Rob Roy Way
Its beauty grew, the more distant it became.
Day 3 – Balquhidder to A Big Pipe
Monday 3rd March 2025
Rob Roy Way Day 3. It had rained on and off throughout the night. I felt like I didn’t get good quality sleep. Light sleep. Casting my mind back, I remember checking my watch twice, 02:00-ish and 04:00-ish but I don’t remember falling to sleep. But I guess one never does.
After breakfast, bag packed, I headed down to the village. Sun beaming through the trees as I descended, passing a lone walker on the way exchanging comments about the view above. I visited the Kirkyard and peered at Rob Roy’s grave. Such an odd thing to write, even stranger to visit, for me at least.
Moving on, I was back on the official path and before long I passed an old boy on an electric push iron. I instantly recognised him from earlier in the village. He must have been out for a morning ride. I can’t blame him, great place for it.
The path weaved through the woodland, taunting me before a steep ascent onto the dismantled railway line which the way now possessed. The route flat and almost devoid of people, bar some blokes in high-vis overalls carrying out forestry work.
It was a pleasant walk, looking down into the Glen at the burn rushing by. I walked over the viaduct which I’d seen many of times before from the road opposite. Don’t underestimate this section – yes, its flat, yet I found it rather tedious at times too; the sound of the road echoing through the glen. The sound of roaring chainsaws behind me. At times, I felt as if I was in one of those old cartoons where the background kept repeating itself. I’m glad I had my earphones to hand.
Over the road, I rested at a picnic table and grabbed some lunch from my food bag. Sitting, I watched a bout of road rage play out in front of me. A car and a campervan. Amused, I carried on.
The route splits, left to Killin, right to stay on the way. Decidedly, I went right. However, I soon came to regret it. It was refreshing to walk the forest path and not encounter any clear-felling… for the most part. Ascending to 400 meters as I climbed out of the forest as I was chased up the hill by the sound of heavy machinery. A large log carrying HGV raced up the hill, about-turned and retreated down in the direction of Killin. Water bottle filled; thirst quenched. I was now on the 4×4 path, dodging the SSE vehicles along the way.
I approached Lochan Breaclaich, a large reservoir complete with dam. A seemingly superimposed structure. Standing at the edge of the dam, the sight draws you in, like a visual siren, forcing you to look at the demanding yet basic architecture, causing offence to the eyes.
The 4×4 track carrying the way was gruelling, because of this, and the mostly flat Glen Ogle and the forest path earlier, I was fucked. No other word for it. I was ready to tap out. I hate walking on flat terrain because my body seems to mould to it and expand more energy than required as if to say “hey, if you’re not going to use me, I’m going to offload here if you don’t mind”.
Now, faced with a total ascent of 565 meters, I really could have used that energy. Dusk was in full swing by this point and an icy wind was blowing in from the west. I hobbled to the top, and looked back. The reservoir. Its beauty grew, the more distant it became. After a final glance I slowly descended from the grip of the icy wind towards a massive black pipe.
The pipe tore into the landscape, and as a result, it left behind an alien scar. On the other hand, at least it served as a landmark and point of interest for navigation. Thankfully the path veered off and I left it behind. The path was boggy and I could feel myself beginning to faulter. I consulted the map, looking for a spot to camp. Old Shielings less than a kilometre away.
I remember from previous experience there might be some sort of structure remaining that I could pitch behind, to use as protection from the elements. However, to my left, I saw a perfect flat spot, protected by the hills above. I wayed up my options. Ultimately, I decided against the Shielings.
Strained I made my way over the stream and deployed the tent. It was homemade chicken curry for dinner which I dehydrated days earlier. I checked the weather forecast for the evening – 8mph with gusts of 15 and the odd rain shower. Manageable. Night fell; I washed in the steam. The water was indeed cold. Ice cold. As a result, it took my breath away and forced my body to tighten. The feeling of cleanliness once dry and warm made it worth it. I retired into my sleeping bag, read and eventually drifted off… but not for long. This was the last time I’d camp on the trail.