There’s also a frog that croaks and burps loudly every night outside my window. I can’t be sure if he’s with a friend or if he’s by himself and just good at sounding like two different frogs but he’s out there, without fail. First a long, loud croaaakk then a shorter one, but he’s out there every single night. I’ve come to see him as a sign we’re doing okay, we’re doing all right. There is still life.

***

I want you to imagine that you like climbing trees. Any type of tree- tall ones, short ones, they’re all your friends and you love them all. If you were to climb the jacaranda trees growing on the street where we live and look into our garden, you would notice how large and healthy it is, with plenty of space to run around. 

You would see my mother’s pink bougainvillea, her yellow and red hibiscus trees, and her purple periwinkles. You’d see my father’s many papaya and banana trees, and his pride and joy, his durian tree. We used to have a passion fruit tree but that stopped flowering many months ago. Even before I began paying attention to it and learning names of the birds that drop by, our garden has always been full of colour and life.

Ever since lockdown in Malaysia began in March, my room, the house, the garden – that was pretty much it for me. 

In the early days, our garden was the only place I could walk in. You would have seen me going around our garden if you were a tupai – a tree shrew- or a bird, or if you had nothing better to do and spied on us from the trees. I would do a few circuits and crouch on the grass with my eyes just a few inches above the ground. I would peer through the heliconia plants and imagine I was exploring a jungle somewhere, trapped between towering ferns and wild jungle trees when in reality those plants and stumps were barely waist-high. 

Our garden gnome in the red pointy hat and blue cardigan became a giant statue (late 20^thcentury) that I’d stumbled upon by accident in this treacherous tropical jungle. The low stone wall that separated the driveway from the grass became an ancient structure designed by architects of old. The neighbour’s cat who peeked at me through the bushes was local wildlife.

Well, I had to do something. I had to make do. 

***

There are two shrews living in our garden. No, make that three, maybe four. One of them sleeps in the kemuning tree right outside my window. I know this because I had the window open this morning while it rained. The leaves quivered and when I looked up I saw him sitting in the branches, sheltering from the rain. I shall call him Scrat.

Also- those big black carpenter bees with the metallic blue-green wings. They’re everywhere, drinking from Mama’s yellow trumpet flowers, pub-crawling from flower to flower. I see them every day from where I sit.

***

When I think of how a virus streaked across the world and disrupted our lives just like that *snaps fingers* the only response I can muster is a long-drawn sigh. This was the 2020 none of us expected. All of us had plans.

What happens to travel after this? 

I was supposed to be in Scotland in May, walking on trails across the Cowal Peninsula and the Isle of Skye, but clearly that never happened. I cancelled everything by mid-March. I’m devastated, but let’s put things in perspective here. Missing out on a trip comes nowhere close to what so many others have had, and continue, to deal with: loss of income, a death in the family or the effects of the coronavirus. Fulfilling my need to travel now is no longer as important to me as it used to be. 

I’m prepared to put off international travel for a while. Maybe this isn’t the time to fly to faraway places just yet. Maybe I could, I don’t know, hang around closer to home for a few more months. I have no plans to indulge in what I see –in these present circumstances- as unnecessary travel. 

So I am thankful for this garden; I am thankful for the joy it gives us every day. In the early months of lockdown, the garden gave me a place to walk in. A place where I imagined I was somewhere else, somewhere wilder, and yet the garden gave me exactly what I needed. 

I’ve been keeping a diary of what I see, hear and smell in the garden, and every day I see something new. 

There is an order here: the sun shines, the clouds burst into rain, things grow. Birds and bees and little creatures come. During the day the spotted doves and mynahs peck at leftover fruit and grains of rice. Then the sun sets and the garden prepares itself for the night, and out come the fruit bats, the palm civets and the frogs.

I am particularly fond of frogs. I’ve never touched one and doubt I ever will, but I know this about them: frogs are an excellent indicator of the state of your garden- they don’t live in environments that are toxic. The skin of a frog is highly permeable, making frogs so vulnerable to pollutants they can die within an hour of exposure, so they naturally avoid places that are dangerous to them and I dare say, to the rest of us. If you grow your own fruits and vegetables and you see a frog or two hopping about, be happy. 

***

A kingfisher in our garden! Just this morning, sitting on the phone line, its feathers bright blue and orange in the sun. Where on earth did it come from? There are no rivers nearby, except for the stream in Bukit Gasing. Tried to take a photo, but it disappeared in a flash of blue.

One more thing- it rained in the night and this morning I saw pugmarks where the ground had gotten wet and soggy. Four elongated digits ending in claws- perfect for climbing. No footpads here, so it wasn’t a cat. We have a visitor.

***

It’s evening, around 7.45, after Maghrib. It rained for an hour today and the sky outside is that deep shade of blue now that the sun has completely set. 

I have never sat at my desk and not been captivated by what I see in the daytime, but the garden is loveliest in the evenings after a downpour. There is a cleanness in the air, a warm shower before bed kind of feeling. A slowing down.

I hear a rustling in the kemuning tree outside my window but it stops abruptly, as though something has realised it has caught my attention. A tree shrew settling down for the night. I used to ask our gardener to cut off the upper branches every six months. Mosquitoes live in the tree and I hate them, I told him. Now that I have a tenant I just let the tree grow. 

On the nights I hear the tree shaking violently, I know it’s a palm civet crossing over from our roof to the tree and back. We see them regularly, creeping on phone lines like tightrope walkers. In March when our streets went silent and the lockdown was strictest, I caught one skulking on our balcony one night, its long tail swaying, its eyes shining like lamps. 

It’s close to dinner and just about when the mosquitoes come to attack so I reach up to shut the window. 

Outside, from somewhere below, an old friend announces his presence. A rich, lusty, throaty sound that I’ve heard every night for months now: Croaaakk.

© 2020, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Life in Lockdown

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

Travel. Sometimes it affects us so much that coming home hurts. At times it feels as though we’ve left a part of ourselves in the place we were before.

I always feel this way about places I’ve connected with, places where I’ve lingered and taken things really slowly. Places where I’ve shopped for groceries to bring back to cook instead of dining in restaurants. Where I’ve bussed to town instead of taking taxis and eavesdropped on everyday conversations: What’s the latest with Sue? Ughhh isn’t the weather horrible nowadays? Look, here’s a photo of my new grandson! Better still if I don’t fully understand the language.

I sometimes imagine that we leave tiny bits and pieces of us, scattered about, in every place we go to. Those are my confused boot prints on The Ridgeway where I got lost and later discovered the Devil’s Dyke. Those are my fingerprints on a tree branch in Las Alpujarras in Spain that I held on to, white-knuckled, at the edge of a cliff. And oh, look-those are your footprints on a beach somewhere in southern Thailand.

We leave something behind everywhere we go. They could be our own memories, transferred onto everything we touch. Whatever they are, they used to be a part of us but they’ve stayed behind. The more we travel, the more we leave behind. We are no longer complete. And that incompleteness is the space left empty by these pieces of us.

And yet at the same time travel fulfils us. The act of leaving home for a while to see the world completes us and makes us richer. Not all the time but often enough, especially when we try harder. When we have a conversation with someone who doesn’t look like us. When we stay in places far less comfortable than our own homes. That’s when travel completes us.

Sometimes, though, we don’t have to do anything at all. At times a place reveals itself to us and if we are receptive enough, we will learn to love it and leave a part of ourselves there.

I have left memories and pieces of me in far too many places- the curse of wanting to go slow in every place I go to. Even little memories like buying groceries in Pak N Save in Auckland mean something to me. Like eating accidentally overboiled pasta, far beyond al dente, as I celebrated a quiet Christmas in my house-sit in Dublin two years ago. The little things.

Where will you leave a part of yourself this year?

Happy 2019, everyone. May your travels continue to both complete you and fill you with longing.

© 2019, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Pieces of us

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

From Kathmandu, trekkers take a bus to Pokhara and from there, travel by car to the start of the trek in Nayapul. There are two options for this trek: you can go in a clockwise direction i.e.: Nayapul-Birethanti- Hille-Tikhedhunga-Ghorepani-Poon Hill-Tadapani-Ghandruk-Shauli Bazaar-Nayapul, or you can choose to go in the reverse direction.

The trek begins at Nayapul at the bottom right of the map

A trek graded as ‘easy’ over here, however, may not exactly be a walk in the park. This is after all, Nepal:  home to Everest, and home to eight of the world’s top 10 highest mountains, and eight of the 14 eight-thousanders (mountains above 8,000m in height). This is where the locals snigger (politely) when you tell them that the highest peak you’ve ever climbed is 3,000 metres above sea level. If you’re new to multi-day treks at anything above 2,500m, chances are you’ll need some amount of preparation.

Here are a few things to remember if you’re trekking in Nepal for the first time.

Train and prepare yourself

There are generally two types of treks in Nepal: base camp treks, and village-to-village treks (which may also form part of a longer base camp hike- the Poon Hill route, for instance, is part of the Annapurna Base Camp trek). Generally, both these categories make use of paths and trails which have been used by locals for decades, and due to the mountainous terrain, often involve an innumerable number of stone steps.

