Well, I’ve now been along the Cape Wrath Trail (Been There) and climbed up Ben Nevis (Done That). 

To recap I had breakfast and left the B&B yesterday as dear Elsie, the owner, had a doctor’s appointment. I wandered into town and came across the end – being the beginning for me – of the West Highland Way. 

It took me longer to find the end of the Cape Wrath Trail. Mostly because it isn’t a trail for many miles along the way; it’s difficult to follow when paths don’t exist! But it’s an embryonic trail and an attraction for devoted walkers. So it deserves it’s unmarked roundabout conclusion, shared in true Caledonian fashion with a stalwart of the glens – McDonalds!! I kid you not, this is the published start/end point.

I made my way along my new trail – The West Highland Way – up Glen Nevis to a campsite where I pitched my midge-proof tent. Thank you god that I didn’t bring Wilson (although he was sick) as I would have been bitten to buggery. I made my way to the camp restaurant/bar and had haggis, neaps and tatties and a coupla beers.

Oh that aromatic haggis!

I was keen to get up Ben Nevis, as the highest mountain in the UK, and I couldn’t get a glimpse of it in the low cloud. 

I got an early night, got up and had a Scotch Egg and Prawn sandwich, which I’d bought at Morrisons, the previous day, for breakfast. What a treat!

I set off at 7.30 and made my way up this amazing hill. It’s not that high compared to the Alps or Pyrenees, and Puig Campana that I’d climbed in Spain earlier in this blog is higher, but it’s high enough. It’s also very north, so it’s colder and more desolate, particularly in low cloud. 

The path up is hard and steep, and being almost the longest day in the year and a Saturday the mountain was crawling with charity walkers, several hundred of them; and there’s only one safe path. After 3 hours of slog I reached the snow line and it had turned windy and very cold. 

Where else can you find a group of nuns at 4000ft?

It was knackering walking through snow in those conditions but everyone plunged on. There’s a great, supportive camaraderie going up mountains. Strangers sharing words of encouragement. 

A bloke volunteered to take my photo.

It’s just a question of keeping your head down and grinding away. At 11.15 I finally made it to the summit, with the charity crew.

To eat my Morrisons 69p pork pie I had to lean against the leeward side of the stone cairn at the summit, with other pilgrims, to avoid most of the icy blast. 

On the way down I saw another group of charity walkers together crossing the snow and it was a great, evocative photo.

When I got down to the lower levels of the mountain the views up and down (to my camp site) were great. 

I got down at 13.30, doing a not bad 6 hours. It’s warmer in the valley, and the midges are delighted. Loafing about and ready for tomorrow for the start of my journey South on the West Highland Way. 

Bite Bite. 

I woke up earlyish in the tent and tried to pack as much as I could in the inner tent, which keeps out the midges. I had a sandwich left which I’d bought in Inverness and a Bounty bar so breakfast was provided for and I’d surely come across a shop at some time before Fort William. Sadly my water bottle top wasn’t fixed tightly enough and most of it had leaked in the bottom of my rucksack. I took a couple of mouthfuls, packed the tent and set off up the footpath into the mountains at 8.15. Not a bad start. It was raining and my boots were still wet inside from the previous day but my feet and legs were in reasonable shape. 

I followed a Scottish Right of Way through up to the top of a pass and down to some ruins of an ancient and small farmhouse. I expected the spectre of an old Highlander to appear on the photos: the place had that feel to it. Particularly with the skeleton of a sheep in one of the two rooms.

It was a difficult walk to the ruins, across a waterlogged plain with very deep peat bog ‘holes’ where the unwary would disappear up to their thighs. After that it was less boggy but straddling a steep mountainside for a couple of miles. I found a decent crossing of the river, it didn’t matter too much as my shoes were sodden, and went downstream reasonably quickly into a pine forest with a decent woodland path through it. All the time a mechanical banging was growing louder. 

In a sudden clearing I came across a dam building project for a hydro power facility. In the middle of a remote area. I hadn’t met another walker yet. 

It’s not just a small dam that’s involved. As I walked down the project’s dirt track there were massive machines laying waste to trees, planting huge pipes, crushing rocks and spreading them to make more gravel roads in what on e was a lonely landscape. But for a good, sustainable purpose. It’s ok. The machines were in touch with each other and knew I was coming. They don’t get many walkers but they all stopped before I arrived and started up after I passed, over the course of a country mile. 

