A week in Wester Ross (Broadford to Ullapool)

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.

Skye and Raasay

Mid/Late April 2009

Late in the evening a man arrived at the hostel, prior to catching a rare ferry back to his home on Eigg. He advised Alex to could go over to the harbour at dawn and see if any fishing boats were scheduled to make the crossing. He had no trouble rising before the sun. Unable to sleep with anticipation, he'd just dozed in the lounge for a few hours. He must have been up before all the fishermen too, because there was nobody outside to be seen. It was nice to watch the daybreak in peace, however.

The ferry voyage was brief enough, but Alex could have been apt to dive overboard and swim the last metres, as it idled to the jetty. 'Just get me there already!' he was screaming to himself. Things weren't so speedy to begin with either once on the island. Firstly, he had a discussion with a local artist in the craft shop, after finding some highland knick knacks to send home. Next, at the garage he was halted for nearly half an hour whilst the shopkeeper got the post office records in order. He was then able to mail a shaggy gift surprise home. He liked the laid back ways of island life and was happy enough to float with the flow. Now though, with just a snappy hill's walk between him and the doorstep of the Cuillins, he was as a husky awaiting the call to 'MUSH'!

To mark the start of this fresh new island jaunt and the mild weather that it hoards, Alex had packed away his walking trousers. Releasing his pasty legs in the clean pair of shorts he now sported. The immediate walk over the moors eagerly blew any possible cobwebs away. Even with a retrospective into Knoydart to revel in, he found himself already unswervably drawn on by an invisible forcefield of the magnetic mountains ahead. The Strathaird peninsula was still in between and a humidty haze too, but this did nothing to dwarf wicked peaks that must have climbed down from the stars on one black night in time. Before he could comprehend where he actually was, he found himself moving on eastwards once more and passing the interesting scattered village of Tarskavaig.

On the hill down to Ob Gauscavaig there was a pair of photographers, who were taking advantage of contrasts in light today had offered. Alex heard a click from a lens to the right as he passed. He's still not sure if the man was unfortunate with his timing to capture a hairy monster in his wonderland, or just had a peculiar sense of what is scenic. This small bay was far too nice to rush past, so sat down by the shore, he ate a sandwich while content to study all around for fifteen minutes. Taking everything in, down to the minute detail of a sunlight slint shined through a hole in the mid distance castle ruins. It was quite a shame having to head back across Sleat so soon but the trek alongside Ord River lifted him with it's delightful sylvan spirit.

Now that he had found his way once again to the A851 there were cars for company amidst his latest joy. A train of odd looking three wheelers pittering along soon giving variation to the procession. After passing the Raphaelite Loch na Dal, a long inland walk let him contemplate the ethereal experience Skye had kept, awaiting his glide through.

In Broadford he heated some food up in the little park by the petrol station. A man walking through asked Alex if it was tasty and confessed that he was quite envious of his free ways. When it was almost dark he departed town to the south west, willing to bed down at the first available spot. He scaled a barbed wire fence seen immediately on his left, but knew he could do much better than the tatty rough pasture found there. A short step more along the B8083 and there was a convenient area far enough away from the road to be able to sleep comfortably.

*

The morning began bright and sunny once again and there was a good path along the dismantled railway track to chug up to full speed on. This led onto another fair trail, ending at the abandoned settlement of Boreraig. Like many others in the Highlands, it had been forcibly cleared to make way for sheep in the nineteenth century. Alex paused for a morning snack thinking he was the only ghost in the ruins, but strange voices soon tickled his ears. The apparitions were not translucent, but infact a friendly English couple who were enjoying a great morning in the hills. They gave him company for some of the way to Suisnish, then he was on his own as far as Loch Slapin. Smack in front of him Bla Bheinn faced down all opposition with a bullish pose. Consequently the benevolent village of Torrin couldn't pass by fast enough, as he walked a giddying loop around the loch head into the early afternoon.

Later at Kilmarie he had a choice of routes to get to Elgol. The road raced directly in and could likely help him just about beat the local store's closing time, certainly improbable via the coast path. Aware he'd been so fortunate with perfect weather conditions, Alex wholeheartedly settled on the golden path, scooting forward in an instant like a spinning top. This little coast walk was lovely enough on its own, with open sea views improving all the way. However, the day's crowning moment undoubtedly came at the final descent into Elgol. Here the complete Cuillin Ridge was seen stretching its legs without a kilt of hills intervening and he continued almost weightless, knowing that the definitive experience of his spring was unfolding.

Having no reason to linger in the village, Alex tucked himself into a fat slice of Loch Scavaig. Feet nibbling precisely along the airy route with a pine marten's bite. There would be no trouble finding Camasunary Bothy, a belittled doll's house placed in front of Sgurr na Stri. On arrival three kayaks were already parked outside. Certainly this was a haunt of all lovers of the outdoors. As he traipsed in the paddlers popped out and gave him a kind welcome, but he could tell that they had already settled on having the glen for themselves that night.

It was enjoyable to share the company of others his age for an evening. They'd earlier come in from the sea and had a day up the mountains planned tomorrow, before spending a final night at the bothy. Each scuttled off into separate rooms quite early and Alex immobilised himself in the kitchen, making quite a dent in the free bags of pasta and porridge. He spent an unrefined night on the cold concrete floor there, but it was great! Wild Scottish dossing at it's finest.

*

It was a different start to this weekend. Alex sat out in the early sun, pouring over an OS Explorer map until after nine o'clock, when the last guy emerged from the bedrooms. He wanted to pick his brain about Ollisdale Bothy, over in the northwest corner of the island. Quite possibly near enough to reach the following night. From his account, which was a foggy decade old, there would be a cliff top path most of the way from Idrigill Point. It did sound promising as Alex held bold intentions of following the coast around the Duirinish Peninsula.

He eventually left the bothy on the track leading northwards. An easy way around the lethal mountain barrier, which would rise and fall with many improbable pinnacles. To be fair, there was zero adventure to grasp down in the confinement of the valley bottom, but Alex had exercised self control with his route plan here. Electing to just let the ridge ride the sky solo, with far distanced targets still paramount.

It was suprising that he had progressed most of the way through Glen Sligachan before meeting anyone else on such a glorious morning. There was no shortage of people at the car park though, with a coachload fresh out for some mountain air. Alex held back for a little while at a gate before entering the welcoming shade of the famed Sligachan Hotel. He took his time over a glass of fresh orange juice whilst paying particular note to the FA Cup semi-final preview on television. Unfortunately that day's match was between Arsenal and Chelsea. Alex's team Everton weren't playing Manchester United until the following afternoon.

Outside in the heat once more, he quickly left the main road behind, selecting the mid level path to Glen Brittle and a return to the peaceful west coast. Snow on Sgurr nan Gillean had buried itself deep into the high corries, but the many rock pools of Allt Dearg Mor were still almost tempting enough for a cool plunge. The mountains soon started a shrinking act and it felt like the same force which had once dragged him to them was now evicting with equal vigour.

It could have been all very anticlimactic now, but Alex carried on unflappable with his continual explorations. At present he'd crossed over into Glen Brittle Forest and the alpine mountain tops had been replaced by smaller hills that were no less memorable. He improvised a dinner table with a log next to the track and the ten minutes after eating were filled in marvel. The subject of his attention, An Cruachan, demanded such devoted scrutiny that he was fastened to the point until its image was engrained upon his retinas and digital memory card as well.

