Thursday, 19 May 2011
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Day Sixty Three
Monday 9 May – Achriesgill to Durness
To get back on to my route, I had first to retrace my steps for a couple of miles, which I hate. At least I could call at a shop on my way, and buy my lunch. At Achriesgill, I took a side turning marked “Achriesgill East”. Although there is another turning leading to Achriesgill West, this should not be taken to imply that Achriesgill is some sort of metropolis; it might just count as a village, but spread-out hamlet is what it is really.
Anyway, the turn I took started as a tarmacked road, then became a track serving a few cottages, continuing into fields as a path, then winding its way round a hill above Achriesgill Water. By the time the path petered out, my course was clear, and all too soon I reached the road which would take me almost into Durness.
I had peered at the map in vain for alternatives. I had originally planned to walk to Cape Wrath, definitely an off-road experience. But that would have relied on meeting the tourist minibus at the lighthouse for the trip to the ferry at the Kyle of Durness, or a night at or around the Cape (unthinkable). This early in the season, the very helpful chap who runs the bus couldn't guarantee that it would run beyond mid-afternoon, and I couldn't count on getting there by early afternoon, so I was snookered.
Off-road walks to Durness, my alternative choice of ending to my length-of-the-island walk, were no doubt possible, but there was no path, and the going would be tough. So I would put up with the road which, like most roads in the North of Scotland, proved to be rather more congenial than walking a main road in the Home Counties. Traffic was light, and drivers went to elaborate lengths to avoid then loony tramping along the verge.
The road gradually gained height to about 500 feet. For several miles it was almost dead straight, while the scenery was as wiggly as ever. The origins of the road would be revealed a little later. Somewhat more remote than the middle of nowhere, there was a cottage, a b&b actually. I wonder if they do evening meals for passing walkers – a saunter to the nearest pub wouldn’t really be on the cards. Not much further along the road, behind the only trees for miles, lurked an unseen house. If it were a restaurant, it might make a good pair with the b&B, but it isn't. A clue as to quite why it was built here could be gained from reading a notice about fishing permits, giving reason to believe that the house is a nerve-centre for the local estate.
The road was now running down the very wide Strath Dionard. At the roadside stood a water trough, and above it a plaque: "1883. As a mark of respect to the inhabitants of Durness and Edrachillis for their hospitality, while projecting this road, this inscription is placed over this well by their humble servant Peter Lawson, Surveyor." Before the road, the principal highway serving the communities dotted around the coast was the sea.
By a nice stone bridge over the River Dionard, I tucked myself out of the wind and are my lunch. As in previous days, the wind took the edge off the temperature, but it was much stronger today; out of the wind, it was warm.
Crossing the bridge, I soon reached the estuary of the Dionard, aka the Kyle of Durness. I kept turning back to admire the classic Scottish estuary view, hills crowding in on either side of the water. I passed the turning for the Cape Wrath ferry, and for the former Cape Wrath Hotel. I had stayed there on my coast walk: I had been the only guest not there for the fishing. I guessed it was now closed – there were no signs up. I later learnt that it has been turned (back?) into a private house.
A signpost pointed half-left from the road to “The Old Manse Track” to Balnakeil. I took this, a lovely grassy affair, running after a while between stone walls. It joined a road at near Balnakeil Craft Village, a former army camp now colonised by artists and latterday hippies (not intended as an insult).
I carried on down the road to Balnakeil Bay, where the tide was half in (or half out), so I walked across firm sand to dip my boots in the sea. And that was it: the end of a 950-mile walk from Dungeness to Durness, completed in 63 days.
I went back towards the road, separated from the beach by a gate. A vehicle drove up to the gate, along a sandy track, from the direction of Faraid Head, where there is a military base. The driver got out and opened the gate, and I asked him whether he wanted me to close it after him; he gratefully accepted.
After coffee and something at the cafe-cum-bookshop at the Craft Village, I walked through Durness to my b&B at Smoo. The door was opened by the chap in the vehicle, so that got us off on the right foot. The b&B is called Hillside; lovely people, spanking new house, highly recommended, as is the Smoo Cave Hotel for supper – Loch Eriboll langoustines – yum!
To get back on to my route, I had first to retrace my steps for a couple of miles, which I hate. At least I could call at a shop on my way, and buy my lunch. At Achriesgill, I took a side turning marked “Achriesgill East”. Although there is another turning leading to Achriesgill West, this should not be taken to imply that Achriesgill is some sort of metropolis; it might just count as a village, but spread-out hamlet is what it is really.
