The West Highland Way Cycle

 

Day Zero

 

ON THE TRAIN NORTH

 

The sheep are grazing in the green streaks

Between white bands of snow.

England in March is friendly to ice

And anything woolly enough to survive.

 

MILNGAVIE

 

The bite in the air is the healthy kind;

Scotland is not for the weak.

With highlands ahead and the tame world behind,

We pause on the threshold

And let the Way speak.

 

 

Day One

NEAR GARTNESS

 

White seagulls and black crows

Are sharing this field together

In a king of scavengers’ truce

Or a parable of land and sea.

 

 

Day Two

 

THE WALKER

 

Into the silence of the Scottish morning

The walker drops; he is silent too.

Between fields, between old stone walls,

Between sleeping centuries, he wends his way;

 

And when he has passed, no trace of him remains

On a landscape etched forever in his heart.

 

SCOTTISH MARCH

 

There’s ice in the burns, but there’s buds on the trees;

Winter in the soil; spring on the breeze.

 

ABOVE LOCH LOMOND

 

The moss-grown birches

Are a poem in green and white -

A poem set to music

By the evening light.

 

THE MIRACLE OF WALKING

 

The same basic procedure

That takes you from room to room

Can take you a hundred miles

If you simply refuse to stop.

 

ROWARDENNAN

 

Well, here I am in a place again,

Like last time and the time before,

With various things within my ken,

Some indoor, some out-of-door;

 

And here I am in a human mind,

With time enough to look around,

As present a man as you may find

Between the sky and the grateful ground.

 

Day Three

 

LOCH LOMOND, PART I

 

Already the afternoon light

Is spinning the air into gold;

Loch Lomond is bearded with shadow

And braced by a song of old.

 

LOCH LOMOND, PART II

 

Now the fog falls, and the ghosts are out:

Rob Roy, the Wallace, the Bruce, the Prince -

Proud men, but men, full of sin and doubt;

And who’s seen the like of ‘em since?

 

DROVERS’ ROADS

 

Walking on old drovers’ roads

And trying to imagine driving cattle down them

Is a helpful reminder, if you needed one,

Of just how insane the past really was.

 

FALLEN TREE (NEAR ARDLEISH)

 

Uprooting, the tree uprooted a stone;

They still cling together, never alone.

 

HEATHEN’S PRAYER

 

The air is cold, but the sun is warm;

By night the windows keep out the storm;

If God’s in heaven, then so be it;

Down here the road winds, and the fire is lit.

 

INVERARNAN

 

Snow greeted us at the Drover’s -

A brief squall to remind us

Why inns were built in the first place.

 

Day Four

 

HIGHLAND BLESSING

 

Porridge at morning, whisky at night;

Sun’s on the heather; everything’s right.

 

ROB ROY’S CAVE

 

They say he stopped here, but it may have been elsewhere;

It may have been someone else entirely.

And there was where

He kept his prisoners -

Or, just as likely, never did.

 

The legend, you see, outpaces the man,

(Though no man could in the man’s own prime),

And the world will never forget Rob Roy

As long as it loves to tell a tale.

 

These hills are still dotted with his footsteps;

His laughter still comes on the wind;

And men are still chasing him through the Highlands,

Though he stopped running long ago.

 

PARABLE

 

Life is like the West Highland Way;

It’s long, it’s short; it’s hard, it’s not that hard,

And you should never forget to take in the scenery -

But also, you have somewhere to be.

 

MY LEFT FOOT

 

My left foot is killing me,

Or vice versa,

But we’re stuck with each other,

At least until Fort William.

 

WALKER’S MANTRA

 

At noon there will be tea and shortbread,

Because this is a just and good world.

 

NEEDS MUST

 

What we must do, we do;

It isn’t the will that finds the way.

Necessity itself takes up the burden,

And makes of our day, her day.

 

JAMIES

 

A man with my father’s name gave me a thermos;

Jamies are always looking after me.

 

VARIETY

 

Variety is the meat of life;

Appreciation is the spice.

