Saturday 28^th March - Day 84

Walking song of the day: ‘Slow Night, So Long’ - Kings Of Leon

“You’ve quite a climb ahead of you”, so said the landlady of Helmsdale, Ann McDonald. I thought she was referring to the rest of the Scottish coast in general, but half a mile from her front door I realised that she meant here, and now.

The first five miles were exhilarating and it seemed I was locked into yet another battler with nature, but today was my day, nature had no chance. .Steeply I climbed through strong winds, snow showers and then bright sunshine, 1000ft into the hills above Ousdale and Berriedale until I reached the summit and enjoyed the beauty of the views that you can just about get an idea of from the pictures below. I cursed the loss of my decent camera to a grain of sand as the camera on my phone does the scenery here absolutely no justice at all. It was the most beautiful part of the walk so far and will live long into the memory.

At one point, about half way up and on a hair-pin bend in the road, I stopped for a drink and a rest, sitting on a crash barrier whilst I adjusted my bag and took off my jumper. A girl drove past, waved and smiled as if to say, “you look totally knackered”. She was right, but from where I was, and what I could see, it wasn’t half worth it.

From the horror of yesterday, those 17 torturous miles, these 15 miles, mainly uphill and against strong winds, seemed to just fall away, as if I had been doing this sort of thing since I was a kid. This was the best day of the walk so far, no question. The spectacular views helped enormously. So. I’m convinced, did giving up smoking, although I fancied one when I reached the top, you know, a kind of a victory smoke, but it would have seemed criminal to pollute myself and the atmosphere of somewhere so astonishly pretty.

Whilst I am on the subject, right at the top is a lay-by. There is a bin there, but morons have still just chucked their litter into the bushes. This isn’t some industrial estate, not that littering is acceptable behaviour there either, but this is a place of profound beauty. I forgot to tell you, that on the way to Loch Ness last week, someone had, I kid you not, thrown an upright fridge-freezer over a low wall where it had come to rest a couple of feet from the shore. Nothing but water, wildlife and trees and some imbecile chucks a fridge freezer there. Why are these people allowed to live? It makes me want to wring their ignorant, red necks.

Cheers

Al

Thursday 26^th and Friday 27^th March - Days 82 and 83

Walking song of the day: ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone - Gerry and the Pacemakers

From before this walk even started, I was determined to stick to a few hard and fast rules that I had made for myself. One was to never give up, no matter how tough it became, no matter how bored I became. Another was to never use this blog as a place to bang on about days that were, for one reason or another, awful.

Today and yesterday have been bloody awful and I feel you have a right to know about my immense suffering, if only to enjoy a good laugh at my expense. I also realise that I have chosen to put myself in this position and have not been forced or blackmailed in any way. I will however say that if you were to check through those pages of history that document man’s time on the planet, it is unlikely that you will come across human suffering on a scale that I endured yesterday and today especially. Sure, the great plague was a bit nasty and yes, I will concede that the Battle of the Somme didn’t look to be too much of a picnic but at least all those people had each other in their time of need; the friendships born of shared experiences, the camaraderie, the black humour:

“How many boils do you have on your face now Dave?”

“Eleven”

“Eleven!? Boy, you’re going to be dead before we even get to the tavern. If you make it, I’ll just get you a half”

What did I have in my afternoon of need? Sheep. Everywhere. Sheep do not have a sense of humour, not even the black ones.

I will gloss over Thursday, suffice to say that I got wet and cold during what I then considered to be the worst day of the walk so far. The Friday weather forecast simply said sunshine and showers, so I was ready, in my own kind of half-arsed way, by which I mean that if it did rain, I would duck into the nearest shop, church, barn, phone box etc and wait it out. Yesterday morning, on a bridge crossing the Dornoch Firth, a lad in a van screeched to a halt in a manner that suggested he thought I might be in serious trouble, and offered me a lift. It was blowing a gale but was sunny and dry so I politely declined. By the time I’d reached the end of the bridge I was drenched. I decided then and there to take anything offered in the future, even if it was a tractor pulling a trailer loaded with turnips, of which there are many in Scotland.

