My last blog referred, in my tantrum-like, mardy conclusion, to ‘my pisspot life’. Can I just say that it was not a statement on my life. It was a swear word like saying ‘bloody life’ or ‘sodding life’ or something else which is attached without being descriptive. It was my humour which was in a pisspot state, not my life. I’ve had a good one. Marrying the kid I wanted too and loving her for forty five years and having three daughters I’m immensely proud of for being nice and loving.

Anyway sorry for my mardy bum tanty rum. But it still is very hard and I’m not great at handling adversity.

It had been snowing in Inchnadamph when I woke up, having spent a relatively sleepless night wrestling with whether I should get on the bus at 08.00 on the way home or not. I’d set the alarm to get the bus but when my feet touched the floor the grinding pain on the blisters and sores had reduced a lot. A second factor in deciding to give it another try was a message from Chris Morrish, a Gashead mate who has been right supportive through the South West trek and on this one. I’m carrying on as long as I physically can. 

I actually met two guys at the hostel who were walking the trail in the opposite direction. The first real walkers I’d seen in five days. They were able to give me some advice over breakfast on the route to come, stopping places and potential problems. Good advice thanks.

I set off towards Oykell Bridge with a view to ending up 23 miles away at a bothy in the hills beyond the bridge. (By the way bothies are old cottages or sheds in wilderness areas which are maintained by volunteers and which provide free shelter for walkers). It meant climbing up to a pass to the west and round the brooding hulk of Conival, a shoulder to shoulder mountain twin of Ben More Assynt, which is better known but a mere 33 feet higher than Conival. I chose the wrong side of the river to go uphill on and missed the track from the first step. It was rough ground when I’d hoped to make some quick progress. It took me an hour to find a river crossing point and it was snowing now again.

Finally I got over the other side, when the river became smaller and crossable. It had cost me an hour and valuable energy too. I climbed up the track directly towards snow-covered Conival.

After hours of climbing I reached the start of the pass, having used my GPS device to make sure I was going in exactly the right direction as the path had disappeared. I could see another person’s tracks in the snow but they were a few days old and kept disappearing under more recent snow. Conival got closer and the views looking back to Inchnadamph, Loch Assynt and out towards the sea beyond became awe inspiring.

The distant view, to the west, of Suilven which is a big chunk of a mountain was fabulous. To cap it all the weather temporarily cleared.

Carrying on upwards the pass seemed to get further and further away and Conival was getting broodier.

  I met a bloke walking coming the other way. He had camped in the valley and seemed disoriented. He asked if I was English, which is bizarre as he was Geordie and they sound more like Danish than English – Whyaay. He had been 16 days in the wilderness and had another 16 to go. He must have stunk the dirty pillock.

I finally made the point where the water started running down away from me, rather than back behind me after wading through snow drifts on the top.

I could see the valley down to Ben More Lodge and Oykell Bridge 15 miles beyond with rain sweeping up the middle. 

There was no track and I dropped down through the peat bogs, across the river in the valley and went up to the snow line on the hill to the left of this photo above. Walking down the valley from this height I would be less likely to get sucked into the bogs and would see any track below me if one arrived. Eventually I did find a track. Looking backwards to the east of Conival was the hulking Ben More Assynt.

 Going down the valley took me hours and hours, eating only a tin of tuna since breakfast and not taking a break. After 10 hours and 19 miles of walking I finally arrived at Oykell Bridge at 7.30 at night and there was a choice. There in the middle of nowhere was a posh hunting, shooting and salmon fishing hotel. I could stay here or cross the river and climb up four further miles to a freezing and lonely bothy in the dark. For some reason I can’t explain (but probably financial) I turned left and aimed for the Old Schoolhouse bothy. I was exhausted  at that time and forced myself along the uphill track until it was right dark. I couldn’t do any more. I got my map, torch and GPS out and referenced my position on the map. I shouted out loud, I’m there I’m there. I was only half a mile away and I pulled my body along. To get there when it’s tough I count my steps and somehow it gives me strength. I gave it 1700 steps to get there, my legs are shorter than yours. At long last it emerged from the dark and I eased the door open whispering, Sorry to arrive so late and disturb you.  There was no-one there. I fell into the place, put my sleeping bag on the wooden bench and got all my clothes on and my soaking wet boots and socks off.  The Old Schoolhouse is thin walled and cold.

