I’m generally not a very organised person. I’ve been meaning to get back into running for the past couple of years, but each week would slip by and before I knew it, it was the weekend again.

They say you shouldn’t try and create new hobbies by going to the extreme, but to be honest it’s the only way I know how to. It’s got to be all in or nothing. So I thought a month-long challenge would be a good idea for May. The days were longer, giving me plenty of time before or after work, and the trails around my house had dried out in the spring heatwaves we’ve been having. (Seriously, how cruel is it realising that living in the countryside doesn’t mean year-round trail runs, but instead lots of ankle-deep mud!)

I wanted to get a couple of things out of this challenge. Firstly, to get a bit fitter again. I’d taken a look back at my very first ever blog post five years ago. I’d run three half marathons over a bank holiday weekend to explore 64 grid squares of my local OS map. It was one of many adventures where my ability to plod along at a steady jogging pace all day got me to different places to explore. I wanted to get that freedom back.

Secondly, it was a perfect way of having an adventure everyday. Seeing as that’s the whole premise of my newsletter, I will admit to being a bit of a con… I sometimes find myself too busy or too distracted to remember to go and do something outdoors each day. Trying to claim my five-minute walk to the shop for lunch as an outdoor adventure is a bit of a stretch. Running would get me a good 30+ minutes outdoors every day, regardless of what the weather might be.

As it was a challenge, I wanted to set a few rules without being too harsh on myself. The main things I wanted to keep in mind:

1. Whilst I was trying to get fitter, it was important not to get injured, so easy days of walking and running were fine. I didn’t care how long the runs took.

2. It needed to be local. A couple of runs at local parks were fine, but most of the runs should start and finish from my front door.

The first day of the challenge fell on a workday, so I left it until the evening to complete. A quiet Friday evening, the sun settling on the horizon behind me, with the sky painted a deep amber. I’d plotted a loop from my house which was pretty much entirely trails and would allow my dog Betty to come with me and run off the lead.

I found the running hard to get into. It took ages for my legs to warm up and within the first minute my lungs were burning. It did eventually subside, and with some well-timed walks mixed in I managed to get myself across the recently ploughed fields surrounding the village, up onto the hill near the quarry and back down to my house via a permissive path alongside the nature reserve.

It was a route that would become very familiar across the month, with me opting for it most days. Despite needing to run uphill for half of it and also descending a flight of 50 steps to get back down the hill, it was probably the most picturesque run I had available. A mix of hillsides, meadows, bridleways, farmland, a stretch alongside a stream, and a lovely duck pond just near the finish.

Like most multi-day adventures, things started to unravel a little after a few days. My legs were feeling heavy and I was tired. Things would be okay once I was out running, but it became an effort to find the motivation to put the running shoes on each day. This is where making it a daily challenge mattered. One day off would have easily turned into several, and then none at all.

It’s something I’ve experienced multiple times on some of the bigger adventures I’ve been on, whether that’s a two-week hike or a cross-continent bikepacking trip. I’ve never really been fit enough for those challenges when I started, but after a couple of days, if you could push through the tiredness, things would get easier and the fitness would build as you went along.

So that’s exactly what I did over the next couple of weeks. Each day, whether in pouring rain or a blistering heatwave, I made sure to go out. Some days felt blissful and the running came easy. On those days I could feel the increase in my fitness. On other days it was a stretch, and that’s when I dropped the pace and did a bit more walking.

As I repeatedly ran the same trails, usually cycling through three variations of the route, I began to notice how the nature around the village was changing. The trails had been dry and baked hard under the sun when I had first started, left all bumpy from the hooves of horses from the local stable who often rode these routes through the winter when it was thick mud. The sides of the trails were turning green, with daisies and dandelions scattered along the path.

As we moved through the month, the cycle of heavy rain and intense heat forced the foliage to grow rapidly. What had once been dusty trails was now lush with grass, curtained by waist-high shrubs, nettles, and wildflowers. The meadow became a blanket of buttercups, glowing on the days when the sun was shining. With each passing day, the route felt different, almost like it was growing alongside my fitness as the month passed.

Things were pretty steady through the middle of the month before it began to slow down towards the end. Work was busier than it had ever been and we were in the middle of a heatwave that made running particularly unenjoyable for most parts of the day. Most of my runs in that final week were either first thing in the morning or late in the evening, and I could feel it when I was out there. I kept plodding along though, determined to see out the challenge. It would be wasted effort to stop now.

