Day Fifty Four

Tuesday 9 November 2010 – Drumnadrochit to Muir of Ord

Drumnadrochit looked a treat in the sunshine, the setting made dramatic by the looming presence of Craig Mony (a hill, not a local). Once again, I intended to snub the Great Glen Way, except for a couple of short stretches, the first being a few hundred yards away from the centre of the village.

On the left were the remains of the tree which had blocked the traffic yesterday. Also on the left was the minor road which formed the first part of my plans for the day. “20%”, said the sign: 1 in 5 in old money, steep in anyone's money. I puffed uphill, wondering how many of my breakfast calories I would burn off in the first half hour of the day. It felt like a lot.

The views back, across to Loch Ness, with Urquhart Castle silhouetted against the sun's reflection on the water, were worth the climb in themselves. At the top, a few houses clustered round the road end, and a track started off across the moorland. I was now above 800 feet, and would climb another 400 before I was done. There should have been a fork, with a second track veering off to the left. No fork, no track. I wandered around for a while, but found nothing. The problem is that, if these tracks are not used, they tend to get reabsorbed by the vegetation. I decided to return to the original track, and correct my course later.

Soon the track passed Loch Glanaidh, a very little loch. I was approaching a forestry plantation, and before I reached the fence I had to decide whether to go left and try to find the path I had intended to follow, or push on and make my correction later. The track I was on entered the plantation, and was then shown on the map as coming to an abrupt end, as forestry tracks often do. Normally that would be a no no. It's no good reaching one of these dead ends and assuming you will be able to push onwards through the trees. Not going to happen. But this was different: it was a plantation, but there weren't many trees. Great swathes of the ground were just moorland, with occasional groups of young conifers. So I could see where I was going, and I could reach the other side of the plantation where I needed to be by going as straight as possible.

Once I left the track it was hard and slow work, springy heather alernating with soggy bits which suck your boots and double the effort. Eventually, I spotted a couple of houses, which confirmed that I was on the right course. As I approached Achpopuli Farm, the ground changed to firm grass, a joy after the peat. Just beyond the farm I briefly, and for the last time, got back together with the Great Glen Way, which had reached this point by climbing more gently round the hill I had gone straight over. Any regrets? Not at all.

I might have worked harder, but I'd had views and a bit of an adventure. The GGW had had more tracks hemmed in by trees. After another mile, the GGW went straight on, and I turned left on to what I hoped would prove to be a quiet minor road. It was.

The road was narrow, and it was necessary to step aside when any car or truck came along. But the gratitude ethic is strong in the Highlands. You might only get a raised finger as acknowledgment, but round here that's genuine thanks. And for pedestrians, many motorists go the extra few fingers (no, more than two).

I passed a chap preparing a hard standing for his car, lest it be buried in snow drifts by the side of the road – a distinct possibility, he told me. He also said he had seen a few flakes today. Indeed, there were some threatening clouds massing, although the sun was still out. Very soon after this, I saw a lot of snow, not falling from the sky, but all over the peaks of the mountains I could see in the North, beyond the Beauly Firth. The scene was distinctly odd. The fields in the foreground were sunlit. Then there was a dark strip of ground, then the snowy peaks, and above everything the dark clouds which could well contain more snow.

I was not intending to do much walking on lanes from now on, howewer quiet they might be. I had prepared a menu of paths, tracks, and private drives, with lanes and roads when unavoidable. I took the first of these excursions along a woodland track, the day now darkening as the sun went behind cloud. Reaching a lane, I was intending to cross on to another track, But the area had been felled of trees, and the track had been obliterated. No matter; I turned on to the lane, and made for my next planned bit of off-road walking.

This was along the driveway to a farm. Just before the buildings, I was looking for a track to the left. I could see where it ran, but had to shin over a fence top get to it. It was no problem. Similarly, at the other end of the track, I had to hop over another fence to get to my next bit of woodland track. There followed some of the most magical minutes I have had while walking.

This wood was not wall-to-wall conifers; it was a pinewood, with a mix of other species, giving the whole range of Autumn colours.The sun was now out again, lighting up the greens, the reds, the yellows, and all the other colours, and the snow-capped peaks could be glimpsed through gaps in the trees. Wonderful. In this state of ecstacy, I missed the next turn. Again, it didn't matter. I reached a lane, turned on to it, and 100 yards later turned back into the trees.

