The pilgrimage to Whithorn doesn’t end at the ruins of Whithorn Priory. It continues with a trip to St. Ninian’s Cave, where the saint repaired for private devotions, and a walk to Isle of Whithorn, where a now-roofless stone chapel dedicated to St. Ninian’s stands. We’re going the opposite way of medieval pilgrims, who would have come by sea, stopping at St. Ninian’s cave along the sea shore before disembarking at St. Ninian’s chapel and then proceeding overland for the short walk to Whithorn and a visit to the saint’s (now missing) remains.

We shunned the medieval pilgrims’ method of transportation at first this morning–we took a taxi to the parking lot above the cave, where we met Matthew’s friends Chris and Clare, who had driven over from Newcastle to see him. Together we walked along the shore to the cave. It’s smaller now than it would’ve been when Ninian was there–erosion caused parts of the entry to fall in–and the crosses that medieval pilgrims carved into the stone walls are lost among other graffiti, but there are signs of people visiting out of faith: crosses and coins and, strangely, the name “Manson.”

Then we climbed up onto the cliffs above the sea and walked to Isle of Whithorn. It was windy and a little rainy–nothing like the forecast had promised, though–and the path was often just inches from a vertiginous drop to the rocks below. I relaxed whenever we went through a gate into a pasture, because then there would be a fence between us and the edge. Usually, however, there was no fence. It was the setting of a Scots murder mystery: two business partners go for a walk along the shore, hoping the fresh air and exercise will help them settle their differences, and only one returns. “He fell, officer, honest!” But Detective Milngavie finds out the truth, somehow, within the 200 pages the publisher asked for, and the social contract is reaffirmed.

I had left my heavy pack behind and was carrying Christine’s day pack, and I felt like skipping over the hills. And my boots finally dried last night, mostly, so my feet were comfortable. Despite the cliff edge, it was a great walk.

In Isle of Whithorn, we saw the chapel ruins and had coffee–and some of Clare’s delicious fruit cake–and then Chris and Clare drove us back to Whithorn before turning for home. Our plan is to go back to Isle of Whithorn for supper at the pub. Yes, we could’ve stayed there–a band was playing folk music in the pub–but an entire afternoon in the pub might have meant overstaying our welcome, especially in our smelly walking clothes. “Get the stinking drunk Canadians out of here!” the barman would shout, and we would end up walking, or staggering, back to Whithorn.

That’s the end of this walk. Tomorrow we head for Glasgow, where Matthew will had back to Nottingham and then, two days later, we’ll return home. What have I learned from walking in Scotland? Bring rain pants! And if your path reaches a dead end, don’t be afraid to turn back. And take time to enjoy a lovely country. At least we’re done the last one, very well.

It was pouring rain when I got up this morning, but by the time we’d finished our massive full Scottish breakfast, the sun was shining and it stayed shining all day. Our landlord drove us to Mochrum, where we began our short(ish) walk to Whithorn. On the way, he explained how a man in his forties managed to retire and move from southern England to what he calls “the least populated corner of Scotland” to run a pub and hotel with his wife and daughter. It’s not an easy life–they closed last night after midnight and we’re up to serve us breakfast at nine o’clock, but although he says he wouldn’t do it again, he seems to be enjoying himself.

We walked along a busy B road most of the day. But our path took us past a trio of menhirs (two had fallen), called the Drumtrodden stones. Neolithic people dragged those huge stones to that spot and then pulled them erect, so that thousands of years later they are still vertical (some of them). And there are menhirs all over Europe. Nobody knows exactly what they were for, but they were clearly important–otherwise those people wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble putting them up.

My boots are still wet, despite being stuffed with newspaper last night. And that means damp socks and, eventually, more blisters. But because our walk was short today, and because the sun was shining, I’m no worse off than I was at the end of yesterday’s walk.

The traffic got busier as we drew nearer to Whithorn, with relays of tractors hauling wagons of loose hay (for silage, perhaps) and then returning empty. That meant a lot of hopping out of the way every few minutes. Soon we could see Whithorn in the distance–the clock tower on the town hall is quite distinctive–and in a few miles we were there.

Our B&B hosts weren’t around, so I stashed my pack in their garden and walked on to Whithorn Priory. There’s a Church of Scotland church next to the roofless priory chapel, which was abandoned after the Reformation (many of the priory’s other buildings seem to have been pulled down and the stone reused–perhaps for the new church). The crypt where St. Ninian’s remains used to be is below–it can be accessed through the museum, which holds a small but impressive collection of stone crosses dating back more than a thousand years.

It was a little underwhelming, perhaps because of the small size of the chapel, or perhaps because my feet hurt and I was tired. I enjoyed hearing about the stone crosses, though, and we met the author of the guidebook to the Whithorn Way, Julia Muir Watt, at the town’s visitor centre. (We bought copies for future reference.) She said we were the first Canadians to walk the Way–or in our case, parts of it.

A taxi will arrive shortly to take us to a pub in Garlieston for supper. And after that, I’m excited about doing a little laundry–since we’re going to be here for two days, it might even dry!

