July 2008

Introduction

I always like to think I learn a lot from our mountain wilderness adventures, when I look back on this little epic, many things come to mind from the treasure trove of the heart, that are invaluable to any wilderness rambler or intrepid ridge walker. Let us recall some of those gems... Ah, yes, learning how to read a map...properly, learning how to walk round in a big circle, learning how to keep your head when you're totally lost, learning when it's a safer option to walk down a cliff, learning what to do in an emergency, learning that vacuum packed fish doesn't stay fresh after 3 days at 80 degrees, learning the startling fact that some rivers in the highlands flow uphill and finally learning that the Cape Wrath bus is still operational. Intrigued? Confused? Bewildered? Please read on.

This is a retro commentary therefore some of the facts might be a little hazy, it's now August 2010 and this expedition took place in the first week of July 2008, on the back of a superb forecast, I might add. Personnel was Mark, Tom and Chris. This was the first of the Top Gear specials (for full explanation of this term please see blog no.3). We travelled through the night, seem to run on adrenalin. Now it's time for Captain Slow to have a rant. I just don't see the point in travelling everywhere like a 'bat out of hades', do you have to overtake everything in front of you as if it's some kind of a threat to your integrity can't you just have a steady meander, cruise along in the slow lane in the slipstream of a nice big lorry, chill with the music on and enjoy some pleasant unhurried conversation? End of rant. Notwithstanding not everybody in the car felt the same way, hence a little trick was played on the driver, old Ingram being ever so slightly gullible walked straight into it. We all had to see who could be the first to read the car number plate in front of us , which was some considerable distance away, to establish who was correct I had to get up close then overtake and onto the next one. They had got me overtaking! I still can't believe how a person of my susceptibility could have fallen for such cunning!

Adventures on the Skye Coulin

We arrived on Skye at about 4:00am. The sunrise was out of this world it was like being in an oil painting, such vibrant shining colours, one of the best I've ever seen. We parked in Glen Brittle car park got kitted up and off we went. We took the track that rises above the moor towards the Allt a Mhuilin. The track was fairly gentle, following a stream most of the way until we had to branch off to the left to connect to the fairly narrow summit ridge. Now the whole mountain vista was opening up, at eye level the jagged peaks of the Coulin and just below us a right mountain playground a tempting lochan, which I dare say has diverted many summer excursions over the years, the great stone shoot and corresponding pile of scree and that curious looking Boiler Slab Plate resembling a beached hippopotamus! All in its own giant amphitheatre.

like being in an oil painting

Boiler slab plate, stone shoot and Sgurr Alisdair

It was an eerie atmosphere with a sense of foreboding. The gloomy sky round the jagged peaks was awe inspiring I don't think it would have been so photogenic if the sky was crystal blue. I often muse over these photos while listening to Shostakovich's 8th symphony especially the third movement 'Allegro non trappo' which seems to musicalize the surroundings perfectly. I recently watched a programme on television about the Munros, very briefly they gave an overview of the Coulin peaks, and what music should be in the background? None other than Shostakovich 8! I really thought, is that music in my head, but alas! No, it was on the tv. I didn't appreciate the fact that anybody else had even heard of Shostakovich let alone marry that particular section to the jagged peaks of the Coulin. I hate the expression, but it blew my mind!

South Coullin ridge

The broody Cooire a Ghreadaidh skyline

I was surprised as we walked in the vicinity of 'Sgurr nan Banadich' just how spacious it was, at one point we lost each other but thankfully soon found each other again, it appeared we had veered off course but after climbing a rock chimney reminiscent of Aonach Eagach, it deposited us back on the main ridge. We mistakenly thought 'An Stac' was the renowned 'Inaccessible Pinnacle' but soon realized that was a little further along the ridge. It didn't exactly take much finding, an inexplicable blade of rock projecting eighty feet into the air, it gave me vertigo just looking at it! Paused at this point to have a bite to eat, it was a good viewpoint and with the mist swirling round the tops against the backdrop of a leaden sky, it all gave quite an emotional impact.

The In Pin, an inexplicable blade of rock!

