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.

Rest Day, 20th September: Clayton nr Leuchars

With Bob off and away, I reflected on another week in the company of another stranger who had become a good friend. We had a grand week and his company was certainly fun and always welcome. It also helped to have local knowledge in charge of Snickers and I learnt  much more than I expected about Scottish politics, even if my Sassenach ignorance left me saying “pardon” or “sorry” more than was normal. He left with my deepest thanks.

With chores to do, the day flew too fast and by the time I picked Sara up from the station I was wondering where on earth the day had gone. Sara and I had only met a couple of times, so we too should be classed as relative strangers. But for me the thought of getting to know someone new again was no longer daunting, even if I did have to smile politely when she slipped the clutch on Snickers as we drove away from station.

Stage 181, 21st September: Leuchars to Crail

Sun! Yes, the big round yellowy thing was hanging in the sky as I took a pavement walk to pass a sleepy RAF Leuchars. It wasn’t a particularly warming sunlight as the air was decidedly cool, but it was welcome nonetheless. The airbase was very quiet, even for a Sunday morning. It was as if everyone was hungover and having a good lie in. So I crept by and headed for St Andrews and for the land of golf.

St Andrews was positively heaving with Americans wandering the fairway of the 18th talking animatedly about a difficult position Tiger got himself into and how well he extricated his ball. I think they were talking about golf, but you never can be too sure. I  stopped to take a picture of the 18th myself and got chatting to a group who were over to watch the Ryder Cup later in the week at Gleneagles. I have thoroughly enjoyed talking to Americans throughout this journey. They have always been enthusiastic about where they are and what they hear. I ended up taking their picture standing on the famous Swilcan Bridge leading up to the green. I declined their kind offer of a return favour as I tend to get embarrassed doing touristy things.

St Andrews was also full of students with maps in hand. Freshers week was on. Their confused but excited faces reminded me of my eldest daughter who was starting her university life at the other end of the country in Exeter. I hoped she was OK and sent her a quick text. She didn’t reply, so clearly she was fine. Indeed, there were so many people to watch in St Andrews. I could have sat for hours. But it was clearly obvious that the pretty people were out and about and that money wasn’t short in this part of the world. It didn’t feel quite real.

On leaving the town, reality returned and a proper rugged undulating coastal path came with it. I had little bits of everything: Small sandy beaches, rocky foreshores and shingle spells mixed themselves with low cliff paths. But one thing was with me all the way today and it was golf. Including the six St Andrews courses, I counted twelve today. Twelve within a twenty miles stretch of the coast? That must be a record.

Stage 182, 22nd September: Crail to Leven

Even more golf courses kept me company today but added to the immaculate fairways were a series of villages, all with their own harbour. I took loads of pictures, but knew that I would struggle to remember which picture was taken in which village. All the villages were pretty and all were competing for visitors. All were very tempting but none stood out as a favourite for me to dwell in.

The coast path dipped around churches, cliffs and rocky outcrops, many of which were inaccessible at high tide. The tide favoured me and the high path diversions weren’t required. Hence I mainly stayed off-road along that proper coast path again. Nothing really took my breath away today, yet nothing disappointed me. Everyone I met was friendly, yet nobody was chatty. There were loads of walkers, but no hikers. The scenery was always pleasant but not what I would call spectacular. Everything was just gently interesting. Maybe, just maybe, I was spoilt a bit further North and West.

Stage 183, 23rd September: Leven to Kinghorn

I was beginning to wonder if Fife could actually support any more golf courses.  I wasn’t to be disappointed as I woke to the metallic ping of a driver launching another white ball skywards and along the fairway abounding the campsite at Leven. With this apart, the sheer number and density of golf courses just had to dwindle as suitable links land dissipated with every Southwest step up the Firth of Forth.

