Preparation is never enough. I blame the wet winter, the cold spring. The failure of successive global governments to do anything at all about the impending climate crisis. I weigh my bag before setting off and wish I hadn’t. 16kg is closer to 1/5 of my body weight than the recommended 1/6. My base weight was closer to 11kg. As someone who picked up the trail name of Feedbags, it is not surprise to find I’m carrying too much food. I’m rain soaked before I leave Oxford. I could have got a taxi, or a bus, but I’d only be delaying the inevitable. I think ahead to tonight, pitching the tent in the rain. Damp everything. I miss those backcountry huts. The opportunity to dry out, to stand up. Sure, Te Araroa was hard but somehow wild camping for a week in Scotland feels harder. Of course, I was lucky then, such little rain. Now the forecast is poor. The train is an anxiety ridden hell scape. I leave my backpack in the luggage rack, conscious the pointy end of my poles could easily do damage. My reserved seat is halfway down, facing away. I leave it to fate. The train is overcrowded, the guard apologising at every stop and already I begin to wonder if I will miss my connection at Stafford but the changeover is good. I board my next train, which will carry me to Glasgow. Occasional glances out the window show it isn’t currently raining. This unfamiliar part of the country looking much like the parts I am familiar with. Flat and green. I’ve still a long way to travel before I reach big hill country. Heavy grey skies empty over Lancaster. I don’t expect things to improve from here. Not for the first time I question why I’m going ahead with this. It would have been easier to stay at home, to plant out more peas, to hide from the weather. I think that’s as close as I get to why. Too often I find myself doing the easy thing. Opting out. Hiding away. More recently I’ve felt the growing pressure of a lingering darkness. The demons need their exercise. From Glasgow, I change again for Milngavie. A man steps on the train and speaks through his nose at me, I look at him for a second, processing the sound. “Is this the Milngavie train?” he asked me. He’s now looking at me. “Yes”, and I hope that I get better with the accent as the week goes by.

Scotlands hills rise as desolate, sheep-sick wastes. They are big though, by my recent standards at least. The trail begins in Milngavie, clearly marked by a sign post, an obelisk, a series of benches, and an archway, through which I’m immediately dumped in a car park. There are other hikers here, little groups, speaking possibly German, wearing jeans. I don’t stop to engage. I head on and out towards Mugdock Country Park. I hear the rain arrive in the canopy of trees. I haven’t taken my waterproofs off since this morning and I’m rewarded. The storm washes through. I pass a few people who stop to wrap up, they pass me right back. Through Carbeth there are signs advising of the hutting community, and there are a handful of presumably hand built cabins that look rather inviting in this weather. Though they’re all privately owned and not for the use of trail walkers. Certainly not this early anyway. The stupid grin lands on my face when I draw up on the Campsie Hills, the first of many ranges. I hold on to the smile for a while as I don’t have to climb any yet. Someone has erected a tiny cottage, with a little pink door and matching window frames. I wonder if it’s home perhaps for the nesting and aggressive haggis I’m cautioned about later. I drop down on the easy walking of the abandoned railway and I think of Quentin, describing the Pacific Crest Trail as a pack animal track. You could take a shopping trolley down the first 10km of the West Highland Way. I’ve gone beyond my planned stop for the night which could be a problem. A classic act of wildly underestimating myself. Stick to the plan, throw the plan in the bin. The Glengoyne distillery is just off the trail ahead, but it’s closed when I get there. When I get to the Beech Tree at Dumgoyne, they’ve just closed. The short lived dream of hot chips snatched away. Now I need to find somewhere to camp.

I’m bunched in between some other walkers and I feel like I need to get away to pull off the trail. I scout a couple of spots but they’re not perfect and I keep going. Then I regret not stopping. The last stretch of decent woodland is behind a fence. My final foray up the trail verge ends in the surprise of finding a tent, already pitched but there’s definitely room for me. “Do you mind if I share your spot?” I ask the rustling pod. Fortunately, Ben and his girlfriend don’t mind and we stand in the drizzle. for a dinner of bread, meat and cheese, sharing a few stories before hiker’s midnight arrives. Ben has the confidence to ask me what a haggis is and I struggle not to lie to him. They retire, and I don’t take long to do the same. This is a good spot. The old man hawthorn is dripping in moss, in the first nook of his branches, not hawthorn is growing. Something taken root in the tree’s arms. I’ve a clear view across green fields. Birds twitter in the hedge. Cars continue along the nearby A81.

