The Daft Hermit

After taking two days off in Ullapool, I was back on the road heading toward the mountains again.

I got as far out of town as I could before nightfall then stopped to setup camp in the grass near this turn out.

That's when I met my new heroes, Andy, aka the Daft Hermit, and his wife Mel. Andy invited me over for coffee. That turned into dinner, which turned into hours of conversation that continued well passed 1 AM.  I'm always wondering how many months I can keep this lifestyle going, but  Andy and Mel have made it work for years.  Andy is a writer, photographer, winkle hunter (a small edible sea snail), and a master of living the simple life. I got a lot of great advice from him, which I'll have to write about more later, but something he said while I peaked out his window at the morning rain, which I keep repeating as the weather turns colder is, "There's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothes."

This is Andy and Mel's sweet Yellow Lab. I took this while having coffee in the caravan the next morning. That turned into a few more hours of conversation...

...but I was finally on my way south again. Passing through farms...

...then back into the mountains where I belong.

Hiker Dinner

This was my dinner that night at the hostel. A half-gallon of triple chocolate ice cream. Actually I left a little bit at the bottom, so I wouldn't be able to say I ate the whole thing.

It sounded so good when I finally got into civilization and it was a guarantee that I would actually enjoy what I was eating, which is so rare here (sorry locals, but it's true.) I easily convinced myself that I deserved it. Actually more than that. I needed it.

"You hiked across Ireland and the Scottish Highlands. You've lost like 20 pounds on this trip, so far. Losing that much weight so quickly has to be unhealthy, which means this triple chocolate ice cream is healthy, right? Don't lie to yourself, Ryan, you know you need this."

When hiking too much to gain any weight, it’s really hard for me to eat a healthy balanced diet. Take "getting fat" out of the equation and I start eating like an aspiring diabetic. It's one of the things I love about backpacking actually.

Happy Birthday From Scotland Margaret!

To Margaret Wagoner from Marion, Indiana. Someone asked if I would post a happy birthday message to you today since, like I once did, you dream of someday traveling to Scotland.

Ben Nevis, the tallest mountain in Scotland, wasn't on my cross-country route exactly, but when I saw it staring at me from the other side of Loch Linnhe, I decided there was no better place to send you a birthday greeting.

After starting the ascent, I picked up a rock to write out your birthday message and carried it with me to the top.

The name Ben Nevis is derived from Scottish Gaelic and is sometimes translated as "Mountain of Heaven" or "the mountain with its head in the clouds." Both are apt descriptions as the views were stunningly beautiful at every moment, and at its peak, I did in fact find myself climbing into a cloud.

The summit, now enveloped in the cloud, is the collapsed dome of an ancient volcano about 4,400 feet above the road where I started. Through the fog I found a shelter, which seemed to be the highest spot I could get. I climbed up with the rock in hand. 

Margaret, this is not simply a happy birthday message written on an ordinary piece of stone that I picked up off the ground in the Scottish Highlands. It is an invitation to plan an adventure. The stone and one of the best views in the British Isles will be waiting for you at 56°47'48.1"N 5°00'12.4"W. Whether you ever visit this exact spot or not, I promise that few things are as fulfilling as having the courage to turn a lifelong dream into a real life experience. I hope to someday hear you turned your dream of visiting Scotland into reality.

Below are more photos from Ben Nevis. I hope you enjoy your birthday as much as I enjoyed my hike to deliver your birthday greeting.

Hi Margaret!

Inchnadamph to Oykel Bridge

The weather remained overcast, the midges made another morning unpleasant, but the trail between Inchnadamph, Scotland and Oykel Bridge was beautiful, remote, and rugged.

After a trackless section requiring map and compass, I got onto an established trail that took me into the Benmore Forest

To Loch Ailsh

And one of my favorite photos from Scotland so far, Benmore Lodge on Loch Ailsh

The Glendhu and Glencoul Bothies

After another day in the wind, rain, and thick fog, I took refuge in the Glendhu bothy, an old home situated on the northeastern shore of Loch Gleann Dubh, now a mountain refuge for anyone willing to get there on foot.

Another backpacker dressed head to foot in raingear was already inside. I knocked softly as I pushed open the door to not frighten him. It wouldn’t be crazy to assume you’d be alone out here.

