Stage 114, 2nd July: Port Ban to Castle Sween

I knew the Scottish West coast would be a long hard slog and already the peninsulas to get around seemed to just keep on coming. However, I can have no complaint as I slowly pass through some of the sections of this trip I have looked forward to more than any other.  I confess to not knowing this corner of Scotland at all and though not as rugged or dramatic as some of the places I have yet to visit, it is still a gorgeous landscape without being drop-dead stunning or spectacularly photogenic.

With rain threatening later in the day and a South-easterly wind picking up, I headed North up the road alongside Loch Caolisport. The road was by no means busy, but it was populated by an inordinate number of cement trucks and huge logging wagons. I had a chuckle for Simon having to find a passing space big enough to get round them before realising that it was my motorhome he was driving.

Ten miles further up the road I arrived at the loch head and turned South along the West shore of the loch along an empty lane signposted for Ellary but with no access to Castle Sween – my destination. The Ellary Estate didn’t seem very welcoming with ‘private’ signs everywhere but with nobody around, my planned route through seemed fair game and perfectly legal. The track took me up and over the peninsula and as I walked up through the forest, across moorland and around a perched and lily filled loch, I kept thinking how the estate road would make an excellent car rally stage and imagined driving it myself watching out for loose and very hard standing rocks to avoid.

I rejoined the road a few miles South of Castle Sween on the West side of my latest peninsula. Fortunately, the rain never made the full entrance I had expected, even if a few brief light showers were enough to make me put on my waterproofs in expectation of a downpour. I found Simon parked outside Castle Sween caravan park after a rulebook quoting official had refused to let us park up. Instead we headed for a little slipway a few miles up the road and a peaceful tiny boatyard park-up far superior to the static caravan park which had surrounded and spoilt the vista around Castle Sween.

Stage 115, 3rd July: Castle Sween to Tayvallich

Once again rain threatened without actually delivering as this time I continued North up the lane bounding the East side of Loch Sween. After the wooden clad houses of Achnamara I was glad to have another opportunity to walk off-road and a forest track beckoned, but not before James had emerged from his house to challenge me as to the private land I was about to cross. We had a quick chat. I told him what I was trying to do and quickly I discovered how the welcoming and friendly nature of people was refreshingly changing for the better as I headed further into remoter parts. Scotland is so much more welcoming than England and even Wales and I only hoped that this would continue.

We parted as if good friends with a postcard depicting his house in my hand. I headed into Knapdale Forest to circumnavigate two small peninsulas. This time I stuck religiously to the tracks having decided that any off-track adventure might be foolish with the trees and undergrowth looking utterly impenetrable. After an hour or so the forest thickened into heavily planted conifers and I found myself on a ‘Beaver Trail’ around the hidden Loch Coille-Bharr. Disappointingly I saw no trace or sign of the recently reintroduced Scottish beaver and instead found myself walking tracks edged by high tree walls cutting through slightly foreboding and oppressive forestry.

For some reason lunch seemed to have taken its toll on me and the afternoon walk through the forest was a real slog. At one point I found myself lurching around whilst slowly trudging up a gentle incline and I wasn’t 100% by any means. My energy level seemed to have plummeted, but I hadn’t a clue why.

Back at the road I once again turned South down the West side of the narrow strait of Caol Scotnish. In parts it was so narrow, still and silent that I believed it would be easy to hold a conversation across the East and West banks without ever having to raise a voice much above a whisper. Despite my poor energy, I arrived in the pretty but grey skied Tayvallich with its sheltered yacht filled harbour and expensive looking houses in good time. The apparent wealth I had seen in this part of Scotland since crossing over from Ayrshire was unexpected and the Bentley parked in the driveway of a house no longer surprised me, even though it does baffle me a little.

Rest Day, 4th July: Tayvallich

After not feeling too great yesterday, being a day ahead of schedule and with a seriously grotty weather forecast I thought I had a valid number of reasons to take a day off. Without any phone signal or tracking beacon for family to follow I thought I might be a bit snookered in terms of communique, but strangely wi-fi came to the rescue. I do find it odd that wi-fi is still available in areas where a phone signal isn’t. So instead of walking I could try to fill my three vacant driver weeks in North Scotland, do this blog, upload some more photos and catch up on emails. If I’d had a phone signal, I might as well have been back at work….hurrumph!

Miles to Date:  2,371   Ascent to Date:  310,000 ft

Stage 111, 29th June: Machrihanish to Point Sands

A glorious day with barely a cloud in the sky set me fair to cross the first tee at the expensive looking Machrihanish golf course. It was then four miles along Westport Beach with rare bare feet and my head down looking for shells along the high water line.  The blissful start didn’t last as I donned the boots to follow the A83 whilst trying to find any excuse to get off the road, be it for a short stretch of beach, an old section of road or a bypassed village.

At Muasdale I treated my overheating tongue to my firm old favourite Mint Magnum and quickly found a blissful almost deserted tropical beach at Chleit with two teenage children happily playing in the deep white sand whilst dad sat, back against a rock, with his head buried under a big straw hat reading a book.

Eventually I managed to clear myself of the A83 altogether and return to mixed beach walking. This time it wasn’t so much soft white sand but silt, shingle, crispy dried seaweed and purple ooze under my feet as Tayinloan and the Isle of Gigha Ferry Terminal passed on by.

Stage 112, 30th June: Point Sands to West Tarbert

I was back on the Kintyre Way for the last time and the weather was still as glorious. My mood was thus optimistic if not a little apprehensive at the road walking which lay ahead. A shingle beach walk with nesting terns and plovers kept me attentive if a little wary in not wanting to disturb the birds.

All too soon I was up alongside the A83 as the Kintyre Way did its best to keep away from the road by giving me the occasional cut bracken path to walk along.  Eventually though, I waved goodbye to the pale blue path markers as they headed off east and inland away from the coast at Clachan. Instead I headed west and down along a river bank back towards the sea to lunch on the rocks at what was clearly an otter restaurant. The sweet-smelling, yes sweet-smelling, otter scat was prolific and judging by the number of empty broken crab shells, Mr Otter had clearly been dining well.

I reluctantly lifted my backside after lunch and headed back inland to follow the A83 for ten miles of what can only be described as hell. Not only was the infrequent but fast-moving traffic refusing to give me much room but on more than one occasion I must have looked like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoon as I walked along with a large cloud of flies just behind my head.

By the time I arrived in West Tarbert I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. I had spent nearly three hours concentrating hard by listening and looking out for traffic. It was never a constant stream, but would often come in clumps and I dreaded when those clumps came from both directions, as I barely had anywhere to escape. I almost felt lucky to get through alive after three very close calls, all of whom had clearly seen me and had loads of room and time to give me a wide berth. My exhaustion was capped-off with anger for the numpties who clearly have no consideration for anyone outside of their own little metal box and think that all other road users MUST get out of their way.

