Rowardennan - Inverarnan

As you can probably imagine, there was little morning glory as I stuffed my belongings into a wet clump in my pack whilst at the mercy of the midges. I’d slept fitfully all night, and could hardly drag myself outside into the rain to trudge onwards on an empty stomach. Last night I’d spent over 20 minutes popping and mending my blisters. The little devils had settled in all kinds of exotic locations now, no doubt to match both sets of boots.

From the minute I started walking, my feet were absolute agony. I grumpily munched on an energy bar that even smelled like diabetes as I sped away from Camp Fail and into the damp pine forest. The trail’s initial spurt of I’m-so-amazing-can-you-believe-this spunk was gradually replaced by an endless track of random memories running through my head, accompanied by tones from The Phantom of the Opera. That’s right: I marched along, head down, sending ugly thoughts to McKinley (all I ask is freedom, a world with no more night…), remembering my evil 2nd grade teacher in South Africa who liked to humiliate me in front of the whole class (Christine you’re talking in riddles…), hmm I wonder what it’s like to not have feet… (the PHAAAANTOM OF THE OPERA IS HERE!).

As it started to drizzle again, I desperately thought of the Te Araroa trail, and how I was determined to make this work. If only I could get to Inversnaid, prop my feet up and have my lunch before the midges could eat me for theirs…

Good things come to those who wait. I’ll be eternally sorry for letting my phone die, because the area around Inversnaid (think hotel-ish white building in the middle of nowhere) was essentially Rivendell. Forked rivers and paths spread like a cobweb amidst impossibly twisted oaks and alders, the ground covered in a thick layer of leaves. You’d almost expect Elrond to drift by.

Bench. Pack off, boots off, feet up, smile on, shoulders down, sun out. Right on cue for the cup-a-soup! Even the hard days have their comparatively glorious moments.

Of the section from Inversnaid to the northernmost end of Loch Lomond I can say only this: all the talk of having companies drive your backpack to camp suddenly began making an awful lot of sense. Think 5 km of scrambling over rocks and roots, squeezing between boulders and pushing through oceans of ferns significantly taller than I am. Ticks of the Trossarchs, yer favourite meal served to go! However, just as I seriously began thinking that this whole ordeal took a lot more effort than it was worth, the trail veered away from Loch Lomond and over a hill.

I believe the word “picturesque” was invengted in this spot

The sun burst through the clouds to reveal a splendid vista of Doune Bathy. To the left lay the village of Ardlui, and ahead lay evergreen mountains – real mountains – crowning grassy valleys speckled with wild flowers. Now, such a sight could turn any sour mind around! The cherry on top: a sign saying I had only two miles to go to Inverarnan, where there would be FOOD and BED. I let out a yelp and sped onwards on my minced-meat feet, triumphantly shouting “Fuck you, ladder!” as I hopped over the ladder designed to help hikers climb the low stone wall by the sign.

Now, I don’t know how long a Scottish highlander mile is, but it sure is real long. So long in fact, that I was almost crawling into Drover’s Inn after what felt like another 10 km. Screw the budget, my tent was useless, and my feet deserved the best bed on offer. After a heavenly shower I crawled into bed with Jude the Obscure (again: who the heck carries Thomas Hardy on a 150+ km hike?) and nursed my blisters.