It got down to below zero inside! There was no fireplace and I slept badly on the bench. The hardness doesn’t bother me because I’ve slept on hard surfaces many times now, but the cold was extreme. I had six layers on my top, including two thermals, a balaclava and a hat, thermal leggings, trousers and two pairs of socks as well as my sleeping bag. I was still so cold I couldn’t sleep. I pulled my rucksack with still a lot of gear inside it on top of me and eventually dropped off for a few interrupted hours. Christ it was pisspot cold. 

Night night. 

And the Golden Eagles fly with the Dove. CSN (almost).

The rose is symbolic of the beauty of Scotland. The fisted glove I see as quite oppressive and dark. It’s the weather. The dark fist of the weather. Male Fist. That takes me back. 

I was at the LSE as a student and we heard that the National Front were holding a meeting at Imperial College a few tube stops away. We got a (left wing) mob of about thirty of us together and went over on the tube to disrupt them. As we arrived outside the college the Special Branch were across the road in a dark Rover car. Four of them in it with the bloke in the back nearest to us taking our mugshots with a telephoto lens with the window rolled down. I ran across the road and tried to take the camera off the scumbag but he was about twenty times stronger than I was and they sped off. We went inside Imperial found the hall where the NF were meeting and chased them out. We then had our own meeting with this guy who I can’t remember his name but I knew he had a .303 rifle in his flat for when the Revolution started. He said to stamp on ultra-right activity as he had been beaten up by a group of Nazis in Manchester called Male Fist. It didn’t occur to me to ask why I should seek retribution for his misfortune. But he was right anyway.  This is the view from my seat at breakfast. 

As I set off this morning the sun was out and I saw a dear friend of mine – boom boom!

Yesterday I did 27 miles and ascended over 1000 metres. This morning my legs and back were fine but my feet are knacked. I’ve got horrible blisters from the wet boots and socks rubbing together. But my mood was lightened by the sunshine and the beauty of the rose. 

I headed south along the road to Inchnadamph, climbing up to the pass east of  Cuinnaig, a magnificent snow covered range.

Passing along the road a different perspective of the range was impressive.

Walking along the top of the pass the wind got up, grew cold and it started snowing again. Down to zero during the strongest blow. It was a long walk.

I dropped down to Loch Assynt and came across Ardvreck Castle, the historical and haunted home of the Macleod Clan. Grisly history. Can you see the ghost of the grey man in this photo? Me neither.

I got to Inchnadamph, just nine miles today, and was glad to get into the hostel with a top floor room. Nice place.

I’m not loving this walk. It’s cold and wet and icy to the extent that all I’m doing is walking between b&bs. There’s sod all apart from the beauty of the countryside. I haven’t seen anyone else walking. Nobody. I haven’t passed a shop for three days. My blogs are an old man walking. Nothing else. An old fart with no spark in the wet and miserable wild country. I’m too long in the tooth to do something I don’t enjoy. I shouldn’t have to. I’ve worked all my pisspot life and I don’t want to do anything that I’m not having fun doing. The forecast for at least three days is snow and hail showers. 

Alright I’ve had my moan. Let’s see what tomorrow brings. Night night.

Reyt good movie that was. John Wayne, Richard Burton and some others too. My longest day was today. What a breakfast. I’m a bit porky but even I couldn’t finish it. Off at 9.00 and by road to Richonic, which put some mileage under my belt quickly. From there the route goes across rough country up a long straight valley past two sizeable lochs and on to Achfary, which was my target. 

There was a bit of a path but it was waterlogged and my boots and socks were soaked within two minutes. Deja vu. It was going alright until it started to snow, and at first I thought that it couldn’t possibly settle.

