The Long Way to the Pub

I’ve always thought that the best birthday presents are experiences rather than things. Preferably experiences that you’ll remember for years to come, even if, at the time, you’re questioning the friendship of the person who organised them.

My friend and business partner, Robert, had celebrated a milestone birthday the previous year, and I’d promised to organise an unforgettable trip away.

I suggested we go for a walk to a Scottish pub.

What I neglected to mention was that I had The Old Forge Inn, Britain’s most remote mainland pub, in mind. Situated in Inverie on the Knoydart Peninsula, it’s inaccessible by road, with the nearest road around 30 miles away.

There are essentially two ways of getting there: by boat or on foot.

Naturally, I chose the more difficult one.

And, perhaps just as importantly, I didn’t feel it necessary to explain quite how far we’d be walking until we were already committed.

Thursday 28 May — The journey north

Our adventure began on Thursday afternoon with the usual carefully considered preparations. By which I mean finishing my packing at the last minute and then sprinting to catch a train to Canterbury with my brother, Thomas.

We were met by the birthday boy himself, Robert, who had volunteered to drive us north. Whether he would have been quite so enthusiastic had he known what was coming is another matter.

We headed north, stopping around six hours later for a bite to eat at an Indian restaurant just outside Carlisle, before continuing for another couple of hours, crossing the border into Scotland and eventually reaching our overnight accommodation: a converted schoolhouse just off the M74.

We arrived around 9pm, repacked our bags and got our heads down.

Tomorrow, the adventure would begin properly.

Friday 29 May — Welcome to Scotland

After an early start and a hearty breakfast, we climbed back into the car and headed for Glenfinnan, home of the famous railway viaduct that most people recognise as the Harry Potter bridge.

The plan was to leave the car there, shoulder our packs and walk into the Highlands.

Our first challenge, however, was parking.

The main car park was full, which turned out to be irrelevant anyway, as overnight parking wasn’t permitted. Fortunately, a helpful local pointed us towards another spot about a mile away.

An extra twenty minutes of walking before we’d even started.

Excellent.

Eventually, we shouldered our packs and set off into the Scottish wilderness.

About thirty minutes later, the heavens opened.

And they stayed open.

For the rest of the day.

There’s something rather special about walking through the Highlands in the rain. The mountains disappear into the clouds, the streams become increasingly enthusiastic, and every item of clothing you’re wearing gradually reaches the same level of saturation.

We made our way through remote glens, stepped over streams, waded through rivers and generally became acquainted with an impressive amount of Scottish water.

At least we were getting our money’s worth from the waterproofs.

Hours later, thoroughly soaked and ready for somewhere dry, we finally arrived at A’ Chuil Bothy, at around 8pm.

For anyone unfamiliar with the concept, a bothy is a basic mountain shelter, usually without electricity, running water or any of the comforts that most people would consider essential to a good night’s accommodation.

After a day like ours, it felt like the Ritz.

We immediately stripped out of our soaking clothes. I concentrated on boiling water for dinner while Thomas went out to find firewood, hoping to get a fire going and dry out some of our kit. He did a sterling job, and in no time at all we were warming up nicely.

I had also brought along a small bottle of whisky.

Entirely for medicinal purposes, of course.

With dinner rehydrating, a fire warming the room and whisky being passed around, we settled down to recount the day’s adventures.

Despite the weather, or perhaps partly because of it, we’d had a brilliant first day.

By around 10pm, we’d set up our sleeping systems and were ready for bed.

Tomorrow, we had a pub to reach.

Saturday 30 May — The long road to a pint

We were up bright and early, and, mercifully, it wasn’t raining.

After a delicious freeze-dried breakfast — delicious being a relative term when you’ve spent the previous day living on trail food — and with a visit to the thunderbox out of the way, we filled our water bottles from the stream behind the bothy.

Then came one of my favourite moments of any multi-day hike.

Explaining to the others that they needed to take off their lovely warm, dry clothes and put yesterday’s cold, damp ones back on.

The reasoning is perfectly sound. You preserve one dry set of clothing for the evening rather than risk having everything wet. Besides, this being Scotland, there was every chance that everything would be soaked again before long anyway.

It doesn’t make the experience any more enjoyable.

Nothing lifts morale quite like pulling on cold, damp socks first thing in the morning.

