Ireland/UK Day 15

July 5, 2023 

21 miles hiked 

Getting ready to leave the bunkhouse is a little bit of a struggle. I knock my water bottle off the bed, wrestle with the duvet cover and fitted sheet, try and fail to remember where and how I pack things,  and eventually get myself passably together enough to head down with Mom to the Bridge of Orchy hotel for breakfast. 

Despite there being literally no one there other than one other hiker, the guy working there—the same one as last night—looks around and says, “Well, guys, I’m really busy right now, but if you take a seat I’ll be right with you.” We do eventually get breakfast and I receive one cup of coffee, but I basically have to stare him down until he makes eye contact with me just to get a second. Meanwhile, every other person who enters gets greeted warmly and seated without struggle. Am I that trashy looking? I don’t understand.

I get my dang passport stamp from the front desk, use the very nice bathroom several times, and then we head out. Mom locates the bus stop as I apply sunscreen and bug spray. She really knows her way around public transit now, let me tell you what. I think her journey has been a lot more logistically challenging than mine, but she’s done great getting around, and I love that she’s had her own version of this adventure. It’s always fun to compare our journey at the end of each day and the different views of the mountains and glens that we had. 

I walk past the hotel and over the bridge. The River Orchy is sparkling in the almost-sun this morning, a pleasant little rippling stream. (I’m running out of words to describe things and as I write this I’m too far behind to do better. Mash, is this what you meant when you called my blog “ugly” and “lumpy” and “raw”?) 

Mash is finishing up his packing when I cross the bridge and arrive in the campsite. I plop myself down at the picnic table and pull out the yellow nail polish I bought in Dublin and keep forgetting to put on. “Do you want to do this now or wait?” 

“Oh, let’s do it now,” he says with a grin.

Tell me you hiked the PCT without telling me you hiked the PCT: you’re sat at a picnic table beneath the mountains of Scotland with bright, clashy outfits and Pa’lante and Hyperlite packs, and you’re painting your nails yellow, and you couldn’t care less what you look like, and you’re giggling and giddy with anticipation for a day filled with nothing but walking, views, and snacks. 

We chat while our nails dry, waving our hands in the air and blowing on the polish to speed it up. Then once we’re fairly certain it’s ready, we load up and get walking. 

It’s cruisey today, with a lot of uphills that you don’t really notice. We walk through an area that used to be forest but is now cut down, and then at the top of the climb we enter a treeless, view-filled world where mountains tower on either side of us and it is nothing but grassy green bog and wildflowers and tiny creeks between for miles. The trail is wide for much of the day, and we’re able to walk side by side for hours. 

Before long we come to Inverarnan, which has yet another “wee shop” labeled as such. The guy working there is so enthusiastic, patting us on the back and congratulating us for making it so far on the trail. It’s the closest thing to PCT-level trail angel enthusiasm I’ve seen, and it makes me grin. We get a few snacks, cans of iced coffee, and, naturally, a passport stamp for me.

It’s so flat and chill after that that we just walk along pleasantly, chatting amiably. We pass a farm with several peacocks, including a white one, and a herd of cows in the distance that may or may not be hairy. 

“I’m so sad I haven’t seen a highland cow yet,” I say.

“What? You didn’t see them on the first day?” Mash asks, surprised. “They were right in that bit where you first leave the road and see the mountains.

“WHAT!”

“Yeah. It’s a shame. I’m not sure if you’ll see any more from here.” 

We’ll just call that herd I did see highland cows and call it a day.

Right after that we start the Parliamentary Road section, which was created in the early 1800s and was part of a huge project to establish long-distance roads through the Highlands. It’s tightly packed rocks sort of like cobblestones. From the way Mash talks about it, it seems like some hikers dread this section, but it doesn’t seem bad at all to me. It follows some woodlands for a while, then empties out once again into a sweeping landscape that is hard, impossible, to take in. 

Our conversation gets a little more in-depth today. We talk about our families a lot, and mental health, and how we both dread phone calls, and always, always cycling back to the PCT, how it affected us, and what we want out of life. It’s still comfortable, settled in, like conversation always is among hikers. The road winds on and on. The mountains keep going, keep getting bigger and more dramatic. I am thriving.