My first glimpse of Loch Lomond is a silver mirror reflecting a grey sky and remains that way for the rest of the morning. I fall in with group of solo ladies, walking sort of but not quite together. They stop to take photos, a lot. One of them is failing to navigate with Google Maps. Another is failing to navigate with what look like actual written notes. I reflect on my own self doubts about not being up to this and find maybe I ought to give myself a bit more credit. I do have a map and I have looked at it. I keep them moving in the right direction for a while. They’re stopping a lot more than me though, so I leave them at the climb up Conic Hill, where one of me asks if it’s worth it. Up is always better than down. Even if it’s wet. The Highland Boundary Fault cuts through here, which maybe explains the island chain at this end of Loch Lomond. The rain doesn’t let up. There are a lot of people here, I’ve already forgotten it is the weekend. I stop for a chat with a man at the top. We agree the extra push to the summit isn’t worth it. The view won’t get any better. The ladies catch up and commit the same. Instead the descent. There’s been trail building, huge boulders flown in to give the track new life. At first I’m flying like a mountain goat. Then the gradient changes and my knees remind me I should probably take things a little slower. The village of Balmaha is at the foot. The visitor centre want to charge for toilets but the barriers are broken so I walk on in. The Oak Tree Inn doesn’t open until 12:00 so I grab a coffee first and a chocolate orange crunch for later, and then when I do get in the pub they cant serve me a pint until 12:30. Being early does mean I get pick of the tables. Though I may regret the choice to sit out, I am under cover. The bulk of my day is behind me, so I settle in for a while.

On the needless climb over Craigie Fort, a little girl decides she wants to be my friend. She tells me her car is red. I tell her I wanted a red one because they go faster. Her dad assures me their red car doesn’t go very fast. He tells me they’ve come over from Edinburgh, somehow only an hour’s drive away despite being on the other side of the country. They do this often, it being his children’s favourite walk. I get a wave goodbye as our paths diverge. The loch-side trail is anything but, often veering inland through regenerating woodland. Birch, then oak. The downside to nature restoration is you lose a lot of the views, but I’m content in the trees. The trail goes up and over many cliff faces before returning to a shingle beach. Pebbles of granite and quartz breaking down in the steady tumble of waves. I stop again at the Sallochy campground for another break. Tents are already pitched on the bookable sites. Part of me is ready to stop. The benefit of a paid campground is you can stop, whatever the time of day. The midges give me a warm welcome, swarming to my exposed legs. The nets people have been putting on their heads seem a bit much. I put my hood up and pull my bluff over my nose, which does a job. A quick blast of Avon Skin So Soft on my legs seems to adds to the respite. There’s a tap here and I decide to rest up a while before filing up. I reckon I’ve got another hour of walking to go. After the soaking of the morning, I’m blessed with sunshine beyond Sallochy, more hills too. The trail getting a little monotonous now with tired legs approaching the day’s end. I am ready for a big sit down followed immediately by a big lie down. I take a final break at Rowardennan, a last chance to use porcelain facilities. Not much further to go. There are large clearings beyond the no camping zone which makes life easier until I stop. I thought my experience of sandflies in New Zealand would prepare me for the midges but there’s no comparison. Smaller, more numerous. A golden horde of bugs descends and never leaves. The Avon Skin So Soft appears to do nothing this time, and my legs turn black. This is so much worse. After too long a delay I pull on waterproofs, covering up as best I can. There’s an absence of a decent seal at the ankle, and I didn’t pack long socks. The midges make short work of finding my weak spot. I walk in circles cooking and eating dinner, which seems to be the only way to relax. I decide to get in to the tent just once, for bed.

