Halfway and Hobbit Huts : Inverarnan to Tyndrum

“I would hope to one day say that we obeyed the seasons of our souls.

That we, a band of merry men, with hope accomplished stories seldom told.”

Roo Panes, Thoughts for Absent Friends

Foggy Morning on the West Highland Way

We were awake at 6 AM to find that the field full of tents was covered in a dense fog, which had returned us to the familiar norms of trekking in the UK: damp air, subtle lighting, a magical atmosphere…. and an utterly soaked tent. After the dry morning at Rowardennan, it felt as though the weather had simply corrected itself to Scottish norms overnight. As we packed up our wet tent, other hikers slowly began to emerge from their shelters, bundled against the morning chill.

Hoping to get water and make breakfast, we sought out the complimentary cook kitchen, only to find the small room packed with people. Hikers were wrapped in blankets, wearing huge down jackets, and shuffling in circles as they tried to grab what they needed in the crowded space. Rather than add ourselves to the slow rotation of damp bodies, bags, stoves, and breakfast supplies, we took our food and coffee outside and had our morning repast in the fog.

Once we were ready for another day on the West Highland Way, we wove back through the Beinglas property and returned to a wide gravel trail. For a brief moment, we set off on our own, moving into the mist with the hope that the morning might be quiet. But as soon as other hikers saw people already beginning their day’s trek, a number of them quickly tossed their backpacks together and hurried down the trail.

 And so it was not long before we had a group of twelve or fifteen people marching once again on our heels. Their walking sticks clicked and pounded behind us with a steady rhythm that reminded me, somewhat absurdly, of Jaws: click, click, click, click, creeping closer along the trail. Unfortunately, this routine was becoming a familiar background pressure on the West Highland Way.

Once again, we faced the choice of keeping up an unreasonable pace or stepping aside to let a group pass, knowing they would likely slow down almost immediately once they were in front. It was a small frustration, but as with all small frustrations, they often become larger when repeated day after day. Still, the fog softened the landscape around us, and for the moment, we tried to let the morning be about the trail ahead rather than the footsteps behind us.

Hydro Corridors and Railway Lines

Thankfully, the wide track made for easy walking as it paralleled the River Falloch. After yesterday’s constant navigation along the side of Loch Lomond, it felt like a blessed relief to be able to walk without watching our footing every second. For the first time in what felt like a while, we were moving through a landscape that we could enjoy rather than one we had to negotiate with complete focus.

We followed a hydro corridor as the landscape gradually revealed itself through the mist, fog, and early morning rain. The low cloud and shifting rain gave the region a romantic quality, softening the hills and fields around us rather than simply obscuring them. The main issue for the moment became the usual dance of rain gear: putting it on against the wind and wet, then getting too warm, then removing it before then adjusting again as the weather continued to shift.

The route carried us through a region of sheep and cows before crossing over the River Falloch, where the wide track turned extraordinarily muddy. Before long, our feet were wet again, which seemed to be the natural state of walking in the UK. Still, the going was easy, and for a while we were grateful simply to be making steady progress.

Eventually, the trail climbed before taking us through a tunnel beneath the local railway. It was so low that, with our large backpacks on, we had to crawl under it, a process that was critiqued by four older men who were all trying to push through at once. Yet after they hurried past us, they sat down across the trail on the other side and began to eat. So much for the urgent need to rush.

Inside and around the tunnel, we found the usual collection of hiking stickers plastered everywhere, as well as a note for Dixie Mills, a popular YouTube vlogger who completed the Triple Crown of long-distance trails in the United States, as well as the Camino Francés. Not long after, we passed through a large metal culvert beneath the busy A-road above. It reminded us of the countless similar tunnels along the T’Railway Trail in Newfoundland, where we had begun the Trans Canada Trail in 2019.

Through sheer luck, a downpour began just as we passed through the next tunnel, allowing us to put on our rain gear and wait out the worst of the storm under cover. It was one of those little gifts that trails occasionally offer that are just enough in the moment to change the tone of the next few hours.

Pushing on, a steep set of stairs led us up into a beautiful valley where the gravel track continued following the undulations of the land. Here, the colours were stunning as we walked beside a strong stone wall and sheep pastures, with the land folding around us in shades of green shaped by rain. Here, there was also a terrific range of birds.

