CCL – St Andrews to Anstruther

Helpful MammalFOR the third day of my April 2024 trip, I was to be joined by a friend for part of the day. This friend is unpredictably elusive – she had spent the last four years living in a completely different country to the one I had expected, for instance  – so in honour of her unpredictably migratory nature, we shall call her the Wanderer.  I arranged to meet her at Leuchars Station, from which we would travel together to St Andrews in order to commence our walk…

Leuchars

Leuchars Station

We were approaching Leuchars from different directions, with her heading north and me going south from my hotel in Dundee. That being so, we arranged to catch particular trains that meant I had only ten minutes or so to wait on the platform, which was just enough time to buy and enjoy a coffee.

Her train arrived a minute late but that was well within tolerance.  Its doors opened, some of its passengers alighted, and then it went upon its way. My friend, however, was noticeable by her absence. This was particularly elusive and mysterious of her as she had just confirmed by text that she was on that train, but had now just failed to get off it and was, in fact, now wandering further northwards.  This was very her, so I shrugged and went back for a second coffee and a bacon roll to go with it. And very delicious it was, too.

In defence of the Wanderer, she had been slightly bamboozled by the deceptive diminutiveness of Leuchars station, She had been expecting the station that served St Andrews – well, sort of, from 4½ miles away – to be more substantial than it is. Whereas, from Leuchars’ northbound platform, you have an uninterrupted view across fields suggesting some tiny rural halt.  Thus, she had thought that it was an intermediate station that she had stopped at.

Map showing that I was at Leuchars railway station and the Wanderer was heading north up the line.
Fortunately, the next stop northward was Dundee, which was substantial enough to induce her to detrain. From there, she would have to follow in my footsteps  and catch a train back to Leuchars, ideally getting off it, this time.
Wisdom Begins in Wander

Practice makes perfect, and the Wanderer successfully alighted on her second attempt. She was apologetic but there was no need, this was well within expected parameters. We jumped in a taxi and let that whisk us into the heart of St Andrews.

Map showing that our starting point was Market Street in St Andrews
Made it! Now the walk can start…

St Andrews

All Saints’ Church

Last time, I had finished my walk beside the ruins of St Andrews Cathedral, which had made an excellent end-point, but I had missed some other interesting ruins on the way. I resolved to begin this walk by correcting that error and so we headed north from Market Street (where the taxi had deposited us) into South and then North Castle Street, the names of which rather give away what I was aiming for.

All Saint’s Church., St Andrews
The castle’s the ruin at the end of the road. To get to it, though, I first had to pass All Saint’s Church.

All Saints’ is a Scottish Episcopal church, that being the Scottish branch of the Anglican Communion

Looking at the church, with its statue of St Andrew (c. 5-60) and its crow-stepped tower, I had thought it older than it is.  The site has been a church only since 1903 and the actual building was constructed in stages between 1907 and 1923. It was built around a gated courtyard and the result, I think, was rather splendid. I do love ecclesiastical architecture, even though I have little time or patience for its purpose.

St Andrews Castle

On reaching the top end of North Castle Street, we came face to face with the ruins of St Andrews Castle.  This was the official residence of the bishops and (later) archbishops of St Andrews.

St Andrews Castle
I don’t think they’ll be getting their damage deposit back.

The castle was built by Bishop Roger de Beaumont (d. 1202), who became bishop in 1189, about thirty years after his predecessor, Arnold (d. 1163), had started work on the cathedral. Roger was the third son of Robert de Beaumont, 3rd Earl of Leicester (1121-1190) and had pursued a career in the church as younger sons often did, knowing that his elder brother Robert (d1204) would inherit their father’s title and estates.

During the Wars of Scottish Independence (1296-1357), the castle was repeatedly captured and sacked until it was destroyed by the Scots in 1337 to deny the English the use of it.  It remained in ruins for several decades after, until Bishop Walter Trail had it rebuilt in 1400. Sadly, he never got to live it in for long, dying there the following year.

Arms of the Beaumont Earl of Leicester and Traill of Blebo.

If the various carvings around St Andrews are anything to go by, bishops appeared to have used their family arms undifferenced, perhaps on the basis that they weren’t going to have any official descendants of their own, so wouldn’t be creating a cadet branch. On that basis here are the arms of the Beaumont Earls of Leicester and the Traills of Blebo, Walter Trail being a member of the latter family.

The Beatons

The Protestant Reformation brought new violence in the 16th century and James Beaton (1473-1539), who had become archbishop in 1522, added new gun towers to the castle for its protection. The archbishops drew enough Protestant ire just for being committedly Catholic, but their use of the castle’s nightmarish bottle dungeon (i.e., oubliette) to imprison miscreants didn’t earn them much favour in other quarters either.

James’s nephew David Beaton (c. 1494-1546) was made a cardinal by Pope Paul III in 1538 and succeeded his uncle as Archbishop of St Andrews the following year.  In 1545 he had the Protestant preacher George Wishart (c. 1513-1546) arrested and imprisoned as a heretic. Wishart was held in the castle’s Sea Tower, rather than the oubliette, but that doesn’t mean he was in for lenient treatment. Cardinal Beaton had him burnt at the stake in front of the castle!

Wishart’s death enraged his supporters rather than deterred them. They gained access to the castle by subterfuge – they pretended to be masons involved in ongoing building work – and murdered Beaton, before hanging his body from the window. They then remained in the castle, which was besieged and a mine and counter-mine were cut through the rock beneath it (these are apparently now open to the public but, alas, I did not know that on the day).

Arms of Beaton of Balfour and Wishart of Pitarrow

The two archbishops Beaton were members of the  Beaton of Balfour family, who were descendants of the Artesian House of Bethune. Their arms quartered the fess and mascles of Beaton with the chevron and otter’s head of Balfour. Also shown are the arms of the Wisharts of Pitarrow – three red piles in point on silver – of which George Wishart was a younger son.

Recapture and Ruin

Protestant preacher and founder of the Presbyterian  church, John Knox (c. 1514-1572), entered the castle in 1547 and ministered to the besieged. Four months later, the castle was captured when the besiegers called upon the services of the Florentine condottiero Leone Strozzi (1515-1554), who set up an artillery bombardment that rendered the castle indefensible.

Beaton’s successor, Archbishop John Hamilton (1512-1571) rebuilt the castle but its days were numbered as the Reformation fully took hold. Empty and abandoned, it slowly fell into ruin.