Trekkers heading towards Tikhedhunga

If you love steps, you’ll love trekking in Nepal

These steps are common throughout Nepal and serve to connect mountain villages and settlements. The steps were constructed by the villagers themselves from local stone and are uneven in height and of irregular shape, so some caution is necessary when going down. One single segment of the Poon Hill trek has an incredible 3,200 steps, and that’s just for the first half of the day, so if you’re more accustomed to taking lifts or walking on level ground, you’ll need to do plenty of training. At least three months before you leave for Nepal, ignore the lifts and start going up and down stairs every day.

Use the right gear

The type of gear you’ll need to bring will obviously depend on when you’ll be trekking. Although I usually start by checking the weather forecast, travel forums are probably the best when it comes to figuring out the weather- posters ask practical questions on the type of conditions they can expect and responses are made with the foreign traveller in mind. If you’re going with a trekking company or guide, ask them about the weather as well because they will know whether outdoor activities are actually feasible at a particular time of the year.

Just one of many outdoor gear shops in Kathmandu

I did my trek in early May which, as all good guides will tell you, is the pre-monsoon season in Nepal. What this means is a fairly good chance of rain, some cloudy skies, and temperatures ranging from the 20s at lower levels to the teens and single digits above 3,000m. I brought the following with me: short and long-sleeved merino base layers, one hooded fleece jacket, one hybrid softshell (a softshell jacket with lightweight insulated panels) and one waterproof jacket.

I found anything more than a t-shirt to be stuffy for Kathmandu and Pokhara, while my waterproof shell came to be particularly useful when it rained and hailed on day three. I was also glad I didn’t bring a thick insulated jacket because it would have added unnecessary bulk, weight and warmth even for the 4am climb up Poon Hill (3,210m), which was the only time I used all four layers together. If, like me, you heat up quickly when you walk and trek, you would do better with a layering system which you can remove or add to. Base camp treks have a greater need for thick insulation both due to the higher elevation and the exposed areas you’ll be trekking in.

Don’t forget your medicines

Although Kathmandu has several reliable pharmacies, it goes without saying that you should bring all medications with you including over the counter remedies that you may prefer or are more familiar with.

A note on altitude sickness: You will be probably be entering Nepal via Kathmandu, which has an elevation of 1,400m. The chances of you getting altitude sickness at this level is low but as elevation affects different people in different ways, pay attention to your body as you go higher, regardless which trek you take.

Trekker’s Pharmacy to the rescue!

Symptoms of altitude sickness include headaches, vomiting, loss of appetite, fatigue and dizziness. To alleviate such symptoms, climbers rely on a pill called Diamox. Altitude sickness has very little to do with age or how fit you are as some people feel the side effects more than others. I suffered for two days from diarrhea on the trail, which climaxed on the second day with me throwing up everything that was inside. Although an upset tummy and vomiting are symptoms of AMS, I suspect that what I went through had more to do with something I had ingested. What I am almost certain was a sign of AMS was my lack of appetite (this made my recovery from food poisoning all the more difficult), which disappeared almost immediately on the last day of the trek after we reached lower levels.

To recap: being sick for days on a trek isn’t fun, so pay attention to how you feel and tell your guide if you have any concerns.

Money matters

Bring a combination of US dollars and if you’re able to change Nepali rupees from home, bring that as well. (Malaysians can change ringgits in Kathmandu, so you may want to bring a mix of USD and Malaysian Ringgit if that’s more convenient). USD are preferred by tour companies and most trekking guides, whereas rupees are for smaller expenses such as meals, snacks, souvenirs, medicines, as well as hot showers and accommodation at guesthouses on the trail. Some guesthouses charge for wi-fi and the use of plug points- note that such charges, just like food and drink, go up the higher you climb.

Kathmandu’s Thamel district

If you’re going on an organised trek and have already paid for it, an additional 1,500-2,000NR for say, ten days in Nepal (in total) is more than enough. Once you’ve paid for the trek, what’s left are the smaller expenses I mentioned earlier, meals which aren’t part of the trekking arrangement and last-minute gear- let’s face it, we all know there’ll always be last-minute trekking gear to buy.

Be prepared for delays

What is travel without a little bit of drama, eh?

The drama began after we left Kathmandu at the start of the trek. We- my guide, my porter and I- were in a 7am bus bound for Pokhara when, two hours after leaving Kathmandu, we rolled up to the Prithivi Highway only to find ourselves in a horrendous traffic crawl. The hold-up snaked all along the hillside as far as we could see. When it became apparent that we couldn’t move, a bus attendant disappeared to find out what was going on and later returned to tell us that a truck had collided with a motorcycle two miles up. It was morning traffic, and the congestion itself was a good six, seven miles long.

The Trishuli river

No time to wait in the bus, let’s walk to school instead

Our bus was stuck on the highway for three hours, during which there was much activity- at least four ambulances passed us, wailing as they went (or was it the same one, merely going back and forth?); parents and their children abandoned their buses to walk to school; passengers and drivers got down to smoke and chat; and I took photos of the Trishuli river with its gorges and terraced rice fields. We arrived in Pokhara at six in the evening- six hours later than scheduled.

Challenging road conditions, vehicle breakdowns and the sheer size of traffic all contribute to delays, something which can happen regularly in Asia. Anyone who comes from, lives in, or has travelled extensively in Asia will know this. Delays are infuriating, but if you keep an open mind and not get yourself into a state, you’ll enjoy yourself more.

Guided vs unguided

If you’re planning on signing up for a guided trek, I would suggest picking a reputable and experienced trekking company based in Nepal. An organised trek comes with a guide and a porter- rather than seeing them as an unnecessary expense, this is one way to help the tourist industry and to make sure your dollars go directly to the locals. Also, let’s face it- having a guide makes a big difference if this is your first time in the country.

Sunrise from the lower slopes of Poon Hill

After sending out some emails, I decided on Kathmandu-based company Nepal Hiking Team, who were able to come up with a suitable itinerary within hours of my query. They were also very accommodating when I had to change my departure date three weeks before the trip. I would not have enjoyed the trek as much as I did without my guide and porter, who were supremely patient with me on the days when I had my food poisoning! I would be the first to recommend this company to anyone planning a trek in Nepal.

As much as I would recommend Nepal Hiking Team to first-time trekkers in Nepal, an alternative is to trek without a guide and/or porter, or to find a guide and/or a porter after you arrive in Nepal. I saw quite a few foreign trekkers carrying their own backpacks, unaccompanied, so it is clearly possible to trek on your own. However, having carried my own pack for several days on the Cleveland Way, doing the same in Nepal is something I wouldn’t ever want to do. If you prefer to hike without a trekking company or would rather look for guides after you arrive, ask your hotel or look around in Kathmandu or Pokhara. Two full days should be enough for you to sort out your plans.

*This is the first of (at least) two articles on my trek in Nepal, which I paid for on my own dime. I am thankful to Ganga Raj Thapa and Balaram Thapa of Nepal Hiking Team for their support, attentiveness and service. A big Thank You also goes out to my guide Bhim and porter Prem for their help and patience throughout the six days they were with me, especially on those days I was ill. 

© 2018, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Tips for first-time trekkers in Nepal

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

I had just stepped into Malaysia. Thailand was behind me.

The customs officer beamed and nodded, recognising immediately that I was a fellow Malaysian. “Hello, dari mana? ” he asked. Where had I come from?

“Thailand, from Bangkok.”

“You’ve been carrying quite a load from Bangkok,” he said, motioning for me to open my bag.

“Oh, I didn’t actually start from there. I started in Russia.”

The young man looked up. “From Russia! Is that right? Wah, welcome home.”

I unzipped my rucksack and the most gorgeous perfume unleashed itself into the air. Spring Blossom, or something like that.

So I went a little crazy doing laundry in Bangkok. Not a bad thing.

***

This whole journey, from start to finish, was about how to find my way home. Arriving at my doorstep would be the end, the only question was how and when.

The first time I asked myself how to get home was in China. On my last night in Beijing, I looked at my feet and counted three missing toenails. The toenail on my little left toe had dropped off about a month earlier. The second one from my large right toe had come loose the day before and the third one, black with dried blood, I’d torn off just two minutes earlier because it was hanging on for dear life and looking ridiculous.

Before I left home, I promised that I would decide what to do when I got to Beijing — whether to get a plane ticket straight to Malaysia, or to take the long way home by train. I looked at my toes and decided they could take another month or so of travelling and that I still had enough money. So a train ride all the way home it was.

I began dreaming about this trip in 2002 when I was still in legal practice. It was 10.30 pm on a Friday and I had a large corporate diary on my desk opened at a map of the world. Right at the top of the page was Russia, vast and irresistible. The map was bare, but I’d read about the Trans-Siberian Railway a year before and I knew about the railway track which ran across the country from Moscow to Vladivostok, a distance of 9,288 km.

Map from www.seat61.com

Another invisible dotted line formed in my head, but this time from Irkutsk near Lake Baikal. It dived downwards into the steppes of Mongolia, stopped at Ulaanbaatar, and terminated in Beijing. This was the Trans-Mongolian Railway.

But why stop at Beijing? I thought. Why not take another train and another and another, until Kuala Lumpur? My heart leapt. Then the phone rang and it was back to work.

10 years passed and a host of things happened. I grew up, changed professions, and travel partners dropped out, but I never stopped thinking about those railway tracks.

