Loch Trool – Day 1

It's been less than a month since our last camping trip, but it is starting to feel like a year. I don't know what fuels this urge I have to return to The Nature – perhaps the bed at home is too comfortable, the food too copious and easy to prepare, or the lack of biting insects too conducive to peace and sanity. Whatever it is, it's evident that all this comfort and ease is not going to cut it. It's time to rough it again.

The weather is looking promising, so Mark and I agree on Wednesday that we'll spend the weekend outdoors, and that is about as specific as our plans get. I realise on Friday morning, as Mark heads out to his appointment at the Job Centre, that although the packing has begun and the grocery list has been penned we still have no idea where we're actually going. And so I sit down to find a likely spot the same way I always do: by browsing the countryside via Google Earth. First I scroll North. The Cairngorms are meant to be lovely at this time of year, but the lochs there look difficult to access. I like to camp near water. It's not just for aesthetic reasons, either – when you're carrying everything you need for a 3-day trip into the wilderness, the last thing you want is to haul 10 litres of water with you as well. Wherever there's a loch surrounded by hills, there's bound to be a spring somewhere nearby, or at least a stream you can pretend is freshly sprung by fetching the possibly-brownish water in opaque containers. We should probably invest in one of those water-purifier pumps, or at the least the tablets that do a similar job, but it seems like just one more thing to carry. I'll take my chances with Beaver Fever or whatever the Scottish equivalent might be (Loch Ness Distress? Scots Trots? I'm not too sure.) And so I scroll South a little bit. Northumberland National Park? Oh wait that's in England, I've gone too far. Back to the West and I spot Galloway Forest Park, the Southernmost park in Scotland, boasting such place names as Loch Moan, Clatteringshaws, and Glentrool. It's a very large park and appears to be somewhat accessible by public transport, which is usually the trickiest bit. After an hour of research I have pieced together a feasible route. I have called the bus company to make sure things are running as normal, I have mapped out train times not just for today but also for returning on Sunday, and I have done some reading on the area we will visit. I stumble across a post by some mountain bikers who assert that camping at Glentrool is a "dream", and my eyes are obscured by pre-camping excitement as I scan the next paragraph, something about the largest population in Scotland, and perhaps a mention of midges. I don't bother to read it twice. We are off to Loch Trool!

The train from Glasgow to Ayr is fairly uneventful, the only entertainment brought by a group of small children in matching neon smocks who briefly take over the carriage. They swarm around us and settle on the seats beside us, despite the many empty seats elsewhere. As I puzzle over this Mark leans over to explain it to me. Evidently the guy sitting behind us has a bit of a pedo-esque air about him, so the woman in charge has wisely forbidden the children from sitting near him and asked that they sit with us instead. We chuckle at this, unaccustomed to being seen as respectable citizens.

The second train, from Ayr to Girvan, is an old one that smells (according to Mark) like a rotting Big Mac. We envision gangs of neds* eating fast food as they head home, giving up mid-burger and pushing the leftovers into the air vents, chortling and making obscene comments in their nasal voices as they do so. Mark does an amazing ned impression that just cannot be replicated in text, though I have sat here trying. You can rest assured it was hilarious, so just laugh like you were there.

