TGO Challenge 2023

 

TGO Challenge 2023

 

Loch Hourn

“Find beauty: be still”  [i]

After four days of heat, the morning light has revealed a fresh dusting of snow on the Grey Corries, and I am working my way up a trackless ascent of Coire Ceirsle towards Leana Mhor. The clouds play a slow dance with the sunlight, and there’s a gentle rising of the mists covering the great north face of the Ben. I make a note to keep a watch on their progress as I haul myself up through the heather and bog, and then remember. It doesn’t matter if I get to camp at 5pm or 6pm. It doesn’t matter if I stop a couple of kilometers short, I just pick up the distance the next day. It is day five of the TGO Challenge and there are still ten days in front of me. I have the freedom to stop, sit and just take it in as the cloud carefully eases its way up and over the top of the Ben in a vast silence. It is a beautiful moment and my first unexpected lesson.

Two days later and it is the end of a long 35km day. I am tired, my feet hurt and I am not sure where I will be spending the night. I was due to be in the garden of the Loch Ericht Hotel in Dalwhinnie, but reports were coming in of building work at the site. I don’t feel up to walking further and my morale is low with no clear place to pitch a tent. I pick up my supplies from the Dalwhinnie Hostel and someone else’s misfortune is my good luck as four cancellations have come in. After seven days where I have met just one challenger, I find myself in the company of at least eight more. There are stories being told, tales of people, past experiences and the crossing so far and soon there will be whisky passed around. After years enjoying the quiet solitude and freedom of hiking alone I am being introduced to the companionship of the Challenge, the paths to cross of people not trails. Some I will encounter again later, some perhaps on future challenges. My second unexpected lesson.

Forward to day ten. I have crossed the Cairngorms to a sense of homecoming heading towards Ballater, my parents’ home village for nearly forty happy years. Coming out of Ballochbuie I take the road by the distillery. It is quiet other than birdsong, and I become absorbed in the mixture of trees planted alongside it. The blackthorn flowers spread confetti on the road, there is rowan, birch, beech and I find myself taking pictures to fill the large gaps in my arboreal knowledge. Not for the first time, the low level routes I had planned purely as a means to connect one set of hills to the next have filled me with a different sort of pleasure in their richness of habitat and life. My third lesson.

Glenelg

It is over a month now since I took my first steps on the 2023 TGO Challenge. My normal practice is short bursts of 2-3 nights out in the hill which replenish me, leave lasting memories but within a few days I will feel back to my normal day to day life until the next time. This has been different. I am still taking it in, basking in memories and feel changed by the experience in ways I don’t yet fully realise. I have wanted to do the coast to coast walk for years, from when the application form was printed pages in the TGO magazine and there was barely a thing of internet. This year everything aligned, and a backlog of work holiday combined with a supportive family made it possible.

I chose a route that combined familiar places with new, nostalgic returns with fresh experiences. Glenelg as a start point from travels with my father as a teenager.  Later over the Cairngorms, the familiar would come more quickly. Walking out of White Bridge to Linn of Dee remembering the cheery sight of my mother in her eighties walking along the track to meet me as I emerged from some crossing or other via Speyside or Blair Atholl. She was always delighted to know where I had been as we talked later over more glasses of whisky than either of us should have looked at.  Towards the end, the Mounth Roads, Forest of Birse and the hills from Mount Battock to Clachnaben were all familiar haunts from younger years.

In between were to be new places: trekking south to go under rather than over the South Kintail ridge, a rough route to camp by Allt Tarsuinn near the Loch Lochy hills, the west side of Creagh Meagaidh and somehow or other I had never been to the Gaick. Then a small sufferance through Drumtochty Forest to lead me out over the Mearns and the land of Grassic Gibbon’s Sunset Song that was to change my reading forever when I first encountered it aged 15. Finally the end point, back to the familiar and the crescent bay at Catterline where the sun would hold out well beyond its forecast to yield a deep blue North Sea.

That was my crossing, and I loved nearly every minute of it. Below is a more detailed account which I write as much for the memory of it.

 

Days 1-4: “Up here the hills were brave with the beauty and the heat of it” [ii]

First coast of the walk

First broch of Gleann Beag

Glenelg proved to be the perfect start point, its position over the Mam Ratagan looking across to Skye giving it the feel of an island of its own. Yet it is not that hard to get to, and in my role as part time promoter of the Glenelg tourist board, there is now a taxi link subsidised by Highland Council where you pay £5 and a cheerful cab driver will be there waiting at the drop off from Shiel Bridge bus stop. The link is here for anyone thinking of a Glenelg start next year www.bug-voucher.co.uk.