The Cuillins are certainly in a different league from their fellow Scottish hills. I can only think of seven or eight hills on the mainland that you continually have to put hand to rock, or require any degree of technical ability. Most Cuillin summits require a scramble to the summit. That highlights the other main difference and that is the Cuillins are composed almost entirely of Gabro, an igneous flinty type rock, very good for gripping. The grass gives out very early on. The other important point to remember is that the higher you go on these hills the harder it is to find water, so make sure you're fully stocked up early on.

From the 'In Pin' we made our way along the ridge to 'Sgurr Thormaid' continually atmospheric with vertiginous drops on either side. On the left side mountain corries with a view of the island emerging as the mist dissipated, on the right hand side, endless sea! Stunning views everywhere, alpine in its composition. The route gradually contoured round to our next munro of the day, Sgurr a Greadaidh'.

contouring round to Sgurr Thormaid

ditto!

What occurs next is one of the strangest quirks in the Top Gear back catalogue. Everything was going fine as we progressed along the ridge that projected towards 'Sgurr a Greadaigh'. We then came to a rock rib that narrowed right down to a knife edge, quite a lot of exposure but good firm holds and not a breath of wind, I could even see crampon scratches all over the place which shows it's a well known route. I still didn't think it was any great shakes although I was concentrating on every step, only too well aware of the 3,000 foot of fresh air that separated me from the ground! As I concentrated on my route, it struck me that I was on my own, I backtracked to find Tom and Chris, Clarkson and Hammond respectively, in deep pensive thought. '' I can't do that'' said Tom in a tone of voice showing that he wasn't open even to a hint of persuasion, ''me neither'' said Chris. I was well shocked at this, it is normally me who is over hesitant or to put it in the vernacular, a downright wuss! My performance on the' Aonach' was legendary as was the staccato boulder hopping across 'Stac Polaidh' as Rob Mitchell will delight in testifying. I tried to convince them by doing the same section of ridge again, right in front of their very eyes, but to no avail, I returned to a scene of deja vous , ''I can't do that'', '' Me neither''. Well what was we going to do now then?

Sgurr a Ghreadaidh

''maybe safer to walk down a precipitious cliff lads! ''

What we decided first and foremost is that we hold to our prerequisite of all sticking together. We retraced the line we had taken and found ourselves looking down Coire Lich, this looked like a feasible escape route we all concurred. In reality it soon became a vertical maze! Several routes seemed fine until we were looking at a 'death drop' causing us to backtrack to a safe point and try another route. Yes for all intents and purposes we were walking down a cliff! We had left the time honoured path because it was too dangerous, and now as an alternative we were walking down a cliff instead! Always better to err on the side of caution, so they say. I recall one catch 22 situation where Tom was hanging off a ledge and dropping himself on to a narrow platform below, I looked on in horror and suspense and thought, I'm obviously not doing that. I looked up at Chris for the alternative and he was leaping through mid air on to loose rock with what appeared to be not very firm holds, I thought I'm obviously not going to do that either! But unless I was going to take up permanent residence on the side of a cliff I had to do something. After praying for courage I opted for Chris's route but needed continual reassurance and chivvying along from both the lads.

When we were all safe on the ground we looked back and were staggered at what we had just walked down. When we were back at the car eating an impromptu meal out of the boot, a walker asked us if we had come down on the standard route, we told him ''no we came down a cliff instead!'' He looked at us rather hesitantly and said ''Agh... right mate'', I reckon he was thinking ''we've got a right mad bunch here''. In retrospect Chris and Tom are both totally bamboozled as to why they didn't proceed with the straightforward ridge walk and it continues to nag them to this day.

Now on to a more sanguine subject, eating and drinking. I've downed a fair few pints in the 47 years I've been knocking around but the pint of Kronenbourg lager I had in the pub at Carbost, when we eventually found the barman, was among the best I've ever had it was ice cold and slaked a monster of a thirst. I've also had a lot of fish and chips in my time but those ones at the harbour at the Kyle of Loch Alsh were absolute essence. Well worth the wait.

