June 29, 1991: Kingshouse Hotel to Mamore Lodge
Up the Devil’s Staircase
It was a beautiful, cloudless, sunny day when we awoke on Saturday morning. Campers were folding their tents on the banks of the River Etive, which runs around and behind the Kingshouse Hotel; I went outside and walked around a bit before breakfast, which we had in the crowded dining room. Black pudding and a Scottish fried pastry were becoming regular parts of the early morning fare. Our packed lunches were waiting for us when I paid the bill. We hadn’t made a very early start but I was expecting another easy day and so it was all right to be departing at 9:30.
Gavan was in a sulky mood and I could tell that I had made a mistake telling him that the guidebook describes two ways of reaching Altnafeadh – a road and riverside walk at a lower level and the official, easier moorland track above. He now wanted to abandon the official route and walk along the River Coupall. I did not. He wanted to settle the dispute by playing the rock, paper, scissors game. I suggested that this is not the way people of my advanced years settle debates. After further complaint I proposed that he could take his route and I would take mine and we could meet at Altnafeadh. He took off forthrightly, but when the turnoff was signaled for the higher route (no mention on the ground of the alternative) he headed up the higher track in a funk.
There were quite a few other walkers about, moving in both directions and it was hard to find a secluded spot for a pee. Cars and trucks were racing up the A82 in the direction of Glen Coe. Gradually, Gavan lengthened the distance between himself and his father-substitute. When he paused once I suggested that we should have a rest when we had reached the plantation at Altnafeadh. He took this suggestion as a kind of release and was soon far ahead of me. The track was very easy to follow and the surface, except at stream crossings, was dry. There were a number of stiles to climb, particularly as the trod descended to meet the highway just before the plantation.
By this time there was no sign of Gavan but I located the beginning of the path to Kinlochleven and began to climb up it. Well above the plantation I found my companion in conversation with some other college students from Boston. I paused for a rest here, too, and had some liquid. There were clouds in the sky now but it was still bright. There were many cars and vans parked below us and a large group of climbers was tackling Buchaille Etive Mor. There was no mention, on either side, of this morning’s spat, and after a few minutes we began a steady northerly climb that culminated in the switchbacks of the Devil’s Staircase.
Although we gained altitude fairly rapidly the route was well-graded and not that strenuous. Walkers and bike-pushers were much in evidence as we reached our summit, the highest point on the West Highland Way. We sat down next to a cairn (from which I selected a souvenir rock) and had some more liquid. Views in all directions were fabulous. These now included a stretch of the Blackwater Reservoir to the northeast.
The descent to Kinlochleven
After we had started our descent Gavan conducted a long disquisition (from which I was initially excluded) on the subject of my character, not so much in reference to my stubborn behavior this morning, but more on my unwillingness to demonstrate to him the outward signs of affection (i.e., goodnight hugs) that he expected from someone whom he had made a part of his emotional family. Eventually I was given a turn to explain my deficiencies and I seemed to have survived this inquisition successfully. Gavan accepted my suggestion that we needed a secret handshake as our token of mutual regard, and that night I introduced a version of this gesture.
We had lunch while we concluded this discussion, perched just below the track as it was preparing to plunge into the valley of the River Leven. It was already possible to see the white buildings of Mamore Lodge on a distant hillside.
I found the descent to Kinlochleven, on roads built to service the reservoir, quite wearying – hard on the feet and the knees. It seemed to go on forever. For a while we were paralleled by the reservoir pipes plunging more directly downhill. Workers in pickups roared by – “The one in the back winked at me,” Gavan noted. It drizzled for a few minutes and I put my rain cape on. This meant that I was perspiring freely as we rounded a forested corner and looked down at last into the village of Kinlochleven and its aluminum works. From our angle, however, we could not see Loch Leven at all.
At the outskirts of town there was a noticeboard with a local map (we spotted the Antler Bar right away) and ads for accommodation, including our own destination. We had to use a works road, cross the river, and walk into a quiet suburban estate with b&b signs in the windows. Then there was a little more riverside walking on a very eroded path and this put out at the bridge which carried the B863 around the head of the Loch. We turned away from our ultimate goal and headed south into the village. Outside the supermarket we said hello for the last time to two of the girl walkers we had been seeing for the better part of a week. It was only 3:15.
Around the corner was the Antler Bar. We left our packs on the stoop and went in for a welcome pint. I suppose, strictly speaking, we weren’t supposed to sit down in the lounge with hiking boots on, but no one seemed to mind; indeed customers and bar staff were very friendly and full of questions about our trip. I said the trip had been great and one chap added, “Except for the weather.” In the public bar mixed pool couples were having a friendly game. I gave up alcohol before I had finished my second pint but Gavan continued until our agreed departure time. Unfortunately it was raining a bit so all we did was move our packs out of the rain and sit down again in the pub. By 4:45 it had cleared and we were able to leave. We had one last snack buying expedition at the supermarket and then we headed out of town.
Gavan’s immediate problem was where to take a pee (the pub’s loo and the town’s public conveniences having been rejected). He danced down the sidewalk looking for the first bit of forest while I stopped to mail the postcards I had written the night before. On the north side of town a path begins to climb in a northwesterly direction quite steeply. We took this for a while, but when it crossed a motor road we turned right on the latter, climbing still higher among the rhododendrons in search of Mamore Lodge. This we found at the ten and a half mile mark; it was just going on 5:45. We could still hear the public address announcements for some sort of sports day down in the village below. Balloons were ascending the face of the mountain opposite.
Gavan arrives at Mamore Lodge
Mamore Lodge, an old shooting lodge of the Victorian aristocracy, was wonderfully situated on the side of the hill. Its wood paneling was splendid and all of the rooms were named after famous visitors. We were directed to Lord Belper while Edward The Seventh and Miss Keppel rounded off our end of the hall. Once again we had our own bathroom and we each had a nice shower before descending to the bar.
After some McEwan’s Lager we ordered food from a little girl in a kilt who was helping the proprietress. There were a few other couples about and Gavan wanted to speculate on the erotic potential in each romance. I said that the divan on which we were seated had psoriasis but he didn’t know what that meant. When my cod and batter came I tried my peas in the teeth trick but the build-up had taken so long that Gavan was disappointed in the result. We moved closer to the fire as the evening came to an end and we were joined by an ancient Golden Retriever, Ben, who wanted to be stroked. Mrs. Bush said that he was poorly, one eye having been closed by a wasp bite, and also, “He has psoriasis.” By this time Gavan knew what she was talking about. We went to bed at 11:30 – after they had run out of Famous Grouse.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: