Bonar Bridge to Kiltearn

It was the particular arrangement of lines and symbols on the map that presented an obvious dilemma as I refueled myself greedily at breakfast. I wandered along the main road in the early morning light, the rest of the world rushing about like any other wednesday, and was still weighing up my options when I reached Fearn Lodge. The choice was to either take a track up onto the hillside and hope the thin black line on the map translates to at least a thin footpath, or the shorter road alternative. Covered in pine needles, the track looked soft and inviting and I had grown tired of grinding out monotonous miles on the road; it was time to pull my socks up (literally) and be a bit more adventurous.

I was soon walking above a deep gorge, looking across to a steep heather covered hillside topped by the deep greens of forestry. The constant regular roar of a waterfall sneaks up on you, slowly increasing in volume until suddenly you realise that the silence has been replaced. When that moment came I discovered an awesome sight, jets of water dropping from a wide and shallow burn running beside the track to the very bottom of the gorge. Despite the need to maintain a good pace I could not help soaking up the atmosphere.

The track started to fade near the beautifully romantic scene at Garvary, an isolated white cottage on the opposite bank of the burn reached only by an elegant suspension footbridge. The drizzle started as I struggled to follow an indistinct footpath across the hillside. Losing the path a few times I was guided by the old bothy at Garbhairidh, which also provided a sheltered spot for lunch. Dates scratched into wooden panels told of the bothy's past glories and it was a shame to see it without windows or fireplace. Over a pint a couple of days ago I had been told the story of how a group of German scouts had caught and eaten a sheep while staying in a remote bothy some years ago and how the furious landowner had then decided to let it fall into disrepair.

A faint quad bike track lead away from the bothy in the right direction, and I followed it as it climbed into the clouds. It then abandoned me, leaving me alone in the white damp stillness. It was not till I caught the first glimpses of forestry that I had an inkling of where I was, after taking an wandering line through the miles of moorland hillside. As the drizzle started to find its way through my clothing, the ground also become more waterlogged. I was able to make reasonable progress by jumping between solid looking tufts of grass or reeds, until in a moment of pure slapstick, one gave way instantly and I found myself waist deep in clear cold water.

Once I entered the forestry there was an obvious track of flattened grass to follow, each step creating a pool of water as if the ground was merely floating on a huge underground lake. After fording a burn, I was able to enjoy some peaceful walking on dry pine covered ground before reaching the road snaking down Strath Rusdale. At Inchlumpie the plan was to cross a footbridge to avoid a main road and steep gorge later on. I should have started to doubt the map when I was forced to hack through the forestry, sharp branches weaving around my feet to trip me up and clawing at my clothes and face. The bridge was nowhere to be found, the river was wide and deep and I was wasting time as the light was beginning to fade. I gave up and treated myself to a dry pair of socks, which were wondeful until they soaked up all the water in my boots.

By the time I reached the main road it was dark, raining harder and my feet were complaining that they didn't like being wet or pounding the tarmac and why couldn't I just stay at home and watch TV like a normal person. I put on my headtorch and hoped that the speeding cars and lorries would notice the thin beam in time. Several seemed annoyed by my presence and flashed their lights or beeped their horns at me, causing me to shout back that I didn't really want to be here either. I retreated into myself, a mental state that I was beginning to call survival mode. The destination was the only thing on my mind and the few metres in front of my feet the limits of my tunnel vision. Pain was irrelevant. I don't have a lot of memories of the two or three hours that followed, which is probably a good thing.

Arriving in Evanton, I found no trace of the B&B I had booked and was forced to ring for directions. They promised to come and pick me up, an offer I reluctantly declined, stubbornly clinging to my principles. The B&B turned out to be some way outside the village in a lovely location on the shores of the Cromarty Firth. Eleven hours after I had set out from Bonar Bridge I had finally reached my destination. As I got changed I noticed my inner thighs were red raw, the fiction of the skin against my wet trousers had removed hair and broken through the skin in places. The B&B was absolute luxury and the hosts welcoming as I relaxed with a fresh pot of coffee and slowly emerged from survival mode.