A Ride on the West Highland Line

Perhaps the most interesting thing about that night was a strangely friendly fox. That, for all you writers out there, is called in the trade a “hook.” You dangle a tasty tidbit of information in front of your readers and then go on without mentioning it again for several sentences, while your helpless reader is left thinking “fox? Did he say fox? I should keep reading, so I find out what he’s talking about!” That’s the theory behind the practice, at any rate. Use as you see fit.

So, fox. After leaving the library I headed west from Glasgow, looking for a place to spend the night. I considered the Scottish Youth Hostel Association, which is fairly cheap, but still, I’m trying to conserve funds. So instead I headed farther out, into the outskirts of the city, where I found a lot of woodlands among some new developments and pitched my poncho tent. I have to say, it was an excellent purchase – it works perfectly both as a poncho and an ultralight shelter.

As I set up camp, I heard some noise in the woods and turned to see a small red fox sitting and watching me curiously. It shied away as I took a step toward it, but didn’t run. I finished setting up my shelter and went to bed. When I awoke early the next morning I started to see it only a few feet from where I lay, watching me as if trying to find out what strange sort of trespasser in its territory I was.

I broke camp and walked back into the city. As I walked, a heavy rain began to fall, and I cut my further exploration of Glasgow short in favor of an earlier ticket into the Highlands on the famous West Highland Line. Twenty three pounds got me a ticket to Fort William, where I hoped to get a shot at climbing Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles. The train pulled out of Queen Street Station at about ten after nine in the morning, and went for some way in tracks braced on both sides by moss-covered stone walls. Then it was out through the suburbs of Glasgow and, before too long, along the shores of a misty loch. A light rain was falling, and the landscape was covered in mist, but the train was warm–a very comfortable change from the cold walk through the rain it’d taken to get me to the station.

Gradually thick hardwood forests replaced the human settlements closer to Glasgow, and the mountains became higher and rockier. Soon the rounded slopes had turned into high, rocky cliffs that disappeared into the clouds above, leaving low and misty valleys stretching out on either side of the train, through which one could catch the occasional glimpse of the gray water of another Scottish loch.

An hour and a half into the journey, the sun began to come out, and the highlands rolled out on either side of us with a sort of desolate beauty unlike anything I’ve seen back in the States. Wide open meadows sloping up to rocky dome-top mountains, low marshes, an occasional stone ruin blackened by centuries of exposure to the Scottish weather. To top it off, the Scottish names of the stations we called at along the way have a beauty of their own–Ardlui, Crianlarich, Bridge of Orchy, Rannoch, Corrour. As we neared the Bridge of Orchy, we came across a long hiking path that passed beside the track. This was the West Highland Way, a hundred mile or so walking path through the Highlands. One day, I tell myself, one day.

As we finally near Fort William around one, the scenery becomes (if possible) even more spectacular, with the towering rocky slopes and cliffs of Ben Nevis ascending into the clouds on our left. The storm has more or less left us behind, but is still coursing around the high peak before turning south toward Glasgow. Regardless, I get off the train and start walking around the town, covering several miles of the West Highland Way as it passes along the river and through a nearby town. The air is fresh, the scenery is beautiful: I could live here one day, I think.

By the time the storm clears Ben Nevis, it’s too late to start an ascent (it’s quite a long hike), but the sun is warm and the spring greenery is beautiful. I climb up from a road through an old cemetery now in the center of a sheep field. It’s lamb season, and dozens of them run around the field among the fading gravestones. Beyond the cemetery is a high hill with a bench atop it beside a stone memorial to Clan Donald and the Battle of Inverlochy, fought just below the hill in the early fifteenth century. I sit and read and eat my dinner of bread and cheese here. Then it’s into the woods for another night of camping.

My poncho shelter works beautifully this time. It rains most of the night and yet me and all of my equipment remain completely dry. When I wake up the next morning, it’s still raining, so I decide to call off the Ben Nevis attempt–next time. So I walk back into town, buy a few things, and stop in at the cafe Fired Art, which has wifi, and sit down to a truly amazing breakfast of eggs, bagel, and coffee. A few pounds is a small price to pay for a good breakfast and reliable internet access.

I’ll be heading down to the train station shortly to book a ticket north to Mallaig, and then on to the Isle of Skye. From there, it’s either north to some of the other Scottish Isles and the north Scottish coast, or east on the Kyle of Lochalsh line to Inverness.

Now, time to get that train.