from the Great Glen Way Trail in Scotland: pushing

I had thought of several subtitles for this post: every pain has an end; exhaustion; it was not my fault; it very much was my fault; it was the fault of the British telly; etc. None capture the essence of the day well. I’m still trying to understand how it came to be that at 9:30 p.m., I could hardly put one foot in front of the other and the end to the day's hike seemed intolerably distant.

Sure, we had planned to push ourselves a little – to do more than the recommended miles for each day. Yes, I know, we’re not athletes and we’re both getting very close to the what some would call the golden years, but still, we are full of energy and our physical stamina is high.

But there is the matter of the heavy packs – I’m carrying a lot of gear in addition to the usual daily stuff. And then there’s the issue of the weather. It was supposed to clear up (the telly said!). Instead, it clouded over and what started out as a gray drizzle…





Progressively turned into a heavy drizzle and then somewhere between that and light but constant rain.





And still, our first segment – 13.5 miles through the National Forest that borders Loch Lochy – had segments of hope. My hood would come off, I would grin and pose for photos…





…I would hum a nice ditty and tally forth.


The ditties stopped when the trickle of wetness felt its way down my neck and the breeze lost its warmth and the climb began to reflect the hilliness of the terrain.

I would still occasionally take out the camera – the green forest is dense and beautiful and the ferns and wild flowers at the edge of the path are stunning even in the rain.










But mostly, I would keep it under cover.

And so we lumber forth. We like to pause in our hikes – to look out, to admire, to sit quietly and reflect on the landscape around us. We try once and I get chilled and that puts an the end to our beloved pauses.

Except, as we leave the forest...











... and approach the end of the day’s segment (at 4 p.m.) at a wee village just at the tip of Loch Lochy, we do pause. There is a barge, artfully converted into a pub. Used to Scottish weather, the owners have a woodstove going, and a room to hang up wet garments and more importantly, in addition to the tea and hot chocolate, they offer us bowls of hot soup. It all goes to my head.




And, Ed in an uncharacteristic move, suggests that we split a pint. After going back and forth as to whether it should be pale (my preference) or dark and bitter (his preference), the bartender prompts that we should each get a half pint and therefore stay with our own likes and I think – how cool! Bartenders understand that sometimes compromise is tough to accomplish.

For example, compromise in the matter of camping. I have agreed to occasionally camp. But the rain has caused me to reconsider. We’ve pitched tents in damp weather plenty of times. To me, these are the tough times in camping. So, if a few more miles can put you in a warm b&b, wouldn’t you rather hike the extra miles than pitch in a puddle and throw wet gear in a tent?

It is this kind of reasoning (on my part) that leads me to suggest that we walk the whole next segment and push for Fort Augustus – another 10 miles up the trail. Fort Augustus has b&b’s. In Fort Augustus we can dry off. Then, in subsequent days, we can camp. Especially since the bartender assures us that the barometer is on the rise.

Ed agrees. He's less into the "dry off at the b&b idea," but the man likes a physical challenge. We call a handful of b&b’s, find one with an available room and set out.

I notice right away – the minute we leave the barge, that my upper legs are hurting. I shrug it off. That’s what you get for sitting down for too long.

At least the barometer appeares to be on target. The rain is definitely pausing. The clouds are still there, but they are higher, as if they're giving up on the likes of us, looking for other souls to torture elsewhere. I take out my camera again and snap one for the road as Ed moves ahead of me (note the Great Glen Way trail marker at the side -- it is an exceptionally well marked trail).





But still, we do not pause. I begin to realize that I am very tired. And that when I do pause, my legs stiffen. The pain of getting them to a working state again is too much.

And so we push ourselves. Along a rail bed that has shreds of the Industrial Revolution still in evidence. [On the one side – the old and in this case failed rail link, and on the other – a canal that was as important to commerce in the centuries of Britain’s industrial expansion.]

Now, of course, it is all very green, very forgotten.





On the other side of the water we can occasionally hear cars moving along the road. You have to wonder if that, too, will become obsolete two hundred years from now, so that this area will be a museum to failed forms of transportation.

Occasionally we pass pleasant meadows – ideal camping places. And of course, we should have pitched a tent (the recent law in Scotland permits hiking and overnight tenting on any private land, with very few restrictions; it’s a camper’s dream to be able to do this at will!). But now I feel obligated to the place we have called. Someone is holding a room for us. Someone is counting on our promised payment.