One morning in May 2012, I woke up and realised how unhappy I was. I still hadn’t gone on that long train ride and I was still working till late. Something needed to be done, so I waited for the right moment and quit my job three weeks later.

It was September when I flew into St Petersburg. For four days, I walked up and down its streets from morning to dusk in a pair of worn-out, ill-fitting shoes that did nothing for my feet and made my toenails drop off.

The Neva River, St Petersburg

I left St Petersburg from Moskovsky Station, one of the four train stations in the city. I shared my compartment with a pleasant elderly couple and a man who carried a briefcase and nothing else. From my top bunk, I watched the man smiling to himself as he scrolled through his phone. I tried to eavesdrop on the couple’s conversations but all I could understand were nyet and da.

I don’t know much Russian, but I do know how to read Cyrillic. I taught myself the Cyrillic alphabet after secondary school in readiness for… something. I don’t know what. It seemed like an interesting thing to do back then. By the time I arrived in Russia I could read road signs, maps, and menus quite comfortably; being Muslim, I don’t eat pork, so being able to read menus is important to me.

There was no menu on this train from St Petersburg, though. The four of us were handed food packets containing two pieces of bread, two slices of tomato, and a flattened half an omelette. The old woman wasn’t impressed. She looked at her sandwich, sighed, and muttered something to her husband, who clearly didn’t give a toss as he had already begun eating. She looked at me, pointed to her sandwich and shook her head deliberately. This is not how we eat. This is not a good example of a Russian breakfast, she seemed to be saying. I waited for her to make the necessary gestures for “Come to our house and we will feed you, you poor darling,” but that never happened.

The change of trains for the onward journey to Irkutsk was in Moscow. I had visited the capital before and longed to see it again, but the three-hour window allowed me just enough time to change some money and buy snacks for the next five days. When I found my compartment on train 340, an older Russian lady was already there.

There are four berths in second-class kupeyny compartments; an aisle divides the compartment into two, with one top and one bottom berth on each side. A little table decorated with a lace tablecloth and plastic flowers faces the window, which is large enough for those in the top berths to look out through, although the best views are from the lower berths. The entire top half of every lower berth, the part that constitutes the bed, can be lifted to reveal a storage space large enough for two rucksacks. The bed frame is made of a type of metal, don’t ask me what, but it is heavy and may require some effort on your part to make sure it doesn’t come crashing down on your fingers.

And being a woman of a certain small size, there I was, struggling to lift the damn bed with one hand while at the same time trying to put my rucksack into the recess with the other.

The lady leapt from her berth and held my bed up with both hands, allowing me to stuff my bag in.

“You are okay?” she asked.

“No, but thank you,” I said and we both laughed.

Liyana was on her way to Kirov, a town 960 km away, to spend time with her mother. Her English was better than my Russian, which was limited to words for food, hello, thank you, goodbye, no entry, and fire exit. She gasped when I told her I was headed to Lake Baikal, then Mongolia, China and all the way down south (“So far!”). She looked to be in her late forties. Her wavy hair reached the top of her shoulders and she wore a string of pearls, dark grey jeans, a white knitted top and black boots.

Months later, friends would ask me what on earth I did for five days on the train and I would tell them: I woke up, read, did some writing, read, ate my meals, wrote some more, and looked out the window. Repeat when necessary. That was all the two of us did. I had a book of short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, and Liyana had a Russian translation of 50 Shades of Grey. I’d never read it, but I had a vague idea what the book was about. Young innocent girl becomes not-so-innocent after engaging in acrobatics with a wealthy and successful yet dodgy man. Every time I saw Liyana with her book she would be smiling quietly to herself.

I looked forward to my meals on the train. They weren’t outstanding but the meals were served hot, and were a nice alternative from the cheese and tuna sandwiches I would have had otherwise. Every morning after breakfast a young girl from the restaurant car would ceremoniously present us with a menu in Russian and we would choose our meal for the day. It was usually the same menu every morning, with two possible options – riba (fish) or kuritsa (chicken), served with either potatoes or buckwheat.

There was plenty of snacking between meals. Liyana was generous with her food. She gave me biscuits, apples, and fruit juice, and I gave her my cheese slices, tuna sandwiches, and muesli bars in return.

We talked about our families and showed each other photos of the people we loved. Liyana’s husband was a physics professor back in Moscow while their daughter lived in France. She shook her head in amazement when I showed her a postcard of a beach in Malaysia. I handed her the postcard with its perfect blue sky, palm trees, and white sand, and told her to keep it. Outside the window were forests of red, orange, and gold. There are no palm trees here in Siberia.

I won’t lie — I’ve been drawn to the name since I was a child, ever since I knew what maps were. Siberia. I was fascinated by the notion of all that space, so far away, and so huge that it was large enough to swallow my own country hundreds of times over. What do you do with all that space? I was 11.

Siberia’s vastness – 13.5 million square km of it — becomes clearer to you late at night. When the world is silent and you’re lying in your berth looking out the window, that’s when you realise how vast the world is.

Railway stops in Siberia, which officially begins 2,102 km from Moscow, lie hundreds of kilometres from each other. Late at night, the space between them is a black, empty nothingness with no lights to blot out the stars. Here, the stars are clear and bright and countless, like millions of diamonds strewn over a dark blanket, filling the entire night sky.

During the day we saw farmhouses with vegetable beds and flower boxes, and I thought of my mother, who loves gardening. I waved to children standing at train platforms with their fathers, and they waved back. Identifying colours is a thing for me, and in autumn in a country with forests the size of entire nations, I let myself loose. Scarlet. Terracotta. Brick. Orange, like a pumpkin. Gold. Blood red. Claret. Burnt orange. Every day I looked out the window and knew I was travelling in the most basic sense of the word. I was moving. I was a tiny dot on a map, passing through Russia, slowly going eastwards.

After Liyana got down and said goodbye, I had the entire compartment to myself. One night after dinner, I heard angry male voices coming from next door. Feeling more curious than alarmed, I stepped out and peered casually into the neighbouring compartment, which was open.

Seated on the lower berths with their backs to me were three burly Russian men, watching a movie on a laptop. I recognised the face on the screen — it was Sylvester Stallone, shouting in Russian in Expendables 2. I watched as another actor came on and muttered something I couldn’t understand. I returned to my berth after a while but came out again after I heard the soundtrack playing, which meant that the movie had ended. One of the men was shaking hands with the other two and saying thank you. When he stepped out and walked down the corridor it occurred to me that he had been travelling alone. My neighbours had gotten to know him and called him over to watch a movie. I watched the man enter his compartment, and thought: This train is a happy place.

I returned to my empty compartment and realised I only had two more nights on the 340. As the train travelled across Russia, life had somehow slowed down for many of us onboard. There was no internet so there was no news of the outside world. Neither were there newspapers for me to (try to) read or ask someone to explain. The train had been my home for the past two days. My compartment was a safe cocoon. All this while the 340 had kept me safe the way a home had, and as much as I wanted to step out, I dreaded the thought of leaving. Once outside, I would have to leave my fate to whatever it was that lay beyond the railway tracks. Outside was adventure, but outside was also where anything could happen.

***

To this day, I wish I had asked for her name. I bumped into an angel in Irkutsk after I got down. She was carrying a small red handbag and walking with her teenage daughter when I asked for directions. She frowned at the address in my notebook and shook her head, then brought me to a tram stop. She could have stopped there but she led me up the next tram and stayed with me throughout the ride.

We got down 10 minutes later, which was when the woman caught hold of my rucksack, swung it over her shoulders and despite my protests, insisted on carrying it. She walked up and down, going into alleys and stopping at shops and cafes to ask if anyone knew the address. Her daughter followed dutifully, uncomplaining, reading out street signs as we went. I tried to take my rucksack back, feeling guilty that this 50-year-old woman was lugging it around but she wouldn’t hear of it. After walking for half an hour we finally found my hostel in a hidden lane off the main street.

The lady cried out, gesturing triumphantly at the signboard. Was that a light shining behind her head?

“Spasiba, bolshoe spasiba,” I said, overcome with gratitude, and hugged her. I had never met anyone so kind.

She smiled and handed me my rucksack. “Okay, okay. No problem.”

They left and waved goodbye, blowing kisses as they went, and I headed up the steps to my hostel. Here’s to leaving home, wherever that is, and to adventure.

Home. Strange concept, that. Where it is, really? If home is where I was born, it’s Malaysia, but at times I feel home is New Zealand, where my parents first met and where I’ve travelled its entire length. For a moment, my home was the train from Moscow to Irkutsk. I’d gotten so comfortable onboard that I didn’t want to get down, and yet I had left home in search of adventure.

After Mongolia and China, Vietnam gave me my first glimpse of home. The overnight train from Nanning was full but quiet at midnight. We were about an hour away from the Chinese-Vietnamese border when I noticed some strange, oddly familiar silhouettes just beyond the railway track. I had seen them somewhere before. Thick pillars with elongated shapes coming out at the top. Some of these shapes were standing upright, some were drooping down, but the ones hanging down were — wait, moving in the wind?

I gasped, and the Japanese man sleeping in the berth across me stirred. Banana trees! Banana trees, their leaves shuddering from the rush of the train. I was back in the tropics.

Three weeks later, I’m on the train from Bangkok, making my way through the Malaysian state of Kedah. At one of the stops, a wiry, white-haired woman dressed in a sari – a traditional dress of the Indian community — enters the carriage with her two sons.

