Late April/Early May 2009
He leapt out of bed at first light and brought his backpack and boots straight down to breakfast so as to not disturb his roommate. That was two hours ago now however and he'd only just set out from the hostel ... For the second time in the day already. A short while earlier, after passing the BP garage, he realised that he'd forgotten about the mobile phone still set on alarm under his pillow. So he found himself treading the way back one final time, glad at least that he'd not gone several miles further. When he departed before he'd carelessly mistaken two packs of energy tablets in his pocket for the phone. Over half an hour later, after eventually leaving the now very familiar sights of Broadford, he set about putting the last few miles of Skye behind him.
It was a mild Saturday morning and the unbusied road off the isle matched the calm of the sea as he approached Kyleakin. Normally Alex would detest walking across any lengthy road bridge. For some time he had contemplated heading for the Kylerhea ferry and walking right around Loch Duich instead to avoid the Skye Bridge. However once beyond the last roundabout and fully committed to the road crossing he could see it would actually be a novel brief voyage over water. The useful little island Eilean Ban gave support in the middle of the span and from a considerable height it banked round to make physical contact with mainland Britain again at Kyle of Lochalsh. Even though he was already well supplied, he couldn't resist going into the supermarket there to find himself a treat for elevenses. A plump packet of Eccles cakes did just nicely. He set out comfortably loaded now, ready for one final big effort up to the far northwestern corner of the kingdom.
The first stop off would be at Plockton. Until recent years this delightful village was regarded as one of the best kept secrets on the west coast. The television series Hamish Macbeth has since brought wider recognition among the general populace, and on this bright afternoon the place was positively thronging. Alex was happy to join in with the rest of the sightseers, sampling the temperate surroundings with an entranced eye. Oddly, it felt like he had sidestepped into a state of vacation himself, so noticeably sheltered was it compared to where he'd spent the last week. Skye and Raasay were devoid of trees for the most part, and as he headed on along a winding woodland path to Duncraig Castle it was a pleasure to see all suddenly out in full leaf.
Half a mile after rejoining the road another long distance hiker appeared, completely unexpected, approaching from the opposite direction. It transpired that after spending the past fortnight on the go, he just had to reach Plockton Station Bunkhouse tonight, and was then begrudgingly heading home and back to work on Monday. He had now covered nearly half of the British coast in sections, having started at London.
Between the two of them it seemed that they had amassed similar experiences up here in Scotland. Thirty minutes quickly flew by as they swapped tales along this road. The other man recently had some hairy moments in steep ancient woodland above Loch Reraig just to the north, and Alex recalled some scrapes of his own too from Morvern and Mull. Most likely they could have chatted the evening dry standing there, but both needed to journey on. So with a firm handshake they parted company with their days' each made.
The evening was set up perfectly, and at the compact village of Achmore he sat out a dozen motionless minutes on a wall, wallowing in the blissful idyll. Somewhere far beyond a faint motor engine spluttered up the hill, but it intruded no more than a mouse's cough into this bucolic reality. Eventually another person was there, out with a dog, but Alex was gone already, rolling out of sight along the road like an elusive gypsy wagon.
The once promising evening threatened to turn into a washout, when grimy black clouds mangled the fresh view across Loch Carron like dusty shutters drawn down from a high place. At a picnic site he took his tent out, ready for pitching up in a flash, but the ground was so stony he couldn't sink any peg more than a few millimetres. He plodded on down the road some more and at the bottom of the hill found another better area. There was a table to cook his meal on, and more conveniently it stayed dry from then on to bivvy the night away cosily.
*
Setting out there was a strong mobile phone signal down on the loch side, so he took the opportunity to make a lengthy phone call home walking along the A890. Back in February he'd prepared a package of maps addressed to Durness Post Office on the north coast and was giving advanced warning that he would now need it sooner than previously planned. He finished the conversation in good time, just before the yawning mouth of an avalanche shelter swallowed him and any wandering airwaves there too. On a bench outside the Strathcarron Hotel, he had taken a little time for a sit down when a man came out to offer him a cup of tea. He felt rude to decline the kind gesture, but it was still a long way to get over to the west coast of the Applecross Peninsula that same night, so he pulled himself to his feet and got moving again.
