West Highland Way Day 4

16th November 2024

Day 4 - Crainlarich to Inveroran, 15.5 miles

In order to take full advantage of the luxuries of a hotel stay and a hearty cooked breakfast, I allowed myself a later start than usual.  With my second cup of coffee in hand, I sat by the conservatory window, watching the rain gather on the glass and weighing up what to wear for the day ahead.

To return to the old military road where I left off the evening before, a stiff climb is required retracing my steps back up through the forestry.

The path takes on some historic waypoints, passing the 13th St Fillan's Priory and not to far away is the battle site of Dalrigh, where Robert the Bruce suffered defeat in 1306. 

I explore the adjoining Kirkton burial ground where there are fine examples of early medieval cross slabs dating around 7th to 8th century. 

A short distance away is a Holy Pool. Here a healing ritual took place thought to be useful in the treatment of mental disorders...maybe I should give it a try. 

As I near Tyndrum, the rain begins to fall again, prompting me to take the slightly shorter route along the cycle path. Once in the village, I make a stop at the famous Green Welly Stop to stock up on supplies.

From Tyndrum, the path begins a steady ascent, tracing the lower slopes of Beinn Odhar. Ahead, the majestic peak of Beinn Dorain dominates the view, its summit rising proudly against the sky.

The clouds begin to part, shafts of sunlight break through, casting a golden glow across the autumn-cloaked landscape.  With every step the view just gets better and better.

The trail winds gently through the glen that could easily have been plucked from a postcard.  Surrounded by the vast landscape and wrapped in the solitude of walking alone, with not a soul in sight for miles, I can’t help but smile to myself. This is my happy place.

I round a bend and see a herd of Highland cattle ahead, their shaggy coats catching the light like burnished copper.  They stand still, unbothered by my presence, grazing calmly as if I’m just another part of the landscape.  One lifts its head to meet my gaze, dark eyes under a fringe of windswept hair.  There’s something grounding about their calm, ancient, almost.  These are the unplanned gifts of walking, moments that stay with you.

The trail then begins its gentle descent into Auch Gleann, where distant snow-capped peaks shimmer on the horizon, promising more beauty still to come.  Underfoot the old military road path is wide and easy to walk, however the hard surface is not kind to the soles of the feet.  The beauty of the landscape makes it easy to forget the strain of a heavy pack and the throb of tired feet. 

By 2pm, I’d arrived at Bridge of Orchy, a quiet spot marked by little more than a hotel and a small train station. Beyond this point, the landscape opens up, remote and wild, with few signs of civilisation. The bridge itself, built in 1750, marks the start of a steep ascent over a cairn-crowned hill. With the light already starting to fade, I was keen to find somewhere to pitch my tent. But the terrain on either side of the trail proved unexpectedly difficult — uneven, boggy in places, and often choked with thick undergrowth.

The evening before, a quick Google search had turned up a few recommendations from fellow hikers: just near the summit of the pass, there was said to be a small, flat patch of grass — nothing luxurious, but offering spectacular panoramic views. It sounded like the perfect place to camp.

But by the time I reached the summit, any romantic notions of a scenic pitch were quickly blown away — quite literally. The wind was biting, the rain had returned in full force, and sleet hovered menacingly in the mix. After a brief assessment, I decided to keep moving. Better to descend and find a more sheltered spot than try to tough it out on an exposed ridge.

In the glen below, I finally reach the road and the solitary Inveroran Hotel, closed now for the winter months ahead. Grateful for the rare luxury of a flat pitch, I set up camp in the quiet beer garden beside a gently flowing stream. The temperature has definitely dropped; it’s clear this will be a cold night.

I slip into my usual evening routines, layering up and preparing for the chill. To my surprise, I pick up a signal from the beer garden Wi-Fi, a small and unexpected joy, and take the chance to update the socials and catch up on the motorbike racing.

As sleep begins to tug at me, I hear the wild calls of stags echoing through the night, followed by the clash of antlers, startlingly close, just beyond the thin fabric of my tent. I smile to myself. I am truly in the Highlands now.