Scotland coast to coast

Like many expatriates living in San Miguel de Allende, I like to leave town from time to time and return to the stomping grounds of my youth to see how the natives are doing.

Historically, the Scots have been perceived to be taciturn of tongue, dour of demeanour, aggressive in attitude, parsimonious in praise, and even on rare occasions generous of spirit. I can safely report that little has changed.

KEEP OUT, said the sign in large letters, a sign that had clearly been posted by the Ministry of Agriculture as part of its campaign to contain the spread of foot-and-mouth disease. I had seen this same warning on numerous gates and fences during my 12-mile walk up Strathcarron, a lonely glen in the far north highlands of Scotland. As I had been following a paved road, from which there was no reason to stray, I had been perfectly happy, to this point, to obey the signs. But this KEEP OUT was different, for this gate completely barred the way to my destination-Ullapool, a fishing port on the west coast of Scotland.

Walking across Scotland from coast to coast was an adventure that had always appealed to me. And so, on a grey June morning, provisioned with the hiker's essentials, remembered from youth-hostelling days long past-rolls, cheese, a can of corned beef, several bars of chocolate, and with a few cans of Irn Bru (a soft drink unique to Scotland and alleged to be made from water, sugar and rusting girders) thrown in for good measure-I had boarded a local bus headed north out of Tain for the 30-minute ride to Ardgay, from where I would strike westwards. There was just one other passenger on the bus, a lady who listened patiently across the aisle as I described my grandiose plan.

"Are you sure you'll not be having a problem with the hoof and mouth?" she asked, doubtfully.
"I've heard conflicting reports," I replied.

The nationwide outbreak of the disease was by this time subsiding, but a few days earlier, in the extreme south of the country, I had been turned away at the cliffs of St. Abb's Head, on account of this same foot-and-mouth problem. However, pedestrian access to the Scottish countryside was, in most places, being rapidly restored. "I'm hoping it's over now," I added, "or, I could be in trouble."
"Walking to Ullapool, in the name of God. And where will you be staying the night?" The woman had taken note of my minimal pack and lack of camping gear.

"I'll just have to find a howff," I said, as if this was something people found every other night. "A place to sleep in the open air."

The idea of howffing it coast to coast had come to me after reading a magazine article entitled "Sleeping Rough," in which a "howff" had been described as an impromptu shelter contrived out of whatever features, natural or man-made, that the long-distance hiker can cobble together at the end of his day's walk.

"Are you not worried about getting wet through or frozen stiff?" continued my bus companion, looking genuinely concerned. "They're calling for frost on the high ground tonight." I had heard the forecast, but the night seemed a long way off, the roads were still dry, my feet felt good, and I was Micawberishly optimistic that something would be bound to turn up.

"I suppose you'll be going by Croick Church," she whispered, then added, enigmatically, "Such a sad place. All those names scratched on the windows." For an instant, I felt like Macbeth by the witches' cauldron, but before I could ask for more details, she had disembarked. A few stops later, the bus pulled in at Ardgay, and it was time for me to walk the walk, not talk the talk.

To the east lay the sandy beach of the Dornoch estuary at low tide; 40 miles to the west, over paths unknown, lay Ullapool. I turned inland and headed up the single-track road by the side of the River Carron. A sign indicated that Croick Church (of the mysterious window scratchings) was some 12 miles distant, about two miles beyond a fork in the glens where I would have to choose between two possible but very different routes to Ullapool.

At a spot on Landranger Map 20 marked "The Craigs" I could head either southwest through Gleann Mor or northwest through Strath Chulieannach. In total distance to be covered, the northerly route was longer, but, according to the contours of the map, it involved no major ascents or descents. There was also a dashed line going all the way to Ullapool, indicating a path of sorts. The southerly route, though shorter, ran through much more mountainous country and would demand a very considerable climb; it would also include a stretch of several miles across a plateau at 2000 feet, completely undefined by any path.

A car came up from behind and slowed to a crawl beside me. "Are ye going to the castle. I can gie ye a lift" called a friendly voice, in obvious reference to the famed Carbisdale Castle Youth Hostel, which lay on another back road forking off about a mile ahead.

"Thank you very much." I said. "But I'm on my way to Ullapool."
"I think you're on the wrong road," said the driver.
"I'm walking, you see," I added. He shook his head, doubtless thinking me daft, and drove off with a wave, wishing me good luck.

With only my food and a few pieces of extra clothing to carry, I continued up the road at a good four-miles-per-hour clip, enjoying the sounds of the wind in the trees and the water rushing over the rocks of the Carron. The weather forecast for the day was typically Scottish: cloudy with sunny intervals, occasional periods of rain, winds variable; the usual coin toss. When I arrived at The Craigs, about two-and-a-half hours after leaving Ardgay, I could feel a slight burning sensation on my feet, just back of the toes. It wasn't a serious problem yet, but I recognized the signs. So, reluctantly, I gave up on the ambitious plan to take the high road through Gleann Mor and opted instead for the less demanding route (I guessed) that would take me past Croick Church and through Strath Cuileannach.

By the time I reached the church, about an hour later, the sunny intervals of early morning had given way to a dark brooding sky, and a fierce wind had sprung up, dead in my face. The church was unlocked, and I was glad to step inside, not for spiritual guidance, but simply for relief from the westerly gale.

The interior of the church was dark, creaky, and felt distinctly spooky in the light of what the bus lady had said, but I was thankful for the shelter it provided. Not a soul was around, so I took the liberty of removing my boots and socks to soothe the burning soles of my feet on the cold stone slabs of the floor. As I padded around, barefoot and sacrilegious, I broke open an Irn Bru and toasted Iron Man Telford who had directed the labors here 180 years earlier, and prayed that no present-day zealot of a church elder, in which this land abounds, would charge through the door and chuck me out.

My luck held, and with spirit and soles assuaged, I laced up and headed back out into the howling wind, taking care to leave behind no trace of my visit. I had gone no more than 100 yards, when I was halted in my tracks by the large KEEP OUT sign on the gate barring my way westwards. The hell with their sign, I said to myself, unlatching the gate and pushing it open.

Part II next week.

Bill Gallacher, longtime San Miguel resident, is a regular contributor of ironic works to Atención.