Bridge of Orchy – Kingshouse & Glencoe
As much as I loved the company of the Tassies, the point of this hike was to see if I could manage on my own. So I purposefully set out a little early, leaving a pair of my Bridgedale sock liners to aid Jo’s blister. I meticulously packed up my Osprey and trudged up the path while trying to improve my trekking pole technique. The trail winded between windswept hills and into a grassy basin where I had my first encounter with a group of green-clad bikers. For all the times they stopped that day, I believe walking would actually have saved them time.
As I made my way up and out of the basin along a wide, stony path, the clouds cleared enough for me to see not high – but far. Remniscent of the eastern side of Norway’s Hardangervidda, the Scottish Highlands stretched for miles and miles in every direction, grassy slopes disappearing into cloud-capped tops. Plugging in my first music of the trail, I felt like I was breaking an unwritten hiking rule. Music seems to belong in urban settings, hikers are supposed to simply enjoy the sounds of nature. Well, shoot me. I harbour a particular fondness for film music. It’s designed to conjure specific emotions, and I could feel myself soar with a new lightness to notes from Blood Diamond, Legends of the Fall, The Hobbit and Spirit.
Now I passed other hikers like a racehorse coming down the final stretch of track, and soon I was alone in the open wilderness. I threw out my legs with each stride, ignoring my feet because they were no match for “Homeland”, “Over Hill”, “Return of the Lion” and “The Ludlows”.
And suddenly the road and Kingshouse came into view. I’d walked 21 km on my wrecked feet in under four hours! Suddenly I felt invincible. Could this stretch really have been only 1,5 km shorter than my agonising crawl into Rowardennan? Was it the entire bag of chocolate covered honeycomb pieces I’d ate last night that had propelled me forward? I suspect it was the soaring tunes that made all the difference.
However, I was brought firmly down to earth by a sudden sharp pain in my pinky toe, it felt like a hot nail was being pushed into it. I yelped and peeled off my right boot outside Kingshouse. My blister, previously harmless and fluid-filled had now burst open, and the top of my toe was now a fleshy, bleeding mass.
At the bar inside I was told that my bus to the town of Glencoe stopped 15 min back up the road I’d just come from. A kind woman drove me in her fancy red sports car, and I sat on a cold rock for almost two hours – obediently chewing some dry apricots and wondering how the hell I’d get to Glencoe on £2 in cash. By astronomical luck, the bus rolled over at the exact same moment Tom & Jo walked by. Tom promptly stuffed £6 in my hand, and off I went.
My day ended at Ghlasdruim B&B with chocolate purchased from the neighbouring town of Ballachulish. Two extra miles I walked in flipflops, looking out over the sunny bay enclosed by looming mountains. The meaning of the trail began to dawn on me. I was getting close to the finish line. Not once had I seriously thought about quitting, and I realised that I was much lonelier in my everyday life than out on this soggy trail surrounded by strangers.
Feeling the empowerment and independence of doing this on my own gave me a new sense of purpose. There was no opportunity to negotiate the time or the distance of this trek, I just had to suck it up and get on with it.
Cheeky guy at Kingshouse! Photo by Magnolia Ace
As I’ve gotten older, I’d started shying away from challenges, quitting stuff I didn’t master right away. I’d quit piano and show jumping, term papers, activism and friendships. Quit having much of a life. But this I could do. I could walk this trail, carrying my backpack I’d now grown tremendously attached to, blisters de damned. My limits were in fact not my limits at all - I had already gone way beyond them. Faster, further, in rain and pain. Nevertheless, she persisted.