This is a 100-mile, seven day trek which winds its way from Glasgow in the lowlands, to Fort William in the Highlands. It is one of the most spectacular long distance paths in the UK so we decided we would give it a try last summer.

We began in Milngavie, a suburb of Glasgow, which for some reason is pronounced Mull-guy (it didn’t really matter what it was called because when we asked the Glaswegans where it was, we couldn’t understand a word they said anyway). Soon we found ourselves striding easily through peaceful rolling hills confidant that we could walk forever. Little did we know what lay ahead.

On the second day the path meandered along the edge of Loch Lomond. The deep blue waters of the Loch with the sun glinting gently on the surface looked amazing, so amazing that I threw off my clothes and leapt in. Big mistake. It looked like the Mediterranean, but felt like the Arctic Ocean. The next day we entered Rob Roy territory. The real Rob Roy (as opposed to the Liam Neeson version) had his money stolen in 1711 leaving him in debt to the Duke of Montrose, who had him outlawed and burnt his house down. Rob Roy swore revenge and kidnapped Montrose’s’ men, holding them ransom in a cave on the West Highland Way. We spent ages searching for it and, once found, we could find no evidence that Rob Roy had ever been there. But we managed to step in plenty of evidence that a lot of wild highland goats had been.

It was about day three of the trek when our initial belief that we could walk forever began to wear thin, like the skin on the soles of our feet. My low point of the trek occurred on this day, struggling to put the tent up in the rain as squadrons of midges descended in wave after wave to devour me. They may have bitten me a few times but I left Scotland knowing there were a few thousand less midges there than before.

On day four we left Loch Lomond behind to climb into the Himalayas of the UK, the Highlands. The Way at this stage follows an old military road built by the English in one of their many failed attempts to subjugate the Scottish. The sun blazed down casting deep shadows over the rolling mountains, which were dotted with shaggy, red haired, highland cattle. I could have staggered on for ages staring at the incredible scenery till my revery was rudely interrupted when I saw the Bridge Of Orchy Inn. Priorities.

Indeed the pubs were one of the most important parts of the trek, as they always arrived at times when our feet were about to explode. A few pints of anaesthetic later and we were raring to go again. Some establishments worth noting were the Drovers Inn, which is full of stuffed animals including a rather moth eaten bear, and the Kingshouse Arms, which has a free pool table (worth walking 100 miles for).

On day five we reached the infamous Rannoch Moor a huge expanse of marsh fringed by cloud covered mountains. It lived up to its reputation of harsh beauty as the rain beat relentlessly down on us, but everything was worthwhile when we entered Glencoe.

This is was the scene of the Glencoe Massacre in 1690, where the Campbells asked to be put up at the MacDonald’s castle then killed them all. But Glencoe is also known for its incredible mountains including Bouchaille Etive Mor, which adorns London underground stations above the caption “Scotland. When will you go.” I’ve got to admit our main thought at the time was: “Scotland. When will the rain go”.

We were nearly there but one major obstacle stood in our way. The Devils Staircase. Named by the English soldiers who built it 200 years ago, it climbs almost vertically out of Glencoe. We eventually made it to the top and were rewarded with incredible views all the way to Ben Nevis.

From then on we knew we were going to make it and two days later we limped into Fort William at the base on Ben Nevis. The trek ends rather ignominiously near a busy roundabout, but we didn’t care, our main desire was to stay on our feet long enough to take the tacky but totally necessary photo next to the “Here ends the West Highlands Way” sign.

Although the trek was far too close to “here ends our feet” at times the scenery was incredible and, since you can free camp half the time, it is very cheap. So if you have a week to spare follow in the footsteps of Rob Roy and do the West Highland Way.

Edinburgh

Edinburgh is best known for its festival and its castle. But below the tourist-filled streets is a ghostly inheritance you won’t see on postcards. Pete Barnao braved one of the city’s ghost tours.

