The last full day and by another piece of luck the Fish Man in his van stops for half an hour in Durness selling fresh fish and shellfish. I bought four langoustines, two small smoked haddock fillets, six eggs, a pack of butter, big spud and a disposable barbecue. Down to the beach for brunch.

    
I got the barbie strategically located on the rocks and cooked the langoustines. Oh my giddy aunt what a fresh, sea and lemon taste to them!!!

  
I followed it by coating some foil in butter, poaching the smokies in it and then mixing in the eggs. Smoked haddock foo yung. No seasoning needed. The taste of heaven on earth. Unbelievable. Spuds were good too.

  
Loafed the rest of the day, blogging in the clubhouse on site, unpacking and repacking the rucksack, showering and trying to air the smell of smoke from my clothes. But not until after I’d collected what driftwood there was and turning the barbie into a warming fire.

  
Early night and up at 6.30 to derig, get loaded up and get to the bus stop for the 8am to Lairg, to get the train to Inverness, to get the train to Edinburgh to get the train to Leeds. Less cold last night. Still cold but not nut piercingly bitter. The morning looked lovely. Luvleh!!!!

   
  
 Goodbye my old love. I haven’t got the sense to stay away. Get on the train, the train the train. Say goodbye to Madame George. Goodbye. Thanks.
 

Well I was going back to the village of Laid, where I hitch-hiked from, to walk the missing section to rest in Durness. There is a bus once a week from Durness to Laid and it leaves on a Tuesday morning at 10.30. It had been another bitter night and I hadn’t slept through this one, waking up lots. Eight miles from Laid to rest today. Once you’ve made it up then milk it. Laid to rest. Laid to rest. The bus arrived on time.

  
The view down Loch Eriboll was again beautiful.

  
I walked back with a light heart and none of the usual focus on pace and targets. It was the last waltz of this tour. And the weather became blissful to match the occasion.

  
Drifting round from Loch Eriboll westwards onto the north coast again the views were beginning to get ridiculously good.

  
And looking back across the mouth of Loch Eriboll equally good.

  
It might look balmy but it’s still chilly, even when the wind drops. This is a seriously northern climate. I pulled into the Smoo Cave Hotel for lunch and had Haggis and Langoustines – two local delicacies. Absolute heaven for me. On the way back I spotted a sign that I didn’t know about or expect.

  
The link was explained.

  
   
 
I couldn’t help it. I sobbed my heart out. John, here as a kid, to grow to be a genius and inspiration to a generation and then to be ‘assassinated in New York in 1980’ by some half-witted Yanker. I said ‘sorry’ to the German couple behind me , and they were sympathetic. I got back to the campsite beach and loafed on the rocks for a while. 

Back at base which means that I’ve completed the North Highland Way that doesn’t exist. 118 miles (190kms). 

Small snack for tea and an early one. Another day tomorrow and maybe a tale to tell. 

Night night.

  
Forever young. We love you John. Laid to rest. 

Turning right down the loch the views behind me seaward got better and better. 

  
The jetty arrived and I sat on the rocks waiting for the bus to come back, watching a bloke on a small boat spinning for sea trout in the estuary. He turned towards me, landed and beckoned me in. It was Jim, the ferry skipper. He gave me a lift over early, took calls regarding the ferry timings and continued fishing, all at the same time!!! With his best pal curled up forward. The quid pro quo for taking an early one on the little boat was that I had to take seaweed off Jim’s lure when it got wrapped up. Worth it for 15 minutes early start away.

  
  
As we approached land the sleeper became the figurehead.

  
 Jumping off the front of the boat onto the beach I waved the skipper goodbye, and his first mate. As I passed a house a car came out of the drive, I stuck my thumb out and the bloke stopped and gave me a lift back to the campsite in time to see the sun on the beach below.

   
 
Fish and chips and early night. 

Night night.

It was a really cold night. Jesus Blade it got at me, and I was wrapped up in the tent, bag, clothes, jacket etc… I got out at 4.30 and went for a shower at the campsite shower block to warm up. It did the trick but it was one of those where you press a button to give you 30 seconds of shower or summat. They seem to make a big noise but I was so cold I didn’t care. I got back to the tent and back into the sleeping bag, and slept through to 9.30. When I woke up the tent was warm with the sun and that had probably kept me asleep. 