Just past the beautiful Dunrobin (ha ha) Castle, I decided to leave A9 with it’s endless chain of articulated lorries spraying me each time they passed, and follow the disused railway line that went all the way to Helmsdale, my destination for the night, before it branched north-west and headed toward Thurso. This was a mistake. Between the tracks, the normally concrete sleepers were instead the old-fashioned wooden sort and when wet, became as slippery as ice. Also, the distance that each sleeper was situated from the next was slightly less than my natural footstep, so each time I adjusted, I lost my footing. I fell over five times. Only the sheep saw, but none cracked a smile

By this time the wind had become gale force (severe gale force I later found out from a farmer) and the rain torrential, coming down in sheets that looked as unnatural as the rain in a Monday afternoon film. Added to this, the wind was against me and together, they battered me in a way in a way that I have never experienced. Each, leaden footed step was a preposterously hard; I felt like that guy who did the London Marathon in the antique wetsuit with leaded boots, only he was clearly a mental.

For a while in situations like this, you really battle to stay dry; I will do virtually anything to ensure my feet, above all else, stay dry. After a while though, when you finally accept that you are properly wet, you give up trying to beat the elements and instead are free to concentrate solely on getting to where you are going. This I did with a renewed kind of enthusiasm, like that of a man newly released from jail and visiting all his old haunts, the difference being that I should have really been inside.

Along the railway line there where lots of workman’s huts, usually about half a mile apart so I was able to shelter in these whenever I came to one. They were all, without exception, in terrible states of disrepair and I was convinced that one of them would blow away whilst I was still standing in it. It didn’t, but part of the ‘roof’ did.

It was whilst in one of these that a train went past.

This was something of a shock as I thought it was a disused route. A whole new dimension had been added to my little survival adventure. As it was a single track, I worked out in my slack-brained way that it would be some time before another train came in the opposite direction, so now would be a good time to carry on and find my way back to the road. I was by now 15 miles into my days walking, I was soaked to the bone as was my rucksack (well not to the bone but you know what I mean) which had it seemed, doubled in weight. I was very cold and very hungry. As I was so close to a road I knew that wasn’t in too much trouble but it did give me lot to think about. What if I had been a long way from anywhere? How much did I have left in me? Where was that guy in the van??

Thinking back, I should have been utterly spent, but I wasn’t. Was it adrenalin? A survival instinct? Does a survival instinct kick in even if you know you are not in any real danger of dying? The physical side of my body had no idea that I was close to safety so how was it able to find more energy? Maybe I have just become far fitter than I have ever been. Today was the most physically demanding challenge I have ever undertaken and yet I was far less exhausted than I have been on the days when the roads have been flat, the weather fine and the distances a good deal shorter.

Who knows? All I know is that I can’t see how any days to come will be any worse than today, which in turn means that I am pretty much ready for anything that comes my way, although saying that, I haven’t had to camp yet. That for me, is an altogether different challenge.

Cheers

Al

Wednesday 25^th March - Day 81 (Evanton to Tain)

Walking song of the day: ‘Ping Pong’ - Stereolab

I did want to walk from Evanton up to Cromarty today, if only to finally see a place that I have only ever heard mentioned on the shipping forecast. Unfortunately though, the Cromarty to Nigg ferry, which crosses the half mile or so of the Moray Firth, doesn’t run again until summer and I can’t wait around.

When I mention the shipping forecast, I don’t want to give you the impression that I am a regular listener. I’m not. For one thing I don’t own a ship and for another it is on very late on Radio 4 (apparently), just before they hand over to the BBC World Service, which in turn is only listened to by people being held in foreign jails and fisherman who have forgotten to turn the radio off.

The only other name I remember from the shipping forecast is Dogger, which is a massive sandbank 62 miles off the East coast of the UK, not the name given to a particular type of sexual deviant.

The lack of a ferry meant more walking along the A9 but it wasn’t so bad alongside Cromarty Firth, where at Nigg they repair and maintain oil rigs. You can see at least three if you go there right now, all of them around 300 feet high at a rough guess. I’m not sure how you go about repairing an oil rig but they actually bring them to Cromarty. Yes you read that correctly: They bring the oil rigs in to be repaired. Now I’m sure these guys have looked into the easiest and most cost effective way to repair these monsters, but I can’t quite shift the nagging feeling that they have got it wrong somewhere along the line Imagine the first meeting:

Boss: Right, has anyone got any ideas as to how we can repair oil rigs quickly and cheaply?

