DAY ONE: Saturday, April 3, 1993
Milngavie to Drymen (12 miles)
Because British Rail has decided to double weekend fares for the Bank Holiday weekend they aren’t going to receive anything from Suzanne and me – we take the car instead. I’m a little anxious about leaving my car for so long in Glasgow – even in the fairly well-heeled suburban retreat of Milngavie – but a visit to the cop-shop affords peace of mind as they suggest parking opposite the station and note the details of my car and my estimated return date.
We return to the railway station where the walk begins, and
are directed by a signpost indicating the start of the Way via a pedestrian
precinct, where I buy my first postcards – thereby anticipating getting
through this day at least.
By way of some nondescript tracks we leave suburbia behind.
The most notable thing at the moment is the sheer weight of my rucksack – I
didn’t carry anything like this much on the Coast-to-Coast, and I hope it
doesn’t overshadow my enjoyment of this walk.
We hope to reach Drymen this evening. A man we pass with his 2 daughters has the same aim in mind and puts me right as to the pronunciation of the place: "Drimmen". Rather like dropping a slice of toast so inevitably on its buttered side, whichever way I choose to pronounce these Scottish place names is invariably wrong (e.g., don't say "Milngavie" say "Mull-Guy"). The man says there’s a nice farm on the approach but personally I’d rather camp wild. The weather’s okay, a bit overcast, as we come upon our first loch, Craigallian, where I take in a swan through my binoculars, and its mate, a white carrier bag, anchored to the reeds.
Overlooking Craigallian Loch
By the time we reach Gartness, I’m frankly pretty damn weary, but at least Drymen doesn’t seem far. Yet the route drags on and on, and my feet demand relief. Only now does the realization hit home that it’s a 1:50,000 and not a 1:25,000 scale map.
The road is long, with many a windy bit, to misquote the
song, and having passed a farm that offers camping we end up in fact camping
wild by a stream, along with quite a few other die-hards, about half a mile out
of Drymen. It’s raining hard as we put the tent up, and this leaves us –
shall I say – pent up. I get out the dehydrated dinner and rehydrate it. 
I don’t
recommend the apple and custard dessert. It just won’t stop raining. We can’t
even be bothered going out to pee, let alone brush our teeth, and carry out the
simplest ablutions. The latrine-digging trowel remains unused. We retire – Sue
to snug warmth and me to a seemingly diaphanous sleeping bag that will not be
accompanying me on future outdoor ventures.
