| The West Highland Way | |
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Nightmares in wax, nightmarish clowns ....
I had a very strange dream during the night. In it, I was sitting in the back room of a McDonald’s when Colin came in clutching his face and announced that some drunk had punched him while he was standing at the counter. Naturally I was enraged and marched out to the front of the restaurant, spoiling for revenge, only to discover that the assailant was not a drunken yob at all but a large coil of electrical flex — yellow and green, like earth wire. This struck dream-me as entirely normal. I picked it up, slung it over my shoulder, marched out through the swing doors into the car park and hurled it to the ground with great force, whereupon it bounced once, rolled away uncertainly, and finally toppled over in the middle of the tarmac. I remember feeling deeply satisfied. There. Justice had been done.
Analyse that if you will.
I woke early and checked the weather. There were still grey clouds overhead, but they had that ragged, broken look which suggests a storm has spent itself and shuffled off in a bad mood. Through the gaps, patches of blue were beginning to appear like little inverted lakes in the sky. The rain had stopped.
Colin, meanwhile, had endured a strange night of his own. At some point in the small hours he had woken, found the wax ear defenders irritating, and removed them, only to discover that my gentle but persistent snoring was even more irritating than the plugs. So, in the dark, he had groped about on the bedside table for the little blobs of wax and begun kneading them back into shape. One of them, however, felt wrong. It was not softening at all. Quite the opposite: it had the dense, resistant texture of something that had no business pretending to be an earplug. He switched on the light and found that he had extracted one plug complete with a large accompanying mass of organic earwax — and when I say large, I mean roughly the size of the tip of my little finger. He had thoughtfully left it on the bedside table as a point of discussion for the morning, and I was so impressed that I took a photograph of it for the family archives. In a curious way it explained a lot. Colin had seemed faintly hard of hearing at times during the week — on one occasion I had asked him to strike a pose and he had apparently heard “wipe your nose” — but now that this waxberg had been evicted, his hearing returned to near-normal levels almost at once. He was not entirely sure how long the thing had been developing in there. Weeks, possibly. It had, one feels, become less earwax than civil engineering.
Our landlady had done much to redeem herself for the previous evening’s mood by drying all our drenched gear and laying it out in neat, warm piles on our beds. It was an extraordinary luxury to climb into clothing that was not damp, clammy, or actively plotting against the skin. Better still, she served us the finest breakfast we had enjoyed all week,
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Colin and I |
“Would you like porridge with this?”
Civilisation, I reflected, had many forms. The only discordant note in the room was her collection of toy clowns. They were everywhere. They leered from bookshelves, grinned from cushions, perched in corners, and — most unsettlingly of all — dangled from the upper reaches of the room as if caught in cobwebs or suspended after failed escape attempts. I have never liked clowns. They frightened me as a child and, if anything, adulthood has done little to improve their standing in my mind. I remain convinced that somewhere beneath the greasepaint, the bright costumes and the faux-jolly slapstick lurks a homicidal maniac waiting for his cue. Colin and I were the only guests at breakfast, which somehow intensified the sensation of being watched by dozens of tiny glassy eyes while trying to eat toast in peace. Each to their own, of course. I never quite got round to asking her about the clowns, and on reflection it was probably as well. Some mysteries are best left nestled on shelves, smiling at you in silence.
We were given a lift back down into the village and met Kath outside the post office. We bought lunch supplies, while Colin picked up a half bottle of whisky to replenish our hip flasks in the manner of men who knew how to prioritise. Then Ronnie and Shugie appeared, and at once some internal lever seemed to be thrown inside Ronnie. “Get yer chins up and stick yer chests oot, ye horrible things! A’m talkin’ tae yoo, yer useless, feckless pigs! Arrrrfarrrarrrrarrrrrfar!”
This was not, as it turned out, a one-off. It would happen every time we encountered them over the next few days, as though seeing us triggered a performance reflex in him and he simply had to launch into parade-ground abuse before he could settle again. Shugie, as ever, merely stood beside him smiling softly, like a long-suffering best man who had seen the act before.
