Sample TGO Challenge chapter from my seven crossings written up in "Walking it Through: An asthmatic’s walking diary" by Stephen P. Smith. ISBN: 979-8845944085 Available on Amazon
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May 2006 – The Great Outdoors Challenge (Coast to coast walk across Scotland)
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It's Thursday May 11th and a sunny day in Glasgow. Via a text rendezvous I meet up with Ali Ashton, a fellow participant on this year's TGO Challenge.
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After greeting with a hug I point towards the device next to her trowel tucked into the side meshing of her rucksack and ask, with a puzzled look, "What's that?"
"My trowel," she replies.
"No," I reply, wagging my finger at the plastic scoop-like thing next to it. "I know what trowels on hikes are for."
"Oh that," she exclaims. "It's a Shewee."
I furrow my brow.
"It acts as a penis for women," she adds.
"Where do the batteries go then?"
"It's for peeing through, Steve," she replies forcefully.
"Oh." I'm trying to absorb this.
"You don't know how hard it is to squat."
"No," I concede. "Have you tried it out?"
"Yes, at home."
"What you mean you stood at your loo at home?"
"Yes."
"What did the children say?"
"They were out." This was said with some emphasis.
"They didn't comment on Mummy leaving the loo seat up now? And which way round does it go, this scoop affair?" I ask, ignoring Ali's right to remain silent. "Does that go at the front or to the rear?"
I must have gone on about it a bit because Ali eventually adds, "I wish I hadn't told you now."
I was of much the same opinion.
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We meet up with Sue Oxley and join other TGO Challenge participants gathering and greeting on Glasgow's Queen Street station. Ali is catching a bus whereas Sue and I are taking the Mallaig train with me set to alight at Lochailort.
The journey goes well, through the suburbs of Glasgow then into the Southern Islands. As we cross the glorious Rannoch Moor, with the hills out basking in the sunlight, we spot the point, near Loch Ossian, at which we've arranged to rendezvous on Wednesday.
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It's the morning of Friday May 12th and I paddle my feet in the sea loch of Loch Ailort. I sign the register and set off walking on the short road leg before turning into the hills.
My first uphill slog takes me to the long hassock, tussock and hillock boggy walk across to the Graham (mountain between 2000 and 2500ft) of Glas-charn, at 633m. The weather though a bit wet, doesn't hamper me and I'm pleased my new altimeter ascends at the same rate as myself. I'd never appreciated how useful it could be, not only is it a countdown to the summit but it reduces the need to pace (or estimate the distance travelled) when wishing to change course on a slope.
The descent takes me to a small stream before the ascent of the Sgurr an Utha. At 15:00, realising my knees have had enough, I perch my tent at 430m on its westerly slope. The weather has cleared for a nice evening and my open tent flap reveals a view down a glen. A rocky mountain ahead, a loch to its right and folds of hills guarding the head of the loch. The heathers and grass are a deep mustard colour, flattened by the recent snowmelt.
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It's Saturday May 13th and I start the day by resetting my altimeter to the reading when I finished walking yesterday. It's then a two-hour pull, in good weather, up to the Corbett summit of Sgurr an Utha – heavy going with ascents, bogs and bumps to navigate.
Sat at the summit I take in the views out to the sea, and beyond to the Cuillin Hills on the Isle of Skye – towering majestically, their menace hidden from all but those who dare to cross them.
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I then make the steep drop down to Allt a Chaol-ghlinne where I meet fellow challenger, David Boyd. He's had a tough day crossing the absent path alongside Loch Beoraid.
We descend to the bothy at Glenfinnan where I leave David resting as I set off north-east to the bealach. My aim is to then ascend Streap and take in the mountains east to Spean Bridge.
At the bealach, after a long old pull, my plans change. Streap appears to be impregnable from this angle and my own fitness is sending me a warning signal to stay low.
My low level alternative involves backtracking and heading out via Glen Finnan. I'm demoralised my lofty expectations have been halted. The idea of throwing open bothy doors late in the evening with tales of grand adventure, has been set to one side.
Wondering what to do, my eye casts to the top right of my map. The slither of yellow road and the tiny hamlet, Strathan. I know my way from there to Spean Bridge. In better spirits I descend a bit and camp. It's a low level route for a few days yet better than backtracking.
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Sunday May 14th and I'm descending through Gleann Cuirnean, following its burn. I glance back, Streap looks more menacing than ever. There doesn't appear to be an angle on view through which it could be breached. The decision to change route is the right one although the long road walk down Loch Arkaig will be a tiresome alternative.
