Day 3:
The morning began beneath an impossibly blue sky. Our first stop was Dunnet Head, the most northerly point on mainland Great Britain. Seabirds crowded the cliffs, some of them nesting and others carried effortlessly by the wind. Puffins perched on rocky ledges in the distance, meaning binoculars were a requirement to properly appreciate them.
From there we travelled to Strathy Beach where a winding route through sand dunes led us towards the sea. We chose well-trodden paths at random, trusting they’d eventually arrive at the same destination. Then finally, the dunes opened onto a stretch of white sand and startlingly clear water. Swallows swooped low overhead, voicing what felt suspiciously like objections to our presence. Nearby caves invited exploration, while bands of colour in the rock prompted speculation about ancient lava flows.
Although there were other people scattered along the shoreline, the place felt strangely private. For a while, it seemed as though the beach belonged only to us.
Our next destination was Farr Beach.
Or rather, it should have been.
Sat nav had other ideas and delivered us instead to Farr Harbour, where a group of elderly, determined sandwich-eaters had arranged their vehicle in such a way that nobody else could sensibly manoeuvre in or out of the car park.
They seemed entirely untroubled by this.
After a brief period of tactical driving and quiet negotiation with the laws of geometry, we escaped. And Farr Beach remains something of a mystery.
Our final stop was Smoo Cave.
A narrow footbridge swayed dramatically above the water, creating the distinct sensation I’d been drinking too much wine. Beyond it, the mouth of the cave opened into the cliffside. Once inside, the temperature dropped immediately, the way caves do, as though they hold their own weather.
Unfortunately, timing worked against us and an official tour of the cave would have made us late for checking into the next campsite, so we settled for a shorter visit.
Once pitched up at the campsite, the wind found its voice and dark clouds gathered across the horizon. For three days, rain had stalked us without ever quite arriving. This time it caught up. Thankfully, we managed to cook and eat before the first drops began to fall.
Our campsite pitch, sitting high on the cliffs, overlooked the bay. White sand curved below us, waves rolled ashore and dogs chased one another along the beach. It should have been idyllic. Instead, the night became an endurance test.
Rain hammered the canvas and wind shook the roof tent with such determination that sleep became impossible. Every gust prompted the same thought: How much wind is too much wind?
At various points during the night, both of us privately considered abandoning the tent and retreating to the car.
Neither of us did.
Morning eventually arrived.
And somehow, the tent was still intact.
R. H. DIXON 