Around Britain

In Thurso Museum I learnt that the railway from Thurso to London Kings Cross covers 725 miles. The route is far from direct, particularly in Scotland. The Tourist Information Office was housed in the same building as the Museum in Thurso's High Street. I obtained confirmation of the 73 bus time for Tuesday at Tongue and collected the names of three taxi firms just in case.

Having spent some time in the Museum, I checked into the Royal Hotel. This has 103 rooms and it shuts for several months each winter. It seems to do quite well from parties. There was an enormous group from the States who were due to leave for Inverness the following morning after an early breakfast. The hotel is long established. There's a picture of the stage coach leaving from in front of the hotel for the last time. It might have survived longer than other stage coaches as the railway didn't reach Thurso until 1898.

This morning I reported to the woman in charge that a swallow had become trapped in one of the lobbies upstairs. In an earlier conversation she had told me that she had lived in Walthamstow for many years and she missed London. Thurso does have the air of a frontier town.

I learnt in the Museum yesterday that, more than 300 million years ago, Caithness had been covered by Lake Orcadia stretching as far as Norway. Sediment from dead fish had, in time, hardened on the lake bottom and turned into a substance suitable for use as paving stones. Paving production had become a major industry here in the 19th century and the paving stones were exported all over the world. The industry had suffered when pavings started to be made from cement. A reminder of this activity came in the form of the thin stone slabs that enclosed many of the fields and lined the road leading away from Thurso. As I got further from Thurso these were partially supplanted by dry stone walls. These were varied in their quality. The best of them was a remarkable construction which managed to combine stones of many different shapes into a smooth close-knitted structure surmounted by capping stones.

I started at 8.34 and took the B874 out of town past the hospital. When the B874 turned south, I continued on a minor road. Near Bardnaclavan I passed Baillie Wind Farm with 12 turbines. At Westfield I encountered two men waiting for cyclists competing in a local event called “the Hilly” starting and finishing at Thurso. There were only 13 entries. I'd seen cycling activity yesterday in Thurso where some cyclists had sported the streamlined helmets adopted by the top stars of the sport. Their ability would struggle to measure up to their equipment.

After Shebster I saw the dome of Dounreay Nuclear Power Station. This may be in the process of being decommissioned. At Isauld I joined the A836 and turned towards Reay. At Reay's shop I bought a Satsuma and a banana which I then ate at the picnic table outside the shop. The shop had two pumps outside, one for petrol and the other for diesel. The road had little traffic. Such commercial traffic as there was consisted of vans and there were very few lorries and certainly no monster lorries.

There followed a bleak section over moorland. The map indicated a path past two lakes and I tried to follow this. It was indistinct and, when I started to get wet feet in boggy ground, I retreated to the road. Later I escaped on a minor road to Bighouse. The map showed a footbridge over the Halladale River. This appeared to be sturdily built and I crossed it to reach Melvich. At the Melvich Hotel I turned towards Portskerra as I had time in hand. A notice outside the village shop announced that Melvich footbridge had been pronounced unsafe with a risk of structural failure. Nothing at the site itself had hinted that the bridge should not be used.

I decided to go further off route to visit the Memorial to the Portskerra Drownings. Twice in the 19th century and in 1918 disasters had befallen the fishing fleet. Dreadful storms had overwhelmed the open fishing boats and many were lost on each occasion. The Memorial had a stirring epic poem to commemorate the 1918 disaster, a poem in Gaelic and a final poem which was unreadably awful.

At Strathy I saw a Planning Notice for the north and south Strathy wind farms for 33 and 47 turbines respectively.

At Strathy Inn I was greeted by Heather Frost with a pot of tea and a piece of shortbread.

21.56 miles today (including diversion at Portskerra) bringing total to 1,854.65.