“Hello," I said. "Is there room for one more?”

He walked to the front door smiling. He had a skeletal fragile look about him with a gaunt face and nearly as much hair in his nose as on his head.

“Oh of course,” he said. “I’m the only one here and am sticking to this room, so that room is empty,” he said pointing to a room on my left. “And there are two more rooms upstairs.”

“Excellent, I’m going to just have a quick look around,” I said. I chose the cleanest and least creepy of the three remaining rooms and set my pack on the floor.

I went back downstairs to talk to my new roommate. “This is great,” I said. “I’m really loving these bothies. I'm still considering going on to the next one on Loch Glencoul four miles away, though.”

“Ah, you’ll never make it before dark,” he said. “It’s only four miles, but the trail is slow and hard to see.”

“Oh, okay. Well I guess I’ll stay put then.”

“It’s an interesting bothy at Glencoul, though,” he said. “It's an old schoolhouse attached to a boarded up house. It’s so remote that it was easier to just pay a teacher to live with them then send them to school."

"That sounds cool," I said. "I've always been a fan of living in things that weren't originally built to be lived in."

"The schoolhouse has a separate room for the teacher to live in. The two boys who were taugh there were shipped off to France to fight in the war. Imagine living in this paradise and then being forced to go to France to fight in a war.” His tone made me wonder if it was the idea of living in France he detested rather than being forced into a warzone.

“And apparently, they never came back home,” he said.

The hike to Glencoul the next morning wasn’t as difficult as he made it seem. I stopped in to eat lunch. I loved it. It was even more remote than Glendhu, as there was no road and you had to hike an additional four miles past Glendhu to get to it, unless you took a boat from Unapool, which on a clear day you can see at other end of the loch.

A copy of a journal written by John Elliot (1844-1928) who grew up in the house, sat on the mantle above a fireplace. I got a pot of water boiling, threw in a few handfuls of pasta, and read the journal while I waited for it to cook.

The room I sat it was in fact used as a schoolhouse, and the eldest brothers who lived there, Will and Alstair, were sent to fight during World War I and never returned, but I learned more details about that history.

Excerpts from the journal:

"I was very lucky to be born and brought up in a place like Glencoul. The Glen was a place of such freedom as my children never knew until they had grown up and traveled. We did more or less as we liked out of school hours.

School was in a bedroom in the house. Teachers were whoever we could get, my eldest brother, Will, as often as not. He ruled with firmness, but must have had some quality as a teacher, because he taught me to love books.

We had a cousin, for one year, and he was tough. When he joined the Seaforths in the 1914 war we thought the German Army might as well give up. They didn't. Norman was killed in action. 

We were self-supporting in some things. We had a venison allowance from the Estate. We had our own mutton, lamb, pork, hams, fowls, eggs, butter, cream, and cheese. My mother made soft cottage cheese and she had a huge stone cheese press for making harder cheese, which would keep for months. We salted venison in the shooting season and stored it in barrels.

[The nearest shop] was 5 miles by sea, then 9 miles road journey, using a borrowed horse and cart, because we could not get our own horse and cart to the road, there being no road into the Glen. No wonder it was called Glen Coul (Gaelic for "the glen at the back of beyond.")

I've dreamed for years of living in a small cabin in a remote and beautiful place. I considered staying there that night to live out that dream for a day. After lunch, I decided it was too early in the day to stay. The morning rain had stopped and the sky was blue again. I needed to get going, after all, winter is coming.

I would soon go back onto a trackless path, but needed to head to a tall slender waterfall, the tallest in the U.K., which could be seen just beyond the house. While photographing it, I heard a splash in the water. Seals were bathing in the sun. The splash came from a curious one who swam up closer to me for a better look.

After passing the waterfall, crossing the river, and following my compass needle southeast the weather turned again. Fog rolled in, rain fell, the wind grew stronger and colder. This would continue off and on for the next few days.

Midges

The next morning my tent was covered in gnats. Thankfully, they couldn’t get through the bug mesh. I know they are harmless, but they were maddening when I went outside to take down camp. They flew into my eyes, nose, and ears.

Hours later, I noticed my arms were covered in itchy red spots, and I knew they weren’t gnats at all. They were the evil all the locals said would soon be the bane of my existence. The infamous midges.

