Four Days in Scotland (Alone and Without a Leader) Part Four

I got up early for breakfast. To be honest I did not need my alarm clock. I had been awake most of the night, firstly trying to turn down the heating in my room (I had to give up and open the window) and then listen to the sound of the heating system as it gurgled and chuckled its way through the night. I reckon I got two hours sleep. It was a dull cloudy day. There was a hint of rain, and as I walked into Fort William to get some laces for my walking boots, I could see that Ben Nevis, was shrouded in cloud. I did consider whether it would be better to do something else, but we Birdwatchers are made of sterner stuff so I stuck to plan A.

I have been up Ben Nevis before. Thirty three years ago. It was summer and I was a younger (obviously!) and fitter BW then. When I got to the Nevis visitor centre there were very few people about. Those that were had ropes and crampons and ice axes and looked serious about the whole thing. I trudged across the suspension bridge, feeling slightly self conscious in my odd assortment of ill matching walking clothes. The first bit was easy. I made good progress and stopped at a bench to have a coffee and to look at the scenery. I was feeling good. A robin flew in and joined me. I decided to have a second cup of coffee. A party trudged up the path and stopped to chat. Did I know where the summit was they asked. I waved my stick vaguely in the direction of where I though it might be, explained that I had not been up there in thirty years. They asked me if I was going all the way. I said that I might but that it looked as if the ziz zag bit of the path was covered in snow and might be a bit tricky without the proper equipment. So I probably would only go as far as the lake. I turned to look at the view and they were off. Funny I thought to myself because at this point the path curves back on its self, a bit of a hairpin. They had gone straight on, following a sort of sheep track. I began to feel uneasy. When I had waved my stick in the general direction of the summit I had not been indicating the route, but maybe they had thought that I had been. I decided to follow them and call them back to put them on the right route so to speak. Now much as I love mountains, I have to confess that I suffer from vertigo. It seems to be getting worse the older I get. Soon off the main path my vertigo kicked in. I stopped. Clearly this was not going to work out. I had better go back. I felt a little guilty about the people that had gone on before me, but they were adults and should know better than to follow the advice of a badly dressed forty something.

The weather wasn't very good. The summit enveloped in fog, mist and snow. I trudged onto the loch, but decided that it was not worth going any further. So I turned round and with a slightly wistful backward glance wimped off back down the mountain. I made good progress and passed quite a lot of people coming up. I avoided eye contact though so as not to have to confess that I had not got to the summit.

I was half way across the suspension bridge at the end of the trail when I saw a small terrier like dog coming towards me. It had two sticks in its mouth, one small one and one large one that was sticking out to such an extend that it spanned the whole width of the bridge. It clearly had no intention of stopping or slowing down. I had two options, to turn tail and run back off the bridge, or to carry on in the hope that the dog would stop or if not then leap the stick. The dog clearly had no intention of stopping despite the giggled commands of its owner, an attractive young woman and her two companions. I was going to have to leap. In the end it was more of a sort of hop. Either way it was undignified, and the giggling intensified. Of course they apologised for the dog. Not that it was bothered. We turned to look at it. It had reached the end of the bridge and was impatiently waiting for them, still holding on to its sticks. Good luck to them! I did not here of any dog related injuries on the mountain so I presume it must have got bored with the sticks at some point.

Having failed to "climb" Ben Nevis, I decided to do a different walk back to Fort William. It felt good to be out on the hills. I watched a couple of buzzards hunting, and followed the trail to Cow Hill. The views of Loch Linnhie were wonderful. Even Fort Willima had a sort of grim charm about it seen from this distance.

As I walked down the hill into Fort William, the back way, just as grim and unpreposesing, as the main way in, I kept being stopped and asked what I was doing in Fort William. I had a fascinating chat about the impact on the local ecomony of the hydroelectric scheme, at least that is what I think we chatted about. To be fair I did most of the listening and gazing back at Ben Nevis which appeared to be coming out from behind its cloudy shroud.