I reach the little hamlet of Strathan and play a game of dodge the bog as I fight my way to the road. I pass what was once the school house for the glen, now nothing more than a shut-up tin shed. Here I meet fellow challengers Stuart Brown and James Spittal who I shared lunch with at Blackburn Bothy a year ago.
I start the long road walk, the weather is good, the loch is fine yet I'm disappointed by the amount of rubbish strewn along the loch side. Beer cans the modern graffiti, saying 'I was here. I got drunk here and am so stupid I left these tins behind.'
A car draws up, offering me a lift. I explain the Challenge and get a good luck wish. I catch up with the LaBorwits. Gretchen, their granddaughter, is this year's enlistment. Her Achilles tendon is sore, I hope she makes it.
I bump into David Boyd again. It's a long walk and we chat away, covering numerous topics.
"What I need, Steve is a wife waiting at the end of each day. With a camper van."
"What about lunches?" I ask.
"Yes, that too. Lunch. She could pull up and have my lunch ready too."
"And supper?" I ask.
"Yes, supper too. Just when it's time to end the day."
"If only Carlsberg made wives?" I suggest.
After seven hours of plodding I camp at 16:00. The spot isn't so great, on the side of a hill in unfenced farming land. I spend a dull, long evening worrying about getting run over by some farm vehicle. Sleep comes slowly.
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I wake in the early hours of Monday May 15th with rain pelting against the tent and only the BBC World Service to keep me company. I don't sleep again and come 07:00 pack my rucksack and brave the rain to dismantle the tent.
With it hastily shoved into the pack I'm off walking, hood up and pulled tight. I pass the end of the loch and its sign saying not to dump rubbish. There is so much in the glen a couple of carrier bags, full of empty beer cans, leant against this sign would have set the scene off a treat.
I soon realise my over trousers are on back to front, and the pack is so badly arranged I have the choice of it pressing into various parts of my back or hanging off one shoulder.
Not until I reach Achnacarry can I find enough shelter to sort myself out. Hurrah for an 1930’s K6 telephone box but. But with the proliferation of mobile phones the phone is now disconnected and the directory mouldy and decayed. A lack of cleaning gives that oh so familiar K6 whiff, so familiar of a Saturday morning. I rue its demise.
I set off again and I'm passed by two logging lorries, neither acknowledge my hasty retreat into the verge. An elderly man on a mission in his VW Polo looks nothing but ahead as I dive out his way. Only an old lady in a red hatchback manages to raise a hand of acknowledgement. There again it could have just been an age-related twitch, I shouldn't get my hopes up.
I plod on, struggling with the pack, hunger, the weather and my morale. I need to stop to eat but the Little Chef in Spean Bridge beckons and sets my focus. After three hours of clouded hill tops, tar-sealed roads I reach the Commando Memorial. I'm dripping wet and know the sign announcing, 'Spean Bridge' is a bit optimistic: there's still a good trudge to go. The fantasy of eating in the Little Chef keeps me going.
On the last bend into town a sign saying 'All Day Food' grabs my attention. This will do. As I approach, dreaming of fried eggs on toast, the small print comes into focus – '12 noon to 9 p.m.' Now call me Mr Picky but 'All Day Food' really does mean twenty-four hours, possibly a 07:00 start at a push. But 'all day' is not a noon start.
I'm weary, hungry and grumbling. I pass my hotel, The Spean Bridge Hotel, and set forth to the last building, The Little Chef. A waitress points me to a table and I slump exhausted into a chair.
I take out a menu card from the rack on the table. I can barely focus. The print is swimming in front of me in a dyslexic haze, everything looks odd, double. I begin to see strange things on the menu. The waitress approaches and by dead reckoning I fancy she wishes to take my order. I mutter about being vegetarian and, "Could she point out what dishes I can have."
"The vegie dishes are the ones with the wee green men next to them."
Thank Christ. I really was beginning to worry I was hallucinating.
I eat well, set off back to my hotel and announce to the receptionist, "I've a booking in the name of Steve Smith."
She scours the booking list, taking just the right amount of time to cause my heart to sink.
"Nobody of that name. When did you book?"
"A few weeks back and I arranged to send a parcel," I reply.
She looks at her feet, "Sorry we've only got a parcel for a Mr Smith."
"That's me then."
"But you are Mr Stephenson."
"No, Steve Smith."
"But you said in the name of Stephenson."
It takes a couple more seconds to convince her and she produces a key.
