Cold, Lone and Still Read Free Page B

considerable slopes, but some of it was along the side of the loch. Hera sang and, if I knew the tune, I whistled it. We were very happy. The holiday was going to be a success, after all.
    Inland, we passed through natural woods as well as through more of the Forestry Commission’s plantations. Now and again we loitered at one or other of the small beaches which we came to beside the water. We also stopped to look at the views ahead and astern of us and, as we walked on, we could look across the loch to the motor-road which ran along on the other side past Tarbet and Ben Vorlich and on to Ardlui.
    Sometimes we paddled in the shallows or sat and tossed stones into the water. One way and another we walked or idled away the time and ate some of the food we had bought in Drymen. Altogether it was a very easy-going, pleasant day. The weather was perfect but not unduly hot, the oak woods through which we passed were magnificent and so were the views when we came again into the open country or on to the shore of the loch.
    All that day we found that the markers which charted The Way were well posted and easy to follow. The sign was a thistle inside a hexagon and there were also unmistakeable yellow arrows on signposts where The Way diverged from what appeared to be the obvious path.
    We were so happy that, where this was possible, we walked hand-in-hand, more like children than like a sensible couple who had planned to test the temperature of a possible future together. I had begun to have my doubts at the outset of the walk, but they were all resolved on that halcyon day when we trekked from Balmaha to Rowardennan, where we were booked in at the youth hostel.
    The magic in the air came from the weather and the scenery, of course, but, even so, I had learnt something of value to me. Hera and I could expect to have our ups and downs, a rough passage at times, frustrations and disagreements, but there would also be compensations, ‘port after stormy seas’, a benign providence somewhere in the offing, the isles of the blest for a safe anchorage at the end of the day. How one deceives oneself!
    The youth hostel at Rowardennan was backed by trees and a hill, had a curious little turret and was beautifully situated on the shore of the loch. It had a hundred beds, served meals from Easter to September and there was also a members’ kitchen, but it was very much more convenient for us to buy a meal there and conserve our emergency rations.
    Ben Vrackie was away to our right as we faced the hostel, and the huge bulk of Ben Lomond loomed ahead. We were booked for two nights at Rowardennan and next morning nothing would satisfy Hera but to take the ferry across Loch Lomond to Inverbeg. It was running, so, together with a number of other hostellers — although none of them, so far as I could see, were acquaintances of ours — we boarded the boat.
    Once ashore, we had lunch in Inverbeg and then walked along the road which follows the river through Glen Douglas. We crossed the railway and reached the Garelochhead-Arrocher road where, thanks, I think, to Hera’s beauty, we thumbed a lift to Oban by way of Inverary on Loch Fyne and the Pass of Brander.
    I had to hire a car and a driver to take us back to Inverbeg and we missed the boat on its return journey and had to spend the night at Inverbeg and cross back again in the morning.
    ‘I wish we could stay here another night,’ said Hera, when we stepped ashore at Rowardennan again. I felt the same urge and, in any case, I wanted to explain why we had not taken up our option of bedding down at the hostel the night before. We knew we were not the only hostellers who had crossed the loch on the previous day and some thoughtful soul had reported to the warden that we had missed the boat. I asked whether we could stay an extra night. The hostel was not full, so permission was readily granted and we spent most of the daylight hours on the little loch-side beach in front of the hostel, except for