It's a massive relief to disembark from the stinking train at Girvan station. This where my hand-drawn map will come in handy, and we soon make our way to the nearest Asda to stock up on groceries and insect repellent. We are inside for 15 minutes tops, but by the time we emerge Mark's mood has been dragged into the black pit of despair and irritability that yawns wide any time he sets foot in a shop that doesn't sell computer games. It is an unfortunate handicap that I am constantly forgetting about. I vow to myself that next time I will do the shopping alone, sparing us both the anguish of that terrible chasm. Once thrown in, it takes him a good while to crawl back out again, and on this occasion there are further setbacks when we reach the 'bus stop'. We have dragged our poorly-balanced packs through the streets with muscles crying out at every step, only to discover, upon arrival, that there will be no bus leaving from the Girvan Academy as I was promised over the phone. Everyone knows that school is out for the summer, which is why I called to check on the status of the 15:30 bus from the Academy. Evidently the woman I spoke to is never allowed out of the office (because she was obviously unaware of the season), and now thanks to her presumed imprisonment we are a good 15 minute trudge from the town centre. The annoyance this causes is only amplified by the knowledge that the next bus from the school will not, in fact, be departing until September. The sun is shining and there are flowers all around but nobody is particularly pleased to be stretched out on the schoolyard grass, trying to let our back-sweat dry before we take up our packs once more. We take the opportunity to rearrange the contents of our rucksacks into more ergonomical configurations and then we start walking back in the direction we came from. It is with a real effort of will that we force ourselves out of grumpiness – Mark needs to overcome the hardships of shopping and the letdown of transportation failure while I just have to overcome my annoyance at his irritation (I try to remind myself that he is allowed to have one illogical hangup, considering that I have a monopoly on all the rest of them). Against all odds we manage it, possibly thanks to the Ferrero Rocher gelato we pick up along the way. Pretty soon the streets open out onto a sunlit harbour where idle children play in the grass and unemployed adults recline, looking dopey and stunned as if the sun has reached down and smacked them in the face. This is what Scotland is like in good weather – a whole country filled with people who can't believe their luck. Despite having lived here for a while now I never cease to find it entertaining.

Because the clock is ticking and the next bus that goes anywhere near Glentrool is not for another 3 hours, we decide we'll start walking that way and see if we can get a lift. Although we're on the mainland the small town and the seaside atmosphere make it feel like the islands (where I have hitchhiked with much success in the past), and when a woman on the street greets us as we walk by I am certain we'll have no problem in getting a ride. As we continue down the road I expound upon the friendliness of the locals and their undoubted willingness to share their vehicles with two upstanding, well-spoken, recently-showered, easy-on-the-eyes travellers such as ourselves. No worries! Perhaps the sun is going to my head as well, as it seems unable to harbour a negative thought. They come in to dock – "You are not going to get to the loch before dark"; "Why on earth would anyone pick you up in this hyper-paranoid day and age"; "You are an idiot and should have planned this trip better, what is wrong with you" – but are turned away without so much as an inspection of papers. Hurrah. Here comes the first car now.

4 miles down the way we are still putting one foot in front of the other, arms shaking with the effort of holding our thumbs aloft. We are widely ignored, though some exceptionally clever folks (usually guys in their mid-twenties) give us a thumbs-up back, laughing as if they have just invented the world's funniest joke. It's hard to blame these people for their unwillingness to help. The only hitchhikers I've ever picked up made off with my favourite pipe and a packet of tobacco, and who's going to take that kind of risk twice? Undoubtedly these gentle souls have offered rides to strangers in the past, only to discover, days later, that their Handy UK Road Atlas or the box of kleenex that's been yellowing on the back seat for years has gone missing. So you'll find no attempts at blame here, just a weary sigh as the long walk continues. Glentrool Village is 23 miles away, and hardy as we are even we will not make it that far before dark. We agree to walk as far as we can. Only at the point of collapse will we pitch our tent, and then we'll set out again in the morning.

We've walked about 3.5 miles when we come upon a lorry stopped at the side of the road. The window is open, and I walk past, expecting that Mark will chat the driver up and procure us a ride. As we round the next corner is becomes clear that this was a foolish expectation, and Mark scoffs when I ask him why he didn't do it, rightly pointing out that I, being a youngish and semi-attractive female, would probably have had better luck in any case. I spend the next half mile trying to figure out why I automatically assume that Mark will sort things out. All I can come up with is... laziness? Or perhaps a misguided idea that as part of 'taking care' of me he should naturally and automatically do whatever I find distasteful or uncomfortable, such as approaching strange bearded men in trucks to ask them for rides. Hmm. I am kind of lame that way, sometimes. Fortunately for us both the truck is now back on the road, and as it comes up behind us I steel myself and take advantage of my second chance by putting out a thumb. The man pulls to the shoulder immediately. How friendly! I approach the open window and we discuss destinations. As the road only goes to one place, it is not much of a surprise to discover he'll be driving right past the turnoff to Glentrool Village. He puts our packs in the back and we all climb up into the cab. Hooray for a ride!

It only takes maybe 25 minutes to get to our turnoff. We jump down from the lorry with effusive thanksgiving and wave goodbye to our new friend Robert. We will never see him again but he has been kind enough to save us from a night spent sleeping on the side of a motorway, and for that we will always think of him fondly. He wasn't a bad conversationalist either, come to think of it.

