Tom and Liz run a great B&B. Tom couldn’t be more knowledgeable about highland walking and Liz couldn’t be more of a perfect host. Arriving knackered you get a pot of hot tea and the best fruitcake ever, and I’m not a fruitcake man. Great breakfast, great, great breakfast. Five years ago Tom said he didn’t want gay people sleeping in a double bed in their B&B, although they could use twin beds. He’s an old guy like me but my historic prejudices have been slowly chipped away over the years like dried clay over my eyes. I am beginning to see light. He said he likes people, straight or gay, everyone’s welcome to stay. He just thinks sex outside of marriage is not right, that marriage is between a man and a woman and that gay hanky panky won’t take place under his roof; on religious grounds. 

The world descended on this little place miles from civilisation. Media, demonstrations and lawsuits. Tom dunt mention it so I don’t. He gives me great advice. How to lace up walking boots in a different way to alleviate blisters and not put strain on my Achilles. I had stabbing pains in my right Achilles and I was worried summat might snap in the middle of nowhere when I see nobody else for days (other than Rupie and Ollie). He knows the highlands and all the trails like no-one else could, giving me great advice on my route and best alternative routes. Nice couple. Outdated views. 

I set off for Achnashellac where I was originally going to meet Andrew but I can’t drag him into something that’s a physical challenge much more than an earthly pleasure. Particularly as I was close to quitting. I’ve contacted him to say we need a walk together in the sun and not this beastly maggot-farmer. When I worked at ITV the sub-titlers and dubbers used  to put ‘maggot-farmer’ instead of ‘mother-f???er’ into movies as the mouth movements were similar. 

The weather was windy and wet, with an expected temperature on the hilltops (including wind-chill factor) of -18c. Yep you saw it right. I’m walking in football shorts for flexibility but I put trousers on at night if it’s cold. My legs don’t seem to get cold. These were the dark views walking up and over to Achnashellac.

Once there I walked upriver, passing Gerry’s hostel, crossed the river on a bridge, walked two miles downstream and then cut up and into the mountains. My objective was to overnight at Bernais bothy in the most remote land I’d been in so far. From there down to Maol-bhuidhe bothy for the next night and then on to the Claunie Inn to dry out and eat properly. Drinking isn’t a problem. You don’t need to carry water, it’s readily available. As Van the Man sang –

Oh the water,

Oh, oh the water,

Oh the water,

Get it myself from a mountain stream. 

And it does taste so lovely. If you’re lower down the hillside the melting snow and rainwater pick up the peaty taste from filtering through the bogs, and pick up a slightly brown colouring. If you’re higher it’s clear and cleansing. 

It was a right slog up a steep mountain up to 2000ft and on the top of Eagan the wind was so strong I didn’t have control. It was blasting my backpack and spinning me round. There are some heavy duty cliff faces at this height in this location and I dived south over the brow of the hill to get away quickly from this awful, icy blast. I dropped down steeply, slipping but fortunately catching one of my walking poles between two rocks and I grabbed onto it until I got my footing safe. It bent a lot in the process but I didn’t have time to fix it. I scrambled down further and sheltered behind a rock to get my breath. I looked further down the valley, there was a forest plantation to the left and by now massive cliffs and waterfalls all round the head of this glen. 

I didn’t remember seeing a forest section on the map going down to Bernais bothy. I checked my co-ordinates on the GPS and found to my huge disappointment that in my haste to get safe I’d gone down the south east gully instead of the south west one. The south east one veered round to the east, round to north east and ultimately round to the north, back to where I had come from by the bridge across the river. I knew from the steepness of the drop I came down that getting back up would take hours with my pack. My boots and socks were as wet as usual and there was no let up in the rain. It was 18.00. Bugger!!! 

I decided to get back to Gerry’s hostel, which I’d read about on the net, and as soon as I got a signal I asked Maggie to give it a ring. Gerry had died in February and it wasn’t quite clear if it was open or shut. Eventually Georgie was able to confirm that they were open and were expecting me. It took me a further two hours to get back as stream and river levels were very high from the rain and I had to cross two of them before they merged, otherwise the flow of water down a steep hillside was too strong for any living being. I was exhausted so I had to choose exactly the right places. It took nearly half an hour looking for rocks that might not be slippy and were close enough together for a small jump or long step; and places where the consequences of a fall would be mitigated by a fast slope of torrent rather than a catastrophic waterfall. 

I rolled up at Gerry’s at about 20.30. Simon, Gerry’s son was there, as was Jasmine, a medical student at Aberdeen University who had just completed the Cape Wrath Trail on her own, south to north in trainers and thin jackets and leggings (out of financial restriction rather than Spartan tendency). Hero. She was on her way back to Aberdeen. There was no-one else, although the dorm that Simon showed me had five double bunk beds but was freezing. A fire was going in the hearth so I got my sleeping bag and a quilt off one of the bunks and hunkered down on the settee. I whacked a load of logs on the fire and found Gerry’s stash of vinyl. He was an absolute hoarder with piles of newspapers, trinkets, broken stuff. With my boots and socks in front of the fire I put Jelly Roll Morton on the record player followed by the Dubliners in session. Simon had pushed off to his own house.