The final day of the challenge fell on a Sunday, and I waited until the evening to complete my run. The sun was out and I wanted to wait for it to set so I could run under the beautiful skies of dusk.

It’s funny how we find comfort in routine. I’d run mostly the same trail for 30 days, and each day I had run it in the same direction. I thought I’d mix it up for the final day. I ran through the nature reserve, tackled the steps up onto the hillside, then along the ridge and all the way to Croft Hill, a standalone hill with a 360° view of the surrounding countryside and a popular spot to watch the sunset.

I’d avoided running up here throughout the month because it was a slog on the legs, but it felt worth the effort on the final day. I reached the summit and the trig point just as the sun was about to touch the horizon, the last of the light glowing across the field below—the final mile of my challenge.

It felt like a fitting way to finish.

All in all, the challenge had been a success. I managed all 31 days and spent far more time outdoors than I otherwise would have. It was fitting that it fell during the busiest time of year at work. It proved I could still make time for it, and actually it was exactly what I needed.

The biggest thing I learnt from the month was that no matter how unmotivated or tired I felt when getting ready, it all went away the moment I was running down those trails. The tired legs and burning lungs felt worth it. That hour each day became a kind of relief, from work, from life, from doing nothing. Sometimes getting up and just going out there is enough.

It doesn’t need to be a 5k run or a long hike. Just getting out the door for 10 minutes to sit in the park and watch the birds can be enough and you won’t regret it once your out there.

I’ll try to remember that every time I tell myself, “not today, maybe next week.”

Here’s some stats from the running challenge

To keep a log of my runs across the month I tracked each run on my Fitbit and also weighed myself daily. I did after all want to use it as an opportunity to get a bit fitter.

Here’s an overview of of the challenge:

Total running days: 31
Total distance: 159.4 km

Day one 5K time: 40m 50s
Fastest 5k time: 36m 40s (Day 30!)

Total weight lost: 8.7 kg

My Running Everyday in May challenge is a perfect example of how we don’t need to chase big peaks and epic challenges to live an adventurously life. Adventure can be on our doorstep if we change the way we look at it.

For more Everyday Adventures, why not subscribe for free to my newsletter for a monthly dose of ways to get outside and explore.

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I loved the idea of people supporting each other to spend more time outside. I thought what better way to see what it’s all about than to walk one of my local routes. Many of the routes start and finish at train stations, which makes it a great way to go for a walk before catching the train back.

My local route was an eight-mile walk from my local station in Narborough, leading into Leicester City Centre. It’s a route I have done a lot, well, in a car at least. I cleared my diary one Sunday morning back in April, a particularly warm and sunny day, and got dropped off at the train station for 8:00 am. This was two hours before the first train passed through on its way into the city.

I didn’t feel very optimistic about the prospect of walking into a city. To be honest, I don’t like cities. Noisy and full of people, they overwhelm me. Sat on a bench, halfway up a hill, is where I feel content. So, as I stood on the platform looking down the track, I was left feeling uncertain about how the next few hours were going to go. The only thing that kept passing through my mind was that I could be using this day to go hiking into the middle of nowhere in the Peak District, not waiting at traffic lights and dodging electric scooters. I was, at least, intrigued enough to give it a go though.

The start of the route was very familiar, following the road I drive along daily to get to the office. How many times had I driven this way? Hundreds, if not thousands. I’d never really paid much attention. Just beyond the station, there was a small farm, and the route quickly took me off the road and into the fields. Fields I’d only glanced at in passing as I sat in traffic. Horses were idly flicking their manes at the fence, no doubt waiting for a passer-by to come and give them a fuss.

Within a hundred meters, the path took me through a small woodland and out onto the embankment of the River Soar. It looked beautiful, with wildflowers arching up from the water’s edge and the sun glistening on the gentle flow of water. It was a surprise to me. What a wonderful spot. I could still see the road from here, but this little nook was out of sight for the passing cars, as it had been for me so many times. It put my mind at ease for the miles ahead.

I got my head down and got on with the walking from here, passing under the shade of oak trees, winding through fields, and crossing the occasional stream. After a mile, the route passed through some trees and came out onto a footpath running beneath a towering three-arch bridge concealed within the greenery. This was where the route joined Whetstone Way. Now a nature trail, it used to be the track of the Victorian Great Central Railway until the line was closed. A conveyor belt of freight trains would have passed through here on their way into the city during the Industrial Revolution.

