Sandwood Bay to Cape Wrath
Yesterday’s breeze had dropped to a flat calm, and the first thing I saw outside the tent was a reconnaissance party of midges. On with the DEET and down with the tent! Away by 6am with many regrets, but now the decision had been made I wanted to get on with it. The bay looked too good to leave, but I’ll get back there if I’m lucky.
Scotland’s contorted and confusing geology presented itself like a mass of multicoloured candle wax melted during a crazy dinner party.
My artist friend’s creations are no more difficult to interpret.
Traces of a path tempted me this way and that, but there was no continuous trail towards the Cape. Sometimes unseen footfalls converged and formed a path near a stile – two or three post and wire fences confront the walker – but generally the going was uneven, undulating, boggy, rocky and tiring.
The inland view was austere. The coast was dramatic, rugged, high and windswept under the bright sun. But in the far distance sea mist began creeping over the hills of Dunan Beag and Dunan Mor, hiding the lighthouse that marked journey’s end.
Sea mist blows in from the north-east
There could be no greater contrast with the Fife Coastal Path. Here in northwest Scotland my route twice plunged hundreds of feet to cross a sea-bound stream, and there followed an unavoidable and painfully steep ascent. The sole hint of long-gone habitation was a one-room ruin at a rocky inlet, and the only sign of another human was a small fishing boat visiting its lobster pots. No golf course, waymark or phone signal touches this place.
Above and Below: Dramatic cliffs on the way to the Cape
The wind strengthened as I neared the Cape. The mist
thickened. My coat and shorts felt damp on the windward side.
The land fell steeply to the partly obscured cliff edge. As I
rounded a crag, I suddenly caught a blast of wind in my face.
That told me I’d rounded Cape Wrath, the Norseman’s hvlarf, his
turning point.
Visibility was less than 20 metres. The lighthouse had to be up
the slope on my right. I began following a path that climbed
into a small gully. When I heard voices I looked up and saw the
faint outline of a high stone wall. This was it. I’d reached the
compound around the lighthouse. I walked beside the wall until I
found a gap and headed towards the buildings. A gaggle of people
were milling around two minibuses, and there I found the
entrance to The Ozone, a very welcome café. I strode in and
dumped my rucksack, ordered two mugs of tea and a sandwich with
salad garnish. Salad! Crunchy fresh lettuce! How you miss the
cold, wet stuff when you can’t get it!
I located the lighthouse with difficulty: a white tower in sea mist is no more obvious than a black elephant in a coal mine.
Apart from me and a cyclist, everybody had arrived by minibus. I asked around and found a driver who could take me to the ferry. He drove the bumpy road across the peaty moor, and the ferryman deposited us on a sandy shore. I called out my request for a lift and was offered front seat in a splendid Mercedes.
At Durness I ambled around for a while, considering my options, and finally I decided another night in the tent would be perfect. The mist had lifted, the sun shone, and I pitched at a site which provided the full range of services, including a couple of gas rings and some tables and chairs. What luxury!
I finished off most of my food and checked out the beach where, eight years earlier, I’d dreamed up the idea of walking along the north coast of Scotland from John o’Groat’s to Cape Wrath. Well, I hadn’t done that, and I don’t believe I ever shall. Anyway, that’s no longer the dream that prompts me, nags me, wakens me before daybreak and gets me in the car before the neighbours are awake. The dream now is to set up a base camp and go out for a day here, a day there, maybe an overnight expedition or two, but no more lugging a big rucksack up steep ascents. I’ve finished with that, much as I thought I had in 2005. So watch this space!
Take a walk on the beach at Durness
It might lead you back to where you started