John O’Groats

I am in John O’Groats, a selection of grey and pebble dashed houses seemingly sprinkled randomly around this distant corner of Scotland like some remote island settlement. And despite playing to its location it still has a sense of the untouched about it. Through my hotel dining room window, sheep filled pasture drops away to the harbour, to clear skies, and to a line of deep blue sea. In the near distance the flat silhouette of various Orkney Islands separate the two. It is a pleasing way to round off the day and a relaxing prelude to tougher times tomorrow when my journey proper begins.

The day started early. From my tiny bed in my tiny room I could see through the tiny window a small square of overcast Inverness sky. It did not look promising but the forecast was for better weather later and whatever the day held I felt refreshed, the frustrations of getting to Inverness lost to a night of sleep.  

I headed towards the station, had one of those breakfasts that is bad for the body but good for the soul, and killed time until I got on the train for my journey to Wick, the nearest railhead to John O’Groats and famous for once being the largest herring fishing port in Europe and for Ebenezer Place, at 6 feet 9 inches the shortest street in the world. It was a rail journey that followed parts of my cycle route for the first two days, such is the limited routing of transport infrastructure this far north: we skirted the bright and flat waters of the Cromarty and Dornoch Firths with their long stretches of exposed mud flats and their surfaces reflecting the surrounding hills; we ran alongside the eastern coastline with its small towns separated by stretches of endless sand and rocky beaches; and we crossed remote moorland and green valley floors surrounded on both sides by low hills and stretches of yellow gorse in full bloom.

I had over four hours of that remote Scottish landscape before I reached Wick and the start of a seventeen mile ride north to John O’Groats. It was a ride more memorable for the headwind than the views. On my right was the sea, to my left pasture and occasional farm buildings surrounded by the rusting remains of machinery and vehicles suggesting the mentality of the homesteader where nothing is thrown in case it might useful. Here though, any sense of real remoteness - of the wild of nature - was lost to the long stretches of manicured land past which I cycled, sectioned by stone walls and barbed wire fencing. I remembered little from the same ride fourteen years ago but I did remember clearly the climb around the edge of a barren hill three miles from John O’Groats, the views from the high point across to the Orkney Islands in the deep blue of the Pentland Firth, and further to the right the grey dots amid the green that make up John O’Groats. I remember too the long, sweeping descent to the village, last time done with two others but this time alone.

I have now reached the start of my ride. Tonight I will relax in my comfortable room, well fed and relaxed. Tomorrow the real effort begins.