Welcome to Scotland

Breakfast was a disorganised affair, with a single chap struggling to cope with a rush of customers, most of them up early to go to some golf thing at Muirfield.  Apologies, we've run out of eggs, and tomatoes.  I settled down for a lengthy wait with some charred toast (the toaster was playing up), but a gargantuan breakfast quickly arrived, with extra everything by way of an apology.

The walls of Berwick still look to be fully intact.  Perhaps there are lingering worries about the Scots.  I left through a tiny gate in the wall and climbed steadily out of town.  I had decided not to follow NCN1 as it went away from the coast for a while.  Further up the hill, a roundabout and I was on the A1.  Yikes!  Luckily it wasn't busy and the few cars passed in the outside lane.  Big sign with flags: 'Welcome to Scotland.  Wow. Soon I turned off onto a lane overlooking the coast, A1 and railway.   Up to 100 metres already.  I didn't realise the Scottish Highlands came this far South.

Next it was down to Eyemouth, 0 metres.  I wonder if they get much post mis-directed for Exemouth in Devon.  A working harbour, noisy and smelly, and a sign inviting us to Feed the Seals.  Gloves and hand wash provided.   In the water below, two seals were waiting to be of service, but not too keen to be photographed.  Round the corner, a sandy crescent of a beach.

I climbed steadily to 90 metres. A pattern was emerging.  Then an unnecessary but totally worthwhile diversion to beautiful St. Abbs with the perfect harbour, rocky surround, and café.  Overlooking the bay, a heart-breaking statue of wives and children looking out to sea, skirts blowing in the wind, in memory of 189 fishermen lost off the East coast of Scotland in the great storm of 1881.

As I steamed up the inevitable long hill out, the 100m contour crept into view on the GPS.  But no, it was the 200m contour! I told the cows what I thought in no uncertain terms.  They replied that I ought to get out less.  Actually the hills since Berwick were not bad, gentler gradients, and the following breeze didn't hurt either.   I passed through a platoon of wind turbines,  blowing me along.

Then came a brilliant long descent, snaking down the coast, doing 25-30mph all the way, grinning like an idiot and revving like a motorbike. I really have been away a long time.  Into a caravan park of a village by the sea, the only redeeming feature a ford.

The roads seem faster now, still pretty empty.  I'm now in Dunbar, which has the remains of a castle built to defend against the English, which once protected Mary Queen of Scots, and now harbours hundreds of nesting kittiwakes.