Emily goes for another walk

I am almost on the way south again, writing this from a strange little hostel in Thurso, whilst the sun continues to shine and the sea breeze continues to keep the temperature down.  I left Halkirk on Tuesday morning - the place where salmon jump out of the water in the middle of the village - in bright sun, anticipating with mixed feelings the 17 miles of the day. As I left, Senga who ran the B&B gave me back some of the money I had paid, to give to the fundraising. I was covered in suncream and able to uncover my legs again, now that I was out of tick country and walking on quiet road. I crossed the A9 again, and over undulating country, dotted with lochans. As I passed fields of cattle, every herd got up and chased after me, thankfully with a fence in between us. I was obviously an exciting sight. Each cemetery or graveyard I passed had a forest of tall monuments all with urn shapes on the top of them, looking out of place in this flat, sparsely populated landscape. At 10.15...

It has been a long hard five days, from Invershin to Halkirk, punctuated by stunning moments and beautiful encounters. The end is almost in sight.  I left Invershin on the longest day of the year, into driving winds. The forecast said 41mph. I'm sure it was more. I had had breakfast with an Alaskan cyclist named Sage, who wears a rainbow net skirt over her lycra, as a sort of alternative hi-vis. I wondered how she might get to Ullapool as the wind was coming from the west, and her skirt may have flown her to Norway. I passed the Falls of Shin, where salmon jump up the waterfall on their way back to their spawning grounds from unimaginably long journeys through the Atlantic. None were jumping, but they may have been shy of the coach load of American tourists who then got to the tiny coffee stall first. I moved on to Lairg, stopping in the last shop for five days. The wind was sweeping across Loch Shin, giving the impression and sound of a choppy sea. Then it's a long road north,...

It has been a stunning few days, with strange weather and unexpected encounters and findings.  The night at the Aultguish was windy and wild, and I spent some time awake, anxious about the coming route. I shouldn't have been as I walked this bit last year, even earlier in the year, and in the other direction. I think it was mostly about the weather forecast, predicting high winds and heavy rain. But in the morning, after a sweet black coffee, I braced myself and headed out into the gale. The grey of the huge Glascarnoch dam above the inn almost blended with the sky, and Ben Wyvis to the east was even darker, topped with cloud. The first two miles had to be down the main road, with passing camper vans and delivery lorries travelling fast between east and west. At the Black Bridge (also not black, but concrete grey) I turned off northwards into Strath Vaich, into an unpeopled landscape. The sun was appearing brightly and disappearing again in turn, the high grey clouds making fast da...

I have spent the last few days walking in a north westerly direction, but tomorrow  I will head north east again, with more gale force winds due. Many people have commented on my indirect route. I guess I've got this far on a zigzag though.  Thursday dawned very windy and got windier as Storm Hector made his way through. I had been advised by a cyclist and first aid trainer that there would be midges in Easter Ross, and of the location of a secret bothy. I told him I had survived the West Highland Way campsites, not completely unscathed, but will be grateful for a bothy if I can find it. I headed out into the wind, with 20 miles to walk to Inverness, fortunately on a cycle route all day, as being up in hills would have been impossible. It was the first time in a good while I've worn my waterproof all day, and hat, just to make sure I didn't blow away completely. It came close at times, which is a little exciting when you are walking by the A9. Much of the route only ran par...

It has been an overwhelmingly full few days, with not enough words or language itself to describe adequately the journey. I will give it a go, but the adjectives may become annoying....  Back in February, when I decided that I was going to go for a very long walk, there were a few places I knew I wanted to pass through, causing the route to be somewhat indirect. This past few days was at the top of the list. Being at the top of the list is an ambiguous honour though. It becomes not only about wanting to see, but also includes an element of trepidation and unfamiliarity, set out on a map that can only give the technical aspects of a landscape. It doesn't prepare you for how it will feel to be there. I had planned to walk this southwards last April, but was put off by tendonitis, and reports of vast snowfields, so I walked a roundabout route through Glen Feshie. This made it all the more a route I had to do.  I packed up the tent early on Sunday morning, grateful for the rest in...

I have been thinking about what I wrote on Wednesday morning, and I realise I may have come across as a little disparaging about the West Highland Way, for which I apologise. I was in a rush and didn't start out from Tyndrum until 10, by which time every other walker had responsibly packed up and left. I love the West Highland Way and of any walk (and I have walked it twice in full and twice in part) this one has had the most wonderful encounters and momentary friendships, with a camaraderie which has always been encouraging and often hilarious. And I will always recommend it to people as it is a stunningly beautiful walk. I suppose this time I wondered whether it really was too crowded, made too touristy, and had perhaps somehow lost some of its sense of adventure. That is probably a reflection on me more than anything, as I wasn't quite prepared for the amount of people (or midges). I am very grateful though for the company of Jeff and Steve, the taciturn Dutchman and his fat...

My days on the West Highland Way are coming to an end. It has been an interesting, strange and crowded four days, and I am looking forward, with a little trepidation, to a quieter path.  The Drymen campsite, far from dry, had accumulated about thirty tents by the time the night was through, on a patch of grass not much bigger than an average back garden. The barn was full of silent, sullen campers, trying to pack up and make breakfast and jump the queue for the one plug socket available for phone charging. Having enough charge on the phone is now often the biggest anxiety among backpackers, me included. I left early, desperate for space. The cloud was low and the air close and humid. Rising into the sparse forest plantation all was silent, with ghostly shapes of nearby hills just about visible. The path takes the high shoulder of Conic Hill, with the vast Loch Lomond suddenly spread out as far as you can see. Except this time the view was only a memory, an imagining of what lay bel...

I am sitting in my tent near Drymen, the fat drops of rain hammering on the canvas. The sky has finally broken and the petrichor is divine. I have now joined the most popular walk in the UK and I am surrounded by many other wet tents.  On Wednesday I left Uphall in the humid haar, walking north to the Union Canal. I stopped at a little fascinating churchyard in Ecclesmachan where death is embraced fully, inscriptions reading 'Memento Mori', with more than the average long effusive epitaphs, adorned with skulls and crossbones. Over the Ochiltree ridge the Forth Bridge was just visible, and the sea by Grangemouth was mistily silver in the distance. It seems I lied at Porthleven - I saw the sea well before Dunnet Bay. By the time I reached the canal the sun was out and everything was once again oppressively warm. I'm sort of getting used to it now though, which I would never have expected back in March. I keep thinking my neck is horrendously dirty and then I realise it is jus...