We packed our bags, gave the bothy a final tidy and prepared to leave.

Which brings me to Robert’s mobile phone.

During my final sweep of the building, I spotted it sitting on the fireplace.

Naturally, I picked it up and put it safely in my pocket. Because he’d already left.

I could have handed it straight back to him.

But where’s the fun in that?

We set off, and around forty-five minutes later, having become rather bored of waiting for the opportunity to present itself, I casually asked Robert to take a photograph.

He reached for his phone.

Then checked another pocket.

Then his bag.

Then his pockets again.

The colour began to drain from his face as he realised he might have left it at the bothy, now a considerable distance behind us.

Thomas and I managed to keep remarkably straight faces while Robert contemplated the prospect of retracing nearly an hour’s walking to look for it.

After allowing him a few minutes to fully appreciate the situation, I decided he’d suffered enough and produced the phone from my pocket.

Robert was delighted.

Thomas and I were considerably more delighted.

It’s the little things that make a trip memorable.

The small matter of two mountains

Today’s walk was always going to be longer and considerably more strenuous than the previous day’s.

There were two mountains to traverse, and the terrain was much tougher.

On the plus side, it wasn’t raining.

On the minus side, I still hadn’t been entirely forthcoming about the distance.

At some point, Robert and Thomas realised that we’d be walking roughly one and a half times as far as we had the day before, only this time with a couple of mountains thrown in for good measure.

This was not universally well received.

I prefer to think of it as managing expectations.

Admittedly, mostly my own.

We had a table booked at The Old Forge for 6.30pm, and I was quietly confident that we’d make it.

That confidence gradually evaporated as the day progressed.

The climbs were slow, the miles seemed to get longer, and our estimated arrival time kept slipping.

One of the wonderful things about being deep in the Scottish Highlands is that you’re completely off-grid, with no mobile phone signal.

One of the less wonderful things about being deep in the Scottish Highlands is that you’re completely off-grid, with no mobile phone signal.

Particularly when you have a dinner reservation.

As the afternoon wore on, I became increasingly concerned that we weren’t going to make our booking.

Not, you understand, because I was worried about the physical demands of the walk.

I was worried about missing dinner.

After two days of freeze-dried food, the prospect of a proper meal had become the single most important objective of the expedition.

A difficult final descent

Unfortunately, things became considerably harder for Thomas.

He has an old knee injury, and while jumping across a stream, he managed to twist it.

He was in a great deal of pain, and as the day wore on, the descents became particularly difficult.

We slowed down and stopped regularly, but progress was becoming increasingly difficult.

A few miles from Inverie, I made a decision.

Rather than continue waiting, I would push ahead to the pub, make sure the kitchen could still feed us and, if necessary, come back up the trail to help Thomas with his pack.

Carrying a heavy rucksack certainly wasn’t helping his knee.

Eventually, I managed to get a phone signal and speak to the pub.

Last orders for food were at 9pm.

There was hope.

I picked up the pace and arrived at The Old Forge at around 7.30pm.

After dropping my bag, I managed to get hold of Thomas, who was still approximately an hour behind.

I explained that I was going to come back and help carry his kit.

He refused.

He appreciated the offer, but he wanted to finish the walk under his own steam.

Thomas had been through a difficult time recently, and one of my reasons for inviting him along on the trip was to give him something positive to focus on. A proper adventure, some time together and the satisfaction of doing something challenging, just for him.

I understood why finishing mattered to him.

So I respected his wishes.

And ordered myself a beer.

Someone had to keep the table occupied.

Robert arrived about half an hour later, and we settled in to wait.

Another half an hour passed before Thomas finally walked through the door.

He was limping, exhausted and looking decidedly worse for wear.

But he was also smiling.

He’d made it.

On his own terms.

And I could see how much that meant to him.

There are moments on adventures that stay with you long after the aches and blisters have disappeared.

That was one of them.

Naturally, I marked the occasion by ordering another round.

The Old Forge Inn — Finally!

After two days of walking through some of Scotland’s most spectacular and remote scenery, we’d finally reached our destination.

A pub.

Not just any pub, admittedly, but one we’d worked considerably harder to reach than any pub I’d visited before.

We sat down, ordered dinner and celebrated.

Proper food, cold drinks, good company and the enormous satisfaction of knowing we didn’t have to walk another mile that evening.

