It was Ali’s idea to tackle Rannoch Moor. Six years earlier, she had unaccountably decided to take the bus from the Bridge of Orchy Hotel to base camp five at the Glencoe Mountain Resort along with the rest of the wives and girlfriends, leaving just Tom, Lee and myself to hike the twelve miles across the empty wilderness. Strangely for someone who could easily outwalk the three of us with her shoelaces tied together, she decided she wasn’t up to the challenge and talked herself out of it. Ever since missing the opportunity to cross one of the most iconic sections of the West Highland Way on foot, she’d regretted it, and made it clear that if we were in the area again, she wanted to make good what she’d missed before. Seduced by two successful crossings of my own in beautiful weather, I readily agreed.
And here we were, with the van berthed at the mountain centre on an electric hookup. The night before, having arrived in a rainstorm, we watched the late arrivals coming in from the moor, bedraggled, exhausted looking specimens who’d somehow survived the ordeal, now seventy miles into their ninety-six and with two days of hiking left before arriving in Fort William on a tide of glory. Really, it should have been a warning. The weather forecast for today wasn’t quite so stark, but it was evident that we could still expect some persistent downpours to hamper our progress.
Even by our standards it had been a lazy morning, and it was only after the midday bus had been seen heading south along the A82 from our side window that we finally agreed we’d ignore the fact that it had been raining all morning and embrace the conditions. Waterproof trousers, waterproof coats, waterproof skin and Gore Tex boots - what more do you need? The next bus was at two, and we were leaving it late, but it was now a case of today or never, and at the allotted time we marched down to the lonely bus stop. If you’ve ever made that walk you’ll know it’s a deceptively long way.
Now aboard, the bus trod gently towards the hotel like a huge marshmallow on wheels, luring us into the sparsely stunning landscape through enormous panoramic windows. To either side, scraps of slate blue lochans shredded the greens and blacks of the boggy peatlands, Loch Ba and Lochan na’h Achlaise, their myriad islets studded with silver birches. And at the edge of the world in every direction lay a protective ring of mountains, lovingly encircling this empty northern realm and its incalculable treasures. It was the sort of bus journey you wish would go on forever, almost impossible to conceive that in a couple of hours the remaining passengers would be carried into the urban jungle of Glasgow. As we crested the road down towards Loch Tulla, a silvery film of soft rain filled spaces between summits, but there was no way to photograph the moment without demanding that the driver should stop the bus right there on the spot. We’d just have to keep the picture in our heads and drag it out from time to time to admire it alone.
“Sorry about the weather,” announced our driver, a well furnished lady of certain years with an apologetic grin and a humorous lilt of resignation to her voice as we stepped from the bus out into the rain at the edge of the road opposite the hotel. It’s almost as if she knew exactly what we were about to do next. “Not to worry,” we replied. “We’ve had worse.” Famous last words. Were we really about to do this? Once you’re up there in the hills that’s it. There’s nowhere to pull out of the pact you’ve made with yourselves and trudge back to the bus stop with hangdog expressions on your faces. We took lunch at the same picnic bench, where nine years earlier, Dave, Tom and I had boiled mess tins of super noodles beside the River Orchy on a sunny nineteen mile day from Tyndrum to the Kingshouse. And then, with the clock approaching three, it was time to join Scotland’s celebrated long distance path and begin the uphill slog, the first couple of miles of which offer a slow and testing ascent onto high ground above Loch Tulla. Ultimately worth it, but try telling that to the long distance hiker who’s just filled up at the Bridge of Orchy Hotel for lunch and could really do with a bit of a lie down for the afternoon. An hour in, we passed the Inveroran Hotel, the last outpost before the moor itself. For the moment, the walking was easy, on smooth flat tarmac, but we knew this would soon change. And as we reached the wilderness, the weather came in again, this time with a vengeance.
The cobbled path across Rannoch Moor, engineered by Thomas Telford to keep the troops mobilised over two hundred years earlier, is hard and unyielding, bruising the soles of your feet no matter how well insulated your boots might be. On those two previous crossings, we’d been able to stop and rest awhile under sunny skies, to drink in the views and marvel at the eerie silence of this huge untamed space where the only sign of a human hand lay in the stony trail beneath our feet. But now, in driving rain and temperatures that felt more like January than July, there was little for it but to keep on walking, mile after mile, hour after hour with only the briefest pauses for emergency rations and slugs of hydration from the water bottles. Nowhere to shelter, nowhere to run to, no alternative other than ever onwards towards the unseen destination. We barely met a soul out there. Even the birds appeared to have deserted the world today. It seemed like forever until we finally spotted Blackrock Cottage and the road again. Buachaille Etive Mor remained hidden behind a stubborn blanket of grainy low cloud.
We arrived back at the mountain resort a little before seven, having completed the ruthless miles in exactly four hours. If I told you we enjoyed the day, you’d probably guess the truth was being stretched quite a bit. But we were glad we’d survived the experience. The only thing that had kept me focused was the thought of cold beer and the Glencoe Burger in the cafe that I’d been coveting all day. I can’t tell you how fantastic dinner tasted that evening. Whether we do this again, I can’t really say, but if we ever decide to, we’ll be choosing the day carefully. An earlier start, a stop at the Inveroran Hotel for an interim pint, lots of idle moments spent sitting on boulders at the edge of the path watching the colours change, and the Jetstream lying somewhere firmly over the north of Iceland - just like it was the first two times I crossed this empty and haunting wilderness.
