Stage 211, 26th October: King’s Lynn to Old Hunstanton

With a change of county came a change of scene, but with that scene there was a price to pay – no decent coastal route. I had tried hard to plan something close to the coast but a lack of permissive paths made this one of the most, if not the most, difficult days to find a navigable route that didn’t involve walking along the edge of a busy major road or deliberate trespassing. After about five failed map staring attempts I settled for some side roads and one potential trespass, it would have to do.

I started out with a pleasant little jaunt through the thriving wealthy villages of South and North Wootton with some teenagers warming up for their Sunday morning football and dog walkers out in droves. Paths and side streets took me slowly inland to the edge of the Sandringham Estate and a quick well-worn woodland walk before I returned to the lanes coastwards again to Wolferton and its immaculately tended but long closed former royal railway station. From here the route through to Snettisham was, as expected, marked with the usual English disease of ‘Private‘ signs at the open gateway to a clear and well maintained concrete farm track. With the prospect of a good eight mile back tracking diversion, I had little option other than to ignore the sign. My involuntary trespass through farmland belonging to the Sandringham Estate, sorry ma’am, was a brief one and a mile later I was on RSPB land at Snettisham and in the reassuring company of Sunday lunchtime twitchers. They were a welcome sight with their long lenses and I was just mightily relieved to see them and not a Duke with his long barrel.

Things became much easier from here on and I was able to stick to the sandy shingle sea front at Heacham and on towards the archetypal seaside town of Hunstanton. A few low eroding cliffs with dozens of fossil collectors scrambling about in the freshly fallen stone tempted me to have a delve too, but with so many other pairs of eyes hunting I thought the area had probably been well sifted. Besides, a large and very visible crack in the cliff face dissuaded me and I couldn’t help but cast a worrying wince at both the adults and children poking and prodding their way through the rock immediately beneath the cliff.

Stage 212, 27th October: Old Hunstanton to Holkham Gap

I now had the luxury of a well-marked coast path again as the Norfolk Coast Path made its entrance. It was half-term week for many and the sunshine brought families out in their masses. Campsites were busy and I had a sneaky but unfounded fear that Sharpie might struggle to get us a pitch for a few nights.

In seeing so many people, a friendly “good morning” was commonplace but chats were almost non-existent. One brief chat with a former sports injury doctor brought a small donation for the charities and cheered me immensely, but with families and strolling couples now much more commonplace than serious walkers and hikers, such conversations and thus donations were becoming increasingly rare.

Overall the day was one of huge scenic variation. None of it I would call spectacular but none of it was dull either and I enjoyed the changes under foot as I switched from dunes to reed-bed board walks, sea-banks to roads and gravel paths to sandy beaches. Though it was still very flat, Norfolk seemed far more adventurous and family friendly than the Lincolnshire Fens and boredom was not an issue.

I was keenly and almost religiously now following the Norfolk Coast Path and a seemingly unnecessary duck inland at Thornham took me temptingly passed the pub and restaurant of a celebrity chef tucked in among the equally upmarket and aesthetically pleasing flint and brick cottages.

A return to the coast took me along a narrow board-walk edging the reeds and Brancaster where I met up with Sharpie who had run back seven miles to meet up. We idly chatted and almost ambled our way along in the warm late afternoon sunshine and came across the wide and beautiful open fine sand of Holkham Bay. With the clocks having gone back at the weekend the evenings were drawing in and the light faded as we walked into our farmyard campsite and a clear night sky full of stars.

Stage 213, 28th October: Holkham Gap to Sheringham

Another grand autumn day brought out more hoards of half-term strolling families and the woodland walk around the headland was a brief respite from the crowds before I made my way down the sea-bank South towards Wells next the Sea. The harbour walls were lined with supervised children dipping lines into the water and filling buckets with crabs. The sheer numbers of people around had made opportunities for privately draining off two cups of breakfast tea an impossibility and the appearance of a public loo was a huge relief to the increasing possibility of an embarrassing and very public accident.

