Scotland coast to coast, Part III
By Bill Gallacher (Mar 31, 2006)

Continuing on his way west, Gallacher cannot believe his luck at finding what seems to be perfect overnight accommodation.

A Landrover pulled up outside the shack, and out of it stepped five teenaged girls, complete with backpacks and dressed for hiking. The driver sped away, and I was sure the girls would now exercise some prior claim to my howff, or call the cops on their cell phones if I offered the slightest resistance.

But instead, they headed off in the direction of the bridge and were soon out of sight. I lit a fire and prayed it would soon be dark, for I still had a nagging feeling that either the girl hikers or the missing bus people might return at any moment. In true howffing spirit, I fashioned a makeshift mattress out of straw and sculpted a roll of chicken wire into an acceptably comfortable reclining chair. The fire was an unexpected delight, for I could expect dry boots and socks by morning.

As I was about to turn in, two swallow-like birds suddenly flew in through one of the open window frames. Despite all my efforts to shoo them out, the birds refused to leave, preferring instead to fly round and round in tight noisy circles and pausing to rest only occasionally on a bale of wire in the far corner of the other room. I could now see that this bale was being used as a large litter box by what I guessed, from the size of the deposits, had to be an animal considerably larger than a domestic cat. I knew wildcats existed in remote parts of Scotland, but I had never seen one, and had certainly never expected to share overnight accommodation with one. Whatever its genus, I did not relish the thought of this animal landing on top of me in the middle of the night, and, as there was no way I could block the empty window frame, I moved my "bedding" as far away from the opening as possible. 

Covering myself as best I could with odd bits of clothing, I lay down and stretched out, trusting that the birds would at least give me some warning of an intruder. In fact, in my highly fatigued and hallucinatory state of mind, I almost imagined that a divine hand had sent the birds there for that very purpose. The straw bed was not uncomfortable, but I was so tired that I found it difficult to sleep. The odd sequence of events had spooked me: the empty white bus in the middle of nowhere, the girls who had come and gone so suddenly, the invasion of the birds that wouldn't leave and the evidence of the unknown animal whose den I had taken over. 

Unsettling sounds were coming from the building itself; the wind whistling through the countless gaps and cracks; the irregular and unpredictable clanking of tin on tin, as loose pieces of metal rose and fell with the gusts. When first light appeared-at this latitude and time of year at about 4am-I could have sworn that I had not slept a wink. Of course, I had.

After a few hours I arrived at the Loch an Daimh watershed. The day I passed by, the loch lay dark and sullen, its black water whipped by gale force winds.

The loch was long and thin, and both shores were treeless and barren, with the only evidence of human intrusion a single stone cottage, Knockdamph, set back on the northern shore about a hundred yards from the water. From its freshly painted soffits, window frames and door, I assumed the building would be occupied or at least locked, but it was not. 

Knockdamph was a stalker's cottage, made available to the Mountain Bothy Association-except during the deer-shooting season-and maintained in the Spartan fashion favoured by this publicity-shy organization. A shelter from the elements; a place to sleep if you don't mind the floor; a means to warm yourself if you happen to bring your own matches; but a place offering no inducement for the traveler to linger. A guest book contained acerbic and revealing observations from wayfarers who had found themselves in this most unlikely place. Its most intriguing entry was a puzzle left by some fiendishly perverse soul intent on torturing all those who would come after him, including me of course. The puzzle was accompanied by a stick-figure drawing, and the text went something like this:

Four prisoners, A, B, C, and D are buried up to their necks in sand.

Prisoner A faces left and cannot see any of the other three. Prisoner B faces right and can see both prisoner C and prisoner D in line directly in front of him. Prisoner C also faces right and can see only prisoner D, while prisoner D, also facing right, can see no one. The prisoners are told by their captor that each will receive a hat, and that there are two black hats and two white hats. Their captor then proceeds to place a white hat on A's head, a black hat on B's head, a white hat on C's head, and a black hat on D's head. 

The captor then announces that if any prisoner can correctly call out the colour of his own hat within 20 minutes, the prisoners will all be set free. However, if anyone calls out a wrong answer, they will all be left to die. The prisoners are not allowed to communicate with each other. After 10 minutes one of the prisoners correctly calls out, with absolute certainty in his own mind, the color of the hat he is wearing. And he is right. Which prisoner calls out the correct answer and how can he be so sure he is right?