On the good side…. Snickers at long last had a tap! And this one worked! Thanks go to Johnny in Carradale for receiving delivery and getting the damn thing fitted. It was worth every penny.

Stage 113, 1st July: West Tarbert to Port Ban

I woke to find probably the warmest day of the year awaiting me.  We had parked overnight outside an empty rundown hotel along the waterfront back in Tarbert. The place looked as if the Addams Family could move in with very few modifications. I was barely a mile from where I had finished walking yesterday and Tarbert was a place I had walked through over a week ago.

Before returning to West Tarbert, Simon and I had a few chores to do. With our everlasting propane gas bottle finally not lasting, we waited for the Chandlery to open to buy a top up, do a bit of food shopping and empty my bank account even more at the cash dispenser before heading back to West Tarbert to start walking. I was immediately off the dreaded A83 and down a nice quiet B road to head back south and down the other side of West Loch Tarbert. With a shaded woodland walk to keep me cool I could relax and enviously enjoy the houses dotted along the waterfront even if I barely got view of the water myself.

Thanks to the lack of a proper view and the prospect of a relatively short day, I fancied a challenge to get the blood flowing and kill a bit of boredom. I turned off down a side road to Ardpatrick knowing that it was a dead-end with no path or obvious route to get out the other side and back on to the road. The road became a track. The track became a path and lunch on the opposite bank of the loch to the otter restaurant of yesterday was due. The path then became a field and the field gave way to chest deep bracken with some sign of occasional foot traffic. The bracken gave way to bog grass and the bog grass gave way to thick woodland. A slightly startled and definitely baffled red deer stood and watched with a look on its face as if to say – “Are you sure you should be here?”  But my reward was two fantastic deserted beaches with hazy views out to mountains on Jura.

Then it got tough. No Silly. I actually found myself laughing as well as occasionally swearing as I stumbled my way through deep tufts of grass interlaced with boggy ditches. If that wasn’t enough for a mile then the next mile of deep tangled woodland, neck-high bracken and extremely soggy swamp made me consider that the Ordnance Survey chaps might well have understated the “bracken, heath or rough-grassland” symbol they had used on my map. Progress was understandably slow, but nonetheless satisfying and enjoyable and I made it back on to terra-firma for the last few miles down to Port Ban and to a very laid back, friendly and generous camp-site. Oh yes – and another Mint Magnum!

Stage 108, 25th June: Carradale Bay to Peninver

Waking up to the pitter patter of rain on the roof of the van six inches above my head is never encouraging and looking out I suspected that I might be in for a wet day. My forecast from Kate at home told me it was light rain. It might have been light in terms of weight per drop but the density of drops indicated that this would be the “your going to get wet” variety.

In trying to source a replacement by phone for my second leaky tap from a caravan shop in Dumfries, I set off out a little later than planned. But with the wet stuff falling in sheets it wasn’t a problem as I had decided to cut my day short. I was a day ahead of schedule due to my routing mistake last week, so I had plenty of miles up my sleeve to play with.

A short woodland and foreshore walk along the Kintyre Way sported some very long grass and decidedly slippery rocks. The prospect of keeping any part of my anatomy dry was unlikely. I was also very aware of the slippery rocks, but the grass caught me off guard and I slipped down a deep hidden hole, wedging my foot in the cleft as my momentum took me forward. My left achilles pulled sharply. The pain shot through my ankle and I stood for a minute or two flexing it gingerly until the pain subsided enough for me to continue. I considered myself lucky as I slowly walked it off and within twenty minutes I was back up to pace with another complacency warning shouting in my head.

The Kintyre Way then left me on the road for a pretty miserable walk down to the shortened rendezvous point at Peninver, with one complete idiot in his grey pick-up 4×4 trying to play chicken with me by tucking his car straight in towards the verge and aiming it at me with a smug grin on his face. I skipped in to the high nettles to escape. Missing him and the joke, I walked on boiling over with anger and rather hoping that I might see him again if only so he could see the funny side of things with a walking pole wrapped around his neck.

Stage 109, 26th June: Peninver to Dunaverty Bay

The rain was still there as I left Snickers for a road walking day down to Southend and Dunaverty Bay. I was told that the day would improve weather wise, but it was sheeting it down as I rounded the headland towards Campbeltown. I didn’t really want successive days of being completely soaked but my forecast was good and within an hour the rain eased enough for me to take off the waterproofs and stretch my legs without that horrible claggy feeling even the very best waterproofs can’t avoid.

Campbeltown was a bustling working town and looked as if it had seen better days with historic wealth on show in the form of large houses and a few grand buildings. However, the wealth had clearly dissipated somewhat and parts of the town now seemed a little rundown and in need of investment to bring a return to the prosperity.

The coast road became a lovely deserted lane running around the high water mark for a while before disappearing up into the hills. I returned down to a scruffy shingle bay for my lunch and sat on a rock watching as the cloud rolled in over the sea. By the time I restarted and made my way back into the hills and through Feochaig Forest, the trees were draped with a curtain of cloud and drizzle had set in to keep me company.

The cloud finally burnt away as I dropped into Southend and its golf course with cattle grazing on the fairways. Dunaverty Bay had a lovely sandy beach, but once again the little place had an air of lost wealth and the monstrous concrete lodge / castle which loomed over the village was in dire need of a refreshing coat of paint. Simon parked up for the night further south along the foreshore and out of sight from the caravan park edging the beach. Seals perched on the rocks and, as the light slowly faded, we had the pleasure of watching an otter repeatedly returning to the same rock as it spent an evening food shopping.

Stage 110, 27th June: Dunaverty Bay to Machrihanish

Things had brightened considerably and my forecast from Kate at home now included added midge and likely phone signal forecast. Prospects for all were good today.

I was to follow the Kintyre Way all day today and I set off along the otter rich foreshore to round Keil Point and head inland along the deserted lane. At last I ventured off-road and began a steep climb up to nearly 1,200 ft over Arnod Hill and into Largiebaan Nature Reserve. All told, I had three hefty climbs giving me far-reaching views over to Ayrshire in the East (photo), Northern Ireland in the South and lastly the islands of Islay and Jura to the Northwest.

Eventually a steep and boggy drop down into Innean Glen brought me to circle above one of those tiny gems of a hidden sandy beach. Alas, I needed to head up the glen across boggy moor, which was surprisingly firm enough to maintain dry feet. The last drop of the day brought me back down onto a lane and the road widened into Machrihanish with its expensive looking golf course, immaculate bowling green lawned houses and its wide open sandy bay stretching out to the North. I hadn’t seen a single soul all day and felt a little deprived that I now had cars and vans for company again, but a full day in the wilds was my first for a while and it was good day.