I had spotted a likely looking path or track or road, I couldn't tell which. But it was marked on the map running between walls or fences, and looked as though it served several farms and houses. It was indeed running between walls, and was quite wide, but at first it was completely unsurfaced. It had the air of an old estate road or driveway. It was perfectly walkable, and was clearly used as a footpath. Even more curiously, the walled track was joined by another track running parallel, between one of the walls and a fence. This was also apparently unsurfaced, and also looked as though it were walked but not used by vehicles. Eventually, the walled track ended and I switched to the other one, which passed a turning to a big house and was now tarmacced, with a mossy strip down the middle.

On reaching a gatehouse, I had to join the real world in the form of the main A862 road, which I needed to follow as far as the only nearby bridge over the River Beauly. The verge was quite wide for most of the way, so I was in no danger from the too-fast traffic. Beyond the bridge, I had a choice to make: either take to a series of minor roads round Beauly and on to Muir of Ord, or take the main road through the first and on to the other. The main road was much shorter, and I was getting weary, So I decided on the main road.

I put off the evil hour by hopping over a stile and walking round the edge of a field. And when I arrived at the road, it had a pavement. This was a pleasant surprise. It's a lot easier to ignore traffic if it doesn't pose any actual danger. I sidled along towards the centre of Beauly.

'C'est un beau lieu', what a beautiful place, was the reaction of Mary Queen of Scots to the grandeur of the scene when she stayed in Beauly in the 16th century, and local tradition credits the naming of the village to her. The beautiful bit was the abbey; for the rest, it was a trading centre which benefitted, for 100 years until 1960, from having a station on the railway line from Inverness to the far North of Scotland. The station closed in 1960, but reopened in 2002.

I reached a large craft shop with a cafe. Nothing to decide here. I shambled in, easily the scruffiest member of this particular congregation, for coffee and something (the something being the biggest piece of sponge cake in captivity. But I was strong, refusing extra cream on top of the generous filling of cream, jam and strwberries).

Thus fortified. I walked into Beauly, straight through, glancing briefly at the attractive abbey ruins, and out the other side, hoping that the pavement would hold out until Muir of Ord. It did. I entered Ross & Cromarty – although Highland Council has responsibility for the whole area, the old counties are still observed and signposted.

Muir of Ord is situated near the western boundary of the Black Isle. The Black Isle Show - one of the largest agricultural shows in Scotland - is held every August in the nearby showground. Like Beauly, Muir of Ord has a station on the railway line. The Glen Ord Distillery is the one of the few remaining whisky distilleries on the Black Isle. Muir of Ord only got its name in 1862. Before the early 19^th Century, travel North of Inverness was not easy, with the rivers Beauly and Conon to be crossed, and rubbish roads beyond. As so often, Thomas Telford came to the rescue, building bridges over both rivers in 1814. This brought increasing traffic to the main coastal route North that ran between them, and led to the growth of a village called Tarradale, which lay at the junction of that road and the main road into the Black Isle. The bridges also placed Tarradale at the focal point of a network of routes extending inland in most directions. Even after the clearances, mass movements of cattle continued, and a place near Tarradale called Muir of Ord was a convenient place to hold cattle markets, known as trysts. So well-known was it that the railway company used it for the station, and the name Tarradale fell into disuse. The village remained a vital transport hub until the Kessock Bridge was built near Inverness, providing a much more convenient gateway to the Northern Highlands. But not for me.

I was planning to head Northwest, so the old route was the best.The approach to Muir of Ord was tedious.I saw not much of the town centre. It was now just about dark, and I pressed on to the railway station, for the 20-minute journey to Inverness. And that's it for this walk until the lambing season, for reasons which will be explained in good time... In the meantime, below is the map of my progress to date.

Day Fifty Three

Monday 8 November – Invermoriston to Drumnadrochit

High drama in the night. Strong winds, trees down. Indeed, when I set out for my day's walk, the husband of my b&b hostess (Darroch View – highly recommended) was busy sawing his way through a tree on his drive so that he could free his car and get to work. Since I didn't leave by this drive, I was unable to offer any advice.

