01. Applecross to the Orkneys

You roll into Kyle of Lochalsh with the feeling that you’ve reached a frontier. The village huddles around the water, fishing boats rocking gently, and the Skye Bridge sweeping away to the left like an invitation. You can hear the clang of masts, the soft thrum of the trains arriving from Inverness, and smell salt and diesel on the air. This is where road, rail and sea knot together, and you feel the journey properly begin.

Take a slow wander along the harbour and watch the light move over the Cuillin ridge across the water. Kyle has always been a crossing place from cattle drovers and steamers to today’s campervans and island buses and you’re just the latest traveller pausing here before pushing on. Stock up on supplies, grab something hot, and stand for a moment with the gulls wheeling overhead. Ahead is the wild north; behind, the rest of the world.

Applecross feels like a prize you earn rather than a dot on a map. Whether you’ve taken the famous Bealach na Bà, curling up through the clouds on hairpin bends, or slipped in along the coastal road, you arrive with your shoulders a little looser and your senses wide awake. The village itself is a soft scattering of white cottages, a strip of sand and a view across to Skye that changes by the minute.

You can hear the hush of the tide on the pebbles and the low murmur from the inn as walkers, bikers and locals trade stories over pints. This peninsula was once one of the most isolated places on the mainland, a world of crofts and small boats. You still feel that remoteness in the wide skies and empty single-track roads, with deer on the verges and eagles somewhere above. It’s the sort of place where you’ll promise yourself “just one night” and then quietly add another.

By the time you reach Lochinver, it feels as if the mountains have stepped closer to the road. The village hugs the shore of a sea loch, fishing boats nested together and the scent of smoke, salt and fish in the air. Behind the houses, the Assynt hills rise in strange shapes - Suilven, Canisp, Quinag - like ancient beasts sleeping under a thin green blanket.

You wander the harbour and watch the light slide across the water, fishing gear stacked in quiet piles, dogs trotting along the pier as if they own it. This has always been a working place, tied to the sea and the land, but it’s also a little haven for travellers on the long haul north. You might grab a proper plate of food, hunt down a famous pie, or just sit with a takeaway coffee and listen to the gulls. Stay long enough and you start to feel the slow rhythm of a village that lives by tides and weather, not by clocks.

Durness feels like the edge of something. The road finally drops you at a scattering of houses, a tiny shop or two and, beyond them, beaches that look almost unreal. At Sango Bay the waves roll in turquoise and white, crashing against black rocks while the wind tugs at your hood and fills your lungs with cold Atlantic air. On a good day the sand is bright and soft; on a stormy one the whole bay roars.

You walk the cliff paths and peer down into the famous Smoo Cave, a vast mouth in the limestone where legends cling to the dripping walls. Vikings, smugglers, hidden spirits people have been whispering stories about this coastline for centuries, and you can understand why when the light slants low and the sea mist creeps in. Up here, you’re closer to the Arctic Circle than to London, and the nights can feel enormous. Yet there’s always a warm doorway, a cosy bar, or a campsite view that makes you glad you kept driving this far.

Bettyhill arrives suddenly after a run of big skies and empty bends, perched above the mouth of the River Naver. You crest the hill and there it is: a small cluster of houses, a church, and below them a sweep of golden sand curling round a bay that could easily belong somewhere far further south. The river snakes into the sea, and on a still evening the surface mirrors the shifting clouds like brushed metal.

You might wander down to Farr Beach, the dunes muffling the sound of your steps as you cross. The wind carries the smell of marram grass and salt, and you can hear the distant splash of waves well before you see them. This coast has seen Pictish stones raised, clans feuding, and later the sorrow of the Clearances as people were pushed from their homes. Now it’s peaceful, almost dreamlike, with the odd fisherman or dog walker sharing the view. It’s a gentle pause on your route, a place to breathe, skim a stone, and feel how much land you’ve already crossed.

At John o’ Groats you reach the cliché and discover it’s still worth the drive. The famous signpost, the colourful row of huts, the clink of caravan doors and the chatter of accents from all over Britain – it’s busy, sometimes a bit kitsch, but there’s a genuine “end of the road” buzz to it. You stand at the edge of the harbour and look out across the Pentland Firth, where the sea races between mainland and islands in powerful tides that have wrecked more than one ship.

This spot has lured travellers for generations, from Victorian tourists to cyclists finishing charity rides with salt-streaked faces. You join the ritual: a photo, a wander along the shore, maybe fish and chips in the breeze. But it’s also a beginning. The low, dark shapes on the horizon are Orkney, and the ferries plying back and forth feel like stepping stones. As you watch them come and go, you feel the pull of the islands and know your journey isn’t over yet it’s just about to lift off the mainland.

Stromness greets you from the water, a tight row of stone houses clinging to the shoreline as the ferry noses into the harbour. You step onto cobbled streets that smell faintly of salt and stone dust, doorways opening almost straight onto the sea. The town curves round its sheltered bay, fishing boats nodding at their moorings while gulls argue overhead. Duck in and out of narrow closes, find a coffee in a tiny café, and feel how quickly Stromness starts to wrap itself around you like a well-worn jumper.

But the real scale of Orkney hits you when you drive out towards the Ring of Brodgar. The road threads through low, open farmland until the standing stones suddenly appear on a natural rise, encircled by lochs and big, shifting skies. You walk the path around the ring, wind tugging at your jacket, and it feels as if you’ve stepped sideways in time. Some of these stones have been watching storms, sunsets and solstices for over four thousand years. Later, back in Stromness with the harbour lights flickering on the water, you realise how close the deep past sits to everyday life here.