We could not have asked for a more spectacular start to our walk toward Loch Lomond. Today we hiked 12 miles north and slightly west from Milngavie, a tiny town just outside Glasgow, to Dryman, another tiny town. By spectacular I mean it did not rain and there were no midges. In fact, we planned our journey for early spring and, for months, lit incense to the travel gods all in hope of avoiding the midge hell that can be a Scottish summer in the highlands.
No, you’re not alone. I too had to ask “What’s a midge?”
Midges are those tiny flies you often find around ponds in the UK and a lot of other countries, including our own. Usually they’re not a bother. But Scotland’s “highland midges” are another beast altogether. They gather in swarms of buzzing blackness and live to bite humans. This is no mosquito-style bite, which you don’t feel in the moment even though it itches like crazy later. The bite of a highland midge is a BITE bite, as in sharp, painful, and needle-like. They turn quickly into irritating, sometimes festering lumps that can leave you bleeding and scratching for days. There’s a whole industry dedicated to fending off midges. We came ready for battle with our hat nets, caustic midge spray and midge insulting sunscreen.
But instead of the forecasted rain and probable midge storm, a sweet sun broke out in an all-blue sky and the air filled with birdsong rather than buzzing as we marched past the West Highland Way Gate – the official start of the walk – and followed a little crowd onto the path.
Here I noticed the first major difference between this and my previous jaunt across the highlands. People. Lots of people. Lots of walking stick clacking. In the fall of 2019, it felt like my five friends and I were the only ones out there in the wilderness. If I’m being honest, I was hoping for no rain, no midges AND no people this time too… which may be a remnant of my COVID isolationism. On the pro side, at least it wasn’t June. That’s when there are likely to be swarms of walkers competing with swarms of midges.
We paused for a moment of reconciliation – that is, to reconcile ourselves to the fact that this first leg would be way longer than the seven miles we thought we’d be walking on the first day. In our defense, we were still jet lagged.
Anyway, at the start gate, a chorus of birds let loose their lungs and kept on singing for the whole walk. This is not an exaggeration. If GLORIOUS has a sound, I’ve heard it. Click here to listen.
The path from Milngavie to Dryman was largely flat, lined with daffodils and buttercups and dotted with fluffy white lambs baa-ing and scampering at every turn. All the cliches of spring were written on this first day as Mary and I strolled. All along the way we were met by heather gearing up to bloom, vibrant Scotch Broom, emerald green grassy knolls, and trees spitting out new leaves along with a slight and breezy wind causing them to dance and ripple.
As I suspected from our obvious leg differential, my walking gait is indeed longer than Mary’s. To roll at my pace is not good for her hips; to walk at her’s can be painful for me. After a slight detour to the Glengoyne Distillery and a stop on a grassy patch where I left Mary laying on her back in a figure 4 yoga pose, stretching to the pungent smell of manure and willing her aching hips to give themselves over to the next half, we split up and headed for Dryman each at our own pace.
Mary got a wee bit off track, adding about a mile to her day, but making it in record time – not that we were on a schedule. I, on the other hand, got lost for an additional three miles, ending the day at 17. Even so, I eventually staggered into town and found my friend patiently waiting on a bench in the center of Dryman at which point we realized we should probably add each other to our “Find My Phone” apps or otherwise work out an emergency plan.
Instead, we bee-lined to the nearest – and only – pub in town, The Clachlan, established 1734.
I walk long distances at home too, sometimes 10 or 12 miles at a go. Yet rarely do I land in a pub post walk. Maybe it’s just the United Kingdom, but here there is literally nothing better at the end of a long walk or even a longy day than hoisting a pint. Paired with a bag of salty crisps, this is, I believe, a small glimpse of heaven. Beer foam drying on our lips, Mary and I silently agreed that this would be our way, all the way.
She sealed this understanding over dinner: “If we get separated, just wait for me at closest pub to where we are staying.”
Problem solved.
The pub was packed with more people coming in by the minute. We were tired, our legs hurt. But Mary intended kindness, ease and happy accidents into this walk so we got in line. Today her intentions were realized in the form of a young couple as, with a shy wave and a nod, they invited us over to share their table. This despite, as we learned, their being on a romantic getaway from teenage kids. Easy conversation, a load off our feet, sticky toffee pudding. Check. Check. Check.
I’ve chosen a different word for us to ponder each day of the trip. It’s what I do whenever I take a walk. Today the word was “liminal.'' Where on this path today might we find life and space suspended in the “in between?”
For my part, it started in what I didn't do. I did not once think about my work as I walked today. I didn’t worry about my grown kids as much as I too often do. I didn’t ruminate or overthink or scratch any of the invisible itches that plague me.
Instead, the liminal wrap itself around me through birdsong, it surrounded me in the sweet of violets. Within that cocoon of nature, I found myself caught up in the transforming space between one step and the next.
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