6th November

It was uncomfortable sleeping on the sofa in the hut, maybe I should have climbed onto the matress hanging above me in the rafters and put my feelings aside. The weather outside had turned evil, the wind was pounding the hut with tremendous force. I needed to decide whether to leave the comfort and safety of my refuge or take a crack at the coast.

The dull light of day barely lighting the far end of the hut made it difficult to make out the shadows of my kit sprawled around the floor. It was cold in there, I could only imagine what it would have been like if I'd had to camp that night and waking up to the strong gales and damp air. I was dry at least and I had the wood stove to keep me warm.

I climbed out of the comfort of my sleeping bag and set about getting the stove fired up. Immediately the chill inside the hut faded replaced by the warmth emanating from the orange flicker of the flames as they lapped the splinters of wood.

I wanted to stay in front of the stove and feel its warmth against my legs and face but I needed to get more water from the stream to make a coffee and rehydrate a breakfast, I also needed to cut some more timber to keep the fire fed. Reluctantly I found my socks and wet weather gear and set off with my two empty bottles across the bay and down to the stream.  It was flowing much quicker than the evening before and didn't take long to collect a couple of litres. I then headed back to the hut and leaving the bottled water went into the store shed to saw some more wood down small enough to fit into the stove.

Back inside the  stove was beginning to warm the hut through. I sat on the sofa and boiled some water. Smooth oats and raspberries, somehow it never seemed to get boring. Every time I rehydrated it the texture was different,  sometimes runny, sometimes thick, always it tasted good. I sipped on my coffee listening to the roar of the wind outside. It was a very different day to the day before.

The trek had no longer been a simple trot around the British coastline it had become a case of surviving the Scottish winter. It was like the west coast of Scotland didn't want me to leave.  I felt pinned down. Without the satellite images of the terrain ahead of me I wouldn't know what to expect or where I would potentially find places to shelter that night. I didn't really even know where I was or how far it was to Inverie, the next place I was likely to see other people.

As time passed by I knew I would have to make a decision. I either stayed where I was and hoped the weather would improve the following day or take a chance and head off away from the little wooden hut and is solid cozy protection.

In the back of my mind I kept thinking about Plockton. Plockton the place where palm trees grew, the place I'd gone hypothermic, the place where it all began to go wrong. A lesson learned. I began to recall parts of the book I'd read in the caravan and how two experienced climbers had set off into the mountains knowing a storm was heading their way and about how they'd got hypothermia and one had lost their life. I remembered how confused I felt shivering in the cold and wet unable to make solid decisions. I needed to make a decision now and it had to be made soon. The days were getting shorter and the landscape was too dangerous to hike in poor light.

The wind was picking up, I decided to check the weather. I only had a weak signal on my phone but it was enough to get a data connection. The forecast didn't look good. I was running out of time I needed to make a decision soon.

The rain began beating against the roof and I conceded to the fact I would be safer where I was.  The outlook appearing to be slightly better the following day. Once again I was pinned down between four walls. No tv or radio, nobody to chat too. I decided to write up my adventure from the day before and improve my skills as an author, something I hadn't envisaged before setting off from Southampton eight months earlier.

Not wanting to waffle and bore followers of the challenge I'd only ever stuck to the facts and described the changing landscape as it appeared before me. A comment from paul O'Brien requested more. He wanted to know how I felt, what drove me on, what went on in my mind as I hiked day after day across beaches, up cliff faces and along shorelines. I wasn't even sure myself.  I stayed focussed I made hundreds of decisions and had been faced with a multitude of choices every day. How did I feel? What drove me on? I felt determined, determination drove me. If my bones or muscles ached, I stopped for a short break before continuing.  There had to be more laying beneath the hardened exterior, my shell that protected me from the elements and like a machine kept hiking but did I want to share it with the world. How did I feel physically and emotionally. I hadn't thought about it before. I didn't know myself. Every day I searched for shelter, I hunted for water and in my mind I plotted routes. When I stopped for a break I thought about the future, what I would do after I had crossed the thick black rubber line that held the two parts of the bridge together that I had left behind in march. I would conjure up new challenges and plan how I would document them and raise the funds to finance them. I hoped I would inspire, overcoming all the problems and suffering that I faced in the past, present and future. It all just happened in my mind, I never really thought about it, it just happened.

Every so often it seemed calm outside and I wondered if I'd made the right choice by staying put but a sudden strong gust of wind followed by a short but heavy downpour satisfied me that I was better off where I was and that tomorrow I would be able to continue in slightly more favourable conditions.

I continued to write, searching for the jamie Andrew and joe Simpson in me.

Lunch time eventually found its way. I didn't normally afford myself such luxuries and generally kept trekking fueling myself as I walked with biscuits or sweets. I rummaged through my pack, I would need to save the rations for the coming days uncertain as to when I would next pass a post office or even in fact if anyone had kindly donated another weeks worth or freeze dried food. Custard. I still had a pack of custard and apple from my recent supply drop. I'd decided to save it for when things got tough but I figured now was as good a time as any to rehydrate it and satisfy my rumbling stomach.

The wind was still howling in waves around the hut so I continued writing.

The weather eventually calmed quite contrary to the predictions of the forecast. Feeling I'd wasted a day I got my gear together ready for an early start the following morning. No matter what it looked like outside or what the predictions said I was going to tackle the headland on the knoydart peninsula. If I was lucky I might even make it to Inverie that day otherwise it would have to be a wild camp in the cold darkness of a Scottish winter night a way from civilisation,  alone.

It was warm in the hut, it had been all day. I should have felt happy and enjoyed the luxuries of sitting on a sofa relaxing but the truth is I was eager to make a move. It didn't matter to me if it was wet outside or even if the wind blew but a combination of the two I knew could be deadly. I stoked the fire and settled in for the night eagerly waiting for the morning when I could break free, come what may.