Arms of Strozzi and Hamilton

The House of Strozzi was a prominent Florentine financial and political dynasty which was rival to the Medici. Their arms were three silver crescents upon a red fess on a gold field. Shown here also are the arms of the Hamilton Earls of Arran, John Hamilton being the illegitimate son of James Hamilton, 1st Earl of Arran (c. 1475-1529). As a bastard, one would normally expect his arms to be differenced but those etched on his tomb were those of Hamilton undifferenced, so once again (arch)bishops seem to have played by different rules.

Cathedral Ruins

From the castle, we followed the street of East Scores along the shoreline towards the ruins of the cathedral. The façade of its East Tower and a curtain wall pierced by several arches – the Pends – still stand.  I couldn’t find any definitive statement as to why this structure survives at least partly intact but, given its position (facing the harbour), I’d put money on it having been used as a navigational daymark.

East Tower & Pends of St Andrews Cathedral
Or maybe it’s just pending demolition.
Kinness Burn

The pends led down to Shorehead and the outer part of the harbour, which is also the mouth of Kinness Burn.  Here, we found the Harbour Café, from which we could buy water and snacks and some public conveniences, in which we could deal with fluids we’d already drunk.

A set of lock gates separated the inner and outer harbours, across the top of which was a bascule footbridge.  This was handy as we needed to cross Kinness Burn to get going and wading it wasn’t an option.

St Andrews outer harbour / Kinness Burn
It would have been pretty annoying to only get this far.
East Sands

Crossing Kinness Burn put us onto a surfaced promenade between a grassy bank and the beach of East Sands.  The sands in question stretched for about half a mile from the burn before giving way to rocks.

East Sands, St Andrews
Always give way to rocks. You may think to be brave and resist, but they will always be boulder.

Above the rocks, the promenade would turn into a path atop a low cliff, marking the point where we would put St Andrews behind us and venture out into the relative wilds of the coast.

St Andrews seen from across East Sands
I think my waves goodbye were bigger than those in the bay.

St Andrew’s Bay

Maiden Rock

The path climbed up from sea level by about 20 m to be sandwiched between the cliff edge and St Andrews Holiday Park. We soon got past the caravans and then, about a third of a mile on from the beach, we passed the sandstone stack known as Maiden Rock. This is a remnant of an ancient sea cliff from when sea levels were higher, the rest of which was eroded.

Progress map showing that we had reached Maiden Rock
It’s ‘Maiden Rock’ and still standing. Had it been ‘made in sand,’ then it wouldn’t be.
Ups and Downs

After Maiden  Rock, the next mile and a half proved surprisingly energetic, with a lot of ups and downs.  The path was  pretty well-defined for the most part, and the steep parts had steps, but even so, it was tougher going than expected. We made absolutely terrible time doing this part, averaging about 1½ miles per hour (i.e. about half average walking speed). Not that were running a race or anything – though, if we were we’d have been last – but time lost now meant increasing likelihood that I would run out of daylight later on.

The Wanderer, a winding path, and two pictures of the Helpful Mammal on said path.
Top left: Is this the mysterious Wanderer? How would we know; we can’t see her face? Top Right: the path was undulating in two axes. It was lovely but hard work. Bottom left: While camera-shy herself, the Wanderer is not averse to photographing others but the Helpful Mammal is also elusive and taking a leaf out of her book by facing away. Bottom right: I approach the Rock & Spindle stack.

(At this point, I’d like to credit the Wanderer with taking several of the photos used in this post. Obviously, this includes all of those that I’m in, but also a number of the others. In many places we both snapped the same thing and I’ve generally gone with whoever’s photo was better.)

Rock & Spindle

The Rock & Spindle is one stack of several that are traces of where an ancient volcano once erupted on the eastern side of what is now the headland Kinkell Ness. The stack is so named on account of its shape resembling a spindle if seen from the right angle.

The Rock & Spindle
I can’t really see it, if I’m honest. But they could have gone with far worse names, so I’ll pretend I can.

The Rock & Spindle (on the right) is made of basalt, which formed at the end of the eruption, when molten rock solidified within the vent, which has since eroded from around it. The two stacks to the left of it, as shown above, comprise black tuff, i.e. solidified ash. The leftmost one contains blocks of limestone and mudstone, swept up by fast-moving gas and ashes.

Note also the low cliff in the background, the top of which is an old raised beach. This shows the extent of isostatic rebound since the Ice Age; that’s how far Scotland has bounced upwards without the weight of a glacier pinning it down!

Tidal Section

About a quarter of a mile on from the Rock & Spindle, the path dropped onto the beach for a tidal section.  This was signed with a warning if heading east to west but not the direction we were going. Fortunately, the tide was far enough out to be no problem.

The tidal section involved a bit of walking on the beach and a bit of clambering over rocks. And in one case it involved a bit of a drop down, where a handle was supplied to help those climbing up.  The Wanderer skipped down this like she was secretly a mountain goat in disguise while I made harder work of it, what with my poor sense of balance and no coordination. But, graceless as I may have been, I managed not only to drop down safely but to do so before the Wanderer could capture the descent on camera.

Left: the drop and handle. Top right: The same, plus Helpful Mammal . Bottom right: the beach, as seen from the position.
Left: the drop and handle. Top right: The same, with Helpful Mammal for scale. Bottom right: the beach, as seen from the position, showing the state of the tide.
Torrance Golf Course Primroses

After the tidal section, the path resumed along the shoreline before veering inland and upwards to cross via footbridge a small and unnamed burn draining off the Torrance Golf Course.  We then passed along the boundary of the golf course.  I distracted myself from its unfathomable horrors – golf courses are an incurable poison of the soul – by taking a keen interest in some primroses growing by the path.

Primroses
Roses may be prim or proper, but not both.
Kittock’s Den

After a quarter mile of golf course wall, the path made another descent from 40 m down to sea level in order to cross the burn that drops down through Kittock’s Den, a densely wooded valley that cuts right across a golf course.  The crossing was via another footbridge, which was a nice surprise, because my Ordnance Survey map expected a ford.

Progress map showing that we had crossed the footbridge in Kittock's Den
I may not have mentioned the ‘ford’ part to the Wanderer. Not because I thought she’d object, more that she’d be disappointed if it didn’t involve waist-deep rapids. She’s way more intrepid than I am!
Buddo Bunker

Moving on another quarter of a mile, we came to the headland of Buddo Ness. There, we passed by what some seem to call ‘Buddo Bunker,’ though it’s not so much an actual ‘bunker’ as two WW2 pillboxes connected by a short tunnel.