Still too early for camping down in silent Glen Eynort, Alex took chase of that great orange ball which smothered the hills ahead with peeling radiance. A game he shouldn't play with hopes of winning and inevitably, just before a quarter to nine, the sun was set on one more everchanging day. May was a couple of weeks away yet, but with the twilight lingering so long it seemed like a mild summer's evening and Alex was content for the moment to keep on walking.

He entered Glean Oraid conscious of some presence there lurking in the dark. Stockval, a mountain now of murky character. So far out here, the shadows dance before your eyes. The evening scene animated with supernal castings through depths of gloom. Shortly, he had cocooned himself in his sleeping bag. Snug to the skin whilst shivers travelled highways of his spine, when an unseen peacock's cry echoed eerily about the moonless ampitheatre of crags. Heralding night's eventual conquest of day.

*

This innocent new morning did begin as the epitome of tranquility. The peacock soon found its voice however and not to be outdone, Alex clunked away an empty gas canister. He jettisoned it into the bin with delicacy he thought, but it crash landed with a cacophonous maximum. He scarpered up the hill to Huisgill before the community had any time to pull back their blinds.

It was routine now to be savouring sunbeams as the first few miles digested breakfast. Walking along to Carbost, a substantial island out there, Wiay, floated in Loch Bracadale like a waffled dumpling before him. Crisped brown to the sharp edge of columnar basalt. He passed a couple of youth hostels on route which certainly would have been pleasant to rest in, but now the sun was beaming on him he knew it was imperative to heed the beacon of progress.

Three local ladies out for a stroll overtook him in Fernilea, but he jogged ahead of them before long down a steep hill, just prior to passing the aromatic Talisker distillery. His luck was in at the village general store, now doing business on Sundays. With some salty snacks he sat on the step outside, drinking fruit juice like a desert bound pilgrim. Sparkling from all the vitamin C, the time was well due to complete the walk around Loch Harport and get going up to the northwestern corner of the isle.

He was waiting for a shoreside path to lead him away from the A863 and it did initialise as a great track down by Meadale Burn. At the bottom however there was a complex of sheep trods snaking away. He soon ended up on the very rough foreshore, struggling to cover any sort of distance. Getting back up the slope was not going to be easy now and against his better judgement, he had an attempt at hauling up the steep overgrown bank anyway. A few metres from the top he'd reached a virtual impasse, but with the way down no more inviting he commited himself to forcing through by whatever means needed. Boots dug trenches in the unstable soil, branches snapped away in the hand, roots showed similar frailty and thorns crisscrossed scratches onto his forearms, but Alex's will to power over the crest saw him negotiate this needless hazard only just.

Out in the open once again there was still no path to follow through the long grass and ahead a burn cut a rocky channel through more trees. The ways above and below were either blocked or inundated by the cascade. Right in front of him, either as a blessing or a curse was a decaying tree which spanned the gap. It was just a few metres to the other bank, but he wasn't able to launch his backpack over safely. So after a rudimentary weight test he shimmied across Bear Grylls style. He felt it warp slightly when his full load was over the middle, but thankfully it held strong for the meantime. It was then a relief to clutch one vertical, live branch, clambering upwards with shaky knees back on terra firma.

Now that he was across the going would be more straight forward, wouldn't it? Not a bit of it! In fact after running into thick gorse up to his shoulders and with seemingly more of it up the hill, he was resigning himself to going back the way he had come. Determined to make passage somehow over here, he ditched his pack and bumbag, then sniffed out what appeared to be a seldom trod sheep trail. It went through the whole of the gorse patch and led him out onto open hillside, albeit with a good deal of crawling on hands and knees involved. Coming back he took ten minutes to snap or bend away undergrowth and clear enough space to return with all his gear. Before setting off again he spent a short while sitting in the shade as he'd started to overheat on this roasting hot, west facing lochside. It was mid afternoon now and quite out of his stride, Alex sensibly decided not to push the pace anymore today pursuing another bothy stopover.

The following kilometre gave him the chance to enjoy the view across the loch and he was unhindered, until Sumardale River. Getting across was to be as chancy as the sections he'd passed earlier, but this time he went by his own free will. The marked route was shown to go further inland, however Alex took the direct line, straight over the quite sheer sides of this minature gorge. There were a few unsteady moments here, especially crossing the river itself, but how the day had developed it didn't seem to matter anymore at this point. Over an hour later than expected, he stepped foot back onto the road, just a mile and a half along from Inver Meadale where he had struck away.

He turned on his mobile phone at the Loch Beag picnic site to find out that the big match had already kicked off. The curiosity was too much, so he called up his sister's house where his family were all cheering on the Blues. From their report of no goals it seemed inevitable that the game was bound for extra time, which he actually would have settled for beforehand. As he was walking away he found some edible jewelry. Somebody had left a candy watch there, still in the wrapper. This was worth keeping to hand and would give a symbolic sugar pick up along the way.

Sat outside the shop in Struan, Alex readied himself for either the best or worst news. By his reckoning the extra time period was almost over and he felt a flutter of nerves when he found the phone number in his contact list ... Before dialling. The suspense would be drawn out further yet though. Two hours of football had ended in stalemate. Also to make him feel even more helpless, he was stuck with second hand commentary of the penalties over the phone.

It was an agonising start when Cahill missed his opening spotkick for Everton. Mercifully Berbatov and then Ferdinand as well returned the favour, failing to score for Manchester United. Baines, Neville and Vaughan each found the back of the net to put the Toffees into a commanding position. With all hopes of the blue half of Merseyside resting on his shoulders, Jagielka stepped forward and blasted Everton into the cup final for the first time since they won the competition in 1995. Even though he was relieved and elated, the surrealness of the situation at his end stopped him from joining in with the others' celebrations, so he gave off a stifled w00 and was on his way again.

He had not made any progress while all this unfolded, just in case he lost the mobile's signal. Only five minutes more up the road at Dun Beag Broch viewpoint he elected to stop once again. Now it was to piece together a much needed supper. Eaten whilst the broch watched his back and he, the onset of evening.

Finally on his way at last, the time and place created a unique scene that caught his interest. As the sun sank it seemingly melted into a crucible. Shaped on the western horizon by twin hills, Macleod's Table North and South, which rose skywards to form a colourful arrangement. Continuing around the final section of Loch Bracadale the day noticeably became very old. He wasn't satisfied that he had progressed far enough to call it a night however. Not until he was well off the main road, bedding down near the village Roag.

*

The weather changed drastically in the hours of darkness. Awakened by the rhythm of rain, he unzipped his bivvy hood to find all nearby hills disfigured with an ugly mist over halfway down to him. It really was a grim morning through and through, so with his tail between his legs Alex set about covering the short distance into Dunvegan. A scrumptious pie bought at the bakery there lifted his spirits no end, being the first he had savoured since back on Mull! Feeling much more smiley now and with a bag of fresh cakes under his arm, he enjoyed an easy but longer walk over to Glen Dale. The sky improved it's mood aswell now, bringing a great reward once the view out from Loch Pooltiel unfolded across The Little Minch. There Eaval was set within a string of several bright hills, highlighted just fifteen miles away, on the supposedly distant island North Uist.

A concoction of oddly moulded hills, emotive coastline, wildlife and alchemistical atmosphere formulated a curious difference about the whole locality, far removed from the core solution of middle Britain's fission. He knew geting here meant that he had come as far west as was realistic, today. A silent moment, spent without dwelling on a milestone reached, gave more freedom to experience the place a little longer. Eventually he made an about-turn, glad that he'd still put in the effort after the weather had tried it's upmost to thwart his planning.