Sensible Engineer 1: Yes, we fly the crew and equipment out to the rig by helicopter, carry out the repairs

quickly and efficiently and then fly back again.

Boss: Anyone else?

Less Sensible Engineer: How about we bring the rigs to us?

Boss: Brilliant.

I have no idea how they do it but I am very impressed. Going into work each day knowing that you will be cold and wet for the duration must be a hugely soul-destroying. I wouldn’t last a morning, I know that much.

Cheers

Al

Tuesday 24^th March - Day 80

Walking song of the day: ‘Wishing On A Star’ - Rose Royce

About an hour ago I went into the little Co-op store they have here in Evanton to buy myself some lunch. The following caught my eye:

‘Limited Edition Pesto Pasta Salad with Sun-Dried Tomato’.

This very rare and sought after delicacy was presented just like any other pasta salad you see in supermarkets; in a small, square, plastic container. It was the same price as the other plastic pots of pasta and looked very similar to the other plastic pots of pasta. Obviously the magic lay within; why waste time with fancy packaging when the magic is inside, just look at Wayne Rooney. Anyway, I am a sucker for things like this even though I pride myself of never having bought a single thing I have seen during an ad break in Corrie. I must admit though, I did once treat myself to a limited edition orange Kit-Kat (5 million sold) when they enjoyed a brief residency at the Esso garage on the London Road in Brentwood.

I needed more answers though and asked the guy on the checkout if I could speak to the manager. Impressively he was there quickly and without me hearing him approach, which I took to be a good sign.

Manager: Can I help you sir?

Me: Hello, I was wondering if you knew how many of these limited edition pesto pasta salads were made?

Manager: Pardon?

Me: I was just wondering if you knew how many of these limited edition pesto pasta salads were made?

Manager: Well that’s a good question. To be honest I don’t, sorry

Me: Oh. What sort of amount constitutes a limited edition would you say, twelve?

Manager: Again, a good question, I really don’t know.

Me: Is there anyway we could find out do you think?

Manager: Find out what sir?

Me: How many were made

Manager: I have no idea how we might go about that sir

Me: I don’t suppose you have the number of the supplier do you, I could ring them and find out?

Manager: Er, I might have, I’ll just go and see.

The manager went off and amazingly came back with a number for the suppliers.

Me: Thanks very much. Have you noticed anyone buying more than seems normal. For example, has anyone come in and bought 5 in one go?

Manager: (warming to the theme) You mean like a collector?

Me: (excitedly) Yes, Yes, just like a collector

Manager: No

Me: Oh go on then, I’ll have one. Thanks for your help.

Now that’s what I call good service.

Meanwhile, back at the walk and I was happy to leave Inverness after five-days in the hostel there. I actually got £10 back from the owner as compensation for the ‘urine incident’ which I thought was inadequate, especially as he begged me not to mention it to anyone incase, and I quote, “it gives people a bad impression of hostelling altogether” Mmm. ‘Hostelling altogether’ or just this particular hostel.? But hey, since he was a very nice guy and was doing his best on his own, I won’t mention the name of the hostel, and there are three in Inverness. I will simply say, 4 out of 10.

The highlight today was seeing, from the rain-sodden tarmac of the A9, the snow-capped Ben Wyvis mountain, part of the Clan Munro Country and, at about 3,500 feet, one of the tallest in the UK. My first thought later as I did a bit of research (ie, asked a bloke in a van) was that if Ben Wyvis, at only 3,500 feet, looks so enormous from 20 odd miles away, what must it be like to see Everest from a similar distance? Pretty staggering I would imagine. But as the clouds broke and allowed the sun to backlight it magnificently, I forgot the cold for a minute and remembered why I was so looking forward to the Scotland leg of the walk in the first place.

Cheers

Al 

Tuesday 17^th - Monday 23^rd March - Days 74 to 80

Walking song of the week: ‘Back Together’ - Babybird

Yes that’s right dear readers, if readers isn’t too ambitious of me, after all I am hoping that more than one of you occasionally tunes in, I’m back. After a week of mini-disasters sugared with a few tiny, magical moments, I have crawled out of the funk. The funk of broken cameras and laptops, strange lumps appearing then disappearing on my shin, not one but now two rubbish shoulders. The funk that accompanied the sight of a dead owl, my first outside captivity (dead or alive) and soon after a very dead and very red fox. And of course, the funk of missing Harriet so much it makes my chest hurt.

