Stage 172, 10th September: Spey Bay to Inverboyndie

With an absolutely stunning sunrise to bring me to my rather slow and groaning morning senses, I briefly followed the Speyside Way out of Spey Bay, through woodland and on towards my first of many villages and small towns of the day. Despite the gentle warmth of a light breeze and an easy sky, I was clearly not the most observant of walkers today as I almost walked right by a seal colony on the rocks just a short distance from the path near Portgordon. Their mottled grey camouflage clearly worked as they sat on the rocky foreshore watching me wander by as if I were the zoo attraction.

The Speyside Way soon deserted me as it headed inland at Buckie, a larger fishing town which actually had some semblance of a fishing industry remaining. I couldn’t say whether it was thriving or not, but – to be blunt – it didn’t seem overly busy. Conversely, the next village of Findochty had a very different approach to marine activity. The houses were brightly painted and the harbour had a full marina clearly trying it’s best to attract visitors and even the yachty types. Harbours were undoubtedly the theme of the day as each town or village I passed through had it’s own neat, well maintained harbour, some busy, some empty. All were clearly a reminder of their fishing heritage which dominated this area up until very recently. All, with the exception of Findochty, looked as if they needed something else to maintain their status.

A brief walk out of Portnockie took me along the cliffs to Bow Fiddle Rock. A spectacular arch which, to me, resembled more of a whale’s tail fin than it’s title suggested and in all ways was as grand as any other arch I had come across, including the well-renowned and oft visited Durdle Door back in Dorset.

The next four villages were all former busy fishing villages seemingly trying to find themselves again, but all looking a little downbeat. The unmarked coast path kept me happy as it dipped its way around the cliffs, sometimes edging the cliff top, sometimes tucking in underneath. With a couple of small sandy bays thrown in, it was beginning to become one of my favourite days so far. It was only to be spoilt a little when the coast path vanished at Portsoy and I had to take to the lanes over the well farmed hills to Whitehills and the stopover at Boyndie Bay.

Stage 173, 11th September: Inverboyndie to Rosehearty

The coast path that vanished at Portsoy barely made an appearance today and it was back to the roads and lanes through to Banff and the much more active fishing town of Macduff. From here it was Gardenstown and a reminder of the drab modern Scottish architecture which seems to involve a great deal of beige and pebble-dash (harling). The tiny village of Crovie tucked under the cliffs, it’s houses all in one curving single line around the bay revived some aesthetic pleasure but proved only to frustrate me as I spotted a narrow ledge of a path at the cliff bottom which had wound itself around the coast from Gardenstown. It wasn’t marked on my map and it was too late to walk it now.

It had become a common frustration in Scotland. Paths that exist in reality that aren’t marked on an OS map and conversely, paths that are marked on the map that plainly don’t exist. The OS maps for England and Wales have, so far, proved far more trustworthy. So much so that sometimes I wonder whether the same people do the mapwork. I know that Scotland has much more of an open access attitude, but I have found that open access doesn’t always mean you can get through without losing yourself in a bog, wading through head high bracken or scaling a deer fence. I have often ignored my carefully planned route and gone with gut instinct. I have usually been a good judge, but I’ve not always been successful in my selection and have had a few cross-country adventures which would have seen most people turn back.

When I miss out on a through path like the one around to Crovie, it really does grate. Fortunately, my lingering at the very similar but slightly more starstruck village of Pennan reaped the reward of a Scottish Rights of Way Society path out from the village which Ordnance Survey had failed to document. I readily admit to lingering in Pennan and indulging myself with a pint of….wait for it….blackcurrent and lemonade in the Pennan Inn and taking in a few minutes of a location used for the filming of Bill Forsyth’s comedy-drama ‘Local Hero’ in 1983. I did have some ice in my drink, it was quite a warm day and I couldn’t find a shop selling ice cream. So needs must.

Sadly I rejoined the dull farm lanes busy with tractor traffic with their grain trailers shuttling to and from the combines working the fields. If it wasn’t for Crovie and Pennan today would have been a very dull day. It was saved by a local hero.

Stage 174, 12th September: Rosehearty to Peterhead

With my planned route not predicting much fun I passed through the rocky shored Sandhaven with the village’s population showing off its underwear on the washing lines strung up along the seafront. The fairly nondescript local hub of Fraserburgh came quickly but just as quickly it gave way to the lovely sandy Fraserburgh Bay for three miles to Inverallochy.

Enthused by the rarity of a decent beach walk I checked my route again and decided, despite the possibility of getting stuck trying to cross three small rivers and a rapidly rising tide, on an attempt to get to Peterhead using beach only. Sure enough the rivers were there and all three required removal of boots, socks and a wade. All three were easily crossed and I had fifteen miles of unbroken deserted beach walk all the way around Rattray Head, down the back of the huge St Fergus gas terminal and to the rocks at Craigewan half a mile North of Peterhead.

It had been my longest unbroken beach walk to date and I’d barely seen a soul with the exception of Ian from Peterhead who was very successfully fishing for flounders on Scotstown Beach. His conversation was the only one of the day and a very welcome one it was too as we briefly shared stories of our common working life.

Peterhead was the end of another big mileage week with 142 miles covered in six days. It was to be Mike’s last night and we shared a fish supper and a wee dram to celebrate his three weeks supporting me in Snickers. With his long journey back to Exmouth starting early in the morning and a journey back up again for a holiday on the Orkneys in a few days, I did question his sanity along with mine. During his three weeks I had totted up over 400 miles and Durness seemed like yesterday. Things had speeded up.

Stage 166, 3rd September: Embo to Tarbat Ness

After an evening comparing travelling notes on a large Parkdean campsite with a group of master drummers touring Scotland from Ghana – ‘Kakatsitsi’, I set out for a lovely beach and links walk edging Royal Dornoch Golf Course and into the pretty, quaint and affluent Dornoch with it’s quintessentially British – oops Scottish – craft fair in the cathedral grounds. My pleasures were soon drained by seventeen miles of tarmac featuring a pretty dreary lane, a short stretch of the A9 over the Dornoch Firth, a fly by of the Glenmorangie distillery and a stroll through Tain. I then took to more lanes, ducking inland to avoid a very active bombing range with Typhoon jets circling endlessly and playing their little war games.

Eventually, I arrived in the very pretty harbour village of Portmahomack and spotted a sign-post for a coast path to Tarbat Ness. It was a rather lonely sign-post and I never saw another as the path was poorly marked and crossed another maze of barbed-wire and electrified fences with inquisitive cattle chasing me along the field boundaries. It might have been a fairly dull day but I felt so much better than yesterday as I met up with Kate and Mike at the red and white hooped lighthouse. Some things on this walk I have yet to understand and why I should feel drained one day and fine the next when I have no clear excuse, illness or injury still baffle me. I seem to have to accept that sometimes I just have off days.