There are a lot of people out; we can see them for miles in the distance, like you can on the Camino at some points. We pass them, and then we both realize that we could really use a bathroom break, but there are no trees, and tons of people, and the little bits of forests that we do see are managed and have fences around them. Finally, we spot a stand of trees on either side of the creek. It’s now or never. I’m probably far too close to the creek and if anyone comes around the corner they will definitely see me, but you gotta do what you gotta do. 

Shortly after this pit stop, in the middle of another thought, I realize that I am really craving a grilled cheese. I say this out loud, to which Mash replies, “Well, if you can make it another four miles, there’s the Glencoe Mountain ski area. They might just have one.”

I gasp. 

“I can’t promise you! Don’t be upset if they don’t. But they might.”

Despite being uphill, the next part is not all that bad. It might have been alone, but the conversation keeps rolling and the miles fly. It’s turning out to be a truly beautiful day. I can’t get over how different this part of the trail is to the early few days.

Before long we reach the blue blaze that takes us to Glencoe Mountain. We leave our packs outside, PCT-style, and go in to appraise the situation. To my delight, they have toasties. Grilled cheese, baby! I order that and a Thistly Cross elderflower cider, which is tasty. The lunch is leisurely and satisfying. It feels like something along the PCT, like Snoqualmie or Donner Pass.

Leaving Glencoe and getting back on trail, we can see the ribbon of the WHW for miles. Mash points out a cluster of buildings in the distance that looks like it can’t be more than a quarter of a mile away. “That’s Kingshouse. It’s a mile and a half.” We can also see nearly towards the steep section called Devil’s Staircase, which is still a ways in the distance. My perception of space is warped here. When you look out towards the hills it seems like you could almost touch them, but focus closer, on the rise and swell of the bog lands, and it becomes clear how far away everything really is. 

We have to make a pit stop at Kingshouse to use the very underwhelming and crowded bathroom, and by the time we start walking again the wind has picked up and it’s cloudy again and I’m freezing. The trail is flat and wide for a while again, and Mash and I walk side by side. 

“Oh,” he starts, by way of picking up a thread from earlier. “I need to tell you that story about how feral I got on the End to End.” 

Before hiking the PCT, Mash did the End to End trail, Which starts at Land’s End in Cornwall and travels the entire length of mainland Britain to the east coast of Scotland at John O’ Groats. In contrast to the United States, the UK doesn’t really have much of a hiking culture, and he was alone for large swaths of this trail. 

The truly feral story, as I recall it, goes like this. 

Mash realized at one point on this hike that he wasn’t that far from one of his friends that he’d been hiking with, and he decided that he was going to try to catch up. He hadn’t talked to anyone for several days at this point, except for the occasional shopkeeper or restaurant worker in towns and the one time he’d run into his friend Dexter. There was a big descent, followed by the big climb of Pen-y-ghent, and he was already part of the way through a really long day. He felt good at the start of this section, so good that he basically sprinted down the hill and used the momentum to start the ascent. There were people all around, day hikers and tourists, and he kept passing and passing them. 

Then, at the top of the climb, he came upon several people enjoying the view, including a family of three. The father looked like he was having a good time, the mother seemed to be grinning and bearing it, and the daughter, around thirteen by Mash’s estimation, looked patently miserable. Mash, in the middle of his speed run but starting to slow down, made eye contact with the girl. Not knowing what he was exactly going to say or do, his instinctual reaction was to blurt out, “Watch this!” Immediately after this, he threw up. But not like a dramatic projectile vomit, or even a lean-over-and-throw-up-into-the-bushes, but an underwhelming, slide-down-the-side-of-the-face vomit. A throw down, if you will. The family looked shocked, then horrified, and Mash just keep going, not knowing what else to do. 

I’m doubled over, laughing so hard that no sound is coming out, tears streaming down my face. “Oh my god!” I gasp between breaths. “What did you think was going to happen when you said ‘Watch this’?”

“I have no idea! I just said it!”

