The long uncomplicated towpath, UFOs, and serenades in the night mist

I am sitting in my tent near Drymen, the fat drops of rain hammering on the canvas. The sky has finally broken and the petrichor is divine. I have now joined the most popular walk in the UK and I am surrounded by many other wet tents. 

On Wednesday I left Uphall in the humid haar, walking north to the Union Canal. I stopped at a little fascinating churchyard in Ecclesmachan where death is embraced fully, inscriptions reading 'Memento Mori', with more than the average long effusive epitaphs, adorned with skulls and crossbones. Over the Ochiltree ridge the Forth Bridge was just visible, and the sea by Grangemouth was mistily silver in the distance. It seems I lied at Porthleven - I saw the sea well before Dunnet Bay. By the time I reached the canal the sun was out and everything was once again oppressively warm. I'm sort of getting used to it now though, which I would never have expected back in March. I keep thinking my neck is horrendously dirty and then I realise it is just weeks of increasing tan. The canal path was Tarmac, which I also wasn't expecting, all the way to the Campsie fells. So began two very long days of flat mile upon mile, beside still mirror like water, reflecting the multitude of greens and browns of woodland, and the uniform grey housing estates and scattered industrial warehouses. It was very peaceful, people about quietly walking dogs, or cycling through to work or play. At Falkirk I walked through a 670 metre long tunnel, decorated with stalactites and stalagmites, the line of lights reflecting perfectly the white deposits on the tunnel sides, as the water dripped and sometimes gushed from the ceiling. It was a small insight into the potential of claustrophobia, with no one about and only one way to go. I didn't hang around, although I did test out the acoustics, singing to keep going. 

My destination was a campsite just south of the Falkirk Wheel, on a farm that had once been the site of a roughcast mine. It was a strangely quiet place for being so close to the town, surrounded by buttercupped fields, and tracks weaving through scrubby forest. I pitched my tent, watched by peaceful highland cattle, and was welcomed warmly and kindly by Hoggi, who runs the farm and the campsite, in between making beautiful paintings and playing the pipes and the guitar and running weekly ceilidh nights. Later on, as I was collecting water, he invited me to see the art gallery/ceilidh barn. We stood talking about life and hopes and experience, surrounded by his artwork, depicting people who had made some imprint, weaved through with poetry, stars, the deep colours of the place and a silent music. Outside the barn was a sign pointing in the direction of a 'UFO landing site', which intrigued me, so we went on a white knuckle ride on his quad bike through the overgrown tracks out to a clearing where one day, three years ago, he found four trees in a row had all fallen over, with no obvious explanation. I guess a UFO is as good as any other. We took an even narrower track back, ducking gorse and trees, ending up with caterpillars on my shoulders. Later on he played the Uillean pipes and sang, as the mist was coming down again and the sky was slowly darkening. We had sat with black coffee and talked for a long time, and then the music filled my eyes with tears. 

Early the following morning the mist was so thick my tent was dripping wet, and as I left in the silence I realised I had been given an unexpected and rare gift - of time and deep listening, and the gentle unguarded heart of another human being, just for a few moments. In the absolute stillness of the pre-awake world, I passed under the road and out to the strange Falkirk Wheel. There was hardly a line between the water and the air and sky, all coloured the same silvery white, making the arches look like full circles. The Falkirk Wheel is a lock, in the sense that it gets boats from the Union Canal to the Forth and Clyde Canal and vice versa, but transports them on a rotating wheel between the high half aqueduct that stops in mid air, down to the canal basin below. It's an impressive structure, and I was there too early to see it working.

The Forth and Clyde Canal was even quieter, even more straight, and the mist never lifted, despite my progress West. I branched off at Kilsyth, resting in the almost deserted High Street with a coffee and freshly baked potato scones. This main street of a fairly sizeable town was mostly empty shopfronts with wonky to let signs. Still, in two of the very few open buildings - the bakery and the co op - staff called all of their customers by their first names, and everyone stopped to talk to everyone else. 

After what felt like a long stretch, requiring patience, I found a bus stop in little Milton of Campsie, and took the bus into Glasgow, where I stayed with my wonderful, generous friend Sarah for two nights, playing with the dogs, meeting others passing through, or staying a while. The night I arrived, Sarah, Margaret and I sang and played around the piano, and Margaret played her banjo and sang her beautiful songs, and we talked until 2, with another house guest, until there was no energy left. 

And this morning, Sarah dropped me back at Milton, and I was grateful for the rest and the welcome, and bid her goodbye, rejoining the railway path west. It was another oppressively hot morning, the clouds gradually gathering and darkening behind me, rumbling deep thunder for most of the day. The line of the old railway gets gradually more overgrown and less walked, until suddenly it spits you out into the path of  many West Highland Waywalkers. It's a little bit of a shock, as suddenly my status changed to just one of many of what has become thousands of people who walk the West Highland Way every year. I am relieved to see that my rucksack is nowhere near the biggest. This is a path of many nationalities, the sounds of a multitude of languages coming from the tents. I have loved this path a long time, but I am now wondering whether my capacity to love crowds of walkers has not had enough practice these past couple of months. 

I will only be on the WHW for four days though. Saying goodbye this morning felt like the final push into the far north. There are still miles to go - about 350 or so - but after the crowds of this next four days I am on my own. It won't all be wilderness, and some parts will not even be wild, but most of it will be at least one of those and often both. 

For now, it is still raining. The air will be fresher, and the land greener. And maybe the aliens will visit again.