I had to make a decision.

1. Go back to Laid and finish the journey to here.
2. Go to Cape Wrath. 

Cape Wrath – Yeeees!!!!!

There was no wind so the ferry would be running. There are ferries at 11am and 2pm, with follow on bus journeys along to the lighthouse 11 miles away, at the end of the Cape, the most Northwesterly point of the British mainland. If there are fewer than four travellers on the 2pm ferry then it is cancelled and so is the bus. If I got the 11am ferry, took the bus to the end of the Cape and walked back then I could make the 5.00pm ferry back. If It wasn’t running I could walk round but it was a three hour trek round the head of the loch. If I walked to the Cape and tried to get the bus back then it might not be on. In that case it would be a seven hour walk back. 

Apart from the bus there are no other vehicles on Cape Wrath and no residents, except the bloke who lives next to the lighthouse and runs a 24/7 cafe. Realistically he will serve 20 people from the two daily bus runs and five walkers a week coming up the Cape Wrath trail from Fort William 200 miles away (a few more in summer). The track to the Cape from the ferry is very rough, going through a remote MoD target range. It takes the bus an hour to do the 11 miles.

Anyway back to waking up at 9.30, getting my teeth cleaned and buying a sandwich at the local Spar shop. I walked on the two miles to the ferry slipway, walking through farm land. 

  
The Kyle of Durness was dark and ominous. 

  
There were loads of people, around 23, waiting for the ferry. I got on the first run on the boat that only holds 12 people, but it was a bigger and higher boat than last year. At the back was a couple who I’d met in the Youth Hostel at Tongue and they were walking over to Kervaig bothy near the lighthouse. Nice couple.

  
It was a long 11 miles on the bus, being bounced around on the rough track, but after an hour it emerged. The north coast of the UK is to the right and the west coast to the left. I love these geographically significant locations. 

  
I had a divine cheese and pickle sandwich in the cafe and set off back on foot. Turning south and then inland I had a great view of Sandwood Bay, world renowned beauty spot. 

  
Cutting inland I got a last view of the northwest coast down towards Kervaig.

  
After an hour the bus came back towards me with 5 passengers on board. Yes!!! The 5pm ferry would be running. The weather had completely turned around and long spells of sunshine brought cheer. The plateau of the Cape was beautifully surrounded by hills.

  
And the miles from the ferry to the lighthouse were waymarked. 

  
Over the Cape and the road dropped down towards the sea and an empty summerhouse in a classic location.

  
Laters.

My aim was for a bothy at the head of Loch Eriboll, a deep and lengthy sea loch which I couldn’t get a ferry across and would have to take a 20 mile hike around. Bothies are mostly old cottages in the middle of nowhere, restored a bit by volunteers but without toilets, cooking facilities, electricity or running water. If you turn up and it’s not full you sleep in it, on the floor or rough wooden benches. There are no charges. They’re great in cold, windy weather, particularly when torrential rain or snow hinders you putting up a tent. Some have fireplaces and if you can find wood locally then it’s happy days. 

It’s quite a hike from Tongue to Loch Eriboll, trekking up over two hill ranges, the first to Loch Hope and the second up and over to Loch Eriboll. It is 10 miles to the shores of Eriboll, starting at the shoreline of Tongue and crossing the Kyle of Tongue, a deep cutting inlet, along a causeway and over a bridge before the first hill range. The view from the causeway, as usual, is just breathtaking.

  
And along the base of the causeway Oyster Catchers were at work, scrabbling around for goodies.

  
It was a long climb up to the top of the hill leading to Loch Hope, but there was a track which gave me an opportunity to get off the road. And the impressive bulk of Ben Hope and its Loch got closer and moved east as I moved west.

  
It’s good to get off the road on a Sunday. The tourist board have promoted this NC500 they call it. It means the 500 mile route from Inverness up the west coast, aong the north and back down the east to Inverness. It means that on a Sunday bands of motorbikers and sports car drivers (mostly Porsche for some flash git reason) try to cover the whole route in a day, not realising that these are largely single track rough roads. It doesn’t stop them driving like diceds.