“Hey, look!” said Kath suddenly, pointing down the street. “It’s the guy I walked with earlier — the one I told you about. The one sleeping in a bivvy.”
A tall, slightly dishevelled figure was approaching us. He looked familiar. In fact, he was the walker we had briefly encountered a few days earlier when we had lost our way near Conic Hill — the one who had muttered something about missing the obvious and loped off into the trees before we got swallowed by the Dutch beetle convoy. He introduced himself as Bob.
Behind him came the two Germans Kath had also met on the Loch Lomond section: Manfred and Matthias. It was beginning to feel faintly theatrical now, as though the route had decided to gather all recurring characters into one scene and see what happened.
The Germans were walking the West Highland Way together before heading off for a week on Scotland’s west coast. Manfred was from Munich, a city I know well, so we fell into conversation about beer festivals and BMWs while the others sorted out food and straps and maps. Soon enough we were all provisioned and there was a decision to be made. We could either retrace our steps up into the woods and rejoin the route properly, or take a two-mile march down the A82 and pick it up at the road bridge. The prospect of flat walking appealed strongly to most of us. Ronnie and Shugie, however, had other business in mind involving a hostel up in the trees, so the rest of us — Colin, Kath, Bob, Manfred, Matthias and I — set off down the busy A82 out of Crianlarich, retracing our way and passing our guest house again within the mile. I walked beside Bob and learned that he had grown up in a small nearby town where his father had been station master, and that the free rail travel attached to this role had infected him early with the travel bug. He now taught English in Tokyo, had lived in Japan for over twenty years, had climbed Mount Fuji once — which, he said, was enough — and had experienced an earthquake so violent that he had run out into the street stark naked.
It was shaping up to be quite a sociable day.
BO and QI ....
We left the A82 and picked up General Wade’s military road, which took us through sheep pasture and then out into the broad Alt Kinglass valley, a lovely open sweep of Highland country with the steep-sided masses of Beinn Dorain, Meall Garbh and Beinn nam Fuaran rising on either side of the U-shaped glen. The track was wide, dry enough, and excellent walking, which put a spring into all our steps. It was somewhere around then that I began to notice something about Bob. To put it diplomatically, he didn’t smell too pretty.
Now I am not saying this in a spirit of judgement. None of us, by this stage, could reasonably have been described as mountain-fresh. But Bob’s situation existed on another plane entirely. It was an organic body odour of remarkable potency which announced itself only when one drifted downwind. The first time I caught it I panicked, convinced it must be me. The second time I recognised the pattern and adjusted my walking position accordingly, trying to remain either abreast of him or slightly ahead. It felt ungenerous, and I was a bit ashamed of myself for doing it, but the truth is I simply lacked the moral grandeur to stroll willingly through his personal weather system.
Bob himself seemed serenely unaware of it all.
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Kath, Bob, Manfred and Mathius |
“Hi Dad. Yes, we’re fine. Yes, the views are lovely. No, we’re not walking too fast. That’s right, my water bottle’s not clunking at all, is it? Yes, we did get a bit wet yesterday. No, Mark hasn’t lost any toenails yet.”
We carried on into Tyndrum where a shop displayed a sign urging walkers to stock up here because there would not be another shop until Kinlochleven. This had the desired effect and made us all momentarily examine our provisions with fresh concern. On the way out of the village we passed a cemetery, which none of us would have thought much about had Kath not suddenly burst out laughing.
“Crikey,” she said, “they must be a healthy lot in Tyndrum. There’s only one tombstone!”
And so there was. A neatly kept rectangle of lawn with one large headstone standing in lonely state.
We began to speculate, naturally.
Perhaps it was one communal grave for the entire village.
Perhaps they were vampires and nobody ever died properly.
Perhaps they were all zombies and everybody was dead but nobody had got round to burying them.
Or perhaps we had the wrong end of the stick entirely and the stone simply read:
KINLOCHLEVEN 20 MILES. DID YOU STOCK UP AT OUR WEE SHOP?
