We woke up in the second greatest campsite, which smelled, and I mean this genuinely, wonderful.
We woke up in the second greatest campsite, which smelled, and I mean this genuinely, wonderful. The whole place was carpeted in mint. Fragrant, fresh, the kind of smell that makes you feel like the world is clean and good before you've even opened your eyes properly.
I had a coffee. Andy couldn't be bothered.
This is becoming a pattern and I'm beginning to think it's personal. We lolly-gagged in the morning. No shame in that at day eight. And then Andy, emerging from his tent, did something to his shoulder. The specifics are unclear but the result is not: we set off with Andy nursing a shoulder and me carrying bruised ribs, both of us on ankles that are only slowly remembering what fully functional feels like.
Combined, we are one complete person. The ribs are making themselves known in a very specific way. Andy made a joke somewhere on the trail and I laughed and the laughing hurt, which is a medically inconvenient response to humour. The silver lining, and I offer this with complete sincerity, is that Andy isn't funny. This may have saved me. A funnier man at this stage of the trip could have finished me entirely.
If you were to take every word spoken on this walk and render it as a word cloud, mine would contain a rich and varied tapestry of observation, reflection, and curiosity about the world around us.
Andy's would have four enormous words in the centre: Go fuck yourself Matthew.
This was his considered response to any adventure I proposed. A church worth looking at. A hill with a view from the top. A monument. A detour of mild interest. Every single time: go fuck yourself Matthew.
Andy has moved past the curious stage of this journey. He is now in the forward-motion-only stage, and he would like me to be there with him, and he would like me to stop pointing at things. Resupply in Bankfoot. Food, snacks, the small rituals of a long walk. And while we were there, a small lad clocked our enormous packs and said, with genuine curiosity, "You must be on a big walk." I told him we were in the middle of one. Oban to Arbroath.
He was very impressed. Visibly. The kind of impressed that a small person can be when they encounter something that seems enormous and real and happening right in front of them. We have impressed exactly one person on this trip and he was a child in Bankfoot and honestly that's enough. We'll take it. From Bankfoot, Andy moved with a purpose I have not previously witnessed. The man was nearly sprinting. The destination: Taste Perthshire, where lunch awaited.
We ate in a small outdoor cabin that was just for us, one of those COVID-era structures that outlasted the circumstances that created it and is now simply a nice private lunch spot for two men who smell faintly of the outdoors and a great deal of mint. The food was excellent. The cabin was excellent. Andy slowed down. Somewhere on the afternoon's walking, we arrived at a conclusion that had perhaps been building for several days: if this walk had a theme song, it would be If I Could Turn Back Time by Cher. I'll leave that without further comment. Some things speak for themselves.
https://youtu.be/9n3A_-HRFfc?si=_poNXPU3nMiHv72f
I made friends with a group of ladies at a dairy farm. They saw me coming and the whole lot of them came running up to meet me, which is more enthusiasm than I've had from most humans on this trip.
I mean the cows. Obviously I mean the cows. Lovely bunch.
Taymont Forest was very pleasant right up until it wasn't. The trees got denser. The path got less clear. And Andy, with the instincts of a consummate leader, put me at the front.
I want to be precise about this. He stepped back, gestured forward, and I led us through increasingly dense forest while he followed. I navigated. I made the calls. I got us through.
And then, the moment the road became visible through the trees, Andy stepped smoothly past me, strode out onto the tarmac, and assumed the lead position as though he'd been there the whole time.
He'll go far, Andy. He really will. The last few miles were up the driveway of our hotel for the night, which is considerably posher than anything I would normally book for myself or, frankly, for my wife, who I feel now I owe an apology.
There is a wedding happening. Guests in their finest. And us, arriving on foot, with what I can only describe as a significant percentage of Taymont Forest still distributed across our hair and clothing, looking like the poor cousins who nobody was sure would actually show up.
We showed up. Andy booked dinner for 8:15. He claims it was the earliest available time. This has been a point of contention all day because 8:15 is extremely late when you started walking at dawn and have bruised ribs.
He also told me breakfast is at 8:15 in the morning. I think he's messing with me. I genuinely cannot tell. With Andy, this is always the problem.
Gonzo out.
The cows were friendlier than Andy. This is not a criticism of the cows.