The Roof of Britain Kayak Expedition - Part 3/3
By Sean Morley & Ian Wilson

Sean asked me to estimate the wind speed coming through the stack and I compared it to being at the weather station on the summit of Cairngorm, when there was a recorded wind speed of 98 mph. At that time I could not even stand up and tea was being whipped out of my mug. To be at sea in those conditions did not bear thinking about, but here I was! Looking back on it now as I am writing this account I find it difficult to put the whole situation into words. I am sure it is a case of "you had to be there". It is still vivid in my mind and is quite exciting but at the time it was just awesome.

We had glided into an eerie calm. Looking back we could just see the last pair of stacks in the gloom. I took a photo knowing the drama would be lost in the monochrome grey. Looking ahead the awesome cliffs of Clo Mor disappeared upwards. The highest cliffs on mainland Britain at 920 feet, they were home to hundreds of thousands of sea birds. The stench of guano was overpowering. Puffins, razorbills and guillemots leapt suicidally from perches hundreds of feet above us. Dropping almost vertically towards the rocks at the base of the cliff they would pull up at the last second to fly low and fast across the surface of the sea, their fat tummies bouncing off the wave tops, until they 'landed' in an undignified heap above their chosen fishing site. Sometimes they would not land at all but just fly aimlessly around within a few hundred meters of the shore and having completed a couple of circuits they would return to their nest as if their doctor had advised them to take regular exercise. How they avoided a mid-air collision is a mystery to me. An individual call was indecipherable in the cacophony of squawks, squeaks and screeches that came from the audience on the cliffs. Whether it was a show of appreciation or loved ones telling their partners to be careful I am not sure. As I watched them return safely to the nest I came to the conclusion that they should feature in the next advert for Pepsi Max.

The bulk of Clo Mor provided sanctuary for a while but we were soon heading south east into Balnakeil Bay. The very beautiful Kyle of Durness was hidden from view by horizontal drizzle stinging our hands and faces. As soon as we had gained the 'angle of dangle' we worked a close reach to Faraid Head. This narrow peninsular of jagged rock and cliff linked by high sand dunes provided a little shelter from the wind. Once around the north east tip we were into the teeth of the gale. The small town of Durness was the only opportunity for shelter but it seemed impossible to reach. As each gust hit us we were at a standstill, sometimes even blown backwards. By hugging the rocks and using the small degree of lee they provided we were able to work from eddy to eddy and slowly but surely we made ground. The spectacular stacks of Clach Bheag na Faraid and Clach Mhor na Faraid were only appreciated for the brief respite they gave from the head-banging toil. It took us an hour and a half to paddle the three miles from Faraid Head to Sango Bay. By the time we arrived on the sandy beach we were completely exhausted. There was no discussion - we were getting out! It was chucking it down, but at least the exertion of the last few miles had kept us warm. Now we had stopped we were quickly overcome by uncontrollable shivers. We needed to get the boats above the high water mark. We had no idea how long we would be stuck there and both of us felt it was unlikely we would paddle again even though it was not yet midday. To get the boats above the high water mark meant a tricky carry up sharp rocks to get to the grass covered slopes behind. As we struggled with my Inuk Ian cried out in pain, dropping the stern of my kayak onto the rocks. He describes what happened:

The rain was hammering down and we were immediately feeling cold. Sean spotted a grass cut leading up to a car park and it looked like a good spot to leave the boats out of the wind. It would mean however negotiating a small section of rocks leading up to the grass section. My boat was first and did not seam too much of a problem. We started to manhandle Sean's over the rocks. I was leading with the stern of the kayak. As I started to walk on the stones my foot went through an old outflow pipe. I lost my balance and started to fall sideways with the weight of the boat. I could feel my ankle become trapped and thought it was going to break. I had no option but to drop Sean's boat. It landed heavily, the rudder jammed on the edge of the grass as I grabbed it, but the damage was done. The rudder fixing plate, attaching the rudder mechanism to the stern of the kayak was bent upwards the rudder pointing skywards. I could not believe it, this could jeopardise the whole trip. There was nothing to do but to bend the plate back into shape and hope it did not snap. A bit of brute force and ignorance and the plate went back to more or less its original position. I felt so relieved.

His wetsuit boot had been punctured by the edge of a broken drainage pipe. Typically he was not concerned by the injury to his foot but was upset because he had damaged my boat. I must confess to a little panic when I first saw it - I did not fancy paddling back to Fort William without a rudder, but closer inspection revealed that it would probably last out the trip.

We quickly unpacked and changed into warm clothes. The wind was unrelenting. I could only just open the door to the telephone kiosk. Whilst I chatted to Linda I watched a flock of black headed gulls being fed on the wing by a man through the side window of his camper van. The gulls were flapping furiously to stay level and in contention for the best titbits. It was a surreal sight. As the rain battered the perspex panels of the kiosk Linda described how she was having to be careful not to get too sunburnt in the heat wave back home. Marvellous!

We sought refuge in the Tourist Information Office which afforded a great view of Sango Bay. We got talking to a couple of Swiss girls, their hire car had got a puncture and they could not find the spare. They had left the car and walked five miles in the pouring rain to get help. I offered to take a look - it is, after all, what I do for a living - helping stricken motorists. We had nothing else better to do. I left Ian 'in charge' of the gear in the warm and dry and having found a lift with an English couple on their annual holiday to the North Coast, I soon located the car and the spare wheel. They had not thought to look under the carpet in the boot! The girls offered to buy us lunch in gratitude. We declined their generosity but did share a table with them very conscious of the fact that as soon as our bodies started to warm up we began to smell - bad!

We found an excellent shop after lunch where we restocked on cereal bars and other bits and pieces. On my mission of mercy I had seen the next stretch of coast in glimpses through the drizzle. The wind seemed to be very much cross-shore and would be on our backs for most of the time. By 4pm we were itching to get going. We decided to try again. Ian was bemused by the local humour:

As we left to walk back to the boats we spoke to a Durness local,

"Some gale wasn't it?" I said.

"Gale? What gale? It's always like this - Durness is the ' windy town'" came the reply.

The wind had decreased appreciably and we were soon crossing the mouth of Loch Eriboll towards Whiten Head. It was still windy mind, especially with the increased fetch in the middle of the Loch. It lived up to its nickname of Loch 'Orrible given by the serviceman stationed there during World War II who had little to do but wait for battle. Spray stung our faces but we were able to get the angle right to surf most of the way. Whiten Head has the last remaining breeding colony of grey seals in the caves at its base. We were careful not to disturb them as we paddled past. Curiosity as always got the better of them and we soon led a procession of bobbing heads. Dusk was going to arrive early with the heavily laden skies so we decided on an early finish. Paddling into a beautiful bay near the village of Strathan, a perfect wave curled onto a submerged sandbar. Ian nearly got caught out as a large set came from nowhere, threatening to send him bongo-sliding onto the rocks. A nifty combination of back paddling and draw strokes prevented that disaster. Discovering a perfect campsite under a rocky outcrop overlooking a virgin beach of white sand we relaxed, pleased to have come through an epic day relatively unscathed.