"You're in the annex."
My heart does sink. An annex is all too often an euphemism for a long walk. She attempts to show me on a diagram how many corridors, stairs and the amount of open ground I need to cover. She realises the game is up and leads me through the maze of different eras and styles of additions until we break cover to the car park.
"It's over there, in the corner and up the stairs," she adds (I've just knocked a painting off the wall with my pack).
"Behind the hut?" I enquire.
"Hut! It's a chalet," she replies, offended.
"Call me Mr Picky," I add, "but that is a hut."
I decide it's time to solo this out, time to not try my luck or her patience any further. I find the door, ascend the stairs (18ft by the altimeter) and open the door. The bed is unmade, the bathroom a mess, bin full and half a cup of tea in the cup. I drop my pack and wander back. She's settled back in reception.
"The room hasn't been serviced," I announce.
"Thought it might not be," she replies, "it's a bit early for you to check in."
It's 11:30 and I bite my lip as I'm about to say, "Call me Mr Picky but aren't I already checked in?" Instead I ask when it will be done.
"Hard to say," she replies, "they are doing the rounds. Could be hours yet."
"Do you have any other rooms?"
"No."
We then enter into a staring competition. It's a battle of wits as to who will break first. On one hand I could offer to wait, on the other hand she could offer to find the cleaning staff and ask for a change in the order of room cleaning. We look at one another, both holding out. She breaks first, I thank her and head back.
Slumped in the armchair the cleaner arrives in minutes. Diligently and efficiently he cleans the room, changes the bed and scrubs the bath. He then empties the bin and deals with the dirty tea cup. It's left spotless. We exchange regal nods of approval. Twenty minutes later I've trashed the place.
The bath is excellent, welcome. The shower rail perfect to hang the tent over. Following my escapades last year I check the 'Hewee' for ticks. Fortunately I am spared. I resolve to ask Ali if the 'Shewee' has been spared too.
I check my upper half, my shoulders have erupted in septic spots from the pack straps. A problem I'm prone to. These are beauties. The type that, as a teenager and if on one’s face, one would spend a happy hour in front of the bathroom mirror with.
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I head down to breakfast on Tuesday May 16th and make use of the self-service-style buffet, piling my plate high with a monster-sized portion.
At 09:00, feeling somewhat full, I set off, sluggishly making my way along a small public road. Trees shroud my path, full of the falling rain. I branch into the glen towards the Lairig Leacach and make a slow pull up a track.
I struggle with the weight of the food supplies to last me to Braemar. To help myself along I empty my water container and take extra medication for my asthma.
I bump into Colin Tock, a route vetter who does about thirty reviews a year. He asks me my views on organising the Challenge. I enjoy the chat.
A Land Rover stops, an elderly gent gets out and, without us needing to ask, describes his life on the hills, berating those who move the stones or leave the bothy messy. He goes on a bit, retired from hill farming but now in charge of checking the water supply fed from the hills to the houses, below.
"Is all the local water passed by you?" I enquire.
"Aye, aye."
Jeff Rowe joins us as he continues on about the beer cans left in the bothies.
"I told them if they felled all the trees," (it's the forestry's turn for admonishment), "the water would be undrinkable for days. They said it'd be fine. Well bugger me it was undrinkable for days."
None of us takes him up on this offer. I once did get a kiss from a girlfriend on top of Driesh but nothing like this. His admonishment then turns to young men who venture out not wearing ties. Apparently he never leaves the house without one.
"I guess it's a generation thing. Not meaning you are old like," adds Jeff. This breaks the flow and I accompany Jeff, a fit sixty-three-year-old himself. Yet not sixty-three in mind or body.
We walk on up the glen, the mountains coming in and out of cloud. As we pass the Corbett of Cruach Innse it clears. Temptation gets the better of us and I pump myself full of drugs to help my breathing. We set off on the long slow pull to the summit. There are fine views from the top with snow still in the Grey Corries across the glen. The track is now far below. These wild places capture your heart. Where life is lived in the moment.
We give the next mountain, Sgurr Innse – a menacing-looking affair like a spot risen from a face – a miss and descend to the bothy. Graffiti on the door dates back to 1937, its age giving it permission to be there. The later stuff has me feeling scorn.
Jeff brews tea, drinks it then moves on. His company was good. I'm now alone, writing by torchlight as it is dark inside. I wonder if I want company tonight. As time ticks by I begin to feel I own the place, resenting the thought of anybody else arriving. With the fading light I set a candle in the window to welcome any walker. I'm pleased when the bothy door swings open in the late evening and Graham Brookes enters. It's good to have somebody to chat to.