Last night Heather served me at the bar and I drank two bottles of dark beer. The second, made by Loch Ness brewery, was called Darkness. My dinner, roast pork, was cooked by husband Nigel. Normally he served behind the bar but he cooked once a week. The couple employed no staff. After dinner I talked with Nigel when he added some coal to the open fire. They'd refurbished Strathy Inn which had become very run down. It only had three guest rooms plus a bar, a small dining room off the bar and another room for serving breakfast. Craig had been a civil servant before coming here. They had a boy aged 12 and a girl of 8. They attended the local school at Melvich and the school bus collected them just as I was leaving. During the whole of last evening no one came in to drink or eat. Heather told me they had another guest. He was working and his hours meant I was unlikely to see him. It was hard for me to see how it was viable. However, they were planning to create a unit for self-caterers out of an existing building on the site.

I had a wide ranging conversation with Craig who was clearly very bright.

After an excellent breakfast served by Heather, I set out in fine weather. It was to be the hottest day for North Scotland so far this year. After crossing miles of moorland on the A836, I left it on the Kirtomy Road. I took the turn to Swordly and then a path over the range of hills now separating me from the main road. I rejoined this just before Bettyhill. As I approached the town, I passed a café housed in the same building as the Tourist Information Office. Once in the town I entered the Post Office Stores to pick up the Independent. I learnt that the café I'd already passed was the only one in town. Not wishing to retrace my steps, I bought a bottle of apple juice and asked if they had any rolls or sandwiches. The woman serving said she would make me up a cheese and tomato sandwich. This and the bottle only cost me £2.70. I enjoyed my snack sitting on a bench outside the Public Toilet.

As I walked downhill towards the River Naver Bridge, I asked a woman walking her dog whether there was a path over the hills on the far side of the river. She thought there was and pointed it out to me. She told me it passed close to a broch which was in poor condition. When I reached the foot of this path, there was a row of poles carrying electricity or telephone over the top so I followed them up along the banks of a burn. On the plateau above I passed a small loch and kept to a narrow path cut through the heather.

After I descended on the far side, I heard a cuckoo's call. Slowly it dawned on me that there was no bridge over the River Borgie. My map showed the path crossing the river at the point it reached the sea so I assumed that I would be able to paddle across. When I reached the river, I found it fast flowing but not too deep. As it flowed over sand I was nervous about sinking in. At the point it met the sea it was quite turbulent. The other side seemed close but I thought it too dangerous to risk.

Now I suffered from the disadvantage of not carrying the map but only a photocopy of the section I intended to walk. My intended route was now abandoned. I couldn't see how far I needed to follow the river to reach the A836 or whether I had to cross any water. I decided to play safe and return to the A836 at the point I'd last left it. So I walked on the beach around the hills I'd already crossed. I must have lost the best part of three hours doing this. I regained the road at about 4 pm with almost 12 miles to do before reaching Tongue. The hotel stopped serving dinner at about 8 pm.

It was very warm and I felt dry in the mouth. I had barely a third of a bottle of water left. I hadn't the time to return to Bettyhill to replenish my liquids so I gambled on finding someone to give me water. As usual there were very few people about. The houses would soon come to an end as I left Bettyhill behind me. I saw a man sitting in his front garden so I hailed him, requesting a glass of water. He went inside to fetch this much to my relief. I thanked him and continued in better heart.

I set a brisk pace and, at the road junction with B871, there were 10 miles to go. After a long haul through moorland, I was disappointed to see a sign near Borgie Bridge Hotel indicating that I had still 7 miles to go when I had hoped to be nearer. I became very sore between the legs and this was much more troublesome than the minor blisters on my toes. I decided to stop and apply some Vaseline. This initially had the effect of increasing the pain but later it eased.

After more bleak moorland, I reached better country. At Strathtongue there was a church and an old poor house. A hill of over 300 metres towered over the road. At Coldbackie I rounded the hill to obtain a view of Tongue Bay and later a slipway taking the A838 over the Kyle of Tongue. Maintaining a reasonable pace, I reached Tongue Hotel at 7.45 pm. The receptionist said I could wash and change before eating. She'd tell the chef to allow me enough leeway as the time limit was lax when applied to residents.

