autumn rain – 2 oct, 2018
Day 53 Land’s End to John O’Groats – Beinglas Farm to Inveroran
Distance: 35km
Cumulative distance: 1351km
I crossed the river yesterday evening and ran into the group of Cheshire ramblers on my way over to the Drover’s Inn, who were quick to tell me I was in for a treat when I walked into the famous pub.
“It’s older than your country,” one of the smiling old chaps told me, as he’d done a few times already earlier that day. About half a kilometre down the road I came across a marvelous old stone architectural jumble of three storeys. I went inside and the place was completely decked out for Halloween with skeletons and other horrible creatures hanging down from everywhere – not surprising given this place is considered one of the most haunted in Scotland. It was also jam packed with hikers and boasted a beautiful fireplace, next to which I somehow managed to burgle a table – the only one free in the swollen confines of this earthy hotel. By the time I wandered home the sun was down, and the rain appeared to have settled in.
I woke up to the sound of Garry cursing the dampness of the inside of his tent. The rain was persistent throughout the night, and from his repetitive use of profanities beginning with the word F, I concluded a lot of that moisture had burrowed its way through his flimsy defences and settled on Garry’s sleeping bag. He’d told me yesterday his sleeping bag had been ‘Damp as fuck’ for as long as he could remember, and it looked like this would remain the case for a while yet. Especially for the next 24 hours because the rain was showing no signs of abating. I waited for Garry’s cursing to subside before I jumped up and packed down my own tent which was also absolutely soaking. The inside of mine had remained dry overnight, but that wasn’t the case for too long as I de-pitched in the wet. I went over to the restaurant on Beinglas Farm and had brekky with Pam and a few of the other Cheshire ramblers. I bade them farewell knowing I’d be pushing well ahead of them today, and we resolved to catch up for a beer in Fort William.
I set a quick pace after leaving the farm, and the walking was delightful early on despite the rain, along a river with occasional waterfalls. Soon enough I bumped into a couple of ladies from Gloucestershire and walked with them for about half an hour. One was a nurse, and the other lived on an island in Greece with her husband and spends her days letting out holiday rentals. I eventually said goodbye and pushed on ahead, dreaming of lying on a beach somewhere in the Greek sun as the rain kept on in the real world.
I stopped for a quick snack outside Crianlarich after about 10km, the halfway point of the West Highland Way, and the rain upped the ante making it almost impossible for me to fetch a snack out of my bag without everything getting wet. I didn’t hang around too long, and pushed on into a damp forest of greens and yellows, and an abundance of moss. I came down a big hill and emerged at the A82, which I crossed before running into Garry again who was chatting to a Scottish chap walking the West Highland Way in khaki kit. I stopped for a bit of a chat before continuing on, leaving Garry behind as he ducked into a little shelter to fire up his stove again to heat up some soup. I looked behind me after 200m just to make sure the whole thing hadn’t gone up in flames, and thankfully I can report it was still standing.
Further along the trail wound through a farm, where I grabbed a snack at the shop. It wound past historic battle sites with plenty of information boards, and occasional stone ruins which continue to fascinate me. The next town was Tyndrum where the Cheshire lot were staying this evening – I did a bit of shopping and devoured a soggy nutella wrap before heading out of town with 12-15 kilometres still ahead of me. The rain wouldn’t bugger off, but my mood began to improve significantly outside of Tyndrum. The river, road and railway line all synched up to run in the same direction adjacent to the trail for this stretch providing a nice geometric sequence. But more delightful was the quintessential autumnal scene across the river, where deep shades of yellow and red permeated through the leaves which shone steadfastly through the drizzle. I followed this for a while before the trail bent away from the road and took me along the side of a yellow, fog-shrouded hill. Eventually the path wound back underneath the road and took me in a new direction towards some substantial hills, mostly hidden behind the substantial grey of the day. I ran into three Norwegian ladies doing the hike, and they asked for a selfie with me after hearing I’d been going since Cornwall. By now we were all striding along an old military road, and I put together some very swift miles on the sturdier, flatter ground, all the way to Bridge of Orchy. I went past the fire station, across the railway and into a little forest on the other side of town with only a few miles left.
At this point the sun began to lower itself in the sky and I turned my attention to where I would sleep that night. I’d told myself to camp for the next two nights before a weekend off in Fort William, but I wasn’t looking forward to setting up a damp tent in the wet and the dark when I finally made it to Inveroran. On the upside there was a camping spot just beyond the Inveroran Hotel and it was free to pitch up there. An unexpected hill took me up through the forest, and above the treeline where I could see out to Loch Tulla for the first time, and to the vast expanse of Rannoch Moor beyond. A stiff breeze had started up as the sun continued to dip towards the horizon, and the rain became heavier as I walked across the exposed peak of the hill, and down the other side. The hotel came into view, a beacon of hope at the end of a bleak day, and after one final slog downhill I came to its entrance. “I’ll just go in for a quick beer before pitching up,” I thought, and after removing my sodden shoes and socks and hanging my jacket, I fronted up to the counter.
Before I knew what I was doing I’d grunted “You don’t have any rooms spare do you?”
“I’ll just check,” the staffer said, with me knowing full well this was one of the most heavily booked hotels on the entire route – so much so a lot of walkers reserve their room almost 12 months in advance.
“We have a single room available sir.”
I couldn’t believe it. I later found out there’d been a cancellation a few nights ago at Beinglas Farm – one unfortunate hiker was unable to make the miles a few days earlier – and that had had a flow on effect down the line. Their room was thus available on this rainy evening, and I snapped it up realising I was now in for a much better night than anticipated. This place had a bed! And a shower, a roof, four sturdy walls, a bar, a chef, a dry room, other hikers, and room for me to dry out my tent.
Before I trudged up to my room I ducked into the bar for a pint, and sat with David and Iain from Fife. They were two Scottish lads who were walking the WHW to raise money for a hospice which had recently aided a close friend of theirs through the last weeks of his life. Iain had walked the way several times in the past, while David was on debut. They told me I was the most bedraggled hiker they’d ever seen. Half an hour later after hanging up my tent and all of my wet clothes, and jumping into the shower, I was back down having a feed with David and Iain. They were absolute legends! I also met a couple of Welsh fellas, Gavin and his twin brother Rich – the latter is thinking about doing the Appalachian Trail next year.
