{"id":25611,"date":"2021-08-19T08:29:01","date_gmt":"2021-08-19T08:29:01","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.walkhighlands.co.uk\/news\/?p=25611"},"modified":"2026-05-05T08:14:23","modified_gmt":"2026-05-05T08:14:23","slug":"the-farthest-shore","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.walkhighlands.co.uk\/news\/the-farthest-shore\/","title":{"rendered":"The Farthest Shore"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

In February 2019, award-winning writer Alex Roddie left his online life behind when he set out to walk 300 miles through the Scottish Highlands, seeking solitude and answers. In leaving the chaos of the internet behind for a month, he hoped to learn how it was truly affecting him \u2013 or if he should look elsewhere for the causes of his anxiety.<\/em> In this extract from his new book The Farthest Shore<\/a>, out on September 2nd, Alex shares some of the pain and joy from the start of his solo winter challenge.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Day 1: 6 February 2019, Ardnamurchan Point, Scotland<\/h2>\n\n\n
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Ardnamurchan lighthouse (Photo \u00a9 Alex Roddie)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

\u2018Did you lose a bet or something?\u2019 On the long trudge out from the ferry at Kilchoan to the lighthouse at Ardnamurchan Point, where I would officially begin my walk, a local stopped to ask me if I wanted a lift. I\u2019d added a warm layer beneath my waterproof jacket and was just pulling my gloves back on when the car pulled over and the driver wound down his window. I could see him eyeing up the rucksack towering over my head and shoulders. His gaze lingered on the massive blue snowshoes strapped to the sides of my pack. After I\u2019d thanked him and turned down his offer, he\u2019d asked where I was headed \u2013 \u2018The North Pole?\u2019 \u2013 and shook his head in amazement when I said I was on my way to Cape Wrath. He wished me luck with an expression that said he expected to read about my demise on a Mountain Rescue blog in the near future, and then wound his window back up and sped away into the rain.<\/p>\n\n\n

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Alex camping at Barisdale Bay (Photo \u00a9 Alex Roddie)<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

This walk was already feeling very different to how I\u2019d pictured it. In the days before my journey up to Scotland, and on the journey itself, I\u2019d stressed myself silly over worries beyond my control. What if my resupply parcels failed to get to their destinations? Many of the shops CWT hikers used to replenish their supplies were shut over the winter, so I\u2019d sent pre-packaged supply boxes to various hostels and hotels along the way. I hadn\u2019t been able to confirm that all of them had arrived. Worse, I\u2019d made a stupid error. Some of the supply boxes contained gas cartridges for my stove. In the frenzy of preparations, it hadn\u2019t occurred to me to check whether or not this was allowed. A tweet from a follower on the eve of my departure \u2013 \u2018Maybe we\u2019ll hear about an explosion at the Royal Mail depot on the news!\u2019 \u2013 had sent my anxiety into overdrive, and I\u2019d fallen into the familiar cycle of berating myself for my mistakes and believing that if I couldn\u2019t be perfect then I might as well not even try.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Somehow, through the spiral of negative thinking and my mind flitting from one catastrophic scenario to the next, obsessing on the prospect of failure after building this trip up for so long in my head, I\u2019d made it to the peninsula of Ardnamurchan. The walk was happening. It was real.<\/p>\n\n\n