I arrived early to give myself a full day to settle in and stock up at the excellent Glenelg Store, staying at a house managed by Mrs Cameron. She promptly sat me down to tales of challengers past, a warm and welcoming trip back through her memory of friends made and characters met over the years. Outside as day one approached the weather was rapidly brightening and I took a relaxing walk over to the Kylerhea ferry to watch its steady journey back and forth, indulging in a second cup of the excellent Skye Coffee Roasters served at the café. I had seen a buzzard on the walk over and was delighted sitting out in the sun to witness first a golden eagle cruising, watchful down the sound before veering off into the Skye hills, then shortly after the unmistakable span of a sea eagle all brutalism to the golden’s classicism. The sleek lines of a hen harrier on the wander back completed a wonderful day of raptors. Back then to fuss over my pack one last time before a restful night in a comfortable bed to a mix of excitement, doubt, trepidation and eager anticipation of what lay ahead.

The morning broke bright and fair, early sun streaming into the cottage and I felt lucky to have such a good start. The first stop was to sign the register, double checking I had done so correctly in my first timer awkwardness. From there it is a very short distance over the road and down the stones to dip feet in the Sound and I smile to myself thinking one coast done, just one to go.

I had met two other challengers before signing and would later see one more just ahead, all going  over the road toward Sandaig. Despite the tarmac I was part envious of the views of the islands that would await them like floating apparitions above the sea. My route instead turned off up Gleann Beag and a first taste of the quiet connecting roads that would give so much pleasure, the mountains above bathing in the blue. It was psychologically good to get some easy opening miles in before a stop by a sunlit stream and then the first real uphill initiation test to Bealach Aoidhdailean accompanied by the call of a cuckoo, a sound that will accompany me all the way to Catterline.

At the bealach a new world opened in front of me revealing a descent into the speckled woodland delights around Gleann Dubh Lochain where I had planned to camp. Feeling good and the conditions superb I could not resist the temptation to head further on and find a perch above the achingly picturesque Loch Hourn. It was a four out of ten pitch on uneven and tussocky ground that will come back to me in Ballater, but worth every bit of it for its ten out of ten view.

Loch Hourn

First camp

The next day breaks every bit as fine, and I sit with an early coffee watching the morning cloud cap on Ladhar Bheinn conscious there is a longer day ahead. The route down toward Kinlochhourn is straightforward but swinging north leads onto the more typically hard earned ground of the west in stunning conditions. It is remarkably dry underfoot and I am taking every chance to drink and top up water. The bealach feels a stiff climb up today, and it is a relief to reach the Quoich Burn on the other side, but also daunting to still have 16km to drive my legs to the planned camp. The views all around will ease that journey, but I am worn out when I arrive at an almost pitch perfect location on the south side of the River Loyne.

A sharp headache and inability to eat or drink curtailed my enjoyment of the evening and likely indicated a measure of heat exhaustion. I have easily taken in 4-5 litres of water today, but had I been sharper I would also have cooled off earlier in one of the rivers. As it is I wonder seriously about my prospects for the TGO and whether it might have to be enough just to reach Spean Bridge. I am soon dozing off at an early hour, and then become aware of the sounds of helicopter coming in then out of the hill, always an ominous sound and therein lies a tale from another challenger.

Path up to Loch Bealach Coire Sgoireadail

Gleouraich and Spidean Mialach

Day three and the restorative powers of a 12 hour sleep have done their job. Tentative legs soon carry me up to Mam na Seilg as the morning mists break over the Kintail hills. My confidence is returning with each step and once on top I have the delightful realisation of how as I work through the days the challenge will slowly unravel the changing geographies and landscapes of this compact land. From the close, sharp peaks of Kintail, there is ahead a dramatic change to the more open vista of Glen Garry and a new set of hills to view beyond to both east and west.

Once down by the road the sweet smell of gorse in bloom takes over on a gentle stretch before I must head back onto track through coarsely cut forestry to the south. Eventually this leads to a decent path on more open hillside and I meet my first challenger on the trail, Willie, who was perhaps as surprised to see me as I was him on this part of the route. The heat has continued, and the Allt Lon Glas Bheinn provides some fine pools to dip into and gain a much needed wash before the path eventually gives way to hard going up peat and heather to the bealach above Gleann Tarsuinn. An easy descent then leads to a wonderful camp by the Allt Tarsuinn and I drift off to sleep to the comforting sound of bird calls in the night and the winnowing of a snipe.

