EARLY on a Friday evening you would see them gather in the Horseshoe Bar in Glasgow's Drury Street.

They were men whose chops had not been shaved since woad went out of fashion. Hair, it seemed, grew out of their every orifice, like weeds through cracks in the pavement. Their clothes was no more kempt. Tweed was the twill of choice, the older the better, for with age it looked like dry moss. Some wore plus fours, as if to mimick the ghillies with whom they had a love-hate relationship. All had tackety boots that made a horrible scraping noise when, after a few pints, they hoisted their rucksacks on to their backs and made for the door, destined for a weekend in the hills.

They were what we would now call "wild campers". First and foremost, though, they were climbers, who referred to the Buachaille and the Five Sisters as if they were members of their family. For a while I was one of them, thumbing a lift north as the sun went down and getting up the following morning when the birds began to sing.

We camped where we could, ideally near a river and never on a slope. Our tents were cramped, accommodating two lean blokes or one with more than his fair share of blubber. Once in them you lay in your sleeping bag like a Pharaoh in a sarcophagus, praying you could get through the night without going to the loo. There was, of course, no real loo, other than "the great outdoors", of which we were mere custodians. What we could not take away we gave a decent burial.

The idea, instilled in us by the BB and the Scouts, was to leave no trace of our having been in a place. On breaking camp, it was a mark of pride to inspect the surroundings and find nothing that was not natural. That, alas, is no longer the case. Scotland's countryside has become a fly-tipper's paradise, a dumping ground for those moronic members of a throwaway society who appear to believe their detritus is someone else's problem.

This is bad enough in towns and cities. In the countryside, however, it is an affront. It is especially ugly in places easily reachable by large numbers of the population. In that respect, Loch Lomond is especially vulnerable. From Glasgow, you can be there in a little over half an hour. And many do make the journey, the object of which is to "wild camp". What this actually means is lighting a supermarket barbecue, charring some cheap sausages and cracking open can after can of gutrot. All that is needed to have the wildest of parties is a ghettoblaster, the insistent sound from which ensures the Bonnie, Bonnie Banks are no more serene than Sauchiehall Street when the ghouls come out to play.

Now, as The Herald reported yesterday, the Loch Lomond and Trossachs National Park has launched a consultation in the hope of getting to grips with the huge number of visitors to the area and the nuisance and damage they cause. It is proposed to make the west side of the loch a "management zone", which would mirror that on the east side. New bylaws, designed to make it an offence to harm vegetation or wildlife and to regulate where day-trippers can camp, would be introduced and proper campsites would be established. The cost is estimated at £10 million.

If prior experience is anything to go by, these measures will surely have a beneficial effect. Enforcing them will be the prerogative of the police, though what is preventing them from keeping order at present is a mystery. Residents on the east of the loch say similar moves have improved matters substantially.

That is all well and good, but it does not address the underlying problem which is that, by attracting ever more folk to beauty spots, the beauty is threatened and the spots stand out like sores. That, certainly, is the case with Loch Lomond, on whose southern shores stands a monstrous, miserable shopping mall that few tourists ever venture beyond. But then, as the drug-addled crew in Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting attested, true wilderness is for many an acquired taste. For those whose lungs are choked with exhaust fumes fresh air will do nothing to keep boredom at bay.