The West Highland Way in pictures

The West Highland Way in pictures

Day 1.1 Swathed in Gore-tex from head to toe, we headed for the precinct and the official start of the walk. It was an inauspicious beginning for such a wild and scenic route, a great example of not judging a book by its cover.

Day 1.2 After a short hop along Broadmeadow road, we climbed a stone stile into the pretty Glengoyne valley, a place of rough grassland flanked by low hills with curiously knobbly profiles. And silly selfies.

Day 1.3 Behind us the impressive flanks of the Campsie Fells marched away to the south west and ahead of us to the north east reared the knobbly-crested bulk of Conic Hill. It looked a long way off, and indeed it was - about thirteen miles give or take.

Day 1.4 We struck out again after lunch, across a rural landscape that might have belonged to many a county in England were it not for the plateau of the Campsie Fells that appeared suddenly above the green fields, providing a scenic backdrop for much of the afternoon with their uneven contours framed against the sky.

Day 1.5 We passed a large pile of abandoned logs by the wayside; a great example of absent-mindedness. It was as if years before some lumberjack had felled them, stacked them neatly, and then forgot all about them and although they were probably of no great age they looked as if they had lain there for centuries.

Day 1.6 Conic Hill now dominated the skyline and demanded our attention. It sat there defiantly, right on the Highland Boundary Fault – the geological divide between lowland Scotland and the Highlands.

Day 1.7 Near the summit of Conic Hill the trail sprouted its very own babbling brook and we were obliged to slosh through it in order to gain the top, thereby soaking our feet for the last few miles of the days hike.

Day 1.8 From our vantage point atop Conic Hill, at the end of a full days walking, we were treated to the first of the many Highland scenes that would beguile and bedazzle us over the next week. Looking down on the southern end of Loch Lomond from a height of a thousand feet or more, with tree clad islands floating on its plain of bright water, a rainbow arching gracefully across the sky and the setting sun falling slowly behind the distant mountains was a real picture postcard moment.

Day 2.1 We loitered for a while amongst the yachts and the ducks scattered along Balmaha's water front, breathing in the wholesome morning air. I waved the camcorder at some pretty scenery and gave a brief description of what we had accomplished so far and what we would be doing today.

Day 2.2 After several switchback tracks we stopped for a few minutes on a tiny and secluded beach, an inlet where miniature waves lapped against the shingle and trees crept to the very edge of the shoreline, their roots reaching into the coldness of the lake like hesitant bathers dipping their toes in the water.

Day 2.3 It was a time of easy walking and fresh air, with the cobalt blue Loch Lomond providing a constant backdrop.

Day 2.4 As the sun began to set we had a tea-break on a high and lonely bench set on a rocky outcrop overlooking the loch far below.

Day 3.1 Wet Tuesday - a day of torrential rain. We reached a point where the path had been washed clean away. It was just a rushing torrent of foaming water which had bitten out a large chunk of the footpath on its way down to the boiling Falloch. As advised, we toiled up the wooded hillside, over a barbed wire fence, and slithered inelegantly down the opposite side.

Day 3.2 Some way along this long, soggy, grey trail we encountered a kissing gate. This was in fact the halfway point of the West Highland Way and was, as such, a landmark moment.

Day 4 - We reached the remains of an old lead smelting kiln, a desolate place as nothing was growing on the poisoned soil even though the kiln had been abandoned for a century or more.


Day 4 - We wandered out into a valley. It was a beautiful place, great hulks of mountain on either side, a gentle river winding through the valley floor like a silver ribbon, a railway line keeping abreast of us to the west.


Day 4 - The locals were indifferent to our passing but did, at least, allow us to take a few pictures.


Day 4 - It was late afternoon when we saw the tiny collection of buildings that made up the hamlet of the Bridge of Orchy, including the first public house we had seen since Crianlarich. It looked very inviting, nestled there amongst the hills, white washed walls conjuring up images of good beer and comfortable seating.


Day 4 - It was during a beer at the Bridge Of Orchy that we became aware that we had another climb in store; up and over Mamm Carraigh before we descended into the Loch Tulla valley and the Inveroran Inn. It wasn't one we had prepared ourselves for and we felt a little affronted that this unnecessary hill had been plonked across our path.


