West Highland Way (Part Two).

On the paper were the words “Daddy love you, Fallon”. What a pleasant surprise, I could have cried – but I’m a man etc, etc…

The first sight of Loch Lomond.

By Drymen I was feeling tired but worst of all my hips were getting sore where the hip belt of the rucksack sat. Two miles further and my legs joined in the protest and began to ache in a big way. The first day is never easy but I’m sure it was made worse because for one reason or another I hadn’t put in the mileage before hand. I was looking forward to the nights pitch, a concessionary pitch provided by the Forestry Commission. It wasn’t love at first sight of my first campsite along the West Highland Way. The site was a small clearing of uneven ground covered in vegetation and rotting tree stumps. It was puzzling as to why they should choose this as a place to pitch tents. During the walk through the forest from Drymen I’d been tempted by several places far better than this. But don’t think for one moment I’m complaining – I’m not. Apart from the fact that beggars can’t be choosers I’ve heard it said that silence is golden. If this is so, then that night I was a millionaire. Everything was natural except for the forest and my belongings.

Saturday nights camp. 16 miles.

I quickly – well, as quickly as my now feeble body would allow – got to work on the usual camp chores. To relaxed beforehand would have been fatal. As this was a wild pitch with no water on tap, one of those chores was to find a stream. This I did and thankfully not to far from camp. It was only slow running though, hardly more than a trickle. So to be on the safe side I sucked it up in to my water bottle through a water filter. A laborious task at the best of times but just about the last straw when performed crouching in the bottom of a ditch at the end of a long days walk. That night I slept the sleep of the dead. Had I known what tomorrow held in store I think I might have slept a little less easily…