I was planning to be conventional and follow the Great Glen Way all day. There is really no alternative. The road occupies the banks of Loch Ness, and the GGW cherry-picks the paths and tracks higher (as I was to find out, sometimes much higher) up the hill. The Way leaves the main road by the Invermoriston Arms Hotel (very good supper last night, old fashioned food, old fashioned service). The steepish climb is by way of a minor road.

The violent weather had left a grey, drizzly legacy, but there was a bit of blue sky, and the sun appeared fitfully over the next half hour or so. Leaving the road, the GGW took to the forest again, on a good track. My main gripe with the Great Glen Way is that you don't get the usual dividend for the climbs. Because the up-and-down bits are so often among trees, you don't get the views you deserve for all that puff.

Unfair to suggest that there were no views at all – the trees thinned on my right after about half a mile to reveal a sombre panorama. Back over Invermoriston, there was a bit of brightness, but straight across Loch Ness, the hills fringing the glen itself were dark and undefined. Beyond them, the mountains had received a generous dusting of snow, just visible through the gloom. Almost immediately, a short diversion led to a viewpoint, complete with stone seat, well worth a linger on a better day. Naturally the path lost most of the height I had so effortfully gained, settling down to a gentle undulation above the road (this, too, had been blocked earlier in the day by a fallen tree, but traffic was now flowing).

A GGW sign pointed left to the “Stone Cave”. It wasn't really a cave, more a stone hut let into the hillside. Drystone walls supported a huge slab of rock as a roof, and stone benches lined the interior. It put me in mind of a stone-built bus shelter, but it was a considerable feat of building, and dry as a bone inside.

At Allt Sigh, the path descended almost to road level, crossing the eponymous burn. Allt Sigh means “burn of the bitch”, the bitch presumably being the she-wolf which, it was alleged on a board, was the last in Scotland, and killed nearby. There is a youth hostel just off the track, and a house offering b&b and snacks. I was tempted by coffee, but I personfully resisted, and plodded uphill again. For nearly a mile the path resumed its almost-level progress above the road, and then it went for broke.

An exhausting series of zigzags headed up the hill almost to the rim of the glen and almost to the top edge of the forestry plantation. Beyond a narrow strip of trees, I could glimpse the bare rock and thin vegetation of the untamed upland. The path itself gained interest from the climb, large shards of rock protruding from the hillside, and there were more views of the loch now that I was looking over rather than through the trees.

Across the loch, I could see the village of Foyers. This is on what used to be the busy side of the loch. The military roads ran here, so Foyers was on the main drag. Then, at the end of the 19^th Century, Foyers was chosen as the site of the country's first aluminium smelting plant, using hydroelectricity. The plant was superseded by the one at Kinlochleven (itself, as I had seen at first hand, now defunct) and ceased smelting in 1967, although , rather curiously, for a few years it made narrow boats for the canals. But although aluminium and boat production ended, the production of hydroelectricity expanded and flourished.

The Foyers power station engages in a curious and apparently very green process to manage the supply of electricity. During the night, when electricity is plentiful and cheap, water is pumped uphill from Loch Ness into a higher loch. In the day and evening, when demand for electricity is high, down flows the water and out flows the power. Ingenious, eh? Foyers is also on the tourist map because of its spectacular waterfalls.

At the higher level at which I had been walking, a few native pines have been allowed to survive – such a change from the boring conifers. Even the inevitable descent was interesting – this was not a forestry track pressed into service as the Great Glen Way; rather, it appeared to be a purpose-built path, a little soggy but good to walk on. Then I was out of the plantation and into a grassy field. Turning through a broad-leaf wood, I reached a road.

The ground from here to Glen Urquhart tends downwards, and there are not the forestry roads and tracks I'd got used to. The path-designers had run out of their old standby, and this road was obviously the best bet to get us to Drumnadrochit. It is a very quiet road, possible a lot busier in the summer with people visiting the pottery at the end of the road. As if to apologise for the three miles of tarmac, the GGW promoters have gone to an immense amount of trouble to build an off-road path whenever there was enough bank to hack it out of.