As he called in at Lochcarron village there was quite a gang of middle aged motorcyclists gathered outside the general store. Kitted out in expensive riding gear and straddling shiny new touring machines, they were most likely here for a weekend outing testing their courage on the nearby 600 metre high Pass of the Cattle. Before this year's walk he had already headed into oncoming cycling, walking and running races a few times, but as he walked out to Loch Kishorn it was unnervingly like being back at the Isle of Man TT mountain course on Mad Sunday. He thought it would be wise to delay his own ascent to let the last of the riders pass through, so he took a break at the River Kishorn bridge which marked the start of the climb. The channelled wind was gusting head on in the valley bottom and it promised to be an exhilarating but arduous walk up.
The pass started off with a long gentle slope, and he had gone well over a mile already before feeling like he'd gained any sort of height. It was not until the road swung around up a deeply glaciated valley side that the distant top could be seen. The gradient started to increase now, but he kept going with the same rhythm to not lose momentum. It proved all wasted effort in the end anyway when a sudden fierce wind brought him to his knees. It pinned him to the crash barrier with his backpack dangling over the brink. He could only just slump there like a toppled mutant turtle, unable to move for a long minute until it calmed enough again once more to continue. The road doubled back on itself up the final section. He expected a seemingly never ending hill here, but, that was it. He'd done it. And without meeting any motorbikes too!
There was an overweight grey cloud lumbering over to the west, but just beneath, the long rugged shape of Raasay was ever present. Plain to see in delicate pastel shades blended with rippling fluidity. The full panoramic view around Wester Ross would also have been grand on a clear day of course, but he was content to just take it as found, pressing on again along his way. Shortly after, a man in an open top sports car pulled up by him. He parked right in the middle of the road and cheekily stepped out to take a picture, saying 'Nice view!' with a grin, as he drove off again. Alex also had plans for a speedy descent too.
With five miles still to cover to Shore Street he quickly put the upper section behind him with no effort, jogging along with bouncy feet. Several people stopped to offer a lift, the last being a van full of guys from Edinburgh asking how far it was to Applecross, which he found quite amusing. He made it down to the village just as an annoying rain shower set in, so he ended up dining on a tasteless meal guarding the doorway of the public toilets. A man came along whilst he was drying his pan, the only other person out that night it appeared. He asked Alex if everything was alright. 'Just having my supper here out of the rain before walking some more', he replied and left it at that.
Back on track again, he noted a 25 miles to Shieldaig signpost and thought to himself 'That's a nice round number.' as he would stick to the road for the full distance tomorrow. Approximately one mile on, he feared he was in danger of greatly reducing that figure already this evening before finding somewhere secluded to camp. It had stopped raining for the time being, and at the very nice sandy beach of Applecross Bay he took a quick look at a display board off the road. It was partly covered with a small roof, giving a modicum of shelter. So, always the opportunist, Alex just had to decide where to settle himself for the night. Land side or sea side?
*
Awake at dawn, he could sense dampness seeping into the gore-tex bivvy skin. The soft morning wind was fizzling a dense drizzle mist seaward from the mountains, drenching all underneath the shelter. As it was not going to improve any time soon he pulled on his already wet boots and set off right away without ceremony. To make the day a little more interesting, he challenged himself to complete the eight hour walk through to Shieldaig without taking any breaks.
The first three hours passed in a routine fashion, there being little to distract him anyhow until the traditional craft house of Croft Wools at Cuaig. The place appeared to be closed and the only signs of life outside were the fleece bearers themselves, scattering around the fields to his disappointment. From Fearnmore onwards a whole new inlet subtly presented itself as the mist slowly lifted ... Loch Torridon. There were no mountaintops to see below the brooding cloud, but the immediate coastal features alone held intrigue enough to bring the day to life after a squalid start.
Still keeping a steady pace, including a run down the steep hill to Loch Beag, there was just one smallish climb to go, overlooking Shieldaig Island. Thankfully it wasn't any bigger as he honestly had not one more ounce of energy left to give. Almost on his knees in the end, staggering madly over the brink. Now having made it onto the final mile along the main road, he was too masochistic to grant himself even the shortest of rests just yet. Feeling like broken glass was grinding behind his kneecaps, he did the only thing he could in the situation, and that was to soldier on. The fastest he had all day.
