Gazing out from the Inchnadamph Hotel in Sutherland, in the Scottish Highlands, I watched ripples glitter on Loch Assynt, clouds playing with Quinag’s imposing bulk.

I couldn’t see the ruins of Ardvreck Castle, but they were there, just around the bend. A gang of stags, antlers regal, strutted amid the nearby tussocks. A campervan rumbled down the otherwise empty road.

“They’re just driving through; all they’ve done is swap TV screens for windscreens,” said hotel owner Richard McKendrick, who was gazing out beside me. “It’s a marketing enterprise gotten out of hand.”

McKendrick, who has lived in these north-westernmost reaches of Britain for more than two decades, was referring to the NC500, the wildly popular driving route around Scotland’s north coast.

Launched 10 years ago, it has not only boosted visitor numbers, but, according to many locals, has also changed the tourist profile. There’s been an increase in one-night stays, a rise in littering and traffic, and an explosion of campervans cramming beauty spots – drawn by the legality of wild camping.

“In some ways we’re lucky,” McKendrick added. “If this was the Lake District, mountain rescue would be called out all the time. But people who walk here tend to know what they’re doing.”

Yes – while whizzing through this region in a vehicle has become de rigueur, walking it remains a more daunting prospect.

A case in point is the Cape Wrath Trail, which links Fort William to the most extreme point in this land of extremes, is widely considered the country’s hardest hike.

The name “wrath” derives from the Norse word for “turning point” rather than referring to the exposed headland’s temper. Still, I was certainly loath to walk here alone.

I’d joined a small group for HF Holidays’ Cape Wrath Classic, a week of moderate, guided day-hikes around the trackless hills and dramatic edges of Sutherland and Assynt – one of only a few organised walking trips in the region.

The plan was to travel slowly and stay at two family-run hotels. I was hoping to join up with like-minded people and enjoy a quieter, more mindful interaction with Scotland’s far west.

And so it proved. There were 11 of us – ranging in age from the mid-40s to late-70s, and in experience from casual walkers to regular hikers – plus our guide, John. We’d all been drawn by the quasi-mystical air of this remote, little-tramped place.

Our first walk began just east of the village of Durness. First, we rambled the remnants of Ceannabeinne, a coastal township forcibly cleared in 1841, where the cliff edges dropped to beaches only describable in “like the Caribbean” clichés.

Then we climbed Beinn Ceannabeinne, just behind – a modest hump but a good introduction to negotiating the region’s bouncy, pathless tussocks, swaying cotton grasses and slabs of Lewisian gneiss, some of the planet’s oldest rocks. It also set the tone for our walks: we saw no other people.

It was the same when we wound our way up the muscular mass of Ben Stack, walloped by end-of-the-world winds.

Likewise when we followed an actual track from Achfary forest to the relative civilisation of Kylesku (home to a striking bridge and well-placed hotel bar); a detour to the top of Ben Dreavie en route revealed views over an enormous emptiness that could have come from not just another century, but another eon.

The star outing of the week, though, was to Cape Wrath itself. The headland is a land apart, isolated by a coastal inlet, the Kyle of Durness, as well as sheer sea cliffs fringing it, the lack of roads and its location within a military range – on firing days, people are forbidden altogether. It’s not easy to access; you cannot just drive your campervan in.

Thankfully, our logistics had been organised. First, we were bussed to Keoldale jetty, where the ferryman sailed us over the Kyle. A minibus waited on the other side, to jolt us via lochs and cnocs (knolls) to the Cape’s tip – the 11-mile drive took a full hour.

Most day-trippers leave it at that. They walk around the lonely lighthouse, built by the Stevensons in 1828, and then take the bus back to the ferry. Not us. We struck south on foot, hopping over bog, streams and peat hag, tracing the coast.

Any wrath was notably absent: after a grey-mizzle start, the sun chased away the sky’s bad mood, leaving us bathed in blazing blue. The sea was smooth as silk, tropical in hue.

It was slow going over the rough ground, but every step felt like a privilege. And then, finally, Sandwood Bay appeared, every bit as jaw-dropping as I’d heard: rose-gold powder, turquoise waves and swirls, majestic cliffs and marram-wigged dunes, the rock stack of Am Buachaille (the Herdsman) standing guard. I removed my shoes and paddled in the bracing shallows. The beach is a mile and half long.

We’d walked 10 miles to reach Sandwood and it was still four more to the nearest road, where our bus was waiting. After a long, spectacular day, I was grateful for the lift. But the fact remained: the best adventures are almost always done on foot.

How to do it
Sarah Baxter was a guest of HF Holidays. Its eight-night Cape Wrath Classic Guided Trail costs from £1,889pp, including full-board accommodation, all transport and pick-up from Inverness. Departures May to August 2026.

More information
visitscotland.co.uk