Torridan is a beautiful, mountainous area in the highlands of Scotland. Sitting on the west coast, you can walk up the green flanks of Anshielach. From the summit look out over the water to the mystical shores of the isle of Skye, known in Celtic legends as the Isle of mists, The sorcerer's Isle.
Yet the best still awaits.
For if you drive past the village of Torridan where most of the tourists stop for that five-minute photo session that proves to friends and family that they were THERE, there is a little single-track road that leads you back in time to a little bit of paradise, called Craig Hostel. Five miles from the nearest road, across a bog that is laughingly called a trail, you enter a world without telephones or even electricity and your heart soars to be truly free from the mundane world.
It was here that I met Gunther, and life took on a wonderful new curve.
Truth be told, I heard him long before I saw him
At the end of the trail, the land drops quite sharply and it was my habit after the tiring walk out to sit on a nearby rock for a while, take off my rucksack, and enjoy the view.
The hostel itself is a beautiful old stone building that had been built sometime in the last century by the landowner as a getaway from life's pressures. It sat in a beautiful little hidden valley within walking distance of the sea. They would come out by boat in the summer and, for at least a little while, relax oblivious to the goings on of the rest of the world. The family had then donated the building to the Scottish Hostel Association shortly after its conception in the 1930's and had been open to weary travelers from all over the world ever since.
One old chap I had met here a few seasons back had told me a wonderful story passed on to him by his father.
Not long after the hostel was open to the public, the father had come here with a couple of friends. During the evening, one of those violent thunderstorms that the west coast of Scotland is so famous for, came out of nowhere, and dripping travelers were soon filling the place up. So much so that before long the floor of the common room was being used to accommodate the over-spill. Soon, the room was a jungle of wet clothing and damp bodies vying for a place close to the one small fire that was the room's only source of heat.
Later that evening, while writing a rather soggy addition to his journal, the young lad suddenly realized that he knew the piece of music that a pretty, young German girl was humming to herself as she read, nearby. Taking out his penny whistle, he softly played along to her melody. This went on for a couple of minutes before the girl suddenly looked up and gave him the most beautiful smile as she realized what he was doing. Immediately, she began to sing along to the lilting air.
They were married six months later.
Now, here was I, part of another generation of wanderers, coming here to recharge my batteries before the next assault of city life.
Today, as I sat there on my rock, I could feel the rivulets of sweat run down my back, and I eagerly sought out the two Rowan trees that marked the location of the rock pool that lay upriver from the hostel. Generations of travelers had gone skinny dipping her, from long before I was born, and I thrilled to the thought of the cold mountain stream on my skin.
Suddenly, as if memory had come to life, the angelic sound of flute music rose to my ears from the valley below. Puzzled, I turned my attention back to the cottage and saw that I was to have company that evening.
Sitting on the wooden bench outside the little hostel a young man was indeed playing a flute, its beautifully haunting sound traveling effortlessly up over the valley rim to where I sat. Before him, sitting on the grass listening intently were two girls and I could not help but smile; Craig certainly had a way of bringing people together. You could arrive on a Saturday morning to a group of strangers and leave a few days later saying tearful good-byes to a gathering of dear friends.
Smiling for the first time in days, I hefted my rucksack to my shoulder and made the descent from my vantage point to the mellow accompaniment of Mozart.
It felt like coming home.
The melody was just reaching a close as I rounded the small enclosure that held the warden's vegetable garden and I immediately joined in with the girls' enthusiastic applause, for the piece had been quite exquisite. I was vaguely surprised to see our young musician blush and look embarrassed at the attention his piece had brought, and on closer inspection I could see that he was only a couple of years younger than myself; perhaps twenty or so.
"That was truly beautiful." I said as an introduction.
"Thank you." Came the almost inaudible reply and then he glanced up at me through a stray lock of black hair and gave me a shy little smile, his full lips seeming to hint at a whole new land of promise.
And as simple as that, for the first time in my life, I found myself attracted to another man.