It was now on to Charley Beggs, along the shores of beautiful Loch Carron. We were thinking of pitching up at Glen Brittle but you have to use your time so wisely on these excursions, so we decided to head a little bit more up country to break the journey up, on the way to Blairmore, which is about as far as you can drive up on the west. As we drove around the Loch Carrron area there were signs up everywhere saying 'no wild camping' which would have normally have been a bit disconcerting, but we were not worried, we had Tom! Tom knew Charley Beggs from family holidays as a child. Tom thought it would be a good idea to pay him a cordial visit, which he did, engaging him in much delightful convivial conversation. The next thing me and Chris knew is we were looking for somewhere to pitch up! Permission granted, well done Tom!

We got our pitches sorted out fairly quickly, we were then honoured to be invited to have an audience with 'Charley Beggs' himself! Imagine that. Ironically Chris missed out on this awesome privilege , he was observed curled up in his quilt on the back seat of the car, well in the delta zone. Charley remarked ''Who is the boy?'' and a little later "Is the Boy coming out?" That was it a new nickname was born! I must admit with Chris's little face popping out of his quilt he did manifest a boyish face, though had the quilt gone back a few inches he would have instantly aged about thirty years or so!

Tom and myself appreciated a shot of Dalmore, good company and pleasant conversation on Charley's veranda, as the sun dipped below the huge Cypress trees, the majestic bastions that overlooked Loch Carron. One fond memory I have is of Charley's son in law deeply expressing himself on how much he appreciates the highlands, by the time he gets on to the M5, on his way home to London he is thoroughly depressed! As he took the floor, to express himself, you could see he had a passion for the land, the way he gesticulated and the manner in which the lines on his face contorted his features. I really took to this guy.

on the shores of the lovely Loch Carron

Now one of my ambitions close to my heart, on frequent visits to the Motherland, is to see with my own two eyes, that elusive little creature, 'The Otter'. Over the course of nearly twenty years and cast iron promises to be at certain places at certain times to observe this little beauty, they have all flopped. Yet I've seen numerous other wildlife without trying, I suppose just being at the right place at the right time, Golden Eagles, kites(the bird), Pine Martins, Badgers, Wild Boar, Whales, Dolphins, wild Goats etc ,etc. I've tried not trying to see Otters as well and even that hasn't worked. However after being counselled on the folly of trying to see Otters by appointment, by the son in law, he went on to contradict himself later on in the conversation and assured me that if I was at the water's edge at the end of the lane at 7:00 a.m, I would be guaranteed to see one, this was corroborated by the fact that Tom as a youngster remembers Otters being plentiful in the area. Oh well this could be the moment that we have all been waiting for.

Did not get a great deal of sleep that night, I had the option of sleeping in the car, which I did but could not get comfortable. Tried sleeping outside in my bivvy bag complete with midge net, I had just about dropped off when I had the rude awakening of being woke up by a dog licking my face!

Finally snatched an hour or two in the car but it was now about 6:30am, time for the bland but convenient 'breakfast bar' and off to see the otter! We trundled down the lane half asleep, cautiously approached the water's edge at the appointed time of 7:00am and guess what... no otter! I'm beginning to wander if these creatures are purely of a mythical status.


A Trampse across the Parph Peninsular

We enjoyed a very pleasant drive up to Blairmore. It was the height of the petrol crisis, here we were on the main road up the north west of Scotland on a Saturday on a perfect summer day and there was hardly another vehicle that crossed our path! There are a small cluster of townships or hamlets sprawled along the north west coast that are very quaint and remote, we stopped at Scourie to use the loo and at Kinlochbervie to get some provisions from KLB stores. The white sandy bays at Oldshoremore and Polin looked particularly inviting but we were men on a mission.

At Blairmore we parked up and hoisted on our full kits for three days walking and two nights wild camping/ bothying. This was my old rucksack and all things considered I couldn't get it much below 42lb! The walk to Sandwood Bay was a pleasant stroll, cutting inland across a lochan dotted moorland. Some of the lochans were sanded, some were strewn with lilies making them appear quite dainty but already the feeling of emptiness and space was becoming apparent. It was quite nostalgic for me, I had done this walk fourteen years previous with my wife, another couple and our then nine month old son. It was quite dreary weather then, today though it was resplendent sunshine, in a land far away from civilization, in a land as untamed as eagles.