There was no solution given, and as the puzzle at first seemed quite unsolvable, I did wonder if the puzzler might, unintentionally, have left out some vital piece of information. But when I set off again along the shore of the loch, the puzzle came with me and would give me no peace. Obviously prisoners A and D cannot tell what hats they're wearing for they cannot see anything at all. So it has to be prisoner B or prisoner C who calls out. So what? Where does that lead?

Exasperated, and getting nowhere with the problem, I was leaning far forward, striving to balance myself against the driving wind, when a group of five riders on mountain bikes suddenly appeared in front of me. One of then shouted, "way," or "trail," or some such warning in biker shorthand, and I had to jump smartly to the side to let them pass. They were gone in a flash.

It had been some time since I had seen a tree, but things were about to change. Just ahead, a bright green swathe of foliage came into view, and beyond the foliage, in the far distance, a broad valley stretched to the horizon. Along with the trees came the welcoming murmur of running water, gradually increasing to a roar, as the walking path converged with the course of a rushing stream and with a single-track surfaced road leading directly to Ullapool. I was still many miles away, but unless I was to be run down by one of the infrequent cars that passed, I would surely arrive there by late afternoon.

The sun came out, and for the first time the air was warm. I found a wind-break by the edge of the Rhidorroch, now a gently meandering river in a broad flat plain. 

I removed my sodden boots and slung my feet into the flowing water, still ice-cold in early June, and thought yet again about the prisoners buried in the sandpit. How infuriating it would be if there were no answer. Yet something told me there had to be. Anyone with the moxie to hike to Loch na Damph would surely pose a problem with a solution.

Okay, so it's either prisoner B or prisoner C who calls out. But how can C possibly know the color of his own hat, if he can only see what D is wearing, for that knowledge only eliminates one hat? Well, if it is not prisoner C, then it has to be prisoner B. But how? It's not enough to know the answer is B, you have to figure out how it is that he knows. What B sees in front of him is a black hat and a white hat, and that knowledge can't possibly tell him anything about the colour of his own hat. And what can possibly happen after 10 minutes to give him the answer? The puzzle was clearly absurd, and I tried to stop thinking about it.

An attractive young lady stopped her car and offered me a lift, which I declined with thanks. I had come too far to yield to such temptations. By late afternoon, I had left Loch Achall behind and all that remained was to follow the Ullapool River down through its gorge to Loch Broom. My feet were starting to give out, and the last few miles passed in a blur of wetness, pain and anticipation. It would be fitting to report that Loch Broom appeared in the distance like a shimmering jewel shining through the mist, but it did not. The entrance to Ullapool was through the middle of a cement factory and then by the side of an uninspiring housing estate, and I did not see the western shore until I arrived at the pier.

Upon registering at the local hostel (I was much too grubby to approach a B&B or a hotel), I quickly rectified two days of non-gourmet eating by gorging on fish and chips, washed down with a couple of Irn Brus. Later that evening, over a good single-malt, I reflected on how well everything had gone. In truth, the walking had been less demanding than I anticipated. However, there had been some anxieties to deal with, such as the nagging uncertainty of where to spend the night and the constant wondering about whether my vulnerable feet would be up to the task. I had been lucky with the howff, of course, for I could easily have been forced to spend the night huddled by a pile of rocks, pounded by a driving rain. 

Distance walked: approximately 40 miles. Time taken: 2 days Month: June Lifts offered: 2 Lifts declined (with thanks): 2 Westbound walkers encountered: 0 Eastbound walkers encountered: 0  Mountain bikers avoided: 5

After two days of talking to myself, I was finding it difficult to adjust to the pub babble of semi-inebriated and mostly English voices all around me. But I felt elated. My one failure was the prisoner puzzle, still nagging at my subconscious. I ordered another malt and tried to think about something else. Then, like a bolt from the blue tearing through that smoky, alcoholic haze, it suddenly dawned on me. And what a simple solution it was! How could I have not seen it before? I left the pub at once and placed a call to the friend who was waiting to hear from me.

"I'm back. No need to call out the troops."

"That was quick," he said. "So, how was it?" 

"Fine," I replied. "Did you hear about the four prisoners who were buried …."



Bill Gallacher is an expatriate Scot who lives mostly in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. He is an aficionado of the Scottish Highlands and returns there frequently to walk about. The solution to the prisoner problem will appear in the next issue of Atención. If there is anyone who simply cannot wait for the answer, he will be happy to provide it at chichicastenango2002@yahoo.ca