a walking tour in hilly and often lonely country, with mishaps occurring daily, weary legs, blistered feet, rain, wind, mist and losing our way, would be the best means of discovering whether a partnership for life would be a viable proposition. ‘If we can get through a fortnight like that without disaster, we can get through the next forty years,’ she said.
‘But supposing the weather stays fine, our boots fit, the scenery is as superb as the brochure promises, the hotels and youth hostels are first-rate and we don’t meet with any mishaps at all?’ I said. She laughed.
‘If heaven smiled to
‘But why?’
‘Call it superstition or anything else you please, but that would be my reaction. Luck of that magnitude comes only from the Devil.’
I need not have worried. We were in for trouble all right, although not of any kind which I could ever have expected or foreseen.
Only over one thing did I get my way at the beginning of the trip. I was determined that it should kick off in comfort, so I had booked us in for the first night at the airport hotel near Glasgow. We did not get to it by air, of course, but I guessed that, however luxurious the place turned out to be, travellers would not be expected to dress for dinner. Indoor shoes, however, we did carry with us, nailed boots being regarded askance when worn on the polished or carpeted floors of the youth hostels and hotels in which we were to spend our nights.
I had booked separate rooms under our separate names at the airport hotel, and we met in the bar for cocktails at a quarter to seven. The train journey from London had been a long one and it was good to find that every bedroom had its bathroom and that the hot water was unlimited.
‘I’m not sure this makes the most sensible start for the kind of holiday we’ve planned, but I must say it’s very pleasant,’ said Hera. She had changed her trousers and sweater for a rather slinky little frock and (not for the first time) I regretted the single rooms and a bed to which I knew I should not be admitted.
In the bar we made brief and inauspicious acquaintance with a man of whom we were to see more later. He stumbled as he passed us on his way from the bar to a small table and spilt some of his drink, for it was a glass of sherry and, as is the idiotic habit of bartenders, whether men or maids, it was full to the very brim, instead, after measurement, of being tipped into a larger glass, as I always request. Luckily, only the merest drop fell on to Hera’s arm and that was bare, so no harm was done and my handkerchief soon did its job of mopping up. The fellow, a tall, rather good-looking chap, apologised and wanted to buy our drinks for us, but when I had refused this offer, Hera added, looking sweetly at him, ‘Please don’t bother. Some people can’t help having two left feet.’
‘I say, that was a bit strong, wasn’t it?’ I asked, when we reached our own little table.
‘What was?’
‘That crack of yours about two left feet. He apologised, and he didn’t trip up on purpose.’
‘That’s where the two left feet came in. Don’t be silly, Comrie. He was determined to speak to me.’
‘But why? It wasn’t as though you were here on your own.’
‘I don’t know why. He was on the train, you know.’
‘Well, so were lots of other people.’
‘He tried to get into conversation with me in the corridor. Oh, never mind him. Finish your drink. I’m starving.’
The dinner was a good one and I wished I had booked the hotel for at least one more night, but we were due to spend the next night at the youth hostel in the centre of the city. However, we had breakfast and lunch at the hotel and then took a bus. We had not enough luggage to warrant a taxi.
The youth hostel came under the Grade 1 category. It was open all the year round, had one hundred and twenty beds, was on the telephone and had a members’ kitchen where hostellers could cook their own food. It also provided food for those who did not want to do their own cooking. It comprised two very large three-storey houses with a flight of steps up to the front door and was in a quiet street only a few minutes’ walk from the bus stop.
Although we had been told that the peak months at the hostel were July and August, even in early June the place was pretty full. We had not been in the common-room half an hour when we were faced with the prospect of being urged to join the largest party present. A fellow of about my own age approached us and asked whether we were going along The Way.
‘I’m afraid we haven’t any religious convictions,’ I said.
He laughed in the hearty, unconvincing way these muscling-in types affect and said, ‘Nothing like that, old boy, old boy! I meant, are you doing the footslog to Fort William — the West Highland Way, you know?’
‘Heavens, no! ’ said Hera, before I could answer. ‘We are merely butterflying hither and yon.’
‘Oh, what a pity! I’m trying to rope everybody in who is doing The Way. Much jollier in a big party and we can all get together in the evenings and make whoopee, what!’
He seemed to have begun as he meant to go on, for, when we came in, he had been chaffing other hostellers (among whom I recognised our acquaintance of the cocktail bar) and shouting with mirth at his own witticisms. A fellow to be avoided at all costs, I thought.
‘Sorry. We are only doing bits of this and that. We are not seasoned walkers,’ I said, ‘and we have to respect our limitations.’
‘Oh, well, anyway, come and meet the gang. There are eleven of us, all told. Not bad, eh, considering I set out on my tod? But I always reckon to pick up a mate or two at the hostels who will be going my way. After all, it’s a case of fellow-travellers, isn’t it? And I don’t mean the nasty political kind. No, no. The more the merrier, that’s what I always say.’
‘Eleven of you?’ said Hera. ‘A good thing we can’t join you, then, isn’t it?’
‘How come, fair one?’
‘Because it would make the number up to thirteen and you wouldn’t want that, I’m sure.’