Rest Day, 28th June: Machrihanish

With Simon staying on for three weeks and thus no support driver change over duty, my life was much easier and certainly less hurried. With basic chores for me to do, Simon was able to head out for an eight mile walk of his own and I could have a think about how on earth I was going to fill the three weeks in North Scotland where I still desperately needed support drivers. I had leads, I had a few maybes. But without confirmations my worry grows with every day I have that those gaps stare back at me. This project could seriously just grind to a complete halt and I hadn’t even had an ice cream all week to cheer and chill me.

Total Miles to date: 2,272                         Height gained: 300,000 ft

Rest Day, 21st June: Dunoon

Simon arrived early at Dunoon ferry terminal following an overnight bus from Luton. Arriving a little jaded we sought and found a cracking cooked breakfast with plenty of added caffeine and returned to camp to try to fix an electrical problem on Snickers which had appeared a week or so ago and had so far beaten Reesy, me and a multi-meter in our efforts to fathom out. After dismantling half of the van we found an oddly sized 30 amp fuse at the back of the leisure battery housing which had blown. Holding the fuse aloft like an olympic torch, we returned to Dunoon in the vague hope that we would find a replacement.

Dunoon had more than its fair share of electrical shops for a small Scottish town, but after four or five shop visits we rather predictably had little joy. With a failing trudge back to the van we passed a commercial vehicle recovery yard with the owners meticulously cleaning their truck which was very much a blue and red pride and joy. A doubtful questioning as to the fuse and our eyes lit up as a positive “yeah I think I’ve got one of those” saw one of the men dip into his workshop and return with not one, but two ….and to us – a fiver. I would have given him twenty quid if he’d asked.

So all sorted and settled ….err yeah right….except for the damn tap, that was replaced back in Dumfries, had now sprung a major leak down the back of the fridge and the cooker…. Grrrreat!!!!

Stage 105, 22nd June: Glendareul to Carry Point

The weather was still warmish if not quite as barmy as last week as I started a new week following the Cowal Way south and down the peninsula. It was a planned short day and the lane soon became a steep but fun scramble along a coast path suitable for goat traffic only. It emerged at the utterly tranquil but largely redundant Caladh Harbour (photo) with barely a handful of yachts sharing its secret pleasures and the view across the dual named Loch Riddon / Ruel to the Isle of Bute. The calm silence was only broken by the quiet almost whispering words of a yachting couple as they prepared their boat for sea and then shattered by the squeal of an Oyster Catcher as it skimmed the rock pools.

At Tignabruaich visitor business was quietly, almost lazily proceeding as only a Sunday in such places can. Nobody was rushing around to the nearest DIY store or the supermarket. People just ambled around, looking one way or another, slowly soaking up their day with no real aim or purpose. Sometimes it seems such a shame to me that in most parts of this big island we seem to have lost the sanity check of a Sunday where everything closed other than the occasional village fete.  Progress isn’t always for the good.

Stage 106, 23rd June: Carry Point to Skipness

A brief but heavy early morning shower and planned off-road forages forewarned me enough to change my boot choice of the day to the slightly  more waterproof Pair 1, rather than the heavily worn and tatty Pair 2 I had tried to wear out over the last couple of weeks. Pairs 1 and 2 are still going with the very leaky Pair 2 having been worn over 1600 miles of the trip so far. With Salomon offering a two-year warranty on boots, I wondered whether it would be in the right spirit to take them back and ask for a replacement. If they did replace or offer me free boots per say, then I might stop complaining about their permeability and sell my soul to the world of corporate sponsorship. Alas – I have no corporate sponsor, so when it comes to a full kit review I will eulogise the wonders of comfort but moan to hell and back about water tightness.

After five miles of empty lanes I stepped off left along and up a farm track which quickly became chest deep bracken and knee-deep sopping wet grass. Not  only was I soaked from the waist down but Pair 1 were now about as waterproof as Pair 2 and both were about as effective as a sponge. I stepped onto the ferry for Tarbert at Portavadie  looking like I had waded across a couple of rivers to get there and on reflection that is probably the reason why nobody approached me to ask for the fare.

The breeze on the ferry allowed parts of me to dry off a bit and I sat in Tarbert harbour to eat my lunch airing my bath wrinkled feet and wringing out my socks. A party of Irish pensioners stopped for a slightly pitying chat as I sat there bare footed looking a tad dishevelled, but they headed back onto their coach reassured that I was perfectly happy even if my sanity in trying to walk 5,000 miles was questionable.

I climbed out of the harbour via some steep stone steps passing the ruins of Tarbert Castle. The path took me up into the forest for a long slow climb over 1,000 ft and above the tree line. It held me high for a few miles before dropping back through the forest for a glimpse of Arran between the trees. The conifers eventually gave way to occasional clearings with the odd grazing red deer. The conifer bound clearings melted away to become deciduous woodland and the path became a track as I dropped back down to the foreshore at Skipness and a rendezvous with Simon at Skipness Castle. A night of wild camping on the foreshore was not only a welcome change now that the electrics were fixed on Snickers but also afforded us the opportunity to see Arran bathed in evening sunlight as the sun slowly set deep into the evening.

Stage 107, 24th June: Skipness to Carradale Bay

Though the wild camping in such a lovely spot was great – the midges weren’t and the morning brought persistent but barely dampening mizzle with a few clouds of midges thrown in. A walk along the seafront lane to Claonig brought me to Tom, an American from Michigan, who had hired a nice new Audi A5 for his Scottish break. This A5 was now half buried in the ditch alongside the road and Tom sat there nonchalantly as he waited for Avis to come to his rescue. We chatted briefly as I looked for the car towing-eye now buried deep in the grass verge. Simon turned up in Snickers and together we immediately assessed that the paltry pulling power of our 2.3 litre diesel and a 3 tonne motorhome were of little use to Tom. I left them to it only to discover that the efforts of even a 4×4 were no match for the buried Audi and that hopefully Avis hadn’t left him there too long.

From Claonig I edged inland for fourteen miles of lane shadowing the coast  but rarely touching it. Instead I had the joys of the ‘Hunstanton / Kintyre OHL Reinforcement Project’ traffic to keep me company. The whole project seemed to consist of numerous vans, builders wagons and 4x4s driving purposefully but also aimlessly up and down the single track road. I had to stand aside to let each vehicle pass and over the near ten-mile section of road alongside which they were meant to be working, did I see a single piece of work actually taking place? Did I heck!

At lunch time I ventured off-road to sit on a vaguely dry wall for a few minutes to munch my pork pie and sandwiches. The lack of overnight facilities caught up with me and I disappeared into the woods to do what bears do. As if by magic, the midges circled around me and lay siege to my nether regions. Despite my haste, the damage had been done and as I returned to the wall they followed me in clouds determined to finish me off with a nice Chianti. Hence my lunch break was curtailed and I headed back for the road and the works traffic.

Eventually I got off-road to contour around Kirnashie Hill and follow a marked path down to the shoreline. The path was initially grand with occasional bridged streams and steps (photo) but as I closed in on the sea it petered out and became increasingly overgrown.