We walk on.










By now, even Ed is hurting. We each develop a list of short complaints – mine are heavily concentrated on gnawing pain – legs, feet, shoulders. Pain. We smile to each other in support, but the smiles are fleeting, hardly worth the physical effort.

We are back at the side of the Caledonian Canal and I remember yesterday’s endless walk along an earlier stretch of this same canal, hoping that each bend would be the last. How poorly we learn the lessons of our past!





I call our b&b person and tell her that our pace has slackened considerably. Indeed, that we are basically without strength. It would be close to 10 before we would arrive.

Each trail has an end and each day ends with the hope that tomorrow there will be sun and the limbs will loosen up again. But on this night, we are spent. The b&b person senses the tiredness in my voice. She sends her daughter to fetch us just at the point where the trail enters the village of St Augustus. It saves us the half mile hike to her guest house. I have never felt more grateful.


IMPORTANT NOTE: for the next ten days (until June 9th), my Internet access is going to be very uncertain. Over my years of blogging, I can think of only a handful of times where I could not post because of a connection problem. This may well be another such time. I will try – I’ll be hiking and kayaking with my computer in my pack (scary thought that it is). But we’re not sure if we’ll find places to stay (we have our sleeping bags) let alone places to hook up. So, stay patient please!

from the Great Glen Way Trail in Scotland

I’m in a warm bed and I had a dinner. Two hours ago, I was sure I’d be without both tonight.

Sure, those are things to be grateful for, but even more remarkable is this: on our bus ride from Edinburgh up north (total bus hours: 6), the skies turned from mostly cloudy…





… to mostly wet.










But when we reached Inverness (the northernmost big town in Scotland), patches of blue began to appear again. And for the rest of the evening, the threat of rain receded to only a mild possibility.





Inverness was, for us, only a temporary stop. We wanted to drop off some equipment at the b&b we would eventually return to some days in the future. But we were there long enough to realize that things have changed up north in Great Britain. First of all, great coffee is now easy to find and secondly – Inverness is no longer just an English speaking place. The second language here is Polish.

At the bus station, the signs are printed out in two languages – English and Polish. Around town, I hear my language again and again. At the café where I purchase the wonderful coffee, Roman, the (Polish) long haired barista, gives me a strongly accented lecture on how he cannot rush my cappuccino order, because if he does, the foam will be too frothy. I want to tell him that I prefer frothy foam to a missed bus, but I know that arguing with my fellow countrymen is a long and drawn out and mostly futile enterprise (and besides, I want my coffee), so I stay silent.

Our final bus ride puts us in Fort William. Here we begin the Great Glen Way hike.

It’s a trail that runs from the western shores of Scotland all the way to the North Sea on the east (for a total of 72 miles). The recommended hiking time is six days, but we want to do it in four and a half. Indeed, that half is highly suspect, since we don’t reach the trailhead until 5 pm.

The deal is that occasionally we’ll sleep in a warm b&b, but even more occasionally, we’ll camp (this last is entirely an Ed preference).

And so we set out.










This day’s segment is only 11 miles and it is an easy walk: mostly along the banks of the Caledonian Canal.




















The plan is to reach the endpoint: a bridge that marks the end of the Canal segment, and to then call the booked b&b for this first night (Ed occasionally succumbs to pleading). At the bridge, you’ll find a red phone booth. Call us when you get there! – said the friendly farmer when Ed called from Madison to book a room.

After three hours, we began to look for the bridge and the red phone booth. At each bend, I shout back to Ed – no bridge yet! A dozen corners later, I ask the unanswerable question – why aren’t we there yet? We hadn’t eaten since breakfast. The b&b host was supposed to pick us up, drop us off in a village where we would find food, then take us to his home (a common practice to get hikers to stay at the off-trail places). But things were getting uncomfortably late for all that to happen.





Ed takes out his trusty cheap cell phone and dials. No ring. A weak signal. Low battery. All portend of trouble ahead.

We amble over to the one solitary house by the trail. Our knock is answered by a guy who looks like he is very tired of living in the one solitary house by the trail. But, after some discussion, he tells us that something’s off with the phone number. He disappears inside his house and we think we’ve lost him for the day, but 15 minutes later he comes out and gives us a new number. Try that – he tells Ed. We thank him and, as we leave, I ask – so, how many lost and confused souls do you get at your door? Thousands… -- he answers with resignation.

