In November 2023 I walked the West Highland Way. Self-sufficient and alone I try to complete the route in 5 days – 154 km with only 8 hours of sunlight each day. The journey starts with stunning weather, but on the second night the weather turns, and from that moment on I fight a constant battle with cold, rain & fatigue.

Day 3

Goal: Bridge of Orchy
Distance: 34,7 km
8 hours in daylight, 4 hours in moonlight

On the third day things start getting really hard. I wake up in a drizzle that lasts the whole day. The landscape I pass through is wet and grey and wrapped in cloud. It's not the kind of mist that adds a moody tinge to the landscape, it's simply miserable.

At 8 a.m. sharp I leave Doune Byre bothy, together with the sunrise. Not that I see much of it. A herd of deer gallops away, and fades into the washed-out grassland.

My bothy companion is taking the waterbus that is apparently sailing from tiny Ardleish pier to the opposite bank of Loch Lomond later this morning. The pier looks abandoned and I wonder if that waterbus really exists.

On previous solo trips being alone would oft drive me mad, my thoughts going in spirals. But on this trip I am so immersed in the walking that sometimes I don’t have any thoughts for hours, other than which turn to take or when to take a break. I clutch my shoulder straps and find solace in my persistance.

Near Crianlarich a heavily packed lad passes by me. There he is, my companion on this trail. I am jealous of his hiking poles and his long legs. We exchange a brief nod before he disappears out of sight, moving at a brisk pace. At the junction he turns right, off the WHW and into the village. Maybe he’s eager to find the dryness of a pub. I on the other hand sit down on a stone wall for lunch, accepting my defeat against the rain. Then I continue my way through the woods. I don't see any Highland peaks. Crianlarich is a half hour detour, so I'll be ahead of the hiker. But at his pace he'll catch up with me in no time.

He doesn't though. The sun's going down as I enter Tyndrum. I have almost 24 km behind me in the past 8 hours and I am knackered. The public toilet in the village comes as a blessing. I let the monster on my back slide off my shoulders. My cubicle feels like the pinicle of comfort. For the first time in two days I sit down on a toilet seat and see myself in the mirror. I am soaked and dirty, a purple tangle of hair around my scalp.

How to go on from here? I am through two-third of the route to Bridge of Orchy. Can I walk another distance like this? Another slog through the dark, just like yesterday. Is that wisdom? I can also make camp a little outside of Tyndrum, and walk back to the village for food. But once I'm in my tent, I know I'll not want to leave it.
Bridge of Orchy has a wee grass field on the riverbank, designated for campers. If I camp there I can crawl from the hotel straight into my sleeping bag. I long for warm pub food, and people around me..

The route to Bridge of Orchy past the distinctive cone of Beinn Dòrain is one of the most beautiful stages of the WHW. And I walk it in the dark. I know it’s a shame, but the pull of the pub is too strong.

First I walk past a busy A82. Headlight after headlight shines in my eyes, illuminating the raindrops in the air. Many a time I’ve driven this road and watched the hikers on the trail. Who’d have thought I’d walk here myself in these conditions. Then into the quiet of a forest. Here, the WHW follows the Old Military Road. I’m alone between the shadows of the hills, although there are lights of campers far off in the forest.

With all my might I focus on the rhythm of my poles. Ticktick ticktick ticktick on the gravel. Like that, I walk another 10,7 km, all in one go. It takes forever and ever before at last the soft red glow of Bridge of Orchy’s train station appears in front of me. Outside the hotel, a group of people is smoking a cigarette in evening wear. I cross the bridge to the other side of the river and pitch my tent in the muddy field.

I’ve walked all the way from Loch Lomond, 35 km through the rain, all for a warm meal at the pub. But I won’t get that meal, the hostess informs me when I step inside Bridge of Orchy Hotel. It’s past 20:00 and the kitchen is closed.

I’m more disappointed than I’d like to admit. It might sound crazy – these past days, no darkness or rain could quell my spirit. But now I’ve reached breaking point.

It’s Saturday night and there’s a céilidh going on in Bridge of Orchy. Dozens of guests are drinking at the bar and dancing in the parlour. The contrast between my drenched coat and the Scots dressed up in their kilts and gowns couldn’t have been greater. I hide in a corner of the pub behind a hot chocolate. Right now, I would like nothing more than to dance and never go outside again.

Instead, moments later I’m crouched in my tent, heating up a bag of dry food, while rainwater gushes in between the tent flaps.

For days, I’ve put on a brave face, but now the solace I sought remains absent, the trials I’ve faced hit me hard. I pushed too far. My body is beaten.

I need to rest. Even if it's at the cost of my next hiking day. That’s hard to accept now I’ve come this far. But I don’t know how else to go on from here.

Day 4

Goal: Glen Coe
Distance: 24,2 km
5,5 hours in daylight, 2,5 hours in moonlight

Sleeping in works wonders. Last night I hadn’t thought it possible, but I wake up, and I want to, I want to go on. My body is resilient.

Because of yesterday’s céilidh Bridge of Orchy Hotel also doesn’t serve me breakfast, so once again I eat a bowl of oatmeal with powdered milk in my tent. The gross weather just doesn’t end. At least I didn't miss out by passing Beinn Dòrain last night, there's just as little to see of the hill this morning.

I take it slow today. I don't want to push too far again. Kingshouse Hotel, 19 km away, seems like a good goal. I can take all day if needed. This hotel’s kitchen is open till late, so I've read on its website. It really cannot go wrong this time. But I don't want to get my hopes up like yesterday. Let's first get through the brute plains of Rannoch Moor.

