Day One

The weather forecast was exceptional for Scotland in early September. It was time for my first proper solo walk and wild camp, something I’ve dreamt of doing for many years.

I arrive in Cullen by bus at 7.30pm, and began the expedition with a white pudding supper from Linda’s chippie, which I eat overlooking the pretty harbour. By 8pm I am trudging along the beach, feeling trepidatious about my ability to carry the weight of the rucksack (11.3kg with two bottles of water, 9.6kg without the water) for three days and for 32 miles.

There are various groups of young folk on the beach, having Friday evening fun, including a group of four young men, who I see heading into a cave, beers in hand, at the far end of the beach, very close to where I intend to camp. This makes my vague worries about being alone in the dark crystalise into a more specific and realistic fear of a group of drunk lads. I pass the cave and carry on to the next small cove, hoping none of them will venture that far. I can’t back out of this trip now, and even if I wanted to, I’ve missed the last bus and my car is many miles away at the other end of the trail. I carry on pitching my wee tent with my fingers crossed.

It’s soon getting dark, but still mild, so I make myself a hot chocolate with the Jetboil and drink it as I sit half-in half out of my tiny tent, reading on my kindle, though distracted by the beautiful view across the bay to the lights of Cullen.  

Insomnia is often my night-time companion, so to ensure I was exhausted, I had woken myself at 4am that morning, and gone for a 7 mile run before work. It worked! I got into my sleeping bag around 10pm, and apart from waking to turn over a couple of times, I slept through to 6am, which is unusual for me. Maybe the famous sea air. I made instant porridge then packed up and set off, feeling happy that the first night had passed without incident.

Day Two

I realise that I have camped only metres from the cliffs overlooking Bow Fiddle Rock, spectacular in the morning sun, the sea glistening around it, and I march past, surprised the rucksack feels so comfortable on my back. I walk at a good pace all morning, stopping briefly in the pretty fishing village of Portknockie to ask a woman in a garden if she’d refill my two water bottles for me. It is around 10am, the sun is getting hot, and when I tell her I am walking all the way to Lossiemouth, she tells me it would be a lot quicker by bus, and that the bus stop is just around the corner. It’s tempting!

I walk on to the next village, Findochty, and am relieved to find public toilets – this will save me using my specially purchased wild camping trowel! They are old-style public toilets with white tiling and fully enclosed cubicles which are extremely narrow. I don’t want to leave my pack outside, and also don’t want to lay it on the floor of the toilets (bleuch), so I wear it into the cubicle and get stuck for a short while as I try to squeeze back out, wedged half in-half out, unable to move for a few stressful moments. I feel like a crab when someone has its shell gripped between thumb and forefinger and it is flailing its legs uselessly.

I am aiming to get to Buckie by lunchtime, but arrive at 11am and find a café with electric sockets by each table, so I have a coffee, a large glass of water, some electricity, and fill a few pages of my ‘wild camping notebook’, while waiting for them to start serving lunch at noon, when I have scotch pie, beans and chips. Man, that hits the spot!

My phone and I both refuelled, I purchase two litres of water, drink one (which is painful on a full stomach but it’s easier to carry in my tummy than on my back), and use the other to refill my water bottles, then trudge onwards in 27C heat for almost four hours, partly by the coast, and partly through pretty woodland. I’m drenched in sweat and starting to feel weary when I get to Spey Bay, and am delighted to discover the Dolphin Café at the mouth of the river, where I order a slice of coconut and lime cake and a glass of chilled sparkling water. I have a chat with two old men, one of whom tells me he is 88, and asks if I’d like to go on a cruise with him.  It’s around 4.30pm by then, and I have a dilemma – it’s a little early to set up camp for the night, but it’s a looooong way to Lossiemouth (10 more miles). However, I decide to carry on, and see how far I get. I can stop and camp anywhere, right? That’s the whole point.

The path crosses the Spey on a disused railway bridge, then returns to the coast. I pass a trail marker around 5.30pm that tells me it’s 8 miles to Lossiemouth, and I carry on, feeling mildly ill at ease for a variety of reasons: it’s been over 10 hours since I set off that morning, 8 of which have been on the move, and I’m starting to feel the pack sitting heavy on my hips. I’ll go so far as to say I am now in pain. There is nothing stretching ahead of me but shore and forest, and a line of World War 2 concrete tank traps. It is relentless. The path runs on top of loose shingle much of the time so it is uncomfortable and slow to walk on, and after over an hour and a half of walking, I pass a trail marker that says 4 more miles to Lossiemouth. By this time, the pain in my hips has increased significantly, and dusk is approaching, so I find a place to pitch my tent at the edge of the forest (I have no choice because the ground elsewhere is too stony).

