The Great Glen Way Pt 10 (The last part)

Back on the road, this was our last day, walking the final seven miles from Blackfold Cottage to the finish point at Inverness Castle. There would be no cooked breakfasts for us, after dropping the group off, we returned to Inverness and parked our cars by the Islands in the River Ness (about a mile short of the finishing point) and started to walk back towards the rest of the group. This was the way I’d started the previous year, walking from the Castle up out of Inverness via the sports complex, over the Tomnahurich Bridge and past the old Craig Dunain Mental Hospital. It’s a gentle climb through housing estates then into forest after the hospital, you need to keep an eye on the sign posts in the sports complex, I didn’t get lost exactly, I temporarily became unknowledgeable about my exact location relative to where I wanted to be, that is my story and I am sticking to it. There is also a camp site in the area, I say ‘is’ when I mean ‘was’ because it seems to be closed, no doubt a hulking great big Asda or Tesco will appear on the site and another nail will be driven into the town centre’s coffin.

Even since last year the area around the old Hospital has been developed further, the hospital building itself seems to still be in a state of change (flats I presume, they’ll probably be haunted) and houses have also been built.

Next door to the old hospital is Great Glen House, inside you can find the HQ of Scottish National Heritage and the attractively named Paths For All partnership, because as you know, everyone should have a path of there own. I like to think people regularly go forth from Great Glen House and sneak up on unsuspecting members of the public and award them a path, it is after all, called Paths For All.

I probably sound a bit daft, which is handy because Craig Dunain hospital when it was open was a Mental Health Unit (which is what we call them nowadays) back then, it was a plain old mental hospital, not a lot of stories remain about what went on there except to say, it was a harsh place to be, with Electro-convulsive therapy used with what can only be described as whimsical enthusiasm. Disturbingly, stories of mothers giving birth out of wedlock being sent to Craig Dunain exist, even people convicted of drink driving spent time there.

It closed in 1999, a fire was set by some young folk some time later, although the story goes they had no idea a ghost hunting film crew had left cameras filming over night, all their antics were recorded.

Just as we were about to turn off the road and head into the forest above the hospital, we spied a group of youths emerging from the hospital, our youths as it turns out. It was just as well, how far would we have got before realising we’d missed them?

It was a tearful reunion; emotions were high due to the end being so close. Actually that isn’t really true, it wasn’t tears of elation on our faces it was rain. We about turned and headed down the final couple of damp miles into Inverness. This happened last year on the West Highland Way, we pretty much got away with decent weather, we had some rain earlier in the week during the night but on this our last day it was a steady down pour, not torrential, just steady but no less soaking for it.

From Craig Dunain and the Paths For All World HQ the Great Glen Way snakes down between farm lands, sports fields and some housing then along the edge of a golf course until eventually you are reunited with the canal. A short walk up the canal (walking the opposite way from the rest of the week) brings you to the Tomnahurich Swing Bridge and the main A82 road. From there, it’s into the sports centre car park and onwards to the Island in the River Ness. Across the swollen river and into town approaching the castle grounds, watched by hundreds of Inverness townspeople, I can’t lie, there was no bunting or flags being waved nor was any one cheering us on but we could all see it in the faces of the people of Inverness as we passed, they knew, oh they knew alright.

With the castle in sight and tears (or was it rain) welling in our eyes, on we walked and then we were there, no fanfare no celebration. We were just there.

Obviously for us drivers it was a bit of an anticlimax, we hadn’t walked much of it, but for those who had, it must have meant something, even if only they wouldn’t have to walk any more for a wee while… Except that wasn’t strictly true.

You see, we hadn’t told them we passed the cars a mile and half back, when we did, they weren’t very happy.

The end is marked by an obelisk with information about the route; it’s just inside the grounds of Inverness Castle which now houses the Sherriff Courts, which might have been handy given how unhappy the group were about having to walk away back to the cars.

Before we left for our trip I’d contacted the local news paper to ask if they’d like to do a short story, they said they would. When I got home, I put a short email together with the details and attached a couple of photos. I also thought it would be a good idea to include a couple of quotes from the young folk, I suppose I could’ve have asked them to provide one but if I’m being honest, it was much more fun to just make them up myself.

See if you can spot it.

Thanks for reading.

