The Knoydart peninsula in Scotland, is oft labelled as Britain’s last peninsula by folks and the Guardian no less. For me, though, it’s more of a first than a last of anything.

Some time in 2007 I was first invited by the Stafford crew, who would I come to know very well over the years, to take part in their October “camping trip” in Scotland. It was sold to me as a long weekend in Scotland which had a 5 mile walk in to the camp “site”.

As a fairly fit person of 30, I gave it no second thought, packed a relatively large rucksack, and as I could play campfire-standard guitar strapped one to the top of my pack. The journey up was fun, drinking heavily in the car until we got to the hostel in Fort William, that was already a tradition for those other than me. John, Baz, Shawn and Ross (Mark). That night I was warned that I was carrying quite a lot of unnecessary kit, but as a strong walker I would rather be prepared. We decanted all our booze into plastic bottles and refrigerated the traditional steak for the first night.

The next day we drove into the ‘Dart, following deer along the tracks, past the dam til we reached the literal end of the road. The morning was chilly so I put on the big fleece, bigger pack and started to walk. The lads set off at pace and with the heavy load I struggled to keep up as the path wound up the side of the Loch. Within 10 minutes I was boiling and had to stop to lose clothes leaving me further behind. I caught up with the rest at the bench, where we could see where we would eventually camp. The third outcrop/peninsula on Loch Hourn. We rested at “the Bench” before continuing our walk.

This were things got much more exciting. As you might not be able to see from the above picture, there is no path along the Northern (right) side of the Loch. No fucking path. This was news to me, and not to the others. My quote that I would “piss” the walk easily now looked very premature. We were now walking along the side of a Loch, at a steep angle and on wet and muddy terrain. It didn’t take long for things to get rough.

What has subsequently been named the “stairway to hell” was a 30m climb up the Loch side (mountain) alongside a fence, at a 30-odd degree angle on mud punctuated with the odd clump of grass. Progress was glacial. Never before have I felt a literal 2 steps forward and 2 steps back and I was probably running at two steps up and sliding 1.5 steps backwards. It was destroying for me. The pack was too heavy, the ground too slippery, and those more used to the “trail” were leaving me in the er wet dust. I was close to tears and shouted up that I would camp the night here and catch up with them the next day. The request was laughed at.

Although I had officially given up, I unofficially (Thanks Rob Gallagher) carried on. We hit what looked like a deer track part way up and the ground was much easier. Soon came across the next challenge. A stunted woodland that would pose no problem if you could duck like deer or there was a path through. Alas there was not. The choices were go along the rocks by the Loch which had no trees or make our way through. Due to the lads having a bad experience involving falling rocks and rucksacks the previous year we ended up doing the Michael Rosen thing and ploughing on through.

Getting through stunts trees is hard. Sharp branches poking any your eye. Other branches catching on my rucksack and tearing at my rucksack. The folly of attaching a guitar to my pack became more than apparent as I wrestled through. As would happen many times in visits to the area I would come to appreciate the simple things in life. Paths. Paths are good. Paths are very good. I had never tried to get through a wood before with no path. I love paths now.