Bright, silent water, snow scattered mountains, the ladies in the van, and the 1000 mile point

I have been thinking about what I wrote on Wednesday morning, and I realise I may have come across as a little disparaging about the West Highland Way, for which I apologise. I was in a rush and didn't start out from Tyndrum until 10, by which time every other walker had responsibly packed up and left. I love the West Highland Way and of any walk (and I have walked it twice in full and twice in part) this one has had the most wonderful encounters and momentary friendships, with a camaraderie which has always been encouraging and often hilarious. And I will always recommend it to people as it is a stunningly beautiful walk. I suppose this time I wondered whether it really was too crowded, made too touristy, and had perhaps somehow lost some of its sense of adventure. That is probably a reflection on me more than anything, as I wasn't quite prepared for the amount of people (or midges). I am very grateful though for the company of Jeff and Steve, the taciturn Dutchman and his father, and the quietly suffering kiwi. 

I left Tyndrum on the WHW, in gradually warming sunshine, with a few of the late starting walking remnant just ahead. After ten minutes I was down to one layer. The huge conical shape of Beinn Dorain that marks the gateway to the wilder north was just shunning off its last wisps of white cloud straight up into the blue. I caught up with two figures ahead who turned out to be Jeff and Steve. Steve was swinging his favourite socks, one in each hand, to dry off in the morning sun. I asked him why he hadn't hung them off his rucksack, but that was how Jeff lost his pants. At Auch, under the shadow of the Beinn, where the railway line turns into the valley and the viaduct breaches it, I bid a fond goodbye to the pair, and the North view of the Black Mount, and headed east. The track took me under the viaduct and into the suddenly quiet glen, along the Allt Kinglass. A group of D of E teenagers was descending a track to my right (the Scottish teenagers have a whole lot more to deal with), and then two cyclists passed me, after which I saw no one for 24 hours. The hills in the glen unfolded steeply on either side, a deep green colour, the high clouds casting shadows and patches of snow appearing on the higher peaks. My slight anxiety at leaving the well trodden path was soon replaced with a wonder at the beauty and hugeness of it all. The landscape gets bigger, wider, and higher from this point - it has the strange effect of moving slower whilst time moves faster. Loch Lyon came into view below - a very long but strange shaped loch with odd pointy bits that take a long time to walk round. The water level was quite low, as the mountains rose darkly and steeply above, little patches of snow gleaming. I took the north shore track and walked until a mile from the dam, where I found a flat bit of grass by a little falling stream. This felt like the right spot so I pitched the tent as the sky to the east was blackening. It dispersed anyway, so I spent an almost midge free evening outside, sitting on rocks in the shade of the waterfall crevice when the sun appeared strongly between the high clouds. I took a risk of washing in the water pools, worrying that it would be the moment a person appeared - but thankfully no one did. I managed to catch up on my journal after being behind for a week - that's what camaraderie does. And slowly the sun sank behind the ridge leaving the sky softly lit and the loch momentarily pink. 

It's almost midsummer so the darkness wasn't long, which I am grateful for, as even though I love doing this it always feels a little bit on the edge, and every sound is magnified and potentially something threatening. To not have to wait too long for the light again is a relief. I was stirred by a sheep calling very close to the tent. She obviously wanted to tell me to look outside. It was about 5am and the sun was already on the loch, which was itself still as a mirror. The sky was cloudless, and I managed another hour and a half in my sleeping bag before it got too warm. Making coffee outside in the morning with relatively few insects suddenly feels like a luxury, even though I only really had two unbearably midgy mornings. They are enough to scar you - quite literally. The sun was strong so I applied a potent mixture of suncream and insect repellent. I'm not sure if either things cancel the other out, but so many shielding chemicals can't be that good for the skin. I am obviously not nature loving enough to go without either yet though. 