One such predictor of this future worked in an outfitter in Glasgow where I purchased the maps and supplies that I would need to cover this route. Before I left the shop, he handed me a silver bottle.

“Here,” he said. I looked at the label. It was a waterproof midge repellent. “There’s no charge. You’re going to be glad you have that.”

The following morning, a cloud of midges swarmed around my tent again. This time I pulled out the silver bottle and covered all exposed skin before getting out. It was absolutely useless at keeping them from flying into my eyes, nose, and ears, but I seemed to have fewer itchy spots.

In addition to the midges, the normal Scottish Highlands September weather is back. Rain has kept my camera in my pack and when it isn’t raining, the fog hides the view and dulls the color. I’m still enjoying myself, but my pictures are suffering.

Sandwood Bay

The first section of the Cape Wrath Trail was entirely trackless other than then initial mile which follows the road to the lighthouse.

When I veered off the pavement to head toward my first campsite on the beach at Sandwood Bay, there wasn’t even a footprint to follow.

Although boggy and wet, following a compass needle rather than a worn path gave me a sense of freedom even more absolute than a wilderness trail ordinarily provides. Thanks to the mild weather recently, the first big river crossing didn’t even require getting wet. I could hop across on stones.

On the other side stood a small stone house with a red wooden door and metal roof. For 40 years it was the home of James McRory-Smith, also known as Sandy. 

Sandy lived in this house without gas, electricity, or telephone only venturing out to a small shop ten strenuous miles away to collect his pension check and stock up on food. Today, Sandy’s home is one of many bothies, a Scottish term for small huts used as mountain refuges for anyone who needs it, which are scattered across mountains in Britain.

I didn’t plan on staying here tonight, since I had a remote unspoiled beach to call home a couple of miles away, but I wanted to see what it was like on the inside. 

The floor was concrete, stained from water leaking in from under stone walls. Hanging just inside the door were spades and hooks for other tools and jackets. To my left was a room with a wooden sleeping platform and nothing else other than some midge repellent left on the windowsill.

On the right was a living room with fireplace and handmade shelves on the opposite wall filled with books and photos of the man himself. The ceiling was painted bright yellow with blue trim.

Something of an artist, Sandy left paintings on the walls which are still in good condition today. In the kitchen, which in a house without electricity or indoor plumbing is nothing more than a room with a counter top, every wall was covered in his paintings. 

They ranged from a horse with a long blonde mane, to Viking ships, a mother carrying a child, and a woman playing a harp. The remaining empty space on the kitchen walls were covered in bright splashes of colors and patterns.

The house would certainly be considered derelict by most standards, but all would love to be within its walls in harsh weather. Personally, I loved it, which wouldn’t surprise too many. I see a bit of myself in the eyes of the hermit Sandy in his portrait on the walls.

I went back out into the sun to finish the last couple of miles to the beach at Sandwood Bay. Before finding a place to setup camp, I stayed on the beach until the sun set. Another man climbed out of his tent to do the same. 

We didn’t say a word until the sun reached the horizon. I can’t remember what about after that, but as he was walking away he turned to say, “Tomorrow’s the big day!”

“What’s that?” I said. “Oh, yeah, the referendum. I’m a foreigner, so you can tell me. How are you voting?”

“Yes!” he said.

Cape Wrath

Even though Scotland has the world’s most lax trespassing laws, with private property not even being off limits, a police officer in Durness didn’t appreciate me setting up my tent behind a soccer pitch along the northern coast.

“Does this look like a campground to you?” he said in a stern voice.

“I was under the impression that this was okay in Scotland,” I said.

“Well, we don’t mind if you wild camp, just not in the village.”

I was on the northern edge of town. Much closer to the edge and I would have fallen into the ocean. Actually, the only people who might see me were the proprietors of a nearby campground. I wondered if they called the police. It must be hard to run a campground when wild camping is free and legal. 

Even though I still don’t think I broke any laws, I wasn’t going to argue. I packed up and left. I wouldn’t have minded as much if he didn’t wait until after nightfall and I hadn’t been cozy in my sleeping bag.