The return walk to Dunvegan took a couple of hours but seemed to pass by even quicker this time along. Firstly he headed right through town to get a view of the castle, but was left frustrated finding it hidden completely from the road. Late afternoon now, it wasn't worth paying the entrance fee for the briefest of visits, so he found his way back into Dunvegan one final time. After collecting his backpack from the cobblers shop, he treated himself to a generous chip bap supper from the bakery, which also doubled as a cafe.

Unfortunately progress throughout the day had been very disjointed, but with the evening still young, Alex was back on the main road trying hard to finish on a positive note. The cloud came back once more and sure enough the twilight soon dissolved the air into floating fractions of fine rain. Lights of Edinbane were flicked on a short way ahead, but he didn't relish carrying on past to find a place to sleep. With relief he rode his luck into a lay-by that had an emperor sized picnic table secreted beyond a heap of gravel. He managed to get quite comfortable there stretched out on the table top, eating his pudding en-bivvy with the hoop up against the rain. All would be snug and snoozy on the table top, just as long as he didn't roll about too much in his sleep!

*

It must have been the rainy morning or unroutine pack up which diverted him, but he was lucky to have only walked for five minutes before noticing the Therm-a-rest missing from his pack. He jogged back up the hill and sighed a puff of relief, seeing it still there below the bench. Even though showers chucked their worst at him all morning, Alex had no cause for complaint because he'd been expecting this most of the time. At this point he was walking out of habit and planned to continue all the way to Uig if the rain held up.

Something made him stop at a bus shelter which he almost walked past. It turned out better, because once he saw the map he realised he'd just gone past a short cut to the A87. He took the opportunity to put his waterproof trousers on and typically, this was a cue for the rain to ease off. After midday and walking northward up Loch Snizort, Alex gloated as the sun displayed it's fathomless mastery across the sky. Just like it had done every day at some point all this past week.

Completing the extended walk against ferry traffic, Alex edged himself to a point overlooking Uig Bay and stood back briefly, just adoring the simplicity of its prettiness. He set aside a long hour for relaxation in the village. After calling into the post office, garage and cafe, he draped his bivvy bag over a bench to dry. Workers appeared busy outside the ferry terminal, weeding and then jet washing the area. Elsewhere, there were very few signs of activity. A touring cyclist disappeared into the cafe, an old couple milled by and occasional noises clattered around the harbour.

A quickly darkening sky brought Alex round to action with immediate effect. Cramming the bivvy away whilst making a dash for shelter in the toilets. Dollup sized raindrops bombarded most surfaces. All exposed paving was waterlogged now, but an ant's sundeck just a moment previous. Fifteen turbulent minutes passed before he hatched out of the gents, fresh as a newborn butterfly, taking the opportunity to warm his wings up the hill. As the cloudburst already bumbled its way inland, he set about climbing the switchback road out of the village, with his lungs softened by the soothing smell of rain.

After passing the very interesting looking (but closed) Skye Museum of Island Life at Kilmuir, he got an early view of where he would be spending the night. The old lookout bothy above Rubha Hunish. Clear to see on the headland, but still an hour of walking away. The next mile of coast road into Duntulm stuck in his memory as a particular favourite. Well shaped bouldery crags sank to the road as it traced the rough shoreline of Lub Score. Alex, seeing a group of four returning to a car from the castle ruins, waited to ask if they had been to the bothy. English wasn't their first language, but he did understand that they'd only been out to visit the castle. They showed some interest in what he was doing there himself. He revealed that he was headed around the island, but didn't give away too many more details.

He now opted to take a slightly inland line up to the bothy. So, just a little way along he turned left onto a farm track. He could see somebody outside already, tending to a flock of sheep. Alex entered the field sensitively, asking from a distance if he'd be free to roam across their land. A jolly Irish shepherd, he was all too glad to describe the best way with enthusiastic detail. Giving the sheep plenty of room to fluff out, Alex shortly reached the boundary fence he was told to expect. Once over, he could move more directly across the open heath and only stopped to collect some streamwater for the night's cooking.

Halfway up the slope onto the headland he stumbled upon a well worn path. This was easy to follow, except for some waterlogged parts he had to manoeuver around. Now that he stood outside the bothy, he was taken aback by the whole grandeur of the Western Isles, spanning the visible horizon's width. On this crystal clear evening, the distance across the water again appeared to be much less than the sixteen miles it was in actuality.

Inside the bothy it was quite cramped in the main observation room. Two young lads were staying over. They looked only just over the legal age to drive, but were really eager to be here. Also two older men out for a walk had popped in for a chat and Alex sat with them all for a while. He gratefully received a ham sandwich, but soon his stomach was petitioning for a proper meal. He boiled water up with pasta in the little cooking area and left it to stand with the lid on while he went outside.

He needed to bathe his feet before it got dark, but with no running water around a savory puddle had to do. In the few minutes out here, the main Outer Hebridean Isle of Lewis and Harris coyly made a subconscious appeal to the adventurer in him. After travelling amid so many epic and inspirational landscapes already this year, he now pondered new wisdom that this region of undulating mountains before him sheltered many forgotten qualities. Imbued with an untamed spirit, freely able to conjour its elusive essence, lost mostly around the mainland or inner isles. He wasn't too disappointed knowing he could not find himself there any time soon. Deep in his bones a rumour confirmed that he would indeed see those remote glens up close one day. Tonight's viewing demanded it ... From a tantalising glimpse.

When he went back in his meal was ready for eating. The pasta had steam cooked in the boiling water. From now on he would use just half the amount of gas through this method. The others soon went for some early Z's in the bunkroom and Alex was left in the sea-facing room by himself. He mused that this was almost an ambition realised, to spend a night watching over vulnerable mariners like a lighthouse keeper or coastguard. About half of the room was glazed and facing the west it stayed warm well after sunset, when colours on the panes had deepened through to purple.

It was still quite light at ten o'clock, which was something unique against every other bothy he'd known. For the first time this year he was off to sleep before it was fully dark, after he'd lain awake a brief while. Thinking about how every day was moving along nicely and with this, felt quite unperturbed now about turning back towards the mainland in the morning. He shifted onto his side, slunk deeper into his sleeping bag and let all thoughts drift away, because tomorrow would bring another prompt start.

*

He wasn't well placed for watching the sun rise, but it was still bright for the first part of the morning as he started out. He followed the footpath back to the main road without difficulty. From a little car park he only needed to follow the quiet A855 and he would end up in Portree by the evening. This would give him the luxury to keep all his attention on the Trotternish landslip. This remarkable geological feature, the longest of its kind in Britain, extends for nineteen miles and the road would keep him somewhere below for the duration.

About when he was headed south down the coast, past Flodigarry, a raw wind steeled against him, siegeing the sky with miserable cloud. Alex found the shade compelling now however. Slashing drama vividly across the grassy, green curtains draped between buttresses of the Quiraing. A perfect backdrop to renowned rocky curiousites, named: The Table, The Needle and The Prison. It really is quite nature's own theater of the absurd set up there. Staged free indefinitly, all comers can visit and manage to awaken a different scene every time.

The course of the road soon diverted from the ridge to round Staffin Bay, a beautiful stretch of coastline in it's own right. Alex enjoyed a tin of fruit cocktail from Brogiag Post Office, slight recompense for his woeful lack of 'five a day' fresh fruit and vegetable portions. An old man soon came out of the shop to stand at the bus stop. It seemed like he would have a long wait because a rare bus had already been and gone. Only two minutes went by before a Royal Bank of Scotland mobile service pulled up. With much travelling required between towns it is easy to see why this facility is so important for many isolated communites. In Staffin itself he found another nice looking store, which tempted him in. With lemon biscuits going cheap he was a happy boy.

