rannoch moor – 3 oct, 2018
Day 54 Land’s End to John O’Groats – Inveroran to Kinlochleven
Distance: 30km
Cumulative distance: 1381km
I’d been looking forward to this particular day of walking ever since I set off from Land’s End more than two months ago. This was the most famous stretch of the West Highland Way, which would take me across the vast, eerie expanse of Rannoch Moor, and then up and over the Devil’s Staircase at Glen Coe. History buffs and adventurers alike will recognise that name. Glen Coe is one of Scotland’s most famous valleys and a hive of activity for walkers and climbers all year round. But for its sheer beauty and stunning volcanic formation, it also witnessed the 1692 Massacre of Glencoe which to this day remains a key cog in Scotland’s history. A few years prior, the Revolution of 1688 led to James II being replaced on the throne by William III. A lot of Scottish folk remained loyal to James II, and the MacDonald clan of Glencoe were tardy in pledging their allegiance to the new monarch. By the time Alexander MacDonald submitted his clan’s oath of allegiance, the king had already branded his people as recalcitrants and ordered military punishment. As the story goes, more than a hundred MacDonalds had been billeting in Glencoe with several members of the Campbell clan. When the orders came to attack, the hospitality turned to hostility and 38 unarmed MacDonalds were massacred in scenes reminiscent of the Red Wedding on Game of Thrones.
Before setting out for Rannoch Moor and Glencoe, I had a full Scottish breakfast to tend to – all part of the 50 quid I happily forked out for my dry room last night. I sat with Gavin and Rich and was only too happy to answer Rich’s questions about long-distance hiking as he began to plan his Appalachian Trail journey next year. It was a delicious breakfast to round out a luxurious stay, and to top it off a deer walked past the window while we dined. I went and grabbed all of my clothes from the dry room, packed everything up and set off out into the mist which fortunately was only moisture in the air, and not rain. Perhaps I’d be spared the precipitation today? Wishful thinking no doubt. Unfortunately my boots were still soaked through inside and out from yesterday, but it turned out that wouldn’t matter anyway.
I crossed the river and passed the little campsite I was initially going to pitch up at last night. It was a beautiful little spot but absolutely soaking wet, and I thanked my lucky stars one last time that I’d managed to fluke a room at the pub. I was back on an old military road and after only a couple of miles I hit Rannoch Moor. Ahead of me was an almost 10-mile stretch of sodden, yellow, bumpy moorland with zero shelter. No trees and definitely nothing man made if the weather decided to turn, and it threatened to do just that at any moment. There was a fairly low-hanging fog gripping the landscape in every direction and the sun had zero chance of poking through a thick blanket of cloud above my head. To my right was Loch Tulla, and ahead and to my left were imposing mountains keeping watch over their desolate playground which stretches for about 50 square miles. Yesterday’s rain had created several beautiful rainbows which arced their way across the moor, and for the most it stayed dry enough as I hauled myself across this fascinating stretch. Little streams trickled down towards the path on either side of me, with yesterday’s rain creating mini waterfalls resembling little aqua spiders scuttling off in every direction. This place was just so barren, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt like a smaller, more insignificant speck in the universe. I was listening to the Desert Island Discs episode which featured Stephen Hawking as I walked across the moor, and most of his selections were classical music. Having the mesmerising and mysterious works of Brahms playing away in my ears only enhanced the experience.
