Sunday 5^th April- Day 92

Walking song of the day: ‘Everyone Thinks He Looks Daft’ - The Wedding Present

I was worried about today. I had a 20+ mile day ahead of me, the skies were the colour of Swansea and the wind as I crossed the Bay of Tongue was strong enough to throw me into the metal barrier of the bridge, the only thing separating me from the from the inky, freezing water below. Tears were streaming down my face, not necessarily of joy, but more to do with the gale and the thought of what lay ahead.

As it happened I needn’t have worried, as what actually lay ahead were more jaw-dropping landscapes and much later on, fine company. In this part of the world, there is nothing for miles and you need to be absolutely ready for that both physically and emotionally and though the distances I travel each day are not especially great, the combination of weather (which can change from bright sunshine to torrential rain in the time it takes you to put your hood up), hills and long periods on your own, seemingly getting nowhere, can leave you exhausted very quickly.

This though was another day when things just got better and better and I felt stronger as each mile passed. After eight miles I reached Hellam, on the East bank of Loch Eriboll, ,a huge body of water approximately 16 miles long and again, simply astounding to look at. The few houses dotted around its shoreline were dwarfed by the mountains and rocks on either side, so walking down toward its endpoint near a place called Polla, called to mind Gulliver approaching Lilliput for the first time. It was breathtaking, no other word for it.

Saturday 4^th April - Day 91

Walking song of the day: ‘West End Blues’ - Louis Armstrong

Forget what I said yesterday, about how the world was a beautiful place and everything was beautiful. Beautiful this, beautiful that, blah, blah, blah. Today was decidedly unbeautiful, in the way that the idea of living with Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee is unbeautiful.

There was nothing wrong with the scenery at all. In fact, right at the end of my day, I reached the Kyle of Tongue and Tongue Bay, which is just about the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Flanked on both sides by hills and mountains (hello again Ben Hope), it is probably half a mile wide and five miles long with vast stretches of custard coloured sand reaching far off into the distance and water of the lightest blue despite the abysmal weather. Sheep and dogs are the only creatures that ever use those beaches, I was reliably informed by Helen, my guardian angel, of whom more later. These beaches defy imagination, you couldn’t dream them up. Hannah, the lady who runs the hostel I am staying in tonight is a Kiwi, and she and I were discussing our favourite beaches. Hers is in the South Island of New Zealand but she reckoned that the Kyle of Tongue is easily one of the most beautiful places on earth. She is bang on the money. I can’t wait to bring Harriet here and when I do, she will be one of the lucky few for I would guess that less than a hundreth of a percent of the earth’s entire population even know that this place exists and I think I can safely say, that that is exactly how the locals want it to stay.

Okay, from the moment I left Bettyhill this morning until long after I had arrived in Tongue, it absolutely poured with rain. I am pretty sure you do not want me to tell you the familiar details, suffice to say, I was soaked and very, very cold by the time arrived at my digs. My boots are also letting in water on account of me wearing holes in the souls. A mile or two from sanctuary, and somewhere up a mountain, I met the lovely Helen, who stopped and offered me a lift, something she told me she never did especially as I was a strange man. I started thinking about how cunning and callous a predatory killer would have to be to just wonder about in torrential rain in the mountains on the off-chance of being picked up by a kind and decent woman such as Helen. If one person could have persuaded him (for they are always men) not to go through with his dastardly plan it was Helen. She was 70 and her husband had had a stroke on the very same day he was made redundant from a Scottish bank earlier this year. Whether the redundancy caused the stroke who’s to say, but it’s highly likely. I don’t mind admitting, if Helen had driven past me two miles in to the walk today I would have accepted the lift. It was appalling out there and where it had been mild earlier, it turned very cold indeed by lunchtime. Later I was listening to commentary on the Liverpool game being played in London only to hear that they were playing in bright sunshine, in which London had been basking all day.

Thanks though Helen, and I sincerely hope you husband makes a quick and full recovery.