We decided to revive the quiz format to pass the time. This was slightly unfair on Manfred and Matthias, as they had to invent and answer questions in a second language, often on subjects which leaned heavily toward British trivia and the sort of nonsense our school system lodges in the mind forever. To their credit they did very well, and I could only imagine how spectacularly I would fail in the reverse scenario — a general knowledge quiz in German, concerning German celebrities, politics, television and regional sausage. Null points.
Around lunchtime Colin, Kath and I stopped for food beside a railway bridge, while the other three elected to press on. We sat in the cool shade of the old stonework and enjoyed the rare pleasure of being still for a while. Conversation drifted to mountaineering and in particular to that famous book Touching the Void. Colin began recounting the bit where the author, badly injured and stranded on a mountain, had somehow dragged himself back toward civilisation while the song “Brown Girl in the Ring” went around and around in his head until it nearly drove him mad. He could remember neither the author nor the mountain.
Kath said, “Was his name Joe something?”
We chewed quietly for a minute.
Then Colin suddenly exclaimed, “Annapurna!”
Kath frowned. “No. I’m sure he had an English-sounding name.”
“The mountain, you fool.”
“Oh.”
At that precise moment Ronnie and Shugie ambled round the bend, caught sight of us sitting down and, as if someone had jabbed a pin into the back of a mechanical toy, Ronnie launched immediately into another barrage.
“C’mon, c’mon, get onto yer feet, yer lazy pigs! Let’s see ye hoofin’ it or I’ll run ye into tha glasshouse! Arrrrfarrrarrrarrr!”
“Hello, guys,” we said.
Shugie smiled.
The magnificent Mamores and Bavarian hospitality ....
Ronnie told us that this was a good place to spot Golden Eagles at which Colin instantly dug the binoculars out of his rucksack. The Two Ronnies then sauntered off again, Ronnie carelessly trailing cigarette smoke behind him.
“See’s ye later.”
It was around this point that we started referring to them as The Two Ronnies, though for the life of me I cannot now remember exactly why the name took hold. Still, once coined, it stuck.
The track rolled on through the afternoon and we caught up with the Two Ronnies again a few miles later while they were taking another cigarette break. Hip flasks were produced and passed around.
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Ronnie and Shugie |
“It’s ab-se-loot poss!”
Shortly afterwards we saw it: a golden eagle, solitary and immense, sweeping and circling in the high air with a grace that made the whole valley seem to belong to it. We watched through binoculars as it rode the currents, effortless and aloof, and I tried to imagine what the world must look like from up there — those impossible views, that wide dominion, the mountain tops and glens laid out below in perfect silence.
Later that afternoon a young man in camouflage trousers trudged past with hands in pockets and a muttered greeting. A little way behind him came another lad, walking with the stiff, careful steps of a man negotiating with pain. He paused to say hello as we sat on a grassy knoll brewing tea. We pointed to his feet and asked if he was alright.
“Blisters,” he said, flashing a huge grin. “Bloody killing me.”
“Is that your mate ahead? The one in the army trousers?” I asked.
“Aye. I told him to go on. I’ll be fine.”
And with that he carried on, placing each foot with exquisite caution on the rocky path.
By late afternoon we saw the little cluster of buildings that made up Bridge of Orchy, including the first pub we had seen since Crianlarich. It sat there among the hills with whitewashed walls and an air of enormous welcome, conjuring immediate visions of pints, chairs and a temporary suspension of effort. So when Kath suggested we stop for a drink, none of us felt inclined to argue. Just then the Two Ronnies caught us up once more.
“Move it on, ye lazy buggers! I’ll have ye shot, you idle pigs! Corporal, take that man’s name! Arrfarrrarrr!”
