Eve spent the night curled tightly in the middle of the tent, as if about to perform a cannonball into a pool. Meanwhile, I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning in search of a comfortable position—without success. It turned out to be one of my most uncomfortable nights ever spent in a tent. Eve woke early, refreshed but stiff, while I was simply grateful to be out, stretching my aching back at last.

We learned a valuable lesson that night: always be more selective about where we pitch the tent! This was reinforced when we woke to a soaking wet flysheet, despite there being no rain. Sleeping in a hollow trapped the condensation, making it cling to the tent walls like an industrial dehumidifier at work.

One of the issues with camping on a beach or in the dunes is the sand—it gets everywhere! We spent a long time this morning trying to remove sand from the tent, sleeping bags, airbeds, and every nook and cranny imaginable before packing away. In hindsight, it was a fruitless task. Still, it made us both feel better to think we were carrying a few less grams than we might otherwise have been.

Despite all this, we wouldn’t want to spend our lives—and Eve’s fleeting childhood—any other way. We are privileged to live this life, adventuring around the coast—something very few people ever get to experience. We both feel incredibly lucky.

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We began walking, choosing to forgo breakfast in our eagerness to get moving and warm up our muscles, which were sore. After half an hour or so, we stopped, sitting on the edge of the beach to eat breakfast, make a hot drink, and phone Sarah. The beach that morning was beautiful: under low cloud it had a dull sheen, but as the morning progressed, the beach began to glow, as if stirring itself from a deep slumber.

One of the most rewarding parts of long-distance hiking is witnessing the small, gradual changes from night to day, season to season, and year to year—things you rarely notice in ‘normal life’. Hiking is a privilege, offering a chance to see what most people never do.

Reaching the River North Esk forced us slightly inland. We followed the river through glorious woodlands dotted with fungi, seeking a bridge. Unlike previous rivers, the North Esk was too dangerous to ford—even after checking! The trail along the river was alive with the sounds of birds and waterfowl—almost deafening after the silence of dunes and beach. We noticed endless flat grassy areas where previous campers had stayed; they would have made for a far more comfortable night than the dunes!

Crossing the North Esk was more challenging than expected. We reached the bridge, but had to ‘bushwhack’ up steep embankments as there was no obvious route. Moments like these, when we're forced to think and explore, are ones we enjoy—Eve especially. For her, it’s when a walk transforms into real hiking and exploration.

Once over the bridge, we followed a long tarmac road, passed by countless cars, heading towards a nature reserve. For a while it felt as if we were walking through the Norfolk Fens, the farmland around us so flat. It was a good feeling. I even received a phone call from work asking if I could pick up extra shifts. I agreed, but it was a reminder that as much as we’d love to keep walking every day, the inevitable need for money to fund our ‘normal’ lives lingers! But enough of that...

We arrived at St Cyrus. NatureScot describes St Cyrus National Nature Reserve as “one of the richest and most diverse reserves in Britain”—and it’s easy to see why. St Cyrus is a small oasis of breathtaking beauty and diversity. Its landscape—and history—are beyond words or images. The only true way to experience it is to visit. We were lucky to have almost the entire reserve to ourselves!

St Cyrus has a small visitor centre and public toilets (which we made use of). The centre is filled with information, photographs, and scale models—our favorite was a model of a fish trap. Eve and I had walked past dozens of wooden stumps in the sand with no apparent purpose; we learned these were actually the remains of old fish traps used by past generations. Realizing this was an 'aha!' moment, as we’d spent ages hypothesizing about the mysterious posts on the shore.

Eve and I could have spent hours at the visitor centre, reading and researching. It left us with more questions, which, by chance, would be answered later in the day by a meeting with a local elderly man.

Earlier, Sarah had told us about a little coffee caravan ‘in the carpark’ at St Cyrus. We couldn’t find it at first. Sarah noticed via her tracker that we’d arrived and called to ask if we’d found the coffee spot. She explained it wasn’t in the car park, but nearby. We found it a hundred feet further on, behind a fence. Eve was thrilled, and honestly, so was I—the prospect of coffee after such a restless night was like a child’s excitement over a treat!

We’d received generous donations on Buy Me A Coffee for just these moments. Thank you so much, whether you’ve bought us a coffee in the past, now, or in the future—we can’t begin to express our gratitude. Without your kindness, these little treats wouldn’t be possible, even with extra work shifts to help fund this adventure.

We sat in a small garden at a picnic bench, enjoying our drinks and snacks. Eve had an ice cream and the most incredible hot chocolate with cream and marshmallows. I had a coffee and a Malteser traybake—so sweet I struggled to finish it! The coffee was restorative—twenty minutes later, as the caffeine hit, I got my second wind of the day. For Eve... and me... Buy Me a Coffee—genuinely, thank you!

