Train from Inverness to Wick

For the last few days, the prospect of setting out from John O'Groat's to Land's End on a penny farthing drawing ever nearer, I have, from time to time, been overwhelmed with anxiety. What am I doing? It all seemed like a lot of fun when I first had the idea; an exciting adventure, an intrepid journey worthy of brave adventurers of old, an escape from the predictability of day to day living. But now, rain streaking in horizontal lines along the train windows, it seems a huge challenge; a looming, forbearing mountain, with its peak lost in cloud. 'Crazy' might be an apt word to use, if I wasn't so against language defining people who attempt anything out of the 'ordinary,' as somehow not normal.

Several people have asked me today what I'm doing and where I'm going, such as the elderly good-natured gentleman, who fished the north west coast of Scotland for sixty years, on the train from Aberdeen to Inverness, out for a father's day treat with his two daughters; or the gentleman from Tunbridge Wells, on an organised walking tour in the Outer Hebrides with his supercilious looking wife, at Inverness station. I told them both I was cycling end to end, and they seemed awestruck. But I didn't say how. "We might end up seeing you on TV," laughs the fisherman, as the train arrives into Inverness. "You never know!" I reply. "Do you have a good bike?" says the man from Tunbridge Wells, in his clipped English accent. I imagine he's a retired stockbroker. "Yes," I say, thinking about the strange looking Victorian contraption awaiting me in Wick. "Does it have good tyres?" he says. "Yes," I say. "Are they these new solid tyres that don't puncture?" "Oh yes!" I reply truthfully, "I have solid tyres." Is it one of these fancy new bikes?" he says, as he half browses the property page in the Telegraph. "Mm, not that new," I reply, the word 'bone-shaker' juddering through my mind. "We have hotels booked for two nights on each island. How about you? Have you booked all your accommodation?" I think of the bivvy bag tent, camping mat, and trusty down feather sleeping bag I've used for the last thirty eight years in my holdall. "I like to book my accommodation as I go along." I guess I don't want to tell anyone what I'm doing right now. Their likely comments will only add to my sense of trepidation.

I eat my lunch on the bank of the river Ness, before catching the train from Inverness to Wick, sitting on some stone steps, a cool wind blowing up the river, the sound of buskers bagpipes exuding from the city. Somehow the lid of my pasta salad has punctured, and olive oil has leaked out into the contents of my bag. So annoying! A couple close by stare down into the river, as if looking for fish amongst the wavering weed. Their black pit bull terrier stares at me with menacing eyes, and emits a sound between a sniff and a bark. A huge black raven appears, and I throw it a bow-tie shaped piece of pasta. It gobbles it down. Instantly another raven sweeps down from a nearby building, followed by two huge gulls. The ravens, intimidated, disappear; and both gulls, their beaks wide open before me, let out piercing guttural cries. One then attacks the other, stabbing at it with its beak. Last night I was kept awake by the cries of these huge birds, sounding like a riotous mob. They nest on the roofs of buildings in Aberdeen. Ross, the friend I was staying with, told me how ravens and crows pick up the young gull chicks in their beaks, whilst the parents are out searching for food, play with them like a cat with a mouse, and then drop them off the side of the building.

I had the first of my 'Penny for your thoughts' interviews with Ross and his partner Emma last night; such an interesting conversation about journeys vs destinations, fear, love, the negative consequences of regret, the construction of reality, identity, spirituality, authenticity and time. I gave them one of my hundred tarnished Victorian pennies, as I intend to do with everyone who shares their thoughts about life as a journey on route. And now, as the train leaves Ardgay station bumps along the track, past lakes, mountains patched with snow, yellow gorse, and forests, I recall the leaving present from my last group of students on a Relate counselling course, a model penny farthing mounted on a block of wood with the inscription 'the only impossible journey is the one we never begin.' It's our journeys through life that matter most, I think, not the destination; though for all sorts of reasons I find that hard to live by. If we're always thinking ahead, then we miss out on the present moment. And do we ever really arrive? I recall years ago, camping in Chamonix, by chance next to Adrian Burgess, the climber. He enthralled the family with stories of his climbing. There was one thing he said to my son, keen to commence climbing himself, that has stayed with me. "Don't look up," he said. "If you do that, you'll lose focus, and may never reach the summit. Concentrate on each foothold, the next handhold, that's where the real pleasure lies." Tomorrow is the longest day of the year. Let me focus on the beginning, each moment, and for now, forget Land's End.