Within half an hour the glen was covered in it. Us in Scotland call a valley a glen. The temperature dropped below freezing. My trousers were soaked as much as my feet and I came to my first river without a bridge. I waded it. It didn’t make me any wetter.

I kept going up the valley glen thing but kept slipping on the snow. I wished I had my snow grips.

To my left was Arkle, a magnificent 700m plus mountain with Foinaven behind it at 900m. 

After four hours of slog I came across a track and followed it to an empty Lodge on Loch Stack. What’s wrong with this blog? My spark’s gone. 

Anyway by 5.00 in the afternoon I’d made it to a dump called Achfary. I’d been looking for places to pitch Wilson but everywhere was either peat bog, covered in water or covered in snow. My hands were bleeding from clutching on to the poles for eighteen miles in dog rough country, my feet were blistered and bleeding and my arms were bruised from falling. The snow had stopped. At least that was one blessing. I knocked on a few doors but nobody answered and there were no b&b signs. After 15 minutes of sitting map reading and deliberating I decided to do the next day’s walk that evening. It would keep me warm and there would be a better outcome.

I said to myself if I could make the summit of the pass near Ben Dreavie by 6.30 then I should be able to make it to Kylesku before dark. There is a lot of logging activity going on and public access isn’t allowed through parts of the mountainside but I was able to climb over the big wooden slatted gates, getting a foothold on the No Access sign. By 6.20 I made the top but the path at that height was covered in snow and it was starting to snow again. 

I got a new lease of life and almost jogged down the hillside with my rucksack bouncing up and down on my back. By now with wet clothing and wet Wilson in it the weight had increased a bit but I didn’t feel it. I just wanted to get to Kylesku. As I descended the weather improved into the evening. 

 The Deer were watching me limp towards the end. Georgie had booked me into the Kylesku hotel courtesy of Maggie as a birthday present.

“Hey white boy what you doing uptown, you chasing all our pretty deer around?         

Oh pardon me stag it springs to my mind, I’m just waiting for a tooty friend of mine.”

 Got there and got warm and dry. 

I got up late in Strathan bothy and set off to get over the hills to London Stores, a famous shop on this Trail. My boots and socks were covered in boggy water within two minutes. It was only three inches on the map but it took me until two thirty to get over to London Stores. 

I asked the bloke if he could recommend a bed and breakfast – I was buggered. He said there were rooms at the restaurant down the road but I’d read rubbish reviews about the place. I decided to go into Lochbervie village, about a mile in the “wrong” direction, but I ate a sandwich on the bench outside the shop first. As I sat there a couple pulled up in a car and the lady went into the shop, came out and said ” I run a b&b and I hear your looking for one”. 

To add more karma to the situation they helped get my gear in the car boot, took me back to their gaff and I stepped through the door just as it started to pee it down. It was a lovely place, No 125 it’s called. Eddie and Margaret. This was the view from my seat at breakfast this morning.

I went to the local pub with Eddie and had a couple of beers and haggis for tea. Watched the Man City match, got back to No 125 and watched Simon before sleeping like a king. 

Hi. Most walkers do the Cape Wrath trail South to North but I want to feel I’m heading home so I set off on Friday 24th April, packing up Wilson and walking to the Kyle of Durness ferry. There were eight people on it and it was full. It’s an open affair with an outboard motor. The back of the boat was about six inches above the water. I hoped we didn’t hit a wave. The ferryman told us that the minibus driver at the far end was going through a sex change from man to woman. He wasn’t.

The driver gave us a commentary on the 11 mile journey on the worst road in the world. It took an hour to get there. Cape Wrath is a military range and there was a mortar shell hole next to the road. Lots of deer and there are golden eagles nesting on the highest mountain. 

The driver told us that the sphagnum moss on rocks by the side of the road had antiseptic qualities and was a great substitute for toilet roll if you were caught short. I suggested to him that we should try to make toilet roll from sphagnum moss so it cleans and disinfects your arse in one wipe. He said we should take that pitch into Dragons’ Den. 