Cheers

Al

Friday 3^rd April - Day 90

Walking song of the day: ‘6 x 6’ - Earl Van Dyke

I think from here on in, at least for the next couple of weeks, most of my updates from the road are going to begin with words similar to “today was the best day of the walk so far”, because today was the best day of the walk so far and I am pretty sure tomorrow will be as well.

The beach you can see below was my reward for arriving in Bettyhill after a pretty easy ten mile day, during which I encountered nothing more taxing than beauty from start to finish. Sure there was a very steep climb which was quite tough, but all around me were hills covered in heather and moss, and granite rock sparkling in the sunshine like a Swarovski roadshow, all beckoning me on with promises of further riches to behold. I wasn’t to be disappointed.

Three miles from Bettyhill (which I must say, is a rather cool name for a town) is the Bettyhill Viewing Point. Here you will find a brilliant little information board which has a diagram of all that lays before you, so you can easily identify mountains Ben Hope (3040ft), Arkle (2580) and Foinaven (2980) some way off in the distance and in the case of Ben Hope, snow-capped, despite the blazing sunshine.

Add to this stunning cliffs and dark blue sea to my right and you start to wonder how you can improve on the place. There is no-one around, it’s pretty much silent apart from the birds (and I am sure I saw an eagle today) and there is virtually no traffic.

Actually, a chap did stop and ask me were I was heading and embarrassingly I had forgotten so couldn’t tell him. He started to do his window back-up at that point, possibly thinking I had slipped my carer, but the truth was, with the sun so high in the sky and all before me laid out as if painted by a poet, it seemed criminal to even entertain the notion of being anywhere but outside. And I had to wonder why I am only offered lifts when the weather is glorious?

It’s amazing how the memory of last Friday, when I was soaked and chilled to the bone and miles from anywhere, has slipped to the far corners of my memory, probably only ever to be recalled when attempting to gain sympathy from a pretty but simple, doe-eyed girl. Sunshine does that to you, it’s like that certain mate most of us have who always puts a wonky spin on things and causes you to feel and think in a slightly different way, if only for a moment. The sun has the capacityto make everything seem alright.

So this beach, Torrisdale beach to give it its proper, name looked just wonderful when it first came into view. I really am annoyed about my decent camera being broken as it would have conveyed its beauty far better than my phone camera ever could. But look at that sand, look at no-one being anywhere near it on the most perfect day of the year so far. My favourite beach in the world is Cathedral Cove in New Zealand, not least because it is normally deserted and takes a death-defying hike to get down to it. But while Torrisdale isn’t quite on a par, it is awfully close. It might be a cliché, and as it’s a cliché, I will no doubt repeat it in future posts, but if Scotland did enjoy a slightly better climate, no actually, a much better climate, I cannot for the life of me see why it wouldn’t be in the top few holiday destinations in the world.

Cheers

Al

PS: A quick hello to the four diners I met in the bar of the Strathy Inn where I stayed last night. They kindly donated £25 to the fund so many thanks for that, it was very much appreciated.

Tuesday 31^st March and Wednesday 1^st April - Days 87-88.

Walking song of the day: ‘Ain’t That Good Enough?’ - Garland Green

I have turned a corner, psychologically, and of course literally. By branching left at directionless John O’Groats, the tiny, romantic part of my brain started cart-wheeling with joy and flashing a bit of leg to the larger, cynical grey area, trying, for a few seconds at least, to convince it that the walk is halfway walked

It’s not of course. And the toughest part of the walk is just around another corner; the West Coast. Heavy legs are guaranteed from Scourie, all the way down to Ayr, but also a light heart, for not only have I received assurances from every living person I have met so far in Scotland that the West Coast ™, is mind-bendingly beautiful, which I sincerely hope it is, I will also be heading South for the first time which, having spent 18 months in Huddersfield recently, is always likely to raise my sprits.