For the next half an hour, I “walked the line” before the path cut off and I had to rejoin the road. I’d been lost on the tracks, disconnected from the fact I was less than a mile from work. This was all new territory for me. I’d occasionally have to cross a familiar road before disappearing down less familiar tracks, hiding myself from the passing cars who were probably as oblivious as I had been to the trails mere meters away.

A couple of miles later, the route passed a nearby retail park and joined the Grand Union Canal path. This was a trade route that predated the railway line I had just left. Built in the 18th century, it was used to bring coal into Leicester and move agricultural and mining goods down to London. I took a moment to appreciate the fact that before the luxury and comfort of cars, these would have been the routes people took to get into the city, just like I was now doing.

Being just a stone’s throw away from the retail park, I expected the route to become more industrial and for my initial joy at the ruralness of the walk to fade. Via road, Fosse Park was where the countryside stopped, replaced with dual carriageways and noisy cars. I was very pleasantly surprised, though. If anything, this part of the route was even more beautiful. The canal was idle, the occasional duck drifting along, and the pathway was flanked on either side with daisies and forget-me-nots. Under the spring sunshine, it looked wonderful. Across the water, horses lay sunbathing in the fields, and a heron stood on the bank, glaring into the water looking for its lunch.

There was a lot of wildlife here. Butterflies and birds would shoot out from the hedgerows in front of me. As the canal path reached the point where it connected with the flow of the River Soar, a Little Egret stood in the shallower water. I sat on a bench to eat a cereal bar and watched as the egret buried its head under the water, raising itself back up seconds later with a small fish trapped within its beak.

The route headed through Aylestone Meadows. I’d heard of this spot before from a local wild swimming group but had never been. I assumed that it would be a small, busy clump of woodland squeezed into the outskirts of the city. Again, I was pleasantly surprised. Open fields ran alongside the river, with meadows filled with wild grass and flowers. I could still hardly believe I was less than two miles away from the city now; the feeling of being lost in nature hadn’t left me yet. The paths were starting to get busier, though. Families were out walking before their Sunday lunches, runners were moving along the raised nature walk, and workers were commuting into the city by bike. Who could blame them for wanting to be out here?

The route rejoined the old GCR line for the final mile into the city. While the road crossings started to feel more industrial, the path was curtained behind a green wall of trees, hiding the city landscape from sight. It was only in the final half-mile where it actually felt like I was in the city. High-rise flats towered over children’s parks that were buzzing with shouts and laughter. Busses thundered along the roads and people ran across the street, beeped by speeding cars. Even then, the route made the occasional diversion to go through a city garden or across the canal to avoid the busier roads. Eventually, I came out into the city centre at the Clock Tower, the endpoint of the walk. There would be just enough time to refuel with some lunch before catching my train home.

What would have normally been a 15-minute drive had instead taken three hours. Yet, I’d explored so much of my local area that I didn’t even know existed. Were it not for Slow Ways, I could have probably lived here for another five years without ever bothering to take a look at the meadows and canal walks. The bustle of the city would have kept me away. Having the purpose of the walk had been part of the adventure, discovering new places canvassed within the landscape of the city. I was glad that an initiative like Slow Ways is encouraging people to go on these walks, especially those going in the opposite direction. I’m incredibly privileged to live in the countryside and have rural trails on my doorstep, but that isn’t the case for everyone. For those living in the high-rise flats, whose view is filled with concrete and steel, this is a brilliant way of connecting them with nature on their own doorstep.

If you enjoyed hearing about my Slow Ways walk into Leicester, why not check out a local trail on their interactive map. Drop a comment if you plan on giving your own walk a go!

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Finally, why not share this adventure with a friend or family member to inspire them to do their own Slow Ways Walk. Perhaps they could join you so you can do it together.

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My Slow Ways Walk is a perfect example of how we don’t need to chase big peaks and epic challenges to live an adventurously life. Adventure can be on our doorstep if we change the way we look at it.

Work had been overwhelming all week, with too much to do and not enough time to do it. Uncertainty over some projects had been playing on my mind for weeks. That’s one thing they don’t tell you when you pursue a career in something you’re passionate about: it’s incredibly hard to switch off from it.