In the morning I find the weather is in my favour for an ascent of Ben Lomond. I pull all my clothes on to offer protection from the midges. I get everything done at quickly as possible; awful instant coffee, oats eaten on the move. I retrace my steps towards Rowadennan, mind flicking across decisions. I’m going up, but which way? The main route is likely to be easier, a more gentle ascent, but that would make the Ptarmigan path a more challenging descent. If I go the other way, I can finish at the tap and toilets. But first, I go to the tap and toilets so that I’m prepared. So I’m back to the tap and toilets to begin, filling and emptying. I take a minute to assess the state of my legs. Red flares on red flares. There’s something hanging out of one. I pull out my tick picker and remove the bastard. I’m beginning to recognise the advice to do the West Highland Way in trousers needs no salt. I’m rewarded for my morning faff by a pair of red squirrels flying through the canopy along the road’s edge as I head to the start of the Ptarmigan track. This is one of those miraculous experiences. Smaller than greys, seemingly more nimble too, I can’t quite believe that I have seen red squirrels in the wild. The initial climb is all grunt work. Up, up, up. As I begin to ease off on a contour I notice wet bootprints on the rock. I am not breaking trail today. A mole scurries through the overgrown trail edge. There’s another push up on to Ptarmigan, from there the ridge is a cruise, paved with boulders as it is. The last climb is intense, choose your own adventure scramble. I pass through a narrow crack, some old god’s throne room, and then I’m hauling myself up. I swap photo duties with a couple at the summit and then sit down for a minute midge free. The sky is clear, still and the peak is quiet, which feels like a rare combination in Scotland.

I reached a flow state coming down Ben Lomond and I wish I was there now. Walking the loch’s edge I flirt with madness. Ruminating on things I can’t really do anything about from the wilds of Scotland, which in itself sounds sort of like an excuse. I stop for a minute or whatever the precise amount of time is for the midges to find me. The tranquility does not hold. The going feels slow, having walked all morning and only travelled a few kilometres. I keep stopping to check the map, which isn’t helpful. All I know is I’ve got to keep on walking. Being in the North though, there is plenty of day left. Eerie moss covered ruins in the pines triggers the start of a mood change. I catch the day’s pack of walkers and start playing leapfrog. I ask a pair of Americans how come their packs are so different in size, and they tell me it’s because they’re not camping. I dream of being able to sit in the comfort of the indoors, away from the bugs. Instead I keep walking.

I pick up a pint of lemonade and a packet of crisps in Inversnaid Hotel as a bus load of nearly deads roll in. I’ve my heart set on a campsite and a hot shower but it means another 2.5 hours or more of walking. Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. At least in the hotel’s walker room I’m able to rest in peace for a bit. The following section makes me grateful for the stop. Until now, the trail has been easy going and it sort of still is, but I’m having to think more. The terrain rocking and rolling, falling and flying, tumbling in turmoil. Everyone I speak to will tell me the same. This is the worst bit. You take your positives where you can, and I get mine in the form of a pair of ospreys circling overheard. Today I have been blessed. Benglas wasn’t the plan but it very quickly became it. Wild camping is great and all, but the soft, cropped grass of a paid campground beneath your tent is something else. I pay my £12.50 for unlimited showers, access to a cooking shelter. The opportunity for a cooked breakfast. I’m a dead man but I still have to get the tent up, eat, and then wash. The wind deceives me. For a moment I think I’m safe. The breeze drops and the swarm is upon me. The thin gap between leggings and sock is where I get most of my bites. They’ve managed to get just above my bum as well. I must be properly hanging out back there. The tent goes up, I eat. There’s a chicken noodle soup if the free bin. This is more like it, this is proper trail support stuff.

