I’d arranged to meet Alex at Euston, a 1960s modernist masterpiece and one of London’s largest terminus railway stations. Standing on the smooth, wide expanse of marble concourse, we wait for the 21.15 overnight Caledonian Sleeper service to show on the departures board. The main rush of post-work commuters from earlier in the evening has subsided and the crowds are thinning.
Accompanied by the rumbling and rattling of a phalanx of wheeled trolleys, passengers sweat along the platform and board the train. The old ‘slam doors’ and extremely narrow corridors of the sleeper carriages means that it’s a while before everyone has found their way to their cabins. I squeeze my way into my berth 03L, in coach F. I feel glad that I’ve been lucky enough to get the lower bunk as this means I’ve just got that little bit more head room than Alex above.
After nearly half an hour standing at the platform, the train finally gets underway, clattering over the intricate lattice of rails and points outside the station. We quickly gather pace and the lights of north London blur against the night sky. Alex and I open a can of lager and toast a good trip. The cabin walls are pretty thin and we can hear the muffled conversations of our neighbours on both sides.
Around half an hour in we decide to walk down to the restaurant carriage where we can spread out a bit and get something to eat. We pass through a rather forlorn looking seating carriage, draughty and illuminated in a sickly shade of yellow by the fluorescent ceiling lights. I buy a generic ‘curry’, which comes served with two naan breads and rice. It’s cooked in a microwave but it’s hot, filling and surprisingly good value for a meal bought on a train.
Those who are struggling to sleep might notice another sleeper train through their cabin window while the train waits in the depths of the night to depart from Edinburgh Waverley. The sleeper splits here into Aberdeen, Inverness and Fort William portions. The random, and very noisy, clanking and and banging from carriages being shunted around ensure that quite a few passengers are awake. Despite this, Alex is still somehow snoring in the bunk above me.
Rain streaks down the windows as our Fort William portion of the train leaves the outskirts of Glasgow and enters the first hills of the Highlands. It’s very stuffy inside our little cabin. With no opening windows we’re completely reliant on the air conditioning, which is proving inadequate.
Dawn breaks to reveal the undulating terrain north of Loch Lomond. I look at my watch, get out of my bunk, stretch and shuffle down the corridor to peer out of one of the carriage door windows. Too much interior light is reflecting off the glass so I pull it down to make out more of the scenery. The resulting blast of fresh air is a shock after being wrapped up in the hot berth overnight.
Deer can be glimpsed by the side of the track, before they dart for cover in the dense conifer trees. Earlier the waters of Loch Lomond and surrounding hills above the lake’s eastern shore were just about visible.
The train climbs up to, and then crosses, the wide wind-swept expanse of Rannoch Moor. At this higher altitude the pockets of lying snow are getting more frequent and sizeable. I’m standing shivering in the cold February morning air. It’s tempting to close the window and go back to the cabin, but the views are too good to miss.
The remote Loch Ossian slides across the horizon on the approach to Corrour summit, 1,339 ft above sea level. The blue grey clouds are looking heavy with snow. Most of our fellow passengers have their faces pressed up against the windows.
After arriving in Fort William at about 10am, we grab a hot cup of tea and a greasy breakfast in a cafe near the station. At a local supermarket we stock up on supplies, buying lots of sugary, high-energy foods while trying our hardest not to weigh our backpacks down too much. That task completed, we at last start our West Highland Way walk. A horse stands munching grass where the path leaves the road from town.
Turning off the road, it’s not long before we reach our first steep climb as the path winds upwards. At this point the 15kg weight of my backpack, and the vintage 70s tripod I’m carrying for my camera, make their presence felt on my shoulders. I take off my waterproof jacket to try to cool down but the incline relaxes soon enough.
A long stretch of even, gravelled track makes for much easier going. Small icy streams pass underneath the track at regular intervals, with the sounds of burbling water joining bird calls wafting through the trees of the Nevis Forest. The other side of the valley can be glimpsed where there are gaps in the trees.
Just as the weather forecasts had predicted back in London, the first snow flakes of the journey begin to fall. Waterproof jackets and trousers are unfolded from our bags and Alex’s hood is pressed into service. We worry about the impact the worsening weather might have on the path further up the valley if the snow sets in.
There was no need to worry after all as the snow shower turns out to be a brief one. Very little settles and the clouds begin to move off on the wind. The slopes of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest peak at 4,411 ft above sea level, are unveiled, while down at our level the wind blows through the swathes of dry grasses. The sun begins to break out of the clouds, lighting the landscape sporadically.
We make a short stop for some lunch by a stream in the trees. Heavy backpacks are put down by the side of the path and we find some rocks to sit on close by the rushing water. I dip my hands in to see how cold it is and as anticipated it’s absolutely freezing. After lunch we press on. More sunshine threatens to break through as Alex ascends a small rise for a good view of the silvery Lochan Lùnn Dà Bhrà.
