| The West Highland Way | ||
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By Mark Walford
Day Zero Route: Glasgow to Milngavie Date: Saturday September 2nd 2006 Distance: 10m (16km) Elevation: 43ft (13m) to 203ft (62m) Climbing (ascent and descent): 620ft (189m) and 607ft (185m) Next 
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See Route on ......
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City to City ....
3:30 a.m. is not a civilised hour by any meaningful definition, and yet there I was, hurling a final holdall into the boot of the car and peering into the dim, shapeless jumble of gear already crammed inside, trying to convince myself that everything essential had made the journey from house to vehicle without incident. Satisfied—optimistically, if not entirely convincingly—I lowered the tailgate with exaggerated care, as though the neighbours might spring from their beds at the faintest metallic click and demand an explanation.
Inside, Bryn regarded me with the sort of bleary-eyed suspicion usually reserved for burglars and double glazing salesmen. I had, after all, burst downstairs at half past two like a man possessed, flicking on lights, clattering through cupboards, and attempting breakfast with the coordination of someone who had not yet negotiated terms with consciousness. He had given me a solid hour of attention—head tilts, concerned stares, a brief flick of his tail—but had since concluded that I was beyond help and was now making a stoic attempt to return to sleep, no doubt hoping I wouldn’t produce his lead and escalate matters. I patted him on the head in apology and slipped out into the night.
The streets of suburban Birmingham lay deserted, sodium lamps casting that familiar orange haze over parked cars and sleeping houses, as though the whole city had been gently paused while the rest of us got on with more pressing matters. I drove through it quietly, almost conspiratorially, before arriving at my parents’ house to collect my brother. To my surprise—and mild suspicion—Colin was ready. Not just ready in the theoretical sense, but actually packed, upright, and apparently confident that he had remembered everything, which, given his long-standing and well-documented relationship with absent-mindedness, was nothing short of miraculous. We loaded his gear into the car, and then, in a moment of spontaneous and entirely unjustifiable decision-making, helped ourselves to a portion of our father’s poker whisky, decanting it into hip flasks with all the subtlety of amateur thieves in a hurry. Then we were off, pointing north toward Glasgow and the long road ahead.
“I have a bad chest,” Colin announced solemnly as we joined the M6. “I’m going to cough at night. Sorry.”
We would be sharing rooms.
“I sometimes snore,” I replied, equally grave. “Sorry.”
With unusual foresight—possibly a clerical error—I had packed a box of wax earplugs, and it seemed increasingly likely that they would become the most valuable item we owned.
Birmingham slipped away behind us, its glow fading into the rear-view mirror, and the motorway stretched out ahead; a ribbon of green cat’s eyes threading through the dark. There was almost no traffic, and the world felt vast and empty in that peculiar way it only ever does before dawn.
“I’m amazed you remembered everything,” I said after a while.
Colin nodded confidently. “Yeah. Took my time. Double checked.”
He fell silent, which in itself was not unusual, but the quality of the silence soon shifted—thoughtful, then uneasy, then unmistakably catastrophic. A sharp intake of breath followed. I glanced sideways. His eyes gleamed. “We’re not going back anyway,” he said quickly, in the tone of a man attempting to pre-empt a judicial ruling.
I sighed. “What have you forgotten?”
“My weatherproof jacket.”
I considered this for a moment, then nodded. “You’re right. We’re not going back.”
“I’ll have to buy one in Milngavie,” he muttered, with the quiet despair of a student being forced to spend money on something that could not be poured into a glass. This was clearly going to hurt.
The miles slipped by under a shifting soundtrack of whatever the CD changer deemed appropriate, and gradually the night began to loosen its grip. Dawn crept in as we skirted the eastern edge of the Lake District, revealing the landscape in soft, uncertain tones—great grey humps of hill rising like surfacing whales from a pale, mist-bound sea, their summits wrapped in drifting cloud.
It was not difficult to imagine ourselves up there—cold, damp, and trudging through a landscape that would likely greet us with all the enthusiasm of a tax audit. Still, we hoped for better. The Highlands, in our minds, were all sunlight on slopes, purple-shadowed glens, and vast blue skies—the sort of scenery that graced shortbread tins and heroic films. Reality, of course, had yet to be consulted.