I can walk in the morning, nothing hurts but my bites are beginning to itch. Note to self; when hiking in Scotland, do it in trousers. Breakfast doesn’t touch the sides, despite the claim of it being a big one. I sit in the bar feeling a little weary. Today should be easier in theory. No big hills to climb. The forecast remains optimistic. I catch up with trail friends from previous days. “How’s it going? Where did you stay? Where to today?” The right knee isn’t 100% but isn’t in open rebellion either. I hope walking it off will work. I find gatekeeping on a gatepost. A piece of plastic declares “only where you have been on foot have you really been”. In principle, I agree that slow travel is the best way to see a place, but a road and a railway runs through here and you could see the same things without stopping. This is just litter. I pass through open land along the rumble of river. A good sense of who is about, ahead and behind. I pass through a low bridge under the railway, then the road. I decline the hour return down to Crianlarich. Tyndrum isn’t that far, and crucially is on route. A crew of one replants the clearcut pine scar. Green plastic sheaths wrap around oak saplings. Pro-farming propaganda is found in the next farm. A promise of wildflowers in a sheep farm seems a stretch. The adverts for a coffee at Strathfillan Wigwams is also misplaced. It looks permanently closed, but there is water and a toilet. A tiny pack of out of control little dogs come over for a lick of leg and a little scratch. I’m in to Tyndrum with a late lunch of fish and chips, washed down with a can of beer. Medicinal, obviously, to relax the muscles. The town is an obvious walker stop, backpacks piled up outside stores and cafes, those who’ve stopped for a chat at some point along the way having a check in. I buy another gas bottle just in case, though I’m not sure I’ll need it. The pest of the West has prevented regular tea breaks.

Beinn Dorain’s southern face looks sinister. Too symmetrical. If it had eyes, they’d be too close together. Tomorrow I hope to get up the other side. Today I expect I am going to be annoying watching it never get any bigger. Shafts of rain fall across the vast escarpment, plunging the summit into darkness. The view is actually pretty Hollywood. The sort of thing I’d say “oh wow” to. I put sunscreen on, so of course, now it is raining. Waterproofs come on. They can always come off, and they do. I get the ‘get there’ mentality on. The old military road is hard underfoot but easy walking. Let’s get it done. I catch up with Po and Caleb for the last kilometre in and have a distracting chat. Po’s back on unfinished business, his knees couldn’t handle it last time out. He’s got both strapped up today too. Caleb’s here for the ride. Why not? I get down to the Bridge of Orchy Hotel just as the heavens open, I duck in for the usual. A pint of lemonade and a packet of crisps. I’m still there when Po and Caleb come in for dinner and only then do I realise how late it is. I go put my tent up among the midges. I may have paid the blood price, but my tent is also full of dead bugs. I reckon I’ve eaten a few too. My ankles are pink rings of bites. The backs of my calves are neat lines of bumps. I eat on the bridge, in the wind, peace from the wings. I go back to the pub for a peppermint tea but mostly to sit on a ceramic throne. I join another hiker, James, from Basingstoke, and we talk about the predatory P.E. teachers from our secondary school. We don’t remember each other. Back in the tent I inspect my toes, blisters forming on the little ones. Not ideal.

Beinn Dorain’s summit is clear at 3am, the same can’t be said at 7am. I watch it for a while, cloud not moving. Then it breaks a little. I umm and err for a bit. I get caught being talked at by two different men and again find the morning drawing on. I don’t go, and hope this is the right decision. Then remember it must be, because thats what I’ve decided. All the way out of the valley I watch the cloud lift and linger, burn and form. Another reality is I’m not hill fit. A second ascent in three days could turn out for the worst. Regrets? No, but always a little. The mountain looks good though, and I feel a little connected to the land in defeat. I round a corner into a very Scottish view. Loch, cottage, pasture, conifer, low peaks sinking up into the cloud. A tent perches just below the top of the pass. What a spot. Nice. I stop for a garbage coffee at the Inveronan Hotel. The place is busy on arrival. I guess I’m late to start. A small crowd watches a stag tap tap tap at the kitchen window. He must be there the whole time I am, everyone coming through stops in the same place. I chew through the people ahead of me, they’re older but their packs are smaller. I feel good. I’m enjoying this. I fall in with a couple from Somerset, they’ve a good pace. We gave a lengthy natter about everything. The distance travels fast. With fresh gas, a breeze up, and the midges down, a tea break is finally back on the menu. I pause on a bridge to shelter the stove, and two Americans join me. The trail is a stream of people. I catch sight of another deer on a ridgeline. Or maybe its people. I have a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter, and I’ve been neglecting my chocolate. Every gram counts. A German man tells me my legs are looking better. I only remember seeing him for the first time this morning. He thanks me for my sacrifice, gesturing to the fine weather. This I am willing to give for. I am in proper Highlands territory. Old military roads contouring the hillside, stone bridges over streams. Grizzled peaks, and wet bog. I look back to where I started; my final glimpse of Beinn Dorrain is a clear, mocking summit.

