11. Rotten eggs (Inveraranan to Crianlarich)

Old hands will remember what happened on the Pennine Way when my brand new boots started shipping water, were fire damaged and then fell apart. On my return from the Pennine Way I argued the case with the shop and got a refund. Some weeks later I bought a reassuringly expensive German make, they were made of leather, lithe, bold and handsome, and came with a two year guarantee. 

Some time later on a Thursday practice walk the three of us had got together. We were walking along the Essex coast line and both Chris and Jerome were bemoaning the state of their boots because of cracks in the leather that appeared to be letting in water. Later that evening as I cleaned off the mud I found to my dismay that similar cracks were occurring. This was two months beyond the guarantee period. 

So I went to buy some new boots, this time from a manufacturer which, based upon my own experience, I could trust to be longer-lasting. The first occasion I walked with them I was surprised to get a blister on the back of my ankle.  The second time it was far worse and I was bleeding in the same spot by the end of the day. The subsequent scab took about three weeks to heal. I examined these new boots, they had an unusual design: they had a protective rubber cradle on the heel and this appeared to be the problem.

Of course I'd worn them!

I decided to complain but the shop was forty miles away, so firstly we phoned the shop. They stated that there was nothing doing as I had worn the boots (of course, I'd worn them, I'd have nothing to complain about if I hadn't). I persisted and in the end they agreed to look them over. 

We arrived at the shop ready to argue the case but what actually happened was that I presented the boots and they immediately admitted that the leather had collapsed and offered a refund or a replacement. I decided against a replacement and we bought a different make elsewhere.

Yesterday, when we arrived in our room I took off my latest boots (which by now were four months old) and immediately had a strong desire to not to be in the same room with them. It's not unnatural for boots to have a distinctive aroma, it would be weird if they didn't, but this stench of rotting cabbage and eggs was beyond normal. Quickly I moved the offending items to the window sill so they could pollute the outside. Never before had my feet smelt this bad and I had no clue as to what could be causing the problem. (At this point you should be grateful that it is not possible for me to recreate the aroma for your, er, enjoyment.)

Regretfully I had to wear them in the morning and although the aroma had dissipated I had a strong feeling that something was very, very wrong.

As our facilities were not en-suite we'd all had to make journeys to the toilet over the preceding night along corridors lined with 'art' that had very little to commend it apart from the patina of age, and at no point did we meet a ghoul or hear the sound of things going bump in the night. The most scary things in the Inn were the mangy and decrepit stuffed animals in the hall reception that we passed on the way to breakfast.  

Pre-Fauvist - or a novel palette and roller technique? 

Overnight the rain had thoroughly pelted down and only now was it easing off with the clouds breaking to reveal spots of blue as we began the walk. We had to retrace our steps to the campsite to start the Way and could have enjoyed another coffee and bought some items for lunch in their shop but the staff were busy elsewhere so we moved on.

Goodbye to the Drovers Inn

Today we were heading to Tyndrum - a village at the confluence of the A82 and A85 that is one of several that claims to be the 'Gateway to the Highlands®'. For most of the morning we are in a valley beside the river Falloch and within earshot of the A82 and the railway line. The ambience was more urban than Highland and we were grateful when the rapids of the river created a rush of noise to cover it. After about two and half miles the Way neared the spectacular Falls of Falloch. 

The river Falloch

The river Falloch rises under the western slopes of a munro, Ben Lui. It then tumbles through rough mountainside for about fifteen miles until finally emptying into Loch Lomond where it is the major source. It's famed as a salmon and trout river, although anglers were in short supply today. 

Looking north-east

Cruach Ardrain, caressed by pillowy clouds

The river and the path climbed steadily upward while the landscape and weather conjured impressive vistas until at around four miles we crossed to the other side of the river. For the next mile the noise levels increased as the path was hemmed in between the road and the railway on our right and on our left, the river.  Finally we approached the road, and to our relief there was a pedestrian tunnel, so we didn't have to dodge the traffic.

It's an underpass without graffiti.

Now the path headed upward to cut a corner off the road route which remained in the valley and to our relief we moved out of earshot of the traffic. After six and a half miles we came to fork, where it's possible to turn off and get lunch from either the pub or cafe in Crianlarich. However that would mean heading downward (to yet another 'Gateway to the Highlands®') and although the round trip would probably be less than a mile, we decided to plough on.