Stage 142, 6th August: Applecross (Toscaig) to Ardheslaig

Though I had finished in Applecross village the night before, I was dropped off five miles further South to complete a short leg of coast I would otherwise have missed if I had carried on. It was also an excuse to look at a house I’d had the details of a few years ago and I wanted to see just what the location was like. It was rather nice. A private rocky bay and just yards from a deserted pier in a much larger but very sheltered South facing bay. But if I’m being picky, and I am, I wasn’t overly enamoured by the Applecross area and felt it a little overrated and given a grandiose introduction to visitors who travel over the Pass of the Cattle to get there. With its large commercial camp site it felt like it was trying a little too hard to attract tourists rather than retain its true identity. So I walked back along the coast road, around the red sandy Applecross Bay and up onto the gently sloping cliff for a long road walk North. The rain started and gradually increased in intensity but only as far as a heavy drizzle on my back. The rain didn’t really worry me but it did annoy me that the scenery was featureless, flat and grey. I don’t know if it was the weather but I found this part of Wester Ross just a little bit bland. Eventually I turned the corner and made my way East up Loch Torridon and everything changed. Though the weather had cleared a little, it was by no means the driving factor. The scenery just seemed to blossom with hamlets such as Kenmore and Ardheslaig providing a pretty foreground to the serenity of the loch and the ruggedness of the mountains to the Northeast. We spent the evening parked up at the waterfront in Shieldaig. Kate had seemed to developed a skill at blagging me washing facilities. Tonight was a special treat and after the tremendous shower at the hotel in Plockton a bath at the Tigh an Eilean Hotel in Shieldaig was tops. It was the first bath since Cumbria and I fully indulged myself with a very deep wallow. I only hope I didn’t leave a bad ring mark.

Stage 143, 7th August: Ardheslaig to Lower Diabaig

With Kate alongside me, getting my reliable daily weather forecast from home wasn’t an option. Instead I checked my phone app which informatively predicted “intermittent clouds”. With a forecast about as useful as a chocolate fire guard, I put my waterproofs in my bag with the expectation of wet stuff falling from the sky. My experience of the last twelve days had brought me crashing back to the reality of a Scottish summer after I had been so spectacularly spoilt in Ayrshire and again near Mallaig. I took to the road with the enthusiasm of a slug, but with the scenery continuing to surpass my expectations who was I to complain. I managed to escape the road for a loch side walk with the angular branches of Scot’s pine woodland giving a new dimension. Near Annat I passed through an area where work was well underway to clear the woods of Rhododendron. They were making great progress with chain saws, wood chipping machines and fires. I couldn’t help but notice the new young sprigs of Rhododendron cropping up with a smirky grin. Given another ten years I’m sure the area will be swamped again with what is considered an invasive weed in this part of the world. It was a brief excursion back onto the road through Torridon before a more challenging trek off and initially through the Torridon House estate. I had another minor skirmish with head high bracken and an invisible waist-high wall – I initially lost and ended up on my knees trying rather pathetically to stand up again in the tangle of bracken. Having extricated myself from the undergrowth I eventually took to a proper and very rugged coast path from Inveralligin. The path was little more than a goat-track and a mountain goat one at that. It became rougher by the mile, with uneven rocky ground, hollows, bog and a very steep section of high heather clad cliff to traverse. By the time I reached the path above Lower Diabaig I was exhausted but also exhilarated. It was a very steep drop into the tiny harbour village and I could see Snickers parked up and waiting. I had to resist the urge to hurry down as it was a serious rocky descent with more knee wrenching and twisting steps to add a little discomfort to the goat-track ones of the previous couple of hours. At one point there was even a rope anchored into the hillside to help me, but a zip wire might have been more appropriate. By the time I reached the bottom I had unfortunately missed my Kate arranged shower slot at the local restaurant but instead we fell lucky with a cracking meal at Gille Brighde and some truly generous support from the owner Aart Lastdrager and his customers. It has been noted more than once that the more remote I am the more friendly, supportive and generous people seem to be. I truly hope that genuine people like Aart can make his business work in such an idyllic and quiet location. For what it’s worth – he has my recommendation.

Stage 144, 8th August: Lower Diabaig to Gairloch

With Kate and Alec left to do battle with the rather precipitous road back towards humanity, I headed out North along the barren coastline with its carpet of heather and the craggy slopes scattered with glacial moraine. It was tough going but the goat track was thankfully a little easier on the joints. At Craig I passed a very lonesome house. It was totally inaccessible by road and not much easier by sea. I was tempted to nose around but the windows looked a little too clean and I suspected it might actually be lived in, so I kept going and crossed the river to follow the path along the coast. With my first sight of the sea a White Tailed Sea Eagle lifted off from a nearby rock and flew low across the water in front of me to perch a safe distance away on a cliff edge. Though my camera did record the moment, it wasn’t my big camera with a juicy long lens on it so unfortunately I recorded little more than a few pixels of the bird as it made its exit left. The sea eagle has been very successfully reintroduced from Norway with the first pair independently breeding on Mull back in 1985. Since then the project team has spread their work to Wester Ross and clearly its beginning to reap rewards for this truly stunning and instantly recognisable bird. After the eagle excitement, I looked over my shoulder to see the mountains vanishing into a thick mist of heavy cloud and calculated that I had about twenty minutes before the rain hit me. I wasn’t wrong but made it to the golden sand beach at Redpoint without getting soaked. By the time I had reached the road again it had settled into a persistent drizzle and the midges had calculated that it actually wasn’t falling too hard to be out and about, but felt safer under the shelter of the brim of my hat. I was aware that dark clothing isn’t wise when it comes to midges, but with them now using me as shelter was taking the michael. I decided there and then that if I had a preference for heavy rain or midges, I would take the rain every time. The road gradually became busier and busier as I passed the many settlements dotted along the loch edge. Holiday cottages seemed to abound in Port Henderson and Badachro and the main road into Gairloch was a few miles of hell to end a decent day. And just to add injury to insult, my left knee cracked into a very familiar sharp stabbing pain, probably as a result of the wrenching goat tracks followed by twelve miles of unforgiving tarmac. I limped into the campsite with exhaustion having hit me hard in the last mile. I was glad for a day off and even more glad to have a really hot shower.

Rest Day, 9th August: Gairloch With Kate sadly making her long journey back to Leicestershire, I tried to cheer us both with the promise of her return in only a few weeks. I don’t think I succeeded and as neither of us are good at goodbyes, Kate crept away early insisting I didn’t walk her to the bus stop. Her communique from the bus journey to Inverness airport suggested that the bus driver had had rally training and that she much preferred Alec’s driving on the road to Lower Diabaig. Life is a scale of woes sometimes and the next woe isn’t always easier to cope with. Alec’s wife Jeannie arrived early afternoon and left soon after to head for her week in a holiday cottage a little further up the coast. We would hopefully rendezvous there later in the week, that is if the tail-end of the approaching hurricane Bertha permits.

DISTANCE TO DATE: 2,895.6  miles    ASCENT TO DATE:  386,136 ft

Stage 139, 3rd August: Shiel Bridge to Plockton

Heavy overnight rain had left the air still and the hills draped with shrouds of wispy cloud. Loch Duich had a mirror like calm and I was half expecting a sea eagle to swoop down and take a salmon right in front of me, but maybe that was a little over optimistic with my enthusiasm for the quality of the light and the photogenic qualities of the loch.

