Lions and Tigers and...Cows?

So here you have it. After camping in my tent along a beautiful babbling brook my first night on the trail, I awoke to an equally beautiful morning. I was eager to hit the road; so I packed my gear, said goodbye to the babbling brook, and headed into Drymen to get supplies for the day. After doing so, I retraced my steps back to the brook and to the West Highland Way. I then made my way up and over a small hill and across a huge cow field, filled with mother cows and their calves. No problem. How many other hikers had ambled over the same sunny dale without incident? Plenty I assumed. 

    I continued along the Way and as I came over the ridge I saw several calves kicking up their heels and playing and, for the most part, ignoring me. I knew I needed to be cautious. This wasn't my first rodeo. Calving season was in full swing and I knew the danger quite succinctly. I waited for the little buggers to run down the hill toward their mothers. Eventually, they all did, except for one lone straggler. No worries. I shrugged my shoulders and began to walk the rest of the way up the hill when I heard ole Straggler’s mother give a fairly sizable, “Mooooooo.” Being fully aware of the issues that could arise, I headed away from the line between point “A” the calf, and point “B,” the overly protective momma cow. "Smooth move. Well done," I said to no one in particular. All was going according to plan. Avoidance at its finest; right up until Straggler decided to run right for me. And I mean right at me. So what happens you ask? Well, I'll tell you. Momma cow, at a healthy, freight train sort of trot, does the same. 

Now listen, I'm not sure if you know this, but cows are BIG, and they are scary when they come at you at the speed of a Top Gear race car. So there I am, shitting myself, as this two-ton cow barrels down on me. I hesitated for only a second. I, with lightning-like speed, and the agility of a ballerina, bailed for a small bog that happened to be in the field behind me. So there I am, ankle-deep in a cow shit bog, being stared down by one pissed-off momma cow.

I damn near pissed myself. Now while this going, on ole Straggler there had already run off to play with his buddies. Thanks a lot, dude. After one more indignant, motherly “Mooooooo” in my direction, and a steely Clint Eastwood stink eye, momma cow ambled off and left me to my own devices. Just as I thought everything was in order, here comes another mammoth-sized cow all covered in cow shit. She walks right up to the edge of the bog and stands there just staring at me out of one dirty, eyeball. To myself, I was like, "Really? Seriously?" To her, I finally said, “Shoo. Go on now.” Yeah right. She looked at me like “Hey, F-you.” In my mind I was thinking "How on God's green earth did I find myself in the middle of this cow field, in the middle of the Scottish highlands, having a pissing contest with a cow?" And she was winning. Finally, the damn thing gave me a snort and a “hmmmnnphff” and trotted off. 

By now, all I wanted was to get out of that god-forsaken field. So, off I go. I make it to the top of the rise. I can see the other side; the gate to my freedom. But, and I shit you not, in between me and that gate was the biggest bull on the aforementioned God's green earth. All I could think was “Are you shittin' me universe?” I stood there, frozen. 

I looked across the great expanse of the Scottish countryside which was littered with Mr. Bull's offspring. I looked back at the greatest bull of all time and sighed. He in turn looked up casually and gave me a look that said,

 “Human, you may pass.” And with that, he put his head down and continued to graze with his back to me. He then slowly, as in a fuckin' eternity, made his way down into the glen. Finally, it was time for me to make my great escape. Man, I hightailed it up outta there at a rate of speed that would have astounded you. And I am certain it impressed the cows.

