The West Highland Way

On Saturday mornings, Glasgow sleeps. Waiting for the 8:31 train, we were 5 people, three of them with backpacks. On the 8:20 train, which I let go so as not to sprint, three more boarded. The train left and arrived on time, and in Milngavie we all looked like we were starting the West Highland Way.

There were three busy tables having breakfast early, two couples and me. Mine, next to the windows. I was absent, watching as it rained when he brought me the scrambled eggs. It’s raining, he told me. She grabbed a chair, and began to tell me that they opened a few months ago, that it was a hot March and April.

Every hostel worthy of admiration must have its red hair working in it. In Rowardennan Lodge, he serves food. And for every dish that yesterday he served to the group of four women who became the real queens of the party, he took a standing ovation and the chef a few congratulations.

I met Greg, who I don’t remember his name, when I was going to breakfast. He was the tenant of bothy next door. The previous evening we were commenting on the harshness of the terrain that day, that he had also met the American couple, that I had also met the German couple, and, after asking myself about the story of Catalonia, we spent some time with the English. He had voted Yes.

Crianlarich has a train station and bus stop, as I told you. It is a good starting point to the north, towards the Highlands, and a good point of return to the south, towards the Lowlands. Or you can change lanes and head west to Oban. In Crianlarich the train also stays longer than necessary, about 6 minutes.

I had asked Wendy if she could have breakfast at seven-thirty instead of eight. You have to take the bus, she said. Wendy and Philip are the owners of the Glenardran House, the B&B where I will stay two more nights in Crianlarich, and which was hired by the waiter at Ben More Lodge because they could only offer me one more night.

The 8:34 bus was full of hikers. At least, of people dressed as hikers. No wonder. From Crianlarich to Glencoe there is only one village, Tyndrum, three or four settlements, and mountains. And the bus arrives at Fort William, the nerve centre of mountain sports in Scotland. It is also the end of the West Highland Way.

His name was Pepe, and he was from Badajoz, Spain. She came to Fort William sixteen years ago, fleeing a divorce, intending to stay there for a few months. He found a Galician woman there, and never returned. He is a taxi driver, the father of two Scottish children, and has a client who spends her alcoholism subsidy on bingo and the taxi that takes her there, as she is abstinent.