Chapter 1: It's a long way to Inveraray

I was excited, looking forward to a complete break from the constant grind of three years at university. My plan was to spend a month walking, camping and chilling-out in the West Highlands. The wilds and majesty of the Scottish Highlands! As far removed from lectures, tutorials, essays and exams as you could possibly get surely. Exactly what I needed to recharge my batteries and revive my 'joie de vivre'.

My name is Scott MacDonald and I'm a twenty year old Scotsman whose spent the last fifteen years studying; seven years of primary school; five years of secondary school; and three years of a Business Administration degree at Paisley University. It was no surprise then that I was desperate to break out of the academic bubble and do something different, stretch myself both metaphorically but in particular, physically.

I had a love of the West Highlands, the mountains, the lochs, the sheer scale of it all, I found it helped me get the world in perspective. When you're dwarfed by a mountain or left speechless, breathless, at the beauty that nature provides, you can't help but realise your own insignificant place in the great scheme of things. I found that helped me shake things off and stop focussing on me, me, me, and my problems. Just how important could the competitive industry forces model of business guru Michael Porter be when compared to looking up at Ben Cruachan, a 4000 foot high mountain? Exactly, the man's a midget! I smiled to myself at such a stupid thought and the stress of eight hours spent sweating over a paper on that very subject disappeared. Yes! Goodbye scenario planning, goodbye strategy, goodbye competitive advantage, margins, supply and demand. Argyll, lochs, hills and forests here I come!

The prospect of a month in the wilds didn't phase me at all. I was physically fit through years of playing competitive football (soccer), most recently for the university team, and I ran/jogged on average about twenty miles a week. I also worked out in the gym two or three times a week so my six foot one frame was reasonably well muscled.

I planned my trip thoroughly, spending hours at my computer researching the kind of kit I should take and the area I was going to be walking in. The contrast of the fun I had doing the research, compared to the hard slog of hours of study at the same machine, confirmed for me that this trip was just what I needed.

I was going to travel relatively light, a minimum of dried foodstuff (mostly freeze-dried meals), not much spare clothing (underwear and socks) and nothing but what I considered essential. I had plenty of funds so I could buy food at the numerous little villages I would come across using my bankcard. That was balanced by a load of what I would call the typical male fascination with gadgets, toys and what I would call 'kit' as will become clear as this story unfolds.

The one thing that gave me pause for concern was the weather. Late May in Scotland means the tail end of the British Spring. It can be beautiful, hot and sunny with the added advantage that it's too early for the dreaded Scottish midge (particularly nasty little flies that swarm and bite unmercifully) to be out and everything looks fresh. But, it can equally be almost like full winter, snow, hail, high winds and storms. The long-range weather forecast suggested it was set fair but I decided I would plan for the worst.

My Nevis, 44 litre, rucksack was carefully packed with regard to load and distribution, I'd checked the tent, my trusty Brasher 'Trailmaster' boots were on my feet and I wore my Berghaus, Goretex mountain jacket. I was off. My first stop was Buchanan Bus Station in Glasgow City centre. I thought the load on my back was quite comfortable as I went through the glass doors and queued to purchase a ticket. I knew I wanted the number 926 bus, bound for Campbelltown, but I only wanted to travel as far as Inveraray. I paid for a one-way ticket, as I was less than sure where I would be returning from, most probably it wouldn't be Inveraray.

I made my way back out into the main station and identified the correct bus stance for the 926. A single deck coach was already in place with the driver standing at its side, helping passengers stow bigger items of luggage in the compartment under the floor of the bus. I handed over my rucksack and he struggled a little with the weight but finally managed it, giving me a dirty look as he straightened.

There was still ten minutes before the bus' scheduled departure time but I boarded anyway and took a seat near the front, pulling my newspaper out of my jacket pocket to pass the time. Before I knew it we were underway, the bus virtually empty. We rolled down Glasgow's Great Western Road, passing through Clydebank. Even though we were still in a built up area, with tenement buildings on both sides of the road, already I could see the Old Kilpatrick hills rising above them as we were beginning to leave Glasgow behind.

