[This walk was completed on Saturday 20th May, 2023]

I cycle back to the crossroads in Forss (may the Force be with you) and dodge the noisy birds in the rookery. Make sure I leave my bike where it won’t get pooped upon.

I had a late start this morning because I just couldn’t seem to get going and everything seemed to take time. I kept forgetting things – like the combination code for the toilet block! Van life is wonderful, but it has its downsides – you have to be organised in such a small space. Anyway, I finally got on the road (on my bike) at 11am.

It’s drizzling and I’m road walking. Plodding up hill

As I near the top of the rise, the weather begins to cheer up. Looking back, I can see the grey/blue humps of Ben Tongue and Ben Hope, and I realise this is probably my last veiw of those mountains. (Sadly the weather is still too dull for decent photography.)

I feel sad, partly because of the loss of those two landmarks, and also partly because I feel the best scenery is behind me. It’s a sad sort of day for another reason. Today is my father’s birthday. If he had lived, he would be 102. I miss him terribly.

The sea is a mile or so away, on my left. Out on the water, the ghostly shapes of ships slipping silently along.

It’s all farmland here – green fields dotted with sheep and cattle. Gone is the bleakness of the bog land I’ve left behind. This is a tamed landscape.

Hello sheep – my, how your lambs have grown. Two new black sheep in the family.

Smoke ahead. A steam engine? But there are no railway tracks nearby. I wonder what is causing such a conflagration?

Hello cows! Or are you bullocks? Hard to tell from this distance.

The road is quiet this morning, but I have to keep an ear open for oncoming traffic. Cyclists don’t make a noise, and this one takes me by surprise as he comes past.

I’m reaching the source of the smoke. A farmer appears to be having a bonfire. Judging by the dirtiness of the fumes, I think he might be burning old tyres, but I can’t see for sure.

Onwards. For 3 miles or so. Then, suddenly, I crest a gentle hill and there is the sea in front of me. And that headland must be… consult my map… Dunnet Head.

Shame the weather is so dull and the photographs I take are equally dull.

I pass a little roadside shrine in memory of Stewart Milnes, who must have died here in 2012. A sad reminder of the fragility of life.

This road sign has turned its back on the traffic and appears to be sulking. (Actually says “P” on the other side!)

I’m going downhill now, and Thurso is ahead. Oh, my, it looks HUGE!

After several weeks of walking in remote areas, I’m not used to proper towns. (When I drove here yesterday, I was momentarily perplexed by a roundabout – not having seen one for 3 weeks. And the local supermarket blew my mind. Fresh fruit and vegetables!)

I’m going to follow a core-path route into Scrabster, and so I must look out for the signpost – if there is one. Ah, yes, here it is. Well signposted.

It’s more a track than a path. Look at the “fence” which lines the route. At first glance, it appears to be constructed out of tombstones! But on closer inspection, they turn out to be rectangles of thin stone. How weird.

I take advantage of a flat stone and sit down for a quick drink and a snack. Then manage to take a selfie photograph.

There are cattle in the fields on the left of the track. Large cows stare at me menacingly, guarding their sweet-looking calves. Luckily, there is a fence protecting me – so, emboldened, I wave at the cows and take their photographs.

It’s only when I come to a bend in the track that I realise the gate to the field is open! I’m not protected at all.

The track takes a sharp right-angled turn, and I hastily stride past the open gate and head down the hill. Rough gravel is sharp under my feet, so I walk along the strip of grass in the middle of the track.

A mile later, I pass a row of cottages and join a minor road. Turn left towards Scrabster. That large building – glimpsed periodically between trees – must be Scrabster House.

More cattle. Bullocks I think. Safely behind fences.

My little lane takes a right-angled turn and there is the sea ahead. I’m about to join the main road.

Now I’m on the infamous A9, which runs basically from Edinburgh, through Inverness, and ends (I now realise) at Scrabster. It is the route I followed up into the Highlands in my van 3 weeks ago – although I turned off somewhere after Inverness in order to cut across to the west coast.

At least this final section of the A9 is quiet. And I get my first glimpse of Scrabster harbour and the lighthouse. Oh my goodness, there are actually people swimming in the sea!

Going downhill, the road is sandwiched on a narrow strip of land between a steep slope on my left, and the beach on my right.

I walk past warehouses and yards. Past a boatyard, an engineering works, and some mysterious cyclindrical storage tanks. Scrabster itself is just a row of house along the road beside the harbour.

There are several cafes in Scrabster, including the Ferry Inn pub/hotel. I actually booked a room here, before realising my itinery was far too optimistic, and I had to recalculate my walking schedule, and cancel the booking. Anyway, I decide to have a proper lunch and eat here.

The harbour is still a busy, working port. Fishing boats. Working vessels, not leisure ships.

The sign outside the Ferry Inn promises “fresh food served all day”, but the sign on the restaurant door says they stop serving lunch at 3pm. It’s now 2:30 pm. Whew. I just made it in time. I order Cullen Skink – excellent and very rich – but have a long wait and don’t get served until 3pm.

(I’ve learnt to distrust all cafe/hotel/restaurant signs in Scotland. They promise you good food and a hearty welcome, but you turn up and find the place is closed, or has shut down for the season, or has disappeared altogether!)

---

[To be continued…]

Later, I looked up Stewart Milnes whose roadside memorial I had seen earlier. As I suspected, he died in a car accident on that road. Article in John o’Groat Journal

Route so far this morning:

---