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.

Still on a train, after 12 hours plus. We’ve just waited 20 minutes for a late train coming the other way and we now have around 4 hours to go. Jesus Blade Almighty. I might get out and walk. It’s nearly 8 pm. 

This is a nice shot of me and Chip.

  
And when we built a bonfire and cooked the fish we caught.

  
It doesn’t get much fresher. Anyway I’m going to sleep now and they can leave me on the train at Wick if they like. I’m too weary to care now. It’s all too much for me. 

Night night.

Perth, still ages to go.

  
As you can tell from my train tickets!

  
I fell asleep and missed the Cairngorms. I’ll catch them on the way back. The ambient weather gave way to cold rain before I arrived in Inverness. It’s just getting ready to punish me again for being English. It’s ok guys, I’m pure African like us all if we go back far enough. Six hours at the moment before I get to Wick. The landlady is leaving the key to my room in the porch. Breakfast at 8.30 and a bus to J O’G at 9.45. I’ll be happy to get walking. I’m tooled up with waterproofs and stuff. Including second hand boots identical to Chas and Dave, but in much better nick. 

  
I didn’t tell them I was going away. Didn’t tell Wilson either but I think I’ll need a tent and Wilson would let midges roam freely over my exposed bits. My sister has a theory that they will bite my old scrotum and lay eggs which will burst their way out as pupae. Charmer. 

This is a normal person in Inverness. He’s called ‘the Accused’.

  
OK voice of reasonableness – only a joke. Jesus.

This was parked in Perth. Antonia. Drool over it.

  
I was in Cornwall with my old mate Bow Chip last week. What a time we had, it was great. He is awaiting some medical treatment, not mentally-related surprisingly enough, so we said we’d do summat again when he gets that out of the way. Circumcisions are never easy things at his age.

  
He’d never caught a fish in his life. Bless. Then he copped a load of em on a boat we took out for a full day. Good old kid.

  
I stopped at Bristol on the way down and got a ticket for Rovers’ last match of the season. They had to win and Accrington had to draw and then the Gas would get promoted to League One. In the 92nd minute the Gas scored. The place erupted but I kept quiet as I could only get a ticket in the away end. I slipped out and joined Bavs, Chris and Rob, my Gashead mates. The news came through. Accrington could only draw. What a day! Gas are up!

  
Still here in Inverness.

Laters.

Well there isn’t. It’s being negotiated by people who want to secure rights of way for walkers like me so they can benefit the area by increasing tourism. It will be a route from John O’Groats to Cape Wrath which will run close to the remote northernmost coast of the British Mainland. On the map below you can see John O’Groats on the mainland top right and Cape Wrath is the furthest point northwest beyond Durness. There is a road most of the way but I won’t take it for too long. 

  
We’ll take a look at Dunnet Head en route – the most northerly point of mainland UK. I want to camp this time, although it’s a B&B tonight in Wick after a 16 hour journey on four trains. Let’s see. Edinburgh was beautiful an hour ago with the piper drawing a few tears from my eyes. I can’t help it. The Cape Wrath Trail did me in physically and mentally last year until I couldn’t do it any more. The biting cold, permanent wet clothes, soaked boots on badly blistered feet and I hated it, but I had to go back. I have to go back again. It’s beyond appreciation of the stunning views, when the mountains choose to emerge from the clouds. It’s a genetic thing. I can understand Glaswegian émigrés in bars in Australia, slaking their thirst in the warmth of the Sydney sun, singing of their longing for the Highlands. Covered in sleet with nobody there, and then warming up for ten seconds of a summer that draws out billions of flesh biting midges to fill your days with pain and misery. 

Anyway. Edinburgh was lovely.

  
  
The piper played with the dignity of a man with history and destiny on his side. Rocking backwards and forwards. Both purposeful and ethereal. Over the top? I’m right behind you. 1000 pipers died in world war 1. 

Let’s sing another song boys, this one has grown old and bitter.

The Scottish craft shops do good business near the station. I wasn’t surprised to see the history pamphlets of each Clan on display. Equally unsurprising was the beermat representing the Smith Clan. We’ve worked hard for that accreditation.

   
 The next journey to Perth was beginning to look a lot like Scotland. 