Needing water and the use of a phone we walked up to a nearby croft. A curious colour scheme, the corrugated iron walls were freshly painted cream, the windows a bright red. Numerous red and yellow buoys were neatly arranged along the front of the cottage. The old man who answered the door was as deaf as a post. Fortunately his wife/sister/daughter (it was hard to tell) came to the door and showed us the outside tap. She explained that they did not have a phone but the local Coastguard lived just over the hill. A mile or more by road, if we followed the dyke over the ridge, his was the newly built bungalow with the Highways truck parked outside. We found it easily and a large burly man dressed in oil stained overalls confirmed he was Her Majesty's Coastguard. He was delighted to help and rang Stornaway on our behalf. We chatted for a while admiring his new pad. He was pleased with it, having built it himself on land he had inherited. He had lived all his life on this remote coast with no plans to go any place else. His wife had made a valiant attempt to cultivate a flower garden but it had been destroyed by the gales leaving the plants in tatters. I asked him about the surf in the bay. He described how sometimes the waves broke from one end of the bay to the other, 'just like Hawaii' he described. Interesting!

We enjoyed a watery sunset from our perch above the bay. Chatting, we agreed that it would be a day we would never forget. We had paddled through the eye of a whirlwind - and survived! What would tomorrow bring?

Day 9 Strathan to Scrabster (46 miles)

The weather was overcast in the morning, the forecast for wind, Force 3 to 4 sou'sou'westerly, increasing 6 sou'sou'east later. According to my original plan today was to have been a rest day, a chance to explore. But with only 21 miles achieved the previous day and the likelihood of more bad weather to come we decided to crack on. Scrabster was our destination for the day if all went well. That would put us through the Pentland Firth a day ahead of schedule. A traverse of the 'Roof of Britain' in two and a half days.

But first we had some major headlands to negotiate, not least Strathy Point. A thin finger of rock sticking out into the North Atlantic, it had its own permanent north-going tidal stream along its eastern shore. Leaving Strathan, timing our paddle-out through the barrelling surf, we were soon amongst the Rabbit Islands. No rabbits, but more seals, porpoise and Great Skua - which could explain the lack of rabbits! Kyle of Tongue has always captured my imagination. The beautiful island of Eilean nan Ron with its abandoned crofts and remote bothy, this too was worthy of far more attention than we gave it in our head-down thrash eastwards. The further east we went the more the swell built from the north west. Each headland had its own clapotis that had to be fought through like mogul fields on a ski slope throwing us this way and that. We could see the light on Strathy Point and decided to attempt a landing on Ardmore Point before making the five mile crossing. Paddling into the rocky amphitheatre of Port Mor, expecting to find a jetty or at least something to assist us with getting ashore, we found nothing but a steep rock beach. The swell was persistently throwing a two foot wave onto the shore. The risk of damage to the boats was high but we needed to get out - badly! Ian found a large cave which seemed at first to offer more shelter. I paddled in to investigate. Just as I manoeuvred inside a three foot wall of water reared up. I was broadside to it. By diving into the wave, capsizing as it engulfed me then hip-flicking to let the wave pass underneath I somehow avoided being dragged sideways onto the rocks. Eskimo Rolling back upright I spluttered and grinned at Ian,

"Close one!"

We still needed to land. That little bit of excitement making the call of nature more urgent than ever! Timing it carefully we surfed between the largest rocks and graunched up onto the shore. Once bodily functions had been completed I had to launch backwards to avoid ripping off my damaged rudder. All these stops took time and energy. We needed to press on. Heading out north east to avoid the inevitable clapotis, the swell got bigger and bigger, the wave length longer and longer. As we came due west of the lighthouse we turned and ran down the swells which I can only estimate at in excess of twenty five to thirty feet. By far the biggest swell I have ever experienced. There was a little tide running with us and the wind had eased so there was no danger of the waves collapsing. We just enjoyed the ride. They were travelling far too quickly for us to be able to surf them, but we got a certain amount of forward momentum as they lifted us skywards then rolled away underneath us towards the distant shoreline. There was a group of walkers on the headland, goodness knows what they were thinking as they watched us paddling past. It must have looked fairly spectacular, our tiny kayaks dwarfed by the titanic swell. I hope our audience appreciated it as much as we did - I doubt it.

We could see Dounreay Nuclear Power Station just visible in the murk. The only good thing about the place is it makes an excellent landmark. The white dome is now a listed building! We headed in towards Melvich Bay. It is known for its surf and as we passed the reefs of Sgeir Ruadh six foot barrels sucked the rocks dry before collapsing in cataclysmic explosions of foam and spray. Further into the bay I could see 'boardies' taking big left-handers into the river mouth. At that point in time though I was far more interested in finding shelter and getting food down my neck. The rain had returned with a vengeance, we had paddled well over twenty miles already and needed sustenance. We found the pier indicated on the map which effectively blocked the swell and allowed a safe landing on oil-soaked railway sleepers. These had been placed at intervals down the slip way to assist with launching fishing boats. They were a little too efficient however and it was difficult to land without sliding back into the sea. After several attempts we finally got onto 'dry' land and hurriedly ran to the only building we could see. It turned out to be the oil-shed. It stunk and the floor was covered in thick black slime. But we had little choice and we made the best of it. Health and Safety went out the window as Ian lit the Trangia stove on an old fuel tin. It was a cold, miserable lunch it has to be said and I was pleased to get back in my boat. An exciting seal launch down the sleepers and we were at it again. Crossing the bay we were able to paddle close to the cliffs of Red Point despite the huge swell. The angle of the reefs at the base of the cliffs meant there was virtually no rebound, hence no clapotis. Approaching Dounreay with morbid curiosity we paddled close to a dive boat moored off the power station.

"What do you think they're up to?" Ian asked me.

"I've no idea, catching lobster? Radioactive lobster!"

"Yeah, it cooks itself!"

(It was funny at the time).

Perhaps this is not the place to debate the pros and cons of nuclear power but one thing was abundantly clear to us as we paddled past this monument to the twentieth century. By running before we can walk, generating power from a source that as yet we do not have the technology or will power to deal with safely, we have left a legacy that future generations will despise us for. We refuse to take ownership of the problem, a problem that is on a global scale. Russia's problem is our problem. Shipping nuclear waste around the world or burying it underground demonstrates our attitude - "Out of sight, out of mind". Whilst we are generating electricity at an incalculable cost to society there is 'free' energy displayed in spectacular fashion on the very rocks upon which Dounreay is built. Massive swell demolishing itself without good cause, energy that is going begging if only we had the will to utilise it. The daily flood through the Pentland Firth, the incessant sweep of Atlantic lows bringing gale after gale; these are sources of 'free' energy that will, without doubt, one day be exploited. By then though the damage will have been done. We must stop producing this poisonous waste, deal with what we have already produced (globally) and put our infinite resources towards developing wind, wave, solar and tidal power stations on a grand scale.

