It is May 1985 and I am participating in that year’s Ultimate Challenge. The challenge is to walk across Scotland, unaided, from the west coast to the east coast. In my case, from Dornie in the west to Montrose in the east. Approximately 200 miles. I am accompanied by a friend, Alex, who has completed the challenge at least twice before. The route is taken is completely in the hands of the participants.

What follows relates to the section from Kingussie to Braemar, day six and day seven of that 1985 challenge.

Day six is longish and pretty uneventful. We bailout of the Youth Hostel early and detour into the shop in Kingussie, top up our supplies and get on our way. Our route takes us past Ruthven Barracks and Tromie Bridge where we leave the tarmac and follow forest tracks and paths till we reach Glen Feshie. I suffer from thin pads on each foot and on sustained long treks like this one, my metatarsals take a pounding. My feet are again pretty sore so I break a branch from a tree and fashion it into a walking stick, mainly by wrapping lots of surgical tape round one end to make a comfortable handle.

We get rain that day, the first since day one. A refreshment break at Ruigh-aiteachain bothy finds it full to the gunwales with Challengers, many of them having completed the crossing more than once. Some were gaining reputations as stalwarts and many had met before. The atmosphere was friendly and buzzing. I remember Chris Mumford, who went by the bye name of Strider, a real character. There was a little lady called Janet. She might have been small in stature, but not in spirit. I think this might have been her first Challenge. She was in her late sixties and doing it solo. She seemed to be travelling light, compared to the load I was carrying. It turned out she had carefully picked a route that passed near several guest houses and farms. Her planning was exceptional, even to the point of placing essential provisions in these guest houses the week before the actual event. Hence the light day sack. A resourceful lady. It was also said Janet could get a ‘piece’ at anybodies door. That is a quaint Scottish saying meaning, ‘she would never go hungry as her charm would ensure she got fed’. Janet did several solo Challenges after that. She just calmly meandered on at her own pace, nothing seemed to trouble her, a lovely lady and inspirational.

She sadly met her final Challenge a few years ago at 89 years of age.

The rainbow girls were about then also. Their claim to fame, well, one of them, was that they all wore identical rainbow coloured striped jerseys, knitted by their own fair hands. The Challenge is like that, so many real characters and decent people. Many lifelong friendships emerged during the event, probably still do. Long may it continue. I was a mere fledgling. We could not stay here all day, much though we would have liked to as it was shaping up for a good night.

We slung our bags on our back and set off east into the rain along Glen Feshie for a few miles and then the Geldie before encountering the Eidart River, just where it flows south out of the Cairngorms. At that point the Eidart is crossed by a metal framed bridge built some years before by Royal Engineers. It is about nineteen miles out from Kingussie at that point. We get the tent up, settle down to eat and have a liquid refreshment before retiring to our dry and warm sleeping bags . My real problems have probably already started by then, however they do not make themselves known to me until the early hours of the morning.

my rucksack beside the Royal Engineer’s bridge over the Eidart

In the early hours of day seven I am awakened by a severe pain in my right foot, my heel to be precise. No matter how I move, turn, or rub it, the pain is not for shifting. It is throbbing and unrelenting. I am in serious trouble and I know it. I am in agony, my heel has swelled up to such a size, I cannot force it into my boot. First things first, get breakfast out the way, then work out what to do.

I will explain something at this juncture, a successful crossing is rewarded by a certificate and a badge. However if one includes a dozen separate Munros in the crossing, the certificate has ‘High Level’ written on it, otherwise it is a low level crossing. The former is particularly prized. We were both on track for the high level, until my malaise. I was out of the high level challenge and the chance of being in any challenge was slipping away fast.

After breakfast and after stowing our gear, we were ready for the off. Except I wasn’t. Decision time. Alex still has a chance of the high level award. To stay in contention however he has to go over Carn an Fhidhleir and An Sgarsoch, two big mountains a bit to the south of our position. I agree he needs to get over them and off he toddles, telling me to do the best I can and he will catch up with me later in the day.

Then he is gone and I am sitting alone, in a really remote, wilderness part of Scotland, nineteen miles from Kingussie and eighteen miles from Braemar. What to do? I have three choices, reduce the swelling so I can get my boot on, cut my boot open and force my swollen foot into my boot or, sit where I am until help can be summoned. I reject option two and three.

So, how do I tackle option one? My trusty pen knife is my surgical tool of choice. I hirple over to the Eidart and sit down by the water. Then, carefully and with the precision of an experienced surgeon, wield the pen knife with a certain amount of aplomb and dexterity and, saw my foot open, being careful not to cut the pad of my heel as I will have to walk on it later. A stab wound on the pad will be a bit of a bummer. I also have to be careful not to cut any tendons or other vital bits of my foot that congregate in that area. I carefully saw and stab at the fleshy part immediately below the heel bone and above the pad, at the back of my foot. Awkward to reach.

I struggle to get purchase. Some of that because of the awkward angle, but most of it because I am a bit apprehensive about causing more damage. I am getting nowhere. So I pluck up courage and really go for it. If I said I was inflicting pain I would be absolutely correct. Eventually I am in and blood is flowing. I keep going until I see the first sign of yellow puss, no going back now. I keep sawing and squeezing until I see only blood. I think, not without some relief, that will do. I am not sure if I could have put up with much more pain.

I then give my foot a wash in the river, dry it, apply some plasters to the gash and get my sock on. Now for stage two, get my boot on. Miracle of miracles, I get my injured foot stuffed into it and I am good to go. That whole procedure took a while, best part of half an hour, maybe longer.

