Friday, June 30, 2023

How is it already the last day of June? I don’t know where time goes and why it still surprises me that it goes there.

Today’s a travel day. We wake up with the alarms and pack up our stuff in the Dublin apartment. It was really nice to stay in once place for a few days and really get to settle in. I started seeing 3 Hatch St. Lower, Dublin 2 as home. I love this Georgian neighborhood with its doors and windows and uniform bricks. I think there’s a parallel universe where I live here. I hope that version of me is having a grand time. But in this universe, we double check everything, leave the key on the table, and catch the AirCoach bus to the airport.

The Dublin airport is not as crazy as Stansted, thank God, but it’s still that weird European thing where you go through this brightly lit shopping hell before you get to your gates. I grab a coffee, Mom goes off to spend our last 15 euros on Aero peppermint bars, chips, and cokes, and we get to our gate, where we have to wait although the monitor says “final call.” When we do get through the gate, then on and off the shuttle bus, I’m a little shocked by the sight of the plane. It has propellers. The wings are above the windows and it has propellers. It’s a short flight to Glasgow, true, but… propellers? What is this, 1960? It makes me weirdly nervous.

Boarding isn’t fun for me because it’s so tiny and people are putting bags in the overhead bin that clearly would fit under the empty seat in front of them. Dude. People who don’t pay attention to others during travel are the worst. You are not the only person on the plane. There must be a special circle of hell reserved for people who do not put their tiny personal item under the empty seat in front of them while others have to wrestle their actual carry-on backpacking pack into a tiny crevasse.

Man, I’m working myself up writing this. Deep breath.

The flight isn’t too bad, though, considering the claustrophobia and the presence of propellers and unaware space hogs. There are two guys behind me talking, one from Dublin and one from Glasgow, but the Scottish one has lived in Maine for 18 years. The Irish guy says he’s heading to do the West Highland Way. I can’t help but jump in. “I’m doing that too! Sorry, didn’t mean to eavesdrop.” He seems very excited to meet another hiker, though. I love the Irish. They’re so friendly. I don’t want to leave Ireland. But I do very much want to hike.

When we get to Glasgow, it’s a very smooth process of leaving the plane, getting the bus directly into town, and buying a train ticket at Queen Street Station. Then, because we can, we check our luggage and take a little spin around the area, passing the famous statue of the Duke of Wellington with his traffic cone out in front of the Gallery of Modern Art. We pop into a couple of stores. There are highland cows everywhere and it makes me think of my friend Sarah. Highland cows are her favorite animal, which she was careful to tell me in, like, minute two of our first real conversation. I crocheted a highland cow for her a couple of years ago. I’ll always associate the animals with her.

It’s raining, which isn’t pleasant. So we just go back to the station, go through the rigamarole of getting two 50p coins so we can use the loo, and get on the train to Milngavie. It’s quick, about 25 minutes, and we’re arriving in the town where the West Highland Way begins.

I’m not sure what I was expecting from Milngavie (pronounced “mull-GUY”) but it is absolutely adorable. It’s bigger than I thought it would be, with a lovely little pedestrians-only main street full of cafes and shops. I go right to the Spar and buy two things: Irn Bru, the Scottish soft drink that Andy and James tried so hard to explain to me on the PCT last year, and the West Highland Way passport.

My trail name is very appropriate for me. If you don’t know the story, or need a refresher, here you go: On night two of the Appalachian Trail in 2019, I was talking to Amelia, soon to become Patches, who I would wind up hiking the rest of the trail with. We were sharing a moment due to the fact that we had both purchased the AT Passport, which you can get stamped at various restaurants, hostels, visitor centers, and other locations along the trail. As I was pulling my passport out of its bag, the center pages became separated from the cover. Distraught, I asked if anyone had glue. From the back of the shelter, a clear voice rang out, “I have Krazy Glue!” This was Shawn, trail name Krazy Glue or KG, whom I would also wind up befriending and hiking most of the rest of the trail with. Patches and KG suggested Passport as my trail name the next day due to my excitement about the AT Passport, and it stuck. I cherish my AT passport today, chock-full of colorful stamps and dates beneath them that physically mark my journey.

Yeah, I love a passport. When we landed in the UK and I didn’t get a stamp, I was pissed. But then Ireland gave me one, which made up for it… somewhat. The chance to fill out another trail passport was not something I could pass up. And the WHW one is so cool! It’s a map of the trail with major towns and features highlighted, with a spot on the right for a stamp from the various towns.

The Spar cashier places my first stamp all the way at the bottom. Milngavie. Let’s go. Six days of lochs, cows, rain, mountains, and stamps ahead.

After that we slog to our Airbnb, which, adorably, is called the Wee Apple Tree. It’s very charming. There’s a little electric fireplace, a kettle, all kinds of snacks, and a very well stocked closet with a toiletries drawer. I set about changing my pack into hike mode: get my filter and bandana out, clip on my Kula cloth, then add Petunia the possum to the shoulder strap and the cute hand-felted rainbow Pride heart keychain I just got in Glasgow to the back. If you don’t hike in style and colo(u)r, what’s the point?

We make a run back to town to get some supplies for tomorrow. Tesco resupply! It feels weird to do pre-hike food shopping in Europe. Things aren’t really that different, but they’re different enough that you notice, that it feels like a little treat. Kind of uncanny even, like a just barely perceptible change. After that we take a little walk along the first small bit of the WHW and wind up at the burger place Maple for dinner. One of the guys working there is super friendly, sees my WHW passport, and strikes up a conversation. He’s done the WHW, once as a yo-yo: to Fort William and then back again to Milngavie. “I loved that it felt like I was walking home,” he says with a smile.

Then he asks, “So is this a thing you do a lot then? You just… travel and walk?”

Mom and I share a grin. “You could say that.” I tell him and the other employee about the PCT and AT, then about how the mountains in this part of Scotland are, geologically, the same mountains as the Appalachians, a fact that never ceases to blow my mind. I admit that I really struggle to understand the accent around here, but apart from this, it’s a lovely conversation and I leave feeling even more jazzed to get out there.

Back at the airbnb, which is very cold because it’s quite a gloomy and chilly day, I figure out how to turn the heat on in the electric fireplace. And I fall asleep on the floor. And now I’m writing. Hi. It doesn’t feel like the night before a thru hike. That’s probably either because I’ve done so many hikes by now that this one feels like old hat, or because I’m not camping, just staying in towns with my mom every night. She’s going to hop around on public transit in this area and sort of follow me as I go. It’s going to be an exciting adventure for each of us in our own ways.

Into the highlands!