Now that it had gained altitude, the road was giving excellent views across to Raasay and beyond. Alex side tracked slightly to have a good look out from a viewpoint. Interwoven ranges of mountains lined up. From the Five Sisters of Kintail, into Applecross, then Torridon and as far as could be seen up to Loch Gairloch. He carried on once again. With an intense week's worth of walking in view, a new sense of purpose took over. He could be in Gairloch right now this second, about to round Rua Reidh, the way he was perceiving days, hours and minutes recently. With the road below just a rolling conveyer belt from one town to the next. 'Time what is Time?' he chortled. Spontaneously devouring the candy watch he'd rescued. As if a black hole's mass had dissipated from his pocket, he felt strangely empowered by the ritual gesture.

Today was a rare day, with Alex on schedule for an early finish. He wanted to stay at a Portree youth hostel and was over half way there already. So, he didn't mind taking a break at Lealt River to properly wash the treacly residue from his feet, after last nights poor effort. A long gradual hill brought him level with The Storr. As happens many times, the slope was easier on the legs than it appeared at first glance.

Half an hour later, beside Loch Fada, there was a small parking space where Alex stopped one last time. Gathering his efforts for the final few miles. A gabion cage took the weight of his backpack, while he caught a memorable photograph from the north. Silhouetted under a pale grey sky, The Old Man of Storr's bony finger pointed away defiantly, beckoning lunar confidants. He slipped back into his stride easily, a downhill tilt of the road pinging him along. Almost gone from Trotternish, but not disappointed with a simple day that has probably filled a thousand postcards.

There was plenty of room at Portree Independant Hostel that night and Alex had a whole dormitory to himself. He didn't get too comfortable before heading out into town once more. After bagging a wide selection of provisions, he had a pleasant little walk down by the colourful harbour, where sheltering boats waited to navigate the seas of Skye. He sat on steps in an alleyway by the hostel to make a phone call, but was soon back inside to claim his early night.

The quick journey through the Highlands so far, had placed him up here already still only mid spring. So, with reasonable weather forecasted, he would snatch the opportunity for a considerable detour in the morning. A big Brucie Bonus island venture was there to claim. Across on wild Raasay.

*

As it turned six thirty Alex had just put the town behind him and was enjoying a tranquil walk alongside Portree Forest. On his way through Glen Varragil the morning 'rush hour' began, making this otherwise lonely road seem almost crowded for a period. After nine o'clock the waves of traffic settled down to an intermittent flow. Around a corner, the reappearance of hills familiar from last weekend helped him consolidate momentum. He was quick to descend from the plantation and then pass through Sligachan once again, drawing an imaginary X with his paths. Skye's unique winged shape had him playing along as a zig zag wanderer now, apparently.

A footpath on the north side of the loch was clear to see as he moved on. He didn't berate himself over his earlier choice to follow the road, sensing it would be better to save the time and effort for Raasay instead. He arrived at Sconser with time to spare before the eleven thirty sailing, which was useful because otherwise he'd have to wait until one o'clock for another to set out. It was clear already that the island was going to be quiet, with very few others travelling over.

The ticket collector was a cheery guy with a song. Ready to help out Alex, as he was looking at a poster displayed about the island. He was interested in visiting the eastern coast and hoped to complete the walk from Hallaig to Screapadal. The collector thought it could be done, but as there was also another crew member onboard with better local knowledge, he brought him in aswell. He confirmed that there was definitly a way to get through, but recent landslides covering the path could make it awkward in places. Alex thanked the two of them and when they docked, the ticket collector walked with him up the jetty to point out the quickest way, on the disused railway track.

The steep incline was a nice welcome to the island and straight away, the elevated view brought the best of the area out on show. When he reached the road, the path carried on to the north, leading to Dun Caan and high moorland. By now his mind was set on the challenge of a wholly new coastline, so he turned right and set off up the tarmac. He passed through North Fearns in comforting solitude, the road soon grassing over into a soft track 'plush with moss'.

The man he met at Penmeanach Bothy had made a specific point that night. Telling Alex that this was one very special place he could not pass by. Now he stood at the Hallaig memorial cairn himself, reading the evocative poetry of Sorley McLean. The words swelling with their power, freshly caught at the scene of the rhyme. He could see several miles ahead now and the walk promised to get him wholly involved with this surprising coast. The isle was in a great hurry to climb straight out of the sea. Streaking steeply to an immediate height over two hundred metres, Dun Caan capped the total of that twice again. No traces of any paths were visible at this point, but Alex was already plotting a theoretical line through.

The message of the poem had impacted deeply upon him and from the moment trees surrounded in the woodland onwards, all memories of the modern world were irrelevant. He followed a path briefly down by a quaint stream, but it was leading to the shore. His way was to go higher to begin with. After a sharp ascent he was up, looking about what little remains of the vilage of Hallaig. Not depressing himself about the loss, he concentrated instead on a vision of the community in its prime.

As he carried on to the north, the ground became much rougher and he trudged a mainly pathless route past Loch a Chadha-charnaich. At the outflow the way forward was obvious but steep, following the burn. He could make steadier progress for the last section, where the fence proved itself useful as a banister. It was not too long until he was back near sea level and now the fun coast walk could really get going.

The little walked path ahead had indeed been ravaged by landslides and great care was called for, to painstakingly traverse them step by step. At one point he went above on the slope to bypass the worst slumps. It was one of those situations again when he could see right in front where he was aiming for, but with such slow progress it didn't appear to get any closer. Just a selfless mechanical approach brought him steadily to the far edge of open ground, without a dint in his besieged morale.

The path through trees didn't get easier, but at least the change kept it interesting. Several times he had to avoid sections blocked off by thick branches. Forced to totter ungainly across the steep bank, with a quite nasty landing threatening below. When it got more overgrown, he doubted whether the path was still open, but managed to get through each time. There was a point soon when the hillside was obviously impassable anymore. He tipped himself onto the boulder beach and made a few hundred metres more headway down there. Glad that it was dry when he needed to balance between the unsteady rocks.

Now he'd covered a couple of miles the path became more defined, as a greater number of people had walked it, starting from the north. He still needed to be attentive, but could enjoy the surroundings better from here on. The sheer cliffs of Creag na Bruaich gave a satisfying visual reward after dangling in the distance like a juicy carrot to tease him. At the burn in Screapadal he was content with his lot and went on to finish the track through Raasay Forest without any fuss. When he got back to the comfort of a road he continued just one kilometre further, before granting himself a deserved break near Brochel Castle. He could spare a half hour here and still make it to the north tip of the island for sunset.

The next few kilometres of road were special as they were engineered solely through the determination of one man. Using only hand tools and dynamite, Calum McLoed created the road to give access to his house in Arnish. The single laned road road was as fun to walk as it must be to ride along. Tearing around corners with steep nerve-jarring cambers, it didn't shy away from an immediate drop into the sea. He turned left onto a rougher track above Loch Arnish and then followed a notable footpath up into the hills from Torran.

He quite urgently needed to find some water, as both of his bottles were nearly empty. There was nothing better than stagnant puddles, or a faint trickle on the path as he scanned around ruined shielings approaching the isle's northern tip. He was even preoccupied enough to barely notice the peaceful Island of Rona beyond, as the land rapidly ran out in front of him.

