It was 29th April 2007. I stood on a narrow stone wall, thirty feet above a rocky beach, clinging to a wobbling barbed wire fence, with a forty pound pack on my back and a large stick stuffed into my belt. To my right stood the ruins of Keiss Castle, but I wasn't enjoying the view.
I shuffled across the wall, with the barb wire fence wobbling backwards and forwards and me trying not to be unbalanced by the weight of the backpack. A fall would mean breaking both of my legs, at best, and losing my life at the worst. My heart beat fast and I cursed the farmer who had decided to string his fence across the edge of the cliff. It was a very long five minutes, as I edged my way across the wall to the safe and solid grass of the cliff top. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt my heart begin to slow.
The grass sloped down to an old brick 'pillbox' lookout post from the Second World War. The place was familiar: I had camped by the old buidling, way back in 1984, on a thousand mile walk from the top of Scotland to the bottom of England. Back then I had blisters on my feet and had been glad to reach Keiss and stop for the night. In 2007 my feet were feeling good and I planned to keep on walking to reach Girnigoe Castle, near Wick, which was another five miles ahead.
The day was overcast, and by the time I found the road that led to Girnigoe Castle, a thick mist began to flow inland from the North Sea. It felt as if the elements were conspiring to hide my destination from me. The way to the ruined castle lay across a field, bordered by dry stone walls and more wire fences. I had to negotiate two locked gates, but eventually was standing next to Girnigoe Castle, which had signs warning of falling stones and lethal masonry... which, for me, meant an ideal campsite.
The castle was in two parts. The part of the castle on the mainland had been mostly destroyed: only a column of an old chimney stack rose into the sky. A rickety wooden bridge had been strung up to reach the remains of the tower, which sat on a rugged, rocky promontory that was lashed by the sea. A drawbridge had once connected the two parts of the castle and steps had been cut into the rock of the shore to lead down to the waves.
As I looked at the ruins, mist billowed amongst the ancient stones. The castle, and the one at Keiss, had been built by the Clan Sinclair, who could trace their ancestry back to the 'Viking' Rognvald Eysteinsson. Rognvald was a Norwegian nobleman, granted the title of Earl of Orkney, by the Norwegian King Harald 'Fairhair', around 875 AD. Rognvald had fathered Rollo, who went on to become the first Duke of Normandy, and whose line led to William the Conqueror... and the Norman Invasion of England. The Sinclairs had become Earls of Caithness, which was the far north-eastern tip of Scotland. Girnigoe Castle had been built sometime between 1456 and 1496 and Keiss Castle sometime after 1582.
The northern part of Scotland had been the site of battles, and struggles, with life and death, first with invading Vikings and then between the Scottish nobility. In 1577, George Sinclair, the 4th Earl of Caithness suspected his son, John, was conspiring against him. John, 'The Master of Caithness', was imprisoned by his own father at Girnigoe Castle for seven years. Legend has it that John was finally, and cruelly, given nothing but salt beef to eat, with no water to drink. He died, from thirst, and had gone totally insane.
The castle at Girnigoe became a ruin when the 6th Earl of Caithness died, in 1676, without any direct heirs. John Campbell of Glen Orchy married the Earl's widow and claimed the title of Earl of Caithness and the castle. In 1679, George Sinclair of Keiss, stormed the castle, but the Sinclairs were then defeated by the Campbells at the Battle of Altimarlech, in 1680. It was another ten years before George Sinclair besieged Girnigoe Castle once more. After the siege, the castle was left to become nothing but a ruined shell.
I put my bivi bag up, on the grass close to the ruined castle. The bivi was a small, one man tent that was only just big enough for me to crawl into. I pulled my backpack in with me, but there was really only enough room for me. With no sleeping bag, a chilly, uncomfortable night followed. As I lay there, in the damp bivi bag, I wondered if Girnigoe Castle was haunted by the ghost of John, 'The Master of Caithness.'
Tired, cold and achy, I woke. I'd forgotten how unrefreshing a night under canvas could be, With numb fingers and toes, I packed away my tent and gear, clumsily, but as quickly as possible. A track led from the ruins towards the road to Wick.