Loch na Gainimh

Loch a Mhuillin

I'll never forget getting on to Sandwood Bay, it was breathtakingly beautiful. Tom said it almost brought him to tears, the gravitational impact was such that we all shared his sentiment. You could have been in the Seychelles the sky was blue, the sand was white and the sea was a sparkling turquoise, it was so vast and spacious, the sand seemed to stretch for miles. The only difference from being here and some exotic location in the med or Caribbean was, that stunning as it was there were only a handful of people around, oh and maybe it wasn't quite as hot! Tom's youthful exuberance got the better of him he was straight in the sea! I don't know how he did it, it was beyond freezing. Chris and myself sat and watched.

The stunning Sandwood Bay

Sandwood Bay west notice the 'Old Man'

Now we come to the point where we explore the interior of the Parph peninsular, around 15 square miles of true wilderness, completely uninhabited, no roads, no tracks, guidebooks are silent about this area, I couldn't even find a great deal on the web. Slightly on the down side it's the perfect spot for an R.A.F playground but they only operate at certain times of the year and it's well publicised. From the Strath Chaileach we picked a route heading for the Keiscaig river, then to one of the interior hills maybe Beinn Dearg or Fashven, from there dropping down to the Kearvaig river and following it to the bothy that shares its name. All seemed straight forward the terrain was exceptional, the air was clear, we could not go wrong.

Well as the saying goes 'here is where the fun starts'! We got to the Keiscaig river a lot quicker than we thought we would. Consequently we were well surprised but reasoned that we had been going at a fair old pace so that obviously accounts for it, therefore we patted each other on the back and carried on in to the interior. From this point on we couldn't seem to orient the map properly, that is keep it continually harmonized to the surroundings that you could see with the naked eye. We would orient it and everything appeared to be in its proper place, we walked 50 yards and someone would shout '' what's that mountain doing there it's not on the map?!'' and the whole process would be repeated, this happened time and time and time again, it was infuriating the closer we examined the map the more it would happen. Could the map be wrong? What would 'The Stig' have done in this trying situation? We were at a loss, I have to commend however, that throughout this whole ordeal, infuriating as it was, we all kept a cool head.

What we thought was the Kiescaig River but really was Strath Challeach 

It's an intriguing psychology how the human mind can shut out what it wants to at times, even if you know it's the truth deep down, if it's not palatable, the subconscious, the dark side of the moon, will conveniently sweep it well under the carpet. I recall Tom pointing out or rather explaining away the appearance of a building that we now know as Strathchaileach bothy which was one of those many occasions explained in the preceding paragraph, where things were appearing on the map that shouldn't have been there. Tom helped us get over this little snag by assuring us that it was just an M.O.D building, and they are not always marked on the map as the M.O.D didn't want people to know where their buildings were. This explanation put me and Chris at ease although deep down we weren't comfortable with it, we didn't want to face the harsh fact that something wasn't right, we wanted everything to be rosy.

The final straw was when we were on the summit of Beinn Dearg, not Fashven as we first thought, we were all assuming that we should be able to see the Kearvaig bothy, but no, expectation turned to horror as we saw what was clearly a cluster of lochans to the east of Loch Keiscaig, the source of the river Keiscaig! In other words we had slogged it for several hours up and down numerous subsidiary tops and slopes, with full kit, to get nowhere! This was hard to bare. I blurted out '' well, I'm going down there (north east), because that's where the bothy is, those lochs can get stuffed!''. This comment however was borne out of sheer frustration, I wouldn't have dreamed of deserting the team, we had to face this together. What was utterly confounding and it nagged the living daylights out of us, is that we definitely forded a very substantial river, we pounded the map with all our powers of reason, it had to be the river keiscaig there was no other river for Pete's sake! What had we done then, had we somehow managed to walk round in a big circle?