Away to the right, down by the loch, lies Urquhart Castle. Though extensively ruined, this was in its day one of the largest strongholds of medieval Scotland, and remains an impressive structure, splendidly situated on a headland overlooking Loch Ness. It is also near this castle that the majority of Nessie (Loch Ness Monster) sightings are alleged to occur. It is not known precisely when the castle was built, but records show the existence of a castle on this site from the early 13th century. It was certainly in existence in 1296, as it was captured by Edward I of England at this time. After that, there were the usual captures and recaptures.The bits that survived all the violent action often did not survive the attentions of local people who treated it as a builders' merchant. Today, the castle is protected from further damage by the National Trust for Scotland, who own the site, and Historic Scotland, who run it. I had visited the castle previously; its size, and the views of the loch from the ramparts, make it well worth a visit. But not today.

The road falls into Glen Urquhart in a series of very steep drops. The GGW is more gentle with us, taking us down in a much less steep series of linked paths and tracks, emerging back at the road just before one of the river bridges for which main-road traffic has to divert a mile away from the banks of Loch Ness. Glen Urquhart is about a mile wide, and contains a series of settlements along the main road.

Lewiston is a planned village, provided by a slightly more enlightened landowner to house the people he cleared off his other lands. They got small plots to go with their cottages, which is better than many received. A field away is the central part of Drumnadrochit, with houses and schools on either side of the road. But the real delights are yet to come.

As the road approaches the bridge over the River Enrick, before heading East back to the lochside, the “Industry” kicks in. This is Nessie Central, the headquarters of the monster-exploitation business. Shops, exhibitions, visitor centres... all devoted to worship of the myth – and making money from it, of course. In summer this is a tourist honeypot, but in November there is not much monster action. I held my nose in a superior fashion as I headed for my Nessie-themed hotel.

Day Fifty Two

Sunday 7 November – Invergarry to Invermoriston

As it was a fine day, I decided to go off piste again. Instead of rejoining the Great Glen Way, I headed due North from Invergarry, climbing beside Aldernaig Burn, on to what is more or less a plateau, at a height around 500 feet. It's also a peat bog. Surprise (not)!

For the second day running all the cloud was lying as fog in the valleys. I quickly climbed out of the gloom and into the sunshine. It was a few degrees above freezing, with no wind. I was following a stalkers' track which meandered through woodland before arriving at the tranquil shores of Loch Lundie, which is nearly a mile in length and a sort of raggedy s-shape.

A stag stood a couple of hundred yards away, assessing whether I was either a desirable female or a worthy foe. Since I obviously failed on both counts, it bounded away with little urgency. The sun was now fully out, the only visible cloud looking like smoke rising from the valleys and dissipating. The track was a bit soggy-boggy, but there was always a ready alternative when things got too damp.

North of the loch, the track snaked across the landscape, visible well ahead. As I approached some ruined buildings, one cottage standing out clearly against a backdrop of conifers, I met a family – man, woman and two young girls, with camping gear on their backs. They were picking their way through a particularly boggy bit of ground, and gave me a cheery welcome. The chap told me that they had spent the night in a nearby hut, and were now making their way down to Invergarry. I didn't envy them – it must have been pretty cold during the night.

The next item of business was to get from the end of the track, across (according to the map) pathless country, to the start of a forestry road. Actually there was a path on the ground, and a wopping great clue as to the whereabouts of the forestry road – two big yellow tractors and a pile of logs. I was soon on the road and heading into the trees.

It was the usual sort of Forestry Commission road – a large layer of hardcore, overlaid with gravel and shale, all tamped down to make a great walking surface. There is a pattern to these roads. When tree felling is about to start, the road will be upgraded, holes filled and drainage ditches cleared, with turning spaces and hardstanding for felled logs. After the felling, the road will be left to deteriorate very gently, weeds growing through the surface, until the next time it is needed. It's all very sensible.

The most interesting part of the day was over – the walk across the moorland had been first rate – but the walk through the trees was not without interest, and I could up my speed on such a good surface. The road rose and fell, but not dramatically. There were a few junctions, my route being obvious in each case. After a couple of miles I reached a tarmacced road, which I followed for a few yards before turning off into the forest again.

I was now walking along the floor of Strath Oich, the section of the Great Glen between Loch Oich and Loch Ness. Where there had been more tree felling, I could look across the clearing and see the River Oich and, running parallel, the Caledonian Canal, with at one point water tumbling down an overflow from the canal to the river. I could see people walking, and a child cycling, along the Great Glen Way, which runs between the two watercourses.