The track then dropped down to Clunes and Loch Lochy. I got there about 3.00pm and walked down the loch to the end where a river flowed out and the Caledonian Canal paced it side by side. 

The barren, desolate and dangerous Cape Wrath Trail then becomes a canal towpath until its conclusion at the end of my journey at Fort William. Nevertheless this domestication didn’t produce a shop or cafe or pub or nuthin.  I was starving.

After phoning 27 B&Bs in and around Fort William darling babe Maggie found one that had a room for a foot-soaked, fatigued furquahar. I rolled in at 7pm, absolutely exhausted after summat like 25 miles, had a decent meal in a local bar and slept like a baby. I woke up every hour crying and wetting myself! 

Cheers.

It’s raining again. Inverness was good, I had a long night’s sleep from 7pm to 7.30am. However I’d had a few beers with Jimmy from Texas on the train to Inverness and a couple when I got there. Jimmy was a lad. A tall, athletic bloke but a lad. Likeable. His hobby is shooting wild pigs on a mate’s ranch using night vision lenses. He says you look through the lenses and sometimes see 40 hogs (as he calls them). Then the coyotes appear downwind of the hogs; they hear Jimmy coming and know that it’s party time. Jimmy and his mate have  M16 rifles, which were the US army’s answer to the Armalite. They look like this.

They’re not machine guns but they reload automatically and Jimmy typically shoots four hogs before the rest are gone. They weigh up to 200lb because somebody bred a cross with Russian hogs and they’re flipping huge. Jimmy then cuts a strip off the back and leaves the rest for the coyotes. He says the M16 is the rifle of choice in the US. He sometimes doesn’t take any meat as the hogs are rampant vermin and need to be culled. If I was him I’d pop a few coyotes at the same time to show them there’s no such thing as a free lunch. 

I got the 9.15 bus from Inverness to Skye and got off at the Claunie Inn, where I  quit the Trail in May. From there I was to cut south over the hills to Loch Garry and then dog-leg south again through the hills to Clunes on Loch Lochy. From there it’s a 12 mile dap down the Caledonian Canal to Fort William. Flat and boring but a terminal challenge for us Highlanders!

I alighted from the bus at 10.40 at the Claunie Inn, had a quick ginger beer (you heard) and set off down the trail over the hills. There was a lot of snow on the tops over 2000ft and it was peeing down, which it did for the next 36 hours. 

This shot looks back to the Claunie from the start of the hill track. 

I struggled to get down the first hill range as the Trail sends you in an epileptic zig zag routine. I spent far too long trying to find crossings for a river and several streams. However a stag furnished testimony on the foolishness of taking too little time.

It’s knackering, climbing uphill particularly, with a heavy rucksack. Downhill is ok and you can appreciate the waterfalls, which are all over these mountain ranges, running from melting snow or pouring rain, or both as in this case.

I finally got down to Loch Garry, with a laughable sign saying that I’d only come 9 miles from Claunie and that the route was potentially dangerous.  It did’nt do the stag much good.

In the end I got a few miles further and pitched my tent (you heard) by the side of the footpath. Wilson got a sick note from his mum that he couldn’t make it this time; signed “My Mum”. Good job. When I got up in the morning my body heat on the ground – no lilo – had brought a swarm of midges to life. Bar Stewards. If they’re too small to bite then they get in your eyes. 

By the way, on the train, before I got tiddly with my mate Jimmy, I did the Daily Mail Scrabble Grams and got 129. The Par Score was 85-95. Now I’m not a typical DM reader in any aspect apart from age but I nailed it.

See you Jimmy.  

Hello Peeps, I’m back again in Inverness to finish what I started.

I set off from home this morning by train and Edinburgh was great.

I took a connection to Perth and from there to Inverness. I’m there now and all is fine. Tidy little town. I’ll check into the B&B in an hour and get some food and sleep and get a bus tomorrow morning to the Cluanie Inn and walk down to Fort William over two or three days through a landscape, desolate. Can nature make a man of me yet?

Still a bit of snow around.   