Beinn Dearg

Wondering aimlessly and getting frustrated

Half hearted smile from Chris but not from Tom

True wilderness... truly lost!

We eventually located the river Kearvaig, which spelt out relief, all we had to do was follow this downhill and it would bring us to the Kearvaig bothy. Being somewhat conditioned by our recent experiences I still dare not breathe a sigh of relief. ''I'm still not convinced'' I piped up. Chris and Tom rejoindered with irrefutable reasoning that if this is the wrong way, I was in effect saying that we were looking for a river that was flowing uphill! Well that was it, we were all rolling around in hysterical laughter, not a bad response I don't think when you consider how tired we were. The underlying tenet of my remark though was ''is it not beyond the realms of possibility, that we are still lost? After all we've been lost all afternoon and we kept consulting the map, thinking that we were back on track but we weren't , we were still lost, could this possibly be yet another red herring? How dare I even suggest such a thing! By way of recompense I donated all my vacuum packed fish to the fowls of the heavens, this was not wild camping food, even if it was from Lidl's '' where quality doesn't matter''!

The real River Keiscaig

It soon became obvious that this was the Kearvaig river and we were on our way to the bothy. This was confirmed when we saw a bridge in the distance, the first sign of human intervention in this wild corner of Britain. All in all we were well pleased with ourselves that we had soldiered on and eventually found our way back on course albeit we could not account for the river we had definitely crossed and our subsequent wilderness meanderings. In spite of this breakthrough, all was not well in the camp, Tom's knee injury had come back to say Hello, in fact he was in real trouble. The terrain didn't help, it had become very cloddy and undulating making each step for him excruciating agony. He was in perpetual pain, this was becoming a mammoth ordeal for him to carry on, but somehow carry on he did. We didn't know what to do, I sent a couple of prayers up for some inspiration. Here we were in the remotest part of Britain, no phone signal, no sign of any other human being nor the likelihood of seeing anybody. Nobody or nothing. ''O, Gabriel blow your horn!''

What were we going to do? Tom stranded at centre stage! After some deep thought I figured all we could do was get Tom to the bothy, then me and Chris could hesh it back to Blairmore and contact the emergency services from there. By the time we got to Kearvaig bothy the fat old sun was just on the horizon. Classic highland sunset, air and light pollution free engendering a feeling of deep peace and serenity, as the photograph of it on our window sill eloquently testifies. All was well with the world.

Sunset over Kervaig Bothy

Thankfully we had the bothy to ourselves. Got ourselves settled in, had a good nosey round, we were still perplexed about the navigating flaw so we decided to have one last look at the map, Tom clinched it! It must have been high tide at sandwood bay, whereas the map quite rightly shows the whole sanded area, so we set off from the Sandwood Loch tributary, not Strath Chaileach and the river we reached in a surprisingly quick time wasn't the river keiscaig but Strath Chaileach, everything after that was based on a false premise, no wander our navigating was all at sea. Well done Tom, at least now we knew.

Kervaig Bothy

Didn't sleep well, maybe two or three hours of not the best quality sleep. Quite surprising considering how tired I was , beginning to realize polyurethane mats are a waste of time, Tom can sleep anywhere, what a gift. Next day had chance to have a little look around before we set off, the beach at Kearvaig is I think second only to Sandwood . Stunning place, so inaccessible I should imagine it's empty for most of the year. Tom was resting his knee so he had a muse around the beach while me and Chris went up the hill to have a look at Clo mor, the highest cliffs in Britain. Tom looked just like a dot on the beach. Couldn't say I was over impressed with Clo Mor they just looked like, well.. cliffs!

The captivating Seamraig beach

The next stage of our journey was to take in the Cape Wrath coastline and bothy at Strathchaileach. We progressed about a mile or so down what was really good track and it was evident Tom's knee was not going to hold out. I just happened to turn round, taking in the view, and I was absolutely 'cut to the quick,' the Cape Wrath bus was in the distance, I'm sure I read on the net that it had been discontinued, but it's evidently operational now! Here was the definitive answer to my prayers, the bus was doing a shuttle run to pick up more passengers to bring them to the lighthouse, that being the case it would pass us on the way back and Tom could cadge a lift, I grasped the nettle, this was the only way. All me and Chris had to do was instead of bothying, drive round to Durness, where the terminus is and retrieve Tom from there.