I needed a toilet badly, but, fortunately, as I walked into the small town of Wick, I spotted the Police Station. I went on in and asked the duty officer if I could use their bathroom. He nodded a yes. In a few minutes I was greatly relieved, had cleaned my teeth and washed my face. It was good to feel slightly less grubby. Thanking the desk sergeant, I strolled on into town.
A sandwich from a local supermarket was my breakfast, washed down with water from the Police Station. I sat at a small bus shelter to eat the food. My pack, which had a sign saying 'Walking for Hospice Care' sat in front of me. As I sat there, a couple of people came up to me and gave me two £20 notes, as donations for hospice. I smiled, thanked them and popped the money into a small plastic collection bottle.
My next stop was the Post Office. I had finished a couple of 35 mm films and wanted to send them back home, so the pictures could be posted on a website. In the Post Office, I joined the queue. Several people in the line asked me where I was walking to. I told them that I was walking 900 miles down to Land's End... and then another 5,000 miles across the U.S. and Canada to help hospice. As I talked about the journey, another £50 came my way.
The young lady behind the counter at the Post Office was Lyn Risbridger. She had spotted the sign on my backpack and overheard me talking. I showed her a copy of the book that I had written about the 6,000 miles I had already walked to help hospice. Lyn said she would like a copy of the book and handed me a £10 note. With £100 in my collection bottle and my films sent off... I decided I liked Wick.
Just a few doors down the High Street there was a Highland Hospice thrift shop. I walked on in, introduced myself to the manager, handed over the donated money and was given a cup of tea and some custard cream biscuits. By 10.30 am, I was walking out of Wick.
The grey trail of the A9 led me away, through rolling green hills towards the tiny village of Ulbster. On the right hand side of the road was a sign for Cairn o' Get. Beyond a small parking area, a muddy track led across grass and into a patch of bog land. I walked on a raised wooden platform that crossed an expanse of still water. In the weed filled waters, the reflection of my face gazed back at me, as if I was trapped under its smooth surface. I wondered if there were people who had been thrown, dead or alive, into the bog here. The place had an odd, old feel to it. There was no wind, all was still.
The wooden causeway ended and a track of mud led up into hills. I moved slowly upward and finally reached Cairn o' Get. A grey gravel pathway led between lichen covered, mottled white stones, that stood to the height of my shoulders. Dropping my pack at the entrance to the burial cairn, I walked down the now roofless grey passageway, to stand in the central chamber.
When the Cairn o' Get had been excavated, cremated bones and the remains of seven people had been removed. There was a strange air to the chamber, even still, after 5,000 years. To the people that lived at the cold and bleak Northern tip of Scotland, this place had special meaning. I put my arms to my sides, touched the large stones and spread my fingers wide. The stone was rough and cold to the touch.
Neolithic people, descendants of a wave of settlers that moved into Britain after the last ice age, had made chambered burial mounds in England, Ireland and Scotland, around 3,000 B.C. At Newgrange, in Ireland, I had visited one of the largest burial chambers, where beautiful swirling patterns had been carved out on massive stones at the entrance. There, on the winter's solstice, a beam of light from the rising sun would move down the dark passageway, to light up the floor of the central chamber. Capturing that light was connected to the rebirth of the sun, each year, and the start of the days becoming longer, after the longest night of the solstice.
At the Cairn o' Get, the chambered burial mound had once had two 'horns' of stones that curved to either side of the chamber entrance. In the shelter of the hills and horns of the stones, ceremonies connected to life, death and rebirth would be held: ensuring the continuation of the cycle of life and celebrating ancestors who had passed on. As I stood there, the ideas of these people resonated with how I was feeling and what I was thinking.
From the central chamber at Cairn o' Get, I moved down the narrow passageway, pushing past the curved, bone like stones, and emerged, once more into the world. The simple process echoed that of birth and the structure of the place seemed designed for that purpose. There, beyond that ancient burial chamber, a new life awaited me.
