On eagles ancient and new

I caught the early passenger ferry from John O’Groats to Burwick. The crossing was witnessed by some grey seals. It involved not getting run down by the Amundsen Spirit, 66 thousand ton crude oil tanker.

From Burwick, it was a quick ride to the Tomb of the Eagles. This was a chambered tomb from the Skara Brae culture and thus roughly 5000 years old. Its’ name comes from the number of eagle bones found in it. The culture appears to have practiced what is sometimes termed sky burial at first (or leaving the bodies out for birds to eat) followed by actual burial once the bones were picked clean. It had been discovered by a local farmer and amateur archeologist. The place was privately run, so we were allowed and encouraged to handle some of the artifacts! One of these was a toe bone from a white-tailed eagle (or haliaeetus albicilla or sea-eagle). There was also the Burnt Mound which consisted of the remains of a Bronze Age building of uncertain function, but was probably something akin to a sauna or sweat lodge in my opinion. (The description of why is too long and boring.) Next to it was a large midden that consisted heavily of peat ash. Next it was a shed which had started life as a German WWII ambulance before being converted into a mobile home and used on a trip around the Sahara! It eventually wound up being used as a shed by the person discovered the place!

The Tomb of the Eagles was located on a cliff top overlooking the coast. Walking back along the cliff top path, I passed a cove cut into the cliffs. I saw at least four grey seals floating in the water.

From there, I had a short ride to the Tomb of the Otters. This was identified as interesting in 2010. Some of the stones had been seen when the mound they were part of had been removed to make a car park for a restaurant. The owner had asked archeologists if the stones were significant and had been told no. Several years later, he investigated by himself by inserting a camera. There was a skull in evidence which resulted in a “I told you so.” The Tomb has only been partially excavated but is already proving unusual as the entrance way faces North, rather than South as is more common for such tombs. Also, it is partially excavated from the bedrock. Rather than being “buried in the sky”, the bodies were left underground to be eaten by otters as evidenced by old otter scat, hence the name. The young and somewhat uncertain man presenting the background and some artifacts, told the party (three young Americans and myself that DNA found in the teeth was being analyzed by specialists in ancient human DNA in Copenhagen. They are due to present their results next year. As we were being educated, an older man was bringing in supplies for the bistro. He overheard my comment that the experts likely had the data by now and were likely figuring out what it meant. He took exception to this and said they were world renowned experts so they did not need “to figure things out.” It turned out that he was Hamish, the man who made the discovery! I must confess, I found him somewhat limited in the processes of academia. While the experts can say that the people were of X genetic stock and are fairly closely related to Y group of modern Europeans, those results are not the be-all and end-all of the the process. Were I involved, I would want to think about what the data implies. For example, if the genetic analysis suggested a relationship with ancient Egyptians, there would be one hell of a need to first double check the results and second, come up with a theory or two. On the other hand, if it turns out they were Basque, a phone call to warn the Home Office about potential ETA claims to North Sea oil revenues might be in order. ;-)

Anyway, the partially excavated tomb was only large enough for three at a time, and not that comfortably at that. Particularly when thinking about what might lie undiscovered. I was intrigued by the fact that clay had been used as mortar, unlike Skara Bray and Maes Howe. However, my claustrophobia and I were glad to get out. Still, it was a fascinating tour. The bistro was a handy place for lunch.

I made a wind-assisted zoom to the Kirkwall SYHA. I stopped at the 58 8’ fruit winery and rum distillery to sample fruit liqueurs and J. Gow spiced rum. (Captain Gow was an particularly unsuccessful Scottish pirate.) Unfortunately, there wasn’t a bottle worth its duty allowance for sale. Especially the Tattie liqueur. I double checked my Scots with the saleswoman that it was indeed a potato derived drink. I smelt the contents and decided against tasting it.

Possibly on the strength of the spirits consumed, after changing at the youth hostel, I set off on quest to procure an Orkaidian flag. (Picture a Scandinavian flag where the background is red and the cross is blue with a yellow surround.) I was very nearly overly successful. I came upon a bike store (and Warhammer game outlet) that I visited the last time I was here. In the window was a biking jersey patterned after the Orkney flag. It met my high-viz requirements. Had there been any in stock in my size, I would have bought one. Unfortunately, all they had was XXXL. I am not that fat. I did find a flag.