An old Chinese woman sitting across the aisle nods and smiles at the mother.

“Pi mana?” Where are you going? she asks in a northern Malaysian accent.

“Bukit Mertajam, to my daughter’s house.”

“Oh, I’m from there too. What’s her name?”

“You probably don’t know her,” the Indian lady smiles shyly. She is sitting close enough for me to smell the coconut oil in her hair.

“I just might, what’s her name?”

I don’t catch the reply. “Her husband’s name is Albert, she married a Chinese man. Depa dok kat Pauh.” They live in Pauh, she says.

“Oh, is she big-sized?” the Chinese lady asks good-naturedly. I am thoroughly enjoying this.

The Indian lady laughs. “Ya, ya, my daughter is on the plump side.”

“She has short hair, and their house is near the Chinese temple?”

“Ya, ya, that’s right. That’s her.”

One of the young men fiddles with his phone, and a song from a Bollywood movie fills the carriage. A few of the passengers smile in amusement. I look out the window. In the distance: rolling green hills, rice fields and wooden huts, while here and there, closer to the railway track, are coconut palms and banana trees.

[Anis Ibrahim is a Contributing Writer for Panorama]

*This story first appeared in Panorama: The Journal of Intelligent Travel’. Go here for the link to the original story.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Leaving to go Home

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

It’s not always a case of green light, go, red light, stop if you’re a pedestrian in Kuala Lumpur, the only place I know where you still need to look right-left-right when the traffic lights turn red.

Kuala Lumpur is a city ill-designed for pedestrians. Where there are pavements, not all are wide enough for comfortable and safe walking. Neither are all our pavement tiles intact; I’ve seen many with corners that are chipped or broken, making it dangerous if you happen to step on the wrong side. Many of our drains are uncovered, some with entire concrete slabs missing, with holes large enough for an adult male to fall through.

Know your place

If you choose to walk in Kuala Lumpur, remember that you are secondary to everything else. Urban walkers are at the mercy of anything on wheels. This is unlike in Hanoi where motorbikes slow down in order to avoid hitting pedestrians. In KL, pedestrians are the ones who have to avoid motorbikes and anything with wheels, even when cars are supposed to stop. Spend a day walking in the Jalan Tun Perak-Masjid Jamek- Tun H.S. Lee area and you’ll know what I mean.

Petaling Street

Many drivers in Kuala Lumpur see people on foot as pests who slow down traffic. Zebra crossings mean nothing more than strips of paint on the road, to be ignored even when a pedestrian is waiting to cross –note: waiting to cross, because in Malaysia, it is always the pedestrian who is waiting to be allowed to cross, even on a zebra crossing. Take it from someone who, in spite of Kuala Lumpur, still loves walking in the city.

That’s not to say that walking in the outskirts, in Subang Jaya, Damansara or Petaling Jaya, will mean that you’ll automatically have the right to cross when the lights turn red. Most cars will stop, but there will be drivers who will pick up speed and cut right in front of you- while you’re crossing the road- because they simply cannot stop, not even for two minutes.

Mad dogs and walkers

Walking for leisure isn’t a thing for Malaysians who drive. I remember the horrified looks my friends once gave me – “You walked?!”- when I turned up to meet them after walking 700 metres from Masjid Jamek station. Walking on level ground for 700m takes less than 10 minutes, hardly something that qualifies as a slog.

Which brings me to another thing about urban walkers in Malaysia: We’re a bit strange. A bit odd.

Nobody bats an eyelid when I walk in a Western country but over here, urban walkers are viewed with curiosity. Why on earth would anyone walk in the hot sun? Surely not because she enjoys it (yes she does). Surely she’s only walking because she can’t drive (wrong) or doesn’t have a car (wrong again).

A few years ago after returning from New Zealand, I woke up one morning and decided to walk from my house in Petaling Jaya to wherever, along the motorcycle lane on the Federal Highway. I was ready for a long day out. Like I said, we’re a bit strange.

Graffiti by the Federal Highway

I only lasted till Batu Tiga in Subang Jaya not because I was tired but because I ceased to see the point of going any farther. The 14kms was a fair distance by my standards but it was also the flattest, dullest walk I had ever done.

It was a weekday and traffic was busy even on the motorcycle lane. Bikes honked at me. Some slowed down as they approached me, unsure why anyone would be walking on the highway. One or two motorcyclists followed me for a few moments, but not in a creepy way. “Are you okay?” “Are you lost?” they asked and when I replied that I was perfectly fine and of sound mind, off they went. Of course, the only reason they asked was because I’m female. Very few men would stop to ask an able-bodied, youngish male walking alone if he was all right.

I don’t suppose anyone would stop if I tried the same stunt at night in a long white dress.

Countryside vs City

I’ve written about country hikes and walks on the Ridgeway, the West Highland Way, and Bukit Kutu, but cities can be just as interesting. The only differences are your focus and subject of study. Instead of birdsong, running brooks and the scent of heather or the warmth of the jungle, your focus is the built environment and the humans who live in it. It’s a different set of sights, sounds and smells but it opens your eyes to the people around you and how they live. You’ll be surprised at some of the things you’ll find.

School shoes found by the roadside

I’ve done colour walks (I pick a colour and turn into streets where I see something or someone in that colour); right-left, or left-right walks (I turn into corners based on the direction I’ve chosen) and wherever-I-want-to-go walks, which is self-explanatory. I’ll be travelling to Penang this weekend, which seems like the perfect place for a smell walk.

I haven’t given up on Kuala Lumpur despite its traffic and how impractical it can be (and at times, unsafe for a woman) to explore on foot. On a bad day, her people appear to have very little time and patience for anyone but themselves. But that’s only on the surface; the city has a great spirit, and digging through that top layer and uncovering what’s underneath is part of the appeal of rediscovering KL.

It’s going to be hot, but I’m out to explore your streets and be a little strange.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Walking Kuala Lumpur

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

There’s a pattern when knees decide to assert themselves. They remind us that they exist- “We’re your knees, remember us?”- pretty much the same way other neglected body parts do. The process doesn’t happen overnight. Something in us wears out over time, gets damaged, and because of that, it begins to hurt. That’s when they talk to us.

***

I’m familiar with knee pain. Every walker is. I get it off and on, but in every episode I’ve had in the past, the pain goes away and stays away until the next time.

But since last May, this pain in my right knee has refused to leave. I was in England walking the Dales Way from Yorkshire to the Lake District when the pain first made itself known to me.

It’s a beautiful stretch by the River Lune between Sedbergh and Patton. The ground is level throughout but there are muddy patches and twisting tree roots and if you’re not careful or haven’t been careful in the past, you might find yourself in trouble.

Probably taken just after or before I injured my knee

There was no incident. There was no stumble or fall and no audible cracking of bones. The pain was sudden, sharp like a knife, and got worse and worse with every step I took. I was angry and frustrated, but most of all, afraid that the pain was a sign of something serious. I was in so much agony that I needed to stop walking, but I couldn’t- the Lake District was two days away and because I was in the middle of nowhere without transport, I had to go on.

But there was a silver lining in this, because for once I wasn’t walking alone. My aunt Faridah was with me and because of her own medical complications, my aunt is something like a walking pharmacy. Her anti- inflammatory gels and ibuprofen helped, but the pain was so raw that it returned within minutes.

We made a detour to a village called Grayrigg, the nearest one from where we were. As I waited by the road because I could go no further, my aunt went up ahead in search of a friendly face. She returned a few minutes later with a lady and her little son. They were about to go out for –what else, a walk- when my aunt stopped her.

The River Lune

The short of the story is that a kind soul called Lisa, a friend whom the lady was waiting for, gave us a lift to our next stop in Patton where we rested for the evening. Deciding what to do the next day wasn’t difficult. In the morning, I took a taxi to a nearby town called Burneside and found a park bench to sit on while I waited for my aunt to arrive on foot. After a good fish and chip lunch at the Jolly Fryer, we took a bus to Kendal, our stop for the day.

And then the last day came. After Kendal was Bowness-on-Windermere, the end of the Dales Way. Before we began the walk, I had imagined sauntering triumphantly into the streets of Bowness to cheers and fanfare and flowers thrown at my feet by gorgeous men (no, of course I didn’t, don’t be silly) and now that that day had arrived, as much as I wanted to, sitting in a taxi or bus was no way to complete a walk. My aunt convinced me that I needed to do the final stage on foot, which I did, hobbling and wincing in agony until the end.

@chuidah and @anisfivefoot at the end of the Dales Way

Now that I’m back in Malaysia, I’ve been able to rest and have my knee looked at. The report on my MRI scan came back with findings on bone bruises, degenerative changes in the knee joint, cartilage injuries and cystic lesions. Basically they found stuff there from repeated use and wear and tear, but I’ll survive.

***

It’s been seven weeks, and some days are better than others. Some days the pain is very slight; other days it can hit me hard, without warning, even when my leg is at rest. The good news is that the better days are beginning to outnumber the bad. I’ll still go on many more hikes but I’ve been told to be extra careful when it comes to uneven surfaces, loose rock, and ups and downs. Because I have flat feet, my knees bend inwards when I walk. Orthotic insoles are a great help but my knees still aren’t completely straight so it’s become more important now for me to pay attention to the ground I’m stepping on.