Rather than move just outside of town, I walked to the dock in Keoldale a couple miles away. In the morning a boat and minibus would be taking a few of us across the Kyle of Durness to Cape Wrath, the northernmost point in Western Scotland and the northern terminus of the Cape Wrath Trail and Scottish National Trail. I found a place just barely big enough to setup my tent between the Kyle of Durness and the small parking area next to the dock.

The next morning brought beautiful weather. Every Scot I met who knew my plans made sure I knew that this has been exceptional for Scotland in September. I hoped it would stay that way for the next few weeks. I have been feeling a lot of pressure to get out of the Highlands before the weather turns unpleasant.

I packed up and walked to the dock to wait for the ferry. Cape Wrath is sometimes closed by the Ministry of Defense to use it as a bombardment range, but a sign posted said there would be no delays today. 

It took four trips on the tiny boat to get the thirty or so people and dogs across. On the other side they packed twelve of us, plus three large dogs and several backpacks into a 12-seater minibus, which then crept up the only road on Cape Wrath.

“They tarred this road in 1955 for the first and last time,” the driver said as we bumped along at fifteen miles per hour.

“Will you be able to use this road if you get a Yes vote on Thursday?” a woman in the back asked, regarding the referendum on Scottish independence from the United Kingdom.

“Sure, why not?” he said. “This is a public road.”

“Because you said it was used by the Ministry of Defense,” she said.

“Well… there is the law and then there is the local law,” he said, making a few people to chuckle.

The baby on the woman’s lap next to me decided we were going to be best friends. When I looked at her, I noticed she was smiling at the nothing happening on my face as I stared out the window.

“Hi there,” I said.

She giggled and said something in baby gibberish that I didn’t understand. It’s not her fault, I even have a hard time understanding a lot of the adults in Europe. She kept trying to put the buckles and straps on my backpack into her mouth until her mom said, “It’s okay, I think her immune system can handle anything.”

“You see this small stream coming up here,” the driver said. A few days ago a flash flood came through and took out all these fences.” He pointed at a scattering of wooden fence posts and tangled barbed wire. “The bridge here a good example of speedy Scottish workmanship,” he said. He slowed down even more before crossing. “A storm took out the old bridge, so this was setup as a temporary replacement... in 1981.”

“Then it’s a good example of quality Scottish workmanship,” a man behind me said.

“You all came on a good day, though,” the driver said. “The weather isn’t always this nice. We often have thick fog and can get gale force winds of a hundred miles per hour.”

Later we came to a small metal structure used by the military painted with black and yellow checkerboard pattern.

“That’s a testament to the weather on Cape Wrath,” he said. “That building is made of solid steel and you can see that it’s still bolted down to the ground with thick steel cables.

Right before the lighthouse on Cape Wrath would come into view, a thick fog rolled in. “Ah, give it a half hour, this might clear out of here,” the driver said.

In addition to the lighthouse, and although remote and subject to harsh unpredictable weather, Cape Wrath is home to a small café called the Ozone Café. I walked inside to wait out the fog as the driver suggested. A plague on the wall designated the café as the official end of the 470-mile Scottish National Trail, with the last 221 miles being on the Cape Wrath Trail. For me it would be the beginning.

The man behind the counter was the owner, John. I've read about him in my guidebook. His welcoming face is the one you see at the end of these long, difficult, and often dangerous routes, so to many backpackers, the fringe of gray hair around his balding scalp, the crow’s feet radiating from the corners of his soulful eyes, and his thin stoic smile are something like the Cathedral of Santiago or the peak of Mount Katahdin. Although, I hardly think he looks at himself this way. He would probably prefer to be known as the quiet friendly man who runs the most remote café in all of Britain.

“Where you headed?” he asked after I ordered a hot bowl of tomato soup.

“I’m doing the Cape Wrath Trail to the West Highland Way, but I’m thinking about doing this Scottish National Trail now.” I said.

“Well, you’d be the first person to ever do it south,” he said.

“Oh, really?” I said. “Then I’m doing the Scottish National Trail.”

“It’s only been an official trail for two years, so only 27 people have even completed it,” he said.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been the first to do anything, so I had a new excitement for the trail. This additional excitement would only last two days, however, when I was later told by a shop owner who met two backpackers attempting a southbound hike earlier this year.