I wasn’t going to let a warning light stop me from doing the one thing that does clear my mind, being outdoors and exploring.

It was around 5pm when I pulled into a van park up near Castleton. We’ve stopped here a few times, a spot quite popular with van lifers. It’s very rare that the place isn’t lined with campervans. I’d left the house about two hours beforehand, van packed and ready for the moment I could shut the laptop and escape. With it being the end of the Easter holidays, I thought it might be one of the busier nights, but when I pulled in there were only around 10 vans, and I managed to get one of the spots with a view.

I was due back at work early Sunday morning, so I’d given myself 24 hours to go and have an adventure. By travelling up after work, I’d extended the window in which I could be outdoors, choosing to spend the night in the van rather than in the comfort of my own bed. Weekends in Edale can be busy, so it gave me the added benefit of only having to drive 10 minutes in the morning and being able to secure somewhere to park before the crowds turned up.

We didn’t hang around once we had parked up. After putting the hiking boots on, we headed down the broken road into Castleton and back up the trail to Hollins Cross, where we could join the walk along the Great Ridge up to Mam Tor. Most people walk up from the other side where the car park is, so we only passed one family of walkers on the way up onto the hillside.

The ridge along to Lose Hill played out in front of me as the dying light of the day painted the hills, slowly creeping further south as the sun disappeared behind the ridge behind me. It was a slow and steady walk up, stopping a couple of times to enjoy the view.

We reached the top of the hill just as the sun was beginning to disappear behind the clouds on the horizon over Edale. The sunset wouldn’t peak for another hour or so, but the low cloud line was causing the sky to glow orange, like a fire was burning across it. I was still a mile away from Mam Tor, so I had the trail to myself as I stood and looked out at the view. How many other people were out here doing the same thing? And how many were missing this, too interested in getting back home to watch TV and switch their brains off instead?

The sun became obscured as I continued my walk up to Mam Tor, leaving pink light trails across the clouds, painted into the mystic blue hue of the sky. Most of the crowds who had walked up to the summit were gone by the time I reached it, the sun having set and their evening show finished. I took my camera out to capture the valley below me, but it didn’t do justice to what I was seeing before it was cast into darkness.

I was back at the van within half an hour. Two campervans had parked up next to me, and their owners were sat outside drinking mugs of hot chocolate around a raised fire pit, the flickering orange glow reflecting off the vans and causing the light to dance around. I spent an hour setting up the bed and cooking the chilli I’d brought, sitting on a camping chair until the last of the light disappeared and my day was over.

I woke the next morning to the sound of rain lashing down on the roof of the van and let out a small groan. This rain hadn’t been forecast. We’d just had two weeks of nice weather over the school holidays, most of which I’d missed sitting at a desk at work. Of course, the spring showers were back once I finally had a day off.

I wasn’t going to let that put me down, though. It’s just a bit of rain, I reminded myself. It’s not going to spoil the walk.

The plan for the day was to park at Barber Booth and walk up Crowden Clough, checking out the scramble up a waterfall to see if it was worth giving it a go. I’d loosely researched it and knew there was an alternative path if needed. I’d been advised by that it wasn’t the easiest scramble with a dog, but it felt pretty unadventurous not to at least give it a try.

The first half of the walk was easy going, following the road into a nearby farm before switching onto a trail that followed the gentle stream up into the hills. The rain showers were still coming down, but sunlight occasionally broke through the clouds, causing the mossy riverbank to glisten. The trickle of water from distant falls could be heard. It felt a little magical passing through alone, like a medieval tale.

I was around halfway up the hill when the trail split. A couple of hikers had caught up with me by this point and continued past on the trail to the left, leaving the stream behind. I assumed this was the alternative route, but I had no idea if there would be another path off the scramble further up. I decided to leave the certainty of the trail and started making my way up the scramble route, ignoring the glancing looks from the hikers above me, as if I were mad.

From here, the trail became pretty non existent, and instead we were clambering over rocks and jumping streams. I was thankful for my boots as I sploshed into the water, not quite making the distance on some of the jumps, as the rain overnight had widened the streams.

It was hard work climbing up, and on a couple of occasions I had to coax Betty around some of the higher boulders. She kept sitting down on the trail, looking at me as if to say, “What the hell are we doing?”