Buddo Bunker
Perhaps it’s been promoted, on account of long service and experience.
Buddo Rock

Continuing on round Buddo Ness, we found the path running alongside a stone wall, which met another at right angles. The path went over this on a stile and, once again, the Wanderer tripped lightly over it with ease, while I was closer to just tripping.

Beyond the stile was the strange-looking stack of Buddo Rock.

Buddo Rock
I’m told it’s composed of sandstone but it looks more like chewing gum to me.

While Buddo Rock lacks any kind of minty flavour, it does possess a kind of cleft in it with what are effectively rough steps leading up it.  I had no sooner noticed this than the Wanderer had vanished inside it. I initially resolved to just leave her to it but then became concerned that she might disappear into a magical portal leading to another world and I would never be able to explain it to the authorities. Also, my curiosity got the better of me.

The cleft in Buddo Rock
Left: The magical portal beckons… Right: This might look like me turning round and leaving again immediately, but magical portals are known to mess about with time. I might have been off fighting dragons for years. Or helping them, as I’m that sort of mammal.

Much to our mutual disappointment, it didn’t really lead anywhere, becoming a narrow and debris-strewn space from which one could probably scramble atop the stack if really determined. But even the Wanderer deemed that not worth the effort.

Boarhills Doocot

A short distance beyond Buddo Rock, the Fife Coastal Path turned inland and joined with a farm track.  This was slightly disappointing, as the wildly undulating coast path had been fun, but also a relief as the rest of the day would be easier going, letting us claw some time back.

The track led south to meet another by some large green barns at the north end of the village of Boarhills. Next to the barns stood Boarhills Doocot, which dates to the 17th century but had long fallen into ruin when Boarhills and Dunino Community Trust bought it in 2018. They then spent five years restoring it.

They did an excellent job. Inset is an image by Jim Bain, sourced from Geograph, showing how it looked in 2006 (cc-by-sa/2.0). It had had another twelve years of neglect by the time the Community Trust got hold of it.
Progress map showing that we had reached Boarhills Doocot.
I almost feel bad now for not bringing any doves.

Kenly Water

Burnside Farm Footbridge

Boarhills is a pretty enough village of little stone cottages, though tragically lacking in places to buy or acquire lunch. On another day, that might have been a problem, but the Wanderer had shown up with a cunning plan in that regard. That being so, she was now on a mission to identify a spot that she thought suitable for lunch and I was happy to follow as she wandered ahead.

We followed the Fife Coastal Path as it turned away from Boarhills and ran past Burnside Farm.  The latter gets its name from being on the banks of Kenly Water, over which we now crossed by footbridge.

The wanderer on the footbridge over Kenly Water
She paused halfway over to peer down at the stream as if to wonder ‘could we eat lunch in that?’
Riverbank Restaurant

It turned out that wasn’t quite what she was thinking, though it was close.  On the stream’s east bank, the coast path turned left to follow it downstream and we followed that for just a short distance before the Wanderer diverted down onto Kenly Water’s lapping shore.  There, she reached into her back pack to produce a camping stove, a pan and salmon fillets, not to mention what was essentially instant mash with stuff in.

On most days, when out hiking, if a handy pub or café doesn’t present itself, then I either eat a sandwich or else not at all. And, while I had noticed that Kenly Water was delightful, I’d normally have just noted that, snapped a photo and moved on.

Taking the time to sit by the stream and relax, just enjoying the environment, was pretty lovely in itself. Doing so with fresh-cooked food took it to a whole new level. It was awesome.

Lunch stop at Kenly water
Top: as restaurant décor goes, I rather like this. Bottom left: Our esteemed chef’s right foot ready to stamp on the salmon, should it try to escape into the stream. Bottom right: a mammal failing to be helpful by forgetting he was asked to time the cooking. In my defence, I refer you back to the top image.
Hillhead Mill

When we had eaten and rested we first ensured that we left no trace upon the riverbank and then continued along the path beside it. This ran down through the wooded ‘den’ and past the gloriously overgrown ruins of Hillhead Mill. Sitting at the confluence of Pitmilly Burn and Kenly Water, this had been a grist mill built in 1716. It had served the Pitmilly Estate, which was for centuries owned by the Moneypenny family, one of whom – Isobel Moneypenny (c. 1465-1541), daughter of David Moneypenny of Pitmilly – had been the mother of the Protestant-burning cardinal, David Beaton.

The last of them to live in Pitmilly HouseCharlton Monypenny (1867-1947) – emigrated to British Guiana (modern Guyana) in 1902. He returned to Britain in 1922, but he moved to east Berkshire when he did, Pitmilly having been sold by then.

Hillhead Mill ruins
Here, the forlorn and heartbroken Hillhead Mill does its best impression of the Guyanese jungle as if to plead ‘please, come back, Mr Moneypenny, I’ve got what you want right here!’

The house burnt down in 1967, but I couldn’t find out when the mill closed– no later than 1902, I suppose. It was certainly still going in the 1850s, though ,as the OS Name Book (used to help compile the 1st edition) described it thusly:

‘A flour and corn mill on the west side of Pitmilly Burn in the possession of Mr Clarke, Hillhead, and property of David Moneypenny Esq.’
Arms of Moneypenny of Pitmilly

The arms of Moneypenny of Pitmilly quartered the Moneypenny dolphin with the crescents and crosses of Cathcart. You might notice that a heraldic dolphin is not zoologically accurate, but follows a traditional design presumably deriving from a mediaeval herald who only had poor descriptions to go on. The Moneypenny dolphin refers to a tradition that their ancestor – a French merchant named James Dauphin – gave shelter to Malcolm III Canmore (c. 1031-1093) after Macbeth (d. 1057) had killed his father, Duncan I (c. 1001-1040). When Malcolm asked for a few pennies to help recover his kingdom, James replied, ‘Not a few pennies but many pennies.’

Pitmilly Burn Mouth

Lovely as it was, there was only so much of Kenly Water to traverse and so we soon came to its mouth. This is labelled on old OS maps as ‘Pitmilly Burn Mouth,’ which is odd, because the maps are also quite clear that it is Kenly Water that meets the sea there, while Pitmilly Burn is a tributary that meets Kenly Water at Hillhead Mill.  Hoping for some explanation of this apparent cartographical anomaly, I turned to the OS Name Book, which had this to say:

‘This name applies to the place where the Pitmilly Burn and Kenly Water (conjointly) empty themselves into the Sea.’
Pitmilly Burn Mouth
Two for the price of one, apparently.