“Maybe they didn’t finish,” I thought. “And even if they did I’m sure they didn’t continue going south to the English Channel. Or begin their journey after a 700-mile trip across Ireland and Northern Ireland.”

I ate my bowl of soup, plus a complementary refill John offered after I finished. By then the fog had cleared. I walked past the lighthouse to the edge of a cliff overlooking a deep blue ocean. That was as far north as I could safely go in Western Scotland, so I turned and started walking to the English Channel.

Hitching to Durness, Scotland

(Photo: Ruins of Ardvreck Castle)

Hitching for the first time after not doing it for a while feels like the first day of school. You're a little bit nervous to put your thumb out. You feel like you'll be judged, and you probably will be. You wonder what you must look like to perfect strangers, which never occurs to you when traipsing alone through the woods.

When someone stops and tells you to hop in, it's like making a new friend. All the nervousness vanishes and you're reminded that, like before, you're going to be just fine.

(Photo: The girls from Belgium exploring the ruins.)

My first ride was with two girls from Belgium on holiday. Having had to hitch on the Isle of Skye recently, they felt they should appease the hitching gods by returning the favor.

They would be able to get me 20 miles closer to my destination, Durness, Scotland. Along the way, we stopped to explore the ruins of Ardvreck Castle, built in the latter half of the 15th century, and the nearby Calda House, built in 1726 for the wife of Kenneth MacKenzie, who didn’t care for the austerity of the castle. Aesthetics aside, I’d probably feel the same way after learning about the violence, murder, executions, and sieges that had taken place at the castle.

(Photo: Ruins of Ardvreck Castle and Calda House in the background)

A Scottish fisherman picked me up almost immediately after the girls drove away. Rusted and worn tools filled the passenger seat and floor. He tossed the stuff in the seat into the back of his truck. I climbed in and pushed the stuff on the floor to the side with my feet.

After telling him where I was going and why, he warned me of biting midges and the September and October weather.

(Photo: Ruins of Calda House)

“I should be okay,” I said. “I’ve hiked in the Smoky Mountains in December before.”

“Ahh, but the Scottish Highlands are not like other mountains. You may not get a lot of snow or freezing temperatures, but it’s a wet cold. The rain and bogs will chill you to the bone and it could go days before you get enough sunlight to dry your clothes.”

I didn't really want to hear that. I prefer living in delusion. He dropped me off before heading to a nearby harbor for work. It was sunny and warm today at least. The next hitch took a bit longer, but not long at all.

“Where you headed?” a woman said from the passenger seat.

“Durness.”

“Perfect, we’re going to Durness.” She got out to open the trunk for my pack.

(Photo: Loch a' Chairn Bhain)

The couple, named Pete and Mairi, were recently married and expecting their first child. She grew up in the area and knew the land well. Mairi had backpacked alone before, but the idea seemed foreign and fascinating to Pete.

“In the military you go out with everything you need in a pack, but you have other people there to back you up if you need anything. I'm not sure what that would be like.”

“After a few days there’s this feeling you get from being alone in the wilderness,” she said. “It’s very calming and peaceful.”

“I know that calming feeling,” I said. “It’s like someone just switched off a staticy radio station that you didn’t notice until it was gone.”

(Photo: The Northern Highlands of Scotland)

“That’s a good way of putting it,” she said. “Oh, down that road is a café called Cocoa Mountain. Go there, they have the best hot chocolate.”

I really liked this couple. We had a lot in common to talk about on the way, backpacking experiences with Mairi and pinched sciatic nerve pains that Pete related to. We also talked about things I didn’t know much about, like the Scottish Kiss, also  known as headbutting.

(Photo: Sango Sands Beach in Durness, Scotland)

Pete stared at Mairi when this subject came up.

“Oh I’ve never hurt you,” she said.

“I noticed you didn’t say, 'Oh I’ve never headbutted you,'” I said.

“Ah, it's just affection,” she said.

When they dropped me off, Pete pulled a twenty-pound note from Mairi’s purse. “We want to contribute to your adventure,” he said.

(Photo: The Best Hot Chocolate)

I told them they didn’t have to do that, but he insisted and told me to buy myself a mug of that hot chocolate. This also covered my food costs for the day, and the cost of the ferry and bus ride to Cape Wrath where I’d start my hike across Scotland. And she was right about the hot chocolate. It was the best, and not only because they actually called it “The Best Hot Chocolate” on their menu.