It was pretty much all road walking today and the A87 didn’t hold too much excitement for me. But it wasn’t a white knuckle ride like many of the previous A roads. This one seemed to be edged with footpath for much of it’s length and when not, wide firm verges made the going fairly relaxed.

As I approached Dornie everything pointed towards the tourist heavy castle of Eilean Donan. The castle so named as king of the otters sounded a peaceful place to visit, but with a car park nigh on full and coaches welcome I skipped on by to let Alec and Kate give me the low down on its history. Apparently it had a complex history, but when I asked them for details to add a bit of intellect to my blog it became clear that they had only absorbed a few spasmodic facts but rather liked the one that apparently 2 McRae’s and a postman had managed to hold the castle against 500 Macdonalds. Beyond that they both suggested that I try google for more information. My only additional cultural fact absorbed was that apparently scenes from Highlander were filmed there.

So onward for my only other bit of culture for the day and the pretty loch-side village of Plockton……where Hamish Macbeth was filmed…..ho hum.

Stage 140, 4th August: Plockton to Lochcarron

Another night of heavy rain pounding the roof of the van two inches above my nose wasn’t great for sleep, but at least it was dry even if the clouds still looked very heavy as I left Plockton. The dry weather lasted for about 20 minutes and then the rain set in like only Scottish rain can. Sometimes it was light drizzle, sometimes even a mizzle but mostly it was lightweight drops falling in a very high concentration. Something I now call a “pizzle”.

It was a shame that the rain refused to relent as it spoilt any view across Loch Carron, any view back to Plockton and any view at all apart from the surprisingly high number of cars using the almost, but not quite, two laned A890 which followed the railway alongside the South shore of Loch Carron. The only joy I got out of the walk was my appreciation of just how many foreign tourists there were on the road. In my own straw poll league table the Germans were definitely first, followed by the Dutch and the Italians almost equal second with the French, Spanish and occasional Swiss and Danish making up the numbers. Americans weren’t obvious but were probably still trying to master a “stick shift’ on a right hand drive hire car and hanging around the castles talking loudly about their Scottish heritage to anyone who might be able to overhear. Only one hire car tried to kill me, but I never did identify the nationality of the driver. I hope they understood Anglo-Saxon.

When I eventually turned the corner and headed a short way up the North side of the Loch to the camp site the rain miraculously stopped and in the few minutes of warm sunshine I dried up sufficiently to meet up with Kate and Alec looking like I had never seen a drop of rain and feeling a complete fraud.

Stage 141, 5th August: Lochcarron to Applecross

With dry weather tenuously forecast, I made my way back down the lane edging Loch Carron towards North Strome and Ardaneaskan. It was pleasing to be able to see the other shore and the views gradually opened out and back towards Plockton and Skye beyond.

I rounded the headland to cut back North, inland and off-road along a well-trodden path over a low pass and down into Achintraid. The slightly foreboding but also welcoming Pass of the Cattle followed a thin zig zagging line up into the mountains on the other side of Loch Kishorn and when I finally turned the top of the loch I too followed that line and started the climb.

The road was heavily populated with tourists, some of whom clearly had no idea how to properly use passing places or reverse a car and as the pass wasn’t inordinately steep I was a little surprised to see some fairly abject vehicle manoeuvring going on further up the road. However, the views from the top were grand both back to the East, where the road itself made an impressive sight winding its way down into the valley below and to the West where the coast opened out to reveal Skye and the Wester Ross shoreline far below.

The pass climbed up over 2,000 ft and I managed to get to the summit in just under two hours and descended into Applecross another hour and three-quarters later. I had even surprised myself at how easily I kept my pace up the hill and happily sang along to my iPod without losing breath. My fitness had clearly improved since February and undoubtedly so from when I last sat behind my desk at work last year.

I arrived to find Snickers ensconced on a busy campsite and Kate and Alec whispering at my early arrival. Alec disappeared and re-emerged with three Magnums in hand. My choice was the mint one again and I had enough time to enjoy it in the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine just before the midges said hello for the evening.

Stage 136, 30th July: Kinloch Hourn to Arnisdale

With a couple of shortish days ahead there was no hurry to start early and with plenty of overnight rain continuing as showers my logic told me that every drop of rain that fell before I started was one less falling on me as I walked. It also helped that the drive back to Kinloch Hourn from our campsite at Shiel Bridge was a long one down the supposedly longest dead-end road in Britain.

The coast along Loch Hourn was inaccessible so a sharp climb inland took me up through forestry and across very wet and boggy moorland. There were plenty of full streams to find a dry route across and every waterfall was equally full. I wasn’t high for long and I soon began to drop down following the upper reaches of the River Arnisdale.  With every yard walked, bubbling streams, trickling gullies and dripping bogs quickly turned the river into a deepening torrent and I could see the track I was following wanted to cross to the other side. The point at which it decided to do so did not appeal to me, so I followed the bank downstream looking for an alternative. The ground was saturated and my feet were too, but I thought better of leaping waterfalls and continued downstream until the river shallowed as it approached a loch. Any thought of dry feet had long gone and I had little option but to wade knee-deep across the river to rediscover my long-lost track.

The track now rather arrogantly followed the river with ease and dropped steeply down Glen Arnisdale passing waterfall after waterfall until everything quietened and flattened as I reached the valley floor near Corran. The view back over Loch Hourn towards a very dark and moody Knoydart told me that I was no more than a few miles from Airor and my walk of two days ago. This had been a common theme throughout this walk and I was only now getting used to it.  Though it had often been frustrating in measuring progress, it wasn’t really bothering me anymore.

Stage 137, 31st July: Arnisdale to Glenelg

It was damp and miserable again and I was beginning to worry for Ray and Suzie’s happiness in having a week-long holiday with me, a cramped motorhome, eternally damp days and frequent midge clouds. However, their spirits were undoubtedly up and they seemed to be enjoying themselves eagle spotting and stopping off at every spectacular vantage point.

For me today wasn’t much of an adventure at all as I spent pretty much all day walking along the lane with only occasional forest track to keep my interest. I had a grand final view back towards Knoydart and Airor Bay as I turned the corner to edge North along the Sound of Sleat with the Isle of Skye beyond. Once the trees and headland opened out Glenelg Bay and its small pebbly beached foreshore tempted me down for a few minutes of beach combing.

I met up with Ray and Suzie in the village of Glenelg and offered to buy them an ice cream. Alas, the local shop freezer was devoid of anything other than a couple of unappetising milk lollies and a smartie pop-up and even I didn’t fancy that. Instead Ray and Suzie indulged me with some tourist stops at the brochs nearby. I couldn’t work out whether the information boards displayed at the brochs describing the life of the Iron Age Picts inside these conical double walled towers / houses was fact or merely a rough guess. I suspected the latter.

Stage 138, 1st August: Glenelg to Shiel Bridge

After two fairly easy days I was beginning to worry that I might need toughening up. A lane walking start didn’t offer much in the way of a challenge but it was only a couple of miles before I left the road at the small turntable ferry to Skye. The Lochalsh Way along Kyle Rhea to Ardintoul gave me the change I wanted as a nice marked coast path wound its way along the water’s edge.