Daylight was extinguishing now after a sanguineous sunset and heavy rain clouds crept over from Skye, as he explored the northwestern extremity. With nothing more to see there he turned, about to start heading back. Over by the shore some unidentified black creature caught his eye as it speedily ran out of sight. It moved like a cat, but was larger and from a distance in the poor light he couldn't be sure what it was.

He returned on a direct line over the rough ground and from upon a knoll he spied the roof of Taigh Thormoid Dhuibh Bothy, hidden east of the path before. There was a pathetic, half submerged stream there, which he followed for a little way. Until it sprang out of a conveniently placed pipe in a slow, but consistant flow. The bothy was empty and very basic, but was a godsend when rain started hammering on the metal roof. Another user had left two eggs behind, so he boiled them simultaneously with some noodles for a stopgap supper. Not even bothering to clean the pan before zonking out for the night.

*

In the morning rain was still tinging off the roof and he lay there for an hour before making any movements. Now that it was light he had a quick nosey around the bothy. There was an interesting newspaper clipping on the wall about Calum and his road, so Alex delayed leaving by another ten minutes to find out more about the remarkable man.

The footpath was a stream now on the way back uphill and he waded directly through with an obsessive determination to get the miles covered today. He was doing fairly well, but didn't seem to have the usual overflowing cauldron of excess energy to help him along this morning. After the top of Calum's road he was soon passing the unique road sign depicting a pig over two humps. He'd certainly seen strange things, but mercifully no flying swine!

A couple of hours passed and even fewer cars by the time he got to the Alan Evans Memorial Hostel. It hadn't opened for the year yet but looked to be a fantastic little rustic place to stay. He went through the forest and village of Inverarish without stopping, to get half a mile from the ferry. A few cars came past in a row so he convinced himself that a sailing was due. He half ran, half stumbled round the last corner to find the ferry waiting there, but not ready at the jetty yet. He sat in the waiting room for quite a long while, glad of a break indoors before the time came to board. The same crew member from yesterday was there on the deck. He asked Alex if he managed to get through to the bothy, who replied that he did indeed, just about. The drained look all over him probably told the rest of the story.

When he got back onto Skye it was nice that he could leave the A87 soon by the golf course and follow a quiet road round to Loch Ainort. At Luib he phoned ahead to Broadford Youth Hostel, reserving himself a bunk. He planned to go to the supermarket and having conveniences of a kitchen for the night would be a little treat after such an awesome week.

The final few miles alongside the privately owned island Scalpay felt almost like a half marathon in their own right. Walking a really long straight before entering forest reminded him of the 1980's video for 'Road to nowhere' by Talking Heads. Alex stuck it out though, telling himself he'll be there in under an hour. Once at the hostel he left the backpack behind in his dorm room and soon felt much better going about his shopping. The earlier hard work paid off for him, because he was well fed, showered, packed ready for the morning and tucked up in bed comfortably at the clock's turn of midnight.

Through Morvern and up to Mallaig

Mid April 2009

Alex was in Lochaline long enough to visit the general store and exit with full pockets. Buying a nice yellow half pounder bag of boiled sweets, and also packs of oat cakes, which he was now consuming as an accompaniment to every meal. Suitably prepared for the Morvern mission, he was treading to the wilds before island withdrawals could bubble up. First, a few straightforward miles along the A884, and then back to business, passing the lovely Loch Arienas.

Since abandoning the mainland at Oban the terrain appeared to have taken on a more sinister bent. Harsh boulder and heather covered slopes, quite unwelcoming for any cross country yomps. In little time it seemed, he was homing in on Loch Teacius. Passed only by a post van, while scanning ahead for the route leading to Glencripesdale. He was anticipating testing himself on the unknown qualities of this path, and it was apparent already that it would traverse very remote country. This linkage would be somewhat crucial, because it would guide the way to a track on the southern shore of Loch Sunart.

The access point was easy enough to find at Kinlochteacius. Some kayakers directed him up the first clearly marked section, but they didn't offer any further guidance. This wasn't the clear cut path to hopefully doddle along, but it sufficed for a start. After quite a bit of pistoning leg work over splodgy ground, he was a couple hundred metres above the loch, at a plateau between peaks and a crossroad of trails. Just about to unshoulder his backpack to call on his compass for the first time, the sun dissolved the clouds enough to reveal its southwestern, late afternoon hideaway.

Consequently, he was off along the left hand path that would take him northward. Reassuringly he'd seen intermittent Scottish Ramblers waymarks going up to the apex via a shallow gully. Here a wonderful viewpoint came to fall upon the eyes. Mull, Morvern, Sunart and Ardnamurchan; certainly somewhere that the mountain was king. The next waymark beckoned. With renewed motivation he tramped along through a waterlogged channel, as the descent unfurled without complication. It seemed. He kept a good pace, and when a stream flowed to the right, he followed its course, quickly losing more height. He'd found his way down a quarter of the total in no time, but a false economy this proved, now that the rest of the way to the lochside was in view.

Very aware that he hadn't seen a waymark for some distance, it was not rocket science to conclude that he'd navigated off piste. The stream had become too precipitous to follow. Hurling itself off crags with reckless abandon, while heather had shot up to a height that left the sides impassable. He climbed back up a bit to the left, not sure whether he had strayed from the path by coming down too early. It was not to be found, and the map was of little help either.

The plantation line was but only a quarter of a mile beyond. However, the vegetation and steepness would demand a precise and technical escape. Alex crafted a winding and gravitationally improbable course amongst the boulders. Straining to counterbalance the weight of his load with each scramble he made. Just over 15 minutes it took, but it was an intense workout, and then, at the deer fence, he had to pick left or right. Still with no evidence of a path or a gate, he set out east in the direction of Glencripesdale.

After a few moments he found a corner post which he could scale. To negotiate it, he took his arm out of one of his shoulder straps and loosened the other, before climbing to the top. He was then able to lower the pack part of the drop, whilst gripping the fence with his free arm. There was no other choice but to let fall it the next few feet. It hit on the soft side and performed two complete roly-poly’s, before landing gracefully upright with no damage inflicted. Alex gave it a 5.3. He was soon after down himself on the plantation side, though with less grace.

He stole an opportune sit down here for some minutes to regroup, and marvelled at what a bright and mild evening it had turned out to be. For now though he only wanted to make it down wholesome from this hillside. There was a gentler grassy slope next, and glad to be unobstructed he marched on ... SNAP! He flailed wildly, before steadying himself to discover his left leg stuck in a hole halfway up to his knee, whilst his best walking pole had buckled beyond repair in the unseen hazard. It had served him soundly on his travels, but now had to make the ultimate sacrifice. He regained his feet and set about improvising with his little stumpy one to complete the rest of the route.

There was the trace of a track not far below and it really was a right old mess when he got there. Up here all around had been clear felled and anything that wasn't off to the sawmill remained where it landed. So much dead wood entangled in chaos really hindered progress and he was a bit at odds minus one vital appendage. The time came to strike away from this one, eventually. Once it had its fill of clawing at his ankles like tentacles of horror. Next, a water course needed crossing. This was steep and awkward like earlier on, but at least it was clear of deep heather. An arterial forestry track on the other side gave a whisper of hope that soon there would be more merciful movement afoot.

... In the woods a final sharp descent via a rocky flashflood bed dumped him on top of a waymarker. Feeling somewhat bamboozled like a fly caught in a Venus Flytrap, and no wiser about where the actual right path went to. However, his map was useful once again, and minutes later he was dipping his bare feet in the mirror still waters of Loch Sunart.