Out of Wells I made for Stiffkey and a mystery circle on my map which had been pointed out to me by a friend on Twitter. The circle was a strip of tarmac about a hundred metres in circumference and the mystery was solved at lunchtime when another Tweet from a follower provided a good and plausible explanation. Apparently the tarmac was a launching strip built by the US Air Force in the 1950s for remotely controlled experimental aircraft (prototype drones) to be launched at full throttle from a tether connecting it to a central post and swivel. I couldn’t help but think how ingenious things were before the digital age and how practical engineering solutions were once at the forefront of exciting development and not perceived as a disruptive and unnecessarily expensive cost as they seem to be in this modern management driven world. The ‘Whirlygig’ was a relic of our recent inquisition and a sign that ingenuity was once highly regarded.

Blakeney was even more popular than Wells and a sea-bank walk around the point involved crossing paths with a continual stream of ambling families. As I dipped inland away from the point the very pretty and probably very expensive Cley next the Sea followed before it was back out to the coast and a long shingle beach grind down towards Sheringham.

After five miles of trying to find a firm surface underfoot I got fed up of the shingle. I saw that the huge piles of cobbles and pebbles reached right up the cliff face, so I went up and made my way for the relative comfort of a cliff-top path. As I reached the top I caught two men out of the corner of my eye approaching at marching speed from my right. I didn’t fancy the ignominy of being overtaken so I stopped for a few seconds to fake a map check and let them through. I looked up briefly as they strode on through without giving me a glance.

“Cox? Sharp? You…….!” I called out in surprise.

A pair of sheepish grinning faces turned to give a slightly breathless greeting as JH and Sharpie had spent the last mile or so chasing me down the beach having over-stayed whilst imbibing a few ales in the local hostelry and waiting for my arrival. A great surprise to have another friend join us for the evening was added to by the extra treats of a room at a very comfy B&B plus a few more jars and a meal in another hostelry nearby. This surprise was a very welcome one indeed.

Stage 202, 15th October: Kilnsea to Paull

When I had dropped into Bridlington two days before it hadn’t really dawned on me how flat things would become. With three days to get around the Humber estuary it would become very clear that my cliff top days were pretty much history and that I would be unlikely to see another proper cliff till I reached Kent. Much though cliffs would be absent, sea-walls, flood-banks, levees and dykes would become all too common. With the boredom these can sometimes bring I worried whether I would give them the correct terminology. Little things worry little minds when one gets bored.

The first six miles of the day took me along a grass topped flood-bank until a fenced off sluice gate blocked my path and forced me inland across farmland and, I had no doubt, a bit of minor trespassing. I picked up bone straight lanes passing through places with glum Dickensian names such as Sunk Island, Bleak House Farm and Stone Creek. All morning I saw only twitchers out in their usual non-breeding all male pairs laden with long lenses and all wearing green. Though I did manage to spot a Marsh Harrier too.

I didn’t know, but apparently a clough is a steep valley or ravine. My afternoon consisted of passing several cloughs and I wouldn’t have called any of them steep valleys even in the furthest recesses of anyone’s imagination. Nonetheless I passed Firtholme, Ireland’s, Easington, Winsetts and Skeffling Cloughs. To confuse matters more Weeton Clough was marked as disused on my map. With a leaden sky and  heavy industrial backdrop over the other side of the river, all remained fairly glum. It was iPod time.

The evening lightened my mood considerably as Kate and I met up with Chris, Gwyndra and old friend Rik for a chinese meal in Hull. Not having had much chinese food, two inside a few days felt a bit of an indulgence but I wasn’t complaining. The company was grand.

Stage 203, 16th October: Paull to Goxhill Haven

From the old riverside village of Paull it was briefly back onto the flood-bank before rounding the large heavy chemical works at Salt End. I then had to find my way back to the waterfront as the working docks of Hull took control of access to the water.