Arriving back on a public road, I was soon in Fort Augustus. Today this is a village heavily reliant on tourism. Until the early 18th century the settlement was called Kiliwhimin, and the Gaelic name for the modern village is still Cill Chuimein. It was renamed 'Fort Augustus' after the unsuccessful Jacobite Rising of 1715. In the aftermath of the uprising, General Wade built a fort (taking from 1729 until 1742) which was named after the Duke of Cumberland. The settlement grew, and eventually took the name of the fort. The fort was captured by the Jacobites in April 1745, just prior to the Battle of Culloden. Then it was sold to the Lovat family in 1867 and in 1876 they passed the site and land onto the Benedictine order. The monks set up Fort Augustus Abbey and later constructed a school there, but abandoned the site in 1998. For several years after that it was owned by Terry Nutkins, the naturalist, author and TV presenter.

The flight of locks through the village, as well as bringing in boaters and their money, are an irresistible lure for inquisitive landlubbers, breaking their journeys along the main road. So it was to prove today. Out of season there were no boats to look at, but people were wandering round the lock anyway, taking pictures of it and each other. I bought a pork pie and an apple for my lunch, and found a picnic table to sit at, just by the lock. Had I looked at a nearby notice, I would have seen that the table was reserved for customers of a nearby bar, but I averted my gaze and munched my lunch.

In the season this is a really bustling place, with plenty of spending opportunities. On a dull November Sunday – the sun had disappeared under a pall of cloud while I was among the trees – there wasn't a great deal to do other than wander about, and that's what most people were doing. Had they wanted to walk with more purpose, this would be a good base. The signposting of paths in the area is excellent, with fingerposts and colour-coded posts, no doubt coordinated with a locally-available guidebook. Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to set Fort Augustus up as a walking centre. Good work.

The Great Glen Way, meanwhile, was ready for me after my lunch. Had a good feed, David? Fine – let's work some of it off again, The Way went up the hill – straight up, a punishing climb to 300+ feet, where the route turned to head along the side of Loch Ness, above the main road. After yesterday I was not surprised when the path, another forestry road in fact, started to rise and fall relentlessly. It kept this uo for more than five miles.

Every now and then the trees would thin on the right hand side, giving good views of the loch, a sombre sight in the overcast light. A couple of very small deer crossed the track and were swallowed up by the dark wood. I saw nobody on this section until I was almost at Invermoriston, where I met a woman walking her dog. I say almost at Invermoriston, and so it was, as the crow flies. The chump on the ground had the occasional tantalising view of houses as the Way headed determinedly uphill again, passing way above the village, then turning back to meet a minor road which gently ambled down to join the A82.

Traffic was fairly light, which was more than could be said for the day. The heavy cloud had hastened the dusk, and it was almost dark by the time I reached the middle of the village.

Invermoriston is at the junction between the A82 and the the A887, an alternative to the road from Invergarry through to Kyle of Lochalsh and Skye. Apparently the village's most visited attraction is the Thomas Telford bridge, built in 1813, which crosses the spectacular River Moriston falls. This bridge used to form part of the main road but was replaced in the 1930s by the new bridge used today. I could just about make out Telford's fine bridge, now sadly neglected, in the gloom. Before the coming of the bridges and the new roads, the military roads built along the Great Glen in the 1700s had passed to the east side of Loch Ness, leaving Invermoriston heavily dependant on water transport. The village grew slowly through the 1800s, and by the 1890s the Loch Ness steamers called regularly at the pier half a mile to the south. Now the cars and lorries thunder through.

Day Fifty One

Saturday 6 November – Spean Bridge to Invergarry

The day was cold but bright, a wonderful day for a walk. From Spean Bridge I headed North West for a mile on a pavement by the A82. There wasn't much traffic yet. The scene was strangely different from what I always regard as normal. The tops of the mountains and hills were clear – the attendant clouds were lower down, filling the valleys and snagging on the trees. The sun was intermittently shining through gaps in the high cloud. It was exhilarating. Soon the Commando Memorial came in sight.