Then there was the utter uselessness of the man in my dorm who just decided to urinate in the corner in the middle of the night, despite there being 15 other people in the room. As my most excellent friend Samantha Rutland would say, he was pissing like a raccehorse, which, with laminate flooring beneath him, alerted most of us from our sleep. A near lynching ensued before a Frenchman, whose English was perfect but not required, threw him through the door. I liked the Frenchman, especially as he calmly laced his shoes before the ejection.

But the magic moments, they came along as well. Leaving Aberdeenshire and entering Moray to walk along the astounding coastal path, hoping to see dolphins, seals and maybe a whale. I saw nothing of course, but the rocks, cliffs and beaches were a very decent second. Then on the day I saw the dead owl, a lamb gambolled over to a fence to suckle and chew on my fingers. I stroked it’s chin whilst its mother stood around looking nervous as if expecting me to harm it in some way. No chance. I can eat lamb without too much of a second thought, but I am far too much of a cowardly hypocrite to actually kill one myself. I would prefer to be a vegetarian if truth be told, but I am too greedy and too lazy. Anyway the lamb incident went on for ten minutes and she was quite happy. So was I, it’s not too often that you get that close to them.

Later in the week, and a personal ambition fulfilled. I went to Loch Ness where the only monstrous thing was the price of admission to Urquhart Castle. £6.36 (?) to look at a ruin is, to my mind, over the top, even if it is surrounded by splendour. It was misty on the day I went and cold too, in direct contrast to the day before when I had been striding around Inverness in a tshirt, of which more later. How to describe Loch Ness? Well, it’s a thing of utter beauty. Life-affirming, humbling, joyous. All of those things and more. I only travelled around 7 miles down to the castle (it’s around 25 miles long) but I was staggered by it and again wished that everyone I was fond of could have been there. I have been reliably informed that I have a great deal more beauty left to see. It’s not a particularly wide stretch of water but it is, in parts, close to 1000ft deep and waves 8 feet high have been known. Sadly, on the day I was there, four guys drowned in Loch Awe, about 50 miles east, after taking a boat out following a drinking session. The fifth remained at their little campsite and reported hearing their screams. At the time of writing , the rescuers have only found two of the bodies

Loch Ness is so deep and cold and vast, that it has it’s own lifeboat service. They say that if you are unlucky enough to fall in, even after a long, hot summer, you have around a minute to get out before the cold kills you. Or you get eaten by a monster of course.

When I was in New Zealand with Sarah, I remember us meeting quite a few Scottish folk during our little tour of the North Island. On our very last day, we stopped at a roadside café which was run by a middle-aged couple from Aberdeen. They echoed what the others had told us; that t they chose New Zealand simply because it was so like home, just much warmer. They were right.

Cheers

Al

PS. Oh yes, the T-shirt. I went into a charity shop to buy a t-shirt so that I could have something to wear whilst I went to the laundrette. I saw one, pale blue with the outline of two guys wearing glasses printed on the front. It reminded me of the Two Ronnies' logo. It wasn’t until later that I noticed on the back it had printed in big letters ‘THE PROCLAIMERS’. This was a bit weird since only the day before, I had been boasting about having walked further than they did in that bloody song of theirs. I wondered why people had been smirking at me in Inverness High Street. Perhaps the Scots have the same amount of disdain for the Proclaimers as the Aussies do for Rolf Harris. Can’t see it though, the Scots love anything Scottish.

Saturday 14^th and Sunday 15^th March - Days 71 and 72

Walking song of the day: ‘To The Ends Of The Earth’ - Tony Middleton

Let me tell you about Rattray Head. Never have I seen a beach like the one that stretches from Rattray to St Combs, and no doubt beyond. I don’t know what you want from a beach but apart from warm water, it was all here. I haven’t been all over the world, not by any stretch of the imagination, but this beach could easily hold it’s (beachy) head up there with anything I saw in New Zealand or Australia, it was simply stunning. Think sand the colour of strong tea (with milk. a kind of orange colour is what you’re looking for), think blue, clean water with the sun reflecting on it like a million torches being flicked on and off. . Think 17 miles of beautiful sand dunes, some 70ft high. Think not a soul around for miles and miles. And finally, think no noise whatsoever apart from that of the sea and the wind.