Sunset was now peeking around the corner as he moved along the lochside track, seeking that night's dreamscape. Soon, a couple out for an evening stroll came along. They were friendly enough and advised him that there would be wild-camp spots nearby, but none further on. Also, regarding the path over here. It is notoriously difficult to locate. They still have trouble finding it and they know the route!

He left them, feeling much chirpier now. After a little way along the track, he made use of a space to set down his bedding. When the couple passed back, he was already enjoying his warm supper in his sleeping bag, Macpac Sanctuary.

*

The extended stretch of track along Loch Sunart was a bittersweet feast for the limbs early that morning. No big hills or rough ground, but just a muddy trudge. The prospect across the water was striking however. So long and narrow was the loch that he was just a brief boat ride away from where he would reach at the end of the days walking. By the point the track became a road he had drawn level with Strontian. The first town on route since Lochaline, however the loch head, then bridge to cross were still a few miles off yet.

Through the morning Alex got progressively hungrier. At this time he'd long passed the stage of tummy rumblings and had come over quite light headed. Keeping on his feet had become as much of challenge as putting one in front of the other. He had meals in his food bag, but, not inclined to stop and prepare them, he rationed out the last handful of oatcakes. This was all part of the experience for him, seeing how his body would react to the gruelling routine. This spring he had already walked a good deal further than he had any other time before and the sensations from such an effort were now blossoming.

He continued for a period where his mind seemingly transcended the outcries of his gut, observing all with a redefined eye. As he regained the A884 he put a short term end to the crisis of calories with a quartet of boiled sweets. He persevered for some way more. Around the head of the loch to finally join up with the busy main road.

For some time he had been anticipating arriving at Strontian, which gave its name to the metal. As he drew in all the elements were eloquent: the hills, the loch, the houses and also the locals. He called in at the post office, and then the general store, before, lastly, the cafe, to obtain a few cakes for the road. A young local man serving the tables took interest in his travels, and gave reassurance, looking at his maps, that the paths approaching in Ardnamurchan were all well established routes.

In the morning he had been quite intrigued with the signs at each burn. Listing their Gaelic name and the Ordnance Survey grid reference number. Now, the easting values were decreasing as the late afternoon sun tanned his face. After having a well overdue foot bathing at Sron na Saobhaidh, he began the day's ultimate stint and soon a reasonable hill's climb presented a remarkable view back to Beinn Resipol painted orange with mature sunbeams.

Salen looked really great as the road swooped in from above, and, whilst taking in the surroundings, he was keeping an eager eye and parched throat peeled for a drinking water tap. There were no public toilets and no outside tap at the community centre, so he slumped down across the steps and munched on dry sandwiches for dinner. He was most uncertain about the prospects for the night. It was just about pitch black and he was on his way out of town, when he thought to try scouting out the little jetty. Lo and behold, there was a tap and a nice little spot to be lulled into the goal of slumber by the sound of lapping water.

*

There was warmth in the sun already as it rose up from behind the hillside. While he was packing away the last of his things a man came down to use the jetty. He wasn't bothered with Alex being there, in fact he seemed quite bemused as he sailed away. The miles through beautiful Glenborrodale got the day off to a magnificent start, and before leaving the shores of Loch Sunart for the last time, he sent a picture message home as an Easter treat. Showing exactly where he was at that very minute.

The road rapidly scooted him up from the waterside and right into the bosom of Ardnamurchan, where Ben Hiant was standing immediate sentinel. This green, grass covered bulk was a pleasant distraction from all the boulders and heather of late. It was just a little while before he was tackling the path leading up from the roadside. He intended to follow the path marked on the map, contouring around the side of a plantation, but now this looked uninspiring. Much more involving was the summit path, where ahead a solitary lady walker was ascending to lands of freedom. She was on her way back down when he met her a short distance below the top.

Now that he'd gained height a fresh new set of islands and Highlands had been discovered. With such clear visibility one would be fortunate to see all this for just only a handful of days in a whole year. Together, they scanned the horizon, and she pointed out the mountainous Small Isles: Rum, Eigg and Muck. Behind them could be discerned the Cuillen Mountains of Skye as well, and inland was Moidart. Alex was already familiar with the shape of Ben More on Mull, which was shrinking into the southwest. They were both surprised to see a white topped behemoth thirty miles or more away to the east, which they speculated was Ben Nevis.

After spending a brief time at the summit, he mapped out his route onward. The way to the road and Kilchoan was plain to see, like the lady said it would be, and with no apparent obstacles presenting themselves. There was a slope immediately at a sharp gradient, but it was dry, grassy and heading in the right direction, so he tackled it with care. Before long he found himself down on a lower plateau where many red deer were waiting. Another steepish decline took him to where he thought the path should be. It couldn't be found though. So he jumped a gate and again made his own beeline.

About half a mile from the road, there just had to be a dratted deer fence to slow things down. A strong gate used as a ladder made the obstruction straightforward to negotiate this time. From here he joined up with a farm track that lead to the main road and then it only needed a little walk to arrive at Kilchoan.

Alex was on the lookout for some food and drink, but didn't fancy his chances here on a Sunday. At the junction for the Ardnamurchan ferry a woman enlightened him that there was a slim chance the community centre might have some tea and cakes going. It was ten to five and the front entrance was shut fast, however a few families were piling into their cars outside. One young lady was considerate enough to go back inside to fill his water bottle. Much needed on such a bright day. There had been a party there earlier that afternoon, so otherwise it would have been closed all day. She also recommended the Sonachan Hotel three miles further along for food and refreshment.

As the road took him up into the hills there was a most marked transformation in the landscape. Maybe it was something to do with the dryness in the air that day, but he had never before seen such an arid and barren looking place in this country. Parched, dark brown heathers sprouted feebly like pimples with little purchase on a gnarled face of stubborn, frazzled rock. Churned from the precipice of a topographic ocean by a primordial volcano blast. Perhaps.

Taking full advantage of its position was the Sonachan Hotel. After placing his order, he dragged himself out onto the balcony, which actually had a vista of the southern Outer Hebrides that took some devouring on its own.

It had been the best day since Mull easily, and the denouement was waiting at Ardnamurchan lighthouse, the most westerly point on the British mainland. The sun was going down and quite a reasonable crowd of cars still filled the car park. The colourful lightshow in the sky entertaining all. Such spectacular sunsets are commonplace enough, but the setting here really had to be seen to be believed. The most sublime ornament of the Black Cuillen Ridge pinnacles, never painted more vivid than now, and just plain vicious on the skyline, piercing where they might.

It was fifteen minutes or more until the sunset, but he still had to press on back up to Achosnich, where he planned to sleep out in a field. With an empty water bottle again, he had to fill up from a shallow stream at Grigadale; even if he couldn't guarantee its absolute purity. Especially with a sheep peering around the hillside quite conspicuously. He supped a bit for the moment and would finish the rest the next day if no ill effects developed.

Further on at his nightspot near Achosnich, he was struggling to find things as the once ubiquitous daylight smouldered to a red ember's fire. Try as he might, he couldn't find his pocket torch after numerous thorough sweeps of all likely hiding holes. He couldn't help thinking of stories he'd read of mischievous faeries bewildering lone travellers in places like these. Then as he went to fill his cooking pot at the burn, he almost stumbled over an unseen rock in the gloom. Later on, he lay awake cosy in his bivvy, stargazing. It wasn't until after eleven o'clock that it was dark enough to discern the twinkling of faint stars. Just before the trail of a meteor finally dislodged matchsticks keeping his eyelids apart.

