West Highland Way Summary

The West Highland Way
By Mark Walford Summary Homeward Bound Prev

Goodbye and all that ....

Morning arrived with only the faintest whisper of a hangover, more a polite reminder of the previous evening’s enthusiasm than anything requiring serious negotiation. Breakfast, by contrast, was a noticeably subdued affair. Our bags were packed, boots retired, and for the first time in a week the day ahead involved no walking whatsoever—an idea that felt both luxurious and faintly suspicious. The dining room was occupied by an entirely different breed of traveller to the mud-spattered, slightly feral company we had grown used to. These were tourists—orderly, composed, and dressed in a palette of reassuring beiges and creams, their footwear unsullied by bog or bracken. We sat among them like a pair of escaped exhibits from a travelling outdoors show, quietly aware that we smelled faintly of effort. I slipped out for a final wander down to the Highland Craft Centre, that gleaming temple of tasteful temptation, and dutifully acquired gifts along with a West Highland Way commemorative T-shirt—subtle, understated, and therefore absolutely essential. More importantly, I secured a bottle of decent single malt from the whisky shop, which, if we’re being entirely honest, had been the true objective all along.
The taxi arrived on cue, driven by the ever-reliable AMS man, with Kath already installed and looking surprisingly fresh. Bags were loaded, seats claimed, and with a final glance at Fort William we set off south, trading boots for brake lights and mountain air for upholstery.
It was only later, somewhere between reflection and mild panic, that I realised my camcorder had stayed behind in the taxi—an oversight that would separate us for nearly a fortnight, during which time I imagined it touring the Highlands without me, capturing vastly superior footage.
The journey itself unfolded like a rapid-fire recap of the previous week, a kind of reverse pilgrimage as the landmarks slipped past in familiar sequence—Fort William, the brooding grandeur of Glen Coe, the quiet sprawl of Tyndrum, Crianlarich, and then the long shimmering stretch of Loch Lomond, with glimpses of Inversnaid and Balmaha flashing by like fond memories unwilling to linger.
Colin, seated behind me, spent much of the journey locked in a grim and deeply personal battle with motion sickness. I sympathised entirely—there are few things more miserable than a rebellious stomach in a moving vehicle—but I also maintained a quiet, fervent hope that the situation would not escalate into anything involving the back of my head.
Within two hours we had traversed not only the distance but, it seemed, the entire experience itself, and suddenly we were back in the outskirts of Glasgow, where it had all begun.
At the long-stay car park we unloaded our gear, thanked the driver, and said our goodbyes. Kath left with him, her flat being conveniently nearby, and so that was that—one last hug, the usual promises to keep in touch, and then she was gone.
In a tearing hurry.
“It’s sad, isn’t it,” said Colin.
And it was—whether he meant the end of the walk, the parting of ways, or simply the quiet closing of something that had briefly felt larger than itself, I couldn’t say. But I agreed all the same.
We set off for home, merging onto the motorway and heading south, the long ribbon of the M6 stretching ahead of us. Somewhere near the Lake District we stopped for dinner and looked out across the distant fells, where tiny figures were no doubt still walking, still climbing, still chasing that peculiar mix of discomfort and joy. I found myself thinking of home—of Sue, of a glass of cold wine, of the simple, profound pleasure of sitting down and not immediately having to stand up again. I wondered if she had missed me, and suspected that she probably had, at least in a moderate and entirely reasonable way.
“What about next year?” Colin said, dragging his gaze away from the hills.
“What about it?”
“Shall we do this again? Maybe rope in cousin Jo and Bod?”
I gave it some serious thought—considering the rain, the blisters, the aching legs, the moments of quiet misery—and then, almost despite myself, I nodded.
“Why not?”
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