Perth, still ages to go.

  
As you can tell from my train tickets!

  
I fell asleep and missed the Cairngorms. I’ll catch them on the way back. The ambient weather gave way to cold rain before I arrived in Inverness. It’s just getting ready to punish me again for being English. It’s ok guys, I’m pure African like us all if we go back far enough. Six hours at the moment before I get to Wick. The landlady is leaving the key to my room in the porch. Breakfast at 8.30 and a bus to J O’G at 9.45. I’ll be happy to get walking. I’m tooled up with waterproofs and stuff. Including second hand boots identical to Chas and Dave, but in much better nick. 

  
I didn’t tell them I was going away. Didn’t tell Wilson either but I think I’ll need a tent and Wilson would let midges roam freely over my exposed bits. My sister has a theory that they will bite my old scrotum and lay eggs which will burst their way out as pupae. Charmer. 

This is a normal person in Inverness. He’s called ‘the Accused’.

  
OK voice of reasonableness – only a joke. Jesus.

This was parked in Perth. Antonia. Drool over it.

  
I was in Cornwall with my old mate Bow Chip last week. What a time we had, it was great. He is awaiting some medical treatment, not mentally-related surprisingly enough, so we said we’d do summat again when he gets that out of the way. Circumcisions are never easy things at his age.

  
He’d never caught a fish in his life. Bless. Then he copped a load of em on a boat we took out for a full day. Good old kid.

  
I stopped at Bristol on the way down and got a ticket for Rovers’ last match of the season. They had to win and Accrington had to draw and then the Gas would get promoted to League One. In the 92nd minute the Gas scored. The place erupted but I kept quiet as I could only get a ticket in the away end. I slipped out and joined Bavs, Chris and Rob, my Gashead mates. The news came through. Accrington could only draw. What a day! Gas are up!

  
Still here in Inverness.

Laters.

Well there isn’t. It’s being negotiated by people who want to secure rights of way for walkers like me so they can benefit the area by increasing tourism. It will be a route from John O’Groats to Cape Wrath which will run close to the remote northernmost coast of the British Mainland. On the map below you can see John O’Groats on the mainland top right and Cape Wrath is the furthest point northwest beyond Durness. There is a road most of the way but I won’t take it for too long. 

  
We’ll take a look at Dunnet Head en route – the most northerly point of mainland UK. I want to camp this time, although it’s a B&B tonight in Wick after a 16 hour journey on four trains. Let’s see. Edinburgh was beautiful an hour ago with the piper drawing a few tears from my eyes. I can’t help it. The Cape Wrath Trail did me in physically and mentally last year until I couldn’t do it any more. The biting cold, permanent wet clothes, soaked boots on badly blistered feet and I hated it, but I had to go back. I have to go back again. It’s beyond appreciation of the stunning views, when the mountains choose to emerge from the clouds. It’s a genetic thing. I can understand Glaswegian émigrés in bars in Australia, slaking their thirst in the warmth of the Sydney sun, singing of their longing for the Highlands. Covered in sleet with nobody there, and then warming up for ten seconds of a summer that draws out billions of flesh biting midges to fill your days with pain and misery. 

Anyway. Edinburgh was lovely.

  
  
The piper played with the dignity of a man with history and destiny on his side. Rocking backwards and forwards. Both purposeful and ethereal. Over the top? I’m right behind you. 1000 pipers died in world war 1. 

Let’s sing another song boys, this one has grown old and bitter.

The Scottish craft shops do good business near the station. I wasn’t surprised to see the history pamphlets of each Clan on display. Equally unsurprising was the beermat representing the Smith Clan. We’ve worked hard for that accreditation.

   
 The next journey to Perth was beginning to look a lot like Scotland. 

Laters.

Just a reminder that I’m blogging on https://bladeinspain.wordpress.com/

At the moment. Hope you enjoy It.

Hi,

I’m planning a walk across southern Spain, nearly 600 miles, in January and February. I’m raising money for Save the Children – I only want donations of a fiver or less. Everybody was more than generous last time and I don’t want peer pressure on anybody to donate more.

There’s a new blog to cover this journey:

bladeinspain.wordpress.com

I hope you enjoy it.

Fivers most welcome at:

uk.virginmoneygiving.com/bladeinspain

I set off at 9am for Milngavie, an outskirt of Glasgow, with the rain falling. The gorse was wafting perfume everywhere. Gorgeous. 

It wasn’t a difficult walk, flat and dry surface, but it was ok. Down one small valley was an ancient bridge, almost hidden in the undergrowth. A sign named it as Trolls Bridge. You can imagine them sneaking out at night!

Onward up the valley to Milngavie past the Glengoyne Distillery, which was tempting but too much of a diversion. Round the final hill on the route I looked back at the last vestige of the Highlands. 