Remember when I was afraid the pain was a sign of something serious? I’ve dissected my thoughts on that. What I was truly afraid of was being unable to go outdoors as often as I wanted to. I was worried for myself- I already have a weak back and that’s enough for me- but I was also afraid that from then on, it would hurt every time I went out on a hike. In short, I was afraid of pain. Of future pain, to be exact. And that made me scared, angry and frustrated.

I remember a conversation I had with a friend before my walk in Scotland last autumn (here and here). I was afraid, I told him.
“What exactly are you afraid of?” he asked, not unkindly.
“I don’t know. Of falling down, of hurting myself, that my back will hurt.”
“So you’re afraid it’s going to hurt?” He paused and sipped his coffee.

I realised then how stupid I sounded. I was afraid of pain, something that probably would happen, knowing how my body works, but it was something I could prepare myself for and had in fact, dealt with in the past.

On the way to Grayrigg

Here’s the thing about fear: it holds you back. If I’m afraid of drowning, I might never sit in a boat and never know what it feels like to be out at sea. If I allow this fear of pain to get the better of me, I’ll never be as brave as I really want to be. Being afraid of something is sometimes more damaging than the thing itself.

That conversation over coffee didn’t end there. My friend had figured out what I was afraid of.

“Afraid of pain,” he repeated.
“Something like that.”
Another pause.
“But you’re still going, right?”
Hell, yes. I’m not missing this.

Because of the way my body works –or doesn’t- this pain will always be a part of me, thanks to my defective yet wonderful flat feet. Although I still carry rucksacks, I use luggage with wheels when I can. I’ve learnt my lesson when it comes to walks and always use baggage transfer services. They cost more, but I’m going to need some help if I hope to be doing this till I’m 70.

Now what was it that Chicago Tribune columnist Mary Schmich said about knees in her famous column, ‘Wear Sunscreen’?

“Be kind to your knees. You’ll miss them when they’re gone,” she said.

I know I will. Remember you have them and be thankful you’re out there on your feet, even when it hurts.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Coming to terms with knee pain

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

After spending an extra day at Crianlarich exploring some local trails, I walk to Inveroran, a tiny settlement along the West Highland Way. There are no shops here, only a 300-year-old hotel where Charles Darwin, Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Charles Dickens once stayed.

Crianlarich-Inveroran: 22.03 km

Onwards from Crianlarich, it will become obvious to any walker that she is entering the Scottish Highlands. Peaks and valleys become more common from then on, and the West Highland Way comes right beside two beautiful munros, (Scottish peaks measuring 3,000 feet (914m) and above), called Beinn Dorain and Beinn an Dothaidh.

On the way to Tyndrum

From Tyndrum, the trail is the complete opposite of the muddy path from the day before- here, the West Highland Way makes use of old military roads. The good thing about military roads is that they are proper tracks and not forest trails flattened from the decades, or in some cases, centuries, of use. The downside of these tracks is that they are stony and painful for the feet, especially flat feet such as mine. It is also here that I see my first non-white person, a tall ebony-skinned woman in a bright green jacket who catches up and overtakes me in minutes. My walk from Crianlarich leads to me to Inveroran, a tiny hamlet whose existence is marked only by a few houses and one hotel.

Inveroran-Glencoe: 10.3 km

Glencoe

From Inveroran, I decide to take a detour off the Way and head for Glencoe valley to explore its trails. Glencoe has some of the most stunning scenery in Scotland, but its local history is just as fascinating. In the early hours of February 13, 1692, after 12 days of enjoying the generosity and hospitality of their hosts the MacDonalds of Glencoe, army officers led by Captain Robert Campbell turned on their hosts and began killing them one by one. The remaining MacDonalds who escaped into the nearby hills, including women and children, died from exposure. If you think this sounds familiar, you’re not wrong. The Massacre of Glencoe became the inspiration behind ‘Game of Thrones’ author George RR Martin’s ‘Red Wedding’ episode.

Glencoe-Kinlochleven: 6.6 km

This is my second last day on the West Highland Way, and I’m beginning to dread arriving at the end tomorrow. I call my parents and tell my mother how I’m not looking forward to arriving at Fort William, to no longer sticking to a routine I had grown to love: waking up early, grabbing breakfast, tying on my boots and stepping out. I would miss that terribly.

Sunset over Loch Leven

Before turning in for the night, I go out to look at the sun setting over Loch Leven. I had grown attached to my surroundings- the land, the mountains and the trees- over the past week, but this is what long walks do. With every step your feet become your link to the rocks and the mud beneath your feet. You lose your way, your knees ache, you get blisters, you create new swear words, but you feel a closeness to the very earth you walk on in a way that is not possible in a car or on a plane.

The End

Kinlochleven-Fort William: 27 km

I decide to have a slap-up breakfast on my last day: fresh fruit, porridge with honey, croissants with butter, and smoked kippers. How tragic, I tell myself, that there is no nasi lemak in this part of the world.

The trail climbs soon after entering the woods at Kinlochleven. The path is stony and climbs high above the village, crossing a few streams along the way. As I try my best not to slip on the wet stones, a group of Canadian walkers in their sixties catch up with me. I offer to take their photo for them, and they take one of me.

Above Kinlochleven

“We saw you the other day near Loch Lomond. How’s it going for you?” one of the women asks. It’s going well, I tell her, surprised that she remembers me. “I’m happy to be here but sad that it’ll be over in a few hours,” I say, and they nod in agreement. We chat a bit more then they say goodbye – “See you in Fort William!” – and push off. I watch them go up the hill. Remember to never underestimate old people.

The trail soon enters a barren, desolate mountain pass called the Lairigmor. This part is completely exposed- there are no trees here to block my view, so I can see the Way snaking ahead in front of me, flanked by grass-covered peaks. Beautiful in its bleakness, but not somewhere you would want to be caught in bad weather. An hour later, my ears catch the sound of something I haven’t heard in a long time. It is raining yet again and I can’t see through the clouds, but I know that a helicopter is somewhere up there, going around in circles judging by the loud-faint-loud again whirr of its engine. In the highlands in weather like this, helicopters usually mean that someone is in a spot of trouble and has called emergency rescue services.

About two hours later I arrive at a junction, presenting me with two options: to continue on the West Highland Way, or to take a shortcut to Fort William. I actually find shortcuts annoying. On walking trails, shortcuts help you arrive earlier but are almost always less scenic and anti-climactic, so I decide to ignore this one. As I turn into the official path, I pass two Spanish guys boiling water in their portable stove.

Dense conifer plantations line the last few kilometres towards Fort William. At times I hear –or imagine I hear- footsteps and rustling behind me, but when I turn around, there’s nothing there.

When I finally exit the forest about an hour later, I am greeted by a view of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain. The peak is completely covered by cloud, though, so I can’t see very much. This point marks the beginning of the end of the West Highland Way- the sad trudge into Fort William back to civilisation, back to humanity and a different kind of routine. This is the part I am dreading.

Ben Nevis, shrouded in cloud

And then I hear actual footfalls and voices behind me. I turn to see the two Spaniards I saw earlier, stumbling out of a nearby hedge, looking dishevelled and confused. I know instantly that they took the short cut because I didn’t bump into them at all after I left them at the junction. If they had taken the official route, being younger and fitter than I, they would’ve easily overtaken me.

I begin walking very quickly. My wool socks (I’m wearing two pairs) are the only things cushioning my sore feet from the hard ground, but I am practically skimming the pavement, forcing myself to break into a sprint.

“You guys are not overtaking me now, not at the end. Especially when you took the bloody shortcut,” I mutter under my breath. For the first time this week, I am walking as quickly as I can, in spite of the excruciating pain I am feeling in my feet and knees.

I lose them five minutes later after turning a corner into Fort William. The town is regarded as the capital of the Scottish Highlands and attracts those who love the outdoors- long-distance walkers, hikers and mountain climbers. I arrive, limping, at the end of the West Highland Way- an official plaque and a statue of a weary walker- in the pouring rain, and with no-one around to take my photo. I remind myself to go again in the morning when more people are likely to be out and about.

After a much-needed foot soak and bath at my hotel, I celebrate with a plate of rice and extra-hot prawn curry at a local Thai restaurant. This part of civilisation I don’t mind, I tell myself. As I hobble out of the restaurant, a man sitting with two others calls to me. “Hey, you made it,” he said, the way friends do, and I recognise him as one of the walkers on the trail. “Yes, I guess I did,” and we both laugh.

The next morning, I head over to the statue again and whom should I bump into but the Spanish walkers from yesterday.

Gracias for the photo, guys.

This time I say hello. They recognise me as the evil witch who sprinted away from them.

“Shall I take a photo of both of you?” I ask.

“That would be nice, thank you,” one of them says.

I take four photos, two of them together and one of each of them alone with the statue.

We say goodbye, and wish each other good luck and safe travels. As I wave to them and walk away from the statue, the sky opens and I feel the familiar wetness of fresh raindrops on my face.

*This story originally appeared in GO on April 13, 2017.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Somewhere in Scotland-2

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

THE first few drops of rain take me by surprise even when they shouldn’t. It was as though I never saw them coming and yet I had seen the darkening sky and the clouds long before the first drops hit. And in a place like Scotland in the autumn, some rain is bound to fall.

