The sky seemed closer than usual. Maybe I was up high. The satnav had been telling me what to do, and I had listened. The road to Dunnet Head was longer than I thought it would be.
I stayed the night in a Premier Inn in Thurso after a five-hour drive from Glasgow, through Stirling, Inverness and the Cairngorms. It sounds as though it should have been a beautiful drive. But the November fog had swallowed all traces of the scenery I was destined not to see. My attention was kept to the road, one that felt like a long-forgotten farm track under my wheels.
Thurso wasn’t anything special. I’d arrived at six o’clock, and night had long fallen. It had the air of a seaside town, a sense of last frontier about it. I enjoy travelling to places like this, last outposts and final stops – I did Lands End in Cornwall last March – there’s something almost mournful about a final town. Thurso felt normal. In Lands End, the air had hung heavily. But Thurso was indifferent to its status as the most northerly town in mainland Britain.
I’d not heard of Dunnet Head before I arrived in Thurso. I’d originally planned to just visit John O’Groats and head home. My ambition was purely to visit the signpost, snap a picture and call it a day, marking the completion of my Lands End to John O’Groats odyssey. However, it had turned out that the true most northern point was14 miles west of my original destination. A little 19th-century lighthouse atop the dull grey horn of Dunnet Head, facing out to the Orkney Islands. This was to be my true destination.
After visiting John O’Groats and taking in the haze of the Pentland Firth, I had sunk lowly into thoughts of the countless lives lost on the pleasant-looking waters that stretched out from the rocky shoreline. But on the day I was there, it seemed as placid and as gentle as the fog that ruined my view on the drive up. Caithness at its kindest. Atop the flat sea, however, the currents were visible – patches of water flowed in opposing patterns all over the firth. A tectonic struggle. Clouds shot across the sky, framing the image of a perfect Scotland to me – majestic and disquieting.
Moving on, I headed next for the true endpoint of my journey. The road was empty – besides my tiny little silver Volkswagen. The sky beckoned blue above and grew closer as I drove upwards toward the elevated point of Dunnet Head. I turned off the main road at the satnav’s instruction and onto a smaller B road that snaked through the oval-shaped headland. The silence was extra noticeable now – I felt more isolated than ever.
I rounded a bend that opened out onto a thin continuation of the road alongside a lake, above the lake stood a stumpy hill that the road crept behind. The car lumbered up the hill until, at long last, the black head of the lighthouse I had seen in photos of this place came into view. The car rumbled over the cattle grid at the entrance of the car park, and there I stopped.
The sea rolled steadily into the horizon, broken only by the Isle of Hoy nine miles north. In catching sight of the island, it reminded me of how Dunnet Head still wasn’t north enough; more land lay ahead, and more miles still to cover.
Still, Dunnet Head was a worthy trip.
It was lonely and quiet. More work was still to be done, more driving and navigating. But I had gotten what I wanted, the pristine blue of the firth and the supposed gentleness of the terrain. The return drive was lacking in fog, showing me at last the hills and the sea that previously had been a secret.