“I’ve got barnacles,” announced the American woman on the next door table. I looked over, mid-ice cream, to realise that instead of an unusual skin complaint, she was referring to the bowl of mussels in front of her.
I’d clocked the same woman and her fellow passengers as they flooded ashore at Ullapool on Scotland’s West coast. Armed with guidebooks, they moved from seafood restaurant, to museum, to gift shop where they stocked up on tartan keyrings, Scottish tablet and heather-scented soap before climbing back aboard their cruise ship. Ullapool — tick, onto the next.
The West coast of Scotland had presented a dilemma even before I set out to walk the coast of Great Britain. As the seagull flies, the West Coast is just 300 miles long, but factor in its jagged ins and outs, peninsulas, sea lochs, bays and islands and the mileage quickly multiplies into the thousands.
I was desperate not to miss a single mountain, plus I didn’t want to have to admit that I hadn’t stuck religiously to the coastline throughout, but I’d given myself a year to complete the walk and was running out of time.
Reluctantly, I made my decision. Instead of hugging the coast, I’d take a shortcut and follow the Cape Wrath Trail from Fort William all the way to the most north westerly point on Scotland’s mainland.
And it was brilliant. The 200-mile Cape Wrath route offered up the most challenging, most spectacular walking of the trip. I slept in bothies, climbed Munroes, watched sea eagles and swam in icy rivers.
At the end of one especially brutal but beautiful day, I reached Kinlochewe – one of the villages that lie few and far between along the trail. I sat in the late afternoon sunshine at a tiny petrol station — a lone walker among leather-clad motorcyclists — and took off my wet boots and socks. I ordered tea and Bakewell tart from the kiosk and felt only joy.
The Joy of Missing Out (or JOMO) is a term coined as the antidote to its opposite number FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). FOMO refers to the pressure to see, do, eat, and share the same experiences as our peers taking part in.
FOMO is what drives us to queue for our turn to take a selfie on Venice’s Rialto Bridge or watch the sun set in Santorini through an iPhone, or pay nine euros for a hot chocolate at the Alpine restaurant that’s all over Instagram this season. FOMO is why we make bucket lists of places to visit. It’s simply a series of tickbox destinations, without any consideration for the beauty of the journey itself.
JOMO on the other hand, refers to the feelings of release and relief we get from the absence of an event or experience. Away from home, it describes the sense of liberation that comes from skipping the so-called must-sees and big ticket items, and choosing a path less travelled.
Sometimes called slow or soft travel, it suggests travelling off-season, to lesser-known destinations and disconnecting from technology instead of checking in at every stop.
This revelation made itself known time and again on my walk around Great Britain. I’d expect nothing from those places or paths I hadn’t heard of, and everything from the better-trodden trails, most talked about beauty spots and prettiest villages.
The reality was often the reverse. I would arrive in ordinary seaside towns that promised little more than the usual concrete grey promenade, dotted with bins, benches and elderly residents walking sausage dogs wearing coats. And I’d leave reluctantly, having discovered a new history and landscape (and usually a decent scone), vowing to go back.
I’d planned to rattle quickly through East Yorkshire on my way to Hull where I was meeting friends for a weekend of R&R. I knew next to nothing about that section of the Coast, only that it was unlikely to measure up to Northumberland’s white beaches and imposing hilltop castles, or Whitby’s famous fish and chips, or Holy Island – a ‘must’. Tick, tick, tick. I crossed them off my list and continued south.
But Bridlington’s neat rows of beach huts, each painted a different shade of blue, and its miles of quiet, sandy beaches stopped me in my tracks.
Further south, I discovered Hornsea’s sweetly named Floral Hall, a Victorian-style pavilion built in 1913 as a dance hall, now a cafe, concert venue and comedy club and run entirely by volunteers. I found the friendly Food Shop and bought a potato, cheese and pickle pasty and a coconut tart to eat on the seafront. There was nothing I had to see, or climb, or photograph. I could simply sit and savour the moment, as well as my pasty.
Likewise, it was often the least-known trails that were most memorable. The West Highland Way runs for 96 miles from Glasgow to Fort William, skirting the shores of Loch Lomond and passing through Glencoe. It sits high on the list of ‘trails to do before you die’ for walkers from all over the world. This was one not to miss.
But its label as Scotland’s best-loved long distance trail meant the campsites were full, the bothies strewn with litter and other, less savoury reminders of the previous night’s inhabitants, and the path itself was busy and just a bit uninspiring. Yet just a short hop across the country, I’d followed the lesser-known yet much more interesting Aberdeenshire coastal trail — 165 miles of dramatic cliffs, tiny coves and friendly fishing villages, most of which I had to myself.
Over and over, the pattern repeated itself. I couldn’t wait to get to the Norfolk coast path with its birdlife, film-set beaches and flat, easy walking through sandy forests. But the footpath was heavy with weekenders and tourists and the towns full of smart gastro pubs and holiday houses. I left feeling deflated, until the Suffolk coast path came to my rescue. The unexpectedly lovely trail winds along Suffolk’s Heritage Coast, through quiet woodlands and over boardwalks, away from the crowds.
It takes you through Thorpeness and Aldeburgh and Southwold — all summer holiday hotspots but somehow gentler and less assuming than their Norfolk neighbours. It was joyful.
And so it continued. Finding joy in the most unlikely places, at times when I least expected it.
So instead of worrying about ticking off the must-sees, perhaps real delight comes from tearing up the bucket list, leaving the beaten track, and appreciating the everyday.
Focussing on where we are right there and then, instead of looking ahead to what’s next, is what brings real joy.