The Guardians

To be honest, I thought my first blog on the trail would be filled with an abundance of waxing poetic about the beauty of the land. About solitude, inner peace, and the friendships I had built with the other hikers that I met along the way. That it would be filled with tales of the great expanse of wilderness, about the tough climb, and the intrinsic lessons this journey has taught me thus far. But the reality is, although those stories need to be told, this tale is about what should have been the last two exhausting miles of the trail on my first day out and the two day hikers who made it an absolute pleasure, and who managed to become my good friends along the way. And so the story goes as follows:

On Tuesday I left the small town of Milngavie (pronounced Mil-guy) which bore the concrete post marking the beginning of the West Highland Way. Before my departure, I helped capture the photographs and still frames of the other hikers posing for their cherished memories, and they for me. I immediately became aware that I would not be alone on this part of the journey. I did indeed come across many people along the Way. I also came across the same hikers again and again periodically throughout the day. It was a beautiful morning, the sun was shining, the scenery was spectacular, and the Way was an easy jaunt. At least at first.

It quickly became apparent to me that most hikers were doing, at the very least, the first 12 miles out to Drymen, and some, the more adventurous ones, beyond. After thoroughly enjoying the first 6 miles, I realized that I too could make it a bit further and headed for Drymen with the rest of the herd. About ten miles in I decided that I may have bitten off more than I could chew. I had reached my proposed campsite, and what I thought would be my accommodations for the evening, when I realized that was not going to be the case. The campsite was overgrown from disuse and apparently closed. Although my body was aching I had no choice but to move forward. Within a few minutes, I ran into

Monica and Pierre who were from France, (It was they who had taken my picture in Milngavie) sitting in a little town called Gartness which consisted of three dwellings, one which had a small refrigerator out front with a sign that read, “Honesty Box.” The fridge, with the box sitting atop it, was filled with chocolates, water, and sodas. We all took what we needed, paid the box, and sat upon a stone wall gratefully eating our treats and talking about the trail. I would run into them again later on, but again that is not the story that needs telling. Although I set off before them, they once again overtook me and were out of sight before long. (as was par for the course for most of the hikers that I had met.) Two more miles I thought as I continued to

drag myself, my pack (that now felt like it weighed 100 pounds), and my weary legs up the next gigantic mountain. Okay, so it was really just a little hill on a road, but it felt like a gigantic mountain. I again found myself alone at the back of the pack, slogging along, trying to enjoy the scenery. I was thinking to myself as I walked, how tedious the last miles had become when I heard voices that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Just moments before I had looked back and saw no one coming up the long road behind me, but there they were nonetheless. Behind me coming up the hill were two older men carrying day packs. They were smiling and laughing and speaking amicably among themselves. I stopped and waited for them to overtake me and said my perfunctory 'hello' as they pulled alongside me. I could immediately tell they were Scottish as they returned an “ello” with a smile. We made our way down the road together. I naturally assumed that after a few minutes they would pull away as most other hikers did after pleasantries were exchanged. However, this was not to be the case.

 “Are you hiking the Way then?” One of them asked me.

“Yes, yes I am. Are you?”

“Ah, no we live here. We just like ta walk ya know.” (now for the rest of this story just think of Sean Connery's thick guttural Scottish accent when you read these gentleman's lines. It will lose something in the translation if ya don't)

“What's ya name?”

“I'm Kristine.” I smiled in their direction.

I'm-a David, Kristine, this-'ere is Michael.” We all stood in the middle of the road and shook hands.

 “So how far have ya come taday, Kristine?”

“Only about 10 miles or so.”  I replied.

The three of us continued down the road chatting about this and that as we went. We paused at the top of the hill to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Michael took off his pack and began rummaging about in it. 

“Hey Kristine woulda like a beer?”

I just looked at him, "huh?”

“A beer Kristine? Woulda lika beer?” Michael repeated, digging several Budweiser out of his pack. Now, I have had many people offer me a beer in a pub in England or Ireland, but on a dirt road, out of a backpack, in the middle of nowhere Scotland? I have to say I was a tad taken aback. Pleasantly so of course. 

“Why thank you but, but, I can't take your beer.”

“Whey-not? We have plenty din't we, David?”

“Aye, aye, sure we do. How about a smoke then too, Michael?” 