From Ardintoul Bay everything changed. Ordnance Survey had a nice clear path marked on the map, on the ground it was very different tale as I attempted to get up into Ardintoul Wood. First it was thick head-high bracken underlain by invisible rotten wood and tree stumps. Next it was bog and heather, underlain by invisible rotten wood and tree stumps. Then it was just rotten wood and tree stumps but up a very, very steep hill and into thick, and I mean thick, nigh on impenetrable coniferous forest. My GPS told me that I had crossed and recrossed the path more than half a dozen times, but I hadn’t seen it so I climbed higher to try to find it one more time, only to discover hidden cliffs tucked away among the trees.

And this wasn’t the path either!

Eventually I found a path of sorts. In places it looked as if it had been used as a mud-wrestling ring and that they were trying out consistency and depth in each pit as some form of bizarre experiment. None was labelled, so one pit might be barely tread-deep but the next would be knee-deep, but the only way you would ever know was through trial and error. I emerged a little grubbier than when I went in and the forest occupants had undoubtedly heard some good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon shouting but at least the path eventually got a little better and a path marker even made an apologetic appearance.

I dropped back down and passed by another broch to reach the lane at Totaig and a cracking view across Loch Duich to Dornie. It was then an easy six miles East along the loch-side road to meet up with Ray, Suzie and, da daaa, my Kate who had made her way up from sunny Leicestershire since stupid o’clock this morning to spend a week embedded in my little world. I just had to buy them all a Mint Magnum to celebrate.

Rest Day, 2nd August: Shiel Bridge

A huge and well deserved restaurant meal with Ray, Suzie and Kate at Shiel Bridge kept me “busy” for much of the night, so Kate had a grand welcome to life aboard Snickers. Ray and Suzie departed South with profuse thanks even though they had only had to endure my close presence for a few nights after I had vanished into the Knoydart wilderness. So it was down to another day of photo selection, blogging, editing and shopping – though Kate did this bit – whilst we waited for Alec to arrive at Kyle of Lochalsh station for his second stint, the first being what seemed like years ago back around Land’s End.

Distance to date: 2,765 miles     Ascent to date:  367,000 ft

Stage 133, 27th July: Morar to Kylesmorar

After their hefty drive up from the home counties Ray and Suzie were now safely aboard Snickers. I squeezed my kit into my 38 litre rucksack for two nights in the remotest part of the British mainland. It was all expensive lightweight kit, much of it generously given to me by my friends and work colleagues when I left the corporate world behind last September. The waterproofs had already been tested many times, but the tent, the sleep mat and other bits and bobs hadn’t had a unified run out. Ray and Suzie headed out to Plockton for a couple of days peace and it all felt very comfortable as I headed out East along the North shore of Loch Morar, but it soon dawned on me why I had decided not to do the entire walk with a big rucksack as my hips began to ache and grind. I am not military trained, nor am I in my twenties or thirties, so simple daysack normality made a great deal of sense to me when I planned this venture. Today, with no vehicle access even vaguely possible, needs must.

It didn’t help that the sky was very grey and heavy with over-saturated clouds.  Even though the persistent rain was on my back, it wasn’t a pleasant walk. But as I began the rise northwards over the pass towards Tarbet the rain ceased and the landscape opened up and down the loch. By the time I reached the three house hamlet of Tarbet my hips were killing me.

I crawled my way over the headland for another mile to Kylesmorar and dumped the rucksack to look for a suitable place to pitch my tent. As I peered over the brow of the hill a house came into view and three people were sitting outside enjoying the sunshine which had now said hello. I too went over to say hello and was immediately offered a cold beer. Not one to refuse, I sat down for a few minutes to chat to the family on holiday from Lancashire. Edna their cockatoo then picked her way up my leg and sat on my shoulder. Things were beginning to feel more than a little surreal.

I made my way back to my rucksack and found a cracking spot within earshot of a waterfall and supplemented by the gentle lapping of waves on the foreshore. All was well….except for the midges! The little sods were everywhere and in thick clouds too. The tent was up in record time and my kit was thrown in with me rapidly behind it. A few dozen of the evil little mites made it inside with me and I quickly got a sweat on in a sealed tent, in the sunshine as the few that made it inside were disposed of. Up until recently I had behaved like a buddhist monk with wildlife. My footsteps avoided beetles, dodged caterpillars and skipped over slugs and snails. But now midges, mosquitoes and clegs were fair game. Soon the outside of the tent was beginning to turn black with a single but intense layer of midge. I cooked my dinner inside and managed to cool off by opening a vent, just enough. But as the sun began to set I knew I had to suffer for my art and get my backside outside for a photograph of the sunset. It was worth it, but I did ask the sun to drop below the horizon a little quicker than usual tonight.

Stage 134, 28th July: Kylesmorar to Inverie (twice)

Morning didn’t bring a huge respite from the midges, but gave me enough of a window to break camp, appreciate the beauty of my camp site a little and make my way back towards Tarbet for a ferry across to Knoydart. During my scuffle with the midges I had managed to shorten my rucksack and felt a complete idiot for not adjusting it properly yesterday. My hips breathed a sigh of relief.

As I dropped back down into Tarbet a wild sounding woman on horseback approached with two photographers edging up the other side of a small field. I sat down on the slipway as she dismounted the horse and the men called it for an arty  snap as it galloped towards them over the field. The photographers then vanished into a farmhouse and the now horseless woman offered me inside for a cup of tea. I followed Mandy into the kitchen as she loudly scolded two misbehaving dogs. I found the two photographers now sitting silently at their macbooks feverishly responding to emails as Mandy and I chatted not three feet away. I left them a couple of my calling cards, but they barely said a word as London and possibly Cameron Mackintosh, the estate owner, was beckoning. I thought it all a little sad that in such an idyllic remote place they had to spend their time dictated to by London pace but I was tempted to play them my daughter’s singing on my iPod to see if she could get a starring role in a West End show.

I wandered around Tarbet in its entirety in two minutes and chatted to two locals who made up the other residents of the hamlet. We passed a few minutes with idle conversation as I kept them from their work and we watched two children of one of them messing about in an inflatable kayak in the bay. Minor panic set in when the little girl fell in, but her brother who had, till then, been successfully winding her up, rescued her with little fuss.

The Post Ferry sped me across to Knoydart. It was an unplanned ferry but one that met my rules and I had decided to take after conversation with Tommy the Knoydart based ranger advising me that there really wasn’t an easy safe route around from Kylesmorar, especially with a big rucksack.

I arrived in Inverie, the only significant village on the Knoydart peninsula. I strolled down the sole tarmac road with advanced warning from Twitter that they were expecting me. The door of the Tea Room welcomed me with a hand written sign in the window and I walked in to thank them. Free lunch was offered and I gladly accepted a haggis and cheese sub and a cup of tea. I sat outside in the lunchtime warmth to eat and Mark introduced himself as the chef at The Old Forge just down the road. We chatted about my walk and how he, a Black Country man, had found his way to Knoydart. We even managed to talk about something I hadn’t talked about in ages, cricket. Tommy the ranger then turned up and we all discussed where I could spend the night. Tommy offered his garden in Airor but also suggested the bunkhouse down the road. As I wandered off to empty my rucksack Mark, having discussed something with Tommy, called after me and I now had free bed and board for the night nearby. Wow – how was that for a fantastic welcome.