The end of the Cape is bleak but beautiful. 

I set off walking south and instantly got wet boots and socks in the peat bogs that are endemic in Western Scotland. The cliffs are quite spectacular. 

It took me five hours to get down to Sandwood Bay, where I was going to pitch Wilson. It is quite stunning.

It was breezy and I decided to carry on to a bothy further inland. It took me two hours (because I stopped to catch a beautiful brown trout on my lightweight eight piece rod) and I found it just as it was going dark. Nobody was in it – great, but a bit spooky at first. 

I tried to get a fire going with the cut peat which people kindly leave available but it didn’t work. It looked nice when I had the candle and newspaper going in the fire though. I slept ok but it was very cold. 

Night night. 

I’ve been thinking about doing something different on this one and I was thinking about the Naked Rambler. You know the bloke – walks all over the UK with his tackle out. Anyway I thought what’s he got that I haven’t got? 

I’m sat in the clubhouse of the Sango Sands campsite with a beautiful beach and headland out of the window. 

I’ve got my boots, hat and shirt on a radiator. It’s a long story.

It was ok in Inverness last night. I went to a pub looking over the river and had a beer and a plate of haggis with neeps and tatties, with a rich whisky sauce. It doesn’t get much better. Then I walked round the old town, small and with lots of rundown pubs but a couple of lively joints. I went back to the b&b for an early one, passing a chippy on the way that did fried haggis for £2 so I got a takeout. There aren’t many places on this walk so I’m stocking up on the carbos and fat. It’s a strict regime. I watched The Island in bed at the b&b and saw the state of the lads who hadn’t eaten much for a week so I’m making a pre-emptive strike on starvation. 

What a good night’s sleep and a good breakfast. I got the 10.40 train up the coast, passing lochs with gas or oil platforms.

The train stopped at hundreds of stations, well at least 10, and the two just before Lairg were described over the tannoy as ‘request stops’. I’d no idea how to request a stop but it stopped anyway and the bus to Durness was waiting in the car park.

I’ve never been on a bus before where one of the three passengers , an old lady, can request a 12 mile detour to go to a ladies toilet! That’s customer service. The road was single track for forty miles through the glens, and I passed some of the routes that I was going to take.  

When we got to Durness I felt that we were at the northern limit. It’s beautiful mind but savage in one go. I found Sango Sands, pitched Wilson and took my fishing rod down the cliffs. I’d casted my line three or four times and one of the biggest waves in recent history bashed against the pillar of rock I was stood on and absolutely soaked me head to freaking toe.

I’ve got my boots, hat and shirt on a radiator. It’s a long story.

I hope the ferry’s operating in the morning.  According to the bus driver the military were still on manoeuvres yesterday and there were a few RAF planes zooming over but as we passed the ferryman’s van was out and about. We’ll see. Night night.

Well I’m here in Inverness after changing trains twice and spending an hour wandering up and down Princes Street in Edinburgh. What a place. I didn’t realise that it was so beautiful. Edinburgh that is, but Inverness as well. Coming out of Waverley station, snuggled deeply in the valley running under the castle, it’s absolutely stunning. The blossom and flowers are out in Princes Park and a piper plays in the warm distance. The sun shines through a thin haze and the world is relaxed. My pack is comfortable on my shoulders and back – at 16kgs – and I’ve kept most of my weight off so I’m carrying nearly 15kgs less than when I started the South West path.  Here’s Princes Park this lunchtime.

The castle still broods in the sun behind this statue of the painter Allan Ramsay. 

Sir Walter Scott loafs around underneath his monument.

And the Firth of Forth shines forth.

Past Pitlochry the first snow shows itself in the mountains.

I’ll sleep well tonight and look forward to getting a big step closer to my starting point tomorrow.

Night night. 

