Walking Backwards

In pursuit of the Cotswold Way

2009-01-20T14:10:00.000-08:00

Outside the Electric Theatre we were fascinated to see an "honesty box" Apparently all you had to do to reserve tickets for "Mama Mia" was to put your name and number on a card and place it in the box. Now surely, any less than honest avid "Abba" fans, desperate to get a seat would remove all but their own cards? Or is that just me and my suspicious mind? Was this place really as delightfully quaint as it appeared to be? "Why yes indeed" was the reply from an early morning shopper scurrying down the hill towards a High Street of shops, which we discovered later, to be a wonderful blast of a nostalgic 5o's past. "I moved here from Oxford over 20 years ago and have never looked back" she cried, as she went on her way.
Wotton-under-Edge...doesn't it just conjur up images of a sleepy little town of higgledy piggledy narrow lanes tucked under a blanket of rolling Cotswold hills? Well, that's exactly what it was. Jill was dreaming, scheming, plotting and planning (nothing new there then) as she peered intently through the estate agents window, until I pointed out that she really couldn't swap her Pennyslvania farm house with acres of land for the same price as a shoebox in the Cotswolds. Hopes and dreams dashed, and after a quick visit to a "real" Post Office (i.e. one that wasn't at the back of a Co-Op) we reluctantly set off up and over "the edge" in pursuit of the "Cotswold Way"
Wotton had started out as in Saxon times as "Wudu tun" (The farm in the wood) the "under edge" being added later around 14c to accentuate its position below the Cotswold edge. The snippet of historical fact that interested me the most was the story of Isaac Pitman, a local Wesleyan teacher. upon gaining his first post in Humberside he was desperate to return to his western routes, and who could blame him? On his way back home he happened to meet a C of E chap, who somehow persuaded him to "convert" to the "other side". Well, you can imagine, he wasn't exactly welcomed back into the bosom of the Wesleyan Chapel. Hunted out of town in disgrace, he was to have the last short word on this story. Determined to stay in his home town, he set up a rival C of E School and invented a shorthand system for his pupils. Yes indeed, here we were at the birthplace of "Sir Isaac Pitmen" inventor of Phonography.
We hadn't got very far when the threatenly grey skies decided to make our day's walk just a tad more uncomfortable. We had no choice but to "abort" the way in favour of the road. Passing by what was originally called "Soppa Burgh" conjured up thoughts of some cosmic Saxon stroking a crystal ball, muttering quietly "Many years from now, this place will become an area of outstanding beauty and therefore shall be attractively renamed Old and Chipping Sodbury"
We scurried on with a lunch appointment to keep with friends and family, up from Salisbury and down from Surrey. We ploughed on through the wind and the rain until it was with some welcome relief we saw a familiar car, on the horizon, that could whisk us away. Well, ok, so we cheated and skipped a mile of walking, but the thought of that warm dry pub was ooh just so tempting.
With three long tables pushed together the walking party swelled to seven. Soon we were tucking into delicious pub grub. With one eye on the gloomy weather through the steamy windows, we took a vote on shortening the next stretch to a 5 miler. Maps were scoured and cars were driven to the finishing line at Littleton.
And so, it was a happy band of Pilgrims that left the pub, consisting of me, Jill, husband (mine) Keith, friends Jane and Lynn, Lynns Sister, and Jane's Dad... and then the sky finally decided to brighten up our route and so there we were, finally! posing for photographs along the "Cotswold Way" It was muddy, wet, but worth it. One day, I thought, I'll come back and do this "Way" good and proper. With today's good company it was but a 5 mile hop, skip and a muddy jump to Littleton. It had been brief, but I would be back (with Jane next time) to pick up where we left off.

Long lost cousins and new found friends. Gloucester to Wotton

2008-11-28T14:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting on a railway station, got a ticket for my destination, and I can't stop singing quietly to myself as the train speeds it's way to Newport, South Wales.

I had four reasons to be cheerful, firstly was the thought that my B & B hopping days were nearly over. From here on I had friends in Salisbury, Devon, and a cottage in Cornwall with family and friends for the final week. Secondly, sister Jill was also on her way to Newport, via Pennsylvania USA, with an en route stop off at Welshpool, Wales. I imagined she'd be on her train right now, probably polishing her halo, having done the "neicely" duties of a visit to a 91 year old Auntie Edna. Thirdly I'd be met at Newport by a long lost cousin (not seen for 40 years) and last but not least, tomorrow, I'd be walking with some V.I.P's from "Natural England" who'd been supporting this mad venture of mine.

And as I write, I'm wishing that that particular tomorrow was not so far in the distant past. The reality is, I'm not now on that train, but sitting in front of a fire on a cold winters night in November with another Christmas, without Sophie, looming ahead. And so, this has all but ceased to be a blog, and more a way of finishing a journal.

Flashing back to August, after meeting up with a very sprightly cousin Michael, who certainly didn't look the 40 years older he was, and having enjoyed an excellent evening of good food, wine and hospitality, the next day, with perfect timing I meet my new found friends on Gloucester Station . Stella, a big cheese in the WHI initiative, having been there at it's inception. Fiona and Moira who deal with publicity and advertising, and Mitch, "Pedometer man" which as I found out later, was more than just handing out little gadgets. There's a whole lot of research going into it all, which is all fine and dandy to hear about, until numbers and statistics come into the equation, and my eyes start to glaze over.

Firstly, after initial introductions, the important questions were discussed. To buy or not to buy? Lunch that is, and who was going to map read. On the second issue I gratefully accepted that they, the locals, could lead the way. Fortunate as they were to work in the lovely town of Cheltenham they were also pretty familiar with the less desirable Gloucester.

Mitch route marched us out of town before I had chance to view it's more attractive side (if it had one) and before too long we were heading up the hill towards Robinswood Hill where on a clear day you could see as far as the Bristol suspension bridge. Considering what a popular place it must be, the choice of paths to get there was very confusing. Being a man, Mitch couldn't possibly ask for directions, but we girls could, and somehow or other we made our way to the top, where we paused for photo's. Me in my "whiter than white" T shirt. (and isn't it amazing what a hot wash can do!)

After some deliberation, we decided on the route to Stonehouse where we would have to eventually part company. I looked nostalgically towards Painswick in the distance, but sadly it wasn't on this year's path, and besides that blue cup" (pub) on the map, in another direction, looked like the ideal lunch stop. To sit in the midday sunshine in a quaint little pub in a hamlet in the Cotswold countryside was something to look forward to. Or it could have been. "Closed due to unforeseen circumstances" was the hurriedly scribbled note on the firmly shut door. Whatever their circumstances were, ours were, two packed lunches between four people. But here's the interesting fact,one always packs more food for a "packed lunch" than one would normally eat at lunchtime. And so there was food a plenty. Sitting in the sunshine on a bench outside the deserted pub we metaphorically shared our loaves and fishes.

Mitch marched us on our way towards Stonehouse. An ideal second refreshment break yes? No. It didn't materialise as the sort of quaint town where there would be a "Ye oldie tea shop" to bid our fond farewells over a cuppa, as it turned out to be unfortunately more Calcutta than Cotswold, with a plethora of curry houses lining the High street. Perhaps it was just as well we didn't stop as I'd arranged to meet cousin Michael in Wotton under Edge, and estimated getting there at 5pm . With promises to keep in touch and perhaps to join Mitch on his next "challenge" (climbing Everest) I finally picked up "The Cotswold Way" retracing the steps of last years trek...

5pm came and went. Michael was there, I wasn't. Not wanting to keep him waiting I put a spurt on and puffed and panted my way through the woods on a part of the "Cotswold's Way" I'd merely strolled through last year. Staggering upon Michael outside a most delightfully tempting (open for business) pub. It was however, all temptations considered, a long way back to Wales.

The unexpected assault course- Tewkesbury to Gloucester

2008-10-10T13:42:00.000-07:00

Glenda was inside Tesco's buying sandwiches for lunch, I was outside waiting to meet the next WHI group and Beverley had run off with the proprietor of the B & B.

A fast mover, I hasten to add, she was after my rucksack, not the man, and was back in a flash to join the rest of the party. Rushing to keep this 10 am appointment I'd left my bag behind. As Dennis & Annie had driven all the way from Leominster with two of their walkers, Jason and Carl, to walk part of the way down the river with us, I didn't want to be late.

After I'd got over the shock of B & G wanting to join in again this year after they'd endured the arduous assault course that was the Pennine Way last year, they then preceded to lay down the conditions. "No hills, no scrambling over rocks, refreshments en route, toilet facilities,nearer to home, and definitely no more than 15 miles, oh, and for one day only. Ok, can you organize that?" I most certainly could. Today's walk was one I'd been looking forward to. Rated as one of the five best walk of travel writer Mark Moxon's L.E. to J.O.G. trip ticked all the boxes. And this was how I "sold" it. "A pleasant meander along the banks of the river Severn, with the opportunity for frequent liquid refreshments at any one (or three) of the delightful riverside pubs. The added bonus being, we were unlikely to get lost"

And all was well, for the first few miles. The six of us set off downstream at a cracking pace, none more cracking than Jason and Carl. Charging ahead of us, theirs was a real WHI success story. When Annie first encouraged them to walk, they could barely complete a mile in 40 minutes. In less than two hours we'd clocked up 5 miles and were enjoying a picnic lunch in the sunshine.

Soon it was time for us to bid fond farewells, and move on to find one of those delightful pubs Mark waxed lyrically about. Well, we found one and yes, the setting was ideal, the pub less so. Never the less, surprisingly good coffee was served with a smile, and as we contentedly sipped and sat at a wooden bench by the river, we eyed up the route ahead and encountered a problem. Where exactly was the route ahead?

When the only way forward seemed to be ploughing through the undergrowth and scrambling up the bank to avoid falling in the river, I sensed dissent among the ranks. Hearing mutterings from behind of "This is worse than last years climb up Stoodley Pike" we reached the mutual decision to backtrack to the pub, whereupon in full embarrassing view of the pub clientele we spotted the sign which would continue our journey on the "Severn Way"

I'd like to say, it got better, but by courtesy of Gloucestershire C.C. who'd decided to put maintaining public rights of ways at the bottom of their "To Do" pile, we encountered our old friends, the nettle family.

So what with that, the mud, and thoughts of a long drive home ahead of us, we settled on the minor road option for the final few drizzly miles into Gloucester.

A hole in my shoe- Worcester to Tewkesbury

2008-10-04T01:02:00.000-07:00

That's me, on the right, riding the crest of a "Severn Bore" wave. Not bad for a novice, if I do say so myself!

I lie, of course. But I was interested in finding out about the phenomenon of the "Severn Bore" and would I actually see it? On the internet was a mind boggling amount of information about precise times, dates, places, statistics and an awful lot of charts. It was all getting far too technical and I sensed I was entering "serious anorak" territory. Time to switch off, but not before ascertaining that I wasn't in the right part of the river to view a sighting anyway.

And so onto today's real, but slightly less exciting adventure.

There was no denying it, I could feel pavement through my sock, and on investigation there was a sizeable hole in my shoe. Well, all things considered, they'd lasted me well to get this far,and just as well I was in a town with a "Miletts". Half an hour later, I was bouncing down the High Street the proud owner of a replica pair of new boots. Somehow or other they bounced me in the direction of the Cathedral. As if by perfect timing I arrived during a morning rehearsal. Lighting a candle, I sat back in the pew, closed my eyes, and let the wonderful sounds wash over me.It was so incredibly moving, I really wanted to stay forever (or at least until I was thrown out) but I had to go. Another day, and another rendezvous. Today I was meeting friends from home at Upton-upon-Severn, or that was the plan.

I got there, Beverley and Glenda didn't. Caught up in traffic on the motorway, they were hours behind schedule, giving me time to check out Upton and bus timetables. Tomorrow, Sunday, we needed to get back from Gloucester to Tewkesbury. (buses ran every day-except Sunday) Oh dear!

I dawdled along the river, stopping to buy an Ice Cream. It was a lovely sunny day, and the weekend crowds were making the most of it. What a shame B & G hadn't got here to enjoy it.

Or, perhaps not. The wide path slowly dwindled down to a narrow unkempt one. That I could cope with. A couple came walking up. Stopping for a chat, their parting shot of "watch out for some nettles further along the way" proved to be the understatement of the year. 1/2 mile of waist high nettles is not "some nettles"

I pulled up my socks, pulled down my shorts to try and cover any inch of exposed flesh, raised my arms high up above my head and waded through. It hardly made any difference, the little b.....s managed to find a way. In what seemed like an eternity I finally saw an end in sight, and hoped that was the worst of it. I needed to warn the obliviously happy pair, who were by now making their way out of Tewkesbury. "Are you wearing long trousers?" "Don't be ridiculous, it's a lovely sunny day, why?" Well, fortunately for them, that was the rest of the walk into Tewkesbury was nettle free. Feeling quite brave and macho I proudly displayed my battle scars, which resembled the crater like surface of a very fiery red moon. Ever the prepared girl guide she once was, Glenda whipped out her travelling medicine cabinet and put out the fire.

As we passed by, I looked longingly and nostalgically at the "Tudor House Hotel" Although they must have been ravished by last year's floods, they were up and open for business, but unfortunately not for us. As in Worcester, in desperation, I booked a "cheap" triple room in a Guest House. In my experience, cheap does not necessarily mean poor standard, and it wasn't really that bad (for one night only) Put it this way, we were as cosy as the three bears, but there definitely wasn't room for Goldilocks.

