Day 81: Achintee - Luss

We were still in full croqueta mode, eyes crusty and ears not yet unfolded, when someone knocked on the camper door. It was our southern friends—the ones from Málaga and Gibraltar—coming to say goodbye with hugs, smiles, and those kinds of lines that sound like “this isn’t goodbye, it’s see you later,” but really mean “we’ll meet again if the universe pulls off some magic or if we randomly head down to Andalucía.”

Len, May, Douglas, and Janice left with the kind of dignity you see when people close a chapter. And we stayed behind with that weird aftertaste of farewells, mixed with the smell of thermos coffee and damp hiking boots. Everyone heading their own way. They to the south. Us… to hell. I mean, to Ben Nevis.

Because, yes. Papi Edu had been going back and forth for days. First it was no—the fog, the laziness, better not. Then yes—okay, maybe tomorrow. Then again no—you’d have to be insane. But in the end, true to his stubborn Andalusian nature, the mountaineer neuron won. Around half past eleven, he tied his boots, packed his bag, and clipped on my harness with a look that said, “this is going to be memorable… or not.”

For the uninitiated, Ben Nevis is the rooftop of the United Kingdom. One thousand three hundred and forty-five metres. Doesn’t sound crazy if you’ve hiked the Alps, but here in Scotland, it’s the closest thing they’ve got to the Himalayas. The most common route starts at Achintee, and it’s not really a trail—it’s a motorway. No cars, but an endless parade of panting humans, crying kids, backpacks the size of wardrobes, and walking sticks spinning like pilotless helicopter blades.

From the very first step, I took the lead, obviously. But it wasn’t hiking—it was dodging. What a nightmare! Every walking stick was a threat. *Whack* on the back! *Bonk* on the snout! *Thwack* to the ego! It was like a fencing class for blindfolded beginners. I tried to bite one—just one—but papi Edu stopped me with that look of his that says, “don’t you dare, we’ve got enough problems already.”

We overtook whole groups of tourists dressed like they were about to summit K2, entire families loaded with snacks, teenagers with “I did not sign up for this” faces, and even one brave soul in flip-flops. Flip-flops. Seriously. I wanted to lick his feet just to see if he’d snap out of it.

The early part of the hike offers a few decent views, but they vanish quickly. After that, it’s rocks, more rocks, endless rocks, and clouds. Halfway up, there’s a cute little lake that could’ve been perfect for belly-cooling—except at that moment the fog went into full “I’m here to ruin your day” mode. Then came the rain. And then the wind. A wind straight from Mordor—icy, sneaky, and relentless. It froze our eyelashes.

Even so, we reached the summit in two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad. Well, for humans. I could’ve done it in one hour if not for the stick attacks. At the top, visibility was absolute zero. Just fog, mud, soggy humans, and a pile of rocks with a triangle on top that supposedly marks the peak. It looked like a sad abandoned barbecue. Everyone was taking selfies like they’d just discovered America. So did we, of course. Quick pic and we got the heck out.

The way down was faster, but slipperier. The mud kept trying to trip us, the sticks were still flying like medieval swords, and my paws were turning into raisins. We reached the bottom soaked, drenched to the ears—even though we had raincoats. Papi washed me like a squid in the camper’s outdoor shower, dried me off with the good towel (the one with my teddy bear face), and then went full spa-mode: heater on, hot shower, and clothes hanging everywhere like we lived with a family of octopuses.

I melted into the mattress like butter on hot toast.

But papi Edu doesn’t rest. At seven, with clothes still dripping and me only half dry, we hit the road heading south. First stop: Lidl in Fort William. Time to restock, obviously. Then we drove on through Glencoe, where we refilled water at a Scottish Water fountain blasting harder than Niagara Falls.

With a full tank and morale halfway restored, we kept going. Around half past nine we reached a familiar spot: a parking area by Loch Lomond. We slept here weeks ago. You can hear the road, sure, but it’s not annoying. This time there were three or four other motorhomes—just enough to not feel alone, but not enough to feel like you’re being watched by ghost deer from the woods.

And here we are. Dead tired. Sore. Wet inside and out. Satisfied we checked Ben Nevis off the list, yes. Happy? Hmm… not really. The trail felt overcrowded, dull, and sparkless. No sheep waving hello, no quirky rocks, not even a halfway decent puddle. Just up and up, then down and down. Like a treadmill with deluxe fog.

Oh well. One more day walked. One more peak bagged. And another towel that’ll never dry again.