Slow Boat Round Four Counties

2^nd to 16^th July 2011.

I've left this too long, and I need to catch up, so I don't intend to blether on so much about our more recent canal adventures... you wish!

Summer 2011 started back at Great Haywood, from where we set out on the original 'Slow Boat Under Birmingham' trip; a different boat, though – this year we have 'Lady Carol' (or Elsie, as I generally call her when swearing at her to go round a tight bend), 65 ft long with a hatch in her side through which shopping can be passed and swans can look for food, a freezer and a microwave, and some rather comfortable reclining chairs. Some of this year we'll – almost inevitably when the canal system is involved - be covering old ground (or water), as we follow the Four Counties Ring in a clockwise direction.

The first couple of days saw us skirting through suburbia, south of Stafford, where there is a mix of private moorings, back gardens, pubs and hotels and holiday villages, punctuated by ducks and a good number of rather deep locks. We decided to practise the 'stick the nose on the gate' system for going through locks, which keeps the boat reasonably stable with a minimum of engine revving and forward and back motion. In an 'up' lock, it keeps the rudder from getting bashed on the downstream gate, and in a 'down' lock, it makes sure you don't get hung up on the cill. You do have to watch for the fenders getting caught, but a sharp pair of eyes on the forward gate helps.

An overnight stop at Gailey allowed for a shore party trip to the Gailey Round Tower, before meandering through flat and windy land studded with motorways, the summit pound of the Staffs and Worcs Canal. By the outskirts of Wolverhampton, it becomes a bit more interesting, with the narrows of Pendeford Rockin' - only wide enough for one boat, so we went through in convoy – and the tight entrance to the Shropshire Canal at Autherley – narrow, under abridge and straight into a stop lock! Watered up just after the lock, and headed on through a quiet evening to find a mooring for the night, passing over Watling Street by means of the Stretton Aqueduct, through some deep and heavily wooded cuttings, full of bugs and badger diggings, to finally tie up at Wheaton Aston.

The following day was interesting and, on occasion, a wee bit dramatic. The first feature was Cowley Tunnel – only 81 yards, originally longer but it had kept collapsing (reassuring!) - the southern portal has brickwork, but as you go deeper it becomes a cut through the natural sandstone, which results in a rather lumpy and irregular profile (of both tunnel and any careless boater), and there are several places where it looks as if chunks have fallen from the roof....

A series of embankments carries us along, with distant views of the Wrekin, a faint blue rise on the horizon. Infant Yggdrasils tower over us in the deep cuttings, and we try to shed the convoy of boats – we pull ahead when it's clear but they catch us when we slow for moored boats. It rains, just to be helpful. Into the depths of Grub Street Cutting, we slip under Bridge 39 - supposedly haunted by a black, monkey-like creature, though we see nothing odder than ourselves – and head onward to Shebdon Wharf, where milk from the surrounding dairies used to be collected for the Cadbury's works.

The most impressive part of today's journey is through Woodseaves Cutting. It's around 2 miles long, almost sheer-sided with some dramatic evidence of recent rockslides. It feels like a trip through another world, travelling on tick-over so as not to start any more rockslides, and conversation is in hushed tones. Drew and I speculate what may lie beyond the trees, and being us, the speculation is of the ghoulish kind.... It LOOMS.. I can think of no other suitable word. Sheer rockfaces on either side, draped with long, liana-tendrils of ivy. Lush ferns spring from cracks in the rocks, and out of a grey mist a bridge towers overhead, a high arch, mostly concealed by trees, vaulting across the gap. It feels like passing the Argonath to go beneath it. The towpath is narrow, and so wet as to have duckweed.

We emerge at Tyrley Wharf slightly dazed, and decide we may as well go down the locks tonight. As Drew goes to open the Top Lock, the heavens open again. Gongoozaling boaters head for cover, and we send Mother below as we start down. At Lock 4, Drew points to some black and yellow tape on the lower gate – the handrail is damaged. 'Think I'll go round!' he says, rather than do his usual nifty hop between the two gates. Then he looks again.

'The notice says “Wasps' Nest On Gate...”' he says, '...try not to hit it, I think!'

Right.

I steer slowly in, and sit at the top end of the lock, just clear of the cill.

He comes back again.

'Another notice. “because of the rock shelf, don't moor in the bottom pound. Set the lock and drive straight from one into the other.”'

Okay... so we go down Lock 4, and I sit in there, wondering about wasps, and hidden underwater rocky shelves, while he goes to set and open the next lock.