Sweet smelling gorse in Glen Garry

Camp by the Allt Tarsuinn

 

I wake to a different sound, the first rain spattering against the side of my tent. Clouds down, I forego the hills for an easy way down Gleann Cia-aig, and it is almost dry by the time I arrive at its wonderfully framed falls. The journey round by Achnacarry is another peaceful respite of easy walking through mixed woodland to the Great Glen Way and Caledonian Canal. I stop here for a moment to take this in; it feels a big moment to leave the hills of the west and cross the great fault line that all but cleaves the country in two. There’s a short sharp shock of cars on the stretch of road to Gairlochy before a squelchy jink downhill leads to a well maintained track along the old railway line and the story of its demise through ego and eccentricity. From there it is a lovely walk above the gorge to come out at Spean Bridge in time for lunch and the welcome prospect of a bed and shower.

 

Days 5-7: “a route is also a process, an excuse, an opening to find another way in” [iii]

The warm weather of the last four days has broken and there is a cooler feel as I head almost straight north up and over more trackless heather and bog. It is one of those routes of seemingly endless false tops, short stretches of easier underfoot conditions proving largely illusory. The cloud is rolling around, mixing with sun, showers and even a spot of hail as more Scottish conditions prevail. But there is always something to look at, and while maybe the clouds will glower down from the Grey Corries, to the east the Meagaidh hills stay clear and closer to hand Glen Gloy is bathed in sunlight. A steep descent east takes me down to a long looking stretch of road along Glen Roy which passes quickly to get to a camp short and out of sight of Annat.

Day six will be the poorest conditions of the whole fortnight, but none so bad for that. The clouds are down and rain is on and off into the afternoon, with always the tantalising promise of clearing just out of reach. All being well I will go over 3,000 feet for the first time on the crossing today. Before that, a first water crossing that will not end in dry feet across the Burn of Agie. It is low enough that I foolishly keep boots on and try to travel quickly over, but all I get for that are wet socks and boots for the rest of the day. I had ignored a path that led on from the near side of the ford, taking it as some stalkers path heading the wrong way, but once over the burn I can now see past a mound to an unmapped bridge higher up and just below the falls. I could only laugh at this.

Glen Roy from Leana Mhor

Coire Ardair

For an unpathed uphill section, it is then a gentle enough route with a kind of Scottish back country feel up to The Window where I cross over the first thin remnants of snow. A short steep pull leads to the Meagaidh plateau in thick cloud with a stiff wind mixed with rain and hail. The only real compass out navigation I will need comes now to make sure I really am at the top. It is not a hard decision to omit the other two munros of Meagaidh today, and I still have no regrets when within two hours the magnificent Coire Ardair is standing proud following the rough descent from The Window.

It will be a fine evening ahead, and the morning starts the same for the descent through the regenerating woodlands of lower Meagaidh. How near this once came to a sentence of forest industry and how good to see the land beginning to thrive again. Then comes the one awkward connection in my route I never quite ironed out; a long stretch through a mixture of road and industrialised forest. At one point there is the odd sight of an ecopod before the River Pattack, not tucked away as you might imagine, but right beside a dusty highway of a forest track complete with a turnout opposite, all surrounded by the hefty logs chopped down from the none so eco industry around it. It is a relief to get to the River Mashie, and shortly after it is back off the track through more heather and bog that will stretch the kilometres out, belying the lack of gradient as I dodge round the side of the twin Dircs and their merciless boulders. It feels a long way to get back to the track by the Allt an t-Sluic and on to Dalwhinnie, and is probably the lowest psychological point of the crossing until I get to the hostel and everything is turned around.

 

Days 8-11: “often the mountain gives itself most completely when I have no destination…but have gone out merely to be with the mountain as one visits a friend with no intention but to be with him” [iv]

An Dun from descent to the Gaick

Camp at the Bruach Gharbh Ghaig

I’m excited about the next section. It will take me into the Cairngorms where my hill days started as a youngster and then never left me. There is a sense of returning to “home” ground, the anticipated vistas like a warm embrace. Whisper it, but I can also feel my hill legs getting stronger and I have become used now to the simple rhythm of my days; more confident in what I can do, how far and how high over different types of ground. I have also shed bits of weight along the way, one thick book finished and jettisoned in Spean Bridge (good coffee and physical books are two camp luxuries I allow myself) and fewer cautious reserves in my food supplies.