Supporters of nuclear power would point to the abundant bird life on the nearby cliffs as evidence of the 'cleanliness' of nuclear power. Without doubt the bird cities that line the cliffs for mile after mile along this north coast suggest that these waters are healthy and their juxtaposition with Dounreay is bizarre. The fact is that what we see now is just a nanosecond in ecological time. The waste products from nuclear fuel will be in our oceans for thousands of years. We have no way of knowing what their impact will be.

Past the lonely St. Mary's Chapel, towards Ushat Head and the famous point break at Brims Ness, I was not disappointed. A solid ten foot peeled onto the reef, the offshore wind holding the faces up nicely. I could not believe there was no one on it. It was one of the best waves I have ever seen, comparing favourably with Porthleven in Cornwall and I could have had it all to myself. The lack of surfers was probably explained by the strong tide now running westwards at several knots. We had to paddle close to the break zone to avoid the worst and the swells jacked up un-nervingly on hidden reefs. Judging it to perfection we got a couple of nice runs down green faces before they backed off into deep water. It was with a certain arrogance that I paddled within a few feet of disaster. One day I will probably get caught out - may I live to regret holding the ocean in such contempt.

The impregnable ramparts of sedimentary rock continued without a break to Holborn Head. Caithness flagstone is world famous for its hard wearing smoothness. Even the constant pounding from the North Atlantic seemed to make no impression. We sat watching in awe as wave after wave exploded at the base of a stack perched precariously on a slab tilted forty-five degrees towards the water. Ian exclaimed in his best 'Essex man' accent,

"These rocks are WELL 'ARD, know what I mean!"

Deep fields of foam created by the breakers drifted along the coast. The soft, warm caress of the bubbles was the only gentle thing in that harsh landscape.

At last we rounded Holborn Head getting a couple of 'runners' as we followed the cliff line into Thurso Bay. We watched a car ferry head out on its way to the Orkneys. We braced ourselves for a reintroduction to civilisation. Paddling into the large industrial harbour of Scrabster I wondered what reception we would receive. I needn't have worried. A fisherman used our arrival as an excuse to stop scraping barnacles from the hull of his boat. He seemed genuinely impressed with our achievement so far. He could hardly believe we had paddled around Cape Wrath a couple of days ago; I will not repeat the expletives he used to describe our mental state! He lived in Kyle of Tongue and confirmed it was worth another visit. As we chatted, Gordon the harbourmaster arrived. Fearing that he may be about to tell us that we were not welcome in his port I explained our expedition to him. He recalled the blind guy and his mate in a double kayak doing a similar thing. I asked him if there was anywhere we could crash out just for one night. He could not have been more helpful. He suggested we get changed while he tried to find somewhere. By the time we had sorted ourselves he was back and offered us a room in the brand new Harbour Offices overlooking the port. Within minutes we were ensconced in the board room, the Queen Mother watching us as we stripped and spread ourselves across the carpet. In no time at all we had covered everything in smelly kit and Ian had installed himself in the small kitchen cooking up the night's feast.

We gained valuable information from Gordon and his colleague about the Pentland Firth which was our route to the east coast the following day. As far as I was concerned, from a navigational point of view, the Pentland Firth was the last major obstacle - if we got this one right we were as good as home. I had heard all sorts of horror stories about the Firth: thirty foot waves collapsing without warning, twelve knot tides sweeping vessels into bottomless whirlpools. Medieval names such as the Merry Men of Mey and the Boars of Duncansby conjured up images lost souls of shipwrecked sailors and voracious waves ready to devour a passing kayaker. I had read every bit of information I could find and it all said the same thing - the passage eastwards is much easier than going west. It had been a major factor in deciding which way around to do the circumnavigation. The only thing that was troubling me was the opening paragraph in the pilot:

"This potentially dangerous channel should only be attempted with moderate winds (less than F4), good visibility, no swell and a fair neap tide..."

Well two out of four wasn't bad!

The swell was massive, the wind forecasted at Force 5, but the visibility was good and it was a neap tide. I confirmed my timings for the east-going flood. We needed to be at Dunnet Head at the start of the Firth at HW Aberdeen +0240 as the east-going flood starts to make. It is eight miles to Dunnet Head from Scrabster so it would take us about one and a half hours to get there. We would have to leave at 9.00am without fail. A comfortable night was ruined as I tossed and turned, worrying about the next day's paddle.

Day 10 Scrabster to Lybster Harbour (58 miles)

We were on the water for 9.00am as planned. We made excellent progress towards Dunnet Head, the most northerly point on the British mainland. Visibility was superb, the high cliffs of Hoy clear to the north. I vowed one day to return and do the crossing to the Orkneys and may be even out to the Shetlands via Fair Isle. It is twenty five nautical miles from North Ronaldsay to Fair Isle and a further twenty two to Sumburgh Head, the most southerly tip of the Shetlands. That must be possible, it may have already been done? So what about a crossing from the Shetlands to Norway? Now that is a long way! That would definitely be a 'first' worthy of note. It is there to be done and Ian and I could be the men to do it!

As we closed on Dunnet Head I became more focused on the day's events as we entered an area of monstrous clapotis. Reflected waves met the North Atlantic swell, refracted and steepened by the influence of islands and headlands, creating huge haystacks as the waves crashed together. Ian would disappear from view for what seemed like ages, then all of a sudden he would reappear on top of a giant swell just a few yards away. Progress was very slow. It was impossible to maintain any forward momentum as waves reared up in front of us stopping the boats dead. Slap-supports became necessary as the peaks collapsed around us. We kept well away from each other as we had little control over the direction of our kayaks. We could hear the booming of surf on the base of the sheer two hundred foot cliffs. Geysers of spray were sent exploding upwards mixing with a waterfall prevented from reaching the sea by the strong north-westerly, blowing it back up the cliff for another try - a 'hydro-perpetual-motion machine'!

We had been warned that the Scrabster lifeboat would be exercising in Thurso Bay, it being a Sunday morning and they may come out to check on us. As we clawed our way through the last of the big clapotis I turned and saw it approaching Dunnet Head. Thinking it would make short work of the big swell I was suprised to see the Arun class lifeboat completely disappear into the troughs as it ploughed through the walls of water. It would have been an uncomfortable ride for its crew as the boat tilted violently, first one way then the other, sheets of spray bursting from its bow as it drove into the confused sea. It was great to see it and really gave an idea of scale to support my estimate of the wave heights. The lifeboat approached to within a hundred metres or so and once satisfied that we were through the worst the crew waved and spun it around heading back through the melee, this time fighting the tide as well.