Go back to part 1

For reference, although in the report above I am described as a 'Scout Leader', this is lazyness on the part of the newspaper reporter, I am involved (have been for years) but don't own a uniform, mostly because they are deeply unfashionable and the idea of an adult (or anyone over the age of say, 10) wearing one; is a bit strange.

That really is all now.

The Great Glen Way Pt 9

Staying in hostels with shared areas like showers, well, especially showers invokes a code of practice, for example, if you’re staying in a hotel you can sleep naked (for example) and wander to the shower in the morning with your dignity intact (assuming you’ve closed the curtains.) In a hostel, you can’t. Equally, you might not be bothered by such things and enjoy a spot of shameless exhibitionism, which is fine I suppose, but generally, you never know what kind of reaction you’re going to get if you walk around bollock naked in what is a fairly public place. I was up early and down for a shower before everyone else, I got dressed although will admit, I didn’t put shoes on so was showing a little bit of ankle. I bumped into a young man exiting the showers with nothing except a small flannel protecting what I think we’ll call his cachet, there was also a cheerful drawing on the wall near by suggesting you could save water by showering with someone else, I felt this would constitute a fairly serious infraction of the Scout’s code of conduct, specifically what we call the Yellow Card. This is a list of ‘dos and don’ts’ when dealing with young folk, don’t, for example, shower with them. There is an old story about a line of advice that went; ‘If you begin to feel any sort of attraction toward a young person in your care, you should withdraw immediately.’ I have no idea if it ever was on the card and if I’m being honest, if it’s a case of having to withdraw, the situation has already progressed too far.

It’s called the Yellow Card because it’s printed on a bit of Yellow Card, it also means that when ever, by which I mean ‘if ever’ (because we would never violate the directives on the yellow card,) but if we did, other leaders and if I’m being honest, young folk too will say in grave referee-like tones; ‘YELLOW CARD!’

No yellow card was required for me that morning although Michael (he who can’t get on a boat with any aplomb) decided to go up to the showers with only a towel and the cycling shorts he’d been wearing all week in lieu of underwear. I think with the older group it probably doesn’t warrant a yellow card but it definitely violates the unwritten code of hostel-showering-conduct. I’m the last person to comment negatively on the merits (or lack-there-of) of other peoples bodies, but then, I have not, do not and will never wear lycra cycling shorts, even if they do stop chaffing. The effect it had on Michael’s body was a bit like filling a bin bag with yoghurt then putting a big elastic band round the middle of it, I mean, I think in a woman an hour glass figure is a good thing, Michael on the other hand looked like a string of sausages gone wrong.

In any case, off he went to the sound of shrieks from other guests while we packed up and continued to tidy up the room.

We booked out and handed our keys back to a different man, an Indian man. It turns out this was the hostel about which I’d read the not so positive online comments. Internet commentary is a funny thing though, if you have a fine time you tend not to go on tripadvisor and rave about it, it’s just what you expect. However, if you have a terrible time, you’re far more likely to moan about it, so it is that when you look for reviews, even if a place is actually ok, there will be enough fusspots and jobsworths with internet access to skew the reviews to the negative. In terms of the Eastgate Backpackers Hostel, the reviews are all crap because it actually is a bit crap. I could see as I was getting my key deposit back photos and messages pinned to the wall thanking the management for a great time, smiling faces and positive messages promising a return visit.

All I can say if you’re thinking about using the Eastgate Backpackers Hostel is; be careful, lol.

Go to Pt 10

The Great Glen Way Pt 8

After consulting various electronic GPS devices we found it just outside the town centre, from the outside it looked ok, well, so long as you didn’t look too closely. We all piled up the stairs to the second floor reception to find the door locked, a sign however invited us to press the bell which we did. Some time later a man appeared, I say appeared, I think its fair to say (and its hard for me to actually pull my punches here) we were all alerted to his impending arrival by the smell that preceded him, when he came past us, the odour that assailed our noses has to be experienced to be believed; he was the smelliest man, well, ever.  I mean, I think we all tried to cover up our revulsion, but it was really hard to do. As you can imagine, having a significant body odour problem (and this wasn’t cooking smells or old clothes, this was an out-and-out case of not having washed at all for quite some time) is not a trait suited to a person whose work involves greeting the public in a place where they are going to sleep and possibly prepare food.

