85.03 kms: Inverarnan-Crianlarich-Auchtertyre-Tyndrum

We started in on the bigger numbers again today. Where we have hopped from town to town along the way, most people we see are going between two and three points. We probably have a luxury of time they may not have. We are also old school (or just old), unlike about eighty per cent of the walkers (who are old too), and carry our own bags. But despite all the excuses in the world, I feel a bit slack. When we sat down after a seemingly easy five kilometres for our first break yesterday, a girl from Glasgow came past. She was feeling weary, but she had good reason. They had walked from Balmaha to Inverarnan the day before. That's twenty-one miles—including that horrific stretch from yesterday—and she had never done any training. It took us three stages to do the same! Mind you, she was considering catching public transport after six of her planned nineteen today. I think it is harder than it seems. We met another couple today who are quitting and heading back to Milngavie. Maybe slowly is the more sensible option. Maybe that is me just trying to feel good about being bad.

Left: Wild rivers running deep Centre: It's looking a lot more moorish Right: V——'s first stile We did twelve miles. I had to play mind games with myself to get me to the end after the first five. My legs didn't want to work. I relied quite heavily on my poles. The first year I walked without poles. The second and third I had them, but I always felt that using them was, in some strange way, cheating. This year I think they are saving my knees, and my soul. They displace the energy. Sore arms at the end of the day yesterday spoke to that. If nothing else they make descents, especially in the descendingly timid, a much, much faster thing. I think they will be out a fair bit this year.

We stayed in a B&B in Tyndrum. It was V——'s first real one. He described the owner as being like a brigadier in the Second World War, Battle of Britain. Quoting V——, with a high British accent: Blue squadron will deploy their bombers here, here and here with the intent of knocking over Jerry by midday and returning to base for an early lunch. Doesn't really work in print! We dined in a (greasy smelling) establishment that had won best fish and chips in the UK for 2014. We both had haddock, chips and mushy peas. V—— scored it a 7.5; I gave it a 7 (the chips weren't fabulous, the fish was, the peas were in a paper cup—I'm funny about paper). Overnight the brigadier turned off the hot water (it seemed, from the lukewarm bath) and the heaters. Mmm, we weren't so fond of him the next day.

Good night to Tyndrum, good night to the brigadier, good night to you.

65.78 kms: Inversnaid-Doune-Ardleish-Inverarnan

Well that did it! I think I have permanently lost some use in both of my knees! Whoo! They say that today's stretch is the hardest of the route. It is certainly the most arduous. It hugs the cliff-side around the Loch for about five miles, popping torturously up and down rocky paths, darkened under overhanging trees and damp and muddy for the same reason. But I had always known it was the worst bit, and so, in that strange way that superlatives have of negating themselves, I quite enjoyed it. All of me except the knees, of course.

Top: Looking back down the length of Loch Lomond Bottom: Doune, alongside the loch

As we came around one steep rocky decline, we came across some Dutch people lurking about. My initial thought was: 'Um, couldn't you find a pee-pee spot a little more off the path than that?' The thoughts got odder when another Dutch person popped his head around the corner and asked if we had a torch. 'What have you lost?' I enquired. Apparently they had lost a kid goat with a broken leg. They had tried to grab it to take back to Inversnaid Hotel where Animal Rescue would collect it, but it had got scared and rushed off and fallen into a cave. Torch out, kid out, Dutchies on their way out. All was good.

Top: Selfie with Inversnaid hotel in background Bottom Left: Walking the hardest section of the West Highland Way Bottom Right: Dining with friends at the Drover's Inn

When we popped into civilisation at the campsite in Invernarnan, salt and sugar cravings took over and we sat down to ice cream, chips and soft drinks to energise ourselves for the five hundred meter walk to our hotel. The hotel is called the Drover's Inn. It was a place where superlatives had set expectations once again. I had seen reviews that said it was the dirtiest pub in the whole UK. (See how desperate we are to not camp? We booked despite that review!) We were given a room on the third floor (just cruel) called the Hoggs Suite (I dunno?). The Inn was built in 1705. I thought it was delightful. You got lost going around it, and sure, it did have a patina about it, but it had ghosts (possibly of the all the stuffed animals it had about the place, including a shark, a bear, an elusive Haggis, a two-headed sheep and the cutest little bunny head on a plaque that I ever did see). We had a shared bathroom with only a bath, and carpet on the floor (I can never understand a carpeted bathroom, especially when they don't provide a bath mat). It had character, and a definite air of having been around for a while, but I can imagine that some people would see that as dirtiness. We didn't see ghosts, but more mortifiedly, we also didn't see Eurovision. It is the first year in I-don't-know-how-long. Anybody know who won? Anyone with a blow-by-blow of the outfits? I hear there was a bearded woman. Eurovision never disappoints!

Good night to Inverarnan, good night to you.