Browsing the shop in Shieldaig his legs hadn't quite registered the fact that he'd finished the march. Heading past the tinned food he needed to check his feet hadn't sank into the floor. The numbness through them made it feel like walking in deep sand. He stopped and pretended to study some tins of soup a while, giving his circulation a minute to recover. Circling the store, his eyes and arms still proved trustworthy, and soon he stood before the cashier, pricing up what amounted to a sizable feast. After some small talk, he gathered up his groceries and then shuffled away unsteadily to the door, somewhat resembling an infant gazelle on wet linoleum.
A much brightened sky greeted him outside, and as it was not quite three o'clock yet he had time aplenty to air his wet kit. It might not have been the most discreet place he chose however. Hanging the dripping bivvy and sleeping bag from a wall outside the public conveniences, he had a moment of déjà vu when a brash old man strolled up and asked him if he was staying there. Cheeks flushing red with embarrassment, all he could think of in reply was 'Not this early in the day.' with a shrug. There was somewhere else much more accommodating along the road he would reach shortly anyway.
After the extended lunch stop he continued heading east, now in the intimate space of Upper Loch Torridon. It was pleasant to walk along at a relaxed pace, knowing that he could finish early this evening. Easing back into a comfortable step, he passed a succession of notable little bays. The first, known as Ob Mheallaidh, translates from Gaelic to the 'Bay of Deception'. Even in the full light of day there was no masking that it was a mysterious, sombre place, and the passage of recent history has observed many curious folktales gathered from its shores. By the time he reached Annat the cloud base had risen just above the top of Liathach, as if the mighty mountain itself had shrugged off the cloak to pose its washboard torso of Torridonian Sandstone through sheer vanity.
The walking just about done for the day, he turned off the main road and approached the youth hostel, surprised to find the car park outside holding an array of vehicles. As this region justifiably swarms with walking and climbing fanatics he was now a bit concerned whether there would be any bunks left available for him. There was a notice in the doorway requesting all boots to be removed. Checking his, they were spotless after two full days treading tarmac and he was not willing to prise them off until he'd secured lodgings. The public area was deserted and he had to ring the bell at reception to summon a member of staff, who told him that his luck was in for the night. Being midweek they actually had a choice of rooms still available, with only a handful of other paying guests booked in.
Although it was still not yet seven o'clock he wouldn't get much time for himself this evening to unwind, having a whole host of chores to complete before bedtime. Immediately he dumped his boots in the drying room and hung up his damp bivvy, sleeping bag and ground sheet alongside, before venturing into the members section of the hostel. He found his dorm bright and cheerful, and with only one other person to share the kitchen with he set about fixing up a high-carb dinner, boosted with extra goodies from the spare food shelf. Seriously bloated after a hearty panful, he returned to the reception to buy some internet time on one of their terminals. He managed to upload a selection of his latest photographs, but then only got as far as typing in the World Snooker address before his pound's credit ran out. To console himself he had a chat with the helpful warden for a little while, getting some background information about places coming up in the next few days.
Back in the dining room he just about managed a tin of peaches before getting started on the pile of dishes by the sink he'd avoided up until now. He felt uncomfortable stood still too long wearing just socks on the hard kitchen floor, so it was a relief to move again and prepare for a reviving hot shower. Grabbing his miniature bottle of shower gel and clean T-shirt he ventured into the male washroom; wherein he promptly gave himself a sharp fright when he looked in the mirror. It was somewhat traumatic catching his reflection for the first time in weeks. His visage now a quite wretched sight, even though he did still feel reasonable inside: dark shadows below bloodshot eyes, weather-beaten lips cracked in several places, cheek bones showing through poor diet, and his wild beard didn't even bear thinking about. All this taken into consideration, he still felt happy about putting in another long day tomorrow.
Washed, dressed and feeling quite human again, he went to get his bivvy and sleeping bag and packed them away nice and dry, ready for the next night out under the stars. Just before turning in he adjusted his alarm time forward to avoid a repeat of the Broadford Youth Hostel fiasco. 4:44 AM, most definitely earlier than he would wake up by his own accord.
*
The sun slowly crept above the mountainous skyline, bringing seasonal warmth to the lower slopes as he found his way along to Inveralligin. He'd just taken a short cut through the grounds of Torridon House and now continued on a direct course to Alligin Shuas, taking a partly concealed path leading uphill between two nice looking houses. Morning had dawned gracefully as he set out an hour ago, with barely a cloud across the whole sky. Yesterday's mystique spawned amid the dreich weather had long since vaporised against a charge from the sunlight cascade, which swept any miscreant phantasms scurrying into the darkest corners.