Rain starts to fall just moments after we leave the protection of the cab, but the shower isn't heavy and we're too pleased with our progress to care. It's another 2 miles to the village, and from there a further 4 to the loch itself. The trick is not to think of it as 6 miles; if you break it up into 1-mile segments you can feel a sense of accomplishment after each one, the happy flush of which eases the first half of the subsequent mile. With this method in place we soon cover the distance to the village, outside of which a dog is so excited and stunned by the presence of stranger that he tries to escape his leash to welcome us. The poor woman on the other end of the leash looks slightly embarrassed by the dog's behaviour, while her unfortunate second dog is rolling its eyes in panic and trying to get away from its maniacal leash-mate. A lot of people would stop and pet the dog, soothe it, maybe exchange friendly words with the owner. But Mark and I are not particularly fond of dogs, and when you add this to our general anti-sociability you have a recipe for walking right on by. We know how to get things done. Time we might've wasted talking to an unruly canine is better spent moving forward, and soon we find ourselves outside the Glentrool Visitor Centre.

It is deserted, and judging by the fact that we've only seen one person in the past 2 hours we aren't convinced of its necessity. I am really thirsty by this time, but in an unusual oversight I failed to fill our bottles before setting out, leaving us with a sad dearth of water. I approach the closed-up building hopefully, and am delighted to find an outdoor tap just begging for me to take advantage of it. I call out to Mark (who has gone to fill his bottle in the stream) and giddily, jokingly, express my wish that their toilets might be similarly accessible. As I fill my bottle I am astounded to see that the door to the toilets has indeed been left on the latch. What's more, the tiny room is clean, there's plenty of toilet paper, and there is even a heater installed above the tank which speaks to the kindness and year-round thoughtfulness of the centre's manager. I reflect on the way the youths of Glasgow would trash such a place in an instant, were they to find one so unguarded and temptingly pristine. Strange how an unlocked bathroom can call to mind the deplorable state of civilization these days. I shake off my old-womanish thoughts and we hit the trail once more.

Not far down the road a car packed with neds pulls up beside us, its occupants wondering if we have heard of a certain bothy (a type of basic shelter you can stay in for free in the Scottish countryside) they are trying to find. We are unable to help them, and as they drive off in their car packed to the roof with booze I speculate as to whether the toilets at the visitor centre have been destroyed yet, or not.

"You just can't get away from them!" exclaims Mark as we watch the car disappear around a corner. "You could go to Antarctica, just trying to get away, and they'd be beside you – "Awright, pal? Gies a shot ae yer parka." There's just no escape." The hint of a tremor in his ned imitation, designed to convey the extreme cold of the Antarctic, doubles me over with laughter. He's right though. They're everywhere.

The road we're on is long and not especially exciting once the neds are away. There are, it's true, a lot of trees to be seen, in varying species and sizes, but other than that there's not much. I find myself fascinated by the enormous tar-black slugs lounging in the grass to either side of the road. Each one is at least four inches in length and resembles, in texture and colour, a rubber tire on a rainy day. They move slowly and ponderously through the greenery and don't blend in at all. Do they have no predators? It's unusual to see an animal that makes so little effort at disguising itself. I later read that these slugs have many predators – badgers, hedgehogs, frogs, and carnivorous beetles (!) to name but a few – but the dense forest has yet to reveal any other life forms to us, so perhaps the slugs here don't worry too much. Their mucous-y coating probably boosts their confidence as well, as by all accounts it is quite unpalatable, but I don't get close enough to taste it because Wikipedia describes the mucous as "somewhat difficult to wash off". Thus I content myself with observing them from a distance, calling out "Slug!" every time I see one as if Mark might miss them without my help. He does the same with any mushrooms he spots over the weekend, though – "Mushroom!" – so I guess we're equally easy to amuse.