Thank you Pete and Mairi! With trying to keep my budget to $10 per day, your donation covered the cost of a lot of new memories to come.

Pair of Shoes #2, Thank You Paul!

They carried me over 700 miles across southern, northern, and eastern Ireland

The tread wore down to nothing and holes formed that duct tape couldn't always fix. I think it's time for them to retire.

I have been saving a donation from Paul, my old boss back in Cincinnati, Ohio. He said the money was for hiking gear and since shoes are one of Paul's great loves, I knew I had to save it for that. My favorite brand is Salomon, so I found a dealer in Glasgow, Scotland. They didn't have my usual model. Although flashier than I'm used to, these will work. Actually they are even more comfortable than the old ones. Thank you Paul!

Inverness, Scotland

I crossed the Irish Sea on a 2-hour Ferry ride to Troon, Scotland

On my way to Cape Wrath to begin my hike across the Scottish Highlands, I went through Glasgow. I didn't do much in the city, though. I'll be walking to Glasgow from the Northern Coast so I want to save it until I've earned it.

The vote on whether Scotland will leave the United Kingdom would happen soon, so these signs were all over Scotland.

Next, I took a bus to Inverness, where I met a backpacker from Australia. On our way to have breakfast, we happened upon a 400 year old Inverness tradition. At the start of every school year, students, faculty, religious leaders, and men in kilts march around the city to a church where they are blessed before they begin another year of study.

I spent a couple night in Inverness to get the blog up to date. On my way to a campsite, I stopped for a few photos. This is Inverness Castle.

This is the River Ness, which flows into Loch Ness.

I passed St. Andrews Cathedral while looking for camp.

There are no trespassing laws in Scotland. This means I can pretty much camp wherever I want, which could lead to some interesting nights. I found a perfect hidden spot between hedges and shrubs. Next I'll be hitching to Durness on the northern coast.

The Scottish Highlands

I have finally settled on a route for for the next section of my hike through the Scottish Highlands.

After busing and hitching way to the northern coast, I will begin to follow the 234-mile Cape Wrath Trail. This section is unmarked and a lot of it is trackless, so I will have to rely heavily on map and compass. This does give me some freedom to choose my own route, but it also means that I will have to slog through bogs and ford several unbridged rivers, which could slow me down if there is heavy rain.

The remoteness of it is intriguing to me, although, my enjoyment level is very much dependent on the weather. After walking so many roads in Ireland not far from civilization, I'm ready to spend some time in the wilderness.

I may not have cell service for long stretches, but I plan to stop in the towns of Ullapool and Fort Williams to take a day off and update the blog and I will still be able to update the map on a regular basis.

I won't be tempted to go into towns, since there aren't many up there, but due to the difficulty this section could still take three weeks.

At Fort Williams, I will take the West Highland Way for 94 miles to Glasgow. This is Scotland's first, and most popular, long distance trail. I hope to meet a lot of fellow backpackers on this section, which will be a nice change of pace after three weeks on the Cape Wrath Trail. It is well marked, so should only take about 6 days.

One last thing, you can see where I am by clicking on the View Map button on the top right of this page. Once it loads, click the Satellite button, to can see arial photos of where I am. Given some of the weird places I sleep at night, this could be interesting to see.

My Last Morning in Ireland

I was up before the sun on my last morning in Ireland.

On my way to the harbor at Larne, I watched the sun rise above the horizon.

Of course Ireland would be absolutely gorgeous until the very end. The beauty of the Island and the hospitality of it's people far exceeded my expectations. Thank you to everyone who made this the adventure of a lifetime. Scotland... you have big shoes to fill.

My Last Full Day in Ireland

On my last full day in Ireland, I stopped for breakfast.

I continued hiking the International Appalachian Trail, and finally saw a white blaze. Sort of.

I wanted one last photo of me in Ireland. I forgot I had my shorts on the outside of my pack. They were hanging out to dry after getting them wet in the ocean.

Oops, that was the wrong way. There's my marker. Lets try that photo again 90 degrees to the left.

My last high altitude views of Irish farmlands and ocean.

And my last view of Irish sheep.