After a while I spot the nest – it's about the size of my fist, and in the hollow centre of the steel beam of the right-hand lock gate – when the gate is closed, it will be nice and snug inside the gate.
Right now, it's just about head height.

Drew starts raising the second paddle on the gate below, so I decide it's time for a cautious exit and cross the pound into the bottom lock. The sides of the pound are shallow and shelving,where the whole thing has been cut from the surrounding rock. He goes back to (carefully) close the wasps in for the night, and then we go through the bottom lock. There's a very strong surge of water just below the lock, which has carved out a hollow in the rock wall opposite – probably by flinging narrowboats at it, if our experience is anything to go by!

We moor up at Market Drayton, and I manage to splash hot oil up my arm while cooking dinner – ouch! The domestic battery is also looking iffy, possibly not charging properly....

After a replenishment run in the morning, we set off to do the Adderley Flight, and then moor up at the top of Audlem, ready to do that tomorrow. The shrieking spectre of Betton Cutting fails to show up, and it's another day of greenery and cows. The 240v circuit trips briefly while cooking supper. I think it's the alternator, linked to the panel light that doesn't come on at start and stop engines (my car did something similar.) Drew thinks that isn't logical. We shall see.

Next morning is Audlem Locks and my birthday. The locks are quite fun, apart from the chance of getting ducklings stuck in the locks with the boat – with no wish to make duckling pate, we have to keep shooing them out. We wanted to stop at the 'Shroppie Fly' pub, but the length of the boat plus others' shabby mooring means it's a no-go; if we have one major gripe (apart from people passing moored boats at too fast a speed), it's poor mooring – we often see gaps of 10 ft here and there between boats who have tied up one bollard apart – if they'd tie up with more thought, more boats could get into the short-term moorings. Ah well.

13 locks later, we tie up for a relaxing evening, with all but one of the flight done, and settle down to watch the first of the last Harry Potter movies, until the 240v circuit trips out completely....

We called the boatyard just before we set out, to let them know about the battery, and organised to meet at Hack Green, where the shore party want to visit the (not so secret) Secret Bunker.While we were waiting for the rain to stop, the engineer turned up, and – YES! – it was the alternator. One small connector rusted through and requiring replacement, and all is back to normal, and off they went to see the bunker. (I think I've seen enough bunkers to last a lifetime!)

Now, I am aware that we do come home with some odd souvenirs from time to time, but I think a training version of a geiger counter may be the weirdest one yet....

From a mooring at Hurleston Junction (by the turn onto the Llangollen Canal) we went through familiar waters along the Middlewich Branch. The chandlers at Venetian Marina has (oddly) turned into an antiques shop, but we could still get ice creams, and continue on our way to Middlewich. The exit onto the Trent and Mersey was congested, and followed by a narrow tunnel under a bridge and gongoozaler scrutiny into Kings Lock.


Tomorrow we're hoping to do 'Heartbreak Hill' (aka the Cheshire Locks) so a mooring near Wheelock is planned. The landscape is an odd mixture of rural and brownfield, where demolition rubble waits something to replace it, and an odd works producing great heaps of white powder – world's most obvious cocaine factory?

Sunday is a day of locks, in sunshine,showers and a downright downpour! Most of the locks are doubles, with a second chamber parallel to the first. This doesn't necessarily mean the second chamber is working, of course – one was full of concrete, several had missing gates, and one was a veritable nature reserve with meadowsweet and moorhens.

We set off early, hoping to get moored somewhere by the Harecastle Tunnel, and actually made quite a decent shot of it, with the help of a very keen bloke who whizzed along on his bike ahead of his boat and wife (and son, who rapidly lost enthusiasm for cycling). He was eager to get into the locks once we cleared, so aided with paddles and gates until the rain set in, where we lost him. Hoped to do some shopping around Lock 41, but it being 1615hrs on a Sunday and this being England, for some obscure reason the shops were shut, so we decided to go up and moor nearer the tunnel. The water is murky here – very orange, with iron particles from the water under the hill. As we ventured into the underworld below the various rail and road and foot bridges, we were met by the tunnel keeper – a very nice bloke – who said that for preference, he wouldn't moor up here, and suggested we went back a wee bit by the private moorings. If we were at the tunnel for 0730, he'd get us through with the first batch in the morning.

So we went backwards.

Sort of.

Narrowboats don't really like going backwards for any distance. Combine this with a strong water flow, and deep silt on the bottom, and you have the recipe for an awful lot of swearing from Drew.
And profligate use of the bargepole.