As we approach the eastward turn into Lairigmòr, the steep southern wall of the valley looms into view. A striking deep blue sky is visible through a hole in the clouds. Once we enter the valley proper we are suddenly exposed to a stiff easterly breeze that we’d previously been sheltered from by the bulk of the Mamores peaks. There is a strong wind-chill factor and I pull my micro-fleece neck warmer up higher until it almost completely covers my nose. It makes breathing a bit difficult, but the extra bit of warmth is welcome.
By now our feet are starting to get tired, shoulders are aching and energy levels are running low. We consult our map and discuss whether or not we feel up to continuing onwards so that we can finish today’s walking just west of Kinlochleven village. After some consideration we both agree to call it a day here in Lairigmòr.
Fresh snow clouds are visible on the horizon. It seems that a second shower may soon be upon us so I decide to get our tent pitched early. There are some battered remains of an old cottage and a sheep pen here which provide good shelter from the wind. I hope that the stones and bits of rusted corrugated iron fencing will stop the tent from flapping around so much that we can’t sleep. I put my woollen hat on to keep warm and check the tent’s guy lines are taught.
The light and the temperature are dropping as the gloaming creeps in. The standing water on the path reflects the pale blue light of the sky, picking out fragments of the route along which we’ve walked earlier in the day.
The second snow shower arrives as darkness falls. We cook packets of noodles and brew a cup of tea on a tiny gas stove, which takes especially long with the low temperatures and the wind doing its best to whip away what heat there is from the flame. The noodles are spicy and I add some chopped cherry tomatoes for some more flavour.
After a hurried evening meal we squeeze inside the tent and drink our tea, followed by some whiskey. Books are read by torchlight in our sleeping bags. I make a few notes about the journey from London so far. After we switch off the lights I find myself thinking back over the ground we’ve covered earlier. I’m warm and comfortable. A good sleeping mat makes a big difference to the quality of a ‘wild camp’ in a location like this.
In the morning we wake a bit later than originally planned, and pack the tent away quickly before any rain arrives as it is currently dry. Limbs are stiff, feet are sore. I usually find it difficult to sleep the first night in a tent, and despite having a great air-filled sleeping mat, last night was no different. Breakfast is pretty straightforward. Just a couple of handfuls of nuts, dried bananas and raisins washed down with some water from the bottle in my bag.
It’s time to get back on the trail and begin the descent to the village of Kinlochleven where we can get some more food from the local shop, and an early lunchtime pint in the pub. This section of the West Highland Way is a wide gravel track and easy to walk.
Looking back up the valley towards last night’s camp. With the weight of our bags, the steep zig zags of the last mile of the path before it joins the B863 road put a lot of stress on ankles. Although the village is tantalisingly close, this means that the descent takes much longer than you would imagine.
After our stop in the village to stock up, we have lunch and generally recharge. Then we tackle the steep, sweaty climb up alongside the massive pipes which feed the village’s hydroelectric power station. Built in the early 1900s it was the first large scale hydroelectric scheme in Britain. The heavy, sticky malt loaf we ate just earlier in Kinlochleven gives us our own energy to power up the slope.
Just a little further along the trail, Blackwater Reservoir, which feeds the hydroelectric plant, stretches off eastwards into the distance. A large dam was built at the head of the reservoir, which, at over 914m in length, is the longest in Scotland.
Around mid-afternoon, and following a long steady climb, we approach the summit of Devil’s Staircase from the north west. At approximately 1,600 ft, Devil’s Staircase is the highest point of the West Highland Way. Up here the wind is getting fierce, and bitingly cold. During a brief stop while I film the mountains of the Mamores range to the north, my fingers almost become too stiff to operate my camera. I have to keep a secure grip on the tripod to prevent it from blowing over.
To our east are the north facing slopes of Stob Mhic. The patches of snow are large and deep enough here to make finding the path difficult. The general direction is very easy to follow though, so we are in no danger of losing our way.
Looking south from Devil’s Staircase we get our first sight of the Buachaille Etive Mòr group of peaks. The upper slopes are shrouded in low cloud. By this point we’re both getting rapidly frozen by the wind so we make our descent down to the floor of Glen Coe. Dangerous, icy conditions on the path means that we have to place our feet carefully to avoid slipping.
The River Coupall meanders along Lairig Gartain. Lower down this river are the Coupall falls, where it seems that every photographer in Scotland has taken their own version of the iconic view of Glen Coe.
The dark inky-black rocks, cloud cover and imposing scale of the peaks create a foreboding atmosphere. It’s late afternoon and with the concentration needed for picking our way down the valley side we are tiring. Eventually we make it to the A82 road which runs through the valley.