Or so I thought.

As the evening progressed, the kitchen closed, the plates were cleared away and, in fine Highland tradition, the musical instruments began to appear.

Before long, local musicians were playing, and we found ourselves enjoying an impromptu evening of traditional music.

It was exactly the sort of atmosphere I’d hoped we’d find.

Warm, welcoming, full of character and a world away from everyday life.

By around 11pm, we were thoroughly fed, watered and exhausted.

There was just one small problem.

We still had to walk to the campsite.

One last challenge

We collected our packs and headed along the coast towards the campsite we’d booked.

By now it was dark, and we still had to put our tents up.

I was reasonably comfortable with this, having used my tent plenty of times before.

Robert and Thomas, however, had borrowed another of mine.

A tent they weren’t quite so familiar with.

Putting up an unfamiliar tent in the dark after two long days of walking and several celebratory drinks is, as it turns out, an excellent test of friendship.

Fortunately, we eventually got everything erected, crawled inside and enjoyed a very well-earned night’s sleep.

Sunday 31 May — The great escape

We woke early, enjoyed another breakfast from a packet and packed away our tents.

Today, thankfully, we had a treat in store.

We weren’t walking back out.

Although Knoydart is around thirty miles from the nearest road, Inverie has a harbour and is accessible by boat. For the local community, the ferry is an essential connection to the mainland.

For us, it was a very welcome alternative to another two days on foot.

We’d booked the early morning ferry from Inverie to Mallaig.

Some of us were moving a little more slowly than others after the previous evening’s celebrations.

I set off last and soon caught up with Robert.

Thomas, who had left before us, was nowhere to be seen.

As boarding began, I started having visions of the ferry sailing away with my brother still standing on the harbour wall.

After everything we’d been through to get there, it would have been a rather unfortunate way to finish the adventure.

Fortunately, he appeared just in time.

We boarded, found our seats and set sail for the mainland.

Job done.

Well, almost.

A logistical oversight

There was still the small matter of getting back to our car.

We would be arriving in Mallaig early on a Sunday morning, many miles from Glenfinnan.

There were no suitable buses running, and the next useful train wasn’t until mid-afternoon.

Which would have meant sitting around for most of the day before we could even begin our drive home.

Now, I like to think I’m reasonably good at planning these things.

Clearly, I hadn’t devoted quite as much attention to the return journey as I had to the prospect of reaching the pub.

Fortunately, while on the ferry, I struck up a conversation with a friendly couple.

They were heading out to do their monthly shop, and as luck would have it, their journey would take them right past Glenfinnan.

I asked whether they might be willing to give one of us a lift.

With three of us and all our hiking equipment, there was no chance we’d all fit, but we only needed one person to collect the car.

They very kindly agreed.

As I’d been the one to approach them, it was decided that it would probably be a little strange if I then sent one of the others off with two complete strangers.

So I jumped in their car, enjoyed a very pleasant journey and, about half an hour later, was reunited with our vehicle.

I drove back to Mallaig, met up with Robert and Thomas, and sat down for a well-earned brunch before jumping back in the car and beginning the long journey home.

A remarkably civilised ending to what had been a rather less civilised couple of days.

Was it worth it?

Absolutely.

What started as a slightly mischievous birthday surprise turned into a brilliant little adventure.

We’d walked through remote Highland glens, crossed rivers, climbed mountains, spent a night in a bothy, endured relentless rain, enjoyed whisky by the fire, survived a questionable practical joke, battled through a painful final descent and eventually celebrated with good food, cold beer and live Scottish music.

We’d also discovered that a decent pub meal is an extraordinarily effective motivator.

For Robert, I hope it was a birthday present he won’t forget.

For Thomas, I hope the satisfaction of completing that final day, despite the pain, stays with him for a long time.

And for me, it was another reminder that the best adventures don’t necessarily need weeks away, exotic destinations or enormous budgets.

Sometimes all you need is a couple of good friends, a rucksack, a slightly ambitious plan and a destination worth walking towards.

Preferably one with a well-stocked bar.

Three days, plenty of physical and emotional highs and lows, a lot of laughter, some questionable decisions and memories that’ll last a lifetime.

And the next time I suggest going for a walk to the pub, I suspect Robert and Thomas might ask a few more questions first.