THE end of a rather lengthy whisky-drinking session earlier in the year, Tony Husband (the Keith Richards of the cartoon world) and I decided to set ourselves the task of visiting mainland Britain's most remote northerly and northwesterly points (John o' Groats, or so we thought, and Cape Wrath).

The twist of our, as it turned out, rather naive plan was to attempt the trip using nothing but public transport. We soon discovered that when you head out to remote places, things rarely turn out the way you expect.

The sleeper train from Euston to Inverness is like something from a bygone era, so it's appropriate that the genial gentlemen who run the First Scot Rail lounge car seem to have remained within it, too.

They shuffle about with the grandeur of waiters who have seen more than you would imagine with their slightly weary eyes.

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I left Tony around midnight playing cards with lubricated strangers and woke the following morning as we approached Aviemore through the sun-drenched Cairngorms.

Over breakfast in his compartment Tony looked rather traumatised. “I had a nightmare about marauding, poisonous puffins. Then, when I woke up, I thought I'd gone blind. But it was just this.” He held up a sleep mask by means of explanation.

We arrived in Inverness at 8.30am and then had a few hours to kill before the four-hour journey north to Thurso. My advice is to sit on the right-hand side of the train facing the direction of travel if you want to have the best view.

Three hours in, just when I thought I had become immune to the beauty outside the window, the train left the east coast and headed inland through the Strath of Kildonan along the river Helmsdale, one of Scotland's prime salmon fishing rivers. The line hugs the river and we soon spotted oystercatchers, lapwings and bouncing lambs beneath hills of fluorescent orange gorse.

Once in Thurso you can get a free taxi ride to John o' Groats, which we duly did, only to find that it's not actually the most northerly point of mainland Britain.

That prize goes to Dunnet Head, so we persuaded the cab driver to take us there as well. Looking out towards the Orkneys from the lighthouse on the cliff was certainly more inspiring than John o' Groats, with its rather forlorn and predictable tourist sign.

That night Tony suggested we go for a few quiet beers (which turned into another bout of hard drinking). The following morning I collected my nerves and headed down to the post office to try to get a seat on the Post Bus - literally a postman's van with extra seats in the back, one of the few public transport options left in the Highlands.

For £5, I travelled with Neil the postman, who delivered me, along with the mail, 45 miles across the north coast as far as Tongue. Tony, meanwhile, had decided to shun the Post Bus and go off in search of the eagles.

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