The good news is that my rain jacket is within easy reach in the front pocket of my daypack. The bad news is that the rain is pelting down, hard and angry, like pebbles hurled from above, and there is no shelter.

I am too far ahead to turn back and since there is nowhere for me to hide from the rain, on I trudge. The path soon turns into a muddy riverbed and my boots, no longer as waterproof as they used to be, squelch in a most revolting manner. There is nothing to do but walk until I find a place to stop. One hour later, I am still searching.

I am about halfway through the West Highland Way, Scotland’s most beloved walking trail. It’s no surprise that an estimated 30,000 people walk the route every year.

A very muddy West Highland Way, with the clouds promising more rain

The Way, as it’s often called, is famous for its stunning scenery.

From its starting point in a suburb called Milngavie on the outskirts of Glasgow, it takes walkers through forests, across streams and right beside mountains until the trail arrives in Fort William in the Scottish Highlands, 154.5km later.

Most walkers take seven to nine days to finish the West Highland Way, although some have completed the walk in five days. With the exception of the section along Loch Lomond, the first half of the Way from Milngavie to Tyndrum is generally regarded as less challenging, while the walk from Tyndrum to Fort William has the best scenery.

Getting to Milngavie isn’t difficult as it’s only 24 minutes by train from Glasgow Central station. The walk begins in the pedestrian centre near an obelisk with the words “West Highland Way” on it.

STARTING OUT

Milngavie-Drymen: 22 km

The walk from Milngavie (pronounced “mull-guy”) is straightforward and gives walkers a slow and easy introduction to the West Highland Way. After leaving the centre, the trail takes you into a forest, beside a pretty lake called Craigallian Loch, and about an hour later, into a valley with lovely views of the hills.

The Way enters farmland and more leafy woods after this and later in the afternoon on the approach to Drymen (“drimmen”), my stop for the night, the trail goes on for a few kilometres on tarmac. I’m not a fan of road walking but this is the only way to my bed and breakfast and a hot dinner.

ALONG THE SHORES OF LOCH LOMOND

Potato waffles, scrambled eggs and beans to start a day of walking.

Drymen-Rowardennan: 24.6 km

The next few days turn out to be rather eventful. I start out far too late on Day Two at 9.30am, which leads Frances, the owner of my B&B, to suggest what she believes will be an easy walk to my next stop at Rowardennan. “The walk through the woods winds about a wee bit in the beginning so this is a short cut. This way, you won’t have to go through the woods until later,” she says.

But I like woods and forests, my heart tells me, but my head knows that the shorter route will serve me better due to my late start. Frances’ route, however, goes along a tarred country lane, painful on the feet, but thankfully the path is attractive enough to keep me happy.

About an hour in, three Germans tackling another long distance walk called the Rob Roy Way catch up with me. We exchange friendly words as walkers often do, then they stride off, their walking poles click-clacking on the road.

I catch sight of them 15 minutes later when our routes branch off- the Rob Roy Way to the right, and the West Highland Way to a forest on the left. They pause in their tracks and turn around to face me. I’m about 200m away. One of them points to me then to the left, indicating that that is where I should be headed. I nod and wave to them. They wave back, turn right and disappear.

After a clearing high above the woods, the trail brings me to one of the loveliest views on the Way.

View of Loch Lomond from above

This time I’m above Loch Lomond, and the views are glorious. Carved out by a glacier 10,000 years ago, Loch Lomond is Britain’s largest body of water, 37km long and 8km at its widest point. (If you’re a fan of the Tintin comics, you might may recognise Loch Lomond as Captain Haddock’s preferred Scottish whisky).

I look for a nice spot for a quick snack and meet two Swiss girls who are just finishing their sandwiches.

“Are you walking alone?” one of them asks, and I say yes.

“Oh, how nice!” the same girl says, a little too enthusiastically. I see her friend smile weakly. That probably isn’t the right thing to say when your travel companion is around.

I stop in a village called Balmaha for lunch at the One Tree Inn. This ends up being the worse decision I would make on this walk, as I lose track of the time and realise to my horror 1 1/2 hours later that I should have settled for a sandwich instead of a sit-down meal.

By the time I leave the cafe, it’s close to 3pm, far too late to be setting off, especially if I still have 11km to go before I reach Rowardennan.

After Balmaha, much of the West Highland Way hugs the eastern shore of Loch Lomond, alternating between running along the loch’s sandy beach and entering the birch woodlands close to the water. This is a beautiful section of the trail, so although I am disappointed in myself for wasting time at the cafe, the views provide some consolation for me.

Two hours after leaving Balmaha, the trail begins to head deeper into the woods. At around 5pm, I decide to abandon the official trail and continue on the road, believing it to be a better option than going around in the woods in the late evening. My feet are aching, so I convince myself that walking on the road to Rowardennan would be safer for me.

If I faint and collapse from exhaustion on the road, at least the drivers will see me and have pity on me. If I collapse in the woods I could be stuck there, only to be discovered weeks later, a frozen corpse buried under leaves, my lifeless fingers clutching my walking poles.

I was quite serious then and didn’t see the humour at the time. “Travel is only glamorous in retrospect”, as Paul Theroux once said. I arrive in Rowardennan at 6.30 in the evening, just as the sun is setting.

Rowardennan-Inverarnan: 5 km

Heading into the woods near Crianlarich

I wake up on Day Three with a swollen right foot. My flat feet are in a bad state after the 9.5km of road walking I did the day before, all because I started late after breakfast and lunch. I have blisters on both feet but my right foot is a work of art: there is a large gash on the fleshy bit under the large toe, and my blister is bleeding.

I stick some plasters on my feet and decide there and then to take a break for the day. After a hurried breakfast, I change into my sandals and take a boat to a village called Luss on the western shore. This ends up being a very pleasant day, providing me with an opportunity to travel across Loch Lomond and rest my feet. From Luss, I take a bus to my next stop at Inverarnan.

Inverarnan-Crianlarich: 15.6 km

After just one day away from the trail, I realise how much I miss walking. Having learnt my lesson, I check out from my guesthouse at 8.15am. As it leaves Inverarnan, the West Highland Way climbs and edges closer towards the Scottish Highlands. The walk isn’t particularly challenging at this stage, but the trail is mostly unpaved and cannot stand up to the heavy rain of the day before.

It rains again in the afternoon and before long, the path turns into a sloshy, stinking riverbed and I can feel my toes getting damp from the mud that has seeped through my boots. Unable to find shelter, I continue walking for several hours until I reach a crossroads in the trail — one fork towards Tyndrum and the other to Crianlarich. I find a tree stump to sit on and take my boots off. My toes are shrivelled and the blister, which has begun weeping again, doesn’t smell too good.

“Are you all right, love?” an older Scottish lady sitting nearby asks. The insides of my boots are wet, I tell her. She rummages in her daypack, finds something and comes over. In her hand are a couple of plastic bags.

“Oh dear, that doesn’t look too pretty,” she says, motioning towards my feet. She hands me the plastic bags. “Put your feet in these for the time being. Maybe you should get some waterproof socks tomorrow,” she says. I’m struck by her kindness, and thank her.

Time to pay it forward to someone else on the trail.

Next week: The writer goes into the Scottish Highlands to arrive at The End.

A cottage in the countryside.

TRAVEL FILE

The West Highland Way is 154.4km long, and links Milngavie with Fort William.

How to get there

Trains run from both Glasgow Central and Glasgow Queen Street stations to Milngavie every 30 minutes. If you can’t take an early train on the morning of your walk, spend the night before in Milngavie. At the other end of the WHW, Fort William is connected to both Glasgow and Edinburgh by train.

When to go

The walking season in Scotland is from mid April-mid October. The WHW is busiest in July and August. I went in September – the weather was cool, the skies were clear when it wasn’t raining and the trail wasn’t crowded.

What to bring

 Blister plasters

 An emergency whistle, kept within easy reach.

 A compass, but make sure you know how to use it.

 An emergency blanket. A storm shelter would also be useful in Scotland.

 Enough water and food. I carried at least 2L of water every day.

 Proper gear (a base layer, mid-layer and a waterproof shell), hiking poles and waterproof hiking boots with ankle support.

TIPS

 In cases of emergency, dialing 999 will connect you to trail/mountain rescue services. This number works even when there is no signal. Make sure your phone is sufficiently charged as rescue services can still locate you if your phone is switched on.

 Have the phone number of your onward accommodation.

 Pay particular attention to your surroundings in remote areas.

*This story originally appeared in GO on April 6, 2017.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Somewhere in Scotland-1

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

There is something about the winter that makes it different from other times of the year, but it is not the cold. It is not the cold breath that escapes whenever you exhale, or the layers you put on when you go outside. It is the silence.

The silence swallows you up and surrounds you like a cocoon when you’re outdoors on a winter’s morning, especially when you’re lost and confused in the woods. Which is why I leapt out of my skin when I heard the whistle- sharp and shrill.

First the whistle, then the shriek. “Abby, you silly dog, come here!” I turn to see a flash of brown streak past, all paws and ears and a lolling pink tongue. I jump out of the way as a young woman rushes past me, pursuing said flash of brown. Within seconds, she and her dog dissolve into the trees and I am alone again.