Back in Fort William I decided to have a beer. Standing at the bar, the bloke next to me turned and said "so what brings you to Fort William then." I was dressed in walking gear with walking boots. I had a rucksac on my back and a walking pole as I believe they are called, dads stick the fledglings call it, next to me. I stared at him. I was going to say " I have come up from England to steal your sheep and take them back South of the border."

"Walking" I said. It was a good call, I learn't moments later that he had just got out of prison for GBH.

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and without a leader) Part three

The 12.38 to Oban and Fort William. I locate it at last. The front two carriages go to Oban the rear two to Fort William. Eventually after some indecision, I decide where to sit, where to put my case and settle down. Deciding where to put my case had caused me quite a lot of difficulty. The logical place was the luggage rack. But this was some way from where I was sitting. So having at first put it there, and found my seat I began to fret about it. Suppose someone mistook it for theirs and got off with it? I got up and moved it. I tried stowing it on the rack above my head. It was too big and stuck out quite a lot. "I hope you have got a hard hat" This from the helpful bloke in the seat opposite. "It won't stay up there if we come to a sudden halt." I thanked him for the advice. He shrugged, I noticed that he had a 1998 Scout Camp Tee Shirt on. Just though I'd mention that. So I moved my case from the overhead luggage rack and tried to put it in the gap between the seats. After a lot of faffing about, grunting and breaking into a sweat I got it in. I wiped my fevered brow. Unfortunately I have the sort of helpful subconscious that just cannot let things go. "Supposing you can't get it out again?" It helpfully, suggested to me. I stood transfixed. A small furry animal in the face of oncoming traffic. Should I try and remove it? Just to check that I could? And then what? Put it back again? I glanced round the carriage. I was self conscious enough about being on my own. I did not want to get labelled as an idiot as well. Perhaps I could just try and shift it a bit just to see if it moved? I decided to leave it and sat down. The smug scoutmaster smiled to himself and went back to his telegraph. I tried to casually check that my tickets that I checked five minutes previously had not mysteriously disappeared. I am not cut out for this, I decided. Too much stress.

Bang on time we leave Glasgow Queen Street. As we head out through the suburbs of Glasgow it has started to rain. It is an urban landscape, blighted by sixties trainee architects, their experimental playground. Soon we are following the Clyde. I am struck by the rubbish that litters the shoreline. Tons of it. Plastic of all sorts, shapes and sizes. But amongst it all I see Curlews huddled on the shore line. I wish I could lower the window and hear their cries. They seem unconcerned by all the rubbish. Soon we leave Glasgow and its suburbs and rubbish strewn shore behind.

What can I say about the landscape that the West Highland line passes through? It is a dramatic, head turning, block buster of a landscape. Remote,wild, glacial, scary even especially on this grey wet day. But it pulls you, calls to you, beckons you, urges you to wander into the hills. We stop at small unmanned stations. It is hard to remain on the train. I want to get off to strike off into the glens. As we move deeper into the Highlands the mountains become snow streaked. The grey black of the hillside merges with the grey black of the sky. It is hard to tell where one begins and the other ends. The colours are slate grey, lead blue, inky black, faded greens and browns. The further into the Highlands we go the more relaxed I become. I am starting to realise why I needed to do this. As the landscape expands so do the boundaries of my thinking.

We get to the Bridge of Orchy. Soon after the landscape changes. The mountains recede and the landscape opens out in to a jumble of hillocks and drumlins, boggy water logged ground. Rannock Moor. 12000 years ago or more before man returned to these islands, ice stripped the landscape, plucking rocks from the mountains and depositing them miles later, era tics, leaving piles of debris, gouging out depressions. It is a truly wild place.