A warm welcome to Worcester

2008-10-03T03:55:00.000-07:00

"Cashier number one please"

9.00 am, and I was first in line at the Post Office in Stourport upon Severn. I hadn't realised getting my "walking passport" stamped would be such a trial. "I'm not signing and stamping anything unless I know what it is" cashier number one retorted, flicking the passport from side to side, suspiciously. "Ere, Shirl, ever seen one of these?" Cashier number two (Shirl) heaved herself slowly of her stool and lumbered over to take a peek. "No, can't say I have" Meanwhile, an impatient queue started to form behind me, because as we all know, there are only ever two post office windows open at any time. I started again "I'm walking from..." Eventually she reluctantly signed, stamped and I went on my way.

Either it was the weather or the early start, I don't know, but I seemed to whizz alongside the river, and still have time for two pub stops along the way. And there's nothing quite like sitting by the river with an ice cold drink, on a sunny day.

I was looking forward to meeting Peter, his wife, Marguerite, walk leaders from the "Pitchcroft Pacers" in Worcester and Elinor, from Droitwich. But try as I might, I couldn't help conjuring up images of little men in farmers smocks trekking round the racecourse, with pitchforks for walking sticks.

We met, as planned at the "Sabrina Bridge" so called, as she is the Goddess of water. But not without a detour. The effects of last years floods meant I had to leave the riverside and the prospect of gawping at the houses on "millionaires row" for a much less attractive route down the main road into town. But what a warm welcome I received when I got there from the three of them. Why, Elinor had even brought me a present!

We all walked up to the Pump House together for a welcoming cup of tea, where we met and chatted with the young girl from the press, before posing for photo's outside.

Later when Peter and Marguerite dropped me off at the dubious looking B & B, I kind of regretted not taking them up on the offer of a drive out to the Malvern Hills and a bed for the night. But it was too late to run after them, and shout "I'm a tired traveller, get me out of here!"

The golden age of steam - Pattingham to Bewdley

2008-09-28T11:08:00.000-07:00

Penkridge, Pattingham and Bewdley, all places I'd wanted to re-visit. Not just because they were nice places to stay, but more so because of the people I met there. Then, strangely enough, when it came to it, I didn't want to go back to Penkridge library, or the farmhouse B & B in Pattingham, because somehow I knew it wouldn't be the same. There was, however, one person I'd already planned to meet, and that was Adele in Bewdley. We'd exchanged phone numbers last year, but losing the phone, meant losing her number. Meeting in "The Pack Horse" Pub last year we'd shared histories over a glass or two and vowed to keep in touch. But perhaps it was just as well we were not destined to meet up.
The phone rang "Hello! Peter here! I've arranged for the press photographer to meet us at the Pump House at 3pm, is that ok?" I gulped, and quickly set the calculator whirring in my head. Bewdley to Worcester, 20 miles at approx. 3 miles an hour, with extra time for brief stops and getting lost, meant leaving at 7.30 am. "Fine" I said, breezily, "I'll see you there!"
Oh, it was so hot, sticky and unbearably humid today, I couldn't wait to get down to the river. To spur myself on, I earmarked a "blue cup" on the map, to treat myself to a large orange juice with plenty of ice, and what passed the time was meeting a retired policeman, full of local knowledge and stories of last year's floods. In the pub garden, it was hard to believe a year ago I'd have been 3 foot under water.
Was it the heat and fatigue that had made me imagine the haunting distance sounds of a steam train? Or was it all the nostalgic thoughts of yesterday? No, as I reached the river, there up above was the "Severn Valley Railway" chugging back and forth between Ardley and Bewdley. I had to take a look, not least because there might be the prospect of an Ice Cream. Sadly, it was already getting late and the shop was closed. As the last train to Bewdley pulled up to the platform, it was calling out to me "Come on Carol, you're tired, hungry, and it's only 5 miles, I'll get you there in a jiffy"
Now, can you imagine the powers of restraint I needed not to jump on board?

2008-09-28T11:06:00.000-07:00

A Transport Manifesto- Pattingham to Penkridge

2008-09-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

"Pillock?" she enquired, scanning a finger down the visitors book, "Er no, the name's Pollock, actually, I made the booking over the phone, perhaps you misheard me" I laughed, she looked puzzled. Young and Polish, she clearly knew not what she'd said. It was early morning in a Pub in Penkridge and I was itching to get going, once I'd extracted myself away from the jolly landlady who wanted to know all about the trip. How good it felt to be back in the Black Country. From the moment Keith dropped me off at Coventry station, where, with perfect timing, I caught the only straight through morning train to Penkridge, friendliness prevailed, from the ticket office at the station to "Curry's" in Wolverhampton, I was met with smiles and greetings. Why, I was even getting to like the accent!
Dumping the rucksack in Penkridge I made my way to Pattingham by train and bus. With an hour to spare in Wolverhampton, while "Curry's" were obligingly charging up the camera for me, armed with a town trail map I explored. And was pleasantly surprised. Wolverhampton is like one of many post industrial towns, making the best of their heritage
For the first time in the history of the Lejog/Jogle I found getting lost actually worked to my advantage! Following the Shropshire Union Canal, watching the barges chugging slowly up and down the canal, I started to muse about how our whole transport system had completely changed, for the worse really, in the last 50 years. While Beeching was ripping up train tracks, canals were drained, and tram lines removed, arteries of motorway were threading throughout the land, and the age of high speed travel arrived along with jumbo jets and Concord. Deep in thought, I found myself in the middle of a housing estate, and on asking for directions, was guided to the Staffordshire and Worcestershire Canal all the way into Penkridge.
So back to the Transport Manifesto. It seemed to me that in the name of progress we'd actually gone backwards. All because we've lost our sense of time. Continuously seeking ways and means of getting ourselves, and goods from A to B faster. If only the time element was taken away, we could return to the days of transportation by foot, bycycle, train, boat or barge.
But it would take a brave Transport Minister to radically tackle today's problem of pollution, overcrowded roads, and a confusing and inadequate railway system. I reckon whoever is in charge of National Express should be appointed. What a fantastically efficient way of travel. How else can you travel from London To Inverness (return) for £2?
And so all the new Transport Minister has to do is make us all go on compulsory "Canal Bank Holidays" Why? To get us all to de-stress and chill us out to the level where we can accept a slower pace of life. I've never been on a canal boat holiday, but it seems you've got to learn the art of travelling slowly and waiting patiently at all those lock changes.
And so, after a day of sunshine and "bon homie" along the tow path, I spent the evening in the "Littleton Arms" with Kim and her husband, good food, wine and lively conversation. Perfect!

And so we went home - Uttoxeter to Penkridge

2008-09-16T16:09:00.000-07:00

"Where shall I drop you?" asked Kim, "At J.C.B. City!" I cried. And we sped off back to Uttoxeter at the start of yet another grey drizzly day. I'd met Kim on a "Natural England" training course, where we'd swapped "if you happen to be passing through this area..." contact details, and here she was! Why J.C.B. City?, well, the surreal landscape of "giant prawns claws" had really caught my attention last year, and I'd ever since regretted not taking a photograph. I think Kim must have dropped us at another smaller depot, as it didn't look quite so majestic, especially under grey clouds. Never mind, it was onwards and out of Uttoxeter, a place I'd never imagined I'd be in again. As we left, I thought back to last year, the enthusiasm of the local press, how we'd "posed" purposefully walking down the High Street, for "how many times was it?" to get the photo they wanted. This was no time for nostalgia as there were more pressing matters to deal with, e.g. the burgeoning blisters on Sheila's feet. Sticking to the roads to make the journey quicker we stopped en route at a pub where the locals were busy preparing for a big BBQ "fun & games" event. As we left under menacingly dark skies, it looked likely to be a wash out. Or hopefully not, because as we walked southwards, the weather certainly improved for us and it looked like we could enjoy a scenic route into Penkridge along the canal in the afternoon sunshine.

But we didn't. Why?, because, as usual, I talked too much when I should have been map reading.

Faced with a ford in the road caused by the heavy rain, I had to persuade a doubtful Sheila that there really was no alternative. Besides, "It won't be that deep" two seconds later we were ankle deep in water. It wasn't pleasant squelching into town on yet another main road. Had we gone back (as she suggested) we'd have picked up the right track to the canal. Oh dear. When Sheila, cried "I need Blaster Plisters!" it was lucky we hadn't got far to go and could see the funny side of what she'd just said. And finally, to round of a "cracking" day, if we were hoping, showered and refreshed, to venture out of the hotel into the evening sunshine, it wasn't to be. The thunder cracked, the lightning struck, the heavens opened and it was another night dining at the "Quality Inn"

The following morning, we weighed up the situation. With the odds stacked against us, rain, blisters and the fact that I'd probably walked too much for too long, we made a decision, booked the first bus back to London and called it a day.

Weddings and Wimbledon- Fenny Bentley to Uttoxeter

2008-09-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

Well, that was a welcome reprieve! Thanks to Jane. It was interesting to read someone else's "blog" and saved me two days of "What do I write now?" moments.

I have to say it was quite exciting waiting for Sheila to alight from the bus in Ashbourne, as this was the first time someone on this trip had come out to join me en route. We celebrated the prospect of three days walking together with a nightcap in the pub. Sheila fighting fit, and fully equipped with the pedometer, was rearing to go. Yes, today had been a great day of sunshine and easy walking along the "Tissington Trail" the B & B in the delightful village of Fenny Bentley was luxurious. Things could only get better.
Or maybe not. The next morning dawned with drizzly rain as we set off along the last stretch of the "Tissington Trail" towards Ashbourne. Circumnavigating Ashbourne, by the third "I think we've been down this road before" experiences, we were confidently giving directions to the locals, never mind the passing tourists looking for Uttoxeter race course.

Sticking to the minor roads was easy, but looking for the ever elusive "Limestone Way" was a tricky business. Ploughing through the undergrowth and a nasty patch of nettles, we somehow stumbled, albeit briefly, upon the "Staffordshire Way"
Fed up with all this "which way" confusion, we decided the best option was to find a road, any road, that would take us to Uttoxeter- our destination. Happening across a farmhouse, in the middle of nowhere, we knocked on the door. It looked like no-one was home, until through a window we saw this old crone in nylon overalls, circa 1950's, (the overalls, not the crone) of about 104 heaving herself out of her chair. Three years later she eventually managed to open the door. Now, we didn't quite get what she croaked in answer to "Where is Uttoxeter?" but she pointed wildly in a southerly direction, and that was good enough for us. Where there's a farm, there has to be a road. Unfortunately it was the A515 into town. And even when we got there, the next problem was how to get to Penkridge? The bus driver at the bus station obviously hadn't chosen local Geography GCSE, as he hadn't a clue, but fortunately a passenger on the bus had. According to her, if we got a bus to Stafford, we could then get a train to Penkridge. But not before we had to kill time waiting for the bus in the greasiest of spoon cafe's where, lingering over a stewed cup of tea, we had time to admire how the proprietess dealt swiftly and efficiently with the local "Riff Raff" Any attempt by them to loiter in the caf and they were sharply booted out.
And so it was after a long, long, day we finally arrived at the "Quality Inn" in the middle of a wedding reception. Too tired to venture further than the bar, we joined the wake of the wedding party and the bar staff around the TV watching Wimbledon Highlights. The highlight of our day was a pedometer reading of 20 miles walked. 2,800 calories used which = eat, drink and be merry-Hurrah!

In the Dales – Parsley Hay to Fenny Bentley

2008-09-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

So lucky to have one of the really lovely days of the year weatherwise – fluffy white clouds and blue sky. Set off early to hit the trail – Tissington Trail – at Parsley Hay. This is one of the several Peak District trails converted from the old Matlock to Buxton railway route after Beeching did his worst in the 60s. It's such a pleasant, slightly downhill, route, passing through the beautiful drywalled farm land of the White Peak.

After a lunchtime and coffee encounter with a longdistance lorry driver who without any reluctance unfortunately showed his injured ankles(?!), and Carol tried to persuade him how much he needed to join a WH group (to no avail sadly), we had a pleasant afternoon's walk along to Tissington and its famous Hall; a 'stunning Jacobean manor house' - a lovely spot to which I must return with husband Neil sometime, not least for the delicious cream tea which to our delight, awaited us when we stopped off for a break. Tissington village is a lovely spot and has one of the Peak's renowned Well Dressing festivals, usually in May each year.

From there it was a short hop to Fenny Bentley, strung out along the main Ashbourne to Buxton road, but thankfully the comfy looking B+B where Carol was meeting Sheila was high above it in a really peaceful spot. We parted there and I made my way back to the main road for the bus back to Parsley Hay, hoping I had done my bit for WHI and Carol this year. Will be back for more (and to make sure Carol and Keith do the 'missing' Hope to Bakewell bit or thereabouts!)

Back over to you Carol...

Successful Walking for Health day in Sheffield – 3 walks in 1 day!

2008-09-13T07:09:00.000-07:00

Bit of a drizzly day dawned, but we had big plans…Set off for Grenoside in north Sheffield to meet up with the first of the Sheffield Walking for Health groups. We found Tina and Jim with all the group in Grenoside Community Centre car park, with a stunning view over towards the northeast of the city, Wentworth and beyond. Had a lovely walk through Greno Wood, with Jim telling us details of local history, and everyone keen to hear Carol’s walking experiences and how the Surrey group is organised. Returned to a welcome cup of tea and biscuits in the adjacent Church hall, slightly overlapping with Mother and Toddler group still clearing away.

Decided we had time for a quick visit to town (and shopping, Decathlon very successful last time!) en route to our second walk in the west of Sheffield with the Fulwood group – Whiteley Woods and the Mayfield Valley. I was really pleased as I even got to go down lanes and byways I’d not been down before. Our round walk passed the long-established Mill House Animal Sanctuary, the field opposite full of a beautiful herd of Jerseys with one huge bull! – fortunately we were safely the right side of the fence. Leader Sue Lee chatted at length with Carol about the way different WHI groups were set up and the problems of getting grant money etc, though it seemed reassuring that some difficulties were the same wherever you are in the country!