I soon escaped the rather peculiar prison like feel of a campsite trapped within an unbroken chain-link fence barring access to a pleasant sandy beach below. The coastline was gradually but surely becoming built up and busy as the Methil docks with its huge wind turbine drifted over my shoulder to be replaced by the former mining towns of Buckhaven and East Wemyss. The prettier village of West Wemyss came and went too quickly and enticing sandstone caves were fenced off with ‘danger’ signs.

Instead I was drawn to Dysart, a fully recognised conservation village and suburb of Kirkaldy, with its elegant Dutch influenced housing on the sea front. The whole village was nearing the end of a five-year regeneration project and had retained a delightfully individual character in an area which was beginning to become a little predictable.

From Dysart I was soon around the headland and into the long town or ‘lang toun’ of Kirkcaldy. For me the town arrived with a huge flour mill at the North end and curved gently around a sandy cove with a familiar array of shops and amenities providing what looked like a thriving central amenity town and hub for Fife. It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t dull either and for the perfect chickening reason that a good friend was born there and that I might get a slap, I wouldn’t dare say a nasty word about Kirkcaldy. At least I got to see Stark’s Park, Raith Rovers football ground too. Apparently they play in blue and white.

Stage 178, 17th September: Inverbervie to Lunan Bay

The murky haar was hanging in the air again and seemed insistent upon staying with me. It was a frustrating view spoiler and with the frequency of “wow’ moments having decreased since I left the West coast, the lingering fog was becoming more than a little depressing. On the other hand my success at following the Nave Nortrail markers had improved with a lovely short-grass path taking me through the fishing villages of Gourdon and Johnshaven from where a slow climb took me to the cliff tops via a perfectly good closed path – “due to safety reasons”.

Sometimes I’m really not sure what safety reasons make you close an inherently dangerous high cliff edge path, unless a landslip or a rock fall has occurred or is imminent. I wondered whether there might by now be a sign at Everest base camp saying “mountain closed due to safety reasons”. Maybe they should install a handrail.

It wasn’t long before the now reopened path dropped under the cliffs for the rather secretive Sands of St Cyrus and a deserted nature reserve. Undoubtedly everything was underselling itself and even the attraction of a ‘hobbit house’ buried in the turf at the North end of the bay looked like it was hiding from rather than complementing the environ.

I then ducked inland to cross the River Esk and the port town of Montrose. The entrance into the estuary was a notoriously dangerous passage in the past with sand banks to the North and shallow sharp rocks hidden beneath the waves to the South. Another Stephenson designed lighthouse and a series of beacons were constructed in the 19th century for the ships to line up against and guide themselves safely into harbour. Additionally a clever system of launching a life line to any ship stuck on the sand allowed horses to attempt to pull a ship free at high tide. I thought it all rather clever and in a simple way very ingenious.

I was glad to escape Montrose and hear the sound of waves breaking and not the groan of human generated noise in the docks. From the lighthouse at Scurdie Ness it was back to the lanes to take me to Lunan Bay.  I suspected that I had once again lost the Nave Nortrail as I discovered Bob had walked a decent bit of coast path all afternoon. Hmm.

Stage 179, 18th September: Lunan Bay to Carnoustie

The heavy sea mist persisted and now it was supplemented by a good mizzle (not quite drizzle). Nothing to wet me, but damp all the same, as I crossed Lunan Bay to pick up the muddy farm tracks constituting a rather better marked Angus Coastal Path. As I could barely see further than the length of a cricket pitch, I could have been anywhere. Indeed, I felt as if I was back at home in Leicestershire surrounded by well-worked farmland with the occasional tractor with a trailer full of potatoes passing me by.

The tracks became long wet grass and I soon discovered that my newer pair of boots were now leaking…. badly. So from Auchmithie onwards it was another uncomfortable feet day. It was also meant to be a gorgeous cliff-top walk. The tall red sandstone cliffs were etched with arches, caves, stacks and even blow-holes all marked on my map, but all hidden in the murk. I could hear the sea below. But could I see it? Just, but then only occasionally.  My camera must have been feeling unloved, so I tried to capture the odd image when the cloud briefly cleared – but it was a futile effort really.

