Letters From Along The Way by Natalie Cotterill
The West Highland Way inspires many people and, in this year of Scotland’s Stories, it’s a great opportunity to showcase some of this creativity. Natalie Cotterill was inspired to write these literary letters to her sister whilst walking the Way.
Tyndrum
1 August
Dear Sister,
Two nights have passed since I wrote last. I think of my family, on the other end of these isles and send them each loving thoughts from far away. Much further away, it seems, than when I am in London. I hear there are storms on the Cornish coast. Here, in Scotland, I have been most fortunate with the weather and with my experiences in general. I write from a wooden hut that is my home for the night, and a most comfortable one at that. I am contented. My meal was not delicious, but I am sated, sheltered and have no cause to grumble.
Yesterday morning I left the red gabled inn in the woods near Rowardennan, on the shore of Loch Lomond, to head north to tackle the part they say is the hardest terrain between there and Ben Nevis. Outside the inn, as if by prearrangement, stood two English gentlemen. We straightway became a merry band of three and shared the day's varied and, at times, torturous pathways amongst the birch and oak that line the 23 miles of Loch Lomond (we saw, at some point, an oak's roots so entwined with those of the hanging birch that they looked just like fingers, clasped in prayer).
The men told me of their children and nieces with such tenderness that I could not fail to love them and feel at ease. The highs were higher with this new company; we laughed even at the air. Calling the ferryman by hoisting the buoy at the day's end caused untold hilarity.
At Ardlui, the younger of the two joined me in the cool Loch's waters, to ease his ailing feet. It worked wonders. Wading in, I stood on the Loch moss, so different to the sea mosses of my homeland, and let it tickle my toes.
We rose this morning and breakfasted with a Full Scottish, starting leisurely. I enjoy the lack of conspicuousness that comes when you are no longer a woman alone. I had to explain myself three times in a pub in Glasgow before they'd let me in.
It would be so easy to forget my purpose and remain in the shelter of a group. But I have come to learn the magic of the Highlands, and I can only learn this on my own. I shared the journey with them two hours more; at the halfway mark I bid their jovial company farewell. The MacGregor clan no longer stalk these forests; I will walk unafraid.
I savour the next miles, opening my heart to try to hear the wisdom of the ancient rowan. Then it's Scots pine, pine, pine and I'm moved to tears at the delicacy of the silvery green fingers now. I pick a spruce of heather for my dad and wear it behind my ear. If I had a child, I'd bring her here to bounce on these mossy carpets without restraint. To hear the cut of the raven's call across the heavy silence that only ancient forests hold. I am listening, I am learning. I am nearly two score years and yet still like a child.
Past the weirdest, wisest and most wizened trees all day I found another woman Wayfarer. We are as rare as the red squirrels I have not yet come across. We pass the time of day and I want to know her more; I wish to know what brings her here. If she, like me, seeks the ancient wisdom of the woods. But I will never know - she goes South, I head to the highest point of these fair isles. We pass.
At the open meadows, I see a swaying ewe, piebald, heavy on her four feet, low bellied. She is in labour. You come to mind. I wish her well. I think she's done this before. Each town and village, each named hill is a magic charm when said aloud. Rowardennan, Ardlui, Tyndrum. Never had I heard such beautiful words.
I found the Loch of the Lost Sword, where Robert the Bruce is said to have thrown his sword after losing the Battle, not so very long ago. The green millpond calls to me, and I nearly jump in. I am red all over from the exertion. Now four days straight of ten hours walking. But the rain starts to fall and I know I should push on so I can rest.
Tomorrow I will make my way to the Bridge of Orchy. Goodnight, whoever read theses pages. I'm sure I'll dream in roots and ferns.
I hope you are well, with all my soul,
Natalie
Bridge of Orchy
2 August
Dearest,
The Bridge of Orchy is nine easy miles from Tyndrum. I had prepared for a much longer day, knowing how the Way is unpredictable. I brought with me sandwiches and the red apple given to me by a hobbling Glaswegian who had turned her ankle back past Inversnaid and didn't want it to go to waste. (I was so pleased, fruit is so hard to come by in these parts.) I didn't even have time to think of eating anything as I was here by one and only got away from Tyndrum at around ten. My legs have quickly come to expect punishing ups and downs; walking flat is now nothing at all.
My companion for the most part was a woman who set off from Land's End at the end of June and will walk another week more, to John O'Groats. One thousand miles to my one hundred. She had a bumble bee she carries on her bag as a mascot.
Walking into the wide expanse beside Bienn Odhar and Bienn Dorain, I had the chance to view the hills close up and notice how they seem to shape shift in front of your very eyes.
(As I write, the dark outline of Dorain catches my eye through the window, in the pale crepuscular light.)
So accustomed have I become to the exhilarating feeling of summiting a hill, and to the longer distances, that I felt almost disappointed to arrive here so soon. I reminded myself that I needed to allow time for rest and so lowered my limbs into the River Orchy, where it pools near the bridge. I stretched out my arms and let myself see how if felt to be a rock with the green silver water gushing over me. The sun beat down. I had a short walk into the glen to touch the mosses.
For supper, I have had Cullen Skink for the first time in my life. It is immensely satisfying.
There are many now familiar faces here but I have retired to keep my own company tonight. Tomorrow I will see the wilderness of Rannoch Moor and hope to meet red deer. I heard that the young adventurer who shared my Scottish tablet with me on Conic Hill some days back had arrived on the moor already by last night, I hope he escaped the midges well enough. The last three revellers outside the hotel now are heading to bed to escape the swarm. I shall do the same.
Your,
Natalie