  

Booking in was interesting, I know some hotels insist on taking your passport but generally, if you haven’t actually left your own country, its not really necessary, he was quite confused about that. He then became more confused about the group; he wanted home & email addresses, phone numbers and since we had no passports, driving licence numbers from everyone. I explained that only four of us had driving licences and none of us were keen to part with the information, he became confused again. I thought we were booking into a hostel in Inverness, not applying for access to official state secrets. I suggested since I was paying, I give him my details, he agreed. For the purposes of veracity, my name isn’t Barry Soap nor do I live in or any where near Chipping Norton and my driving licence number looks nothing like what I provided on his booking in slip, apart from the truly awful smell the idea of identity theft was also going through my head.

With booking in sorted, we followed him back down to the first floor (breathing as shallowly as possible) to where our room was and declined his offer of being shown were the common sitting room and kitchen was, he also offered to show us where the showers were, we nearly took him up on that, we could have pushed him into one but we spotted them ourselves on our way in.

Once we’d opened all the windows we took the time to have a good look at our surroundings, something about the place looked familiar, small shelves in random places, overly elaborate Asian looking light fittings, then on each window a flamboyant Z with other wording half heartedly removed.

The place used to be an Indian Restaurant. In fact, the only reason it was no longer an Indian restaurant is because someone had removed the chairs and tables and replaced them with children’s bunk beds. The reception desk was still outside our room, the kitchen was also still there although it looked like they were replacing the heavy duty restaurant equipment with more domestic looking appliances.

Even the carpet looked like the kind you find in an Indian restaurant; I have no idea what it’s called, ‘Tiled Taj Mahal Dome’ perhaps? But there it was, in burgundy and black.

The room had four bunk beds so Finlay opted for the floor, which was probably only marginally less clean than the beds themselves. We did venture up the stairs to the communal areas, the delightfully fragrant receptionist was cooking his dinner (having a bath might be more useful chum) and the communal sitting-cum-dining room was empty. We hadn’t seen any other inmates around.

We decided to have a look around town and by a weird form of mutual mind reading, we all bought presents for each other, this probably sounds more grand than it actually was, the presents mostly came from the many pound shops on Eastgate High Street, Michael got some children’s underwear (he works with young children and often tells stories involving toilet based failures with the kids, not him obviously, he’s 23.) Lewis got a lovely new case for his phone, I think it had a pink pony on it, I got a charming T shirt with a message about Scottish Independence with the word freedom emblazoned under a picture of William Wallace or Mel Gibson, (the two are now interchangeable.) Ross (not a leader per se but an ex-member who is now a doctor - we turn out quality people you know…) was given a toy doctor’s set, useful in this age of NHS cuts. There were also red horns and a tail kicking around, I assume they were available for purchase because Halloween would soon be upon us and Inverness must have its fair share of drunken slappers prepared to don such attire. Equally they may have been left in the room by the previous incumbents, something tells me the hostel’s chambermaids aren’t as conscientious as they could be, or that they even exist.

When ever we see a pound shop we can’t walk by with out seeing who can buy the most useless artefact for a quid, it’s become a bit of a habit, so this is what we did, I managed to find some arm tattoos, like tights with a pattern on and about as convincing as Jimmy Saville claiming he actually was in Mothercare for some baby powder. Michael went one better and bought an East 17 CD (I know…) Lewis on the other hand bought a pack of tin foil containers of the kind Chinese and indeed, Indian Takeaways use for food. I like to think we left them at the hostel, if ever it reverts back to an Indian Restaurant, they can hit the ground running.

While the younger crowd returned to the hostel we went to the pub, Hootenanny’s has live music on every night, this evening a three piece band was in residence playing mostly rock, last time I was here it was the Rooty-ma-toot Big Band which if I’m being honest, I preferred. The main guy in the three-piece could certainly play his guitar but after a while it got a bit samey and overly loud, he really put his heart into it although the bass player looked on the brink of suicide, which I understand is normal for them. By far though, it was the drummer who seemed to be having the most fun.

We came away from there and had a drink in a Karaoke bar called ‘Gun Smiths’ which was rubbish, at that we decided to return to the Hostel, we were all feeling peckish and wondered if they could still rustle up a curry.

Go to Pt 9