June 24, 1991: Drymen to Rowardennan
Gavan climbs a stile as views of Loch Lomond, left, and Conic Hill, right, are revealed at last.
A morning mist was clearing when Gavan and I descended for breakfast on the morning of Monday, June 24th. We were the only guests, at least the only inside guests, and it did not take us long to finish our meal and pay up. We began our fourteen-mile trek to Rowardennan with one final pass over the slow moving waters of the River Endrick at 8:45.
There was a long pull up the bypass ahead of us, but it didn’t seem to take too long this morning. The orange and blue of dead Irn-Bru cans dotted the verge as we plodded up in the bright morning sun. Once I stopped to clean my glasses and the right lens, as was its habit, fell out. The same thing happened a second time, without any urging on my part, after we had passed the Gateside road and crossed the A811 to enter a hedged pathway parallel to the road – just past the Drymen school. I was happy to leave the automobiles behind when we reached our turnoff to the north. This was a well-marked spot, as were all such critical junctions on the West Highland Way – which seemed to have excellent waymarking throughout.
A chap, perhaps a camper, was using a needed stile as his campstool. He vacated the site without much enthusiasm. We climbed a wire fence and accompanied some young trees up to a forest road. Here we began a long traverse of the Garadhban Forest, high above Drymen, a well-surfaced dirt track through woodland that had obviously been tamed by man’s hand. I was a bit disappointed, expecting fewer conifers and better views of the Loch in the hazy distance.
There weren’t many walkers about yet but this did not mean we were unaccompanied, for our old enemies, the flies, showed up in their dozens to pester us in the closed-in environment of the forest. I used the map case to shoo them away, but they congregated on my Tiger cap and Gavan’s California cap, making a meal of the sweat on the backs of our necks and robbing the next few miles of their savor. I was hoping to see the much advertised capercaillie in these woods, Britain’s largest game bird, but the only flying creatures seen today had wingspans that could be measured in centimeters.
When I was not using the maps to battle flies I was able to follow our easy progress on the OS map; at last a delightful tongue of the woods thrust north and our route emerged onto open moorland via a gigantic ladder style. I took Gavan’s picture on this structure and stopped to add more tape to a blister that was pulsing beneath its adhesive covering on the inside of my right heel. This troublesome companion received similar treatment throughout the trip but I was usually able to forget about it and keep on truckin’.
Some of the flies gave up on the more breezy fellside, one that lead first to the Kilandan Blandan Burn and then down to the Burn of Mars. The dominant spur of Conic Hill, our next objective, was rising ever steadily above, its trail clearly evident from a great distance, but the task of climbing it began in earnest after we had left the rowan-bedecked crossing of the Burn of Mars and begun to creep forward up the steep hill path. Just as we did so, the first wave of WHW walkers surged over us from below, a dozen walkers and some cyclists pushing bikes, all striding effortlessly it seemed up the steep flank of the hill.
Looking north from Conic Hill
In fact I found the ascent not too difficult (though Gavan found it the most burdensome section of the route). I was excited by the views that might be obtained when we reached the crest of the route (the Way does not actually touch the summit) and turned the corner to face the full Loch Lomond scene in its glory. It was worth the struggle, for this was surely one of the great viewpoints of the route, made even more dramatic by dark clouds sweeping over the sparkling waters below – altogether the woods, farms, and islands formed a charming vista. Everyone had a camera out and we asked two of the girl walkers to take our picture. The summit was crowded with daytrippers, including a tour bus full of Italians; this will explain why Gavan received only a curt silence when he addressed a question to one of their number on the trial. We sat down near them and had a snack.
There followed a very steep descent, rough on knees and toes, as we made our way down among the multitudes, heading in a southeasterly direction toward the lakeside hamlet of Balmaha. The final section of the route brought us back into woods and introduced a few of our resident flies to their cousins from over the hill. We seemed to lose them, however, as we completed the last of the dirt road turnings and crossed the large parking lot at Balmaha. We descended some steps and headed for the local pub at 1:30. We were just past the halfway point.
We drank our pints in the shadows of the pub interior but I found the lunchtime menu too rich for my taste, so after a while we headed back out front, where simpler fare was promised next door, and had burgers at a table in the forecourt of the village shop. Gavan was very thirsty today and in a little over an hour he had consumed a record four pints! I ate an ice cream and bought some post cards while some extroverted Glasgow nine year-olds, stuffing their faces and larking about, were being rounded up by their long-suffering teachers. I lead a somewhat stupefied walking companion back to the trail a little after 2:30.
I had always imagined that the most difficult stretch of the route would come not from long ascents, such as Conic Hill, but from the up and down required to walk along Loch Lomond’s yon bonny banks. This now proved to be a true prophecy. Although very lovely and full of wonderful lakeside vistas, the next six and a half miles took all of our energies and concentration.
We began with an ascent of Craigie Fort, topped by a cairn, as we used surprisingly narrow and muddy paths that were often interrupted by tree roots and crags. We then descended to the Loch and kept close to the level shoreline around Arrochymore Point. At the back of the next bay we had to take to the motor road to pass Milarochy Cottage. A family of cyclists was using the more congenial portions of the Way for their afternoon exercise and we picked them up for the first time in a little path screened from the road by trees. A delightful section followed in deep, often dark woods, as we crossed a stream and traversed Strathcashell Point.
As the afternoon wore on we were gradually passed by all of the other walkers. It was not just that we were naturally slower, although this was probably true, but also because we never seemed to draw breath in our endless colloquy. Gavan was telling the story of his recent cross-country drive across the U.S.A. and I later responded with an account of the eleven-week Grand Tour of Europe that Dorothy and I had completed in 1967. Increasingly our talks turned to abstract philosophical subjects (when they were not enmired in the world of teenage sexuality) and I’m sure that other walkers must have wondered why this ill-matched pair found it necessary to fall into a conspiracy of silence as they were being overtaken.
Loch Lomond, near Anchorage Cottage
We returned to the road for a while, approaching Anchorage Cottage against the flow of traffic whizzing south. The Loch was immediately below us on this stretch of road walking and a few drops actually descended before we returned to the woods at Sallochy. There followed a steep climb up the crags, where we found a large collection of geriatric Glaswegian hiking club members having a rest near the top. Then we returned to the bay at Ross and skipped a few stones on the surface of the Loch. There were a few swimmers about and Gavan, his head cleared now, was tempted to jump in as well.
Two more hills had to be conquered in the fading, wonderful light of early evening. The second of these, deep in larch plantations, was mysterious in its gloom. There followed a lochside scramble before the Way headed east to rejoin the motor road just south of the Rowardennan Hotel. Midges were biting us as Gavan lay down on the grass of the car park for a celebratory photo; it was 7:25.
We were shown to our room and Gavan went to take a shower. He complained of the absence of hot water but I had better luck with a bath. We then repaired to the pub where I had my first rendezvous with scampi and chips. The bar was full of walkers, many of whom waved in congratulation as we finally trudged in. One trio, two quite senior walkers and a twelve-year old we called Cathy Nutty Jr. (after an ASL senior just graduated), spoke to us about the spartan, undecorated atmosphere of the Invernarnan Hotel, our spot for the next night.
We had to get one of the barmen to show us how to get back into the hotel wing of the establishment without our getting soaked, for it was raining outside now and the usual entrances were all locked. All but a handful of the other walkers had preceded us to bed.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: