So, I emerged into the hotel courtyard to be met by the collie - a wonderful dog. Totally unassuming, totally silent and with no desire to make bodily contact. He was content to keep a distance of some 5ft. between us and seemed to like being a couple of feet in front as well. He seemed to enjoy human company without the need to interact.
The curving drive was marked by ground-level marker lights and looked an ideal saunter in the darkness. 150 yards or so, it would lead to the single track public road, and 5 minutes each way along that would justify a dram in the bar before sharing a hot bath with Kathleen. Yes, the bath is designed for two. One of the gravest mistakes we made with our house was to omit that essential of the Hammam.
As the marker lights ended I could just make out in the reflected light the stone threshold pillars at the junction with the public road. A mid-way course between them should be just about right. But alarmingly and without warning my left foot dropped some 10 or 12 inches and my left shoe filled with cold water, sludge, leaves and a small collection of obscure invertebrates. I had forgotten there was a cattle grid, and the round section rails were designed to shed footwear downwards. Collie, having slipped through the paved pedestrian gate, turned and smiled.
A keek through the curtains as daylight dawned killed thoughts of a Munro day. Cloud down to 300 metres and wind-driven rain thrown on to the window. This continued through breakfast and gratifyingly took all the pressure off savouring smoked haddock and flavoursome poached eggs. By 10:00 am. however the rain slowly ceased, the wind subsided, the cloud thinned, brightness grew and an irresistible urge to be outdoors developed.
The West Highlands after heavy rain are amazing. Soft moist warm air, seemingly extra rich in oxygen and drawing out all the scents of the landscape. Who could bear to be indoors?
Pushing uphill through wet thigh-high bracken, trousers were quickly soaked. Soaked trousers led to soaked socks and soon each boot had a centimetre or so of fresh Highland water in it. Those of you familiar with Scottish hill-walking will recognise this. After reaching the top of the glen-side slope and scrambling up a craggy crest the glen floor disappeared from view and an, I suspect, seldom visited landscape hoved into view. Undulating moor, peat hags, views to familiar recognisable and previously visited hills - Beinn Tulaichean, Stob Binnean, Beinn More, Beinn Lawers, Beinn Vorlich, Stuc a Chroin, Ben Ledi, Ben Lomond, and all the while brightening sky with patches of blue and shafts of sunlight bringing colour and texture to the hills.
The great thing about a wander through the quieter hill corners of Scotland is the sense of both solitude and place: No waymarkers, no paths, no cairns, and yet there are local areas with a real sense of intimacy and 'presence'. Hollows and bluffs which are home to hefted Blackfaces shy of human contact.
I was drawn by a craggy top named on the map Stob Caol at 734 metres, and spent a good 15 minutes or so there savouring the wilderness views. What a super wee country we're privileged to live in.
A saunter downhill and then across a peat-hag ridden moor brought the glen into view again, and a steep descent to the public road. Some descents seem alarming in their steepness but the sting can always be taken out by careful use of shelves and grassy rakes.
A shared dram in a shared bath, a log fire and a few slices of Inverlochlaraig venison made a perfect end to an idyllic day.
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