As we walked along the track to Cape Wrath lighthouse we were rehearsing in our minds and vocally, what we would say if the merciful request to rescue Tom was declined. '' I would give him a piece of my mind'' would be Toms retort. ''That's despicable'' was Chris's heartfelt reply, with venom! '' Fine Good Samaritan you are aren't you?'' ''hugh! Good Samaritan in reverse!'' was my contribution, with facetious bitterness, complete with ' Ingram snigger'! And so it went on gradually increasing in intensity like the ascent of a cairngorm mountain. When it reached the peak, the three chuntering old men caught sight of the bus, we flagged it down and explained our plight to the driver, he replied in a warm southern Irish accent that he was more than willing to accede to our request and would do anything he could to help. The other two old men proceeded on their way.

To be frank, the Cape Wrath lighthouse is just the same as any other lighthouse, I don't know what all the big 'to do' is about that. The Cape Wrath coastline though, is like no other stretch of coastline in mainland Britain, vertiginous craggy cliffs, massive sea stacks, natural arches, unearthly features, dramatic in extremis and it went on for so long. Incredibly special. There were a lot of ups and downs though and with 'three stone' on your back it became a test of endurance coupled with the fact that we've had that for four action packed days with hardly any sleep, it was becoming a really hard slog. On the other side of the coin, we now know 'Poor Tom' was basking in the warm summer sun on the beautiful Sango sands beach, near Durness, pint of Guinness at his side, interspersed with the odd paddle in the sea and socialising at his leisure! By the time we had cut inland to the Strath Chaileach we were feeling the effects of exhaustion, life's moisture was draining away from us. Chris announced that instead of making the detour to look at Strathchaileach bothy, he was going to head back. He had a couple of blisters that commendably he had put up with, they were absolute belters. He must have applied the tried and tested advice as regards the pain they can give you, ''ignore it!'' At this point then we briefly parted company.

The stunning Cape wrath coastline

The dramatic Keiscaig bay

that rock is defying gravity!

I plodded down a mile or so following the Strath Chaileach, to the bothy that bears its name, pausing briefly to observe the effect of the west wind on the strath appear to cause the river to flow uphill! This bothy must be the singularly most primitive and isolated dwelling in Europe, at the very least ten miles even from a minor road, there isn't even a track leading to it as is the case with most bothy's. The bridge over the Strath shown on my ordnance map, has long since been destroyed in a storm. There is a very faint track through the heather if you can find it, I couldn't, so it was a bog slosh to the front door.

Strathchailleach Bothy

There is of course an interesting history behind this establishment, from 1964 to 1996 it was the home of a certain 'James McRory Smith', known colloquially as 'Sandy'. This man lived as a true hermit for 32 years, his only contact with the outside world was the fortnightly 22 mile round trip, to collect his pension from Sheigra Post Office and a few essential meagre provisions from London Stores at Badcaul on the return trip. He must have been on a mission to disprove sayings like 'people need people' and 'no man is an island to himself '. Towards the end of his days he opted for a caravan at kinlochbervie, by now I should imagine the 22 mile round trip would have been arduous if not impossible. He died at Raigmore hospital in Inverness, and is buried at Sheigra cemetery. I presume he had no children, his only legacy are the murals he left on the walls of his bothy home.

McRory-Smith art work

didn't fancy spending the night here!

My enquiring mind wanted to probe beneath the surface of this curious situation. Why would a fit young man in his early forties, want to shut himself off from society in that kind of fashion, just think of those long, cold and damp winter evenings, totally on your own, week in week out. Well with the advent of that marvellous tool called the internet, it is surprising what you can discover, and what I did unearth was decidedly poignant. This man lost his dear wife in a car accident, apparently he had not long lost his job as a riveter, as the shipyards dwindled on the Clyde. Presuming he had no close relatives, I don't think it would be conjectural to assume he could never come to terms with the loss of his wife, he had, had enough therefore withdrew from society, left his council flat in Glasgow and got away from it all, a broken man. The murals he painted, one would logically think were of his wife and depict his belief in the afterlife, unable to come to terms with death being the end of conscious existence. Sad plight, if you look carefully you can see a photograph of 'Sandy' between the murals, I think he looks a kindly sort of a fellow.