I dropped down to Loch Hope near its outlet to the sea. The view downstream from the bridge showed the strength of the water.

  
Climbing up the other side of the valley the view, looking back, of the coast across a loch with an island in the middle was great. Bewitching.

  
But all the time the route was failing to keep pace with the blue sky. Finally, after 10 miles, I crossed the brow of the hill to look down on Loch Eriboll. The storm was moving inexorably up the Glen. 

 
I put my Swiss army waterproof hooded coat, that you can make into a tent, over me and my rucksack as it peed it down. I trudged down the banks of the loch to the head  where I had intended to carry on into the country for a mile to stay at the bothy. 

En route the bulk of the occasional biking gangs were fine, but one mob of 8 or 9 came along the single track at a ridiculous speed. The leader came past me on a bend and his handlebar nearly caught my arm. The rest were doing the same. I shouted at each one as they passed .. ‘F… Off’. Ridiculous diceds. As I was for shouting, but they wanted to scare me, and they didn’t.

When I finally made it to the head of the loch and rounded the end of the bay the clouds began to clear and although it was 5pm I still felt ok, boosted by the change in the weather. I decide to try to make it to Durness, the following day’s destination, being a further 12 miles. I’d already done 17 miles and was feeling fit now the weather was improving.    Walking at a pace up the banks of the loch towards the sea I was surprised to see an ambulance with flashing lights coming towards me. I’d noticed there was no traffic in the direction I was headed for a while. Accident. Hope it was that prick who nearly hit me with his handlebars. The whirring of a helicopter came up the glen from the south and rose over the hill to drop down towards Loch Hope. 

I carried on quickly and knew I could finish the road to Durness if necessary. The loch was looking terrific. A rainbow gave it a beautiful addition.

   
I made it to the village of Laid, after 21 miles but still 8 short of my target. I heard cars coming up the road, for the first time in over two hours. I was beginning to feel the distance now so I instinctivelystuck my thumb out – I could finish this stretch later. The first car stopped, a young couple from France. They took me to the Sango Sands campsite, where I had started my Cape Wrath trail from last year. I pitched the tent, had a meal in the clubhouse and went to bed. Cop that!!! I heard later that the casualty was a biker.

  
Night night.

A great breakfast and a sunny getaway from the Strathy Inn. Looking across the valley was an old graveyard facing the sea to the left of the shot, so that those resting could lookout over where many of them worked, and where some of them died. 

  
There was no alternative to the coast road. Paths start from the road but end in nowhere, leaving off-road walkers no option but to retrace their steps. It wove close to and away from the coast. As it worked its way westwards it was noticeably quieter and the villages grew further and further apart. The sea peeped through some gaps.

  
At times cutting through fragrant valleys of gorse flowers. I’ve cursed gorse in Spain when it’s ripped my legs to bits; but it gets my blessing here for its fragrance.

But the dreich was turning to rain and I wanted to finish the walk quickly. No chance. It was 23 miles to the Youth Hostel in Tongue where I had earmarked to camp. I got a text – it was the Strathy Inn – I’d left my charger in the room. Idiot. They couldn’t bring it as the only car was in Thurso for the day. I’d covered 8 miles and Melvich was only two miles away. I said I’d get a taxi back from there but I wasn’t hopeful that there would be one. I tried hitch-hiking but no takers. Heather, the owner of the Strathy, Facebooked her mates and elderly Anne (the absolute diamond) volunteered to bring my charger over to Melvich. When she arrived she refused any money for petrol and said she was glad to help somebody in need. What a great old kid! Thanks Anne. 

The Post Office was open so I topped up with sandwiches and cans of beans for the next couple of days. The views were still wonderful.

  
But ahead the clouds were strengthening. I didn’t like the look of things.

  
There was nothing else to do but get my waterproof jacket on and get on with walking, uphill and down dale. The storm was so strong I was soaked. The road was like a river. After hours of soaked fatigue I made it to Tongue. My intention had been to camp at the Hostel. Sod that. I got a room for £30. Worth every penny. I dried out my boots, clothes, rucksack and tent. The receptionist gave me a lift into the village and I watched the last minutes of the Scottish cup final, with Hibs scoring two minutes from the end. The pub was split 30 Rangers, 70 assorted Catholic/ Celtic fans.  It was a bit tense at the end with the Rangers fans taking it badly but it all ended amicably with the one genuine Hibs fan buying a round for the whole pub, including the Sassenach. Peace reigned. I left the Man Utd match after 90 minutes. I couldn’t face extra time as it was so boring.