 Bye Bye

I got out of the plastic sheet with wet, cold feet at 5.30 and took off down the valley aiming for a Youth Hostel in the middle of nowhere, with no road running to it and no phone. However there was a new footbridge near it which would get me over the swollen river to the track leading to the Claunie Inn. This sounds relatively easy but it’s a long 18 mile slog and it’s steep, boggy and just starting to rain again. In fact it deluged all day. On setting off the deer were having breakfast in the Glen.

What caused me greater concern was the herd of Highland cattle at the end of the first bridge that I had to cross, including Big Daddy and young bullocks. I bottled it and walked further downstream past Loch na Leitreach and over a lower bridge, with a view to climbing up a very steep gully past the Falls of Glomach. I had to cross the River Ghlomaich to get to the path, climbing any other way was too steep and hopeless, and then cross back over above the Falls to get back to my original track. The river was rampant and I had to wade. Jesus! Freezing water in my bloody boots again. The track climbed along the side of the massive gully cut deep into the mountains by the Falls. One slip and you’re in deep doo dahs matey boys and girls, and it was slippy from the torrential rain. After two hours of solid grind I approached the Falls.

The track went up the hilltop to the right and dropped back down again to the top of the Falls. They are immense. I tried to look right over the edge but the bank was too slippy and I couldn’t get a photoshot as I was holding on to heather for dear life. But spectacular. There’s nowhere to stand or lie down on your belly to get a full perspective of the drop. Here’s a photo from the internet taken on a sunny day with much less water passing over the edge.

I was glad to get into the high, flatter valley and eventually came across a point on the river where it split and there was an island in the middle. I could get across both tributaries on stepping rocks. From here it was another four hours to the Youth Hostel in terrible rain and wind. This was beginning to piss me off. I eventually made it and pushed open the door of the hostel, which was literally plonked mid-nowhere with a windmill to power it. 

The manager was a pleasant woman who opened in April and shut down in October. She had a satellite phone for emergencies. She made me a pot of tea and put a blanket round my shoulders. I dried out a bit for half an hour, took my leave and crossed the strong, new bridge over the last river before the Claunie. It may have been the last river but there were hundreds of streams pouring down the Glenside crossing the path and making deep pools to be forded or avoided. This was now really brassing me off. Four hours without any letup in the rain, soaking wet clothes and feet, which were re-blistering with creases in the wet socks. 

I reached the Claunie Inn at about 17.00, made my way to my room and had a bath for half an hour. I was only three days away from Fort William and the end of the trail but with no buildings or bothies to take advantage of tomorrow night. I switched on the TV and got a weather forecast of continuing rain with some snow for the next three days! 

Bugger it. Enough is enough. This isn’t fun. I’d done 175 miles averaging 16 miles a day. I didn’t care about finishing the sodding walk. Take me home country train to the place I belong, western Yorkshire. I had a couple of pints of beer, a hot bowl of Cullen Skink and a plate of Haggis with creamy whisky sauce and went to bed. I got a bus to Inverness the next morning and a train to Leeds. Best decision I’ve made.

Is he playing the Lament ?

Sorry to cut this short kids but I don’t want to carry on for the sake of proving I can do it. I know I can do it but walking needs to have an element of pleasure and that was washed away by the wind and the rain and the backstreets and the backstreets – back to Van the Man and Madame George again!

I’ll do another some time but somewhere warmer and drier. Maybe Corsica or summat. With Andrew. Love to you all.

‘On that train from Dublin up to Sandy Row’ – oh my giddy aunt. The best song of all time on the third best album of all time. Van Morrison you are (were) a genius. Madame George. I spent many a night in smoke filled rooms watching my hair grow and wondering at the beauty of this album and the extreme majesty of this, the best song of all time. How could you burst onto the world stage like this from nifty, but limited rock roots with Them?

I had to get up and go a long way today over the mountains south to Maol-bhuidhe bothy and beyond to be able to reach the Inn I was booked into tomorrow night. It was howling a gale. The family were worried that I was going back up into the hills I’d been blown off yesterday. I had a tin of warmed beans (yes Warmed!) for breakfast and a cup of tea. The most recent milk in Gerry’s fridge was a month old. I had it black. Simon (Gerry’s son) worked on an honesty policy. There was a cupboard with tinned food which you took and left the money for in an honesty box. During the week he works and stays in Aberdeen so the hostel is left open and if you want to stay there you go in and leave money for the night’s stay in an honesty box. This is a different freaking world and I like it, like it, yes I do! When we had the house in France we could leave it unlocked during the day. 