And I can see it. Ever since the trail opened some half dozen years back, hikers have been passing his front door, wondering where the hell they were and how long it would take to get to the bridge or a road or some sign that the canal path will finally end.

One mile later, at Garliclochy, it does end. And there is the identifying phone box.




We call and our hosts pluck us off at the intersection and drive us to the only open eatery in the area -- the Little Chef. [In case you don’t know this chain, I’d say it’s like an upper-end fast food place. When I ate in one some two dozen years ago, I distinctly remember crunching on a burger that was like meatloaf with more loaf than meat to it. This time, I was pleasantly surprised to find free range chicken and sustainable fisheries salmon on the list. Basically, Little Chef has taken on the challenge of serving well-sourced foods. It’s still fast and short on flavor, but I’ll take free range chicken over McNuggets anyday.

Even in this northern outpost, the light is almost gone when our host drives us the short way home. We are at the foot of Ben Nevis, the highest peak in Great Britain, typically shrouded in cloud cover, but now, tonight, almost visible to us.





At the b&b, I’m too tired to sleep. The hike isn’t taxing (thus far) elevation wise, but we walk briskly and my pack is heavy, what with sleeping gear, the camera and my computer. Still, can you imagine – we’ve stayed dry so far. And on the telly, I hear that Great Britain is in for a warm spell. How good is that?!

IMPORTANT NOTE: for the next eleven days (until June 9th), my Internet access is going to be very uncertain. Over my years of blogging, I can think of only a handful of times where I could not post because of a connection problem. This may well be another such time. I will try – I’ll be hiking and kayaking with my computer in my pack (scary thought that it is). But we’re not sure if we’ll find places to stay (we have our sleeping bags) let alone places to hook up. So, stay patient please!

from Edinburgh: changes

The Edinburgh airport is small, but even so, my Ryan Air flight is parked at some distance to the terminal. For a minute, I wonder if they’ll charge us for the bus ride in. [In case you don’t know, Ryan Air is the Walmart of the airline industry: the flights are very cheap; but you have to be careful – everything is subject to a surcharge: sending luggage through, the weight of each bag, the order in which you want to board the plane, the water you drink on it – everything.]

I scan the grounds and notice that there are only a couple of planes at the gates. None of them Air France.

But as the bus pulls up to the terminal, I see the familiar Air France logo taxing toward us. And so I am not surprised when at passport control, the person behind me is Ed, arriving after a series of connections from Madison.

It is damn cold here. 51F feels very nippy after the heat of Bologna. I notice that even the locals are in their woolies. But I also notice that it’s not raining.

I had briefly lived in Edinburgh more than thirty years ago, when my then husband was working on his dissertation on the Scottish Enlightenment. I remember very many wonderful things about the place, but I also remember the rain. You could start the day without it, but sooner or later a nice black cloud would roll in and dump its wet stuff on you.

Today, however, there is (occasional) sunshine.

But the city’s a mess. It appears they’re putting in a tram along Princes Street (the main commercial hub). Everything is ripped open. No matter. We’re here for the night only and we’ve got stuff to do: buy pants for Ed (his fell apart on the flight over; you have to know Ed to understand why that is not a ridiculous statement – the man wears his clothes to their bitter and often unexpected end), buy book on the Glen Way hike, buy sim card for cell phone, walk back several miles due to getting off at wrong bus stop, find hotel, convince them that it’s fine to leave our bags for several weeks there, etc.

We do all that against the backdrop of Edinburgh’s splendid scenery.





Indeed, if you look up toward the castle, or down toward the Firth, it all looks quite fine.





You just cannot look straight ahead, because all you’ll see is construction.

In the evening, we stop everything to eat dinner. We pick a place with a seafood theme, so that Ed can gradually adjust to the Scots’ preference for blood on the plate. We eat sardines and trout and mussels and I think – it’s not too bad foodwise up here in Scotland.










On the walk back to the hotel, I look up and notice the telltale clouds on the horizon.





It’ll be an interesting few weeks.


