Bit of pain. But I’m a fighter, you know? Tough as nails. No worries. I can’t remember just how many days I’ve spent on Loch Lomond. Granted, it was in a canoe, but apart from that, I know this place. It used to be a happy place, too.
I mean, it’s pretty. Very Lord of the Rings! But then, if Old Man Willow had swallowed me up at this point, I wouldn’t have put up much of a fight. With blisters growing on top of blisters, blood, cheese – what gets left behind under a Compeed plaster – and more blood… life was grand. Really grand.
The rocks were not!
I also need to give a quick shout out to cousin Stu’s tent. Lovely tent. Lovely. Leaks like a sieve, but only on my side of the tent. Curious that. And lovely. Of course, what it meant was that all my dry clothes that I placed on my side of the tent, got absolutely soaked. To be fair, as cousin Stu often said, my clothes did a bang up job soaking up the excess water, which kept our sleeping bags dry.
Wet clothes are heavy.
But to be fair, they were my clothes, and it was only me carrying them.
This photo (above) was taken a couple of nights earlier. Which means those wonderful hiking trousers I’m wearing… yeah. Sodden. All my underpants, too. You didn’t want to know, but sharing is caring, and I was carrying everything. Not sharing. But I discovered that my quilted waterproof salopettes (yes, quilted, hence the sweating) had wonderful side zips that went from ankle to armpit, and, well, you didn’t ask, but I was freeballin’ most of the West Highland Way at this point, zipping up when people passed us (we rarely passed anyone – not with my speed) and then zipping down when I heard those bloody shuttle hikers coming so I could give them a quick blast of what I like to call “cheese ‘n’ sweat”, which is a far more authentic West Highland Way odour than fresh sheets and shampoo!
But, to be fair, as cousin Stu likes to say, we chose to carry our gear.
Fair warning, however, from this point on cousin Stu helped me remember that I used to drink, and he also encouraged me to use the middle finger. Sorry if that offends, but if you’re still reading after the blood, cheese, and sweat, well… just know such gestures are not personal, not aimed at you, dear reader, but are wholly therapeutic!