It was a fine but windy day as I set off for Scourie – a small town with a camp site – yes, I know, I must be going soft.
A couple of miles into my journey I saw a thirty something woman, not carrying her own bodyweight in rucksack, who I concluded must be a local.
Much in the way that BBC anthropologists wander up to locals in the amazon, I careered over and demanded to know why she was walking.
Instead of saying,”Get out of my face, you arse,” she responded in a friendly manner.
She likes to walk. The countryside is beautiful. Sometimes she takes the bus, but she has a bicycle too…
How rude am I ?
I’d been away from people too long.
The countryside is stunning, I appreciate I’m repeating myself, but it’s people and their company that I crave.
I smiled to myself as I remembered all the offers of lifts the other day – the one that made me laugh out loud was when a pretty 40 something woman exaggeratedly mouthed “Do you want a ride?”
If you’re expecting something more than cheap humour, you’ve come to the wrong blog.
Again I was offered a number of lifts – on some hills that’s mighty tempting – but, onwards and upwards, equally downwards, I finally arrived outside the Spar at Scourie.
It was there I met Gwynn from north Wales.
On hearing my story he asked, “Can I get you a packet of biscuits or something,”
I smiled. I think I actually fondled the £20 note that the previous Gwynn had given me,”I’m going to have a proper meal – I’ve got some money,” I nodded at the bar next to us.
“Let me buy you a meal then,” he replied so enthusiastically,”I’ll let them know behind the bar,”
“What time are you eating?” I invited myself further.
See the heading.
“About half-seven,” he fended me off with,”We could meet you later.”
So, I staggered into the campsite only to be immediately told,”For you? No charge.”
The proprietor was a lithe Scotsman – so I stopped short of kissing him.
I set up my tent – had a cursory wash – I just don’t care – I’m crazy, I am. And went off to have my tea.
Haggis – well, why wouldn’t you? Then I was invited through to the lounge where I had a delightful evening with Gwynn and his wife Denise. He was so enthusiastic about my journey I found myself laughing out loud again and again.
I think I’ve got him to promise to walk with me when I get to north Wales.
The conversation was so varied and wide it would take several blogs to share them.
The one piece of information that dud stick with me though – I spoke about Satish Kumar, the Jain monk, and his peace march in the ‘60’s. Denise and Gwynn had been to India and had seen said monks wandering about the place – naked.
Well, when in Rome, I thought – I had consumed a couple of shandies – I went back to my tent – and did not even suggest de-kilting.
Well, maybe once, for comedy effect.
The following afternoon (late night, slow start) found me walking away from Scourie with a smile on my face.
“Hey,” shouted a Scottish biker, parked up with 2 others in a lay-by, “she’s got a question for you…”
Blushing furiously, the Dutch partner of the third (laughing) biker came over and asked, after ugh apologising,”What do you wear under your kilt?”
Well folks, this was her lucky day.
Without speaking, I gradually lifted my kilt to reveal…
The leg of the boxers that Ella had brought up to Durness.
Anyway – chat ensued, and they threw £20 odd my way for the journey.
I like Scourie, you can probably guess.
Walk a mile.