131.77 kms: Glencoe Mountain Resort-Kings House-Devil's Staircase-Kinlochleven

There is something psychologically damaging about walking for miles and miles and miles and still being able to see the place you left from. It makes you think you are getting nowhere.

There is something psychologically damaging in names. Call something the Devil's Staircase and it becomes an insurmountable obstacle filled with fear and dread. Where, really, one foot in front of the other eventually gets you there, devil or not.

Top: Look at how small the house in the right hand corner is Bottom: A beautifully sculpted valley

There is something psychologically damaging about having no name. When you get up and over a thing called the Devil's Staircase and then have to make a rocky, winding descent on the other side with no justifiable reason or name or recognition, it does something silly to your brain. It should be the Devil's Ramp, or the Devil's Torture, or the Devil's Downhill.

There is something psychologically damaging about going downhill. In theory, it should be a pleasant, enjoyable thing. I find myself holding on to the front of my boots with my toenails, hunching my shoulders like Uriah Heep, and clenching my poles like they are the only thing between me and the precipice of death. A sweet lady passed me on the way up the Staicase, and then came back the other way: she said 'When I was on the top, I thought "I must tell the lady in the bright yellow jacket that the other side is all downhill."' She thought that was a good thing.

Left: Up one side. Devil's Staircase Right: And down the other. No name.
There is something psychologically damaging about being able to see your destination from a great height and then walking a circuitous route, seemingly in every other direction but straight-toward, to get there. I eventually gave this portion of the road a name—The Road of Disappointments. Around every corner, before you reached it, was hope; around every corner, when you reached it, was more road. V—— had a name for it too, but it doesn't do to say that particular word outside of a forest where the saying of it doesn't exist if no-one is there to hear it.

There is nothing that cures all psychological damage incurred in a day like a warm room, a warm shower, a pub next door, a large fluffy doona and a hot chocolate.

Balance? Even.

A very good night to Kinlochleven, and a very good night to you.

114.08 kms: Bridge of Orchy-Inveroran-Glencoe Mountain Resort

Are you tired of hearing me talk about walking? What if we have a little chat about metaphor instead. There was a lot of space for thinking today on an amazing, sunny twelve mile stroll through Rannoch Moor. I know I said no walk-talk, but can I just tell you it was extraordinarily beautiful and remote. Stunning. I was listening to Dolly Parton while taking in all the amazing scenery, and she was singing 'Love is like a Butterfly'. It made me think: I much prefer metaphor to simile. Sure she would have had to change the tune, but 'Love is a Butterfly' evokes a much stronger image. Instead of 'the multicolored moods of love are like it's satin wings', go 'the multicoloured (better with a 'u') moods of love are it's satin wings'. Not that I am trying to tell Dolly what to do—she is a master poet—it's just that I think I prefer the directness of the metaphor without all the mess of 'like' and 'as'.

Left: Between Bridge of Orchy and Inveroran Centre: Walking with Rannoch Moor in the background (hard to not stop and look back every thirteen steps!) Right: Stormy over the mountains

Walking the great wide moorish spaces between hill passes, my body was Clan, wool clad, marching to meet the leaders of my enemies in the valley of Glen Coe. My feet are military boots, ringing a march on the rock-lined roads. My heart is a starling, high on the wind with the world a curve below me. It was more pleasure than pain today. I don't know if it was the sunshine, the pathway, the eggs I had for breakfast. Maybe it doesn't matter. Whose over-thinking things? It's nicer to walk through the countryside and think about elements of grammar.

Top: 'You lookin' at me?' Centre: There is a magical light in the UK when there is cloud and sun together—it makes colour sing in a way that really can't be captured with a point-and-shoot camera Bottom: Hobbit Huts, Glencoe Mountain Resort

Good night to Glencoe, good night to you.

95.76kms: Tyndrum-Bridge of Orchy

The day greeted us with a steady falling rain. All the weather gear came out. And stayed out. It made the prospect of camping tonight one that we no longer wanted to entertain. In the tiny town of Tyndrum, with its award winning fish and chip shop, a Green Welly catering-for-everything establishment and the Tyndrum Inn, they also managed to squeeze in a Visit Scotland shop. We decided to put an end to worrying and book accommodation for the next three nights.

