Rowardennan to Drymen

It puts me off when somebody talks to me and says ‘right’ after every sentence. However it’s beaten as a cringeworthy practise by a bloke saying ‘yeah’ at the end of a sentence. And I find myself involuntarily saying ‘yeah’ in reply every time, as if his ‘yeahs’ are questions to ensure that you’re following the monologue. Know what I mean, yeah?

A buffet breakfast for the first time and I snaffled oceans of black pudding, haggis and potato bread, with a few beans and a bit of scrambled egg. Fantastico, or as a German couple might say;

Das ist scheiss.

You chose it.

Nein, you chose it. 

Valk behind me all day as if you’re being led to your death. Schwein. Und don’t forget to look miserable as scheiss if you see ein Englander.

The hills were attracting a few fluffy clouds as I set off, heading along Loch Lomond south to the village of Balmaha, to then climb Conic Hill which sticks up a thousand feet above the loch, and on to Drymen where I would spend the night at the Hawthorns guest house. A quick 15 mile dap.

Down along the lakeside the going was fine and I made good time. The gorse was out in full flower and each bank of it released a beautiful fragrance.

The path ran by little sandy or pebbly bays and at one two swans were sweeping across gracefully.

The beaches themselves and their views across the loch were stunning.

The path wandered from waterside to hillside, and I have a slight discomfort with cattle, and a palpable fear of Highland bulls. Look at the length of the horns. He could stick it through me, one side to the other, now I’m not such a fat bat.

Just before Balmaha the path turns up a hill that stands a couple of hundred feet above the waterfront. What a view.

On the way down the far side of this hillock I spotted a young Roe Deer, still as a statue checking me out. 

Beautiful. First Roe Deer I’d seen.

I finally came down into the little harbour of Balhama, with a busy little boatyard and plenty of moorings.

A seat overlooking this little harbour had the most amazing inscription I’ve seen. I hope you can read it. Must have been quite a lady in her day. 

A Scottish hillwalking guru, Tom Weir, is celebrated with a statue on the waterfront.

The path cuts sharply inland and uphill, with a steep climb up Conic Hill. The effort with a rucksack is hard but the reward is that view.

Over the hill and five miles back lies Drymen where I located the Hawthorns easily and had a nice meal in the company of other walkers from different age groups and different nationalities. It was nice for a change. I slept well and was only 13 miles short of the end in Milngavie. A few steps away from having completed two trails and 320 miles. Bring it on. Night night.