Fort William

4 August

Dear Eleanor,

I can only imagine the tenacity of the women who lived in Blackrock Cottage. I heard that when the road came in 1954, town ladies arrived by automobile and  pitched up their tents everywhere. One even did so across the front door of Blackrock Cottage. Outraged, the formidable proprietress kicked out the woman's tent pegs and sent them all on their merry way!

I heard another story about the Ladies Scottish Climbing Club - how they would ditch their skirts in the gorse at the base of Buachaille Etive Mor, and how once a mischievous farmer swiped them.

For me, one night in the shadow of those dark beasts was enough. Such a contrast after long days of enclosed jungle pathways. In Glencoe, there is so little shelter from the elements, so little comfort. And the violent history haunted me. There are so many ghosts there. I swore I heard a voice speak to me and tell me of the massacre in 1692, the 'murder in trust'.

Arriving, Kinlochleven feels like a toy town and I almost felt like laughing at it. The guest house takes me by surprise because it feels beautiful to me, in the late evening sun. It's higher up above the little town and you can drink River Leven golden ale on the front terrace, looking over the river that it is named for. The river is too fast to swim in.

I see the town more clearly the next day, more as it is. It's productive, industrial, it knows what it's doing. People are in control, those hills are not so very tyrannical.

I'm prepared for the hour steep hike at the beginning of the last day, but not for how relentless and punishing the hours that follow feel. The yellows and purples glow brighter at every turn, perhaps I'm delirious, they seem to be flashing and there are diagonal lines across the pathways. It's hot. The pink grey stones aren't staying still. There's no doubt I'm surrounded by such beauty, but it doesn't move me today. I can't make it give me peace. Eventually, my soul lifts slightly at the sight of trees.

Where, o where, is Fort William? It must be coming soon. I say the name to myself, Fort William, Fort William and I love how safe and strong it sounds. And I love that it's our brother's name. It feels to me that I am walking to his embrace.

Several hills I call Ben Nevis in my head, as though any high topped hill with clouds on its head might be the one. But, like with so many things in life, when I see the real deal there's no doubt in my mind at all. I just know. I say Hello, Ben Nevis.

Before I take the road down into Fort William, I stop and look at it. The most talented artist of all time could only fail to paint such beauty. The sun is shining, I can see the white on top. I wonder if I can just lie down on these bouncy mounds amongst the orange and purple heather and sleep here. I'm so, so tired. My feet are almost blister free, and I have no injuries. But everything, everything in me just wants to stop. And when I sit for a moment I am so ecstatic just to be not moving.

I look down the road, Fort William can't be much further. It seems to take an eternity. Down on the road, finally, I sit and swig some tea outside the Glen Nevis cemetery. The people passing aren't walkers, they are people who have come just for the mountain. I haven't seen any Wayfarers for hours. I stand again, and plod on. The walking sticks that have become part of my body, that I've scuttled up hillsides on, are now bearing a lot of my weight and ring out loud as they strike the pavements. A pair of day trippers turn to look, confused, for the source of sound.

Finally the road curves and I see a guest house sign. I feel like I'm walking down to Porth Beach, now, and I'm convinced, for a crazy moment, that I will see all of my family waiting on the beach as I turn the corner.

I make it to the town. There are so many people. So, this is ordinary life. It's 7 o'clock on a Tuesday night. People are queuing impatiently outside restaurants. A pub is closed down because of the big sickness that I have, almost, forgotten all about. A white painted thistle, the last Waymark, tells me to keep going. As if to confirm, a woman's voice says, "Keep going, you're nearly there." I'm shocked to be seen and known as a Wayfarer.

Then it hits me: I'm here. I make it to the sign that marks the end and a cast of a tired mountaineer. I sit beside him. I've done it. I breathe. It's over. And then, as if I summoned her, Patricia - the biologist - appears and says, “Well done!” She is dressed in fresh clothes and smiling broadly. It feels good to share our joy with each other!

I wait a minute and then pick up sticks and walk part of the way up one last hill - Cow Hill - to the comfort of my hostel bed. And I am ready for all the comforts and kindnesses of Fort William. Right now, I'm raising a glass of Red Kite at the Black Isle Brewery with the friend I made back in Kingshouse, Erica. We drink and talk of London and the future, that is yet unwritten.

Sending all my love,

Natalie