“I’m hungry,” said Colin.
This seemed both fair and unavoidable.
We crossed into Scotland and stopped just beyond the border for breakfast, where the transformation in accent was so immediate and absolute that it felt as though we had crossed not a border but a linguistic fault line. Ten miles ago we had been in a “town”; here, without hesitation, we were in a “toon.”
Outside, a large black bird strutted about with confidence.
“Do they call crows McCaws up here?” I offered, lapsing into dad-joke territory.
Colin studied it. “Actually,” he said thoughtfully, “I think you’ll find that’s a McRook.”
From there we sped along the M74 in light traffic, briefly overshot Glasgow entirely—adding an entirely unnecessary thirty-mile scenic tour—and then congratulated ourselves on our efficiency while immediately becoming trapped in a traffic jam on the M8 that lasted nearly an hour. Eventually, through a series of increasingly creative navigational decisions, we found the long-stay car park and the end of our drive.
We had selected AMS, a small local business, to act as our booking agent and baggage courier and, as arranged, the AMS representative was waiting for us, and what followed was a brief but memorable exchange in which his broad Glaswegian brogue and our Midlands tones collided repeatedly before finally settling into a mutual understanding, assisted by what can only be described as internal translation software—or, if you’re old enough to understand the reference, a Babelfish.
Bags were moved and parked cars rearranged. The guys staffing the long stay car park were all burly geezers in blue serge uniforms but they were genuinely interested in our planned journey and saw us off with a friendly wave and soon we were being driven back through Glasgow city centre. From what little I saw, I liked it. The city seemed to be in the midst of a reinvention—old industry giving way to glass, light, and space, all under the reassuring banner of The Friendly City, which, given my prior exposure to episodes of Taggart, felt like a bold rebranding exercise. We would not be staying long enough to verify it.
We were dropped off at Kelvingrove Park beside a flight of granite steps.
It was raining.
Our walk had begun.
Park Life ....
We found ourselves standing beneath an imposing monument—a bronze tigress frozen mid-feast, feeding her cubs what appeared to be an unfortunate peacock. The statue loomed above us with a sort of casual menace, mounted high on a solid pedestal, while behind it a pocket of dense shrubbery provided a sheltered nook in which Colin promptly vanished, emerging several minutes later transformed from casual traveller into fully operational hiker, accompanied by a series of suspicious rustles and metallic clinks. Photographs were required. This was when I realised that my camera—carefully packed, naturally—was already en route to our B&B, presumably enjoying a comfortable ride and preparing to monopolise the hot water. Fortunately, Colin produced a disposable camera, ensuring that posterity would not be deprived of this moment. I posed beside the statue, becoming gradually aware that the plinth supported not only graffiti but also a particularly enthusiastic wasp nest. As Colin took an age to compose the shot, I stood there grinning in a manner that can only be described as strained optimism, watching a steady stream of wasps emerge inches from my ear. I have never seen that photograph. Nor have I ever asked.
We set off along the River Kelvin, following its winding course through the park. Almost immediately we were overtaken by a group of shaven-headed men charging past at speed while a trainer barked instructions about closing gaps. Whether rugby team or organised enforcement unit, they exuded a level of fitness that made our own efforts feel puny.
Kelvingrove itself unfolded as a surprisingly secluded landscape—sunken below the surrounding city, wrapped in trees and steep embankments, with only the occasional glimpse of Victorian stonework above to remind you that Glasgow continued to exist at all. The river chattered along beside us, and for long stretches it felt as though we had stepped out of the city entirely and into something quieter, greener, and altogether more forgiving. Rain fell steadily but without malice as we passed beneath towering bridges and alongside the remnants of old industry, nodding to volunteers clearing rubbish from the banks—some of which included a puzzling number of large blue barrels that suggested either industrial runoff or an ambitious attempt at mobile brewing.
A man practised samurai movements beneath a tree, wielding a wooden sword. A young woman, presumably his partner, watched with a mixture of admiration and what looked very much like second-hand embarrassment.
Glasgow, it seemed, contained multitudes.