Past Dunnet Head we paused for a rest, we had plenty of time now and I was happy to let the tide carry us east. I was disappointed at the rate at which we drifted. I had hoped we would have a 'free ride' through the Firth. In actual fact, even with a following wind it was a long hard paddle to St. John's Point. The sloppy sea, now much reduced in size, made it difficult to steer. My damaged rudder was really starting to give me problems, my feet becoming badly bruised as I fought to keep the boat straight. I became increasingly frustrated as Ian surfed effortlessly away from me. Ahead I kept a sharp lookout for any signs of activity on the reefs of the Merry Men of Mey. Sure enough as we approached to within a mile or so I could see eruptions of spray in mid-channel. I shouted to Ian to ensure we kept together. I had visions of him surfing a runner onto the exposed rocks. The tide did accelerate significantly as we passed the headland but nothing like I have experienced on the Bitches tidal rapid between Ramsey Island and St. David's Head on the Pembrokeshire coast. Waves broke in confusion on the Merry Men of Mey but we were able to paddle safely within a few metres of the reefs. Following the passage information closely, we headed in to avoid being swept onto the Skerry on the southern tip of the Isle of Stroma. Here the powerful set of the tide was apparent and had we not followed the instructions given we would have passed the Skerry and its associated whirlpool far too close for comfort. As it was we remained mid-channel and headed on towards John O'Groats and the Boars of Duncansby.

Visitors to Land's End cannot fail to be impressed by the natural beauty of the pink granite headland and the real 'Edge of the World' feeling you get as you stare out towards Longships and North America. Even Peter De Savary's attempts to turn it into a theme park do little to detract from the wonder of the place. I have to say that the Scottish equivalent is pretty pathetic. If I'd travelled the eight hundred and seventy six miles to get there on foot or by pedal cycle or shopping trolley I would be rather disappointed when I arrived to find a motley assortment of buildings that clearly are in the wrong place! The person who decided that John O'Groats was 'the other end' must have either had a stake in the real estate of the village or needed a lesson in geography. I feel sorry for the lighthouse at Duncansby Head. It surely deserves to be more widely recognised as 'the other end'.

Pausing momentarily for a compulsory photo we became aware of a rough area of water ahead. The swell had gone, blocked by the Orkneys. This must be the Duncansby Race. Swept into it at six knots, it was really good fun. Four foot standing waves, the Inuks cut through them easily, driven by our adrenaline charged muscles. Way above us spectators watched from the lofty summit of Duncansby Head. Laughing and grinning like a couple of kids, our fatigue forgotten, we broke out of the current beneath the lighthouse. To our left was the North Sea and ahead of us the long awaited east coast leading to the Moray Firth and home.

"The east coast!" I exclaimed, stating the obvious.

"It would be nice to have some land on the left....." Ian thought out loud.

"Oh yeah! We can turn around and go back the way we've come if you like!" I suggested un-helpfully,

"You just can't please some people!"

We were euphoric. There was no doubt now that, barring disaster, we would complete our circumnavigation. To celebrate we took time out to explore some of the cavernous geos underneath Duncansby Head. I recommend them, some of the best I have seen, just wide enough for a kayak but fifty metres high. Subtle shades of brown, orange and grey, intricately blended and encrusted with guano. Guillemots behaving just like penguins, their not-so-distant cousins, hopped along the rocks to get out of our way. Forgetting that they had the ability to fly they would follow each other until they had nowhere else to go. Comically they plopped into the water. At that point they were transformed and would dive like silver torpedoes under the kayaks, shafts of light picking out their streamlined bodies as they darted about in the crystal clear water catching elusive fish. The speed of the birds underwater is astonishing. They seem more at home underwater than they do on land or in the air. It was impossible not to disturb the numerous colonies of seals sunbathing on the flat rock ledges. We took a short meal break on a large boulder beach beneath the Stacks of Duncansby. Despite being out of the wind and in bright sunshine we soon got cold, our fatigued bodies had little resistance whilst we remained in damp gear. We had decided on a quick lunch and to not bother cooking-up to save time. A decision we were later to regret.

As we approached Skirza Head the steep cliffs fell away exposing us to the stiff north westerly. Strong gusts raced out to sea and we had an extremely uncomfortable crossing of Sinclair's Bay to Noss Head. The outside of my right foot became more and more painful as I jammed it against the ineffectual tiller bar fighting the crosswind. I was grateful for the large hood of my Nookie Sea Cag which protected my face from the blasts of spray. The low shoreline continued to Wick where one look into the cold grey harbour convinced us to push on further. High cliffs made a welcome return. Aptly named, the vertical rock face of Scarlet Head glowed in the late afternoon sunshine. Pink sea thrift contrasted beautifully with the yellow lichen covering the red rock giving the appearance of shimmering gold. We devoured mile after mile following the south westerly trend of the cliff line. I had neglected to include this section of coast in my series of laminated OS maps so we only had a planetary scale map to go from. It had become a standard joke that I would have the OS 1:50 000 map or chart to navigate from whilst Ian had the map that included the whole solar system! He is perfectly able to read a map effectively but was happy to just follow me around Scotland. When asked by a curious onlooker where we had come from or where we were heading to Ian would have to turn to me because he normally didn't have a clue!

As we rounded headland after headland past hundreds of stacks, countless geos and many more caves I became increasingly confused as to our exact whereabouts. On the map it showed lots of small villages by the shore. The last place that we could have got ashore was Wick. There had been little or no sign of habitation since then and that was several hours ago. We became increasingly tired, regretting the hurried lunch. We kept having to stop to refuel with crunchy bars and 'Bullet' sausages. The cliffs were only a hundred feet high but they were sheer and there was literally nowhere to get out. Being self sufficient we did not have to find a village although the use of a land-line phone was now necessary as Ian's mobile had packed up. We had settled on Lybster for the night. I knew it was famous for its golf course and I tried to spot the manicured turf when we caught an occasional glimpse of the hinterland behind the impregnable cliffs. There was no sign of a golf course or anything that looked remotely like a village. We passed a lighthouse at Halberry Head which confused the hell out of me because it wasn't marked on my map. The only lighthouse I had marked was at Lybster. May be Lybster was up above us somewhere and we couldn't see it. Maybe there was no beach, no port, no landing at all. We continued on, increasingly frustrated.

We arrived in a small bay. A beach! Backed by steep cliffs I could make out a precipitous footpath leading to some houses. There was the remnants of a fishing net lying above the high water mark. I pointed it out to Ian as a possible bed for the night. Perhaps this was it? Ian wanted to press on until we found a better campsite. Good call! Just around the next corner we unexpectedly found a second lighthouse and paddled into the very picturesque old herring port of Lybster. I kicked myself as I instantly recognised it from a photo in a guide book I had read in preparation for the trip. We were too tired to laugh and our epic day was not yet over. The only places to get out were either up some steep stone steps or up a stone slipway covered in bladderack seaweed. We opted for the latter as it involved a shorter carry to the only level bit of grass we could find. After much grunting and cursing we finally got the kayaks ashore and stripped off our damp clothes without much thought for the locals. We were past caring. Once into dry clothes and feeling a lot better we took a look around. There was a nice spot on the edge of the lawn of a curious old cottage set into the hillside. Battlements around the flat roof suggested an alternative historical use for the property. Before pitching the tent we thought it wise to seek permission but there was no reply from the cottage. A large modern bungalow occupied an imposing position above the little port so we climbed up through the deep grassed hillside to see if anyone was in. We met Mr Curry on his way down to meet us. My first impression of a bolshie old man about to tell us to "Get off my land!" could not have been more wrong. He was fascinated by our adventure, introducing us to his wife and offering us food and water. We 'borrowed' his phone and accepted some drinking water but politely declined the offer of food. We still had plenty and we were buggered if we were going to carry halfway around Scotland and not eat it! We spent a delightful half- hour chatting, Ian gossiping with Mrs Curry discovering people and places they had in common, whilst I explained our route and the more technical aspects of our journey to Mr. It must have been obvious that we were tired and hungry and they wished us well as we made our excuses and left to set up camp before it got dark. It had been a record day, we were completely shattered but it had been well worth it. Another like that and we would have cracked the east coast.