After a steep walk to the viewpoint at Bealach na Gaoithe, he had the pleasure of following the most enjoyable upland road he'd been on all these recent weeks. The sharp downhill gradient gave him a head start to jog effortlessly through Upper Diabaig and past the twin lakes, before arriving on the scene at Lower Diabaig. The view here had so many intricate layers and textures. Down below, the harbour seemed most comfortable in the sheltered space of Loch Diabeg, which itself, conversely, was harassed by a stern crescent of nefarious rock outcroppings that crenelated Loch Torridon as it washed across to the north shore of Applecross. All in all it summed up many of the best features that he’d seen so far in the Highlands. This was turning into one of those extra special days which came along every once in a while to remind him that he wouldn’t swap what he was doing for anything.
At the end of the road he continued along a well defined path for two miles to the former youth hostel, Craig; now adopted by the MBA as an open shelter. A father and son were just packing away as he entered. They too were MBA members, who were in fact the last of a large work party to leave the bothy. If he was a day or two earlier he would have met twenty people busy sawing and malleting away and he’d have probably soon found a paint brush in his own hand too.
The father revealed how he was unimpressed with one of the other work party members, who had walked out that morning wearing his boots, despite having different sized feet. He faced an uncomfortable return walk to his car with half the contents of a toolbox strapped to the outside of his rucksack. Alex profited out of this situation however by accepting one last tin of sardines neither could possibly cram in anywhere.
Before too long they left and he sat down to relax in the main room, where the stove was giving out the last of its heat. He soon became restless and went outside for a look around. Around the back there was a bucket flush privy and he took a picture of the wild view looking out the door from the throne. Unless it rained soon, the next visitor would need to go to the river to fill up the bucket, as the water butt had been drained empty after the recent heavy use. By now he had already stayed longer than he’d planned, so, with much walking still ahead of him, he got his things together and set off again.
He crossed the river near to the bothy, but then faced a tricky quarter mile stretch over boulders to get out onto the coast path. Once on it, he enjoyed far ranging views to Skye, and a jaunty walk through to Red Point under the midday sun. After catching his breath at a quiet beach, he followed another walker through Redpoint Farm and to the start of the road. He'd only been walking a few minutes when some tourists stopped to ask him where the road led to. 'It's a dead end, but there is a nice beach there.' he told them. They drove on, but before long they passed him once again, heading back the way they'd initially come from. Obviously they wanted to see the sights, but not if it meant there was any hard work involved.
It was now late afternoon and mile after mile of road walking was soon piling up behind him. South Erradale, Opinan and Port Henderson passed by in a flow of pleasant scenery, with school kids on the bus in Opinan waving him on for extra encouragement. The next hamlet in the line was Badachro. It deserved much more than the quick cursory look over he gave it, but at this point he just couldn't spare the time. His priority was to get to Gairloch before the local store closed and there was still over six miles to cover.
The last part of the way along the main road from Charlestown was hard going, but it was effort well spent getting to the shop in time. With a couple of items to supplement the tin of sardines now, he set out again at a more relaxed pace. He made a point of closely studying the mountains rising up beyond the opposite side of Loch Gairloch. There amongst them were the Torridon Hills, looking far off and distant already even though he'd only just set off from the foot of them this morning.
Thirty more minutes passed before he arrived at Gairloch Carn Dearg Youth Hostel. There was a large group already in, consisting of National Trust volunteers who were here for a week clearing rhododendrons from the nearby Inverewe Garden. Otherwise there were no other guests staying and he had the comfort of a top floor dormitory all to himself. The others were finishing their meal by the time he came down to the kitchen and one of the ladies was up quick to portion him out a generous bowl of bread and butter pudding for afters.
Once he was well fed and had begun to wind down after the long day, he retired upstairs for a shower and to prepare for the morning. As he was drying his shoulders his upper back started seizing up and he was close to going into a full body cramp. He was well used to having aching feet and ankles, but now the weariness had spread throughout his entire body and there wasn't a single part of him that wasn't sore and tender. All he could manage to do was just stoop over onto his bed and whimper himself off to sleep.