Stage 167, 4th September: Tarbat Ness to Cromarty

From the “Where’s Wally” lighthouse at Tarbat Ness I dropped quickly down to walk under the cliffs along a low undulating grassy bank of a path topping a rocky foreshore. An utterly deserted stretch of coastline with nobody around at all, not a soul. Even the wildlife was strangely absent. The path lifted up over the cliff as Ballone Castle brought a sign of life, if rather a spooky one. On the cliff edge and restored to a private dwelling, it had tall off-white towers, tiny windows and a feel to it that suggested bats would be circling at night.

From Ballone the now track dropped me back down to the scruffy little fishing village of Rockfield, tucked neatly beneath the headland cliff. For the first time the often seen but barely used tall poles had fishing nets draped from them and a man creosoting his fence warned me of tripping over rocks in the next field. I don’t think he was aware of just how sharp his wit was, but his lack of interest in my venture didn’t tempt me in to a bantering exchange.

I continued under the cliffs for a few peaceful miles till the villages of Hilton, Balintore and Shandwick came and went in quick succession. They flew by so quickly that I barely had time to consider whether they actually had their own harbours and beaches or shared one between them. The cliffs then became inaccessible and topped with arable farmland busy with the sounds of harvesting. Thus I took to the lanes to discover that I now had to master dodging tractors as opposed to courier vans. Their tyres were much larger and for self-preservation, deserved the respect of standing well clear.

My only half-serious climb of the day took me to Castlecraig and a brief chat with a lovely woman from Northumberland who came rushing from her garden with two spaniels and an offering of flapjacks. I then dropped down to the Cromarty Firth complete with a plethora of jack-up and semi-submersible drilling rigs either sitting at anchor awaiting their next job or in dock at Nigg undergoing maintenance. A small turntable ferry took me over to Cromarty where Kate sat on the rocks to greet me on the slipway.

Stage 168. 5th September: Cromarty to North Kessock

I suspected today wouldn’t be one of my favourites and sure enough it wasn’t. Things started pleasantly enough as I watched three tugs pulling a large semi-submersible drilling rig out of dry dock and into the bay, but from there it was road….all the way. I hadn’t planned it that way as I had hoped to walk along under the cliffs towards Rosemarkie and Chanonry Ness. However, as I left the road and ventured down the hill through a farmyard and towards an OS marked pathway to the foreshore, I found no way through. The cliffs were steep and tangled with trees and overgrown gorse bushes. I had no option than to back-track and if there is one thing I dislike more than anything it is having to retrace my steps. With mood now glum the mile back to the road was in sulk mode and I gave myself one last lift by finding a path following the trickling waterfalls down the Fairy Glen into Rosemarkie.

From Fortrose I had the pleasure of a new ‘A’ road and the A832 would prove to be a nasty one. Much busier than expected, it also gave me little room to manoeuvre with high walls abutting the road surface. A cut away towards the coast brought brief respite and I soon returned for more of the A832’s pleasures till I reached Munlochy and my first glimpse of the coast for a while with an expansive view over Munlochy Bay. Lanes slowly filling with Inverness rush-hour traffic took me up and over to North Kessock and the end of another six days which had seen me cover 138 miles. Though it had not been all road, it certainly felt as if most of it had been and for that reason alone I was glad of a rest.

Rest Day, 6th September: Inverness

A decent rest day was sorely needed and was thankfully delivered. Kate did the food shopping whilst Mike gave himself time off from me with a bike ride down the Caledonian Canal and a bit of Inverness culture. A brief visit to Go Outdoors allowed me to replace my now shredded gaiters, though I resisted the urge to linger for fear of damaging my bank balance. A take-away pizza was a perfect end to the day as Kate shared stories from her mum’s week of hell house sitting for us back in Leicestershire. It appears that many of our electrical appliances no longer work and that the dogs have a penchant for eating art materials. I suspect that my bank balance may be due another hit.

Distance to Date: 3,387 miles     Ascent to Date: 441,741 ft

Stage 163, 31st August: Wick to Dunbeath

My first rather damning impression of Wick improved a little as I left the town behind.  The harbour, though a little tired and lacking in activity did brighten the place up a bit, but to be frank – Wick looked as if it had seen better times. 

My first ten miles took me around the cliff edge and across country. Having planned for a dry warm day I had mistakenly put a pair of permeable boots on my feet. Overnight rain and a heavy dew gave me squelchy toes very quickly, but I wasn’t overly bothered and more than happy to sit on the cliff edge for ten minutes to watch the fulmars riding the rising breeze  as it lifted up over the cliff face. 

My progress slowed as farmland became more prolific and well defined. I must have crossed a dozen barbed wire fences before finally hitting the A99 and another cut back down to the water via Lybster and a quaint little harbour with its own little lighthouse at Invershore. It was then back to the A99 which morphed itself into the fast and feared A9 for my last three miles into Dunbeath. I hadn’t done a twenty four mile day for a while and it felt a long one, but I was in one piece – as far as I could tell. 

Stage 164, 1st September: Dunbeath to Lothbeg Point

Today was to be a day of ‘A’ road walking and unfortunately it would be more of the A9 too. I was not looking forward to another twenty four miles of speeding nutters and trucks a few inches from my shoulder, but there were a few chances to escape and I would use every one, even if they did add both time and distance.

The A9 was surprisingly wide and fast for much of it’s length. The width was particularly welcome as I felt I had some room to play with if I needed it.  Nevertheless, I still took every opportunity to get away from the noise and avoid my own rising anger at any motorist who came an inch closer than I would have liked. Hence I dropped down to a very pretty bay with a fun and rather bouncy footbridge at Berriedale. I followed this with a couple of contour hugging walks around the occasional hillside and finally made my way down to the sea at Helmsdale. 

Via a local informant, Mike had told me that the beach from Helmsdale to Lothbeg was possible to walk, but that it might have some shingle sections to cross. Some? It was worse than Chesil Beach! All the stones (pebbles / boulders) were of different sizes, so getting a rhythm to my stride was impossible. The achilles and ankles took a pounding. After half a mile of this I decided to cross over a poorly fenced single-track railway and return to the A9. After a further quarter of a mile of a now narrow but ridiculously fast A9, with nowhere for me to hide, I dived back to the beach and grumbled my way slowly along the shingle. 

My decision was a good one as the shingle slowly dissipated to be replaced by a narrow golden sandy beach with firm dunes backing it. I voted for a firm path through the dunes and soon found myself shepherding an ever growing flock of sheep who had probably devised the path I was walking along but who were now scared to venture away from it for fear of a man with a bent walking pole and a silly hat walking a little way behind them.