After another much-needed cuppa in the famous Forge Dam café, it was home for a quick meal and catch-up on the computer before our final walk of the day, with the Center Parcs Six (well 4 of them anyway including me Jane). We walk every week if possible, putting the world and ourselves to rights. Ecclesall Woods is near my home and wonderful for walking; the WHI groups sometimes meet there along with other local groups. We did our usual circular route, under the canopy of one of the most beautiful Ancient Woodlands in Yorkshire; by the 16th century, most the area was coppice woods, part of the manor of Ecclesall, but it was acquired by the City Council in1927 from the Wentworth Woodhouse estate. Wonderful bird and wildlife but not much in evidence this evening. An earlyish night as a much longer walk in the Derbyshire Dales tomorrow.

The Last of the free wine.

2008-09-04T03:11:00.000-07:00

Wiping the greasy counter bar counter, she sighed. "Yes, can I help you?" in a way that said "You are the last customer I'm serving tonight, I just want to go home" On that point I was in total agreement. On any trip there are highlights and lowlights. Last night, sitting in a dismally deserted Wetherspoons on a grey drizzly evening, I tried to have positive thoughts. On the plus side, I got a free glass of wine with my meal (whoopee!) eating a tasteless rubbery beefburger served up by an apathetic young waitress was, hopefully, going to be the lowest point. Surprisingly, for a reasonably large town, Halifax had few restaurants, all of which (apart from Wetherspoons) stopped serving at 9pm.
In the spirit of it can only get better, it did. A totally different scene emerged the next morning. Leaving from the more prosperous leafy south side of town (in the sunshine) was more Harrogate than Halifax. Imposing Victorian mansions bordering vast green parks paved my way towards Huddersfield.
There's something quite exhilarating about standing on the brow of a hill looking down over Huddersfield and being able to see the far side of town, knowing where you're heading. To the canal, that's where, and to any long distance walker the prospect of walking alongside a canal is a welcome relief...for about the first 5 miles, then, it gets boring. Two days later you come across the next one, and the excitement starts all over again...
And so I wended my way to Holmfirth. Somewhere I'd specifically chosen to get to. Not because I'm a huge fan of "Last of the Summer Wine" but I figured the location of an incredibly long running and boring series must have something about it. Disappointingly not. It wasn't just mediocre, it was dire. While waiting for Jane, my next host, to arrive, I attempted to walk the steep hill to "Norah Batty's House" Halfway there I thought "What is the point?"
I just didn't get it. How could a "comedy" about three men, who never seem to get any older, still be going for over 30 years?
And so with a sigh, I made my way back down the hill.

Hell, Hull or Halifax - Skipton to Halifax

2008-09-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

As the saying goes - "Hell, Hull, or Halifax, which would you choose?" I chose Halifax. Why? Well, last night Alan was being paternally concerned. He wasn't going to let me leave the house without knowing where my next bed was coming from. Lis had been checking B & B options in Hebden Bridge and there weren't any! Consulting the map it looked like Halifax was nearer to Holmfirth (the next destination) and so at 10.30pm a rather surprised Landlady took a very late booking.
In a supreme effort to avoid hills (difficult in the Pennine region) I chose to follow the River Aire out of Skipton. Following a river is easy, trying to negotiate a miriad of "ways" was definitely not. From Keighley to Haworth there was "The Worth Valley way", "The Bronte Way", "The Howarth Way", "The Railway Children Way"...confused and disorientated I could have been on the "Jenny Agutter Way" for all I knew, but somehow I stumbled out of the undergrowth onto the road which led up a very, very, steep hill to Howarth. Did I need to take it? No, I didn't. Not only did I find a flat river option but also, as luck would have it, a lady dog walker to guide me up to the main road into Halifax.
Why no photo's? Well, with a borrowed old phone of Alice's. I took the pictures but have no way of getting them out. Hopefully, eventually...where there's a will there's a way.

Trout fishing on the River - Buckden to Skipton

2008-08-28T07:11:00.000-07:00

To get back to the Dales, I had to get an early train from York, change at Leeds, fight my way through the rush hour crush to the platform for Skipton, and then catch the little Dales bus to Buckden.

I'd been looking forward to the "Dales Way" or the part of it I was doing.An 82 mile walk, running from Ilkley to Bowness, this should be one of the most scenic sections.To start with it was a great relief to be on the flat, alongside the River Wharfe. After Kettlewell,an idyllic dales village, location of "Calendar Girls" it was the signs directed me up and up, presumably for the wonderful views. But it was a hot day, worn and weary, I'd done enough up, up and aways in the last few days. And there was a little yellow road running alongside the river, shouting out to me to tread it's path. It certainly looked a more desirable option.

Back on the riverside path was a truly delightful stroll, except I didn't have time for ambling, with a train to catch in Skipton. Treating myself to an Ice cream in Grassington, I was preparing myself for the inevitable haul along the road up and then down into Skipton.

And so it was a very tired and sweaty walker who finally arrived back on York Station.

An Uninvited Walker - Reeth to Kettlewell

2008-08-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

Over breakfast Bob and I chatted about the "Coast to Coast". Reeth, being right on route, was the reason why the place was always so busy. As he set off to meet friends he'd hooked up with along the way, I waited on the Green for Lis, Alan, Alice and Rachel to pick me up.

First, Alan obligingly drove me back to the spot where I thought I'd lost the phone. We all hunted high and low, to no avail and so it was a late start for Lis and I back in Reeth. With arrangements to meet Alan and the girls for a picnic near Aysgarth Falls we left the village. Somehow or other the cycle track marked on the map, wasn't where it should have been. Through phone contact we knew Alan wasn't far away. but somehow we never met. Disappointingly they had to track back to the falls with the cool box, and by the time we eventually arrived they'd already eaten. After a hurried late lunch walking companions were swapped with a revised route. i.e. a shorter one if we were going to get back to York at a reasonable hour. Alice and Rachel took the car while Alan, Alice and I took the familiar route (for me) to Thoralby. As a family we'd holidayed here and it brought back many happy but poignant memories.

Just before we hit the main road we were joined by a frisky little puppy. For some reason, he didn't want to leave us, and try as we might, we just couldn't catch him. He whisked this way and that way across the busy road. It was embarrassing, every passing car must have thought we were it's careless owners. Not only that, he was likely to get run over at any moment. After about two miles of this a car screeched to a halt, out jumped a young man, clicked his fingers and grabbed the dog's collar, just like that!

"That's Cooper's dog that is, always getting out he is" "Coopers as in at the Caravan Park?" I asked. The very same people we'd rented our holiday cottage from. Small world in the Dales!

Thankfully he drove off with the dog and we carried on...and on. The road rose up and down along with the sun and we were relieved to finally reach our destination and the car.

Back in York with a Chinese take-away we planned the next day.

Chapter 4. Like a pack of cards. Barnard Castle to Reeth

2008-08-28T04:59:00.001-07:00

This was the Chapter in the story where nearly everything started to go wrong.
Like a pack of cards, things started to tumble. Starting with phones. My super dooper radio/camera phone dropped down the toilet, water damaged, it was useless so I took Sophie's phone with me. When it fell out of my pocket somewhere in the middle of the Dales, I not only lost photographs, but more tragically, something of very sentimental value.
And then there was Darlington. Looking up bus timetables on the internet it seemed the last bus to Barnard Castle was at 4.30pm. My train didn't get into Darlington until 4.40pm so I had to book a B & B in there. It was something else. To say the owner was a fan of Nelson would be a gross understatement. Like stepping into a museum, it was stuffed with memorabilia. Led to my room passed a wall long mural of the battle of Waterloo, he proudly told me he'd been collecting for the last twenty years. The room was small, basic and reminiscent of my attic abode in Wick, but thankfully, Nelson free.
And now for somewhere to eat. Not a great deal of choice, and I made a wrong one. Tapas bars are for sharing platters with friends, not for sad and lonely singles. How does one choose two dishes from about fifty selections on the menu? Gloomily I went back to the "Admiral" Lot's of noise and jollity hailing from the "Waterloo" bar, tempted to join them, I thought better of it and headed to my room.
The next morning at breakfast the table was adorned with red, white and blue napkins and little union jacks waving between the salt & pepper pots. Outside in the garden, the flags of England, Scotland,Ireland and Wales waved back.
Wondering how any wife could put up with this Nelson fanatisism, she told me she herself was also a fan. They'd got married on the HMS Belfast, in full costume (of course) as seen on the photo of their business card.
Phew! with a quick salute to the flags at the front door I was off to Barnard Castle, a lovely dales town with lot's of lovely places to stay, eat and drink. Grrr!
First stop, the Information Centre. I needed to know how I was going to get from Reeth to York tonight. By taking three buses and a train apparently, and the last bus from Reeth was at 5.30.
Right! Better get going then. All was going well on the yellow roads. The sun was shining accompanied by a gentle breeze until I hit the high road. Battling in the wind across the moors, I somehow lost my way and when I saw a dirt track I took it -because it led back to a road. Disorientated setting off in the wrong direction, I soon realised I was heading north, not south. Now I may be crap at map reading but along the way I've picked up a bit of geographical knowledge as I'm able to tell the difference between the rugged northern pennines and the rolling dales.
Scrambling down to a ford I stopped to fold the map. This is where I guessed, later, I must have lost the phone, because not long after that I tried to ring York. I wasn't going to make that bus tonight.
With no way of contacting my friends I just hoped and prayed there'd be somewhere to stay in Reeth. It was a pretty big village with five pubs and a couple of B & B's but- It was Saturday night, and with a wedding party in town, to every knock the answer was "No room at the Inn" My last hope was the "Temperance Hotel" As I started to knock, the door flew open. The owner was dashing off to Evening Service, and I just caught her in time. With everything crossed I asked the question. Yes! She did have a room "But did I mind being alone in the house with Bob?" the only other guest. Did I mind? Did I care? Most certainly not, but first I needed to use the telephone.
I had a super large room in this huge three story Georgian House, I was amused to read the notice in the bathroom about how the ten reasons people give for not washing can easily be the same reasons people choose not to go to church. Well, as I needed some cleansing, spiritual or otherwise I was pouring bubbly into the large bath from the "help yourself" array on the shelf when I spotted a blast from the past "Goya's Aqua Manda for Men Aftershave" One quick sniff and I was catapulted back to the Seventies (A decade with a lot to answer for in Fashion and Musical taste-well some of the music was ok, but a lot wasn't) Dancing to the "Revolution Shuffle" with spotty youths in wide flares and ludicrously tight cheesecloths shirts ,who somehow, in the cold light of day, never looked as dishy as the illustrated boys in "Jackie" magazine, were stood up on the first date.
Ah well, back to 21st century and food. Not having eaten since breakfast, choosing somewhere to eat wasn't that difficult as all the pubs were heaving. Wedged between the Billiard table and the wall, I read the B & B lady's account of her "Coast to Coast" 25th Anniversary walk with her husband.

Hot and High. Stanhope to Barnard Castle

2008-08-28T04:42:00.000-07:00

It had been a big mistake to celebrate one day to soon, as Keith and I had one more day to complete before going home. On a hot day, trekking over the northern pennines was not going to be fun. Even less so with a heavy head and tired eyes-but it was our last night in Stanhope with Angela, Peter and Jenny and so the partying didn't end there we arranged to meet up in Cornwall. Invited to join us in the cottage for the final week, I was determined to get them walking somehow, somewhere!

The only way to tackle a day like today was to hit the road and stick to it. I wasn't brave enough to tackle the footpaths dotted across the moors and so, boring as it was, we didn't take long to reach the outskirts of Barnard Castle (where Keith had left the car) The only highlight of the day had been the strange sighting of a car full of "dolly birds" stopping off for a picnic in the most unlikely setting of a quarry.

George made it! Hexham to Blanchland to Stanhope

2008-08-28T04:01:00.000-07:00

The party split into two camps. Those that had sensibly had an early night - The walkers. Keith, Jenny and I. And those that hadn't -The drivers. Hilary and Maurice.

We met in the very urban setting of the Hexham Business Park, but were soon heading up the steep hill out of town and into the rural countryside. Walkers and leaders from different groups around the area had come to join us, and with Alison, thankfully, back in charge of the map, I was able to have a chat to them all. She'd devised a scenic route weaving in and around the river and after about 3/4 miles the three ladies of the group set off in a taxi back to Hexham. But not before "Jane" tried to take "George" with her. George, her husband, was in his 80's. Attired in a long sleeve shirt, tweed jacket, topped with a Duffle coat, he decided he wanted to walk onto Blanchland. Clearly, this was not the original plan as he had no packed lunch or water.

But, he was insistent and with a wave to a worried looking Jane, we were off again. As we climbed higher over the moors the sun got hotter and hotter, but still he kept his coat on, as "he didn't want to have to carry it"

I don't know how Alison navigated us across the moors down into Blanchland, but somehow before too long we were sitting in the Abbey tea shop garden enjoying some well needed refreshments. Once again, it was time to say goodbye. They'd been such good company, but it was time for me to trek the last 10 miles on my own.

George didn't seem to have Jane's number so unsure of quite where to leave him, my last sight was of a rather worried looking Alison driving off with a tired but happy man.

Later that evening in the pub, young student Jenny had been so inspired by old George that she told us all that from now on she'd walk to all her lectures everywhere around Bristol. Another convert to "Walking for Health"!