Now the bracken was head high with fallen trees and trailing bramble making progress very slow. Finally the path vanished completely and I headed directly for the shore and a rocky scramble to Carradale. Compared to earlier road miles these were brilliant and I enjoyed the last five miles to Carradale Bay more than any of the previous fourteen that day.

Stage 102, 18th June: Prestwick to Portencross

Due entirely to an error in my initial planning, today was not quite as I had envisaged. Somehow, when I drafted my schedule, I had assumed that I could walk from Prestwick to Dunoon in one day. When I actually plotted it on my Viewranger app a couple of weeks ago I thought that 50 miles in one hit might be pushing it a little and that maybe I needed to compensate somewhere else to get back on to schedule. The logistics of this trip would no doubt complicate any alteration – but needs must.

With another warm day ahead I was a little relieved to see some early cloud cover to help give my silky soft and fair complexion a bit of a break. I headed straight down onto the beach skirting yet another championship golf course south of Troon. As the beach closed in on Troon itself I discovered a very two-faced town. To the south of the headland the golf course and housing displayed a gentile wealth. On hopping over the headland, the picture was entirely different. The port was scruffy, the housing poorer and even the beach was less attractive to both look at and walk on, with flooded channels and muddy water filled ripple marks filling my now completely porous boots.

At least it was a beach and as I followed it north towards Irvine it gradually re-established itself as a firm sandy trail and as I turned inland towards the town centre three swans decided to do a fly past at head level. I snatched the camera out of my waist belt and managed just one quick shot before ducking to feel the wind of their wing beat as they slowly gained height on their southbound flight path.

Irvine had a huge out-of-town shopping centre with the usual mix of conglomerates and the now typically decimated high street to boot. After this reminder of normality in its ugliest form taking to the cycleway through heath and scrub to Stevenston and Saltcoats was a pleasure, even if I did pass the rough caravan park at Saltcoats which had apparently hosted a murder in the last month or so. I was hoping Reesy hadn’t booked us in for the night.

Seamlessy I seemed to arrive in Ardrossan where I dropped onto an increasingly silty beach to skirt a distantly attractive West Kilbride. The little strip of sand and shingle continued all the way to the headland at Portencross with little pockets of pink zebra people on show, some of whom were showing far more than I would have preferred. Sometimes I think that some bits are just better covered up.

Stage 103, 19th June: Portencross to Dunoon

Weather logic seems to have gone. It just gets warmer and warmer with every step north. I suppose a mediterranean climate in Scotland will be the norm now that we have burnt all those evil fossil fuels. Whether global warming is fact or fiction, the warm welcome I got from staff as I paced past Hunstanton Nuclear Power Station was genuine. This was in stark contrast to the stern unsociable armed police I came across at Sellafield a few weeks ago.  Nonetheless as a ‘licensed nuclear site’ I did wonder what an unlicenced one would look like and whether there are any hidden away in a deep dark corner somewhere.

Following the Ayrshire Coast Path was now a bit of a bitumen trail, but at least it did try to avoid the main road by virtue of a path / cycleway to the walled seafront at Fairlie and on to Largs, a town with barely a tatty house in sight. Largs is very middle class and clearly full of wealth with a well and expensively populated marina.

Largs is also home to the temptation that is Nardini’s ice cream parlour. I entered only to be flooded with a plethora of colours and flavours. There was no way I would ever be able to decide so asked the girl serving as to her favourite. She filled my large cone with Stracciatella (vanilla and dark chocolate). I was hoping for something a little more exotic, but she was right and it was, by far and away, my best ice cream to date.

From Largs it was up and inland a little to walk lanes parallel to the main road below. Eventually the lanes led me back down to the main road for Inverkip and roadside paths up to McInroy’s Point at Gourock to catch the ferry over to Dunoon. After nearly 26 miles of very hot tarmac I felt I deserved a break. A cool shower back at the camp site was just bliss.

 Stage 104, 20th June: Dunoon to Glendareul

Crossing over to Dunoon marks the start of wild Scotland to me. Or, as is my belief, “real” Scotland starts here. For today I gave myself a short 16 mile forest and road walk. Unfortunately today I also cut out two small peninsulas as compensation for my mileage planning error earlier. I could have taken the original planned route but it would have left me on a Friday night in a bothy miles from Snickers. A bothy or tent would have been fun in this weather, but with the logistics of support driver changeover day – it really wouldn’t have worked. Therefore, the route change was a necessity I’d rather not have made.

To brighten things at least my new route took me high into coniferous forest. Through the occasional clearings views back down into Dunoon and the Clyde were stunning. Even a road walk through Glen Lean didn’t disappoint and lunch at the head of Loch Striven presented a glorious blue / green vista with clouds befitting of the Teletubbies.

A short walk meant an early finish and I was done before 3 pm. For Reesy that was perfect as I was able to shuttle him back to Dunoon to catch an early ferry back to Gourock and the joys of a weekend wedding bash. He departed with a suspiciously un-Scottish tan and my thanks for another week of excellent support.

Rest Day, 14th June: Stranraer

Not wanting to impose myself on Nick and his family anymore than was really necessary I moved on, leaving my thanks, to pick up Reesy from Stranraer  station – very much at the end of the line. Snickers had developed an electrical fault and I spent some time swapping fuses out trying to understand why all power should cut out when solely reliant upon the leisure batteries. None the wiser, we ended up enjoying a cracking chinese dinner and I fell asleep listening to England predictably losing 2-1 to Italy.

Stage 99, 15th June: Stranraer to Ballantrae

Today was my last day in Dumfries and Galloway and to be perfectly honest I was glad to see the back of it. It wasn’t any dull scenery, rough towns or unfriendly people that had depressed me, it was purely the frustration and monotony of having to walk alongside so many dangerous roads so far inland that had turned me off. The occasional flashes of coast path and lanes alongside the sea had shown me just how much potential the county had in terms of attracting visitors, but with such poor coastal access, it really didn’t do it for me.

DnG still had some road hell to hand out to me as I stepped out towards the ferry terminals at Cairnryan. On passing them I was soon in Ayrshire and within half a mile I was on a coast path winding its way through woodland and over hill tops with great – if overcast and hazy – views back towards Stranraer. Scotland was quickly getting better despite a proliferation of electrified farm fences giving me an unwanted jolt as I leant against one to admire the view.

The clouds burnt away by early afternoon and the temperature rose more than enough for me to give the legs an airing and see if I could get a mild tinge of colour to them beyond the pallid grey I had managed to keep under cover for most of the journey to date. I marched a jaunty pace down off the hills into pretty Ballantrae nestling in rich farmland alongside a meandering river with its trout jumping for flies to find Reesy parked up on the seafront enjoying the barmy warmth of Ayrshire.

