Who knows when this story starts — and, I wonder, does it actually matter? All stories have many beginnings, and none have a true ending. By that morning, the 14th of September, 2010, I had said my goodbyes and found myself on the first of four trains, heading north, destination only roughly known — somewhere in Scotland, somewhere on the Fort William to Mallaig railway line (including the ‘Harry Potter Bridge’ AKA Glenfinnan viaduct). That was it, that and a rough idea to walk northward, then east, around the coast of Scotland, slowly, over the next three months, intending to arrive at the family home in Wick, Caithness in time for Christmas. I wanted to test myself and my skills, cook wild foods, fish, gather, use fire to cook and keep myself warm. As is my way, I had no tent, but a sleeping bag, bivi, tarp, and hammock with an inbuilt midge and mosquito net. I carried far too much.