Day 3: Balmaha to Rowardennan

Green Woman / Sharon Murfin

Tears flowed this evening.

Several of the writers on this walk have been closely following Charlie Loram's guide to the West Highland Way or reading other reflections on the path on their phones. These sources help steel walkers for the expected terrain of the day. For our group, they are consulted to decide if any given writer should take the mid-way "out" (which is generally a taxi) from the day's half-way point to our next accommodation.

I have a hunch Charlie Loram is a wee bit heartier those in our little group. While some of us make a living writing, none of make a living writing about long-distance walking. I also wonder if Charlie has ever walked the path in October. This part of the Way, despite it's serene and easy-going description online and on the page, was really difficult for several of us, with steep ups and downs along a zig-zagging, slippery, muddy march alongside Loch Lomond.

Fun fact: At 24 miles long and five miles wide, the freshwater Loch Lomond is the largest lake in the UK. We are getting to know it intimately as it sits quietly to the left of us as we make our way. This waterway was the inspiration for the one Scottish tune most of us remember from childhood: "You take the high road and I'll take the low road. . ."

Here's a version:

Although this vision, definitely NOT filmed on the Loch Lomond but on one of the Hebridean islands, is more my cup of Celtic tea!

As I passed or come up alongside the writers up and down the path, I often caught them humming or singing this tune. It’s actually a sad song, about loss and longing. When I learned that today, I realized that standing at the top of that Conic Hill yesterday, what I felt was the weight of all the losses and all the loves this Loch has known.

By the way, never say “lake” to a Scotsman. A local brayed at me today: "It's loch, always loch!"

We wandered into the National Memorial Park at Ben Lomond where a large circular memorial stone faced proudly toward the loch. We crossed numerous picturesque bridges and scrambled over countless running streams. This country literally weeps, with water cascading down mountains and hills, burbling up along in path-side brooks, seeping deep in muddy bogs. After some pleasant undulating rises on the road, we faced a steep climb through a thick stand of oak trees to eventually hauled ourselves up to great views of Ben Lomond and the Arrochar Alps in the background.

The walk from Balmaha the Rowardennan Hotel at the base of Ben Lomond was only 7.7 miles, but for some reason it felt like an eternity. Jet lag, the anxiety about how hard this will get with the imfamous "Devil's Staircase" still ahead, the physical discomforts, and a reduction of the adrenaline that boosted us all at the start have all come into play.

But even while the road was challenging today, is also offered moments of delight, spaces of balance. The terrain remains lush, gorgeous, and, to me, mystical through its fogs and angel-like sun breaks. The sky an ever-changing palette. In places, the path was so silent beyond the roll of water.

Perhaps it was too quiet today. When we gathered in the eveniing, the writers expressed discomfort with our group spreading out so far at times. When it was tough going, some felt scared and alone. One of our walkers ran out of water -- and on these paths that move into uninhabited wilderness, that's a definite anxiety pop. We sat, shed our tears, and put a few new questions on the table.

How can we go forward together or separately feeling safe, fearless? What does this road need to give to each of us individually but also as a group? Is it possible to put away the maps and the mile count, to put away the worry about how many hills are ahead, and just walk this road step-by-step.

From my "lofty' facilitator's seat, I suggested the latter. I preached that to walk the road in this way might help us meet what is, for most people, the greatest challenge: which is to trust whatever path we are on to carry us where we most need to go.

But I was grateful when one of the writers challenged my suggestion. Not everyone can, or wants to, go blindly down a path, especially when others have gone before and offer helpful insights. For some people, she observed, learning about terrain inspires confidence and excitement.

I learned in this conversation that I have changed over the past year since my pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella. I was an information gatherer then, ripping out pages from my guide as we walked along (tossing pages was a way to lighten my pack). Today I am more comfortable with blind trust, and the occasional arrow pointing the way, even if it means I get a little lost and have to retrace my steps a few times.

The prompt: I asked the writers to carry two shades of green with them. And to let those colors come alive in their walking and in their writing. That is, they were to integrate the name of the color if not the color itself into a story. I was thrilled by the pieces that flowed from this exercise. Most are below but a longer one will be shared on our next post:

---

Misty Green / Garden Green

Pooh left early, even before having enough honey to satisfy himself.

“Oh bother” said Pooh.

And he shoved his body through the front door.

He was rushing to meet Christopher Robin. Christopher Robin had said to meet at the garden but Pooh didn’t know exactly which garden Christopher Robin had in mind. So, he walked to his friend Tigger’s garden.

Christopher Robin was not there.

“Oh bother” said Pooh.

So, he decided to see if Christopher Robin was at the garden of Kanga and Roo. The weather was misty and cold. Poor Pooh really wanted to get warm (and his tummy was rumbling for a bit more honey). Eventually he arrived at the garden of Kanga and Roo.