After a couple of miles along the A1033 I found a path back through the docks and on to one end of the Trans Pennine Trail, which then stuck religiously to the waterfront. Indeed, it stuck so well to the edge that at one point it even took me up and over the roof of one old wharf. Old quays and rotting wooden structures abounded and I had a suspicion that the disused West Wharf would be the next candidate for a makeover.

Redevelopment was again prevalent as I approached the city centre. Neat apartment blocks modelled on old-fashioned wharves and dockside businesses took precedence before they merged with the obligatory water based attraction of ‘The Deep’ and were quickly followed by the even more obligatory out-of-town shopping complex and leisure facilities. I sadly missed the originality in design and individual identity that towns and cities across Britain once had. Yes they may have been run down, but I would have thought the planners could have chosen more than one now extremely wealthy firm of architects to remodel the landscape.

Once I had escaped the anonymous facade of Makro, the vast span of the Humber Bridge came into view properly. Getting up onto it to walk across was a puzzle, but once up I had one and a half miles of tarmac clad steel across what was once the largest single-span suspension bridge in the world, holding the record for sixteen years. It is now only seventh.

I was now in Lincolnshire and in a land I had some familiarity with, having worked and lived here for a few years in the late 1990s. I had a pleasant riverside path to follow and stayed with it until a timber yard at Barrow Haven decided to close it for some reason. I wasn’t going to argue and couldn’t sneak through unseen, so I marched the lanes and cloying muddy fields inland to find Kate parked up in a very remote spot having had an adventurous day with a fallen horse rider, a cowardly truck driver, an ambulance crew and her nursing skills. I think she won the interesting day competition.

Stage 204, 17th October: Goxhill Haven to Cleethorpes

I set out at dawn for an early start back on a dew laden flood-bank and an appointment with former colleagues and friends at one of the oil refineries on the South bank of the Humber.  Ships were unloading at North Killingholme and the noise level gradually grew as I drew close.

I diverted a little inland and the refineries were, in comparison, quiet places even if their presence seemed more awe-inspiring and a little threatening with their large flare stacks, massive tank farms, miles of twisting pipework and gently smouldering chimneys.

I arrived at reception to be met by some old friends who added the now accepted sarcastic remarks about my lack of girth and enjoyed an hour in familiar surroundings with the huge and much added bonus of a very generous donation to my chosen charities. Time and time again donations have proven to be my psychological fuel and every one – large or small – has undoubtedly given me a real lift, particularly when the walking part is a little dull or lacking in “wow” moments.

Saying my thanks and goodbyes, I reluctantly moved on. The pathless roads around Immingham weren’t so welcoming and I had to keep to grubby unkempt verges to escape the huge number of trucks exiting the port for the motorways of Britain. Eventually I rediscovered the riverside which had now become a very long narrow concrete road and sea-wall which took me alongside further heavy industry all the way to the outskirts of Grimsby with its dock entrance tower dominating the horizon and looking a bit like the “Eye of Sauron” overlooking any who enter or leave the Humber.

The back streets of Grimsby brought a semi-welcome replacement to the smell of heavy industry as fish replaced chemicals in my nostrils. Grimsby soon gave way to rows of amusements arcades and the seaside town of Cleethorpes, a place that always raises a smile in my heart as a traditional old-fashioned and ever so slightly tacky yet charming resort. The end of another week was nigh as I found Kate parked up in a campsite on the South side of town. Our third chinese of the week was probably an overindulgence this time, but at least I managed a good ice cream for dessert.

Stage 196, 8th October: Redcar to Runswick Bay

To kick away the heavy industry of Teeside, it was straight down a smart new promenade at Redcar. Sue and Diesy stayed with me for a few miles as we dropped onto Marske Sands for some firm beach walking littered with ammonites and gryphaea fossils, a mollusc which resembles a rather ugly overgrown human nail and accordingly attracting the nickname ‘devil’s toenail’. With two ex geology students stopping every few steps to turn a stone or inspect a pebble progress was a little slow.

On reaching the pier at Saltburn-by-the-sea Sue’s rucksack was a little heavier than normal and she turned back with Diesy as I made my way steeply up hill to pick up the coastal section of the Cleveland Way for some great cliff top walking with distant views back to the small inshore wind-farm near Redcar plus the plumes of industrial smoke and steam of Teeside.