After almost four hours we reach Fort William. First Impressions? Why did I come here? I leave the station and turn left. The pedestrian crossings talk to you. A mans voice booms out telling you that the lights are red and the oncoming traffic has right of way. I decide to go anyway as there is no traffic. I am sure that a woman's voice commands me to stop and wait for the correct light, tells me that I have violated a road traffic bye law. Its probably all on CCTV anyway so I continue on my way.I find the hotel, its okay, it will do. Its 5.30pm on a wet Monday. I decide, to go and explore Fort William, at least buy a map so that I can plan a walk. My first impressions were wrong. Its okay. I find a pub. I sit in a corner, map spread out, my second pint half drunk. I am starting to warm to this. Tomorrow, I decide I will have a look at Ben Nevis. Better have another pint though, now I'm here.

Four Days in Scotland (Alone and without a Leader) Part 1

Five o'clock in the morning. In winter there is nothing good that one can say about five o'clock in the morning. Its dark for a start. Usually damp and there is little incentive to leave the warmth of my bed and Mrs BW. But today I actually beat the alarm to it by a few seconds, and get out of bed straight away. No turning over for a few more minutes. I have a train to catch and some serious thinking to do. Its Monday morning and I am off to Fort William by train, to spend a few days on my own. the plan is to try and sort a few things out. I have some decisions to make about how to, or where to take my career. I am going with Mrs BW's blessing and encouragement. I shower and go downstairs to make some porridge. I always do this in the microwave now. Its easier, and creates less mess in the sink and consequently the drains. It takes two minutes thirty seconds to make. I use the same measurements as always. The Microwave pings. I open the door. there is molten porridge everywhere. Why? Why today? I clean it out and make some toast. My train or rather bus leaves at 6.19am from Buxton Station. Bus because this is the first day of major rail works between Buxton and New Mills, so its the bus. Mrs BW takes me down to the station. I check and recheck that I have everything. I feel nervous. I have not been away on my own, apart from trips on business for fifteen years. We arrive at the station. It is 6.12am. There is a bus there waiting. I relax and start to get my case and rucksack out. The bus sets off. I shout at it, wave my arms at it. The driver ignores me. I run across the station forecourt and manage to catch his attention. He stops. Winds down the window. He explains that this is not the bus I want. He goes on his way. I go back to the car and an amused Mrs BW. I feel an idiot. This is not an great start.

The train is lurching and rattling its way through Greater Manchester. A thin, pale, pasty light is trying to force its way through the thick cloud cover and the retreating night. I am struggling with the train timetables. When I planned this trip, well okay planned might be a little bit ambitious, drifted into it might be a better description, the idea was to catch the
9.19 Virgin train to Glasgow from Preston. That meant that if everything went according to plan I could pick up the 12.38 from Glasgow Queen Street to Fort William, a trip I was looking forward to. All that scenery from the comfort of a train, relaxing, stress free, a chance to chill out and to start thinking. I had checked the Internet just before I left this morning and it threw a spanner in the works. There was an 8.48 from Preston to Glasgow, and that was fine as we go into Preston at 8.28. The problem was I could not find it on the Virgin Timetable that Mrs BW had given me. I am not a seasoned traveller. I need things to worry about, so as we rushed through the outer suburbs of Manchester, I worried about connections to Glasgow from Preston. Mrs BW had told me not to worry. "Stick to your plan" she said. "You have booked your seat on the 9.18, you have plenty of time."

Its not a great view from the dust and rain streaked window. The derelict remnants of the industrial revolution and the great age of British manufacturing vie with waste ground and the visionary architecture of disillusioned sixties architects, convinced that they knew how people wanted to live best. The people getting on and off look tired, worn out, but I guess that would be true of anyone getting on or off a commuter train. Its not particularly busy. Before I know it we are pulling into Preston, and I have some decisions to make. In the end I decide to take the 9.18. It appears that there are at least eight different timetables for Virgin Trains Services. Mrs BW had given me the VT1 from the South West to Scotland. Very confusing! I need a coffee to recover.