I have never really cut myself out as a shepherd.  The lack of any vague form of intelligence in sheep would frustrate the hell out of me. This lack of sheep intelligence also made me question why anyone would even vaguely consider reintroducing the wolf to Scotland. Some reckon they would control the deer population and that shepherd farmers need not worry. But I tend to agree with Geoff and Lorna, who supported me a couple of months ago. They reckoned that the wolf would be much happier munching away at the leg joint of the slow, fat, fluffy, white pygmy deer who runs to his friends for nice easy pickings when even remotely scared.

At least the fifty or so grey seals I surprised on the beach made me smile. It took a while for them to realise I was behind them as I emerged quietly from behind a dune. But once they had sussed me all hell broke loose as they churned up the shallow surf to clumsily wallow back to the safety of the water. Once there, they all bobbed their heads to the surface and watched me with what I imagined to be a group of slightly irritated eyes, a little dismayed at having been disturbed during their afternoon doze on the sand. They even followed me down the shore for a few minutes, just to make sure I was leaving. 

Stage 165, 2nd September: Lothbeg Point to Embo

With another day trying to avoid the A9 ahead, I was at least glad to have had three successive warm dry days. I duly started my day continuing along the beach I had stolen from the seals yesterday. Crossing Loth Burn delayed my early progress but then the sand opened out and I had an empty sandy beach all the way down to Brora some five miles further South. 

Brora was a pretty village and I felt that some significant signs of wealth were beginning to make a reappearance after a week or so of absence. Unfortunately Brora also reintroduced me to the A9 but I managed another escape and took off down a track for more sand and a soft grassy path to Dunrobin Castle, a truly spectacular fairy tale castle and huge tourist magnet.

Golspie was only ten minutes away and I found it to be a town with its back to the sea. The main street was one street inland and the roadway abutting the sea wall could have doubled as a back alley rather than a well worn promenade. But then again, this is the North Sea coast now. 

With even more sand and a forest track, I was beginning to congratulate myself for avoiding the A9. But my first proper East coast estuary caught me out and I had no option but to return to the road for a few miles to cross the bridge and causeway of ‘The Mound’ over Loch Fleet. One bright blue Renault Megane driver chose his moment to overtake another car just as he was passing me. I only heard one of them coming from behind, but very clearly felt the Megane as he sped between me and the car he was overtaking. I’m sure his wing mirror brushed the hairs on the back of my hand. Hopefully he got sight of the very full on gesture from my other hand in his rear view mirror. 

Fortunately it wasn’t too long before I was walking back down the estuary with its mud-flat birdlife and nice quiet lanes. By the time I reached Embo my third twenty four mile day in a row had hurt a bit and I wasn’t in the best of moods for Mike and Kate’s slightly smug looking greeting with beer and wine in hand respectively. I’m sure they weren’t being smug at all –  it just felt like it to a tired and grumpy me.

Stage 160, 27th August: Reay to Dunnet

Three consecutive days of sunshine, three consecutive days of mainly road walking and I still haven’t fathomed out whether I would prefer rain for road days or cross country ones. Wet roads and traffic spray aren’t nice, so maybe I should just count my blessings. Nonetheless I was a little aggrieved that the scenery was now a tad bland and that a few sunny days over the last few weeks might have given me greater opportunity to appreciate the stunning Northwest landscape that I probably missed as I took cover beneath my blinkering hood. 

With each mile eastbound, the road was becoming busier and I took to verge hopping for the first time in ages to avoid the usual selection of speeding plonkers who are too selfish to slow down their metal box and give me a bit of room. I have identified a brand of person and type of vehicle they drive as the ones to really be aware of, but I won’t name them here for fear of generalising, other than to say that all the high top vans driven by couriers aren’t to be messed with.

Thurso was my first proper town since I visited Oban and Fort William back in early July. It felt strange and very impersonal to pass people who now avoided eye contact or gave any acknowledgement of my existence, yet at the same time the general bustle and the loud chattering cries from children playing in the school playground was strangely reassuring.

From Thurso, five miles of bone straight road over blind crested switchbacks gave me a stumbling hack through the soft grass of a narrow verge to keep out of the way of the peculiarly endless stream of traffic frequenting this remote corner of Scotland. Eventually and thankfully I dropped off the A836 at Castletown and passed through the ruins of the old flagstone works and tiny narrow harbour to cross two miles of sandy beach at Dunnet Bay. My reward was a very welcome tub of Orkney chocolate ice cream and a grand clear-skied sunset to finish the day. 

Stage 161, 28th August: Dunnet to John o’ Groats

With a dubious forecast looming, I made an early start back on to the sand and a cut across the peat bogs to Dunnet Head and it’s obligatory lighthouse at the Northern most point of the British mainland. The first of three marker points in two days was little more than a brief photo stop and a quick chat to two very friendly American tourists from Las Vegas who were “doing” Scotland in three weeks. I felt guilty deleting the photo they took of me on my camera posing at the lighthouse, but I thought I was getting a little self-obsessed at all these landmarks and that maybe the views are more interesting than my grimacing mug peering out from beneath a woolly hat. 

As I turned South away from the lighthouse, the wind strengthened and the rain began to catch up on three days of absence. It was pizzle, horizontal pizzle and straight in my face. All I could do was batten down the hatches, pull my hood tight in and put my head down. I spent the next four hours cocooned in my own little waterproof world without a view other than that of my own feet getting wetter by the minute. I was lost in my own thoughts but found these were mainly about how my clothing was performing and whether I should publish some kit reviews. Some kit was undoubtedly great but others were just not living up to expectation and the waterproof claims of my glove and boot makers were a complete fail! Scottish rain is clearly much more finding than the manufacturers’ test lab. 

Now and again the gusts stopped me dead in my tracks and it was an uphill battle to make progress, but after a quick break for calorie loading behind the shelter of a high dry-stone wall the rain finally abated and I could make my way to John O’Groats for a posh coffee with Mike at the cafe. Here we met up with two guys, Tom & Rob, from Derbyshire who had impressively just cycled LEJOG in ten days. They were collecting for the MS Society and were rightly basking in the post match glow of completing something well beyond my capability. With the appearance of a bucket of ice filled water for their end-to-end celebratory duty it dawned on me that I too had been nominated to join in the charity social media led craze sweeping the nation and do ‘The Ice Bucket Challenge’. Without wanting to steal any of their thunder I took my turn and opportunity to fulfil my challenge and to dowse myself under the well photographed signpost. Recent conditions must have toughened me as I’m sure it felt warm….as if!

