The Scottish Highlands

Somewhere, north of the equator, a calm and gentle breeze rolls off the ocean. The evening air falls gracefully upon bare skin and exotic women sway to the hypnotising beat of a bongo drum.

That place is not the Scottish Highlands and, I can assure you, the scene is far less glamorous.

The rain pelts, the wind stings and even the grass grows with a churlish demeanour. Twelve sets of limbs and the occasional head occupy a solitary double bed in a budget B&B somewhere in a place called Fort William.

Pungent odours resulting from a day’s hike swirl and crash in the stale air, yet all windows remain closed, the effort required to crack one open simply proving too much for six , strapped for cash, students.

For the past thirty minutes communication has consisted of primal grunts and moans. My telepathy failing me, I clear my voice…I’m going in.

“Plans for tonight?”- it’s all I can muster.

The silence endures, and then, in a whisper, “Yes”…Success?!

One hour later I find myself perched precariously on a brick wall, deep-fried mars bar to hand (a delicacy that must be endured) and perhaps it is the severe dehydration taking hold but Fort William high street summons us. Giddiness from the days accomplishments paired with worn cobbled streets provide an uneven carpet over which to walk, but persevere we do. To my left, a door creaks open, just an inch but it is enough, the raucous laughter and cheers empty themselves onto the street. The six suffering students have been rescued.

As I cross the threshold I become enchanted, every crevice of the Ben Nevis bar cries out for my attention. Appreciative whistles ricochet off the traditional paintings and worn books that decorate ornate shelves, whilst locals and travellers alike occupy beautiful tartan arm chairs that flank inviting fireplaces; the atmosphere is blissful and merry.

Beckoning from behind the bar a generous selection of whiskeys stand tall and proud, edging forward I become sandwiched between two burly, red faced men. From here, I sense the rise and fall of the live music manifesting itself in spaces between open arms and wavering legs.

Beyond the quick moving arms of the accordion player, a misted window frames Loch Eil in the most intriguing way. The darkest of nights competes with the whitest moonlight over who dominates the rugged landscape tonight. If the high street was our track then surely, this was our summit.

The decent would have to wait for now.