I took a different route up to the top. Longer but more sheltered by bigger mountains. A difficult river crossing though. We’ll see. I set off at 08.00 and went over the same bridge I crossed last night. Up the glen to the left – upstream not down this time – and round a river all the way up to a different mountain pass leading to the same destination as yesterday. The mountains were, as usual, awesome.

I got to the point high up in the hills where I had to cross the river and there was only a wire bridge. 

How lucky am I? The only people I’d seen walking for three days, since Rupe and Ollie, arrived at the same time. Two smashing lads from Perth up to climb two Monros today (mountains over 3000ft). The first one went over and showed me how to do it. 

I got over and continued to climb up, although the weather was grim and very windy. Looking forward up to the top of the glen I could see the clouds down to the level of my path, if there had been a path up there at the top.

My boots and socks, which had dried out in front of Gerry’s fire were long-since soaked and it was getting worse. Eventually I cleared the top of the ridge and started a long road down the valley, up another, down the valley, up another and down the valley to Maol-bhuidhe. As I struggled down the pathless, uneven and soggy mountainside the weather slowly cleared.

Suddenly the track returnd, however the streams and rivers were getting higher and more difficult to cross.  You have go to be kidding!

Eventually I came to the penultimate river crossing on a wire bridge with two overhead wires whereby you held a wire with each hand and walked across the bottom wire like a tightrope walker. 

After a few more miles I came to the last river between me and Maol-bhuidhe, seen here across the loch.

It was a deep and dangerous place and I could only find one spot where it was possible.  I waded across in my boots to keep my footing otherwise the flow would have carted me off. I was pisspot relieved to get to the far bank. Word of the Month – Pisspot. It was still only 18.30. In front of the bothy were the bodies of four dead deer, mutilated and decomposing. I didn’t like this place. It felt evil. It was twenty miles from anywhere and I didn’t want to stay.

I cracked on up the next valley, my pack getting heavier now. I pushed on and on until it was 21.30 and my strength was gone. I couldn’t even put Wilson up so I got out my groundsheet, a builder’s sheet I got for 3 quid, and folded it in half under an overhang and crawled in, fully clothed, wet-booted and all. At least I slept three or four hours.

Tom and Liz run a great B&B. Tom couldn’t be more knowledgeable about highland walking and Liz couldn’t be more of a perfect host. Arriving knackered you get a pot of hot tea and the best fruitcake ever, and I’m not a fruitcake man. Great breakfast, great, great breakfast. Five years ago Tom said he didn’t want gay people sleeping in a double bed in their B&B, although they could use twin beds. He’s an old guy like me but my historic prejudices have been slowly chipped away over the years like dried clay over my eyes. I am beginning to see light. He said he likes people, straight or gay, everyone’s welcome to stay. He just thinks sex outside of marriage is not right, that marriage is between a man and a woman and that gay hanky panky won’t take place under his roof; on religious grounds. 

The world descended on this little place miles from civilisation. Media, demonstrations and lawsuits. Tom dunt mention it so I don’t. He gives me great advice. How to lace up walking boots in a different way to alleviate blisters and not put strain on my Achilles. I had stabbing pains in my right Achilles and I was worried summat might snap in the middle of nowhere when I see nobody else for days (other than Rupie and Ollie). He knows the highlands and all the trails like no-one else could, giving me great advice on my route and best alternative routes. Nice couple. Outdated views. 

I set off for Achnashellac where I was originally going to meet Andrew but I can’t drag him into something that’s a physical challenge much more than an earthly pleasure. Particularly as I was close to quitting. I’ve contacted him to say we need a walk together in the sun and not this beastly maggot-farmer. When I worked at ITV the sub-titlers and dubbers used  to put ‘maggot-farmer’ instead of ‘mother-f???er’ into movies as the mouth movements were similar. 

The weather was windy and wet, with an expected temperature on the hilltops (including wind-chill factor) of -18c. Yep you saw it right. I’m walking in football shorts for flexibility but I put trousers on at night if it’s cold. My legs don’t seem to get cold. These were the dark views walking up and over to Achnashellac.