Off Duty! - Bellingham to Hexham

2008-08-28T02:54:00.000-07:00

As Alison (WHI Co-ordinator for this region) hopped on the bus outside Hexham, I knew today could only get better. The sun was shining and so was the map holder slung around her neck. Yes, I was off map control duty for the next two days!

We arrived at Bellingham, and after a brief chat with some local walkers we were off on our way. With Alison map reading, I could concentrate on what I do best -talking! We compared notes about our respective Co-ordinator positions and before too long met yet another lone "Lejoger" He certainly didn't look like he'd make it to Bellingham, never mind John O' Groats. Oddly, he was wearing all his waterproofs. Sweating profusely, in the heat of the day, he explained he was trying to minimise the weight on his back. At 4.30am with a minimal water supply he'd set out from "Once Brewed" or was it "Twice?" I can't remember now, but feeling very sorry for him we decided it was time for our own "brew" and stopped off at the delightful little teashop cum Post Office in Simonsburn. An estate managed village, it was a picture postcard place with all the houses painted in heritage green.

We had to speed things up a bit as I'd arranged to meet Alec-a walk leader from Cramlington, who'd driven over here especially to meet me. We eventually caught up near Hadrians Wall where Alison was leaving us to return back to her village. Back in map control, within five minutes, Alec and I managed to get lost in a field. After going round in circles a few times we eventually found a dog walker who guided us towards the minor road into Hexham.

The next problem now was guiding Keith (mapless husband) out of Hexham to come and meet us. Now I read maps in a colour coded way. Yellow=ok for walking. Orange=not ideal, but ok for a short stretch if there's no alternative. Red= to be avoided at all costs, unless absolutely necessary. Blue=If found walking on one of these you should be carted away in a little white van.

Anyway, Keith is taking directions down the phone. "Yellow road, what yellow road? are you mad?" he barked down the phone. "What the hell are you talking about, all roads are grey!"

Fortunately, as Hexham was his childhood stomping ground he knew where he was going and we all eventually walked into Hexham together.

Bidding farewell to Alec, with promises to meet up next time he was down in Redhill visiting his family, we set off back to Stanhope.

Writers Blog

2008-08-25T22:10:00.000-07:00

As I sit here in Devon, with Lands End in sight I need to apologise to any confused readers who may be wondering why I'm still in County Durham.
When I set out on the "Lejog" trek last year, the Blog became the millstone around my neck with never enough time to keep it up to date. This year, with a job & domestic activities piling up every time I came home between each leg of the journey, "Writers Blog" set in. It stuck at the bottom of a "To do" list.
Now, I'll endeavour to catch up, but keep it brief. The notes are all there for the longer journal (which may eventually be written) but for the loyal supporters of WHI groups who've enthusiastically joined in to support me I want to get it finished!

What a difference a year makes

2008-08-02T07:23:00.000-07:00

Well, with no sounds of snoring from the opposite bed, I guessed, correctly, that Jan was a woman. Quietly creeping out of the room, so as not to wake her, I was planning on an early start.

Not quite as early as the 5.30 am the kitchen clock told me it was! However, since I was up and about, I started preparing breakfast and packed lunch when into the kitchen strolled Jan's husband and (male) friend from Canada. Ah...now I understood the sleeping arrangements.

After long discussions about the pros and cons of the Pennine Way, addresses were exchanged, and with an offer of a bed if I was passing through Herefordshire, I was off.

But not before saying goodbye to Mr & Mrs Youth Hostel. They really had done a stirling job of turning this place around when it was on the point of closure. I could see for myself the improvements from last year. The showers for one. Yes, I would heartily recommend this place. Where else could you get a bed, breakfast, two course evening meal, with wine (yes, they even have a license now!) packed lunch and towel hire for £26.00.

Practically skipping through Keilder Forest, which last year had seemed such an eternally long end to a tough day, by 11.00 am, I was triumphantly calling my sister from "Witley Pike" "Guess where I am?" She couldn't believe it. Last year, following late night revelling with old school friends, we'd climbed the steep hill out of Bellingham, in the searing heat of a midday sun to reach this point. But what a difference a year makes. Of last years trio of hills, heat and hangovers, only the hills remained.

Feeling smug, self satisfied, and thinking I really ought to slow down to a stroll, as Angela (my host) wasn't picking me up until late afternoon, I took a long rest, and was admiring the views, when along the path came a couple of walkers. Laden down with heavy rucksacks they were camping all the way to John O' Groats. While he looked quite chipper, she looked completely knackered, and pretty fed up. And I soon realised why. After brief exchanges of what we were doing, how and why, he looked me up and down a bit and sneered "Well, if you were carrying packs like ours, you certainly couldn't get away with wearing those" pointing to my lightweight trainer style walking boots. And then added suspiciously, "You're not a member of the Ramblers are you?" Not quite understanding the relevance of this question I replied "Well, yes I am actually" "Thought so! The sought of people who think walking is to drive to a nice location, stroll around a bit, go to the pub, get back in the car and go home" Gritting my teeth, and trying to remain polite, I wished them the best of luck with the rest of their journey. And as they walked on, she turned round, as if to say "Please take me with you" I tried to convey my sympathy at her misfortune in ever agreeing to walk with him, silently replying, "Take my advice and do yourself a favour. When you get to John O'Groats, buy him a one way ticket to the Orkneys "

Unfortunately, I then took his advice of trying the "Alternative Pennine Way" So alternative, that all the signposts disappeared. All my early progress was lost in a wasted hour of scrambling about on the moor, looking for a way down to the road.

When Angela picked me up and whizzed me off to Sunderland, for a quick shower, before heading off to South Shields, I was amazed. I'd expected cranes, warehouses, ships and a grim grey landscape. The reality was golden sand stretching for miles. With a distinct lack of any of the trappings of a seaside frontage, in the evening sun it looked like the south of France.

We were in South Shields for a Dance Show. Her daughter, Sophie, was performing with the elite Northern Dance Company. A contemporary performance it was nothing like the dance shows I'd been subjected to over the years To sit for hours watching other peoples children prance around just to see your own little darlings brief appearance as a chicken or a fairy is, I suppose, all part and parcel of playing the dutiful parent of dancing daughters.

On the Border

2008-07-27T14:12:00.000-07:00

Last night I prayed to a God that hadn't really been listening for the past two years.

I said "The forecast for tomorrow is torrential rain sweeping across the whole of the UK. We are being advised to board the Arc immediately. With places to get to and people to meet, if I don't walk the 30 miles to Byrness tomorrow I won't be able to. Now, if you can't work big miracles can you try a small one please, and stop the rain?"

And do you know what? He did. Leaving Melrose for the "St Cuthberts Way" under grey, but dry skies, I said a silent "thank you"

It was with a regrettable sigh that I past by a very attractive house on the "S.C.W." I was due to meet a "Paths to Health" WHI leader yesterday for afternoon tea at his home. Obviously that had to be re-scheduled to morning coffee, but he unfortunately at the last minute, had to be elsewhere.

Never mind, I needed to get a pace up. The route is well marked and easy to follow as it wiggles and squiggles it's way alongside the river. One huge loop near St Boswell's was one I was determined to cut off. I tried and failed last year, but today, Hurrah! I succeeded.

Somehow it seemed easier this way round, and before too long I was heading down the long straight "Dere Street" into Jedburgh.

Just as I got into town, the heavens opened and so I darted into a steamy cafe. "Is this seat taken?" were wise words, as I met the most interesting lady who was really taking "Active retirement" seriously. Having bought herself a camper van to travel the world, going wherever the fancy took her, she was starting the journey here in The Borders, one of her favourite haunts.

A voice in my head said "Ok, you've made one cup of coffee last an hour, if you want to get to Byrness before nightfall, it's time to move on - and look, it's stopped raining" and so with a quick swapping of e mail addresses and promises to keep in touch, I was on my way out of Jedburgh, only pausing to take a photo of the magnificent Abbey.

Walking down the minor roads and riverside paths, the clouds slowly cleared away and by the time I stepped out onto the main road at "Carter Bar" (the border of Scotland and England) the views of the sun setting over the Borders were stunning. All was quiet and still. The Bagpipe Player, who last year was entertaining a coachload of Japanese tourists, had packed his souvenir CD's and gone home.

Was I ever glad to see the Youth Hostel in sight, and even gladder that I'd booked ahead, as there really is nothing else but the hostel in Byrness. It had been touch and go when I'd rung yesterday. "Sorry, fully booked. school party in" "What! Can you not squeeze one small female in anywhere? I'll sleep on the boot rack if I have to!" "Well, give me five minutes to check whether "Jan" on the Pennine Way is a man or a woman, and I'll phone you back" and my luck was in, she found me a bed. Whew!

I don't think I'd realised just quite how tired I was until my eyes blurred and I started swaying, trying to take in the instructions for using the shower.This place is full of them. Run with military precision by the ex Army trainers they were, all guests clearly know the rules. The boot one being the most important to remember. "Do not under any circumstances attempt to enter the house wearing your boots or you will face a court marshall" or words to that effect.

After a very very late meal, I collapsed into bed, far to exhausted to care if my room mate was "Jan" the man or the woman.

A summit meeting of the Legog Society

2008-07-15T23:53:00.000-07:00

Feeling fresh, invigorated, dry and ready to finally make up those extra miles I missed on the first day, I was going to walk to Jedburgh. Oh yes I was! Or was I?

Taking the easy low road which follows the Tweed, the plan was to weave alongside the main road, stop at Innerleithen for a coffee, and then on to Walkerburn, over the bridge to the minor road to Melrose. None of that "faffing around" with the "Southern Upland Way" going all the way round the houses (literally) in Galasheilds I was going straight to the "St Cuthberts Way" at Melrose. From there on it was an easy route to Jedburgh. All I needed to was book somewhere to stay.

Circumnavigating "Cardrona" the ostentatious housing development favoured by footballers wives, ( how any property developer ever got planning permission to blot the beautiful landscape of the banks of the River Tweed remains a mystery), I arrived at a minor road pointing me towards the hills and "The Southern Upland Way" Well, I considered the options, perhaps this stretch of "The Way" to Melrose might be a good idea, after all. Not long down the road I met a lone female walker. After the initial "Hi, and where are you walking today's" she told me she was walking to Lands End! In the next half hour we swapped stories and e mails before moving on. Blow me, 20 minutes later I met my next "Lejoger" .We chatted about this, that, and the state of play at the Byrness Youth Hostel. (the only place to stay en route) If I booked ahead, as they are getting busy, and remembered the boot rule, I should be ok. Half an hour later, I was off again, thinking I really needed to get a spurt on if I was going to make it to Jedburgh before nightfall.

Undoubtedly, it was hard going, but the views made it all worthwhile. "The Point of Resolution rings "were an interesting "lets stop and get my non existent scientific mind around this amazing sight" sort of moment. Later, pausing for another breather, I met two ladies doing the "SUW" and as we chatted, who should appear up the slope but another trio of "Lejogers" As one of them enquired about the whereabouts of Ruth, I detected a distinct frisson of enthusiasm that she'd been spotted earlier. Could this be the beginning of a Lejog romance, or was my imagination running away with me?

By now, I was way, way, behind time and by the time I'd stopped for another chat with another "Southern Upland Wayer" I'd resigned myself to staying in Melrose.

Which seemed, initially, not a bad decision, I'd really liked the place last year, and regretted not having enough time to enjoy it. So, first stop the Youth Hostel. £30 for a shared room without breakfast! They'd got to be joking. Unfortunately not and as every B & B had "No Vacancies" in desperation I finally checked into a hotel. For £45, I was offered a "non smoking room" (like I should be grateful)which would have been almost acceptable if the T.V. the lights and the shower had worked. In the end, it was so late, I was so tired, I even ate there. Another disappointment. The lack lustre attitude of the bar staff reflected in the service and the food. So, Melrose, beautiful a place as it was, passed me by.

Like Pooh and Piglet I go hunting but don't catch a Woozle

2008-07-11T14:27:00.001-07:00

Well, news travels fast! Here I was in West Linton with the Pipe Band playing me out of town to a cheering crowd. I wish! No, I'd arrived on the morning of the "West Linton Festival" a day unfortunately dawning grey and drizzly.

Originally planning to stick to the River Tweed, I decided instead to take the old "Drovers Road across the hills. It was well signposted and with a more direct route, I should have made good progress. Unfortunately not, as I climbed higher, the weather deteriorated, and somehow, head down against the driving rain I missed a signpost.

To spend the next hour in a huge forest, knowing I was going round in circles, was getting to the scary "will I ever see my family again" point. Confused and disorientated the only way forward was to go backwards. Clambering through the bracken, I eventually backtracked to the point where I'd taken the wrong turning.

From there on, it was easypeasy all the way back to Peebles. Easy, but grim. Soaked to the skin, all I could think of was the hot bath I'd sink into when I finally got there.

It was only after I was warm, safe and dry, I could see the funny side of it.

Like Pooh and Piglet I'd wasted an afternoon going round in circles in the wood, and didn't even see a "Woozle" never mind catch one.

An unexpected guest

2008-07-10T11:59:00.000-07:00

If your thinking I should have been at the bridge yesterday you'd be correct, but in order to meet up with the B.F's yesterday, I needed to swap the days over. And, just to complicate matters further, I also decided not to walk back to Balerno, because for the equivalent mileage I could walk right into the city. And what a brilliant decision that turned out to be ( I certainly don't make many of them) On a beautiful sunny day I followed the cycle track all the way to the Haymarket, practically to the front door of the flat.