This memorial is dedicated to the men of the original British Commando Forces raised during World War II. Unveiled in 1952 by the Queen Mother, it has become one of Scotland's best-known monuments, both as a war memorial and as a tourist attraction offering views of Ben Nevis and Aonach Mòr. In 1949, the sculptor Scott Sutherland won a competition open to all Scottish sculptors for the commission. The memorial was officially unveiled by the Queen Mother in 1952.

The location was chosen because it is on the route from Spean Bridge railway station to the former Commando Training Centre at nearby Achnacarry Castle. Arriving prospective Commandos would get off the train after a 14-hour journey, load their kit bags onto waiting trucks and then speed march the 7 miles to the training centre in full kit with weapon, weighing a total of 36 pounds. Anyone not completing it within 60 minutes was immediately sent back to his unit.

A Garden of Remembrance, which was subsequently added to the site, is used by many surviving Word War II Commandos as the designated final resting place for their ashes. It has also been used as a place where many families have scattered ashes and erected tributes to loved ones who belonged to contemporary Commando units and who have died in more recent conflicts such as the Falklands War or in Afghanistan and Iraq.

The large car park, with space for coaches, was empty. Had I come on a coach, or in a car at a busy time, I might have just done the tourist thing, taken a few photos, admired the views of the mountains in the sun, and carried on. No harm in that. But being there on my own was very different. The defiant faces of the three sculpted men, the very personal memorials to recently killed soldiers in the Garden of Remembrance, and the hilltop setting, with other hills all round, made the experience extremely moving. It was a privilege to stand by the sculpture; it felt like an intrusion to stand amidst the plaques and crosses and flags and flowers, dedicated to husband or son or brother.

From here it was two miles down a minor road into the Great Glen proper, and into the mist. The temperature dropped a bit in the gloom, but by the time I reached the bottom of the glen, the sun had done its work and burned off much of the low-lying cloud. At Gairlochy the Caledonian Canal, which has on this stretch run from near Fort William, emerges by way of a large lock into the South West end of Loch Lochy. I crossed a bridge near the loch and turned on to a very quiet road which ran just above the shore.

This was my second stretch of the Great Glen Way, the first having been the very short bit in Fort William. The Way soon departed uphill, away from the lochside and into the trees. An excellent path climbed and then fell back to the road, crossing it and tumbling steeply down to the very edge of the loch. Loch Lochy is not one of the classic lochs, scenery-wise. The surrounding hills lack the splendour of some of the others. But it was still pretty magnificent on what was now a very sunny day.

The path had had the full hardcore and gravel treatment to “unsog” it. The Way is a Long Distance Path (the Scottish equivalent of our National Trails), and the best walking surfaces could be expected, and were duly deilvered.

Eventually the path drew back to the road, which hogs the shoreline through the nearly-joined hamlets of Achnachary, Bunarkaig and Clunes. A sign by a wide gateway advertised the museum devoted to the commandos – this was where they yomped to from Spean Bridge to earn their places on the course. I didn't check whether the museum was open; I had a long day's walking ahead, without much spare light at the end of the day.

A few flashy houses have been built along this road, with another one on the way. I was reminded of Soames Forsyte's much-anticipated new house in The Forsyte Saga, which I am re-reading. A Land Rover drove past, its trailer full of dead pheasant or grouse, hanging in rows from a frame. A car with a foreign number plate was in close attendance. Then a fleet of Range Rovery-type vehicles drove past me and pulled up at the side of the road. Men in fancy dress, with guns and dogs as accessories, emerged from the vehicles, while the man in charge swapped notes with a distant chum by radio.

At Clunes, the road turned left to head inland, while the GGW and I turned right on to a forestry track. As well as serving as a footpath, it's also a numbered cycleway on the national network (78, since you ask). This track runs for seven miles along or near the lochside, with a mostly-excellent surface for walking, the only exceptions being a few patches where stones have been tipped to fill holes or soggy hollows – very necessary, no doubt, but a trial to walk over.

Even apart from these bits, this is not an effortless saunter: the track undulates continuously, at one point reaching about 250 feet, a long way above the loch and well into the forestry plantation. How they harvest the trees is a mystery to me. Some of the felled areas seem to be on a one-in-one slope. A 4x4 vehicle drifted past, its driver the only sign of life I saw on the whole stretch, except for a large flock of small birds. They settled on the track, then flew up into the trees, down to the ground, always keeping just ahead of me. This display continued for five to ten minutes, and then they lost interest and went off to play another game.

