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not an Adele album, but a week on the trail through Glen Affric

At home when writing, I often listen to rain, rivers, forest sounds.
Two evenings ago I was in my tent, a warm evening finally, nestled into my sleeping bag when the wind picked up and something unimaginable happened. My hairdresser had just mentioned a week prior that her fear was her tent blo

wing away in the wind and I laughed at the absurdity of it, but here I was, one minute cosy in my sleeping bag, getting ready to drift off, the next a loud whoosh and my outer tent being blown off half-way, staying attached at the mid-line where it’s connected to the tent poles. The inner tent lifted up a bit too, but thankfully I was lying on it.
Shock as I could suddenly see my surroundings, the sky, my cover lifted. I almost jumped out of my sleeping bag, threw on shoes, and rushed out to grab the outer tent, pull it down and look for the pegs, finding two out of three while it started raining.

I pitched the outer tent back down and found big rocks to set over the pegs. The issue was that I was camping on quite rocky ground, so it was hard/ impossible to properly bury the pegs into the ground, which is why the outer tent had lifted off in the first place.

I returned inside, glad to have taken the additional measure of the rocks, which should really stabilise the situation and make it very unlikely for the tent to lift off again.
I felt for my sleeping bag and found it oddly wet, wondering if the rain had gotten in, no, part of it was actually soaked, not only that, the ground inside the tent was wet too. I had had my pot of tea sit next to me when the tent lifted and it spilled. The horror of a wet sleeping back on a cold night. I grabbed my towel and dried what I could. The damage wasn’t too bad. I crawled into my sleeping back knowing that this would be a hard night. It had been a mild, even warm day, but the rain came with a chill. It would be another pretty cool and windy night. I wouldn’t sleep well and couldn’t put in my earplugs as I would need to be attentive in case anything happened with the tent, that awareness making it a light sleep.
I was camped next to a river in the glen, so the wind funnelled right through there, coming in gusts. I lay in the tent thinking about how I listen to rain sounds to relax and focus, how cosy it is to listen to the rain and wind when you’re safe inside, and warm.
Isn’t that strange?
The cosiness of bad weather when indoors?
I was tempted to record the sound as the rain came and went in varying intensity creating a vibrant soundscape. But I was trying to sleep, and worried about the tent, and didn’t feel cosy and safe.

I keep getting asked this question all the time, whether I feel safe solo camping. I don’t.
I think I’d be quite naive if I did. But wouldn’t it be sad for that fear to stop me?
How many stunning lakes and mountain views I’d seen solo hiking. How many challenges mastered, wildlife met, rivers and lochs swum in and drunk from. How much sun and snow, hail and wind faced. How many people met and camaraderie felt.

This was my last night before heading into Morvich, the end of my hike. I had been in a mood even before pitching my tent. I’d been feeling the trail blues.

There is something that happens on the trail that is hard to explain: the camaraderie. You meet people who are also hiking and some who are also camping and are sharing the experience in some hard to define way.
It’s not just that they are walking the same path and facing similar challenges, it’s a more broad feeling that somehow, on the trail, I am alone often but don’t feel lonely.

It’s a weird feeling of community. Weird because I’m not actually walking together with anyone. I usually meet people at a good spot for a break, in passing, or at a campsite, often not knowing their name, not exchanging contact details, yet I feel this community much more strongly than with any online ‘friends’.

Maybe it’s an appreciation for the same things, maybe it’s the shared journey, but maybe it’s something overarching, simply that we’re all walking. Titles don’t matter, nothing of our everyday lives matters, where people come from or what they’re returning to, the presence here matters, and a long distance hike puts you right into the presence.
It’s about making sure you have enough water and food, making sure you stay dry and warm enough, or protected from the sun or harsh icy wind, feeling your body’s strength and weak spots, finding shelter, looking out at the expanse of the glen in awe. A lot of awe.

Walking into Glen Affric felt like that. I walked into it on a late afternoon. The sun was shining and the sky was blue with a few clouds. The hills were covered in snow and the loch lay dark far below. It was breathtaking. I kept turning around and around to take it all in. It got close to evening time/ time to camp and I kept an eye out for a good spot, but somehow I knew I’d find a really beautiful one. After walking the length of Loch Affric, at the end of it there was a pristine beach with one tent already on it, and another spot looking perfect for pitching.
This was the most beautiful evening and night on the trail.
I camped right above the beach, and went straight into the loch for what was meant to be a slow and brief cold swim. I got in up to my thighs and that was it. The water was icy. I love a cold swim, but this was so intense, the water was biting into my skin that it was like walking into nettles or hundreds of tiny knives. I stayed a moment, washed and looked out at the insane beauty. Two geese were swimming by and checking out what I was doing.