Down on the waterfront, I moseyed around before entering the premises of Kirkjuvag, a local gin distillery (gin is having a renaissance in the UK. Also, Kirkjuvag is the Norse for Kirkwall.) I tried their gin with tonic as it was cocktail hour. While I sipped, a pair of New Zealanders came in with a lot of clobber. Closer examination revealed part of it to be diving gear. We chatted and it emerged they had been wreck diving in Scapa Flow. They were killing time before their ferry to the Shetlands. Eventually, the staff said that they would be closing in a few minutes. (It was a store, not a pub after all.) We finished our drinks and left.

I wandered about cross-checking various restaurant menus with my guidebook and tastes. I settled on the Bothy Bar which is part of the Albert Hotel on the grounds they served lamb which is strangely hard to find outside an Indian restaurant. As luck would have it, the Kiwis came in as well! After supper, I retired to the Hostel and finished reading the Orkneyinga Saga about the earls of Orkney. This proved relevant.

This morning, I set off for Houton in order to catch a ferry to the island of Hoy. I missed one ferry by about ten minutes, so I had time to go to a museum about the Saga in Ophir. It was built there as it was the site of one episode of the saga when during a feast one Svein got upset that another Svein’s drinking horn was larger than his and therefore it gave him an unfair advantage in the competitive drinking that was a feature of Norse feasts. This resulted in hurt feelings and later a death. Bear in mind that these are Christian Norsemen! Behind the museum there was the ruins of a round church and the drinking hall. Or at least what is thought to be the hall. However, the ruins of the hall seemed far too small to have been the scene of the events. There was also the remains of a small round church.

The weather was bright and windy. Alas, it was blowing in the wrong direction. It rained from time to time but only briefly and lightly. As I could see a long way, I knew not only that the rain was coming but also it would only be a short shower. When the ferry got back, I was the first to get on. The next was a dump truck with a load of gravel. That was it! The ferry had space for many more but evidently, this wasn’t a popular sailing.

Hoy is the Norse word for "High". So the Island of Hoy is named after its high hills, the highest in the Orkneys. It is distinctly hilly coming close to mountainous. Certainly quite steep, with cliffs in evidence. It was also home of the museum dealing with the history of Scapa Flow as a naval base. Unfortunately, the museum was closed for renovations and the temporary exhibition in a nearby hotel wasn’t as deep as I would have hoped.

After lunch at Emily’s Tearoom, populated by fit retirees in trekking gear, I headed towards the North End of the Island, alternately helped and hindered by the wind. There was a feeling that I often get in rural Scotland of being caught being between the old and the new. A landscape that feels primitive yet has been lived in for millenia. Maybe that was Diana Gabaldon was tapping into when she started Outlander, being in both the past present. The feeling was reinforced by the sight of an old telegraph pole which someone had topped with an orange traffic cone.

At a col, there was a lonely grave and plaque explaining its meaning. In the 1770s, a young woman had committed suicide. As this was a sin at the time, she was buried in an unmarked grave, in un-sanctified ground at the border of two parishes. Her coffin and well preserved body was found by accident by peat cutters in the 1930s. After a time, she was given a proper burial and a tombstone.

A little before the ferry dock, I turned up a valley to reach the Dwarfie Stane parking lot where the RSPB has set up an eagle watch station. White-tailed eagles have this year hatched and fledged their first chicks on the Orkney's in over 140 years. The RSPB is very happy about this, but want to make damn sure some wanker doesn’t muck things up. So, they have someone keeping an eye on the eagles. I am not sure if she was a volunteer or was paid but there was a young woman with two spotting scopes on tripods there. In addition to keeping track of the eagles activities, she was there to educate the public, not to mention point out where the eagles actually were. The nesting site was at the top of a cliff quite a distance away, on the other side of the valley. When the juveniles were in flight, they could easily be mistaken for crows. When perched, they tended to blend in with the vegetation, even when using the spotting scopes. The wing tags the RSPB had fitted on them helped make them more obvious. Really fun to see. I feel very lucky, nay, privileged.

