Walking the Watershed

2: Homeland heatwave (23rd - 30th April)

Monday 27th April

It was merely the forecast which proved shite, not the weather itself. The flawlessly hot conditions were, though, far from ideal for hillwalking: I was thus woken early by my internal alarm to clock-on for an eight a.m. shift with extended teabreaks. Departure was delayed only by the need to evict a colony of earwigs which had taken up overnight residence in various neuks and niches of the tent. Once these were sent on their way - having painfully lived up to their alternative name of forkie-tails - the descent beside the Alnwick Burn was sheer pleasure: low, sharp light catching the froth and sparkle of countless small waterfalls.

No traffic passed during the mile-long pull onto the summit of the Crow Road, abandoned just before the cottage at Muir Toll. Easy-angled slopes - remarkably well-drained compared to the previous day's morass - led to the fence and trig point on Holehead. Here I turned north to begin the long loop around Endrick Water, which meandered westward through farmland to enter Loch Lomond via a marshy estuary, rich in birdlife, lovingly written of by Tom Weir. Initially this meant picking a way down the sawn-off edge of Dunbrach into sparse forest below, where a lochan moated an island like a quoit tossed over a stick. I was soon down the craggy nose of Dungoil and resting at the Crow Road once more - not in the least envious of a red-faced cyclist who puffed and blew past with half of his own long hot climb still to come.

Ever since mid-morning, the idea of an early curtailment had gnawed quietly at plans to cross the Gargunnock Hills that afternoon. The half-hour after my arrival at the next top, 321m Gartcarron Hill, now provided this parasitic thought with sustenance enough to effectively sap morale and achieve acquiescence. The western reaches of Carron Valley Forest barred access to the loose end of a Land Rover track seen probing into trees less than two hundred metres from, and slightly above, where I now stood. I took a deep breath and plunged in, to immediately flounder in a sea of undergrowth, glad to grasp the lifeline of a firebreak as a means of escape.

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Unwilling to take No for an answer, I tried twice more, only to be snared each time by webs of branches and to emerge wearing pine needles like a camel-hair coat. Well beaten, resigned to wading the Endrick and skirting the forest via the road, I suddenly discovered another firebreak snaking into green darkness, apparently contouring the hill. This was almost rejected out of hand as another blind alley, but equally blind faith was, for once, rewarded. Apart from the odd fallen tree and a few moss-covered dykes, I was allowed uninterrupted progress to an area of felling, from where a track wound down to Gartcarron.

Enough was enough, though. After an extensive body search to remove pine needles - the arboreal equivalent of nitpicking - any thoughts of further struggles over Cairnoch Hill were rejected without debate. I would have a lazy afternoon.

But where to camp? Farmland filled every corner of the valley in a farewell fling of cultivation, severely restricting options. The shores of Carron Valley Reservoir were available if necessary, but the map suggested little Loch Walton as a more attractive venue. I turned west rather than east and, as at Palacerigg, set about muddling together enough confidence to ask permission. Hopes plunged on reading Private loch and seeing the BMW of an angling club member parked outside the keeper's cottage, but I chapped the door and cast the crucial question all the same. "Sorry", came the reply, "it's more than my job's worth to let you camp by the loch..." - I began to reel in my hopes, hook dangling empty - "...but you can use the garden if you like". I had landed a whopper!

The tent was soon pitched on the tiny lawn amid attention from two young children and a dog. John and Maggie Hill were genuinely kind and welcoming, offering mugs of beer along with access to the kettle in the caravan they were using while renovating the cottage. Their hospitality was all the more appreciated given they had good reason to be wary of unexpected arrivals: the exclusive thirty-member club kept the loch well stocked with brown trout, and two night-time visitors had been caught poaching earlier that month.

After dozing, I cobbled together enough energy and enthusiasm to walk the four hot miles into Fintry. Here postcards and provisions were bought from a low-timbered shop. Then, lying under the wide shade of a riverside tree to read the paper, I was suddenly made to realise, for the first time, how I was gradually slipping into a world of my own, distant from outside events. The press had pounced on the word glasnost to describe the new spirit of Soviet openness under Gorbachev. Glasnost appeared in headlines, articles, editorials, on the letters page, the arts page, the sports page and in cartoons. Hardly a column inch was read which failed to make hay while the Russian sun shone.

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Yet despite this gleeful saturation coverage, I could only guess as to the meaning of the word: nowhere was it defined! In the four days since I last clapped eyes on a paper, the media's tidal wave of information had swept across the country, leaving me becalmed in a quiet backwater of ignorance. It was to be several days more before my guesswork was enlightened.

A bar supper in the Clachan Hotel, followed by the requisite phonecall, successfully delayed the return walk to Loch Walton until the cool of the evening, the sunset an orange-red banner emblazoned across the well named Double Craigs. John and I sat up late, drinking beer and talking hills. The coincidence of our both having been brought up in Derbyshire before spending time in Aberdeen meant there was much of mutual interest. For the first time since leaving Glasgow, I was still awake at the start of the new day.