It was now nearly 3:30pm and I still wanted to walk the fourteen mile loop up the West coast of Knoydart to Airor and Inverguseran. I marched out with a happy stride and was back in the pub at The Old Forge by 8pm. Even the portion of fish and chips was too big for me and this was the first meal to beat my appetite so far this year. I might have sunk a pint or two more than I normally would but conversation with the locals was easy and very welcoming and if it wasn’t for the heavy walk out of Knoydart in the morning I could have sunk a few more. A good day, a good night.

Stage 135, 29th July: Inverie to Kinloch Hourn

After saying my thanks and goodbyes to Mark, I felt a desire to do the same with the ladies at the Tea Room. I popped in for a quick sausage and egg roll and reluctantly made my way out into the drizzle and midges about half past ten. The people of Knoydart had all proven themselves to be incredibly welcoming and generous and so it would prove with the donations that appeared on my virgin money giving page over the coming days.

I headed up the Inverie River to Loch an Dubh-Lochain with a now comfortably adjusted rucksack. The clouds were still very heavy and draped themselves over every mountain top in sight. The waterfalls were full and the path was sodden, but my spirits were great as I climbed 1,500ft up and over the pass heading North for Barrisdale Bay. I met more people walking into Knoydart than I had expected and despite the weather, all were more than happy to spend a few minutes chatting.

Once down into Barrisdale Bay the clouds parted and the bay shone with dappled sunlight. I headed East along Loch Hourn and Loch Beag with three small but tough climbs to finish the day. By the time I heard Ray calling out my name over the loch I was glad to find familiar comfort. The day had been a hardcore walk over rough ground, bog, mud, across streams and had a fair few steep climbs and stunning views. It was undoubtedly easier than many walks I had completed early in Cornwall but it had it all and now ranks as one of my best walks to date and the three days together as one of, if not the, highlight of my journey so far.

Stage 130, 23rd July: Dorlin to Alisary

My mistake late yesterday afternoon had identified that the ‘Silver Walk’ coast path was actually open and did not end up in the middle of nowhere as my OS map indicated. So I decided not to continue my route along the road and instead go back and start the path again. Geoff, Lorna and Cally dropped me off at Castle Tioram and I made my way along the path hugging the rock face. It was a juicy up and down scramble over and under fallen trees, around rocky outcrops and though muddy stream crossings and it was enough to raise my heart beat above its normal road-plodding rate.

It was very warm and the air was completely still. I soon had a good sweat on and as I wasn’t being dripped on from the heavens, I counted my blessings. It was by far and away the warmest day of the year so far and if my forecast from home was right as usual then I knew more was to come.

Eventually I rejoined the main A861 for eleven miles of hot black tarmac. By the time I reached Glenuig I was really looking forward to a pit stop for a cold drink and an ice cream. But it was a Wednesday, my luck was out and it was closed. Likewise I could see snickers parked up from the previous night and only a few yards away. It too was closed and  locked up, so I couldn’t even raid the fridge. Hence, it was back to the black stuff and a bit of dodging in and out of the shade for a bit of respite as I made my way North along the shore of Loch Ailort. Geoff met me at Alisary with a cold can in his hands. He was becoming a very good bloke to know.

Stage 131, 24th July: Alisary to Arisaig

After a sticky and muggy night in the van an even warmer day greeted me. This was undoubtedly going to be the hottest day of the year and if the temperature didn’t quite reach thirty degrees, it certainly felt like it. Was this really Northwest Scotland? To compensate and with a very short day originally planned for the 25th, I decided I would even out the next two days and thus chop the mileage down today.

As I set out I could almost feel the tarmac temperature rising minute by minute through the soles of my boots. My feet were beginning to cook nicely. Though not hugely busy, it was a good stretch of ‘A’ road for a while and when there were no cars, vans, coaches or trucks to insult my ears there were very few sounds above those of my footsteps and a rhythmic squeak in my rucksack. I couldn’t listen to my iPod or radio, as I needed to listen out for approaching traffic. But the silence was broken by the eerie creaks and groans of the steel roadside armco barrier as it expanded with the heat supplemented by the tiny electrical snaps of gorse seed-pods popping open.

At Borrodale I escaped the road for some woodland shade and a few miles of track. I missed out the headland at Ardnish as it only seemed to have one way in and out and backtracking is not something that felt like fun today. Geoff and Lorna would later tell me that I had missed one of the best beaches in Scotland……damn! So I emerged at Arisaig for an early day and a village overrun with visitors. Though Lorna declined my offer, it was definitely time to buy Geoff a Magnum whilst I indulged myself with another pot of Mackie’s Honeycomb. If I had been ten minutes later the shop freezer would have been empty, so my luck was in today.

Stage 132, 25th July: Arisaig to Mallaig

The baking weather continued but, unless I was acclimatising myself to the Scottish tropics, it felt a little cooler today. I walked out of Arisaig and around the Keppoch headland trying to follow a little-used but OS marked path. I found it, lost it, found it, lost it, found it again and then lost it completely as I zig-zagged my way through trees, bracken and scrub before eventually emerging in a deep boggy field edged with a barbed wire fence too flimsy to climb and too well barbed to deter straddling. I walked up and down the fence line like a caged tiger looking for a way out without putting sharp rusty wire into my groin. I made the road intact and raised my arms in disbelief as I found the path emerging less than a hundred yards from where I had made my escape. I was discovering that OS maps aren’t always as accurate as I once thought.

At Traigh, I caught Geoff affably chatting, as oft is his want, to two old golfers as he teed off on a cracking little 9-hole links course. I would liked to have swapped places for a round myself but my handicap would probably double the par score these days. It was then more road and more road to Morar and Mallaig. The area was positively heaving with visitors and was very different to the wilds of Morvern and Ardnamurchan. It was dotted with campsites all displaying ‘site full’ signs and the roadside verges along the water’s edge were lined with campervans. Foreign voices dominated, but as there were no sunbeds for the Germans to reserve, it seemed to retain an air of peaceful respectability in an area of sandy coves and family safe shallows.

I stopped in Mallaig and dodged the American tourists lingering for a ride on the Hogwarts Express. I had a quick Mint Magnum which almost melted in the queue to pay and made my way around the harbour to the end of the road and a meeting with Geoff, Lorna and a friendly patterdale terrier. It was a warm evening sitting on the harbour edge with fish and chips and a Mackie’s Toffee Apple cone. A lone sky rat watched me with its beady eyes, but my chips and ice cream stayed safe.

Rest Day, 26th July: Nr Arisaig

After a grand evening with Geoff and Lorna, it was time to say another thankful goodbye. They undoubtedly had the best week of weather so far and now rain was in the air. I had made two more new friends and had thoroughly enjoyed their company, their generosity and their enthusiasm. They headed off for a night of hotel luxury nearby as the heavens opened and I finished my laundry to wait for Ray and Susie to arrive.

Rest Days, 19th & 20th July: Kilchoan

I had always planned to have an extra day off in West Ardnamurchan. Not only is it my favourite place on earth (so far), but – if you allow me to sound pretentious for a second – it’s also my spiritual home. I have spent many happy days up here either with my family or as a student performing geological mapping, utilising my very own “guesstimate and wing-it” methodology.