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Alex preparing a meal in a bothy (Photo \u00a9 James Roddie) <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Although Fort William is the usual starting point for the Cape Wrath Trail, I had decided to extend my walk by starting at Ardnamurchan Point instead and joining the main route at Glenfinnan. At that moment, freezing cold and soaked through to my base layer, I questioned whether I\u2019d been of sound mind to add several days of hard hiking to what would already be the hardest thing I\u2019d ever done. From Glenfinnan, the Cape Wrath Trail would head north through the wildest and most remote mountain country until the land ran out beneath my feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ardnamurchan Point is commonly cited as the westernmost point of the British mainland, although that isn\u2019t true \u2013 Corrachadh M\u00f2r, a headland about a kilometre to the south, juts a few metres more into the sea. Nevertheless, I\u2019d chosen Ardnamurchan Point as the start of my walk. Just like Cape Wrath, it was home to a lighthouse, and the symmetry of this idea appealed to me, walking from lighthouse to lighthouse between the westernmost (well, close enough) and northwesternmost points of the British mainland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lighthouse jutted like an obscene gesture on the horizon. Bands of rain scurried in front of it. It protruded from a foreground of rock the colour of weathered lead, dappled with bone-white blotches of lichen and a few tufts of grass that fringed pools of rainwater. Even the puddles had waves on them. The wind battered me, slammed against me. Out at sea, great roaring waves swept in from an indistinct horizon to pound at the shoreline while a few intrepid gulls fought the gusts, first dipping low then wheeling high before uttering calls that pierced through the background noise of water and storm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I clambered back over the rocks to the road. My huge pack felt cumbersome, and the straps were already digging in to my shoulders. I couldn\u2019t remember the last time I\u2019d carried a pack this heavy, weighed down with winter kit, backpacking essentials and food for over a week.<\/p>\n\n\n

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River crossing on the Cape Wrath Trail (Photo \u00a9 James Roddie) <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Rust-streaked outbuildings clustered around the lighthouse. There was an air of shabbiness and abandonment about this place, as if the landscape couldn\u2019t wait to reclaim it. People had not lived here for years; the light itself was now fully automated, although a caf\u00e9 and visitors\u2019 centre served tourists between April and October. I peered through one of the windows into the caf\u00e9 after wiping the raindrops away with a soggy glove. Inside, nothing but darkness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After taking shelter around the side of the building, I dropped my pack again and pulled out the blocky orange satellite communicator I had on loan for the trip. Time to send my first check-in message.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The device took a few seconds to boot up. With its QWERTY keyboard, monochrome display and plastic antenna sticking out of the top, it looked a bit like an old-school BlackBerry. Similar devices, popular with backpackers, let you send pre-programmed messages to contacts, activate an emergency beacon, and (optionally) provide real-time tracking. Thanks to its built-in keyboard, this upgraded model could also be used as a two-way text messenger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I activated the check-in function, which would \u2013 hopefully \u2013 send an automatic message to Hannah, my mum, my brother, and a few friends and colleagues who wanted to keep tabs on my progress. The progress indicator on the screen took forever to clear, and there was no positive confirmation that my message had actually sent. My tests prior to the trail hadn\u2019t inspired confidence. Some check-ins worked, while others failed silently, giving the operator no indication that the message hadn\u2019t gone through. The device triggered complex feelings in me. If I needed to press the SOS button, would it work? And what if two or more consecutive check-ins failed \u2013 at what point would my family decide that I needed to be rescued? Would its very presence change my behaviour or somehow tarnish the experience? Like my smartphone, would it remain as an ethereal presence in my mind even when switched off?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The satellite communicator went back into the top pocket of my rucksack. I had not activated the live tracking feature. I was willing to accept a lifeline, but I was not willing to be continuously tracked by the machine world I wanted to get away from. This line in the sand, I realised, was as arbitrary as the whole thing, but it felt important \u2013 why, otherwise, was I doing this at all?<\/p>\n\n\n

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Tackling snow on the hills later on (Photo \u00a9 Alex Roddie) <\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

At just after two o\u2019clock in the afternoon I took my first step on the lighthouse-to-lighthouse walk that I hoped would lead me to Cape Wrath. At that moment, Cape Wrath felt incalculably distant \u2013 an objective so remote that it had become abstract, a symbol belonging to a future version of me not yet hammered into being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To read the fully story of the journey, you can order Alex’s book now<\/a>; 10% of the sale through our Bookshop<\/a> goes to Walkhighlands, and a further 10% is distributed to independent UK bookshops.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In February 2019, award-winning writer Alex Roddie left his online life behind when he set out to walk 300 miles through the Scottish Highlands, seeking solitude and answers. In leaving the chaos of the internet behind for a month, he hoped to learn how it was truly affecting him \u2013 or if he should look elsewhere for the causes of his anxiety. In this extract from his new book The Farthest Shore, out on September 2nd, Alex shares some of the pain and joy from the start of his solo winter challenge. Day 1: 6 February 2019, Ardnamurchan Point, Scotland…<\/span> <\/p>\n

Read more ›<\/div>\n

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