That will be quite the challenge. The 100 km I have behind me, have left their mark on my body. More and more often I need to take a break. As soon as I stand up to go on, my legs feel heavy. A twinge in my hip with every step I take. I pick a point I can see further on the trail, to which I force myself to keep walking. Sometimes I don’t even last till that.

When I descend towards Inverornan I see smoke plumes coming from the chimney of the hotel, alone down in the valley. I hope for coffee, maybe even lunch, but it’s false alarm. Another closed door. Once again, I eat my hummus and cheese sandwich in the rain. It's a miserable affair. Highland winters are cold and harsh. It makes it that much more special when the sun slips through the clouds, or a ridgeline is revealed. Today it happens a couple times. First when I walk through a Scots pine forest. An idyllic ruin makes me dream of a life in the Highlands. Later it's the strange shapes of the Black Mounts in the west, looking ominous through the fog.

Today I’m all alone on the trail. The only face I see is the resident of a lonely estate near Victoria Bridge. The weather is slowly improving. On Rannoch Moor this is hardly noticeable though. A forbidding landscape of peat and blanket bog. The wind blows a lot harder here. It would be unnavigable if it wasn't for the old Parliamentary Road I'm on.

I take it slow today. And yet I cannot help the thought; if I manage to get past Kingshouse tonight, I might reach Fort William tomorrow after all.

It’s already getting dark when I’m over Rannoch Moor’s highest point, and finally Glen Coe comes into sight. Buachaille Etive Mòr, the jewel of the glen, hides shyly behind a layer of clouds. I've seen Glen Coe in many ways, in the fervent colours of autumn, with snowy peaks or in lush green – never did she look as gloomy as today.

For the second day in a row I barge into a hotel unannounced. This time however, I am received with open arms. I can directly take a seat in the still empty restaurant, but I decide to first take a shower in the public sanitary building. I've never been happier with a shower. All warmened and freshened up I sit down at my table. It's an oasis of hospitality. I feast on a pint and a warm curry and I am relishing.

An hour later I couldn't be further away from the comfort of Kingshouse.

So here I am, limping along the A82 in the dark, while trucks rush past me. They're the 5 hardest kms I walk on the WHW.

I handle it all with a calmness unfamiliar to me. Even when I have to find a camp spot in the dark. Even when I struggle with sheets and poles without a torch. That's how I've grown on this trail. It's the knowledge of how far I've come. I will let nothing stand in my way of reaching the end tomorrow. I splint my tent pole with tape. The tent is up and I don't think past that; if it's up to me, I'll be in a warm bed in Glen Nevis tomorrow night.

Day 5

Goal: Glen Nevis Youth Hostel
Distance: 31 km
7 hours in daylight, 4 hours in moonlight

It's funny how memories work – I'm writing this a year later, and somehow I hardly remember the misery I went through those November days. I do however recall the imposing sight of Buachaille Etive Mòr that morning as if it was yesterday. The river Coupall winds its way through Glen Coe and glistens in the morning sun. At the foot of the hill lies the famous white-washed cottage, Lagangarbh Hut, that makes the Buachaille look like a giant.

This selective memory, we need it as humans to brave the hardships of life over and over again, for the sake of moments like these.

I am brushing my teeth when the guy with the backpack from Crianlarich passes by me. He doesn't stop to greet me. It's clear that he's here for himself, and himself alone. Turns out I was ahead of him for the last two days. My limp sore body isn't doing so bad after all.

The day starts with a climb to the Devil’s Staircase, a mountain pass between Stoc Mhic Martuin and Beinn Bheag. Its name sounds more frightening than it is in reality.

Above the birch trees I get a magnificent view over Loch Leven and the conical peaks of the Mamores. Most trees have lost their leaves, but the grass has a beautiful deep orange tint. Lairigmor is a wide glen, exposed to the elements. The wind blows hard here, so hard that two cyclists I encounter have to get off their bikes. I march on over the Military Road, away from this expanse as fast as I can.

The pass bends north and slowly, very slowly, the descent towards Glen Nevis begins. The vegetation gets thicker here; trees and shrubs shelter me from the cool breeze.

There's a glimpse of a sunset behind the hills and then darkness settles in. For a long time I walk on in the last twilight. The moon is bright tonight, and every once in a while fast-moving clouds make place for a starlit sky. It's tingling inside me. To be in the hills under the night sky..

Far off, in a glen down below, there are lights on, and a vehicle drives over an invisble road. The human world is getting near.

I climb over the last hills, and at long last Fort William comes into view. It's a spectacular approach at night; after hours between the dark hills, suddenly there's thousands of lights nestled beween steep rockfaces at the mouth of Glen Nevis. And the giant shadow of Ben Nevis, the king of the Highlands, by my side.

My headtorch, that I charged with my powerbank last night, dies again, and in the last kilometers through a forest plantation I only have a faint red light. No matter, I am almost down in Glen Nevis.

I've experienced a lot since I set out from the suburbs of Glasgow 6 days ago. The path has shaken me up, forced the strength from deep within me. I am buggered, but I feel stronger than ever. If I can do this, what will ever stop me?

I have lived in the outdoors for 5 days, but before long being inside returns to normal. We're too used to it as humans. The sky overcasts, and the door remains closed. But by opening the door on this trail, I have woken myself from my slumbering state of being. Let me leave the door open from now on. Let the wind blow through my hair, and my face brave the rain. Connection with outside is connection with myself.