Two of the firemen decided to return the way we had come. With the third I set off down the opposite slope towards Inversnaid. In the first simultaneous stumble down the mountain side, we lost all sense of direction and, fetching up in a boggy meadow, wandered for hours over knolls and through swift streams, now and then scaring up a flock of shaggy highland sheep that raced away down primeval valleys. Well on in the afternoon, as we were telling ourselves for the twentieth time that Inversnaid must be just over the next ridge, we came suddenly upon a hillside directly above the landing stage of Renwardenen. On this side of the Loch was neither highway nor footpath. For seven miles we dragged ourselves, hand over hand, through the thick undergrowth, and even then must each take a header into an icy mountain river before we reached our goal.
Here a new disappointment awaited me. Instead of the town I had expected, Inversnaid consisted of a landing stage and a hotel of the millionaire-club variety in which my worldly wealth would scarcely have paid a night’s lodging, even should the house dogs have permitted so bedraggled a being to approach the establishment. The fireman wandered down to the wharf and I turned towards a cluster of board shanties at the roadside.
“Can you sell me something to eat?” I inquired of the sour-faced mountaineer who opened the first door.
“I can no!” he snapped, “go to the hotel.”
There were freshly baked loaves plainly in sight in the next hovel, but I received a similar rebuff.
“Have you nothing to eat in the house?” I demanded.
“No, mon, I’m no runnin’ a shop.”
“But you can sell me a loaf of that bread?”
“No!” bellowed the Scot, “we hovna got any. Go to the hotel. Yon’s the place for tooreests.”
The invariable excuse was worn threadbare before I reached the last hut, and, though I had already covered twenty-five miles, I struck off through the sea of mud that passed for a highway, towards Aberfoyle, fifteen miles distant.