Stage 162, 29th August: John o’ Groats to Wick

Though it didn’t feel it at the time, it dawned on me that John O’Groats was actually quite a big personal marker and corner. I had completed my own LEJOG and my route had been completed over 2,785 miles of my 3,228 total so far. For many John O’Groats was also the end of a very long journey. For me I felt as if it was the start of a very long journey home. As a result it was quite a depressing thought that I had probably already walked the most spectacular bits and that the journey South wouldn’t hold quite so much in terms of scenery. Hopefully it would prove me wrong. 

My next compass point came quickly as I ventured across country saying goodbye to the Pentland Firth and hello to the North Sea. Dunscanby Head marked the most Northeasterly point of the British mainland and I now properly turned South to walk along the edge of the sandstone cliffs. Despite the lack of a marked path, I stayed close to the cliff edge and watched the fulmars as they soared the wind around the Stacks of Dunscanby. The high cliffs were peppered with caves and arches and were clearly popular with nesting birds, even if I was there out of season. I reminded myself to bring my big camera and a long pointy lens back one day. 

I could have walked to Wick via the A99 but in keeping to the cliffs around Dunscanby Head I had nicely avoided a chunk of ‘A’ road. Unfortunately I had to rejoin it for a few miles, but quickly made a bee-line for Sinclair’s Bay and a stretch of beach walking. The tide was in and I found myself dodging the waves as they drove their way up the sand and pushed me towards the shingle of the high tide line. I passed a huge engineering project in the form of a sub-sea ‘pipeline bundle’ and marvelled at the size of kit they were preparing to launch into the sea to lay on the sea-bed and return gas back for us to burn. I then had a small river to wade, my fourth of the journey so far….I think. 

Off the sand, I returned to the main road for the last few miles into Wick. As a huge out-of-town supermarket loomed over the horizon a man approached wearing bright red gaiters and dragging a one-wheeled sled laden with kit. I had been forewarned of David Barnes. He had set out a couple of weeks ago from Inverness to walk the British coast anti-clockwise. I surprised him a little in greeting him by name and we stood to compare notes and chat enthusiastically at the roadside for a good while. He was carrying / dragging 50kg of kit, mostly fishing kit, as he intends to take two years foraging for food and fishing his way around the coast. If anyone thought my trek was extreme and that I had lost the plot, this one really must be nuts. Despite having some serious doubts whether he could drag that thing over some of the deer fences, through deep bogs or over some of the incredibly steep terrain that he will undoubtedly face, I wished him the best of luck and genuinely hoped that he was quick on his feet to be able to drag his sled out of the way of the courier drivers. 

Rest Day, 30th August: Wick

Last night had brought the very welcome arrival of Kate for her fourth visit and another full week in Snickers. With Kate having just missed out on my LEJOG landmark we returned to John O’ Groats for a more leisurely and almost languid lunch before spending a few minutes doing the touristy bits. We returned to Wick and briefly wandered the streets of town which were redolent of a men’s urinal whilst also retaining an air of former affluence. It was more than a little depressing even in the sunshine. In writing this Mike, Kate and I have been debating whether to head into town for an evening meal, but the sound of a man’s screaming coming from the direction of the police station last night added to the possible echo of two gun shots in the streets during the day might have swayed our decision. 

Distance to date: 3,248 miles     Ascent to date: 430,137 ft

Stage 157, 24th August: Durness to Hope Bridge

After my cross-country adventure rounding Cape Wrath and Feraid Head, it was sorely disappointing to have to get back to road walking. So to up my spirit I gave myself a small early departure from the tarmac and dropped down to have a quick look inside Smoo Cave. Sadly the photogenic waterfall chamber was closed due to a storm damaged walkway. Bertha was beginning to annoy me now, so I climbed my way back to the road and made my way South along the banks of Loch Eriboll with a metaphorical cloud over my head.

In truth the cloud wasn’t metaphorical at all. The sunshine that was forecast to dominate the day looked as if it was doing just that back in Durness and ahead on the other side of the loch. Instead, I had a nice heavy grey cloud hanging off the hill due West of me and the light wind was nudging it my way. It nudged a bit and stopped, hanging over me like a ‘cloud of doom’ whilst sporadically delivering its contents at intervals just big enough for me to consider removing my waterproof coat.

Coat on. Coat off. Coat on. Coat off again. After four or five occasions, any trust I had in cloud judgement deserted me and as I made my way North up the other side of the loch I took to regularly peering over my shoulder to try to time precisely when the next shower would arrive. I got quite good at it and could give myself a good two-minute warning to batten down the hatches and make sure I stayed dry underneath.

Sure enough, by the time I reached Hope Bridge the cloud had gone and it was as if it had never been there. I suspected that Mike, sitting waiting for me in his shorts, might not believe that I had a rainy day.

Stage 158, 25th August: Hope Bridge to Bettyhill

Today felt like my first fully dry day in August, even if it wasn’t. Checking back in my records I knew that it hadn’t rained on the 1st, the 5th and the 14th August. Apparently that’s a dry month in these parts. So it was another road trip along the A838.

With a slight tinge of disappointment at failing to find a good route to round the headland at Melness, I made my way up and over the pass taking as many old-road offshoots as I could to keep myself entertained. Much of the old road was overgrown and flooded in places and this is when I discovered that the pair of boots I was wearing no longer had any waterproof qualities in anything more than a shallow puddle. The uppers had now departed from the sole in a few places and I vowed to keep these boots aside for dry road walking days only until they fell apart completely. It looked as if two pairs were now assigned to the bin unless I could cheekily convince Salomon that their two-year warranty would get me some free replacements.

I dropped down to the short bridge and long causeway over the very pretty Kyle of Tongue with its grand views inland towards Ben Loyal on one side and the softer winding channel with wide sand banks heading out to sea on the other.

I stayed on the road to briefly meet up with Mike who was shuttling his car and Snickers by cycling back and forth along the route. By halfway he called it a day and left Snickers at the roadside for us to pick up later.

The road consisted of one slow climb and drop after another. Each one felt steeper and tougher than the one before. In truth they weren’t, but for some reason I was clearly tiring. The scenery had lost its rugged edge and the number of “wow” moments had fallen back as cultivated fields and gentler crags with low boggy moorland hills took over. By the time I arrived in Bettyhill I was already missing the West coast and this area also seemed to have lost its appeal to the band of tourists who had kept me company for the last month or so. The end of the holiday season was nigh, but I also felt that the beauty was diminishing too. It was a shame for Bettyhill because the estuary was utterly beguiling and Torrisdale Bay could easily have doubled for a tropical resort if it wasn’t for the lack of palm trees and a chill East wind on my face.