After my meal and a pint and a half of Tennants lager, I collapsed on my bed, feeling incapable of writing up these notes or reading. I'd started the day at 8.48 so I'd been on my feet for almost 11 hours apart from the break at Bettyhill and one or two very short stops.

Mileage 25.94 Total 1880.58

I caught the 10 am bus which started its run outside the hotel car park. I was the only passenger until Bettyhill. The route took me through Skerray which I'd missed seeing yesterday. As we neared Thurso more passengers climbed aboard, particularly at Portskerra, Melvich and Reay. There were 13 passengers in all. Many were elderly and travelled free.

I've set out on this trip with a slight sense of anxiety that I might not make my destination. In particular, the crossing of the Kyle of Durness and the return later on the same day depend on both the weather and the character of the ferryman. If he is not sympathetic to my project, he may not be willing to budge from his regular crossing times. That would not leave me entirely stranded on the return journey. I could walk round the head of the loch. However, that would add miles over rough country to an already long day. When I spoke to the ferryman on the phone, he seemed quite unforthcoming, so I've no idea whether he'll be accommodating. An uncertainty hangs over whether I can reach Cape Wrath, the north western point of the UK mainland.

Another cause of apprehension is the fact that I'm wearing sandals for the first time on a long walk. I did wear sandals for a 16 mile walk a week ago and it worked well. The reason for my experiment is that I often get blisters on my toes when I wear trainers.

I'd paid extra to have exclusive use of a berth on the sleeper train from Euston to Inverness. The idea of sharing a cabin with a stranger is appalling. The space is so confined. The attendant explained that, if I wanted to lock the door on leaving the cabin, I had to find her to unlock it. As it happened I only left the cabin to use the toilet down the corridor. I didn't need to lock the door as I carried my valuables with me. My carriage seemed very quiet and the toilet was always vacant. The attendant explained that the other two sleeper carriages for Inverness were full but mine was not.

At some stage in the night the train split into three and the other two sections went to Aberdeen and Fort William.

My sleep was disturbed by frequent trips down the corridor but I got some sleep. In the morning I lifted a lid next to the window to expose a basin. After shaving I lifted the window blind to reveal a Scottish landscape in all its bleakness. Occasional knots of housing heralded a small station.

The attendant brought me tea and shortbread and reassured me that the train was on time. She'd alarmed me the previous evening by saying that sometimes the sleeper was delayed as it had to give priority to day trains taking people to work. The train on to Thurso was two hours after the sleeper's arrival time so I was not going to have my arrangements ruined by a missed connection.

In Inverness I had a Costa coffee and drew some cash out of the TSB. On the journey to Thurso I passed through many stations serving minute communities although I suppose these stations served large catchment areas. Many of the stops were by request only.

At Thurso I caught the 4pm bus. The journey beyond Bettyhill to Tongue was by request only and I was the only passenger to make that request. We stopped at Dounreay Nuclear Power Station at about 4.20 pm. Hundreds of workers, all in bright yellow jackets, were leaving. A fleet of buses waited to take them to Thurso, Wick, Bettyhill and other destinations. A large parking area accommodated all the vehicles of those unable or unwilling to use public transport. At Tongue I thanked the driver for covering the extra distance just for one person. “It's all part of the job,” he replied cheerfully.

At the Ben Loyal Hotel I negotiated a packed lunch in lieu of breakfast as I wanted to leave before breakfast was served the following morning.

I awoke at 6 pm and was away by 7.20. I had eaten half my packed lunch and carried the rest as I had no expectation of being able to buy food between Tongue and Durness. The sign at the junction in Tongue said “Durness 30”. At first I descended towards the Causeway carrying the A838 across the Kyle of Tongue. I passed a hostel that looked most uninviting. At first the Causeway acted as a barrier but, on the far side, there was a bridge which allowed the water to flow in either direction depending on the tide.