By the time we reached the crux near the top, I was beginning to feel less optimistic about making it. I could see the section the guides had mentioned, and it didn’t look like we could safely reach the base of it. A path to the left looked more accessible. I hadn’t been sure whether there was an easier route this far up, and I hoped this might be it.

Deciding to take it, I put Betty back on her lead so I could keep her close. I had to lift her up a particularly high section before climbing up myself, hoping that was the worst of it. It wasn’t. The path brought us out onto a narrow ridge alongside the waterfall, covered in algae and with water rushing over it. That confirmed it, there was no way I was risking this, not with a 10m drop behind me and no one else around. I’d have to accept that we needed to turn back and take the other route.

It took over half an hour to descend and then climb back up via the alternative path. The descent felt even harder, one slip could send you tumbling into the stream or onto jagged rocks. By the time we reached the top of Crowden Clough, the spring showers had passed, replaced by piercing winds across the exposed moor. The main trail was bustling with people who had come up via the more popular Grindsbrook and Jacob’s Ladder routes.

We sat down on a rock for a water break and to eat the packed lunch we’d brought. It was still only 10am, but climbing the hill twice had drained both of us. The valley looked beautiful in the sunlight. Small figures could be seen making their way up the trail we had just climbed, like figures in a model village.

I wasn’t too disheartened that we’d had to turn back on the scramble. I’d been looking forward to it, but it wasn’t the end of the world. We’d spent the morning exploring somewhere new, and the hill would always be there. I’d come back in the summer when it was dry and give it another go.

It felt surreal that only 24 hours earlier I’d been logging on to work. So much had happened in such a short time. I was glad I’d made the choice to come here. Too many of my weekends pass in a blur, and each year as winter returns, I regret not spending more time outdoors. Compared to most people, I probably do, but it never feels like enough. I always have this itch to explore more. That feeling disappears when I’m sat on top of a hill, pasty in hand, with a beautiful view in front of me. In that moment, it feels like enough.

Within two hours, I was back at the van, ready to make the drive home. I’d be out of the Peak District less than 24 hours after I’d arrived, but with another day full of adventure.

My 24 hour adventure is a perfect example of how we don’t need to chase big peaks and epic challenges to live an adventurously life. Adventure can be on our doorstep if we change the way we look at it.

For more Everyday Adventures, why not subscribe for free to my newsletter for a monthly dose of ways to get outside and explore.

The truth is, I’ve not bothered at all with the adventure of travelling by bike, the reason I came to love exploring, since I attempted to cycle the NC500 back in October 2023. A harrowing storm on the 6th day of the trip caused me to be evacuated by the Coast Guard at 3am, as Storm Babet wreaked havoc across the country.

I didn’t think that set back would bother me too much. I’ve endured some pretty bad conditions in my time. Yet, nearly 2 years on I’ve neither cycled nor wild camped since. Perhaps it has left a shadow hanging over me that I was both, unaware of and unable to shake off.

The blog post below was something I wrote 2-weeks after I got back from that trip in 2023. I’ve sat an re-read it, to share with you today, in the hope that it gives me the push to start planning for my new adventure. Hopefully putting this one to rest for good.

Two weeks ago, I got back from what I had planned to be a 500-mile self-supported cycle around the north coast of Scotland. This post is about the final day of the trip: what went wrong on the sixth night, and why I had to finish early.

When you imagine the north coast of Scotland in October, you probably think of dark clouds cast over moody mountains with never-ending rain. That’s pretty much what my day cycling the NC500 was like. I rode for mile after mile into the rain without stopping, swooping across a mountain pass, surrounded by a vast landscape, with the misty silhouettes of pine trees on the horizon.

After 55 miles of cycling, I couldn’t wait to stop when I hit the 300-mile marker of the trip, the signal for the end of day six. I was in the middle of nowhere, with Durness being the last place I had seen another person, and that was 12 miles behind me. I felt happy to be setting my tent up on a flat piece of grass just off the coast road, desperate to get out of my wet clothes and into my sleeping bag, where I would be warm and dry for another 12 hours at least.

To start with, everything seemed fine. It had continued to rain as I pitched the tent, but there wasn’t a hint of a breeze. I’d put the tent up so many times that I did it on autopilot. Within five minutes I was inside the sleeping bag, head down against my bag stuffed into a coat. I must have been pretty tired though, because I dozed off immediately without having dinner.