Ah yes, the wind. I don’t know what it was like where you were on Saturday, but in Rattray it blew with a ferocity that I have never experienced, not even close. There was no wind at all when I arrived on Saturday afternoon, it was warm and the sun was out, but within an hour I was hearing explosions of sound which I assumed was thunder. It wasn’t, it was the wind, gusting. There was only one thing that I could do and that was to get down to the beach with the camera. I hope the pics ( I know there are a few of them, but I was frankly amazed) give you a tiny idea of what it was like. The place seemed to be alive, rivers of sand were flowing, floating over the tops of the dunes, then round the side of another, being pulled every which way, then into the sea at the exact moment the waves broke. At one point there was a tiny rainbow shining on the breaking waves at the same time as the sand hit. That looked astonishing and astonishingly, I misseed the picture. Then long, skinny columns of sand rose vertically and danced like drunk supermodels before disappearing into the sea. I tried to walk back up the dune I had used to reach the beach. It was steep and not unlike those you used to see in the Turkish Delight adverts where the pretty girl is being menaced by a snake but she’s saved by a pretty boy with a sword. It took me ten minutes to walk ten yards, the sand hitting me so hard that it felt like a million tiny pins were being pushed into my face, as if I was nature's personal voodoo doll. When I got back to my room, my coat pockets were full of sand and my glasses were scratched. Usually the weather in Britain is dull but I have honestly never experienced anything like that in my life and it was totally exhilarating. The guy running the hostel had one of those wind measurer things and later in the day he recorded the speed on the beach at 70 mph. Fantastic. More of that sort of extreme weather please.

Cheers

Al

Thursday 12^th March - Day 70

Walking song of the day: ‘Fall On Me’ - REM

This morning, I was delighted to be joined by Margaret for the first half hour of the walk. She pointed out a few local attractions and landmarks including the Art Deco lido. This, I was told, was the only lido in Scotland and was recently painted and landscaped by a team from the telly, although Margaret didn’t elaborate as she was distracted by some cottages, one of which she had once thought about buying. I never did find out which team it was; that one with Tommy Walsh perhaps or maybe Nick Knowles? Maybe it was a different kind of team and Arthur and Terry from Minder got a couple of pals from the Winchester Club to sort it out. I should have asked, it would have been good to know.

Anyway, when the time came, I was sad to say goodbye to Margaret, she couldn’t come any further as she had Pilates, which is a type of keep fit class, not something you need to put cream on. I continued on, up a ridiculously steep cliff (where again I came across old boys playing golf and looking far fitter than I) until I came to a ruined graveyard, known as Cowie Kirkyard. As you can see from the pics, there were hundreds of stones here, some dating back to the 1750’s and many with the name Masson inscribed upon them. There wasn’t much info about the place and I haven’t found much out online as yet, but I will keep searching. I like digging around, so to speak.

Into Aberdeen then and to the youth hostel where I was staying for the night. In these places, there is usually a room where you can get online and they are usually busy. It never ceases to amaze me though, the amount of people who do nothing but sit in them all day and night, playing computer games. In Edinburgh there was this one guy, German I think but with very good English, maybe about 25 years old. He sat in the same spot for the duration of my stay (2 nights) headphones on, playing some sort of war game. I found it incredible. He had one of worlds most beautiful cities on his doorstep, so much to see and explore but he chose instead to stare at a screen for 48 hours. Whatever floats your boat I suppose but it certainly sinks mine. Then again, maybe he was playing Battleships.

Cheers

Al

Wednesday 11^th March - Day 69

Walking song of the day: ‘Gentle On My Mind’ - Frank Sinatra

People, rather than scenery or amusing signposts, took centre stage today.

This morning I met Chris, who was staying in the room adjoining mine at the Ship Hotel in Inverbervie. We shared a breakfast table. Chris is a perfect example of what I like to call ‘proper people’ or in his case, ‘proper person’. What I mean by ‘proper person’ is this: Someone with no nonsense about them, no airs, no grraces, no pretensions. What you see is what you get. Decent, amiable, generous, nice. If Chris and I drank in the same pub, we would be mates.

