Across the forbidden bridge
I’M not normally one of life’s rule-breakers. But after I’d made it all the way to the old footbridge leading to Melvich beach, only to be met by a sign saying “Bridge is closed until further notice, please do not use”, there was only one thing to do: ignore it.
So I stepped over the ragged remains of red-and-white hazard tape and broken twine and strolled across the narrow bridge above the wide, peaty-brown estuary of the Halladale River. No disasters befell me.
Clambering up the steep dunes on the other side, I was rewarded with a fine view of Melvich’s wide sweep of golden sand as big waves rolled in from the North Atlantic. The sun was shining on Sutherland’s magnificent north coast, and it really felt as though the season of renewal had arrived.
I had left the car in Halkirk and set off west on the Calder road. A huge skein of geese rose from a field and flew northwards in a straggling series of “V” shapes, making an impressive sight against the grey mound of Ben Dorrery on the horizon.
The vast expanse of Loch Calder looked serene under a grey sky. I skirted the southern end of the loch and took a right turn for Broubster and Shebster (in case you’ve ever wondered, the “-ster” suffix so common in Caithness comes from the Old Norse for farmstead).
At a T-junction I turned right, passing the RSPB site at Broubster Leans and crossing the Forss Water before emerging through the conifers of Broubster Forest to reach Shebster. Turning left, I was now on National Cycle Network (NCN) Route 1 and heading for the A836 – a key artery of the North Coast 500, being marketed as Scotland’s answer to Route 66.
I’m not sure how busy Route 66 is, but one of the best things about cycling along the rural byways of Caithness is that often you have them all to yourself. Fully an hour into this ride, I had encountered a grand total of two vehicles and two friendly runners.
This was my first outing on a new bike and by the time I reached Reay I had just about got the hang of the different gear system. I was feeling smug about getting to this stage having barely broken sweat – but the long, slow climb out of Reay was a reality check.
I stopped to take photos of the Sutherland county sign and the nearby Mackay Country stone – although some would say the true boundary is a bit further on, at the Split Stane.
This large roadside boulder was sliced in two by some powerful force in the dim and distant past; according to legend, the devil split it with his tail while he was travelling along the north coast.
On the approach to Melvich I veered off the A836 and down a winding minor road leading to the imposing Bighouse Lodge – available for hire for sporting or leisure breaks. (Bighouse... so named because it’s a house, and it’s big. Very imaginative.)
The road petered out into a stony track and then a grassy path alongside the estuary, so I left the bike there and continued on foot. The Highland Council’s “bridge closed” message, handwritten on a signpost, wasn’t going to deter me.
I stood for a while admiring the panoramic view from the top of the dunes, then went back the way I’d come – but this time staying on the A836 at Reay and passing the Dounreay site before reaching Forss.
At the Bridge of Forss, with its picturesque view of the restored water mill, an excited group of kids were playing Pooh-sticks in the spring sunshine. It was an idyllic scene – but the weather was about to change. Dark clouds were building from the north-west and the wind was picking up.
The clear blue sky at Melvich had lured me into thinking I’d be having a shirtsleeve picnic lunch by the time I got to St Mary’s Chapel at Crosskirk. It meant cycling for a mile from Forss down to the road end at the coast, then walking across a couple of undulating fields to one of the oldest ecclesiastical buildings in the north, dating back to the 12th century.
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Just as I reached the chapel, hail started hammering down, quickly turning to rain, and I ate my sandwiches while standing huddled against one of the interior walls of the roofless ruin. Some picnic.
The waves piling into Crosskirk Bay were going from merely rough to positively stormy. There’s a shooting range nearby, and the echoing noise of rifles being fired was almost as off-putting as the elements.
Getting to St Mary’s Chapel involves crossing a small wooden footbridge over the river – and it, too, had a warning sign attached. This one was slightly more advisory in tone: the bridge “appears unsafe”, it said, adding: “Please do not use.” A looping chain had been placed at each end in a half-hearted attempt to block access.
Call me irresponsible, but I was willing to take the risk. Just as at Melvich, the bridge wasn’t remotely rickety, the planks and handrails were all intact, and no evil trolls were lurking underneath.
Back at the main road I kept straight on at the crossroads, continuing for a few miles to the Westfield junction. Now on NCN1 again, I turned towards Thurso and then, just a mile or so from the western edge of the town, took a sharp right down the B874 at Glengolly.
This is the back road to Halkirk and there were more cars around now, including some of the boy-racer variety. But it was still a pleasant way to round off this meandering trip on which I’d crossed the boundary of my two favourite counties.