It takes me a few moments before I can even stand up straight again. I have to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. Even so, every few moments I start up again. It puts us into little giggly fits. Oh, hiking. So disgusting, so hilarious, so strange to all the normal people who have the (mis)fortune to cross our paths. 

We continue walking through Glencoe. Huge mountains tower around us. Rain threatens, and breaks for a few moments, and disappears again. We start up the Devil’s Staircase. The name seems like an overstatement to me, given how short the section is and how much less intense it seems than the AT. But before long I find myself breathing hard. It’s supposedly switchbacked, but they’re very narrow, worn-in, and rocky switchbacks. I stop every few minutes and turn around to take in the changing view of the sweeping valley beneath us. 

“You know it’s bad when the switchbacks need switchbacks,” Mash says ahead of me, not even winded.

“These are the switchbacks?” I heave. 

“Yep.”

I shake my head. “Y’all need help.”

It’s really not all that long of a climb, though, and before I know it we’re at the top. I look back into the wide, sweeping U-shaped glacial valley. Glencoe Mountain ski area is miles away now, but you can still see it plain as day from here. The clouds are very dramatic now, but it’s not really raining, just sort of misty and cold.

As we begin the long descent to Kinlochleven, Mash tells me about his studies in geology, including a project for his thesis where he and a group spent some time in a remote area of Scotland. I ask if studying geology still influences his perspective, especially while hiking. “Oh, yeah,” he replies, and begins telling me about the landscape from a geological standpoint. This isn’t an area of study that has staying power in my mind; it’s hard for me to grasp and the concepts sort of slide right off. But it is really interesting to consider the specifics of how features of this place were formed. It reminds me of how I started seeing the woods around my home differently during COVID once I started getting into mushroom foraging. When you’re looking for mushrooms, you have to know what trees to look for, and where to find those trees. A side effect of trying to find things to eat in the woods is that you notice so many more intricate details of what’s growing: the way some bark looks, the patterns and number of leaflets, the names of certain wildflowers and where and when they tend to grow. It’s like having another set of eyes—for a moment, I see this particular world through those of a geologist. 

It starts raining as we go down, then it stops, then it starts and stops again. At one point I stop and see a spectacular double rainbow arching its way down towards the valley below. Between the mountains, the shimmering green, and this rainbow, it’s an unreal sight. 

During the descent into town, Mash and I talk more about the PCT and our tramilies. He asks if there were any weird little inside jokes between us. “Oh yeah, there were tons,” I say, and proceed to recall the sandwich debate (Rob and I saying that hot sandwiches were still sandwiches, and James saying that toasties and sandwiches were different). 

“We sort of had one like that,” Mash says. “Okay, what do you consider a milkshake?”

I think for a minute. “A cold blended drink made with milk, ice cream, sometimes ice and yogurt, maybe fruit?”

He grins. “Yeah, that’s what most people said.”

“What do you think a milkshake is?”

He answers in a tone that suggests that (a) he’s said this before, and (b) he’s bracing for my reaction. “To me, a milkshake is any kind of cold flavored milk.”

I stop and stare at him. “What? No, that’s just flavored milk.”

“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction I get.”

“Yeah, because it’s right.”

We keep going back and forth about this on the steep downhill into town. Then, before we know it, we’re arriving at Blackwater Hostel in Kinlochleven. Mash goes to set up his tent and I meet Mom in the hostel. She’s had a nice little walk around the town, enjoyed a spot by the river, and found a waterfall. It is a really cute little place. The hostel is sort of strange in that they only rent rooms as single occupancy, so although there are eight beds in this room, we’re the only ones in it. And we have two bathrooms to ourselves! Weirdly luxurious. 

There aren’t many places in town to eat and they all close pretty early, so instead of showering right away we go out in search of dinner. The pub isn’t serving food anymore, so we go to the Co-Op and buy a few supplies, then go to the only other restaurant, which is Chinese, and order a curry and orange chicken. I don’t know if it’s because they’re about to close or what, but it is really gross. Nothing tastes right and the curry has a strange consistency. Would not recommend. Upset, hungry, and cranky, I quickly go back to the Co-Op and pick up some crackers and cheese, then meet Mom back at the hostel. I take my shower, eat my little dinner, and call it a night.