Stage 100, 16th June; Ballantrae to Maidens

The weather seemed to be warming up considerably and I loaded up my rucksack with fluids just in case. An all to brief sand / shingle beach walk up to Bennane Head was brought to a shuddering halt as I was diverted to walk alongside the A77, laden with heavy ferry bound trucks, for a couple of miles. Fortunately at Lendalfoot I left the road to climb over Pinbain Hill and follow a track running parallel to the main road far below. I pleasingly met up with my first fellow walkers for many weeks and we chatted about this and that for a good twenty minutes.

I dropped back down onto the main road coming across a fisherman on the beach whose boat was very clearly a little worse for wear as it sat beyond the rocks with barely any of it left above the water. It had sunk only an hour or so previously and he had swum for his life. Now his mood was a little dark as he picked up belongings and debris from the beach, so I passed him by quietly.

The road took me to Girvan and happily my route took me away from the road even if it was through chest deep bracken and nettles. Thus I decided that, despite the heat, wearing my shorts might not be the best decision, so I didn’t. Gradually the terrain improved along with the beach quality as I approached and skirted the championship golf course at Turnberry. I turned to cross the course and got a full view of the impressive clubhouse and immaculate fairways in all its glory.

I walked into Maidens to meet up with Reesy who was sporting a robin red chest. It takes a lot to put me off food so my Magnum White was never under any threat.

Stage 101, 17th June: Maidens to Prestwick

The Costa del Ayrshire was once again bathed in sunshine as I took to the beach across Maidenhead Bay. From the beach I took to woodland roads up towards Culzean Castle. The shade of the woodland was a blessing even in the mid-morning heat and though I probably shouldn’t have done, I crossed the plush lawns immediately in front of the castle to find my way back down onto the fine shingle beach and round to Dunure Point and the pretty little harbour village of Dunure.

Just after Dunure the path was marked by spots of white paint strategically daubed on large rocky outcrops amidst their grassy hillocks. Unfortunately at some point I lost the white blobs and ended up boulder leaping my way across an increasingly rocky foreshore with high impenetrable cliffs above me. Even a rogue red deer seemed to struggle finding her way back up and it skipped its way along in front of me before I lost sight of its bobbing white bottom way ahead.

The boulder leaping was fun and I have decided that it is probably my favourite terrain as it requires concentration, a bit of thought and carries toying with the possibility of breaking an ankle. However, progress isn’t always as fast as it could be so I was a little relieved when the bay opened out at Ayr and I was able to walk freely along a seafront and beach filled with pink and white skinned human zebras worshipping the rarity of a hot day on a Scottish beach.

I dipped quickly in to the town of Ayr to round the harbour and out again before finding a promenade walk across the front at Prestwick. A 99 cone with raspberry sauce was a must.

That evening friends from back home in Leicestershire came out to take us out to dinner. Brenda, Richard and Kate took us back into Prestwick for a cracking meal as I took my fill of a haggis starter, a posh burger and good ole fashioned sticky toffee pudding. I slept well.

Stage 96, 11th June: Monreith to Sandhead

I don’t think Ray or I ever got to the bottom of why all the farmhouses were deserted, but we blamed economics and somehow found a reason to blame the EU subsidies too – but I’m really not sure how we managed that. Nevertheless a bright, sunny day set me off to the author of ‘Ring of Bright Water’ Gavin Maxwell’s monument and then I dropped down to cross a short gravelly section of Monreith Bay. I then rejoined the A747 for three miles into Port William where I lingered a little longer than intended chatting to an old woman at her front door, dressed in her blue gingham apron. She wanted to talk long and hard about one of the upcoming referendum ‘Yes’ campaigners who had doorstepped her last night and how she gave her short shrift belittling Alex Salmond in the process. It didn’t take much to guess that she was a ‘No’ voter.

Eight more miles of road walking took me to Auchenmalg Bay where I sat down for lunch only to be eerily engulfed by a chill sea mist which rolled in from nowhere. It came and went quickly and Dunfries and Galloway (DnG) then gave me another glimpse of what could be when I climbed over the hill for a lovely three-mile section of coast path.

Too soon I was down on the lane again and up onto the A75 to anonymously celebrate my 2,000 miles in a typical DnG way (photo). With seven more miles of fast open road around the MOD bombing range at Luce Sands, tedium set in and I was truly happy to find Snickers parked up where Ray had left it for me in a farmyard.

Stage 97, 12th June: Sandhead to Port Logan

A cool but sunny day offered even more lane and road walking – or did it? I was soon out of Sandhead with its rather large and domineering caravan park and I was pleasantly surprised to find that the Rotary Club of Stranraer had put together a few odds and ends of a path alongside the road down to Drummore. I gladly used them, though it didn’t look as if anyone else did as they were severely overgrown in places and my walking pole doubled up as a machete again.

From Drummore and a very quick Mint Magnum, it was only a short lane and track – yes track – walk to Port Logan. I had elected not to walk all the way down to the Mull of Galloway as it would have involved retracing my steps along the only road and that’s not something I ever like doing. And anyway – it’s in my rules.

I arrived at the pretty remote harbour village of Port Logan (photo) bang on time for my scheduled lift back to Snickers. Unfortunately there was no lift. I waited for an hour and with no phone signal I headed into the village to seek a landline. Thankfully, the first person I spoke to, Margaret, offered me a lift without hesitation. I would have loved to have said how friendly and generous that was of a local – but she was from Worcestershire.

Nick – my third chaperone of the week turned up at the campsite, looking stressed and apologetic. After a heavy and unexpected day with the VAT man – he was forgiven.

Stage 98, 13th June: Port Logan to Stranraer

Nick arrived bang on time in the morning to take me back to Port Logan and Snickers on to park up at his pub in Stranraer (The Swan Inn). It was warm, muggy and overcast but not uncomfortable for a day on the lanes again.

The empty lanes took me through hamlet after hamlet of familiar farmland and I was glad for the company of Aggers and Blowers as I eagerly plugged my ears in for Test Match Special and Joe Root scoring his double century. Eventually I came across a coast path sign. It wasn’t on my map, but I gave it a try just to ease the boredom. It was well worth the detour as I passed secluded houses tucked away on the beach at Morroch and the ghostly remains of Dunskey Castle (photo). Once again I couldn’t help think that DnG was missing a trick by hiding its coastline so well.

Once into Portpatrick, the coast path had warmed by blood enough to savour an ice cream. I eyed an unusual flavour worthy of a fresh tasting and decided upon an Irn-Bru cone. The woman in the shop kept me for a while as I nodded in agreement re the plethora of wealthy ‘incomers’ buying up the pretty village houses and then barely using them as holiday homes. It sounded a very familiar Cornish tale, but at least it gave me a chance to clear my palette of Irn-Bru and have a raspberry ripple cone as well.

