The walk from Dryman to Balmaha was shorter -- 9 miles compared to yesterday's 12.
Still, that’s a right punchy stroll in the Scottish Highlands. There is a reason they are called the Highlands. The region is dominated by numerous mountain ranges, including Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles. You pass through, by, or over several of them on this walk, often on rough rocky paths. This time of year, rain makes those rough rocky paths slippery and adds the negotiation of sizable puddles to the mix. Those of us who thought waterproof trail runners (shout out to Altras found at REI) would be just fine are already wondering about this choice. There's water and then there's Scotland.
Still, each of us is finding her legs and tuning into the brilliant environment around us and to the words that we set out to explore each day. I, personally, have never seen so many shades of green, rust and gray in one place and my writing can't seem to get enough of them.
Today’s word-of-the-day was HEAR. As we walked we listened for what the path had to say in its babbling brooks, roaring winds, and leap-frogging rain showers. We focused on the crunching of our feet, the sound of each other‘s voices, and the silences that grew in the pace gaps that grew between us. I wondered how differently we would listen as each of us passed through the misty, still Garadhban Forest when eventually climbed to an open pass with tall red-brown grasses and cat-tail lined bogs in which one laughing black labrador splashed and chased his own tail. We moved past fields of heather at the autumn end of their color, and began the climb to the first major summit of the 100-mile Way.
The nearly 1,200 foot climb up Conic Hill was a long and for a few in our group, discouraging, haul. But that diligence delivered such stunning views of enchanting Loch Lomond and the mountains beyond it was almost possible to forget the difficult hike up. Almost. The "hill" in Conic Hill is a bit of an understatement?
It was a harder walk down. Knees (all 12 of them) took a battering.
But, I am proud to report that our whole gaggle of wandering, writing, women made it up, over, and down iconic Conic and into the wee village of Balmaha, the gateway to the Trossachs National Park. Since we span an age range from low 50s to mid-70s I consider us completing day two en masse a great feat.
Even though Balmaha is a grain of sand on the map, ancient dwellings in this area are proof that this spot has been inhabited some 5,000 years.
Like hobbits returning from adventure, we dragged into beautiful Bay Cottage B & B.
Is there such a thing as perfect? If so, this 200-year-old family home turned bed and breakfast is in the running, especially after a long, long trek. Imagine the joy of being greeted by a cozy fire, tea, homemade scones, and comfy beds to rest our aching feet. And in the morning our hostess provided a most delectable and abundant breakfast spread, including the best black pudding I've ever said yes to (not that there have been many given that I'm a quasi vegetarian).
Oh Scotland, your hospitality is enviable and your overnight oats splendid.
Our second prompt, used during our evening session was PHOENIX. Check the next post for those works.
What our walking writers heard today:
Heard
Crunch, crunch, crunch
"This direction? Do we go on straight?"
Dogs splashing in a cattail pond high above Loch Lomond
The Bonnie Banks o' Loch Lomond sung in tune and out
Crows crowing with solid black enthusiasm
Ladies gathering at the foot of the climb
Deciding they can do it
Surprised the climb behind was not THE CLIMB mentioned in the books
One very small, utterly chipper bird twittering encouragement
The galump, galump, galumping of an unseen but sizable bird
Or maybe a frog
Smallish airplane high overhead, glurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring
Sloshing hydro pack in a multi-colored nap sack
A tiny brook wishing to be a stream
Babbling really, but heard as a symphony
Wild, wild wind waving, wandering
Tea cups clicking
Murmurs and sighs as homemade scones and jam pass around
The sweet Scottish brogue of a good son building a fire
Silence
Silence again
Sleep
Cheryl Murfin, West Highland Way 2019
Conic Hill
I heard the cows braying
to one another across the glen
saying I know not what
And the ravens call, another language
which can’t be deciphered with my large brain
The willowy wind in the trees
as they speak to the grasses
is yet another puzzlement
Sure as my ears can hear
I thought I’d been looking at a hillside
covered in heather only to find
at least half of the color I saw was fern
turning brown, going to root for the winter
I listen too for the wordless song
of the silent stones
but likely I’ m wrong about them too
they may have deep, eonic voices
light years beyond my ken
Cynthia Henon, West Highland Way 2019
“Hear”
Cow bawling wolflike
Diaphragm possibly as big as a bass drum-head
Sound breaking across elastic vocal cords
the bird distinct’
In a foreign tongue
Intricate lacy variations
theme? Territory, time-telling, invitation,
echo dynamics
Incidentally charming,
or is it on purpose?
the breathe of exertion
Inside the body an engine,
a gas exchanger, fueling,
stoking fire, banking
sound of the cold wind
heard at the ears, waving and waving
the ear hairs bending like grass
and outside my grey hair whipping my face
the mysterious subjects of my own voice
inside my forehead
running a story
that includes bawling, intricate variations
whispery ways
to the tune of my feet saying
“Here. Here.”
Sharon Murfin, West Highland Way 2019
Listen
Morning headed up the path, a slight ascent the sound of our boots on the pavement. A bird
calling from the pines. It’s a rook. The Scots from Aberdeen overtake us and fall into step, their accents hard to understand something about the whisky at the distillery yesterday, then they move on bidding us “Good journeys.”
We continue up hill, talking, the sound of our footsteps crunching, and then far beloow us the first glimpse of Loch Lomond. Cythina begins to sing and for several rounds we walk together singing as the Loch comes more fully into view.
The dogs that race by us are beautiful and full of rapture heading assuredly to the black water of a frond-surrounded pond. The down echoing splash as their paws and furry chests break into the still water sending ripples shushing against the yellow grasses bearding it, like a rind of silver, or mercury breaking against fire. We are blinded.
Mary Murfin-Bayley, Westhighland Way, 2019
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