — and I used small flat stepping stones to make my way quickly across. Bod, who is considerably heavier and less nimble on his feet than I am, looked less sure. He started across with great hesitancy and I sat back to observe. There was an excellent chance he was going to fall in. He stumbled halfway across and I was on my feet with a cheer ready to erupt from my lips as he tottered for an instant — but he regained his balance and completed the second half of the crossing with rather more surety than the first. Oh well. Nearly.
We threw stones at things on the way back, which is something that men of all ages apparently cannot avoid doing if they are walking along a pebbly beach. We made targets of other rocks, an old tyre, each other, and talked about life in general until my shoulder began to ache. Bod, I noticed, chose to walk the return journey along the road rather than attempt another crossing of the beck. He did this with a convincing stab at casualness that I chose not to comment upon.
Back at the apartment, Jo was up and asked how the walk had been.
"We threw little stones at bigger stones," said Bod.
"We know how to have fun," I added.
Bod found the visitors' book on the sideboard — clearly intended as a vehicle for guests to wax lyrical about their stay — and flicked through the flowery compliments inside.
"They're taking a risk leaving that there," he observed. "We'll be writing all sorts in that after a few beers. We'll end up ripping out whole pages when we read them back in the mornings."
Jo grimaced. "I wish you hadn't put that idea in my head."
"Then we'll be watering the house plant," continued Bod with considerable relish, gesturing at a large fern which occupied one corner of the room, housed in a bowl-shaped pot at what was, now that he mentioned it, exactly the right height.
Jo shook his head. "I really wish you hadn't said that."
Mark resurfaced and the three of us explored the courtyard behind the apartment, discovering a games room that appeared to have once been a stable and now contained a pool table and table tennis. I've played a bit of pool, so accepted Bod's invitation of a game with some confidence. The table had several conflicting slopes and a whole section dedicated to sending your ball nestling against the cushion regardless of what shot you actually played, but I still expected to win. I was therefore a little nettled when he beat me. I suggested table tennis as the path back to self-respect.
He didn't just beat me. He thrashed me unmercifully. It was like playing against the Borg. Resistance had been futile from the opening serve.
Bavarian hospitality ....
At twenty to six we were hungry enough to venture out. We drove south along the coast road and came across a hotel called the Hunting Lodge, where Mark swung the car onto a narrow strip of tarmac in front of a white-walled building. We walked into the dining area and I was instantly aware of the smell of a coal fire — an aroma that takes me directly back to winter nights in Manchester and that I have always enjoyed. A group of folk were arranged comfortably on settees in front of a large hearth. In the bar, we passed a glass case containing a heavily dressed goat's head. There was something distinctly Satanic about it.
"Where's the pentagon?" murmured Jo.
Here is a thing: why are the employed staff in Scottish pubs and hotels so frequently German? Mark and I had first encountered this phenomenon on the West Highland Way and here it was again.
*"Yes pliss, vot are you vanting to drink?"*
Two German lads and a pretty German girl served us our beers and took our food orders. The Hunting Lodge had been, appropriately, the former hunting lodge of the Duke of Argyll, and was now family owned and run, its main proprietor being a stout, bearded Scot in a pleated kilt who appeared to sell approximately three hundred different single malt whiskies. Mark and I were instantly enraptured. Our host asked the nature of our holiday and on discovering we were walking the Kintyre Way, a glint entered his eye: he was, he announced, a member of the board responsible for the route's existence. I looked at his portly frame for a moment and concluded he probably hadn't sampled a great deal of the Way himself.
My food, when it arrived, was art nouveau: beautiful to look at and meagre on substance. The seafood was delicious. There was just not quite enough of it. After dinner we thanked everyone and went home.
Mark and I had each bought a cigar, as an occasional indulgence. I am a non-smoker, but once a decade I'll allow one. I went outside to smoke it standing at the sea's edge, watching the churning waves in the dark, and spent a while feeling pleasurably contemplative before noticing that I wasn't enjoying the cigar at all. In fact it was foul. I persevered until my head began to swim and then pitched it into the sea. Back inside, I attempted to watch a World at War video but it soon became evident that I wasn't well. Dizzy, nauseous, clammy. The cigar had extracted its revenge. I weaved to the bathroom and assumed the position over the toilet bowl with my head bowed contritely, though I wasn't actually sick. I felt so dreadful at one point that I lay down on the bathroom lino and hugged it, which must have been a pathetic sight and is not something I intend to make a habit of.
I eventually lurched into the bedroom and slumped beneath the sheets, prepared to let sleep remove me from my suffering. I was drifting off when, like the villain of the piece, Mark's snoring entered stage left and began to buzz sonorously through the room. I listened long enough to become almost analytically interested in its character: breathing in, a standard drawn-out snort; breathing out, something rather like the sound of somebody pushing down on a deflating dinghy and causing it to whoosh in a startled manner.
I gathered my quilt and pillow, retreated to the lounge, and discovered that one of the couches folded out into a bed. It was comfortable. Sleep arrived promptly and without further incident.
Day one tomorrow. The walking begins.
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