At about 20:00 we finally come upon a path that leads into the woods, with a sign assuring us that it leads to Loch Trool. There is much rejoicing. Tramping through the forest is more interesting than staying on the road, although it's quite tiring to hop from one dry bit of ground to another with a 25-kilo pack on your back. As we progress deeper into the trees the path becomes even swampier, but we stubbornly continue to choose every turnoff that takes us closer to the loch. Eventually we spot the loch itself – and it becomes clear that Loch Trool is one of those lakes that, at least at this end, has a swamp in place of a shore. There is no way to get to the water without navigating a wide expanse of ferns, under which the only solid footing is offered by clumps of plant life. It's an easy place to break an ankle, and our plans to pitch the tent immediately the loch came into view are ruined. We march ever onward, over moss and grass and reeds and muck, anxious to find any patch of level ground that is at least a meter square. I am feeling okay, having been blessed with a second wind when we turned off into the forest – I find it hard to remember that I'm tired and sore when my mind is taken up with avoiding dangers on the path and admiring the new scenery. Mark, however, is getting progressively more fed up and just wants to stop. The path leads us back into the trees, where there is an expanse of moss large enough to pitch a tent. Mark's eyes light up and he makes it clear he would be more than happy to set up camp here. I step onto the moss to test it out, immediately noting that there is enough water in it to flood my sandals every time I put a foot down. I point this out to Mark, but he is not convinced that we should rule it out as a possibility.

"Everywhere else is just as wet, we won't find anything drier." he tries to convince me. I tell him I'd rather camp on the road itself than in a giant (if soft) puddle full of moss. He eventually agrees to go on, though he's clearly not pleased. We consider a few more spots, knowing deep down that each of them is not very suitable, before eventually settling on the least-swampy one we can find.

As soon as we stop walking the forest explains to us why we have not seen any other people. A dark cloud rises from the undergrowth whilst simultaneously descending from the treetops, enveloping us in an opaque flurry of tiny bodies and miniscule, beating wings: midges. We are reduced to mindless, flailing animals in seconds. I suddenly know the insanity that lives in the mind of the fly-pestered horse you might see at the side of the highway, eyes rolling, tail switching, dancing sideways and generally going mental in an attempt to get away from the insects. I have known pests before: I have spent the weeks of spring in Northern Ontario as the blackflies, mosquitoes, deerflies, and horseflies are hatching, when they all join ranks to consume your flesh; I have walked through a damp forest at dusk with a canoe on my head, no hands available to swat at said pests and therefore allowing them free access to my face, neck, arms and legs; but in all the summers I have spent at cottages and camps I have never seen a swarm of bugs like this. Even the time I (as a child) mistook blackflies for fruit flies and let them devour me while I sat on a rock reading was as nothing compared to this. We dig through our packs in horror, pulling out every article of clothing we have brought and putting it all on. Scarves are tied around faces, woollen socks are worn beneath sandals, and Mark even donates his hat to me because my hairspray seems to be driving the little bastards into a frenzy. This kindness in a time of despair shows the depths of his love for me. If I wasn't so busy continuously sloughing the sheets of bugs from my limbs I would take a moment to be grateful. I debate kissing him but don't want to get midges in my mouth.

The tent is erected in record time. We coat ourselves in bug spray and set up our picnic area at the rear of the tent. We are basically sitting in the middle of a swamp, where Mark tries to light a fire with wood that is damp not only because of the jungle-like humidity here but also because it rained for a few hours, hard, earlier in the day. Even our cooking fuel can't get that wood to light, and after briefly discussing the merits of cooking an actual meal before we retire to the tent (we have walked at least 9 miles today on nothing more than 3 fancy cookies and a few bites of gelato each) but our ability to have a coherent conversation is soon undermined by the bugs, so all the food is tossed inside and we heave ourselves through the door shortly thereafter. Even with our well-honed quick-get-in-the-tent-leave-your-shoes-outside-waste-no-time-zip-the-door-closed-even-as-you-are-still-coming-through-it skills a tiny segment of the midge population has managed to come inside with us, only a few thousand or so. We spend a while smushing them against the sides gleefully as we unwrap ourselves and shake the dead bugs from our scarves and socks. We are, understandably I think, fairly tired from the day's exertions, and as soon as we've eaten some bread with cheese and a few Tunnock's tea cakes we crawl into our sleeping bag and close our eyes.

There are whispers of returning to the city tomorrow lest we lose our minds, but no decisions are reached before we slip into slumber.

TO BE CONTINUED....

*for more info on neds, go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_%28Scottish%29