When we reached the tunnel (in time) there was already a boat ahead of us, and several more behind; nice tunnel keeper gave us a full briefing before setting us off into the darkness of the Harecastle Tunnel. It's 2926 yards long, and takes around 45 minutes to traverse...unless you are behind a boat which is zig-zagging, bouncing off the walls, coming to a virtual halt (looked like a group photo session), letting the children drive, dropping to tick over, hitting the 'bollards' in the tunnel, and causing everyone else to slow-speed-slow-stop as we followed. In some parts of the tunnel there isn't a lot of head room, which made things extra-interesting.

Breakfast and coffee was served at the first opportunity once we were back in the light, and an exceptionally helpful birdwatcher gave us directions to the supermarket, so our supply hunter/gatherer was sent off.

This side of the tunnel, we are in 'The Potteries' (Stoke-on-Trent seems to be an amalgam of towns rather than a place unto itself); sadly, much of the industrial heritage seems to have been lost to demolition – plaques mark the sites of famous potteries, and there are a few bottle kilns but seemingly little else. Got a pump-out at the Black Prince yard near Etruria, before heading up the Caldon Canal, which begins with some interesting wiggles and a sudden 2-chamber staircase lock, with huge gates. Planet Lock, which follows, is a mere baby at 3ft 10ins rise. The canal wends through the tended greenery of Hanley Park, beginning in a very urban setting, becoming quite posh with some nice waterside flats, before turning shabby-industrial and finally rural again, and all very winding and narrow.

After lunch, we dealt with the lift bridge, which like the one on the Llangollen, requires the boater to stop traffic. How a solo boater manages we still cannot figure, as you're on the wrong side with no way down to your boat – so having lifted the bridge, how do you get your boat through? Drew did traffic control, and I made a rather nervous pick-up on the far side once he'd lowered the bridge.

Stopped overnight at Milton, for a visit to the Abacus bookshop in the morning. Which is apparently excellent! While we were tied up, we encountered a passing family with a very enthusiastic small boy, who was getting excited over the boats. On seeing us, we heard 'Ooh! What a big boat!' and then, as he looked through the window at Mum, '..and it's got a GRANNY on it!!'

Cue collapse of crew....

The locks on the Caldon are stone rather than brick-lined, and there are a lot of mason's marks on the stones, which I decided to 'collect' as we went. Some stones are intricately worked, with patterned surfaces, yet the spend most of their time underwater. I can't imagine the same happening today. On advice from the bookshop owner, we took the main branch,encountering some annoyances in the form of a lot of insects (Drew took up 'cleg-dancing') and one Important Individual who stole the bottom lock at Hazelhurst, wasting an entire lock-full, despite shouts from other boats....prat!

Past the Churnet Valley Railway, with one engine in steam as we passed, and a forlorn dredger parked in the river where it met the canal, risking getting overturned if the river rose. A gorgeous, sunny evening, and as we couldn't get a mooring at the Holly Bush, pushed on up to the Black Lion at Consall Forge. We can't go much further, as the boat is too big to go through Froghall Tunnel, so we picked our way carefully past weir bridges, railway lines and under the platform to the winding hole by Flint Mill Lock. Moored below the limekilns at Consall, and Drew went to the pub, returning with a carry-out of 'Black Hole', a rather molasses-y dark brew.

Southwards now, despite a small sandbar, and a kingfisher by the Knypersley feeder, and the efforts of the 'Martha Gingers' who dillied and dallied about in front of us, going Very Slowly, wrapping themselves in the foliage (which cleverly meant that we ended up operating the lift bridge again) and then messing up going through the staircase...this combined with a bloke who drove straight into the bottom of the staircase without checking if anyone was queuing to come down... result was an hour on a boring bank waiting, and staring at the backs of terrace houses.

Left out of the Caldon, into the top of the Stoke Flight (a Very Deep Lock). The canal goes under the main Crewe-Stafford railway line, where the metal siding on the bridge has been shaped to allow lock operations, and alongside the A5007 which leads to the M6. Chugging alongside the rush-hour traffic and backed-up lorries is rather odd. Then we were out again into a more rural setting, and a gorgeous blue-sky-and-sunshiney evening, the sunlight through the leaves and long grass, gleaming off the towers of the incinerator....

