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| THIS IS HOW THE CLOTHES DRYING IS DONE |
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| ALAN AND MEL IDENTIFY THEIR CARRIAGE |
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| GENEROUS GARY AND JACKIE AT THE BRIDGE INN |
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| BONAR BRIDGE |
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| A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER NEAR GARVARY |
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| ANYONE WHO SAYS TREES HAVE EARS IS A LYRE |
To my delight, Rogart had a Spar store. Having survived largely on rehydrated rice and pasta for some days, my body was ravenous for protein and vegetables. I bought a basket-full of suitably satisfying sustenance and scoffed the lot at a picnic table by the Pittentrail Inn, opposite. Rain threatened as midday approached. Noting that the BlackBerry had an internet connection, I ducked inside the Inn and wrote the previous diary entry whilst waitress Beth laced me with coffee. Before leaving to continue south, I cheekily blagged some tea bags to flavour the bog-water tea I was becoming accustomed to drinking.
I had barely walked 100 yards before finding myself intrigued by a B&B called 'Sleeperzzz', just behind Rogart station, where the accommodation comprised old railway carriages. Alan and Mel, who were staying there, came over to chat. Alan had the look of a musician, and he confirmed that he was indeed an accomplished air-guitarist. Mel's role in the band was, apparently, to replace the lampshades.
Moving on, I initially climbed a steep uphill path which, according to the map, should have continued all the way across the hill. Lesson 1: Don't assume that there is a path just because the map says so. Lesson 2: If the bracken each side of a path has tufts of wool in it, don't assume the path was made by a human. What I thought would be a simple stretch turned out to be another marathon effort. I could see my aiming point in the distance, so I just kept going until I came to Dalnamain (which is a disused Shepherd's cottage) and the Strath Carnaig road. A 2-hour westerly trudge along this tarmac roadway took me to the very pleasant Loch Buidhe, where I camped for the night. I noted that only one car passed me in that time.
The morning brought with it a herd of curious cattle who I had to keep shooing away as I packed. My next stop was Bonar Bridge, which I reached half a day ahead of schedule. I popped into the Bridge Hotel, where I was entertained by Gary, Jackie and Steve for over 4 hours. The alcohol had helpfully anaesthetised my feet when I walked on late in the afternoon, heading towards Evanton across yet more hills and camping overnight behind yet another disused Shepherd's cottage called Garvary, located by a footbridge crossing the Wester Fearn Burn.
I expected the following day's trek to Evanton to be tough, and I was right. The recent rainfall meant that the rivers were in spate, so I couldn't cross where I'd expected to and had to deviate upstream (and hence uphill) to find a crossable point. I was getting used to footpaths shown on the map petering out into nothingness, and ended up hopping across pathless saturated bogland again. I gained the skill of knowing which ground would be firm from the plant-life growing upon it. I am sure that Bruce, my local Vicar, and Shirley, his predecessor, will both be delighted to know that I can now walk on 93% water.
At one point, I somehow ended up stuck in a pine forest trapped by a surging stream that seemed to flow in a complete circle around me. A fallen tree provided my escape route, but the delay cost me an hour. When I eventually reached Evanton it was 8.30pm and I had been walking for 11 hours. I was limping because of a painful right calf muscle - probably caused by the bogland clump-hopping. I decided that a rest day was due, but there was no room at the Inn! Fortunately the local 'Black Rock' campsite had a bunkhouse available for sorry cases like me and, as luck would have it, I would be the only inmate. That night I took a whisky to bed with me - for medicinal purposes only, you understand.