How long did it take? Maybe less than a mile. No, easily less than a mile.

But, technically, I wasn’t lost.

I just didn’t know where I was headed.

And I did feel … what’s the word I’m reaching for? Ah, yes: Foolish.

And so it begins: The West Highland Way launches in the sleepy downtown of Milngavie, Scotland, where we pose for the obligatory first selfies:

Which raises a thorny philosophical conundrum: If a hiker feels foolish in a forest and there is no one else around to witness this, is the hiker really foolish? The answer is, not if the hiker can correct the (foolish) error without assistance, like from park rangers, bloodhounds, helicopter search parties, or Boy Scout emergency response squads.

Well, it never came to that.

I’m walking the West Highland Way — 98 miles of some of the best sign-posted trail in the world — with four companions.

Early in the first few miles of walking to Drymen, through forested stands of Mugdock Wood, along leaf-blanketed footpaths, beside streams and Craiggallian Loch:

Very early on after leaving the Milngavie train station, we came to a fork in the trail. My companions went to the right, toward the first uphill climb of the day. I continued blithely walking the left fork, beside an enchanting babbling brook. So enchanting, that it was some distance before I noticed my companions were not in front of me. Come to think of it, neither were they trying to catch up with me and set me on the correct course, .

After marshaling the forces of woodland logic and the savvy of a true Leatherstocking, I deduced that the two trails would eventually merge. Somewhere. Up ahead. Somewhere.

So, I turned around and backtracked to the fork in the trail.

I didn’t catch up with them until they stopped at the Beech Tree, a trailside restaurant, for lunch. Four hours later.

The truth is, it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing much hiking with my companions, other than starting out the day together at breakfast and walking to the trailhead. They are fast and I am S-L-O-W. No other way to put it. Well, my wife Rose Alcantara did put it another way: “When I get going, there is a rhythm to it, and I don’t like to stop.”

Up a footpath, through a gate, and Dumgoyne Peak jumps into your face and stays with you a long while, as does the heavily wooded knoll Dumgoyach:

I knew this. My pictures of Rose from other hiking trips are mostly of her back, some distance ahead of me. We usually agree to meet somewhere down the road. Our friends Brian, Susan, and Kim seem to march to the same drummer.

My hiking style is best described as “pretty close to crawling.” I walk slowly. I stop to take photographs. I sit under a tree and munch on granola and sip water. I talk to other laggards. I wander off the beaten path, making brief forays to ponds, ancient churches, and stands of beautiful wildflowers. I talk to cows and commiserate with sheep. I study curious knots in very old tree trunks. I analyze sudden gusts of wind and interesting cloud formations. I find curious rocks on the ground and study them. I meditate mindfully as I walk.

These things take time.

It works out well as we all have new things to share over dinner at the end of the day.

As first legs for long hikes, this one will do nicely. True, there are no steep climbs, or swamps to muck through, nor does the length have you scrambling in the dark. It is a great way to work out the legs for the rest of the journey and the scenery is outstanding. Especially right now as the fall colors are beginning to show their stuff.

The sky was gray all day, but not threatening. There was a chill in the breeze to go with the autumn colors. And yet, the fields were still of an intense green the likes of which I’d not seen before, even in Ireland. There are lochs and woodland streams, wildflowers galore, cozy comforting forests to navigate through, cows and sheep to keep you company, an occasional stately home, and footpaths navigating through farmland. There are more cattle gates to open and close than you’d find at the entrance to Heaven (or is it Hell).

Honesty boxes, wildflowers, footpaths, and more, the first leg of the WHW is filled with charm:

The toughest part comes in the last few miles when the trail is essentially the berm on narrow country roads. That asphalt is pretty rough on the old feet.

We’re staying at Kipin the Kirk, a B and B hewn from the bones of an old church turned recreation center by the owner, Frances. She bakes scones for tea time, prepares a hearty breakfast for hikers, keeps a bright and cheery hotel, and is a most gracious and well-informed hostess.

The piping hot shower almost single-handedly erased the pain in my inflamed right heel. (Ibuprophin also helped.)

Tomorrow we face a little over half the distance and get our first views of the mighty Loch Loman from atop Conic Hill before descending into Balmaha.