I don't like thinking of lasts, but my spirits were lifted when a mother and daughter from California stopped to ask me for directions and they gave me some food from the Glenarm Castle Tea Room.

I just feel really really bad that later I realized I gave them the wrong directions.

My last night, last sunset, in Ireland.

Glenariff Forest Park

After a long difficult day, I made camp in Slieveanorra Forest

Then walked to Glenariff Forest Park

Home to many waterfalls

I continued on country roads...

To Northern Ireland's eastern coast

I could feel my time in Ireland coming to an end.

I'd walk until after sunset to find my second to last campsite in Ireland.

I saw a cow pasture with an open gate.

And setup camp next to the ocean in view of the full moon.

Mood Swings

I woke to beautiful weather, blue skies and warm sunlight, of which Ireland routinely deprives you. I think so you can properly appreciate it when it does come. The trail continued down a paved road with an easy downward slope and a view of the ocean. I was in the best of moods until two miles later when a deflating realization wiped the stupid grin from my face.

“Wait, ocean!? No, I should be walking south, away from the ocean! What am I doing?!" I turned around to redo the two miles, but this time uphill. That warm cheerful sunlight became my enemy.

It would be a day full of mood swings. 

I got back to the point where I made my wrong turn, so was finally making progress again, when I frightened a herd of piglets. They scattered around me, squealing and frantically searching for safety. It was quite possibly the cutest thing I've seen. My stupid grin returned. Once again, I basked in the sunlight under vivid blue skies. When I returned to the forest, the sun dappled the lush green moss that covered the ground and trees.

Then I took another wrong turn, or more accurately, I went straight when I should have turned. I found myself in a bog, my feet soaked. I wasn't lost exactly. I knew if I just went west through the forest, I’d cross over the trail at some point. What I didn’t know, however, was how dense the forest would be, how many branches would be in my way, how saturated the boggy ground would be, and how many times thick mud would try to suck off my shoes. 

If I were in a Charlie Brown comic, there would be one of those balls of fury scribbled above my head. My frustration came from feeling ignorant, for missing another turn, and for having to backtrack and expel energy that could have otherwise been used to propel me in the right direction. 

Eventually I got back on the trail and my mood improved. It was quiet but for the gurgle of brown peat-tinted streams and wind whipping past pine branches. I stopped to listen. A feeling of bliss seemed to ride in on the breeze and carry away my frustration with the sweat on my brow. I laughed. Not insanely like a mad man laughing at the rain, but for some reason when I'm blissfully happy, I just have to laugh. It's a feeling closely related to having to make an eeeeeeeee sound.

People often tell me things like, "I couldn't do what you do. I love having a roof over my head. I love daily showers, indoor plumbing, clean dry clothes, food that tastes good, a big comfy bed at night, and a body that occasionally doesn't ache." I usually reply, "I love those things too, but in sacrificing those things to live in the wilderness, I'm gaining so much more. And when I get back to roofs, and beds, and hot showers, I love them more than ever."

That's how it is to live in the woods. You have a constant exchange of good for misery. I was frustrated for being off my path, but simultaneously loved comparing the terrain with the curving lines on a topographical map. I got dirty and scratched for being off the path and pushing forward anyway, but when I found my trail I wore that caked-on dirt and dried blood with pride. Then the frustration evaporates and I'm left standing in the woods listening to the gurgle of streams, the whoosh of the wind, and so blissfully happy that I just have to laugh.

Then discomfort comes again, then bliss, repeat.

After the sun set that night, I decided to get up and over one more mountain top, the highest point in County Antrim, before making camp. What I didn’t know was that the next few kilometers would be soggy wet bog unsuitable for a tent. Figuring it would be better on top, I kept hiking well after dark.

True, my feet were getting soaked and the wind grew stronger the higher I climbed, but I was also given a full moon to light my way and a view for miles of hills silhouetted against the day's last bit a deep blue skylight. 

When I got to the top, the wind was too strong to setup my tent and it was uncomfortably cold, so I had to continue down the other side, back into bog.

I lost the trail again. I knew from my map that it would pass through some trees south-southwest of me, but enough fog had moved in by then to conceal them. I continued in that direction, zig-zagging around obstacles and climbing fences that were in my way.