Last night, Peter Ross, one of the group who are working to revive the Whithorn Way, stopped by our lodgings (a renovated shed named Nadav’s Hut) to say hello. He was kind enough to take Matthew and Christine to a nearby village (I needed a nap) where they bought some food for breakfast and, more importantly, beer. This morning, we met Peter at Glenluce Abbey, and he walked with us much of the day. No waymarking troubles–Peter led the way and put us on our road when he turned for home–and much explanations of the history of the Way and the politics of reviving it, as well as the nuts and bolts of living in this corner of Scotland. He was a welcome addition to our walk.

We crossed the famous Southern Uplands Way, which Peter helped to create in the early 1970s. It hasn’t taken off, partly because of the difficulty of the route and partly because the Borders are too unpopulated to provide much in the way of services for walkers. Many of the things that make life here easy–cars and trucks, for instance–make walking harder, since they encourage rural depopulation, which makes pedestrians’ lives harder. Eighty years ago there might’ve been more villages where walkers might’ve been able to get food and drink–like Arthur Wainwright wandering around in the Pennines just before the war.

The sun came out briefly in the morning, but it started to drizzle while Peter was touring us through the ruins of Glenluce Abbey, and the rain, ranging from steady showers to a fine mizzle, stayed with us all day. Away went the camera, and on went the rain gear. As lovely as my camera is, its weight and fragility count against it, and I wonder if I need something lighter. We stopped for lunch in Glenluce village–I had a haggis and cheese sandwich, an odd yet tasty combination–and then carried on down the road. Peter showed us a loch with two crannags–artificial islands built by Bronze Age people–before he turned back to Glenluce. The islands were intended for defence, archaeologists think: if raiders appeared, the people could pull away their drawbridges and be safe. Or at least safer.

After Peter left for home, our path led us over the moors and through a forest. I spooked a pair of sheep, who stumbled across a cattle grid and headed for parts unknown. Then an approaching vehicle sent them running back our way. I thought of how my friend Geoff was knocked down by a rogue sheep in Spain. I got out of the way. The sheep ran past–Matthew has a great photo of them–and back over the obstacle that was supposed to keep them on the other side of the fence.

Then we went through the forest. The path became a track covered in knee-high grass, which soaked our boots and trousers. We plashed across the moor to the point where our landlord from the Craighlaw Arms in Kirkowan was to pick us up. We were early and as soon as we stopped walking we got cold. Shivering cold. But Dave arrived quickly and carried us to his hotel where we were offered a dryer for our clothes and a warm place for our soggy boots. Maybe they’ll dry overnight! We also were served an excellent supper accompanied by an IPA. What could be better?

During the last hour of any walk, when my feet hurt and my pack is heavy, I curse myself and ask why I go on these walks. After a shower and dry clothing and eating and drinking, I have my answer. Although I do wonder how I’ll get back up the stairs to our room…..

This morning, we put on our wet boots for another day of walking. There are two schools of thought here regarding wet boots: does one wear dry socks and risk getting them wet, ending up with two pairs of wet socks, or does one wear damp socks and keep the dry pair for a better day? I’m of the faction that prefers to save dry socks for later, but looking at my pruny feet, I might have to change my ways. Perhaps dry socks in wet boots is the way to go.

Those pruny feet are, not surprisingly, blistered, and I hobbled the last few kilometres into New Luce today. It’s a lovely village, but the pub is closed for renovations and our kind hosts don’t normally do suppers (without lots of advance notice). Luckily we have some food, including a can of soup donated by our hosts. Supper is covered, then, but breakfast is not. We will have to walk to the next town on empty stomachs. It’s not far–just over five miles.

It was a lovely walk here. We didn’t get lost–we couldn’t, since we followed the same road past sheep and cattle farms all day. And wind farms–several of those. We also figured out how to use the OS map references on our directions to identify where we were. Matthew even has a compass, which is invaluable.

The threatening rain held off until just after we stopped for a midday snack–a full Scottish breakfast leaves little room for lunch–and then it started to pour. This time I was smart and put my camera–which slowly came back to life over the morning–away. Eventually the sun came out. I stopped to take off my boots and socks, wondering aloud if I ought to put on a dry pair. Hardly had the words “dry socks” left my mouth than it began to rain again. It rained on and off for the rest of the day. It’s raining now.

We’re safely under a roof, though, and resting after our walk. Soon we’ll think about supper. Until then, it’s time for a nap.

It started raining as we left the B&B. We had eaten enough to satisfy Robert the Bruce’s army at breakfast. In the town centre, we ran across the landlord from the Maybole Arms with Loki, and they posed for a photo.

Our B&B hosts had said it was a mile to Crossraguel Abbey. It was longer, a plod alongside a busy highway. The Abbey is closed for restoration work, but Christine climbed the fence and took a look inside.

Later: We walked along a country track (paved, oddly), across a ford (shallow now, but apparently the burn can get a lot deeper), and into Kirkoswald. I stumbled on the track and hurt my knee, so when we stopped at a whiskey shop for samples, I put on a brace that I bought in Spain years ago. Then we wandered into a café for scones and coffee. When we start walking again, we’ll be heading into the countryside again. I’m going to be more careful of where I put my feet.