I had peered at the map in vain for alternatives. I had originally planned to walk to Cape Wrath, definitely an off-road experience. But that would have relied on meeting the tourist minibus at the lighthouse for the trip to the ferry at the Kyle of Durness, or a night at or around the Cape (unthinkable). This early in the season, the very helpful chap who runs the bus couldn't guarantee that it would run beyond mid-afternoon, and I couldn't count on getting there by early afternoon, so I was snookered.
Off-road walks to Durness, my alternative choice of ending to my length-of-the-island walk, were no doubt possible, but there was no path, and the going would be tough. So I would put up with the road which, like most roads in the North of Scotland, proved to be rather more congenial than walking a main road in the Home Counties. Traffic was light, and drivers went to elaborate lengths to avoid then loony tramping along the verge.
The road gradually gained height to about 500 feet. For several miles it was almost dead straight, while the scenery was as wiggly as ever. The origins of the road would be revealed a little later. Somewhat more remote than the middle of nowhere, there was a cottage, a b&b actually. I wonder if they do evening meals for passing walkers – a saunter to the nearest pub wouldn’t really be on the cards. Not much further along the road, behind the only trees for miles, lurked an unseen house. If it were a restaurant, it might make a good pair with the b&B, but it isn't. A clue as to quite why it was built here could be gained from reading a notice about fishing permits, giving reason to believe that the house is a nerve-centre for the local estate.
By a nice stone bridge over the River Dionard, I tucked myself out of the wind and are my lunch. As in previous days, the wind took the edge off the temperature, but it was much stronger today; out of the wind, it was warm.
A signpost pointed half-left from the road to “The Old Manse Track” to Balnakeil. I took this, a lovely grassy affair, running after a while between stone walls. It joined a road at near Balnakeil Craft Village, a former army camp now colonised by artists and latterday hippies (not intended as an insult).
I carried on down the road to Balnakeil Bay, where the tide was half in (or half out), so I walked across firm sand to dip my boots in the sea. And that was it: the end of a 950-mile walk from Dungeness to Durness, completed in 63 days.
After coffee and something at the cafe-cum-bookshop at the Craft Village, I walked through Durness to my b&B at Smoo. The door was opened by the chap in the vehicle, so that got us off on the right foot. The b&B is called Hillside; lovely people, spanking new house, highly recommended, as is the Smoo Cave Hotel for supper – Loch Eriboll langoustines – yum!
Day Sixty Two
Sunday 8 May – Duartmore Bridge to Achriesgill
I was on my own again. For the last time, T and S had fed me, watered me, supplied me with a packed lunch, then delivered me to the middle of nowhere, having picked me up at the same place the previous evening, laid on a delicious supper and a bed for the night (and from the bed I could even – if I sat up straight – check that Suilven was still there in the morning). I've never seen T and S make a fuss about anything - their hospitality is dispensed so calmly and unstintingly that you have to remind yourself that they are going to quite a lot of trouble. I am very grateful.
I had a bit more road walking to come today, but first I was hoping for two treats – a hill walk and a riverside walk. Both came up to expectations. The main road heads North on a new bridge over Loch Duartmore, but my route took the old road over Duartmore Burn. By the old bridge there is a fish hatchery. I watched in fascination as an orange-clad man, lying full length on top of a tank, kept thrusting his arm into a hole in the top. In itself it was not a bizarre action, but the combination of his dayglo boiler-suit (the orange positively throbbing against the green of surrounding bushes) and the vigour with which he went about his task was mesmeric.
Tearing myself away, I walked over the bridge, and soon found the track I was looking for on the right. This one does feature in Scottish Hill Tracks, and it was very clear on the ground. A clue to its use was a plastic sign on a pole reminding us about various legal provisions regarding fishing in fresh water. Since the upland area I was heading for is peppered with lochs and lochans, the scope for fishing, legally or otherwise, is wide. But I didn't have so much as a bent pin on a string about my person, so with a clear conscience I followed the track as it wound around some crags, climbing in a generally Northeast direction. Starting at about 250 feet, I eventually reached 1,000 feet.
