A beautifully written piece, Doc, which makes me want to strap my boat to the roof-rack right this minute, and to hell with the lot of them!
Call me a pedant if you wish, Doc, but my watch (with real hands) is a navigation aid and goes with me, although I do understand why you left yours in the car. I've always said that if you have forgotten what day it is, then you've achieved an objective!
Nowhere in Scotland is more than 7 miles from a metalled road? That is an outrageously city-centric fallacy, most certainly propagated by someone who hopes nowhere on the planet is more than 7 miles from a road!
Besides, mileage is relative to type of terrain. There's a cracking place I sometimes visit in the far north which is 1.5 miles from a road and takes about 4 hours to get to. I once took to the gravel beach of a loch in Lochaber as a line of least resistance in order to get some ground covered, and my average increased to 1 mph over 5 hours.
In the late 70's, a mate and I set about crossing Rannoch by canoe, which resulted in 2 over-nights in midgie heaven after getting caught up in the fankle of dummy leads and dead ends. The Moor of Rannoch Hotel was a welcome watering hole for the following 2 nights and we decided to call an interlude to our overall plan.
We'd had the brilliant idea of "canoeing" from Atlantic to North Sea by way of entering Loch Etive, "paddling" up the River Etive to Rannoch, Loch Rannoch, Tummel and the River Tay to emerge at Broughty. We could take our time as we had a fortnight to spare, but after "paddling" the multitude of fast runs, swirling pools, cascades and waterfalls of the River Etive by way of thickly heather blanketed, boulder strewn highland glen (some call it portage), and having elevated our position by 250 metres and 20 miles in 9 days since our white-knuckle ride under the Connel Bridge on the incoming tide, we stumbled at the first fence and got totally bladdered in the Kinghouse Hotel. We fell at the second fence, as we met Lachlan the Gamie in the Moor of Rannoch Hotel, who plied us with fine Highland Malts, assured us we were braw hardy cheils and enlightened us to the Highland equivalent of mañana, mañana!
We did return the following weekend to complete our journey to the mouth of the Tay. But my point is that distance is entirely a subjective construct. There are three cairns at the side of the road just before you enter Glen Coe, the memory of a tragic night in the 70's when three laddies lost their lives. They were 6 miles from the Kinghouse Hotel and less than 2 miles from the nearest inhabited house!
Many thanks for your writing and for the chance to make a virtual, if shortlived, bid for freedom.
Cheers,
Bill.