The Name Book also listed ‘Kenlywater Mouth’ under the heading ‘other modes of spelling.’ That’s quite the spelling difference! (There was no column for ‘alternative names’ on the pre-printed form, so the Name Book compilers just had to make do with what they were given).

Babbet Ness

Salt Lake Bothy

We emerged from the trees of Kenly Water to find ourselves outside a walled field and right next to the shore.  The next minor embayment was called Salt Lake on the map – implying that salt pans were once situated there for the extraction of salt from seawater – and between it and Kenly Water stood the ruin of an old salmon fishing bothy.

Salt Lake fishing bothy
Good job we brought our own salmon with us; there’s none to be had here anymore!
Progress map showing that we had reached Salt Lake Fishing Bothy.
Of course, when I say ‘we,’ I really mean ‘the Wanderer.’ My only contribution was to eat it.
Eagle Bay

Although not labelled on my OS map, the embayment after that is apparently called Eagle Bay.

Eagle Bay
The lack of eagles was deeply disappointing.

Something else that was deeply disappointing was the lack of path as we turned to start rounding that bay. The coast path, no doubt ashamed at its appalling state of eaglelessness, had decided to end it all by throwing itself into the sea. Helpfully, that very sea had brought its tide just far enough in, that getting around it by dropping down onto the beach was no longer an option.

Damaged path
Left: The Helpful Mammal carefully considers the Wanderer’s assertion that ‘we can hop across that.’ Right: ‘That.’

I have no doubt that the Wanderer could indeed have skipped lightly across this gap. I also knew that I couldn’t.

Going Around

The alternative route intended by the signmaker – the Fife Coast & Countryside Trust, who manage the coastal path – was to back up to the bothy and take the track onto the A917 and then return to the coast via Boghall. And, had I been on my own, I might have just done that but the Wanderer was having none of it.  At her insistence, we backed up a much shorter distance to where the barbed wire fence met a wall and it was possible to hop over into the field without having to climb over the barbed wire.  We then walked around the edge of the field, bypassing the damage on the landward side of the fence. This was, I admit, a much better solution to the problem.

While in the field, we met a pair of hikers going the other way who had taken the same approach to getting around it (they had been warned by signage that informed you much earlier when heading the other way), which just compounded my feeling that I’d probably have dealt with it in the most rubbish way possible, had I been alone.

We exited the field at a handy gate, which we climbed over.  I achieved this with precious little grace but just enough speed that I was already up and over before the Wanderer’s phone could snap me doing it.

Me beside a gate I just climbed over
Hehe, too slow. Which I wasn’t.
Babbet Ness & Airbow Point

Back on the path, we made our way briskly around Babbet Ness – now that the path was more level than earlier, we were able to pick up our pace. The Wanderer observed that we should have asked the other hikers about the condition of the path ahead (which they had already walked) but too late now. Fortunately, we then happened upon a man out hiking with his dog and so we warned him of the collapse up head and he warned us of another between us and Kingsbarns.

Progress map showing that we had reached Babbet Ness.
Forewarned is forearmed. Or plunged into hellish anticipation, if you’re a worrier, I guess. Thankfully, neither I nor the Wanderer were so inclined.

This second landslip proved no obstacle – this time, we could just hop down onto the beach – and we soon found ourselves passing the green cabin that looks out over Airbow Point.

Kingsbarns & Cambo

Kingsbarns Castle

As we progressed southwards, the fields on our right once again turned into a golf course, in this case Kingsbarns Golf Links.  Buried beneath one of its greens was the site of Kingsbarns Castle, which had defended the grange of the King’s barns – originally ‘North Barns’ – that being the northernmost of three farm estates that supplied a royal residences at Crail and Falkland.  It is unclear when the castle was built, although the Old Statistical Account of Scotland had this to say of it:

‘The tradition is, that King John used frequently to live in a large building called the Castle, placed on a small eminence above the beach, and at a quarter of a mile’s distance (where the village is now built), had his store-houses for grain. The remains of the castle were taken down several years ago, and the stones were of an immense size.’

 ‘King John,’ in a Scottish context means John Balliol (c. 1249-1314), who was king from 1292 until his forced abdication in 1296. If the tradition holds any truth, then this would mean the castle existed from at least the late 13th century. We also have an approximate idea of when it ceased to exist, as the relevant volume of the Old Statistical Account was published in 1792. Sadly, nothing now remains of Kingsbarns Castle.

Progress map showing that we had reached the site of Kingsbarns Castle
Pity, a castle would be quite the golf hazard, like a full-scale version of crazy golf!
Kingsbarns Beach

A quarter mile after passing the site of the castle, we came to Kingsbarns Beach Car Park and, just before that, its associated toilet block and an external drinking water tap from which our bottles could be refilled. Both of these things were an absolute godsend!

From there, feeling far more comfortable, we continued alongside Kingsbarns Beach, also known as Cambo Sands, with the beach on one side of us and Kingsbarns Golf Links on the other. This particular golf course manages to be both new and old at the same time, by which I mean that its current incarnation is a purely 21st century affair but that it previously existed twice before, from 1793 to 1850 and from 1922 to 1939. In the first case, its existence was interrupted by a tenant farmer ploughing it under and in the second, by being mined as part of WW2 defences.

Cambo Estate

The golf links occupy part of the wider Cambo Estate, which has been owned by the Erskine family since 1668 and is today administered by a trust controlled by them.  The centrepiece of the estate is Cambo House, a late 19th-century construction replacing an original that was accidentally burnt down in 1878 due to an overly wild staff party!

Progress map showing that we had reached Cambo Ness
One can only assume the staff were all fired!
Various arms of Erskine of Cambo and/or Kellie
The first Esrkine to own the Cambo estate was Sir Charles Erskine (d.1677), who was the brother of Alexander Erskine, 3rd Earl of Kellie (d. 1677). The earl’s arms were a quartering of the black Erskine pale on silver with a crown & tressure representing the earldom of Kellie and Sir Charles differenced these with a silver crescent.  In 1791, Charles Erskine, 8th Earl of Kellie (1765-1799), inherited Cambo but his nephew and successor, Thomas Erskine, (1745-1828), 9th earl,  had no legitimate children. His natural grandson, David Engelhart (1792-1841), changed his surname to Erskine and inherited the estate with arms differenced by a wavy ermine bordure. The latter’s descendants still own Cambo today.
Cambo Ness

At Cambo Ness, the endless flattish greenery of the golf links was interrupted by the tree-lined Cambo Burn. This was, as usual, crossed by a footbridge. The trees added an additional element of interest to our views up the coast.