Later: It was a gentle rain at first, the kind that seems to stop when you put on your raincoat. Then it got steadily worse, and we slowly got used to being wet. We have directions and an OS map, but the directions are sometimes cryptic and they seem to be intended to accompany route maps which we don’t have–they were lost in the mail, apparently, or sent to the wrong address. So we got lost despite following the directions as best as we could. They often referred to places that weren’t on the OS map, which was a problem. Not even on the GPS version of the map, which at least gave us an idea of where we were. That was essential–which isn’t a surprise, I suppose.

Once, the path appeared to come to a dead end at a stone barn. After much discussion and map reading, we found the way forward: an overgrown track. That was a relief. Later, the road we were following ended in a barley field. We were lost. We knew where we were–in a barley field next to an industrial park that was on the OS map. But where was our path? We thought it might be best to walk along the edge of the field. That led us to a ditch filled with brambles and nettles. I could hear the highway on the other side of the ditch, and tried to find a way through. It was impossible: on the other side of the steep-walked ditch there was a fence, covered in more brambles. I turned around and retraced my steps. It was starting to rain hard. By the time I got back out of the ditch I was scratched and bleeding–and soaked. We all were soaked. The barley field was a giant sponge filled with water. In hindsight, we should’ve just turned around when the road ended. But when you’re walking, every step costs something, and it’s hard to lose that effort–the sunk cost fallacy in action, I suppose.

Finally we found our way out and discovered we were close to where we were supposed to be–the Ayrshire Coastal Path, which essentially means the seashore, never mind the terrain or the tides. We had several miles to go and we were wet and exhausted, and without an address, we couldn’t call a cab. So we kept walking. My camera didn’t like getting so wet–it started giving strange error messages–so I put it away. Just as well–it was raining too hard for photography.

Now we’re in a pub in Girvan. My legs and hands are singing from the nettles, but it seems to have stopped raining and our B&B is close by. I’m looking forward to getting out of my wet clothes–although I’m going to be getting back into them again in the morning, unless the airing cupboard works some kind of magic. Even if it does, there’s a good chance of rain tomorrow.

We’re on the train to Ayr from Glasgow, where we’ll begin our walk on the Whithorn Way, an approximation of an old pilgrimage path to Whithorn, where the relics of St. Ninian, the first Christian missionary to Scotland, are located. Many medieval pilgrims, or at least pre-Reformation ones, including Mary, Queen of Scots, made their way to Whithorn for spiritual reasons. I’m just interested in walking in Scotland.

The Whithorn Way isn’t marked, although some of the paths it follows are, and despite our instructions I anticipate wrong turnings. We have OS maps which ought to help. And Google Maps, too–depending on reception.

I neglected to charge my camera, unfortunately. At least I can take photos with my phone. Christine is still jet lagged and hasn’t slept in days. She’s having a nap now as the train speeds towards Ayr.

John Henderson, one of the folks working to revive the Whithorn Way, drove to Glasgow from Melrose yesterday to meet us and explain logistics as well as the history of this path. His explanation of OS map references is going to come in handy.

Later: We’ve stopped for lunch beside the Irish Sea. It smells like kelp and salt. There’s a holiday camp behind us, and a dog came to visit–not because he wanted our sandwiches, but because he wanted someone to throw his slobbery ball. We’re about to set off to climb the Heads of Ayr. Wish us luck.

Later: We didn’t climb the Heads of Ayr. We missed a way marker, or the way marker was missing, and we ended up walking along the beach beneath, over boulders and through deep sand. I hadn’t realized how slippery deep drifts of kelp on the shore would be. How could I know? I live thousands of miles from the ocean. Had the tide been in, though, we wouldn’t have been able to make our way through.

Eventually we found the trail again, which led us into a cow pasture. I noted how many wildflowers here have been introduced in Canada–silverweed and thistles and sow thistle–but also how many plants are completely unknown to me. The way out took us back down to the sea again. But we could see the village of Dunure in the distance, where we are supposed to head inland.

We are in the tea shop in Dunure now, deciding whether to call a taxi to Maybole, where we’re staying, or keep walking. My phone says we’ve already walked as far as we had planned, although we did get lost a couple of times and we wandered around in the Robert Burns museum for a while.

I think the decision is to take a taxi. Just as well: it was a very hard walk today, and we have more walking tomorrow.

My camera, surprisingly, still has a little juice left–but I will have to charge it tonight.

Irn Brus are finished; time to move along–in a taxi.

Later: Our B&B is in a Charles Rennie McIntosh-designed Arts and Crafts-style home, and the town boasts a pub and a restaurant–hopefully side-by-side. Today’s walking is more or less finished; tomorrow’s is the work of another day.

Still later: We had stout at the Maybole Arms, where the landlord kindly let us bring in fish and chips from the chippy across the road (his kitchen was closed) and gave us treats to give to his handsome dog, Loki. Then back to our lodgings for wine and fantastic British cheese as a dessert. Now it’s time to turn in; the full Scottish breakfast at eight o’clock requires a good night’s sleep before it can be faced with courage and appetite.