A Horsewoman From Harlingen in the Highlands—Hiking the Cape Wrath Trail

May 2017. One of the Frisian bastards set out to hike the Cape Wrath Trail in Scotland—a roughly 300-kilometer trek through the remote upper north-western Highlands. The journey began at the settlement of Inbhir Garadh (Invergarry) and stretched all the way to the isolated lighthouse on the cliffs of Cape Wrath, and its tiny café, The Ozone. One might call it the End of the Universe. The fourth day of the hike was both hell and heaven: a day of miscalculations, wrong turns, overconfidence, and plain dumb decisions. Yet by evening, after thirteen straight hours of walking, salvation came in the most unexpected form—a horse rider from his own hometown, far away on the shores of the Wadden Sea.

The Cape Wrath Trail has no official directions and is not a fixed route, and thus no trail markings either. The only 'rule' is that you start at the town of Fort William and finish at the lighthouse of Cape Wrath. That day, May 10, the bastard decided to walk from the village of A'Mhormhaich (Morvich) to that of Strath Carran (Strathcarron) in one day. About 35 kilometers. Up early on a mission.

Unfortunately, things went wrong right away that day. After several kilometers of hard climbing, the bastard arrived at a waterfall that did not match the description of the Falls of Glomach. So, a lot of backtracking, and again a climb of 700 meters up Bealach na Sróine. At the top, it was windy and cold, and it started to drizzle. The little path along the Falls of Glomach was truly scary. The guidebook advises to be careful on this track in wet and windy weather, which it never is in Scotland... It is the highest falling waterfall in the UK. One hundred meters of free fall. The muddy path, just about 10 centimeters wide, clings to the slope above the waterfall, was eerie and barely visible. No possibilities to hold on to anything either. Only grass to grab that obviously would not be strong enough. A path and risk you only take when the alternative is backtracking many kilometers. Risk and physical effort, an exciting combination.

After leaving the gorge and crossing the River Elchaig, the bastard took his only short break that day. Some food and cold instant coffee. Knowing it was going to be quite a march if he wanted to make it to Strath Carran, he had to pick up his pace to make up for the time lost that morning. The road westward went through the beautiful Glen Elchaig, full of wild deer, semi-tame Highland cattle, and, of course, sheep. A sign warned of Highland cattle when they have calves. Plenty of calves everywhere. It was spring.

A’Mhormhaich (Morvich) by Hans Faber

By midday it was clear and obvious to the bastard: it would be nearly impossible to make it all the way to Strath Carran in time. He got tired, stressed, and made another wrong decision. For some reason, he dreaded turning north into the mountains, Glen Ling, and kept walking west along the road instead. Many kilometers he walked along the nearly empty highway going through the mountains. Nowhere to obtain water, either. So, no spot to pitch his tent and end all this agony. The bastard got exhausted. Only cigarettes kept him going.

On a level stretch near Achmore close to Loch Carron, a horse with a blonde-haired rider approached the bastard. The bastard was happy to see a living soul after many hours of walking. The horse was skittish, maybe not used to people walking along the roadside at this late hour. It was a huge horse, and the bastard was a bit nervous, too. During this short stalemate between horse and hiker, how to pass each other, the bastard and horsewoman came into conversation with each other. She heard where he still had to go and said it was almost another 15 kilometers to Strath Carran. Not an easy walk—easily another three hours. "I can give you a lift," she added. But first, she had to go to her house to stable the horse. This would take at least an hour, she explained. The bastard sensed some hesitation in her voice. “It's okay. I’ll manage,” he lied, words he could only produce with great effort. Of course, he wanted her to bring him. And so, they said goodbye. "Aye," she said. "Aij," the bastard replied. Aij or ay is, also, 'yes' in the Old Frisian language (Vries 2022).

Soon after, the bastard passed the settlement of Stromeferry. Again, just like the village of Achmore, there was nothing here either. No hotel, no pub, no restaurant. No nothing. So, he kept walking. He tried to hitchhike where the road narrowed, but it was now almost 7:00 PM and there was even less traffic than before. Moreover, drivers probably did not feel like bringing along a smelly hiker when dusk falls. The bastard soon dropped the idea, and continued walking. Until a white pick-up car suddenly stopped on the middle of the road and its left door was flung open. Behind the wheel sat the blonde long-haired horse rider! He could not believe his eyes. At once, his ordeal that day had come to an end.

Bealach na Sróine by Hans Faber

During the short ride of about twelve kilometers along the loch, she told that she originally came from the city of Newcastle. She had followed her husband to the countryside, to the Highlands. Subsequently, her husband followed another woman. But she stayed and had “a better life than in Newcastle,” with her horses.

She told the bastard she had been to the Netherlands a lot after he had told her where he came from. The horsewoman had worked at sea, based in the port town of Harlingen in the province of Friesland, something to do with measuring the seabed. Amazingly, the port of Harlingen. "My hometown!" the bastard replied. He imagined or fantasized how the peoples of the North Sea were still interconnected via the sea. And, of course, as a rider, she knew the Friesians, the black horses with long manes. "Sometimes I miss the sea," she said. He complimented the Scots and Scotland. Without a moment's thought, she answered:

“Ah, all that nationalism. Everyone is a half-breed.”

