King of the road...

Well, we have returned to basecamp.  Three days as far north as north can be, staying at various establishments along the way.

First stop was at a wonderful B&B at Rhiconich called Ardberg House, run by the completely delightful Susan.  The husband and I had some concerns as to how Percy would deal with new surroundings.  Miss R (my lovely little sis) recently had her lounge recarpeted, and I was over there with the dogs admiring it, and looking very enviously at her beau's record player and substantial album collection, stacked up on the new carpet.  Fast forward five minutes, and I'm screaming at Percy as he cocks his leg against the albums, and does what all dogs do in that position.  Miss R was brilliant about it, but having cleared up, she said to me, 'I can't imagine what he's got against the Bee Gees', referring to the poor album which got the biggest onslaught.  Well, I think we all know what Percy had against the album, but there was no repeat of this at any of the places we stayed over the next few days I'm pleased to say.

Susan's house was bloody perfect, and we left there revived, refreshed and full of gorgeous breakfast, en route to Thurso via various waterfalls and castles.  My favourite was Corrishalloch Gorge.  A 100m death defying suspension bridge over a gorge.  Unbelievably beautiful and terrifying at the same time.  Apparently, over £15,000 is needed each year to maintain the bridge which is 150 years old.  I for one will not complain about the £5 carpark charge which goes towards the costs.

Second night was something else again.

Reaching the rather grey hotel in Thurso, we were greeted by an unshaven, be-cardiganned old fella, who, having taken my name, said in all seriousness, 'I'm 82 you know, and I have a daily fight with Jesus'.  Personally, I am surprised he didn't have a daily fight with the guests considering the state of the place.  Dinner was a smorgasbord of different coloured mush, and when we woke up in the morning, we couldn't wait to get away - even breakfast was given a miss.

After Thurso, we arrived at Dunnet Head, the most northerly point of Britain.  We were quite early getting there (this is what happens when you skip breakfast) and it was freezing cold and really windy.  The husband and I were still in our shorts - no long trousers since August - so a little chilly around the old fetlocks.

Then John O'Groats for the obligatory signpost photographs.  Our photos were fine, but when a lady offered to take one of us both with the dogs, we jumped at it.  Best smiles on, and she took a few snaps, and handing the phone back with a 'they're lovely', we took a look.  She had got us and the dogs in perfectly.  However, what was missing was the top of the sign, so we could have been anywhere really.

Then we had time for a rather sad visit to Bettyhill.  It seems that the further north you get, the more evidence there is of the crofters' houses, which were left empty and destroyed after the Highland Clearances.  I wanted to buy every one of them and restore them to their simple beauty, but part of me feels that they should be left as they are as a memorial to all the unfortunate souls who lost everything during that time.  There is a fantastic museum at Strathnaver which tells the crofters' stories really well - very much worth a visit,

Our third night was in a pub in Evanton called the Novar Arms.  Rough and ready, but warm, welcoming, excellent food, perfect bed and a breakfast which blew our socks off.  All for the princely sum of £125.  We had our evening meal with two lads who work for the railway.  Like lots of Scottish men, they work away all week, and the pub is their home when they are in the area.  We chatted for a couple of hours over a few pints of Guinness and cider narrowing the north/south divide over scampi and chips.

And then onto Culloden, which I'll talk about tomorrow.

That can't be squeezed into a few lines...