With Sue and Diesy handing over to Geoff and Lorna this weekend, I left the handover logistics to them to suit their needs. Hence Sue and Diesy stayed an extra day to wait for Geoff to pick up Sue’s car in Onich on the way over late on Sunday. So unfortunately a wet Saturday saw Sue and Diesy increasingly tapping their feet as the weekly chores of blogging, tidying, uploading photos and route planning dominated the weekend.

At one point during a brief lull in the rain we spotted what was quite clearly a geology student sitting on a wet outcrop in the field behind the campsite. A quick chat over the fence established our early judgement to be a correct one and we discovered that a group from Aberdeen University were staying in the village. We arranged to meet up in the pub that evening.

Hugh, Lindsey and James were there as promised and were joined by Hamza Yassin, a wildlife photographer working on the estate. We chatted about the vagaries of geological mapping techniques and I equally lingered on the topic of wildlife photography as Hamza showed us some of the most stunning wildlife photos I had seen in a very long time. A grand evening in grand company.

Sunday saw yet more chores to catch up with, though mainly involved the frustrating process of trying to route plan online via a pathetic internet connection. I nipped up to the village to use the showers and bumped into Hamza again whilst waiting for a vacant cubicle.

That evening Geoff and Lorna arrived with their labrador Cally. We all took the dogs down to Mingary Pier and…..bumped into Hamza again. Hamza has an incredibly enthusiastic and colourful personality. His Sudanese origins, Northamptonshire accent and matted dreadlocks didn’t easily pigeon-hole him at all. But his bubbly personality and passion for zoology and photography was infectious. Geoff and I stayed for some considerable time leaning up against the pier waiting room wall chatting idly till dusk.

Stage 128, 21st July: Kilchoan to Achateny

A beautiful warm day for a beautiful walk as Sue and Diesy joined me for the morning. As we walked up the Pier Road into Kilchoan, Hamza drove up and stopped to say goodbye, his regular appearances were beginning to feel like a scene from Hamish Macbeth.

On the road to the lighthouse and my second compass point target of the Western most point of the British mainland, we spotted a Golden Eagle soaring up and riding the thermals, seemingly circling us in a half-mile radius. We met up with Geoff and Lorna at the lighthouse and Geoff handed out some raspberries as Lorna bought me a tub of Mackie’s Honeycomb ice cream to celebrate. I had celebrated my South compass point with Sharpie. I had shared Land’s End with Alec, Graham and Sara and now the West too was shared with friends and I lingered for a while trying to get a decent photo of the lighthouse which didn’t repeat anything I had taken on previous visits.

Next, it was onwards and off-road across the small white sandy bay of Bay Macneil, through the pretty hamlet of Portuairk and up and over a small pass to cross the best beach I had seen so far at Sanna Bay. I might be biased but Sanna is just gorgeous. The soft white sand is usually wind-swept and devoid of people but today it was positively heaving with nearly a dozen families spread across its entire length. It was as busy as I had ever seen it, yet still blissfully quiet. Its crystal clear turquoise waters could easily have doubled for a top Caribbean resort if it wasn’t for the fact that the water temperature is conducive to hypothermia and shrivelled extremities.

I sat with Geoff, Lorna and Sue to eat my marmite and dairylea sandwiches as Diesy stared me out with food love and Cally roamed the beach searching for food among the families settled along the dune line. I left them all to it and said my goodbyes to Sue and Diesy who were heading home with my sincere thanks for another week of great support and headed off over the dunes for the heather and bogs of the barren North Ardnamurchan coastline track to Fascadale and Achateny.

The evening was spent introducing Geoff to the herd of Red Deer at Braehouse and whale watching at sunset at the lighthouse. Geoff’s record with wildlife is apparently legendary in his village and for the first time the Red Deer were absent and despite the mill-pond waters around the lighthouse, our sightings consisted of a lone seal trolling along the water’s edge. But the clear and distant view out to both the inner and even outer Hebrides was awe-inspiring as was the lengthy conversation with a couple from Bath who were staying in the keeper’s cottage. We left long after a disappointing sunset as darkness settled in long after 11pm.

Stage 129. 22nd July: Achateny to Dorlin

It was even warmer as I set off around the foreshore to Kilmory where I met up with a wild camping honeymoon couple sitting out in front of their tent at the top of the beach. We chatted briefly as I’d never want to disturb a honeymoon couple for too long and I wandered up the lane East towards Ockle. Hamza drove past and waved a last goodbye.

At Ockle the road ended at a ramshackle cluster of old cottages and holiday lets. I joined a track up over ‘Brae’ towards the Singing Sands. A beautiful yet deserted climb through bracken, bog and over a pass with dragonflies, butterflies and damselflies showing me the way. The damselflies in particular were giving me a fine show. I never knew they came in so many colours as reds, oranges, blues, silvers and yellows flitted about my feet.

Once over the pass I dipped down into the forest and out onto the beach at Singing Sands. The sand squeaked beneath my feet but failed to raise a tune. The Whistling Sands I walked across in North Wales had failed to whistle too, so if I ever come across a Humming Sands I won’t expect too much.

Back onto the forest track I eventually emerged at Kentra Bay a wide expanse of sand and inaccessible mud. I thus joined the road to Acharacle and made my first mistake for a while. I had decided to walk an extra five miles as a planned loop up to Dorlin, Castle Tioram and back down to Acharacle.

Once through Dorlin I discovered that the ‘Silver Walk’ coast path was open all the way across the South shore of Loch Moidart. However, my phone signal was non-existent and my rendezvous with Geoff was back in Acharacle. So I dived back inland and up over a steep hill, through deep bogs and head high bracken to meet up with him. My fluid stock was now a vacuum pack as I sucked the last drop from it and my exhaustion was complete. Geoff and Lorna’s company was very welcome.

Stage 125, 16th July: Kinlochteacuis to Strontian

I started out early despite the forecast of heavy rain for the entire day. I elected for head to toe waterproofs even though the discomfort of claggy legs debate had still not been settled. In this instance it was a wise choice as the track up Beinn Ghormaig was very boggy and barely a single step was a dry one.

In the driving rain I was equally driven to follow the track on my map up into the cloud and over 1,300ft. In doing so I was blind to the route I had plotted and when the track abruptly abandoned me in the middle of a moor it dawned on me that I had made an error and I either had to backtrack a mile and climb again or try to rediscover the path further ahead and somewhere down below. I voted for some proper map use and contoured round to find a burn to follow steeply down towards fog hazed landmarks. I was already angry at myself for making an error, so when I slipped on my backside and bent my second walking pole double, pulling my shoulder in the process, my anger was complete and the barrage of expletives which rumbled down the hillside were hopefully muffled by the thick cloud and persistent heavy drizzle now soaking its way into every nook and cranny.

Eventually I rediscovered my path, but not before falling twice more and to top it all I then tripped over a log hidden in the deep wet grass and fell forward with a juicy wet face plant. If anyone had been able to hear me, other than the red deer gazing at me disdainfully, I’m sure they would have concluded that I was suffering from Tourette’s. The deer turned, flashed their white rumps and bounded off into the forest with an almost mocking display of agility and aptitude. Altogether I had now doubled my tally of falling over on this walk and I had done it in twenty minutes.