Once there I walked upriver, passing Gerry’s hostel, crossed the river on a bridge, walked two miles downstream and then cut up and into the mountains. My objective was to overnight at Bernais bothy in the most remote land I’d been in so far. From there down to Maol-bhuidhe bothy for the next night and then on to the Claunie Inn to dry out and eat properly. Drinking isn’t a problem. You don’t need to carry water, it’s readily available. As Van the Man sang –

Oh the water,

Oh, oh the water,

Oh the water,

Get it myself from a mountain stream. 

And it does taste so lovely. If you’re lower down the hillside the melting snow and rainwater pick up the peaty taste from filtering through the bogs, and pick up a slightly brown colouring. If you’re higher it’s clear and cleansing. 

It was a right slog up a steep mountain up to 2000ft and on the top of Eagan the wind was so strong I didn’t have control. It was blasting my backpack and spinning me round. There are some heavy duty cliff faces at this height in this location and I dived south over the brow of the hill to get away quickly from this awful, icy blast. I dropped down steeply, slipping but fortunately catching one of my walking poles between two rocks and I grabbed onto it until I got my footing safe. It bent a lot in the process but I didn’t have time to fix it. I scrambled down further and sheltered behind a rock to get my breath. I looked further down the valley, there was a forest plantation to the left and by now massive cliffs and waterfalls all round the head of this glen. 

I didn’t remember seeing a forest section on the map going down to Bernais bothy. I checked my co-ordinates on the GPS and found to my huge disappointment that in my haste to get safe I’d gone down the south east gully instead of the south west one. The south east one veered round to the east, round to north east and ultimately round to the north, back to where I had come from by the bridge across the river. I knew from the steepness of the drop I came down that getting back up would take hours with my pack. My boots and socks were as wet as usual and there was no let up in the rain. It was 18.00. Bugger!!! 

I decided to get back to Gerry’s hostel, which I’d read about on the net, and as soon as I got a signal I asked Maggie to give it a ring. Gerry had died in February and it wasn’t quite clear if it was open or shut. Eventually Georgie was able to confirm that they were open and were expecting me. It took me a further two hours to get back as stream and river levels were very high from the rain and I had to cross two of them before they merged, otherwise the flow of water down a steep hillside was too strong for any living being. I was exhausted so I had to choose exactly the right places. It took nearly half an hour looking for rocks that might not be slippy and were close enough together for a small jump or long step; and places where the consequences of a fall would be mitigated by a fast slope of torrent rather than a catastrophic waterfall. 

I rolled up at Gerry’s at about 20.30. Simon, Gerry’s son was there, as was Jasmine, a medical student at Aberdeen University who had just completed the Cape Wrath Trail on her own, south to north in trainers and thin jackets and leggings (out of financial restriction rather than Spartan tendency). Hero. She was on her way back to Aberdeen. There was no-one else, although the dorm that Simon showed me had five double bunk beds but was freezing. A fire was going in the hearth so I got my sleeping bag and a quilt off one of the bunks and hunkered down on the settee. I whacked a load of logs on the fire and found Gerry’s stash of vinyl. He was an absolute hoarder with piles of newspapers, trinkets, broken stuff. With my boots and socks in front of the fire I put Jelly Roll Morton on the record player followed by the Dubliners in session. Simon had pushed off to his own house.

I fell asleep fully expecting to meet Gerry by the firelight and talk to him about his earthly choice of music, but no such luck. 

Night, night. 

I decided to stay an extra night in Ullapool, clean my mucky, smelly clothes, get my mega-blisters sorted out, get stocked up for a night or two in the wild, rest and recuperate. It sounds like I’m a pansy from this ‘oh how cold and tough it is’ malarkey. Well I’m not, just a bit delicate that’s all. Honest, they say it’s the toughest walk in the UK; if there’s a tougher one I’m not interested. 

The extra day was a great decision. I got everything done and sent some things home, saving a couple of kilos on my load. It had crept up above 20 kgs at least with stuff getting wet and having to take food on those legs where you can’t buy it.

Ullapool is nice. 

So what are the best 5 albums of all time Dave?

5. The Maccabees – Given to the Wild

4. Beach Boys – Pet Sounds

3. Van Morrison – Astral Weeks

2. Velvet Underground and Nico

1. Incredible String Band – The Big Huge

No surprises there. Four from the sixties and one from 2013.

