Day 5 – Tyndrum to Bridge of Orchy
7:12 miles (6.8 miles officially)
The next day was a mere seven-ish miles, so we treated ourselves to a lazy start. Because the Tyndrum Lodges is essentially a campsite, our breakfasts were in paper bags (croissants, yogurts, cheese and crackers) which made it easier to keep them for lunches, which Julie and I did, as she had been my roomie for the night. There is a shop in Tyndrum that does breakfasts and posh coffees and Julie (a bit like Val and her ice creams) was craving a cappuccino. Brian and Simon joined us for breakfast there, even though they’d already demolished their paper bag breakfasts. The rest of the gang assembled too, in dribs and drabs and we eventually got going at 10:30 ish.
Val took the group photo on the bridge. Initially Paul, who is quite tall, was closest to her shot, and Brian, who is medium sized was at the far end. Brian is in no way a little person, but apparently he very much resembled one just before Val asked them to swap places.
The terrain on both this day and the next felt to me like an in-between place. The great Loch was well behind us, the peaks of mountains were visible but far away, and we were mainly travelling through moorland. Heather, the plant in this case, and not our travelling companion, abounded, though was not yet in bloom, and there was that brown-green wash on the landscape, that seemed to go on for miles. It wasn’t flat, in the way the moors in Yorkshire had been on our Coast to Coast Walk. There were rises and falls, clumps of pines and the occasional river and woodland respite in these two days’ walks. But overall, for me, it was an expanse that existed with the sole purpose of being crossed.
Our paths were again old military roads, or old drovers’ roads. The ground to our left and our right was often boggy, so you wonder if any cattle was lost in the herding. The famous Rob Roy had the occupation of drover at points in his life. It was a common thing in his time, according to Wikipedia, for clan chiefs to look after the cattle of Lowland gentry for protection money. I can well believe how this limbo land separated the Highlanders from the Lowlanders and created quite separate senses of identity and culture.
The railway had also now joined us for a while, having been on the west side of Loch Lomond with the cars. As we’d walked along the east side, periodically we’d hear the train and the very occasional bustle of traffic as the loch became narrower. Now, in true Railway Children style, on one of our lunch breaks we waved to the one train that went by, and wonderfully, many of them waved to us. I suspect that they were returning back from Fort William, having done their own West Highland Way.
The Bridge of Orchy Railway station came into view first – the station house is apparently a hostel now – and then our hotel. We had almost a whole afternoon to do something other than walking. I made a tiny dent into these blogs, and then walked with tonight’s roomie, Val, to the actual bridge that was the Bridge of Orchy. We found Brian sitting to one side sketching its stone brickwork in pencil. I thought it looked lovely, but Brian wasn’t yet satisfied with it. Over the bridge we could see where our path continued the next day but that was for the next day.
We had a great meal here, and I rate this hotel as my favourite as the food was good, the rooms were comfortable, and the staff seemed to give that bit extra.
Day 6 – Bridge of Orchy to King’s House
13 miles (12.1 miles officially)
Did I tell you I had got my legs out?
Having only got ‘walking’ trousers and not official ‘walking’ shorts, I remembered that I’d packed my baggy running shorts, and by day three (or was it day four), I had thrown midge and tick caution to the wind and embraced the knobbly knee brigade. Only Simon had begun in shorts, but now Julie had also released the legs and was taking that wonderful sun in, at least as far as the factor fifty.
We all felt refreshed after yesterday’s short shift. Again, we were in the moors quite a bit, but there was some woodland and many stone bridges en route. There was even a man in a kilt walking the other way. I did a double take, when I saw him go by, and then felt a boldness come over me.
‘Excuse me, please!’
‘Yes?’ He asked a gentle Scottish brogue.
‘Would you mind if I take your photo?’
‘Aye sure, nay bother.’
I mean, he must have been asked a million times on the trail, but he was the only kilted fellow I’d seen north of Glasgow, and I’d only seen them then because a wedding was occurring near us.
Along the way, we started to see a few orange flags dotted about near the path, and up into the muddy moors, following a loose trail. Eventually we learnt that there were going to be motorcycle trials happening along at some point. We wondered how cyclists and hikers would manage the space. Would we be leaping out of the way, into the boggy heather all of a sudden? On this day, at least, we only saw two who looked like they were setting up the route.
Because today was VE Day, and because Simon would have been singing with his choir if he hadn’t been with us, he decided to give us all a rendition of one of the songs they were singing. He asked us to join in the chorus – which is why I didn’t record him. Simon has a good voice, me, not so much. The song was in the play War Horse, and the chorus goes as follows:
Only remembered, only remembered,
Only remembered by what we have done;
Thus would we pass from the earth and its toiling,
Only remembered by what we have done.
On another break we saw a strange cairn, about eighty foot up on the hillside near the path. Julie decided to walk up to have a look at it. I pondered a couple of minutes as to whether to follow her and squander my precious sitting time, or to stay with the others. But curiosity soon got the better of me.
It was soft but not squelchy underfoot, and I walk/jogged up to reach her. Knowing that if I were with any of my fellrunning friends, I would look completely rubbish, I gave silent thanks that it was only my walking buddies watching.
The cairn like monument was in memory of a Peter Fleming. The James Bond creator’s older brother, who had died nearby in a shooting accident. It was quite touching that we saw it then, because we were getting closer to the dramatic entrance to Glen Coe, where the film Skyfall was set. It was also the site of the Glencoe Massacre, where members of the Clan MacDonald were killed for not swearing allegiance to the English King and Queen.
The majestic sweep of the U-shaped glen almost demands that drama unfolds in its midst. From far away it looks like a giant’s skateboard ramp, and up close its immensity seemed to herald the arrival of the mountains of the Highlands, after our moorland crossing.
Nearby was Kings House Hotel which was our abode for the night. As Simon called it, an Inn with a humungous extension. The original eighteenth century building still stands, but subsequent add-ons have been demolished to make way for a very plush new building that is over five times the original size of the Inn.
It was the poshest hotel on our trip by far, and was swanky enough to have a lift so that I didn’t have to hoick my suitcase upstairs again. It was probably the reason why the price we each paid to Mac Adventures was quite high, but I enjoyed the luxury for one night, especially the bath.
theleadlesspencil 