Stump

North we went. And in a few short pictures...Milngavie Town Centre. I'll save you the pain of explaining how Jason and I aimlessly walked around asking for directions to the nearest place with Allen wrenches for sale, ending up at the UK version of Walmart (Tesco, as it turns out), how the entrance of the Tesco was parked precariously over a beautiful and robust stream--which in the United States could have counted as being "in the wild"--and taking turns eating Clif bars/watching the bikes (and the stream) whilst the other person went inside to get things.

If you're wondering why I didn't take pictures of the Bridge Over River Tesco, consider how many times you'd thought of taking a picture of Walmart.

We eventually ended up with a map-book of Scotland and saddles at appropriate height.

That first Clif bar was reasonably satisfying. I don't remember the flavor now, but I do remember that it gave me a sensation akin to throwing a shovel of dirt into a gaping pit. If the pit had a 6-hour-old microwaved airline donut at the bottom. This Clif bar would be the only meal I had until sundown, if you can guess when and what that meal was.

I'll give you a hint. The sun doesn't really go down this far north at this time of year, and the next meal was...well, I've been playing lots of Hanging With Friends lately, so let's play a little here. I believe this would be worth 11 points:

_ _ I _


Jason and I found the entrance to the West Highland Way and began the journey into the Highlands.

***

Five minutes down the trail, we came to an impasse. One issue being that the trees had shaded most of the trail, so it was slippery and didn't have a chance to dry. Mind you, it had just rained earlier that morning. At at the moment we hit the trail head, it was partly sunny with some low clouds moving with considerable speed. Recall in my first post that the weather would become a major factor.

The other big issue being that a massive tree had fallen directly onto the path. I'm not sure the path was passable by foot, much less bike, and much lesser hybrid bike with more than its weight in cargo. There really was no way around this thing. Off trail was far too rugged, and the tree far too large.

We were flustered.

It had taken us all of 5 hours to finally hit the trail and then realize in less than 5 minutes that God had thrown an ungodly stump in our way. We took to asking strangers for help on other options, and all were more than willing to offer a kindness--but having never encountered a tree blocking the WHW, they could only suggest a few things here and there. We made our way back to the train station and solicited help from the ticket person who had informed us of a wee bit of bad news: no matter what we did--even if we had been able to bike as far as we wanted that day--it was highly unlikely that that we could get our bikes on a train to Fort William. They had to be booked at least a day in advance. As disconcerting this new should have been, we would worry about it later, as we were getting restless and wanted to bike somewhere.

The ticket man was able to suggest that we could pick up a bike trail in Dalmuir. We took a train back south from charming Milngavie to Westerton, and then west to Dalmuir.

At Dalmuir we were still lost, and so it was then that we met Ronnie. Ronnie was the ticket person at Dalmuir station: at first look, a small-framed and possibly-bitter older gentleman. Bespectacled and white haired, but not grandfatherly, not yet at least. I was a bit nervous to approach him at the window of this pitifully small trailer-for-a-train-station:

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Ronnie wasn't nearly as abrasive as he should have been. He was friendly and smiled and put up with my ignorance of lands and people, and with my Americanness for much longer than he should have. I poured through half the little map-guides at the ticket window, asking if this train line was right for that. (Btw, this train line was NOT right for that. And he didn't have any better news about getting our bikes on the train in Tarbet for Fort William.) He never hesitated to respond. He gave good directions. Maybe part of it was that no one else was in line at this forsaken station buried amongst what I imagine were the Scottish suburbs and projects.  Maybe my standards for human congeniality were skewed. This disturbed me slightly. I'd have to think about this a bit more.

Ronnie, again, had spoken some strange English. This time, I think I was catching onto it. It took a second for me to understand everything he was saying, but I was eventually able to gather that we needed to go back up the hill we just came down, turn right and go down the road, make a left at the T, 'round the corner right at the next light, turn right up an inconspicuous driveway, and through a gate onto a cycle route parallel the River Clyde.

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Through no small part of human patience (that is, the people who were patient with us), we had finally found the start of our adventure.