My path became a track once more and I followed it East along the South shore of Loch Sunart through the dripping and sodden Sunart Oakwoods, remnants of the ancient temperate rainforest which used to cover so much of Britain. I was very tired by the time I rejoined the road and the last six miles into Strontian were the hardest I had experienced for some weeks. At least the rain had eased and I was able to remove my claggy overtrousers and, with a new pair of boots, I was pleasantly surprised that my feet were still relatively dry. I picked up a discarded newspaper from the roadside to catch up with the sport. I had not been able to listen to anything for a few days, as the radio signal had been non-existent, so I was a little annoyed to have missed yet at the same time cheered to read of Root and Anderson’s record last wicket stand at Lords. And to cheer me further the rain filled skies had at least filled the loch-side waterfalls turning them into raging torrents.

Stage 126, 17th July: Strontian to Glenmore

There were no map reading skills required today or waterproofs. Instead I had just a long warm and sunny road walk, now purposefully back West along the North shore of Loch Sunart, once again striking through the now drier Sunart Oakwoods. Occasionally the woods would clear as I rounded a small bay or inlet. Each time they did I was rewarded with a new peaceful view back across to Morvern and another mirror like pool to check for otter activity. Unfortunately I saw none. However, between Strontian and Salen I did come across a Pine Martin trotting along the road towards me. He was a new sighting for me and we both froze in unison. I reached for my camera but by the time I had raised it to my eye, he was already trotting away and into the bracken. In moments like these I wished to have carried my big SLR camera with its long telephoto lens, but the practicality of doing so just doesn’t work and my little compact camera has done me grand so far, so I musn’t complain.

Walking along the tiny winding and undulating B road towards the isolated communities of West Ardnamurchan, I couldn’t help but amaze myself at the buses, builders trucks, cement lorries and huge tippers using it. I sent Sue a sniggering and taunting text warning her of a huge tipper wagon heading her way as she would be driving up behind me to meet me at the rendezvous point. But then I remembered….it was my motorhome she was driving.

The day ended at ‘Nadurra’, the Ardnamurchan Natural History Centre at Glenmore. Snickers was in one piece, but I’m not so sure Sue was. Diesy was clearly stressed too, but I suspect Sue’s language in getting there may have upset him. We distressed with a pot of tea and a Mint Feast. I ate mine as if greeting an absent but very old friend and I drove back to the campsite in the process spotting a female Hen Harrier flying across our path.

Stage 127, 18th July: Glenmore to Kilchoan

It was an increasingly warm and muggy day as I continued along the same road West. It quickly broke out of the Sunart Oakwoods and began to climb up onto the very familiar volcanic landscape of West Ardnamurchan that I could almost call my second home. I had mapped a small part of it as a Geology student thirty years ago and had been back many times since with my family on holiday and as a solo training week, for this walk, only last November.

I could’ve taken the short route option into Kilchoan, cutting through the hills, but being a sentimental old fool I elected for the road route I always take and climbed up and inland around Ben Hiant and over to Loch Mudle. The view back down towards Kilmory, my mapping area, gave me my first sight of the North side of the peninsula and out beyond towards Eigg, Rum and in the far distance, hidden in haze, the Coullin Hills of Skye. I just had to stop for lunch and a rather poorly posed selfie.

It was then a three-mile drop down into Kilchoan, playing a wailing Chris Martin in my iPod as he sang “para…. para…. paradise” into my lug holes. I met up with Sue and Diesy on the Pier Road for a wander down to the seafront and across the foreshore to see a seal colony. I took a photo across to Mingary Castle, now shrouded in scaffolding as it undergoes a major and very expensive looking refurbishment. For the observant reader, I’m sure you can find the other photo of Mingary Castle I have used on this site.

The evening was spent talking nerdy geology stuff with Sue and chatting to locals and workmen from the castle in the Kilchoan Hotel where we enjoyed my first fish supper for what felt like years. It had been a long haul to get this far and I felt tired and a little flat at having achieved this particular target. It would have been lovely to share it properly with my family and to do so by phone just wouldn’t have been the same and possibly even insensitive, so I entered Kilchoan a little low-key.

Stage 122, 13th July: Onich to Kingairloch

Since I started this journey I have always viewed the Corran Ferry across Loch Linnhe as my mental halfway point. I have always thought of it as the crossing over to paradise, the real wilderness of West Scotland and a very special place. However, in truth it wasn’t quite halfway and anyway I couldn’t be sure exactly where that point would be until the very end and I possessed the final mileage total. But my estimate said that it would be somewhere around here and the 2,500 mile mark was only a day away, so for now the Corran Ferry was as good as halfway.

As I walked away from the ferry along the quiet road towards Morvern and Ardnamurchan I thought it was the ideal time to try out my birthday present from home which had arrived via Sue and Diesy yesterday. I really could have done with an iPod over the last few weeks as the boredom had set in and my portable digital radio had failed to keep enough of a signal to effectively listen to the cricket. So to get one preloaded with some of my old albums was a genuine treat only matched by the cards accompanying it from Kate and the girls. The little ‘red cross’ parcel definitely gave me a real and very timely boost. Add to that all the birthday wishes I received electronically from family and friends (I have never received as many birthday wishes as I did on facebook) and you can probably imagine that the world was feeling pretty damn good.

Today was all road walking, but it didn’t bother me as the weather was cool, the traffic was nil and I had Led Zeppelin on the iPod to apparently hasten my speed to 6km/hr (as observed by Kate on viewing my Buddy Beacon). Apparently whilst listening to Coldplay it was a mere 5km/hr, but that might be something to do with Chris Martin’s propensity to wail a little too much sometimes.

The roadside sign told me that Kilchoan (at the West end of Ardnamurchan) was 44 miles away. To me it was still a full week and well over a hundred miles. I had Morvern to go around first, so I disappeared off left and South again for Kingairloch and a night ‘off-grid’ in the hills alongside Loch Uisge. The one down side about arriving in this stunning part of the world was that the midge count had noticeably climbed. Not that it was unbearable, but definitely irritating and certainly itchy. My comparison of midge repellent products could begin in earnest.

Stage 123, 14th July: Kingairloch to Fiunary

The new iPod had to be quickly abandoned today. Within minutes of setting off, the rain came in over my shoulder and slowly grew in intensity. I had changed my route as I couldn’t be sure that the map marked path taking me around the huge quarry at Glensanda was truly passable. I was sure that if they had any health and safety excuse for keeping walkers away they would use it and I didn’t fancy gambling a possible backtrack of five or six miles, particularly on a wet day. So instead it was waterproofs on, kit in a dry bag, hat on and head down to just get on with it.

Scottish rain is incredibly searching, in my opinion – much more so than English or Welsh. Eventually water gets in everywhere and my boots were soon swamped again as my socks successfully wicked water down into them probably because I had maybe foolishly decided to dispense with the claggy overtrousers. Occasionally the rain would ease and offer a little false hope before returning to lash it down again. It was pretty much all road, including the fearsome sounding A884 which was actually a single track road with barely a car once every ten minutes.

I would have loved to have taken some photos, but I wasn’t going to test the electrical circuitry of my camera with this variety of wet stuff. So Kinlochaline Castle, tucked into the woods with its turrets and slated spires was missed, as were the pure white heaps of sand affronting the sand mine at Lochaline and Loch Aline itself. So I was a little disappointed that Morvern had underplayed itself today, even if it was entirely the fault of the weather. At least the camp site at Fiunary made up for it. Their generosity and friendliness kept Sue and I talking and I would love to have spent more time at their idyllic hideaway.