Views at Cambo Ness.
Top: approaching Cambo Ness. Bottom: The view from the ness, across the embayment of Old Haiks.
Old Haiks

What, you may be asking, the hell is a ‘haik,’ old or otherwise? Good question. A frame for drying fish or cheeses, apparently, some of which presumably once stood along this shore. If so, they preceded the compilation of the OS Name Book in the 1850s, which had this to say of Old Haiks:

‘A small indentation or bend of the foreshore between high and low water mark of the farm of Randerstone. It was formerly a small harbour where coal was put ashore but there was no pier ever built here.’
Randerston Farm

We may have seen no evidence of haiks of any age, nor (obviously) of the pier that never existed, but we definitely saw evidence of Randerston, which has apparently since lost its terminal ‘e.’  The evidence in question was a herd of cows milling about in the field ahead. It looked very much like we were going to have to push through them but the path, at the last minute, chucked us onto the beach:

Tidal section at Randerston castle. And cow.
Left: The beach, what there was of it. Right: ‘Excuse me, bipeds, but have you seen our missing vowel?’

We were easily within about twenty minutes of this tidal section being impassible but that was way more time than we needed. In fact, we’d been going at quite a hectic pace as we had both been quite alarmed by how slow we’d been before lunch. As such, we didn’t dally.

Old stone pier/wall on shore at Randerston Castle.
We never found Randerston’s missing ‘e,’ but we did find this pier, just like the one that Old Haiks never had.
Randerston Castle

The stonework above may actually have been associated with the otherwise long-vanished Randerston Castle. This was first mentioned in 1528 and apparently stood on the shore, although that means close to it rather than right on the beach; the adjacent field of Randerston Farm has crop marks belying its probable site.

Today, the OS map attaches the name ‘Randerston Castle’ to the rocky headland instead, i.e., the one we’d just dashed quickly around, while we still had beach on which to do that. It had a couple of caves in it, we’d noticed, but there was no time to hang about in them.

Progress map showing that we had passed Randerston Castle, while not being bats.
Why would we hang around in caves? We’re not bats!
Five eider ducks, three male and two female
N-eider are these. They’re ducks.

The above five birds are all eider ducks, Europe’s largest species of duck. The males are black and white and females are brown, which means that one of the boys above is playing gooseberry.

Fife Ness

Balcomie Castle

The Wanderer and I were wildly guessing quite wrongly what species the ducks might be, because we had no idea at the time. Something else we had no idea of, although I might have noticed had I been more map-observant than duck-focussed, was that we were passing north of Balcomie Castle.

This was not a particularly exciting castle, being really just a tower house, and diverting off to see it was never really going to be on the cards. It is of 16th century construction and was probably built by James Learmonth of Clatto,  when he acquired the estate in 1526.  In 1705, it passed to a branch of the Hope family, and then the Scotts of Scotstarvit around 1763 before being purchased by the Earl of Kellie in 1775.  The most excitement this particular building has ever seen was putting up Mary of Guise (1515-1560) overnight in 1538, on her way to marry James V (1512-1542) at St Andrews.

The building is said to be haunted, however, by the victim of an accidental murder that took occurred in the structure it replaced. The story goes that the laird of the original castle – who would have belonged to a branch of the Hay family – objected to the incessant whistling of a servant boy and secured him in the keep as a punishment but then forgot. The poor lad starved to death and allegedly haunts the spot still as a whistling wraith.

Progress map showing that we'd passed a point level with Balcomie Castle
You know what, I’m glad we’re not going. If being murdered wouldn’t shut the boy up, there’ll be no way to make him stop. I admire his spirit, so to speak, but I’d much rather listen to the ducks.
Arms of Hay, Learmonth of Balcomie, Hope of Balcomie and Scott of Balcomie.
I couldn’t find any specific arms for Hay of Balcomie but they’d be some variant of the usual Hay arms, namely three red shields on silver. The Learmonth arms quartered the chevron and mascles of Learmonth with the roses and bend of Darsie.  The Hopes of Balcomie bore the arms of Hope – a silver chevron between three bezants, but differenced by adding three red pallets to the chevron, referencing maternal Keith ancestry. The arms of Scott of Balcomie were doubly-differenced. Firstly, the Scotts of Scotstarvit added a red bordure to the Scott arms and then, when Scott of Balcomie branched from them, a red crescent was added as a second difference.
Constantine’s Cave

Having not gone anywhere Balcomie Castle and its whistling wraith, we found ourselves once again beside a golf course. But, because this wasn’t enough déjà vu, it also offered us a nice cave, just in case we wanted to reconsider the bat thing:

Constantine's cave
Nah-nah, nah-nah, nah-nah, nah-nah…

King Constantine I could have done with the aid of a caped crusader, or any crusader, or just some additional knights he could trust. His army was slaughtered by rampaging Viking foes sometime between 874 and 877 (the year varies slightly in different sources). Certainly, what he didn’t need was a substantial part of his force to be comprised of local enemies that he’d recently subdued, whose loyalty could most generously be characterised as ‘reluctant.’ These, predictably, concluded that dying for Constantine wasn’t on their list of things to do that day and fled the field, leaving him to it.  He retreated into the cave above (or so tradition maintains) and promptly got murdered in it. He didn’t spend the next several centuries whistling at people, though. Unless he did – I mean, you’d have to sleep in the cave to find out.

Fife Ness Harbour

Just beyond Constantine’s Cave was what had once been Fife Ness Harbour. First mentioned in 1537, this existed mainly to ship stone from Craighead Quarry.  Such stone was used to repair St Andrews Cathedral in 1455, which the sharp-eyed reader will notice is before the first mention of the harbour. So, either the harbour is 82 years older and no-one thought to mention it before, or getting the stone to St Andrews was an absolute pain for which they eventually realised there was a solution.

At any rate, by 1643, when the Scots International Church was being built in Rotterdam and 1651, when Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658) built a fortified citadel in Perth, Craighead Quarry was able to ship stone via this harbour.

In the early 19th century, the harbour saw a related but slightly different use, in the cutting and assembly of stones to build a navigational beacon for the North Carr rocks. Concentric circles were cut into the rock within the harbour as a template against which the stones could be shaped and positioned. Today, shorn of context, they look like aliens have visited to do crop circles on difficult mode.