Once I was around the headland, the grim industrial landscape was but a memory and the cliffs now masked a history of Iron and Alum mining instead with only occasional spoil visible way down below or the odd deserted and derelict former mine ventilation fan house up top. Skinningrove and Boulby passed quickly with Boulby’s working mine a rare operational site and sight.

At the steep picture postcard cobbled streets of Staithes I made my way to the top car park for a meeting with Shaun and Ian from the regional Spinal Injuries Association for a quick photo opportunity and a natter. It was a briefer meeting than I would have liked as they both had jobs to get back to and I had a day of walking to finish. I suspect we could happily have shared a pint or two at the Captain Cook Inn if time had been on our side. Instead Sue and Diesy were back with me for the last few miles of anticipated fossil hunting but with the tide in too far to be able to roam the foreshore, Diesy was the happiest as we strode purposefully to Runswick Bay and the joys of our first rural campsite of the week.

Stage 197, 9th October: Runswick Bay to Ravenscar

Steepness was becoming a common feature again and the road down into Runswick Bay was one I was rather glad we hadn’t attempted with Snickers. This time it was a very brief beach walk for Diesy as steep steps took us out of the bay and back over the cliffs for my 4,000 mile landmark. In truth I forgot exactly where I crossed the 4,000 line. It had sadly become less important than previous markers. With the weather almost imperceptibly cooling and the nights drawing in, my first proper thoughts of a deep hot bath, a big comfy bed and a fire in the grate were pulling me slowly towards home. But with another 1,000 miles to go I had to stop those thoughts and just concentrate on one day of walking and maybe the luxury of one week ahead.

Sandsend saw a smattering of retired couples and families with pre-school children enjoying the gentile sea front and picturesque bay. Whitby soon followed with its reputation for fish & chips, kippers, Dracula, Captain Cook, a ruined abbey, narrow cobbled streets and gift shops all bringing visitors in by the coach load. Everything in Whitby was very pretty and additionally great for the sport of people watching, which is exactly what I did as I sat in the churchyard at the top of the abbey steps munching at my sandwiches. The only thing that disappointed me is that somehow I had missed the smokehouse and the opportunity to buy some kippers to make Snickers honk for a few days.

It was more ups, downs and cliff top walking with the added accompaniment of the odd sharp shower to the delightful Robin Hood’s Bay, the curiously named Boggle Hole and a last steep climb up to Ravenscar for a meeting with Sue, Diesy and a rear bumperless Snickers. Apparently “it just fell off”. Fortunately duct tape works wonders and no damage had been done. Note: Full detailed inspection later revealed that the bumper may well have “fallen off” in an earlier life. There were clear scars from a previous repair.

Stage 198, 10th October: Ravenscar to Filey

It was my last day on the Cleveland Way and more lovely cliff tops awaited. Diesy’s morning walk with me was a little shorter this morning and Sue took him back after a couple of miles to pick up Snickers and prepare for another end of week changeover.

After yesterdays showers, a brief thunderstorm last night and a bright sunny morning of increased foot traffic, the path was getting a little muddy. Steep uneven stone steps down into and up out of gullies and gills were becoming treacherous and progress was again a little slower than I would have liked. A heavy dew dried rapidly in the bright morning sun and walkers were out in their droves. Most were open to a “good morning” and a few stopped for a welcome chat, but some were intent on turning their heads seawards and pretending that I didn’t exist. A forced grunting response to my “hello” was the best I could manage from some.

By lunchtime I knew I was approaching Scarborough. The paths were now populated by people with less than suitable footwear and backpacks were absent. As the North beach opened out people’s waistlines opened out too and as I wandered around to the South bay, amusement arcades and chip shops joined the throng of now apparently enormous people waddling along the sea front stuffing chips into their faces. I like chips too, but it all seemed more than a little obscene to me.