Walking back to the hostel the views were good and the sun broke through.

  
  
Back at the hostel I went down to the waterside and watched the changing colours of the hillsides and reflections of light on the estuary for an hour. Captivated 

   
 
I bought a haggis TV dinner, defrosted it, microwaved it and ate it in the kitchen looking through a panoramic window. All’s well.

Night night.

Well it wasn’t really, it was just a walk. A 22 mile one with a heavyish rucksack but still just a walk. I thought I’d embellish the title a bit. Three exclamation marks always make something feel sudden and exciting. Jesus Blade last night was cold again. I ended up with my gloves, hat, scarf and jacket on in the sleeping bag, on top of my normal clothes which are unchanged since Tuesday. In fact I’ve not taken them off since Wednesday morning!!!

I got up at 7am and packed everything away, including a very wet tent. By 8am I was on the road, stopping only for a sandwich from a small shop on the way out of town!!! It went down a treat as I sat on a step by the pavement outside. I must have looked like Bilbo with my hat on, sat on a step eating breakfast in the street. People avoided eye contact. 

It was overcast and showery but nothing heavy. The road turned westwards and so did I. West is Mike and Susie, West is where I love, West is refugees’ home.

Walking out into the open countryside I came across an abandoned church looking very sad in the dreich. With a bell intact. Must be worth a few quid in cast iron.

  
It was a long road walk, but not as busy as the coast road I had by-passed. The weather was showing signs of clearing a wee bit. Us in Scotland say wee instead of little. Especially when we’re walking the glens in the dreich. Och aye. The weather even gets to the footpath signs. This one is relatively new!!!

  
The road eventually, after many turns and several showers of rain, joined with the coast road and began to climb and fall as we got further west. Another existential statement – ‘as we got further west’. I’m walking alone but not on my own. And every cloud has a plutonium lining. This is the nuclear power station Dounreay, being decommissioned over the next 30 years. More police patrols than in Brixton. It’d be a problem if ISIS got in for a few hours instead of Balfour Beatty.

  
The weather was improving and I was leaving the busy east and the Orkneys for the remote west. Bye bye Orkneys!!!

  
And hello Sutherland. 

  
There are two distinctive sensual experiences this time of year. The sound of the cuckoo. Singing away in every valley. It used to be a common sound in Spring in Sheffield. Not any more. It’s a rarity to be cherished in England and to be adored for its ubiquity up here. Second, the scent of masses of gorse flowers, drifting down valleys. Heaven scent. The most beautiful aspect is that it would still smell so heavenly if mankind were not on the planet. It’s not there for us my dears. None of it is. We’re temporary tenants not owners. 

  
I cut off the road and down a shortcut path on the advice of a guy roofing a cottage. Great advice. I came across this valley view.

  
And towards the sea was this rather grand lodge.

  
I needed to get across the river and the only bridge was signed as dangerous and was blocked off. 

  
What a load of crap. Whenever you see this type of rubbish then do what I did. Climb over and ignore it. The road went ever on and on and the views became clearer and more lovely.

  
Finally, after 22 long miles the Strathy Inn came to me. Soup, lamb pie, hot shower, early night.

  
Night night!!!
 

After a freezing cold night in the tent, fully clothed in my sleeping bag, I wandered into town, just like a sacred cow (again). My sentimentality for the Highlands and all things Scottish had washed off in the extreme cold inside the tent, exposing it’s synthetic and fickle nature. It would soon return. I found a breakfast place and it was very good. I had the ‘Mega’ for sick squid. Not hugely mega but very good. I walked up to the train station to get a bus back towards Dunnet Head, but I was an hour early. The waiting area was freezing so I sat in the ticket office area and fell asleep for half an hour in the warmth. I got off the bus on the road that I’d walked along and trekked through the cold wind along the track and across peat moors to Dunnet Head. The views en route were typically jockiful.

