Decent night’s kip, all things considered, despite the road swarming with campervan maniacs until an ungodly hour. Also, I’m fairly certain that David Guetta must have been parked nearby because at one point his music was basically blaring right into my ears. Either that, or it was one damn fine stereo – thankfully though, either he or the stereo must have realised it was the wrong venue, because after about 15 minutes or so it all died down.

I packed up quickly, as my goal was to arrive in Killin early enough to down a full Scottish breakfast (or two). With this in mind, I began the march with a wee hop over the A85 to join a cycle path leading northwards into a fairly dense wooded area – no chance of camping here, so spending the night at the lochan had certainly been a good shout. I continued along the cycle path for a good few kilometres, savouring the fresh air and tranquillity of the forest, while listening to a myriad of feathered friends freestyling a cocktail of morning tunes – pure bliss, to say the least. Eventually, without even realising it, I had arrived in Killin, where my moment of bliss was cut short by a great roaring sound that grew stronger with every step forward. I was half expecting William Wallace to be in town, but it turned out to be the Falls of Dochart having some kind of a row with Loch Tay. I guess things had taken a dramatic turn, because the force with which the former was driving water down the throat of the latter could only be described as carnage. A couple of photos later, I decided I could no longer tolerate the slaughter and had to do something about it. So, I followed what I know best: my nose – and fled the scene.

As I stepped off the bridge, I knew I had caught a whiff of something. Stirred by the thought and recalling my training as a sniffer dog, I quickly dropped to all fours to follow it more closely. And so, with great determination, I swept my muzzle blindly along the pavement until finally arriving at the source – a cosy local inn with its kitchen in full swing… or so I thought. Instead, it turned out I’d unwittingly followed the scent of a very different kind of haggis and ended up at the nearby public toilets for an unplanned pit stop. Not exactly what I had in mind, but convenient nonetheless. With business duly sorted, I then gave the muzzle another go, this time successfully navigating down the town’s Main Street and arriving at a cracking little café by the name of Shutters. With great urgency, I ordered my long-awaited full Scottish breakfast and quite literally proceeded to demolish it right there on the spot. With that task done and dusted, I then dashed out the door towards the local Co-op to restock on some much-needed supplies before swiftly fading back into the hinterland whence I had come.

The climb out of Killin was killing – a right minger, to be honest. But it was worth it, as the path eventually levelled out into some absolutely stunning moorland, where, aside from a couple of sheep, there wasn’t a single soul in sight. I truly felt as though I had suddenly landed solo on a barren, forgotten planet, just waiting to be explored. Yet I must admit that the overcast skies and rugged terrain lent the place a slightly hostile feel. So I trotted forward cautiously, step by step, until I found myself skirting around the Breaclaich Water Reservoir and its rather apocalyptic-looking intake tower – an eerie but remarkable sight, especially for the occasional trespasser like myself. Deciding it best not to disturb the water and awaken whatever might lie beneath, I pressed on, serpentining my way across the striking landscape. And so, before long, I found myself following some overground water pipes, dodging a seemingly never-ending trail of sheep shite, and not realising I’d missed a sneaky left turn towards Ardeonaig. I basically had no choice but to double back through the sheep droppings, making sure I hadn’t missed a single one, until at last I managed to get my bearings back.

The descent to Ardeonaig was long and gentle. Green pastures gradually replaced the rough, rocky terrain, and the sheep slowly gave way to cattle. A couple of moos later, I joined a road running parallel to the shoreline of Loch Tay, where every so often I was forced into the roadside ditch by passing lunatics in their Range Rovers. This went on for many a moon, but eventually I made it to Ardtalnaig, where I enjoyed a fruitful chat about the weather with an on-duty police officer, only for it to dawn on me that the ‘officer’ was in fact a cardboard cutout, presumably there to discourage speeding motorists – not so effective, it seems. Anyhow, hoping nobody had witnessed this exchange, I cracked on on until stumbling upon a classic red telephone box by the roadside, guarded by a pesky little hound that promptly came charging at me. In a desperate attempt to startle this bloodthirsty Chihuahua, I made an abrupt right turn and sprinted eastwards, away from the official RRW and towards Gleann a’ Chilleine. It was a successful stunt, but with Loch Tay now slowly fading into the distance, I found myself committed to the alternative route to Aberfeldy, with no chance of turning back.

The day had already been very long, so after leaving Ardtalnaig, I was in quite the haste to find a wild camping spot. In fact, I had a place in mind, by an old wall just after the last farmhouses – but to my dismay, someone apparently had the same idea and had already claimed the spot. Rather than launching a full-on assault, I did the reasonable thing and toddled on a bit further until coming across some rocky ruins, presumably a very old sheep pen. As the wind was picking up, I quickly set up my tent behind the remnants of a battered wall – then proceeded to prepare a high-quality culinary experience of dehydrated tikka masala and lukewarm water. With that out of the way, it was then time to gracefully surrender to the hay.