Day 4 - But the climb was all worth it. At the summit we we turned about 360 degrees: In every direction the peaks marched away stained russet and gold by the setting sun ...


Day 4 - ... Beinn Charn, Beinn Dorain, Beinn an Dothaidh, Beiin Suidhe, their glens gathering purple twilit shadows.


Day 4 - To the north, the waters of Loch Tulla sparkled; amethyst blue.


Day 5 - Rannoch Moor: The trail, an eighteenth century military road built by General Wade to help tame the naughty Jacobites wound its way for several miles through this huge empty piece of Scotland, flanked by the slopes of Creag an Fhirich and Leacann nam Braonanon to the east and rolling moorland to the west,


Day 5 - How grim the crossing of Rannoch Moor might have been if Wet Tuesday had persisted further into the week. Instead, to our fortune, the sun shone brightly and there was time for taking it easy, for lunch and laughter.


Day 5 - And pointless diversions.


Day 5 - We swung up and over yet another hill and were treated to a spectacular view along the Pass of Glencoe with Buachaille Etive Mor looming massively to the west.


Day 5 - The cluster of white buildings that formed the Kings House Hotel were dwarfed by the mountains beyond them. They scattered across the middle distance, like pocket-lint caught on the rough grassy knap of the valley.


Day 5 - Lonely and starkly picturesque, haunted by Buachaille Etive Mor, Black Rock farm demanded attention. And selfies.


Day 5 - After beers, soup, and recharging of legs at the King House Hotel we made our way along the great green bowl of the valley, searching for the Devil's Staircase.


Day 5 - It's entirely possible to traverse the zigzag trail that winds its way up Stob Mhic in one go. The Devil's Staircase is less of an evil climb than its name might suggest. However, you'd be a fool not to pause for breath and then have it taken away by the views back along the pass of Glen Coe.


Day 5 - As you climb it's two thousand feet, the Devil's Staircase rewards every step with the finest views imaginable.


Day 5 - From the summit, at the top of the Devil's Staircase, the wind whips around your face and Ben Nevis appears before you, hulking over its neighbours.


Day 5 - And so begins the long climb down to Kinlochleven. A descent which should never be underestimated in terms of its length.


Day 5 - The path bumped and stumbled along the hem of the hills and didn't seem to be in a hurry to do anything adventurous such as going downwards. It was a broken rocky path which played merry tunes on our sore feet.


Day 6 - If anything, leaving the town of Kinlochleven the next morning offers a far stiffer climb than the Devil's Staircase. But when, at last, you make the final crest there's the beautiful Nevis valley waiting to enchant you.


Day 6 - The military road carved out by General Wade and his troops, so often trodden on this route, leads you along the valley floor, mountain crags on either side doing their very best to make you feel small and insignificant.


Day 6 - The day was unusually clear and cloudless, which we were assured was rare enough to be celebrated, so we did; by posing in front of Ben Nevis.


Day 6 - If these were the only photographs we had taken all week we would still have felt entirely justified in walking the long miles in order to take them.


Day 6 - Ben Nevis stood out in fine relief against the sharp blue heavens. Seldom does its summit present itself with such clarity. We were very fortunate.


Day 6 - Fort William slowly approached, and with a quiet sense of achievement we found ourselves at the (frankly disappointing) way-mark proclaiming the end of our journey. Almost 120 miles of highland walking was at an end, but the memories would be everlasting.


Day 6 - It's fair to say that we celebrated rather a lot in Fort William that evening

West Highland Way Summary

The West Highland Way
By Mark Walford Summary Homeward Bound Prev

Goodbye and all that ....