Once past the bridge there was a sign to Melvich with all its tourist services to the north. Shortly after that a turn off towards the south led to Kinloch. Then I was climbing up over moorland. Ben Hope, the northernmost Munro, remained in view to the south for miles on end. It appeared as if I was for ever looking at it from the same angle which put my progress into perspective. After a while on the main road I had the option of transferring to an asphalt path. I took this as it ran a short distance from the road and eventually rejoined it. But why did this path exist at all? I concluded that it must have been the previous road over the moor. It may have been no more than six feet wide but that was quite sufficient for a cart, a horse and the odd motor vehicle. An increase in motor traffic no doubt enforced its replacement by the A838, three times as wide. Further on this A road was reduced to a single track with passing places. Is it the only A road in the U.K. with passing places? The moorland went on for miles interrupted only by the occasional loch or woodland plantation. What surprised me was the absence of sheep between Kyle of Tongue and Loch Eriboll except on the slopes immediately above the lochs.

The traffic was light; several camper vans, service and delivery vehicles and then cars, particularly in the afternoon. The only house I saw on the road over the moors was Moine House, a ruin with only the two ends standing. The first inhabited houses I saw were after I'd descended to the village of Hope, near the bridge over the River Hope which took the waters of Loch Hope to the sea. After another climb over Torr Na Bithe, Loch Eriboll revealed itself. Apparently it's a deep loch used in the past by Royal Naval ships seeking shelter. For a while the road hugged the loch shore then it climbed. There was always an outcrop that obstructed my view of the loch head where lay the road that would take me to the western side. I passed Eriboll Church. It looked almost derelict but there was a number to ring if you wanted to arrange a wedding there.

As I approached Laid, a few miles up the loch on the western side, a sign indicated a Tea Room one mile ahead. I was very surprised. The notice was dilapidated and I thought it might be the relic of a failed business. Then I saw the café off to the right of the road. The proprietor was a taciturn, elderly man with a beard. He cooked me beans on toast and I drank a fruit drink and tea. Durness was only 7 miles away, he told me. The man showed a strong antipathy to sheep. At one point he hurried out to shoo some away from the café. The other name for a sheep is a “shit machine,” he pronounced. He was concerned the sheep might foul the approach to his café entrance. I remarked upon the state of his sign which had almost stifled my hopes. “It's the weather here,” he said. “Very extreme. A combination of sun and storms plays havoc with notices. In three weeks I'll gather in the notice for refurbishment over the winter.” I took that to mean that the season would be over in three weeks.

I pressed on and reached Durness Youth Hostel precisely 10 hours after starting – an average of 3 mph including stops. My feet were in fine fettle which suggested that sandals were better than trainers. At least they didn't give me toe blisters. However, the comparatively thin sole and absence of socks might have made the underneath of my feet sore if I'd continued for much longer.

The warden at the hostel was a woman of late middle age and she treated me very well. She accepted that I was a life member of the English YHA and reduced my charges even though I carried no card as evidence of my membership. I hired a towel for £2 and she said she'd endeavour to find me a lower bunk in the dormitory. I might be able to walk 30 miles but that didn't mean I wouldn't struggle to climb to an upper bunk. I ordered a continental breakfast for each of the three mornings I'd be staying. She was so pleasant I forgot any idea of transferring to a B & B or hotel.

I had a real struggle getting my duvet inside its cover. The dormitory was almost full to its capacity of twelve. Many of the others were elderly motorcyclists but there were a couple a German lads. Later the Sango Sands Oasis served me such an enormous cheese salad that I couldn't come close to finishing it. The quality was indifferent. Many of the customers might have come from the adjacent camp site. Perhaps they were not particularly demanding.