Laters.

Just a reminder that I’m blogging on https://bladeinspain.wordpress.com/

At the moment. Hope you enjoy It.

Hi,

I’m planning a walk across southern Spain, nearly 600 miles, in January and February. I’m raising money for Save the Children – I only want donations of a fiver or less. Everybody was more than generous last time and I don’t want peer pressure on anybody to donate more.

There’s a new blog to cover this journey:

bladeinspain.wordpress.com

I hope you enjoy it.

Fivers most welcome at:

uk.virginmoneygiving.com/bladeinspain

I set off at 9am for Milngavie, an outskirt of Glasgow, with the rain falling. The gorse was wafting perfume everywhere. Gorgeous. 

It wasn’t a difficult walk, flat and dry surface, but it was ok. Down one small valley was an ancient bridge, almost hidden in the undergrowth. A sign named it as Trolls Bridge. You can imagine them sneaking out at night!

Onward up the valley to Milngavie past the Glengoyne Distillery, which was tempting but too much of a diversion. Round the final hill on the route I looked back at the last vestige of the Highlands. 

The Way had another surprise. The weather had brightened and a dry afternoon was forecast but it did a U-turn and peed it down for the last hour of my walk. 

There is a park in Milngavie just before the end of the Way and the rain eased. As I entered it a bloke in a suit got out of a Landrover and got some bagpipes out of the boot. He’d come to the park for somewhere isolated to practise and started up when I was thirty yards away. The dark sky, the wet undergrowth, the mournful sound of the pipes (filled with pride, history and purpose), the ache in my feet and legs, the emotion of knowing I’d finished this 320 mile journey. It got me and I hid my face as I walked past the piper to mask the fact I was weeping.

The end, until the next beginning.

It puts me off when somebody talks to me and says ‘right’ after every sentence. However it’s beaten as a cringeworthy practise by a bloke saying ‘yeah’ at the end of a sentence. And I find myself involuntarily saying ‘yeah’ in reply every time, as if his ‘yeahs’ are questions to ensure that you’re following the monologue. Know what I mean, yeah?

A buffet breakfast for the first time and I snaffled oceans of black pudding, haggis and potato bread, with a few beans and a bit of scrambled egg. Fantastico, or as a German couple might say;

Das ist scheiss.

You chose it.

Nein, you chose it. 

Valk behind me all day as if you’re being led to your death. Schwein. Und don’t forget to look miserable as scheiss if you see ein Englander.

The hills were attracting a few fluffy clouds as I set off, heading along Loch Lomond south to the village of Balmaha, to then climb Conic Hill which sticks up a thousand feet above the loch, and on to Drymen where I would spend the night at the Hawthorns guest house. A quick 15 mile dap.

Down along the lakeside the going was fine and I made good time. The gorse was out in full flower and each bank of it released a beautiful fragrance.

The path ran by little sandy or pebbly bays and at one two swans were sweeping across gracefully.

The beaches themselves and their views across the loch were stunning.

The path wandered from waterside to hillside, and I have a slight discomfort with cattle, and a palpable fear of Highland bulls. Look at the length of the horns. He could stick it through me, one side to the other, now I’m not such a fat bat.

Just before Balmaha the path turns up a hill that stands a couple of hundred feet above the waterfront. What a view.

On the way down the far side of this hillock I spotted a young Roe Deer, still as a statue checking me out. 

Beautiful. First Roe Deer I’d seen.

I finally came down into the little harbour of Balhama, with a busy little boatyard and plenty of moorings.

A seat overlooking this little harbour had the most amazing inscription I’ve seen. I hope you can read it. Must have been quite a lady in her day. 

A Scottish hillwalking guru, Tom Weir, is celebrated with a statue on the waterfront.

The path cuts sharply inland and uphill, with a steep climb up Conic Hill. The effort with a rucksack is hard but the reward is that view.

Over the hill and five miles back lies Drymen where I located the Hawthorns easily and had a nice meal in the company of other walkers from different age groups and different nationalities. It was nice for a change. I slept well and was only 13 miles short of the end in Milngavie. A few steps away from having completed two trails and 320 miles. Bring it on. Night night.