Why was it so great? Well, after the excitement of striding over the bridge I was walking back into the countryside again heading towards Barnton, one of Edinburgh's most affluent suburbs. As I tried to guess the price of a huge detached house in this area I came across one of those really modern architectural splendours of the type you see on "Grand Designs" juxtapositioned between the 1930's mansions, and it somehow didn't seem out of place.

On this bright Saturday morning everyone and his dog was out cycling on the path. As every northerner knows (me included) a warm sunny Saturday is a rarity to be made the very most of.

A perfect day for a visit to the "Royal Yacht Brittania" Permanently docked at Leith, it is now a museum for the viewing public to get a feel of what life on board the Royal Yacht was like-from both sides of the "green baize door"

It was fascinating, and I came away feeling really quite sorry for the Queen, and the rest of the Royal Family, in that they were probably bowing to public opinion (influenced by the media) into relinquishing what had been a damn good P.R. exercise. My goodness, she worked tirelessly. OK, between state visits, life on board was a relaxing interlude, and why not? I didn't feel quite so sorry for those "below stairs" The hierarchy of life aboard ship was all apparent as we descended to the bowels of the ship. Anyway, I'm sure a compromise could have been made. As it is, it's being preserved in pristine condition, hired out for corporate events no doubt at some mind boggling cost.

On the bus to Peebles, I was slightly concerned. All attempts at contacting Ruth and Roy (my hosts) failed. There was nothing for it but to ring the bell and hope for the best...No response. The car was in the drive, it was a beautiful sunny evening, they must be in the garden, watering the plants. "Hello, how nice to see you!" exclaimed Ruth, hose in hand, in a way that indicated she was surprised to see me. However, this wasn't a problem. As we got stuck into a quick change of sheets, I was, I think, flattered that I was an "ok" sort of unexpected guest.

Chapter 3. The Balerno Footsteps

2008-07-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

In a flash of last minute inspiration I decided to fly up to Edinburgh very early on in the morning I was due to meet my first "Walking for Health" group. It made more sense to use airmiles, than use up hours getting there by train or bus. And so, just over 3 hours after leaving home, I was sitting in the office of the Balerno High School Community Office waiting to meet Chris the "Balerno Footsteps" Co-ordinator.

When I was introduced to the group, it all felt so familiar to me. They were such a nice friendly group of people, and talk about coincidence, one of the walkers had a sister who had just joined one of our walking groups in Surrey!

We set off with a melee of school children looking like they were joining us on the walk, but they were actually on some sponsored walk and soon headed off in a different direction.

Balerno was vaguely familiar, as I'd walked through it last year to make my way to the start of the canal. As we walked through the suburbs I chatted to George. In his 80's he had lots of interesting stories to tell.

Eventually I had to say goodbye him, Chris, and the other male walkers as I walked on with the three ladies to the Harlaw Reservoir for another few miles. It was a beautiful spot, if only it hadn't been spitting with rain. Another fond farewell as in such a short space of time they already felt like old friends.

And then there were two, as Carol and I walked on towards the Pentland Hills where she was going to set me off on the right track. Incredibly fit for her age, she'd already walked about 12 miles the day before!

Finally, it was just me, the wind and the rain. As I climbed higher the fog came to join us. It wasn't anything like the same hike we'd made last year in the warm sunshine.

I was beginning to get tired. Perhaps getting up at 4.30 am hadn't been such a good idea after all, and so, after a few miles of road walking, I called it a day and got the bus back to Edinburgh from West Linton.

A Bridge too Far

2008-07-10T05:26:00.000-07:00

On a brighter Monday morning I viewed Perth from it's best side. As we drove alongside green parks and fine Victorian houses it crossed my mind that in any city or town the west or south sides is nearly always the more affluent. Must be something to do with the sun.

Today was a challenge, a revised one at that.

I'd planned to reach Edinburgh on this leg of the journey, but underestimating how long it would take the wiggly cycle route to get from A to B, I was now faced with a 30 mile stretch just to get to the Forth Road Bridge the gateway to the city.

However, I had a master plan. The way to tackle a hefty mileage day was to break it up into stages, and take breaks.

Stage One: To reach Milnathort for "Elevenses" and find a really nice bohemian cafe for a latte and a toasted teacake.

Stage Two: Dunfermline by mid afternoon. Spend an hour in the Library and another looking round the town followed by afternoon tea. The road to Dunfermline was still following a Cycle Route, but through the urban Town Hill Park, it made a refreshing change.

Now bearing in mind Dunfermline is a pretty big place, it had to have a library, or did it? This was the question I put to two teenagers. "Er, don't fink there is one, is there?" they looked doubtfully at each other for conformation "Nah, we haven't seen it, have we?" then they thought about it a bit longer and decided there just might be one "somewhere down there" waving vaguely behind the High Street.

Dunfermline's most famous son Andrew Carnegie the millionaire philanthropist must surely, right now, be turning in his grave. Contributing £8,000 to building and stocking what was to be the first of over 2,500 Carnegie funded libraries in the world. It was so popular with the lending public, that "heavies" had to be employed to control the crowds crushing round the desk.

By 1904 it had to be enlarged and virtually rebuilt to this glorious building I saw before me. With a wide sweeping staircase, wood panelled walls and a very pleasant library assistant at the information desk, who issued me with my very own plastic card (even though I was but a mere visitor) it was everything a library should be. So it was a shame that the only crowds today were round the computers. A sign of the times.

I spent so long in there I only had time for a whistle stop tour around the town, pausing for afternoon tea, before trekking out of town in pursuit of "Carphone Warehouse"

Why? Well I couldn't remember if it was the 10th or the 12th when my new monthly minutes and texts were issued. Now usually the young assistants talk to you in that outwardly friendly, but somewhat condescending way they have with old fogies like me who only have a phone with a contract because they've been told (by their children) they should. The phone the offspring have chosen on your behalf is all singing, dancing and performs all sorts of tricks you are totally oblivious to. Why, only today, in the Town Hill Park, I discovered how to send a picture message!

Anyway, back to the plot. This assistant was so patient and kind, he didn't make me feel inferior at all. I think I should nominate him for employee of the year.

Stage Three: The homeward stretch, a mere hop, skip and a jump to the Forth Road Bridge.

I walked up and up the hill, and then there it was in the distance, shimmering in the sunlight, and beyond it I could see Edinburgh stretching on for miles into the haze. Wow!

My destination however was the less stunning "Forth Road Bridge Park n' Ride" as it was from here I'd get the bus back to town.

Before I left for the overnight bus I took Mari-Ann out for a thank you meal. She'd even given up her bed for me, bless her, and so we went to the appropriately named "Mercat Bar" and celebrated the completion of the "Second Leg"

The "Perfect" Centre -not on Sunday's

2008-07-10T04:02:00.000-07:00

Why was there a Beatrix Potter museum in Birnam? This was Scotland, not the Lake District. Because Beatrix spent her childhood summer holidays nearby at Dalguise House. I'd actually walked passed it yesterday. It was the Victorians who first put Scotland on the tourist map, when affluent Londoners realised the air was much cleaner and fresher up here. (Did they not have midges 100 years ago?)

While the men engaged themseves in the manly sporting pursuits of hunting, shooting and fishing, the ladies drank tea and played Croquet on the manicured lawns. Their offspring, normally confined to sedate walks with Nanny in Kensington Gardens, got a taste of the freedom of the great outdoors. Spending long days splashing around in the rivers, climbing trees, and generally getting their white smocks dirty, Beatrix was one such child and her fascination with wildlife, plants and animals began right here.

The museum was small and very child friendly. I was itching to sit down at the activity table and start crayoning a picture of Peter Rabbit, but I didn't think the other children would like it, and so I went on my way.

Just beyond Birnam I bid farewell to the River Tay, as the cycle route headed towards Bankfoot. The cycle route is deceiving, in that it wiggles here and there, making your original mileage calculations way, way, off the mark. For instance: Today should have been about 14 miles but was probably more like 20. Whatever it was, it was a long way from Bankfoot into Perth. The sign told me I was entering the "Perfect Centre" Well, obviously everyone, and everything has it's best side. Clearly this wasn't Perth's. To match the ambiance of the grey suburbs it started to drizzle with rain. I plodded on to the bus station ready to go "home" to Edinburgh.

"You can't get on this bus, it's booked" the driver informed me. "But, I have a City Link Pass" I cried in dismay. Clearly relishing his moment of "jobsworthness" he jabbed his fat finger at the back of my pass "Read the small print darling" and he actually smiled. "You'll just have to wait for the next one and hope that's not full. Should be along in, ooh let me see now (running aforementioned fat finger down the timetable), in an hour and a half"

Well, I could understand why people wanted to leave Perth en masse on a drizzly grey Sunday evening, but as I wandered through the deserted shopping precinct, I wondered what I was going to do for the next 90 minutes.

Make one cup of coffee in a dreary pub last for an hour by doing the crossword in a discarded newspaper, that's what.

Moving On

2008-07-09T11:28:00.000-07:00

Today, I was moving on to Edinburgh and Mari-Anne's flat.

And with no rush to leave Inverness, I had a few final visits to make. Firstly the Post Office to shed some of my load. It was time to be ruthless. Maps, clothes and anything else I could live without was posted home, as the Rucksack felt mightily heavy after the lightweight day bag. I also got my "End to End" Passport stamped by a very impressed assistant.

Then to the Inverness Museum. I wanted to try and understand, just what had made these Highlanders such a strong fearsome bunch, and how did all this Clan business start?Well clearly, the early Picts (painted) people had to work hard to make a living in the Highlands, and probably had to fight for every fertile scrap of land they could. But after hearing all these tales about the fairer sex I reckon this is how it all began...

"One cold night, in a remote settlement, the menfolk were sitting around the fire complaining about their "Other Half's" "All she ever does is nag, nag, nag, do this, do that...and every single day I get a clip round the ear for drinking more than my recommended daily units of alcohol. I tell you I need a break" The others all nodded sympathetically. Then one of them had a bright idea. "Hey, why don't we go and pick a fight with the next village? It'll take us at least four days to get there and back, and with a couple of days fighting, that's nearly a week!" "Great idea Reg!" said another " But how will we know we're not killing each other?" "Yea, good point, what we need is a common identity. I know, I'll get the Missus to rustle up some kilts, that will keep her busy. Now, what about colour? Personally, I think blue, with a splash of red, is rather fetching"... and off they dashed to pack the crates with enough alcohol to last for at least a month.

On the road towards Dunkeld, all the interesting places, i.e. places to get refreshments and facilities like Ballinluig and Dowally were all on the other side of the A9. The cycle track was quieter, but less interesting. Only one solitary cyclist passed me by all day. In need of company and conversation, he slowed down for a chat. "Oh well, best be on my way" he said when he eventually realised I wasn't. In spitting distance of my destination, I didn't want to linger.

Dunkeld was a picture postcard of a place, and as I entered through the forest, there ahead of me was the Cathedral, I was entranced. The bus, however, left from Birnam on the other side of the bridge.

Conveniently, the bus stop had placed itself at the end of the pub garden, and I conveniently had just enough time to enjoy a Spritzer as the sun went over the yard arm. And yes, I had already made sure I was on the right side of the road!

A Slog and a half!

2008-07-09T10:46:00.000-07:00

There was only one way I was going to get to Pitlochry before midnight and that was to get the earliest bus out of Inverness, trek down the A9 (missing out Blair Atholl) and eventually turning off at the sign for "Killiecrankie" What a delightful name. As I ate a late lunch, I half expected "Wee Jimmy" to pop up from under the bridge and with silly schoolboy humour, nick my sandwich.

Killiecrankie had a great little Visitor Centre, and a small museum. The helpful assistants put me on the right woodland track to pick up the trail...all the way to Pitlochry! It was a perfect walk to finish what had been a hard day. Dappled sunlight filtered through the trees, as the trail weaved it's way alongside the river. Passing two large lakes the track finally opened out onto the outskirts of Pitlochry.

Pitlochry also proved to be a delight, and if I had known the bus was going to be an hour late I would have had a good old poke around. Well, I shouldn't complain as it had been my choice to commute, and despite the longer, and longer bus journey's to and from Inverness, I was glad I'd stayed there.

I'd already picked up my bag from the Youth Hostel and bid my fond farewells to the cell and the cheery cook in the kitchen (who always let me make a packed lunch from the breakfast food-even though it wasn't strictly allowed) At the B & B I wallowed in my "en suite" bathtub, which was luxury after the "down the corridor" shower at the Hostel before heading to the "Riverside" for my final meal where I met a very interesting couple. We seemed to "click" straight away, and it wasn't long before we exchanged addresses and I was being invited to visit them in Ullapool. They were staying in the hotel so as they went inside for a meal, I strolled in the evening sunshine down to Ness Island, across the bridge to the Cathedral and finally back to "Nico's Bar" for a coffee to write up the day's journal.

Do not dispute the cycle route

2008-07-09T04:48:00.000-07:00

Reluctantly dragging myself from the "Wildcat Walking Centre" and clutching my latest purchase - the more detailed "Sustrans Cycle Route" map which would take me all the way to Perth, why on earth did I go wrong within the first hour?

Because I disputed the cycle route, that's why.

About a mile out of Newtonmore I spotted a sign, pointing towards a quiet, shady tree lined road telling me that the information centre/cafe/picnic area I had already earmarked for an elevenses pit stop was but a mere 3/4 mile down this way. The blue cycle sign was saying "Come this way, down the main road out of the village, where there is no shade, the sun is rising on another hot day, you have no suncream on, and you will most definitely get burnt"

And so I chose the shady route, deciding that "Sustrans" had made one major misprint. An hour, and approximately 3 miles down the road I arrived back on the A9 - 4 miles nearer towards Inverness. In other words, I'd walked "Backwards,Backwards"!