Fife Ness  Harbout
Top: a landing pad for very small flying saucers? Bottom: the harbour basin, positioned just far enough away that getting blocks from the circles to a boat would require quite a lot of effort. Lucky there was UFO parked nearby to tractor-beam it up, really.
Foreland Head

Moving quickly on, lest we be abducted by aliens, we rounded the very tip of Fife Ness, which is called Foreland Head.  Defending this from invading Germans and sea monsters alike was another WW2 pillbox.

Foreland Head pillbox
Quick, shoot it in the ankles while it’s distracted by the lights!’
‘But it doesn’t have any ankles!’
‘We’re doomed!’

Of course, the trouble with relying on flying saucers to distract marauding sea monsters is that they stopped assembling beacons in the harbour in 1818, when a storm destroyed the almost-complete one on North Carr. The lightships that followed were a little too far out to be a useful distraction, and that was even before they removed the last one to Dundee.  What was needed was a bright, flashing light on Foreland Head itself, and one was eventually built…

Fife Ness Lighthouse

Because it wasn’t built until 1975, Fife Ness Lighthouse was not designed by any member of the lighthouse-building Stevenson family, although it only missed the last of them – David Alan Stevenson (1897-1971) – by four years. He had held the position of senior engineer to the Northern Lighthouse Board (NLB) from 1885 to 1938 and it was one of his successors, Peter H Hyslop, who designed the lighthouse at Fife Ness.

An NLB engineer from 1955 and engineer-in-chief (as the senior engineer position had been retitled) from 1972 to 1978, Hyslop designed four of the five lighthouses built after WW1 (the others being at Strathy Point, Point of Fethaland and Calf of Man).  On this basis alone, one would expect him to be a little more famous, but I was able to learn almost nothing about him; one would expect his professional stature to be greater.

Fife Ness Lighthouse
The lighthouse itself is also lacking stature, standing at only 5 m tall. Even taking Foreland Head into account, the light is only 12 m above mean sea level.
Progress map showing that we had rounded Foreland Head
If the sea level would only stop being so mean, we might not need all these lighthouses.

Crail

Firth of Forth

Tangential to the subject of sea levels, by rounding Foreland Head, the Wanderer and had now entered the Firth of Forth (Linne Foirthe).  This pertains to sea level because ‘firth’ is cognate with ‘fjord’ and that of Forth properly is one, having been carved by one of those Ice Age glaciers from whose weight Scotland is still rebounding at a rate of about 0.6 mm per year. This is slower than the current rate of sea level rise, which is 2 mm per year, so Scotland is now starting to see a gradual reversal of post-glacial sea level change.  Of course, that rate might increase dramatically if Antarctic land ice starts melting (sea ice is much less of an issue as it displaces its own mass).

The Firth of Forth as seen from Fife Ness. The Isle of May is visible.
I guess we’d better look up on the Isle of May while it’s still protruding from the water.
Isle of May

The Isle of May is just under a mile long and a third of a mile across and located five miles off the coast on which we were walking.  Although it has no permanent residents now, it was home to the Benedictine Priory of St Adrian, which was subordinate to Reading Abbey, from 1145 to 1288 when the island eventually proved a little too remote from Berkshire for the liking of Reading’s abbot, Robert of Burgate. The priory was sold to St Andrews Cathedral (which had been disputing Reading’s jurisdiction anyway) and was still under its authority in 1313, when English forces attacked and destroyed it.  A new chapel was built but abandoned soon after, with the monks moving to Pittenweem Priory in 1318.

The priory was not the first religious establishment on the island, though.  The St Adrian to whom it was dedicated was supposedly a monk martyred on the island by Vikings in 875, though he may or may not have existed. His cult was later conflated with that of an earlier martyr, St Ethernan, who was killed by the Picts circa 669 and buried on the island. This conflation might actually be appropriate as Adrian might well have been a confused conflation of Ethernan and an early bishop of St Andrews.  That sort of thing happened a lot with mediaeval hagiographies.

Today, the island is a nature reserve owned and managed by NatureScot, an executive non-departmental public body of the Scottish Government. It maintains a bird observatory upon the island, which can accommodate six guests, otherwise visitors to the island are day-trippers, ferried from Crail, Anstruther and North Berwick.

Progress map showing that we were approaching the Crail Airfield pillbox
It is important to keep the birds under observation. God knows what they might get up to, otherwise.
Crail Airfield
Pillbox at Crail Airfield
We couldn’t see the birds from our position, but this pillbox was looking out towards them, just in case.

In passing the pillbox above, we had also begun passing Crail Airfield. As RNAS Crail, this served the newly-created RAF from 1918 to 1919 and the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm from 1940 to 1961.  It is allegedly the best-preserved example of a WW2 naval airfield in Scotland, with all four runways surviving, along with most of the WW2 buildings. The whole site is listed though that hasn’t stopped part of it from becoming a karting track – Crail Raceway – and some of the buildings from being used as a pig farm.

Kilminning Castle

While wandering past the airfield, the wanderer and I managed to get engaged in an animated discussion regarding politics and history, which meant that neither of us took much notice of the rocky stack called Kilminning Castle.  Not that there was much to take notice of. It was just a rocky stack and Buddo Rock had already set that bar challengingly high.

Progress map showing we had reached Kilminning Castle
We may have been unduly harsh in shunning the stack for its inadequacy. To help you decide if we were, inset is an image by Andrew Curtis, sourced from Geograph (cc-by-sa/2.0).
Roome Harbour

We curtailed our discussion – it wasn’t really an argument, as our opinions weren’t a great distance apart, but we were definitely emphasising different things – when we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by caravans, having followed the path into Sauchope Links Caravan Park. Moments later, we emerged from that into a grassy seafront park with such useful amenities as benches to sit upon and rest and public conveniences to find publicly convenient. This overlooked the embayment called Roome Harbour.

Roome Harbour
I feel it would be rude not to rest on the benches provided. Well, one of them, anyway. Resting on all of them in turn would be excessive.

At this point, the Fife Coastal Path continued close to shoreline, in front of those several benches in the photo above upon which I’m not sitting. We, however, had other plans, which mostly involved finding food for the Wanderer and then her catching a bus. To get to Crail from St Andrews, she had walked about thirteen miles, which is a lot if you don’t normally do that kind of distance and, while it hadn’t broken her, she wasn’t going to be walking any further than Crail.