There is a hint of impatience in me along the aqueduct east of Dalwhinnie before the climb starts up to reach easy going on the plateau that leads to the Gaick. The wildlife is back after the more processed lands east of Laggan, and I see eagle, mountain hare and plover as that familiar Cairngorm sense of space begins to open out. The start of the stalker’s path down Bruthach na Craoibhe might be tricky to find in the clag, but presents no problem on a day like this. It makes a delightful passage as it zigs and zags down to a fine backdrop of An Dun standing like a sentinel at the gate to the pass. Once down, a group of sandpipers are fussing and chattering on the marshy shores of Loch Brodainn, flitting in unison from one side to the next over still waters, broken only by the occasional shimmer of wind that sweeps across. The Gaick here is a lovely, secluded area hemmed in by close, steep slopes and there is a sense of regeneration on its land and a connection to the wildness around it.

It is another easy crossing over low water at the Allt Gharbh Ghaig then up the delightful path that threads above the ravine to the Bruach Gharbh Ghaig. I had been warned of a landslip across the path higher up, and an attempt to withhold it further has if anything made the situation more precarious. It is tempting to try to skitter across, but the prospect of setting it all back in motion with a large gathering of debris held back by makeshift girders poised above, a sword of Damocles to the unfortunate, was enough for me to take the longer route up and round. The camp higher up is glorious, and I am out of my tent in the night, gone 11pm watching the last embers of light to the north of a crescent moon and the bright star of Jupiter.

My camp routine is well established now. I like to arrive early to enjoy the evening, relax, read, write and leave enough time to take in my surroundings. Mornings I will be up early, but similarly in no rush and it is not uncommon for it to be two to three hours from waking to setting off. The kind weather has played its part in this. Today it’s a big day ahead; between height, distance and terrain it will be the hardest of the crossing but one I am really looking forward to and the weather could not have been better for it. I am up early, but as usual it is sometime later when I have assembled my pack ready to go when Rob appears fresh up from camp in the Gaick. We are both glad of the company as we will soon be moving at barely 2km per hour on more hard earned ground as we cross to the Feith Ghorm Ailleag then thread a route above the Allt a Chuil. At one point Rob spots a thin path on the north side but I think it is surely just a brief deer track. But it carries on and at the words “Convince me that is not a track” I concede. We get a short break of easier work along this and Rob is too polite to remind me as the path soon fizzles out that we could have been enjoying this earlier.

Slowly the surrounding hills from Beinn Dearg east are being revealed and it remains slow going until we reach a gorgeous spot by the infant Tarf. Replenished with water it is back uphill to Beinn Bhreac, the going easier as the heather shortens higher up in near perfect conditions. Once on top it looks a long way to my destination over awkward ground to Carn Ealar and An Sgarsoch. Rob is aiming at the Tarf Hotel for the night, and I hear his parting words “I don’t envy you your route much” just as the sutble comment on this stage from my vetter also reverberates in my head, “I wish you well”.

I set off a little uncertain and trade greater distance to stay higher up above the more difficult looking ground. Thankful once more for the dry underfoot conditions I work my way round to Carn Ealar which yields more easily than it might otherwise have done. It’s fast down to the bealach, but a fair loss of height leads to the steeper ascent up to An Sgarsoch. Weary legs are asking more of my arms to lever up on walking poles and it is a real heave up the last slopes in the heat. I’m feeling about done but it is not just tiredness that makes me linger once there. The views from Feshie round by Sgor Gaoith to the high tops and south to the Glenshee  and Athill hills are magnificent, and I am like a small boat in a sea of Cairngorm peaks. Satisfied, but tired, very tired, I eventually descend to pitch near the ruins at Geldie.

Start of a long day by the Allt Gharbh Ghaig

An Sgarsoch towards the distant Cairngorm plateau

Day ten and a welcome short, easy route today from Geldie to Quoich via White Bridge and Linn of Dee. I really feel on home turf now. Once at Quoich, just as the fly sheet is up the rain falls for the first time on an afternoon pitch and begins to do so in some earnest. I see another tent appear lower down and expect it is a challenger, but neither of us feel like venturing out and I settle down instead for the company of Anna Fleming’s tactile Time on Rock.