Michael smiled and handed me a bottle of Budweiser, then out of his backpack he pulled this large, crumpled-up joint and placed it casually in the crook of his mouth. I just looked back at him and smiled, popped the top of my beer, and shook my head with quiet delight.

The thing is, instead of walking the last two miles of that day with my head down, chugging away, just trying to make it the last bit in sheer desperation, I found myself casually strolling along a Scottish country road, drinking a Budweiser, watching two Scots getting high, all the while giving me the grand tour. David used my name each time he addressed me. And he was, without doubt, a wealth of information. “So ya see here Kristine, this here use to be a Roman encampment here. And ya see this Kristine? This is used for triangulation. Stand here Kristine then and ya can just see Loch Lomond there. So where ya going to stay tonight, Kristine?” 

And so it went. Strolling, drinking and smoking, pointing and laughing all along the way.

After a bit, some familiar hikers caught up with us. We all strolled along down the hill heading toward Drymen until eventually the hikers went on to town and I was left wondering where I was going to be able to pitch my tent.

 “So you sleeping un ya tent are ya then, Kristine?”

Yes. I am if I can find a place to pitch it.”

“Aye, well not ta worry Kristine, Michael and I know where ya can pitch it din't we Michael?”

“Aye,” Michael replied. “Let's get down here on the Way and we'll smoke another one and I'll show ya.” We ambled off the road along the Way, across a stream, and down into a place that was protected from the wind, was right along said stream, a safe distance from the trail and the roadway, and had a rope swing tied to a giant oak tree. I un-shouldered my pack and set upon the green grass that peeled up the hill as far as the eye could see. It was perfect. Michael took out another joint and David handed me another beer.  David then proceeded to climb up onto the swing

which was hanging near the brook and launched himself off the bank. And so it went. Michael got high, I sipped my beer in what amounted to Scottish delight, and David swung to and fro on his rope swing twirling and giggling all the while. And so, somewhere near a small Scottish town, in the gentle twilight of a Celtic afternoon, one could hear our laughter echoing out across the hills and valleys.

All good things they say, have to come to an end, as did these few precious hours that David, Michael, and I spent together. Michael indicated it was time to move on. He asked if I had enough food. Although I indicated to him that I did, he nonetheless left me the meats, buttered rolls, and fresh tomatoes they had brought for themselves to munch upon along their walk.

 David left me another beer to wash it all down with. I hugged them tight before they left and thanked them for all they had done for me. It was Michael who turned back towards me with just a hint of a twinkle in his eyes and replied, “It's what we do Kristine. We all have ta look out for one another.” And with that simple statement, the guardians made their way up out of the glen, over the lush green hillside, and disappeared into the fading sunlight.

The Encounter

The Clan Campbell Castle

         Dedicated to the memory of my

         Grandfather Neil Campbell

Who knew that fate would be waiting for me on the top of a green and quiet mountain, nestled deep amongst the Scottish countryside. Certainly not I. But on this particular day, it was as if the universe had been patiently waiting for me to arrive.  I had come all the way from America to discover my family heritage. To the town in which our ancestral castle was situated, home of the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, and ancient seat of Clan Campbell. 
With a feeling in my gut that one garners from a particular feeling; as if one is not just on the earth but a part of it, I strolled out past the ancient castle, out along the small, lazy river which ran into the gleaming Loch Fyne. I was trying to find a  way to the top of a small mountain that sat beside the castle and soon discovered a route that would lead me to the top of the hummock.

