A Cape Wrath Tale: The travelling stone - Part 1

Shaped by wind, rain, water and shimmering light, I lay here. Cona Glen (near Fort William, Scotland) has been my home for centuries. Days, weeks, months and years have gone by. My edges became a little softer. My size a little smaller. Hidden away between my friends, I saw her coming my way. A woman in bright yellow trousers and a navy blue raincoat. Her hair still slightly wet from the last rain shower, but smiling with the sun caressing her face. I did not expect her to notice me. A tiny white stone. Till then overlooked and disregarded along the Cape Wrath Trail. However, I was wrong. Out of nowhere she picked me up. She polished me with her sleeve and put me away in her side pocket. Walking along she called towards her companion: “I’ve found it, I’ve found my travelling stone”. Little did I know that this was the beginning of an adventure that would carry me all the way North to Cape Wrath and then back home to her place in Belgium where I would sit next to her at her desk.

It felt warm and cosy inside the side pocket of her backpack. It felt good to feel safe and sheltered after such a long time. She continued her journey across the stone clattered path and down the muddy slopes towards Glenfinnan. After having tea at the Glenfinnan Monument visitor centre and watching the steam train making its way across the famous Harry Potter bridge, the last few steps towards Corryhully bothy were taken. The first 40 kilometres of the journey towards Cape Wrath were a fact. 338 kilometres to go! Now all she had left to do for the evening was have dinner, wash up in the river and remove all the ticks she had collected while camping in Cona Glen. She had already removed a whole lot throughout the day, but she had not yet gotten rid of them, nor had her sleeping bag and mat. When the time came to go to sleep, she stuffed away everything that could attract mice in a little cupboard and placed me and her backpack at her feet in an effort to scare away the more courageous little fellows. It was a stormy night, but for the first time since my existence I experienced the joy of listening to the rain and wind with a roof over my head. Never could I have imagined how peaceful yet exciting it could be!

The famous Harry Potter bridge, Glenfinnan Bridge, Scotland

Although I was nicely tucked away in a little pocket, it was clear to me that the next day started dreary and wet. Thankfully, not long after leaving the bothy, the sun broke through. A 4×4 track slowly turned into a little path and eventually disappeared while zigzagging uphill, jumping across a little burn. When reaching the lonely rusty fence at the top, my carrier lady and her companion knew that they entered some of the most unforgiving Scottish terrains while moving towards Knoydart, also known as “the Rough Bounds” or “Britain’s last wilderness”.

Walking past the fence and steeply descending into the valley, the terrain became more boggy and unforgiving. All went well at first. They decided to cross the river early, as recommended by the estate owner who had visited them at Corryhully bothy. Soon it became clear that his advice would probably only be useful when the river is in full spate. The going became tough. The sun was shining, but the mud became deep and the little heaps of grass in between made progress slow. While my carrier lady in her now bright orangy trousers got weary and tired, the tension between her and her partner started to grow. They had made a wrong decision. They should have gone back, but instead they continued. The terrain was too boggy to stop for lunch. Slowly, the grumpiness of hungry people made its entrance. Deciding they should do something, they went back down to the river to cross back to the other side. Annoyed and hungry, her partner tried to make his way across the water, hopping from one stone to the next. Suddenly, the hop turned into a slither with his hiking boots and feet making their way down to the river bedding. The sound of cursing could be heard echoing across the valley. With a lot of splattering, wet feet and soaked boots, he made his way across, threw down his backpack and took off his shoes. They had only started and one of the worst things had happened: his hiking boots were soaked and wouldn’t simply dry. Together with water pouring out of his shoes, anger and frustration made its way across his face. With the sound of cursing in the background, my carrier lady took off her shoes and socks, rolled up her trousers and got ready to carry me safely across. She was terrified and I might have seen a tear roll down her cheek. I didn’t get it, the river wasn’t too deep and the force of the water seemed to be limited. What was happening to her? Then she told me. Or maybe she just realised it for herself. This was her first deeper river crossing since the storm up in Knoydart 3 years ago, when she got washed away and had to be pulled out of the water with a rope (read about it here). Apparently that experience had left its mark. A mark unnoticeable for most, but very present at times like these. A mark of fear she would have to face many times throughout this journey. I knew it, she knew it, but we carried on.

Having crossed the river safely, they stayed put to have lunch. A not so tasty energy bar sprinkled with anger and annoyance. Nothing better to soothe the frustration before trotting on! Another few kilometres of mud and water. Tough. Even tougher because of their mental state. After reaching a bridge, a path appeared. At first a deeply muddy path leading into the woods, but it quickly turned into an easy going 4×4 for the last leg of the journey. When reaching the 4×4 track, her companion kicked off his shoes and replaced them with sandals to let his feet dry, revealing already hugely blistered feet. After a final hour of slogging they reached their hidden destination: A’Chuil bothy. They arrived early and the sun was still out. Time to place the wet hiking boots on top of the hiking poles and let them bathe in the last rays of warmth. The evening routine could begin. Filtering water. Boiling water for a cup of tea. Boiling water again to prepare the dehydrated meals. Making the beds. And then back again to the last point of the day, removing the newly found ticks before going to bed. Softly hearing my carrier lady shuffle about, I started to realise that I was forever moving away from what I had always called home.