We knew St Cyrus was a nature reserve, but we hadn’t expected such beauty. It was stunning: I can see why people call it an oasis. It took our breath away. The whole place was like a living postcard.

We walked onto the sands and straight to the sea, watching the gentle surf rolling in and out, mesmerized by the tall cliffs and the presence of human history stretching back hundreds of years. We could have visited some small fishing cottages, but chose instead to leave that for a future visit with Sarah.

Eve and I strolled along the beach, the cliffs behind us looking impregnable. I started to worry that we’d have a long diversion to get back to the North Esk bridge, when I saw a narrow path snaking up the cliffs beside a small cottage.

Halfway up, we met an elderly man coming down, intrigued by our large backpacks. We stopped to chat. He told us his grandparents had worked in St Cyrus when the fishing industry was in its heyday. He showed us the old ice house and explained we were standing on the ‘donkey track’ without realizing it. We talked for nearly half an hour. It was fascinating to hear a first-hand account. We felt honoured and privileged to have met him. I asked if he’d mind a selfie together, but he declined politely. Even so, that memory will stay with me. Thank you.

He also gave us some excellent advice. The cliff path from St Cyrus towards Johnshaven, though marked as closed with warning signs, was perfectly walkable—he uses it regularly! Eve and I talked it over and decided to attempt the cliff-top path, with the understanding that we'd backtrack if it became unsafe. I reminded Eve she had veto power! At no point did either of us consider the path dangerous. We saw a small landslide, but it was easy and safe to avoid. We’re glad we took the cliff-top route!

The path along the cliffs was spectacular—we passed the ruins of a castle perched on a rock, now inhabited by seabirds. The trail wound in and out, up and down, keeping our pulse elevated and our sense of adventure alive. It was exhilarating. The sun gained strength and the air warmed up. It was turning into a nearly perfect day for hiking, and we were loving every second, still obsessively on the lookout for whales!

The cliffs ended all too soon, and we were back at sea level, following well-trodden paths past houses and campsites. These brought us to a disused railway line and signs of long-abandoned industry. We learned, thanks to well-placed information boards, that this area was once the East Mathers Lime Kiln at Seagreens. The trail was now busier with people and dog walkers. Some looked at us strangely as we walked past with hiking poles and large backpacks. One notable family made a wide detour, clutching their children as if we were up to no good. We smiled and said hello in a jovial tone to reassure them—I don’t think they were impressed!

Johnshaven is a charming place, with a picturesque harbour, an active fishing industry, a few shops, and even a lobster and crab processing factory we could look into. Eve stood for a while watching workers pull lobsters from huge tanks to secure their claws before moving them to another tank. I reminded her of the fate of these poor creatures and we soon moved on.

On the harbour, Johnshaven had a coffee shop that looked like a pub from outside. Eve, delighted and buoyed by your generous Buy Me a Coffee donations, asked for another ice cream. It was a very warm day—my excuse for saying yes! Inside, we were greeted by a lovely lady with a huge smile who asked if we were walking for charity or pleasure. I felt a twinge of sadness admitting it wasn’t for charity this time (I do miss those days!). She gave Eve her ice cream and I had a slice of delicious carrot cake that brought back memories of cakes at The Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum during our West Highland Way litter picks. The cake and ice cream were wonderful as we sat on a bench overlooking the harbour. The kind lady also topped up our water bottles. By late afternoon, our thoughts had turned to finding somewhere to camp for the night. With full water bottles, I felt relieved—no need to hunt for water as well as a campsite. After last night in a hollow, our main goal was to find somewhere flat. Thankfully, we wouldn’t be disappointed!

Leaving Johnshaven, we passed a campsite and continued along a gravel path, with a wall on one side and the coast on the other. The best part: the path—and the grass beside it—were flat. Eve and I were so excited we practically flew down the path.

We found a perfect patch of grass about halfway between Johnshaven and Gourdon. Pitching the tent was surprisingly easy. So close to the shore, we’d expected the ground to be rocky and the pegs difficult to secure, but it was no trouble—a good omen!

We sat on the grass as countless dog walkers strolled past: some ignored us, others called out, “You’ve got a great spot there!” Eve and I agreed it truly was a splendid location for the night.

Once the tent was up and beds made, I sat on the grass with Eve on my lap until sunset. We ate dinner—trail pizza—trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow, Sarah would pick us up to return home. Neither of us wanted to stop hiking the coast. The desire to keep going is getting harder to squash, to return to a world where we feel we don’t quite belong. For now, though, we were home, making the most of every second.

Sweet dreams, folks, and see you all tomorrow. Ian & Eve

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