The fog lifted for a good hour as I strode into Arbroath and bought a kilogram of Smokies for tea from a woman who didn’t seem overly keen on serving customers or communicating with anything much more than a monosyllabic grunt. Arbroath had clearly seen some tidying up around the harbour and was certainly making an effort to attract visitors, even if the shopkeeper I came across wasn’t.

The path then followed the railway line all the way to a very middle class Carnoustie with its boutiques and smart little shops all selling things most normal people don’t need to buy on a day-to-day basis. By evening Snickers smelt of Smokies and was likely to do so for some time. They were truly great.

Stage 180, 19th September: Carnoustie to Leuchars

What no fog? No Haar? It might well have lifted, but the sky was still very grey as the Angus Coastal Path continued by squeezing itself between the famous Carnoustie golf course and the railway line to Monifieth and Broughty Ferry.

At home Kate had identified that the reduced visibility of the last week had produced a slightly bored tone in my voice and had set me a task of finding a certain bench at the library in Broughty Ferry. It didn’t seem the most thrilling of tasks and it did take me one street inland from the coast, but I duly obliged and it did give me something to think about other than the fallout from the Scottish independence referendum. The bench was worth a quick visit as the sculpture by David Annand depicting a cat disturbing a man reading a book was nicely done with a certain wit to it. I thought that it deserved a better spot than to be hidden at the back of a small library garden.

The last couple of months I had increasingly felt like a voyeur to the process of the referendum. I had watched as more and more ‘Yes’ signs and stickers cropped up in house windows, cars and fields whilst ‘No Thanks’ signs were notably absent. Yet conversations with locals were telling me that ‘No’ was winning. It had all been getting a bit tense and every time a London-based politician turned up in Scotland it only seemed to fan the flames and raise the passions of the ‘Yes’ voters. I sometimes felt intimidated by the Yes campaign but as it all came to a head I actually felt very sympathetic to their passion and to their frustrations with London. It had become clear to me that the Scottish issues were no different to those in any of the English regions, Wales or Northern Ireland. I was optimistic that the outcome might just bring the Londoncentric country to its senses.

Nonetheless some passions weren’t welcome. As I approached an electronically controlled gate around the port of Dundee. I was told that it was not open to xxxxing English xxxxards and that I could xxxx off home. I saluted him with a gesture well understood in all parts of the British Isles adding a few words enlightening him as to his bigotry and walked down the road racing through the outskirts of Dundee and on to the central walkway of the Tay Road Bridge. I knew the port security guard was an anomaly in this more than friendly country, but isolated abuse lingers and I was more than happy to get out of Dundee.

I was now in the Kingdom of Fife and joined the renowned and well-marked Fife Coast Path through Tayport. With a forest track taking me inland of the RAF airfield, I arrived in Leuchars with a heavy 137 mile week behind me. The last three weeks had seen me average over 23 miles per day and I was looking forward to a slightly lighter week next week….and maybe even the odd clear sky.

Distance to date:  3,666 miles   Ascent to date:  462,457 feet

Rest Day, 13th September: Banff

Having saved my support crew skin by stepping in to cover three weeks in North Scotland, Mike headed off on his long journey home with my deepest thanks once again. Ahead of me lay a few days of rather complicated logistics. After sorting out my chores and catching up on admin, I decided that rather than worry the best thing I could do was go with the flow and let the support crew sort things out among themselves. It worked and over the next couple of days I managed a good catch up with the West coast support gang of Geoff, Lorna, Sue and Diesy as well as Sue’s daughters Steph and Abi. To complete the puzzle, Amy and Glyn were to join me the following day and then Bob was to take over driving duties for the rest of the week. It all rather hurt my brain but at least I was rewarded with a rare but welcome bath.