Muttering unrepeatable language I furiously stomped down the A9 to the point where I came upon the cycle route sign smugly saying "Newtonmore - 2 miles - You foolish woman - forget that Latte at the veranda cafe, you'll not even make it to Dalwhinnie to catch the bus in time for that Theatre trip you booked and paid for"

And it was unfortunately right. No matter how fast I walked, as I reached the turning into Dalwhinnie - "6 miles" there was indeed no way I would make it.

And so, I decided to do the thing that all good, sensible parents tell their children, never, ever, under any circumstances to do, I hitched a lift.

Justifying that I'd already walked at least an extra 4 miles, if I got a lift to the village I could walk the 2 miles out the other end to the bus stop and it wasn't really cheating, was it?

Happier now I'd made the decision, I walked on..and on...listening out for any oncoming vehicles. On this quiet road it was 10 minutes before I heard the chug chug of the Mobile Library Van coming up the hill. Joy of Joys! What a safe bet, and he's bound to stop. As I waved in a "I'm flagging you down so that you'll offer me a lift" sort of way, he waved back in a "Nice day for a walk" sort of way. Drat! It was another 10 minutes before I heard a car approaching. Taking no chances this time, I positioned myself in the middle of the road, waving my arms like an Air Traffic Controller. The two young Belgian mountaineers who screeched to a halt at my feet had no alternative but to offer me a lift. Now I was more than happy to squash in the back with all the gear, but they were Belgian and serious "You must wear ze seat belt, it is the law,ya?" Well, ya, it is, but for heavens sake, this was but a mere, by now, 3 mile hop down the road!

However, in no position to argue, and with the minutes ticking away, I waited impatiently while they carefully and neatly stowed the gear into the boot. As they dropped me in the "village" and sped off under a cloud of dust to catch the ferry I realised the place was deserted, and I had a very important question to ask. I could have strode across to the Saloon Bar, swung through the swing doors to find the entire population drinking whisky and playing poker. They would all probably turn round and stare in silence until one of them would say "We aint seen you around these parts before" and I would reply "Well no, I'm from Tadworth Surrey, and could you please, please tell me that the bus stop is only another 2 miles down the road"

Well, It may have felt like being in the "Wild West" round here, but I did get the answer I wanted from an unlikely source. Amazingly, in this tiny hamlet I found a school where I heard children's voices and found four uniformed schoolchildren happily playing in a sandpit in the shade, while a teacher read her newspaper. (What a great job)

With enough time to buy suncream, find a comfortable B & B for tomorrow night, my last in Inverness and a quick meal at the "Riverside" I strolled across the bridge to the "Eden Court Theatre" beautifully refurbished with two theatres, a cinema, cafe and restaurant. About a year ago, a random group of musicians had been selected to spend 2 weeks in a house, told to be "creative" and see what they came up with. It was one of those arty experiments which they happily, and without guilt, told us was "all paid for by the taxpayers" Musically, even to my untrained ear, they were very talented and versatile, but most of it was pretentious rubbish. However, one song, and one singer stood out. Inverness born, of french parents, she had the looks, personality, voice and charisma to be a star as she strutted up and down the stage with all the energy of a young Mick Jagger.

A Happy Tour

2008-06-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

Should I stay or should I go?

I could either take the train up to the mountain top restaurant for the wonderful views, or hit the cycle track to Newtonmore thereby getting back to Inverness in time for "The Ghost Tour"I opted for a spot of ghoulish entertainment. Besides, I'd fallen out with Aviemore. In the two bus waiting hours yesterday evening, I could have taken the mountain train if the last one hadn't left at 4.15pm!

So, legging it fast and furious down the High Street (checking first I was walking in a southerly direction) it wasn't long before I picked up the familiar little blue cycle signs.With no time to linger in Kingussie, pleasant as it was, I stepped up the pace to power walking levels to reach the bus stop in Newtonmore.And an interesting place it turned out to be. What with "The Wild Cat Walking Centre of Scotland" and the intriguing "Waltzing Waters Experience" billed as "The worlds most elaborate water, light and music experience"
On a beautiful Summers Evening, what better place to dine than down by the river at the "Riverside Restaurant" With good food, wine and interesting company, this was an improvement on last night's Caff. Striking up conversation with a couple of avid coach tourers from Nottingham, as they left for dinner at their hotel, I headed for the Ghost Tour which on arrival was "Cancelled Tonite"-Now what? Luckily, across the road, I spotted a jolly looking chap in a tartan waistcoat, surrounded by a huddle of tourists. Quickly, before they left, I dashed across. "Can I join in?" "Of course" he beamed "Welcome to the Happy Tour!" took my money, slapped a smiley sticker on my chest, and we were off.
First stop was the "Mercat Cross" Originally at the crossroads in the centre of Inverness, in the days before media and the world wide web, this was the place to get the daily news. It was also the site for public humiliation, mostly of the womenfolk of Inverness. While the men were away fighting, the women got restless, and started fighting each other. For punishment they were dragged through the streets, flogged and tied to the cross where in front of a jeering crowds their ultimate punishment was decided upon, which strangely enough, didn't seem to fit the crime. Murderers were packed off on a boat to Canada. Now, it may not have been a cruise ship, and probably some didn't survive the journey, but those that did, escaped to a new life, in a new country.

We strolled on through the streets admiring the views, marred only by the ugly buildings, some short sighted town planners decided to erect in the 1960's and ended up at Inverness Castle where we heard our final tale of Scotland's most famous feisty female, Flora MacDonald.

She'd had a pretty tough start in life. When her father died her mother was abducted, to be married off to somebody else. Brought up by the chief of the clan, we all know the story of her bravery in helping Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to freedom in France. What I didn't know was that she later, married, had a large family and emigrated to America. When her husband was taken prisoner during the American War of Independence, she returned to Scotland, family in tow, on a merchant ship. Attacked by pirates, and seriously wounded, she still refused to leave the deck. She'd certainly had a hard life, and well deserved to end her days happily and peacefully on the Isle of Skye.

Old Bonnie Prince Charlie meanwhile, kicked out of France, tried to stir up momentum for another rebellion, but nobody really wanted to know. Skulking miserably back to Italy, where he was born, he died a dissolute, depressed alcoholic and sadly, in the end, not quite so good looking.

On a recommendation from "Mr Happy Tour" I went for a nightcap at "Nico's Bar" a cross between a Gentleman's Club and a cosy parlour. Curled up in a vast armchair, with "Rubber Soul" playing softly in the background I nearly nodded off...

A long, long wait

2008-06-16T14:45:00.000-07:00

"Where did you say?" laughed the bus driver. Walking into the delightful little village of Tomatin, pronounced "Tomartin" I resolved to brush up on my pronunciation of Scottish towns and villages. The most bizarre example last year had been "Milngavie" (The start of the West Highland Way) pronounced "Mulgie" -Fortunately I was forewarned on that occasion.

Tomartin may have been small, but it was "happening". Checking out the notice board I saw they had a walking group - but with unfortunately no contact details. Across the road, however, in the Post Office the friendly Postmistress provided me with all the contacts I could possibly need. Why, this little place even had it's own web site! "She who knows all" also informed me that the walks Co-ordinator was on holiday this week.

Not to be deterred, I resolved to get back to Inverness in good time to a) get to the Library and onto the Internet before closing and check out the Tomatin Website and b) Get to the "Johnnie Fox Hooley Night"

All was going well until I had to wiggle from one side of the A9 to the other,and if it hadn't been for some useful information boards (i.e. "You are here") I may well have ended up in Carlisle.

Back on track, I arrived in Boat of Garten and tempting as it was to leg it down the A9 to make up time, thank goodness I didn't. Walking through the woods, up "Fairy Hill" and along the "Speyside Way" was such a delightful route. With an amazingly stunning setting for a Golf Course, it was almost tempting to take up the sport, well...maybe not. The only fly in the ointment, literally, was the pesky midges gathering around my head.

Through the headphones, the UK's leading "midge expert" A Doctor somebody or other (well worth the years of research to be at a cocktail party and asked the question, "So, what's your line of business?") was telling me, that the unseasonably warm weather had resulted in an early gathering of the blessed things.

As if I needed to know...

The Chief of the McMidge Clan had called an emergency meeting. "Ok guys, I know it's only May, but we're just going to have to start work a month early. The Barbeque's are being lit, the sun loungers are out on the patio, for goodness sake, we can't possibly let them enjoy themselves!" With grumbling and dissent among the ranks, he urged them into action "Think of the overtime!" and off they swarmed and descended on the foolish solitary woman walking through the woods.

Following a bit of a trek through the manicured "Desperate Housewives" standard suburbs, I soldiered on with the thought of a white wine spritzer, on the terrace of a chic little wine bar once I'd reached Aviemore town centre.

Well, I did enjoy the spritzer on a bench outside a pub, but Aviemore was a bit of a depressing disappointment. With a tired, "can't really be bothered" sort of feel about it, It was clear that the ski-ing hey days of the 60's and 70's were pretty much over.

Happy in the knowledge that I was heading back to the metropolis of Inverness I waited for the bus, on the wrong side of the road. Maybe it was the effects of the wine in the sun, maybe I was tired, but whatever it was, it was with dismay that I watched "my bus" sail passed in the opposite direction!

And so,with two hours to waste, I ate a mediocre meal in a dismal little cafe,and

by the time I got back to Inverness it was to late to hit the "Hooley Night"

I climbed the hill back to the hostel as grumpy as a midge dragged out of hibernation.

A Tale of Two Cities

2008-06-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

Dashing off to catch the northbound train, knowing I was unprepared was one problem.Beyond the first two nights, I hadn't a clue where the next bed was coming from. Settled into my seat and checking the rucksack, to find I was also unequipped (I'd forgotten the maps! ) was another.

Working on the basis of "something will turn up" It did, in my head. Walking up a deserted Princes Street, with the wonderful view of the castle silhouetted against the night sky, I made up my mind. I liked Cities. All this country walking malarkey is fine during the day, but at night...well, it's all about choice and facilities. And so it made perfect sense to base myself in Inverness/Edinburgh and commute on the "City Link" bus service. As to the second problem, following the cycle route through the Cairngorms shouldn't prove to much of a problem, once I'd worked out how to get out of Inverness to reach it.

Peering intently at the map on the wall in the youth hostel the obligingly helpful young assistant came to my rescue. And so, clutching the map he'd printed out for me, I headed 3 miles through the industrial suburbs to reach the "General Wade Military Road" and beyond, through Daviot Woods to pick up the cycle trail. Easy, peasy and I was loving it. Walking through woodlands on a well marked track, what could be better? Three cheers for General Wade! and "So say all of us" said the Highlanders. Commissioned to spend taxpayers money creating a network of straight roads into the Highlands, for the purpose of controlling the marauding clans, Wade succeeded in leaving them a useful transportation system for a future industrial revolution.

So fast forward to the 21st Century, no map was no problem, and with the ever frequent "Route 7" blue cycle signs, it wasn't long before I reached the A9 and the bus stop back to Inverness.

Delighted to find I'd been upgraded to "West Side 2" (which meant it had a cupboard in addition to the bed and chair) I happily stowed my belongings away in the knowledge that this was now "home" for the next three nights and went to find somewhere to eat.

Prepared for an early night, why then wasn't I tucked up by 10pm? Because walking back up the hill to the hostel, passing a restaurant, I was being beckoned in to join a party. Pausing for a second, I made up my mind. Well, it had been a pleasant but quite uneventful day, and after all, I had a "Blog" to write.

So before you could say "Let's go living in the past" I was introduced to the band, and road crew of the "Jethro Tull" 2008 tour. Wow! last seen at Bridlington Spa in 1972, I had to ask the burning question "Could Ian A. still leap around the stage like a demented pixie on pro plus?" Not quite it seemed, and neither could I get to see what he was capable of in 2008, as tomorrow nights concert was sold out.

Tempting as it was to join them for "one for the road" at the Irish Bar I took the mature and sensible decision to carry on up the hill back to my cell.

Sixteen Candles

2008-06-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

I didn't hang around in Alness for long as I wanted to get to Evanton. There had been this cutest little internet cafe, run by the local church there. An ideal place to have a mid morning coffee and use the computer (for a ridiculously nominal fee) Well, of course, it wasn't open. But what I did find on the notice board was a poster advertising a local "Walking for Health" group. Hurrah! I wrote down the contact details.

Today was a good day, I seemed to whizz through the miles. Map reading my way through the gradual urban build up towards Inverness, it wasn't long before I spotted the Kessock Bridge on the horizon.

Arriving in town with plenty of time before I had to catch the bus back to London, I had one last, and very important thing to do. As if by perfect timing, I entered into the quiet solitude of the empty Cathedral. Lighting 16 candles, I was alone, watched only by the CCTV cameras above me. Feeling rather guilty for using up the entire candle supply I put £5 in the box, and left, hoping I'd be forgiven for being nearly a week late.

Boarding the bus back to London, I asked the question "Well, are you all up for the next leg,Inverness to Edinburgh?" "Boom! Boom!" they chorused in unison. I'll take that as a yes.

Best laid plans...

2008-05-31T14:54:00.000-07:00

Spending time with the cleaner at the Dornoch Inn on a fruitless search for missing headphones was not how I'd planned to spend the first hour of the day. Although we hunted high and low under tables and in rubbish bins, they could not be found. And so, I stomped out of Dornoch in a bad mood. Why? Well today was Sunday and I'd been looking forward to the "Archers Omnibus" followed by "Desert Island Discs" and an afternoon of "Pick of the Pops" (sometimes it was worth putting up with Dale Winters irritatingly smarmy voice if a the "picks" a couple of good years. It would have passed the time on what I knew from last years experience to be a pretty boring route.
To say the walking highlight of the day was lunching in the Co-Op outside Tain tells you all you need to know about today's walk. I had been sort of looking forward to finding "Scotsburn" a place well signposted from Tain, but so elusive even the locals don't seem to know where it is. I must have passed through it, although I can't say I noticed on the the long, albeit quiet, B road to Alness where I catching the bus back to Inverness.

