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Walter and Bob bustle into the kitchen at the Backpackers. Walter is tall and long-legged, a bit gaunt, with white wavy hair. Bob is bald, maybe a bit shorter, plumper and he wears glasses. They've just arrived after tramping up several hills together and tomorrow they'll climb some more. Walter and Bob are seasoned in the hills.

We share the last couple of inches in Walter's whisky bottle and, when that's done, Bob uncorks another. Slainte! They invite me to share their meal of beans and bolognaise and potatoes all mixed up in the same pot.

This pair could reminisce about hills all night long. Mam Sodhail isn't difficult, says Walter, big hill though it is. There's a good path right to the top. He says there's a big cairn and the ruin of a stone hut at the summit.

After supper, they head for a pint at the Slaters Arms while I stay on to write up notes. My cell-like room is bare and somewhat chilly. A smell of stale smoke from last night's fire drifts from the stove in the lounge. It's not cosy.

So I phone George at Upper Glassburn and book a room for tomorrow night. ‘Would you have dinner?’ No need to ask.