After a successful winter wild camp on my own at Slaggan Bay, I decide to endure the long drive to the very north west tip of the UK mainland to visit Sandwood Bay. I’ve wanted to go there for many years, having heard it described as Britain’s most beautiful beach. It has become increasingly popular in recent years, partly due to the North Coast 500 driving route which passes nearby, and I am keen to visit in winter when it will be quiet – and no ticks or midges.

It is mid-November, forecast to be 3c overnight, but the sun is shining in a pure blue sky when I walk the 4 miles across deserted landscape, past a couple of calm lochans. It is a stunning walk, and when I reach the beach, I am taken aback at how large it is, flanked by many metres of sand dunes. I arrive around 3pm, and spend a while wandering about near the water, enjoying the view. There are only two other people on the beach and they leave not long after I arrive. With the sun due to set around 4.30pm, I have this enormous, beautiful beach entirely to myself.

I soon realise there are very few grassy areas on which to pitch my tent, and the only place I can see, at the far northern end of the beach, would require me to cross a small, but deep, river. This would be no bother in summer, but there’s no way I’m going to attempt to paddle across in my bare feet in the cold, with my heavy pack likely to unbalance me on the slippery stones.

But I am keen to wake up with a view of the sea and the stone stack at the southern end of the beach, so I try to pitch my tent in the sand dunes. I’ve seen photos on facebook of people stacking rocks on top of their tent pegs or around the bottom of their tent, and I try that, carrying rocks from the stream to the dunes, but my tent is too small to have the rocks flattening the edges of it, and I have no confidence the rocks I am able to carry to my tent will be able to keep the pegs in the ground during the wind that is forecast overnight. I’m starting to panic a little as I take down and repack the tent – this is far from fun, as the tent is now full of sand and I probably only have half an hour of proper daylight left. Yikes.

I trail back through the sand dunes to try to find some hard ground for my tent, but as soon as I get back onto solid ground, I realise there is what I think is sheep poo everywhere (I did wonder why there was so much sheep poo but not a sheep in sight, and discovered later it was deer poo. Imagine being woken in the middle of the night in a tiny tent on a remote hill, surrounded by deer!). The droppings are all over every bit of suitable ground, of which there isn’t much because a lot of the terrain is springy heather. I didn’t do enough research! But I climb to the top of a small hillock, which has a spectacular view of the bay, and decide I’ll just have to camp on top of all the poo, bleuch.

Once I’ve got my stuff set up, I fill the jetboil with water from a nearby stream, which I would definitely NOT drink, even with a filter, due to all the animal droppings everywhere, but I use the water to boil my ready-made camping meal pouch in (Wayfayer’s chilli and rice – it was delicious as I was ravenous by then), then I use the same water to fill my hot water bottle and warm up my sleeping bag.

It’s around 4.30pm and, before it gets properly dark, I wander to the water’s edge, back down through the dunes at the southern edge of the beach, which tower above my head in a landscape that seems straight from a science fiction film. The beach feels cold as the light fades from the sky, and I am conscious of the isolation, something about being so far north, and so far away from any other human being. I welcome the novel experience but am feeling lonely at the prospect of the long evening ahead.

Back in the tent, my sleeping bag is cosy from the hot water bottle, and by 5.30pm I have changed into my merino wool sleeping gear, and am snuggled inside my bag. Thankfully there is phone signal, so I can text my mum and my good friend, Sarah, but that somehow makes me feel even more lonely. I don’t feel like reading, and the forecast for the morning has changed from sunny to heavy rain (the joys of Scottish weather), and by 6pm I decide I don’t want to lie there for several more hours, then pack up in freezing torrential rain in the morning.

I struggle back into my outdoor clothes, back up my tent by the light of my head torch, and set off on the 4-mile trail back to my car, now in pitch darkness. A few months ago I would have been scared, but I’ve already forced myself to walk through woods in the dark and this is nowhere near as scary. The path is excellent, thanks to the John Muir Trust (to whom I made a small donation in gratitude for the good path and the public toilets at the car park), and when I stop to switch my headtorch off, the night sky is an astonishing display of stars, and I feel like I’m looking into the universe above me. It reminds me how insignificant I am, and I like that feeling. It makes my own troubles seem less important.

It takes me an hour and a half to walk the four miles back to my car, and I’m surprised that I actually enjoy it. My mud-covered boots tell me a need a much brighter headtorch, as I step in several unexpected patches of muddy bog, but I decide that if I want to continue winter camping – and I do – then I’ll incorporate walking in the dark into the trip. What I don’t want to do is lie for hours in a tiny tent with nothing to do but read. If I’m going to read, I may as well lie in my comfortable bed at home. What I’m looking for from camping is a physical challenge and an adventure. Head torch shopping it is!