So in the absence of anything interesting to say about today's walk I'll tell you about Dornochs rise to prosperity.

Without the advantage of a herring fishing industry, Dornoch was a deprived and poverty stricken place until the beginning of the 20th Century when some local bright spark said "Hey, we have links, we could have Golf!" And so, a few keen entrepreneurs worked tirelessly to turn Dornoch into a popular golfing destination. Their greatest coup was to attract Andrew Carnegie, a Dunfermline born lad, who'd done alright for himself. When one of the worlds richest men decides to play at Dornoch, King Edward decides to pay it a visit and while he was there clapped a Royal title on it. From there on Dornoch was the "in place" to be, attracting the checked trouser brigade in their droves. Fine hotels and houses were built, so that the Dornoch you see today, with upmarket shops and cafes is a pretty damn smart place to be. I was sorry to leave it, but also looking forward to a night in Inverness., another place with fond memories.

I'd booked a room at the youth hostel and on being handed the key to "East Side 1" the man on the desk apologised for it being so small, and indeed it was. With just enough room for a narrow bed and chair, what did I care? It may have been a cell, but at least it was a single one.

To round the night off, another major blow. Obviously I was not destined to listen to any music today, as tonight, looking forward to a meal and the live music at the "Johnny Fox" pub...Sunday was the bands day off.

The last Witch

2008-05-16T13:55:00.000-07:00

It's a good job I erred on the cautious side of conversation this morning because before relating tales of 2007, my fellow guests informed me they hailed from the Orkney Islands. Politely scouring my brain for all the "highlights" of last years coach tour, I quickly bid my farewells and wished them a safe journey home.

Today's "highlight" was the beach walk between Brora and Golspie. Something I hadn't undertaken last year, and all because I'd spotted some youths mucking about and got scared. Determined not to be put off this year, what a treat it turned out to be! A meander of 4 miles along the beach with a slight breeze, made for perfect walking conditions. Spotting three men ahead of me, who looked a "safe 50+" I got them to take a photo of me by the "Broch" just to prove that I really was doing this walk! Perched for lunch on a wall admiring Dunrobin Castle, a fairytale folly, created by William, the Earl of Sutherland as a Summer House (some holiday home!) munching my sandwiches, I thought it was turning out to be a good day.Anticipating the delightful stroll alongside Loch Fleet into Dornoch, where if I was lucky I might spot seals and oyster catchers, the reality of course, was somewhat different. The unpredictable and ever changing weather conditions meant forcing myself through a blizzard of icy rain and sleet to finally reach the safe haven of the Dornoch Inn.

Dried off, I went to visit an old friend, The Dornoch Library (late night opening) and was highly delighted that the lovely librarian from 2007 was still there. Wanting to embrace her warmly and say "Hi, remember me" I held back, because I sensed she wasn't a touchy feely sort of librarian. What I did know, however, was we were of a kindred spirit, both believing that "Rules are meant to be bent" Which translated meant, I could stay on my computer way beyond my allocated 20 minutes as long as no-one else needed it.

The advantage of the extended stay in the library gave me the time to gen up on a bit of local history, and the story of the "Last witch" Strange, but true I must relate...

In 1727 Janet Horne was the last person to be tried and executed for witchcraft, right here, in Dornoch. She'd been accused of turning her daughter into a pony and getting Satan to shoe the girl/pony. They were both arrested and at her trial she was showing signs of madness (as if she hadn't already?) Sentenced to death, she was stripped, tarred and paraded through the streets of Dornoch in a barrel. On reaching the flames, she smiled and waved to the crowds, warming her hands by the very fire she was about to be burnt in. Onlookers were amazed and riveted, and that's when her daughter saw her chance to escape, "trotting" off through the crowds, never to be seen again. As a pony or a girl, who knows?

The Road is long, with many a winding turn...

2008-04-30T14:41:00.000-07:00

Last nights meal was superb! Of course, I had to go back to "La Mirage" again because what's good enough for Clarissa D.W. is good enough for me. According to the advert in the window, she rates it in her top 5 fish restaurants. Which is why, remote as Helmsdale is, this place is always humming.

I reluctantly checked out of the B & B, never to know if I was going to miss a great party. From hereon it was onwards and downwards. Today, at least, was going to be a mere stroll of 11 miles to Brora, and as the beginning of the end of the tortuous A9 it should have been a good day. So why, for goodness sake, did it seem so tediously long? Probably because the only highlight was a plaque which marked the spot where the "Last wolf was killed" I was puzzled. How could they be so sure? Did a wolf hold up his forelegs and say "Please don't kill me, I'm the last one!" I doubted it.

Plodding on, what kept me going was the thought that a) I'd be in Dornoch tonight and b) this long trek on the A9 was coming to an end. I may well be trying to promote walking for health, but the only people walking on this road are going about 1000 miles in either direction, and with the locals being ever so keen to leap out and tell you about whose ahead or behind you it's slightly annoying when you never ever actually get to meet them.

The boredom of it all must have slowed my pace because on reaching the outskirts of Brora I had to race to catch the bus to Dornoch. No easy feat with a heavy rucksack on an unusually warm day.

Bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, Cathedral Square, was a photographers dream. Busy snapping away, I was enjoying the peaceful idyll, when from across the road wafted the dulcet tones of an East End oik, bellowing down his mobile phone "It's *******brilliant 'ere mate! I'm just off to the boozer to sink a couple of pints, and when you get 'ere. we'll 'ave a few *******more and get absolutely*******blathered! Supposing he was a builder drafted up from the south to work on one of the many new developments sprouting up here, he may have ruined the moment, but at least I knew not to eat at the Dornoch Inn tonight.

On arrival the B & B was as immaculate, as the owner. I guessed, correctly, he was a golfer, because, along with the pressed trousers and the "Pringle" draped around his shoulders, he had that lightly tanned chiseled Andy Williams look about him. How is it that Golfers seem effortlessly able to pull off that "smart but casual" look, and also somehow get away with wearing pink or yellow sweaters on or off the course?

Horrified, when I related my Wick B & B experience, he said "But didn't you check it's star rating?" "Err, what stars? He shook his head like I was a complete dimwit (true) and proudly informed me he had, until recently, been "The only 4 star B & B in the village"

It was almost a sacrilege to empty the contents of my rucksack into this show home of a bedroom, but I needed a shower (en-suite-of course) and food.

And what a disappointment the alternative pub was. Sticking to the fish theme, I selected "Salmon with a white wine and dill sauce". Putting in my complaint, the waitress stormed off through the swing door to the kitchen "Chef, table number 5 complaining about the sauce" The sauce, or lack of it, was the problem. Too tired and hungry to send it back, we called a truce. I paid up and she didn't get her tip.

What a difference a day makes

2008-04-27T11:41:00.000-07:00

How well I remembered Helmsdale in 2007. With an hour to spare before catching the bus back to Dornoch, I'd mooched around the village looking for, well , for want of a better word, life! But this was a village in a 50's time warp, Wednesday afternoon meant half day closing and the only place open was the weird, wacky and tacky "La Mirage" restaurant. A favourite haunt of Barbara Cartlands. Photo's of her (and her look-a-like friend, the owner) adorned the walls. But what was more interesting were the strange collection of artefact's around the room. Sipping my tea, looking at a stuffed bear, holding a fish, was indeed a bizarre experience.

And here I was again, eating my fish & chips, under the watchful gaze of the bear. The photo's had gone (sadly, the owner had died last year) but the bear, the pink frilly lampshade and the full size model of Elvis in the window remained. Under new management, I for one, was nostalgically glad that some things hadn't changed.

The next morning, with time to kill before the Dunbeath bus arrived, I took the Helmsdale Town Trail. Yesterday, I'd just had time to snuck into the excellent "Time Span" museum before it closed, and armed with my map, on a beautiful sunny morning, Helmsdale took on a completely different persona. It's amazing what a difference a day makes. I discovered places I'd never noticed last year. The only disappointing discovery was that the "Spar" had closed down. Last year it had enticed me in with it's sandwich board offering all sorts of goods, and "Lot's Lot's more" except, of course, it was closed, being a Wednesday afternoon.

I took in the harbour, the old church and the "Telford Bridge" before meandering through the streets to the bus stop.

Visiting the museum had given me a sense of what life must have been like for these hard working Caithness folk. I hadn't quite realised the extent of the Herring fishing industry. Villages all along the east coast were trawling in bucket loads of fish , Wick being the Daddy of them all, landing up to a staggering 25 million herring a day. It was a tough life, especially for the women. Not only did they have to carry their men to the boats (so they didn't get wet, poor things) they then carried creels weighing up to 112lbs for up to 30 miles to the nearest market. The fishermen, meanwhile, job done, descended on the local hostelries to drink copious amounts of whisky. Not surprisingly, the fishwives were tough fearsome creatures, prone to smoking and swearing,and yet, perversely, extremely moral. So pity the drunken fisherman, staggering home from the pub, facing the wrath of the wife.

Anyway, all of this preamble puts my "challenging walk" with a 15lb pack on my back into perspective.

For today, at least, the rucksack had a day off, as I, the stick, the orange hat and the daysack jumped off the bus in Dunbeath, ready for an easier 15 mile trek back to Helmsdale. With no pressure of keeping to bus timetables, and fired up with a renewed interest in history, I trekked off the road to the Dunbeath Heritage Centre. Yet another closed door, and annoyingly, they should have been open. "April to September" said the sign. Next to the sign was a poster advertising a "gig" A young "Gunn" was performing in a club in Wick. "An eclectic mix of traditional Scottish folk music...rap, reggae, and rock. Sounds interesting, perhaps I should have stayed in Wick after all.

Anyway, no point hanging around with regrets, I had to gear up for the challenge of the "Berriedale Switchback" the Highland drivers equivalent of "Nemesis" at Thorpe Park. The approach looks really scary, but the reality is, it's just a stretch of road that steeply goes up and down, has sharp bends, oh, and teeters on the edge of a cliff. So no, I wouldn't want to be in a car. Walking, as long as your careful not to lean too far over the edge taking stunning photo's, your safely up the other side before you know it.

I was looking forward to the next, and only other, highlight on the road to Helmsdale. "The Badbea Village" (or the remains of) I'd given it a miss last year, but in this years "History Fest" quest I had to go and see just what it was all about. Or did I?

To say the weather is changeable up here is a gross understatement. By the time I got there, a gale force wind was saying "don't go" so I didn't and I'll tell you why.

The Countess of Sutherland who owned all the land around here, decided that sheep farming was the way forward. "Orf my land" she said to all the locals, and with scant regard to their homes and livelihood, "The infamous "Clearances" began. One group of die hards, headed by John Badbea, decided to brave out a living on the cliffs edge. With winds so strong, they not only had to tie down the cattle, but small children as well.

Just imagine the scene...Crofters wife eagerly awaits husband return from a hard days work with exciting news... "Darling, guess what, little Jocasta has just taken her first steps, and she's only 9 months! Quite clearly an early sign of intelligence don't you think?" "That may well be" he replies with a sigh, "but you know what that means don't you? We'll have to tie her down for the next five years. Pour me a large whisky will you, and then I'll go and look for the wooden stakes and some rope"... It was indeed a struggle, and it couldn't last.

By 1903 they gave up and moved out, and now all that remains is a pile of stones and a memorial . Either of which, I didn't see, having been warned by the sign on the A99, if the winds are high, beware! So I did, and stuck to the road.

35 "Irn Bru" cans hanging by the road

2008-04-25T15:04:00.000-07:00

Today's topic of conversation over breakfast was: "Red Ken" and the G.L.C. , The Brixton Riots, Wandsworth Council Tax and the storm of '87 and the link is?, we'd both lived in South West London during the '80's.

Wick, grey, cold and miserable was getting on my "Wick" and I muttered my feeble excuses as to why I wasn't, after all, staying another two nights as originally planned-"unexpected arrival of friends in Inverness" and made a quick exit through the door into an attractive town bathed in sunlight and blue sky!

Well, it was too late to change my mind, as last night, in the library, I'd looked, and found on the internet, somewhere else to stay. Making a decision to never again book somewhere without a web address, I'd found alternative accommodation in Helmsdale.

3 miles down the road, carrying the heavy rucksack was the downside of moving B & B's. Accompanied by aching limbs, and a lack of entertainment through the headphones (I'd competed and lost, yet again, against the "Pop Master"contestants on Radio 2 and with nothing of any interest on Radio 4) I was getting bored.

I know! "I'll sing!" How about "I've got a 100 miles to go and that's a long, long way I know, and each and every step I tread, the road just stretches far ahead..." what a very apt tune, unfamiliar to most, with the exception of any 20-22 year old ex Tadworth primary School pupils, as this was a song from the excellent 1997 School production of "The Minotaur Show"

So, what now? Let's play "Count the Cans" I'm sure this litter problem gets worse every year. Considering it was early in the season, the detritus strewn by the road was unbelievable.

Items of clothing, odd, but even odder, one shoe. Now, why throw away one?

Apart from the familiar "Irn Bru" cans, the next most popular throw away item is the "Free CD" given away in most Sunday Newspapers. E.g."Sounds of the Sixties, 12 great hits from this golden era!" turn out to be one or two catchy tunes, and 10 very forgettable ones, which begs the question "Were the sixties really that great?" and out of the window it goes.

