Walking the West Highland Way
Written by Henry Nuttall, Photography by Rob Wyatt
Orwell's recollections of Catalan warfare fill my mind, and road trip music fills Rob’s ears as the clear blue sky gives the sun a rare opportunity to shine down on the passing Glencoe greenery. A surprising quantity of North American accents fills the air of the train carriage, rousing me from my book and back to a kind of reality.
“There's more mountains this way, Henry!” Rob says, pointing ahead as I struggle to shut a stiff gate. We excitedly snake along the well-waymarked footpath for a few kilometres, only to realise we have overshot our first campsite by a few kilometres. We pitch up and eat, watched closely by the camp’s resident dog, and then spend the evening chatting with a photographer working on a nearby film set.
Birds scream and shout until you come within a few metres of their hedgerows, then disappear into silence as you pass by, looking for the source of all that racket. The rolling country roads and footpaths undulate, quickly gathering height and length as we go on. A mix of typical ramblers' footpaths, the kind that requires you to look where you place your feet, and gritstone bridleways wide enough for an off-roader make up the way. Occasionally, one must join a B-road pavement for a short stretch to bridge the gap. The frequent mixture of textures underfoot beats the strain out of the tendons and muscles of the feet, making them hardy and strong.
Rob breezes past me on yet another uphill, whistling to himself or talking aloud about something. I gasp enough air to wheeze a response. Topics of conversation vary along the way. On the scale of 'profound to drivel,' we spend most of our time at the bottom end, normally talking nonsense humour, discussing anything of value to the point that it becomes abstract enough to play with. The value of such discussions cannot be overstated for folk such as us, as it is often through exhausting humour that sincerity wiggles its way into conversation. It is in these moments that the ears are of more use than the mouth. The great outdoors has an incredible power to bring deep and personal topics out of people. It is quality time; the kind people seemingly don’t get enough of nowadays.
The undulating pathways, weaving in and out of the neighbouring woodlands flanking Loch Lomond for a day and a half’s walking, are famously loathed by waygoers. Somehow, there is nearly a thousand metres of ascent and descent for your legs to deal with over the course of this stretch. The stone beach views over the loch are beautiful but infrequent, and the forestry is uninteresting at our pace, so one is forced to source entertainment from either their companion or from within. When we tire of conversation with ourselves and each other, a small, secluded cove may present itself, offering some rest with a view and a cool-down in the loch’s edges waters. In these places, you may be joined only by the occasional dragonfly or bird. Maybe the sight of a group of wild goats, panting loudly under their shaggy coats and donning their long horns, startles you as much as it did me.
Every morning, we wake to find the freakishly hot spring weather prevailing. Perhaps there is the feeling of slight morning dampness in the air, or on the bottom of the tent, but never a morning dew. Our pitches, mindfully exposed to the constant whisper of a breeze, are free of the insectoid terrors of Scotland. Cuckoos sing unseen anywhere a tree or two is present. A lizard may hurriedly scramble away as you stop to look at it, sunbathing in the hot, blinding light. Temperatures beyond the forests soar to 20+ degrees, neutralising any midges when the breeze isn’t there to whisk them away.
Expressions of disgust and slander of the beasts serve as easy icebreakers among pilgrims of the way, though the average way-goer is often open to chatting regardless of the topic. Locals inhabiting the stone brick towns and villages of the route are often cheerier and more talkative than the average person on the street. They are keen to know if it is your first time, if you’re enjoying it, how long you plan on taking, and if the midges have been causing any trouble. There is no unwarranted advice, only good wishes and support. It is startling, really. The North American tourists, often found in large groups outside the pubs lining the route, seem to thrive in this environment. Their accents carry comically far in the often-tranquil settings and somewhat spoil the feng shui.
Past the rivers and streams north of Tyndrum, the real prize of Scotland shows itself for the first time along the way. The Glencoe valley opens in front of us. Tourists swarm the green valley like ants. In the centre, the King's House provides a much-needed warm shower prior to an assault on the Devil’s Staircase. We pass a newlywed couple, dress, kilt and all on the way up. Our well wishes are somewhat bemused. At the top, all take a breather and watch in the distance as the Mamores bake in the midday sun.
More welcoming pubs pass by as our feet keep moving. More friendly faces pass by as we put the world to rights. The postcard scenery passes by as our bodies grow used to the load on our backs and the incline of the hills. The routine and rhythm of the way start to take effect. All feels good, all feels right. What’s another 25 km day when the going is as pleasurable as this? We notice an increase in the number of way walkers heading South. An early warning for the approaching finish line.
We pass tent after tent in the stunning Lairig Mor, marvelling at the fine camp spots and the views to accompany them. We settle on a small wooden outcrop, with a short day planned for tomorrow. Overnight, a cold snap trickles its way down the valley and settles in our forest. In the morning, after silently packing up, stiff and grumpy, we escape the shadows of the mountains to defrost our fingertips in the early-morning sun. We warm up with movement, and little food so as not to spoil our cooked breakfasts.
The dirt path that our feet are so well acquainted with turns to tarmac. We leave behind the valley and remote mountain scenery. The smell of fresh pine in the crisp air is at our backs, as is the sun. We get our heads down and motor our way along the final kilometres alongside a friendly and talkative local, who keeps up with our ridiculous pace of walking and conversation. She tapers off at the hospital, and we snake our way in and out of the Friday morning foot traffic of the ‘Fort Bill’. A metal man sits down and massages his achy feet next to the starting monument. We dive in for breakfast next door. There is no more West Highland Way to walk.