I escaped back over the cliffs inaccessible to the waddlers and on towards Filey for a welcome day off, a rendezvous with Kate and an evening out for a couple of pints in a local hostelry and a huge portion of chips in the company of an old friend Simon who had joined up with Kate, Sue and Diesy from his home nearby.

Rest Day, 27th September: North Berwick

As I dropped Sara off at North Berwick station, I wasn’t sure whether she was going to Hereford, Bedford or Stevenage. I’m not sure if she knew either. Nonetheless, her week of support was a grand one and it was a hurried goodbye with deepest thanks as she rushed to catch the approaching train. This rather long walking project of mine had become a huge team effort and if it wasn’t for the support of friends, family and even relative strangers my effort would have foundered a long time ago.  For every week they have given up to aid my slightly selfish quest, my biggest hope has been that all of them had a bit of fun doing it and I think, so far, my hope had been fulfilled.

Old uni friend, Woody, arrived at the same station later in the day and the evening was spent having a good catch up with another introduction to Snickers with her list of broken bits getting a little longer with every new driver. We were probably up a little bit later than was good for me, but 30 years of absence do take a while to catch up on.

Stage 187, 28th September: North Berwick to Thorntonloch

Despite the late night, things had to continue and I hiked straight out of the campsite for a brief roadside walk to Tantallon Castle. With a rocky yet accessible foreshore, I headed down to the waterside and stayed down to walk along Peffer Sands before finally heading inland via a woodland track to cross my first River Tyne. As I emerged from the woods onto the drive of a large apartment converted country house I was challenged for only the third time of the entire trip. Again a polite and brief chat turned into a friendly encounter and I left to turn back down river for the John Muir Country Park and a meeting with Woody for lunch.

Dunbar and the hackers of Dunbar Golf Club came and went quickly and it wasn’t long before I met up with Woody again near my latest nuclear power station at Torness. We watched over the sea wall as a dozen anglers gathered to fish the warm water of the power station outfall. Clearly, three eyed fish were a desirable catch. But they weren’t alone in their choice of prey. A pod of dolphin were actively trawling the waves nearby and with their tail slapping antics we gathered that they were in full hunting mode. A fairly flat and uneventful day had ended with a spectacle worthy of the finest days. Mood changes can come easily sometimes.

Stage 188, 29th September: Thorntonloch to Eyemouth

The warmth of the morning sun meant that the day started as my first shirtsleeve one for many weeks. The sea was flat calm and the sky as clear as I’d had all year. Woody joined me for the first hour along the foreshore and up the shallow cliff towards the picturesque harbour village of Cove. With Woody turning back, I entered the village alone again. I made my way around to Pease Bay with its glorious beach utterly spoilt by the massive static caravan park immediately edging the sand. The bay would have been photogenic beyond words if the park wasn’t there. Instead, my camera stayed firmly zipped away in its case and I made my way over the hill towards Siccar Point.

Woody had reminded me of the geological importance of Siccar Point. In truth I had completely forgotten the place and as I diverted away from my planned route I didn’t even have a vague recollection of ever having been there before on a field trip thirty or so years ago. Nonetheless, Hutton’s Unconformity deserved a visit, particularly as an information board proclaimed Siccar Point to be “arguably the most important geological site in the world”. In writing this I felt an irresistible urge to describe  an unconformity and particularly why Hutton’s was so important. To reduce possible boredom I elected not to get nerdy or upset the Old Testament believers, but I’m sure google would give an answer to those with interest.

From Siccar Point the path disappeared. I was happy to edge the fields to find a track and good route back towards my original planned one. By the time I rediscovered the official path at Dowlaw, I felt I had forged a new and perfectly acceptable section.  The path was now well-marked and very well maintained, not that the Ordnance Survey people were aware of its existence enough to mark it on my map.