On a scenic train ride and proper French

The train North from Inverness went faster than the actual time it took. There was plenty of scenery to gaze at as well as wildlife. Somewhere along the coast the track came close enough to a beach to disturb a considerable number of grey seals who were sunbathing. They stampeded into the sea. I am half-convinced I heard their cries of alarm over the sound of the train. Farther North, I saw a red deer and her calf on the moors of Caithness. The train to Wick stops at a junction station, then reverses direction into Thurso. (The train was a diesel multiple unit (or DMU (Budd cars were DMUs)) with cabs at either end of the two car train.) At Thurso, the bulk of the passengers disembarked. One exception was a party of older people who had failed to exit the train in time. I gather they had tried to exit through an inactive door. Despite their pleas, the train departed, a slave to schedule. They remonstrated with a member of the crew who seemed to provide a solution. The train returned to the junction station where the party got off.

It was then off to Wick and one extremity of the British rail system. (Actually, it was only a passenger extremity as biking North to John O’Groats, I passed a bit of freight railway some miles to the North.) The ride to John O’Groats went very well. The open spaces and the sunny weather gave the afternoon a “Bring me that horizon feel”, even if the destination was a definite end point and the distance was only 17 miles. I guess it was the contrast with the day before.

When I stopped in Nairn yesterday for an afternoon snack, an employee of the establishment was have a smoke under an awning out of the rain. When she saw me arriving, she moved a sandwich board so that Leonardo might rest out of the rain. When I came out after a hot chocolate and a chocolate tiffin slice, there was a French-speaking couple examining the menu in the window. They were in front the bike, so I asked them politely to take a step back so I could get my bike. I did it so in French, bien sur. As I had come out of the establishment they were contemplating and I obviously spoke acceptable French, they questioned me about how good it was. I said I could only say that I had only had “un chocolat chaud et un gâterie” but they were good. There was a discussion of “le bon français” term, or more accurately, I apologised for not knowing what the right term was. We agreed that “patisserie” or “gâterie” were acceptable terms for a nonspecific confectionery.

Tomb of the Eagles tomorrow! And the weather looks good, touch wood. Also, this is post number 700.

On a wet day with a sad ending

I started somewhat late. Heading West on the NCN 1, I was passed by a great number of Ride the North cyclists, many of whom offered greetings which I was morally obliged to respond to. Getting bored with “Morning” I started changing it up with “Bonjour”, “Buenos dias”, “G’day” and “Howdy.” ;-) I asked a volunteer how many cyclists there were in the event. The answer was upwards of nine hundred.
 I stopped in Elgin to visit the ruined cathedral, complete with Scotland’s only octagonal chapter house. This took time, but it did get me out of the stream of cyclists.

It began to rain in earnest a little short of Kinloss. I stopped for lunch at a café at East Grange. It kept raining for the rest of the day. At Nairn, I left the NCN 1 for B9091, which was a simpler and more direct route. It became the B9006. I observed that the number could be flipped and still read the same.

I made Inverness where I had to navigate a new college or university campus whose signs were mostly in Gaelic, mostly to be annoying I suspect. I found the large SYHA hostel and checked into my dorm. I was soon joined by two young Indians and a Belorussian.

After a shower, I headed into Inverness to find the Blackfriars Pub has closed. Very disappointing.

Tomorrow, I catch a train to Wick. The choice is pretty much a choice over Thurso so I can say that I have been to one extreme point of the British rail system.

On contrary winds and overly scenic roads

Before I recount today’s events, I will digress on architecture and dogs.

 Buildings in Aberdeen were often built of a local granite which has been misused to a certain extent. The stone is a pale grey of no particular distinction. The problem arises from how much the stone is used and how little variation in the stonework there is from building to building. I got the feeling they all used the same sized blocks from the quarry and simply stacked them up. The uniformity was likely part of the plan by the three architects largely responsible for the look of Aberdeen which ends up as cold uniformity and somehow unfinished. I was trying decide how the stone could be made more interesting and came up with building with courses of stone of varied thickness or finishes. That or paint the stone. Something like this was done in the Fraserburgh area.

There was a Doonesbury cartoon in which the defining characteristic of the British gentleman was described as his love of dogs. This has come across on this trip as I have noticed a lot places with signs indicating their dog friendliness. Sometimes, it is expressed as “We are very sorry...” but often it is something setting reasonable conditions such as “on leads, please” or “not on the furniture, please.” I have been impressed by the good behaviour of the dogs and their owners I have passed on bike paths.

Today was sunny and nearly cold much of the time. It was also quite windy from the West. This made for a gruelling ride as I was headed Westwards for much of the day. As well, I rode through some stunning countryside which in Scotland is code for hilly and mountainous. It was particularly draining as I thought I had about a 100 km to go today, and therefore I was bemoaning my slow pace. I arrived in the twin towns of Macduff and Banff. The route between them was beside the sea and as I was on the sidewalk which was on the seaward side, I got some salt spray on me as the waves were high and crashing.

