Name: Administrator
Posted on: 27/08/2012

The following is Simon Whaley's piece on walking here, which was on our longlist for our 2011 Travel Writing Competition.

Seven small events that made his walk along Scotland’s West Highland Way so memorable.

Seven Day Wonder

Every great journey should begin with a jumbo sausage roll. Flaky pastry crumbs provide extra sustenance for negotiating nasty clumps of gorse bushes in Mugdock Country Park. But there is more to the West Highland Way long distance footpath than sausage rolls and gorse bushes. People focus on the big wonders; Loch Lomond, Glen Coe, Ben Nevis. For me though, it offered seven days of amazing, small wonders.

Day One

Conquering Conic Hill’s 1200-foot summit is not taxing, or even enduring, unless it marks the end of a long, tiring, 20-mile first day. The muscle motivating view uplifted my spirits to a far higher altitude. In the calm, evening light, Loch Lomond’s islands were molehills in a golf green, or stepping-stones to the Arrochar Alps. Glancing left, I watched the windows of Glasgow’s tower blocks dazzle in the fading evening sun. Leering to the right enabled me to see into the future … well … the next three days. The Highland Boundary Fault beckoned, drawing me magnetically, ever closer to Fort William. That was the small wonder of Conic Hill. Conquering it inspired me to reach my journey’s end.

Day Two

Rob Roy’s Cave was an unexpected wonder. There is nothing cavernous about this crevice. In fact, it is so small it’s easily missed if it weren’t for the word ‘CAVE’ daubed on an adjacent rock. I give it small wonder status because of its historical qualities. My fingers read the rock face. History in braille. Every nook, cranny, serrated edge and weather-beaten face reputedly witnessed the legend that was Raibeart Ruadh, to use his Gaelic name. Here, the valley narrows. The slopes of Beinn a Choin and Little Hills squeeze Lomond’s waters to lap at the Way as it traverses this rocky, tree-root strewn section. There are no sanitised country parks now. The two-day-old bristles on my face tightened. A breeze flew across the water and the crags around Rob Roy’s Cave nicked my finger. I shuddered. It was as though hundreds of eyes through history were watching my every step.

Day Three

Gravestones. I defy anyone standing on the West Highland Way between Kirkton Farm and Auchtertyre not to marvel at the optimistic patch of sloping ground, surrounded by a dry stone wall. Optimistic, for its sheer size and relative emptiness. This slice of heaven won’t fill up; the locals abandoned it eighty years ago. For the first time since Milngavie, I felt alive, ironically. This final resting place stole my heart. It would have to wait for the rest of my body, though!

Day Four

Under the auspices of a headless Beinn Odhar, with a thick, low cloud scarf around its neck, I encountered the West Highland Way height restriction. A cattle creep under the West Highland Railway Line. Bending down brought my nose closer to the floor, clarifying that cattle clear their bowels whilst creeping. My head cleared the roof, but my rucksack wedged tightly against the concrete blocks supporting the railway line above.

A low rumbling noise penetrated my thoughts. The puddles at my feet danced. The rumbling crescendoed. My eardrums throbbed. Fear engulfed me. I lunged forwards, then backwards, forwards, backwards, but my rucksack was rammed fast against the ceiling. St Fillan’s graveyard was a beautiful experience, but I wasn’t ready for it yet. My survival instinct kicked in. Unbuckling the waist strap, I dragged my arms from the shoulder straps, lurched forwards, through the metal gate and out into the open, fresh air. Turning around, I watched the bogeys of the two-carriage Sprinter train clatter by, hurtling towards Tyndrum. Underneath, my rucksack swung nonchalantly, before suddenly, plummeting into the cattle creep mess. If a ‘wonder’ is something unexpected, then this cattle creep was certainly an unexpected experience.

Day Five

Weather forecasters are put through their paces on Rannoch Moor. This wilderness experiences every form of weather possible within a matter of hours. Submerged trees rose menacingly from lochs, adapting to survive in this harsh environment. Even Mother Nature fights to subsist here. Crossing this 13-mile section of open, windswept, bog deserved respect, although this is not my wonder, for it is not small. Near the end of the day’s passage lies the most photographed mountain in Scotland. Buachaille Etive Mhor. Majestic. Imposing. Foreboding. But, my wonder was snuggled at its foot, occasionally slipping into the odd photo too.

Blackrock Cottage’s white-washed, stone walls with reddish-brown doors squat assuredly on the moor’s edge, hugging the ground: it’s roof barely a few feet from the soil. Two diminutive chimneys stab the sky. After crossing that inhospitable moor, its sight raises morale. A sign of civilisation. My spirits experienced sheer wonderment that the unmitigated beauty of Rannoch Moor gave someone journeying across this inhospitable land centuries ago, enough courage and determination to build a shelter here. Rannoch is a wonder in its own right, but striding closer to the Kingshouse Hotel, I marvelled at the wonder of Blackrock Cottage’s builders.

Day Six

Way walkers have two common goals. To complete the route and to get a good night’s sleep. Having climbed the Devil’s Staircase and clambered high across the mountains to Kinlochleven, it was with weary legs that I dropped into the town’s bunkhouse. I was sharing a small room with a father and son team. His ex-army mannerisms relished this 95-mile challenge, whereas his 16-year-old son’s lack of effort suggested he was enduring the family tradition his two older brothers had already undertaken. There were also thirty under-11s sharing the bunkhouse, busy re-enacting the Glencoe Massacre. Despite starting at 3pm, by 12.30am they still hadn’t finished. Gut-wrenching screams, rallying-warrior cries and shuddering walls penetrated our twin bunk-bedded room. At 12.38am, Military Dad opened the door and bellowed so loudly, both sides of the Glencoe Massacre hit the decks, never to move again until after I’d left later that morning. It was the best night’s sleep all week. I never saw Military Dad, or his son, again, but his ability to silence thirty children with one bellow is a wonder I shall not forget.

Day Seven