I will blog mid-next week when I’m in/on my way to Bonnie Scotland. I’m spending next Wednesday at a B&B in Inverness then taking the train up to Lairg and a bus to Durness (only one a day). The next morning I’m getting the ferry across the Kyle of Durness and a bus across MoD land to Cape Wrath to start my walk. If the ferry is out due to bad weather (quite frequent) then I’ll have to walk round and stay overnight in the cafe on the Cape, open 24 hours 365 days a year. The RAF is on manoeuvres and currently dropping 1000 lb bombs on the Cape – the only place in Europe where bombs of that size can be dropped – but the lady at the MoD reckons they will finish early. Hope so otherwise I’ll have to wait another day.

The first day I’ll get down to Sandwood Bay and camp on the beach. Then it’s a nine day slog across mostly wilderness until Andrew joins me at the first rail station en route – Achnashellach. I’ve had a cold so not doing any training at the moment but did walk 11 miles the other day with Antonia up Pen y Ghent and on to Ribblehead. I like it round there. It keeps drawing me back.

It was Antonia’s 22nd birthday last week. Old Git.

Pity she’s up to her eyes in MSc otherwise she might join me. Still, great that Andrew’s coming. Should be near Fort William when Andrew goes back then I’ll do the West Highland Way up Ben Nevis and down through the Great Glen to Milngavie where I get a train home on 19th May. I’m hoping to take Wilson if the weather isn’t looking too cold or windy and stay some nights in bothies in the back of beyond and maybe one or two B&Bs. I’ll be doing 320 miles but the problem is that there isn’t much of a path from Cape Wrath. I’ve bought a GPS so that’s good, I should be able to locate where I am even in zero visibility. I’m travelling light so no room for clothes.

I’ll stay on this blogsite but sometimes there’s no signal for days so blogs may be intermittent. Apologies in advance.

Excited and wary. It’s billed as the toughest long distance walk in the British Isles, that includes Attercliffe Common to Wicker Arches so it must be tough.

For my Gashead mates there’s a ditty to the tune of Home, Home on the Range (which mimics a Blades song) for your delectation and delight.

No S*** fans in town,                                                                                                                                                          

Ashton Gate has been washed out to sea,                                                                                                                              

Danny Wilson is dead, and the (shi) Teds have fled,                                                                                                              

And the year is 1883.

May my coarseness bring you pleasure. Please don’t go the play-off route. Blades doing it will be bad enough.

Laters.

There is a mountain behind Benidorm called Puig Campana which, as you can see from the photo below (taken from the internet), can even get some snow coverage. It’s 200 feet higher than Ben Nevis. I wanted to climb this beauty and one of the waiters in the hotel, Xabi, said he’d come with me. Sadly our chosen day was a washout with torrential rain which would have made the whole ascent very iffy.

A couple of days later the weather cleared enough for me to drive up to the springs of Moli, beautiful fresh water pouring out of the mountain at hundreds of gallons a minute, and park the car. Xabi was off that day but I couldn’t get hold of him. We’ll walk it together next year. There is a route which goes up to the left of the mountain, as you look at the photo above, skirts up to a ridge at the back and then it’s a steep slog up tracks, scree and rock faces to the summit on the right of the photo. It’s not difficult it’s just hard going.

On the top of the peak to the left if you look closely you can see a chunk taken out of the top. Legend has it that Roldan, a local giant, had a lover Alda who was fated to die when the last of the sun’s rays shone on her. Roldan cut out part of the mountain so that the sun would take longer to set and give Alda a few moments longer to live. The chunk was kicked out into the Mediterranean and became the island off Benidorm which appears in my last blog. I love that story. It must be true. Only the power of love could make a bloke that strong, even if he’s a giant. It’s like women capable of lifting trucks off their children.

It reminds me of the legend of the origin of Lough Neagh, a huge lake outside Belfast near where I worked in Lurgan, which was allegedly formed by a legendary Irish hunter/warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill (or Finn MacCool). When he was chasing a Scottish rival from Ireland’s shores he lifted a huge lump of soil and rock and hurled it at his retreating foe. The soil was thrown so hard that it landed in the middle of the Irish Sea and became the Isle of Man, while the gaping hole left behind soon filled with water and formed Lough Neagh. It’s true. Pat Mallon told me.

