Toto, I don't think we're in Kent anymore!

"It's not far now" and "we're nearly at the highest point" are two of the biggest lies one can be told on the Lairig Ghru hike. As I trundled through the 23rd kilometre I received a concerned phone call from Richard, advising me once again that it wasn't that far. If I had ever been hitting the wall, it was at that point. Every step felt like a monumental effort and my only challenge was getting one foot in front of the other. With the uneven and rocky terrain, one misplaced step could result in a broken ankle or leg, and it's a long way from help up on the Lairig Ghru.

The Bhubesi hikers at the start of the walk - little did we know what we were in for!

The Lairig Ghru is a hike which takes you through the heart of Cairngorms National Park, in the Scottish Highlands. It is a rugged and remote part of Great Britain, one which took me two days of travel to get there in my small, but might, Nissan Micra. The other options being the train or flying to Inverness, both of which are costly. I decided to make the journey to the Lairig Ghru an adventure in itself. 

I set off from Sittingbourne, Kent, (just shy of 600 miles if I was to drive non stop) on the Thursday - two days before the hike. I decided that if I was going to travel so far, I may as well stop by a few places I'd never been to before. The first of which would be Grimsby and Cleethorpes, purely because they had beaten Manchester United in the Carabao Cup a few weeks prior. I even went to Grimsby Town FC to pick up a few souvenirs, but their card machine wasn't working and, alas, I walked away empty handed given I am not of the cash carrying type myself. Nevertheless, I ventured onto Cleethorpes (five minutes down the road), where I ate a spectacular fish and chips at Papas Fish and Chips on the pier. The portion - huge. A haddock and chips, coupled with halloumi fries was a real winner, although I simply couldn't finish it all. It was a good fish and chips and had apparently been featured on the BBC show 'Britain's Best Takeaways' and had also been declared Britain's best chippie, but I think I have had better on the East Kent coast, closer to home. 

Supposedly the best fish and chips in the UK...

The weather was poor and, as is the case in many dying beachside towns, there wasn't much else to do beyond the arcades. So, I headed for Hull, which would be my home for the night. I managed to time my arrival with the coinciding rush hour but I got there in good time still. I parked up at a multi story car park opposite the Hull Trinity Backpacker's Hostel and made my way there where I was greeted by the friendly owner. It was cheap and cheerful and had everything I needed for an overnight stay. I'm a bit past the age where I enjoy dorm room sleeping so I opted for a private room, which felt much like the one term I spent at boarding school in my youth. I headed out for a mediocre coffee at a games bar where I got caught up in another rain shower, but managed to see the city centre. On the way back, I stopped by a live music event in the city centre, which had been recommended to me by the hostel owner. You could really tell the event brought the community together, and it's something I'd like to see more of locally. Alas, I was tired and returned to my hostel to get as good a night sleep as possible.

Hull Trinity Cathedral - beautiful!

I was up bright and early the following morning to do some further exploration before the long journey up to the Scottish Highlands. My first port of call would the Kilnsea Heritage Coast, a unique spit of land that jutted out into the North Sea. I had only heard of it because it was listed as a Nomad Mania DARE region and, when in Rome, it would only be right to explore part of the world that I would likely not return to for a long time. 

Kilnsea Spurn Heritage Park - barren, remote, and unique.

After a short walk and a coffee, it was time to head from the Kilnsea Heritage Coast up to Scotland. I stopped briefly for fuel on the outskirts of Hull and made my way north-west. Being a Friday, the traffic got heavier as I headed further north, perhaps other tourists and locals alike heading for weekend getaways. 

The journey was long, and the stopover in Hull was not even halfway to Aviemore, my final destination for the day. From Carlisle there is not much until you hit the ring roads around Glasgow where I managed to get to just in time for rush hour. The drive feels like it will never end, but before you know it, you are at Stirling on the A9 for the last stretch. I enter the Cairngorms for the first time, taking a break in a layby for my first stop in 5 hours since Carlisle. I look around me and it is stunning but I am tired, and I know tomorrow will be even more tiring and I must continue. 

The view from the layby is probably one of the best in the UK.

45 minutes later I arrive in Aviemore, where I refuel at a petrol station for some extortionate amount (I thought petrol was supposed to be cheaper in Scotland?!) and grab a quick snack. I make it to my hostel where I check-in with some other Bhubesi Pride walkers Duncan Macdonald and Georgina Tibai for the first time. I drop off my bags, organise my belongings, and head on out to the local pub, The Pine Marten Bar, to enjoy a couple of soft drinks with some other Bhubesi hikers who had arrived earlier in the day.

To my surprise, I find that Ross Chipperton (a fellow Bhubesi Africa volunteer a couple of years after me) has travelled up from neighbouring Faversham, just down the road from Sittingbourne, where I live. Although, to my horror, there is a Mackem in the group - Keith Atkinson. I soon make friends with Geordie Iain McGeary so we take the piss out of him (lightly, I promise). Ross, Keith, and Iain have travelled up together and the trio are a good laugh, so I feel at ease with the group. Also at the bar is Corné du Rand, a South African former semi-pro unit of a man, who welcomes one and all to the group. There are a few others there whose names escape me. We enjoy the live music but before long we must return to our beds, for we have a long day in the morning. 