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On Wednesday May 17th I set off down the glen, planning to camp and meet Sue Oxley where the track, after passing Loch Treig, passes under the Corrour to Tulloch stretch of the railway. It's tough going and I mean that in many senses of the word. Diarrhoea has set in, my pace is poor as is my navigation which has me peering, with frayed nerves, into a 100-foot drop to the Allt na Lairige. The diarrhoea beats the fear to it.
It takes me five hours to do what should have been done in three and I'm almost in tears when I turn a corner and see how far my destination still is.
Sue and I plan to do an evening hike up Beinn na Lap. She arrives one hour after me (having walked twice as far, starting around the same time). I set off with her but feel weak, and uneasy.
One normally needs to find a secluded spot every other day in the wilds, today so far it's been seven times. I make my excuses and return to the tent. Unable to eat an evening meal I try some cereal.
Sue returns later all smiles having done her Munro and got a phone signal which she used to explain to her husband he should open the laundry package she'd posted home at his peril. Now I always thought it was the norm only to send such things to an ex.
She says a storm is blowing in. Within an hour we are hunkered in our respective tents, being buffeted and blasted by wind and rain. It's a real gale. I'm desperate to relieve myself but hold on and on. I hear an engine and peer out. Two guys on a caterpillar vehicle are heading up the hill. It looks like madness in these high winds and rain.
At 01:00, having not slept, desperation gets the better of me. I don waterproofs and head out. I'm violently ill, both diarrhoea and vomit. High on the hill a powerful light is moving around. Who would be out on a night like this? Then I remember the two guys. I retreat to the tent in agony. Constant stomach cramps have me groaning.
A couple of hours later I venture out the tent again to be ill. This is about as welcome as Albert Pierrepoint a pair of scales and a tape measure. The light is still moving around on the hill, mixing with the wild and lonely shadows, lashing rain and howling gale.
I root through my first aid kit to see if there is anything to make me feel better. The kit has been added to over the years but never turned out. I find no sign of anything for stomach bugs, instead there's a mixture of plasters, safety pins, creams, blister second skin, more creams and a condom. Oh how I rue the irony of the last thing I need right now. I rue further as I discover its use by date has long expired.
In all I have ten bowel movements during the night, eight of which I manage to get out of the sleeping bag for.
At 06:00 on Thursday May 18th I get up and discover Sue and I are now on an island, our tents due to be flooded within minutes. We have to rush to get our tents down, doing one at a time as it's just too windy to be able to do alone. I explain how ill I've been and I need a hotel room with ensuite. Sue said she heard everything above the howling wind, including my groans of agony. She was relieved when she heard me vomiting, knowing I was still alive.
Our next challenge is to get off the island. This proves difficult: what were trickling streams when we set up the tents are now raging torrents. Our only hope are the three iron bars of a derelict bridge. With each three inches wide I balance my way across, knowing one slip would land me in this raging torrent. Sue, with shorts and sandals, prefers to wade and hang onto one of the iron bars. It looks perilous.
"I'll be glad to be out this swirling brown stuff," she shouts.
"Hmmm, I know the feeling," I shout back ruefully.
When she is halfway across the current starts to take her. Her body rises as she clings to the rail. I lean forward to reach out, shoving my lower right leg deep into the water. But she manages okay, regaining her own balance and arrives at my side giggling at our bizarre encounter.
"This isn't going to be a night I'll forget," she says.
"Never had a woman say that to me before," I add.
With that the mood is set and we make for Corrour Station making the most bizarre puns. The ground is so wet the only way out is to walk up the railway track. There are moments where there is no escape if a train were to come – we hurry past these.
Sue sorts her things in the station shelter and sets off towards Loch Ossian. I'm relieved to be getting out. I'm joined, on the platform, by two teachers and a group of adolescent school children from Edinburgh. They are polite and we chat, waiting for the train. For some of the time they're in part as they act out the scenes, shot at this station, from the film Trainspotting.
We flag down the sleeper up from London and I travel, in a luxurious seat, to Fort William – the nearest place with medical help. The school kids alight at Tulloch and wish me well.
I find a hotel. The receptionist takes one look at me and asks if I need a doctor.
"Just a room, for two nights? I need to lay down."
She books me in and I struggle to my room. The walls are bright yellow, the sheets are pink. The counterpane and curtains a matching tartan. Nausea returns.