Stage 124, 15th July: Fiunary to Kinlochteacuis

The rain had cleared leaving me with sunny spells to start the day with a lane walk following an ancient mourners route. The lane took me across to Drimnin looking over the Sound of Mull and around the Wishing Stone which apparently grants a wish to anyone who can pass through the big hole in the rock without touching it. I elected to forsake the opportunity of a wish as I reckoned the alternative was probably a broken limb or fractured skull for anyone attempting the trick.

I was soon up into the tracks and hills around the Drimnin Estate where the views just got better and better with every foot of ascent. At one point with Mull to my left I could clearly see Tobermory and its yacht filled harbour and as my eyes swept right West Ardnamurchan sat in a light haze with the village of Kilchoan and its mountain neighbour Ben Hiant, clearly on show. I knew it was a view the camera could never replicate, but I had to at least give it a try.

I even found what I thought would make a truly stupendous building plot and just had to share it with home. My enthusiasm was probably misplaced as the likelihood of buying from the estate, securing remote access and then getting planning permission might not be an easy proposition. But sometimes it’s nice to dream. Nonetheless a local shepherd with two collies in baskets on his quad bike told me of an old ruin that might be a better prospect around the corner. He also nonchalantly mentioned his internet skills. Times have certainly changed for the shepherd.

I followed the old road (track) to Doirlinn. The views were now over Loch Sunart towards East Ardnamurchan and the islands of Oronsay and Carna, but they were equally awe-inspiring.

The old mile posts were still in excellent condition and grandly counted down my progress to what I thought might be a hidden ancient conurbation of great importance. When I arrived at the track end I was greeted by a single ramshackle cottage with its saggy roof and partly furnished rooms. I felt a little robbed. But with the track now gone, I headed off through the bracken and boggy woodland which slowly morphed into a path (yet to be discovered by the chaps at the Ordnance Survey) and eventually the path became a forest track. I met up with Sue and Diesy for a walk back to Snickers and in doing so we startled a lovely stag who watched us carefully as Diesy strained at his lead for a chase.

For me this was a walk to rival the best so far and definitely one to be recommended.

Stage 119, 8th July: Sound of Kerrera to Benderloch

After the last few days of mental fragility, boredom and motorist anger leading up to my birthday blues I was hoping that the scenery might open out as I reached Oban, the gateway to the isles. I really needed a change as I felt Scotland had hidden far too much of its spectacular scenery from me by pushing me through forestry and along the main roads.

The three-mile walk along the shore hugging lane edging the Sound of Kerrera was full of interest with ferry and boat traffic bustling in and out of Oban. The road into town was wet from heavy early morning rain and sported a long foot wide iridescent  stripe of diesel flowing down its entire length. Someone had been leaking expensive liquid and I wondered if the local environment officer had woken with an expectant twitch. The familiar smell reminded me of work, a now distant and depressing but also strangely comforting thought. Note to self: If diesel smell becomes vaguely comforting seek psychiatric help!

Oban was a busy town and local hub with visitor attractions galore and plenty of harbour activity to watch. The place was full of transient tourists heading for the wild islands further out to the West or the highlands to the North and some of the clearly alien visitors seemed to have come from all parts of our very accessible planet.

Rounding the headland out-of-town the next bay brought me to the ivy clad ruin of Dunollie Castle (photo) and then on to the upmarket “exclusive” development (mini housing estate) surrounding Ganavan Bay. A brand new cycle path then took me inland and over towards the A85 and Dunbeg. On reaching the A85 I was relieved to find a nice safe wide verge to walk along towards the Connel Bridge and back off-road around Oban Airport. It was a coat on, coat off, coat on day and I would have preferred it if the weather could have made up its mind one way or another.

By the time I reached Benderloch the sights around me were all beginning to look a little different, a little more open, a little more rugged.  Somehow, almost imperceptibly, I felt as if I was finally arriving in the highlands.

Stage 120, 9th July: Benderloch to Port Appin

I had a bit of a lie in after Germany had trounced Brazil 7-1, but there was no hurry as I only had a short day and the weather was glorious. Today I was expecting yet another verge hopping session, this time along the A828. However, I was now in ‘outdoor country’ and a cycleway through Barcaldine Forest eased the burden of concentration and simmering distrust of all motorists.

I met up with two women from the U S of A on a pair of recumbent bicycles. If I thought I had lost the plot, they were clearly barking at the moon as they had just packed their things, left their families and headed out for two years to pedal around Europe with little more than a tent, a sleeping bag and a few sets of clothes.  Nonetheless – we chatted enthusiastically about various midge deterrents before heading off in opposite directions, completely oblivious as to the questionable sanity of our two ventures.

I crossed the relatively ‘new’ road bridge over Loch Creran to Creagan, saving a few miles of loch-side road in the process. As I did, the highlands seemed to open up before me. The grand, rugged, snowless peaks were completely clear of cloud and undeniably grand even if they lacked the imperious snow and cloud capped foreboding they held when I last saw them in November last year when training for this walk.

I dropped off the main road and took to the lanes of the Appin Loop towards Port Appin with its tea rooms, craft shops and stunning views across to the peaks of Morvern (photo above), my destination next week. The warmth of the day and the confirmed arrival in the highlands deserved a reward and with the change of scenery I had a change of heart and went for a Strawberry Cornetto. It wasn’t unpleasant!

Stage 121, 10th July: Port Appin to Onich

Scorchio! Twenty degrees on the West coast of Scotland feels like thirty degrees when walking along tarmac or through still woodland, but with the scenery having now changed and new sights such as the historic but also comedic (Monty Python and the Holy Grail) Castle Stalker, it was actually very pleasant all round.

I crossed the rather rickety, yet brand new, Jubilee Footbridge with a backdrop of mountains, proper ones, and a vast expanse of open water in the form of Loch Linnhe. A quick bacon and sausage sandwich at a roadside van was paid for by a very English, very well spoken and extremely kind local marina owner who I had already bumped into earlier in the day when he offered me a lift near Appin. We chatted with the bacon butty vendor about the business prospects for his brand new loch-side lay-by haunt and the merits of cooperation and mutual understanding with the marina landlord. The marina owner was highly skilled in the art of diplomacy and gentle reminders and I left with a wry smile on my face.

Again the roadside walk was mainly cycleway, but occasionally it deserted me and I could feel my blood pressure rising as I dodged the traffic. Eventually I escaped to the horseshoe shingle bay at Cuil and ventured across country around Ardsheal Hill through boggy tracks and paths to rejoin the road at Kentallen. Happily the cycleway reappeared all the way to Ballachulish Bridge and the wide open views East towards Glencoe and back West towards Morvern were just stunning.

Pavement took me to Onich and onto familiar territory for the first time since Gretna. Onich is a place I have passed through on many occasions and harks back to field trip days from 1983 where I admit to over indulging myself at the local hostelry. I’m not sure if my memory is that good, but I do remember not feeling too good the following day as we trudged up in to the hills to do some mapping exercises in a typical west highland drizzle surrounded by clouds of midges.

