I took full advantage of my sole occupancy of the bunkhouse during Thursday 23 to expedite my physical and psychological rehabilitation. Following a restful sleep, I went about getting both my grubby clothes and myself clean again. Alternating hot and cold compresses were applied to the ailing calf muscle, and I ate lots of protein to aid its repair.

The remainder of the day was spent writing my previous diary entry, and dealing with outstanding emails at a nearby internet cafe. That short walk was sufficient to convince me that the following day's scheduled 20 mile hike to Inverness was still feasible provided I took my time. The route would involve following tarmac roads and cycle paths - hard on the feet, perhaps, but less strenuous on the legs than walking on rough ground.

Evanton is a small place, so by my second evening several people recognised me, including Lee, at the Novar Arms Hotel, who had been concerned about my difficulty finding accommodation when I first arrived. I also chatted to pensioner Colin McDonald, who generously made a donation to my charities whilst explaining that he was considering participating in a sponsored abseil himself!

I left the campsite at 7.30am next morning and headed initially for Dingwall, 6 miles distant. From the high-level road I could see the oil derricks in the Cromarty Firth and the A9 bridge across it. My journey then followed National Cycle Path No. 1 around the head of the Firth and all the way into Inverness. It rained most of the day, but I made only a single stop at a greasy spoon in Tore for 2 mugs of tea.

I had good reason not to arrive in Inverness late. The sister of a friend of mine, and her husband, had kindly offered to feed and accommodate me. I had not met them before, but I immediately warmed to Rae and Dave, who were great company and generous hosts. After being treated to a roast dinner and a large measure of whisky, I was ready for my third consecutive night in a comfortable bed. I slept well, satisfied that (a) I had competed what must surely be the most gruelling part of the walk, and (b) that my leg was feeling OK. Tomorrow I walk the Great Glen Way.

My howling night (see previous entry) did not apply to the weather, as by the morning of Monday 20 it was bright and clear. First job of the day was to wash some clothes in the stream nearby. That done, the inevitable presence of the midges enhanced my camp-breaking efficiency such that I was in Rogart by 11.00am.

To my delight, Rogart had a Spar store. Having survived largely on rehydrated rice and pasta for some days, my body was ravenous for protein and vegetables. I bought a basket-full of suitably satisfying sustenance and scoffed the lot at a picnic table by the Pittentrail Inn, opposite. Rain threatened as midday approached. Noting that the BlackBerry had an internet connection, I ducked inside the Inn and wrote the previous diary entry whilst waitress Beth laced me with coffee. Before leaving to continue south, I cheekily blagged some tea bags to flavour the bog-water tea I was becoming accustomed to drinking.

I had barely walked 100 yards before finding myself intrigued by a B&B called 'Sleeperzzz', just behind Rogart station, where the accommodation comprised old railway carriages. Alan and Mel, who were staying there, came over to chat. Alan had the look of a musician, and he confirmed that he was indeed an accomplished air-guitarist. Mel's role in the band was, apparently, to replace the lampshades.

Moving on, I initially climbed a steep uphill path which, according to the map, should have continued all the way across the hill. Lesson 1: Don't assume that there is a path just because the map says so. Lesson 2: If the bracken each side of a path has tufts of wool in it, don't assume the path was made by a human. What I thought would be a simple stretch turned out to be another marathon effort. I could see my aiming point in the distance, so I just kept going until I came to Dalnamain (which is a disused Shepherd's cottage) and the Strath Carnaig road. A 2-hour westerly trudge along this tarmac roadway took me to the very pleasant Loch Buidhe, where I camped for the night. I noted that only one car passed me in that time.

The morning brought with it a herd of curious cattle who I had to keep shooing away as I packed. My next stop was Bonar Bridge, which I reached half a day ahead of schedule. I popped into the Bridge Hotel, where I was entertained by Gary, Jackie and Steve for over 4 hours. The alcohol had helpfully anaesthetised my feet when I walked on late in the afternoon, heading towards Evanton across yet more hills and camping overnight behind yet another disused Shepherd's collage called Garvary, located by a footbridge crossing the Wester Fearn Burn.

I expected the following day's trek to Evanton to be tough, and I was right. The recent rainfall meant that the rivers were in spate, so I couldn't cross where I'd expected to and had to deviate upstream (and hence uphill) to find a crossable point. I was getting used to footpaths shown on the map petering out into nothingness, and ended up hopping across pathless saturated bogland again. I gained the skill of knowing which ground would be firm from the plant-life growing upon it. I am sure that Bruce, my local Vicar, and Shirley, his predecessor, will both be delighted to know that I can now walk on 93% water.

At one point, I somehow ended up stuck in a pine forest trapped by a surging stream that seemed to flow in a complete circle around me. A fallen tree provided my escape route, but the delay cost me an hour. When I eventually reached Evanton it was 8.30pm and I had been walking for 11 hours. I was limping because of a painful right calf muscle - probably caused by the bogland clump-hopping. I decided that a rest day was due, but there was no room at the Inn! Fortunately the local 'Black Rock' campsite had a bunkhouse available for sorry cases like me and, as luck would have it, I would be the only inmate. That night I took a whisky to bed with me - for medicinal purposes only, you understand.

Whilst clearing my gear from Mick's garden, Sarah, his employee, prepared me coffee. She lived to the south of Halkirk and invited me to stop by her house on my way. I did, and was treated to another hot drink, a Penguin (the chocolate version) and a banana. She would be dog walking by Loch More later that day, a place I would be passing, so she offered to bring my rucksack along in her car later, enabling me to travel light for a while. With aching shoulders and feet, this was not an offer I was inclined to refuse.