I wouldn’t describe the experience as supernatural, but the smell was out of this world when our tour group descended a few steps below street level into Edinburgh’s haunted “underground city”, a labyrinth of dark cellars and passageways claimed to house the world’s ultimate spirit cocktail. “This place could do with some air,” an American tourist quipped to nervous nods of agreement as we went into the damp, dark legacy of the city’s troubled past. A reputed haunting ground of ghosts and ghouls, this is one part of Edinburgh you won’t see on postcards. But superstition is again big business in a city that, in Medieval times, held the world witch-burning record.

Our veteran ghost-hunting guide, Robin Sinton, paused before taking us further. This part of the tour is not for the faint-hearted, he warned. Those who are claustrophobic or afraid of the dark should consider waiting at street level. But poor lighting and confined spaces were the least of our worries — it’s the ghosts we watched out for.

The underground city is a network of stone cellars and passages, some dating back to the 1600’s. Many lasted longer than the buildings above them. Abandoned cellars were colonised by the homeless, but a build-up of rubbish and human waste made them a haven for disease. Authorities, wracked by fear of epidemics, sealed the underground city, reputedly with its inhabitants inside.

In recent years, more and more of the city has been opened and curiosity and capitalism have combined to create an underground tour industry whose main assets are strictly intangible.

As we were led through a maze of rough, candle-lit passages and at times, complete darkness, it was hard not to harbour images of Medieval inhabitants going about their ghostly business.

Dressed in black crepe and top hat and operating under his alter-ego as Dr Jeckyll, Sinton brings the images to life with tales that spare nothing in theatrics or gore. A consummate story-teller, he is not about to let good taste get in the way of a good yarn. With a glint in his eye, he described in graphic detail Edinburgh’s disturbing true story of witch-killings, torture and grave-digging.

Disturbingly, for some of the group, he displayed a dastardly penchant for jumping out of dark corners to elicit shrieks of terror from already-nervous guests. But it was shrieks of laughter that dominated this encounter — Dr Jeckyll’s tours place a strong emphasis on the centuries-old rituals of simply clowning around.

Like many of Edinburgh’s ghost guides he is highly qualified and insists his tales are closely based on documented events, with a touch of story-teller’s licence.

With 11 years of spook-spotting under his belt, his is one of the pioneers in a fast-growing industry. Not all the tours are as light-hearted as Dr Jeckyll’s. For some companies the trips are genuine ghost-hunts. One guide goes so far as to guarantee a genuine supernatural encounter on every tour. Up the road people faithfully observe a superstitious ritual of their own as they pass the notorious “Heart of Midlothian”. This heart-shaped mosaic in a cobbled pavement marks the site of Scotland’s first prison, where countless folk sat out their last days before execution. To locals, who know it as the “spitting stone”, it is Edinburgh’s less-romantic alternative to kissing Ireland’s Blarney Stone. With pin-point accuracy passers-by communicate their solidarity with the dead, plastering the stone in offerings that make up in good intentions for what they lack in hygiene. This is just one superstition in a city where the spooks refuse to lay down and die. Other favourites include the story of the Phantom Piper, who is said to be heard playing his bagpipes in a tunnel below the city’s Royal Mile. Or tourists can view the “indelible bloodstain” said to be from the murder of one of Mary Queen of Scots’ royal aides at Holyrood Palace in 1566.

Why does Edinburgh boast so many paranormal tales when Europe is full of equally-old cities? The answer lies in the city’s tumultuous past. Wracked by disease, war and superstition, it has seen more woes than most cities. When the plague broke out in 1645, a third of the population was killed. Even by 1900 the average life expectancy was 30. Surrounded by death and despair, citizens turned to superstition to explain curses whose spread could be better explained by the raw sewage in the streets and alleys. In time, superstition became an epidemic in itself as sizeable portions of the population were put to death for suspected witchery or possession by evil spirits. At its height in 1590-91, the city carried out more than 100 witch-burnings in front of Edinburgh Castle. Others were tortured or drowned in the lake that used to grace the town centre. Executioners believed that if the body sank, the victim was confirmed as a witch. If it floated, the deceased was cleared of all suspicion of evil.

But like other victims of Edinburgh’s grisly past, such people are never truly dead. Their existence continues, if not in the form of genuine ghostly personas, but in a legacy where fact and fable blend into one, and ghostliness is just a white sheet away.