Rest Days, 11th & 12th July: Onich

Like anything else, being a day ahead of schedule has its ups and downs. The up was that I could take an additional day off. The down was that I could quite happily have walked on and chosen a future weather stricken day to voluntarily sit out. Unfortunately the logistics of support driver change dictated that I should stay in Onich and not disappear off into the wilds of Morvern and complicate things enormously. So two days off it was.

A day off never feels like a day off and once I had uploaded some more photos and worked out how to tweet photographs it was time for a brief interview and a couple of photos with the local paper. We compared notes about the strength of the two Scottish Independence campaigns, an easy topic to grab any Scot’s attention and keep a conversation moving. My roving straw poll has come along nicely and is available to any politician for a small or preferably large donation to charity.

With Simon still on board till the 12th I took the chance to do some mutual nerdy stuff with an equally nerdy outdoor kit lover and the added bonus of a cooked brunch in Fort William.  My family would have cringed as we browsed the kit shops and I was rather pleased to talk Simon into buying a new rucksack, just like one of mine. I invested in the future and bought some new waterproof gloves if only because the only pair I owned failed miserably when I was in need of dry warmth back in Cornwall.

It was then back to the bus for a good curry evening and bed – oh what party animals!

I dropped Simon off at the bus stop with warm thanks for being brave enough to spend three weeks in my company. I knew that I had made a new friend. He had a long journey back to the South and wouldn’t be there till the following morning and I didn’t envy him the trip one bit. I returned to the van to tidy up a bit and wait for Sue and her dog Diesel to arrive. The smell of diesel around Oban would probably be nothing to the smell of Diesel in the van and I had been warned about his hatred for people wearing a hat. So when he arrived I was expecting a wolf and instead got a softy, even if it was still a smelly one.

We nipped into Fort William for a quick shop and to try to catch the passing of the Queen’s Baton as part of the run up to the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow. So far on my journey I had managed to miss every single local event by passing through the town or village either a day or two late or a day or two early. It was good to actually catch something even if it was all of sixty seconds of someone I didn’t know walking past with a big stick in their hand.

So back to camp it was for a catch up, food and preparation for the week ahead. On we go.

Stage 116, 5th July: Tayvallich to Ardfern

I am beginning to find that everything and anything, however small or large, dwells on my mind considerably. With all this time to think, my mind is beginning to play a few tricks and the boredom of walking hour after hour can be exceptionally mind numbing. So after a dreadful lack of sleep, I stepped out expecting rain, feeling very low and deeply dreading a day full of desolate thoughts. And sure enough they found me.

Even though I was now purposely heading North for what felt like the first time in ages, the forest walk seemed increasingly drab and oppressive. So when I came across a staged wooden platform through the trees to a willow arch and a big outcrop of rock – it seemed a little apt that I had apparently found a path to nowhere, either that or a ritual site for a bizarre coven.

On walking back to my purposeful trail I sprung myself back to reality and thought that maybe I shouldn’t get so deep and philosophical and to stop whingeing and get on with it.

Having had a an increasing number of down moments recently, an up moment was overdue and it came at Ardnoe Point where not only did my phone jump back into life after two days without a signal, but the scenery shouted a hello too, with a spectacular view across Loch Crinan and Craignish to the Firth or Lorne and the Gulf of Corryvreckan.

Corryvreckan is the home of the world’s second largest whirpool which lies between the Isles of Scarba and Jura. The air was very still and I could clearly hear its roar some seven miles away.

With my mind full of swirling thoughts, I carried on a little aimlessly and missed my turning down to Crinan. I back-tracked a good half a mile to find the little turning down a steep winding cliff path and was rewarded with the Crinan Canal and a basin full of yachts. From here I trailed along lanes and tracks to Carnassarie Castle and up to the joys of walking alongside the A816 till I was just short of Ardfern where Simon was parked up in a lay-by. The few miles of the A816 was tame compared to previous A roads, but my wits still had to be sharp. Fortunately they now were.

Stage 117, 6th July: Ardfern to Degnish

It was all beginning to sound a bit familiar as I dropped down the lane through Ardfern alongside the West shore of Loch Craignish. I seemed to be crawling northwards and westwards by rounding one peninsula after another, all of which were beginning to look very similar. All were pretty and sported occasional villages full of renovated, extended and newly built ‘architect’ designed houses, yacht filled harbours and expensive 4x4s cruising the lanes. But none seemed to strike me as having anything remarkably different from the last. It felt a bit like suburbia in the wilderness and the monotony was beginning to get to me.

I longed for ventures and adventures across country with open views and when they happened it raised my spirit and alleviated the boredom of lanes and dangerous A roads round and around the forest edged lochs. Today gave me a nicely marked path to head along North and up the West side of my latest peninsula through the Craignish Estate. However, this marked path on the map wasn’t even visible on the ground and instead comprised thick, deep bracken now well over head height. I ended up literally wading through with the bracken tying itself in knots around my thighs as I pushed through and peered over the foliage to get sight of my next visible goal. Progress was slow and I was beginning to wonder whether the next few miles with no map marked path at all might be a bit of a route planning error. But unlike the Ardpatrick adventure of a few days ago, this time the tables turned and I had a well-worn trail all the way up to Meml and – guess what – its neat little marina full of yachts and the accompanying neat almost twee rows of recently built cottages trying hard to resemble an old fishing village but looking more akin to toy town.

Eventually I made my way back on to the A816 and this time I truly regretted it. No longer were people rolling along gently and giving way like they were yesterday. This time many of them seemed to be lost in their own little world. I had to look each driver squarely in the eyes to see if they had clocked me. Many hadn’t and I counted five cars cutting it a little too fine for my liking. Six miles of it was enough for anyone and I met Simon at the side-road junction to Melfort where he joined me for the last four and a half miles of lane walking along the shore of Loch Melfort for an off-grid overnight stop near Degnish. This was a beautiful place to stop with big sky views across the water from high up on the cliff. It was great to chat with home from the wilds of a remote cliff top with not a soul for miles.

Stage 118, 7th July: Degnish to Sound of Kerrera nr Oban

What? Another peninsula? Surely not!

I headed further up the hillside along a rough track and back on myself with formidable intent to avoid the showers forecast for the day. After a brief raised voice chat with a shepherd standing with his dogs at the top of a nearby hill my shower avoidance failed and I took shelter under a tree while the worst of it passed.

Coming off the hill on the other side of the peninsula was a disappointment and all too soon I was on the lanes and back on the A816 again. After my experience of yesterday I really didn’t want this road and I would have happily walked three miles off-road to avoid one mile on it. So that is exactly what I did.

I found a nice marked loop of track on my map and followed it. Though distant loch or sea views were absent, it took me down through woodland, up through more woodland and twisted and turned its way around the hillside as if trying to do its level best to entertain me. It succeeded. So when I returned to the road, I found another loop and took it too. Not woodland this time but farmland and at last it brought me out on the outskirts of Oban and hopefully the end of this repetitive sequence of small peninsulas. I was glad to see something new even if it was the edge of a town. I barely skirted Oban and would leave that treat for tomorrow as I headed for camp opposite the Isle of Kerrera.

It had warmed up significantly after the showers of earlier so I felt a treat was well deserved, particularly when its a 51st birthday treat. So Simon and I indulged ourselves with a succulent Double Caramel Magnum. The birthday edition ice cream was apt even if Magnums are 26 years younger than me.