We met again in the mid-afternoon, ten miles further on. After parting and my rucksack restored to my shoulders, my pace slowed, and it was 8.00pm before I reached the sporting lodge at Glutt. It was raining heavily by now. I knocked on the Lodge door and Freddy Mackay, the Gamekeeper, offered me the use of the barn for the night. The temperature had dropped so I slept fully clothed, but enjoyed a comfortable night, to be woken by the continuing loud roar of heavy rain on the tin roof.

I took my time getting ready to move on, repairing a tear in my rucksack liner and attending to the well-being of my sore feet. Eventually I gave up on the rain stopping and started my way across the wetlands to Kildonan.

Initially I took a compass bearing south to the footbridge at Gobernuisgeach via Cnoc Loch Mhadadh. There is an old house by the bridge which is maintained by the estate as an emergency shelter and bothy for walkers. I stopped for a while, cooking and consuming the beans and sausages found in a rusty tin left by previous walker and enjoying tea made with Berriedale river water.

After making my entry in the bothy log-book, I continued across the bog towards Kildonan via the 517m Cnoc an Eireannaich. Crossing the bog land was not just wet, but totally exhausting. Huge concentration was required to avoid putting a foot wrong and ending up thigh-deep in gooey black peat. Also, circumnavigating the water pools that I couldn't jump doubled the 'as the crow flies' distance. If anyone wishes to look at the area south-west of Glutt using Google Map, it is every bit as bad on the ground as it appears from the satellite image.

My aching feet eventually brought me to the unmanned railway station at Kildonan at around 8.30pm. The flat grassy area behind the platform looked such a temping camping ground that I phoned Scot-Rail, who said 'fine'. What a nice company! However, I had forgotten about the dreaded Scottish midge which swarmed around and started to eat me the moment I stopped moving. The tent went up in record time and I bolted inside, quickly falling asleep to the rhythmic throbbing of my feet.

I woke up to a sunny Sunday 19, and cooked the dehydrated rice supper that I hadn't the energy to prepare the previous evening. More bogs to trot today, but the more clement weather made the experience less onerous. There were occasional dry bits of ground where I could sit down to rest unlike the previous day, and I found the time to appreciate the wonderful diversity of the bog-land plants.

The rain returned later in the day, but by then I had reached the road at Balnacoil along which I had a miserable trudge west until I'd had enough some 4 miles north of Rogart. In the rain, I erected the tent at the edge of the tarmac drive to 'Banscol Dog Kennels' and was howled to sleep.

A burst water main meant that I was unable to shower on the morning of Wednesday 15. Fortunately, I'd taken one the previous evening and also left enough water in the kettle for a cup of coffee. The B&B's Full English was consumed with ample milk and orange juice before I hauled my heavily-laden rucksack down to John o'Groats harbour for the traditional photo-session in front of the milepost. The photographer was absent when I got there so a young lad named Angus took one of me in front of the alternative sign on the slipway wall. I also symbolically disposed of the tatty sandals that I worn on the journey up.

Heading west, the trek towards Dunnet Head involved lots of rather dull tarmac trudging, although a refreshment stop at 'The Tea Cozy' in Mey represented a pleasant interlude, with other cafe customers expressing interest in my trek having seen the banner on my rucksack (thanks for making that, Rosemary).

The weather was warm and there was no rain, but visibility was poor, so I didn't bother with the extra climb to the viewing point when reached Dunnet Head Lighthouse at the most northerly point of mainland Britain. Satisfied at reaching my main goal of the day, I retreated south cross-county over the 'Moss of Dunnet' to Dunnet village. A 12-year old Highland Park whisky served by the very amiable Gemma at the Northern Sands Hotel put me in the mood for sleep, so I headed for the beach to camp amongst the dunes where I drifted off to the sound of gently crashing waves.

Whilst packing my gear in the morning, a lady dog walker who had seen me on the road to Dunnet the previous day invited me to illicitly use the facilities of the nearby caravan site where she and her husband were staying. Bette and Derek made sure I had some tea and toast in me before I continued my waterside walk to Thurso. From there, it was south on the B874 to Halkirk, dodging the oncoming cars as I walked in the gutter.

I imbibed at Halkirk's 'Top Bar', after which Publican Mick kindly invited me to erect my tent in his garden.

Tomorrow I head towards Glutt Lodge and the remote and boggy Flow Country, where communications are likely to be difficult!

How do I manage it? Monday 13 finally arrives but, even given 6 months to plan this venture, I still end up with a last minute panic. With just an hour to get to Southampton Parkway to catch the 19.22 train to Scotland, I haven't packed and my lift is suffering from mechanical troubles.

Fortunately, Cotswold's Ben 'the Boot' Jones came to the rescue with a working car, but I still boarded the train with my rucksack only half full and the rest of my kit thrown into 3 plastic bags.

I spent the first hour of the journey checking the kit against my list as I loaded it into the rucksack. Fortunately nothing of significance had been forgotten.

The rail journey took nearly 20 hours and required changes at Stafford, Crewe and Inverness. The 'end of the line' was Wick, which I reached at 14.55 Tuesday. After a quick look around the town, I caught the bus to complete the final 17 mile stretch to John o'Groats. After an evening stroll to Duncansby Head and back, I settled into the hospitable embrace of the Caberfeidh B&B to write this and to enjoy my last night between sheets for a while.