Ireland/UK Day 11

July 1, 2023

19.3 miles hiked

I’m out of practice with getting ready for a long hiking day. I fumble around with the coffee maker, pack some things, forget some other things I was going to pack, have to repack, mess up the Nespresso somehow, the simplest coffee maker ever, have to clean that up, and finally resign myself to the fact that I am only physically capable of (a) using an American coffee maker at home or (b) making instant coffee.

Once I get myself sorted out, Mom and I walk towards the town center. On the way, we come upon a hiker with a large pack. He’s older, maybe in his late 60s or early 70s, and, by his accent, Australian. He’s hiking in flip flops. He asks where the trail is, and I point towards the obelisk and then the surprisingly easy to miss walkway leading past it.

I have to make a quick Tesco run before I start because I forgot bug spray last night and enough people have put the fear of God into me about Scottish midges that I don’t want to go without it. Once that’s done, I meet back up with Mom and she takes my photo at the starting monument. Here we go! Another little wee thru-hike, in the rain this time. (Though it quickly turns into sun, and back again, all day.)

Mom’s got her own WHW adventure: each day she’ll be taking public transit to meet up with me at our destination for the night. It’s a hiking arrangement I’ve never experienced. On the Camino, Monica and I stayed in albergues, cheap hostels for pilgrims, rather than camping, but you don’t have to reserve those ahead of time. In contrast, on the WHW there aren’t as many options for accommodation, so if you’re staying in a town rather than camping, it’s advised to arrange everything beforehand. Not that I think I’ll have a problem with the mileage or the terrain, but it does add a measure of certainty about the day’s plans to know that there’s a preset destination.

The first few miles of the Way are mostly spent leaving Milngavie. I follow the path down the walkway from the main square, onto some sidewalks, and then on a footpath that enters the woods. It’s paved for a bit, then it turns into soft dirt path. There are people out walking and cycling this morning, but not a whole lot of hikers for a while.

The trail starts to go up a bit, and then I feel like I’m properly in the country. Hills rise, road gives way to path, and then, out of nowhere, there is a huge mountain in the distance against a blue sky. I see a group of hikers finally, and roll right past them. Every step further on the trail feels like a step into myself. I’m flying. I put music on and let it carry me. There’s a downhill with no shade and the open world holds me and I am alive. This is how I prefer to live. Trails! Music! Wonder! I made it!

As the long rocky downhill ends, I spot the hiker I saw earlier. He’s still got those flip flops on. I pass him, accidentally startling him, and apologize. “You found the trail!” I say.

“I did!” he laughs.

Uphill, then down again, through a gate, then another, turn left, and I’m on a flat, perfect earthy carpet between rows of trees. This bit has a very distinct feeling of being a former rail line. It’s sunny. I probably should have put on sunscreen. It will be very embarrassing if I get sunburnt in Scotland. But not right now.

I soon come upon the turn-off for Glengoyne Distillery. I’m not much of a whiskey person so I’m not super keen to take a tour, but they have bathrooms and water and, very possibly, a passport stamp. Plus I’ve made decent time so far today. I take the turn. The distillery is very nice. I spend a moment wandering around the property, checking out the waterfall out back, using the vey posh restrooms, refilling my water. One employee sees Petunia the Possum on my shoulder strap. “Oh, is that your wee mascot?” she asks, and I almost die from delight at her accent.

“Yes! This is Petunia the possum.”

“Oh, I was going to say a rat. Ha!”

I laugh. “Yeah, North American.”

I continue back towards the road, where two more employees—older guys, one in plaid pants and the other in a kilt of the same color—are standing. “I don’t suppose you have a passport stamp here?” I ask.

“We don’t,” one replies. “We used to, but I don’t think we do anymore.”

“Bummer.”

“We could take your picture,” the other one says.

“And I could put it in my passport?”

“Yeah!”

He takes my photo in front of the Glengoyne sign on the side of the building. Then the both of them direct me to the trail back to the WHW, across the street, around the back of the barn, and through a field and a gate.

It’s more walking on that magical flat path for a bit. Soon I come across signs for the Beech Tree Inn. There are a lot of them, and they are very urgently requesting that hikers visit this inn. Then there’s a sign with a full-on poem written in broad Scots entreating us to visit. Alright, I‘ll do it. They probably have a stamp.

They do! I order a glass of orange juice and a stamp inside at the bar and get both. I was going to have lunch, but I’m really not all that hungry yet, and it looks like it’s going to rain. Again. The constant switching between rain and sun is giving me whiplash.

In addition to the restaurant, Beech Tree Inn also has animals. Like, all kinds. Lots of them. Many are rescues. There are ducks and geese, various birds, chickens, fluffy chickens, a turtle, bunnies, miniature ponies, fish, I mean. You name it. The enclosures are arranged around a large seating area beneath a massive tree. A beech, perhaps? I’m delighted. I take a spin, finishing my orange juice, and then head back to trail.