"She is right," the Frisian bastard thought.

On arrival at Strath Carran, the horse rider from Harlingen accepted no compensation for the petrol, only requesting that if anyone were in need, he would help out, too. "Can I keep that promise?" he asked himself.

The damping bastard stumbled into the only hotel annex pub of Strath Carran and asked the staff if they had a room available. The place was fully booked because sheep shearers were at work in the area. Check our post Come to Rescue The Rolling Sheep and discover why these fluffy animals bind the peoples of the North Sea alike. No vacancy, but the bastard was allowed to pitch his tent in the field opposite the pub. “Till what time can I order a meal?” the bastard asked next. “Until 7:30,” the bartender said and pointed at a sign on the wall. It was 7:20 PM. "Then I eat first," the bastard replied, sat down at a table, and took off his shoes and wet down jacket.

The sheep shearers, mostly friendly young guys, were eating, drinking, and playing darts. The meal was a herring salad as a starter and a superb steak, weighing almost a kilo, as a main course. Everything was well prepared. Two pints of Guinness with it, and two drams of Laphroaig whisky with espressos. The horse rider had taken the bastard to the banquets of Valhalla. Or had she been a valkyrie, the one who chooses the fallen, and laid his dead body somewhere down the scary Falls of Glomach he passed early that day?

Slightly intoxicated, shivering all over from fatigue, the bastard pitched his tent on the shores of Loch Carron. This is not a lake but sea. The North Atlantic Ocean, even. Falling asleep with the familiar salty smell of the Wadden Sea and the port of Harlingen so close. The sea that connects. It was done, and what a day it was. "Brought by a valkyrie, for sure. I should have asked for its name," he said to himself, and immediately his dreams took over.

The Saga of the Shipwreck on the River Lauwers

An English schooner boat was shipwrecked near the Frisian coast. The wreck ran aground and was left to the mercy of the waves. Those on board the ship saw no other option than to step into a small boat with which they hoped to reach the shore. The small boat became a plaything of the sea, and soon after, everywhere in the water, there were people trying to hold on to wreckage.

Among the persons on board, who were facing death, there were three noble women from Scotland; with all their strength they clung to the wreckage and kept themselves above the water. Thus they drifted on the wave tops. And they prayed to God that He would save them from drowning. On the spot of His choice where the women would be brought ashore, they promised to build a strong, high tower. That would point up to the All-Governing One as a warning to all. This was what the three women’s hearts prayed for in deep distress.

Then, suddenly, their fate took a turn: miraculously, the waves carried the women, free from any danger, to the shore. There they sank to their knees and thanked God for their wondrous rescue. True to their promise, sworn during the hours of need, they built at Oldehove a high, strong, and beautiful tower. In memory of what happened, they had three niches applied to the eastern wall in which each of the Scottish women had placed their image.

Wiersma 1934

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Note 1 — For more hiking stories on other trails, read our blog posts Frisian support for the Corsican Cause in jeopardy—hiking the GR20 on Corsica, Croeso i Gerddwyr hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path in Wales, and, of course, “My God, the Germans bought all the bread!” cried Moira hiking the Cape Wrath Trail, too.

Note 2 — A Scottish meal (Halbertsma 1831)

A poor Highlander from Scotland who could not speak English well travelled to London. When he arrived he was hungry. He asked someone on the street where to go. The Londoner said to go to a pennycook who serves poor people food for a little money: a piece of bread, some meat, and a small glass of beer. The Highlander did not understand the Londoner very well, and asked yet another person where to find a penny cook. This second Londoner thought the Highlander was looking for a barber to shave. So, the Highlander ended up in a barber shop. The barber seated the Highlander and placed a piece of soap and a bowl with hot soapy water next to him, and went to get a razor. When the barber came back, the Highlander had drunk the soapy water and eaten the soap. He said to the barber: “Here is your money. The soup was good, but the potatoes are very gluey,” and paid the barber two pennies.

Note 3 — Featured image near the village of A’Mhormhaich (Morvich) by Hans Faber.

Further reading

Allan, G., The Scottish Bothy Bible. The complete guide to Scotland’s bothies and how to reach them (2017)

Atkinson, T., The Northern Highlands. The Empty Lands (1986)

Halbertsma, J.H., Halbertsma, E.H. & Halbertsma, T.H., Rimen en Teltsjes (1871)

Harper, I., Walking the Cape Wrath Trail. Through the Scottish Highlands from Fort William to Cape Wrath (2015)

Murphy, A., Schotland Highlands & Islands, Footprint (2011)

Page, O. et al, Schotland, Trotter (2009)

Schroor, M., Harlingen. Geschiedenis van de Friese havenstad (2015)

Visser, A.F. (ed.), Harlinger bij-naam (2004)

Wiersma, J.P., Friesche sagen (1934)

Vries, O., Instances of direct speech, authentic and imaginary, in Old Frisian (2022)

Wilson, N., Scotland’s Highlands & Islands, Lonely Planet (2012)

Wright, P., Walking with Wildness. Experiencing the Watershed of Scotland (2012)