Day 247: Southend to Machrihanish

The bright moonlight woke me in the night before the soothing sound of the sea lulled me back to sleep. I’m refreshed, waking to the third beautiful morning in a row, ready for the most challenging day of my trip — 22 miles, ascending 4,400 feet, including a pathless section over the moors and hills. The good news is that my backpack is two kilos lighter; I’m down to a litre of water.

After a short road section, I reach the key junction. The short road north leads to the Kintyre Way, which runs northwest through the glens. A sign to the west shows seven miles to the Mull of Kintyre lighthouse, which means a 14-mile round trip to stay on the official footpath. Instead, I’m heading directly north from the lighthouse, cutting across the fells to intersect the Kintrye Way. This is the theory.

Thankfully, the road makes for easy walking, as it climbs remorselessly with views across to Ireland before descending into a lovely valley and rising again into the next set of hills, deserted apart from two passing cars on a Sunday morning outing to the lighthouse.

The third and final climb aims for the Torr Mor communication mast. A large bird of prey circles overhead. Perhaps it senses my dwindling water supply.

Before reaching the summit, one of the cars is already returning. Have they visited the lighthouse this quick?

The road ends at a tiny car park, a gate barring the descent to the lighthouse. It’s not visible, as the road winds steeply downhill for half a mile, plunging over 800 feet. After the tiring climb to this point, eying the rough fells to the north, will I have the energy to hike down to the lighthouse and back? I want to leave my pack somewhere, but cars are coming and going, so I can’t afford to risk it. Down we go.

A returning couple, frequent visitors, say this is the calmest day they’ve known here — my lucky day. The husband tarmacked the road, reducing the walking time by half, so I think it deserves a photo. They recommend a small detour to the Chinook disaster memorial.

On 2 June 1994, an RAF Chinook helicopter crashed in foggy conditions, killing 29 passengers and crew, including senior Northern Island intelligence experts.

The lighthouse is still some way below.

The lighthouse is now a holiday home. The gate is locked, but I’ve not come all this way to be thwarted.

The clouds are stunning.

The place is deserted.

It’s a lovely spot to sit for a while. A marker on the edge of the land, I’ve turned the corner and my wild journey north begins.

With some reluctance, I hoist my pack and crane my neck to look back, the road vanishing into the hills — one step at a time.

A few people meet me on their way down. Some turn round at the sight of me dripping with sweat under the warm sun, while others want to know what it’s like and push on.

Three people admire the view from the top. They move toward three large boulders, perfect for sitting. How can they need a rest? Two sit down and I quickly slump on the third rock as the other person hesitates. I was always good at musical chairs. My needs are greater.

I’m concerned about my water consumption. I know I should drink more, but I rarely consume a litre of water. Unfortunately, the hot weather and arduous climbs mean I’m down to a third of a litre. I consider asking the people next to me if they can spare any, but they have fizzy drinks in their hands.

After lunch, it’s time to head north across the fells, following the fence line on my OS map. I’ve downloaded an offline map as the phone signal is likely to vanish.

The cairn marking Beinn na Lice is to my right. My destination is the woodland on the horizon. Progress is slow as there are bogs to work round, and I’m wary of stepping on an adder.

A pregnant deer moves slowly to join a small herd.

Wreckage from a Neptune anti-submarine plane crash lies in a small depression.

Either the terrain is more difficult or I’m tiring, struggling through the energy-sapping tussocks of heather. The forest seems to be moving further away instead of closer. As expected, my phone signal is gone. Unfortunately, my offline map download failed. My water is almost out and I don’t think I can continue north. If I head northeast I should intersect the Kintyre Way more quickly.

A fox bolts from the long grass and breaks to the north. Moments later, a second fox veers off south. They must have a lair nearby.

I flounder on the new bearing and move closer to the fence as the ground is slightly clearer next to the fenceposts. After a long descent, crossing a burn at the bottom of the valley, I climb up the far side, relieved to reach the clear track running along the top of the valley, flopping down on the short grass with a grin.

Back on the Kintyre Way, a tiny lamb seeks comfort before realising that his real mother is bleating in the opposite direction.

The trail passes below Cnoc Moy. Just as I’m fumbling to put my phone in my pocket, I step into a bog. Sod’s law — the one time I’m not leading with a hiking pole to test the ground.

My water is out and hopes of an easy finish are dashed when the trail climbs steeply. Oh to be a goat.

The Paps of Jura are wonderfully clear on the horizon.

To my dismay, the path descends once more, although the beautiful scenery keeps me going.

I reach a stream at last and almost dive into the ice-cold waterfall. Pulling out my water filter, I feel like Lawrence of Arabia walking into the Cairo bar and ordering an ice-cold lemonade. Bloody hell — the filter is blocked! I didn’t check it before leaving home — another painful lesson. I’m sure the water is fine as my OS map shows it flowing from a nearby hill, but I don’t risk it, as I can’t be far from Machrihanish.

Unfortunately, after another long climb, the land stretches away for miles. I find some dried raisins in my pocket. They taste wonderful.

Finally arriving at Machrihanish, I head straight for the campsite and cold water.

Phil, the warden, is my saviour, bringing a cold beer. His friend walked the Camino and is planning the Kintyre Way so we have a good chat and he takes a photo. At this point, she calls and joins us over Facetime.

The sun sets over a wonderful day, as tough as any I’ve done. I can’t imagine doing that in bad weather. I had perfect weather conditions, with low vegetation growth and it still killed me. Is this what the Cape Wrath trail is like? I’ll enjoy the change of pace for the rest of the trip.

Walk distance: 22 miles.

Total distance: 4,155 miles.