I admit, I was frustrated once again, but I'm learning that it's okay to just let myself be frustrated. As long as I understand that it's temporary and maybe even necessary if I'm ever to experience that laugh-inducing blissful happiness again.

Eventually, the trees came into view, I zig-zagged back and forth through trees and more thick brush and sponge-like bog. I finally found the trail again at midnight. 

I love the forest, but not because it loves me back. I'm fully aware that the forest thinks nothing of me. It's not there to do anything for me, anymore than I'm there to improve it. It's just part of a formula that I have accidentally discovered works for me. When a kid runs around barefoot in the woods he is not thinking about how nature is supposed to cure or inspire him. He just likes the trees whizzing by and the feel of dried leaves under his feet. It unintentionally provides me with the means to live in the moment, to feel exhilaration, and to connect myself to the universe around me.

That night, I camped on soft moss next to a stream. I missed these real forests. So many of Ireland's forests are tree farms with rows of pine trees planted and harvested like corn. It's interesting to me that I don't feel any of these positive things I've written here when I'm in those forests farms. I need real forests, real wilderness, places that nature created in its slow unthinking way. Maybe someday I'll figure out why that is, maybe not, but if someday an epiphany does come, I'll probably be walking through a forest when it does.

This day of mood swings made me realize what I needed to do next on this trip. When I get to Scotland, I need to head north, leave the roads to the cars, and spend a few weeks in the most remote and wild place in all of Britain.

Ballycastle and The Moyle Way

The Moyle Way, the next section on the International Appalachian Trail, began at the town center of Ballycastle.  Markets and fairs have been held in this spot since it was built in the late 1700s.

The biggest of those fairs was the Ould Lammas Fair, held at harvest time.

Even though the Northern Coast was stunningly beautiful every day that I spent walking along it...

I was happy to be in a forest again.

I thought I was alone in the forest, but while searching for a place to setup my tent I heard this little drone buzzing. It slowly rose off the ground then stopped. It hung in the sky like a Christmas tree ornament flashing alternating red and green LED lights. Its front-facing camera stared directly at me. I've wanted to befriend a sentient flying robot ever since I saw "Batteries Not Included," so I moved toward it slowly. It quickly rose thirty more feet into the air. "I'm sorry. It's okay Fix-It, it's okay. I'm friend. Frieeeend." Unfortunately, that's when I saw a man steering it with radio controls. Oh well, someday Fix-its, someday.

Carrick-a-Rede Rope Bridge

Something I've overheard a lot from tourists in Northern Ireland is, "Did you cross over the rope bridge?"

So I had to do it.

For over 350 years, fisherman have strung a rope bridge 100 feet above the sea to give them access to the best places to catch migrating salmon. It was less old and rickety than I hoped.

It's been a while since I took a picture of myself, so I asked a girl visiting from China if she could do it for me. She walked around and took it from several different angles. I always appreciate photographer OCD. It makes me feel better about myself.

I've crossed a few rope bridges on trails, but this is the only one I paid $9 to cross. Given that everywhere on Northern Ireland's northern coast is beautiful, my advice is to skip this expense if you're ever in Northern Ireland.

But I have no regrets. The Causeway Coast Way went back to the road for a 6 km walk to Ballycastle, where the drivers ignore warnings like these.

Portbradden Road

Once upon a time, a young man brought a beautiful girl to this beach for their first date.

They faced each other hand in hand, her long blonde hair blowing in the cool breeze coming off the ocean. He put his arms around her to share his warmth. Then leaned in for a kiss.

Then I came barreling down the road, twirling my hiking pole like the Grand Marshall at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, not realizing I was about to ruin their perfect moment.

Oh well, what can you do? These things happen.

I felt bad. I did.

But it's hard to let things bother you out here.

Especially when this is the view out your front door.

The Causeway Coast Way

Thanks to a couple from England for helping me get this photo.

I took so many photos on this day, I had to spread it across three posts, and I have dozens more. Even on an overcast day, it was still too beautiful to put my camera away.

There's the English couple now.

No road?

No neighbors? I'll take it.

This is what remains of Dunseverick Castle, a fort that may have been a royal stronghold in the Iron Age around 500 BC.

The sun setting on a day I'll never forget, but I still had a couple miles to go.

I could live here for a while.

Even though this would be the only home I could afford after this adventure is over.