One of my fellow guests at the Bed & Breakfast was much disturbed this morning. Confused by a sign about the new E10 petrol, and not being from an English speaking country, she accidentally filled up her hire car with the wrong pump, and now no longer had use of it. The hire company was not sympathetic, telling her it was negligence and not covered by all the insurance she had signed up to. It confirmed my low opinion of hire car companies and the value of insurance. As the hire company refused to replace the car she was rather stuck with no easy means of reaching her next holiday destination. As I had no car I was of little help and left her thinking of her options.
The first stage of my walk was over the Cromarty Firth on a long, low bridge carrying the busy A9 traffic. It is a road going the same way as myself, a sign stated that John o'Groats was 109 miles away. Reaching the far side, a track took me over the main railway line to the north, onto a more minor road. This I followed for several kilometres to Evanton, the road lined with trees beyond which there were either arable fields or woods. Crops had been harvested leaving stubble, with rolls of hay waiting to be taken away, or newly ploughed earth. Beyond there was higher ground but today I was staying nearer the waters of the Firth. The woods were of mature trees, in places luminous, green moss carpeting the ground contrasted with the dull, dark tree trunks. Whereas yesterday rowan berries that caught my attention, today it was the bright red rose hips on the roadside. A few months earlier on my walk from Land's End the roses in the Scottish Borders had been in flower, and I sadly thought that of the decline in my knee in the short time since then. Rare daisies reminded me that the best part of the year was not quite over.
At Evanton I stopped at the community café for a latte and slice of apple pie. Run by older volunteers who were willing in spirit, but not so good with the till or delivering the right food to the customer who ordered it. Such issues did not prevent the friendly chit chat, many of the people knowing each other, whether serving or being served.
I left the village on a cycle track that swooped from one side of the road to the other. As I neared Alness, in the distance I could see offshore drilling rigs "stacked" on the waters of the Cromarty Firth, lacking work. At least three semi-submersibles and two jack-ups. An effect of the decline in the oil industry which has put many out of work, yet there is little sympathy from government with all the talk of climate change and the need to move away from fossil fuels, even as we rely on them to power our cars and heat our homes. Many years ago I visited a semi-submersible rig stacked here. The boat that took me to it also offered trips to see the local dolphins. Intrigued, some time later I took my parents, who were visiting, on such a boat trip. The dolphins swam close by the boat, leaping out of the water close to the bow. Our guide said they were not so nice as they appeared, having been seen attacking the local harbour porpoises.
With such reminisces in my mind, I walked along the last more open stretch of road into Alness, entering by a cemetery with what looked like a ruined church. Arriving at my hotel at midday I wondered whether to go for a walk down to the water's edge, however it would be a five kilometre round trip and I need to rest my knee if I am to have the best chance of reaching John o'Groats. It is looking depressingly large with accumulated fluid..
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