The trail I found was a small, rock-strewn creek that was covered with a slick algae. I began the gentle climb, slipping and sliding my way upwards. The forest that surrounded me was dark and enigmatic. Although the trees that sat in the woods had a willowy, brown bark, they were covered in a green, silky moss that permeated the woodlands with the aroma of the earth. The ground was laden with smooth rocks and a dense, dew-covered grass. The canopy of trees was so thick in places that the intermittent Scottish sun barely reached the loam-covered earth below. Here, in the depths of the forest, I could feel a boundless history. I could easily discern the legends which penetrated my existence. I could hear the clang and charge of distant battles. I could taste the past that hung in the air. I stood mesmerized in the timbers. With a purpose born within, I began to understand my clan's claim to these rugged hills and valleys. I was immersed in the deep, guttural feeling of this place. I stood...drinking in the energy. I blinked. My mind slowly surfaced, and the past vanished. I moved forward; up and out of the heavy forest toward the pinnacle of the hill. Loch Fyne, shining in the rare sunlight, stretched out before my eyes. The town sat at the base of the hill, white and stony. I was basking in the glory of being in Scotland, of traversing the land of my ancestors when suddenly, up and over a rocky knoll, came two small boys of about 6 or 7. One of the boys was wearing a costume of sorts and behind them came a gigantic sort of man. He wore black wellies and a thick, brown coat. He had hands the size of tree trunks. The young boys ran about me. One dressed, I assumed, as a dragon, the other feinting and parring with a wooded sword. After several attempts to slay the dragon that had come charging over the hill, the two boys stopped to address me. “Ello,” the dragon boy said to me, the tall, tree trunk of a man standing near, as if on guard. “Well hello. Are you a dragon?” I asked politely.

Inveraray, Scotland

“No.” the young boy replied in a thick Scottish accent. “I'm the Loch Ness Monster and I live in that castle down there.” He pointed with his diminutive finger toward the Clan Campbell Castle. I smiled and nodded at him and his partner. About that time, I saw a large, four-wheel golf cart coming up over the dale. It stopped just a few yards from where I, the Loch Ness Monster, and his charge, stood. Out of the vehicle came a man dressed in a black blazer and slacks and a woman in a lovely, blue blouse and jeans carrying a picnic basket. For some reason, the young couple looked familiar. I began to turn their faces over in my mind. I knew that I had seen them before, I knew I recognized them. In a moment of clarity, my mind put all the pieces together. I addressed the young monster, “You live there, young sir?” I pointed down the hillside. He and his young friend nodded vigorously. Ahhhh...I smiled and nodded my head in understanding. “I see. So you and your charge here are the princes' of Argyll are you not?” The young boys grinned, nodded, and laughed. Abruptly, one gave a mighty growl, the other raised his mighty sword, and they turned and raced towards the young couple with, what I now understood to be, their Man at Arms hot on their heels.

The Watch Tower

 I moved in the direction of my backpack, the couple, and the tower that sat ever so majestically on top of the hill. I nodded as the beautiful young woman reached down and tousled the hair of a young prince. I smiled in her direction and she returned the gesture kindly. “Beautiful day is it not?” she addressed me.

“Yes ma'am, it certainly is. Still, we might get some rain...” My voice trailed off.  I looked across the sovereignty that stretched before us. The young gentleman emerged from the antiquated, stone tower. He smiled at me as he approached. I addressed him casually. “So how does one get to ride to the top of the mountain on one of those, sir?” I pointed toward the gigantic, four-wheel vehicle that they had, just moments before, arrived in. With a wink and a smile he returned, “Oh, well one has to have a special sort of pass to get a ride up in this contraption.” I smiled and laughed and the three of us exchanged some more pleasantries about the day and the beauty of the land. I eventually excused myself and wished the party a good day. The Man at Arms gave me a quiet nod of his head, the children did a final feint and parry, and the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, the head of my clan, bide me ado with a wave and a smile. I turned and walked down the grassy hillside, out of the sunlight, and into the depths of the forest, grinning I might add, from ear to ear.

The Duke and Duchess along with the Dragon and Knight that I encountered
along with the newest member of the Clan
(this is a file photo)

And that my dear friends is how fate brought me together with my heritage and even closer together with my grandfather. It was he, I am sure of it, who reached down from the heavens that day and granted me a most beloved and treasured moment that I shall cherish until the end of days, and beyond.