the roots and the rocks – 1 Oct, 2018
Day 52 Land’s End to John O’Groats – Rowardennan to Beinglas Farm
Distance: 24km
Cumulative distance: 1316km
The rain from last night had downgraded to a light drizzle as Lemon and I emerged from the Rowardennan hostel this morning. Poor old Lemon was moving a bit more stiffly than usual after a few days on trail (when we caught up a few weeks later he told me he couldn’t walk down stairs for a few days). At this point he was still capable of handling the gentle downhill to the pier where we said our goodbyes as Lemon jumped on a boat over to Luss from where he could take a bus to Glasgow. I had day three of the West Highland Way ahead of me, and that meant traversing the rest of Loch Lomond’s eastern banks and pushing on to Beinglas Farm at Inverarnan where I would be camping once more. I hadn’t camped since the freezing night before walking into Glasgow and strange as it sounds, I was looking forward to the snugness of my tent once more.
My early strides were long and purposeful, and before long I’d caught up to the group of hikers we’d met at the base of Conic Hill the day before. I walked with them for about 20 minutes and chatted to Pam, a lady of about 40 who was clearly the youngest of her party. She told me they were members of the Cheshire Ramblers’ Association and they were on one of the many annual walking trips they took across the UK. This was one of their bigger excursions for 2018, and they planned to complete the walk in seven days. I was aiming to be done in six which meant I’d likely pull ahead of them tomorrow, but we were aiming for the same spot tonight so I eventually pushed past them and told them we’d catch up for a beer later that evening. The walking for a lot of today was similar to the back half of yesterday, although the banks began to steepen as the loch narrowed. The drizzle burned off pretty early and then the sun began desperately to emerge from the clouds for the rest of the morning, providing stunning views across the water each time it won that battle and the trees opened up. At one point the path ducked inland and came to a shuddering halt at a fallen tree. I initially thought I’d taken a wrong turn and began backtracking until I had a quick change of heart and decided to go around the tree and see what was on the other side. It was the correct decision – the path re-emerged from underneath the fallen foliage and I was on my way again.
Soon enough I was introduced to the latest challenge of the West Highland Way – the rocks and the roots. When I came into Carlisle a few weeks ago, a fellow hiker had warned me of the tree roots along Loch Lomond and I hadn’t thought too much of it. Now I was in amongt them all, I knew exactly what he meant. Walking momentum and rhythm became impossible with every footstep needing careful consideration to avoid tripping on a tree root, or misjudging a rock. The path was narrow between the water and the steep banks, and some of the rocky sections were quite challenging in a confined space with a large pack. At one stage I needed to squeeze between two rocks that were almost touching each other, and I briefly recalled those stories of cavers who attempt one crevice too many and end up trapped and unable to inhale. Fortunately, I passed through without incident. I found a beautiful little spot for lunch sitting on some rocks overlooking the water but had to contend with a fierce wind that was so strong at times it threatened to kidnap my backpack. Then it was back to the rocks and the tree roots. I tried to maintain a steady pace and had no problem handling it physically, but it’s an incredibly tiring way to hike. Every step requires intense concentration, so it’s impossible to simply amble along in your own world. One mistake and you’ll either trip over a tree root, or end up coming unstuck on a jagged rock.
The loch turned into a river and up ahead I saw another walker who’s plastic covered pack and determined gait looked incredibly familiar. It was the chap Lemon and I had seen on the way into Drymen, and I quickly caught up with him for a chat. He pointed out an eagle up ahead and we walked for a little way together before I sped up and told him I’d catch up at the camp site. My aching limbs and muscles eventually skirted a small hill, and then the campsite was upon me. I’d heard very good things about this place from a number of sources and had also been told a trip across the river to the Drover’s Inn was highly recommended. I paid up my 10 pounds and pitched my tent in the rain which had returned in particularly untimely fashion. My mate with the plastic coloured kit soon arrived and I introduced myself. It turns out Garry is a homeless man from Bristol who sells Big Issue magazines. He’s been roughing it for a few years, and was funding his Land’s End to John O’Groats walk via a website through which people could make donations. On this particular evening he had a stack of funds he’d been trying to withdraw, but due to a problem with the bank he couldn’t access the money. I whipped out a tenner and told him to go and buy himself a pitch for the night, and went and sat in the external common area to go and write in my diary.
Moments later Garry came in, still hauling around his fully loaded pack, and asked if I would like a cup of tea. I politely declined the offer as he strode over to the sink to inspect the little bottles of kerosene people had left behind. His plan was to boil some water using his portable kerosene powered stove, but he didn’t want to use any of his fuel because it was all he had until John O’Groats. I watched this all unfold with great interest within the tight confines of this narrow common area. Up my end there were a few benches and tables for eating, and down Garry’s end there was a sink and a small cooking area. A small door was the only entrance/exit and while the building was about 10-15m long, it would’ve been barely a couple wide. Garry fired up his stove and stick a pot of water above it all. I jotted a few more quick sentences down in my diary and looked up again to see a blue flame about a metre high shedding plumes of black smoke.
“That’s dangerous that is,” said Garry. “That’s fookin dangerous!”
I wholeheartedly agreed as I picked up my diary and walked past Garry and the flaming makeshift stove so there was no longer anything between myself and the only exit. The flames grew higher still and gave off a shocking smell as the black smoke desperately sought the only exit. I wanted to leave Garry’s little tea brewing operation and seek some fresher oxygen, but I waited a bit longer just to make sure it didn’t get out of control. Eventually the flames began to die down and by the time Garry told me how dangerous it all was one more time, they’d been reduced to a couple of small flickers and the water was sufficiently boiled. I left Garry to his tea and swiftly took my leave, gulping in mouthfuls of fresh air all the way back to my tent. I lay down for a little while and did a little reading, and noticed when I emerged for a stroll across the bridge and down to the Drover’s Inn that Garry had pitched up right next to me. I’ve never met so many wonderful and amazing people in such a short space of time!
