Day 10: Thurso to Dunnet Head (oh and John o’ Groats, if you insist).

No kippers for breakfast in the hotel, but breakfast otherwise good.

We had managed to hire a bike for Angus in Thurso so’s he could do the last bit, after some help from Isobel (thanks). The internet reckoned that the nearest bike rental was in Huntly (173 miles away), but may we recommend The Bike Shop, High Street, Thurso? It turned out to be a real baptism of fire for him. The weather forecast again predicted Gales, again correctly. I suppose we are approaching the Equinox. The wind was blowing mainly from the side, which made everything a bit hairy. Norman reckoned that his tyres were actually being blown sideways over the wet road surface in some places. Dougal’s and Angus’s were a bit grippier but even then there were problems: you’d lean over to compensate, and then it would drop, leaving you heading for the ditch. Or you’d come past the end of a building which provided some shelter, and then get caught and blown out into the middle. It was a relief to turn off towards Dunnet Head, but our problems were only beginning.

We had a little bit of shelter about till we passed the little hamlet of Crossroads, where my mother was born. After this the quite steep hills heading towards the point were made much steeper by the wind howling in our faces: I had visions of being caught by a gust and sailing back to Inverness, whence Norman would probably demand I did it all again. We made it to the lighthouse, the most northerly point on the British mainland, took the photographs (note white horses in the background), had a quick look round and fled. The journey back was a different country: downhill, wind behind us, very pleasant. On the rest of the journey to John o’ Groats, the wind seemed to have veered round a bit, so that at some stages we could actually take our feet off the pedals and be pushed along.

Eventually we made it to J o’G, and it was really splendid to have our welcoming committee of Helen taking a picture of us as we arrived. Groups of cyclists seemed to be arriving regularly. Every 15 minutes there would be a cheer as (say) Ukrainian Nationalists for Watford Home for Tired Squirrels rolled up. One man even seemed to arrive about four times, possibly considering that his initial welcome was insufficient.

We had our photograph taken in front of the sign. While we were doing this, some people got off a coach and told us to hurry up. When this injunction, for some reason, failed, they tried to stand beside us while we were having our picture taken. At this point Helen swung into action. ‘Do you realise,’ she thundered, ‘that these people have cycled all the way from Land’s End for charity, and they want to get the picture right?’ They slunk off. I was ever so proud of her.

I should point out again that J o’G is a complete fake, a bogus sham, a counterfeit, an impostor, a charlatan, a fraud, a con, a con-trick, a rip-off, a pretender. It’s not the Northest point. That’s Dunnet Head. Well, you all knew that by now. It’s also not the North-Westest (Cape Wrath), or the North Eastest (Duncansby Head). J o’G was extremely tacky, though probably not any worse than Land’s End, which I suppose is also something of a fake, being not the Southest point (don’t start me). It has been described as the ugliest town in Scotland, though I wouldn’t call it a town, and any what about Sh-tts?

"Surrounded by a clutter of timber huts, caravans, Portakabins and untended landscaping, its fingers should point to the North Pole, London, New York and so forth, but instead one enterprising local 'photographer' sticks two up at passing tourists by affixing the missing signage for an £18 fee." The Scotsman.

The wind had got up again and it was pretty cold. Helen went back with Norman and the bikes as the cold was getting to her tooth, and Angus and I came back on a nice warm comfortable bus. The journey at last over, we drove out to Thurso Cemetery to look at the new stone at the site where my mother’s ashes are laid, and have a short time of reflection.

Today the support team (just Helen) visited the Castle of Mey, where the Queen Mum used to live. Angus was on the ride of course!