Our first day’s hike saw us skirt the southern shore of Loch Hourn, a steep-sided, fjord-like body of water that reaches like a witch’s finger between the peninsulas of Glenelg and Knoydart. The route traced the edges of the loch shore – it was mostly rocky and easy to discern, but often collapsed into boggy marsh, which sucked our boots and smeared our ankles in mud. This was once a deer-stalker’s path, and, more forebodingly, a coffee road – a route along which corpses were carried to the Kilchoan burial ground in Inverie.
I wondered what secrets lurked in the bog; imagined ghostly hands grasping at my boots each time they squelched beneath the mire. Fittingly enough, Loch Hourn translates from Gaelic as “Lake Hell”; Loch Nevis, our destination, as “Lake Heaven”.
But first came purgatory: the mountains and the bog. We ducked our way along loch-side paths overgrown with
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