From here on in, it was a repetitive series of climbs over rolling hill tops with steep high cliffs all around St Abb’s Head and on to the very pretty village of St Abbs. The cliffs to the South of the village were topped with elegant houses and a child friendly sandy bay was still busy with Scottish Bank Holiday families enjoying what I suspected would be the last viable sunshine of the year. I made my last climb of the day and followed the cliff top for three more miles around to Eyemouth. The 4,000 ft of ascent had caught me out today. I hadn’t expected it at all and it was the first day of such magnitude since Morvern back in July. I might have been tired but the weather and the scenery had put today firmly into my top ten for the journey so far.

Stage 189, Eyemouth to Lindisfarne Causeway

The autumn sunshine continued as I prepared to say my goodbyes to Scotland. I made my way through Eyemouth and up alongside the main East coast railway line. The cliffs were gentle and very forgiving as I headed earnestly South and back into England after 16 weeks in the beautiful land of tartan and sheep. Scotland has always given me good memories and this prolonged visit was no exception. Yes there were some grim days, some dull days, some hard days and a fair few wet ones too, but I have no doubt that the section of coast from Oban to Durness had given me many of my best experiences and will probably, no certainly, remain firm favourites forever.

When I reached the border, the crossing was a bit of a let down. The sign up on the railway line was much more impressive than the cheap wooden path-side sign. So to make up for it, I photographed both (more than once and from several angles) and asked a walking couple from Cumbria to take my picture alongside the cheap wooden one. I felt they should swap sign positions as the rail one was probably wasted on the train passengers who don’t get to see their sign too well when they flash past at 100 miles per hour.

The cliff top rail-side walk continued until I dropped into Berwick-upon-Tweed and crossed the oldest of the three bridges spanning the river. I strolled along the promenade at Berwick’s suburb of Spittal and onto the beach before a brief cliff walk bridged me back down onto the sands for a long intended walk to Holy Island and Lindisfarne causeway. Sadly a river blocked my path and I ducked inland over the scrub and dunes to rediscover the official coast path. Snickers was waiting at the end of Lindisfarne causeway and was accompanied by a small gathering of people watching the tide creep in, all secretly hoping to see a car get swamped as it made a dash for the mainland. We couldn’t be bothered to watch the paint drying qualities of a creeping tide so we elected for a quick pint instead.

Stage 184, 24th September: Kinghorn to Queensferry

As I ventured West towards the Forth Bridge and Edinburgh, I had a suspicion that the house prices were creeping up. Burntisland, Aberdour and Dalgety Bay all seemed to attract ‘executive’ type housing developments, something I was glad to see the back of in England all those months ago. Burntisland had a typical busy town look and feel to it with useful shops and a buzzing high street. In contrast, Aberdour, though much smaller, was full of boutiques and the sort of shops bought as an amusing and often quirky pastime for those with too much money and time on their hands. It wasn’t full of butchers, bakers or candle stick makers. But if you needed a manicure or a dog groomed, you would be well set.

With my first sight of the oft photographed Forth Bridge, industry began to show its grimy and sometimes fascinating face. I stood and watched a metal recycling plant for a while, admiring the efficiency of the entire process from receipt, sorting, crushing, shredding through to loading onto a ship for reprocessing somewhere else in the world. I suspected it might be a highly profitable business and despite the noise and grime, probably an example of recycling at its best.

Having tried many angles to get a decent picture of the Forth Bridge, I eventually had to cross the Forth Road Bridge and endure one and a half miles of deafening traffic noise. With each step alongside the dual carriageway I found the grip on my walking pole tightening with tension. Even though it was only meant to be loosely carried in my left hand it had sometimes become a comfort blanket rather than a working aid. I also had a disconcerting urge to jump into the Forth halfway across. I figured that the many Samaritans signs posted on the railings for those in desperate need were probably more subconsciously suggestive than intended.

Leaving the bridge and arriving in Queensferry was a blessing. The cobbled streets tucked between the two big bridges on the Forth’s South bank were filled with quaint shops to attract the visitors and the car and coach park was adorned with my nemesis – a piper. Bagpipes were surely designed to hurt the English ear and I was happy to chat to the piper all day if it meant I didn’t have that drone echoing in the pit of my stomach. He was a cracking guy with an understanding of my English failings. He even pointed out that they sound even worse without the drone. A rare but not forgotten Mint Magnum was a worthy sticking plaster and it soon soothed my internal reverberations.