Inside the inn we drew a few curious glances as we crossed the dining room and made for the terrace. Neither Colin nor I had shaved all week. We looked dusty, slightly wild, and not unlike men who had come down from the hills to stock up on supplies and sell animal pelts. We sat outside with the Two Ronnies and had a pint of Deuchars while they talked a bit about their army days and the places they had served. Ronnie had seen action in the Falklands. Shugie had risen to officer rank before retiring. Both had done stints guarding Buckingham Palace, which led to one of the better stories of the day. In preparing new recruits for their first turn in bearskins, they said, it was traditional to tell them in summer to sharpen the ducktail crease at the back of the hat with sugar water. The effect was excellent. The unfortunate consequence, of course, was that they then had to stand absolutely motionless on parade while sugar-mad wasps buzzed furiously round their necks and a sergeant-major stood nearby, ready to tear strips off them for the slightest twitch.
It was while sitting there in relative comfort that I learned, with some indignation, that we still had a climb to do: up and over Mam Carraigh before descending into the Loch Tulla valley and on to the Inveroran Inn. I had not been expecting this. It struck me as a deeply unnecessary hill, rudely inserted into the route by someone who had confused hiking with character-building.
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The river at the Bridge of Orchy |
And so, for the first time on the walk, I found myself truly alone.
I stood on the summit of Mam Carraigh on a clear, mild summer evening and slowly turned through the full circle of the horizon. In every direction the mountains rolled away, burnished with russet and gold by the sinking sun — Beinn Charn, Beinn Dorain, Beinn an Dothaidh, Beinn Suidhe — while their glens filled with purple twilight. To the north the waters of Loch Tulla shone amethyst-blue in the distance. It was exactly the sort of scene I had hoped for: the full shortbread tin moment, gloriously, unapologetically beautiful. I began turning in a full slow circle with the camera, clicking every couple of seconds because it seemed impossible to miss. Up there, the land did all the work for you. Every angle was a postcard. And to think that I had resented the climb. Had there been some easier, lower alternative, I might well have taken it and missed this utterly spellbinding view.
Then there was the silence.
I do not think I had ever before stood in such a remote-feeling place in the United Kingdom. It was almost impossible to reconcile with the idea of Britain as a crowded, busy island of roads, estates, ring roads and retail parks. Yet here was a landscape that felt utterly hushed and ancient, as if it had slipped loose from the modern age and hidden itself away in the folds of the mountains. Only the wind stirred from time to time, and even that was playful rather than hostile, tugging gently at my clothes and reminding me that I was only there by grace of good fortune. I knew perfectly well that more often than not this summit would be battered by rain, wind and low cloud, but on this evening the mountains had decided to be kind.
He waved as he spotted me standing against the sky, while Ronnie filmed his heroic arrival.
“Stopped to film some blokes in a canoe,” he panted, “and the bloody camera’s run out of tape. Wow! What a view!”
I was mortified. Of all the places in the world to run out of tape, it had to happen here, in one of the most beautiful spots we had seen. I should have changed the cassette the night before. Ronnie very kindly offered to let me film some of the views using his camera, on the understanding that we would exchange email addresses later and he would send me the footage. It seemed at the time a marvel of modern convenience.
The light was fading now, however, and our feet and legs were beginning to object to all this scenic appreciation on an empty timetable. So we started down the far side of Mam Carraigh on a long winding descent, and below us, in the valley, we could already make out the small group of buildings that formed the Inveroran Inn. Halfway down we passed a familiar figure. It was the blistered young man from earlier, still placing each foot with exaggerated care.
“Still hurting?” we asked, in what was admittedly a rhetorical sort of way.
“Aye,” he said cheerfully. “Bloody killing me. Never mind — nearly there now, eh?”
“Yeah. Where’s your mate? The one in the combat trousers?”
“Oh, he’s gone ahead. I told him not to wait.”
We wished him luck and continued down. For once, the West Highland Way was kind: the final stretch was straightforward and easy, leading us pleasantly enough to the inn. Kath was already waiting in the car park.
“What’s it like?” we asked.
“S’allright,” she shrugged.
By now we had learned that Kath’s expectations of Scottish hospitality were not especially high, so this was not an unfavourable review.