Stage 159, 26th August: Bettyhill to Reay

The journey East along a sunny coastline with very few accessible coast hugging routes continued. Hence more up and down road was my company for another day. The routine was becoming familiar as five long slow climbs took me over hills and down to another estuary with its understated rural hamlet. But very gradually the road was becoming busier and the terrain flatter.

From Strathy I was often passed by trucks delivering concrete to a new wind farm under construction nearby. I couldn’t help but think just how much fossil fuel was getting burnt in the making of the concrete, the delivery of it by truck and in the fuel tanks of the cars of the construction workers. It all seemed a bit barmy to me that, as a nation, we seem to spend a fortune blighting our landscape with ugly wind farms which are highly inefficient, unlikely to last and which will probably cost a fortune to maintain after a few years. Yes we live on a windy island, but we also live on a very wet one with huge hydroelectric potential. Plus, if I should forget, we also happen to have rather a long coastline with a fair few waves and two tides per day with huge power potential. I just cannot fathom why on earth we haven’t put more effort into options that might be a little more complicated to engineer than shoving up another dozen concrete housing estates for Windy Miller and his family. The environmental lobby seems to have created a knee jerk political attitude to renewable energy which I suspect will be a complete waste of time and money when we look back in twenty years time. See….I told you my mind wandered when I get bored with road walking.

At least I got an excellent view of the nuclear power station at Dounreay. It was probably lucky that I got this view at the end of the day as I approached my first open shop for ages. It sold ice cream and a Magnum Infinity was much more attractive than a one-sided debate on the merits and failings of nuclear power.

Stage 154, 20th August: Claisfern nr Scourie to Blairmore

A shortened day was planned to compensate for an extra few weather juggling miles completed yesterday. In other words, today’s forecast was worse than yesterday. I have often tried to take advantage of the weather forecast and lengthen or shorten days accordingly. The only objective I have always really wanted to maintain has been that I compensate to be where I planned to be for the weekend and the support crew changeover. So far, it’s worked.

However, rain dodging hasn’t been possible for the last month and once again I stepped out into the now obligatory light rain. It was entirely a road walking day and with only a couple of unknown headlands with dead-end roads I couldn’t afford to venture off-piste with the possibility of not getting through, particularly when the rivers were so full and the ground so very wet. I would have to do so tomorrow to Cape Wrath, but I couldn’t gamble with my schedule today.

The rain soon eased and it brightened enough to actually warm my bones enough for me to remove my woolly hat. The road was still open, empty and fast and I spent the time thinking up a challenge for the Top Gear presenters and I reckon I came up with a good one that Mr Clarkson would definitely lose.

Sadly the scenery was as grey as the featureless blanket of cloud which covered it and I felt robbed of views and photo opportunities. By midday the rain closed in again enough for me to don the waterproofs for a soggy walk away from the main road and down the side of Loch Inchard. The last seven lane walking miles took me through the rather downcast fishing village of Kinlochbervie with its oversized fish market, noticeably devoid of activity. The next villages of Oldshoremore and finally Blairmore told me that wilderness was approaching and you could feel it.

Stage 155, 21st August: Blairmore to Kervaig Bothy (via Cape Wrath)

My journey out to Cape Wrath was always a little daunting. My worries had mainly been about military activity on the bombing range up there and not being able to cross MOD land. But a check a few days previously had cleared that obstacle and now it was the recent weather which gave me concern. The overnight rain had been phenomenal again and I not only knew that the rivers and streams would be very full, but so would the bogs and marshes. With no marked paths to follow and a heavy rucksack to carry for a night out, I expected a tough day.

Jeff accompanied me along the first couple of miles of track North towards Sandwood Bay. When we reached a loch now overflowing and straddling the track, he turned and headed back waving me a farewell as I picked my way around an early obstacle offered up as an easy starter.

After a brief meeting with two German guys on their way out, who had elected not to go across country into the Northern wilderness, Sandwood Bay welcomed me with splendour.  I was alone on a beach with pristine sands to die for and the stack at Am Buchaille just had to get some photographic attention. The river flowing out from Sandwood Loch was a torrent and to cross my second obstacle I had to remove my boots and wade, keeping close to the sea so that I could span the flow as it spread out into a shallower manageable depth. The bay had more to offer as the climb up the cliffs presented more stunning views and I paused more than a few times to admire the spectacle.

From here the terrain became a little more challenging and with no marked path I had to resort to old fashioned methods of contouring around hillsides to pick my way around saturated bogs. I took aim for a footbridge spanning the river at Strathcailleach Bothy. It was clearly marked on my OS map, but in reality there was not even a sign of it ever having been there. The river was in full flow and I wandered up stream for half a mile before finding a vaguely safe place to cross. I made the last leap from a slippery midstream rock and crossed with only one wet leg to spoil the success.

From here it was a succession of tricky bogs, streams and more bogs to cross and navigate through or around. To add to the now soggy toes, I was hit by a succession of squalls coming through to batter me head-on. By the time I reached the track to Cape Wrath lighthouse I was close to exhaustion but also exhilarated at having made it through. The squalls gave me a break and I reached the lighthouse with dry trousers and a modicum of respectability. I was greeted in silent anonymity by ambling tourists plus Jeff and Jenny who asked what had taken me so long and snapped a couple of pictures of my bedraggled state before boarding their minibus bound for the ferry to Durness. They drove off and I was left to wander four miles back down the track for a night at Kervaig Bothy.

To arrive at Kervaig is to arrive in one of the most peaceful and beautiful places on earth. As I turned the corner down the steep track the small sandy bay opened out before me. Edged by steep cliffs and fed by a winding, fast flowing river the former white painted croft was all mine….and I didn’t have to pay a penny. 

I would have paid top money to stay in a place as gorgeous as Kervaig, even if it didn’t have a bed, toilet or running water. But it did have enough fuel for a fire and after a filling pasta meal I made my bed on the floor infront of the flames and watched as my boots steamed their way to sleep in the light of the glowing embers.

Stage 156, 22nd August: Kervaig Bothy to Durness

My exhaustion of yesterday had sent me to bed by sunset and I woke early. With first duty of the morning due, I opened the front door to venture outside. I was greeted by a pair of black beaded red deer eyes not a cricket pitch length away from me. Equally shocked, we both stood and stared each other for what felt like minutes. By the time I had the nowse to reach back for my camera she had gambolled off to join her friends who had congregated around the bothy and had clearly spent the night silently chewing the cud within yards of my oblivious self. With no sign of a single stag, I assumed that they had now broken away from their groups and were now preparing for the rutting season. Autumn must be approaching.