At the crossing, I see the hiker in the flip flops again. “Where in the States are you from?” he asks, and I tell him, and thus begins our several miles of walking and talking.

“Do you always hike in flip flops?” I ask, pointing down to his feet.

He pauses. “In what?”

“Flip flops. Sandals?”

“Oh. That’s what you call them? We call them thongs. Yeah, I always hike in them. I grew up at the beach, so it’s sort of in my blood.”

His name is Bruce, and the immediate image that pops in my head is that of the shark in Finding Nemo because, you know, Australian. Bruce is originally from a beach town in New South Wales, but he has traveled and lived just about everywhere you can imagine, including Colorado for 20 years as a ski instructor. He has friends who are professional surfers and skiers, he’s climbed mountains in the Himalaya that few people have ever even heard of as well as more recognizable ones like K2 and Everest, and he’s hiked two Caminos. He still surfs and skis, and he and he and his friend (“Well, she calls us ‘friends with benefits,’” he adds with a chuckle) are going on a trip to several countries in central Asia in the fall. He’s in Scotland for a few weeks, hiking the WHW first and then going to Skye, Orkney, and the Outer Hebrides.

As we talk, we pass through pretty farmland interspersed with trees. Every now and again we come upon an honesty box—a place where local folks have left drinks, snacks, homemade treats, or other supplies along with a box in which to leave payment. I’m loaded down with snacks and supplies already, or else I would have bought something. One of the boxes even has stones painted with the WHW logo on them. I surprise myself by not buying one, and later regret it—especially when I see later on Instagram that Mash, a PCT friend who also happens to be hiking the WHW with his cousin right now and who I’ll probably meet up with soon, bought one.

At one point, we’re walking along a path between hedgerows, and we come across an older Scottish couple that are quite a sight. Well, mostly the sight is the man. He’s quite tall and has on a full Scottish outfit: a kilt, long socks under hiking boots, and a cap with pheasant feathers stuck in one side. The woman is dressed normally for hiking, meanwhile, with a teal waterproof jacket and synthetic pants. They both speak with gravelly smoker voices overlaid with pleasant Scottish accents.

As Bruce and I approach them, the man in the kilt all but bars our way. “Where are you from?” he asks, and we tell him.

“Oh, lots of Americans out!” he says. “You know, you hear all this bad stuff about America but I love Americans. Always so friendly.” I think he’s going to stop there but I’m woefully wrong. “Except some of your women are so ugly.”

I don’t exactly know what to say to this, but that doesn’t matter because he plows right on. “And Australians! There are Australians out here too. All great. Where are you going?”

The abrupt switch takes us both aback and we have to think. “I’m going to Drymen,” Bruce says.

“I’m going to Balmaha,” I add.

“Oh, Balmaha!” Kilt Man says. “Right, you’re going to come upon Conic Hill, right? Go left. Take the lower route. It’s not good in bad weather, right, and it’s way too hard.” He follows this with some unsolicited advice about Drymen and some sort of alternate route along Loch Lomond after Inversnaid. The woman holds up a guidebook and tells us to take a photo of the page.

Finally, the man finishes with a proud “Welcome to Scotland!” and they continue on their march.

“Well,” I say to Bruce once we’re out of earshot. “He was a character.”

Bruce turns left at the split for Drymen, and I turn right onto some more rolling fields and farmland. We bid each other farewell and safe travels, and then I’m on my way farther north.

I cross a road, walk through some pretty tree-lined lanes, and then turn into a field that leads to a gate with proper woods beyond it. There’s a campsite back here and I settle in and have a little trail lunch: flatbread, smashed salt and vinegar crisps, and Irn Bru, the Scottish soft drink that tastes, to me, vaguely of soap. I’m not a huge fan, but I had to try it while I was here, didn’t I?

I’m sitting there beneath the pines on my little sit mat, pack open and trail lunch spread all over the place, and the wave of nostalgia for the PCT hits me full in the face. I loved lunch breaks on trail, increasingly more as the hike went on and my hunger increased exponentially. I recall the unfettered delight of pouring crushed potato chips into my face directly from the bag—chip drink!—and eating a concerning amount of Oreos and M&Ms without a second thought for my health. If you suspended reality just enough, this could be the PCT, possibly Oregon, or Washington, or even some parts of the desert with soft pine needle beds and a good cool breeze.

I still have a lot of miles left to go and it’s the late afternoon now, so after about half an hour I pack up again and hit the trail. I look around for my poles before I realize I don’t have them. That PCT nostalgia hits again, and as the trail empties out onto a gravel road, I record a video and send it to our PCT tramily chat saying that I’m thinking about them, I’m nostalgic for the trail, and I hope everyone’s doing okay. When I check my phone later, only Andy and Rob have responded—Andy with a characteristically snarky response, lovingly sent, and Rob with a comment about how he’s glad to see I’m still hiker trash.