*

He anticipated a pivotal day coming. A succession of paths promised passage through Ardnamurchan's northern coast. Breakfasting, he discovered the wonder of generous chunks of Kendal Mint Cake sandwiched between Digestive biscuits. An indulgent but tasty way to help face the day's demands. Last in his packing away routine he peeled off his Rab mohair bedtime pullover and sensed something metallic. A lump in the breast pocket, which he was certain that he ransacked in the night's torch hunt. Of course Alex was elated to be reunited with his silver shiner, but it would get little use for several months now, with the rapidly lengthening days.

The day began nice and easy with a quick little walk down to Portuairk. A quaint village looking out to sea that would be the ideal place to retire for many wandering souls. From there a path was signposted over to Sanna Bay. It started off clear enough, but before long he had conspired to wander off route. Having to: climb a fence, scrabble about some rough ground, and ford a river to rectify. The way ahead then was plain to see, and drawing into the village it turned into a very pleasing morning.

Again the scene here was most agreeable to behold and he was fortunate to enjoy the sights with barely another being in view. The place had a feeling of remoteness about it, far off from anywhere else. Yet unlike the majority of wild areas he had passed through, it seemed kindly hospitable and a resourceful person could comfortably eke out a settled existence.

At a lay-by a carload of walkers were just piling out as he hovered along the road in their direction. Whilst they waited for one to take a comfort break in the corner, Alex gleaned information from a helpful chap that he would now have a good track to follow from here to the ruinous Glendrian. It would then most likely be wet underfoot for the rest of the way.

A water board style track led the way. Propelled by some high octane thrash metal buzzing in his iPod earpieces Alex scampered like a squirrel across the treeless Ardnamurchan moor. Leaving the four ramblers behind to their own plod. The ruins of Glendrian were a sad sight, and after ruminating around the rubble for a period, he found the footpath that would go right through to Fascadale.

Wet underfoot would be quite a wild understatement. For the next mile or so he found himself wading through a swamped area, often much deeper than the top of his boots. Seemingly trying to suck him beneath the remains of rotten biota. It was as if all the water from around was stagnating here, because, up on crag tops adorning the horizon, there was not one sign of even a trickle to tickle the toe of a toad. Further along, Alex and his squidging socks were squeezed through a tight gully where a canoe could have been helpful for keeping to the path line. There was nothing else for it but to clamber along the rocky sides until it was somewhat solid ground once again.

Improving conditions took him to a junction of trails. He moved along the left one, leading seaward. A few minutes passed and he could see it was the wrong choice, but he ploughed on regardless. It descended to a magical secluded cove, by Rubha Groulin. Across the water the island Eigg was now visible in vivid detail, casting its spell over the envious mainland viewer. After allowing a quick breather pause to attempt to inhale what was in fact breathtaking, he rapidly retraced his footprints and soon again was progressing eastwards, where the going was fair to good.

The last section of the path was a rocky descent, and waiting for him on the stony beach was a welcoming committee of cows. A brief struggle up the opposite slope rewarded him with a rest stop, propping his pack up against the gate at Fascadale. It took the weight off his shoulders and allowed oxygenated blood to swim back through his brain cells. A lengthy, but enjoyable, speed walk inland was called for then to bridge Achateny Water, and the seemingly deserted village Kilmory was reached a short bit further.

There was a 'P' marked on the map at Kilmory. From experience he wasn't pinning hopes on finding a shop and sited on the spot was just a weathered red post box. Regathering morale and motivation for the afternoon’s efforts, he chewed on dry crackers and soaked his feet in the sympathetic stream for a short half hour. Before reapplying his increasingly worn out Raichle boots to the asphalt again.

His route led him on through Ockle. A great spot, much to his taste, and certainly a seldom visited corner of Ardnamurchan. The final link path was getting nearer, and the lengthy farm track could be seen winding through the sweep of hills. Where the path itself meandered amidst the imposing boulderscape further on was still a mystery. Walking along the airy track, which was much appreciated for its ease across the rough hillside, he could only guess at what demands the path would make of him when it appeared. Mixed fortunes with Scottish footpaths had spawned a concern in the back of his mind. He could be forced to backtrack to the B8007 through Glenborrodale and Salen again if this way was going to look too dangerous or impassable.

The line of power cables parallel to the track descended to Eilagadale, at the foot of a valley. Round the corner of a bend up top, a signpost solved the riddle of meander in one stroke, when the needle threading route was finally unveiled. He needn't have been concerned, because though this walk was not going to be straightforward, the way ahead was distinct and promised great views. A boot width's trail strangled onwards, along the side of a steep ravine covered in heather. It was somewhat reminiscent of Tryfan's Heather Terrace he thought, but not on such a grand scale.

On the other side it was a sharp switchback climb up rugged slopes, before leveling to a gradual ascent amid rock outcrops. Soon he was cresting the hill and looking out from Ardnamurchan at a landscape that would occupy him for a couple of days. The next track could be seen now a quarter of a mile away, but there was still another slightly precarious slope to be traversed with care first. He was quietly content with proceedings once on the easy track, barging ahead with the way through to Moidart clear of complications.

The evening now was coming fast and his energy was waning equally, so he nibbled on Dolly Mixtures for a quick sugar fix as he descended to Kentra Bay. This seemed to help, because he then got his head down through a long deep forest mile, eager to get the view of the bay and his eyes acquainted. Coming out into the open at last, it was worth all efforts, with the bay indeed being quite a sight for sore feet.

Nearing Kentra Moss his first and foremost concern was getting to Acharacle a.s.a.p. Back when he came into Salen on Saturday night he had seen a sign for pies and cakes available in Acharacle. Just a couple of miles away then, but it would surely be too late when he'd roll into town tonight. He got to a junction that he thought would place him five minutes from town, but was getting ahead of himself, as the main road was clearly still some distance away yet. The Dolly Mixture energy burst had dwindled, but he was determined to through-hike right into the town. However, with an armchair comfortable boulder coming up on the right, and a bootlace undone to his left, all propulsion petered away and he flopped to his first sit down since Kilmory.

He took a few minutes to organise the sheet maps needed for the morning and refamiliarise himself with the route. For the meantime however, he was just looking to redouble his efforts and cover the final stretch into Acharacle, hopefully finding somewhere close by to sleep. It didn't take long, once he'd re-established vertical equilibrium. There was the inevitable graveyard on the way into town, which he could reluctantly sleep in as a last resort. The only place open was the hotel bar, where he was made to feel very welcome by the friendly bar staff. Leaving there nicely refreshed, he skulked across the street to a spacious shelter, making sure to note the time of the first bus, before racing off to sleep.

*

With his alarm set for sunrise, he was already packed up and walking before seven o'clock. This morning required a long main road walk and he was keen to get some distance covered before it got busier. He retraced the short way back through Acharacle, before crossing the Shiel Bridge and noted to himself that he would like to see more of these waters another time. As the morning aged, the traffic flow got slightly more concentrated. However, with room to spare on the verges there was passageway aplenty for everyone. Walking up the first hill of the day he had a lengthy coughing episode. His chest was a bit rough, largely down to many consecutive nights sleeping out, but he managed to loosen the worst of it reaching the crest of the hill.

Coming out of the trees on the way down, he got the first of many visual treats that day, as Loch Moidart rolled out in front of him. Before he knew it, he was rounding the other side and passing the memorial Seven Men of Moidart trees. Sprouting out of the loch was the tidal island Shona Beag, which he had half a mind to visit. In the end he opted out, with a busy day already planned, though a party of older ramblers were evidently embarking that way.