An hour’s steady walking saw the city centre, the litter pickers, and the sword-wielders fade comfortably into the past. The embankments began to open out, offering broader views of our surroundings—though this was not always an improvement.
We passed beneath the looming shadow of a cluster of grim tower blocks, their blank concrete faces staring out over a weary stretch of muddy grass and fractured pavements. The path, once merely functional, had become something of an open-air gallery, liberally decorated with graffiti. We were introduced, at length and in considerable detail, to the exploits of the Valley Boys and their various opinions on the ‘Polis’, along with several creative suggestions regarding what should be done about them. We considered, briefly, our chances should we encounter the artists responsible—local lads from the estate opposite, no doubt, bored, territorial, and possibly travelling in packs. Two passing Sassenachs in fleece jackets would, we felt, provide a welcome diversion. It seemed wise, therefore, to postpone any thoughts of riverside picnics or friendly exchanges with the locals until a more hospitable setting presented itself. This less-than-charming stretch of Glasgow came fully equipped with all the expected urban embellishments: the aforementioned graffiti, a generous scattering of broken glass, and a length of rope dangling from a tree, terminating in something that looked suspiciously like a crude noose—perhaps a particularly Glaswegian interpretation of a park swing, though not one that invited experimentation.
“Where is everybody?” one of us wondered aloud.
It remained an unsolved mystery.
We left one damp, deserted park behind—Kelvingrove—and wandered into another—Dawsholm—where the River Kelvin quietly slipped away to the east and out of sight. Perhaps the gloomy weather had driven people indoors. If so, given Scotland’s well-known fondness for rain, these parks must spend a great deal of their time in peaceful, uninterrupted solitude.
Eventually we began to leave Glasgow behind us. The harsh edges softened, the buildings retreated, and we found ourselves ambling into better-kept neighbourhoods where the grass was greener, the paths less confrontational, and the general atmosphere considerably less inclined toward petty crime, Even the graffiti improved in grammar.
Fields appeared ahead like a promise.
We celebrated our escape by eating blackberries from a railway embankment—magnificent specimens, as it turned out, never equalled again throughout the entire journey.
Soon enough we were properly out—Lanarkshire unfolding around us, the Kelvin replaced by open ground and a brighter, more expansive sense of space. Our spirits lifted with the landscape, and we picked up the pace.
I stepped in dog poo.
The rain lifted, the sun made a tentative appearance, and the day, like us, seemed to be finding its stride.
The first of many breakfast tick lists ....
By the time we reached Milngavie —pronounced Mull-guy, to the uninitiated—we felt remarkably intact for men who had begun the day in Birmingham before dawn and spent much of it negotiating rivers, rain, and questionable urban landscaping.
Walkers gathered around the station, brightly clad in Gore-Tex, each preparing to begin their own pilgrimage north. Some carried packs of such alarming size that they resembled brightly coloured beetles attempting migration. Watching them confirmed what we already suspected: our decision to travel light and outsource the suffering was an excellent one.
We waited for our lift, kicking our heels and watching Milngavie pass by, observing the curious rivalry between the official granite marker of the West Highland Way and British Rail’s rather optimistic hardboard alternative, which no one appeared to take seriously.
Bagpipes played somewhere, unseen.
Eventually our host for the night, John Reid, arrived and whisked us off toward Croftamie, describing an upcoming viewpoint with enthusiasm before revealing, at the crest of a hill ... absolutely nothing—thanks to a blanket of cloud.
“Well that,” he explained cheerfully, “is what you would have seen.”
The Croftamie B&B was warm, welcoming, and immediately complicated by a breakfast form that required strategic thinking well beyond our current capabilities.
Did ticking bacon exclude sausage?
Did tomatoes replace beans?
Was porridge a lifestyle choice?
We deferred the decision and went out for dinner at the comfortable but rather pricey Wayfarers Inn instead. Later, fortified by ale and whisky, we returned to watch England dismantle Macedonia while Colin solved the breakfast puzzle once and for all. You simply ticked everything.
I fell asleep first. Colin followed shortly after. And somewhere in the night, quite possibly, I snored.
See Route on ......
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