It was still dark and now he found himself downstairs in the toilet emptying a bladder almost filled to bursting. He shuddered to think about how he'd just sleepwalked down those nasty steep stairs in the pitch black, when something came back to him about the murky time before waking up. This night, and many nights previous, just about an hour after dozing off, he would roll over onto one side and an overpowering sense of dread would take hold of him, numbing his throat and swelling his hands. As if warning him somehow that there was something grossly not right about what he was up to.
There was nothing particularly unusual about being here he was quick to remind himself. Even though this place was far away from home, this was what he thrived off doing, wasn't it? So there was no reason to be apprehensive. He just had to put those niggling doubts to the back of his mind and tomorrow would be another day. One more chance to shine.
*
He had a quick bit of breakfast and was gone from the hostel before anyone else was up and about. The first couple of hours along the road swept by in a daze. Already remembering very little of Longa Island and Big Sand from the start of the walk, he decided on an early extended break upon reaching Melvaig to give himself time to wake up properly. He sat himself down in a bus shelter. There was no point in continuing any further half-zombified like this. Week after week of early starts had caught up with him finally, and now, in all honesty, he wanted nothing more than to just be able to climb back into bed.
He made himself comfortable and let all concerns about walking massive distances slip away. Half an hour hurried by before a passing local drew him out of his reverie. ‘You’ll have a long wait for a bus sitting there.’ Long indeed, there was not one running all day today this Wednesday. Thirty minutes soon became sixty, and then before he knew it sixty became ninety. It was definitely time to up sticks and move on, no more dilly-dallying. The break had done him a world of good and he felt much better back on his feet.
The public road soon came to an end and then it was a few more miles to Rua Reidh Lighthouse. Once the light became automated in the Nineteen-eighties the buildings were then turned into a hostel and outdoor centre. He poked his head in to see if anybody was about. The main reason being to acquire some water, but also out of blatant curiosity. One of the owners was on the premises and she was very amenable; letting him fill up his bottle and offering advice about the cliff path to Camas Mòr.
The track continued a few hundred metres further to Port An Amaill, and then it was a rougher path up and over the headland. The sea views were superb from here and the whole place couldn't have felt any more remote. Just the way he liked it. Before too long he descended to the ruins of Camustrolvaig, where there was also an open fisherman’s bothy. It certainly had its own special character when compared to other bothies he'd visited on his travels. With old nets hanging from the ceiling, plus: plastic floats, creels and an assortment of fishing paraphernalia filling the place, it was the perfect ocean hideaway.
He stayed inside for the time it took to casually munch down a tin of chickpeas, and then re-emerged, somewhat mole-eyed, back out into the bright midafternoon light. At this point he opted to turn southeast on the marked footpath instead of continuing to follow the coast around the head of the peninsula. Straightforward enough at first, but soon he was deep into Coille Loch an Draing ancient woodland and losing all sign of the path. The further in he went the denser the trees became. Most other times and places he would just plough on through regardless, but here he checked himself and doubled back to the edge of the loch. It was certainly the wisest move in this instance, and before long he was comfortably back on his way again.
The remaining miles to the main road were long and tiring over difficult rocky ground, where he found it a struggle to build up any sort of momentum. He had to rely heavily on both walking poles to steady himself as his tried and tested fleetness of foot was now found wanting. There always seemed to be an awkward placed rock just where he was about to plant his boot and his knees and ankles were taking a pounding. He gritted his teeth through the discomfort, let his hips take the strain, and stopped caring about what lasting damage he was doing until well after he reached the first farm in Inverasdale.
With the prospect of a ninety minute walk from Midtown into Poolewe still in front of him he automatically reached for his iPod for some atmospheric music to help sooth his mindspace. One particular Eastern European gothic metal track 'Lonely' managed to take him as close to the spiritual plane as his patchy consciousness would allow. The scenery was the perfect medicine for his ails now whilst the searing female voice that followed the chorus swooped down upon him as if unleashed from atop these very hills.
The sluggish start to the day meant that the store in the village was closed by the time that he arrived, so he carried on a little way further, stopping at a campsite on the way out of Poolewe. Leaving his rucksack unattended on a picnic table he went in search of water. The toilet block was easy to locate and as another camper exited it Alex slipped in behind him. The water was cool and sweet and he must have downed nearly a pint before filling up both his bottles to the brim. With hot water provided also, the temptation was all too great to risk a quick wash as well while he was there. Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
Dinner tonight was a Spartan affair given the pathetic remaining contents of his food bag. Super Noodles and Cream Crackers. Completely bland, but at least it gave something to chew on. He packed away his pan and set off again, hoping to get several more miles walked before sunset. He was curious to get to have a quick squiz into Inverewe Garden but unfortunately as he passed there was very little to see from the road.