Within half an hour I’ve set up camp, and am sitting on a washed up log by the sea eating instant noodles. They are revolting. Desert is two paracetamol, two ibuprofen, and one sleepeasy tablet, washed down with lukewarm water. I have walked around 21 miles today and since taking my rucksack off, large red swellings have developed on my hips and they are sore to touch. My whole body aches and I feel anxious I won’t be able to move in the morning. The isolation starts to prey on my mind and I feel lonely, and filthy from having sweated all day. I’m also exhausted and it’s getting dark, so I get into the tent and close the flap to keep the midges out, the heat becoming intense as I lie on top of my sleeping bag, wearing nowt but my knickers, wondering what on earth I am doing there.

I’m woken from a light doze by the sound of male voices near the tent and am immediately on high alert. It’s dark, I’m miles from anywhere, and I haven’t met another soul during the two hours it took me to walk to this isolated stretch of shoreline. In my panic I don’t know what to do first – get dressed, switch my phone on, or grab my tent peg mallet to protect myself.  As I lie there completely still, doing none of those things except listening, the voices move off and then disappear. Just a group of walkers on the trail. They probably didn’t even notice my wee tent hidden at the edge of the woods.

The fright, the pain in my hips, and the exhaustion, get the better of me and I have a small breakdown. I don’t want to be there anymore. I fall asleep vowing to sell the goddamn tent and never go camping again.

Around 2am my bladder wakes me up; such irony when I had not been able to drink much in the evening as I was preserving water for the morning. I crawl out of the tent to pee, and – wow. I stand there with my jaw hanging open. There’s not a cloud above me, and the night sky is astonishing. The sheer number of stars that are visible is indescribable. I feel like I’m floating in the universe. Time passes as I stand there, in nothing but my pants, soaking it all in. This is what I am here for! To enjoy the startling beauty of the natural world, far from other people. It’s magic. Maybe I’ll keep the tent after all.

Day Three

I wake around 6.30am and am relieved to find my body still seems to be working. I lie for a while enjoying the comfy feeling inside the sleeping bag, then unzip the door to see the early morning sun rising in the sky. There isn’t a trace of another person as far as they eye can see in both directions, it’s already warm, and I feel surprisingly well rested, so I clamber over the mound of shingle to the water’s edge, and cautiously enter the water. It’s cold, but pleasant on my skin as I’ve felt sticky and grubby all night. I’m too nervous to swim as the shore falls away sharply and I’m worried about being unable to climb back out as the shingle is steep, loose and slippery. But I manage to give myself a decent wash and feel refreshed. Once I’ve dried off in the sun, I use the last of my water to make instant porridge, then pack up and set off towards Lossiemouth.

I walk for an hour and a half, then go straight to a café, badly in need of a strong coffee and a pint of water. The café’s large terrace is full of people enjoying breakfast in the morning sun but I sit alone in the gloomy interior – I need a break from the glare of the sun and, most importantly, some electricity for my phone. I order a sausage and egg roll and I devour it inelegantly while I decide what to do next.

In a way I’m at my final destination – Lossiemouth. I had never intended to walk the entire trail on this trip, and I’ve got here a lot faster that I’d intended. I could continue on the trail, but would end up in Hopeman or Burghead, and there doesn’t seem to be buses from either of those places on a Sunday, which is the following day. Or I could go home. But I am not ready to do that. The weather is terrific, and I am delighted I don’t feel too dreadful after the long walk the previous day, so I take a bus to Elgin, collect my car, buy some more food in Marks and Spencer, then drive to Hopeman, and set off on the trail, this time towards Lossiemouth from the other side.

The clifftop path is rugged, and the view out to sea, as well as down into secluded sandy coves, some of which have caves and sea stacks, is beautiful. For years I’ve dreamt of sleeping in the tent overlooking the sea, and now is my chance. I find the perfect spot.

By the time my tent is set up, it’s around 5pm, and I take my valuables with me to the deserted sandy beach that is only about 50m away. I wander in my bare feet for a while, then venture into the sea. It takes me a while to get properly into the cold water, but once used to it, I swim for twenty minutes. For many years, I’ve felt too delicate to venture into the sea to swim, but the success of the wild camping has made me feel more robust, and I’m so pleased with myself to be able to enjoy a bit of wild swimming as well.

I return to my tent dripping wet, and as the sun is shining into the entrance, which is sheltered from the path, I lie naked on my sleeping bag to dry off. My body feels well exercised, and the sun on my skin feels warm and rejuvenating. As the sun sets I make myself a hot chocolate, then later crack open a mini bottle of red wine as I eat a crusty roll and wedge of brie. It’s a warm evening, and the sea breeze means there are no bugs, so I lie in my sleeping bag with the tent flaps open until after 10pm, watching darkness descend, listening to the waves crashing on the rocks and the seabirds yelling at one another. It feels like paradise.

The next morning, my hopes of watching the sun rise over the sea are scuppered as I wake to heavy rain hammering against the tent. I’ve never felt so cosy in my life as I lie in the sleeping bag, in no hurry to get up. When I eventually decide it’s time to end this break from reality, I roll up the mat and sleeping bag inside the tent, then quickly take down the soaked tent, glad to be heading home for a much-needed shower.  

This expedition has been a physical and mental challenge, and the realisation of a long held dream. I am looking forward to the next time.

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