We start bright and early, 6am wake up, for a 7am departure. I drive a group of 3 down to the start point while the rest of our motley crew have minibuses arranged. The walk begins, but one member of the Bhubesi hikers seems to have forgotten their shoes. None other than Marco Mama, former Worcester Warriors flanker and Bhubesi Pride ambassador and fundraiser too. I'm not much better, my shoes are neither hiking boots nor running shoes - in fact, like me, the sole is dead and I am soon to pay the price. 

A quick rest stop.

The first 10km passes with a few blips, for the path is relatively flat at this stage. If we continue at the pace we are going, we are sure to finish well in time... or so we thought. The route from this stage started to become steeper with evermore uneven terrain. The nice path that the Lairig Ghru began with soon becomes full of shingles. Marco finds his shoes mysteriously 12 or 13km in, his feet well and truly battered!

Marco mate, you forgot your shoes!

The terrain is manageable until we hit the scree fields that make up somewhere between the 20th to 23rd kilometres. It is slow passing, with every step requiring inch perfect precision for one wrong step or loose rock could break an ankle or even leg. There is no easy exit off the trail other than to complete the hike - that, or be have Mountain Rescue carry you down. In terms of muscular ability to do the walk, it was not relatively difficult. But the mind becomes so fatigued when you have to think about every step. 

The scree fields of the Lairig Ghru are nothing to be messed with. 

After what seems like many hours, it is just me and Corné at the rear of the group trundling on down. The scree fields have passed, but my muscles and my mind are in a deep deep hole. It is by far the hardest thing I have done. We make it to a lodge where I refill my water. It is 5km from the hostel and the last 5km is the hardest 5km I have ever done. I, and everyone else, make it safely where we then have a brief turnaround before heading out for the evening meal. We are bruised, battered, but we have made it across the Cairngorms in one piece. 

Myself and Ella, a Bhubesi Trustee

Before I know it, the weekend is over. Our festivities do not last long as everyone is beyond tired. In the morning, Richard gives Duncan and I a lift to my car. It is time for the long journey southward. Not before a quick stop to see my old friend Fred in the village of Trimpley, just outside Kidderminster. We catchup for an hour, but I have work the next day so I power through the final four hours back to Kent, finally arriving home at about 11pm. 

Catching up with Fred, Rosie, and Rocky enroute back to Kent.

It is now over a month since the epic adventure, and god knows where the time has gone. I look back on the weekend fondly and am proud to have completed the trek with a bunch of amazing people. We managed to raise £17k for Bhubesi Pride altogether, a fantastic sport-for-development charity in Africa which I am proud to help. Until next year, when we do it all again. 

Bagged Yoghurt

My heart swells with emotion whenever I return to Baisogala. When I step into my Senelė's flat, I am stepping back not just in time, but into the world when I was a child growing up, spending summer's there. Much of the flat has been unchanged in decades - the smell as you walk in, the wooden flooring, the hundreds of books - it all makes it an extremely special place. 

As I look out the front main windows, I am greeted by the Chimney Crow on the rooftops of the flat opposite. Perched up on a chimney, he sits, umbrella in hand, observing the world around him. It is a peculiar monument, one which I do not know the history, but one which I have loved to look at over the years. I often forget its existence until I'm in Baisogala, but once I look out the window, I remember I am home.

An age-old tradition is getting bagged yoghurt and sitting in the kitchen, pouring it into a glass, and drinking it as if it were water. It is so basic, yet it is so satisfying. For some reason, yoghurt from a bag is so tasty in ways that the British don't understand. I simply love it. 

We try not to finish the bagged yoghurt in one sitting, in part because I am lactose intolerant but, more importantly, to save some for later. When it's my first day back I like to soak in the emotions and feelings the flat surfaces in me. I take some time to look at the photos, the old books, the various memorabilia from Lithuania and around the world, for all of Senele's children (including my mum) have travelled to all corners of the earth at some stage or another, including Senele! 

The old wallpaper is faded and in some parts peeling from the walls and is probably due a change. But in a way, I never want it to change. To change the home materially may change my experience of the place... well, that is my fear anyway. 

Before bed, I will go into Senele's room (my mum associates this room with her Dad, my granddad, as it was formerly my his room, although I never met him and so myself associate with Senele). In the drawers of her desk, I will go through them one by one - here is where the magic is. Various documents from all different parts of history are in here, some of it feels it should be in a museum. The most interesting thing I've found being a documents for someone (not Senele or anyone in the family for that matter) during the German occupation of Lithuania during World War I. 

After an hour or so of being nosy and rummaging through her drawers, I retire to bed. The bed is a collection of cubes which can be used as stools, combined to make a sofa, or in our case - a bed. It is the same one I slept on as a kid. Despite slightly more comfortable options in the flat, I choose it because of its the final piece of the puzzle that confirms to me where I am. 

I usually try to stay up as late as possible, reading, watching TV or laptop, or anyway to distract myself really. But the nights in the village are quiet and dark, especially in winter, so it is never long before I slumber off to a good night sleep. Waking up in the morning is usually bittersweet, for it usually means we are one day closer to having to leave. I could spend a month there without getting bored. 

Then it's off to the kitchen for some bagged yoghurt, or what is left of it...