Chris is what is known in the world of comedy and musical tours, as a swagman. He is the man that drives all the merchandise, DVD’s, t-shirts, mugs etc, to whichever venue your favourite comic or singer happens to be appearing at that night. Presently he is working on Rob Brydon’s tour. I felt a bit sorry for Chris as he is alone for much of the time, either in the van or in guesthouses, whilst Brydon and the tour manager get to fly everywhere and stay in posh hotels. Chris didn’t seem to mind too much though, he seemed to be a happy-go-lucky character. Not only that, he was from West London and a West Ham fan. As we finished our breakfast he offered his hand and donated £20 to the fund. Thanks again Chris, it was a pleasure, and if you still have the card, give me a ring in about 6 months and I will buy you a beer.

Twelve miles up the road I met the legendary Margaret. I was due to be staying at Margarets house but I was early so I decided to find a place to have some lunch. After considering, then rejecting the idea of Carron’s (despite a poster proudly proclaiming itself as the birthplace of the deep-fried Mars Bar) I found a small coffee shop. As soon as I walked in a lady approached me and asked me if I was Al. This lady turned out to be Margaret, who very kindly introduced me to everyone in the shop, (“You’re famous here you know”) all of whom were delightful. The manageress even donated a pot of tea and a cheese sandwich. And there was a lady named Morag

After I had said hello to everyone, I took off my rucksack and sat down, Margaret joined me for a chat too which was nice but then she had to go and push the cake trolley around for a bit. After 15 minutes or so I noticed that that there was a fair amount of religious paraphernalia on display. I was in a Christian bookshop. Here I was, a staunch, lifelong atheist tucking in to a free sandwich provided by Christians. What is the protocol for such a situation? I felt such a hypocrite. I knew immediately what I must do. Return the sandwich, politely and gratefully, but explain that I couldn’t accept the generosity of an institution that I had many, many issues with . And then withdraw to Starbucks. That’s what I should have done, but I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut and ate the sandwich. There is no Starbucks in Stonehaven, and besides, I liked Margaret too much.

Afterwards Margaret and I walked back together, calling in at the local paper on the way to see if they might be interested in my story. Unfortunately, it being twenty to three, all the journalists were still at lunch and therefore, no-one was available to talk to me. Margaret though had put much effort in before I had arrived by phoning the paper, but still they weren’t that bothered. Oh well, thanks for trying Margaret.

When I got to Margaret’s house, she had left me two little cakes in my room, which was just about the sweetest thing that has been done for me since I began the walk and I was quite touched by the whole little gesture. Margaret you see, just like Chris, is a proper person.

Cheers

Al

PS The slide below was just there, in the middle of nowhere, with no other playground type stuff around it

Tuesday 10^th March - Day 68

Walking song of the day: ‘Stormy’ - The Supremes

It is my daughter Harriet’s 16^th birthday today which I can hardly believe. I was there at her birth which is still the most incredible thing I have ever seen, closely followed by Trevor Brooking’s winning goal against Arsenal in the 1980 FA Cup Final. ( I was there too!) Anyway I wish I could be with her today and I miss her terribly. She’s a great girl is Harriet and I love her more than anything. Happy birthday Hazza!!

Inverbervie, where I am staying tonight, sounds a bit like the opening to a Village People song. “Inverbervie, you can sail the seven seas, Inverbervie….etc”, you get the idea , but it links neatly to the fact that the designer of the Cutty Sark, the beautifully named Hercules Linton, was once resident here.

To be honest there isn’t much more to say about the place apart from the fact that a nice meal (gammon and chips) and my accommodation has been donated tonight by the lovely Helen, who has also been very helpful in providing me with info regarding hostels further along the coast. It makes such a difference when people are nice and spend a bit of time with you when you undertake something like this. For the most part, I am on my own and have no human interaction at all except when I buy stuff, so Helen and the lovely girl in Montrose last night are welcome relief. Thanks Helen.

The walk was relatively short today, around four-and-a-half hours, but I was exhausted when I arrived at my digs. I’m not sure why either. The sun was out, the wind had dropped considerably after the battering it has given me over the last few days, but I felt so tired at the ten-mile mark. It’s a mithtery, as Toyah might say for I am far fitter than I was a month ago, yet I am tiring more quickly. Oh well who knows? I’ll just carry on and see if things improve. Maybe I am getting a bug or something. Watch this exciting space

Cheers

Al