I rest up for a number of hours, thankful for the ensuite. Imodium improves things and I'm able to hold down some soup. I stroll around Fort William, checking out the map section in WH Smith reference library for alternate routes out.
I get commiserations from 'Challenge Control' and a call from Ali. "Steve, if you get going on Saturday you can still do your original route."
"Do you reckon?"
"It'll be long days. Corrour to Dalwhinnie, Dalwhinnie to Ruigh-aiteachain. Ruigh-aiteachain to Braemar then Braemar to Clova. But it might be possible."
"I was thinking of perhaps walking out via Kinloch Rannoch."
I later get a text, relayed via Ali, from Lorraine McCall (the first woman to complete a continuous round of the Munros), saying the Kinloch Rannoch route is the quickest, yet hard on the feet.
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On Friday May 19th I manage to eat more. Gradually rehydrating and rebuilding my strength. Unsure of my route I purchase a road atlas and tear out the pages for the road walk out from Kinloch Rannoch.
I wake on Saturday the 20th battling with the decision whether to cross from Corrour to Dalwhinnie, staying as low as possible, or to walk to the road leading to Kinloch Rannoch. The latter entailing a road walk out for six days.
I get the train from Fort William and alight at Corrour Station and, in true purist style, make sure I stand where I boarded the train on Thursday morning. This way I can say I've walked every step of the way across Scotland.
I start walking at 08:25, I still haven't made my mind up which route to take. Over the last twenty-four hours I've swayed between one and the other. It isn't until I pass the quaint Loch Ossian Youth Hostel I make a decision: Dalwhinnie and my original route. My aim is therefore to meet Ali and Sue in Clova on Tuesday night, requiring eighty-six miles of walking and 11,000 feet of ascent in four days. This is a challenge within the Challenge.
I make good pace along the side of Loch Ossian, passing the fabulous rhododendron bushes I get to the end of the loch in an hour and a half. I look for the path and start to panic I might be inadvertently walking up Strath Ossian. With careful map checking and sifting through the myriad of paths and tracks, I gain confidence I'm bound for Dalwhinnie.
The Uisge Labhair is fast flowing and its numerous feeders are difficult to cross. Twice I have to ascend high to find crossing points. The bealach forever feels like it's in the distance, yet I set a good pace and, unlike the remains of the crashed WW2 plane that lies up there, I make my way over it, four and a half hours from setting off.
Down the other side the path is good, much work has been done on it. I get to Culra Bothy at 14:15 and pop in, hoping to also get a signal to call the hotel at Dalwhinnie to book a room. No luck on the signal but the maintenance officer is staying and a log-burning stove explains the pleasant smells I'd been getting wafts of. It's snug and warm, gorgeous in fact. He's pleased I'm a member of the Mountain Bothies Association and makes me a welcome cup of tea.
I depart at 14:40 and decide to follow the tracks around Loch Pattack. A longer route but better looking than the path. This, like a wrong turn at chess, is a bad move. After forty-five minutes of walking I discover the track is flooded, impassable. The alternative, via peat hags, has me swearing, cursing and blaming everybody but myself. It's an endless maze of swamp, tufts and filthy slopes of peat. After half an hour I realise the game is up and backtrack to the bothy to take the path.
I'm annoyed, angry and emotional. I say 'fuck' about twenty times a minute, all the time gained by my earlier pace lost by a single wrong turn. My lower legs are filthy from constant sinking in the peat, it's been two hours of walking in treacle.
This two hours has cost me. It takes, in all, eleven and a half hours to get to the hotel. I know nine is my usual limit. To add to the pitiful day the last two, the lost two hours, are in a downpour and I discover lightweight kit comes at the price of not being so waterproof.
I cannot get a signal on route so I arrive at the hotel very wet with no room booked. My heart sinks when they tell me they are full but, after seeing the despair on my face, they open up another room. I'm grateful yet I ache and my heart is racing.
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I wake on Sunday May 21st and get ready to set off.
The hotel is under new management and they have been so good to me I am sorry to be leaving. I could quite easily sit out the rest of the TGO Challenge here: my feet are blistering after the hard walk up Loch Ericht.
I plaster up and set off at 09:30 via the leat, and its path, towards Loch Cuaich. Looking back, a wonderful rainbow hangs across The Fara, setting off the snow that has fallen in the night.
From Loch Cuaich I close navigate around every piece of high ground – making the journey longer but less of a climb. I'm not as quick as yesterday, instead this is more of a plod. I follow the loch's feeder burn with my compass angling towards the right of Clach-mheall Dubh. This is a delightful passage which includes the picturesque estate bridge, over the Allt Bhran, at Bhran Cottage.