Day 11 Lybster Harbour to Rockfield (43 miles)

The next day began slowly. Having faffed about, breaking camp and loading the boats it was 10.00am by the time we were on the water. Mr and Mrs Curry waved us off from the patio of their bungalow. We must have looked rather amateur as we feebly paddled out of the harbour. The previous day's effort had taken its toll and progress was painful until we had fully warmed up.

The cliffs continued, the scenery reminding me of one of my favourite paddles: from Looe to Fowey, on the south coast of Cornwall. I began to feel strong in the warm sunshine and for the first time in the trip I began to set the pace, Ian content to sit on my wash. As my Inuk kayak scythed through the calm sea it threw up a small wake sufficient to give Ian a 'free ride' if he positioned himself precisely on my stern. We cranked out mile after mile in this fashion. I had my marathon head on and enjoyed the feeling of power as my back and arms worked in harmony with my legs driving the kayak forward with each paddle stroke. We were now supremely fit and as long as we kept refuelling regularly we were able to paddle at six miles an hour all day long. We passed Dunbeath without realising it and were delighted to discover the excellent progress we had made when we saw the ancient navigation marks on the cliffs above Berriedale. More high-rise bird cities and many more seals gave an optimistic prognosis for the health of this part of the North Sea.

By 1.00pm we were in need of grub. I had found on my journey around Devon and Cornwall that for repeated long days of paddling carbohydrate was just not enough. After all, the relatively low output meant that fat was a main fuel source. I had come to crave chips and my mind was at it again. I explained this to Ian who was sceptical at first, arguing that complex carbohydrates was what he needed and that he would not be able to digest a stodgy chip meal. I could see nothing but big, fat chips however and on our arrival at Helmsdale Ian agreed to walk with me into town to find a takeaway. What we found was "La Mirage", perhaps the strangest chippy in the land. With a tastelessly flamboyant pink decor, the proprietor, Nancy Sinclair has created an oasis of colour in an otherwise grey town. She models herself on the author Barbara Cartland who has a holiday home nearby. There are a myriad of photographs of Nancy with various show biz celebrities, including Michael Barrymore with whom she seems to have taken a particular fancy. We sat there in dripping canoe kit eating an excellent jumbo sausage and chips surrounded by pink flamingos and palm trees. Totally bizarre!

Ian agreed that the chips had 'hit the spot' and fully restored we set about our last major crossing from Helmsdale to Tarbat Ness fourteen miles away. The Moray coast was visible to the south. The hills of Eastern Ross rolled down to the sea ahead of us. For a while, I must confess, we headed for the wrong bit of land until I checked the compass against the map I had (foolishly) given to Ian. I pointed out that Tarbat Ness should be almost due south of our position and we were heading south west. I smugly pointed out a needle like lighthouse that I had just spotted in roughly the right area and took the 'Mickey' out of Ian's navigational skills. He gave as good as he got and the banter continued for a while as we headed out across the Dornoch Firth. The wind soon kicked up a steep chop that kept me quiet as I began a losing battle with my rudder. Ian surfed away leaving me to mutter under my breath. He was gracious enough to wait for me several times on the long crossing. Three porpoises provided a short interlude and cheered me up. It took an age for the tall red and white lighthouse to get noticeably closer and only when I could clearly see individual buildings and trees did I buck my ideas up and 'race' Ian to the point. It had been an unwritten rule, an unspoken gentlemen's agreement that we would always paddle around, through or past any major point together, as a team and so it was on this occasion that we paddled into the slipway in the lee of the lighthouse together, as one, after a two and a quarter hour crossing.

We were very much on the home straight now, just over thirty miles of the Moray Firth between us and Inverness and the start of the Caledonian Canal. We were in great spirits and the temptation was to paddle into the night. But there was little advantage to be gained. The tide was against us and we hugged the coast to the small village of Rockfield, nestled at the water's edge with an enviable view across the Moray Firth. We remembered our manners and asked to pitch on what was essentially the front lawn of a number of terraced cottages. It was a perfect spot, a short carry with the boats and just yards from a telephone. Our idyllic situation was marred by a problem that had appeared over the last couple of days. Both of us had nasty looking blisters on the backs of our hands. Ian had suffered a little at the start with friction blisters on the palms of his hands as you might expect with prolonged gripping of the paddle in rough seas. Neither of us had experienced anything like this before. These were blisters caused, we can only assume, from hours of exposure to cold wind and salt spray. It certainly wasn't sunburn! They had first become apparent on the north coast but now they had become excruciatingly itchy and sore to touch. It made any manual task laborious and painful. At night when we stopped paddling and our hands warmed up they felt as if they were burning and we tried using different remedies; Ian's nappy rash cream, my sun block, without success. We had to sleep with our hands outside our sleeping bags to try to keep them cool. We discovered on our return to 'civilisation' that we had been suffering from chilblains, a mild form of frost bite. The answer I am sure would have been to have used 'pogies', nylon paddle mitts, to protect our hands from the wind. Our hands were never actually cold enough to have felt that was necessary but it is something I have learnt for next time(?)

We eventually got to sleep. It would be our last day on the sea tomorrow. Then the canal. Surely it would be a doddle after what we had been through so far?

Day 12 Rockfield to Dochgarroch Lock, Caledonian Canal (35 miles)

The stench of rotting seaweed hit my senses as I woke with the sun. It stimulated something inside me and I urgently had to find somewhere to go. Not easy when you are camped on someone's front lawn! After a trek down the shore I came back to find Ian up and at it. We packed the boats dressed only in swimming trunks which attracted a few appreciative comments from a passing group of housewives. It was a lovely day, the hottest so far and we set off in rash vests and shorts, a cool breeze off the sea preventing further exposure of bare flesh to the inhabitants of the Moray Firth. We set a cracking pace following tight to the shore past the curiously named Hilton of Cadboll towards the narrow opening into Cromarty Firth. We saw hundreds of star fish scattered on the sea bed visible through pane glass water. Ian saw something large and very fast pass quickly beneath him. He was convinced it was a shark but sadly we never got a chance to confirm. The cliffs beneath the Hill of Nigg were crammed with sea birds and right on cue, as we began the short crossing to Blue Head three large dolphins, arching rhythmically, approached to within a hundred meters or so. We had been told by Hugh Eaglesfield on his yacht back on Eigg that we could expect to see up to a hundred of them and we were not disappointed. They made a magical spectacle as they hunted in the mouth of Firth.