Portpatrick marks one end of the Southern Upland Way – Scotland’s coast to coast path. Fortunately it ran up the coast for a bit, passing some hidden coves with chain edged paths climbing up over the cliffs. Eventually this path too ducked inland and I followed it into Stranraer for an evening parked at the Swan Inn in the company of my host Nick and his customers who generously filled a glass with cash for me as I quickly caught up on the World Cup with a rare but welcome pint in my hand.

Stage 92, 6th June: Palnackie to Seaward

Not an overly exciting day as Dumfries and Galloway continued to under-sell itself by giving me rare but tasty glimpses of its coast without allowing me to get too close. It was becoming more than a little frustrating that an enticing coast is only accessible via the occasional dead-end track – no use to me. Instead I trudged six miles down the A711 to verge hop my way to Auchencairn. Then rare farm lanes and tracks took me towards the coast but only enough to give me distant sightings of that blue wet stuff I vaguely remembered as sea.

At Dundrennan the pretty farming village was framed by the ruins of a once grand Cistercian abbey (photo). But the pleasure was short-lived as I rejoined the A711 to skirt MOD land and run up the estuary to Kirkcudbright getting repeatedly passed by the same fleet of tractors and trailers shuttling freshly cut hay. A few of them got a little too close for my liking and nearly harvested me in the process.

Eventually I settled at a cracking little seafront – YES, SEAFRONT – campsite to experience my first Scottish midges and enjoy a bit of beach combing with Phil, finding a handful of Pelican’s Foot shells as precious keepsakes.

Rest Day, 7th June: Seaward

In short, it absolutely chucked it down all day – Oh well, never mind.

I took Phil back to Dumfries with thanks for his few days in charge of the bus and enjoyed a cooked breakfast at Morrisons before heading back to the campsite to catch up with some laundry and reorganise Snickers cupboards once again. The result of months of support drivers all buying little items in good faith had built up a bit and finding things was beginning to become a bit of a mare. I liked the result of my reorganisation, it had my kind of logic to it. However, my logic isn’t necessarily normal and the vast array of condiments, spreads and ingredients will probably find new homes again once the boredom of waiting for me at the end of a wet day strikes again on another support driver.

Stage 93, 8th June: Seaward to Carsluith

This week was always going to be a strange one in terms of support crew. The MS society from Stranraer had volunteered to look after me for a week which I had found impossible to fill with family and friends. So first up were David and Caroline who arrived at 8:30 for a very quick introduction to Snickers before I set off to make up with Dumfries & Galloway.

Lanes and then tracks took me around some gently undulating and very pretty coastline. Hidden in some woods, Knockbrex castle was waking up to the day after a wedding and a few hungover guests lurched down the lane looking less than enthusiastic in their wish to help clean up the marquee.

Fleet Bay then opened out to reveal Ardwall Isle sitting a few hundred yards offshore (photo), a lush and wooded island with a lovely looking beach. It looked uninhabited and I dreamt for a while as to whether I could build a house there. The dreaming stopped when realism kicked in and the romance of a private island got a little lost in the practicalities of a) building on it, b) living on it and c) getting anywhere else from it. Also the family wouldn’t be that happy at living in utter isolation and my desire for a hermit lifestyle isn’t one I think I could sustain beyond a few weeks of holiday retreat. So I think I will cross that one-off the list and as I do so, I can almost hear my family sighing with relief.

From Carrick Shore it was tracks to Airds Bay and Sandgreen. A woodland walk then took me up the dreaded A75 for eight miles. In truth it wasn’t that bad. Wide verges, sections of old road and the odd back lane kept me well clear of the trucks and traffic heading to the ferry at Stranraer.  Eventually I reached my rendezvous point at Carsluith and lay down on a roadside bench to wait for David and Caroline to pick me up. I dozed off listening to the French Open tennis final (Nadal won again) only to wake half an hour later feeling a little chilled. It was only then that it dawned on me that I hadn’t quite made it to the correct rendezvous point and as I turned the next corner I had a guilty admission to make as to why I was a little later than expected.

That evening David and Caroline treated me to the slightly strange experience of an Indian restaurant in a Scottish castle. Our curry was served by an Indian David Walliams lookalike who put his thumb hard down in the middle of my naan bread as he placed the plate on the table. Even though the curry was actually pretty good, I was expecting a rough night.

Stage 94, 9th June: Carsluith to Kirkinner

Fortunately the rough night didn’t materialise but I was still expecting a rough day as the weather forecast from home was pretty grim.

The day started dry, but the odd drip of rain gradually became dribbles of light rain which progressed within the hour to persistent heavy rain. I really didn’t fancy trucks spraying me all the way along the A75, so I dipped a little further inland through Creetown to follow Cycle Route 7 up and through forestry which provided me passing shelter from the downpour.

Eventually the forest released me back down onto the A75 near Newton Stewart and again I averted the trucks by heading straight into town and taking a hairpin left back down the A714 towards Wigtown. Turning off the road when its accompanying cycleway petered out, I wandered down puddle filled lanes keeping as tight to the estuary as I could. The book capital of Scotland awaited. Wigtown, with its oversized square and town hall, was devoid of activity and the whole place seemed as if it was just waking up as the rain finally gave us all a break and gave my clothing a chance to dry out. Unfortunately my feet then got very wet as I waded through long grass along the top of an old railway embankment testing my now extremely permeable and heavily worn boots well beyond their limited capability.

With soggy toes I squelched my way down a short stretch of the A746 to Kirkinner and a rendezvous in the correct place with David and Caroline who were lurking guiltily outside a pub. Together we headed back to a nearby campsite where Lesley at Drumroamin was extremely welcoming and told us of a previous coastal walker who had stopped by some years back. He was 72 and carried a big rucksack. I’m 50, carry a day sack and live in a motorhome. He did 4,000 miles over a year. I’m trying to do 5,000 miles over 10 months. In this game, there is no official route nor are there any set rules. I’m sure some purists would belittle our 4,000 or 5,000 mile efforts, but then others are very good at exaggerating their mileage too. Either way – they are all very long walks and for me, this is not about bragging rights, it’s just a personal ambition and an item to tick off in my bucket list. Hopefully it might actually raise a few pennies for a couple of very good causes too, though I’m not a celebrity doing a few days of hard graft on prime time television for high-profile charities, so getting exposure and donations is a slow process. I’d love to raise millions too, but celebrities and large corporations seem to live in a different world where having a high-profile for charity seems to bring benefits to more than just the charity. I am beginning to think that my efforts to raise money need a significant boost.

That evening my campsite neighbour, Helen from Wilmslow, joined Snickers for a chat and a wee dram or two. We chatted away until it got dark, which was much later than I thought. It was grand to just chew the cud without any thought as to my logistics for the next day. Hopefully I might even have recruited a future support driver too.

Stage 95, 10th June: Kirkinner to Monreith

With a great weather forecast from home proving bang on again, my mood was up. The rain abated just after 9am and with David and Caroline now gone, Ray took over to drop me off in Kirkinner.