Crainlarich Crossroads

A short distance beyond this beautiful valley, we came to a forested junction where walkers could leave the West Highland Way and descend toward the town of Crianlarich. The halfway point of the route was only a couple of kilometres ahead, but we were hoping for something more immediate: an open café, a place to briefly sit down, and the chance to get out of the ongoing rain for a little while.

With that hope in mind, we left the main course of the West Highland Way and made our way down toward the train station. In the process, we crossed through a landscape that had been heavily altered by industrial forestry, only to discover that the local café was not open. It was a heavy disappointment in the moment - but on a wet walk, those kinds of miscalculations always feel larger than they should.

As a result, we had to backtrack up the steep track and, about an hour after leaving the main route, found ourselves once again at the same junction in the trail and moving onward this time following the West Highland Way as it ascended into patches of conifer forest. The detour had not given us coffee, warmth, or rest. It had simply added distance, time, and a little more fatigue to a day already being shaped by rain.

Ewich Forest

At times, the trail through Ewich Forest devolved into long stretches of mud and large puddles. Soon, the romance of the fog and shifting landscape was replaced by the drearier reality of trekking in the pouring rain with wet pants, damp socks, and soaked hiking boots. The green around us was vivid, and given the dampness of the area, it was no surprise that the grasses, ferns, and mosses glowed in vibrant shades. Still, much of this stretch also passed through heavily logged areas, which gave the landscape a more interrupted feeling.

As the rain intensified, our walk was reduced to something closer to a slog along a muddy and busy track. At one point, we came upon a group of more than twenty hikers spread across the trail while putting on rain gear. We waited for several minutes, hoping they would finish pulling on jackets and continue ahead of us. Instead, with backpacks, sodden sweaters, and loose gear piled across the narrow route, they all began having snacks. Since no one seemed inclined to give way, we eventually had to navigate around them through the muddy edge of the forest.

It was the kind of moment that could have been minor if it had happened once. In the context of several wet, crowded days, however, it added to the accumulated weariness of trying to find a rhythm on a trail where space often seemed to disappear just when we needed it.

As the downpour continued, we soon caught up with another large group. By necessity, our pace slowed, which then allowed the hikers behind us to catch up as well. For a while, we found ourselves once again moving amid a loose mass of more than forty people, everyone shuffling along in the rain, hiking poles moving, rain gear swishing, and the muddy track squelching beneath all those feet.

At one point, we tried simply stopping to let everyone continue on. Yet the moment we stopped, it seemed to act as a signal for others to stop too. Despite many of them having just taken breaks a short distance beforehand, the entire horde came to a halt. There was little to do but take a breath, shoulder the frustration, and keep moving through the rain.

Tyndrum Hills and Woodlands

With little to be done, we continued on as the route descended and wove beneath a stone-arched railway line that towered high above us. Given that the loose horde of hikers both in front of and behind us stopped for another break – we had, for a moment, a bit of personal space. With the trail ahead briefly open, we were able to continue on our own.

Soon we crossed a busy two-lane road and came to the River Fillan. We paused there for a short while to bird along the river and chatted with a number of older trekkers, who envied us having binoculars but not the weight of carrying them. It was a quick, friendly exchange, and a welcome shift in tone after the mud, rain, and crowding of the earlier forest sections.

From there, the path wove into a region defined by the Crianlarich Hills, which ringed the pastures and fields around us. An information sign noted that we were moving through the Tyndrum Hills, and despite the rain and low clouds, the landscape was, without a doubt, incredibly beautiful. In better weather, this stretch would likely have been truly stunning.

We soon came to St. Fillan’s Priory and the historic Kirkton cemetery – or at least signs and the remains of them – where the old stone walls stood covered in moss and ferns. The crossroads felt rooted and served as a reminder that the West Highland Way moves not only through scenery, but through layers of local history, belief, and use.

Pushing on, we continued along a wide gravel track as the clouds descended again and another strong downpour of rain swept over us. Now entirely soaked and tired from having been unable to take a proper break, we found that the afternoon began to stretch. The walking was not necessarily difficult, but wet clothes, heavy boots, low cloud, and the absence of rest have a way of lengthening even manageable miles.