  
  
It was 5 miles to the head, passing a hidden peat cutting area where peat was laid out to dry for burning. A practise going back centuries. 

  
Eventually I arrived. There is a car park, mostly German and Dutch cars, a viewpoint on top of the hill, a viewpoint by the cliffs and a lighthouse. That’s it folks. But views befitting the northern extremity of this sceptred Isle.

   
 
I walked up the hill to the viewpoint, which didn’t reveal much through the dreach, so I started back across country. Hidden over the back was a token of remembrance to someone who’s name had been written in ink on the wooden cross but which was now illegible. It was touching and I was touched. 

  
I came up to the road back to the village of Dunnet and saw this sign. Existential? Does it mean a place where elderly people eventually orient towards to pass to the next life? Could it refer to the temporary nature of the earth, solar system, universe and infiniverse? A place that is here but, as all things, will pass. Or just a bit wider piece of Tarmac for two cars to get by each other? Who knows.

  
I got back to my starting point just as the bus turned the corner. Yes! It was starting to rain heavily and I kept mostly dry. A couple of beers in town and a bag of fabulously fresh fish and chips, eaten in someone’s doorway, and an early night at 8pm in a cold tent. Another 10 miles under my belt. Let’s see what tomorrow may bring.

Night night. 

Well children, I got a bus from a place called Wick to a place called John O’Groats in sweaty sockland and I arrived at around 10.30 in the morning.  After that I picked up my bag and walked. I was going fast so I walked some more. In the end I walked 21 miles to a place called Thurso. Also in sweaty sockland. I missed out Dunnet Head, the northernmost point on the Britsh Mainland and decided to go back today and walk out to it.

  
Anyway I’m as bored of this adult to children address as you are so let’s rewind to Wick. My bus in the morning was warm and dry.

  
The cloud was down so there were no fabulous long distance views but that’s what adds to the Highland atmosphere. When you eventually see something; to be wanted it will be more wondered at. Like the island of Stroma as you’re coming towards J O’G. 

  
John O’Groats is tiny. The journey between Land’s End in Cornwall and John O’Groats in sweaty sockland is the longest distance between two inhabited communities in the UK at something like 850 miles by road (1363 Kms).  

  
One of the ferries to the Orkney Isles was coming in to dock. The land visible across the sea in the photo below is the start of the Orkneys. An archipelago across one of the most dangerous seaways in the world. The Shetland Islands are 150 miles further north. Grim.

  
I followed the surprisingly busy road to the west. On this eastern side of the north coast there is a lot of construction and industrial activity. However it still feels remote. And it is. Just over 2000 miles from the North Pole. 

Walking westwards I passed a cold but commanding place for the last generation and their fore parents to spend eternity. 

  
Along the route the flowers were behind English phasing but very beautiful. 

  
  
Eventually I made it to a long stretch of beach leading to Castletown. It was stunning, bleak and empty.

  
Apart from a whelk shell!

  
I rejoined the road for the last pitch to Thurso, coming across this sad memorial to a road accident victim. Rest in peace Jacek.

  
Thurso appeared through the dreach and I found the campsite after  a long slog. A chicken vindaloo soon put things right!

 
Night night.

Well I finally got here on the last train to Wick last night. Knackered but a good sleep and great breakfast this morning. Wick is wet but not a bad town. I stayed at WickerWorld, a B&B and Cafe. The view in and from the Cafe was nice.

  
  
I’m getting the bus to John O’Groats, named after a Dutch bloke who came here in the 1400s and ran a ferry service to the islands. Jan de Groote. There you go Lex – Cloggies get everywhere!

Wick in the wet is still characterful.

  
  
On the way to the station I looked down on a fountain type thingy with Big Cat gargoyles sticking out of the side. 

  
And at the station the local kids had painted a mural of the town. Utterly charming. I’m looking forward to this walk.

  
The conductor on the train said the midges are active. Oh no! He also said the  weather was great last week. Wherever you go if it’s raining the locals will say you should have been here last week. The fishing was fantastic. The temperatures were tropical. Ice cream was free. 

I might not be able to blog until tomorrow night earliest. Out in the country under canvas. Talk then. Bye.