29.3 miles Total 1909.88

This was to be a rest day. However, it looked as if my plan to walk to Cape Wrath would have to be abandoned. The MOD were conducting exercises on the peninsula and would not admit pedestrians. They would admit the tourist bus. Another problem was that the ferry would only operate from 11 am. This would leave me insufficient time to walk to Cape Wrath and back. I walked the two miles from Durness to the ferry with the intention of crossing the Kyle of Durness and taking the afternoon bus. On the quayside I saw a notice that the military operations had been cancelled. I spoke to the ferryman who was open to a special arrangement. If I appeared by the ferry at 9.30 am the next day he would be there to take me across.

I was on the quayside at 9.30 am and the ferryman took me across in a small boat. I had to be back by 5.45 pm at the very latest as he then had to go for a Dr's appointment. To my surprise he took no money. The fare is £6.50 return but I planned to pay him more for the extra effort he was putting in for me. He was very far from loquacious so I had no idea what terms he might propose.

I set off on the track used by the tourist bus. Cape Wrath was 11 miles away. The weather was dry and cool with some breeze. There were very few houses and these were padlocked. One might have been occupied as there was a van parked outside. Nearby at Diall I passed two cyclists on a bridge. They had spent the night on the peninsula. The woman had face protection from midges. Her male companion had a shaven head and tattoos. I encountered no other cyclists or pedestrians apart from three walkers as I approached Cape Wrath. They had ski poles and heavy packs and looked incapable of getting very far. I believe they might have been passengers on one of the buses and that they were picked up when their bus passed by as I didn't see them on my return journey. Halfway to Cape Wrath I'd been passed by the tourist bus. Not long afterwards another bus passed with more tourists.

The path was quite adequate for walking although not so for the buses which could only proceed slowly. I learnt later that the condition of the track had limited the number of bus trips that the buses could make each day. I reached Cape Wrath in 3 hours 15 minutes. I spent 10 minutes at the café by the lighthouse to swallow a fruit drink and two pieces of cake. These were served by a man who looked a solitary sort. The warden later told me that his wife had been there with him but subsequently left. The man had dogs, which I didn't see, for company and occasionally he came to Durness.

I was concerned that I shouldn't be stranded on this side of the Kyle. That's why I only allowed myself such a short time. I didn't push so hard on the return as I didn't think I needed to. It took me 3 hours 45 minutes. When I arrived at the quayside it was deserted. I had expected the ferryman to be waiting for me there as it was too late to bring passengers over from the other side. The Kyle is quite wide at this point. My voice would not carry across the distance and it was unlikely that arm waving would be noticed. There was no mobile phone coverage. I really didn't want to walk round the head of the Kyle. No paths were shown on the map although there were a couple of footbridges over streams.

Quite soon after I arrived, I was followed by a bus with four passengers and two dogs. The driver opened a locked cabinet and radioed across for the ferry. Eventually a larger boat appeared, capable of taking all of us. I did wonder whether John, the ferryman, would have abandoned me if I'd remained alone on the quayside.

I asked for a lift back to Durness. The ferryman, to whom I'd given £20, said he was too busy to take me until later. He arranged for the bus driver to do so. He was from Fife but had to come this far for work even just for a summer job.

When reporting in to the warden, I told her about the ferryman. She told me that he had twice left hostelers stranded on the far side. One walked round the head of the Kyle but crossed over on sandbanks, wading through the river which seemed very risky. The other didn't attempt such a walk. Fortunately there was someone working on that side and he was able to call the coastguard. They called the ferryman to tell him to fetch his passenger. Maybe I had a lucky escape.

3.2 miles from Youth Hostel to ferry. 22 miles to Cape Wrath and back. Total 1935.08

Caught the Durness Bus Company bus outside the Hostel at 0805. It took me to Lairg Station via Kinlochbervie (where it dropped off Durness children at the school) and Scourie. The driver was very talkative and a mine of information about local matters. The train took me to Inverness. I caught the 1447 to Glasgow Queen Street, walked to Glasgow Central Station to catch the 1840 to Euston where I arrived at 23.39. Not bad for one day's travel.