Another four mile road walk took me to Garlieston where tracks took me past the front door and through the gardens of the very grand red-brick Galloway House with rhododendrons in full flower splashing the greenery with vivid pinks and purples. My route took me right through the heart of the estate via a small private beach and dense woodland back up to the road into Isle of Whithorn, which isn’t an island at all but is still a pleasant little place to sit on the rocks and eat my marmite sandwiches.

From here a proper coast path took me across cliff tops with seals barking on the rocks below and sea birds soaring the rising air along the cliff edge. At Burrow Head I unexpectedly bumped into last night’s neighbour, Helen, again who had now met up with her friends for a walk across to St Ninian’s Cave. After brief introductions and a quick communal look at a seal balancing itself precariously on a slither of rock offshore, I marched off ahead.

St Ninian’s was clearly quite a popular place. A dozen or so retired couples were stumbling around the shingle beach carrying heavy cameras and looking into cave entrances with curiosity. I carried on up through more woodland and around several deserted farms and their cottages. My guess was that their desertion was recent, maybe within the last twenty years or so. But why they were deserted beat me and I saved it to question Ray that evening back at the campsite.

Rest Day, 31st May: Lamplugh nr Cockermouth

Following my very pleasant surprise at finding Kate sitting (fully clothed – I might add) on the toilet, I have also hopefully put to rights anybody, if you had heard another version of this tale, who might have suspected that I had a habit of lurking suspiciously around toilets. After all, it was Terry who was particularly insistent that I inspect a supposedly broken mirror despite my “whatever” shrug.

My rest day was spent dropping Terry and Alfie off at Drigg station for their long trip back to Lincolnshire with my deepest thanks. Then it was shopping, weekly chores and a tidy of the van as Kate and I waited for Jon (a very, very long-term friend from childhood and cricket) to arrive for a half-week stint. I did feel more than a little guilty at having to do such chores when Kate had made her way half way up-country to see me for such a brief time. But just like last weekend with my daughters it was good just to spend some time together. And if truth be known, it was Kate who did most of the chores and cooked the dinner that night anyway, even if the tap did just snap off in her hand.

Stage 87, 1st June: Harrington to Abbeytown

I left Kate behind with Jon as I walked away from Harrington station blowing a few deep breaths and trying to look forward to another day of walking instead of lingering on who I had left behind to head home again. I decided that the brand new England Coast Path deserved a trial, so I gave it a go. It took me on a bizarre and slightly unnecessary headland walk into Workington and then gave me the slip by an old railway bridge which used to serve a huge dismantled siding.

I rediscovered the path masquerading as a cycleway to Maryport, but now I have a question of the town / path planners and their like. Why, oh why do such path projects have to be multi-use and thus made of tarmac, especially when there is a perfectly good track or sheep path already in place? I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that I prefer to walk on rough ground and not hard unforgiving bitumen for miles on end. Not only is it tedious but it also hurts. Yes, give the cyclists their strip of smooth black to zip down at 30mph but please don’t expect me to share it with them when there is a bit of grass or even rough hardcore to walk on instead.

A long promenade took me down a fairly unappealing seafront at Maryport and then beach side shingle as far as Mawbray, with only a quick 99 cone from a fish and chip shop in Allonby to brighten my afternoon. After that, it was across fields, the occasional hidden path (photo) and down farm lanes till I found Jon parked up at a nice little campsite in Abbeytown.

Stage 88, 2nd June: Abbeytown to Cargo nr Carlisle

The clouds overhead seemed to threaten rain, but it never actually materialised as I strode along the lanes and occasional fields all the way to Drumburgh. I wasn’t feeling 100% but I couldn’t really say why, I just felt lethargic today and my enthusiasm was suffering.

After Drumburgh my spirits lifted a tad if only because I came into contact with many walkers striding towards me on the last leg of Hadrian’s Wall Way. I came across a couple from Anchorage, Alaska who seemed to be thriving in the warmth of northern England, a dozen lads in their twenties wearing yellow T-shirts who all seemed to be hobbling, completely cream-crackered and very reluctant to chat and then a group of three, including one dressed as a Roman Centurion complete with steel armour who was clearly regretting the sandals part of his outfit.

I finally crossed the River Eden just shy of Carlisle and crossed buttercup strewn fields to meet up with Jon who was nervously distracting some cows to help me pass through unscathed and walk the last mile into a village with the frontier name of Cargo. Wild West by name, much more timid by nature.

Stage 89, 3rd June: Cargo to Ruthwell

A reasonably warm day with sunny spells was predicted and once again accurately delivered as more lanes and occasional fields now took me down river, around and up the River Esk to cross it alongside the M6 and make my way towards Gretna and potentially sixteen or so weeks circumnavigating Scotland. I crossed the small bridge over the River Sark which marks the boundary and waved goodbye to Blighty by taking a photo for a cyclist posing by the England sign and making his way towards Land’s End.

I met up with Jon for my own photo shoot at the Old Toll Bar and slipped in a quick Latte in celebration of my next border crossing. Together we vaguely considered whether I might need my passport to get back into England as I am scheduled to be here beyond the Scottish Independence vote. I wonder, will Gretna become a new Mexican style border town? Or would that be presumptuous of me as I suppose it could equally be Carlisle’s fate.

From Gretna I then verge hopped along a busy pathless road and tried to listen to the England v Sri Lanka ODI on the radio whilst keeping an ear as well as my eyes trimmed for traffic approaching from both directions.

Annan (photo) was definitely my first proper Scottish town with an almost gothic look to the stark red sandstone walled public buildings. I nipped into the chemist to get something to help my ailing toes and had a lovely yet brief chat with the pharmacist who sported my first Scottish accent since Alec had driven Snickers back in Cornwall. To me it felt a bit like coming home, even though I am probably about as english as a Melton Mowbray Pork Pie.

From Annan the coast opened out a little and a I nipped down to Powfoot for a couple of small sandy beaches before heading back inland to meet up with Jon who was enjoying a bit of a busman’s holiday at the Ruthwell savings bank museum.

We then made for our midweek flying support crew change by driving back down into England to pick up Phil (an old geology pal from uni) in Cumbria and drop Jon off for his journey back down to Leicestershire with more thanks. A quick overnight stop at Phil and Cath’s with a home cooked meal, laundry, bath and bed was hugely welcome. A bath! A bed! Bliss!

Stage 90, 4th June: Ruthwell to New Abbey

Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain!

Tarmac, tarmac, tarmac, tarmac, tarmac!

Lanes, lanes, lanes, cycleway, A710, A710, A710!

My biggest joy of the day was a brief respite after a particularly huge downpour at the Caerlaverock Tea Rooms in Glencaple. Here they allowed me to eat my sandwiches and dry off for a bit with a cup of tea. When I came to pay, not only was the tea gifted as a donation to charity but so was my little shop purchase. Kind gestures like that are always welcome and this blog wouldn’t be worth a fig if I didn’t at least mention them, despite all donations getting a line on my virginmoneygiving page.