There is not a great deal to report from the last two days walking, it’s just been a case of following the A836 all the way, which I will continue to do for many miles yet. On Tuesday night I stayed in Dunnet, again the only guest in a medium sized hotel. It was just me at dinner, just me at breakfast. Occasionally a young, nervous boy would appear to talk to his dad who I think was the new owner but he would go running off again whenever he saw me. Maybe it was because I was wearing corduroy trousers, I have no idea. It’s an odd feeling to be the only guest. You feel as though you’re imposing slightly. My breakfast table was all set up by a fire which had thoughtfully been turned on a little while earlier. I couldn’t help feeling though that the guy and his son could have had a lie-in if it wasn’t for me and then gone out for the day. Not sure where though, there is nothing for miles to see or do for an 8 year old. Oh well, they did serve me those horrible frozen roast potato’s which weren’t cooked properly, even on the second time of asking, so all’s fair I guess.

Thurso is a town of just over 8000 people on the Pentland Firth. Last night I wanted to watch England World Cup qualifying game which was shown live on ITV. In Scotland ITV is STV and instead of the game, they had a James Bond film on. How mean is that? They must really hate the English to do that. Not only that, but it was a Roger Moore one. God he’s awful.

Thurso is famous for its surf which is widely regarded to be on a par with Hawaii on a good day and surfers from the world over come here. I met some in the hostel I stayed in and they love it here. I have never been surfing although I would like to but, given the choice, I think Hawaii might just inch it over Thurso.

Incidentally, I just want to thank James and his wife Yuphin who run Sandra’s Hostel. They gave me a dorm all to myself and laid on snacks and tea and coffee. They didn’t charge me a penny. I’m not just saying this, but the hostel really is terrific, small but perfectly formed, warm clean and friendly. One of the best places I have stayed in so far, and no nutters in the laundry room either, calling me and my pen stupid. I never got to meet Sandra though, she was probably out surfing.

Monday 30^th March - Day 86

Walking song of the day: ‘Something Changed’ - Pulp

I have taken one for the team. I have done my best impression (up to a point) of Captain Lawrence Oates and sacrificed myself just for you. Yes, I have visited John O’Groats so you don’t ever have to.

I’m not entirely sure what the point of John O’ Groats is exactly. It’s not even the most northerly point of mainland Britain, that accolade goes to Dunnet Head, a mile from where I am writing this now. The road in from Wick is incredibly boring and seemingly endless; I thought for some time that I must have gone wrong somewhere which is an almost impossible feat, even for me. The landscape is bleak, surprisingly flat and windswept and again it was a struggle for long parts of the 15 or so miles.

The final two miles into JO’G are downhill and along a straight piece of tarmac, but all you can see at the end of it is the sea and when it stopped raining, the Orkney’s. I kept wondering where the town and the shops were. I wasn’t expecting Westfield Shopping Centre, but I thought there might be a few interesting little places. Wrong. There were three gift shops, one of which was pretty big and incorporated a Costa’s coffee shop, some small place called the Last House and Museum (closed and looked rubbish anyway) and a rather spooky, gothic type hotel which was a bit Batesy if you ask me. Anyway that was also closed and totally run down, in direct contrast to the image portrayed on the many postcards on which it appeared.

Even that signpost which tells you how many miles it is to god knows where was missing, well the sign bit was anyway. Apparently it is privately owned (“not by the council as everyone seems to assume” we were snottily informed by way of a note pinned to the side) and having your picture taken there with your name, home town and mileage to said town, costs money. Many of these pictures were on display and without exception, everyone posing in them looked an utter knob. Many of them the kind of person who, if you were to spend a few days with them in their stupid, 30mph top speed camper van , with their ever-smiling wife and their constant bean-based dinners, you would probably end up killing.

So what is the point of John O’Groats? It's the land equivalent of Paris Hilton, famous for being famous and equally as vacant. Can these three shops sustain a whole community from season to season? They must be doing ok as Costa’s had three girls working and only me to serve in the whole hour I was there. Maybe if they only had two girls working,, they wouldn’t have to charge me £2.35 for a small latte.

It’s quite an effort to get to John O’Groats even by car, so you can imagine the disappointment of our friends from overseas who annually make that effort only to arrive to find nothing but expensive coffee. At least make an effort Scotland, put a Waltzer in or something.

Cheers

Al

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.