On Sunday, August 28, in late afternoon, I dragged my weary body from a downtown Glasgow airport bus stop several blocks to my booked hotel and collapsed. It had been a long day and night of flight and six hours sitting in Heathrow, with little or no sleep. Soon after arrival, Jim and Dorothy came by the hotel, and we all went out to dinner at the "Missoula Montana Bar & Grill." No, it really happened, surreal as it seemed then, and as it seems now in recollection.
Four weeks later, I returned to Seattle from Milan. That was almost two weeks ago, and some explanation for my delay in summarizing my trip may be called for. First, jet lag. Second, a bad cold that began the night before my flight home and that is still running its course today. And, most dramatically, a dislocated shoulder (see last post) from which I'm still recovering, together with the dramatic warning from my orthopedist that I almost certainly had sustained a partial or even full tear of my rotator cuff, requiring surgery. An MRI was scheduled.
Not all news is bad news. The MRI apparently revealed that yes, I had a partial tear to my rotator cuff, but it had occurred long ago and my body had fully compensated for the damage by making substitute use of other muscles and ligaments. No new tearing had occurred in Italy. No surgery would be required. He recommended physical therapy, to strengthen muscles and increase range of motion.
I know now how a condemned prisoner feels when he receives a pardon from the governor.
So after an all-too-un-Montanan dinner in Glasgow, we proceeded to Milngavie on Monday, as planned, loafed around the pleasant small town, and prepared to begin hiking on Tuesday, August 30.
As mentioned in an earlier post, I hiked the West Highland Way back in 2011. I remembered parts of it well. Some parts I didn't recall at all. Other parts were different from how I remembered them. Above all, hiking with two friends changed the experience -- from a solitary adventure into the unknown to a more social experience -- fewer thoughts of encountering ghosts of Highland rebels, smugglers, and drovers on the high moors, and more joking, more discussions of the pleasures and miseries we encountered on the trail and in each night's B&B or small hotel.
The trail is considered moderately easy as British trails go, but it had its challenges. The second day, as part of a 13 mile hike, we climbed up and over "The Conic," a high peak with a gradual ascent but a precipitous decent into the village of Balmaha, a pleasant, well-touristed town on the south shore of Loch Lomond. (An alternate route by-passes The Conic, for those wishing to avoid the climb.)
The following night was spent at the stately Rowardennan Hotel, midway up the east side of Loch Lomond. Our relaxed evening at the Rowardennan didn't prepare us mentally for the following day's formidable hike to Drover's Inn at the northern tip of the Loch -- formidable not so much for the 13 mile length of the hike, but for the very rough trail, composed mostly of rocks and tree roots.
Once past Drover's Inn, the hiking was relatively easy, even when the days were long. My friends kidded me for being overly concerned about our meals -- both quality and quantity -- but I have to admit that the freshly-caught local trout served for breakfast, along with our eggs, at Tiigh Na Fraoch inn in Tyndrum, and the elegant Avocado Eggs Benedict served at the Inveroran Hotel in Inveroran were surprises, and a nice break from the usual "Traditional Scottish Breakfast."
After Inveroran, we found ourselves crossing the vast expanse of Rannoch Moor. My memory of the moor from 2011 was one of a mysterious realm -- a dry path leading through grassy marshes, surrounded by crags with threatening-sounding Gaelic names. I walked alone, and encountered very few other hikers. I wouldn't say the experience was at all scary, but it had the potential for being scary if I'd twisted an ankle, or had found myself walking alone after dark. But this time, the sun was brightly shining, I had friends to talk with, and the trail was crowded with fellow hikers.
The changes in experience were both gains and losses. For me, perhaps, with my sense of imagination and love of telling stories to myself, more losses than gains.
This was especially true at the end of that day, when we came down off the moor to Kingshouse. Kingshouse is very old, and was famous in the 18th century as a meeting place for smugglers. It was a cozy place to stay overnight, at the head of Glen Coe, despite its obvious age. But in the past eleven years, Kingshouse has changed radically. No longer an isolated white building looming ahead on the trail, it is now surrounded by ancillary buildings. The main building itself has been largely renovated and enlarged with modern additions. No apparent attempt has been made to preserve the atmosphere of the old building, except in the bar.
We did not stay in Kingshouse this time. Because of demand, and probably price, the company that arranged our accommodations provided a cab ride from Kingshouse, down Glen Coe to the coast, and back up the next valley north to the old aluminum producing town of Kinlochleven. The following morning, a cab returned us to Kingshouse, where we hiked back to Kinlochleven. The trail out of Kingshouse leads you up the "Devil's Staircase," so named by British soldiers required to carry supplies on their backs up the switchbacks. Although I was eleven years older, the hike seemed easier this time than last. However, a photo taken of me at the top, attempting to pose in the same manner as I had in 2011, dispelled any illusion that I hadn't aged!
My second night at Kinlochleven was the end of the trail for me. My companions hiked the final fifteen miles to Fort William the following day. I beat them there by taxi, where I caught a train back to Glasgow. A flight cancellation by British Air had forced me to fly from Glasgow to Milan a day earlier than planned. Jim and Dorothy had excellent weather for that last day of the hike. In 2011, it had poured during the entire day's hike -- a hike through what is described as the most scenic leg of the West Highland Way. I saw nothing but the puddles in the trail beneath my feet.
I may have to return to Scotland some day just to hike that final fifteen miles!
Once I'd left Glasgow and arrived in Milan, the second half of my thirty day European vacation began. But that's a story for a later post.
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Photo: Bridge of Orchy, built by the English military in the mid-18th century to assist moving soldiers to the Highlands to put down rebellions.
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