Left: Leaving Tyndrum in the rain Right: Highland cattle

For any of you who may not have read this blog before, worrying about accommodation is my biggest bug-bear. It comes about from the fact that although I have the rudimentary things necessary to camp out, and I persist in carrying them miles and miles on my back, I really, really, no, really, don't want to camp. My main camping accessory is a bivvy bag. Read: a body bag with a tent bottom, a goretex top, which closes with a drawstring, into which you shove the precious things—leaving all the rest outside under your waterproof bag cover, including boots which slugs can walk into for warmth—and then yourself, sleeping bag ensconced. You fashion a pillow from clothing and a beaver (if you have one, pseudo-beaver if not). And you pull the string tight so that only a small hole is left for air, and to allow more slug ingress—won't do to not wake up with slug bits in your hair. It will be cold, damp and no matter how carefully you selected a hidden treasure of an illegal camping spot, two things will happen: there will be rocks, lumps and thistles where it looked amazingly flat, and you will be caught by someone on the morning. This is usually because the night is so miserable that the only sleep you get is when the sun comes up and warms you above temperature frozen. I always sleep in!

Left: Someone's (no names) ridiculous, but luckily short lived attempt to get a bit of that snow Right: Home for the night—just don't convert from pounds and it sounds perfectly reasonable!

We celebrated booking accommodation (especially an expensive alternative to camping tonight) by having coffee and cake before doing any walking. Luckily it was an easy-ish sort of day, and mid afternoon had us in a warm hotel having gins and tonics. Too many. Is that a thing?

Good night to Bridge of Orchy, good night to you.

Sharing travel tales today at:

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.

54.78 kms: Rowardennen-Inversnaid

And here I am at the beginning again. Or the end. The place I finished last time I walked this way. Today was emotional. I threw a wobbly. I think there is an evil spirit in Rowardennen (which is ironic as the name, apparently, is a combination of words that includes an enchanted Scottish flower which wards off evil spirits!). I felt better once I left but I was still conflicted and it required a hissy fit to sort it out. Anyone who has followed along with any of my travels with the boy will know that I always have (at least) one. Maybe I am a spoiled brat. In the past walking has been a game I've played alone. I work well alone. I am able to have my good days and my bad days without getting crippling guilt about who has to witness it all. I can make decisions that affect only one person. I don't have to try and make all the decisions so they suit me and then resent other travelling partners for not making interactive contributions to the decision-making process. Alone means many things, but the biggest is the walking. Today I realised that without the ability to be alone in nature, in your thoughts, physically, the rest of what makes up this type of travelling is the bad stuff. (Ooh, I am being a whiner, aren't I?) I like the feel of pushing yourself physically but not so much that I like to carry that over-laden pack. I like the freedom that having no plan brings until it means sleeping in a field, on cold, hard ground, in the rain. I like the commune with nature, as long as it doesn't include torrential rain, blasting sun, headwinds or midges. But i put up with all those things if it means solitude in its purest form. Suddenly I had a bit of a problem—not quite sure why I didn't see it coming: I'm not alone!

Top Left: National Park graffiti Top Right: Glimpses of the Loch Bottom Left: I can still find him a far behind me with that hat! Bottom Right: Waterall at Inversnaid

I had the perfect plan. We catch a ferry and a train to Glasgow, hire a station-wagon, stop at a camping store and get a cheap blow-up mattress for the back of it, a couple of two-way radios, a second copy of all the maps (and, as a sweetener to V——, a new wrist GPS), stop at a home wears store and get a cheep sheet and doona (instant accommodation), and then every morning I start walking towards a destination with a much lightened pack, V—— drives to the destination, parks the car, gets his own much lightened pack and walks to meet me along the track. We get to spend (a lot of money?) time alone, and time together, we have accommodation if we need it and a way of getting to accommodation if that doesn't seem suitable that night. Brilliant. Except for the fact that V—— hated it. Always has. It's not the first time I've had this idea. It was the first time it had a station wagon, a blow-up mattress and a GPS. My mood hit gravel again. I walked off in front of V—— for an hour and a half. Enough in front that I couldn't really hear him behind me. My mood improved somewhat. His pacing did too. Then I did it again for another hour. Although I was a little worried during that hour that he would fall off a cliff and I wouldn't know. It's a tentative plan for the moment. It doesn't solve all the problems, but it may make it doable. I am sure many of you are reading this and wondering what on earth I am going on about. It's probably not something you will ever understand until you have walked fifteen hundred kilometres on your own and then tried to walk fifty with someone else. It is quite an amazingly privileged problem to have—I recommend it highly.