The Way had another surprise. The weather had brightened and a dry afternoon was forecast but it did a U-turn and peed it down for the last hour of my walk. 

There is a park in Milngavie just before the end of the Way and the rain eased. As I entered it a bloke in a suit got out of a Landrover and got some bagpipes out of the boot. He’d come to the park for somewhere isolated to practise and started up when I was thirty yards away. The dark sky, the wet undergrowth, the mournful sound of the pipes (filled with pride, history and purpose), the ache in my feet and legs, the emotion of knowing I’d finished this 320 mile journey. It got me and I hid my face as I walked past the piper to mask the fact I was weeping.

The end, until the next beginning.

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.

I was full of enthusiasm for a short walk (14 miles) after clocking up 21 the day before. Nae botha. This would take me halfway down the east side of Loch Lomond to a nice place with evening food. I left the Drovers’ and some bloke offered to take my photo.

I walked upstream to a bridge over the river to the east side and yomped down. I took a poor turn over the bridge onto a WHW link that turned out to be problematic due to fallen trees and small landfalls. This cost me precious time. 

The clouds were developing around local hills as I headed south to LL. 

LL are great initials as Superman only had girlfriends with the LL initials. So he must have right fancied Loch Lomond. The first mile or so was ok, and I came to a bothy, Doune Byre, which was in decent shape, although an Irish couple I had met earlier said they’d stayed there and it was infested with mice. What do you expect for nowt? 

After the bothy the path started to deteriorate. And a mile later it was very difficult. I had to climb, scramble and jump across problematic blocks of stone over a few miles of the route. The views of the lake became lovelier and despite the tough nature of the route the view continued to compensate.

Eventually I made it to Inversnaid, a small community with a hotel and outside seating where I could eat my Drovers packed lunch without a problem, and with a nice view.

Carrying on to Rowardennan the path followed the shore and looked more like the South West Coastal Path on occasions.

Often, between the beaches and difficult boulder strewn stretches, there would appear a patch of new-growing bracken and Bluebells, destroying the myth that blue and green should together not be seen.  

I was running late however and compounded the problem by taking a minor lakeside route that was swamped with path works and difficult boulders to negotiate. In the end at 7.30pm I made it to the hotel/hostel and moved to the bar/restaurant to get my food and drink. The view was awesome.

I had a place booked and slept easily through the night. I’m ready. Night night.

The morning was clear and my tent had dried out on the fence. The views were lovely and Maurice cooked me a manly breakfast of meat, with the exception of some scrambled egg. Big chunks of burnt toast and strawberry jam. Massive pot of tea. Right set me up. Unfortunately I got bit during the day and scratched the bites on my legs in the night, prolonging the misery. It’s such a shame for a beautiful neck of the woods.

I walked over the hill from Inveroran to The Bridge of Orchy and looked back at Maurice’s place, in the middle of the picture, and the loch.

The river running under the Bridge of Orchy is pristine.

The Way crosses the road and up the hill, where I found a ruined car with a seat to mapread in for a few minutes.

The route climbs up a long, but not too steep pass over to Tyndrum. The views en route are reight good. I’m enjoying this walk. It’s not the South West Coast Path. That was special. But it’s got something.

Tyndrum and the area around it are crammed with interest. Gold has recently been discovered and it’s not uncommon to see families panning for gold in the rivers. It also reeks with history. Robert the Bruce and his men were here in 1306, being pursued by McDougall of Lorne and his men. To lighten their burdens Robert the Bruce and his chaps threw their heavy weapons into a small lochan.

Imagine if Robert the Bruce’s sword is in this lochan, preserved in peat. OMG. Which means oh my god. McDougall’s men caught up with their prey, but were all slaughtered. Fight light fight effective. Down the road I came upon a sheep sale.

Miserable looking buggers. They must be German. I’m not kidding I’m going in the opposite direction to everyone else and there are hundreds of Germans and Yanks that I come across. Even, and maybe particularly, the young German couples are the ones who look most miserable and behave like it. They’re not enjoying being together, mustn’t be. Hateful looking Pillock with a beard walks ahead of his lass, almost ignores my greeting and she drags behind like a prisoner being led to her death. Why don’t they stay in Stuttgart and argue for a week?

Round the corner is St Fillan’s Priory ruins. Fascinating stuff.  Goes back to the 13th Century and the graveyard goes back to the 8th! Unbelievable.

It was a right long slog from there to Inverarnen and the legendary Drover’s Inn. A total of 21mile in the day. Down the valley to Inverarnen there were lovely little stretches of river where I would love to loaf around and spend an hour or two with a fishing rod.

After a long time I rolled up at the Inn and had a gorgeous warm bath. FIsh and chips and an earlyish bed. Knackered. The place has been going for hundreds of years and is haunted as hell. Not in my room though.

