Via Morocco

Also on the way back from Cascades de Ouzoud, our driver took us to an interesting rock formation in his village in the middle Atlas. Children swam in a river which ran under a massive red arch. The taxi driver was really proud when he told me I could walk all the way under and round to the top again, so I duly did and got pooped on by the nesting birds, it was impressive nonetheless. All this was at no extra cost (I think the unwitting generosity of the man in the front seat might have helped, though I didn't realise it at the time), which seems to be a rarity in Morocco and made it all the better.

The next morning I stood at the arrivals gate in Marrakech airport among a group of Moroccan drivers, holding a sign of my own. It had an unsavoury adjective on it which made a few of the English speakers giggle before Scott strolled through in a daze, I don't know whether it was the sign or my face which told him I was there for him, I think the sign. That night we decided to have a crash introduction to Marrakech before shooting off to the coast. After exploring the souq a bit, we smoked an aishisha pipe and hit the food stalls in the square, pretty cheap and tasty even if the waiters literally fight over you. Later we thought we'd to find a pub or club for a few beers, and so the odyssey began. We walked 2km to the new town only to find a 'Mexican' live music venue where a Moroccan singer sang Mexican songs in Arabic and salsa danced, we left confused at this spectacle and the of 5 Pound bottles of beer. Finding absolutely nowhere else resembling a bar we jumped into a taxi and asked to be taken to a club. The driver stopped to ask a policeman the best way to go and we agreed a price of 25 Dirhams. On arrival he demanded 100. We argued whilst edging sideways out of the taxi and the driver lowered his price to 30 over 10 minutes of pretty repetitive negotiation in French. Then we approached the entrance of the club. The 5 very bored looking attendants at the door were willing to make a 'special exception' and allow me to go in with my sandals on. We suspected this was because they wanted our money as there was nobody else in the place. So, not wanting to be the guys standing in an empty club on the outskirts of town we decided to walk back to the city centre and our Riad. At least we got a few photos of the Koutibia Mosque on the walk home. Marrakech had tired us out, we were definately ready to move on to Essaouira.

Our bus got a flat tire down half way to the Atlantic coast and all of the men on the bus got off to give an opinion on its repair. Finally in Essaouira, we found a nice riad with a view of the sea and this kitten outside so were obviously optimistic about our stay.

Later we even found an alcohol shop, named just that: alcohol shop, which meant we could have a few beers on our terrace during the sunset, with an unhappy seagul for company.

We found Essaouira lived up to its surf town reputation, or even exceeded it. The omnipresence of drugs and alcohol was far more obvious than I've grown to expect in a Muslim country and was a bit surprising. that being said it still was a really nice, relaxed town and we did experience some genuine hospitality, being invited for tea by some young guys we had got talking to about football (what else), which was great.

After two nights in Essaouira we rented scooters from a suitably dodgy wheeler dealer and headed south along the coast, intending to explore the beaches and camp on one of them. We found a great beach, went for a swim, and were then forced to camp there when both scooters wouldn't start up again. Undettered, we set up camp among the dunes and collected firewood in preparation for a great night. The pictures speak for themselves.

Next up was a bit of desert. We didn't quite realise how far away it was and ended up in the Sahara after 9 hours in a bus over the Atlas and then a 4 wheel drive.

After a night camping in the moonlit desert we indulged in an afternoon by the pool in Ourzazate before heading back to Marrakech for our flights. We spent the night at the airport as we had arrived late. I don't think the guards approved so I had to prop myself up and sleep with my head down, closed eyes pointing at an open book on my lap, had them fooled I think. All in all a pretty good week, although more exploration of the Atlantic coast would have been good, maybe in September.

Via London and Morocco

Well, where to start. Hello from Senegal. I guess I'll begin with my elongated journey here and hope to be able to somehow get some photos up on this PC.

After a small goodbye celebration in Glasgow on Sunday night, I caught the 1pm train to London, sad to be leaving Jo for two months but with a lot to look forward to. I spent that night with Caitlin and the next morning did some last minute shopping for a decent stock of books and malaria tablets. Another goodbye, to Cait and Billy, was followed by my uncle Andrew and I being treated to a tour of Westminster Palace courtesy of Lyndsay Anne. The politicians having skulked off on recess hoping for some disaster to blow their thievery from the front pages, we had the place largely to ourselves. However we were just too late to get either of the chambers so made do with some subsidised pints off Guinness and arranged a return in September. Here's a pic of Andrew and I on the terrace by the Thames.