Looking into Cromarty Firth I was shocked to see huge oil rigs awaiting repair. The proximity of the oil terminal and fabrication yard to the tranquil marine home of the dolphins is both worrying and confusing. These animals are free to live wherever they please, yet they choose to live within sight of a massive industrial complex that serves to exploit the ocean for profit. Perhaps the dolphins are there to remind us that we are the guardians of the world's oceans. That carelessness or deliberate acts of environmental vandalism cannot be tolerated. Organisations like the Marine Conservation Society (MCS) with their 'Oceans 2000 - Seas for the Future' strategy should be supported by everyone with an interest in the long-term well being of the oceans (and that means all of us). As an island nation we should be at the forefront of research into the impact of man's activities on marine bio-diversity. We should lead the way; developing policy for sustainable fishing; carefully limiting the exploitation of oil and mineral resources; eliminating discharges of inadequately-treated sewage and other pollutants into the marine environment. Our aim should be to create many more Marine Nature Reserves to help protect our more vulnerable marine habitats. A once romantic pastime, beach coming is now a depressing glance into the oceanic trash can. The old fallacy, 'out of sight, out of mind' will come back to haunt us when there is no more room in the ocean for the world's rubbish. Incidents of e-coli poisoning and other viral infections to water users and marine mammals will become common place unless radical measures are taken to halt the decline in bathing water quality. It is a sad fact that 63% of the beaches failing the minimum standard in the Good Beach Guide 1999 (published by the MCS) were in the North East, North West, Scotland and the Isle of Man. We saw many raw sewage out-falls pouring down the cliffs on our journey down the East Coast of Scotland. It must be our aim, at the start of a new millennium, to halt this disgraceful practice. The South West of England have had to pay the highest water bills in country. South West Water directors' salaries and shareholder's profits aside, water quality has improved in the last couple of years - ask any surfer. Every region of the country has its part to play, what goes into the rivers goes into the sea. Can we expect anyone in Europe (or the rest of the world for that matter) to take us seriously unless we clean up our own act?

Cromarty Firth is guarded by forts and gun emplacements on South Sutor built in 1914 on the authority of a young Winston Churchill. An underwater metal net was strung across the entrance to the Firth. Despite these defences on 30th December 1915 HMS Natal was mysteriously blown up with the loss of over 400 lives. Perhaps this was the first ever attack successfully carried out by kayak? Germany was, after all, the birth place of the folding kayak at the turn of the century. Was it the inspiration for Operation Frankton - the incredible story of the 'Cockleshell Heroes'. In December 1942 a team of ten Royal Marines from the Boom Patrol Detachment paddled up the Gironde river and despite heavy losses attacked a number of ships in Bordeaux harbour. Led by the late Lt. Col. 'Blondie' Hasler (whose name is immortalised in the U.K. canoe marathon racing national club championship), it has been a source of inspiration to me ever since first reading about their incredible courage and resourcefulness as a kid. One of many acts of heroism that we must never forget.

It is with these thoughts that I continued to paddle with Ian down the Moray Firth, ever closer to our goal. We took a quick lunch break in the lee of some rocks. Despite the bright sunshine a cool south easterly wind kept us shivering as soon as we were out of the boats. The Firth narrowed dramatically as it was pinched between Fort George, home to the Queen's Own Highlanders and Chanonry Point. The tide had turned in our favour and soon after lunch we left the open sea astern as we surfed the steep chop towards Inverness. As we passed under the impressive Kessock road bridge carrying the A9 northwards we knew that was it, no more ocean.

We drifted gently onto the muddy shore of the Beauly Firth beside the sea lock, the start of the Caledonian Canal. Ian thanked me for getting him around the coast safely. He would not have been so generous if he had known what was in store on the canal! Carrying the kayaks one by one up the steep rocky embankment we had our first look at the canal. Fresh water! It looked lovely and we quickly slid the boats down into it. Paddling for just a few hundred yards we came to a halt at the first (of many) portages where it was necessary to haul the fully laden kayaks ten feet up onto the tow path, then carry them one by one around the lock. British Waterways understandably do not allow canoes and kayaks into the locks. Unfortunately no attempt has been made to facilitate easy portaging with kayaks along the Canal, something I would urge the Scottish Canoe Association to discuss with British Waterways with the increased popularity of canoe and kayak journeys along the Canal. The canal was built to provide a safe route for maritime traffic avoiding the treacherous seas around the north of Scotland. It is one of the greatest feats of 19th century engineering taking Thomas Telford twenty years to construct it along the 'Great Glen', taking advantage of the three lochs, Lochy, Oich and Ness, which account for about two thirds of the route. There are twenty nine locks linking sections of canal and loch together to produce a 60 nautical mile waterway capable of carrying vessels up to 45 metres in length, with a maximum beam of 10 metres and maximum draft of 4 metres. By the 1900's three steamboats a day would leave Inverness bound for Fort William and the West Coast.

The first portage around Clachnaharry Lock wasn't too bad. Into the Muirtown Basin and the bustling, noisy, smelly outskirts of Inverness. In a strange way I had been looking forward to seeing civilisation again; bus stops and taxi cabs, street lights and zebra crossings, terraced houses and net curtain. Now we were here I wanted 'out' again. Plastic bottles and crisp wrappers had replaced puffins and jellyfish. Revving combustion engines had replaced the roar of the surf. Dodgy drains had replaced the smell of guano. I had left my heart somewhere on the West Coast. My mood plummeted as we reached the next portage. A steep flight of four locks had to be overcome. We decided a shoulder carry was the best method. It was a huge effort to lift each kayak (mine seemed especially heavy for some reason) but once on our shoulders it was easier to walk or stagger two hundred metres or so before we were forced to rest. As we were lugging the second kayak up the tow path a drunken young Scotsman disgraced his country by swearing abuse at a young girl apparently walking home from work. She was clearly upset as she was forced to go out of her way to avoid walking past the idiot. Fortunately a slightly more sober friend of the lad intervened just as he turned his attention to us. Welcome back to the real world!

The next section of canal took us away from the built up area into the beautiful Glen Mor. The disappointment of Inverness was soon forgotten. We sat on each other's wash as we revelled in the silky smooth surface of the canal after days on a lumpy sea. We were tired but our marathon mentality meant we could have gone on all night. As it was we reached the immaculately kept campsite at Dochgarroch Lock at about 6.30pm and decided to call it a day. The forecast was good so there was no reason to push on for the sake of it. We soon relaxed into holiday mode, enjoying our first hot shower for nearly a fortnight! My feet were badly bruised after fighting with my tiller bar along the north and east coasts. The backs of our hands were a mess, the chilblains producing large blisters that begged to be burst. I popped mine hoping they would heal in the clean water of the canal. Ian had much better self control and was quietly proud of the huge plasma filled bubbles. As our hands warmed so the itching would start. Enough to drive a man insane we had tried every combination of cream without relief. The midges soon provided a distraction though. Until joining the canal we had suffered very little from the pesky little insects. The warm still air in the Glen was perfect for them and they were out in force.