Crail Parish Church

We thus diverted off the coast path and inland along Roomebay Road until it connected with Marketgate, a main street leading us towards the town centre. This led us past a couple of things of interest, one of which was Crail Parish Church.

Crail Parish Church
I thought it interesting enough to photograph, but no so much as to go any closer than this.

The church may not look particularly old, on account of its nave having been last rebuilt in 1815 by Robert Balfour (c. 1772-1867), a St Andrews-based architect who had trained with the Adam Brothers in Edinburgh.  The lower part of its tower, however, dates to around 1200 and upper parts from circa 1500.  And the oldest part of its chancel, constructed around 1160,  has been incorporated into subsequent rebuilding.

Mercat Cross

That the street we were wandering down was called Marketgate strongly implied that there had once been a market held in it. I wasn’t particularly shocked, therefore, when just over a hundred metres further on, we reached the burgh’s mercat cross.

Crail mercat cross
It’s not actually a cross but I’m not telling that to its unicorn finial, look how stabby its horn is!

Crail was made a burgh (giving it the right to hold a market) by William the Lion in 1178 and so presumably had a mercat cross through Mediaeval times. The columnar part of the current structure dates to the early 17th century, while the unicorn top is an 1887 addition, marking Queen Victoria’s golden jubilee. The mercat cross was repositioned slightly at the same time. The finial was designed by Fife architect John Currie (1839-1922), who also made alterations to the 16th-century tollbooth standing nearby.

In 2019, Joseph Morrow, the current Lord Lyon, King of Arms, proclaimed from the mercat cross the granting of arms to the Royal Burgh of Crail and District Community Council. The arms granted were those previously held by the old burgh council before it was abolished in the local government reorganisation of 1976 and absorbed into North East Fife District (which was itself abolished in 1996).

The arms of Crail depict a night-fishing scene comprising seven mariners in a single-masted ship beneath a crescent moon and seven stars shown in a black sky. A pennon of St Andrew’s Cross flies from the mast. These arms are based on a mediaeval seal of the town, of which examples date back to 1357.

High Street

Beyond the mercat cross, we entered the High Street. Here, I bought some snacks from the Co-op, while the Wanderer ended her wander in a queue at the Crail Fish Bar & Café.

Progress map showing that we had reached Crail, which was also the end of the Wanderer's walk.
All things, however wander-ful, must end.

My day’s journey still had some way to go. I briefly contemplated queuing with the Wanderer, both to get fish & chips and to keep her company, but the truth was I was pressed for time. I would already be racing the sunset, as it was. Knowing that my newly-purchased snacks would now likely be all the dinner I would get, I bade her farewell and continued on my way.

Crail Harbour

With time now of the essence, I immediately and stupidly burnt some of it by misreading my map and heading down to the quayside of Crail harbour. There I failed to pick up the coastal path on account of it not actually running there.

Progress map showing that I had reached Crail harbour. But shouldn't have.
It had, in fact, left by the very road I’d just come down. I was now doing it backwards!

Crail’s town website claims that the harbour is ‘the most photographed harbour in Scotland,’ which is not only a bold claim to make but one that is utterly unverifiable. It was attractive, I’ll admit, but I chose to buck the trend and not photograph it on account of my need to press on.

Dog-walking Duo

I got the right directions to pick up the coastal path from a couple out giving their dog an even walk, and then reascended the 20 m difference in elevation between the harbour and Anstruther Road (as the High Street had morphed into). The name of Anstruther Road was moderately promising (as Anstruther is where I was trying to get to). This milestone was less helpful:

A milestone which reads: 'Kilry 2¾, Largo Pier 14¼, B'Island 32'
But I’m not going to any of those places! Or, at least, not today.

I left Anstruther Road (which was also the A917) about 200 m after I had joined it, by turning into the dead-end street of West Braes. I had been assured by the Dog-walking Duo that this was the actual right way to go and that the coastal path would branch off it, which it did.  From it I could see Crail Harbour, staring back reproachfully as if to say ‘but how could you?’

Crail Harbour, as seen from West Braes.
Oh all right, I give in; here’s your photo.
Castle Haven

The coastal path rounded the corner of Crail’s embayment before passing my a much lesser one, labelled on some maps as Castle Haven.  Here, according to old OS maps (but no longer labelled on modern ones) was the former site of Cunningham’s Castle.  This is not to be confused with the royal residence of Crail Castle, of which scarcely more remains, but was a structure belonging to the Cunninghams of Barns, where Barns was also known as West Barns (to contrast with, say, North Barns, meaning Kingsbarns). 

Looking at William Roy’s military survey map of 1747-52 and the 1st ed OS map (1855), it seems pretty clear that West Barns/Barns was close to the site now known as Old Barns, in what is now a ploughed field. Roy’s map also shows buildings by Castle Haven.

Barns was owned by the Polwarths of Polwarth prior to 1376, when it was resigned by Patrick Polwarth and granted to Sir Neil Cunningham

Arms of Polwarth of Polwarth and Cunningham of Barns.

The Polwarths were a family from Berwickshire, across the firth, and used as their arms three silver engrailed piles on red.  The Cunninghams of Barns used a black forkshare – a pall (a Y-shaped device) with its ends cut short and pointed – on silver with a red mullet (star) for difference. The forkshare was a common feature of Cunningham arms, though the family was more usually associated with Ayrshire on Scotland’s south-western coast.

Cunningham’s Castle

The castle was Sir Neil’s, according to the New Statistical Account of Scotland, which had this to say in 1845:

A Summer house on the rock projecting into the Sea at Castlehaven points out the spot where Sir Neil Cunningham – an elder branch of the house of Barns – entertained his followers and whence he defied the assaults of his deadly foes. The ruins of the Castle were pulled down in 1839.’

Eight years later, in 1853, the OS Name Book observed that:

‘This Castle stood on a projecting rock near the Castle Haven, westward from Crail. All that remains of this castle are a few stones lying near the spot where it stood.’
The Isle of May from the site of Cunningham's Castle
As there’s no castle to look at any more, here’s a photo of the Isle of May as seen from where it was.
The Pans

Immediately after Castle Haven was Pan Haven and a site labelled on maps as the Pans. As with Salt Lake earlier in the day, this was strongly suggestive that salt panning had once taken place there. Old OS maps show a couple of cottages there, which are now depicted as unroofed structures on modern maps.