Andrew and I then espoused the brilliance of Toots and the Maytals to Lyndsay and her boyfriend Iain (another friend from school), until they decided to come to the gig. Anyway it was worth it, the show was great and Toots, who must be at least 60, was even better than expected. By that stage bed wasn't really an option with a 6 o'clock flight to catch so we all met up with Laura for a few more drinks and a bit of table football, great day.

The next day couldn't have been more different. I woke up with the thud of wheels on the Marrakechi tarmac, briefly wondering whether my early morning beers with some Rome bound Mancunians had been a dream or not. Away from the airport, the early morning sun woke me up properly and the sensory feast that is Marrakech blew any remaining cobwebs away. If anything the hustle and bustle was a bit too much so I decided to head out of town the next day, after watching the demise of my Mancunian friends in the Champions League Final, in a room full of dancing Moroccan Barça fans.

I arrived at the Cascades d'Ouzoud at about 3pm on the Thursday. I set up camp (literally) on a mud terrace beside the a the forested slope before venturing further down the stall and restaurant lined steps to have a look at the falls.

As you can see the falls themselves are quite photogenic and as pretty in reality, especially when the sun catches the spray to produce a rainbow which would place a pot of gold somewhere in the plunge pool. However, standing still to relax and appreciate the view was made more difficult by constant hassle from locals ( I say locals but these guys were more likely opportunistic hustlers attracted by the area's ability to attract tourists). Even if this can be forgotten with kind but persistent resistance, the omnipresent litter and grime made a more permanent impression on me. After a wee trek down river I left the next day, regretting the apparent demise of what must have once been a magical place, and my role as a tourist. Also, on the way back in a shared taxi, a late arriving Englishman in the front unwittingly agreed to pay 4 times the amount charged myself and two French girls in the back, the exploitation is seemingly mutual.

The next day I met my friend Scott at Marrakech airport, he had a week off from a busy RAF officer training schedule (making paper aeroplanes and taking elocution lessons) for a week of travelling in Morocco, a blog about which is next on my to do list.

Home

By the end of day seven I was very content. I'd pushed on for about 25 miles having to stop quite a few times to relieve myself of a worsening tummy bug (sorry if that's too graphic). Also, my girlfriend Jo was coming to walk a section of the way the next day so I had that to look forward to. Nearing my scheduled stop I caught sight of a stag while walking on the road. I'd naturally seen a alot of deer but this guy was particularly regal, standing on the mound in the centre, surveying his dominion with a clear sky behind. Hopefully you can see him, the picture comes up very large if you click on it. Then a bit further on and up a hill I looked back West to see the sun going down, more content still.

In the morning I met up with Jo at Tyndrum and we walked a good 15 miles in the afternoon. We got soaked in the incessant rain so easily found an excuse to indulge in a meal and stay at the Drover's Inn in Inverarnan. Here I am taking a break on the road to Crianlarich.

The next day, my ninth of the walk, I prepared for the worst with all the wet weather gear I had and my pessimistic predictions were not off the mark. Jo got the bus back home as I set off on what I hoped was the penultimate day. Here's a view of Loch Lomond from the North, the rain kept falling and the sky didn't get much brighter than that but it wasn't enough to dampen anyone's spirits. Another great aspect of walking the West Highland Way is meeting fellow walkers. They're a surprisingly mixed bunch and all are very cheery and encouraging. Most people travelling North do the Way in similar sections and as such get to know other walkers and have a bit of fun. For me going South, I only really talked to people in passing or at stops so it would have been nicer if more were going my way. In this particular section the path was tough and the going slow, much like the picture below and even worse in some parts- alot of scrambling.

Also along the East bank of Loch Lomond there are some wild goats, descendants of those left behind when the crofters were moved out in the highland clearances. I managed to find four of them here, looking suitably scruffy and not too friendly.

And on the tenth day, after a 26 mile walk that day and about 170 miles in all, I arrived back in Glasgow tired in body but refreshed in mind. Unfortunately the former took over the latter and I wasn't much of a conversationalist at the lovely tea which Jo's Granny cooked. They all came along to meet me at the end of the West Highland Way in Milngavie on the left here which was really nice. 

The more I reflect on the walk the more favourably I think of it. Perhaps it was a litlle like childbirth in that respect. Before any ladies scoff, I don't mean it was that painful, I got sore feet, a blister or two and a bit of a groin strain but generally it was a painless experience. The gradually increasing tiredness can be forgotten in the fresh air and beautiful surroundings. The fear of not completing it due to injury or accident was a good driver but perhaps dulled the enjoyment a little, next time I'd do it with a group of friends and take it as it comes. I'd also recommend a walk like this to anyone, and really think nearly everyone could do it and get alot out of it, especially the West Highland Way which is brilliant for so many reasons. Lastly, thank you very much to everybody who sponsored me, it was really pretty touching- I've raised over £700 and counting, hopefully this blog has given you a little more value for money.