I join James at Glencoe Mountain Resort for lunch. I’d been tipped off this morning about a shower opportunity and pass on the news. The shower is super hot and high pressure, almost torture. I clean up, touch up my bites and squirm back in to sweaty clothes. Then I’m back on a picnic bench, watching the light shift across the craggy face of Stob Dearg. A real fist of a mountain, knuckles punching straight up. Chaffinches have outcompeted sparrows here and flock to the recently vacated tables. Bonnie and Ade, my friends from earlier, join me for a bitof very welcome company. I eventually roll into Kings House to find James again. We get the tents up, get the beers in and watch the football. Before the Scotland game kicks off a young girl comes through with her bagpipes. James claims to fall asleep to the sound. I think I’d be more likely to commit atrocities. We’re joined by SoBo-er Soren, who reveals early he’s doing a PhD in Philosophy, which only adds to the entertainment. Recognisable faces come in and give a nod. Even old mate Ben and his girlfriend from night one. I leave the pub knowing full well I’ve had too much to drink. The inside of my tent looks like an everything spice bagel, those tiny black bodies scattered everywhere. I crawl in to my sleeping bag and pray I sleep.

The dance party over the road goes on until 2am. I’m not sure my earplugs are making a difference until I take them out. I have to check the final score, only to imagine what would be happening if Scotland had won. Clouds smoke over the mountains. Rain showers erase the view. Patches of sunlight offer hope. I’m moving early, a bit of discomfort in the knee again but it seems to pass. I take one hundred photos of Stob Dearg from slightly different angles. Then I’m at the foot of the Devil’s Staircase, which is a bit of misnomer. There are no devils or stairs. Just a zigzag path over a saddle. At the top three wee bonnie lasses stop to ask me to take their picture, and then ask for directions which strikes me as concerning. Then, so do the position of their packs, the spare boots swinging off the back. The kit strapped to the outside. We all did this for the first time once. Two of them are wearing shorts though, the first other brave souls I’ve seen. Then a wiry gent comes over the top too, in shorts. Everyone marches onwards. I stop for a brew. A man takes a minute to give a detailed account of why this is called the Devil’s Staircase. People died here! It was someone’s job to collect the bodies in the summer. A tour group comes up next. The guide tells me the weather for tomorrow will be good for an attempt at Ben Nevis, which fills me with hope. His group try to chat to me but I’m keen to get ahead and away from their crowd. The jukebox in my head keeps playing Elbow’s Ground for Divorce, only the egg in a pint version. I’m alone enough to sing along out loud.

I follow the old dam road. As I close in on the next town, the hydro-pipes trailside are leaking, high pressure jets blasting into the sky, which feels extremely unsafe. The rusted piece of metal held in place with a fabric strap doesn’t make the situation any better. Kinlochleven is a quick pit stop and a catch up with the slow forming bubble of trail friends. I get a sandwich, a coffee, and a slab of rocky road. I’m surprised by the size of the town, tucked away in the hills. Middle of nowhere with no business being here. Not anymore anyway. They were pioneers of hydropower here, and the power station drew an aluminium smelter. The only industry now seems to be supporting the West Highland Way. I watch three baggage transfer vans come through and drop packs and suitcases at the doors of various pubs and guest houses. I take stock of where I am and where I’ve got to be. I tell myself it’s cruise control and a steady pace to Glen Nevis where I book myself on to the campsite for the next two nights. The climb out of Kinlochleven is a bastard, but the view is worth it. I’d even go as far as saying I can see the resemblance to the other Kinloch I know. Some crusty old man now tells me the weather for tomorrow will be crap. I’ll wait until tomorrow to find out for sure. I follow sheep and lamb along the winding strip of silver through the penultimate valley. They always take a long time to get off the trail. I enjoy the grind, the valley disappearing behind me, the weather shifting overhead. Full sun switches to rain and back again. James shares a coffee at a break. The caffeine hits me like a train, and I fly like one. I pass through another group of youngsters who are starting to look like they’ve overdone it. When Ben Nevis finally comes around, he looks good. Big. Proper mountain stuff. Summit wrapped in cloud, gently breaking. Today would have been a good day for it. The final descent in to Glen Nevis is a long slow slog on forestry road. When I get there I realise very quickly I’m back in civilisation. The campsite is vast and busy. The facilities are lacking. I’ve lost my trail friends. The man on reception tells me to get my tent up before the rain and I do.