We stopped to remove our boots and were immediately attacked by the first proper swarm of midges we had encountered all week, a tiny airborne army of enthusiasm with a very clear idea of what they wanted from us. Inside, the Inveroran Inn proved to be, indeed, all right. No more than that, perhaps, but then again it stood in such glorious isolation that by the time any walker reached it, a bed, a shower and a bar would have made it seem like the Ritz on a private island.
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A view from Mamm Cairragh |
I was interested to discover that our rooms had been growing steadily larger each night. This one was vast by comparison: two singles and a huge double, with enough space to swing a cat in considerable comfort, unlike Kath’s room, which she claimed was so small that there was a serious risk of breaking the bathroom mirror simply by opening the door too enthusiastically. The décor, meanwhile, was not retro in the sense of having chosen to be 1980s. It simply was 1980s, faithfully and accidentally preserved. Yet I rather liked it. It had a bohemian, lived-in feel about it, and I myself was feeling very bohemian and very lived in.
I showered first. This turned out to be unwise. The Micropore tape I had used to strap up my chafed thighs in Crianlarich had by now bonded to my skin with all the intimacy of industrial sealant. When I peeled it away it took with it a neat inch-wide strip of body hair from each leg, as though creating a firebreak through the undergrowth. The plasters that followed were worse, and I suffered in silence — or rather nearly in silence, because the hiss of the shower fortunately drowned out most of my pathetic little noises.
From our room I could see the mountain trail we had descended, and I wanted very much to open the window and photograph it properly. But a bright yellow warning sticker informed me that doing so would allow the midges to swarm in and bleed us both dry, which seemed a compelling argument against. So I took a photograph of the room instead and then, by force of habit, began ticking boxes on die Frühstückskarte.
I phoned Sue before dinner.
“You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” she asked, after listening patiently to me moan for a while about my feet, my legs, and the general state of my lower half. This was one of those difficult moments in which two truths coexist rather awkwardly. I was enjoying myself enormously, but I was also missing Sue's presence, and it seemed wrong somehow that she should be hundreds of miles away at the other end of a telephone rather than standing beside me in the Inveroran. So I answered, diplomatically, that yes, I was having a wonderful time, but I wished she were there too.
“That’s nice,” she said. “I want you to have a great time, okay?”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too. Oh — Dave wants to know if you’ve lost any toenails yet.”
My entire family, I was beginning to suspect, had become far too interested in the fate of my toenails. I began to wonder whether some sort of sweepstake had been organised back home.
The Two Ronnies joined us for dinner, and by “joined us” I mean they physically dragged two tables together, rearranging cutlery and place settings in the process, so that we could all sit as one big party. The German waiter watched this dismantling of his careful arrangement with a look of cold Teutonic disapproval that might have curdled soup. Also in the room were the two Midland ladies from our first breakfast at Croftamie. We swapped news of the walk, compared notes, and discussed injuries in broad but thankfully non-visual terms. At some point they clearly decided that Ronnie might prove to be a man of rather flexible language if sufficiently encouraged, and they withdrew slightly into themselves after that.
Later, while the Two Ronnies went off in search of a television to watch the Scotland match, Colin, Kath and I found Manfred and Matthias in the Walkers Bar and joined them for a few drinks, served by a lovely Scottish woman of indeterminate age who seemed utterly terrified of most of her customers. At one point a well-spoken older man struck up conversation with me as though we had been intimate companions for days, reminiscing about the Coast to Coast Path, the Pennine Way, and remarking on how astonishingly clean I looked. I had not the faintest idea who he was. Beside him stood a younger fair-haired fellow built like a farm labourer, grinning at me with great warmth. I made polite noises, nodded at the appropriate intervals, and edged gently away at the earliest opportunity.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly in the company of Manfred and Matthias, who were charming, funny, and impressively tolerant even after Kath suddenly asked them — quite without warning and for no obvious reason — why one was not supposed to mention the war in the company of Germans. Eventually they retired.
“They’re an item, you know,” said Kath. I confess this had not particularly occurred to me until then. They made a lovely couple.
At length we all turned in, wondering what the following day would bring. It was DS day. The Devil’s Staircase.
And a twenty mile hike.
See Route on ......
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