Banff made me think of the old Magnum P.I. TV show as it turns out that Higgins is the hereditary Baron of Banff. It wasn’t a particularly appealing town, leading me to think that there was the reason he decamped to Hawaii! I had lunch in bakery in Portsoy. A conversation with one of the staff lead me to double check the distance to my bed. This lead to two things. The first was that I realised that I had overestimated the distance. The second was that I had been lead astray in my identification of just where my bed was. The Brits have an annoying habit of lumping towns and villages together so something might have the address of Village A, Town B, the two being separate by five miles or more. Thus I thought my hotel was in Forchabers rather than Garmouth. Thankfully, I was sufficiently far away that it didn’t matter.

Thus, I left Portsoy with less of a distance to ride and less of a regard for my planning skills. I had rejoined the NCN 1, which I used in when it suited me. In Cullen (home of Cullen Skink), the NCN got on a spectacular railway viaduct. It had three arched sections. I read somewhere that the railway had had to build the viaduct as Lord and Lady Something didn’t want the railway crossing their land.

At Portgordon, I started to see runners wearing numbered bibs. There were volunteers along the way, so I stopped to ask one of them what the event was. It was an ultra-marathon sponsored by a distillery. As we chatted, two competitors ran past. The volunteer called out a friendly “Are we having fun?” To which the answer was “No!”

 I should have been faster on the draw, but just past Portgordon, I saw I was on Beaufighter Road. That particular area was remarkably flat. It was also home to young trees and an industrial park. The penny dropped a little later when I saw large expanses of partly overgrown concrete pavement. I was riding across an abandoned WW II airfield. The Bristol Beaufighter was a British aircraft design used for night fighting, ground attack and maritime strike. The young trees indicate nature taking its course and the industrial park suggests it wasn’t wanted or suitable for farming or housing. I latter found out it was called Dallachy.

I got to my hotel in Garmouth fairly early. After a half pint and a shower, I had a nap. When I returned to the bar for supper, I noticed several women in biking Lycra and bibs for the Great North Ride. I asked one where they had started this morning. The answer was Aberdeen! She had ridden 85 miles or so! They will ride back tomorrow.

 I feel like a wimp. I tell myself that they were on lightweight road bikes and weren’t carrying a lot of clobber. (I later confirmed this point.)

The multiplicity of athletic events in these parts this weekend sheds light on part of my issues today. I believe my original destination for today was Elgin. However, I couldn’t find an available bed there. At the time, I thought it was because today is a Saturday. Now I wonder if it was because of all the amateur athletes wanting beds for their sporting events.

On rolling the Dyce

I wasn’t feeling in the mood being touristy yesterday, so all I did on that front was to visit the Aberdeen Maritime Museum. It was about fishing, a bit about clippers and a lot about the offshore oil industry. One very interesting bit was a video about the helicopter flights out to the rigs. It seems Aberdeen Airport has a large number of helicopter movements.

I returned to the Youth Hostel to give Leonardo some well deserved TLC. I was working on the drive near the front door when a gent asked me if I was doing repairs. I said: No, I am just doing maintenance.

In the early evening, I was sitting in the Grill pub, contemplating the maps I would be using to get to Rosehearty, when the person sitting beside me asked about my bike trip, having noticed both my helmet and the Sustrans map. We fell to chatting. He was a Welshman who had worked in Aberdeen, but now lived in Houston. He was back on a business trip. I asked the obvious question to which he admitted that yes, he worked for the oil industry. He also said he was glad I was still using paper maps. I gave him a sheepish grin and a nutshell account of the day before.

As I was leaving the pub, I overheard a Brit complaining: “Only in Scotland: it’s raining and sunny at the same time.”

It was getting dark after supper, so I walked the bike back to the hostel. As I neared it, I was approached by a young man coming from the hostel. He inquired if I had a bicycle pump. (My thinking is that he had asked the staff at the hostel if they had a bike pump and been told something like: “No but there is a well-equipped bike tourer staying here who might have one and be prepared to lend it” followed by a general description of yours truly.)