I wake up after a full sleep. I can hear drizzle on the tent. I manage to drag myself up and eat in the rain. This in itself feels like a result. I stare up at the sides of Nevis. The mass disappears into the clouds. Ant sized people already marching along the trail. I’ve got a decision to make. Do I or don’t I? In the end I talk myself in to starting. I don’t have to make the summit, I just have to get back from wherever I get to. I only have half my kit in my backpack. By the time I start climbing the hill path, layers are coming off until I’m marching up in shorts and t-shirt. The granite slabs slip underfoot and I know they’ll be worse on the way down. I pass people heading up, and a few people on the way down. I stop to chat to one guy, finding out if he made it. He did. He looks beat now though. A small lochan lays in the shoulder of the mountain. I’m already halfway. I’m having too much fun to turn back. May as well keep on climbing. There are a number of switchbacks up the South face, I don’t count the corners, though I’m told people do. I just look forward to the next one, to turning around, to be working with the wind. The corners stop and the ascent slows. This must be the plateau. Up ahead I see someone hunched over in the soup, only, it isn’t a person but the first of the cairns. I follow trail rather than the cairns and can see why they warn people against it. A huge ravine appears on my left. Tiny ice fields lay where I assume shade might on a sunny day. Each cairn is barely visible from the last, and I keep them in sight until I hear the cheering and whooping of those who’ve made it. The top is an almost total white out. The observatory ruins emerge. Rain streams and wind blows. A small black and white bird sits on the remaining wall. I tap the trig, poke my nose in the emergency shelter and pull on extra layers for the descent.

I find I can skip down the gravel track easily, I only encounter issues on the boulder fields, where I’m forced to slow down. People are still coming up. “Is it much further to the top?” is a question that gets more difficult to answer the further away I get. A group of men go up barefoot. One of them looks comfortable, confident even. The one at the back looks like he’s ready to go home. They are already over half way up. They tell me they’re doing it for charity. Someone else further down tells me he hopes the charity is Mountain Search and Rescue because they’re gonna need it later. He might not be wrong.
Clouds blast up the mountainside and for a minute the sky clears. Then it’s gone again. Visibility improves as I descend, already I can see more than this morning. I see Ben and his girlfriend at the last junction. They’re heading up, fully loaded. He’s still talking about taking the ridge line down. I hope that they make sensible decisions from the top. I am down, and out. Retiring to my tent where I promptly fall asleep.

The final stretch of the West Highland Way is along a footpath beside the road, and the trail terminates on the edge of a roundabout. At least it used to. Now it extends in to the town centre of Fort William, which makes a lot more sense. There’s none of the fanfare that greets you in Milngavie. An old man sits on bench, rubbing his feet. I go in to the Old Deli, which seems to be the only cafe open before 9 for a big Scottish breakfast. The end of these things is always something of an anticlimax. The joy is in the journey after all. Those highs and highs along the way. The lows start to look good too. It won’t be long before I’m showing off my midge bites as medals of honour. I have time to spare before the bus takes me back to Glasgow. I luck out again with the repeated sightings of an otter along the shore. I wander through what’s left of the old fort, I pick up some fridge magnets for the collection, I grab a smoothie. I try not to think about how long the bus will take. The speed at which the distance is undone. Glencoe from the window, at 30mph, is stunning. Steep walls rise, trails run off in to deep valleys. You could spend a lot of time exploring up here, and I wonder what that might be like. Living out of a van, parking up, disappearing in to the mountains for a few days. I know exactly what that might be like. Loch Lomond sails by on the other side, and not long after I’m in the faded glamour of Glasgow. Back where I started. A week’s travel reversed in four hours.