Do not dispute the cycle route

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

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

"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

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

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...

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

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?