Less than a mile away and his legs finally began to start to fail him. It was his right knee that was the main problem as it was painful when he tried to push off for each stride. He had to stop and rest briefly beside the loch at Tournaig otherwise he was sure to do some serious harm to it. If he could make it two kilometres further there was a viewpoint marked on the map overlooking Loch Thùrnaig. The only problem was that it was going to be uphill.
This proved to be the toughest walk of the day, but by hoisting the weight of his rucksack onto his left shoulder and bearing the majority of the weight on that side, he got up the hill just about alright. There was ample reward awaiting at the top of the hill. No, not a packed lunch left behind by somebody, better than that. A comfortable bench to bring on speedy recuperation, enough space in front of it for a luxuriant nights' bivvy, and, once again, a landscape of such grandiosity to immerse himself in that when he would awaken at dawn he'd probably have to pinch himself to believe that he still wasn't in a dream world.
*
This morning he was not in any great haste to make a start. He waited until the scarcely noticeable rush hour was over and then set out. The little village of Aultbea lay three miles northward overlooking the Isle of Ewe. Here he was able to stock up on provisions and made short work of devouring a tin of All Day Breakfast with several oatcakes crumbled in for extra crunch.
There was soon more eating in store back on the main road as he passed a butchers shop and couldn't stop himself from going in for a pie. The lady behind the counter sussed out straight away that he was on a big long distance walk. 'Are you walking around Britain?' she asked. Was it really that obvious or was she just extra perceptive? He filled her in with his plans for the rest of the year, before bidding her farewell and carrying on up the road. Every rapidly passing minute filled with a sum number of steps taking him always that little bit closer to his objective.
At Laide he stopped at the garage for a bottle of milk as there would not be any more shops before Ullapool, nearly forty miles away. Between the hamlets of First Coast and Second Coast, above the shore of Loch Gruinard, he made a phone call to book a hostel bed for the following night. It was a Friday so he wanted to make sure of his place in advance. That done, he had little time to regain his breath before a steady hill brought him to a great vantage point overlooking Little Gruinard. A German couple were parked up there and came over to offer him a cup of tea, but whilst he had momentum on his side he just wanted to keep going.
A bit further on there was a longer, more taxing, hill. This rose to a height of 180 metres over four kilometres and he definitely was not dealing with these drawn out slogs with the same ease of a few weeks gone by. He stopped at an empty car park at the top to take in the view over Little Loch Broom. It was dreary and overcast; threatening rain, but something undefined about the landscape before him seemed disturbing. Actually, thinking about it more, the problem was within his own mind today instead, with his courage and with his motivation. Making the decision already to take the quickest route to Ullapool along the road meant that he would avoid these intimidating hills, but, if truth be told, he was mightily relieved that he wasn't obliged to have to find his way through them.
Just about visible in the northeast, as a moody backdrop to the scene, was the rough outline of Ben More Coigach, and in the foreground, the long, narrow peninsula that lead to the isolated community of Scoraig. It stuck out like a sore hammer smashed thumb on the map but would have to wait for certain now this year to be explored. He was getting to realise one important lesson of distance walking, where it often really is true that discretion is the better part of valour. When certain choices can potentially affect the ultimate success or failure of an entire trip then there is no disgrace in taking what might be considered by some as the softer option.
Soon, he sped up to a virtual jog downhill. He thought that seeing as he was taking the easy way out he might as well get a crack on. A couple of hours later and he arrived at Dundonnell and the Dundonnell Hotel at the head of the loch. He took advantage of their takeaway food service and bought a bag of chips for an early supper. Pressing on then into the evening to burn off the calories, a police car pulled over on the open road and the officer wound down her window to speak to him. She informed him that there had been a serious car accident up ahead and that the road was closed to through traffic, though it would still be possible for him to get by on foot.
Less than a mile more and he could see blue flashing lights and a recovery truck up in front. It was a bit of a shock to see the crumpled wreckage of the car that had run off the road at the foot of a big hill. This could have been somebody that had driven past him at some point earlier on in the day. With the road completely traffic free now it seemed all rather eerie as he continued on his way in the muted silence.