 

PURPOSE

 

If you wonder why you’re walking,

You’re already lost,

Unless you know the answer

Is to get to the next stop.

 

SHEEP FIELDS (ABOVE CRIANLARICH)

 

I was chased by a cow once

In Switzerland,

So forgive me if I’m not

Complacent around sheep.

 

NORTHERN ICE

 

Walking into winter

As winter turns to spring

Is a bit like growing younger

And still aging.

 

CALEDONIAN FOREST

 

The silence of an old forest

Is like the silence between the stars:

A cold and alien silence -

And, somehow, welcoming.

 

CALEDONIAN FOREST, PART II

 

The moss covers everything,

Like the slow-motion apocalypse

Of some long-forgotten culture

Whose greatest fear was moss.

 

STRATHFILLAN

 

With a name like Strathfillan,

It’s got to be good.

 

IS THIS A POEM?

 

Part of me cares what mountain I’m looking at;

Part of me doesn’t.

Is that a poem?

I can’t tell anymore.

 

 

Day Five

 

TYNDRUM

 

I wake up to a white world,

A Continental breakfast,

And a path unfurling through the snowy mist,

Laid out by men long dead

For me alone.

 

LATE WINTER

The moss on the trees looks like blossom,

Incongruous in the snow.

 

FUNGO

I worried about Fungo,

Whom I met on the trail,

Who was camping out in weather

That froze me halfway to the pub.

 

Then I remembered he told me

He did Nepal in the off-season,

And I don’t think even the Highlands

Can kill a man like that.

 

RANNOCH MOOR

 

When crossing Rannoch Moor,

Be sure to bring a stout heart,

A love for desolate beauty,

And a chicken club sandwich.

 

THE RULES

 

If you don’t use the word “desolate”

In describing Rannoch Moor,

The Scottish police arrest you

And feed you haggis till you confess.

 

PARADOX

 

The burns rush on at a breakneck pace

While taking every detour they can.

 

TWO GERMAN GIRLS I MET ON THE TRAIL

 

I swear to God their names

Were Lucie and Ricarda.

I swear to God

They didn’t get the joke.

 

AN OLD SAYING

 

If you don’t like the weather in Scotland,

That’s okay,

Because the weather doesn’t like you either.

 

 

Day Six

 

KINGSHOUSE

 

The fireside means little

Unless you’ve been out in the snow -

Pelted and shivering, dreaming of stew

And the place you’re giving a meaning to.

 

GLEN COE

 

The path rises, the burn falls -

Two parallel scars

On the face of the weeping hill.

 

THE GLEN COE MASSACRE

 

The name of Campbell

Is a blot on history -

And not just because

Of their mediocre soup.

 

TRAIL NYMPH

 

She had a smile that forgave all sins

And made you want to commit some more.

 

SYMBOL

 

The national animal of Scotland

Is the unicorn,

Because of the Scots’ affinity for lost causes,

Or maybe from some instinctive knowledge

That anything really good is rare.

 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

 

The Samoans called him “Tusitala” -

“Teller of tales” -

Which is not only a perfect description

But the best thing a man can be.

 

 

Day Seven

 

TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY

 

Even Robert the Bruce,

When he knew himself defeated,

Threw his sword in a pond -

And he was a great man.

 

I’m not Robert the Bruce,

And I don’t have a sword,

But I’m taking the bus to Fort William,

Because I do know when I’m beat.

 

SCENERY

 

The snow is just as lovely

Through the bus windows;

It softens the disappointment

As it softens the world.

 

FORT WILLIAM

I took a bus through a blizzard

Into a sunlit bay.

The day didn’t go as I planned it -

But why should I blame the day?

 

 

Bonus Poems (Day Eight)

 

WHITE CEILING

 

The snowline is never far above you;

The Highland villages are ducking their heads,

Trying to keep winter out of their caps

Till April comes to sweep it clean away.

 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, PART II

His grandfather built lighthouses,

And so, if you think about it,

Did he.