The sky was a bit complicated today: there was a lot of blue sky, but also a lot of cloud, some of it dark, clinging to the hills to my right and to Ben Stack ahead of me. More clouds were blown across by the strong wind from the East, swinging round sometimes to the South. In the sun and out of the wind, it was warm; in the wind and under cloud, I was glad of my windproof jacket.
The twin ruts of the track are the only evidence here of human intervention. Again, without being very far from a road, I was passing through an area which seemed to me utterly remote. All sorts of things might have been done to this landscape that I didn't spot, but it l doubt it. Later, a fence came into view. Reaching it, I went through a kissing gate to reach the side of a small loch.
The map shows the track disappearing into the water of this loch, emerging again a few hundred yards away. I suppose this means that the level of the water has been artificially raised, but I could see no dam. I picked my way round the loch side, found the track again, and went through another gate in the fence.
Soon after this, I met another walker, not an unusual occurrence elsewhere, but not common here. We chatted for a couple of minutes, and then I pressed on. Within a quarter of a mile I met three more walkers. Crowded or what? These three were not making much progress; they were suspiciously eyeing the gathering clouds, presumably wondering whether to carry on or walk back to their car – we were now within a mile or so of a road.
I left them to their decision, starting to descend steadily towards the valley of the Laxford River, Ben Stack now rising steeply on my right hand side. This mountain is a much more conventional affair than its chums to the South, being a conical, craggy lump rather than straggling in all directions with peaks galore.
This part of the track had been subjected to a lot of civil engineering. One stretch, sharply angled and hanging over a precipitous drop, had been reinforced and made up at what must have been considerable expense. But it was great to walk on, making the descent to the road very easy. So that excellent track was treat number 1, with (I hoped) number 2 to follow. Crossing the road, I walked along the side of a field to reach a footbridge over the River Laxford.
The map showed a footpath on either bank, but on a whim I decided to cross the bridge and sample the far bank. To start with, the road, the river and its attendant footpaths are roughly parallel. The river flows Westwards towards the sea, while the road connects Lairg, sitting in the middle of the Northern part of Scotland, with the Ullapool to Durness road at Laxford Bridge.
The path I was following is, I guess, also mostly used by fishermen. Again, someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that (paying?) anglers can efficiently reach their pitches. A ditch has been dug on the the side of the path away from the river, to divert water draining from the hills.
It was spitting with rain, no more than that. I found a sheltered spot, out of the wind, to sit and eat my lunch. The rain came to nothing at this stage. The path got bumpy when it had to negotiate bluffs and streams, but it was very easy to follow. Things got, visually, a bit more dramatic when high cliffs closed in on the river. The road, across the river from me, departed to find its own way around a huge bluff, while the water and the path curved right and then left to squeeze through a gap in the rock.
As the road came into sight again, another footbridge appeared. On another whim, I crossed it, walking along the other bankside path until it joined the traffic-free road. Soon I reached Laxford Bridge, with the junction of roads as I mentioned a little while back. Crossing the river for the third time, this time by the road bridge, I looked back with pleasure on the success of treat 2, and gritted my teeth for the road walk to come.
But it was Sunday, there was little traffic about, and the road was perfectly OK to walk. The scenery on this stretch, North of Laxford Bridge, is not especially interesting; after the road leaves Laxford Bay, with views West towards the sea, low hills close in and deny one the long views which bring this landscape to glorious life. Never mind: I had brought along a sackful of daydreams, so I turned on what John Hillaby called the “skull cinema” and enjoyed the show.
At the next road junction, I was to turn off the main road towards Kinlochbervie, but first I repaired to the Rhiconich Hotel for coffee and something. As I emerged from the hotel, it was raining, and clearly had been for some time. I considered waiting, but I couldn't see an edge to the cloud, so I zipped up and headed Northwest. The first part of the side road is up and down, as it finds its way around a bluff; water was running down the hilly bits in what was the first real rain I had experienced in eight days' walking.
But it was a shower – after half an hour, it stopped, the cloud cleared, and the sun came out. There were still dark clouds to the South, but it didn't rain again. I soon reached Achriesgill, where tomorrow's walk would start. I continued along the road to Kinlochbervie, where I was to spend the night.
I was on my own again. For the last time, T and S had fed me, watered me, supplied me with a packed lunch, then delivered me to the middle of nowhere, having picked me up at the same place the previous evening, laid on a delicious supper and a bed for the night (and from the bed I could even – if I sat up straight – check that Suilven was still there in the morning). I've never seen T and S make a fuss about anything - their hospitality is dispensed so calmly and unstintingly that you have to remind yourself that they are going to quite a lot of trouble. I am very grateful.