Being someone of a helpful disposition and someone who has had the help of strangers, I cheerfully put the pump at his disposal. He turned out to be from Marseille. He had just arrived with his Peugeot bike. It was something of a vintage affair, possibly older than he was as it had gear leavers on the down bar. It was obviously a road bike, judging from its skinny tires but someone had replaced the handlebars with a hybrid style set of straight bars. It had no racks for panniers. (He was going to use a backpack.) In my conversation with the young man (early twenties) it emerged he had just arrived by air (hence the lack of air in his tires) and was heading off the next day. To where? Oh, I was thinking of Inverness or possibly Aviemore. This set off alarm bells. I explained that was heading to Inverness, but I had planned on three days. (Admittedly, I was going to take a relatively scenic route.) I asked if he had bikes in the UK before, to which he said “no.”

I therefore, asked him to come with me so I could show him some of the potential flaws in his plan by spreading out my maps for him. I also warned him about how it can be tricky to get on a train with a bike owing to limited spaces. As well, I noted the approach of the weekend and the consequent shortage of accommodation. I hope I sounded like I was giving constructive cautions rather than being a naysayer.

The next day seemed bright to me as I got ready, but the friendly young Scotsman at the reception seemed to think it was going to cloud over. I recounted my anecdote about rolling the the weather dice from the Gigha ferry.

From the Hostel, I made my way downtown to where I picked up the NCN 1. It took me through Old Aberbeen and the University on torturous cobbles then by poorly signed roads to the Dyce Railway Station which adjoins Aberdeen Airport. I can confirm a heavy traffic in helicopters as used to supply oil rigs.

The station was also the point where I got on the Formatine & Buchan Way. This is a multi-use path (bikes, pedestrians and horse riders) built on the rail bed of the Formatine & Buchan Railway which from Dyce to Fraserburgh and Peterhead before being done away with by Beeching (though it remained in freight use until 1979).

The NCN 1 used parts of it, other sections being deemed too rough. (Which makes me wonder why they routed the NCN 1 over the cobbles of Old Aberdeen.) Apart from a flooded bit 2.5 miles before Strichen, it was quite alright for Leonardo on tough 37mm wide tires.

The weather was annoying as it was mostly sunny but cool with a somewhat contrary wind. The annoying bit was that it would start raining for a few minutes before stopping. Furthermore, it seemed the hardest rain happened when I was in sunshine! Somehow, I was getting wild results from my dice rolls.

At Maud, I came across the former junction between the Fraserburgh and Peterhead lines at a station that had four platforms. I made Fraserburgh a shade too late to visit the Scottish Lighthouses Museum. From there, I made slowish progress against the wind to Rosehearty and my hotel. As I was walking to get supper, I saw a man putting up signs for some sort of event which included a “Warning Cyclists” sign. Intrigued, I asked what it was about. It seems there is a “bike, run or walk” event happening tomorrow! I don’t feel the urge to sign up.

On old abbeys and castles and new motorways

It was raining when I left the Auld Brewhouse where I had spent the night. I rode up to Arbroath Abbey where I spent too long looking at the heavily plundered stone and contemplating the Declaration of Arbroath and its significance.

It stopped raining by the time I left, which was far too late. I used a fair bit of NCN 1 as I made my way along the coast. I had a quick lunch in Montrose, as I wanted to get to Dunnottar Castle in time for a visit. Before leaving the town, I made the fatal error of applying sunscreen. This tempted fate into causing it to fog over for a good bit.

Dunnottar Castle was well chosen as a defensive site. It sits on an isolated rock on the coast which is hard to access on foot whilst unopposed. It would have been extremely difficult if the occupants resisted. 

Not impossible as at least twice it has fallen. The first time it was taken was by William Wallace in what was probably a sneak attack. He promptly burnt the English garrison to death in the chapel. This probably justifies the English later hanging, drawing and quartering him. 

The second time was when Oliver Cromwell and company besieged the place trying to get their hands on the Scottish Crown Jewels. They failed to get the jewels as the wily Scots managed to smuggle them out somehow before the Castle fell. There is a diorama of the siege in Castle which shows two impressive gun batteries in the Castle. This surprised me as I thought it would be a pain just to get food, etc. to the Castle. They must have been very determined and clever to haul a dozen canons up. Then again, it must have taken a lot of effort to build the place as the stones themselves would have had to have been carried by hand or garron up the narrow paths.