Towards the end of Loch Lochy, the GGW splits to serve those intent on visiting Invergarry and those who want to visit Laggan and then walk up the East side of the next Loch, Loch Oich. I wanted to do a bit of both, so I turned right to walk the few yards to cross the Caledonian Canal at Laggan Lock in South Laggan.

I read somewhere that South Laggan is “famed for being the setting for the BBC series, the Monarch of the Glen”. The lock was built in the early part of the 19^th Century. The poet Southey visited in 1819, comparing the navvies to ants on an anthill as they completed the building work. The path I followed is alongside the canal which leads from the lock to the start of Loch Oich. I came across something I had not met before today – mud. But not much of it, easy to sidestep.

At North Laggan I crossed back over the canal on a swing bridge. From here to Invergarry it was back into the trees for a walk above Loch Oich, with the A82 between path and loch. This was another bit of forestry track, and it rose and fell even more than the one earlier in the day, at one point reaching 400 feet. I saw little of Invergarry itself at this stage, as I crossed the River Garry on a footbridge above the village, and turned up Glen Garry to find my b&b. Later I walked into Invergarry for my supper.

Near the centre of the vilage is the junction between the A82 road (from Inverness to Fort William) and the A87 road which branches off to the west towards Skye. This has long been an important junction. The village is probably best known for the nearby ruins of Invergarry Castle, situated on Creagan an Fhithich (the Raven's Rock), overlooking Loch Oich. The castle was the seat of the Chiefs of the Clan MacDonnell of Glengarry, a powerful branch of the Clan Donald. The castle's position was a strategic one in the days of clan warfare. It is not certain when the first structure was erected but there are at least two sites prior to the present castle. After raids by the Clan Mackenzie in 1602 which included the burning of Strome Castle, the MacDonalds of Glengarry fortified the rock. According to clan tradition, the castle was built with stones passed hand to hand by a chain of clansmen from the mountain Ben Tee. Yeah, right. During the Civil War Oliver Cromwell's troops under General Monck burned the castle down in 1654. Repaired, it was held for King James VII of Scotland from 1688 until its surrender to the Government forces of William and Mary in 1692. It was then held by the Jacobites during the 1715 uprising, but taken for the government in 1716. During the 1745 uprising it was again held by Jacobites and visited twice by Bonnie Prince Charlie, shortly after the raising of his Standard at Glenfinnan, and he is said to have rested there after his defeat at the Battle of Culloden, in 1746. In the aftermath of Culloden it was sacked and partially blown up by troops under "Butcher Cumberland" as part of his systematic suppression of the Highlands. Just the walls survive, which is hardly surprising after all that lot.

Day Fifty

Friday 5 November – Fort William to Spean Bridge

I nearly didn't get to Fort William at all. On the way to the airport yesterday, I had sat for two and a half hours on a coach on the M1, missing the only flight that day from Luton to Inverness. I was also too late to rush to Gatwick for an alternative flight, or to catch a daytime train from Euston. One option remained: the Caledonian Sleeper. It was damnably expensive but otherwise delightful, like a relic from a past age. Just like in the films, helpful people stand at the doorways with clipboards, directing you to your tiny but comfortable cabin, having established what time you would like your breakfast in the morning.

So instead of turning out of a Fort William hotel this morning, I had decamped from the train just before ten o'clock, and started walking almost immediately. The next five days were to be a walk up the Great Glen, with variations. Accommodation is difficult to find in November at some of the smaller places along the “official” route, The Great Glen Way, including Gairlochy at the end of the first day. Instead I aimed for nearby Spean Bridge, and decided to forego the GGW's route along the Caledonian Canal, and do some forest walking.

Leanachan Forest is not in the Great Glen at all; it's in a parallel glen which carries the main road (the A82) and the railway which, although it comes from Glasgow in the South, loops around and arrives at Fort William from the North, having called at Spean Bridge on the way. There promised to be sufficient forest paths to take me well away from the road, and provide a peaceful walk, much desired after a night of fractured sleep.