Rested up, another long day ahead awaits so I rise early to the sight of pale shadows of pines through the dense mist. There is a comforting steady drip of overnight moisture from the trees as I go about camp business, a brief hello to my fellow challenger from the night before and then I am on my way. It is genuinely atmospheric coming through Invercauld, a soft smirr of rain around me and a closeness in the air. The broad path gives quick progress to the road, then a switch over the Dee to Ballochbuie. I follow the track nearest the river at first, soon picking up a section I have never visited previously through avoidance of the tourist traps around Balmoral. There is a lovely protected section of woodland and forest here at first, and while taking a picture of the rich damp colours in the trees I become aware of a small group of roe deer waiting, watching to see what my intentions are. I back away leaving them in peace to carry on before taking a path uphill that leads to more commercially planted forest and out eventually to the distillery road with its mix of trees and the sound of a mistle thrush plucking at the teeth of its comb.

Colours of the forest near the Dee

First sight of Craigendarroch

After that, a short section of the South Deeside Road is mercifully quiet, and a pleasant detour round the south side of Creag Ghiubhais puts a stop to the tarmac over land reminiscent of the Muir of Dinnet, keeping quiet its dark history from the feuds between Forbes and Gordons. The path brings me out just short of the trail along to Polhollick Bridge joining my former stock running route and the friendly vision of Craigendarroch above my parents’ old home village. It’s a little over a year since my mother died, longer with my father, and I have had time to think of them both on the crossing so far. But here the reminiscences are of them together, at their happiest in amongst the village life they both came from, and something inside seems to settle and rest at that moment.

I take a detour round by the Dee to one of my favourite rest spots on its banks, and then it is a short walk to a night of luxury courtesy of the Franks at the Darroch Learg. Well-fed, well-rested then a feast for breakfast and I am on my way to re-supply in the village the next morning.

Day 12-13: “for everything that moves, time passes more slowly” [v]

The consequences of my first night’s camp return on a visit to the Ballater chemist for some anti-histamine. The pharmacist eyes me suspiciously, enquiring if I have had a tick bite. Well, yes, I did remove a few I picked up along the way. So while it may not be a classic bullseye a second opinion perhaps informed by the ministrations of former local GP and Lyme disease expert Dr Glass quickly leads to a prescription of doxycycline. I envisage a delay making an appointment at the GP, but we are in enlightened times and the pharmacist has me dispensed and back on my way, asking me to do my best with the increased sensitivity to sunlight.

I meet my sister and we take the next stretch together, another old running route along tracks south of the Dee before crossing at Cambus O’May. There we encounter two Richards, Emma and Mike, walking with the latter two a while before we swing back across the Dee toward Glen Tanar. It should all be well trodden ground round here, but there is still a short stretch from the bridge that is new to me, winding its way up through old woodland to the road heading into the glen. My sister will be running the trails back to Ballater from here, whereas I will continue up the sun-bathed Firmounth. On the way I meet once more with John and Sue who introduced themselves in Ballochbuie the day before, and whose good advice of a camp the other side of Clachnaben I shall take advantage of tomorrow.

L to R: Dee Bridge by Dinnet with my sister. Path up to Glen Tanar

At a junction I am lucky my direction avoids the current haunt of the last of the forest’s male Capercaillies. I’ve encountered him before when he came at me head height, wings flailing in a barrel of noise where he wasn’t supposed to be, and he needs his energy for better things right now. Under Baudy Meg it is time to swap Mounth roads to the Fungle and I find a threadbare old path that gets me most of the way across before a descent down to Birse. Finding camp out of sight of buildings proves a little tricky once there and also results in a near 4km round trip on my morning ablutions (Ed- TMI). Down here the area abounds with birdlife; a cuckoo of course, but also peewit, oystercatcher, geese, the thrumming of snipe and soul-catching cry of the curlew. Then, oh no, a pheasant late on just yards from my tent. I have to make my presence known to get some sleep, and suitably startled he scarpers off, head up, chest out, little legs going nineteen to the dozen.

Next morning and it's my wife’s birthday today; the first time I have missed that through choice. It feels very strange, and I have a pang of guilt but also know of her unerring support to make this crossing possible. That commitment has extended to letters of news from home in resupply packages written on airmail paper to keep it light (I would gain ultralight points here were it not for a 600 page book). It is the one day I hope to get a mobile signal quickly as I head back uphill.