Small birds flew by, tweeting. I made food, sat on a wooden box next to an unused fireplace and watched the sunset. The clouds were incredible, some looking like black smoke slowly tearing, they must have been the inspiration for dementors.

At this moment it had all been worth it. Carrying the heavy pack, setting out on this hike with active back pains, the icy nights, turning and waking up from sciatica, staying in a hostel for two nights in Drumnadrochit to wait out the storm that never came, but instead brought a windy night with lots of snow that covered the hills.

I walked from Inverness to Morvich on the Great Glen- and Affric Kintail Way.
I met many more hikers than expected at this time of year, probably because it was Easter weekend and a school holiday.

If you ever walk the Affric Kintail Way, I highly recommend staying in the off grid youth hostel on the trail. I arrived there just after noon and sheltered from the sun and the lovely lady who works there offered me tea and a cosy place to sit. I ended up chatting with her and a fellow hiker for two hours, properly resting. It is a lovely wooden cabin with two fireplaces, a shelf full of books and cosy benches. I think it gets quite busy towards the evening and I didn’t stay overnight, which I regretted as I ended up in that windy glen with my tent taking off.

My last morning was spent walking into the construction area for the film set for Highlander, which would shoot near where I was camped. There was a lot of construction and crew driving to a cabin on a hill which was being either built or renovated. An interesting end to the hike.

I hitchhiked out into Fort William and took the train back in the evening, having spent the day seeing the Highlands pass by the car window, including Loch Lochy, which I’d hiked 3 years ago on my 33 birthday along the Great Glen Way, and lots of hills that still had some snow on them. I recharged in a café in Fort William and visited the bookshop there which is one of my favourites! I was lucky I had time before my train’s departure and spent two hours browsing, noting many titles to look up later, and visiting my other favourite shop, the Highland Soap Company. Smelling their soaps and lotions is always a treat after a long hike.
Many trails end or begin in Fort William, so these have become my small rituals that I look forward to.

This was a hike without a timeline. I didn’t have plans to arrive on any specific day.
I had some options to extend the hike but on my last night I knew that I wanted to return home, that this was it for this time.

It was an odd venture really. There had been back and forth on whether I wanted to walk Cape Wrath, and then lots of spare time since I didn’t. It felt a bit unambitious, and at the same time the back pain was lingering and I wondered whether I’d be able to complete the walk. The longer I walked though, the better the pain got until it was almost gone.

I made an appointment with a chiropractor on the day I set out walking. Enough was enough.

I listened to two audio books, Circe, which was a beautiful listen and fit the hike perfectly, matching its dramatic scenery.

I have now hung my tent and its footprint in my tiny bathroom which smells like mosses and soil. A beautiful rich musky scent that I take a deep breath of when entering or passing the space.

I also brought home a jar of the Highland Soap’s fancy hand lotion that smells like a pine forest. I’m in my bed looking out into the dark courtyard where in my absence one of the trees has begun to flower and grown bright green leaves. Spring is slowly arriving.
I’m listening to rain sounds while under my thick duvet writing this.

How to take trail life into everyday life?
Like that scent, but not fleeting, as a way of moving, of navigating.

I have always been good at loosely planned travel, with a return flight and a loose route, and nothing else booked. I’d show up in a town and try to find a room for the night, knowing that things will work out.
That deep knowing, that trust, I’ve been longing to live with it as my base for a long while.

The second book I listened to on the trail was Four Thousand Weeks. It was a re-listen and a bit of an odd choice while hillwalking, but prompted me to reflect and to select.

If you’ve been a reader for some time, you know that I’ve felt directionless for a bit, not knowing where or what to anchor in.
It’s made me struggle showing up here as I often felt depleted in energy, like I had nothing of value to say.

This spring I wanted to make a plan, taking the Lunar New Year as a starting point. Now it is a new year of my life too and this desire for a new structure is intensifying. I want to work towards things, I want my drive back, enough floating about, I want ground under my feet, gravity to work off of.

One of the thoughts that stuck with me from Orbital (the novel) was an astronaut describing how she missed gravity as it is necessary resistance to build muscle (this is very broadly paraphrasing the sentiment). I remember my runs after reading it and how I thought that every step is an opportunity to push away from the earth, to push against gravity, and that only gravity made it possible for me to run.

This is what I crave, the challenge of gravity. A new structure of meaning.
Goals that fire me up, in small achievable steps to build muscle, to grow myself, to feel my body and mind working.

Just like on the trail.

// Siris

All the weathers, March in Scotland.