Stage 185, 25th September: Queensferry to Musselburgh

I was now following the John Muir Way for a few days and felt lucky to have another well-marked path. The Fife Coastal Path had undoubtedly been the best marked and best maintained I had come across to date and I had accordingly thanked a maintenance crew I met only yesterday. At first sight The John Muir Way looked as if it might give the Fife path a run for its money. Things were looking up.

An early woodland walk took me through the grounds of the Dalmeny Estate with its very grand house and well-worn cycleways. A quick duck inland for Cramond Bridge and a brief riverside walk to the village of Cramond was all I could look forward to as Edinburgh was soon upon me.

Most of today would be spent skirting Edinburgh. Much of the old city was inland and I was sorely tempted to drift away from the shore to explore somewhere quite unfamiliar to me. I stuck to my task and instead wandered Granton Harbour and the Port of Leith with huge refurbishment and redevelopment projects well underway, if not already complete. Throughout this walk, I have noticed how city docks around Britain have received huge recent investment, turning all of them into trendy places with expensive waterside apartments, bistros and shopping centres. Yet again and again I have also seen how this redevelopment is localised and that as soon as you round the corner towards the outskirts of town the scruffy squalor soon returns and that the ripple of development money has a real need to move out too.

Once the scruffy trading estates were done a short three-mile walk took me to the now seemingly trendy beach resort of Portobello. Having rediscovered the habit, a mint chocolate chip cone was a must and it did its best to dribble and drip all down my arm as I walked the bustling promenade in the mid afternoon autumn sunshine.

Musselburgh was less trendy – but hello – a golf course. I noted that the East Lothian district proudly displays road signs claiming it to be the “Golf Coast of Scotland”. I suspect it needs to argue that one out with Ayr and Fife first.

Stage 186, 26th September: Musselburgh to North Berwick

With another dry but increasingly blustery day, I almost flew through Prestonpans with the wind on my back. The decommissioned Cockenzie Power Station dominated the skyline and it’s demolishing was clearly imminent. With further plans for a another new energy park and the construction of even more wind turbines, I was beginning to wonder just how many of the silly things would end up blighting our landscape. Conversation with a local woman brought out a love for the old chimneys and a loathing for the dozens of wind turbines required to replace it. She questioned why on earth we need all these monstrosities when we have so much wave and tidal power sitting all around this island of ours. I couldn’t have agreed more.

From Port Seton I transferred to beach and dune walking across Seton Sands and Gosford Sands to the wealthy and tidy village of Aberlady. The rich bird reserve of Aberlady Bay awaited and would dominate my afternoon’s attention.

For lunch, I sat overlooking Gullane Bay watching eider ducks idly diving into the shallows from their sitting position atop the waves.  I could have sat for hours in the gentle warmth of the sun but the deserted charms of more dunes and sandy beaches awaited.

Considering I was still close to Edinburgh, the afternoon was very quiet. I paused again around the Briggs of Fidra to watch the sea birds dipping into the surf, but my eye was drawn to the gannets fighting the wind and tucking their wings in to dive repeatedly for their prey. It was another of those moments when I wished for my nice big camera and long lens to help me but the spectacle of the largest sea-bird in the North Atlantic more than made up for my inability to capture them in high-definition.

This had been my best day of the week and the stiff breeze had mainly worked in my favour to push me along towards North Berwick with its renowned and well populated fairways. I was in a good and slightly mischievous mood as I approached a carpet perfect and empty green sitting yards from the beach. I could see golfers queuing at a neighbouring tee a short distance away. None of them were looking my way, so I grinned like a big kid as I took a golf ball I’d previously found from the side pocket of my rucksack and lobbed it to within six feet of the flag. I’m sure the next golfer to play that hole would be delighted to see the result of his blind shot into the green….at least for a minute or two anyway.