I had time to eat. Haddock take out – £4.75 for the biggest, freshest in the world from the ‘Radio 4 Best Takeaway in the UK’ by the quayside. I went back that night for a huge bowl of a kilo of fresh mussels, straight off the coast down from the quay. Small, sweet (it’s me) and cooked in cream and shallots. £11.00 including bread and a feeling of euphoria. 

I packed the next morning, had double haggis portion with my cooked breakfast and set off southwards down the loch. On setting off the ferry to Stornoway was in and looking back In the sunlight Ullapool was lovely. 

I was heading to Inverlael, where I would turn west over the mountains, cross a river and another main road, and then go up into more remote mountain country for the night before taking a high pass over to Kinlochewe tomorrow. The weather was kinder, but still with a cold wind. I made reasonable time but the walk up from Inverlael was a very steep one, then the path went missing and I veered off course costing me an hour. The views from the top were great.

Looking down the glen on the far side of the hill the sea was in the distance and the Outer Hebrides were just visible on the horizon.

I dropped down the hill passing this delightful little waterfall before climbing back up the far side into a high mountain valley where there was Shenavall bothy.

From the top I looked down into the valley, but I’d made good time so I decided to pass Shenavall and put Wilson up higher up.

I dropped down into the valley and two guys came just about running down the hill – young blokes (lucky buggers). They were setting up their tent and were ok with me pitching Wilson in their camp. We built a bonfire but the wind was colder than the fire could compensate. Rupert and Ollie from Salisbury and running property businesses in London. Good lads for posh boys. Climbing snow capped mountains. Fair play to them. Plenty of guts.

I woke up at 5.30 with ice on the outside of Wilson.

A cold tin of beans for breakfast and the hills were magical in the early morning sun.

I set off to cross a high pass round Beinn Bheag and down Gleann na Muice to Kinlochewe. 

I was staying at a famous bed and breakfast. The weather clouded over and my feet were really playing up so it took me longer than it should have. I finally piled into the Kinlochewe local for a couple of pints of local lager before finally walking another mile to Tom and Liz’s place.

Well I hardly ever slept if truth be told. It was snowing again outside.

I had to get on the road but it was hard getting out from under my rucksack and getting out of the sleeping bag. 

 Eventually at 08.30 I set off. It was grim because all I had left for breakfast was a small tin of tuna and a bar  of out of date Kendall mint cake that killer bought me. Tasted good though. After an hour I came to a river where there wasn’t a bridge. I went half a mile upstream but there were no crossing points. It is deeper than it looks here, very fast and the rocks on the river floor are slippy.

I thought that if I fell in carrying my rucksack with my clothes on then I’d be in real trouble from exposure as I was miles away from anyone or anything. I stripped down to my underpants thinking I would be less likely to slip under in the river if I didn’t have my rucksack on, so I crossed first time in the freezing water carrying just my clothes. The water came above my knees but I didn’t slip, although it was painful walking on the rocky river bed.  I left my clothes at the far side, returned over the river and made a second run with the rucksack. I did it and felt relieved to get to the far side a second time without having ‘went a pisser’ like our Clive’s ma – as Bavs might say.

I passed a second bothy, Knockdamph, which was really a home with two storeys. 

  The rest of the way to Ullapool was 7 hours of non-stop slog. I was exhausted but finally made it to the Caledonian Hotel Maggie had booked me in. 

 I sat in the floor of my shower for half an hour and was still shivering. Then I got up and went out to a local curry house – in Ullapool. Chicken Vindaloo, a large Cobra and an early night. Perfect.

Night night.

My last blog referred, in my tantrum-like, mardy conclusion, to ‘my pisspot life’. Can I just say that it was not a statement on my life. It was a swear word like saying ‘bloody life’ or ‘sodding life’ or something else which is attached without being descriptive. It was my humour which was in a pisspot state, not my life. I’ve had a good one. Marrying the kid I wanted too and loving her for forty five years and having three daughters I’m immensely proud of for being nice and loving.

Anyway sorry for my mardy bum tanty rum. But it still is very hard and I’m not great at handling adversity.