From the bothy I made my way back down the strath to Sandwood Bay, but all the walking with full kit, lack of sleep and plenty of exertion was taking its toll on me. The walk from Sandwood back to Blairmore was brutal, every time I turned a corner I thought surely to goodness the car's got to be in view now, but round every corner was miles and miles of endless track. I'm sure it wasn't this long coming here! Slog, slog, slog at times it was just too much effort to put one foot in front of the other, but I had no choice, slog, slog. Finally made it back to the car, it had just started raining, got in the car and started uncontrollably shivering, cranked the heater up and thankfully this soon ceased. We took the lovely A838 road up to Durness, one of my favourite places. There was still a shop open at close to 10:00p.m, everyone was so friendly and helpful. Durness is the fabric from which our dreams are weaved, special place, enchanting place.

We made contact with Tom, he was in the Sango Sands bar, we agreed to meet and have a quiet pint on the proviso that we could find a quiet corner and just sit and vegetate, we were beyond tired. All that was out the window, Tom came bounding up to us, full of the joys of spring, '' Hey, come in and let me introduce you to all these new friends I've made!'' Sad to say, we never broke through our anti-social barrier, I actually wish we could have found it in us to rise above our tired mental state, the atmosphere in the bar was electric yet convivial and there were lots of very interesting, friendly people I recall there was a scientist studying soil in the area, a couple of hitch hikers from Holland who spoke perfect English, and many others who Tom had taken under his wing.

We wild camped that night overlooking the Kyle of Durness. I remember with great fondness, sitting in the car, chilling to Schubert's 9th symphony in a setting of such grandeur, at a comfortable amount of decibels that sublimely hit the sweet spot! During this period of transcendental meditation, Tom, the only one with an ounce of energy left, rustled us up something to eat and got a lovely fire going, courtesy of wood from an extra rucksack that I purportedly was going to cart around the Parph interior, a hair brained idea, that thankfully was aborted! Soon the sound of Schubert was in competition with a far more modern sound, ''Red'' by 'King Crimson', next thing I knew we were all performing 'air guitar' to this, although as you maybe able to tell from the live footage taken, I was there in spirit only, my body didn't seem to respond with anima. Tom reminded me how the weather was kind to us, we darted back and forth from the car at ' Sango Sands bar in torrential rain, yet 10 miles down the road it's bone dry, maybe a tropical storm! For once slept really well that night, I awoke in the morning bright as a new pin. Dawn over the Kyle of Durness, essence of life, the sky is silver blue, the Kyle is green and submarine and the larks sing and play above the scented air of the wild watercress. Life was good.

In the zone!

Dawn over the Kyle of Durness

A sheer unforgettable experience, even the journey home was memorable, I was the adjudicator in an ongoing dispute between Tom and Chris about a sum of money that Tom had borrowed from Chris. The discussion kept ebbing and flowing without the fire quite going out, at one point Chris had to stamp down his authority of 'A' level maths to gain the upper hand over Tom. Consequently vast sections of the A9, A66 and A1 were just obliterated, we got home in no time. I'm still not sure if they know who owes each other what, I'm less sure if they even care, it was a great laugh.

So where next? Cairngorms, Loch Monar, Fisherfield, Mam Tor? My mind goes back to when we were relaxing at Sandwood Bay , although there was hardly anybody there, footprints in the sand seemed to be casting your vision all over the place, leading you to a sea stack on your left, rock pools on your right, the wide open sea before you, so, Blog fans where is the next blog going to take you? Where is your next virtual adventure going to be? All I can say is "watch this space", it's a lot like following those -

SHINING FOOTPRINTS IN THE WET SAND!

shining footprints over the wet sand of Sandwood Bay

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