Ruined cottage at The Pans.
They’re not wrong.
Barns Mill

About a quarter mile on from the Pans, I came to a tiny burn, no more than a metre across. Here, according to Roy’s Map, had been ‘Barnsmills’ but a century later, when the first OS map of the area was published, the site was labelled ‘Barns Mill (Ruins of).’  The Name Book had this to say of it:

‘It is supposed by tradition that Barns Mill, was a flour mill attached to the house of Barns, from which it received its name; it is situated on Barnsmuir farm. It is now a ruin.

Visiting the site 171 years later, I saw no obvious trace of it ever having been there at all.

Progress map showing that I had reached the site of Barns Mill.
Although, to be fair, I wasn’t really looking; I had elsewhere to be…

Anstruther & Kilrenny

Caiplie Coves

A couple of hundred metres beyond the burn was a rocky outcropping penetrated by caves. These were the Caiplie Coves (where ‘cove’ is a Scots form for ‘cave’). I’ll let the Name Book describe them:

‘Two caves to the South East of Barnsmuir farm house, and on the sea shore; it is supposed by tradition that they were the dens of wild beasts, from the circumstance of the bones of wolves, and other wild animals being found here some years ago; likewise the bones of human beings supposed to have been the prey of wild beasts. It is supposed to have been the residence of hermits, or monks, from the introduction of Christianity, till the Reformation; in the  largest cave the place where the altar and font stood, is quite visible at the present time, there is likewise a cross near the altar supposed to be of very old date: (cut in the rock.)

‘After the Reformation it is supposed to have afforded shelter to brigands, or smugglers; there are places hewn out in the cave supposed to be made so as one man might defend himself against a multitude (as all places of brigands or smugglers are.) Close to the caves there is an opening in a rock, supposed to be the entrance to a subterranean passage, leading to the House of Barns; there is a tradition stating that a piper went into this natural passage, and was heard playing under the hearth stone of the House of Barns.’

Thanks, Name Book!

Caiplie Coves
The Wanderer will be sad that she missed this. I would have liked to take a proper look, myself, but alas, the clock was ticking…
Caiplie

Uncomfortably aware of an orange tinge to the sky ahead, which was pretty but also a reminder not to dawdle, I pressed on apace. I crossed over the Denett Burn, which was broader but shallower than the burn at Barns Mill, and then passed by the old farmstead of Caiplie

Back in the 1850s, there had been a tile and brick works  just east of Caiplie, on a spot occupied by cottages now. And in the turnpike road (now the A917), a small house had served as  a toll bar, taking payment from traffic. 

Today, the toll bar is gone, with just a small heap of rubble to show where it was. And a doocot just south of the road is in much need of some love, too.  Not that I diverted to see them on the day, you understand, I didn’t have time for that!

Progress map showing that I had reached Caiplie.
Red alert! Red alert! Daylight failure imminent!
Kilrenny Mill

Up ahead, I now saw the caravans of Kilrenny Mill Caravan Park.  As its name suggests, this occupies the site of a mill alongside Kilrenny Burn. In fact, the old house attached to the mill is still there, surrounded by caravans.

Kilrenny Mill Caravan Park
Kilrenny Mill Caravan Park as seen before (top) and after (bottom) I had crossed Kilrenny Burn.

The milestone in Crail hadn’t been completely useless after all, I now realised, as what it had named as ‘Kilry’ had been meant as an abbreviation for Kilrenny.

Cellardyke Harbour

The caravans came to an end and houses began as I entered the burgh of Cellardyke, which was formerly alternatively known as Nether Kilrenny.  I briefly paused beside Cellardyke Harbour – partly for a rest and partly to consult my map and check that no, this wasn’t Anstruther Harbour. Cellardyke Harbour is much smaller, for one thing, and occupies a gap in the rocks called Skinfast Haven. A more important difference to me was that Cellardyke’s harbour didn’t have my accommodation for the night facing into it, whereas Anstruther’s did.  This meant I couldn’t get too comfortable, because I wasn’t quite finished walking yet.

Progress map showing that I had reached Cellardyke Harbour
Any port in a… no, hang on, it’s not stormy. Guess I’d better keep on.
Cellardyke Town Hall

As I made my way through Cellardyke, the sun slipped completely behind the horizon and the warm orange hues faded into the eerie blue of twilight.  I was pretty sure I was going the right way, but I seemed to be taking longer to reach the next landmark than expected, so I asked a random passer by if I was going to the right way for my destination.

‘Well, yes,’ she said, after a moment’s thought, ‘but that’s in Anstruther. This is Cellardyke.’

Apparently, what I was suggesting was an inconceivable distance to walk!

Cellardyke Town Hall
Actually, the way my tired legs were slowing, it might be. If I kept up this rate of deceleration – as helpfully implied to me by the time on Cellardyke Town Hall’s clock – I might take infinity to get there.

Cellardyke Town Hall was built in 1883, replacing a dilapidated 1642 tollbooth. It was designed by the St Andrews-based architecture partnership Henry & Hall – comprising David Henry (1835-1914) and Jesse Hall (1820-1906) and was funded by two wealthy local-born patrons who got their names on a plaque on the front of it. These were Stephen Williamson (1827-1903), a Liberal politician and founder of the Liverpool-based shipping company Balfour Williamson & Co, and David Fowler (1826-1881), an Adelaide-based wholesale grocer. The latter died before even the foundation stone had been laid.

Cellardyke’s 1642 mercat cross is affixed to the front of the town hall you can see it in the photo above, to the right of the door, though it looks more like a drainpipe in the poor light.

Anstruther Harbour

With just a third of a mile left to go now, I put on a final burst of speed and soon found myself facing onto Anstruther Harbour. I had made it!  I quickly located my accommodation and checked in, where I learnt to my total lack of surprise that I had just missed the kitchen and food was no longer an option.  From them, anyway – there were still at least two fish & chip shops that were open.

Some food, a drink and a nice, long sit down made all the difference.

Map showing that I had reached my destination - the Waterfront, at Anstruther Harbour.
But not necessarily in that order.

I had had an excellent day and it had been nice to have company for most of it.  The next morning, I would be back to walking alone but first, sleep beckoned emphatically…


Hasteful MammalThis time: 18 miles
Total since Gravesend: 4,489½ miles


Combined map showing the whole route

2 thoughts on “CCL – St Andrews to Anstruther”

    1. Thanks! You do realise that you’re the reason I spend hours writing these walks up, right? You urged me to take notes when I started this and, well, I was never very good at doing things in moderation.

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