Whilst we were finishing off dinner a big white Mercedes camper van pulled into the site. There were several kayaks on the roof including a couple of plastic Lettmann sea kayaks. Once they had got themselves sorted I went over for a chat. It turned out to be Jochen Lettmann, son of Klaus Lettmann and his girlfriend on holiday in the Highlands. Lettmann have produced quality kayaks and paddles in Germany for many years and Jochen is himself a former Olympian achieving a bronze medal in white water slalom at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. Like many ex-slalomists he has turned his attention to white water rodeo and showed us the cranked carbon-kevlar rodeo paddle he has been developing for the past two years. It was fascinating talking to him about many aspects of paddle sport. I was particularly interested in his design for a retractable under stern rudder for sea kayaks which, if robust enough, would solve many of the problems we had experienced on our journey. I drank his beer and would have chatted all night but sadly the midges forced us to cut short our conversation, probably much to his girlfriends relief!

Day 13 Dochgarroch Lock to Laggan Lock (38 miles)

I slept soundly once my hands had stopped itching. I had set my alarm for 5.50am to catch the weather forecast. As soon as it sounded Ian was up and at it again. When he realised what time it was he cursed me but decided we should get on with it anyway. We were packed and portaged by 8.30am. It was going to be a glorious day. Paddling upstream, hugging the banks we were now in the River Ness that empties the Loch into the Moray Firth. It is a beautiful stretch of water and it occurred to me that it would make a great marathon kayak race from Fort William to Inverness: a two day race with a stage stop at Fort Augustus. We entered Loch Ness passing Aldourie Castle on our left, one of many guarding the Great Glen. I made yet another silent prayer of thanks as we glided out across mirror-calm water, not a breath of wind to disturb the perfect reflection of heather-clad mountains.

We aimed for a point just before Urquhart Bay on the northern shore. We sat side by side matching each other stroke for stroke, our rhythm unbroken for several miles. Pulling onto the shore for necessary relief it was an opportunity to take in the grand scale of the Loch. It contains more water than all the lakes and reservoirs of England and Wales put together. It is 24 miles long, over a mile wide in places and up to 750 feet deep making it the largest body of fresh water in Europe. Following the spectacular geological fault of Glen Mor or the 'Great Glen' it almost cuts Scotland in two and has provided a way through the Highlands for centuries of travellers. I had been concerned that the prevailing wind in the Glen is south westerly and that Loch Ness, with its long fetch, could have been really hard work with head winds all the way. As it was, we could not have asked for more perfect conditions. We stripped off down to our wetsuit shorts. Time for a tan!

As we continued on, passing below the battlements of Urquhart Castle it was not difficult to imagine the scene in the tribal days of the Celtic Clans when feudalism caused disputes to be settled by war and violence. Now the peaceful silence of the Loch is broken by the symbolic strains of bagpipes played by kilt-clad buskers at every viewpoint. We passed by unnoticed. The hordes of clansmen armed with swords and dirks (daggers) had been replaced by Japanese tourists armed with different types of Canon. Low-flying jets roared down the loch like a scene from Top Gun. Forget your fast bikes and cars these guys really motored, doing Loch Ness in seconds before blasting up through one of the side glens in search of prey.

It became a race to see how fast we could 'do the Loch'. Taking it in turns; two minutes on, two minutes off; taking up the pace then sitting on the other's wash. We ate into the miles. The first faint zephyrs of a breeze caressed our backs. The polished surface of the Loch became tarnished, taking on texture and form as if the monster was awakening. We didn't see Nessie - we never expected to. Old sea dogs like us, we don't believe in such things - but it would have been nice and I will confess to a sense of anticlimax as we paddled into Fort Augustus. Talk of cream cakes soon appeased my disappointment. In the end we had Scotch Pie and chips and girdle scones, fresh and delicious, sat in the sun by the lock cut. For the first time in the trip it was hot. We sat soaking up the ultraviolet rays whilst we contemplated the afternoon's paddle. For a little while we had even contemplated trying to finish that night, but discounted the idea. It may have been possible but what would we have achieved? We were intending to stay with friends of Ian's on the outskirts of Edinburgh before heading back to England. If we took our time now we would still easily finish by lunchtime tomorrow which would give us the opportunity for a leisurely drive through the Highlands to Edinburgh in the afternoon. It had always been our intention to complete the circumnavigation in as short a time as possible but now, in the pleasant warmth of the Highland summer, there seemed little point in rushing. It was nice to have the time to relax and enjoy the last few hours of our adventure.

Perhaps it was the impending portage up a flight of five locks that had caused our reluctance to get going. Finally we could delay it no longer and heaving my kayak up onto our shoulders we staggered off up the road beside the lock. I felt somewhat incongruous as we grunted and sweated our way past ice-cream-licking tourists. A pleasant paddle to Kytra Lock, our fifteenth lock, saw us at the summit of the canal, 106 feet above sea level. Fourteen locks to go. At least they would be downhill. Following the channel marker buoys through the complex of islands on the humorously named Loch Oich we had to paddle hard into a stiff head breeze. It is an interesting phenomena of the Great Glen. The wind can change direction with remarkable suddenness. It always follows the fault line of the Glen, blowing south-west or north east. Often, as was the case today, a sea breeze off the west coast would meet a sea breeze off the east coast somewhere around Fort Augustus, producing the hot still conditions we had enjoyed at lunchtime. Sailors on the two biggest lochs, Lochy and Ness had to be wary of sudden 180 degree wind shifts as the two air masses fought for supremacy.

Battles of a different kind were waged from the ramparts of Invergarry Castle although why anyone wanted to fight in such a romantically beautiful setting is beyond me. The crumbling ivy-clad ruins poked above the surrounding beech and oak. A 'des-res' for any canoeist or lover of lake and mountain. Another two mile stretch of canal led us to Laggan Locks where we found a perfect campsite right by the water's edge. ThermaRests out, it was dinner and diaries in the evening sun before the midges ruined everything.

We had been overtaken by an old dredger called Barrow Sand in the Beauly Firth on our approach to Inverness. We had seen it ahead on several occasions along the canal but had been unable to catch it. It was now moored at Laggan and I enquired with the skipper about what time he would be leaving. I had hoped to catch a few washes off pleasure boats on our way down the canal but the only craft up to now had been yachts travelling far too slowly. If we could only get on the wash off Barrow Sand we would have a free ride to Fort William. He laughed and replied in broad Scots that he aimed to leave between 7.00 and 8.00am. Great, how vague is that!