I collected water from the stream and after a light breakfast made my way back to the track for the eight mile trek to catch the ferry across to Durness. The weather was cool but bright and within the hour the solitude of last night was broken by the minibuses taking tourists to the lighthouse and a pack of cyclists on the last leg of their Dover to Cape Wrath marathon. The buses all stopped for a chat and Stuart, the driver who had escorted Jeff and Jenny to the lighthouse stopped for a second time as if we were the oldest of pals. Once again the remotest places had offered me the friendliest people.

After a leisurely hour waiting in the cool sunshine, John the ferryman took me and some of the clearly happy and relieved returning cyclists over to Durness. I briefly met up with Jeff and Jenny to dump my rucksack for a lightweight afternoon around Feraid Head. Please excuse me the nerdyness of this next bit: The geology had starkly changed the landscape and the hard Pre-Cambrian Lewisian Gneiss of Cape Wrath now gave way to flatter more fertile land of the Cambro-Ordovician Durness Limestone. The prominent headland of Feraid Head is comprised of harder Moine Series metasediments and is joined to the mainland by Scotland’s largest expanse of dunes and corresponding deserted sandy beaches. A high point cairn at the North end of the headland gave me one of the best 360 degree views I have ever had as the headland narrowed back towards Durness.

A few squalls caught me and soaked me from the waist down as I waded through the wet marram grass of the dunes, but with the squalls short lived and a good drying wind it was only ever minutes before I was dry again and ending the week on a high with Jeff and Jenny meeting me at the camp site in Durness.

Rest Day, 23rd August: Durness

With Jeff and Jenny on their way with yet more profuse thanks and a very long journey home, Cousin Mike returned for a full three weeks of further punishment in my company following an even longer journey from Exmouth. Having thought he’d had the longest journey to support me, he considered jumping off the cliff into Sango Bay when I told him that John D had travelled from Oman for a week with me around Liverpool. Nevertheless it was grand to have him back on-board and together we did some stopover reconnaissance with a drive over towards Tongue and he allowed me a little family holiday reminiscence from the 1970’s as we visited the Melness headland and Port Vasgo. Unfortunately I was due to cut across this headland as I couldn’t find a legitimate route around it, so at least I had a chance to see it for the first time in 35 years.

Distance Walked to Date: 3,125 miles      Ascent to Date: 417,718 ft

Stage 151, 17th August: Inverkirkaig to Culkein

As Jeff left the car park at Inverkirkaig and waved me off for another day, the heavens opened wide and a colossal  shower hit me full in the face as if waking me from a deep slumber with an ice-cold flannel. By the time I reached Lochinver the rain took a break for twenty minutes and just enough time for my trousers to dry out in the wind. Then it threw it down again, dried, rained, dried – and so on. In all I counted seven heavy squalls and three light showers whilst I was out, but on a positive note at least I could stay warm and get dry between them.

The path from Baddidarach to Ardroe was another purple heather beauty but also rather splashy. I had another muddy splash across country from the sandy windswept beach at Achmelvich to pick up the coast road near Clachtoll and my first sight of proper foaming roaring surf for what felt like and could well be months. I’d walked around most of West Scotland with the coastline sheltered by nearby islands or tucked up along the side of the deep fjord sea-lochs and other than the sound of waterfalls I’d missed the reassuring ‘white noise’ of big breaking waves. I sat on a damp grassy bank to eat my lunch and reassuringly absorbed the sight and sound as each wave crashed against the shore.

The single track road continued ever on and took me all the way to the Stoer Head Lighthouse before leaving me to squelch my way along a very blustery cliff top to meet up with the Old Man of Stoer. With the rain laden clouds looming in, I quickly took my statutory photo as evidence of my visit and cut inland to contour around a small hill and pick my way through the marsh and bogs. As I did so, the heavens gave me one last battering of the day. But this time and with a little help from pathless bogs, the elements won. I was officially soaked for the fourth time on this journey. Some parts of my base layer shirt were dry, but all other items of clothing, yes all, were best suited for a tumble drier. I’m not sure Jeff and Jenny were overly impressed at a bedraggled soggy walker sitting in their car at Culkein. But I was told that they had waterproof seat covers.

Stage 152, 18th August: Culkein to Kylesku

Today I managed a full ten minutes of walking without rain, but all too soon a heavy shower got me  thinking along the lines of “here we go again”. But no, I was wrong. The rain relented and my skill at battering down the hatches quickly to keep dry weren’t really needed as occasional light showers are but a breeze these days. Though talking of breezes,  I was accompanied all day by a very autumnal chill blustery wind that necessitated a woolly hat pulled down over my ears to protect what’s left of my precious hair from blowing away.

I completed the loop of Stoer Head and joined the Drumbeg road for a single track walk full of ever-changing views, perspectives and curiosities. At Clashnessie I had the double of a sandy bay on one side and a flourishing waterfall on the other. At Drumbeg I had open views across Edrachillis Bay whilst inland at Gleann Ardbhair I had stark hills and temperate rainforest draped with cloud.

By the time I reached the main road overlooking Loch Glencoul near Unapool, I also had a bit of a geological conundrum to get to grips with. How did a quartzite band end up sandwiched in the bread of Pre Cambrian gneiss? Some reckon it was a process akin to riffle shuffling a pack of cards when a huge thrust in the earth’s crust took place, others reckon some form of hydrothermal intrusion. Answers on a postcard please. In all honesty I preferred the sight of a stag watching me intently before my approaching odours had him bounding across the hillside to escape. All in all, it was one rather lovely road walk and well worth a leisurely drive if you have no reason to wear boots.

Stage 153, 19th August: Kylesku to Claisfearn nr Scourie

I started out with a few miles along the main A894 from Kylesku crossing the bridge which had looked very much like an alien spaceship when I saw it from a distance yesterday. I briefly came across Lindsay, who parked up and came over for a quick chat, as I stood by the side of the road responding to texts from home that had sprung through all at once as my phone signal kicked in. As we discussed my route ahead and made our farewells, I truly felt that another new friend had been made.

The road was open, wide, nigh on empty and ideal for speed. I suspected that Jeremy Clarkson would like this one but also rather hoped that he wasn’t heading my way. Just in case he was out testing a new Ferrari, I turned off left and took a couple of minor headland jaunts to escape.

First I followed the old coast road which was very overgrown. Though now only fit for single file walking traffic, it still had ‘Passing Place’ signs partly buried in the deep undergrowth which seems to reclaim our human laid tarmac very quickly. As the now obligatory heavy shower caught up with me I bumped into a chap taking shelter under a tree and out collecting insects with his trusty net as his steed. With my trusty, but now very bent, walking pole as my steed we made an equally mad looking pair and chatted for a few minutes whilst waiting for the rain to abate.