I suddenly realized I was staring, and I could feel the heat of an embarrassed blush begin to creep up my cheeks. Looking away quickly, I ducked through the door of the hostel. Closing the door, I stood for a moment in the dark hallway and waited for my heart to slow its rapid tattoo against my chest.
What had just happened?
Right then, I wasn't so sure I wanted to know and so I tried to drown the unexpected feelings in normality.
I had been to the hostel many times before when 'real' life was getting a little too intense and I needed to escape for a few days to feel even vaguely human again, so I knew my way around.
I turned left in the dark little hallway and entered the main room. The large window on my left shone beams of dust filled light onto the large Celtic mural on the opposite wall. The mosaic had been painted a few years ago by a Canadian lad who acted as warden for a couple of seasons. He had used common house paints but, with an artist's eye for detail, he had positioned it perfectly so that the sunlight brought its vibrant colors to life throughout the day and late into the afternoon.
The room was small; just large enough for a couple of old wooden tables that would accommodate ten people, twelve if you moved them to make use of the ends. Benches of the same dark, weather-beaten wood lined either side. In the center of the gable-end wall, opposite the door I had just entered through, sat a little pot-bellied stove, known in these parts as a squirrel stove because of the design on the small furnace door, it was probably the original from the thirties.
Today the room was unoccupied, and I quickly checked the small kitchen that branched off from the end of the room at the back of the building. Smiling in anticipation, I moved back out into the hallway and entered the downstairs dorm that was usually reserved for men, although some of the wardens were okay with coed rooms.
There was no sign of luggage visible amongst the tightly packed bunk beds.
My smile widened
Leaving the room, I hurried up the narrow, wooden stairway that dog-legged up to the upper floor. The landing at the top of the stairs held two old porcelain sinks flanked by a couple of well-polished mirrors. The glass in one had a crescent shaped crack running from center-top to the right-hand side.
Turning left, I made my way along the landing. Passing the closed split-door to the warden's living quarters I hung another left and entered the room opposite, which was nominally the lady's dorm. Two rucksacks sat next to one of the bunks.
Our young couple if I was not mistaken.
Taking a deep breath, I returned to the landing and entered the small room situated between the warden's and the lady's dorm.
The room was tiny. A small skylight window in the slanting ceiling barely illuminated it. There was just enough room for a single bed sitting against the wall to the left of the door and a rickety wooden ladder leading up to the cozy little sleeping platform that nestled comfortably under the crown of the ceiling.
This was where I usual slept if I found it unoccupied.
Suddenly, I felt nervous and, to my surprise, a little excited. I could feel a tightening in my ball sack and the end of my cock was tingling with a strange sense of anticipation.
With slightly shaking hands, I shrugged off my rucksack and laid it on the bed. Taking a deep, shuddering breath I slowly made my way up the ladder. I already knew his rucksack would be there, but my breath still caught in my throat and my heart beat a little faster when my head cleared the top of the ladder and I saw it sitting there.
A crumpled sleeping bag lay next to the sack, and I found myself wondering if he slept naked. Before I fully realized what I was doing, I had lifted the top half of the open sleeping bag and was looking at the place where I imagined his cock would rest while he was asleep. Then I thought of the many times I had lain up here, before now. The many times, when the lower bed was vacant, that I had lain and masturbated while fantasizing about a particularly cute girl I had been skinny dipping with, upriver.
And here I was now, wondering what it would be like to feel his limp cock resting against my leg as we slept side by side.
Of course, I realized that this was merely an unusual fantasy for me and that is the way it would stay. I had never thought this way about another man before and I wasn't even sure what was causing me to do so now. But, what the hell, it was obvious by the straining bulge in my trousers that the thought excited me. The way I looked at it was, what the hell, no one was getting hurt, so why not roll with it. After all, it wasn't as if I would have the balls to follow through on any of this. Man, even if I had wanted to, I wouldn't know where to start.