Tearing myself away, I walked over the bridge, and soon found the track I was looking for on the right. This one does feature in Scottish Hill Tracks, and it was very clear on the ground. A clue to its use was a plastic sign on a pole reminding us about various legal provisions regarding fishing in fresh water. Since the upland area I was heading for is peppered with lochs and lochans, the scope for fishing, legally or otherwise, is wide. But I didn't have so much as a bent pin on a string about my person, so with a clear conscience I followed the track as it wound around some crags, climbing in a generally Northeast direction. Starting at about 250 feet, I eventually reached 1,000 feet.
The sky was a bit complicated today: there was a lot of blue sky, but also a lot of cloud, some of it dark, clinging to the hills to my right and to Ben Stack ahead of me. More clouds were blown across by the strong wind from the East, swinging round sometimes to the South. In the sun and out of the wind, it was warm; in the wind and under cloud, I was glad of my windproof jacket.
The twin ruts of the track are the only evidence here of human intervention. Again, without being very far from a road, I was passing through an area which seemed to me utterly remote. All sorts of things might have been done to this landscape that I didn't spot, but it l doubt it. Later, a fence came into view. Reaching it, I went through a kissing gate to reach the side of a small loch.
The map shows the track disappearing into the water of this loch, emerging again a few hundred yards away. I suppose this means that the level of the water has been artificially raised, but I could see no dam. I picked my way round the loch side, found the track again, and went through another gate in the fence.
Soon after this, I met another walker, not an unusual occurrence elsewhere, but not common here. We chatted for a couple of minutes, and then I pressed on. Within a quarter of a mile I met three more walkers. Crowded or what? These three were not making much progress; they were suspiciously eyeing the gathering clouds, presumably wondering whether to carry on or walk back to their car – we were now within a mile or so of a road.
I left them to their decision, starting to descend steadily towards the valley of the Laxford River, Ben Stack now rising steeply on my right hand side. This mountain is a much more conventional affair than its chums to the South, being a conical, craggy lump rather than straggling in all directions with peaks galore.
This part of the track had been subjected to a lot of civil engineering. One stretch, sharply angled and hanging over a precipitous drop, had been reinforced and made up at what must have been considerable expense. But it was great to walk on, making the descent to the road very easy. So that excellent track was treat number 1, with (I hoped) number 2 to follow. Crossing the road, I walked along the side of a field to reach a footbridge over the River Laxford.
The path I was following is, I guess, also mostly used by fishermen. Again, someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that (paying?) anglers can efficiently reach their pitches. A ditch has been dug on the the side of the path away from the river, to divert water draining from the hills.
It was spitting with rain, no more than that. I found a sheltered spot, out of the wind, to sit and eat my lunch. The rain came to nothing at this stage. The path got bumpy when it had to negotiate bluffs and streams, but it was very easy to follow. Things got, visually, a bit more dramatic when high cliffs closed in on the river. The road, across the river from me, departed to find its own way around a huge bluff, while the water and the path curved right and then left to squeeze through a gap in the rock.
As the road came into sight again, another footbridge appeared. On another whim, I crossed it, walking along the other bankside path until it joined the traffic-free road. Soon I reached Laxford Bridge, with the junction of roads as I mentioned a little while back. Crossing the river for the third time, this time by the road bridge, I looked back with pleasure on the success of treat 2, and gritted my teeth for the road walk to come.
But it was Sunday, there was little traffic about, and the road was perfectly OK to walk. The scenery on this stretch, North of Laxford Bridge, is not especially interesting; after the road leaves Laxford Bay, with views West towards the sea, low hills close in and deny one the long views which bring this landscape to glorious life. Never mind: I had brought along a sackful of daydreams, so I turned on what John Hillaby called the “skull cinema” and enjoyed the show.
But it was a shower – after half an hour, it stopped, the cloud cleared, and the sun came out. There were still dark clouds to the South, but it didn't rain again. I soon reached Achriesgill, where tomorrow's walk would start. I continued along the road to Kinlochbervie, where I was to spend the night.
Saturday, 14 May 2011
Day Sixty One
Saturday 7 May - Little Assynt to Duartmore Bridge
From the Little Assynt car park, it was a short trot along the A837 (with Loch Assynt on my right) to the start of a path heading Northeast. Within a few yards of the road, the path appeared to be about to enter someone’s back garden, only to sheer away at the last moment, go round a newish deer fence, and set off across the moor.