This last element helped preserve the site after the last occupants were on the wrong side of 1715 with predictable consequences. The difficult access made it relatively little used as source of stone for locals, very much unlike Arbroath Abbey, of which very little remains in situ.

Another infamous bit of history was the time 177 men and women were imprisoned for months in a cellar for refusing to acknowledge the king as the head of the church. Most did not survive the experience or being shipped to the New World for penal servitude. They were fools in my opinion. Then again, my ancestors' motto seems to have been: “When it comes time to sell out, get a good price.”

Dunnottar was a shock as it was heavily patronized by foreign tourists. I know I heard Spanish, French, Dutch, German and Italian being spoken. Other languages, distinctly possible.

There was a lovely hill down to Stonehaven from Dunnottar Castle. This might have lured me into a bad choice. I was tempted to catch a train the rest of the way into Aberdeen, but I didn’t, confident that I would make it guided by my road map, Google Maps on the iPhone and the NCN. The basis of what went wrong showed up just outside of Stonehaven in the form a nearly completed motorway running North. It wasn’t open, but not only was it not on my road map, I was later to discover the Google Maps didn’t know about it. The NCN route took me through a maze of back roads, that at times went against my instincts. Nearing Aberdeen, I chose to believe Google Maps over it. After a longish downhill, I ended up on a dead end caused by the new motorway. The easiest way out turned out to be the very busy A90. I was sufficiently tired that I didn’t give a damn about the high speed traffic: it lead to Aberdeen and it was downhill. I was soon doing 50 km/h. 

I found the hostel at about 6:30. I was disappointed to find my room was on the top floor which owing to poor planning, meant three trips up before I could shower, then check Google for the nearest place to eat. Thankfully, that was just across the street, as I have rarely felt so exhausted.

Thankfully, today is a rest day as I am still exhausted.

After doing laundry this morning, my first stop was to get the NCN map for Aberdeenshire. As Mummy has commented to me, I have been using the NCN more this trip than on other trips to the UK. There are several reasons for this. The first is that I happen to have chosen a route that the NCN has mapped. Note the frequency of references to NCN route 1. This is a major route which many cyclists have done before me. As well, I am traveling in areas well equipped with backroads, but less so with signs. Furthermore, I now require reading glasses to read maps, so on-the-fly map reading is a thing of the past. I now bike with reading glasses around my neck. All this to say that the NCN is now more useful to me now than before.

On frigates versus research vessels

Last night as I was entering the hotel restaurant where I had supper, I noticed a car with a odd looking license plate. On the left most side, highlighted in red where the letters “GBM”. Usually that spot indicates the country of origin. I took a second look and noticed that in finer print there was “Isle of Man” written. It was a Manx car! The owner happened by and noticed my curiosity. He was evidently used to people being interested in his number plate as he pointed out that the red surround was because the Isle of Man isn’t in the EU. EU countries would have a blue surround around the national letters. I must check with Mark what the abbreviation for Jersey is.

Today started misty and grey. Blessedly, there were fewer hills today and they were at the start of the day. As well, the NCN navigation was simpler. The first part of the day was dominated by country roads.

The bridge between Newport-on-Tay and Dundee was oddly laid out as the biking and walking path was between the lanes of traffic! On the Newport end, access was by a ramp. At the Dundee end there were stairs and an elevator. I had lunch at the café serving a museum about RRS (Royal Research Ship) Discovery which was docked next to it. RRS Discovery was involved in South Polar exploration. I didn’t go in as I wanted spend my time on HMS Unicorn.

The latter was a frigate built on spec after the Napoleonic Wars. It was never commissioned but lay in ordinary (storage) in the hopes of a war. It was used until 1962 in variations on the theme of accommodation and training ship. For a while it was renamed HMS Crecy to release the name for an aircraft carrier. When the carrier was retired at the end of the 1950s, the name was given back. As well, the carrier’s bell and battle honours were transferred to the frigate. It was interesting to see a ship more or less out of Patrick O’Brien in the flesh. It also reinforced my gratitude at not being forced to serve on such ship. There wasn’t a proper deck on which I could walk upright. I found the orlop deck a particular challenge to navigate, bent double the whole time.

From Dundee, the NCN took me along the seashore for the most part. One bit that wasn’t along shore was a section wedged between an active railway and an active Ministry of Defence firing range. The active part of the latter was indicated by red flags. I am in Arbroath tonight. I had a disappointing smokie for supper followed by a very good cloutie dumpling.