We slept like newborns, barely stirring as we woke to a low blanket of cloud and a bittersweet feeling: today we would see Sarah, but also leave behind the coast and return to ‘normal’ life. A wave of homesickness came over us, knowing that by evening we wouldn’t be snuggled in our little tent, listening to the waves and breathing in the salt air. Mornings like this feel strange—a subtle disconnect between us and the landscape, as if some deep self-preservation instinct is bracing us for the return to normal life, as if facing a long, inescapable work shift with no end in sight. I’ve said it a thousand times, but we are lucky and privileged to feel this way. I know many people would give anything for the experiences we’ve had, and we will be forever grateful—and grateful to you for joining us on this journey.

We walked briskly into the small, picturesque village of Gourdon. What caught our attention immediately was a large mural: a painting worthy of the Tate, exquisite in detail, both welcoming and imposing. It was flanked by a cheerful wooden carving of Thomas the Tank Engine and vibrant planters overflowing with colour, while the harbour was filled with character—wooden carvings of a shark, a lighthouse, and an amusingly frantic council van whizzing around, emptying bins.

As we left Gourdon, I paused for a photograph. Turning around, I saw Eve sitting on the sea wall, lost in thought, gazing along the coast with glazed eyes and an intensity I couldn’t stir her from. We sat together in total silence for almost half an hour, until Eve suddenly said, “sorry,” swung her legs down, and started walking again. I still don’t know exactly what she was thinking, but from our conversation earlier, I think she was torn—excited to see Mum, yet not ready to stop walking. This hiking life is deeply ingrained now it's impossible to remove!

I don’t think people realise how ‘at home’ we feel on the coast, hiking day after day. I know I keep mentioning this in my journals, but the feeling is so profound—it sustains us through both the easy and the hard moments and is core to our very being!

Gourdon morphed into the coastal village of Inverbervie, another smaller, very different village. Inverbervie’s substantial beach is made up of large, round stones that make walking difficult. I stuck to the path beside the beach while Eve hugged the shoreline, making progress in her own stubborn way, two steps forward and once back. Just watching her was exhausting!

Leaving Inverbervie, we had route choices to make that would prove tougher than we expected. We’d discussed our options the night before—most of the way to Catterline would be on a minor country road, fine for short stretches but punishing over distance. We wanted to stay by the coast, so we plotted a cross-country route around the farm at Kinghornie to reach Craig David (not the singer, but a dramatic coastal crag). This involved crawling under an electric fence, but the views back over Inverbervie and Gourdon were spectacular. We rested on a rock, surveying the coastline we’d traversed these past days. From there, we followed a fence by a radar or listening post, then onto a farm track that led us back to the country lane.

Still undecided about staying on-road or braving the cliffs, our coastal purism pushed us towards the latter. As the lane drifted away from the sea, we passed places with evocative names—Crooked Haven, the ruins of Whistleberry Castle—and made our decision. We would leave the road and head for the cliffs, using the Scottish Outdoor Access Code.

At the junction to Hallhill and Tod Head, we turned off towards the coast. The moment felt thrilling, almost mischievous—like children sneaking into forbidden rooms. But the excitement soon turned to exasperation: we underestimated the difficulty ahead and began to wonder what we’d gotten ourselves into.

We crossed vast fields of arable crops, spotted the Tod Point lighthouse, and eyed a field brimming with cows and calves—a field we sensibly chose to avoid. Nearing Catterline, we thought now on our final push, but the end was still further away than we thought!

Climbing over a stile, we traced the field’s edge, tripping on rocks hidden by long grass, and entered an unwelcoming woodland. Hopes of easier going faded quickly—the woodland was overgrown; stinging nettles as tall as Eve threatened every step. The woodland slope was slick with twigs and pine needles, making progress slow as we slowly zig-zagged into the ravine. Still no sight of cliffs or sea despite our efforts! Then back up again, this time harder than the ascent!

We eventually reached the top, only to face a wall of ferns, bracken, and even more nettles. After trying to skirt around them, we frustratingly decided to press straight through. I carved a path for Eve, whose short legs and stubborn refusal to change out of shorts made the going even tougher for her.

Finally, we reached the edge of the woodland and the edge of a farmer's field, a recently harvested wheat field,with stubble, sharp stalks underfoot. At least here, we finally got the long-awaited view of the sea—an hour later than we’d hoped! In hindsight, we might have seen more from the road than through the woodland and ravine we had just navigated. I can honestly say this part felt tougher than hiking a Munro! And the hard work wasn’t quite over!

Along the field to Catterline we trudged, discovering that our destination was still further than expected. A small burn (stream) separated us from Catterline, and every attempt to cross it was blocked by steep banks or impassable fences. Even with a broad interpretation of the Outdoor Access Code, we couldn’t justify crossing. Sticking to our principles, we turned back, circled the burn, and at last reached the lane leading into Catterline and down to the bay by the small cemetery to the north of the village.

After all our efforts, we only truly understood what it meant to reach Catterline: this was where we’d meet Sarah and finish our journey for now. After hours of slow progress, the smooth tarmac felt liberating—we strode out, almost running. At Catterline bay, we reconnected with the coast, touched the sea, breathed the salt air, and felt that deep sense of belonging. Sitting on the wall, waiting for Sarah, we watched the waves and took it all in. Eve spotted Sarah waving from the car park and ran to her—I followed, and we shared a tight hug before loading our packs into the car and heading home.

Today has been astonishing, filled with challenges that made us reflect on how close is close enough. As coastal walking purists, we take great pride in our journey, even as it prompts new questions—like whether crossing a bridge counts as staying true! This adventure has helped both Eve and me work through many thoughts, and we remain deeply grateful—for the privilege, for the lessons, and for your company along the way. We can’t wait to return to the coast and see what questions—and answers—the next stretch will hold.

View Gallery & Videos