Roo was excited to see Pooh and said: “Pooh have you come to play with me”?

Pooh replied, “Not today Roo. I am looking for Christopher Robin. Have you seen him?”

“No“ said Roo.

“Oh bother” said Pooh.

Pooh was beginning to wonder if Christopher Robin had meant for him to leave the hundred acre wood. Christopher Robin had never asked him to leave the hundred acre wood.

Pooh was scared, but Christopher Robin was Pooh‘s best friend and findings and meetings with are very important things.

Pooh started walking towards the big oak tree at the edge of the hundred acre wood. As he got closer, he was more frightened with every step.

Then, all of a sudden he saw Christopher Robin waiting by the big oak tree.

Pooh was very relieved.

“Christopher Robin,” said Pooh, “I thought you said to meet at the garden?”

Christopher Robin said, “Oh Pooh! Silly old bear. This IS the garden, the very biggest one. It’s nature’s Garden.”

Tina, West Highland Way, 2019

---

Edith's Eye Green / Ho-ho Green

Edith has green eyes.

“I have green eyes,” she said to herself. “Green as emeralds, but never seen one. Green as the sea in the small bay of Laban. Green – green everywhere," she mused as she walked untidily on. “Seems like God made green to be special, to take all the hills over, and hard to make pretty with paint. God loves a green! Except I do love the wool when the lichen boils

down, and we stitch it on for St. Columba’s feast day, tho’ tis the gold that brings

out the deepest beauty of a green. "Is my hair gold?” she wondered, arriving at the open doors. “Common, common everyday green. Flowers na’er green, and why should they be? Agatha brought roses back from Spain.” Her eyes landed on the rose plants in the pots at either side of the door. “She says all red roses are born in China, and the leaves all so glossy! Looks like our wine splashed all over them, and then the new olive oil crop got spilled on top. Ho hum green, ho-holy green, ho-ho green,” she yawned adjusting her wimple.

---

Tabernacle Green / Emerald green

“It’s rather mystical ,” the lady at the bed and breakfast had told them. “When you go there you’ll feel as if you are part of two worlds — the highland and the low.”

And Mauve did feel that magical line, the splitting of sacred space between the island and the water and the world all around it. She felt it the moment she stepped off the Margaret, the tiny wooden ferry that dropped them on the pier below Inchcailloch, or The Isle of the Old Woman in Scottish Gaelic.

The feeling of was one of belonging and of letting go, of being apart and being completely united, at the same time. Mauve walked up the path from the water to old church ruin and graveyard. She stood before the grave of St. Kentigerma, the namesake of the tiny isle.

As she stood mesmerized by the lichen-rich stone, Mauve was sure she heard a whisper in her left ear. Not words exactly, but a sort of sweet beckoning. The sound seemed to be carried along the rushing wind itself as it passed through oak trees surrounding the yard. It was both silent and big, like the wrestling of the a many and varied leaves — ferns, shrubs, ivy, ash.

The sound wrapped around her, fused into her heart.

She looked at Adam only to realize how that a line was now drawn between them now too, just as the veil sat between the water and the island. She belonged to this moss. He belonged to mainland beyond the loch.

Colors rose from the path path like birds from a rush.; exploding, brilliant, impossible; heavenly. So many shades of gold and green — too many almost.

Walking behind him down the path she shed her skin into those colors.

__ __ __ __

“You’ll know,” the doctor had said.

__ __ __ __

Adam slept so soundly he merely turned over at the creaking she caused when she rose; when she opened wide the French doors; when the holy illumination of the full moon spilled into the room, doubled by the lake below.

Nor did he hear the tiny splashes of the oars as the set the dingy adrift and moved out across the water.

__ __ __ __

In the middle of the lake, too far to swim back to the mainland and her sleeping husband, Mauve pulled off the wig. She thanked it for the mercy of femininity it had provided her and tossed it to the waves. She looked up at the moon, bathing in its cool blue light for a moment then with one simple movement slipped into the water. Her hairless head shimmered in the moonlight as she started to swim toward Inchcailloch. Her eyes opened wide, and her ears filled with the howling wind song which had dulled on the mainland but never left her completely.

Off in the distance, she could see the veil, that thin veil, shifting and dancing in that wind.

In time, her body let go, the weight of it sinking deeper and deeper until finally is slipped below the water and Mauve was returned, back to the original lung, the gills of the other realm.

It was here, at the point between two worlds, she left that body behind, let it fall silently, like a leave from a tree, to the Loch floor.

She rose to the surface, a shining emerald of spirit, finally going home.

Cheryl Murfin, West Highland Way, 2019