The first trick was to get into the forest from the road. The railway needed to be crossed. A reliable access point seemed to be via the golf course. It's one of the strangest golf courses I've come across. The clubhouse lies within yards of the road, but there is no sign of the actual course. To get to this you have to go up a path behind the clubhouse, under the railway through a narrow tunnel, and there are the greens, which are also black and brown and red and yellow. The whole thing has been formed by shaving the peat bog, leaving a lumpy, bumpy adventure playground of a course. It's probably great fun if you like golf and enjoy a bit of a challenge. Probably not too much fun today, though. It was damp and drizzly, and the fairways were soggy.

I walked the path I had identified on the map, saying hello to a greenkeeper riding a small truck. He stopped and looked gloomily in the direction I was walking. “They don't usually come this way nowadays”, he told me. “They usually start further across. Still, if you carry on the way you're going, you'll come across the path. I assume it's the North Face path to Ben Nevis you're wanting?” I assured him it wasn't – this is a very challenging route up the mountain, for which I was ill-equipped in every possible way, and anyway it wasn't in the direction I wanted. I told him where I was heading, and he became more gloomy still, saying that it would be difficult to find my path that way. I must have looked determined to try, as he turned way and made for his truck. But he changed his mind, came back to me, and spent five minutes giving me detailed directions across the golf course to find a more reliable path into the forest. Naturally his directions took as their salient features the components of a golf course (fairways, greens, tees,etc.), but luckily I recognised the tee which was crucial to finding the right route. The man's instructions were spot on, and I thanked him for the trouble he'd taken.

I was soon into the forest. Like most forests these days, particularly in Scotland, Leanachan is mixed use. Commercial forestry lives easily alongside leisure uses, footpaths and cycle paths being signposted, car parks provided and picnic tables dotted around. I studied a map on a sign near the first car park I reached. The Ordnance Survey is, of course, very useful, but it's always worth having a look at these “maps on sticks”, because the paths they identify are likely to be well looked after. So it proved today.

The first path I followed was an engineering marvel, not at all adventurous, but then I like my adventures to be interspersed with a bit of easy walking. A shale-on-hardcore path had been laid through the trees, with boardwalks over the particularly soggy bits. I made good progress. I was soon near the Ski Centre, the first signs being some scary-looking structures for kids to climb and whiz through the trees on wires. Then there was a huge car park, the whole thing running with water as it was now raining quite hard. From a building on the far side of the car park, I could see gondolas rising through and then above the trees, until they disappeared into the low cloud. There was an impressive queue at the ticket office, but everyone had just got off the single coach which was parked nearby, along with a few cars.

In a good (ie snowy) winter, this lift is used to carry skiers up the slopes, and for the rest of the time it carries tourists up for the views from the top. Except on a day like today, when there would be no views apart from the clouds and the ground beneath your feet. At £10.50 a pop, I wasn't at all tempted to take a ride. But I was tempted to shelter from the rain and enjoy a coffee in the cafe next to the ski-lift.

When I emerged the rain had slackened, and it soon stopped altogether. I even caught sight of some sunshine, picking out hills across the glen. The sun never reached me, but the rain didn't come back. I was now in the commercial part of the forest, walking on broad, well-made forestry roads. Signs warned of maintenance work, and soon I passed a chap inspecting a large motorised roller, and another driving a tractor which was scooping mud and rubbish out of the drainage ditch. The trick when meeting a vehicle like this is to get fairly close and then just stop and wait for directions. The forestry workers are used to walkers, and appreciate a bit of cooperation. The tractor driver stopped and signalled for me to walk past him, which I did. I then passed a large swathe of recent felling, with new planting beyond it.

The forestry roads were easy to follow, with few junctions, all shown on the map. But as I got near to Spean Bridge, there were some extra paths not marked on the OS map, but clearly signposted. I took the most direct path towards the village. This was another bespoke walking path – no room for forestry vehicles but a very good walking surface. I joined a minor road for the last half mile into Spean Bridge.

The village takes its name from the bridge over the River Spean on General Wade's military road between Fort William and Fort Augustus, and not from Telford's bridge of 1819 which carries the A82 over the river at the heart of the village. Being a Telford bridge, it's built to last, solidly defying the turbulent river below to give it any trouble. A variety of tourist attractions and spending opportunities cluster around the bridge, but I pressed on for a few more yards to find my hotel, for a static night's sleep.