Stage 175, 14th September: Peterhead to Newburgh

With the weather looking decidedly grey, both Peterhead and neighbouring Boddam were looking more than a little downbeat. The power station set them both off against each other nicely but also set me up for a lovely cliff top walk around the Bullers of Buchan rich with its dramatic arches and stacks. It was very much the end of the sea-bird season, so I saw little of the razorbills, guillemots, kittiwakes and even puffins that frequent the cliffs. Fulmars were still in residence, but I’m sure I would have been much happier visiting this part of the coast in May.

Amy and Glyn joined me just beyond Slains Castle and we shared twelve miles from the sand at Cruden Bay and across overgrown barely used misty coast path. Sadly the with the haar rolling in there wasn’t much to see but their company more than made up for it. Conversation was easy and time flew by as we took back to the lanes around Collieston towards Newburgh.

The evening was a grand one as I notched up my eighth borrowed bath of the trip so far with the added bonus of a spare bed and dinner at Sue’s place with Lorna, Geoff, Abi and Bob for company. It was all very civilised and warmly welcome even though I plainly admit that I have become more than a little attached to the comforts of Snickers over the last seven months. So much so, that I find breaking the routine to be mildly unsettling and a little confusing in terms of knowing exactly where I am and where things are. My long journey around a big island seems to have shrunk my world into a sharply focused bubble.

Stage 176, 15th September: Newburgh to Cove Bay

With Bob now at the reins we headed back to Newburgh and I ventured straight onto the beach to be rewarded with the sight of a huge seal colony whelping and barking on the opposite shore at Newburgh Bar. With the wind on my back, the showers that drove me down the beach seemed little bother and I thoroughly enjoyed myself as I walked through flock upon flock of gulls and seabirds all taking off with my approaching step.

I walked the beach with all inland landmarks hidden behind the dunes to my right. I knew that there were lines of expensive golf courses hidden back there somewhere, but as I had passed so many already I wasn’t overly bothered to miss a few. I was much happier spending my time strolling along ten miles of empty sand in the middle of a Site of Special Scientific Interest.

Eventually the sand had to stop as Aberdeen was lurking in the gloom. I made for the tarmac and the Bridge of Don for a meeting with the local press photographer outside a seafront ballroom. As I waited for the photographer to arrive I sat on the promenade eating my marmite sandwiches and counted 19 oil rig support vessels sitting at anchor out in the bay. Apparently it’s much cheaper to anchor out there than to cosy up at berth in the port.

With my ugly mug duly snapped, I continued down towards the harbour and around the quaint old cobbled streets of Footdee, neatly tucked in between the docks and the sea wall. The docks themselves were full and busy with their North Sea business and as I walked around to Torry the smell of fish became ever dominant. I was glad to leave the alien sounds of city traffic and industry behind. After my few months of idyll on the West coast it was a bit of a shock to my system. It was therefore comforting to be able to bypass Altens and find an unmarked path to hug the cliffs all the way to Cove Bay.

Stage 177, 16th September: Cove Bay to Inverbervie

Today’s route plan didn’t really excite me and the weather continued to be dreary if a little drier. It was misty again and with everything an even flat grey I knew that decent photos would be a rarity. I attempted to follow the North Sea Trail, part of the Nave Nortrail project which set itself an objective to have a network of trails across many of the countries edging the North Sea coast by 2006. It looked as if the project must have foundered as the markings were often faded or absent and the paths overgrown or non-existent. Either way, none of it was marked on my map and the trail only worked for me now and again and it’s reliability was beginning to irritate. Twice I got stranded at cliff edge dead-ends and it often petered out into overgrown bramble and bracken. It is well documented that I do not have a predilection for head-high bracken even if it is beginning to die off, so maybe my irritation was justified.

To add insult to irritation I had picked the wrong boots for the day. With knee-high wet grass the best the path could offer, my feet were soon squelching merrily and I was relieved to reach the roads around the popular Stonehaven and it’s attractive oversized geometric harbour. It was but a short walk over the cliff to Dunnottar Castle and a strange but welcome request from a Japanese tourist to take his picture.  It was then lanes and a rather dreaded foggy walk alongside the A92 to Inverbervie and a very tired but welcome evening with Bob and a lasagne.