small quietness

I set up my camp at Kilvrecht on Loch Rannoch`s southern shore. I wasn`t bivouacking under a fallen birch tree in the Black Wood, in the snow, like Robert MacFarlane . However, again inspired by his Wild Places,  I still want to experience what Nan Shepherd described of the Cairngorms: "No one knows the mountain completely who has not slept on it. As one slips over into sleep, the mind grows limpid; the body melts; perception alone remains. These moments of quiescent perceptiveness before sleep are amongst the most rewarding of the day. I am emptied of preoccupation, there is nothing between me and the earth and the sky."  [p91]

Leaving my tent I wandered for some hours along a trail skirting the Black Wood`s edge. At its upper tipping point I glimpsed a stretch of still water fenced in and almost hidden behind trees. There was no way in for eye or body to fully appreciate the lochen`s size or nature.

Then I found a lightly indented grass trail leading in to shoreside. 

Such quiet.... Sound-proofed against wind and tree sway. At my vision`s edge, the light plink and ripple of a trout jumping happened. And again. The sound of quietly falling leaves drifted over to me.

I stood and stretched down, feeling hamstrings strain and then relax. Friday, Saturday and Sunday I could have sat, stood, even swam, just here. And done nothing else.

In the early hours before dawn I was awoken by the cold and listened to and thought about two owls close by me, calling across the woods. High, clear night song, trailing off in wavelets. Soft as their feathers.

Rannoch Moor

Parking the car at Rannoch station early on Saturday I prepared for my walk across the moor to Glencoe : took a selection from the stock of tinned sardines, oatcakes, apples and carrots. Plus some water bottles. (I really wouldn`t need these). I was walking east to west, into a vast and ancient sundial; each distant mountain reflecting sunlight and shadow in an ageless repeating sequence, augmented by the infinitely variable patterning of clouds and mists.
The walk was 12 miles across, carrying a heavy-enough rucksack. I knew Saturday`s weather was to be fair, Sunday`s execrable.

The first of three sections passed through woodland that skirted the head of Loch Laidon

Loch Laidon

The middle third was a walk through boggy grassland accompanied by a long, highly unphotogenic line of power cables

Then onto solid ground. Glencoe drawing almost imperceptivley closer

Bridges are a fine thing. How I hankered after them on Sunday...

One of the landmarks that failed to reappear on Sunday - because I was to branch off onto another path. 

The mountain the cairn echoes is Buachaille Etive Mòr, the Great Herdsman of Etive, and it was this mountain that I was visiting, like a pilgrim to his God`s cathedral

I pitched tent here. Felt I should have been raising a yurt. A beautiful spot in which to sit and breath and stop thinking all those clamouring thoughts. A place to awaken to an orange sun glowing on the mountain`s face.

When all was in its place a liveried estate manager drew up and asked me kindly to flit further along as they were set to move a herd of Highland cows that evening. 

The second pitch had a fine view of the mountain. Here, the river roared soothingly. Also it was only a mile or so down to King`s House Hotel. I sauntered down to the climbers` bar for a pint and some crisps.
Returning, I sat watching the mountains and marvelling at an eagle`s agility in flight. I then lay reading and, an hour after sunset, fell asleep - the river`s white noise a lullaby.
So that was Saturday

I was a bit concerned that the early Sunday rain would make some streams difficult to cross on the trail back. I woke before dawn and set off by torchlight. Sound as this notion was, the darkness caused me to wander onto the wrong road. In the dawning light I walked along for five miles or so looking for yesterday`s landmarks - finding none. The drizzle and fog obscured all the mountains. My compass showed south where north should be.  Retracing my path I came to a dead end. I became quite dismayed. I was lost on Rannoch Moor. Not good.

Then I saw what I hoped was the west to east trail markers (those ugly power cables). I followed the marshy line of a fence down towards them and was very relieved to have found my bearings again. Sure enough I encountered each Saturday landmark in turn. Safe.

All was fine (if wet and blustery) until I encountered the first in a number of "challenging" crossings. The first of these cataracts seemed impassable but, as there was no choice, I threw my rucksack to an " island", (on the middle left of the retrospective picture above) followed it, then chucked it and myself  to the other side. Had I slipped I would have been swept down the roaring flume. 

Even on reaching the woodlands, what had been gentle streams were now torrents. This last one fordable only with rucksack on my back. 
As I hobbled the last few miles blisters burst and I hobbled some more...
In time I reached Rannoch station and the car, whose key I had continually reached for in my jacket pocket, like a talisman.
And as I sat, heater blasting, stripping down and drying my sodden body, the deserted and remote railway station started to throng with locals and travellers awaiting the arrival of the Glasgow train to Fort William.
And I realised that I worship the gods of nature and modernity.