I then make the hard slog above the Allt Bhran. With long drops, heather and an intermittent path I take frequent rests. At one point I nearly sit on an adder before it slithers away. It's then an uphill pull to meet the track to take me into Glen Feshie. I urge myself on, needing the bothy, unable to face the tent. My feet are painful, my right heel especially.
I fancy the River Feshie will be too deep to cross, unlike two years ago when I crossed with John Jocys. This time I have no company, just pressing on alone.
As I turn into the glen I'm met by the most delightful scene imaginable: smoke from the bothy chimney. There will be warmth to dry my wet things. I try to imagine who is there. A party of walkers? Surely I must be the most westerly TGO Challenge participant remaining?
I have to go past the bothy to cross the river by the dilapidated bridge 1km upstream.
Arriving at 18:45, I meet Colin Pritchard who, having set out on the Monday, is pleased to meet his first challenger.
I thank him for the fire, I'm so grateful. I'm amazed at his high-level route and how far he has travelled in one week. Able to run up and down Ben Nevis in under two hours he's a league ahead of me. I congratulate him on his route so far.
"You haven't seen my feet yet," he replies. At about this time I'm removing my right sock. We both look astonished at the red slug attached to my right heel.
"Forget my feet," he continues, pointing towards mine. "My goodness."
It is mightily impressive. I puncture it to release the blood and lymph, nothing happens so I apply gentle pressure with my fingers. It then turns into a garden sprinkler system, dousing everything in reach.
We talk about our lonely walking; I mention the loneliness of the long distance walker. Colin gets my reference straight away and we discuss the films of Tom Courtenay.
We drag camp beds down from the upstairs and arrange them to sleep by the remains of the fire. As we are about to doze off Colin says, "I think it's you who's the most westerly challenger."
"Why?"
"You're on the west side of the bothy!"
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I wake about 03:00 on Monday May 22nd. The fire is out and it's very cold. I go upstairs to get some blankets, climbing the ladder through the hatch in the floor. I miss my footing and have to throw myself against the lip of the floor to rescue myself. So nearly a 6ft drop, so nearly out the Challenge again.
I get back to sleep, then wake then pop and dress my blisters with Colin's help.
I get going just after 08:00. My feet are sore, yet workable. It's day three of my catch-up, the longest at twenty-five miles. I make good progress, picking off the bridge near the watershed, Geldie Lodge then the Linn of Dee. My right foot is sore and after about eight hours I slip my boot off and inspect it. The dressings and padding are dripping with an unpleasant red and yellow mix of body fluids.
All day I walk alone, just the footprints of the wave of challengers ahead of me remind me I'm still part of the greater thing. I was heartened to see all the names in the bothy book, especially the LaBorwits. Gretchen, their granddaughter, was still making progress, her Achilles tendon at least getting her this far.
The final road walk to Braemar is hellish. I go via Mar Lodge but it doesn't detract from how depressing and draining the walk is. I keep counting grid squares, timing myself and predicting my arrival time – continuously adjusting it.
The weather varies, the hills on view are fine. My feet ache and every time I press down on my right foot it feels like I'm stepping on a bed of pins. The River Dee is in fine form flowing its way towards the sea – encouraging me with it.
I get to Braemar at 18:45 and arrive exhausted at The Fife Arms and present myself at reception. "Do you have a room for tonight?"
"No," replies the receptionist.
My heart sinks, I can't imagine stepping out of the hotel and wandering around looking for a room. I'm too exhausted. I don't know if it's the dour side of the Scottish humour but seconds later she's found me one. She apologises for there being no bath, I'm happy to just have a room. I ask about dinner in the restaurant she gives me one of those 'you're asking the impossible' kind of looks.
"It's too late for that."
It isn't even 19:00.
The apology for the lack of bath turns out to be a moot point, there's no hot water. Though believe me, I am so grateful for this room.
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I wake at around 05:00 on the Tuesday May 23rd aware I've been muttering in my sleep, like my mind is competing with hallucinating drugs, I keep coming in and out the land of lucidity. It's sheer exhaustion, my body aching alongside my mind. This four-day catch-up is a gruelling test. I visit the ensuite and realise I can put no pressure on my right foot. The second toe is swollen and the heel is equally complaining. I wonder if I'm out of the Challenge.