I opened my eyes from my accidental nap a few hours later, in the dark. The wind had picked up and the tent was loudly flapping about. Not ideal, but the last few nights had been a bit windy as well. I put my earplugs in, pulled the hood of my sleeping bag tight over my head and went back to sleep.

I was woken again about an hour later when the wind collapsed my tent. I’ve got a trekking pole tent. Not ideal for a bike trip, but it’s tried and tested in all sorts of weather, and it’s also the lightest and biggest tent I own. With 12 hours of darkness each night, I wanted enough room to actually be able to sit up and move about. It hadn’t held up this time though, and I had wet tent fabric slapping against my face.

I let out a deep sigh. The last thing I wanted to do was to go outside and fix it. It was still raining and I really didn’t want to put wet clothes back on, so decided if I was really quick, the dry clothes I had on should be okay. I unzipped the tent and shot out into the dark, phone torch in hand, ready to quickly re-peg the guy rope to hold the pole up. I soon realised, however, it wasn’t going to be a quick fix at all. The peg hadn’t come out of the ground (I’d weighed them down with rocks because the ground was a bit muddy), the guy line had in fact snapped in two.

I swore loudly into the howl of the wind across the lock, grasping about for the two ends of the line to try and tie it back together. All the time I was doing this, the wind got faster and faster. Whilst I hopelessly tried to tie a knot with cold, wet fingers, the flapping tent was being pulled hard by the wind and pegs were being ripped out of the ground. The whole thing gave way and as the tent went flying forward across the ground I had to lunge after it, diving on top of it to pin it to the ground beneath me. All hope of fixing it there and then was lost. I crawled back into the heap of tent fabric on the floor.

In all of the chaos, a few items of my waterproof clothing had blown away into the darkness and my airbed deflated for some unknown reason. The wind was now battering the tent around me as guy ropes and tent fabric whipped my face. I prayed the wind would quickly pass over and I’d be able to get back out and re-pitch.

The wind didn’t pass over, though. In fact, it just got worse. After an hour of lying on the cold floor, with water seeping into the tent, the wind got strong enough that it was pulling my tent along the ground with me in it. I knew I was in trouble. The tent was tangled in all sorts of ways around my body and, in the darkness and all the flapping, I couldn’t really find any of my stuff inside it, including my sleeping bag. I was getting colder and quickly realising I couldn’t just stay here and see the night out.

I considered my options. Ahead of me were a few hills and God knows how many miles until the next village. Durness was too far behind me to reach. Besides, there was no chance I was going to be able to pack my stuff up or ride a bike. The wind was like nothing I’d ever experienced. I checked my phone. No signal. Shit.

I could try and find somewhere more sheltered. But where? The land was so open around here that there was nothing to shelter behind, and the only way out was to go uphill, which didn’t seem like a sensible mood in such weather.

After two more miserable hours, I concluded that my only available option was to ring 999 and ask for help from someone. I toiled with the idea for ages, going over and over in my mind whether it was the right call. Was I being dramatic? Another strong gust of wind pushed me along the ground and I felt a cold chill of water spray up my back. No, I didn’t have a choice. Asking for help was the only way I was getting out of here tonight without abandoning all of my stuff. If I tried to wait it out, who knows how bad it would get. I pressed the numbers into my phone and dialled.

When I got through to the operator, I asked for Mountain Rescue, but I’m not sure if the lady on the phone could hear me. The wind and flapping tent were making so much noise. She put me through to the police instead, and with my phone on loudspeaker, pressed up against my eardrum, I tried to catch what the man on the line was saying.

I spent about 40 minutes in total on the call, often having to wait for a small break in the wind to ask him to repeat himself. It took them a while to figure out where I was, as without a phone signal they couldn’t trace my location. I’d managed to vaguely describe where I was, knowing I’d cycled 12 miles from Durness. That did give them (and more so me) a problem. The nearest police car was a 3 hour drive away and they couldn’t risk sending it. Instead them contacted the local Coast Guards to see if anyone was on call to come and help.

It took them around an hour to reach me, by which time it was 3 AM and I’d been lying in a wet heap for four hours. I’d never been so cold in my life. It was like a numb ache was running through my bones, my body shivering uncontrollably.

I’d never been more pleased to see flashing blue lights when I caught them on the other side of Loch Eriboll, heading my way. They’d actually sent two Coastguard teams out to me, one from Durness and one from Melness. It was so remote around there that they still weren’t sure where I was and thought approaching from both sides would be best. When they got closer, I pulled the flashing light from my bike and held it up as high as I could reach.