My second jaunt took me up a track where I was approached by a man in green overalls with three friendly terriers. In a thick Essex accent he warned me off trying to get through as the path on my map beyond the house was overgrown. Thinking that he might just be trying to keep me off his Scottish land, I vowed to give it a go and left him saying that I’d as likely be back in five minutes. So when I came across a lovely path, I began to believe my instinct was correct. It wasn’t. The path soon dissolved into thick bracken and a tangle of young trees. Though I could see a path of sorts it disappeared completely at a rather tall deer fence. Once I’d scaled this, the bracken was thicker and deeper and at one point I tripped over a hidden rock and fell head first into a thick bracken bed. I lay there for a few seconds like a helpless tortoise on its back. After a combination of swearing and a fit of the giggles, I got to my feet and scrambled my way to the lane. I might have won through, but I was glad nobody saw me win this one.

I had lunch in Snickers parked up at the campsite in Scourie. I lingered a little longer than normal and changed out of some wet clothes for an afternoon cross-country walk to Tarbet. Anything across country was now very wet, extremely boggy and also strewn with rocks and boulders. The terrain had become bleak and very barren. What soil there might be was thin and little more than heather and marsh grasses seemed to thrive. Every little crag and hill was mainly bare rock and the higher hills often bore the illusion of snow cover as the wet rock glistened in any stray ray of sunlight. By the time I reached the rendezvous point I was much later than planned and because a phone signal was a rarity I couldn’t tell Jeff and Jenny of my delay. They were a little worried and came driving up the lane to look for me. I apologised, but I suspect they were a little relieved and not angry.

Stage 148, 13th August: Dundonnell House to Ullapool

With yet more heavy rain overnight, I was surprised to see that the river levels had significantly dropped back . To me, this fact only demonstrated just how much water Bertha had dumped over such a short period of time and I was beginning to appreciate that even that much rain isn’t normal for this part of the world. Needless to say, more showers were forecast for today.

At least I didn’t have to start on a main road and I headed out up a narrow lane to cross the peninsula splitting Little Loch Broom from Loch Broom. The climb up the side of the hill and over a pass to make the crossing was a gradual but long one and eventually I left the road to follow a steep track down to the old jetty and former ferry crossing to Ullapool. At the bottom Castaway Cottage, now a holiday let, sat a little sadly among the debris delivered by a once raging but now rather innocently bubbling burn. The storm had left a huge, twenty metre wide scar of boulders, rocks, stones, branches, trees and flattened bracken, The stream now barely filled a few metres of the wound it had created. The damage around here was more substantial than anything I had expected and clearly the storm had been a very rare event.

The path edging up Loch Broom was marked on my map. It may have been a path once, but was no longer recognisable as anything quite so civilised and that was when I could even find it. It now comprised mud, bog, running streams and splashing puddles. Clearly the thin soil hadn’t completely drained and crossing some of even the smallest streams proved to be quite a task. Progress was ridiculously slow and the next two miles took me nearly two hours to complete.

Back on the road I soon found that it too had been breached by a landslip and water was still cascading across the tarmac as locals in high spirits exchanged deliveries by hand across the new gulf now marooning anyone on the North side of the landslide. At the head of the loch I turned on to the main road. It was clear that normality had resumed as the road was busy with trucks and heavy vehicles shuttling their goods to and from Ullapool and presumably via ferry to Stornaway. With the odd shower to accompany me, it wasn’t a pleasant couple of hours into Ullapool but interest was maintained as I passed another house which had lost it’s entire driveway, a heavy stone front wall and probably much of the downstairs furniture to another very muddy flooding river. Ullapool itself seemed oblivious and the trinket shops selling the usual mix of tartan bric-a-brac were brimming with American tourists being happily and probably extortionately relieved of their dollar.

Stage 149, 14th August: Ullapool to Acheninver

What? A dry day? Is that possible? Apparently I was due one and I was genuinely trying to remember the last time I had had a completely rainless day and was surprised when I worked out that it wasn’t that long ago when I climbed over the Pass of the Cattle. But to me it felt as if it had rained every day for months and I thought I was due a break.

I left Ullapool to great news from home and paused for a personal celebration by buying myself some waterproof socks to trial on some of my wetter off-road walks. The fact that my eldest daughter had achieved better A Level results than I ever did and had got into her university of choice left me proud, delighted for her, generally ‘well chuffed’ and ready for a grand day out.

It was more ‘A’ road for the first few miles before tracks took me around the estuary at Keanchulish and up onto the renowned Postie’s Path. Despite a sign warning me that I was entering dangerous mountain country I still hadn’t twigged that I was actually on the Postie’s Path until two rounds of Marmite & Dairylea sandwiches dislodged something in my brain as I sat down for lunch at the top of a steep climb. The path was less than eight miles long but comprised a series of spectacular views across to the Summer Isles supplemented by rocky scrambles, steep cliff drops, more boggy patches and the occasional landslip to keep my attention. Fortunately the streams were now nearing normal levels and were safe to cross.

I’d heard much about this path and the views over Horse Sound to Horse Island and Tanera More were truly spectacular. This walk was very much on a par with my walk last week into Lower Diabaig, though it felt a little easier on the ankles and knees which were no longer complaining. However, I did wonder if the postman who walked this path twice a week until the 1960s ever had knee trouble. The waterproof socks also got a good test and I can certainly vouch for their ability to keep water out. But they also keep it in, which isn’t great if your feet get a smidge warm.

Alec met me by car at Acheninver and he demonstrated his rally driving skills as we took a one hour drive to catch up with Jeannie at Unapool and an overnight park up outside their cottage. We had a grand evening sharing a hearty dinner and musical entertainment at the table of Alec and Jeannie’s friends – Lesley, Lindsay and their children Ben and Ewan. Even the thick clouds of midges didn’t get me. Maybe I am becoming immune. Or maybe they no longer recognise me as English as I’m sure the midges sole purpose in life is to prevent too many English from inhabiting the West coast of Scotland.

Stage 150, 15th August: Acheninver to Inverkirkaig

It was almost perfect walking weather as I set out for twenty four miles of mainly single track road. It was cool, but not cold. There was enough of a breeze to keep the midges at home and it was overcast enough to allow me walk hat free without the risk of sunburn on my bald pate. The only thing missing was enough of a break in the clouds to give me an occasional burst of sunshine to brighten my photos. Most of my recent pictures seemed to have the backdrop of a leaden sky and I suspect that many stunning vistas had been missed due to the inclement weather.