There was only a smidgeon of a hangover to cope with in the morning. Breakfast was a subdued affair as we were all packed and ready to leave but this time of course it would be by taxi and not on foot. The other people seated at their tables were of an entirely different species to what we had grown accustomed to. They were tourists rather than walkers, older people dressed in beige slacks and loafers or tailored twin sets. We felt a bit out of place.
I had a chance to nip down to the Highland Crafts centre and grab some gifts. I also succumbed to the inevitable and bought myself a West Highland Way commemorative tee-shirt - basically a white tee-shirt with a small logo of the WHW route stitched on the chest - very tasteful and understated. And I bought a bottle of decent single malt from the Whisky Shop as well (which had been my primary reason for visiting if the truth be known). The taxi, driven by an AMS guy, arrived on cue to take us back to Glasgow with Kath already on board and so we loaded our bags and set off for the long journey home. Only later did I discover that my camcorder stayed in the taxi and never made it back to Birmingham with me. It was to be nearly a fortnight before we were re-united. I had the chance to snap a few more photos of mountains, this time from the vantage point of the main road, and to enjoy a drive-by of Glen Coe.
Colin, seated behind me, had an attack of motion sickness which lasted for most of the journey. I felt for him, there's nothing worse than being travel sick, but hoped fervently that he wouldn't chunder in the car (and consequently over the back of my head).
The journey back to Glasgow was like a review of the previous week. We time-travelled rapidly backwards into the last seven days and the landmarks flew by in reverse order - Fort William, Glen Coe, Tyndrum, Crianlarich, Loch Lomond (the Inversnaid Hotel peeping out from the forested shoreline opposite and Balmaha ,with its flotilla of boats, winking in the morning sun), the knobbly crown of Conic Hill, and suddenly we were back in the suburbs of Glasgow. The trip had taken us less than two hours.
We unpacked our belongings at the long stay car park and thanked the ever helpful AMS guy before he left us. Kath was leaving with him as her flat lay just around the corner and he had offered her a lift. So that's where we said goodbye to her, with all the usual promises to keep in touch, and, with a final hug and a wave, she was gone.
In a tearing hurry.
"It's sad isn't it," said Colin. And whether he referred to saying goodbye to our friends or just that the holiday was over I had to agree. It was a little sad.
We drove home without incident, threading our way out of Glasgow, and onto the long drag home down the M6. We stopped for dinner at a service station near the Lake District and viewed the distant fells with envy, knowing that people were up on their summits, perhaps enjoying a walking holiday.
I was thinking about home, and a bottle or two of chilled wine, treating my legs to the luxury of being draped over a sofa. I was thinking of Sue and wondering whether she had missed me. "What about next year?" said Colin tearing his gaze away from the hills.
"What about it?" I asked.
"Shall we do this again, maybe get cousin Jo and Bod to come along?"
I considered the pain and the tiredness and the hard work involved for a few seconds and then I nodded.
"Why not!"
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West Highland Way Day 6

The West Highland Way

By Mark Walford Day Six Route: Kinlochleven to Fort William Distance: 14m (22.5km) Elevation: 30ft (9m) to 1,076ft (328m) Climbing (ascent and descent): 2,188ft (667m) and 2,192ft (668m) Prev      Next

See Route on ......

This place ain't so bad after all ....

The last day of our walk dawned bright and sunny. It seemed a minor miracle that we had hiked almost one hundred miles since having our photographs taken in Kelvingrove park on Saturday morning, and even more of a miracle that I had survived intact. My legs were finally beginning to accept that I intended to use them for what they were designed for rather than slinging them casually across a sofa in the manner they were accustomed to. They still felt a little stiff in the morning but once they had warmed up they carried me along with little fuss. My toes were about as bruised and as ugly as they were going to get and all ten toenails were still stubbornly attached (I wondered who had drawn those odds in the family sweepstake), and all the chafed areas, embarrassing or otherwise, had cleared up after liberal smearings of Sudacreme. In short I felt fine. I may have looked like a middle aged haggard wreck with a week old beard and a penchant for gaiters but inside I was a laughing little cherub.
We broke our fast whilst the proprietor entertained us by killing wasps with his bare hands. I can't remember exactly what our breakfast 'special' consisted of but I do remember it was delicious. A bacon, cheese, and tomato concoction layered over some sort of unleavened bread.
On our way to rendezvous with Kath we passed a Spa supermarket and popped in to grab some things for lunch. As we browsed the deli and fruit sections a woman started complaining about the lack of choice on offer. "Och," she lamented in a fantastic Scottish brogue, "nay cheese an' onion cresps!"
We met Kath at the Tailrace Inn and I took the chance to do a quick video diary before we set off. Kinlochleven, looked altogether different in the early morning sunshine. To paraphrase Meriadoc Brandybuck, as he stood in the middle of Fangorn Forest, I almost felt I liked the place. I panned starting and ending at the river. The mountains still ringed the horizon, the ex-aluminium smelting plant still dreamed dark dreams on the edge of town, but it all looked a little more bearable. Of course I was leaving, I was just a visitor passing on through, and I was unlikely to return in a hurry, so I could afford to be magnanimous.