When I left the car the mountain was brooding in the clouds.

The walk was fantastic with great views inland and when I finally rounded the back of the summit there were thin patches of snow in the sheltered northern gullies.

The climb up to the col between the left and right summits was tough but the last few hundred feet was an easy walk following the yellow and white stripes, which had disappeared halfway up the mountain but now reappeared as if by the magic of Roldan the Giant. I think the stripes disappear just before you’re going to get to a difficult section so that the originator can’t be sued for leading you to your death.

The view from the top was masked by thick, freezing cloud.

However the cloud parted to the north east giving me a brief glimpse of the view past my old mate Serra Bernia, past Altea and on to the highest cliff in the entire Mediterranean next to Calpe – Ifach, seen in the distance as a stand alone tower of rock. At 1000 feet high it looks huge from below (and even bigger from the top of the cliff) but it is actually dwarfed by Puig Campana, as I was standing at 4,600 feet.

Coming down the stripes disappeared and I went astray, coming down to a 30 foot drop, which I managed to get down by clinging on to a tree growing next to it, and then boot-skiing down a long scree slope. At the col I turned right, instead of going back the way I had come, going 360 degrees round the mountain back to Moli. The views below the cloud line were great and I came upon this pine tree, being the only one I’ve ever seen with an Afro.

I drank stacks of water from the springs at Moli, sweet as a mountain stream. Well, actually it was a mountain stream. Sweet anyway.

Cheers me dears. Laters. Blog from England next on my plans.

I have to say that Maggie wasn’t to blame for my eviction over the drunk in the car episode. She has put up with a fool for years and has the patience of a saint. Thank you darling. I brought it all on my stupid self.

We love Spain at this time of year. It’s full of oranges in orange trees, lemons in lemon trees and both oranges and lemons in a halfway house.

Over the past forty years we’ve come to different parts of Spain in December, February, March, April and May, from Madrid to Majorca to Mojacar to the Costa Blanca. We’ve eaten some of the world’s best seafood in places where the toilet is a hole in the concrete floor and you squat to release your doo dah on to the mountainside below holding on to crates of San Miguel for support. Sorry – that’s a bit graphic for tea time but we just love places that you wouldn’t normally consider going to. This year we returned to a favourite of ours, driving inland over the mountains to a place called Parcent where there is an out of town restaurant called La Piscina. So called because it has a Piscina (swimming pool) full of mud coloured water, lilies and big fish. The starter is in the back room, a big help-yourself salad buffet in a huge open-topped fridge. It’s heavenly. I always have rabbit with garlic for main and Maggie usually has lamb on the bone. Thanks Martin and Linda Baverstock for letting us stay at your house in Calpe over the years. It’s beautiful and we enjoyed seeing you in Leeds this weekend. One of Martin’s nicknames is Bear – we’ve seen your bar in Beni mate!

This year we’ve eaten some great meals at very cheap prices. Thanks exchange rate! We’ve found a real gem, Isa and Toni’s place at Sella in the main village square. The food is traditional country Spanish and it’s great. Today we stayed in Benidorm and wandered around the old town. To our astonishment and delight we found the Calle de Santo Domingo, a street specialising in tapas joints which rival those we’ve come across in Madrid and elsewhere. The middle of Beni and it’s a centre for the real McCoy!

We went to one place for a few bits and pieces, then next door for a bowl of snails in chili sauce and then down the street for a plate of fried quails’ legs and a bowl of baby eels (sort of) great, great, great.

Problem is Benidorm sets itself up by being so commercial in half of it, and summer will be unbearable. But where can you find a seafront restaurant charging £8 for a four course meal including wine and with a view like this?

We’ll be back same time next year. No problem. Maybe same apartment in the hotel with this view.