Next morning it was off through Trentham Lock to moor up for a visit to the Wedgwood Factory, and a selection of trophies – small black bowls, a Turkish coffee cup, a lovely blue-bead bracelet, and a couple of creations, Drew having made a small blue beaker and decorated a flower pot, both of which will be sent on when fired.

More locks through the afternoon, and a mooring close to the pub.

The plan to moor for the last night at a decent pub, followed by a short hop on the last morning came to naught, a combination of shabby mooring, too many boats, and a long queue at Weston Lock following a technical hitch culminating in a total lack of mooring between our overnight stop and the Great Haywood base. We could have gone through to Tixall Wide, but it seemed that everyone else had the same idea, so Drew went down to the boatyard to see if we could get in there.

Which we could.

So we did.

Easier said than done, admittedly, with a lot of traffic at the junction, but thanks to the 'Ezekiel Dane' we got round and moored up for the final time.

Very odd, being in the yard overnight, but at least there wasn't the need for an early start!

136 miles, 135 locks, 8 lift bridges, 2 tunnels....

As usual, a map of our trip is here!

Go West!

A year or two ago, I made a trip to the far North, ending up at Ledmore Junction, where the fading light forced me to turn for home. I said at the time that I wanted to continue the trip down towards Ullapool, and in mid-April this year, while Mum was staying, we decided it was time to do just that. So, packing a few sandwiches and cereal bars, we headed west.

The weather along the Moray Firth was beautiful, until we got to Nairn, where an unexpected haar rolled in. Normally the fogbanks stay offshore (or sit over my house) but some twist of the weather meant that they followed course of the inner firth, and it wasn't until we had gone quite a way inland that the sun broke through again.

It took around four hours to reach Ledmore again, and the great lumps of Assynt rose before us. Last trip, I posted a picture of Suilven in the rear view mirror - this is the way it should look!

The road south runs through the Geopark - the whole area is fascinating from a geological point of  view - and we couldn't resist a diversion through the heart of it, past Stac Pollaidh towards Achiltibuie and the Summer Isles.

The road is one of the usual single-track-with-passing-places, and there are several small car parks for hill walkers, all full. Small lochs lie in the hollows between the hills, and we were delighted to get a great sighting of a black throated diver in full breeding plumage - not close enough for a decent photograph, unfortunately. Further on, we pause beside Loch Raa, where a flurry in the water turns out to be two otters! Again, they were not photographically obliging...

The sheep, on the other hand, were quite content to pose.

Not far from Achiltibuie, a small ferry takes visitors across to the Summer Isles. (and yes, they do exist outside of the 'Wicker Man' - in fact they have nothing to do with it at all.)

Turning back, we look again for the otters, but they have gone, as has the diver. We rejoin the main road and head for Ullapool, on the shore of Loch Broom.

It's an active fishing port, and full of tourists so we don't linger, heading instead for Gruinard Bay. Gruinard Island is more notorious for being the site of anthrax testing in the second world War, and was only decontaminated in 1990. On a previous trip, we saw a white-tailed sea eagle on the island; today the bay held more divers - red-throated and Great Northern - which are hard to follow as they do exactly as their name suggests - they dive, and usually surface a long way from where they vanish!

Time to go. Past the naval refuelling station at Loch Ewe, the gardens of Inverewe, to Poolewe at the end of Loch Maree.

We follow the lochside, towards Achnasheen, and come to a sudden halt in a convenient layby. 'There's a black grouse in that tree!' 'What - good heavens, so there is!'
And there was.

Next time, it's Torridon and Applecross, and the third highest (and most dramatic) road in Scotland...unless we go to Skye first! we shall see...

Up Country

April 3rd.  Amazed by the good weather, and in dire need of an escape from the computer, we decided to take a trip up Deeside; in the end we went much further than we expected. We followed the winding road along the southside away from the main tourist traffic and, with a minor diversion (well, round in a circle actually!) along a backroad, ended up in Braemar where we headed northwest to the end of the highway.

The Dee is a salmon river, and all along its length there are bothies and benches and parking places for anglers who have the money...the last, I think, being the critical element.

Mar Lodge lies beyond Braemar, up towards the headwaters of the river (the Dee rises in the Cairngorms, somewhere in the Lairig Ghru) - the valley is broad, flat-bottomed, the result of glaciation, and the river loops lazily across it in wide meanders. It's a lovely spot at any time of year, and there was a real feel of spring in the air at last.

Still plenty of time, and the weather staying fine, we decided to go back the long way, over the hills to Strathdon, the other river valley leading to Aberdeen.

