Storm Isha arrives this evening, bringing 100mph gusts. I’m parting company with the John Muir Way after a couple of miles, as it goes inland, while I’m following the coast, so I’m not certain of the route, faced with the Tyninghame private estate to cross and a coastline that may prove impassable depending on the tides. I also need to beat the weather and make the last train out of North Berwick before the transport network shuts down, whenever that may be. A day of unknowns — I’m both excited and anxious.
A fine sandstone clifftop path leads north out of Dunbar, round the inevitable golf course and into the John Muir Country Park.
The park is busy with Sunday walkers, despite the ominous clouds. One chap is happy to roll up his trousers and take a shortcut. I’m not sure whether he’s taking his dog for a walk or it’s taking him.
Floodwater all round and more rain falls — so much for hopes of a dry start.
The park is beautiful, although storm-felled trees lie everywhere, like a giant’s game of pick-up-sticks.
The OS map shows a footbridge across the River Tyne, but everyone I’ve spoken to tells me it can’t be crossed, being locked and too dangerous. For once I’ll listen, as there’s no time for dead-ends, which means a short stretch along the A198. The swans don’t seem too concerned by the traffic.
I want to find a way across the Tyninghame estate rather than take the public right of way along Limetree Walk, which requires more walking along the relatively busy A198. The first two entrances are a little intimidating with various “Private” and “No public right of way” signs, but I find one, further away from the main house, with simply a locked gate, which I climb over and follow a track across the meadows.
More flooding.
The house watches my progress. It’s been converted into private residences. Will I be spotted?
I find myself in a huge cross-country equestrian field. Thankfully, there’s no riding today. Not everyone is built for jumping.
I finally make it to a surprisingly busy car park, although I have Ravensheugh Sands to myself. To celebrate reaching the sea again, I devour a Greggs Apple Danish, squished in my pocket for the past three hours since I bought breakfast in Dunbar. How’s that for willpower?
I recently joined the Marine Conservation Society, to give something back to the beautiful oceans as I spend the next few years hiking round mainland Scotland and the islands. My initial thought is to take part in beach cleans or help with surveys.
Native oysters provide a wealth of ecosystem services. They enhance biodiversity and create nursery habitats, they can improve water quality by filtering up to 200 litres of water a day, and they contribute to the stabilisation of carbon in the marine environment. Native oysters have seen a global decline of approximately 85%. The Restoration Forth project aims to reintroduce oysters to the Firth of Forth. Volunteers can undertake beach surveys as shells continue to wash ashore and may indicate areas where historical oyster beds once thrived.
I downloaded a shell identification guide and did my homework. I’d planned to survey Tyne Sands today, but the approaching storm means I don’t have time — E minus and a spell in the naughty corner — I guess they don’t have those anymore?
The tide is kind, offering up sandy beaches and seaweed-slippery rocks all the way to tiny Seacliff Beach, hidden beneath wooded cliffs, Bass Rock rising from the sea.
I’d hoped to find the UK’s smallest harbour but missed it. I don’t know how, as I hugged the shoreline.
A group of young people are admiring Bass Rock from a rocky rise so I follow them up. Halfway up, the harbour suddenly materialises to my left. You can’t see it from the beach as it’s hewn out of the sandstone rock, with the ruins of Tantallon Castle in the distance.
The wind is strengthening and the rain continues to fall, so I don’t have time to clamber across the wet rocks to get closer to the castle. Reluctantly, I take the road up out of the bay, although I can’t resist exploring 16th-century Auldhame Castle, nestled in the trees on the clifftop. The cellar looks dry but perhaps not the best place to shelter in a storm …
… especially with an unsupported wall towering above.
It was the right decision to skip the detour to Tantallon Castle, as the remainder of the long walk into North Berwick is along minor roads, exposed to the wind and rain, making slow progress.
Passing under Berwick Law, another volcanic plug like Bass Rock, the streets seem to go on forever, or perhaps I’m just anxious about trains and the weather is brutal.
Arriving at the small train station — the end of the line — I’m relieved to see two trains scheduled before the network closes down. Several people peer anxiously at the indicator board. I’m even happier when the train turns up and we all pile into the warm carriages, heading for the shelter of Edinburgh, where I’m based for the next week.
I spent two years in Edinburgh doing postgrad studies, but leaving Waverley Station in the dark, wind and rain howling, I still lose my bearings due to the two-level street layout round Cowgate. Google Maps has me walking round in circles for a while, down some rather dark and deserted alleys.
I finally find Edinburgh Central Travelodge. A hot shower and a coffee, watching the rain lashing against the window. I enjoyed today — a proper adventure.
Walk distance: 15 miles.
Total distance: 3,802 miles.
As we know (from Sunderland) Tony Google maps (and Satnav) do occasionally have limitations.
Sounds like this day was a real challenge – just as well you have webbed feet!
I’m glad you are not blaming human error! 🙂
I remember parts of this being a bit tricky, but without all that flooding to deal with too! Glad you made it through before the trains stopped running.