The crowded path, the clouded hills, and the millions of midge corpses

My days on the West Highland Way are coming to an end. It has been an interesting, strange and crowded four days, and I am looking forward, with a little trepidation, to a quieter path. 

The Drymen campsite, far from dry, had accumulated about thirty tents by the time the night was through, on a patch of grass not much bigger than an average back garden. The barn was full of silent, sullen campers, trying to pack up and make breakfast and jump the queue for the one plug socket available for phone charging. Having enough charge on the phone is now often the biggest anxiety among backpackers, me included. I left early, desperate for space. The cloud was low and the air close and humid. Rising into the sparse forest plantation all was silent, with ghostly shapes of nearby hills just about visible. The path takes the high shoulder of Conic Hill, with the vast Loch Lomond suddenly spread out as far as you can see. Except this time the view was only a memory, an imagining of what lay below, as the cloud crept up the hill behind me, joining the thick mist above, to suddenly completely envelope everything. The ravens swooped low over my head, echoing their deep throated cry into the silence. There was no breath of wind, as if this fog never lifted. Soon a number of day walkers started to appear in the cloud, all intent on summiting Conic Hill, regardless of being unable to see a thing. The car park at the Loch side in Balmaha was packed and busy, and I watched all manner of people and all states of walkers go past whilst drinking coffee in the surprising sudden sunshine. I was joined by a lady from Harrogate in her sixties with whom I had walked earlier for a while. She was out doing the walk on her own after a friend had to cancel on her and was loving it and wondering what walk to do next. She'd done the 24 hour 3 peak challenge successfully quite recently, after a heart attack, and walked faster than me.

I joined the east side of Loch Lomond - my companion for a day and a half. It was hot, passing walkers who were beginning to be recognisable, and reaching the beautiful Sallochy bay, to pitch the tent. There I met a New Zealander, walking the way, who worked for the NZ government in London, and was on borrowed UK time as he and his colleagues had all been made redundant. He was sleeping under a tree when I arrived, oblivious to the day trippers in the bay, swimming and barbecuing in the sun. Eventually the little bay quietened until it was just the small camping remnant, grateful for the space and the quiet. The sky went silver and pink and the Loch rippled like silk, and I sat outside with Jeff and Steve, talking into the evening over our camping stoves. They are colleagues, both HGV drivers in London, and go walking together every now and again. Their colleagues call them Mr & Mrs Smith. It certainly beats London traffic jams though. It was a beautiful, funny, relaxed evening, the light fading on the water, and as darkness fell and we all went to our tents, owls called and buzzards screamed into the night, the forest and Loch never really stopping to rest. 

The next morning dawned cloudy again,  hiding the high mountains that border the Loch all day. It's a long, long slow path to the north end, and beyond - seemingly endless up and down of narrow rocky, midge filled, rooted track, crowded with endless people, all going at different paces. I have never seen so many walkers, in so many different states. Many seem to use the baggage transfer company, which must be one of the most successful businesses in Scotland; many are backpacking, and my rucksack is amongst the smaller I have seen. This isn't something I thought would happen. There is a fairly common sense rule though that if it takes two people to lift your rucksack you are probably carrying too much - and some people haven't quite got this. Still , the Loch was stunning, as it always is in whatever weather. 

The campsite at Inverarnan is hub of activity, with its own bar, and the only place to stay at this point. Which is probably a major contributor to the unbelievable amount of midges. Rarely have I seen so many. Nobody stands still at this place, and all look vaguely anonymous with identical headnets on. It rained again, heavily, but this only made things worse. When you emerge from the tent and go indoors and you see that your legs are crawling with them, you know it's extreme. They even get into your underwear. 

In the refuge of the bar I sat writing and was joined by Paul, a musician and music therapist, who plays there every weekend and was up doing some roofing repairs for them. We sat drinking, talking of music and walking and midges. It was beautiful - a rare meeting, and a momentary depth of friendship. 

The relatively short distance to Tyndrum yesterday felt like an autopilot sort of a day. The glen I have travelled so many times in my life, by train and bus, then car, and more recently walking, was in the same half light of low cloud on deep green. This is where all get funnelled to Tyndrum, before travelling on to Oban or north to Rannoch Moor and Fort William. I worked out, in my autopilot frame of mind, that I have been through Tyndrum more than fifty times in my life. In the last two miles I walked with a man in a pressed white shirt and clean smart trousers walking Lands End to John O'Groats. He was doing it in a shorter time, but not carrying camping gear. And raising money for a homeless charity in Sheffield. We had much in common, aside from appearances! The evening was spent in the pub, learning the names Jeff and Steve had given to all the walkers they had met, including mine, which I will leave to the imagination. 

And now my way lies east. Hopefully the midges will be fewer. My tent is full of dead ones, which doesn't seem to be a warning to them. I am dreaming of a time when I will stop itching.