Almost two miles uphill he stopped at a picnic table near to Dundonnell River. The plan for tonight was to wait here for it to get dark and then carry on over the moor into the wee hours of the morning. Before long some tunes were called upon to help pass the time. Wrapping himself up warm against the evening chill he embarked on a musical journey of random mp3 play. One of his all-time favourite Yes songs soon came on, climaxing after twenty uplifting minutes with the unforgettable lyric.
What happened to this song we once knew so well
Signed promise for moments caught within the spell
We must have waited all our lives for this ...
Moment
Times like these he just needed a little extra reminder that he was in the best shape he'd ever be in, and to make the upmost of this very special juncture of his youth, because, inevitably, it could only last so long.
With daylight now fully departed he virtually flew up the rest of the hill, crossing over the babbling river, which had kept him company for a mile and a half, on Fain Bridge. The conditions really were ideal for a midnight walk; mild, no wind, and the only lights to be seen anywhere were just a few stars up in the sky. It was quite a few weeks ago now that he last had the need to walk in the dark at all. Since February he'd gone from having to dodge traffic and scallies every night, to this, where he'd be more likely to encounter a red deer stag by moonlight than any shape or form of urbanite.
Westwards was An Teallach, one of the most popular mountains in the area. There was nothing of its ridge to be seen upon the night sky, which made it just that little bit more cryptic about what was actually out there, invisible to insensitive eyes. A short way on he had a quick look through the window of the abandoned house Fain, though it didn't appear quite so inviting close up. A couple of miles further, and now over the crest of the moor, he came to a wide area of lay-by near to a bend in the road. There was a camper van already parked up, but he wasn't bothered about that. If it was good enough for them then surely it was good enough for him too. He moved just out of imminent snoring range, and with a quick swoosh of his ground sheet and bivvy bag he let the day finally fade away to black.
*
The night was a cold one, with a bit of light frost. He was still quite high up, nearly 300 metres, and also away from the warming influence of the ocean. The camper van people were keeping themselves to themselves. He had a quick bite for breakfast, and then, with nothing to hang around for in the morning chill, he loaded his rucksack and promptly set out.
It was an easy walk to get going. Downhill, following a new river, the Abhainn Cuileig. Soon the road took a turn to the east whilst the river continued ahead on its course. With an eye for making a short cut he descended to a suspension bridge spanning the 200 foot deep Corrieshalloch Gorge. Apart from arriving in Ullapool later on, this unexpected dramatic landform was easily the highlight of an action packed week. Halfway across he stopped to take a picture of the view, but wouldn't dare lean over the side to look straight below. The bridge was already swaying slightly with his motion and it was a loooong way down. Even though it was well worth the adrenaline rush he was still glad to get across to the far side and climb up to the A835.
There were 20 k's remaining to town. The road was flat, the traffic light. Just ideal for a relaxing midday amble to take in the colourful surroundings of Loch Broom without a care in the world. On the final run in to Ullapool he caught up with the same police officer once again. They had a fun banter beside the road for a minute, her grim seriousness of the night before fully cast off with this new day. Her outgoing friendliness really summed up the spirit of each and every character he was shortly about to meet in the town.
To begin with he went into The Ferry Boat Inn for a drink because it was still a few hours before the hostel was due to open. The barman there agreed to let him leave his backpack behind whilst he went to do some shopping. The unassuming assistants in the local Costcutter store were extra helpful, as was the chipper butcher in Food For Thought. The hostel staff were young outdoors types and both enthused highly about what he was doing here up north.
After a brief trip out to Tesco's he spent most of the evening eating. His pudding would definitely have been off the chart for a Weight Watchers calorie count. A brimming pan of custard with Jamaica cake, digestive biscuits, bran flakes and some Dairy Milk chocolate too just for sheer piggishness. It left him unable to move for an hour afterwards, but he knew that come the morning he would be ravenous once again.
Eventually he dragged himself up to his dorm. His roommate, an older chap, was settled in by now. Another who was highly knowledgeable about the area; and so he and Alex soon found themselves deep in discussion. This stretched out to a couple of hours while he distractedly made his preparations for the morn. By this point he felt helplessly overtired and all talked out. But still, better to have it this way as he would soon feel despondent enough if every person he met just gave him the cold shoulder. Though, where he was bound he'd be lucky to just find any people at all. Sutherland. Most probably the remotest and most lonely corner in the whole of Britannia.
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