---

... but getting out of it is

If anything, the climb back out of Kinlochleven was more taxing then the Devils Staircase. It was a long pull, steep in places, with more than a fair share of the sort of wooden steps that I have learnt to hate with a passion as they suck the strength out of your legs quicker than any other obstacle on earth. Who designed these steps anyway? None of them seemed to have been built with a normal human leg measurement in mind. You either had to take a huge elongated step with one knee stuck in your ear and the other leg at full stretch behind you, or had to hop up them primly like a sparrow. As usual I found myself lagging behind after the halfway mark; my body was like a funnel that was draining away energy faster than it could be topped up and I resorted to stopping every fifty yards again to recharge. Muttering darkly and vowing to be better prepared next year I soldiered on. Having said all this, the climb was a pretty one, ascending through the Mamore Forest, it's trees dappled by early morning sunlight, and an occasional fine view back over Loch Linnhe There seemed to be a lot of people on this morning's excursion and they filed past me as I rested at each bend in the track. They looked bright and fresh, newly scrubbed and smelling of soap, the very antithesis of my present condition. I justified this by using the excuse that they were almost certainly day trippers whereas I, damn it, had marched all the way from Glasgow. I felt like shouting this out as they passed me by, but that might have risked a quick shove and a fatal plummet through the trees so I kept my mouth shut. Well, it was open and gulping in air actually but you know what I mean. me by, but that might have risked a quick shove and a fatal plummet through the trees so I kept my mouth shut. Well, it was open and gulping in air actually but you know what I mean.

General Wade's military road

I made it eventually though, topping the final crest to be greeted with a panoramic mountainous view and a bunch of hikers in various stages of recovery. Colin was recording video footage and I appeared, striding over the hill, looking deceptively chipper. We knew that the rest of the days walk was comparatively easy with no more ascents or descents of any great note so we set off through beautiful terrain with a spring in our step and a sense that the worst was now far behind us. The walking was very similar to that experienced across Rannoch Moor with the trail, the one built by our good old friend General Wade, winding along and offering us unparalleled views of the surrounding mountains. We had near perfect weather again and the clear skies and sunshine brought out the best of this fantastic scenery. We made good time as a result of the fair conditions and, at last, after five long days our feet had come to terms with the rocky, uneven ground. We reached a stile where an information board gave details of the surrounding scenery. Far away to our left I could see the massive ridge that Ronnie had told us was Ben Nevis but, wait - the map on the board seemed to suggest that Ben Nevis was in fact away to our right. I pointed this out to Colin and he gave plausible reasons for this anomaly in which the words 'perspective' and 'geography' were mentioned frequently, which seemed fair enough to me.
We stopped for lunch by the wayside, climbing up a few feet to sit on the springy turf. We had detected an end-of-term feeling to this final day and this was ably demonstrated by a line of walkers dancing past us singing 'Side by side' and miming the actions to the song. Following in their wake was Bob (he of the ripe odour) whom we hadn't seen for some time. Bob had a new travelling companion, a curly haired youth who smiled but said very little. This new friend was travelling in the same manner as Bob, sleeping in a bivvy and roughing it. He probably had a well travelled bouquet as well but in this case two wrongs seemed to have made a right and they were happy enough to share the road together. It was nice to see Bob again and we caught up with the pros and cons of the last few days of walking. Eventually he wished us luck and walked on, heading for Fort William and the finishing post. The downside to this sort of journey is that you make friends readily, but very briefly. I realised that it was unlikely I would ever see him again.

---

The 'other' Ben Nevis and the tacky end ....