The pattern of muirburn show that the land is managed for grouse shooting; it's a pity the grouse don't realise it. At this time of year they are more interested in displaying to each other, and we crested one hill to find this chap strutting his stuff in the middle of the road.

Finally he wandered off into the heather, and we headed for home.

Slow Boat in the City - Part 2

15 July. Sometime today, we will have to turn round, but we’d like to see how far we can get! We’re heading deeper into the urban zone, beginning with Sale, and suburbia starts to blur into one long stretch of canal and back garden, with boats in various states of repair. At Stretford, we come to Waters Meeting – not far from Old Trafford – and a piece of modern sculpture almost hidden from view. Really urban now – towering piles of containers, and wharfsides, the old Pomona Lock, derelict sites and modern apartment blocks.

We make it all the way to Castlefield Junction and Quay, pretty much in the heart of Manchester, under a network of bridges which I find utterly fascinating.

Even here, nature is existing side by side with man – a young heron stalks fish from the canal bank, unconcerned by our passage.

We can’t go any further – from here it’s the Rochdale Canal, which requires negotiation with British Waterways – sounds fascinating though! So we turn round, and head back south, and the inevitable end of the journey. We make it as far as Moorefield Bridge, just beyond the lights of Daresbury


16 July. Another tunnel morning, and fine-timing! After successfully sliding through with few hold-ups, we stop at Anderton again, to take advantage of the shower block, and visit the Lift shop, before heading for Middlewich once more, by way of the Canal Craft shop at broken Cross, where Drew buys a traditionally painted stool.

As we go through Big Lock, we’re helped with the locking by a chap we met over a week ago, who just happens to live nearby. There is a moment of faintly hysterical hilarity as we rise up through the Middlewich Locks to come face to face with what I can only describe as a daisy-chain of dogs…
Back on the Middlewich Branch and the deep Wardle lock proves to be awkward, throwing us against the forward gate despite my best efforts to hold the boat in the middle of the lock; I am reassured by the lady in the lock cottage that this always happens, and just to let the bow sit against the gate. We moor up a short way after, below Bridge 30, and have fish and chips for supper.


17 July. Our last full day of cruising, and we plan to be almost back at the boatyard tonight. Back across the Cheshire plain, with the deep locks, and we find ourselves wishing that we’d found somewhere to do a second pump-out. There is the expected queue at Cholmondeston Lock, and a short visit to the Venetian Marina shop; no chance for the pump out here, we’ll have to make it to the morning! The weather seems to have settled into a routine – clear and sunny mornings, clouding over by mid-day and throwing it down in the afternoon, and today is no exception; it’s coming down in stair rods by the time we moor up for the night back on the Shropshire Union proper at Calveley, and do our packing.

18 July. All that remains is the last couple of miles and the Bunbury Staircase; we moor up at the yard by 9.00 am as required, and then it’s just emptying our gear from boat to car, and final handover stuff in the office (and complementary coffee, which was nice!) End of the journey, all 202 miles, 64 locks, (182 lock gates) and 329 feet and 5 inches up and down again, time to download all the photos, and figure out our next trip!

a couple of collections from the trip....

boat names

boat dogs

and for the interested, a Googlemap of the entire trip is here

Slow Boat in the Sky - Part 2

Yes, well…before this year’s holiday overtakes us I reckon I’d better finish writing about last year! Where were we?

Oh yes, moored up at Llangollen, listening to Barbara Dickson…

8 July. Next morning saw a shore party heading off into the town to have a look at what was happening – dancing in the streets, and plenty of music. Back on the boat, the sounds of the Eisteddfod drifted across from the festival ground, all the international competitors taking part in the various competitions. The horse-drawn barges clip-clopped past on their way to the waterfalls, and the day was spent just chilling out, and looking at where our boat might take us over the next week or so.

round the town, and the horse-boats

9 July. Another high-in-the-sky day, with the excitement of crossing the aqueducts again. One thing about doing an out-and-back route instead of a circuit is you get a second chance at the photographs… there was the usual throng of boats at Trevor, though fortunately not so many dayboats causing chaos, and we waited to get into convoy across the Pontcysyllte. More tunnels and the Chirk aqueduct, and we were back to locks and an over night stop (and dinner) at the Jack Mytton pub.

on the Ponte (Drew)


between the tunnels.



10 July. The main aim of today was to get a pump-out. (Oh the romance of boating!) We found a helpful boatyard at the Blackwater Marina, and once that was done, took a side-trip up the Ellesmere Arm for some lunch and to replenish the stores. The highlight was Vermeulens’ Delicatessen, which provided a wonderful selection of delights; we’d recommend anyone taking the trip to make appoint of stopping and shopping! Drew made a very elegant three-point turn of the boat up by the new wharf (much to the disappointment of the gongoozalers on the bank) and we headed off again, through the open farmland and mosses to our overnight mooring at Grindley Brook, ready to tackle the staircase in the morning.

Ellesmere and around

11 July. Tonight finds us back at Hurleston Junction, in almost the same place as we spent our first night, planning new explorations. Farewell to the Llangollen Canal. We’ve got almost another week, and we’ve covered the ground (or water) we’d planned to do – so where now? We’ve done the countryside – how about some urban landscapes for a change?

Day Tripping at the Top End

Time to catch up!
Back in about May, we actually had a spell of really good weather, so I decided to take a day out and do a road trip I haven't done for years - all the way around the top end of Scotland. Not exactly a green activity, but the scenery is fabulous, and the trip practically impossible by public transport (certainly, you couldn't do it in a day!)
So off and away - later than I'd hoped, about 9.00 in the morning, and heading west towards Inverness and the Highlands. From here, I turn north, crossing the inner Moray Firth, across the Black Isle, and over the Cromarty Firth, with the tide right out and vast expanses of wader-friendly mud and sand.



Keep going north. The road follows the shoreline, the hills rising away to the left, covered in gorse and glowing like some crazed artist has splashed everything with chrome yellow. This is clearance country, a thin strip of farmland crammed between mountains and sea. The railway shares the route as far as Helmsdale, often running with its tracks almost in the water, before heading inland to Georgemas Junction and the northern towns. I follow the coast.
Passing a stand of conifers, it looks as if someone is burning off brushwood, or applying chemicals, but the yellowish fog spreads through the entire plantation, blowing inland on a strong easterly; I realise in amazement that it's pollen from the trees, windborn and guaranteeing a good crop of cones later in the season.
The road is quite winding and with some steep sections; not the place to find a gigantic slow-moving crane coming the other way. I pull in and let it roll down the hill.



Above the last valley, the road crosses an open and quite bleak landscape, treeless, hedgeless; for previous visits I remember fences made of flagstones and look for these, but most seem to have been replaced by the ubiquitous barbed wire. Older houses are roofed with the stone, though. Unlikely to blow off in the wind, I think.



I pass through Wick, on my way to the northern tip of mainland Britain. There are houses here that have been around for centuries; old fortified places that look more like small castles.



I'm on the way to Dunnet Head, the real northern point - but first, a more traditional and better known place - John o'Groats. It's busy on a day as fine as this, with bikers and happy-snappers, and souvenir shops. I don't hang about.



There's a haze along the horizon, which means the view across the Pentland Firth isn't as clear as I'd like, but some of the distant lighthouses can be made out on Stroma and Hoy, as well as some of the ancient sandstone seastacks; you can't quite see the Old Man of Hoy from here.



Dunnet Head is now an RSPB reserve, and there is time to chat with a group of birdwatchers; what have you seen? The lighthouse is as far as you can go by road, and overlooks a steep cliff thronged with birds, and the glinting, choppy water far
below.



Westwards now, and into the wilds of Sutherland. Mountains rise abruptly from wide Flow country - expanses of bog, where plover and redshank breed amidst pools of brown peaty water. Beyond Bettyhill, the mountains take over; the journey so far feels like I've been climbing from green soft shores to ever wilder and desolate country.



Ben Loyal is the biggest of the mountains laid out before me, forcing the road to follow the coastline, winding along the edges of the deep inlets, the Kyles of Tongue and Durness. There are gorgeous beaches along here, hidden gems of pale sand and unexpectedly blue sea.





At Durness there is no choice but to turn south. You can get to Cape Wrath from here, by means of foot ferry and a minibus along a rackety road to the far west corner, but it's well into the afternoon by now, and there's no time; instead I head down through the mountains towards Assynt. The name means something like rough land....



I'm running out of time. If I'd set off earlier, I might have made it as far as Ullapool; as it is, it's time to turn for home, and do the rest another day. At Ledmore Junction, I turn south-east, back towards Inverness, with the bulk of Suilven rising in my rear-view mirror.



Almost home now, and the light fading rapidly - well it is almost 11.00 pm! I pause at Cullen to take a final shot of the distant hills across the Moray Firth.



And people ask me why I want to live in Scotland?