The Last Legs

The weather on day six made both Cash and I long for the idyll of the day before. The rain came at us sideways as we trundled through the pass and down into Kinlochleven, where I gladly found a dog friendly pub for lunch. After some much needed protein I put all of my wet weather gear back on and stepped out onto the road. I took a few more steps before realising my follower wasn't quite so faithful as usual, and looking back, I saw him sitting in the doorway of the pub with an unmistakable frown. He limped along when I called and certainly let me know he wasn't for going on, he had completely stiffened up. So, with tail wagging, we went back inside where he curled up again. So Cash's trip was over and I would get an afternoon off, not so bad. Michael, Cash's owner, was due to meet us in Kinlochleven that lunchtime to do a section of the walk but had had a flat tyre near Glasgow. Once it was fixed he kindly came and picked Cash up anyway so I could carry on, he even relieved me of some unnecessary bag weight which was very much appreciated.

When Michael and Cash left me it was 5pm and the rain had cleared to make way for a lovely spring evening. I had written half a day off but now saw an opportunity to make up some time with a quick evening walk. The next section of the way goes quite sharply uphill before a descent into Glen Coe via the so called Devil's Staircase, by most accounts it takes about three or four hours, so I had just enough daylight. With the time constraint on my mind and a lighter pack on my back, I quickly consulted my map before setting off up the hill in high spirits. It was a lovely walk with really great scenery, as you may be able to see behind this oddly placed road sign. Then, my mind returned from one of my many daydreams to a pretty miserable reality, I had gone the wrong way. I checked the map and discovered I had inexplicably missed a turn and walked for three miles on the wrong path. So a bit disheartened, I had little choice but to find a place to camp and back track in the morning. The ground I was on was under a reservoir and consequently soaking, not much good for tents. Walking up towards the reservoir I found the only dry, sheltered and flat ground in the garden of an abandoned cottage and quickly pitched up. Only when darkness fell did I realise how spooky this place was. Now I'm not usually superstitious in the least, but that night I was nearly convinced that I'd have to have a showdown with the witches from Macbeth. An image of them crouched and cackling in some cheap movie version had reappeared in my head, as the old building next to my tent creaked in the strong wind I envisaged them emerging with knives to steal my iPod before challenging me to what would surely be a losing fight. After further strange imaginations I remembered that I had left my iPod with Michael and was reassured, why would the witches rob me if I didn't have my iPod? Not overly rational I know, I blame it on tiredness.

After sunrise the next morning I packed up and set off again. I arrived at the top of the Devil's Staircase and was rewarded with one of the most spectacular views of the West Highland Way, over Glen Coe (below).

And here's the oft pictured other side of Stob Dearg from the Way as it approaches Rannoch Moor.

The first obvious change in terrain on the West Highland Way came at Rannoch Moor, where the rocky mountains above give way to the vast emptiness of the moor below (Western extremity pictured o the left). Supposedly, a great part of the appeal of the Way is this progress through changing landscapes and land uses, with the varied history of each area. Most people do the Way Northwards, from the lowlands near Glasgow to the highlands before Fort William, whereas I did it Southwards. For me there really is a big difference. I got the sense that, in historical terms, my journey was a progressive one- from the highlands, where modernity is almost absent (at Glen Coe, even the lone road cuts a respectfully small and snaking figure through the giant rock formations on either side) to Glasgow, a formerly successful industrial city of a million people trying to adapt to a post industrial world. In that respect going South better represents the historical journey of Scotland and as such there is something to be said for it, yet going North is perhaps a bit more escapist, nostalgically travelling back in time. Perhaps I'll try it the other way next time. 

Essay done for now, just one leg to go. 

The next morning I thought I had woken up in The Sound of Music looking at this view. So it followed that I had to endure memories of being subjected to that film as a child and the songs soon began repeating in my head. Why is it always the most heinous songs which stick in the mind? I remembered the great documentary Touching the Void, in which a climber who had shattered his leg in a descent from an Andean mountain took days to crawl back to base camp with the song 'Brown Girl In the Ring' by Boney M in his head, all the while fearing he might die to that song. I gained a new appreciation of his pain. Sample it here if you think you have the mettle-       http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zaWsIzWZFr0

By the beginning of the fifth day I was near Fort William where I could get some much needed insoles and socks. As I approached, Ben Nevis slowly appeared to the South out of the morning haze. I took this picture and then stood and watched it for a while as if it was waking up, spiritual stuff.

