November 2010
Of course, everyone knows that Scotland and rain are synonymous.
I can well remember Billy Connolly on stage describing how, when the Celtic settlers from Ireland first set foot on Scottish soil, they sent word back, saying, 'Come over here, guys, it's great! It's even colder and wetter than it is back home!'
So, to plan a walking holiday in Scotland, even in the temperate late spring, is a bit fraught. But we had packed warm jumpers, waterproof coats with hoods, waterproof over-trousers, tea cosy hats, warm gloves and stout boots with 'Endurance Summit Socks', and we felt we were prepared for anything.
Now, don't get me wrong, we had no intention of scaling Ben Nevis - though we did have a very enjoyable walk up to a spectacular waterfall nearby, which had superb views of the mountain, with its customary smoke ring of cloud circling its higher slopes. No, my idea of 'doing the three peaks' is not a mad dash through three countries and dragging my tired limbs up three enormous mountains within 24 hours - I prefer to take a few days and either gaze at it from afar, or take a wee 'Puffing Billy' train up to the top, enjoying the scenery from the warmth and comfort of the carriage, and also enjoying waving to the red-faced, puffing Nigels struggling up the steep paths beside the track.
And so it was that we set off one day for a walk that the guide book described as, 'A picturesque ramble around the loch.' I have long since lost the book and I have forgotten the name of the loch, but it was, needless to say, picturesque and beautiful in the morning sunshine. The walk was planned to have taken about four hours and we were about half way around when the weather started to change. Black clouds came scudding over the hills faster than a herd of stampeding wildebeest and we were soon scrambling to extricate the waterproofs from the rucksack before we got trampled underfoot.
It rained . . .
I cannot find adequate words to describe precisely how it rained, suffice it to say that the words, 'torrential' or 'vertical tsunami' would hardly do it justice. As we reached the shores of the loch our view was limited to a few hundred feet of water with the vague hints of something higher in the distance. We were, according to the map, about as far away from the comfort of the car as it was possible to be on this walk, and so, determinedly, we trudged on.
The ground became softer.
Our boots started making little squelchy noises as they landed and little sucking noise as they lifted back up again.
It continued to rain.
The squelchy noises and the sucking noises could no longer be described as 'little', but it was no problem, we thought, our boots were totally waterproof and the water would have to come right over the top before our feet could possibly get wet.
I took a step onto what appeared to be solid ground and my boot sank; the water came right over the top and my foot was engulfed in cold, wet misery. I searched and found a stout stick, with which, from that point on, I prospected the ground in front of us, zig-zagging our way across the tops of small hillocks towards the promise of higher ground . . . just . . . over . . . there . . .
But 'just over there' seemed to be getting further and further away the closer we tried to get to it and soon we found ourselves standing with one foot on one small hillock and the other on another, searching desperately for a way through - but from here it was swim or nothing, so we surveyed our surroundings and pinpointed our position on the map. We only had about a mile and a half of the walk left to do in order to reach our dry shoes in the car, which was parked on the forecourt of Ye Olde Scottish Tea Shoppe, complete with roaring log fire. I muttered what I thought were quite appropriately Scottish sounding expletives and, very carefully, we turned around and zig-zagged our way back the way we had come, over ground rendered even soggier by the unrelenting rain.
To go into detail for the journey back to the car would quickly become tedious, except to say that for a fair part of that journey I struggled to haul along a large fat branch from a dead tree, which we would lay over the deeper pools and wobble precariously across onto marginally firmer ground.
The Olde Tea Shoppe was truly the most wonderful and welcoming place - but was it my 'special place' you might wonder? - No, it wasn't.
We drove on to Drymen beside Loch Lomond, where we took a hot shower and rendered ourselves human again, then walked from our guest house to the local pub. There, in the warm and pleasant restaurant, as I was enjoying my first ever taste of haggis, tatties and neeps, we discovered that the couple on the table next to us were also English; they had moved up to Scotland a few years before. He insisted on getting the book of maps from the car, on which he pointed out a small island off the west coast. 'You see that island . . . well, can you see that little island beside it?' he said, pointing to a speck, which I thought was just a smudge on the map, 'Well, our island is just off that.'
It seems he works in computers and wanted to be 'away from it all'; their island has only three houses on it and a population of five. It can only be reached by a causeway at low tide and, he so proudly boasted, 'Last year there were only three days when it didn't rain at all!'
We paid our bill and escaped from this madman as fast as we could!
The next day began much as the last had done, with bright sunshine, but we were not fooled, our rucksacks were bulging with waterproof gear, weighing substantially more than usual as it had not completely dried out from the day before. We headed for Balmaha and parked in a large car-park near the loch and set off purposefully along the road, looking for the sign that would indicate our footpath which would lead us up to the West Highland Way.
After half a mile, we reached the marina. I studied the map carefully and we retraced our steps a little more slowly, carefully searching for the elusive sign. When we reached the car park entrance again, the map was spread out over the bonnet of a car and fingers stabbed at the thin line of the road and the even thinner dotted line of the track. On the way back towards the marina again, I meticulously studied each of the roadside bushes and, eventually, came upon a spot where the shrubbery appeared to be slightly less dense. I pushed my way through and we staggered up a steep, muddy slope to a wide gravel path, which looked far more promising. We surmised that some wag had the signpost as an ornament on his bedroom wall!
There were several interlinking paths, which required coin-spinning and guesswork to navigate, as the area was so densely wooded that there was no sight of the water or any other useful landmark. We seemed to climb in this haphazard way for some time, before we suddenly left the trees behind, emerging into daylight once more and there, just a few paces ahead, was the loch.
We were now quite high up on a smooth grassy hillside, where the dense woodland shielded us from the sounds of the tourists around the marina and the gift shops in Balmaha. Someone had thoughtfully provided a wooden bench, which had been strategically positioned, and we sat and took in the view: the loch stretched out to infinity; along the far banks rose majestic tree lined hillsides, resplendent in every shade of green that the Creator had chosen to create, beautifully reflected in the mirror smooth waters.
Far out on the loch a lone fisherman in an ancient boat chugged slowly along, a shallow 'V' spreading reluctantly from its bow as it cleaved the still water. The sun shone down from an azure sky with just a few wispy mares' tails of cloud drifting lazily along to break up the perfection.
The tribulations of the previous day were rendered meaningless.
In my travels I have been to some quite exotic places and seen some splendid sights, but nothing can possibly compare with the stunning tranquillity of that wonderful spot; I can still visualise it now - it was magical - it was truly the most 'special place'.