Tales from Long Ago No. 2

Sometime in the early 1970s, I decided to backpack in the Scottish Highlands. I took a train and then a bus to the pleasant market town of Callandar. I then trekked through a pass between the hills to Comrie. This was a splendid walk of 26km, and I felt young, energetic and fit. Comrie is one of the fine small market towns at which Scotland excels. I found a campsite, and the next day set off over the hills along Glen Lednock for Killin. I reached Loch Tay and then plodded along to the village. I arrived in early afternoon and my next destination was Bridge of Orchy. I should have stopped at Killin for the night and enjoyed staying in such a scenic location, but I had caught walker’s disease - the desire to keep moving at all costs - and decided to plod along Westwards. This turned out to be a foolish decision. Scotland dose not have the English system of rights of way. As a result, Ordnance Survey maps of Scotland show few tracks or paths. I followed instead a book on Scottish hillwalking, which showed a clear track across to Bridge of Orchy. This turned out to be narrow road which became an increasingly fictitious track along Glen Lochay, through a landscape ever less inhabited. It got dark and I needed to find somewhere to pitch a tent.

My tent was the one I had used in an earlier walk in the Dordogne. But what sufficed for late summer in South West France proved inadequate for a very stormy night in the Highlands. I was forced by condensation to abandon the tent, and instead found shelter on a concrete floor in a large open-sided Dutch barn which was used for sheep-shearing. The metal sides of the barn rattled and the sheep fleeces hanging from the rafters swayed in the wind. Miles away, across the Glen, I could see the lights of a house. In the morning, I rose, packed, and headed off for Bridge of Orchy.

I soon encountered a burn which proved difficult to cross without getting very wet feet. Eventually I reached a track which led me to my destination in mid-afternoon. I decided to abandon life in a tent (as, it turned out, forever), and stay in the hotel. I ran the bath in my room, jumped in, and found it icy cold. I went to the reception desk and was told “We don’t run the heating until the evening”. This example of Scottish hospitality was all I remember of the hotel. I am sure it is much more welcoming nowadays, but even in the time of my walk its great saving grace was proximity to a railway station. I decided to end my walk and catch a train to Glasgow.

A few years later, the West Highland Way opened. I completed this in splendid weather one summer. I stayed in small hotels and bed and breakfast accommodation. The Way passes through Bridge of Orchy, but I avoided the hotel and continued on the Way up a hill to see one of the greatest sights in Scotland. In front of me was the great expanse of Rannoch Moor, encircled by mountains. Below, was Inveroran Hotel surrounded by a copse, next to a lovely burn. Some tents were pitched nearby. I was greeted by a  hospitable landlady (with a very posh voice) and placed in a comfy room. The dining room was crowded and friendly, and the food was excellent. The next day, I strode along the old military road across Rannoch Moor to Kinlochleven, and the next day on the Fort William.