Night  night.

First time I’ve put the departure point and destination on since the blog started I think. And I’m not going to check. That would be sad. I’ll do it later. I got up in an inner tent covered in midges. How did the blighters get through the fine mesh? For blighters read bastards. I had breakfast in the hotel attached to the campsite and I ate for Scotland. I went to pack and take the tent down and was met with a mist of midges, blighters, which I countered with my stylish midge mesh hat which will be the talk of the town when I wear it at Bramall Lane for the first match of the season. 

Nevertheless I still got bit. The blighters got my legs below (and slightly above) the bottom of my shorts. Blighters!

The Co-Operative store produced sandwiches and crisps for later and I set off up the four mile hillside leading to the Devil’s Staircase. A pass in the hills with a steep drop down on the south side. The weather was poor but dry when I set off,  and it remained dry all day. The climb up was long and wearing; it’s far easier without a rucksack but it dunt matter.  The views were great. 

Finally I came up to the last pitch up the back of the Devil’s Staircase.

The view opened out from the top and it became an expansive valley rather than a constrained glacial glen. 

I was enjoying this walk. The views were great, the weather was cool enough for a dude with a rucksack and there were nice features. The Cape Wrath Trail is an experience. So is wiping your backside with a cactus but it don’t mean you liked it and want to do it again. Having said that I’m glad I did it, and equally glad I started the WHW. 

The weather brightened in patches and I passed by Glencoe and the skiing centre up there.

The road went ever on and on. 19 miles in total to Maurice’s place at Inveroran. He takes b&b overspill from the Inveroran hotel. I showered, heaven, hung my tent out on Maurice’s back fence, had haggis and beer in the hotel and got an early night. Maurice is great. Long haired fifty/sixty summat who retired from the Fire and Rescue service last year after a heart attack. He’s a highlander. Me too (when it’s warm and no midges).

Maurice’s place and views from it.

I like him and here. Night night. 

What a great night’s sleep. I fell asleep shortly after ringing ‘the wife’ as they say on Tipping Point (not that I watch it), round about 8pm or summat. I listened to the Incredible String Band doing ‘The Half-Remarkable Question’.  Just cop it on you tube or summat and you’ll share the joy of a song vying for greatest ISB song of all time, with ‘The Iron Stone’ and dozens of others. They do something to me. I then put on the Killers. As it’s on my iPad it switches off after the 4 classics I’ve got on there and I’m asleep before the end of ‘When You Were Young’. But I hadn’t done my teeth or had a wee so I woke up at 1am and got out of the tent. OMG!! This means Oh My God. It was that brief hour of darkness round here at this time of year. The clouds had lifted and the black mass of Ben Nevis was revealed to me. Not by an outline against the Universe; the cloud was lifted but not evaporated so it was black outside. But by a fabulous array of lights which were making their way up or down the mountain. It was magical and I wished I could watch for a long time but it was now cold. I weed and brushed my teeth, in two completely separate processes and went back to bed, after once again admiring the magnificent display of AA powered torches snaking up and down the highest mountain in the UK. 

This morning I packed in the rain, which had hung around since 4am, no doubt dousing the Elven lamps on the high mountain. The site has a chuck wagon and I had two breakfast rolls, big uns. 

Walking down to the river to pick up the West Highland Way (WHW) the bluebells were in belated beauty.

The Way rises up and passes through passes. The first one culminates in a high peak of an ancient fort,  Dun Deardail. It’s up there somewhere.

The route cuts south and then east to Kinlochleven, which I aimed to overshoot and carry on a few miles further. In the end I stopped at Kinlochleven. 

En route was a loch with a tiny island on which Macbeth was reputed to live before he became big time. You can see it at the far end. 

Lots of people on the route, all coming in the opposite direction. Mostly Germans, as in the south west. Miserable looking as well. It dunt cost owt to be happy and smile. Jesus! 

The rain was intermittent and the glen twisted south and then east. It was through here that the Campbells retreated after a bloody defeat in 1645, pursued by the MacDonalds. With fries. 

Poor little buggers. 2nd February. Must have been bitter. And they lost and saw their mates cut to pieces. 

The sky cleared a little after I passed the cairn marking the point where the  MacDonalds gave up the chase of the stragglers, looking back down the glen.

And now looking forward and south.

It was now the usual grind towards Kinlochleven, a further six miles.

Kinlochleven sits at the end of a sea loch and as I dropped down into the town there was a campsite over the road at the bottom of the hill. Tent up, washing done, showered, watered and fed. The view is impressive. I stopped because I was tired. I’ll be strong tomorrow after an early breakfast in the hotel whose grounds contain the campsite. A long way south and aiming for the Bridge of Orchy. We’ll see.

Night night.