Dumbarton rock came into view; its castle perched precariously on the summit, guarding the approach to Glasgow along the narrowing River Clyde. Passing through Balloch, I could see the shores of Loch Lomond and the paddle steamer, Maid of the Loch, preparing to take tourists on a trip round the idyllic scenery. Ben Lomond towered up in front of me, framed by a crown of angry looking clouds. I marvelled again that this was barely half an hour by car from Glasgow City centre.

The bus followed the shoreline of Loch Lomond, past Luss, until the A82 forked off onto the A83 at Tarbet, stopping briefly at the hotel there to pick up some additional passengers. As the bus swung round a bend in the road I was treated to a view down the length of Loch Long, its shores crowded by the pine trees of the Argyll Forest Park. The wind was whipping up waves and the sunshine reflected brightly, turning the surface golden while at the same time lighting the trees to a vivid, snooker table green. I swear I could smell the pine even inside the bus.

We turned up Glen Croe and the bus began to climb the 'rest and be thankful', so named because the climb was up to near one thousand feet. I knew that forty years ago a car couldn't make it up in one go. It was almost a surprise to see how high you had climbed when the top was reached. Swinging through Glen Kinglas, we passed through the little village of Cairndow, crossing a bridge at the head of Glen Fyne and followed the road as it paralleled the shoreline of great Loch Fyne.

By now the scenery was getting to me and I was antsy, desperate to get out in the fresh air. We passed the Duke of Argyll's estate, the turreted castle peaking through between the trees, and pulled to a stop at the little harbour in Inveraray. All the buildings: the hotel; bar; visitor's centre; houses etc were whitewashed, and with the sun, loch and hills it was a perfect picture postcard for the Scottish Tourist Board.

I retrieved my pack from the luggage compartment, hoisted it onto my back and set off back down the road towards the Duke's estate. It was hot in the direct sunlight and after only a couple of hundred yards I stopped to remove my jacket. There was a caravan/camper park on the Duke's estate and I planned to seek permission to pitch my tent there for tonight, striking out for quieter country early in the morning. It had been a while since I had been to Inveraray and I had forgotten that it boasted the original Loch Fyne Oyster Bar, now only one of twenty or thirty or so in a chain around the UK. I decided I was going to treat myself one last time before having to make do with camp fodder.

The trek to the Caravan Park was around a mile and a half and I enjoyed the exercise, my Trailmaster boots feeling very comfortable and the load on my back easily manageable.

I asked and gained permission to pitch my tent, scouting out a suitable spot. The site I chose was back under two massive monkey-puzzle trees. I laid my rucksack down and untied the tent from where it was strung along the base rod. It was a Lightwave Ultra Trekking Tent, serious stuff, designed to provide strength and durability at an unbelievably low weight. It had a two-pole tunnel construction, with DAC Featherlite poles. The tent fabric was described as "high-tenacity nylon" and it had a full-length flysheet and reinforced bathtub floor. All-in it weighed only 1.28kg and it went up in only a few minutes. Just my kind of tent!

I stowed my pack inside the tent and retraced my steps through the Caravan Park to the main road. Checking my watch I noted it was already after six o'clock. I turned left and walked towards where I knew the oyster bar was; perhaps three miles further down the road.

I arrived at the modest single storey restaurant to find that it didn't open until seven o'clock. Glancing at my watch showed I had five minutes until then. I was just about to cross-over the road to sit by the loch-side when the front door opened and an older woman, perhaps in her late sixties, came out, smiling at me.

"Och, will ye be wanting a wee bit to eat then laddie?"

"I must admit that I am feeling a bit peckish but I see you don't open until seven."

"Never bother wae that, come away in and I'll find you a table. Chef is perfectly able to start himself a few minutes early."