Later in the afternoon Colin and I climbed a small turf covered hill to take some photos. We wanted a relatively quiet location, away from the trail so we could capture some of the remoteness of the locale on video. This meant, of course, that as soon as we had the camera out a party of Germans appeared and began wandering about, getting into our shots and talking all over our video footage. To our right reared the huge bulk of a particularly large mountain, a feature that had become more and more prominent as the day had progressed. I wondered what it might be called. It was very impressive and it filled the eastern corner of the sky. One of the Germans approached Colin and asked him if this was Ben Nevis. Colin shook his head and pointed off to the left towards the distant purple ridge we had been told was the real deal.
I was deep in thought as we climbed back down to the trail and I came to the conclusion that we had been misinformed (or just as likely we had misinterpreted what we had been told) about our mountains. The great lumpy crag rearing up into the sky to our right was (as the information board had told us) Ben Nevis. The purple ridge we had been photographing

I pose in front of Ben Nevis

and capturing on video since yesterday was just A.N.other mountain. Had Ronnie been present I would have been able to determine whether we had misunderstood his shouted directions or whether he had simply read the map wrong. However we had lost The Two Ronnies at Kinlochleven and they were never to re-appear.
So there was it was, Ben Nevis looking close enough to touch. An oversized way mark pointing to the end of our walk, the end of one night sleepovers, the end of battered painful feet, chafed flesh, and the end of inflamed leg muscles. I was missing it already.
Now the trail climbed for a while and entered the dense coniferous plantations of Nevis Forest. Our old friends the midges returned to keep us company and the air grew noticeably more humid. We passed through narrow ravines where the trees drew overhead forming cool shady tunnels that were not unpleasant to walk through.
We came across a loose cairn of stones that marked the place where a Campbell chieftain had fallen whilst in retreat from the McDonalds. Colin and I added a stone without first reading the information board nearby. It said, basically, that if you were a McDonald sympathiser (and by inference in collaboration with the Bloody English) you should add a stone and if you were a supporter of the clan Campbell then you took a stone away. Colin and I had added a stone and, being southerners, we had acted correctly. Kath's eyes narrowed a tad.
"Bloody English," she muttered.
She needed a comfort break in the woods so we walked on. I bet she took a stone off the pile as she walked past.
The midges were kept at bay with Jungle Formula and so we marched along with numb lips and lump-free appendages. A dragonfly suddenly appeared and dive bombed us.
"There must be still water about," I observed.
"Why?" Kath replied, "Can you hear it?"
"No it's just that dragonflies need sti ..... hang on - how can you HEAR still water?"
The forest went on; the glorious Ben Nevis standing guard over us. We passed occasional forest clearings where the trees had been felled for timber. These great swathes of destruction looked like the Somme, circa 1917 or the aftermath of a nuclear strike. I actually like pine forests but they are not particularly eco-friendly and offer very little chance for bio-diversity. I had been encouraged, during this walk, by the attempts at replanting broadleaved forests. The rewards of this program won't be reaped for several decades but the landscape can only benefit from these projects - with the best will in the world, walking through miles of pine forests can be a monotonous experience.
We entered another clearing, crossing a wooden bridge over a set of rapids where giant brown toadstools grew along the riverbank, and then back once more into forest. The path began to dip and rise and during one ascent we passed a woman who was obviously in difficulties (maybe chafing or blisters, a sweat rash perhaps - it was impolite to ask). Her friends were trying to encourage her by telling her that this was the last stretch and there was only another half an hour left before the end of the walk. I heard this with both elation and sadness. It's not often that you experience conflicting desires to have something both continue and end - an odd emotional cocktail.
We reached a viewpoint where we could make out the untidy sprawl of Fort William below us, just a few miles distant. Ben Nevis loomed mightily to our right. We took some more pictures and Colin shot a video of Ben Nevis - so we'll know what it looks like next time.
Onward and downward, the trail almost threatened to do a Kinlochleven on us as Fort William didn't seem to be getting any closer as the day wore on. But abruptly, and rather startlingly, we emerged from a stand of trees onto a busy road on the outskirts of the town and the very final stretch of the West Highland Way lay ahead of us. It was just a mile or two along a tarmac path but surprisingly it took a lot out of us. We discovered that walking on asphalt after so many miles of forest trail is just horrible. All the sore parts of our feet and legs were re-activated and we began to peer ahead, straining for the elusive sign that would tell us we had finished. Kath in particular seemed to struggle, she was using both of her walking poles but was stooped over like an old lady and walking at half her normal pace.

