THE STORY

Corrour Halt is another one of those Scottish names that is so evocative. I love Corrour Halt, I love the concept of the train station in the middle of nowhere, a one horse town where the horse left a along time ago and as for the town? Well it was all a myth, it never existed. If tumble weeds grew in Scotland the sound of them rolling by would be the only audible sound from the platform after the clatter of  the trains wheels on the rails fades away.

Rannoch Moor is one of the last expanses of true wilderness left in Western Europe, its boundaries are ill defined but Corrour Halt to my mind lies within them. On alighting at the platform the nearest road in any direction is between 10 and 20 miles away. The sense of remoteness is powerful, almost instantly you feel gripped by its beauty, serenity and melancholy.

Today I had decided  to stay on the train and alight at Tulloch station instead of Corrour, although I did briefly exit the train at Corrour to stash a daysack with a change of clothes, a bottle of whiskey and some food.

As the train rolled out of the station I briefly caught a glimpse of Fish and Steve who had arrived the night before and were staying at the Loch Ossian  youth hostel about a mile away. I sat back in my seat and began to ponder the the wisdom of my decision. They say the Eskimos have a hundred words for snow and the Scots the same for rain, and today there was only one, pishin’ .

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No doubt about it, unless things improved dramatically I was in for a long wet day. In addition, I had stood on a few inconsiderately placed cans of dog food as I made my way down the stairs in 14a this  morning. Fully laiden with rucksack and miscelaneous other gear I tumbled ass over tit and upon landing found that I had re-activated an old ankle injury sustained playing basketball. How many times have I asked dad not to use the f*****n stairs as storage shelves!? “Long wet day in pain”  repeated over and over in my brain like a mantra.

No sense in worrying though, I had burnt my bridges by staying on the train. My day sack was at Corrour and my Youth Hostel booking was for the hostel at the head of Loch Ossian where I was to meet Steve and Fish so I sunk further down into my seat and looked forward to a sodden wet trudge of 20k

Soon the train swung north round the foot of Garbh Bheinn revealing a beautiful view up Loch Trieg. Alistair Keddy has alighted here for Stionag Bothy. There is no station but the driver has been known to stop on request. I spent one of the best nights of my life in Stoinag Bothy on a September weekend a few years back. It is very remote but upon arrival we found a party in full swing, and it didn’t take us long to get in the mood. A wood fire, candle and head-torch lit evening passed merrily by fuelled by whiskey and in season magic mushrooms. Each took his or her turn to tell a story, sing a song, play guitar or simply stand jigging to the infectious atmosphere of a bothy night in full swing. A fine, fine evening.

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At Tulloch the weather looked less threatening. I departed the train and tried to access a track running alongside the railway (indicated on the map). I felt uncomfortable at the prospect of clambering over a few fences of neighbouring houses and negotiating a railway cutting to access the track so I finally took a detour on to the main Glen Spean Road and over the Loch Laggan Dam. Access to the dam was barred by a tall fence with a rude sign saying Keep Out! As I climbed over it one of the railings caught on my rucksack and I found my self dangling helplessly about 2 feet off the ground. I glanced around to check nobody was laughing, nobody was, so I wriggled free of the rucksack, re-gained my composure and made my way over the dam. The rain started.

I followed a forestry track for a few kilometres before gaining the open hillside. I was disappointed that my training for the Glasgow Half Marathon didn’t seem to be having a significant impact upon my fitness on the hill, in fact I had a strong urge to lie down in the heather and go to sleep. I resisted the temptation and forged on. I was relieved to find that as the ground became steeper and the heart started pumping I began to feel the benefits of the summer's running and began to feel exhilarated in a way that only a stomp through the Scottish hills can produce.

I stopped briefly in a gully to take in the view and recover my breath. As I scanned the horizon I turned and looked up the gully to the skyline. A hole in the cloud appeared through which some geese flew in a V formation, silouetted jet black against the bright sky. The headwind was strong enough that for a few moments they appeared motionless, their wings beating silently against a petrol blue canvas framed with turbulent cloud. I stood transfixed. If ever there was a reason to wander the Scottish hills then this was it. Priceless.

Contributed by: Colin Wilson

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