I manage to sleep for another two hours and feel good enough to get going. While patching up my feet I lose count of the blisters, though more than a British Leyland paint job. I gingerly take my first steps: it's like walking on a bed of pins, but I can just about do it. I make it down to breakfast, busy with an elderly coach party staying in the hotel. To a person they look in better shape than me.
I set off at 09:15, hobbling towards the Lochcallater track, aiming to make it across to Clova. Stan, the joint custodian of Lochcallater Lodge, is driving down the track, looking about as bad as I feel yet for different reasons.
I stop at the bothy, 11:50. My right foot hurts with each step but I press on and make my way through to where the Jock's Road path runs out during the last sharp ascent.
I've had word from Roger Smith, at 'Challenge Control', Ali and Sue will be waiting for me at the Clova Hotel. This is the tonic to keep me going, a precious incentive to keep me focussed. I know if I can just get to Clova I'll then have moral support for my last two days.
The weather varies from sun, to rain, to hale to sleet, to snow. I get impressive views back towards the hills above Braemar. I make it to Crow Craigies, over 3000ft high. The weather clears and I peer down Glen Doll and just above I catch sight of the sea, forty-five miles in the distance. I'm overcome, overwhelmed. My body aches, this catching up is so painful. I can't believe I can see the sea. My eyes well up, seeing the sea just means so much. Never ever, ever give up. Ships are safest at harbour but they are designed for the high seas. No person can realise their dreams, find their potential or fully know themselves by staying in harbour. I repeat to myself, over and over, "There's the sea. The sea." I can't believe it. A man must break his back to earn his day of leisure. This was reward in itself. This moment made the days of pain more than worthwhile. Nobody would have blamed me if I'd pulled out when I was ill. Yet I'd have always had a nagging doubt I should have given it another go.
From here the descent to Clova is long and tortuous. Jock's Road into Glen Doll has my feet yelping at each press on the ground. The forest walk dank, long and tedious, the final four-mile road walk painful on the feet. I'm utterly drained. It's nine hours into the day already. I swagger in the pouring rain, the hard road sending shockwaves through my feet. I fall asleep while walking, with my eyes shut I stagger into the centre of the quiet, single-track road, coming to with a dazed jolt.
Counting off landmarks, I reward myself with sips of water. If I can just get to that clump of trees, then that building. I break it down into chunks.
It takes me until 19:10 to get to the hotel. I'm hoping Sue and Ali have got my text asking for them to get me a room. Staggering into reception, with restaurant guests staring at this sodden mass, I start to ask if I have a booking. I hear footsteps running. It's Ali. She doesn't care how wet I am, her arms go round me and I get a huge hug. Then Sue hugs me too. They give me permission to be very proud of myself! Eighty-six miles in four days is a long walk.
"Let's get you to your room," Sue says.
I turn to the receptionist, "What do I have to do to check in?"
She takes the form back, "I think just the key will do."
Sue and Ali help me to my room. I shower and meet them and order supper. The stories of our last days pouring from us. I have to swallow hard. I appreciate them waiting so very much, having got a day ahead of themselves..
On this, their day off they climbed Driesh and Mayar and kept looking west towards Jock's Road observing the weather I was walking through. They'd been in touch with 'Challenge Control', this rendezvous was made by message passing through Control as phone signals became poor. Knowing they'd be there was the biggest thing that kept me going. They tell me my story has got around, the guy catching up after two days off sick. I'm deeply moved by all the messages I've received. Texts, relayed phone messages. Roger, Pauline, Robin and Alan in 'Challenge Control' keeping me going. Fellow challenger John Jocys coming on the line to give me encouragement. Texts from my mum and dad. So many people urged me on.
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Wednesday May 24th starts with a knock at my door. It's Doctor Ali with her medical bag. My feet are dressed with the correct dressings for open and closed sores. I stand up, it feels good. I can exert pressure on my right foot.
There's a different air at breakfast. Sue and Ali truly mothered me last night (and I truly revelled in it) but I'm quietly aware we have about thirty-five miles to make it to the coast. They tell me of the route, straight up 2000 feet of ascent. It's the quickest route.
"Are you okay with that?" they ask.
"Yes, I'm in your care now. I'll do whatever you tell me to."
"Now if you'd only said that yesterday," jokes Sue.
It took everything I had to get here. From now on all I want to do is to follow in their footsteps.
We set off at 09:00, Sue is a strong walker and I find myself ascending at 400m per hour up Green Hill. From here it's misty, requiring close navigation which I take no part in. We drop down and then take the long descent to the road to Bridge End. I find the road tiring, exhausting and tough on my feet. It's a three-hour power walk. Sue and Ali fancy Brechin, I can only promise to get to the next milestone.