The anti-climatic end

We waited for her to catch up with us; after so many miles on the road we were determined to all reach the finishing post together.
The end of the West Highland Way was nothing short of a complete anticlimax. A wooden sign, erected next door to a busy traffic island, congratulated us on making it all the way to the end. And that was about it really. It wasn't anywhere near as impressive as the fancy stone slab marking the start all the way back in Milngavie and I doubt there would be anything in place at all but for the Highland Craft Centre who had created it as a shameless marketing ploy. Still, at least they had bothered. Come on Fort William - surely you could do better than this?
The Highland Craft Centre was just behind the finishing post, all gleaming glass and tacky souvenirs. The traffic roared around the island as we made our final video shoot and took our last set of photographs as West Highland Way walkers.
Another small group of people were seated nearby. They watched us impassively.
"Just done the Way?"
"Yeah."
"Well done."
And, with this damp squib of a conversation, it ended. We parted company with Kath and retraced our steps back to our final Bed and Breakfast - The Glenfer - to a room that boasted three large beds and the most luxurious shower room we had yet enjoyed. Even better, there was a well equipped laundry room and, for a small price, the landlady offered to wash most of our clothes. "You've walked the West Highland Way then?" she asked as we handed over a heap of festering tee-shirts and smalls.
We told her proudly that, indeed, we had.
She nodded. "I had some guys here last week who ran it all the way."
Some people just have a knack of being able to deflate you.

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Beers in Fort Bill ....

We were ticking breakfast menu boxes zealously when Kath arrived, the smell of warm laundry and fabric conditioner permeating the lobby of the house. We walked back into Fort William
in search of the Ben Nevis Bar where, maybe, we would find Manfred and Matthias waiting. I had heard so much bad press about Fort William that I was expecting something like Kinlochleven, sans mountains. In fact I found it quite a pleasant place. It was clean and functional with all the pre-requisite high street chain stores necessary these days before a place can consider itself modernised (and perversely removing it's character in the process). It was like scores of other large towns found the length and breadth of the U.K. The sort of place where you would take a Boots or a William Hill entirely for granted.

The final night out

We walked along the pedestrianised high street, passing the Edinburgh Woollen Mill, Victoria Wine, and Greggs and eventually reached the Ben Nevis bar. It was a very busy place, deservedly so in my opinion as the staff were friendly and efficient and the food above average for the prices charged. Manfred and Matthias were waiting for us and we had a few beers and chatted about what they were going to do next. They were intending to climb Ben Nevis the very next day and then take off to the West Coast for a week. The Nevis began to fill to capacity as a stage was set up for the live entertainment. None of us were really in the mood for an evening of alternative rock metal so we went in search of another drinking place. Just outside the bar a small bespectacled guy weaved drunkenly down the street. He was yelling belligerently into his mobile phone and swaying alarmingly from side to side. A police car cruised past and he broke off his monologue to yell "F*ck da polisss!". He then dropped his phone and tried to bend over to pick it up. Predictably he got stuck and we left him on his hands and feet, shouting angrily at the pavement. Manfred and Matthias parted company with us at this point as they needed an early night in order to tackle Ben Nevis in the morning. We swapped email addresses and then said goodbye to them and waved them off down the high street.
We spent the rest of the evening in a place who's name escapes me. We found Mr. Blister and his friends seated at a table inside and he looked relaxed and pain free, almost certainly due to the copious amount of 'heavy' he had consumed.
Colin and I sat with Kath and we made merry over several pints of real ale. We had been behaving ourselves with regards to alcohol all week as nobody enjoys hiking with a hangover but now those restraints were removed and we celebrated our achievement with enthusiasm. We weaved our way back to our B&B and then weaved straight past it, heading out into the dark wilderness beyond the towns edge. We realised our error only when we ran out of street lights.
I wanted to sit up and talk about the weeks experiences with Colin, share the memories, maybe over a shot or two of whisky but the wisdom of middle age overruled the youth hidden deep within and I snuggled contentedly into my duvet and was soon fast asleep.

See Route on ......

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