Getting from the tent to the Coastguard’s truck was a challenge and confirmed I’d made the right decision. Just standing up in the wind was difficult, and every step on the steep, sloping grass took all of my concentration to not be blown sideways. When I reached the truck, the man from the Coastguard opened the door for me and, greeted me a sly shout of “Welcome to the north”.

Another volunteer from the coast guard sat and kept me company as they retrieved all of my stuff from the hillside and put it in the boot of the truck. The vehicle was rocking side to side so much it felt like I was on a boat. It was agreed that the Melness crew would take me back with them, as that was the direction I had planned to take the next day.

Over the next couple of hours we drove back to the Coastguard hut, where they decided what to do with me. It was too late to get into a B&B, and they couldn’t just leave me. As I sat in the hut drinking a cup of tea, I chatted to Neil and his colleague about the trip and the weather, apologising for taking up their time.

“Don’t worry about it. You made the right decision. I’d rather lose a couple of hours of sleep to get you now safe than spend a day looking for your body tomorrow,” he said.

At the time I thought he was joking, but he went on to tell me he’d had to recover bodies a few times when people had been caught out in bad weather and not known what to do. It was only a week or so later that I would read about the true impact of the storm, and how four people hadn’t been so lucky.

After an hour of waiting around, it was decided that Neil would drive me to Bettyhill where I would swap over into a police car that would get me to Thurso.

“Are you going to finish the trip?” he asked me whilst he drove into the night.

“I’m not sure. I’ve lost quite a bit of my stuff in the wind, including my helmet and waterproofs,” I said.

“Ayy, I’d get out of here if I was you. The winds are 80mph and it’s only forecast to get worse. This is just the beginning.”

A couple of hours and a journey in a police car later, I was dropped off at Thurso train station with a choice to make. Well, it wasn’t much of a choice. I could have waited a few hours, get some rest, and then begin a 150-mile journey along the A9 by bike, a famously dangerous road which I had actually re-routed my whole trip to avoid. However, with the bad weather and lack of safety gear, that wasn’t really an option. The other choice was to get on a train to Inverness and go home early. At the end of the day, it wasn’t a choice at all. Putting myself at risk again would be a kick in the teeth to everyone who had come out in the middle of the night to help me. I knew what the right decision was, so I turned down the polices offer of getting me into a hotel and got on the train when it pulled into the station at 6:45 AM.

The train took it’s time slowly weaving through the countryside. The sun gently rose of skies which were much clearer on the west coast. Within four hours I was back in Inverness. It was weird to think I was back here four days earlier than planned, full of disappointment that the trip was seemingly over. It was only 11 o’clock, so I spent the day in Inverness filling myself with food and coffee as I tried to stay awake. The hostel I had booked for four days’ time let me move the booking, so I spent the night there and with the weather heading south, decided it was best to get home first thing the next day.

My bad luck continued, however, and the bad weather in the north reached Inverness. A month’s worth of rain in a single day led to pretty much all public transport, including my train, being cancelled with no sign of starting again for a couple of days. After a lot of thinking and consideration, I ended up renting a car and driving home. The weather, road conditions and general disruption resulted in a full day of travel. Having left the hostel at 7 AM, I didn’t arrive home until after midnight.

Tired and battered, I spent the last three days of my annual leave at home. Disappointed, but at least safe. Whilst I took a gentle bike ride down to the local nature reserve in the sun, the storm continued to wreak havoc in Scotland. I read on the news that landslides not far from where I had been had caused ten people to require a helicopter to come and airlift them out of their cars. I’d felt embarrassed to have rung the emergency services for the situation I had gotten myself into, but looking back, I definitely made the right decision. Things could have gotten a lot worse if I’d just gritted my teeth and bore it in an attempt to finish a challenge, and whilst it was important to me, it was meaningless in the end. It wasn’t worth flipping a coin on my own life.

So in the end, I have 200 miles of adventure left. I’m not sure when, but I know one day I’ll go back to finish it.

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I want to credit this blog post to the hard work all of the Coastguard volunteers give to ensure they can help people in need. Without them, I honestly don’t know what would have happened. I will forever be grateful that in the middle of the night, they didn’t think twice about getting out of bed to come and help me. Thank you, Durness and Melness Coastguard!

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