Solo traveler finds solitude in remote Scottish Highlands cabin

In the dim light, the trees appear dark and solid on either side of the trail. An owl with a pale, wide face glides silently from the pines ahead. My heart begins to race, so I quicken my pace and continue uphill while the surrounding silence feels heavy.

Only a few minutes earlier, I had been standing on the sand by the loch shore, observing clouds as they draped over the peaks of the Grampians. With no other people around, the silvery waters of Loch Laidon in the half-light felt like my own; however, the solitude within the woods feels unnerving.

I soon emerge from the trees, traversing rough boards across boggy moorland to reach the summit of the nearest hill. Below, past a green viaduct carrying the West Highland Line, lies the eastern edge of Rannoch Moor, with layers of Perthshire hills visible beyond. Out in the open, my anxiety fades; there is nobody present except for me and the fieldfares that fly away squeakily as I approach.

I have travelled to Rannoch station for a two-night solo stay in a location that most would consider remote. A sign indicating a dead-end at the western edge of Loch Rannoch marked the final part of my drive, featuring the warning: “No road beyond Rannoch station.” The station and its tiny community are situated five slow miles further, with the road passing through the flat valley of the River Gaur before climbing over the moors where mountains frequently appear and disappear.

My accommodation, the Star Hut, is located on a small slope just a few hundred yards from the station, facing Rannoch Moor. It is a compact, well-formed wooden structure equipped with a double bed, two chairs, a fold-up table, a microwave, and a fridge, along with essentials like OS maps, binoculars, a compass, a torch, and a decanter of Scotch. There is no shower, and I must use the toilet facilities on the station platform; visiting the bathroom before bed requires walking past a skittish herd of hinds whose eyes glitter in my torchlight. It is not a struggle, especially when I am woken the next morning by yolk-yellow sunlight and a view over the empty moor.

Visitors typically travel to the end of the road for two reasons: the walking and the station tearoom. As the first customer of the day, I select a window seat to look out over the tracks and Loch Laidon. Despite the season nearing its end, the small space fills with people grabbing breakfast before the next train arrives within half an hour. When I pay, I request a slice of the pink cake on the counter, and the owner, Sylvia, lowers her voice to tell me about the other cakes kept out back. “If I put them out now, they’ll all disappear,” she remarks conspiratorially.

With a large, clandestine slice of carrot cake in my rucksack, I board the 11.09 train for a 12-minute journey one stop north to Corrour. As the highest and most remote railway station in the UK, Corrour is only accessible by train, bicycle, or on foot, which contrasts with the busy nature of its platform and restaurant.

The route back to Rannoch station covers 11 miles along a clear path cutting across Rannoch Moor. I encounter a couple walking their dog at a slow pace and two cyclists heading in the opposite direction, but the track becomes blissfully empty as I climb above Loch Ossian.

It is a glorious Highland morning, with the sun warming my face and the shadows of cotton-wool clouds dancing over the surrounding hills. Walking alone sharpens my focus: the browns and greens of the moor appear more intense, the cry of a circling buzzard sounds more eerie, and the crunch of gravel beneath my feet and the whistle of the wind in the grass are louder. I am alone with the landscape, engaged in the subconscious act of putting one foot in front of another.

In my normal home life, my mind is full of tasks I must remember, but out here, that running commentary is silenced. Looking back as I climb, I see Loch Ossian like a sheet of metal below and a staggering lineup of mountains, including Ben Nevis, in the distance. My “wow” is swallowed by the wind.

At the four-mile mark, I begin to flag, conscious that I have almost double that distance remaining. The hills flanking Blackwater Reservoir are shrouded in mist that moves rapidly toward me, and rain starts as I put on my waterproofs. It passes quickly, as if I had imagined it, taking my low mood with it. When I reach a ford too deep to cross without soaking my boots, I remove my footwear and socks to wade through the ice-cold water with the glee of a three-year-old. During the five-hour route, I only see a few other people.