39O A Walk from 



direction, making grand junctions at points which had 

 never felt the navvy's pick a dozen years ago. Here 

 is one heading towards John O'Groat's, grubbing its 

 way like a mole around the firths, cutting spiral gains 

 into the rock-ribbed hills, bridging the deep and dark 

 gorges, and holding on steadily north-poleward with 

 a brave faith and faculty of patience that moves 

 mountains, or as much of them as blocks its course. 

 The progress is slow, silent, but sure. The world, busy 

 in other doings, does not hear the pick, nor the speech 

 of the powder when it speaks to a huge rock a-straddle 

 the path. The world, even including the shareholders, 

 hears but little, if anything, of the progress of the work 

 for months, perhaps for a year. Then the consumma- 

 tion is announced in the form of an invitation to the 

 public to " assist " at the opening of a railroad through 

 towns and villages that never saw the daylight the 

 locomotive brings in its wake. So it will be here. 

 Some day, in the present decade, there will be an 

 excursion train advertised to run from London to 

 John O'Grroat's; and perhaps the lineal descendants 

 of Sigurd, or some other old Norse jarl, will wear 

 the conductor's belt and cap or drive the engine. 



The weather was still unsettled, with much wind 

 and rain. Resumed my walk, and at about four 

 miles from Tain, crossed the Dornoch Firth in a sail 