Eventually I made it across, walking past a ski centre and then across a busy road into Kingshouse which these days resembles a massive construction site, temporarily rendering it useless as a stopping point for the West Highland Way traveler. I sat on a stone bridge and made myself a quick lunch as the rain returned with some pretty significant volume. By the time I finished my nutella wraps, just about everything was soaked again and there was no sign of the rain abating. After passing through Kingshouse the path hooked around to the left and I could make out the U shape of Glen Coe which was a stunning sight, even through the driving rain. I walked towards it for a few miles, and then hang a right going up the Devil’s Staircase and up and over the hill into the next valley. But those few miles to the Devil’s Staircase were about as testing as I’ve done so far. The path had turned into a river a couple of inches thick and it didn’t take long for my feet to be soaking wet again. By now the rain was driving in horizontally and was hammering away hard enough that each drop felt like a little midge bite on my exposed face. I pushed on parallel to the A82 and passed a Scottish fella who I’d seen the night before at the hotel. He’d walked in looking fairly bedraggled himself after I’d arrived, but claimed to be completely dry on the inside thanks to his military grade waterproofs. I quipped to him about his waterproofs again as I passed him, and surged ahead finally arriving at the base of the Devil’s Staircase.
There was a picture of the Devil’s Staircase in my guidebook and the author had mentioned it a couple of times throughout the text. It had also come up a few times in conversations I’d had with folk along the West Highland Way. The facts were it was about 1700 feet high at the pass, and was to be navigated by a series of zig zags taking you ever higher out of the valley. I’d built it up to be an almost impassable obstacle in my head which would define my entire walk. I figured if I could make it up and over this, the worst of it would be behind me. In reality, it was just like any other hill – perhaps a little longer and higher but no harder than anything I’d come across on the Coastal Path or the Offa’s Dyke. I ended up surging up it in pretty good time despite the rain, taking in the views back across Rannoch Moor along the way, and not long after passing a few mountain bikers who were tackling it downhill in very slippery conditions, I arrived at the top. There were a few other hikers up there having a break but I pressed on after saying a quick gday, keen to get down into the next valley and out of this rain. From the pass the path went up and down a little bit before settling into a LONG downhill. Garry had told me a few days ago it was still five miles from the top of the hill down into Kinlochleven, despite the fact you could see the town almost at the top of the descent. Rain and screaming knees aside, the descent from the top of Devil’s Staircase was visually superb – more yellow hills which were leaking water in every direction.
The path was steep and precariously placed in certain stretches but sturdy enough and not as wet as on the other side of the hill. I made pretty good time for the last couple of hours, passing part of the hydroelectric setup which was dispelling a raging torrent of water. From what I could tell Loch Leven had been dammed and the hydroelectric scheme built around that provided the power for the town’s aluminium smelter. Kinlochleven was originally two towns which offered accommodation for aluminium workers, but it has now become a popular spot on the West Highland Way which most walkers use as their final resting point before the slog into Fort William. Only 20 years ago there were barely any amenities in town for hikers but now there appears to be a shop, a few restaurants and several places to stay. I fronted up to the hostel which offered camping for 10 quid or a bed for 20, and quickly opted for the latter. Once again I needed to try and dry everything off, and the security of a roof and four walls was too good to refuse. I met Rory in my dorm room, a young chap from Canada who was between jobs and quickly established that he was a top bloke.
I strode down to the shop in search of dinner and brekky and ran into David and Iain who came over and enthusiastically shook my hand as we organised to catch up for a pint (or several) at the end of the West Highland Way tomorrow. Did I mention the finishing line is right outside a Wetherspoons? Then I returned to the hostel and cooked up my pizza while I struck up a chat with Michel from Holland who was also doing the walk. We sat down to eat, and he completely blew my mind with the following conversation after telling me he lived in Enschede, in the east of the Netherlands.
“Oh yeah I have a friend who lives there,” I chipped in referring to Kiwi Steve who I’d caught up with in Glasgow not even a week ago.
“He’s a New Zealand fella, but he’s been living in Holland for about eight year.”
“Oh yes it’s Steve,” Michel replied. “I know him.”
As tiny as I’d felt while walking across the vastness of Rannoch Moor, this made me realise once more that we really did live in a small world. It turns out Steve and Michel both to Cross Fit together. He showed me a few Instagram photos of Steve just to confirm we were talking about the same person, and then we made plans to all catch up in Holland the next time I happened to be passing through. Just a week earlier in Glasgow Steve offered to host me for a week in his apartment if I ever felt like a visit. What a day!