Shadows in Wendover Woods

I watch their shadows disappear. Was that real? Was she real? Then I remember- the trail I am on is haunted by a black dog, not a brown one.

Ancient trails

I am on the Ridgeway, a trail 139kms long. First used by prehistoric man 5,000 years ago, the Ridgeway is Britain’s oldest walking trail, an ancient thoroughfare that dates back to the Stone Age when humans began wandering in search of drier land and better hunting grounds.

Over the centuries the trail was used by the Romans and Saxons, as well as travellers, merchants and sheep drovers. These wanderings led to settlements close to the trail and even now, particularly along the western half of the Ridgeway, there is evidence of life: Neolithic burial mounds, Iron Age forts and ancient tombs.

I’m not completely silly for wondering whether the woman and her dog are real, for a trail as ancient as this has its share of stories. There have been sightings of Roman soldiers, strange black dogs, and a large, fierce white cat that appears out of nowhere, growling and hissing, refusing to let walkers pass.

My walk began two days ago in Avebury, a village close to the start of the Ridgeway. Avebury, too, has its ghosts. The local pub, which used to be a 17^th– century coaching inn, is said to be haunted by the spirit of a murdered woman, whom you might see depending on how long you’ve been sitting at the bar.

Avebury from above, showing the Outer Avebury Stone Circle and Avebury Henge from http://www.english-heritage.org.uk

What makes Avebury unique is that it is the only village in Britain to be surrounded by an ancient stone circle. As you walk along the High Street, you’ll notice a series of rocks in a curved line: this is part of what used to be the outer Avebury Stone Circle, built between 2600 and 2400 BC. Comparisons will be drawn with Stonehenge, but what makes Avebury more interesting is the concentration of Neolithic sites around the village.

To walk around Avebury is to go back in time. To the south of the stone circle is a path called West Kennet Avenue which dates from 2400 BC which leads to The Sanctuary, the site of a circular wooden building which researchers say could have been an ancient temple.

To the southwest of Avebury is a hill that appears out of nowhere measuring 39.3 metres in height. Silbury Hill is man-made, and its construction would’ve been an incredible feat back in 2600 BC, considering that it took a quarter of a million cubic metres of chalk to build. Archeological digs haven’t been able to reveal why it was built.

Avebury’s stone circles and burial mounds set the mood and prepared myself for the rest of the walk. Its standing stones were shrouded in early morning mist when I arrived, looking like sentinels guarding centuries-old secrets.

Walking in Avebury taught me something else about walking in winter. It will rain, and often. And with rain, comes mud. It isn’t a sloshy, wet kind of mud which will wipe off on grass. Here the mud is thick and cakey, like biscuit dough, and adds inches to the soles of your boots.

Getting unlost

By the time I bump into the woman and her dog in Wendover Woods, the Ridgeway has swallowed me whole. I am already at home in a place that is very, very old.

It isn’t cold enough for snow in Wendover, but it is chilly enough to rid the trees of their leaves. The trees in Wendover Woods are at their barest this time of the year, without any foliage to disguise their true form. There, a tree that looks like a trident; here, one that looks like Gandalf’s staff sprouting out of the ground; while over there- rustle, rustle, rustle. I turn, expecting to see a deer or a squirrel behind me. Nothing. No black dog either.

I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary since starting out but I’m lost and want to get unlost. I am comfortable being on my own, but the strange silence and chill in the air has magnified my aloneness.

I go on for another half an hour, convinced I am going the right way when the trail leads me to a trench that has been dug into the forest floor. The trench stretches into the forest on my left but where it meets the Ridgeway, runs alongside the trail.

I know immediately what this is- Grim’s Ditch, a series of trenches that go back to 500 BC, found mostly in southern England. Not much is known about Grim’s ditches but because they aren’t deep enough to be defensive earthworks, the trenches are believed to have been ancient land boundaries.

Grim’s Ditch

The actual path of the Ridgeway lies inside the ditches but my guidebook doesn’t recommend walking there, citing mud and flies as the main reasons. As I follow the ditch, a thought comes to mind. My shoeprints are making tracks on the Ridgeway today, but whose ancient footprints lie beside mine?

I have always imagined the Earth as a sponge, retaining the memories of everyone who has walked on it. If only we could see the web of footprints criss-crossing the Ridgeway over the centuries, whether barefoot or shod in rough animal hide, a Roman legionnaire’s caligae boots, the shoes of a 17^th-century traveller, or modern-day trainers. What stories those feet would tell.

I leave the woods and find another walker, and ask for directions to Wendover. He points me back into the woods and two hours later after descending Boddington Hill, I’m at Wendover train station, waiting for my ride to London Marylebone.

I usually approach my walks in one go, but because of the shorter daylight hours and remoteness of stops along the Ridgeway, I decided a month ago that I would walk the trail as a series of day walks from London.

Over the past few days I had risen early and taken the Tube in my hiking gear, surrounded by commuters in their suits, jackets and briefcases on their way to work, then hopped on a train to the countryside. I would walk my heart out during the day then like them, return on the evening train.

Map of the Ridgeway, from bestwalks.com

It’s 5pm by the time I get on the London Underground. Wendover feels like a thousand years ago, and I have three days left on the Ridgeway. The trains are slowly filling up and I find myself a seat.

I lean back and try to close my eyes, but I’m distracted by a man sitting across me. He’s in his late 40s and reminds me of a certain Mr. Clooney, but it’s not me he’s checking out. He’s looking at my boots.

My boots and trouser legs are caked in dried mud. I had tried to wipe my trousers and dig out the mud from my boots with a stick, but only a proper wash will get it all off.

Mr. Clooney catches me looking at him, and he smiles and nods. I want to tell him: I’ve had to clean my boots and trousers every evening when I get back, and I will have to clean them again tonight. In time for tomorrow, which is another day.

*This story originally appeared in the New Sunday Times.

© 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Walking the Ridgeway

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.

The route 

Map from www.transcotland.com.

I did the West Highland Way in eight days:

Day 1: Milngavie -Drymen (‘drimmen’)

Day 2: Drymen-Rowardennan

Day 3: Rowardenan-Inverarnan via waterbus

Day 4- Inverarnan to Crianlarich

Rest day spent walking (what else!) around Crianlarich

Day 5: Crianlarich- Inveroran

Day 6: Inveroran – Glencoe

Day 7-Glencoe-Kinlochleven

Day 8: Kinlochleven-Fort William.

Days on the West Highland Way (actual distances recorded by my walking app): 

Day 1: Milngavie –Drymen (13.7 miles/22 km)

Leaving Milngavie

A fairly straightforward walk, flattish in the beginning, although you’ll enter the countryside within two hours of walking. The trail is a gentle and pleasant walk through grassland and a good introduction to the tougher days to come, but missable if you’re short of time.

Public transport: Milngavie is reachable by train from Glasgow, while Drymen is linked via bus service to Milngavie and Glasgow. 

Tip: Take an early train from Glasgow on the morning of your walk or spend the night before in Milngavie.

The Compeed sold at the Spar supermarket in Drymen was the cheapest (£4.50) along the entire WHW- stock up on your blister plasters here! Just remember not to remove them after you’ve put them on, let them detach by themselves.

Day 2: Drymen-Rowardennan (14.4 miles/23.1km)

First glimpse of Loch Lomond

Don’t forget to look up once in a while

Overcast sky over Balmaha

I enjoyed the second day more than the first. You enter a conifer plantation called Garadhban Forest not long after leaving Drymen village and from here, walk to a clearing for your first view of Loch Lomond, Britain’s largest body of water. A little further on you’ll reach a small town called Balmaha which is a good lunch stop. From here, much of the route goes along the shores or runs close to Loch Lomond. It’s an undulating walk, but very scenic. Rowardennan is located right on the shore of the loch.

My feet were sore and in very bad shape at the end of Day 2, made worse by what I did at my hostel that night: I wanted to clean my feet so I tried to remove my plasters but in the process of doing so, tore off some skin.

Public transport: Rowardennan is isolated and has no bus links, only a waterbus or boat to villages like Luss and Tarbet.

Day 3: Rowardenan-Inverarnan (3.1 miles/5km)

Not my best feature, obviously

Loch Lomond on a very grey day

This sector can be divided into two: Rowardennan-Inversnaid, and Inversnaid- Inverarnan, with the second half having the reputation of being more difficult. Following the incident with my plasters the night before (my right foot had swollen by the time I woke up), I changed into my sandals and took the waterbus across Loch Lomond to a village called Luss. From there, I took Citylink bus #915 to Inverarnan.

Day 4- Inverarnan to Crianlarich (9.7 miles/15.6km)

Fresh after yesterday’s rain

Another stream

11 o’clock break

This was a fairly straightforward day of climbing, although it was made eventful by the many stream crossings. Thanks to the non-stop rain the day before, streambeds were muddy and slippery, while some of the larger streams had turned into mini waterfalls and overflowed onto the path. Definitely a good time to make use of those walking poles.

Tip: You have two options on this leg after leaving Inverarnan. If you can’t find accommodation in Tyndrum (‘tyne-drem’), head for Crianlarich. It’s off the West Highland Way but it’s an attractive village with great views of the mountains. Both Tyndrum and Crianlarich have train stations.

Tyndrum has an excellent shop called The Outdoor Store which sells hiking and camping gear, in fact, anything you need for your walk. If you need extra fleeces or socks, this is the place. Go here for more info.

