Leaving Drymen

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Morning, day 2 on the West Highland Way: leaving my room at the Clachan I strolled down the street to have breakfast and get a sandwich for lunch at Skoosh, a cute little cafe. Walking back someone had put a basket out at the top of their walk filled with little apples—I grabbed one for later! Passing by the Drymen Bakery I couldn’t resist getting a Chocolate Croissant, which I nibbled on as I walked down the road to rejoin the WHW. As I left the town center behind, the strains of bagpipe music rose in the morning air behind me.

This would be a shorter day of hiking than the previous, being just over 7 ½ miles to the little town of Balmaha on the shores of Loch Lommond. But along the way I would first have to surmount the Conic Hill, a long ridge and promontory nearly nine-hundred feet above my current location.

The Conic Hill, and a coos encounter

Down at the end of the street out of town I picked up the trail again, which began as a kind of straight hedge-covered tunnel. This then turned uphill, with pastures to the right, and a young pine forest on the left. Here and there in the forest I glimpsed tents and folks breaking camp.

The trail then met up with a hard gravel forest road through more of the homogenous pines (a regularly logged area, as much of the woodland I saw in Scotland was). Posted signs warned against drinking the water, even if you filtered it. I briskly walked up the gentle incline, passing various groups of people as I went.

Passing through a gate, I was out of the forest into open wild moorland. An old stone wall was to the right. To the left, a few miles off under a heavy overcast sky, I caught my first views of the expansive waters of Loch Lomond. Shortly after the trail crossed a pretty little rushing stream (the Burn of Mar), flanked by birch and rowan trees.

Over the next mile I climbed nearly six-hundred feet up the eastern flank of Conic Hill. I passed a little herd of white and brown cattle, just kind’ve hunkered down in the grass. The trail levelled off as it traversed below the ridge-top. A number of people were going up and down a spur trail to the very summit. Since it was wreathed in fog, I didn’t feel motivated to follow their example.

Rounding a corner I came upon a fold of coos, that delightful brown shaggy breed of kine specific to the Scottish highlands. Sporting long dangerous looking horns, and floppy boy band bangs across their eyes, they are the Jonny Greenwoods of cattle (although I didn’t see any playing an electric guitar with a violin bow). They were standing guard over the most stupendous vista yet of Loch Lomond far below. I felt some trepidation around them, as they crowded pretty close to the trail, but they largely seemed pretty uninterested in us humans, content to just kind of mellowly stand or lay about.

Leaving the coos behind, I began the thousand foot drop down steep stone steps on the west side of Conic Hill. Herds of people thronged up and down these past me. Slowly, patiently, I picked my way down (trekking poles, which I did not have, would have been welcome here), alert to the ever-present danger of a careless slip or fall. A couple of young men with colorful light packs bounded downwards past me, loosely tied metal cups and pots jangling as they went.

The vista of Loch Lomond opened up under the clouds before me as I descended, its many islands and coves coming into view. Finally the trail levelled out some as it entered a pine forest. A log situated in front of a group of ferns suggested itself as a nice spot to stop and eat my sandwich. As I sat there a troop of perhaps twenty hikers blew past me, clearly on a mission.

Balmaha

Before long I was in Balmaha, my stop for the day. Balmaha is pretty tiny as towns go, consisting mainly of the Oak Tree Inn, and a couple of satellite shops next door to it. It also provides boat tours, and I understand it is a popular tourist spot in the summer. As it was just early afternoon, I had time to kill before I could even check in to the inn. I’d planned this short day with Molly in mind, but if it had just been me, I think I would have chosen to continue on to the next lodging spot (Rowardennan).

I wandered north along the trail a bit. I crossed a sturdy steel bridge above a small dry sand cove, maybe thirty feet long, twelve feet above the beach. A healthy looking middle aged couple crossed over it behind me. “I have to wonder why they made this bridge!” I exclaimed to them. “I mean, it’s a very nice bridge, but it wouldn’t be a real hardship to just drop down to this beach here and step back up.”

They chuckled, admitting this seemed true. They told me they were here on vacation from “the Muddy Firth,” aka the Firth of Forth. It started sprinkling, and they noted it was dryer on the west coast, the mountains drawing the moisture out of the prevailing storms. That was interesting to hear. We wished each other a good day and continued on our respective sojourns.

Making my way back to the little harbor, I walked out on a floating observation dock. I took some pictures of the boats, and of a couple of swans that were feeding. There was a nicely realized statue in a little park of Tom Weir, a revered Scottish conservationist, wilderness explorer, and storyteller.

Once I was checked in I had a pretty nice en-suite room in one of the inn’s out buildings. For dinner I doubled down on steak and ale pie, so I could compare and contrast, right? It was arguably a bit more sophisticated than what the Clachan had served, with mash (mashed potatoes), as opposed to the chips (steak fries) at the Clachan (not to throw any shade on the Clachan’s offering!).

After dinner it seemed high time I had a “wee dram” of scotch (as I had held off until now in Scotland), and after a consultation with the waitress (and by proxy with the in-house experts), a snifter of the Loch Lomond 18 year old was set before me. As best I can recall, it had a smooth, rounded taste, expanding into a incandescent cloud as it went down. Very easy to drink.