It had been snowing in Inchnadamph when I woke up, having spent a relatively sleepless night wrestling with whether I should get on the bus at 08.00 on the way home or not. I’d set the alarm to get the bus but when my feet touched the floor the grinding pain on the blisters and sores had reduced a lot. A second factor in deciding to give it another try was a message from Chris Morrish, a Gashead mate who has been right supportive through the South West trek and on this one. I’m carrying on as long as I physically can. 

I actually met two guys at the hostel who were walking the trail in the opposite direction. The first real walkers I’d seen in five days. They were able to give me some advice over breakfast on the route to come, stopping places and potential problems. Good advice thanks.

I set off towards Oykell Bridge with a view to ending up 23 miles away at a bothy in the hills beyond the bridge. (By the way bothies are old cottages or sheds in wilderness areas which are maintained by volunteers and which provide free shelter for walkers). It meant climbing up to a pass to the west and round the brooding hulk of Conival, a shoulder to shoulder mountain twin of Ben More Assynt, which is better known but a mere 33 feet higher than Conival. I chose the wrong side of the river to go uphill on and missed the track from the first step. It was rough ground when I’d hoped to make some quick progress. It took me an hour to find a river crossing point and it was snowing now again.

Finally I got over the other side, when the river became smaller and crossable. It had cost me an hour and valuable energy too. I climbed up the track directly towards snow-covered Conival.

After hours of climbing I reached the start of the pass, having used my GPS device to make sure I was going in exactly the right direction as the path had disappeared. I could see another person’s tracks in the snow but they were a few days old and kept disappearing under more recent snow. Conival got closer and the views looking back to Inchnadamph, Loch Assynt and out towards the sea beyond became awe inspiring.

The distant view, to the west, of Suilven which is a big chunk of a mountain was fabulous. To cap it all the weather temporarily cleared.

Carrying on upwards the pass seemed to get further and further away and Conival was getting broodier.

  I met a bloke walking coming the other way. He had camped in the valley and seemed disoriented. He asked if I was English, which is bizarre as he was Geordie and they sound more like Danish than English – Whyaay. He had been 16 days in the wilderness and had another 16 to go. He must have stunk the dirty pillock.

I finally made the point where the water started running down away from me, rather than back behind me after wading through snow drifts on the top.

I could see the valley down to Ben More Lodge and Oykell Bridge 15 miles beyond with rain sweeping up the middle. 

There was no track and I dropped down through the peat bogs, across the river in the valley and went up to the snow line on the hill to the left of this photo above. Walking down the valley from this height I would be less likely to get sucked into the bogs and would see any track below me if one arrived. Eventually I did find a track. Looking backwards to the east of Conival was the hulking Ben More Assynt.

 Going down the valley took me hours and hours, eating only a tin of tuna since breakfast and not taking a break. After 10 hours and 19 miles of walking I finally arrived at Oykell Bridge at 7.30 at night and there was a choice. There in the middle of nowhere was a posh hunting, shooting and salmon fishing hotel. I could stay here or cross the river and climb up four further miles to a freezing and lonely bothy in the dark. For some reason I can’t explain (but probably financial) I turned left and aimed for the Old Schoolhouse bothy. I was exhausted  at that time and forced myself along the uphill track until it was right dark. I couldn’t do any more. I got my map, torch and GPS out and referenced my position on the map. I shouted out loud, I’m there I’m there. I was only half a mile away and I pulled my body along. To get there when it’s tough I count my steps and somehow it gives me strength. I gave it 1700 steps to get there, my legs are shorter than yours. At long last it emerged from the dark and I eased the door open whispering, Sorry to arrive so late and disturb you.  There was no-one there. I fell into the place, put my sleeping bag on the wooden bench and got all my clothes on and my soaking wet boots and socks off.  The Old Schoolhouse is thin walled and cold.

It got down to below zero inside! There was no fireplace and I slept badly on the bench. The hardness doesn’t bother me because I’ve slept on hard surfaces many times now, but the cold was extreme. I had six layers on my top, including two thermals, a balaclava and a hat, thermal leggings, trousers and two pairs of socks as well as my sleeping bag. I was still so cold I couldn’t sleep. I pulled my rucksack with still a lot of gear inside it on top of me and eventually dropped off for a few interrupted hours. Christ it was pisspot cold. 

Night night.