Phone calls to respective partners left us with mixed emotions. Of course it was great to talk to them but hearing about problems at home brought us another step closer to the end of our adventure. It was very nearly over and I would certainly be sad to leave this beautiful country. We had seen people arrive by car at the lock and walk up the tow path to an old tug. Investigating we discovered a real gem. Scot II was a floating pub, popular with locals and passing yachtsmen. Ian rarely drinks but we had a pint to celebrate the imminent completion of our circumnavigation. We chatted to an Irish lass from the Dutch barge 'Fingle' moored on Loch Lochy. Converted into an outdoor pursuits centre, they sailed their clients up and down the Caledonian Canal giving instruction in sailing, canoeing, mountain biking, hill walking and rock climbing. There was even a jet ski on board that had been buzzing around the loch like some demented insect earlier that evening. She was a strange girl with rather more testosterone in her veins than there should have been. It turned out she was only talking to us to avoid the unwanted advances of one of her mature male clients. I was far more interested in making friends with Fingle, a handsome tan and gold collie-cross named after the barge that was his home.

One beer was enough to set me yawning and we retired for our last night under canvas.

Day 14 Laggan Lock to Fort William (21 miles)

The alarm woke me at 6.30am. I nudged Ian.

"Time to get up if we're going to catch that barge".

Like a Spaniel, eager to please, Ian sat bolt upright eyes wide open and immediately started packing. His friends back home nicknamed him 'Spaniel' because of his boundless enthusiasm and willingness to crack on with whatever needed doing to get a job done. It was amazing to watch. One minute he had been fast asleep, the next minute he was wide awake and raring to go. He looked pretty awful but then so would you if you had paddled over 500 miles in a fortnight with just one shower! We hurried to get decamped but our haste was futile. Barrow Sand left at 7.30am and we watched it throw an enormous wake as it headed out into Loch Lochy. We would have done well to stay with it in any case.

Afloat by 8.00am we took a leisurely pace, again we were blessed with perfect conditions on the Loch. The steep forested mountain sides climbed into the clouds on each side of us. To the south we once again saw the Ben Nevis massif, snow still covering the upper flanks. Legend has it that if the snow ever leaves the summit then ownership of the Ben will revert to the Crown. Its ownership not in question the Ben was a welcome sight and further indication we were coming to our journey's end.

Entering the canal once more having enjoyed a pleasant paddle down a very beautiful Loch Lochy we arrived at Gairlochy Lock. Again no provision had been made for ease of access/eagress for canoes and kayaks even though the lock had clearly had a recent facelift. We had to get out at least a hundred metres short of the first lock gate and when we had eventually heaved and lugged the boats past the two lock gates we were shattered. As I looked down the newly grassed slope to the lock basin twenty feet below a man dressed in overalls yelled at us from the swing bridge he was closing.

"Don't even think about it, I don't want you going down there, you'll just have to carry them".

His terse attitude immediately raised my hackles. I walked down to him to see what his problem was. He was clearly Mr Angry and not a big fan of canoeists. Probably a fisherman I decided. I acquiesced, remembering we had our sponsors logos splashed all over our boats. It meant a further four hundred metre carry across the road and down past the lock basin to a difficult 'put-in' down a steep rocky bank. We were both getting pretty fed up with this portaging business. Neither of us minded doing portages with a marathon racing kayak, there are 76 portages on the Devizes to Westminster race which I have done twice and Ian three times. But with two fully laden sea kayaks it was not much fun and our shoulders were getting increasingly sore. Ian was beginning to stagger under the burden. His skinny legs bowed with the strain. We were later to discover he had lost a stone and a half during our circumnavigation. He was lean when we started and could ill afford to lose that sort of weight. My compact (many would say stunted) build helped with this sort of weight lifting. Even so I was reaching my limit of endurance.

The final stretch from Gairlochy to Banavie and the infamous Neptune's Staircase seemed to take forever. We could smell the sea. I was tempted to portage into the River Lochy which was just below us but out of sight behind the embankment bordering the canal but decided that we should see it through to the bitter end. A pleasure boat gave us the opportunity of a wash ride but he overestimated my boat speed. Allowing Ian to have the first wave I did my best to hang on to the second wave behind the thirty foot motor launch. I had to paddle flat out to stay with it and my arms soon filled with lactic acid. Panting, I yelled at Ian to stay with it and I would see him later. Like the true gentleman he is he gave up his free ride so that we could paddle it together. To make things worse the sea breeze had picked up and the last four miles was a real head bang along the most boring stretch of the canal. At last we arrived, already shattered at the start of Neptune's Staircase. We went for a recce. It was our worst nightmare. It must have been an eight hundred metre walk from top to bottom. My shoulder ached just at the thought of it. It takes an hour and a half to transit the nine locks in a boat. It took us the best part of an hour to complete the portage with the two kayaks. But complete it we did and after a very tricky 'put-in' between the lock gate and the road bridge we paddled tiredly towards the sea lock at Corpach. The wind was bending the trees as it came in off the sea loch of Loch Eil. Was there to be a final sting in the tail?

Sure enough, having arrived at the twenty ninth lock, we looked out across Loch Eil towards Fort William. The south westerly breeze would be right on the nose for the final part of our journey from the sea lock at Corpach to Fort William Pier. The last, but by no means the easiest portage completed we were on salt water again. We headed out, determined to finish in style. Despite the stiff breeze and flooding tide we covered the last two miles in no time at all.

Closing on the small stone pier I had expected to be overcome with emotion. After all, the circle was complete. We had done it. A circumnavigation of Northern Scotland in two weeks. I was pleased, of course I was. But there was a tinge of sadness. Would I ever get the chance to do such a thing again? It has been my life's ambition to do a solo circumnavigation of the British Isles. My commitment to Linda and my career make the likelihood of me ever realising that ambition appear remote. Was this a comma or a full stop? When I finished my circumnavigation of Devon and Cornwall I had already decided on my next adventure. Now I was at the end of that journey I was undecided on what to do next. Wasn't it about time I got on with real life and stopped dreaming about 'the ultimate kayak adventure'. I thought of my hero, Paul Caffyn and his book 'Dreamtime Voyager'; his circumnavigation of Australia. Surely that was 'the ultimate'? Would I have to accept that I could only read about such journeys in books?

Ian snapped me out of my introspective daydream. Grinning from ear to ear it was really good to see him so stoked with what we had achieved. Only he knows what it meant for him. All I can say is that I could not have wished for a better travelling companion. He generously described paddling with me as "inspirational". That brought a lump to my throat! I hope in this account I have conveyed my great respect for this man but suffice to say that should any of my daydreams ever become reality he will be the first person I will ask to join me on my next adventure. We landed at 2.30pm, it had taken us 12 days, ten hours to paddle around 508 miles, averaging approximately 40 miles a day.

Why did we do it?

No reason!

Sean Morley

Ian and Sean would like to thank:
First Ascent - U.K. importers of Cascade Designs excellent products.
Kirton Kayaks - manufacturers of the finest racing and sea kayaks.
Arktis - Quality of Endurance
Saarlander Sausages - makers of 'Bullets'
A&S Watersports, Exeter.
Rob Feloy - designer of the Inuk - The High Performance Sea Kayak
Teresa and Linda - for their love, patience and understanding.

Page 1 | Page 2 | Page 3