[This walk was completed on Sunday, 19th May 2024]

It’s a drizzly, mizzly, damply misty morning. I walk down into Berriedale and look across the valley to take a photograph of the road I will be climbing shortly. Sadly, it looks just as foggy on the other side.

The mist is no surprise. I sat for an hour in my van this morning, eating a croissant and waiting for the fog and rain to clear. It did, temporarily, so I set off to cycle back to Berridale. Unfortunately, the mist and rain descended and I got very damp and cold on the ride. My spectacles were splattered too, making it hard to see where I was going.

I left my Scooty bike chained beside the view point overlooking the old cemetery, and headed down the road. A difficult walk, because the verge was very narrow or non-existent, and the road was very winding.

Soon reached the centre of Berriedale – a small collection of houses huddled around a dead-end road. This is where I tried to park yesterday, but was put off by the unfriendly signs.

Onwards, along the main A9, and I soon cross the bridge over Berridale Water, with a war memorial on the other side.

There is also a bus stop on the other side of the bridge, where a solitary man stands. At first I think he is sheltering from the drizzle. But, as I get nearer, I realise he is in full walking-waterproofs and is actually waiting for a bus.

I stop for a chat. He is European – another continental JOG Trail walker, but he has had enough of walking today, and is planning to catch the bus back to his accommodation. I don’t think buses run on a Sunday, and I pull out my phone to check the timetable on https://www.traveline.info/.

He is not an old man, probably younger than me, but he seems amazed by my technical abilities. I inform him there are definitely no buses running today. He shrugs and says he will hitch a lift. I tell him if he is still there when I return in my van in a couple of hours, I will pick him up!

Onwards. Up the hill.

It’s a loooong hill.

I’m walking slowly, but I nearly manage to overtake a couple of cyclists. We end up going at the same pace, and the man manages to have a conversation with me. (The woman is too breathless to speak!)

The couple turn out to be touring tourists from the continent. I recommended electric bikes. “No, no,” the man said. “We must use our legs.” I’m not sure his female companion agrees.

They reach the top before me, but I overtake them as the catch their breaths in a lay-by at the top of the hill.

Going downhill now – thank goodness – and the cyclists catch up and overtake me again. The mist is as bad as ever.

I pass another of those “Road Closed, Snow” barriers. So, there must be times in the winter when Berridale is completely cut off from the rest of the world.

The road flattens out, and the rest of the walk is easy but rather boring. There is a fine view of… of… well, of some cotton grass in a field.

Here is something spooky. In the darkness of some trees, a pale shape flutters in the eddying breeze. Not a ghost, a piece of white plastic caught on branches.

Here is another ghost – a “ghost road”. This is the name I give to the odd strips of tarmac you find beside the re-routed roads – the remnants of an old road.

Glad to escape from the A9, I begin to walk along the ghost road, but it soon fizzles out.

Back on the main road, where a line of pylons looms hazily in the fog.

More ghosts. Somebody has done some ruthless logging in this area, and left the skeletons of once-maginificent trees – all twisted and broken – littering the landscape.

I hate to see these areas of clear-felling. I know these trees were only planted in order to be logged for timber, but their broken trunks and contorted branches seem like a descecration.

Now, I enter a forested area. Tall, dark trees on either side of the road. Another ghostly pylon looming ahead. I hear cuckoos calling.

This walk has seemed unduly long. It’s been hard work with a steep hill to start with, and no views to make the climb worthwhile.

But, at last, around a final corner and there is my lovely van!

I’ve parked in a car park which exists for people visiting the nearby ruins of a village called Badbea. Another one of those sad, ghosts – a village deserted during the awful Highland Clearances. My plan was to visit the historic village after I finished this morning’s walk. And then to walk a little further this afternoon.

But the mist is still dense. I feel too damp, tired and dispirited to visit the abandoned village, and no way do I want to walk any further in this weather. So, I decide to go home.

I just read the notice boards instead.

Home is still the cottage in Lybster, but tomorrow I’m moving to another rented house – further south, in Golspie. Really, I should be sleeping in my van, but the Golspie rental was fairly cheap and, much as I love my van, the lure of a comfortable bed and hot shower was just too much!

As I drive through Berriedale, I look out for the man I met by the bus stop. But there is no sign of him. He must have managed to hitch a lift after all.

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Miles walked today = 3 miles!

Total distance around coast = 5,121 miles

Route:

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