As the Great Glen Way ended at Fort William  the West Highland way began just a mile or so down the road. It started with an ascent as the Way moves South around Ben Nevis. By this stage Cash was starting to make better use of any breaks I decided to have- there he is curled up beside my bag. I was gradually getting worn down by just walking so all of his extra exploring was really taking a toll. Luckily his owner, Michael, was due to join me the next day to walk a section over the weekend, so Cash could get home for a hibernation after that. Also realised I hadn't taken any pictures of myself, so here are a few to prove I was there! You can just see a bit of Fort William in the Background of the second one, and my wet socks hung out to dry on top of my bag. 

As the evening wore on the scenery became more and more fantastic. The West Highland Way was already beating the Great Glen Way in that respect. Here's a view as we turned into the Lairig Ghru, or Big Pass.

A bit further along the glen seemed like the ideal place to camp as we stumbled drunkenly along on our last legs at the end of another long day. Cash curled up in his bed as soon as I had dried him and put the tent up as you can see below. Too cute.

I was seriously relieved to see the Caledonian Canal lock system at Fort Augusta, Loch Ness is so bloody long. A big tour bus of Japanese tourists were gasping in excitement as the locks began to open for a boat, then they caught sight of me. A bit scruffy and unwashed and with a friendly dog tied to my rucsack, they politely asked for some photographs. About fifteen minutes later I had posed with almost every member of the group and even managed a group photograph with Cash and I in the middle looking puzzled but having a great time. I'm still not sure what the novelty was but I was happy to please, even if the joke was on me. I stupidly forgot to get a photo with my camera, but the mental image is as good for me anyway.

After Fort Augusta it was  two days walk along Lochs Oich and Lochy to Fort William. The weather was good and the walking mostly flat. Here's Cash having a stand off with a cow on a narrow path. By the time I'd got the camera out the cow was chickening out.

On the afternoon of day three I had a sunny and warm walk along Loch Oich, the picture below is from the North East end. 

That night I set up our best camp yet, right beside the canal for a much needed wash. Here's cash sleeping while I cook my dinner on the stove before a welcome early bed time.

Home

So, the deed is done and I'm glad to be at home resting my weary feet. I'll go through some of the pictures I took and try to make it as interesting as an account of ten straight days of walking can be.

The morning after the last post Cash (as in Johnny- a friend's dog who I look after every now and again) and I missed the first train and arrived in Inverness about two hours late, just before midday. Having not had much sleep and being a little anxious about what I'd gotten myself in for, we set off in earnest along the 78 mile Great Glen Way which links Inverness and Fort William. After a nice route through the town the path turned sharply uphill. Noticing I'd only done a mile and struggling with tiredness and my 18 kg rucsack, I stopped and was battling with my confidence halfway up, surely 168 miles was too far and my bag was definitely too heavy. Was this just some silly boy's idea from the comfort of his city bedroom? Do people actually do this and why would they? Bleak and negative as it may seem I'm not just saying it for effect, after all it is a bit embarrassing, but I felt completely under prepared, physically and mentally, and was glad to be alone. So I carried on and turned my thoughts around- it can't all be uphill, and the pack would get lighter as Cash and I ate our food and I could get rid of some weight at the next town. Anyway, as so often, the reward was at the top of the hill, a nice view over Inverness (you can just see it in the background of the next pic) and an afternoon of relatively flat walking ahead made me feel much better. 

Now my mini crisis seems laughably ridiculous but I'm glad I had it. 

Most of the path on the first day followed an ancient drover's road, used to move livestock South to market. It was mostly wooded also which gave some shelter from the rain. Here's Cash in the ruins of an old drover's night stop and then exploring on the road. 

The next day was beautiful as we reached Loch Ness. I caught this large 'S' shape in the sky on my camera, don't know if you can really see it but was really obvious from the ground. Yep, I was a little bored. Around this stage I started to notice how different this type of walking was. I walk nearly everywhere around town and am always considering how long it will take and how I'm progressing, even if I'm not in a hurry. Annoyingly, when walking alongside Loch Ness I was similarly considering how I was doing and would often check the map to find I'd only covered a couple of kilometres or so. So the process of just giving myself a large chunk of time to walk somewhere, usually four or five hours, was quite liberating. I guess sometimes you need a good long walk to release those tiny anxieties of everyday life. 

After another day of walking I (literally) stumbled  onto suitable camping ground, meaning it was flat, dry and very near the path for laziness. So here's how Cash and I were living on night two:

Well, I meant to finish this in one but have posted too much and taken too long with fiddly pictures, so I guess it'll have to be done in instalments.