It was a long lane walk edging Badentarbat Bay with gorgeous scenes out to the Summer Isles, Lewis and Harris with far reaching views back to the Torridon Hills and even the very distant Cuillins of Skye. I had a brief escape off-road and around a small low headland with a two mile stretch of purple heather lined path from Dornie to Old Dornie. It was cracking little route and I wanted it as my own. Pete’s Path sounded rather good and especially as it would be around here that I notched up my 3,000th mile.

Old Dornie was popular with visitors out to cruise the Summer Isles. It was a sheltered, if not picture postcard bay, littered with small moored boats of all shapes and sizes and I climbed out of it to walk the tarmac again ticking off every white diamond shaped ‘Passing Place’ sign as I counted down the miles to Inverkirkaig. When the signs got a bit tedious, I ticked off the lochs and lochans instead, but the slog seemed longer than expected today and I ended up almost angrily route marching the last few miles into Inverkirkaig and a very welcome end of week meal with Alec, Jeannie, Lesley and Lindsay in Lochinver. Oh yes, I forgot to mention that it rained too, how silly of me to forget.

I said my goodbyes and profuse thanks, particularly to Alec who had spent the last two weeks suffering the musky damp smell of my boots and socks which undoubtedly needed a few days of decent weather to dry out properly. He had also got to grips with the vagaries of Fiat electrics and for once everything on board the bus seemed to work. We even had a stock of spares.

Rest Day, 16th August: Achmelvich nr Lochinver

A windy night had rocked me to sleep and then woken me at retaliatory intervals with a heavy gust, but in all I slept well and woke late for a day of laundry and various stuff. I hung around for Jeff and Jenny to arrive at lunchtime. They had elected not to sleep on board but to treat their week as a holiday and move Snickers along parallel to their B&B plans. It suited me to have some space and to be able to hang my socks up without too much guilt. I also noted that the campsite shop sold ice cream and because I hadn’t had one all week I might just have indulged myself with a good old-fashioned Mint Feast.

Miles to Date: 3,013         Ascent to Date: 401,218 ft

Stage 145, 10th August: Gairloch to Cove

With the tail-end of Hurricane Bertha threatening for later in the day, I set out under a blue sky and North along the road towards the lighthouse at Rubh Reidh. The Isle of Skye was now disappearing over my left shoulder and had been replaced by the isles of Lewis and Harris across The Minch.

The single track road was littered with camp sites and holiday cottages but with every mile the road gradually quietened and eventually became a silent and deserted strip of tarmac which terminated at the lighthouse. I now had to venture across country to reach the road on the East side of this latest peninsula and for much of my planned route there was no OS marked path or track. On the ground however, I did find a path of sorts and it went in the direction I wanted it to go. I doubt it was a man made path, but it suited my needs perfectly. It took me around the isolated beach at Camas Mor with its stacks and natural arches at one end. The waters were rich azure, crystal clear and very inviting, but the air temperature was taking a nose dive and I kept my pace in expectation of the weather to come.

From Camas Mor the route took me across bleak heather clad peat bogs via, what looked like, two very isolated but inhabited makeshift homes or shelters. One was a substantial former croft with a polythene roof and homemade windows, the other was little more than a shack on a rocky beach. Neither made it to my ‘must buy’ list.

The rain began to fall mid afternoon, gently at first but gradually harder as I met up with Alec near Cove on the shore of Loch Ewe, the departure point for the Arctic Convoys in World War Two. Concrete foundations and former gun emplacements were dotted around the headland as was a memorial to the thousands of men who lost their lives trying to get critical supplies through to the Russians.

Stage 146, 11th August: Cove to Laide

Overnight and well into the morning, Bertha did her worst. Our pitch in Poolewe seemed quite sheltered compared to many others on our site and many campers and caravaners were hurriedly packing away before Bertha could take their belongings and throw them into the loch.

Kate had forecast from home that things would ease around 1pm, so I hung around till midday before moving out. The drive back down to the headland to drop me off at Cove was a hairy one with heavy gusts of wind and the road awash. The small burns of yesterday were now raging peat tainted torrents and bridges were seriously close to overtopping.

As I walked back down the lane I couldn’t help but notice a huge plume of red sediment spreading out across the loch where one particularly large torrent of water entered the sea. I wondered if it would be even vaguely possible to try the cross country route I had ventured down yesterday. The bogs would by now be full blown waist deep lochans and the streams I crossed would no doubt be impassable. But for me the heavy Northwesterly wind was on my back and sped me down the lane into Poolewe.

The rain eased as I met the main road and crossed the head of Loch Ewe towards Aultbea. The evidence of the Arctic Convoys still haunted the water with the jetty of an old but clearly operational and well painted fuel depot sitting stoically at the waters edge. From here it was a brief inland walk over the hills, a drop into Gruinard Bay and a meeting at the next waterside camp site with Alec. Our neighbour on the site was the cousin of the vicar in my village at home – small world eh?

Stage 147, 12th August: Laide to Dundonnell House

The glorious 12th didn’t feel quite so glorious to me. I stepped out into – guess what – rain! It was very definitely pizzle again and lots of it. It was cold too. Yesterday’s high winds made me don my woolly hat under my waterproof hood and slip into my new waterproof gloves to replace my less than successful previous pair. Today I wore them again but only because it felt very autumnal. I had dumped my waterproof trousers as I had found them pretty useless due to the condensation and sweat which build up when you are wearing them. My normal walking trousers suffice in that at least they air-dry in ten minutes flat if the rain gives them a break.

So it was off and along the road around Gruinard Bay and it’s small island. The island was once contaminated with Anthrax as part of an MOD experiment and was abandoned afterwards. It was left forgotten by the London based civil servants and was never likely to be cleaned until Greenpeace dumped a bit of the island soil in Westminster and threatened to dump more in the parliament canteen. Needless to say – it was cleaned up. I never thought I would agree with a Greenpeace action, but in this instance it certainly sharpened a few minds.

It was all ‘A’ road walking today, but fortunately the A832 was only sporadically populated. It was apparent that the blue lights and sirens heading this way yesterday were to deal with landslips and flooding and that many drivers still held the belief that the road was closed. Yes the waterfalls were still very full, but they didn’t have the roar of yesterday and had clearly fallen back from their peak of 24 hours ago. Nonetheless the flow was still impressive and the damage was only just being dealt with.

I passed through a few villages with peculiar names such as First Coast, Second Coast, Badcaul and Badbea. I couldn’t help but laugh at the Gaelic spelling for Badcaul at “Bad Call” and thought the signage was just a little patronising. By the time I had passed the workmen clearing the landslip and mudslide near Dundonnell I had learned from Alec that the rain had been the worst in this area for 32 years and that in 1982 it was supposedly the 200 year storm. The maths just doesn’t seem to work. Either way, it was very much a storm of biblical proportions around here and what is more the rain was still sodding well falling!