I fell asleep fully expecting to meet Gerry by the firelight and talk to him about his earthly choice of music, but no such luck. 

Night, night. 

I decided to stay an extra night in Ullapool, clean my mucky, smelly clothes, get my mega-blisters sorted out, get stocked up for a night or two in the wild, rest and recuperate. It sounds like I’m a pansy from this ‘oh how cold and tough it is’ malarkey. Well I’m not, just a bit delicate that’s all. Honest, they say it’s the toughest walk in the UK; if there’s a tougher one I’m not interested. 

The extra day was a great decision. I got everything done and sent some things home, saving a couple of kilos on my load. It had crept up above 20 kgs at least with stuff getting wet and having to take food on those legs where you can’t buy it.

Ullapool is nice. 

So what are the best 5 albums of all time Dave?

5. The Maccabees – Given to the Wild

4. Beach Boys – Pet Sounds

3. Van Morrison – Astral Weeks

2. Velvet Underground and Nico

1. Incredible String Band – The Big Huge

No surprises there. Four from the sixties and one from 2013.

I had time to eat. Haddock take out – £4.75 for the biggest, freshest in the world from the ‘Radio 4 Best Takeaway in the UK’ by the quayside. I went back that night for a huge bowl of a kilo of fresh mussels, straight off the coast down from the quay. Small, sweet (it’s me) and cooked in cream and shallots. £11.00 including bread and a feeling of euphoria. 

I packed the next morning, had double haggis portion with my cooked breakfast and set off southwards down the loch. On setting off the ferry to Stornoway was in and looking back In the sunlight Ullapool was lovely. 

I was heading to Inverlael, where I would turn west over the mountains, cross a river and another main road, and then go up into more remote mountain country for the night before taking a high pass over to Kinlochewe tomorrow. The weather was kinder, but still with a cold wind. I made reasonable time but the walk up from Inverlael was a very steep one, then the path went missing and I veered off course costing me an hour. The views from the top were great.

Looking down the glen on the far side of the hill the sea was in the distance and the Outer Hebrides were just visible on the horizon.

I dropped down the hill passing this delightful little waterfall before climbing back up the far side into a high mountain valley where there was Shenavall bothy.

From the top I looked down into the valley, but I’d made good time so I decided to pass Shenavall and put Wilson up higher up.

I dropped down into the valley and two guys came just about running down the hill – young blokes (lucky buggers). They were setting up their tent and were ok with me pitching Wilson in their camp. We built a bonfire but the wind was colder than the fire could compensate. Rupert and Ollie from Salisbury and running property businesses in London. Good lads for posh boys. Climbing snow capped mountains. Fair play to them. Plenty of guts.

I woke up at 5.30 with ice on the outside of Wilson.

A cold tin of beans for breakfast and the hills were magical in the early morning sun.

I set off to cross a high pass round Beinn Bheag and down Gleann na Muice to Kinlochewe. 

I was staying at a famous bed and breakfast. The weather clouded over and my feet were really playing up so it took me longer than it should have. I finally piled into the Kinlochewe local for a couple of pints of local lager before finally walking another mile to Tom and Liz’s place.

Well I hardly ever slept if truth be told. It was snowing again outside.

I had to get on the road but it was hard getting out from under my rucksack and getting out of the sleeping bag. 

 Eventually at 08.30 I set off. It was grim because all I had left for breakfast was a small tin of tuna and a bar  of out of date Kendall mint cake that killer bought me. Tasted good though. After an hour I came to a river where there wasn’t a bridge. I went half a mile upstream but there were no crossing points. It is deeper than it looks here, very fast and the rocks on the river floor are slippy.

I thought that if I fell in carrying my rucksack with my clothes on then I’d be in real trouble from exposure as I was miles away from anyone or anything. I stripped down to my underpants thinking I would be less likely to slip under in the river if I didn’t have my rucksack on, so I crossed first time in the freezing water carrying just my clothes. The water came above my knees but I didn’t slip, although it was painful walking on the rocky river bed.  I left my clothes at the far side, returned over the river and made a second run with the rucksack. I did it and felt relieved to get to the far side a second time without having ‘went a pisser’ like our Clive’s ma – as Bavs might say.

I passed a second bothy, Knockdamph, which was really a home with two storeys. 

  The rest of the way to Ullapool was 7 hours of non-stop slog. I was exhausted but finally made it to the Caledonian Hotel Maggie had booked me in. 

 I sat in the floor of my shower for half an hour and was still shivering. Then I got up and went out to a local curry house – in Ullapool. Chicken Vindaloo, a large Cobra and an early night. Perfect.

Night night.

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.