After yesterday’s wind and rain, on day four of my hike Scotland reached deeper into its bag of weather-based punishments—and hurled at us some sideways wind and mist that somehow had elbows. Oh yeah and these things called midges. 

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day began peacefully. Breakfast arrived at our BnB in the form of a full Scottish plate—bacon, poached eggs, sausage, mushrooms, toast, beans, A bowl of porridge and a bootlegged DVD of Shrek 2. It was so nice—and extra nice compared to the usual trail breakfast of a crumpled Pop-Tart and the last edible corner of a Clif bar that’s somehow both sticky and dusty.

Then it was a mile back to the West Highland Way from Crianlarich—a name that, when I said it out loud, sounded less like a Scottish village and more like a sexually transmitted infection you’d catch from a Glasgow stripper named Glitter Thistle. (“I got the Cry-an-Lar-Itch…I noticed the flare up during my morning Balmaha”) 

I had walked maybe half a mile—not even back on the trail yet—when the wind hit. I had 14 miles of clammy punishment ahead of me. Made worse by Scotland’s most devious tactic: Intermittent beauty.

Because just when you think you can’t take one more squall to the eyeball, the clouds part, the sun breaks through, and for about six minutes you are hiking through a painting. A real masterpiece.

Then the sky slaps the brush out of your hand like a drunk art teacher, screams, “YOU CALL THIS WATERCOLOUR, YAH PRICK,” and pours a pint of bog water directly down your back just to remind you of who’s in charge. 

And this rain wasn’t working alone.

The midges were its Axis-of-Itchy allies—tiny airborne nightmares designed by some vengeful Scottish mosquito god who thought, “You know what would make drizzle worse? Zombie fruit flies.”

When you’re hiking in midge country, stopping triggers a kind of biological countdown.

The moment you stand still, an invisible clock starts ticking. You’ve got maybe 45 seconds—one minute if you’re lucky—before the first midge finds you. 

And that midge? That’s the scout.

It dive-bombs your neck like a tiny itchy drone, takes one taste, and then—this is scientifically accurate—blows a tiny midge trumpet to summon 4,000 of its closest tiny tartar-wearing insect buddies that the buffet is open. Like: “He’s over here, lads—let’s show him the real Cry-An-Lar-Itch!” Then the swarm arrives. All at once. Like they were hiding in the trees with a group text ready.

This is why hikers don’t take breaks.

Which is also why there’s no greater joy—no more sacred moment of human satisfaction—than peeling off your damp, trail-welded hiking layers, dragging your semi-feral body to a barstool in a warm, midge-free Scottish pub, and passionately describing your bug bites to a bartender who is pretending, with every fiber of his professional training, to care. Which Ian and I did that evening at the Bridge of Orchy Hotel, over two frothy pints. We had 60 miles under our belts after 4 days of hiking.

Afterward, we meandered back to our digs for the night and one of the most unique hostels on the trail: The West Highland Way Sleeper—a bunkhouse built into an old train station. And I don’t mean “near” a train station. I mean in it. The platform is still active. Trains still arrive. If you are a sleepwalker, it takes roughly eight steps to fall directly onto the tracks, and about four more to become an unscheduled delivery to Glasgow.

When checking in, we told the owner we’d join for dinner. She said to come back at 7 p.m.—there was no menu yet because, and I quote, “I haven’t decided what to make.” When we returned, the dining room smelled like some kind of holy brown gravy, the kind you don’t eat so much as believe in.

In that gravy were hearty sausages which we poured over a potato and carrot mash.  We finished the meal with strawberry tart topped with homemade whipped cream. 

After the meal, the hostess told us her favorite part of running the place was watching total strangers become trail friends—how people from different continents, with different jobs, accents, dietary concerns, passport stamps, Brexit opinions, metric systems, and approaches to public urination laws—can, for one beautiful evening, sit around a table and realize that we are all, at our core, deeply confused by Scottish pronunciation and covered in insect bites.

And that’s what unites us.

Even more than the gravy.

See you in Part 4—assuming we survive the midges.