While the train is already reaching its next stop, I have the adapter almost out. I can see how: halfway the plastic upper pin broke. I yank the now-crippled adapter fully free.

Defeated, I sit down.

"It's not a big problem," the young woman explains. "My friend disables the safety with a pen. It works perfectly fine." Here, on my ass on the floor, I understand the conductor is still standing next to us. Together, we examine the bloody stump that was my safety pin peering out of the wall socket. "I would be careful. It's still electricity, you know." The conductor comments.

Upon request she tells me that she doesn't carry any pliers – nothing to pull the bit of plastic out. Her curiosity trumps – at least in my presence – any desire for reprimands. I'm thankful just as much as I'm embarrassed.

She advises me to best get off at Dumbarton Central – and take the next train back to Balloch. Then, visibly unwilling, she resumes work. There's nothing left to do or say for her – I'm already gathering all my stuff, sorting myself out.

Shortly before I get off, I thank the young woman (who's in her seat again). – She offers a number of final hiking tips for free. She's a pro. I thank her for the hint about the safety – her trick will keep me going for now.

I rush out at Dumbarton, trying to reach the other platform on time. Waiting for the train to arrive, I realize: my outbound ticket remained on the inbound train. Additionally, I detect my Bluetooth earplugs still dangling down my neck ("No!"), its foam tips having slid off in all this commotion.

The train to Balloch arrives. Stripped of a valid ticket, equipped with a mutilated adapter, and without available sound, I board. Let's go.

As I make my way from the station to the national park, I worry over my hiking attire. Thanks to the Socket fiasco from before, I downgrade my plans in Komoot from a "difficult"-labelled 5-hour-route to an "easy"-labelled 4-hour-route. I'm afraid to be caught by the dark somewhere. The route description doesn't really feel reliable, though. The actual feasibility I will have to experience myself or gather the necessary information from observation.

As I walk the asphalt streets into the green – alongside runs the mote of the "Loch" – I see teenage joggers, couples with children, locals on a nice day out. It doesn't feel like hiking all that much up until here.

With "hiking" I relate summer holidays organized by the local YMCA chapter, which my mother was very active in. They were scheduled every other summer and involved a series of extensive hiking day-trips (usually there was one for motivated amateurs and one for hobbyists) over the course of ten days.²

Thus, with hiking I associate long, tiring trips through foreign forests. I remember steep, chiseled slopes. Unending rain showers and the perpetual cool air. We were guided by trail markers through plains where our tread wasn't heard by anyone else. I might've been 11 the last time we went, but a competitive instinct from those days remained. Now, taking form in a voice demanding a less conservative choice all the way.

With these memories urgently revived on the train over to Scotland, I put together a solid enough hiking combination – which would shield me from heavy rain, keep me warm-but-mobile-enough to master long stretches of trail.

The images sketched in the halls of my mind for so many days suddenly clash with the locals I pass in pursuit of my (supposedly ambitious) route. The rain is constant but slight – too fickle to be actually felt.

It doesn't take me too many steps to feel restless and displaced. With defiance I long for the familiarity of my notebook screen. Quickly, I idolize those illuminated keys for some time. With my body alternating between hot and slightly chill in short intervals on a very harmless trail I feel increasingly angry: "I chose the wrong route."

Disappointed in my non-demanding choice, I condemn the activity as a whole – separate myself from anyone else around here, pretend not to care, dispense from the concept itself.

It's the steady tread itself which slowly alleviates the inferno of my mind. Soothing steps on wet, solid ground hand me back a sense of direction. I begin discerning the landscape within the next hour or so. Step by step I feel the urge to take pictures as I understand figures, patterns, geometry. Stimulated, finally, I start stopping more often – taking the phone out in order to capture what is visible to me now.

For a while, the drizzle changes into an actual rain – enough for my trail to empty around me. I'm alone for an hour or so. Soon, I hear myself whistle a tune into the woods and out onto the grassy green. I whistle and hum until my feet give me the sign at the a wood-carved sight of a resting point. I take my provisions out.

Munching on carrots, nuts, chocolate, I watch the greys of the horizon alternate with an already subsiding rain. My breath is heard, the air clear enough not to be registered, birds other than pigeons are heard.

I thank whoever, whatever *God* is for being alive. For being around still. For making it here. Nothing's for granted. I'm grateful for this life.

Recharged and alight I continue on my loop through the hilly forest next to Lomond lake. In time, I pass fellow "hikers." On the return it doesn't take long for the trail to change back into asphalt again.

As I meet the first family – running and jumping around the boarded Balloch castle – I make my peace with the route I chose. Dark sets already, it'll get cold soon.

As I meet the first family – running and jumping around the boarded Balloch castle – I make my peace with the route I chose. Dark sets already, it'll get cold soon.

Here, my (let's call it) re-introduction into this activity – through an app and by simple experience – feels less like a let-down. I lament less the supposed adventure missed out on than I appreciate the first taste I got – an on-ramp to thirst.

Down again to the mote, I happily walk past the cultured flower fields and the sweet arrangements of the park. In my mind, I contemplate weekends beyond the outskirts of town. Following routes I don't know, sharpening my instincts, building experience.

Eager to start something new.