Rest day in Crianlarich: (2.9 miles/4.6km)

Walking Crianlarich’s trails

I spent my rest day exploring the Mountain Lookout Trail and the Forest Trail, two walks near the village. If you’re in the mood for some challenging climbs, there are two local munros nearby, Ben More and Stob Binnein.

Day 5: Crianlarich- Inveroran (13.7 miles/22.03km)

Happy to be back on the trail

Beinn Dorain, a munro (a peak above 3,000 feet) on the West Highland Way

Allt Kinglass, a river in the Highlands

Gorgeous mossy forest on the way to Inveroran

Return to the West Highland Way by following the path to Tyndrum and from there, you have a choice of heading to either Bridge of Orchy or Inveroran. I enjoyed this walk, which was a combination of old military roads and peaceful forest walks. Gorgeous views of munros along the Way, particularly Beinn Dorainn and Beinn an Dothaidh. My stop for the night was Inveroran on the shores of Loch Tulla.

Public transport: Inveroran is in a remote location in the Highlands and has no public transport links, so you will have to walk to the next stop. If you’d rather not walk, ask your hotel to call a taxi. Otherwise, you’ll need to walk back to Bridge of Orchy which has bus and rail links.

Tip: Accommodation is very limited at Bridge of Orchy and Inveroran, so you’ll need to book months in advance. The good thing is these two hamlets are only 3 miles/5kms apart, so it’s easy to head for the other when you can’t find an empty room.

Day 6: Inveroran – Glencoe (6.4 miles/10.3km)

Well hello, Glencoe

No words

Out for a walk

Going to Glencoe was one of the best decisions I made on the Way. Like Crianlarich, Glencoe isn’t on the West Highland Way but worth a stay for its views alone, probably the most beautiful on the walk.

Public transport: To get to Glencoe village, walk from Inveroran to Kingshouse then take bus #914 or #915 from the Glencoe Ski Centre.

It’s possible to walk from Kingshouse to Glencoe but it’s a bit of a trudge- not because of the distance but because much of the route will be on the A82 highway, making it painful on the feet. Give your feet a break, this is a gorgeous walk with some lovely scenery and you’ll still get to enjoy the view from the bus.

Day 7-Glencoe-Kinlochleven (4.1 miles/6.6km)

Around Kinlochleven

Sunset over Loch Leven

Get back to the West Highland Way to Kingshouse, where you’ll need to climb on a section called the Devil’s Staircase to get to Kinlochleven. I found out the night before that this was the weekend of the Skyline Scotland mountain races which go through the Devil’s Staircase and Kinlochleven, and not wanting to jostle with racers and walkers I took a bus to Kinlochleven, then did a circular walk towards Kingshouse.

Public transport: To get to Kinlochleven, take bus 44 from Glencoe village.

Day 8: Kinlochleven-Fort William. (16.7 miles/26.9km)

Early morning on the last day

Looking out above the tree line at Beinn A’ Bheithir and Loch Leven

Derelict farmhouses

Lochan Lunn Da Bhra

Ben Nevis, shrouded in cloud

I found the last stretch to be the most challenging, but also the most satisfying. There are no villages between Kinlochleven and Fort William so unless you’re wild camping, you’ll have to complete this in one day. The path begins to climb almost as soon as you exit Kinlochleven, going through a birch forest until you arrive above the tree line for views of Loch Leven and the Pap of Glencoe. After about an hour or so, you’ll reach a wide mountain pass called the Lairigmor, one of the most remote places on the Way. The pass is empty, desolate and exposed, and I was ready to whip out my storm shelter just in case.

On your descent towards Fort William, the route will take you through more forests and down steep, rocky paths, so you’ll need to watch your step. I didn’t enjoy the walk on the pavement into Fort William, but there’s a nice touch at the end of the West Highland Way- you get to take a photo with this guy:

Hooray! Celebratory photo at the end of the West Highland Way, taken the next morning

Public transport: Fort William is well connected via rail and bus links to the rest of Scotland, so planning your onward journey shouldn’t be a problem.

Tip: If you’re camping and want to split this day into two, look out for a small lake, Lochan Lunn Da Bhra, to the southeast of an information board along the Way (GPS: N56° 45.081’ W05° 06.507’).  I didn’t camp on this walk but if I had and couldn’t go on, I would have stopped at the lake for the night. Another option would be just further up past the same information board- there is a grassy area with trees to the left of the path, comfortable and sheltered enough for a bivvy.

Trip stats:

Total distance of the West Highland Way: 96 miles/154.5km.

Days walked: Eight.

Distance walked: On the WHW: 81.8 miles or 131.6km; Including rest day: 84.7 miles or 136.3km.

How many days will I need?

Some walkers have done the West Highland Way in six days, some in ten days, but most do it in seven. I did it in eight. The number of days you’ll need will depend on two factors: how far you can walk in a day, and the availability of accommodation. Knowing how far you can walk will depend on past walking experience.

The accommodation factor will only affect you in remoter areas and small villages like Bridge of Orchy, Inveroran, and on the last day from Kinlochleven to Fort William where there is nothing in between. Unless you’re camping, you will have to walk until you reach your accommodation for the night.

How difficult is it?

The West Highland Way isn’t overly tough even for someone like me who has a bad back and flat feet. Certain sectors are more challenging than others (steeper climbs and descents: Inversnaid-Inverarnan; Kingshouse- Kinlochleven), while in other sections you can pretty much breeze through (mostly flat: Milngavie-Drymen; Tyndrum-Bridge of Orchy/Inveroran). The West Highland Way isn’t exactly a walk in the park, but I would grade it as moderate and doable if you are reasonably fit.

What if I don’t have seven days?

If you can’t spare a week to do the whole of the West Highland Way, don’t rush through, just do the second half. The best views on the Way are after Tyndrum – if you start from there, you’ll only need four days to reach Fort William. Tyndrum has two train stations: the one you want is Tyndrum Lower.

Is it safe?

Yes, it is. Although I bumped into many fellow walkers while I was out and about, I did the West Highland Way alone. If you’re a solo woman concerned about safety and security on any trail, not just in the UK, remember the following:

Things to bring:

– A whistle, kept within easy reach.

-A compass, but make sure you know how to use it.

– An emergency blanket. A storm shelter would also be useful in Scotland.

– Enough water and food. I carried at least 2L of water every day.

– Proper gear (a base layer, mid-layer and a waterproof shell), waterproof hiking boots with ankle support, and if you think they’ll be useful, hiking poles.

Things to remember:

– Take note of the local emergency services number, particularly trail/mountain rescue services. Otherwise dial 999, which works even when there is no signal.

– Make sure your phone is sufficiently charged as rescue services can still locate you as long as your phone is switched on.

– Have the phone number of your onward accommodation.

-Don’t carry too many things in your backpack. Make use of baggage transfer companies (see below).

-Pay particular attention to your surroundings in remote areas.

Pre-trip preparation:

• Use a baggage transfer company to transport your luggage. When I did the Cleveland Way in 2015, I carried everything on my back, something I would never attempt again. For the West Highland Way, I used Travel-lite  but you can choose any of the companies on this list.

• The walking season in Scotland is from mid April-mid October when most hotels and B&Bs will be open. Based on what I’ve read, the Way is busiest in May, July and August so if you don’t like crowds, you may want to avoid this time of the year. I went in September – the weather was cool, the skies were clear when it wasn’t raining and the trail wasn’t too crowded.

• Read up on the walk and get a good guidebook. For the West Highland Way, I used this guide by Trailblazer, which delivers worldwide for free if you order directly from their website. I didn’t need a map once I had this guidebook.

• Arrive in good time. Don’t make the mistake of misjudging how much time you will need to get to your starting point. When I did the Cleveland Way a year ago, I imagined that getting to Helmsley by public transport would be straightforward from Leeds, and that I would be able to start walking that day itself. By the time I reached Helmsley (via York), it was afternoon so I had to spend the night there and begin my walk the next day. I was much cleverer for the West Highland Way. If you can’t get a lift or an early morning train on the morning of your walk, get there the day before.

Reading material

Apart from the Trailblazer Walking Guide, here’s a list of useful websites to refer to:

Walking Highlands

The official West Highland Way website

The Rambling Man

Undiscovered Scotland

A walk is not a race

Here’s another thing I learnt on long-distance walks: it is perfectly acceptable to skip a section because you can’t or don’t want to walk that day.

I met quite a number of European and British walkers who skipped sections and took buses to the next stop, either because they wanted to spend more time in the next village, had injured themselves and couldn’t go on, or simply didn’t consider a particular sector interesting enough to walk through. This wasn’t exactly a female thing: in Scotland, I encountered three men who either skipped sectors or took shortcuts- they disappeared for a while then miraculously reappeared on the trail a few hours later!

The thing about long walks is that you have to have done them to know what they’re like. Anything can happen on a walk- people change their minds about continuing, or decide to stay longer in a village they particularly like. A long-distance walk is meant to be enjoyable, not a race or competition to see how quickly you can do it.

Final words

Stay safe, watch your step, bring plenty of water, and enjoy yourself!

© 2016 – 2017, Anis. All rights reserved.

Original article: Walking the West Highland Way

©2026 Five Foot Traveller. All Rights Reserved.