Three days into my walk along the Rhins of Galloway coast path and I was on love-hate terms with this new long-distance trail. Unruly and at times cruel, it forced me to hurdle fences, wade through bracken up to my midriff and teased me with disappearing paths and wayward waymarks.
But then, after I’d yelled profanities into the wind (there were no other hikers around to hear me), this raffishly handsome route would come over all sweetness and light. Look, it would simper: a dazzling and deserted white-sand bay! A ravishing spray of orchids! A crinkle of rocky foreshore be-flumped with seals! Once, moments after I’d cursed my way through a patch of Scottish jungle, a hare leapt from the sward just as a ruddy fox barred my way, a deer herd pronked down the cliffside and a buzzard mewed overhead; I felt like a sweaty Snow White summoning all the creatures at once, only by swearing rather than singing.
“We toyed with whether to call it a ‘path’ or a ‘trail’,” said Bryan Scott, Dumfries and Galloway council’s countryside development officer and route creator. After my solo jaunt on the path/trail’s north and western stages, we were hiking a gentler south-east section together.
Is there an official difference, I asked? “Well, no, but people think ‘path’ means there’s going to be some kind of a yellow brick road.”
I can confirm there is no such thing around the Rhins of Galloway, the striking hammerhead peninsula at the edge of the edge of south-west Scotland. But there is an admirable almost-realised vision and a lot of potential.
Southern Scotland sees a fraction of the tourists that head to the country’s lionised north: in 2024, there were 1.8m overnight visits to the Highlands and just 520,000 to Dumfries and Galloway – and I’d wager most of those don’t make it out to the Rhins. “No doubt about it,” one taxi driver told me, “this is the land that time forgot.” It was clear the area could do with a boost; creating an 83-mile, six-stage coast path around the Rhins is part of the plan.
“One of the aims was to give people a reason to stay longer,” Scott told me as we advanced along the high clifftops to the Mull of Galloway, Scotland’s southernmost point, where a Stevenson lighthouse stands sentry over the waves. The path is designed to improve access to this untamed, overlooked stretch of coast, which, as well as more lighthouses, features ancient promontory forts, RSPB reserves, ruined castles, spectacular beaches and exotic gardens (the Gulf Stream makes this one of Scotland’s warmest spots). The problem is, Dumfries and Galloway has more than 1,100 miles of core paths that need looking after, with a team of only five to do it.
I’ve been following the progress of the Rhins coast path for a while, drawn to the idea of circumnavigating what is essentially an island that no one seems to visit. This year – its “soft launch”, I was told – seemed the right time.
I started on Stranraer harbour, under the smart arch of corten steel marking the circular path’s beginning and end, using a GPX file of the route on my OS Maps app. From there I walked north, along the exposed shores of Loch Ryan, picking between oystercatchers and whimbrels, the alien blobs of barrel jellyfish, shaggy piles of bladderwrack and a crunchy scatter of shells. Somewhere under the loch’s blue lay Scotland’s last native oyster beds; during the second world war they were joined by surrendered U-boats, stowed here before being scuttled at sea. This area was strategically vital at that time, with parts of the D-day Mulberry harbour tested here, while flying boats, used to protect Allied shipping, were based on the headland known as the Wig.
The going from Stranraer around the north of the Rhins was generally good. Highlights of the 13½ miles included military history, intriguing strandline, flower-flecked tussock and the remains of iron age settlements with views to Ailsa Craig and the isle of Arran beyond. Still, I was excited to finally see day’s end in the distance: lonely Corsewall lighthouse. Erected in 1815, the tower still protects ships in these frothy waters, but the old keepers’ quarters are now a hotel.
John and Helen Harris welcomed me in. As well as running the place – “quite the challenge, in a good way, 99% of the time …” – they’re also among the volunteers helping to look after the coast path, cutting back overgrowth and reporting problems. They’re starting to get a few more walkers staying, they told me, and have compiled a folder of local rambles for guests not tramping the whole trail.
I could see the attraction of basing myself here for nice day walks: I’ve stayed in few more atmospheric spots, and the five-course dinner concocted by Helen’s son Richard in the teeny kitchen was ridiculously good. Before leaving the next morning, we had a quick chat about what lay ahead. Helen reckoned I’d already done the coast path’s toughest stage; John’s expression told me I had not.
John was right. The following two days – Corsewall to the pretty harbour village of Portpatrick, then Portpatrick to Port Logan’s wide, sandy sweep, around 15 miles each – were mettle-testing stuff. But also a proper adventure. I walked amid the sheep-grazed ruins of a wartime radar station to reach moaning seals. I accidentally annoyed a peregrine falcon, which spent a good 10 minutes shrieking above my head. I bounded across hills, high above the serrated rocky shore; at one point, I mistakenly dropped down to the sea, then followed in the hoof-prints of a flock of feral goats to get back up again.
I also picnicked on beaches I couldn’t believe I had all to myself – shingly Salt Pans Bay, where salt was harvested from the 1640s, and awesome Ardwell Bay, a curve of turquoise-lapped gold. In the late 19th century a former clown called William Purves lived in one of the caves here. I could see why.
On the first of these two tough days, for the final miles from Killantringan lighthouse to Portpatrick, the coast path falls in step with a section of the Southern Upland Way, which ultimately makes for Cockburnspath, on the east coast. This is one of Scotland’s official Great Trails, and the difference was stark: regular waymarks; an obvious track; I even met a volunteer hacking back the overgrowth. But, then, this trail was launched 40 years ago – evidence of what can be achieved.
Some of this will probably have been achieved by the time you read this. At the end of my trip, at the Mull of Galloway’s Gallie Craig cafe, Irish Sea swirling outside, Scott took on all my feedback. He’s since rewalked the trail, and a slew of new work is afoot to negotiate fences, increase signage, build a bridge and trim unruly plants. Improvement works should be completed by spring 2026. Yes, the Rhins of Galloway coast path is a little raw, but stick with it: I have high hopes it’ll mature very well.
The trip was supported by the South of Scotland Destination Alliance. Corsewall Lighthouse Hotel has doubles from £175 B&B; five-course dinner £49.50pp excluding drinks. For trail info, see dgtrails.org