The clear track climbed steadily towards today’s mountain, Quinag, another many-headed monster. Almost all the Assynt mountains fail the height test to be Munros (3,000 feet +), but what they lack in stature they make up for in sheer ruggedness. I was heading straight towards the foothills of the mountain itself, but the path swung around to head more or less due North, then Northwest, following the banks of a burn. Quinag often disappeared from view, its skirts billowing almost to my feet and obscuring the mountain itself.
Alongside Loch an Leothaid, there should have been a fork, one path continuing to head Northwest to reach Nedd, and the path I needed, heading Northeast. But things were far from clear, so I took a GPS reading, and headed in the direction my path would have taken had it been present. In fact it performed the usual tricks, reappearing and disappearing. Nothing daunted, I continued to navigate by direction and GPS fixes.
I gained height gently until, reaching a crest, I caught sight of the coastline – I was heading towards a sea loch – and its distinctive pattern confirmed that I was on course. As I started to descend, I expected the hillside to be wet – it had all the right visual characteristics – but it was actually very dry. Rain had been forecast again today, except in the far North, which was luckily where I was. Clouds blew over all day, some dark enough to contain a shower, but it never rained. The temperature was in the high teens, with a strong breeze from the South and later the East.
I hit the B869 road about 100 to 200 yards away from the “official” path end, so my navigation was pretty good. This road had formed part of my walk around the British coast, but today I was walking in the opposite direction. It’s a big dipper of a road, taking you up to thrilling heights, pausing on the brink, and suddenly plunging down to the depths. And if that gives you the impression that I really went up and down very quickly, you obviously don’t really know me. Seriously, the ups and downs are a bit brutal but always short – much better than long, relentless climbs.
To my left, I got terrific views across Loch a Chairn Bhain, the great sea loch which penetrates the coast North of the Stoer peninsula. To my right, Quinag at its Northern end presented itself as a generous bosom, Sail Ghorm and Sail Gharbh being the, er… constituent body parts. I tucked myself into a narrow valley, out of the wind, and ate my lunch by a babbling burn.
As I continued, near the road were some freshly-cut peats; a little further off, on the other side of the road, someone was cutting more peats. Peat tracks run from the roads round here, up on to the moorland, but if you can get your peat by the road, it saves a journey.
The road reached a T-junction with the A894 road, which links Ullapool and the North coast. I turned left (North) to walk alongside the road, which was not much busier than the B road. Loch Glencoul was away to the right, with wonderful views across it to the hills beyond. A nice American chap, standing by his car admiring the view, offered me a lift, which I courteously refused.
The childhood museum at Unapool, which is also a tea room, was open for business, but I pressed on. I also spurned the turning down to the Kylesku Hotel, an attractive place which I had visited before. It's at the waterside, by the Southern slipway for the former Kylesku Ferry. Started in the 19th Century, it was a vital (if sometimes slow) link in the transport chain between Ullapool and the North coast. It was superseded in 1984 by the next item on my agenda, Kylesku Bridge.
This bridge is a thing of beauty, despite being constructed of grey concrete. It doesn't bow upwards, but it describes a gentle lateral curve, in line with the roads approaching from either side. Elegant legs support the main platform, which spans a modest 400-foot channel of water. To the right, the two fingers of Loch Glendhu and Loch Glencoul thrust into the hills; to the left, Loch a Chairn Bhain leads to the Atlantic.
North of the bridge, there is a car park, with monuments at either end. One marks the occasion of the opening of the bridge by the Queen. Facing it is a cairn commemorating submariners who, having trained in “these wild and beautiful waters”, lost their lives during the Second World War. There is a seat alongside, for quiet reflection, or just for a rest.
Further up the road, another car park has a viewpoint from which you can look across the bridge and the lochs, and admire the sheer scale of the beautiful landscape. Beautiful but never pretty - the only pretty things you can see are the flowers at your feet. After another mile or so I reached a side turning, leading to tomorrow's path.
From the Little Assynt car park, it was a short trot along the A837 (with Loch Assynt on my right) to the start of a path heading Northeast. Within a few yards of the road, the path appeared to be about to enter someone’s back garden, only to sheer away at the last moment, go round a newish deer fence, and set off across the moor.