Another highlight was my first offer of a lift whilst dodging cars by verge hopping my way along the A710 and presumably looking a smidge bedraggled. I reluctantly turned him down but the verge hopping didn’t get any less miserable. At least Phil managed to get the tap fixed on Snickers even if they did charge us full whack on the labour. £100 for a fitted tap seems a tad steep to me.

Stage 91, 5th June: New Abbey to Palnackie

With twelve more miles of verge hopping the A710 was not proving to be my favourite coastal pathway. By lunchtime I was overjoyed to escape its grasp and have a proper coast path to follow from Sandyhills around to Rockcliffe and Kippford.

Along this lovely cliff top and hill climbing seven mile section I got a proper view across the Solway Firth (photo) and found myself reluctantly droving cattle along the path until they ground to a halt at the first stile. I stepped to one side and encouraged them to back track with a few confident farmer-like shouts and a wave of my trekking pole. It seemed to work and I am now considering whether droving might have any career openings.

Rockcliffe was a very pretty village with most of the rather well proportioned houses having a grand view across Auchencairn Bay. I thought it a rather undiscovered gem of a place which was only topped when Ben of the Mr Whippy van kindly poked a free flake into my truly excellent double sherbet cone.

After that it was back to roads and that A710 again into Dalbeattie to cross Urr Water and enjoy the equally pleasant experience of walking down the A711 to Palnackie and a rendezvous with Phil parked up in the campsite.

Stage 84, 28th May: Rampside to Green Road nr Millom

Light but persistent rain accompanied me around a large gas terminal and old derelict works into Barrow-in-Furness. For a change I headed into the High Street as I also needed to do some banking. It was much as any other shopping centre in towns across the country with the usual names and drab familiarity. As I left town the same familiar supermarkets and warehouse shops made their appearance and I found it a little depressing that most towns seem to have lost their identity and character through the dominance of such corporate chains.

I finally dived away from the road to walk across the sands to Askam which involved a good rock scramble to get around the headland at high tide. I sat down and took shelter from the rain under a disused bridge for a sandwich lunch which I tried to share with an aging border collie who passed my way. He didn’t like marmite and looked at me a little forlornly as I had little else of interest other than a banana to offer.

The rain eventually abated and I walked alongside the now very familiar railway again through the marshes at Sand Side. My progress was slow as I had to zig zag my way through the bogs and mud before finally finding small lanes to follow up to the apparently historic market town of Broughton-in-Furness. I did think it strange how all market towns seem to be announced as historic and thought it was more than likely that every town has some history of note, some of it probably quite scandalous or gory. I therefore concluded that if every town tries to shout about their history it almost certainly becomes lost in a sea of voices and the town remains wholly anonymous. I also concluded that my train of thought was beginning to lose the plot in examining such trivia and that maybe I should listen to the radio or something.

Duddon bridge saw my third Cumbrian estuary topped and then gave me half a mile of hell as I ducked my way down the A595 just waiting for a wing mirror to clip my arm. Fortunately a few lanes and fields came to my rescue just as I began to audibly mouth a few choice words at drivers cutting it a little fast and fine for my liking and I headed to meet up with Terry and Alfie at another rural railway station.

Stage 85, 29th May: Green Road nr Millom to Drigg

My favourite overcast, cool but dry weather gave me a great start as I set out from one station on the coast railway with a plan to rendezvous at the end of the day at another. I had crossed and re-crossed the same railway line for days and was convinced that even the train drivers must recognise me by now.

Millom and its old disused and derelict iron works was a fairly desolate place and Haverigg with its neighbouring prison didn’t really brighten things. By Silecroft the depressing landscape was improved by a beach walk, even if it was shingle. I progressed at ever decreasing pace as the shingle became deeper and coarser until the pebble banks led me to lanes around the MOD range at Eskmeals with the occasional huge thump and whistle of artillery echoing across the estuary.

When I came to cross the river the nicely marked ford on my map proved to be a mud slide and a chest deep wade. Fortunately a scaffold bridge was attached to the side of the railway viaduct, so after a begging request of the painting contractor’s foreman  I was able to get across without sinking without trace into brown slime.

From here on in mud and shingle were aplenty with another walkable viaduct at the village oasis of Ravenglass. The last river of the day to cross was also marked as having a ford. I approached with little confidence of being able to cross. My lack of confidence was well founded as my walking pole nigh on vanished when I dipped it into the mud at the river bank. I elected to back track and find a bridge up river even though I was only a few hundred yards from my end of day rendezvous with a pint of Jennings Cumberland waiting. The pint was worth waiting for as the beer at the Victoria Hotel, Drigg must have been the best beer I had tasted for a long time. I just had to have another.

Stage 86, 30th May: Drigg to Harrington

Another dry but overcast morning saw me off along the lanes and cycleways topping the shingle beach of Seascale with the nuclear reprocessing plant at Sellafield looming ever closer. By the time I reached Sellafield the plant’s absolute dominance of the entire landscape was complete and the perimeter was made up of multiple lines of tall prison mesh fencing topped with rolls of razor wire and sterile zones between each line. CCTV cameras pointed in every direction and police were everywhere, many of them armed particularly at the main gate. The whole place had an air of hostility and though I was tempted to walk by wearing a bright Greenpeace T-shirt I thought better of it and instead I slipped by as anonymously as I could, sneaking a couple of discreet photos without breaking stride.

By Braystones I was back on a fairly grim featureless shingle beach which seemed to be lined with what looked like rough shacks, though I’m not sure whether they were genuinely rough or just ravaged after a winter of heavy storms. From St Bees I finally got a cliff top walk, my first since mid Wales over three weeks ago. It was a very welcome change and brightened the landscape considerably after the eye-sore of Sellafield. The heavy ammonia smell of guano over the cliff top was gripping and not pleasant, but my first sight of nesting Fulmars, Kittiwakes, Guillemots and Razorbills was worth the pungent introduction.

The cliffs flattened out as I approached Whitehaven with its well populated small marina, yet the town seemed otherwise quiet. Whitehaven then introduced me to work in progress as brand new finger posts announced the arrival of the England Coast Path, my first sight of a long-term project to match Wales by having a footpath right around the country. England are a long way behind and though I might have walked a number of disjointed english coast paths I’m not convinced it will be completed too soon.

I eventually met up with Terry and Alfie at Harrington railway station, only to discover Kate hiding in the van, a very welcome and grand surprise. We returned to Drigg for an evening in the Victoria Hotel for a well-earned and equally well portioned meal with maybe the odd accompanying pint of Jennings to celebrate 143 miles in six days. The landlord, Gordon, and his customers were not only exceptionally friendly but were equally generous to the cause and the whole evening was tops.