Eventually, we passed into Tyndrum Community Woodland, where the path wove through a quaint stand of trees. We also passed signs for the Battle of Dalrigh, a reminder of the clan conflicts and older histories that have shaped this region. Even in the rain, these signs and ruins gave the afternoon more texture, connecting the muddy track beneath our boots to stories that reached far beyond our own tired passage.

Walking through History

A brief while later, we found another sign noting that we had reached the Loch of the Lost Sword, where local legend claims that Robert the Bruce’s sword still lies somewhere in the water. Reminding us that the West Highland Way was also carrying us through a landscape layered with stories.

The muddy track then took us through a former industrial area, barren in places from the lead mines that had once predominated in the region until the 1820s. Nearby, signs advertised gold panning, with equipment available to rent for those who wanted to search the local waterways. It was an interesting shift in the landscape, from old battles and legends to mining, industry, tourism, and recreation, all threaded together along the same route.

As we continued, the trail wove its way along the outskirts of Tyndrum, passing a number of leisure parks and lodges. The community seemed to be a popular destination, a place where roads, trails, accommodations, and services all intersected to meet the inevitable demands of tourists. After days of seeing how the West Highland Way shaped local economies, this felt like another example of the trail not simply passing through a place, but actively defining how that place functioned.

We also passed people arguing about everything being reserved and about the prohibitive cost of the few rooms and cabins still available. By this point, we were no longer surprised. On the West Highland Way, accommodation pressure seemed to be part of the journey, especially for anyone arriving tired and wet after a full day’s trek. Thankfully, for once, we knew exactly where we were going.

Hobbit Holes and a Simple Twist of Fate

Thankfully, we soon came to our reservation for the night at By the Way Campground. Rarely do we plan much in advance, preferring to leave room for weather, fatigue, and whatever the trail brings. But several weeks earlier, I had noticed that there were Hobbit Huts along the route. They sounded fun, and I really wanted to see one, so we reserved one for an evening, figuring that if the timing did not work out, it would not be a great loss in terms of cost.

As it turned out, our timing could not have been better. We arrived at our reservations after a long day of fog, mud, rain, wet gear, missed café stops, and the kind of damp that slowly works its way into everything. The Hobbit Hut gave us something we had not realized how badly we needed: a roof, space to dry out, a heater, warm showers, and laundry.

More simply stated, they were heaven.

As our clothes washed, we made dinner on our stove on the porch of our little Hobbit Hole and then ate inside, grateful to be warm and out of the rain. Around us, other hikers continued to arrive, many looking exhausted from the day’s efforts as they set up tents in the continuing downpour and on waterlogged ground. Not for the first time while hiking, we were thankful for the strange twists of luck that sometimes shape a journey en route.

As the evening progressed, people continued to stagger in for hours, each looking increasingly soaked, tired, and ready to stop. Inside our small hut, with wet gear spread around us and the heater working away, the frustrations of the day began to give way to relaxation. We had not escaped the weather, the mud, or the crowding of the West Highland Way, but for one night at least, we had been given exactly the kind of shelter we needed.

Reflecting on the West Highland Way

Given the weather, we had spent much of the day pushing on with our heads down, trying simply to get through it. The result was that parts of the walk had become a bit of a blur. There were moments of beauty, history, and birdsong, but they were often obscured by rain, mud, wet gear, and the practical need to keep moving and keep the chill off.

Some trail days do not give you much room for reflection while they are happening. Rain narrows the world, wind lowers your head, and mud turns attention to pushing on. We moved through beautiful countryside today, but those memories are also shaped by the rainfall.

Inside the Hobbit Hut, dry and warm at last with our gear hung in an attempt to dry it out, we opened our travel journals and wrote into the evening. As we recorded the events of the day’s stage, moments organized themselves, and the sharper edges of the walk began to burn away.

The elements and constant rain had made the day challenging, but there was no denying that we were still struggling with the West Highland Way in other ways too. We had not yet found our own pace on this trail, and we were still adjusting to the sheer number of people moving along it each day. After so many quieter long-distance routes, it was difficult not to feel the loss of personal space and solitude.

Still, the day had ended with a small piece of good fortune. The Hobbit Hut gave us warmth, laundry, shelter, and a place to stop being wet for a while. Sometimes that is enough to change the memory of a day. We had arrived tired and frustrated, but by evening, with our shoes and gear slowly drying around us, the walk already felt less like something endured and more like another chapter we had managed to complete.

See you on the Trail!