I do have a much more serious problem though: Historical Romantic Literature! I'm addicted to Kindle's Daily Deal. I do hold back as much as I can but when they offered up Tracey Brogan's Highland Surrender for ninety-nine cents a few days before I left for the highlands, I took it as a sign, and bought it. Now I can't stop reading it. And I am much too much of a literary snob to read historical, or otherwise, romance. It's a disease! Maybe it is my virus-addled brain at work and once the snot moves out I will be able to control myself. Although the denouement will have come and gone and the rivalling clans will be united by the love shown by these betrothed enemies so it will be a mute point anyway. I'm so ashamed. But I have to go read so I'm signing off.

Good night to Inversnaid, good night to you, for tomorrow we tread new roads!

Getting my fix of linky-parties at:

43.58 kms: Balmaha-Milarrochy-Sallochy-Rowardennen

A few wines. Oops, I mean whines. It had to happen.

Also a swear word. It had to happen.

Top: Bluebell time of the year Bottom Left: Any reason to get these off your back; great coffee an even better excuse Bottom Right: Looking back along Loch Lomond

I have worked as a waitress, as a travel agent, as a shop person. All jobs where you deal with the public. And let's face it, the public is a temperamental, annoying, demanding entity, but they are your livelihood, even if it is via the person who owns or runs any given service enterprise. I have a huge inability to understand bad service. Even though it happens often, today's serving was the worst I have experienced in a long time. We're staying at the Rowardennen Hotel. The staff at the hotel are fine, but we went in to the Clansman Bar attached to have dinner and I have no recollection of experiencing such rudeness in a service industry. Ever. They have a captive audience. To a degree. Walkers on the West Highland Way seem commonly to bypass Balmaha and stay here the night. But can I say this to you—and to anyone who will listen—reconsider that idea. And if you stick to the standard plan, stay at the hostel, eat at the hostel. Do not go to the Clansman! And beside that, the meal was sub-standard: we had rehashed breakfast sausages on dried out mash with a gravy of broth-like proportions with no greens. We got out of there as quickly as humanly possible. Vile!

Why am I sick again on this section of the walk? I am starting to think that there is a more divine reason. We stayed a day in Balmaha to try and help me leave this cough behind. Last time I came this way, this night in Rowardennen was spent sitting almost upright coughing all night long. (I do recall a dissatisfaction with the bar last time too, but I didn't write about it at the time). The one day off this time has not helped. Do you think someone or something is trying to stop me going further? Does something ominous await me on the trail past Inversnaid? I'm not listening, but I am mightily annoyed. Walking up hills brings on asthma-like episodes, coughing is giving me a massive headache, I can't sleep nights. I am, in short, having a truly miserable time. And it is so much worse to have a miserable time on holidays when the expectation to enjoy yourself is so high. Feeling like this is making me panic, like I did last time, about accommodation because the last thing in the universe I want to do is sleep on some precarious rocky ledge in a goretex body bag. Call me crazy, it just doesn't appeal.

Left: Walking in the bluebells Right: Skimming stones on the loch: an idyllic life

This grumpiness will pass. My knees will hurt less, all my other joints will stop carrying the slack my knees create, the sun will come out, the midges will stay away, the walking will get easier and the pack seem lighter. But at this stage I really wish there was a friendly bar around where I could drown a whine or two with a wine or two!

Good night to Rowardennen (except for the two arseholes at the bar), good night to you.