The mountains were reflected perfectly in every detail in the water below. The track rose above the dam where I picked out my camping spot from exactly two years ago the other side of the water, and then descended to join the tarmac road at Pubil, and the long, long winding route through Glen Lyon. After about an hour I began to see a few people, and a tent or two pitched by the river. At the reservoir I met two ladies, Caroline and Lisa, and their Dalmatian dog Lola, outside their camper van enjoying the quiet bright morning. One was English, and the other a Scot, both from Fife, I think. They were out for a couple of days and it had been their first night camper vanning wild, and they were loving it. They offered me tea which I gratefully declined as I had only been walking an hour and a half, but on reflection should have gratefully accepted as we chatted for a while and they were so lovely and kind and encouraging. They wished me well, after which I was dive bombed by seagulls, obviously having walked close to a nesting spot. An oyster catcher dispersed matters though in its fast, chattering way. In some woods a red squirrel darted across the road, scrambled up a tree, and sat on a branch looking at me. He was perfect - small and deep red with a white streak on his belly. At midday I arrived into Bridge of Balgie, as the sky was clouding over and the welcome breeze increasing, just after a clear view of the massive Ben Lawers. There is a post office tea room in this tiny isolated hamlet and it was open, so I ordered coffee and a sandwich and sat outside, whilst a number of others, including cyclists, slowly appeared, also relieved at the sight of this oasis. And then Caroline and Lisa and Lola appeared too, and we chatted more and they wrote me a good luck card, 'from the Glen Lyon Ladies'. 

My way then came off the road, cutting north up a track. This is the 'Kirk Road', an old route once used by people crossing from the villages around Loch Rannoch, over to the church in Glen Lyon. And now people drive to church. It was a steep ascent, through forest and onto open heather moor, the wind cool at the bealach. There was no one in sight, not even a sheep, as I entered the Scots pine forest above Loch Rannoch. The descent was beautiful - a dappled wood and an ancient path, which was busy everywhere I looked with armies of wood ants carrying twigs and pine needles. I came across a huge nest being built - a mound nearly a metre high, crawling with highly motivated and organised ants going up and down with their building materials. By 4 I was down at the bottom of the forest, and found the forestry commission campsite at Carie. It's in a huge, quiet clearing, with only a few vans and caravans dotted about. I spent another evening outside, with quite a few midges and a determined horse fly which got me in the end, but enough breeze and smoke to make it manageable. 

Today was twenty miles along very quiet roads, further east and a bit north, eventually to Blair Atholl. The day dawned almost cold, and I walked in more than one layer for the first time since the Pentland Hills. It eventually became humid though and even a little sunny later in the afternoon. Beyond Kinloch Rannoch, the strange high pointed shape of Schiehallion came into view, eventually dominating everything. Hoggie, from Falkirk, referred to this mountain as one that is believed to be magical. It's certainly transfixing - it's hard to stop looking at it. Then, at the little hamlet of Trinafour I reached my 1000 mile point. I made a little video but can't attach it to here as my app won't allow - some day I may understand these things. When I turned my phone on it was also the first time I had had phone signal since Wednesday morning. It's a very liberating thing to be completely disconnected, for the simple reason that it's not possible to be connected. There is nothing you can do about it. I saw little deer leaping through the young plantations while above a lone digger echoed its destruction of the older cleared forest. 

Now I am writing this in the cool evening in the pub garden in Blair Atholl. A chap at the bar couldn't believe my story of the WHW midges - here there are almost none. I picked up a new parcel of maps at the campsite - another heavy ten of them - and am staying for two nights, with a rest day tomorrow. The lady in the campsite reception listened open mouthed when I answered her question about how far I was walking, and very kindly only charged me for one night, donating the other to the fundraising. 

The Cairngorms lie ahead - Glen Tilt and the Lairig Ghru, with the Courrour bothy. This is a significant part of the route which I have zigzagged especially for. I am a little anxious, but the rest tomorrow should be a preparation time, and hopefully the midge bites will diminish a little. I have less than the length of the Pennine Way left to walk. For now, some sleep.