The Magic of Seeing and Sea –
Through-Hike John Muir Way, Scotland II.
June 28, 2025
And then the trail disappears for six hours.
What do you mean, “disappears”?
Yes, disappears, just like that. Swallowed up by the sea. But it later reappears. Hmm!
We have walked half-way on Scotland’s John Muir Way by the time we reach the sea. The second part of the 134-mile long-distance hiking trail runs mostly along the Firth of Forth—an inlet of the North Sea that cuts deep into the Scottish interior. Our final destination: the village of Dunbar on the open sea; the birthplace of John Muir, naturalist philosopher, explorer, writer, inventor, engineer, geologist—and known as the Father of the National Parks in the USA.
But what was that about a disappearing hiking trail? As we enter the village of Prestonpans, the official signposts all point towards the town center. But walking through a town is usually loud, gray, and boring as hell. “Look, there's a stone path running parallel to the town wall, right by the sea,” I suggest. When we step onto the path, it is strangely wet, slippery, and covered in algae. Yet it hasn't rained for two weeks. Shortly afterwards, we realize that the path only exists at low tide and is completely flooded at high tide. It's low tide! I'm thrilled and dance across a puddle. My husband looks at his watch first.
Find out if we make it before the tide came in, how an enchanted forest saved our morale, how I ran headlong into waves of fear, and what fulfillment feels like on top of a hill in the second part of our long-distance hiking report.
Shell heaps and enchanted forests
“Over there, there's a staircase leading back up to the city. And there, too. In case we need a sudden escape!” my husband calls out. It's still several hours until the tide reaches its peak, but he's not entirely comfortable with our temporary hiking trail.
“Oh, come on, it's still low tide!” I call back from far behind, while I take a close look at a snail on the ground.
Over the years, we have developed a strange interplay of overthinking and recklessness. Either my husband is worried and I am deeply relaxed, or he jumps over a precipice while I have a heart attack. At least one of us is almost always still in their right mind.
As we leave the path of ebb and flow behind us and return to the official John Muir Way, I stop again—suddenly. Shells! Aaaaaaah! Eighty million thousand!
I throw my backpack into the sand and dig with both hands into the endless layer of colorful, almost paper-thin shells. Amazing! They clink and tinkle as I let them trickle through my hands.
From that point, the weaving trail takes us again and again close to the water, and away. We sometimes walk deep in sand through the dunes. What sounds romantic is, to be honest, hard work. Having to pull your feet and body weight out of soft sand with every step while carrying a heavy backpack is extremely energy-sapping. Just when I am at the point of being really fed up with still a two miles to go for the day after completing eight miles, the path suddenly takes us into a forest of gnarled maple and linden trees.
Wow! It's as if all my fatigue and leaden legs instantly melt away. Intricate branches with a light green, spring-like canopy of leaves swirl around us. This is called a “second wind,” when you are truly exhausted but feel a sudden burst of new energy. What a great surprise after all that sand.
Running toward fear into North Sea waves
A few days later, we approach the village of North Berwick. The Firth of Forth estuary has opened wide and the far shore is no longer visible. We have been walking through heather and dune landscapes with grasses and wind-blown pines for quite some time. We can hear the sea. But the dunes are so high that we cannot see it. “The heck with it!” I shout at some point. “I want to see the damn sea now!”
Finding an access path, we climb over the crest of the dunes, and my gaze falls on a wide, golden beach with a deep blue, foaming sea. White wave after white wave crashes ashore. I throw down my backpack (this seems to happen quite often) and rush towards the water. Then I stop.
Waves and I have a strange relationship. I love the sea; I like to swim. But at times when I'm stressed, I keep having recurring nightmares in which a tsunami wave is catching me and I can't run away. There was also a moment in real life, years ago, when a harmless looking wave in Spain suddenly grew huge and knocked me face first into volcanic sand. I look at the water. One white wave overtakes the other. Whenever I think I could walk a little further into the water, a particularly high wave comes. I walk back and forth and watch. Just like my husband watched the ebb and flow of the tide. Then I suddenly laugh like crazy and just start running. Right into the waves. My pants get wet; I wave my arms and laugh even more. Stupid fear! I'm just going to do it! And it feels so good. After running into the waves for the first time, I do it again and again.
Later, as I dry my feet in the sand, I think about how much fun I would have missed if I had listened to that stupid fear.
What fulfillment feels like – a moment above the sea
Shortly before the end of the John Muir Way, we climb a hill. The trek was only optional, but when my husband sees something that resembles a mountain, hiking up is no longer an option, but a must. So, we trudge up Law Hill, which treats us with a beautiful view over yellow rapeseed fields, orange rooftops, green pastures, and the light blue sea. Oh, Scotland!
Standing there, hands on the summit stone, gazing at a rock on the horizon, I am suddenly bursting with happiness. In all four directions. Two-and-a-half years ago, my husband was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. Aggressive, incurable, metastatic cancer in its final stage. The treatment had less than a 10% chance of success, and if it failed, the prognosis was “maybe a few more weeks.” I will never forget how my husband asked, “And what happens if the chemo doesn't work?” and the doctor replied, “Then we'll talk about hospice.”
Two-and-a-half fucking years later, we're standing on a mountain on the Scottish coast. Our third long-distance hike in three years.
I am so fulfilled, so happy, so grateful that there is not a square inch of space in me for hatred, bitterness, whining, or envy. At this moment, I realize how literally the term “fulfillment” should be taken. You are so full of positive feelings that there is no room for anything else.
Something I wish for everyone who still wastes their time posting hateful things on the internet, making malicious comments, being afraid of life, and always looking for mistakes—and solutions—in others.
Two days later, we stand in front of John Muir's birthplace in Dunbar at the end of the John Muir Way. 134 miles across Scotland on foot. We did it! Every time you reach the end of a long-distance hike, it feels unreal. I would love to just keep walking. Like Forrest Gump. And maybe one day I will. Life is wild and sad and beautiful, and the direction of the signpost is not always the direction you end up traveling.
“I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”
—John Muir
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