Two Miles and Two Hours to Thurso
A short walk along Scotland’s northern coastline on a splendid summer day
At the tippy-top, most northern part of Scotland, the first ferry of the day from Stromness on Orkney Island arrives in Scrabster on the mainland at 8am.
I had taken this early morning service, which had given me the option of staying the night before in one of the cabins on the ferry (see my previous post, Savoring the Local Hero Vibe in Orkney), where I got the best sleep I’d had in months.
So I was full of vim and vigor as I strapped on my big backpack and stepped onto the dock at Scrabster. Adding to the spring in my step was the weather: it was a stunner of a day, with sunshine, an occasional wisp of a white cloud, and a hint of a coastal breeze to keep the temperature right at perfect.
My plans were to travel back to Inverness that day on the first available train service — a dainty two-car affair departing around 1pm, a good five hours after my ferry docked. Which, in this remote area of Scotland, is ample for what the populace requires.
The train service itself runs not from Scrabster, but from the neighboring town of Thurso. Three days before, I had taken a bus — the one bus of the afternoon — over from Thurso to Scrabster on my outbound journey to Orkney. From this, I knew the distance between the train station and the ferry port was only two miles, making it possible to walk from one to the other.
It was a sublime day, I had five hours before my train arrived, and the first bus wasn’t due at the Scrabster dock for another hour and twenty minutes. “Why not make the walk?” I thought. Sure, there was a hill to climb, and the weight of my big backpack to consider, but with loads of time on my hands, I could take it as slowly as I needed to. The idea of the hike rather appealed to me, though I wasn’t overly keen on the route — from what I remembered of the bus ride, we had traveled along a main road which may or may not have had a sidewalk for the entire trek.
Before I set off to take the hill with my big backpack, I thought it might be a good idea to check with the locals about the walk. Popping into the dockside café (where, very importantly, I’d had a divine ham and brie panini a few days earlier), I told one of the waitresses what I was thinking of doing, and she informed me that, yes, it’s possible to take that main route, but that it’s much nicer to do the cliff walk, which runs along the coastline. Pointing out the window in the general direction of Thurso, she gave me the name of a road to turn onto, and a description of the entrance to the path I would take from there.
This sounded far more picturesque — and quieter — than the main road, and with that settled, off I started up the hill. As I was nearing the top and beginning my lookout for the road I was to turn onto, a man came towards me from the other direction, walking his dog. I stopped and asked him if I was nearing the road for the coastal walk, and he pointed to a small street just up the hill. He then asked me where I was from, and all of the usual “tourist questions” while I petted his friendly mixed-breed pup. We chatted about the beautiful weather and the joys of living where he does, and pretty soon twenty minutes had passed. I thanked him for his help, and he said that he would be passing along this way later and if he saw me looking lost, he would stop and give me a ride to the station, which I thought was exceptionally kind.
Fortunately, I didn’t lose my way. The coastal path, once I located it, was very straightforward. Following the contour of the coastline, it runs along the top of the cliff above the rocks and beaches, and isn’t nearly as treacherous as it sounds. It is a beautiful walk, completely paved, and is traversed by the residents of both Scrabster and Thurso, who take the path to go to the market or into town for dinner at one of the quaint, tantalizing restaurants.
The waitress at the café had given me a gift, I soon realized, when she told me to go this way. With its stone walls, high grasses and spectacular views of neighboring islands, the cliffside path was utterly enchanting, to the point I completely forgot about the backpack on my back. I was aware of feeling only blessed and grateful to be in the sunshine and the beauty of it all, and I delighted in every step.
But it was the people along the path who put the whole experience over the top for me. Every fifty to a hundred yards or so, I would cross paths with one of the locals and we invariably would stop for a chat. Some were coming back from doing errands in town, others were walking their dogs (naturally, I had to stop and speak with every single one of these folks), while others were simply out to enjoy the gorgeous day.
Though I had been up in the highlands for a while, and was getting accustomed to their captivating, thick Scottish accent, I still caught myself thinking, as I was conversing with one of the locals, how strange it is for us to be speaking the same language, saying the same words, yet we sound so very different from each other. What is really remarkable is that we can actually understand each other’s pronunciations well enough, at least most of the time.
Even stranger than that, I realized I was starting to pick up some of these Scottish pronunciations, when I heard myself talking about biscuits. Naturally, when speaking of the British digestives and shortbreads, one uses their term, “biscuits” instead of the American word “cookies” (just as Oreos and Nutter Butters are always cookies and never biscuits). But saying “biscuits” here in northern Scotland, I was startled to hear it come out of my mouth with a proper Highland brogue, as “BESS-ketz.” When did this language gap start closing?
In the end, it took me over two hours to walk those two brilliant miles. Yet I still had hours left to kill before catching the train. I spent that time sitting in the picturesque little square opposite the church, where my backpack enjoyed resting on the benches, alternating between sunshine and shade, while I had some takeaway lunch and did some reading until it was time to catch the train.
It was such a small moment in my travels — a mere few hours between destinations — but that dazzling day has stayed with me, and promises to be one of my favorite memories of the entire journey.
Originally published at www.adriennecrow.com as part of my series of posts following my travels for my second book, “A Twirl Around the World,” where I learn about places, cultures and people through their dances, as I attempt them with my own two left feet.
