West Highland Way

It started with a dinner idea and ended with another dinner idea – this time at MacDonald’s though. Ash had walked the West Highland Way (from Glasgow to Fort William) a few times and Paul had climbed several Munros along the way, so they were the movers, with Sarah, Rob and I following eagerly in their wake – five super veterans. Then we were joined by Stuart (Meiklejohn), who speaks the local language and, at a mere 35, is ten years younger than the next one up. But unlike the rest of us, Stuart is an 800 meter specialist…

So we set off on Thursday morning on the train to Glasgow, where in our excitement we downed a couple of bottles of wine and more, and had a history lesson on the MacDonald’s (them again) and the Campbell’s from a lovely old Scottish former head-teacher. We were then driven at hair-raising speed by a mad taxi man to our starting point, Dryman, where we had more to drink and where Ash treated us to his Ted talk on Ethiopia, which included a magnificent bit from when he was in the Parachute Regiment and got placed in the jungle with his comrades, and they caught and ate snakes and a hyena (yes, they ate a hyena).

At 9am we were ready to rumble, but I had an early mishap. Just before our first strides, the sole of one of my fell shoes unhinged, so I had no alternative but to run in ordinary trainers, which meant less grip on the rocky bits ….

And then we were off and on the trail. The only problem was that we were going in the wrong direction on the trail (back to Glasgow, in fact) and after several more detours we’d put in an extra seven-and-a-half miles, meaning that our first day was 35.5 miles. At this point I have to say that, no, I did not contribute to the wonky directions (I just follow). No-one moaned, by the way.

Once we were back on the right path, Ash led the way with the first of his many surges. Each day we would stop about halfway for lunch or snacks and beers, and then we would traipse off again, ranging between shuffling and surging. There were times when it felt like an ears-back 9am Sunday run, and there were other times when it felt like a Zimmer Frame convention.

The terrain after lunch on the first day was relentless, not just the hills and mountains but loose stones and wet rocks to negotiate. There were times when we had no alternative but to walk and scramble. Taking the lead on the first day were Paul, Rob and Sarah who all had spills, with Sarah emerging with a wounded knee, dripping with blood.

Then it was my turn. I put my foot on a wet rock, slid and fell two meters into a crevice, landing on my head, shoulder and ribs. Fortunately I had Ash with me, and he kept a very calm head, stemmed the blood flow, checked that I had no concussion, and we walked the last four miles to our destination, Inveraman. There, Paul, a neurologist, got to work. While Nurse Sarah pinched the head wound closed, Dr Paul taped it up with steri-strips, and, voila! He also didn’t flinch at draining the gunk out of my shoulder wound.

So, next morning we set off again and for the second day the weather held with nothing more than an occasional soft Scottish drizzle to cool us down (and hardly any midges the whole way). Day two, Saturday, was 32 miles and although there were plenty of rough spots, and one long and relentless mountain to cross, it felt easier than the scrambling and falling of day one. Everyone had their turn in going over to the dark side but we each had the grace to go there privately. There was no whingeing or whining – none at all – and we all got on splendidly.

After lunch we were treated to Sarah’s sub-seven minutes-a-mile surge for several miles, with Ash holding on for dear life to keep up, taking us to our King’s House resting sleeping point, a very fine meal and lots to drink.

By day three the injuries had accumulated. Both Paul and Stuart had sharp knee pain, Paul had quad cramps and Sarah had a nasty blister under a toe nail, which required auto-surgery. In fact, the only one of us who never had a tumble was Ash, who reminded me: ‘And I only have one arm!’ (Well, one-and-a-half, Ash). His dodgy knees also help up.

Our final leg was a mere 25 miles and by that time we all felt a bit battered and bruised, but, once again, the weather was kind and the scenery was spectacular. Setting out in the morning was a trial for our calves and quads, but once we got going, it wasn’t too bad. After lunch, the race-starved Sarah had another surge, determined not to be caught by the usually Relentless Rob. She fell and scraped her other knee, but leapt up and cantered off into the horizon.

But, actually, Rob was nowhere near. Instead, he was having the second of his day two falls, which left him with grazed hands and a bruised rib, while Stuart went over on his ankle. The three of us trudged wearily to the end, with Stu eventually forgetting his ankle and his knee to put in a late surge of his own – the 800 meter man finishing the 92 miles in fine style.

And then we all ran the last mile or so together, followed by beer and Big Macs or the equivalent (times two, each), and took the sleeper train home, well pleased with ourselves, and definitely up for something similar next year.

Overall verdict on the West Highland Way: strongly recommended.