Hugh Reilly: Homeward bound as my body fails me

A FEW weeks ago, my son’s attempt to walk the West Highland Way came to a sudden halt when his pal decided to bale out after completing less than 30 miles of the 96-mile route.

I shared Paul’s frustration; after all, I had funded most of his expedition costs: buying a tent, stove, socks, sleeping bag, roll mat and mess tin. His financial contribution purchased three packets of noodles and a Toblerone.

Last Monday, when he asked me to accompany him on a second bid, I started to tremble as the scarred memories of participating in an Outward Bound course near Fort William came flooding back.

Although I had done nothing wrong, my school had exiled me, a 16-year-old callow youth, to the wastelands of northern Alba for a month. At the snow-covered gulag located close to the Mallaig road, I learned how to kayak, a somewhat redundant skill for a kid living in landlocked Easterhouse. Tramping through the Cairngorms in snow so deep that I felt I was freezing sperm to father future generations of Reillys, I encountered weird people, clearly members of a Masochistic Meet Up group, who actually enjoyed this tiresome activity.

The nightmares of the Great Outdoors had been locked away in the same box containing the recollection of being knocked back by Edith Maguire, the only girl in my class with a perpetually runny nose, whom I’d asked to go rollerskating with me.

But I could not refuse my son’s earnest plea and thus I found myself being dropped off at Milngavie by my smirking ex-wife. Carrying my home on my back, I felt like a biped mutant snail. After the obligatory pic at the starting point, pater and son set off through the pedestrian precinct; by the time I reached the end of the row of shops, I was flagging.

My rucksack was too heavy, weighed down with equipment and a rapidly receding expectation that I would stroll triumphantly into Fort William some five days hence. By the time we reached Carbeth, I eerily resembled a weary Quasimodo minus his striking good looks.

Quaffing a pint of lager in Drymen momentarily improved my mood, but I hit a new mental low when a heavy shower almost washed me off the side of Conic hill. Apres le deluge we arrived in Balamha like demoralised Chindits returning from the disastrous Burma campaign. At a nearby campsite, the kindly receptionist demanded almost £18 for the right to pitch our tent on a piece of prime squelching turf.

Our temporary accommodation had been described as a “two-man tent” – on pushing in the final tent peg, it was clear that the two men in question were either elves or particularly short specimens of the pygmy tribe.

Inside the sleeping bag, my legs ached so much that I feared they would mutiny and refuse to carry me any further. Exhausted, I drifted off to be suddenly awakened by a rustling noise. On unzipping the tent door, I saw a fox running off in the direction of Crianlarich with a plastic bag containing my Uncle Ben’s Rice and bars of Toffee Crisps.

Perhaps due to my interface with a thieving mammal, I didn’t sleep well. Put bluntly, I arose with the eagerness of an arthritic lark with a chronic chest infection to give the midges their breakfast of freckled flesh. After just a few minutes of being bitten by the blighters, the surface of my bald bonce had developed a somewhat dimpled golf ball feel to it.

All packed up, we started back on the trail of tears. Paul’s enthusiasm and dogged determination should have inspired me. However, trudging along what had been a Wade military road, I imagined I was a redcoat soldier in pursuit of Prince Charlie, hoping against hope that an excitable Jacobite would jump out from behind a pine tree and end my misery by splicing me with a claymore.

My son later confided that during the long periods of silence on the march, his internal dialogue had centred on his IT studies course. I was a tad reluctant to inform him that my thoughts could best be described as suicidal ideation.

With a heavy heart, I told Paul I could not go on. Thankfully, he took the news well – I think the fact that I uttered my confession while on my knees and with salty tears falling down my cheeks convinced him I wasn’t malingering.

He plans to complete the walk next year. I will be with him every step of the way… in spirit.