IMPORTANT NOTE: for the next twelve days (until June 9th), my Internet access is going to be very uncertain. Over my years of blogging, I can think of only a handful of times where I could not post because of a connection problem. This may well be another such time. I will try – I’ll be hiking and kayaking with my computer in my pack (scary thought that it is). But we’re not sure if we’ll find places to stay (we have our sleeping bags) let alone places to hook up. So, stay patient please!

from Bologna: one last time

I go down to breakfast early. The hotel staff person, who resembles in every way a Sicilian grandmother greets me and asks if I want my cappuccino. Yes, yes, thank you. I am in a hurry. At 7:30, I will be taking a cab to the airport.
You were here with your daughter yesterday? She smiles.
Yes, but she’s not here today. She had to catch a flight before dawn.
The Sicilian grandmother (maybe) frowns. She’s alright? Nothing happened?
I nod. She’s alright. She just needed to get back before me.

My daughter -- my guide, my cheerful friend.

Last night after dinner, she (the poor student) reaches quickly for her credit card and pushes it at the waiter. No, take mine! -- I’m waving mine as well. He looks at both of us and takes mine. Let your mother pay – he says with a smile. In those four words, he shows his understanding of family. This is how it works. Kids grow up, but mothers will always want to make sure they’re eating well.





At the airport, I look at the screen. About a third of the outbound flights are canceled. I panic. Why are they cancelled? Did my girl take off okay? She, of course, would laugh at my worries. She has dealt with travel issues on all continents of this planet. Mostly without me to guide her through them. But she has a tight connection! I ask an attendant what's happening. Seems that Bologna ground airport staff are on strike. Of course. I cannot remember being in Italy when some branch of the transportation industry was not on strike. And the early flight to Paris, did it take off? I ask. Yes, yes. Don’t worry.

What are they talking about? To be a parent and not to worry? Has anyone figured out how to do that? (Has she landed In Paris yet? Did she make her connection? And what about my older girl – how will her morning proceed? What will she be eating for dinner tonight?)



Monday, our last day in Italy, starts slowly. We stroll up the wide boulevard in search of lunch. Prosciutto and melon, prosciutto and cheese – the combinations are predictable. Will I manage to go back to a lunch-free existence after days of sweet melon and thinly sliced Italian hams?

I look up at the tall trees shading the terrace of the café. Chestnuts. A full canopy of chestnuts.





I don’t know a city that isn’t improved by the presence of chestnuts. But wait, does Bologna even need improvement?

Her squares are gorgeous (if empty now, as in the heat of the midday sun people keep to the shaded loggias).











And the colors! Yes, the red, and the marigold yellow, and Sicilian orange.












Nor can Bologna’s foods be improved upon. Indeed, I doubt that the stores selling her foods can be any better.




















And maybe it’s the heat that slows things down here, to a calm and friendly pace, but somehow I don’t think so. I think it’s just that people like each other. And they have a lot to say. And they like a good espresso. It’s a stellar combination.





So we walk the lovely streets and we look inside stores and we study the faces of the old churches.





And we very carefully pick our ice cream place because it is going to be our last gelato and it better be a good gelato since we have such fond memories of Rome’s gelato!

Oh, it is good. More than good. Over the top great. A new “best”! (La Sorbetteria Castigliana)





I order three scoops. The flavors are intense and very Italian: ricotta and figs and honey, pine and walnuts, lemon and cream.

We’re intrigued by a fairly popular variation on the cone. I ask someone – what are you eating? What is that? He laughs and his girlfriend answers for him: la foccacia!





Italians take such pleasure in their ice cream. Like an espresso, it is quick and dirty. On the run. You pause, you buy, you eat and you continue walking. We do the same.

Up one street, down the next, weaving in and out of loggias, entering shops, glancing at racks, leaving again. Grazie, arrivederci. Damn, this country has style!











And now we are at the towers again. I keep thinking – grassa, rossa, towers, tortellini, tagliatelle, tits… It’s all here – the loggias, the monuments, the tits on the monuments…































Evening. The waiter asks if he can pour the Prosecco. He picks the dinner wine for us, but foodwise, we know what we want – the thin ham, yes, that, and the meats – with mushrooms, with balsamic, yes, we’ll have all that, sure, but really what we are most in need of right now is a big bowlful of tagliatelle bolonese.





The final and most satisfying comfort food that Italy can offer us. Take this memory with you, take it and bring it into focus on the February night in Wisconsin or Boston, when the temperatures will be 100 degrees colder than here, on this day.

The dish is perfect, absolutely perfect.

As is our trip here.

As is our late night walk home.