#fort william
Carn Mor Dearg Arête leading up to the top of Big Ben aka Ben Nevis.
Incredibly lovely morning on this September stroll
As we sailed to Ullapool across a lake-smooth Minch, it became clear that autumn had started without us. The road to Inverness – a stretch of the NC500 packed with camper vans – wound through tall trees that were already golden brown. The strong winds that would have shoved and shaken us on the Hebrides were softened to the rustle of a branch. I have really, really missed trees. We stopped at Corrieshalloch Gorge and walked the wobbly suspension bridge, with the bizarre perspective of seeing a waterfall from directly above. The whole woodland glowed.
In Inverness we visited Leakey’s Bookshop, a crazy emporium where tall bookshelves teetered perilously close to the woodburner. Then we tried a deep-fried Mars bar at the chippie that claimed to have invented them. We ordered and the kid behind the counter said: “Salt and vinegar?” M and I looked at each other – when in Rome, do as the Romans do, I guess? – and then the kid said “oops, I didn’t mean to say that,” and we sighed with relief. Though who knows, maybe it would have been an improvement.
The start of the Great Glen Way to Fort William was a beautiful road, threading through the woods. Loch Ness sparkled grey between the trees. We set up camp on its pebbly shore, and rain began to drum on the tent. It poured all night and much of the next day: driech weather (the only Gaelic word I’ve learned).
We picked up General Wade’s Military Road, the ‘first straight road in the Highlands’, which shot up a ridiculous hill. Modern builders had put a bend in it so the gradient wasn’t quite so severe, but you could see the old road merrily ploughing straight on. We laboured to the top in driving rain and then a voice shouted over the wind: “Would you like tea or coffee?"
Standing in the doorway of a camper van was our saviour, Doug, on holiday with wife Sam and daughter Shona. They brewed us a coffee and said they were on their way to Skye to swim in the Fairy Pools, which sounded extremely cold. We wished each other happy adventuring and zoomed downhill to Fort Augustus to drip-dry in a pub. We tried to time our exit to dodge the next shower but it started up again. "Ahh, if it’s not shite now it’ll be shite later,” the barman said cheerfully.
Towpaths, forest tracks and old railways took us from the foot of Loch Ness, along the shore of Loch Oich, and onto Loch Lochy. Tiny whitewashed lock-keepers’ cottages peppered the canals linking them. We camped under the boughs of an old oak on another section of General Wade’s road, down on the lakeshore. The 18th century road was overgrown by grass and bushes but it was absolutely solid: we couldn’t stick the tent pegs in more than an inch, and had to weigh the tent down with stones. Then came a bizarre noise like the rumble of thunder and a military jet came tearing up the loch, so low we could have repaid the day’s favour and offered coffee to the pilot.
The woodland was dripping wet in the morning and I stuck my foot into my trainer and encountered an enormous black slug curled up in the toe. It was an inauspicious start to a rather miserable day on my part, and I was very grateful to get to Fort William. The weather finally lifted and we were bathed in golden evening sunlight. Ben Nevis rose above with snow right at the top. The soft light faded out and we could hear stags bellowing mournfully to each other in the trees.
The weather app said it was 1C when we woke up, the skies crystal clear. We caught the Corran ferry and then picked up Route 78, the Caledonian Way cycle path, all the way back to Oban. We span along the remains of another old railway line with frost in the verges where the sun hadn’t yet reached, and then a beautiful woodland path. We stopped for a sunny pub garden pint with a view of Castle Stalker, and then returned to Oban’s ferry terminal for the next round of island-hopping.
Read the next Island Hopping blog: Way out West