"Every mile we walk today is one less tomorrow," says Ali. Sue repeats this later, so does Ali. Elementary mathematics hasn't escaped me, yet I sense an underlying plot to keep me going. They deal with me in a business-like way. We've still a long walk. I sense they are in cahoots, if they allow me to dwell, offer too much sympathy about my aching body I might give up. Yet it's a long way for all of us. We keep one another's spirits up by a long discussion of Enid Blyton books.
"The Infamous Three," Sue calls us.
I point out the unfortunate acronym.
"We are the TITs," yells Sue.
About an hour from Bridge End I pull up. I've been getting stitch in my side, my feet ache but now my calf muscle, where it attaches to the Achilles tendon, pulls tight. It's a hobble from there on to Bridge End. I lean to my left to reduce pressure. Ali and Sue get ahead and, to add to my misery, water is now wetting my chest, soaking me: the bite valve has come off my water pipe. I follow the trail of water back to pick it up.
Now out of water I press on and meet Ali and Sue at Bridge End. Ali straps my calf muscle, I can proceed at a measured pace. If I quicken I yelp, slower and I'm okay. We're now in remote farm land, no place to camp, no B&B. It's nearing 18:00.
I fantasise about each dwelling offering B&B. Only to be thwarted as we reach a sign-less dwelling. I start to lag behind. Most the day I was determined to keep pace but now I'm sluggish. I start to get chest pains.
"Ali, I'm getting chest pains," I call out. I've no wish to take chances.
"Whereabouts?" she calls back.
"High up, above the breast line."
"Does it hurt more when you twist?"
I do a test, and call back it does.
"It's just muscular then," she reassures me.
Not a stride was lost in this conversation.
We make it over the twin hill forts at Caterthun and then in the distance is the sea. We shout with joy and look back to the hills basking in the evening sun. The earlier mist, snow and rain now behind us. We are walking into the nicer weather of the coast. Now ten hours into our day.
A cyclist pulls up, out training. "Where are you heading?" he asks.
"Brechin we hope," adds Ali, "but Steve here's pulled his calf muscle."
He gives us his address. "I can put you up. I've lots of room."
As he pedals off we confirm with one another if what we heard was true. Ali goes ahead, saying she needs to walk at her natural pace, oh and to buy some wine. Sue helps me through the next two hours. Again I fall asleep while walking, stumbling into tree branches on the edge of the road.
We arrive around nine, after a twenty-five-mile day, at the address offered. A beautiful Victorian Manse with matching grounds. Simon and his wife, Jill make us supper, add in pudding, wine and damson gin. Then we are each shown to our beds. And there was us thinking we'd be having rehydrated food, in a tent with mere water to wash it down.
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On Thursday May 25th we are given porridge and toast for breakfast. As we make our way down the long drive we look at one another.
"Did that really just happen?" asks Ali.
"I think so," I reply. "But to be honest I'm so tired I'm struggling with reality."
"Doesn't feel quite real, does it?" adds Sue.
Carlsberg do make people you meet on the road.
It takes us four hours, in a gentle sunny breeze, to get to the edge of the beach at Montrose. Ali and Sue get chatting to an old chap with a dog. As they are all dog lovers I drop my pack to the ground and wait it out.
"Nice talking to you," says Sue after a few minutes, bringing the conversation to an end.
"Can you hear water running?" asks the old chap.
"No, that's just the sound of your dog relieving itself on my pack," I reply sardonically.
Hugs and photos follow on the beach. Ali and Sue apologise for slave driving me the last two days. It needed to be done, all my emotional energy went into getting to Clova. I'd not be here without them.
Checking in at 'Challenge Control' news of my plight has got around. People approaching me to say well done.
This has been very tough for me, my toughest Challenge yet. However, I appreciated the small things. A loo is a luxury, a bath and a good meal an unimaginable dream. All the things that just happen in our daily lives have to be planned and fought for on the Challenge. But it's the word 'challenge' that sticks with me. Not just because it is a challenge to get across Scotland but there are so many challenges met along the way. It's having the resources, the determination and the help to get through them.
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In all I've done the TGO Challenge seven times. All my accounts, and much more, are in published in "Walking it Through: An asthmatic’s walking diary" by Stephen P. Smith ISBN: 979-8845944085 Available on Amazon
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If you are interested in doing the TGO Challenge then visit www.tgochallenge.com