John O'Groats to Brabster

After two days of driving just to get to the starting line, I almost managed to talk myself out of getting off the blocks. The last few weeks have been a bit hectic; building up my hours at work, planning the route, printing and laminating maps and buying kit. Every little twinge or ache has played on my mind. If that muscle hurt before I'd even started, how was it going to manage 1100+ miles? I decided I would be happy even if I only made it to Inverness, or maybe just far enough to tackle the high and remote mountain passes of the Cairngorms.

Therefore it's a good job I'm not taking the traditional A99 and A9 route, a brutal section of tarmac with traffic increasing as you head southwards. At the very least I would be off the beaten track and explore a wild and unfamiliar area of this island.

Reaching the almost empty John O'Groats complex in the morning, I decided to set off in the wrong direction with the easy wander up to Duncansby Head. Compared to the soft moorland around the car park and tourist shops, the headland is more like the steep and windswept cliffs most people would imagine at the north-eastern extremity of Britain, complete with lonely lighthouse.

Then it was time to head back to the theme park, which had become a little more lively, even if the shop workers outnumbered the tourists. Signing the log book in the first and last house, I suspect words came less easily to me than the happy folk for whom this place was the culmination of an epic journey. I managed a bit of drivel about the weather before immediately regretting it and walking off before the woman in the shop decided to see what I'd put. Time for a rest and some toasted teacakes in the cafe with the guy whose van would be providing accommodation in (or at least nearby) the remote blanket peat bogs of Caithness and Sutherland.

Hitting the road again, literally, I meandered past a number of interesting derelict buildings, a large graveyard, isolated houses, sandy bays and rocks, briefly being woken up by a refreshing rain shower. Entering the long sweep of Gills Bay with its ugly concrete and rusting metal ferry terminal I passed a road sign informing me that gills were better than groats. I checked I still had my groats and decided that they were actually going to be more useful on this journey.

Turning inland to find a overnight parking spot for the van, I was pleased that my body appeared to be holding up despite the weight on my back. Sixty more days of this would be wonderful, but then it wouldn't be a challenge would it?