The other three aren’t in touch much any more, I’m sorry to say. I mention this in my video, about how I know it’s normal for post-trail life to take over and I understand why we aren’t talking as much anymore. But I’m still sad about it. Ah, well. The trail still happened and it was beautiful while it lasted. No matter whether all the ties continue past that or not, I am still grateful for that experience. I guess some friendships don’t have staying power, but that doesn’t lessen their value for the time they did last. Longevity isn’t the only measure of success. Or maybe that’s just me trying to make myself feel better.

I’m extremely tired and sort of down for a while after lunch. There’s a marked difference in my mood and energy. It could be fact that I went from hiking zero miles a day to almost twenty, but it could also be the weather. It turns cloudy and hangs around for a while, but doesn’t really rain. It’s gravel road, walking through woodland with ferns at the edges of the path. I check FarOut and see that I still have five miles, then when I’m sure I’ve gone that far, I check and I still have three. It feels like ages. How can the first fifteen fly and the last five stretch out into a small eternity? Two of those miles involve Conic Hill, a big climb that Kilt Man told me to avoid via a low alternate but which I am obviously going to hike anyway.

I come across a rock next to a tree that looks like it’s perfect for sitting and stretching, and I pull over for a minute. I’m having the standard pain: achilles, ankle, tight hips. I take my pack off, which feels amazing, and stretch everything out. I drink some water and cinch my rain jacket hood around my face because it is now cold and blustery again. Then I start walking, feeling marginally better, and five minutes later the sun comes out. Of course.

The trail passes yet another gate into yet another field dotted here and there with sheep. This far north the lambs are still pretty small, and I love watching them totter around the field following the herd. Then it’s down, across a pretty creek, and straight up. Ah, I’ve reached the Conic Hill climb. I put my head down and engage Uphill Mode. 100 steps, stop, repeat. The wind is pretty gnarly now. It gets cloudy, then sunny again, over and over, the wind relentless all the while.

As I rise higher, the landscape becomes more breathtaking. There are soft, rolling green hills and, when I finally get to the top of the climb, an amazing view of Loch Lomond stretched out with all its islands below. I’m still exhausted, and I cannot wait to sit down and take a shower and go to bed, but it suddenly and in very sharp relief becomes clear to me why this trail is so loved. It is beautiful, all the shimmering green and the loch and the dramatic, capricious clouds shifting from sunlight to rain and back again in a constant dance.

I appreciate it as much as I can with the insane wind and my screaming feet, and then I start the slow and painstaking work of going downhill. As sharp as the uphill was, the downhill is somehow steeper. It’s rutted out, too, and there are treacherous rocks. There are also people coming up the other way now, hiking from Balmaha, and so I have to avoid them while concentrating on placing my feet—without poles, this is harder than I thought it would be. Down, down, trying to resist the urge to check FarOut because I know it will just say that I’ve only gone a tenth of a mile, if that. Down, and then the trail turns into large steps, which seem nice at first compared to the rumble rocks but then quickly become insufferable because they’re too big for one step but too small for two, and I mutter some choice words under my breath, and pass some people, and then I am finally in some trees, and then a parking lot, and what seems to be Balmaha.

It’s not even really a town. There are just a few buildings, and it looks like most of them are the hotel. I sit down on a stone wall and text Mom. She made it! She’s on a walk by the loch and she comes to meet me. It sounds like she had quite the adventure today with the busses. There were a lot of transfers and the stops aren’t announced like they are on city busses. But the views were beautiful, she says, and she made it safe and sound! She takes me to our lovely hotel room, which is in one of the buildings, and it’s called Dan’s Cottage. Heh. I take a photo and send it to Machine, whose real name is Dan. Thx for the nice cottage!

I’m limping around like I’ve just reached the Bridge of the Gods, not like day one of a thru hike. I am so tired, the entirety of my legs on fire. For once, I listen to my body and take a few intentional moments to stretch really well. I take a shower, and it floods the entire bathroom. Why. Why are the showers here such a pain in the ass. Everything else about European bathrooms is amazing, but the showers suck. Can we maybe blend American and European good qualities into a perfect child of a restroom?

I crankily mop up the flooded room with a towel, then Mom and I head to the restaurant at the main building of the Oak Tree Inn for dinner. It’s the coziest little country pub, wood-beam walls and a low ceiling, taxidermy on the wall (that part is not super cozy), a little bar and golden light. I’m so tired that, once I finish my steak pie and beer, I start falling asleep at the table. Back in the hotel room, I stretch a little more, determined to not feel as terrible tomorrow, and utterly pass out.