I was glad i’d brought a full set of waterproofs that week, says Colin Dallibar. A friend and I had made it to the top of Ben Nevis. We’d slogged through horizontal rain to reach the peak and pose for photos, peeping through sodden hoods against a backdrop composed entirely of thick white cloud. The panorama extended as far as 2m, or 3m at a push.
Hunkering down later in our hostel, we pored over the map, seeking the most remote spot we could head to next. What luck – there was one a few stops back along the West Highland Railway Line.
Next morning, we stepped off the train and watched it pull away into the mist. Was this the right stop? Was it even a station? Corrour, it turns out, is the most remote station in the UK. Its other claim to fame is that it featured in a famous scene in the film Trainspotting. Beyond its three buildings are just miles of mossy, boggy Rannoch Moor. Oh, and a track that leads to Loch Ossian. We took that.
About a mile from the station, nestled by the shore of the loch beneath a cluster of trees besieged by the elements, sits a charming little cabin that is perhaps the UK’s most remote youth hostel. We were shambling along the path approaching the building when we scuffed to a halt. Behind the sheets billowing on the washing line was a deer. It was a large red stag, wandering around, hanging out with the laundry.
The warden spotted us through the window and came out to greet us. He was a genial bearded man clad in a woollen hat and a thick sweater to fend off the wind. Some days he’s all alone here; that day he had us and two other guests for company.
“There’s a deer round the side, by the washing,” we informed him, helpfully. He laughed kindly, as if we’d pointed out a black cab on a London street. “Oh yes, we’ve got deer on the estate here. Hundreds of them, all over these moors and hillsides. About 20 of them are brave enough to come to the loch, and about four come right up to the hostel. This youngster’s the bravest – meet Windswept.” As if on cue, Windswept stepped forward, impassive and calm.
- Why deer have antlers
- Meet all 6 species of British deer – including a particularly weird, diminutive deer that barks like a dog and has fangs like a snake
“Come on in,” said the warden. “Get settled and take your packs off.” The interior of the cabin was very homely, with a kitchen and shared dining space for around a dozen people. Savouring the warmth, we sat down to catch our breath, thoughts turning to a cuppa and a biscuit.
Then, a movement by the open door caught my eye. It was Windswept, edging forwards tentatively and looking as if he wanted to cross the threshold. And apparently that is exactly what he wanted to do. Tilting his head to make space for his huge antlers, which were wider than the doorway, he came right on in, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to do.
- “We both heard a faint knock. We looked at each other, opened the door and glanced down.”
- “Within seconds of our dog’s yelp, we heard the sound of hooves pounding up the trail behind us”
A reverential silence fell across the room as we sat like statues and gaped at this beautiful, powerful wild animal that had suddenly appeared in our kitchen. Nobody spoke, save the occasional, whispered “Wow”. Windswept seemed trusting. We could look him directly in the eye. What was he thinking? Did he feel safe with us?
The warden put out a carrot and Windswept gnawed at it until it was gone. We remained still. The only sound was the wind outside and a deer munching… inside.
Then, as nonchalantly as he had arrived, Windswept deftly negotiated a U-turn between the kitchen tables and chairs and, without a second glance, strolled out of the door, tilting those impressive antlers again for ease of passage.
We spent a few nights at Loch Ossian. Windswept was often roaming nearby or loitering by the washing, but he didn’t come into the kitchen again. Maybe that first visit was just following the smell of the carrots. Or maybe, deep down, he understood that even Highland hospitality has its limits.
More tales from the bush:
