Diary: April, 22

Continued.. 2/4

17th

This morning I have woken in my tent pitched about three miles East of a town named Buckie.

On ten minutes rising from my sleeping bag I had a visit from the local police force. They claimed to have received a report of a man shouting at the public and, looking extremely confused, sheepishly enquired if it had been me. I tried hard not to laugh, thinking this is diversity training at it's finest! I replied with a blunt “No” and they left.

Furthermore, I packed away my equipment and walked down a long flight of steps, crossed a road and stumbled upon a beach. A member of my family was already there, her dog came to me, she said “she likes you, she likes you very much”. Her friend's dog barked and barked at me, so I replied “Jealousy will get you everywhere” which she laughed at before completely ignoring me.

Further along the beach there was a lot of granite rock, so much that the beach reminded me of my childhood home of Northwest Leicestershire.

After a mile or so, I arrived in Findochty. I walked to the public toilets and to my delight turned on the tap to find hot water. I immediately began to wash as if I had found some oasis in a desert, relishing in the warm comfort of the water seemed such a surreal experience.

Look at this coastal gorse, isn't the yellow just glorious!

A mere mile and a half eastwards, I found myself in Portknockie. From here on the coastline changed dramatically, increasing significantly with caves and fallen rocks.

There was a lot of attention focussed on one rock named Bow Fiddle Rock, a thousand of seabirds appeared to be attracted there. I dropped my rucksack on the overlooking cliff top and took some pictures, then decided to take five minutes rest. A family came down with a blue birthday cake, and sung the familiar song we all know. I turned from the sea and wished the child happy birthday, five minutes later they share a piece of cake with me which was delicious, plus I really needed the sugar for energy.

Before I got to the rock an Austrian woman left her van with a camera and took photographs down on the beach, on her way up the cliff she told me she did not want to leave Scotland. How come these people always appear nervous about saying where they are from, as if the places they are from hold no self-worth for them, are we all being cast out indifferent from our souls? I suspect this to be so.

Watching “unicorns” roaming free and enjoying the coastal line was a happy sight, but did anybody ever tell them the chains were inside their minds. Not wishing to see what was coming to the rock next, I left the area. The next port of call along this stretch of coastline was a fishing town named Cullen, world-famous for Cullen Skink soup.

Can you imagine our displaced ancestors sleeping here, driven to the cold North Sea winds of the East Coast by the Highland Clearances, only to be pushed into compact cities; subjected to depravities until they succumb to the alienations of the workhouses? Our people were uprooted and forced into Colonisation, few wanted to leave their homeland, most suffered and many died along the way doing so.

Nature is also not without its casualties, the seemingly endless cycles of life, death, and rebirth go off, and on…

A wee fish merged into the rock?

Cullen harbour was a lively place, much more people active here than in Findochty and Port Knockie, strangely there were also many white families with a token migrant in tow, ho-hum. Ignoring this everything felt OK'ish, lots of us White people about, the area felt safe, few invading migrants would brave a North Sea crossing in a wee dinghy.

There were many collectors shops in Cullen. Walking up a hill, I found this guy, they create stuff such as this to disturb our minds. They cultured our people to enjoy being placed beside themselves, so they would be dislodged enough to appreciate it, art is merely seen from a sense of perspective, right?

I visited a local supermarket and purchased some tinned Mackrell in tomato sauce, this small fish is full of protein and read to eat from an opened tin. On my way out I entered a café to purchase a bacon roll, I've started eating some meat again (pig) hoping to avoid the next B12 injection in May.

After some walking (up a huge hill and another mile to a parking lay-by) I hitched a lift out of Cullen and into a coastal town, Banff. The driver took me to a place on the beach where he said I would be safe to pitch for the night. This turned out not to be so, by a car park, beside the beach, was a seated old man who offered me money for sexual favours. This clearly was not a safe place to pitch my tent, the walk back to the road to hitchhike again was lengthy.

After another lift I arrived in Huntly early / late evening and decided to visit the castle, ancestral home of Clan Gordon. A group of kids wearing gothic clothing were 100 yards (91.44 m) ahead of me, behind came a family who took the effort to get themselves into the castle grounds first, whilst I stood back and took some pictures.

The kids, whilst I was present, after climbing all over the castle drew reverse Swastikas into the Castle's gravel; desecrating the Clan Gordon heritage, one of the kids was an Asian / Indian. The drawing appeared to be engraved in with a heel, using some force to lead me to believe this was done with a degree of hatred. Before I parted from the castle, I covered over this disgrace the best I could do, wiping with my foot.

I tried to not let this bother me, but I felt utterly disgusted; because "strangers" desercate me everywhere I go, to deface me with obscenity from my homeland; as if everything our ancestors suffered themselves for us to be was worth absolutely nothing. I walked out the Castle grounds, southwards through Huntly centre and after half an hour of hitch-hiking picked up a lift to Rhynie from a woman working the lambing season.