Another energising walk saw him arrive at Glen Uig, and the stream of gorgeous landscapes kept up their consistent regularity. Loch Ailort and the Ardnish peninsula now flaunting their finest sides. Striding down into Glenuig village, two locals hailed him. One had driven past on the road earlier and they both thought he had made good time coming along from Acharacle.

In a reversal of the norm, he was too early for the shop opening, which was closed until the mid afternoon. Encouraged by handily placed signs, Alex gravitated towards the community centre, which had a cafe as well. He was a quarter hour before their midday opening, and so took the opportunity to use the luxuriant rest room facilities. There was a shower if he wanted, but that would have been far too indulgent.

On returning to the cafe he made light work of devouring a bacon and egg bap, washed down with fresh orange juice. He had a good study of a flyer for a folk music band playing around the north of Scotland, but all the dates seemed unlikely to coincide with his own tour. The lady serving the food gave great encouragement when he mentioned his plans and recalled how a girl walking round Britain had also passed through a previous year. Also, she confirmed that the bothy at Penmeanach would make a worthwhile diversion from the main road for the night.

Returning to the A861, the traffic was now light in the middle of the day. With mountains towering all around his attention was kept well occupied. This was all good walking, and even reaching the fast road, rocketing up to Mallaig, he found it not as oppressive as he feared. The car park for the bothy zoomed into his sight on the left in short time. From here, a three mile walk up Penmeanach's garden path and then he could enjoy a cosy night’s accommodation, courtesy of the Mountain Bothies Association.

The path was clear and easy to follow. Dropping down first to cross the railway line, then scaling the hillside to break free of the woodland and open up exquisite views of the area. This heathland path had multiple trods along its way. He did his best to note the most direct lines through the peaty bits so he could make light work of the return. He passed a family, with the father carrying an infant on his shoulders, before descending past the mystical Loch Doir a' Ghearrain. Filling his water bottles from the outflow.

As he got down to the final approach along the flat, a telltale sign of smoke rising from the chimney told him that someone was already at home. He had five brief minutes of suspense, and recalled a lively party of boozy middle aged Scots he encountered on the Southern Upland Way at Over Phawhope.

This evening the company was to be much less rowdy however. With a very hospitable mild mannered family of four in residence. They were on the final night of an idyllic week long 'get away from it all' vacation. Alex was impressed and quite jealous when they revealed that they had been on many similar breaks with the kids throughout Scotland. He then gave a brief run through of his own voyages to date. The father promised to sit up with him after the kids' bedtime. To offer guidance about footpaths and bothies, scanning through the portfolio of maps up to Durness. Alex was quick to notice the brimming spare food cupboard. When given orders to help himself, he relocated an unsuspecting tin of ravioli to prop up a flaming faggot on the fire.

With the first course now centrally heating his belly, he nipped out to the mouth of the river to bathe his fumy feet. It was a simple pleasure to watch the families' cooking pot races being held. The lad's sleek vessel piloting the rapids first to the sea each time. This was the first coastal bothy he had frequented and out here he could easily picture himself marooned in some uncharted territory. Such was the awe-inspiring impact of the mountains and the sea.

Snug in the bothy afterwards, he cooked up a deep panful of soup and rice by candlelight, finding the swing arm pot rest very useful for heating over the open fire. He really considered himself in the lap of luxury when he was handed a piping hot mug of drinking chocolate next. Later he crammed the remaining empty crannies of his stomach with a sugar rich pudding. Alone briefly, whilst bedtime stories were told in the other living area.

As the night took full hold, Alex, and the father (whose name he didn't catch), spent a studious hour deep into the pile of map pages. The midnight hour came and went, and with it, a lot of darkness and mystery about the way on from here to Cape Wrath became bright and familiar in his mind.

*

He was awakened by his phone's alarm and stuffed all of his things into his pack by torchlight. The bothy was still warm from the last logs on the fire when he emerged out into the half-light. He'd secured only a few hours of restless sleep, but leaving now he would be on course to reach Mallaig by mid afternoon. He felt in good form, even at this early hour, and made quicker progress back to the road the second time along. The walk down the A830 was not too bad at all, and there was a cycle track for considerable parts of it. He had intended to branch off along a lane near Druimindarroch and take a nice looking route into Arisaig. However, improvements to the trunk road meant it was nowhere to be found once he got to where he thought it should be on the map.

Coming into Arisaig the road surface was steamroller flat and unblemished. Alex imagined he was walking on freshly fallen snow, as he coated certain patches for the first time with rubber off his boots. Earlier on he'd seen a sign announcing a road closure, and now he realised why. An area had been barricaded off and the red carpet was being rolled out anticipating a V.I.P to officially open the new road improvements. He had a little giggle thinking what the gathered masses would have done if he'd sauntered by half an hour later, just as the ribbon was being cut!

The sun was blazing high when he found his way into the centre of Arisaig, and he sat down on the waterfront with a crisp shopping bag stacked full with fresh goodies. The Small Isles were getting left behind now and irrepressible Skye was assuming control of the horizon. He had to show discipline and not get ahead of himself at this point. If he jumped onto a ferry straight away in Mallaig, he could be over there for dinner. More sensibly though, he would take a relaxing evening to gather his resources for the morning. His attentions were returned to the here and now, when a sightseer spied his Power Monkey solar slave charging up in the bright daylight and he had to give a quick run through of its functions.

When he reburdened himself for the road, he became aware of one notable missing item. The war wounded walking pole. His mind must have been across the Sound of Sleat already in the shop, when he'd abandoned it by the basket stack. Thankfully he'd not moved further than just across the road, and, with a minimum of fuss, they were both reunited again in pedestrian travel.

Leaving the town by Keppoch House, Alex thought he had slippers on along a gentle shoreline trail. The most soothing he could remember for a long time. After turning a corner he made a glaring directional miscalculation, heading uphill through trees, and then over a challenging open area. This detour consumed extra time, but it did provide an unique viewpoint of the region. With a few fence-scalings under his belt, he found his way to Back of Keppoch. He could have explored a little bit more of the coastline here. However, not eager to mess about finding his way through caravan parks, he just stepped it up again back on the open road. The B8008 curved its way about several bays of the purest white sand, and, after finally dragging its gaze from the front, the River Morar came onto the scene, to set pulses racing with a tumble of boulders and bush.

The afternoon was young and he was generous with his time, heading up to gape at the truly wild Loch Morar and its nearby church, which could have been lifted straight from the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. He passed through Morar Village, and, arriving in Mallaig in quite oppressive heat, was glad that he'd got the miles covered in the mild morning hours.

His first port of call was the Way Out West outdoor stockists. Leaving with a shiny new replacement tartan walking pole, he really did look the part now. He then snagged a bunk for the night in Sheena's Backpackers Hostel, and settled in with sweet seafood smells drifting up from the restaurant downstairs.

After a successful Spar and Co-op shopping spree and savouring the bustling harbour scene, he yearned again for more of the Vibram-cushioned foot itch. With the new Highlander stick in hand, he enjoyed an easy hour of evening exercise. He walked out of Mallaig, and just around the headland the most remote land of Knoydart graced the moment. To be reached only by boat or on foot, the harbour of Inverie lay proud with captive honour in a mountain fortress. Very near it seemed across the water, but completely out of reach. For this year anyway. He may get to return one day. Assuming he can crack the Skye first.