I load up, take two pain killers and set off on the long miles to Braemar. I am in real pain, a different pain, more of a sharp pain, but I am walking. To try and ignore the pain, I get into a zone, sing, tell myself stories, anything but concentrate on pain. On I limp, mile after mile, reluctant to stop, sucking on sweets and the occasional pain killing tablet. Every time I stop to ease the pain of walking, I look at my map. Wishful thinking on my part, willing Braemar to get closer. I really was not enjoying this.

Then I had my second miracle of the day. I could hear music. Have I taken too many painkillers?

I am approaching a ruined building, just a mile or two short of where the River Dee appears at White Bridge. The music is coming from there. For some reason I cannot recall, I think the ruin is called the Red House, or similar. I limp over and find two real characters have taken up temporary residence in the ruin. They are fellow travellers. Their application to participate in the Ultimate Challenge had been rejected, so they were protesting by doing it the other way, east to west, at the same time as the actual Challenge. They had christened it the ‘opposite protest’ Challenge. I wish I could remember their names. They were both London taxi drivers and had completed the challenge the year before.

I have never seen backpackers with so much gear. They had a radio, hence the music, and pots and pans and were busy boiling potatoes and preparing some kind of stew. They has stuff spread all over the place. I was mesmerised, how did they carry all that? Not a taxi in sight. Food was nearly ready and they asked if I wanted to join them.

Join them I did. I spent more than an hour in the ruin. What great craic they were. We left together and they walked along to White Bridge with me, before heading off in their, ‘opposite protest’ challenge.

More pills and on the road again. White Bridge to Linn of Dee, where I would be back on tarmac and actual roads, seemed an awful long way and I was toiling. Shortly after reaching the tarmac, a couple of day trippers in a car offered me a lift. When I explained that I could not take up their kind offer and mentioned the charity I was collecting for, they gave me five pounds.

Then I was on my own again. Alex caught up with me at the thirty miles an hour signs on the outskirts of Braemar. He was surprised I had made it so far. I was in too much of a dream state to notice. All I had to do now was find medical assistance.

That was in the form of Margaret Kynoch, the wonderful District Nurse. When I found her she was in the middle of a game of bowls, on the artificial grass rink. I waited until she had won her game before approaching her. Omens were good, I thought, although she hadn’t seen my feet at that point. Then she did. 'My goodness, what have you done, you really need to see the Doctor'.

That is why day eight started and nearly finished with me heading the queue at the Doctor's surgery. Nurse Kynoch ushered me in and introduced me to Doctor George Anderson, the Braemar General Practitioner. A character from a bygone age, Dr Findlay’s Casebook sprung to mind, resplendent in tweed jacket, plus two trousers, green woollen stocking and heavy duty brogue shoes. I was awestruck. I met and continued to meet many characters on my many mountain adventures. Dr Anderson topped the bill.

He examined my foot, well both feet as it turned out and informed me, amid much tutting, that my right foot was in a bad way. I am not sure my 'self help' surgery impressed him. This will need penicillin he informed me and with that he headed, out of sight, into a large walk in cupboard. For the next few minutes all I could hear were the sound of boxes and perhaps furniture being moved, much grunting and the sound of glass rattling against glass until he appeared, triumphant, with two glass medicine phials clutched in one hand and an old 'large' glass syringe in the other, with the retort, 'found the blighters'. He had indeed.

Having affixed a large needle to the syringe, he inserted it into the rubber seal on top of the glass phial, drew out the required amount of liquid, checked the levels carefully, then inserted it into my arm. If I said I felt no pain, I would be lying. He cleaned my heels, applied some kind of cream, then bandaged both, my left foot seemingly had an open blister that he was not happy about. He gave me some painkillers and advised, ' Your journey is over young man, you need to keep off your feet for a few days.' I thanked him.

I was just about to leave and he stopped me and began to talk in general terms about what I was doing, The Ultimate Challenge, where I was from and what I did. He told me he came from Motherwell, if I remember correctly. What I definitely did remember however was his two wonderful Alsatian dogs and their ‘kennel’. He lived in a big old, perhaps Victorian, granite house. Through from the surgery part was a large living room and adjoining kitchen. The living room had what looked like two Chesterfield settees. That area of the house was the dogs ‘kennel’. They had the run of the place and it looked like they did.

After the guided tour he shook my hand and wished me good luck, reminding me that getting a bus home was a priority. I thanked him and headed out to find the nurse and thank her. I found her in the waiting room. She accompanied me out and asked if I was going to be fine. I assured her I would and I thanked her for taking the trouble to ensure I got to see the Doctor.

Both nurse Kynoch and Dr Anderson impressed me in so many ways. They were approachable, decent, caring professionals and down to earth human beings. As I walked away to the Youth Hostel to give Alex the bad news that my challenge was over, she watched and waved. I never saw either of them again and that is to my shame. I had resolved to call in on them when next in Braemar, but life spins on and before one realises, years have passed.

At the Youth Hostel, all the other ‘overnighters’ had headed out to experience their respective adventures, leaving Alex to wait for my return. After giving him the news, we sorted out our kit.

I delayed my departure from the Challenge and accompanied Alex a couple of miles down the Perth Road to pick a spot to wait for a bus.

Ultimate Challenge 1985

How I got into Scribbling at the Grand Old Age of Seventy Years