She told me she and her husband were working so many hours they were forgetting when they were sleeping. She also told of living in a caravan with seven dogs! Few people when they see the newborn lambs know how hard farm life is around here, she explained. She showed me a small wild park where I could camp, but the water table was too high. After being dropped off, I waited till dark to pitch up my tent, choosing a field that overlooked the village.

16th

Last night (after midnight) I pitched on a playing field because of being so nauseated by the lingering smell of sheep poo. The night was cold, after all this is Thurso right? I packed my things in a hurry, disturbed by cars with loud exhaust pipes tearing around all night along the cold, empty streets that surrounded the playing field.

I crossed over the bridge and made my way to the sea front, at the corner of a seemingly redundant building a found a café van and purchased breakfast from two friendly local ladies.

Further eastwards along the beach I rested on a bench by a moment that appeared to be built to honour Atlantis, I asked locals walking their dogs, but nobody appeared to know anything about it.

I ate soup for veggie beans and burgers for breakfast in the chilling cold of a windy morning, whilst “others” enjoyed a more substantial meal in warmth and company within a locally renowned restaurant.

I walked through and out of Wick, past a football game, hitching a lift from a University Professor (accountancy). She took me all the way to Inverness, dropping me off at a roundabout, where I hitched two more lifts (via Elgin) arriving in a coastal town named Buckie just before sunset.

I was psychologically troubled during the evening, moved on by relentless bouts of anxiety, it took me quite a walk to find a safe place to pitch my tent.

15th

Pitched by the Sand dunes, about two miles east of Durness, locals claimed I was on MOD land, but there were civilian houses close by. The weather was quite mild for Durness, with only light sprinkles of rain. I always eat breakfast (this morning was lentil soup, which smells more pungent than French onion soup!) on the coastline between Durness and Thurso; this morning that is exactly what I did before leaving the shelter of my tent.

Populated by rabbits are these sand dunes and sheep poo was abundant everywhere on the ground, this unpleasant smell penetrated my tent and my clothes smelt of it for hours afterwards. After packing up my equipment I took a walk down to the beach to wash up my cooking pot, I also took some pictures with my phone camera.

The walk to Durness seemed to take forever and took more time to complete than I had anticipated. Although considerably expensive, the general store stocked a good supply of essentials, they also had a health food section. I have chosen three items with energy and limited budget in mind.

Leaving Durness, I was stalked by three cars that passed multiple times. These cars seemed to be following me around the NC500 (North Coast 500 route).

Walking past Durness village hall I noticed a John Lennon memorial garden, from talking to a roadside café van I was informed that Lennon used to have a holiday home in Durness. People think celebrities are great, but they are evil, they sell us all out, and are the last anybody should be looking to seek “wisdom” from.

I stopped off at a café van and had a small breakfast, I walked at least seven miles before a car stopped to give me a lift. An American / Asian man driving the NC500 stopped and gave me a lift to Tongue. The views along this part were spectacular and in many respects I wish (not regretted) I'd of walked it.

I walked out of Tongue and acquired a lift from a guy who worked for the NHS, he took me to Betty Hill and showed me a place to pitch my tent on the coastline, east of the village.

After scouting around I wasn't going to settle in the area so walked another two miles, this time gaining a lift from a van load of Italian peoples; after some pidgin English dialogue they agreed to take me to Thurso.

14th

Pitched by Loch Broom within a small public park, and yes, I was woken up by dog walkers.

Now knowing what I knew about Ullapool, I had little desire to remain in the town any longer; mainly for fear that I'd do something really horrible to the "strangers" that could possibly land myself in trouble with the law.

Indifferent from the day before, today the town was filling up with "strangers", I walked northwards, up a steep hill before I hitch-hiked a lift out of the town.

The first lift came from an elderly man who was on his way to a rock face, he mentioned that he had taken up rock climbing during the pandemic lock down. The second lift took me to Scourie and came from a man who had picked up building supplies (timber) for his house in Ullapool. On the way, he picked up his wife, she used to work for the Rock stop Geopark Café near Unapool.

I was stuck in Scourie at least two hours before a woman stopped and took me to the Kinlochbervie turning.

From here I walked over the hillside until I came to what I learned was a Hydro-station. The guy who built it was outside, I shouted him, and he came over to chat, he described, with some tension, living there all winter, through relentless wind and rain and the severity of loneliness he endured.

The strangest thing was not that we met during his last hydro-station project, or the isolation we'd both suffered; it was the very fact that he was from a mere few miles from where I was brought up as a child. He said the isolation had got so bad he gave in and stayed at Kinlochbervie hotel, only for it to be completely deserted because of the COVID-19 pandemic. How unreal, like the shining, I thought. The final lift of the day came from a Bohemian woman with black teeth. She described being on holiday in her van, and that she was from the Shetland Island where she would be returning to tomorrow morning. She claimed to work for a theatre company, and said the Shetlanders related more to Vikings culture than they did anything Scottish. Furthermore, she dropped me west of Durness just before the MOD land began. I had no interest in walking to Cape Wrath, so turned back the other way, pitching my tent on a cliff half a mile from an MOD lookout post.