With the absence of the OS map (no point in carrying extra weight, when even I can't get lost on the road) I was having to guess how far I'd got. With 21 miles to walk to Dunbeath, and a bus to catch to Helmsdale, I couldn't stroll, that's for sure.

Last year's walk was about people, this years walk was going to be about places and I'd already decided I was going to soak up some local history as I went along. With an average speed of 3 miles an hour, when I came across the sign for "The Hill O' Many Stanes" (only a 1/4 mile detour up a side road) I decided I could afford the time to investigate.

Dating from about 1900 BC, 200 stones were arranged in 22 fan shaped rows. The theory is that they were used for astronomical observations of the moon. The colourful drawing of how it would have looked all those years ago failed to fire my imagination, as I looked at a pile of pebbles. More interestingly, this site also marks the site of a battle between two rival clans, The Keiths and The Gunns. The famous Gunns (of course) won and buried the dead, right here, in rows, marking each one with a stone.

So next stop, The Clan Gunn Heritage Centre, where their motto is "Either peace or war" "You'll find us quite peaceable these days and welcoming rather than warlike" said the brochure. Glad to know that reassuring snippet of information, however what I found was another closed door. "Open May to September" So, what can I tell you about the Gunns? Well, the most famous descendant of the Clan was Neil M Gunn, the 20th Century Scottish novelist, born in 1891 in the Caithness fishing village of Dunbeath. He wrote many novels about the area he lived in all his life. As well as writing, he worked as a civil servant, and must have made a bob or two, to have spawned a Gunn dynasty of entrepreneurial business men, as found on the beach yesterday.Just as well it was closed, as I'd forgotten just how far from Dunbeath this museum was.

Trudging through the hamlets of Latheron and Latheron wheel I started to panic. I had to make that bus! The Highland bus service is brilliant, well used, but not frequent. I'd have a long, long, wait for the next one. Then just over the next hill, there was Dunbeath, nestling in the valley.Phew!

On the bus, a young boy piped up "Are you staying at Grannie's tonight?" According to Grannie, sitting behind him, indeed I was. They'd been shopping in Wick. Getting off the bus, I asked him what he'd bought. "We've been to "Aldi's" he replied, and hadn't they just, as off the bus came Grandad, Mum and the bus driver to empty the contents of the luggage compartment. Wheely suitcases, laundry bags and numerous carrier bags, all full of food supplies. All hands to the handles, so I pitched in as we trundled back to the B & B, luckily, just around the corner. Apparently, they don't have a car, and this big shop was for a big party on Friday night, to which I was also invited.

Feeling very much at home, I was shown to an enormous room, with an equally large bathroom. I was more than ready for a long soak in a hot tub. Ahh bliss!

A Day to Remember

2008-04-19T12:30:00.000-07:00

Waking up in the attic bedroom I had a "Room at the Top" experience. As I plugged in the two bar electric fire, (the radiator being temperamental I'd been told) It was all so surreal, like being in a 1960's kitchen sink drama, but before I was tempted to scrabble round for shillings for the meter and pencil and paper to re-write "A Taste of Honey" meets "Saturday Night & Sunday Morning" my stomach told me I hadn't eaten since 4pm yesterday.

Breakfast was another experience. Presented with a fully fried breakfast, under the assumption that I'd need stoking up on the first day, I had to swap it for an egg on toast.

Being the only guest in the B & B (no surprise there) the owner was keen to strike up conversation. I wasn't. He proceeded anyway, to tell me about the imminent birth of his first grandchild and the party plans for his Mother's 80th. Today was not a good day to talk about Birthdays, but then he wasn't to know that.

At the bus stop I met "Jimmy", spitting and smoking outside the shelter. "Is this where I get the 75 to John O' Groats?" "Aye" Taking that as a yes, another traveller turned up. "Aye Jimmy" "Aye" he replied. Now this was the economical sort of conversation I needed today. As Jimmy got off outside the hotel in Keiss,and shuffled along the path, I wondered if he'd missed the last bus back from "Weatherspoons" last night.

When the bus deposited me at JOG and drove off into the fog, looking around,I realised I was the only solitary person there. At 9.30 am, I wasn't concerned. As the shops and the cafe opened up for business there was still no sign of the man with the sign. A major blow, as this year, I'd decided to be "cheesy", pay to get my photo taken, pick up my "Passport" and join the hallowed "End to End Club"

"Well, did you ring him last night?" said the lady in the gift shop "Err no, was I supposed to?" "He doesn't turn out at this time of year, in this weather, unless you ring him the night before". No photo then. Next question, "Where can I get my passport and join the club?" "Right here!" she replied, "If you go over there and sign the guest book, I'll get it ready", and, she continued, darkly, "Be careful not to give away to much personal information" "Such as?" "Well, I'd say, name only. No address, telephone number, e mail, bank account details, sort code, pin number, d.o.b., sex, orientation, chest size ...." Ok" I stopped her there, "I think I get the idea"

It was interesting looking back over other peoples entries, how and why they'd "Jogled" or "Lejoged" But really, by car? surely that was tantamount to cheating! Suddenly she loomed over my shoulder "I hope you're not putting comments on other peoples entries, it's not allowed". "Of course not" I replied "Only on the ones who did it by car. I just put, Do it the hard way you Jessie's!." "Well", I added, "it's hardly in the true spirit of a Jogle/Lejog challenge now is it?"

Of, course that wasn't quite how the conversation went, I didn't want to be excommunicated from the club before I'd even joined. Apparently, my entry will be photocopied and sent to Lands End. So, I'd better be on my best behaviour throughout this trip and report in to H.Q. Land's End with a click of the heels and a smart salute. "Carol Pollock reporting in at Lands End at 17.00 hours on 01.09.08. Here is my passport, stamped, at Post Offices en route, and I think you will find, on checking your records, that I did indeed leave John O'Groats at 09.50 hours on 08.04.08, Sir!"

With the absence of the sign, I took the only photo opportunity left open.The man in the "First and Last" gift shop obligingly took one of me at the harbour wall.

I needed to get going, and with all the vim and vigour of first day enthusiasm and absence of aching limbs, I made it to Keiss in just over 2 hours. What also helped was the "Walkman" on my mobile phone. My daughter had downloaded 3 hours worth of my favourite tunes (plus a few of her own odd choices) Plugged in, with only the sheep as an audience, I can recommend belting out Boston's "A Man I'll never Be" , at the top of one's voice, for an exhilarating experience and now I had the brief beach reprieve from the A99 to look forward to.

Last year, Hamish, a very helpful and handsome young sales assistant in the outdoor clothing shop and Information Centre in Wick, had suggested this detour off the main road. We'd gone in to buy socks for Dave and while he looked at socks, Lynne and I looked at Hamish.

Gambling along the sand dunes, I turned the music off to listen to the sounds of the sea before descending onto the beach. It was breathtaking, but then ahead of me, marring this wonderful view, was this great big yellow monstrosity with a pipe attached. Like a giant building toy, it towered over the beach. I had to find out why. I could see trucks, machinery and men in hard hats beavering away, and

as I approached, I saw the name on the truck "John M Gunn & Sons Ltd" Ah the famous Gunns! I'll have to tell you more about them tomorrow. For now I approached Mr "Hard Hat" The yellow thing turns out to be a contraption to transport oil to somewhere or other. "The largest of it's kind" he said proudly "But surely it's not going to be a permanent feature of this lovely beach?" I asked, aghast, "Oh no",he replied nonchalantly," we'll move on to somewhere else next year" Anyway, it was time to stop asking questions and move on before he clapped a hard hat on my head and set me to work.

And it wasn't long before I came to the river Dave and I had waded across last year, but that was July, and this was April. It was tempting, as the beach stretched on for another two miles ahead, but I didn't fancy frost bitten toes, so headed back to the road. Not so easy with a large obstacle in the way, namely, the yellow pipe, which close up was the size of a tunnel! There was no choice. With a furtive glance at the "Gunn men" in the distance I hoisted myself over as quickly as I could without being spotted.

Back on the road again, I approached Wick, with an agenda in my head. First stop, the Info Centre. Hamish was either on his day off, or jetting round the world on photo shoots. I hoped the latter. Picking up a map of the town, I needed to find the Library and the Churches. The library was open until 7pm, so first I went to light a candle, and believe me, I tried every church door in town, all were locked, as was the Wick Heritage Centre I'd also planned to visit being intrigued by the advertisement in a Highland brochure, "Behind a small exterior, the museum is huge, a must see attraction!"

Well, I couldn't see, so it was off to the library where I was ready and prepared for the Highland visitor policy on using the Internet. Compulsory Passport I.D for a measly 1/2 hour time slot in the computer room.
If I'd hoped they might relent and extend the time period ( I was the only customer) I was disappointed. "Most certainly not, besides, we're moving the furniture in here at 6pm as we're having a new carpet fitted and you'll be blocked in" the Library Manager beamed cheerfully. Quite clearly a new carpet was the most exciting thing to have happened in Wick Library in years. Enthusiastically he began dragging tables in at 5.45. Steady on! Tempted to whip up a banner "I shall not be moved" to hold aloft over the sea of tables and chairs, I instead, left for the only place left to go on a wet, windy evening in Wick. Weatherspoons for an early supper. Perhaps I could buy Jimmy a drink, Aye, I was ready for a spot of conversation now.

To Wick and beyond

2008-04-17T15:03:00.000-07:00

Apart from a brief smokers stop at Keeble Services, we pulled into Glasgow Bus Station at 7.00 am and invited to get out and stretch our legs for 20 minutes, followed by a dire warning from the driver that he wasn't responsible if we weren't back on the bus at 7.20. Did anyone ever really not get back on a bus to a place they had obviously paid to get to? Possibly a tough decision for me today, as I was in one of my favourite haunts, Buchanan Bus Station. I'd loved commuting from my friend Margaret's flat in Glasgow last year. Up & down "The West Highland Way" this bus station was like a familiar friend and since I'd only payed £2 return for the journey from London to Inverness it was tempting to stay awhile.
But no, I had a walk to start tomorrow, and so with my allotted 20 minutes, the first port of call had to be the coffee shop, as I needed caffeine. On "LeJog" last year I'd realised just how much. Following the worst night on the walk in a flea infested Wig Wam outside Tyndrum, I, and fellow addicts were, at 8.00 am shuffling restlessly on the porch of the General Store cum Take-Away, waiting for the doors to open. By 8.15 we were twitching and by 8.30 there was no alternative but to walk the two miles to the "Green Welly Cafe" in Tyndrum. It certainly didn't feel like the same two mile journey made under the influence of alcohol the night before. My head felt as heavy as the pack on my back, but after the first cup... "Zing!" I was back firing on all cylinders.
As half the passengers had disembarked at Glasgow, those of us going on to Inverness had room to spread out and catch up on some sleep. So it was, with one eye half open, that I took in the route I'd be following through the Cairngorms on the next leg. Through a swirl of hail and snow it looked pretty grim, but surely, I thought, it won't be like this in May. I'd also got fond memories of Inverness in the July sunshine but, in a bitingly cold April, it wasn't quite the same. Plans to stroll along the riverside towards "Ness Island" were aborted for a dash through the rain to the Information Centre to pick up bus timetables.

Clutching my "City Link Highland Bus Pass" I was off again. Passing northwards through the familiar towns and villages it was hard to believe I'd be walking backwards along this long route. Finally arriving in Wick, I was looking forward to a good nights sleep. The B & B had sounded promising over the phone, but standing outside a house with boarded up windows, it was with some trepidation that I knocked on the paint flaked door. I'd already got an idea of what it would be like inside. Just imagine student digs without the clutter, and you've got the picture. Led to the attic bedroom I feared the worst, but actually, it had a quaint charm about it. Ok, the shower was circa 1970. but with a new showerhead, proudly demonstrated by the owner, at least it worked and the water was hot. One quick sniff of the sheets confirmed that they, at least, were clean, and that was all I needed to know.

Chapter One. The Highland Fling. John O' Groats to Inverness

2008-04-16T13:33:00.000-07:00

"Where's she taking us now" groaned the rucksack and the orange hat, as they were dragged reluctantly from the depths of the cupboard.
"Guess what?" I said, as we boarded the coach at Victoria, "You know how John O' Groats seems like a dream to us now? Well, it's about to become a reality, we're walking backwards!"
They may not have been impressed, but the new recruit was very excited. "I say, I say, Mr Coach Driver, are we REALLY going all the way to Inverness? Boom! Boom!"
"Calm down, you're a walking stick, not Basil Brush. We've got a long journey ahead of us, and as you've got the toughest job to do, we'd all better try and get some sleep" I said, stowing him and the others into the luggage rack.
The bus was full, but finding an aisle seat at the back of the coach a nice girl from Perth offered me her window seat and then probably regretted it.I spent the next five minutes invading her space by dropping pens, paper, and food supplies on her lap, before deciding to pop to the toilet before "lights out"
Closing the door, I expected "lights on" automatically and when this didn't happen, groping round in the dark, I pressed the red emergency button! Oh dear, this was not a good start. Sheepishly, I made my way back to my seat, glad that the lights were low.
On the subject of sheep, sleep was hard to come by. I was worried about this task I'd set myself of walking 900 miles in 60 days. Not feeling half as fit as I was last year, with an average daily mileage of 18 miles, this first leg of 120 miles, mostly on the A9/A99, was going to be a tough one. So, I tried the equivalent of counting sheep and although counting the cars on the M1 to Scotland doesn't quite evoke the same spirit of travel and adventure,as "The New Jersey Turnpike" I did eventually drift off.