Carpets of bracken dropped sharply away down the steep valley ahead, the foliage heavy and shining in the close Scottish rain. My right foot rolled heavily with every twisted and unseen step through the head-height shrubbery. It’s the result of a broken boot, rotted away from the long mileage, harsh Highlands terrain and the ever-cloying, omnipresent wetness. I had only been travelling for five days across this majestic mountain landscape but already a catalogue of planning mistakes and equipment breakages were about to bring the whole ill-thought-through adventure to a rather swift and ungracious closure. I stumbled onward through the leaves of this lost valley; towards the train station I’d marked on the map and the enticing escape route it now offered. The rain continued to fall.
The Cape Wrath Trail is one of Britain’s toughest long distance walking trails. At over 200 miles long, it takes aspirant crossers from out underneath the shadows of Ben Nevis at Fort William through the remoteness and isolation of the Scottish mountainscape to Cape Wrath, the UK’s most north-westerly point. It’s a trail not endorsed by many walking organisation, has no signposts pointing out the way, and there’s few chances to pop back into civilisation once you’re well and truly committed. I had decided to take up this challenge on a whim of enthusiasm, solo, and only using the equipment I’ve accumulated from a lifetime of outdoor activity; a decade-old rucksack, my weighty two-man tent, a discount pair of boots, a cheap stove and an old ski-jacket. In truth, I really couldn’t afford anything more.
The initial train journey to Fort William lasts a hundred summer days; the distance between each stop measured by the hour in my racing mind. And so it is quite late in the afternoon by the time I finally reach the start of the trail. I head straight for the ferry across Loch Eil; my shoulders still unfamiliar with the pressing weight of the heavily laden pack. Crossing the loch, all is calm and the still; soon I’m walking down a quiet road, trying to eat away the mileage of full day’s walk in the space of one late afternoon. The lake rolls away and after three hours of empty thoughts, mirroring the empty lanes I stroll down, I finally meet a cyclist. He gestures helpfully to a good bivvy spot underneath the roots of an upturned oak tree and then wishes me the best of luck in my trek before disappearing, back to his home and wife. I’m left to set up camp by myself in the dying embers of the first day.