Looking back down Glen Coe, a classic glacial valley sculpted during the last Ice Age over 10,000 years ago. The path hugs the north side of the road.
Just to our east we can see the peaks of Buachaille Etive Beag, including from front to back: Stob nan Cabar, Stob Coire Raineach, and Stob Dubh.
Just a bit further along the valley we get a great view of the pyramidal Stob Deag. At 3,350 ft it is the highest of the Buachaille Etive Mòr peaks. Translating as ‘Red Point’, Stob Deag is volcanic in origin. It has a core of andesite lava and a rhyolite ash flow top layer. It is one of Scotland’s most popular peaks for rock-climbing.
The light is dropping. We’re now both completely exhausted. Our morning start back in Lairigmòr feels like a long time ago. Our reward is to be able to pitch our tent on a flat area of grass near the lonely Kingshouse Hotel, with a spectacular sweeping view of Glen Coe.
Later in the evening we leave the tent for a meal and some well-earned pints in the hotel bar. The hotel has seen better days. The bar food is decidedly average and they have some bland background music playing constantly which seems incongruous with the amazing location. The chance to unwind is very welcome though and the other patrons, a mix of hardcore climbers and more casual walkers and tourists, appear to be of the same opinion.
Feeling better, we stumble back in the dark and get into the sleeping bags after a final whiskey night-cap. The winds overnight were very light, but the constant burbling and rushing of the river meant that even though we were so tired it took a while to finally get to sleep.
In the morning we wake to some light drizzle and head out over the northeast corner of Rannoch Moor. Some wild red deer loiter near the turn-off for the hotel. Stop Deag, which had dominated our view the previous afternoon, eventually slips away. I watch the tiny figures of skiers and snowboarders making their way down the distant runs of the Glencoe Mountain Resort, southwest of the trail.
The flat top of the wild and desolate Rannoch Moor. Like Glen Coe, this area also owes its appearance to the last ice age, in this case being formed under the pressure of a great expanse of ice sheet. The moor is home to the ‘Rannoch-Rush’, a flowering herbaceous plant which grows in cool, wet, and boggy conditions in the Northern Hemisphere. It’s a very British ‘wilderness’, with a phone box, and is traversed by a railway line and an A road.
Snow covers the path where the sun’s rays are blocked by a rise. It’s not deep enough to really slow us down but it does make the surface very soft underfoot which soaks up much more energy. The muffled crunching sound as we walk along forms a soundtrack to this part of the route. In places, the snow in the ditches on either side of the path is above knee height.
A northeasterly view from the trail across to Dubh Lochan shows the bare appearance of the moor. Walkers here can expect extensive peaty bogs, lochans, small rivers and low rocky outcrops. Especially in winter, keeping feet dry in walking boots is just about impossible. Both of our boots are soaked through. In the evenings inside the tent, the sweaty, damp wool of our socks smells awful.
Walking through Black Mount on the south western corner of Rannoch Moor, the drizzle stops and it’s not long before the sun starts to break through. Up ahead we can see Stob a’ Choire Odhair on the right, and further on, some of the slopes near Bridge of Orchy, the end point for our walk. I capture some film footage of this scenery, made even more dramatic by the contrast between the beams of golden sunshine and dark clouds.
Filming complete, and after some Snickers bars for energy, we ascend a last rise before dropping down to Loch Tulla where we spend our last night in the tent.
The gravel of this section of the track makes for a really good walking surface. However, this all changes on the descent to Loch Tulla where the trail morphs into the larger cobbles of the old 18th century Military Road. This, and other roads in the area from the same period, were built by the British Government following Scottish uprisings during the Jacobite rebellion of 1715. The road is an important part of Scottish history and is a considerable triumph of engineering, but is extremely uncomfortable for walkers like ourselves with heavy loads and tired ankles.
Standing on the Victoria Bridge over the river Abhainn Shira which flows into the loch, we can look back into the mountains.
The last of our three nights in the tent is spent by the river. I pitch the tent in a sheltered spot near some Scots pine trees. The ground is stony and it’s difficult to drive my tent pegs fully home so instead I tie some of the guy lines around the tree trunks. We finish off most of our food for our evening meal and enjoy the calm of this more relaxing, low-level location. This time we are much too tired to be kept awake by river flow and we both have the best night’s sleep of the trip.
The next day, knowing that Bridge of Orchy, and the end of our walk, is just over the next hill, we relax and take it easy. After a slow half-day walk we have some drinks at the Bridge of Orchy hotel and pick up the sleeper train back down to London later that evening. When the train arrives it’s dark and we are the only passengers on the platform. Swinging our backpacks up into the carriage, it seems odd to think that when we step-off in the morning we’ll be back in the heart of London.
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