If the Himalaya have their dead zone above 8,000m, the Eastern Grampians have their own on the grouse moors south of the Forest of Birse. Enough has been written about this elsewhere, and I am grateful next day after a sweltering ascent for a short section of more normal ground up to Mount Battock, where I just meet Mole and almost three others who are already off at pace to their final night’s camp. It’s a useful reminder of how fast the weather turns here; the heat and clear sky of the day in minutes make way for high cloud and a cool breeze. It is nothing more than that, but speeds me on my way to the characterful top of Clachnaben, and at last a signal to call home and wish a happy birthday.

L to R: Woodland stream heading down from Clachnaben. Final camp near Miller’s Bog

From Clachnaben I can eye routes of various past ascents from younger years, electing the one south of Mount Shade to descend for one last camp on this challenge, a grand spot with a pitch far better than the name Miller’s Bog would imply.

 

Day 14: “you’d waken with the peewits crying across the hills, deep and deep, crying in the heart of you…” [vi]

The last day is now here, and it will be a long one. Waking up, it was a surprise to find a sheen of ice on the outside of the tent, and it’s a cold start in the early light packing away the tent one final time. I take as direct a route as I can to cross the Water of Dye and then into Drumtochty Forest. A marked bridge over the Water turns out to be a broken bucket and rope affair all chained up, and for the first time on this dry challenge leads to a boots off paddle across. Drying my feet on the other side I am delighted to see a treecreeper dancing its way up a trunk to go round and out of sight.

The Mearns

Into the forest and it’s not too bad at first, but once past the wind turbines and the odd shadows they create the trees soon become packed and uniform. They also seems to be blocking my way at a crossroads till I see a small Scottish Rights of Way sign tucked in the undergrowth. Peering through the branches the way ahead looks little more than a memory but I give it a go in case it opens up just out of sight. Soon I am on my hands and knees crawling below branches with the faintest smudge of a trail underneath. It is time to give up and retreat to find another way. A little route anxiety creeps back in knowing there are many miles ahead and no guarantee the next path on the map won’t suffer a similar fate. There is nothing to worry about in the end, though, but I am still relieved to get back into open country at Corsebauld.

		There the bold colours of early summer sweep the Howe of Mearns. Blue sky soars over vivid green fields pulling themselves up out of the hard russet soil. Roadsides are splashed with the yellow bloom of gorse and broom, and in between rest the more delicate brushstrokes of wild flowers. Tracks and country backroads provide an enjoyable section through all this to Drumlithie and its proud steeple. I stop there for lunch and half a horrible pie as the forecast cloud cover arrives on cue.  From here it is under the railway, over the A90 and then the countdown of the last kilometres begins.

They go slowly at first, and my mind is trying to grapple with the concept of finishing and this simple existence coming to a close. On and on over undulating roads until there peering over a field of yellow is the first sight of the North Sea. Now I want time to slow down, not wanting this all to end. My cadence drops and every last view or object of interest is cause to pause and savour. I am also conscious each step down to Catterline is one I will have to retrace back to the bus stop later, not my best bit of planning.

Catterline

Finally round the corner of Creel Inn, and there is the blue crescent bay of Catterline and journey’s end. I stay poised above it, almost reluctant to go down, but down I must go. It is a slow tread across the pebbles, trying to take it all in, but for now there is just too much. Rucksack off, boots off and a last hesitation in front of the shoreline. It’s a point in time that only exists here, like a spell to be broken where only I know that I will remain on the challenge while my feet stay on the beach, and then a short step forward, feet in the water and it has ended.

How, though, as I gaze down at the cold water already gnawing at me did I used to swim in this when I was young? There is still time before the bus to Montrose to stop a while and appreciate a quiet reflective moment. I make the most of it, and there is a pleasure in watching the local residents ending their working days by heading out on the waters. A group of women are pulling a skiff down from the boathouse, and it is soothing sight as it heads its way out to the open sea as others assemble their paddleboards and kayaks.

For me, though, the crossing is complete, and it has been everything I could have hoped for and more. I hope to return again, a different set of routes already in mind. But first there is a dinner to get to and a beer or two.

---

[i] WH Murray

[ii] Lewis Grassic Gibbon – Sunset Song

[iii] Anna Fleming –Time on Rock

[iv] Nan Shepherd – The Living Mountain

[v]  Carlo Rovelli – The Order of Time

[vi] Lewis Grassic Gibbon – Sunset Song