The clear track climbed steadily towards today’s mountain, Quinag, another many-headed monster. Almost all the Assynt mountains fail the height test to be Munros (3,000 feet +), but what they lack in stature they make up for in sheer ruggedness. I was heading straight towards the foothills of the mountain itself, but the path swung around to head more or less due North, then Northwest, following the banks of a burn. Quinag often disappeared from view, its skirts billowing almost to my feet and obscuring the mountain itself.
Alongside Loch an Leothaid, there should have been a fork, one path continuing to head Northwest to reach Nedd, and the path I needed, heading Northeast. But things were far from clear, so I took a GPS reading, and headed in the direction my path would have taken had it been present. In fact it performed the usual tricks, reappearing and disappearing. Nothing daunted, I continued to navigate by direction and GPS fixes.
I gained height gently until, reaching a crest, I caught sight of the coastline – I was heading towards a sea loch – and its distinctive pattern confirmed that I was on course. As I started to descend, I expected the hillside to be wet – it had all the right visual characteristics – but it was actually very dry. Rain had been forecast again today, except in the far North, which was luckily where I was. Clouds blew over all day, some dark enough to contain a shower, but it never rained. The temperature was in the high teens, with a strong breeze from the South and later the East.
I hit the B869 road about 100 to 200 yards away from the “official” path end, so my navigation was pretty good. This road had formed part of my walk around the British coast, but today I was walking in the opposite direction. It’s a big dipper of a road, taking you up to thrilling heights, pausing on the brink, and suddenly plunging down to the depths. And if that gives you the impression that I really went up and down very quickly, you obviously don’t really know me. Seriously, the ups and downs are a bit brutal but always short – much better than long, relentless climbs.
As I continued, near the road were some freshly-cut peats; a little further off, on the other side of the road, someone was cutting more peats. Peat tracks run from the roads round here, up on to the moorland, but if you can get your peat by the road, it saves a journey.
The road reached a T-junction with the A894 road, which links Ullapool and the North coast. I turned left (North) to walk alongside the road, which was not much busier than the B road. Loch Glencoul was away to the right, with wonderful views across it to the hills beyond. A nice American chap, standing by his car admiring the view, offered me a lift, which I courteously refused.
The childhood museum at Unapool, which is also a tea room, was open for business, but I pressed on. I also spurned the turning down to the Kylesku Hotel, an attractive place which I had visited before. It's at the waterside, by the Southern slipway for the former Kylesku Ferry. Started in the 19th Century, it was a vital (if sometimes slow) link in the transport chain between Ullapool and the North coast. It was superseded in 1984 by the next item on my agenda, Kylesku Bridge.
This bridge is a thing of beauty, despite being constructed of grey concrete. It doesn't bow upwards, but it describes a gentle lateral curve, in line with the roads approaching from either side. Elegant legs support the main platform, which spans a modest 400-foot channel of water. To the right, the two fingers of Loch Glendhu and Loch Glencoul thrust into the hills; to the left, Loch a Chairn Bhain leads to the Atlantic.
North of the bridge, there is a car park, with monuments at either end. One marks the occasion of the opening of the bridge by the Queen. Facing it is a cairn commemorating submariners who, having trained in “these wild and beautiful waters”, lost their lives during the Second World War. There is a seat alongside, for quiet reflection, or just for a rest.
Further up the road, another car park has a viewpoint from which you can look across the bridge and the lochs, and admire the sheer scale of the beautiful landscape. Beautiful but never pretty - the only pretty things you can see are the flowers at your feet. After another mile or so I reached a side turning, leading to tomorrow's path.
Day Sixty
Friday 6 May – Elphin to Little Assynt
It rained over breakfast but, as S, my kind host dropped me near Elphin, the clouds were clearing; within 20 minutes I had stripped off my coat. The path alongside Cam Loch was lumby and bumpy but easy to follow. Already the dominant feature, presently in front of me, was Suilven, possibly the oddest-shaped mountain of all in this region, although there is hot competition.
After nearly two miles, I was looking for a junction of paths, one continuing by the loch, and another (the one I wanted), turning away from the loch to climb over a shoulder into the next valley. The straight-on path was clear, but mine was not, so I took the general direction I needed, aiming to correct my course when the first of three lochs came into view.
Loch 1 duly appeared, I turned to avoid it, and ended up within a few yards of where I need to be, alongside Loch 2, or Lochan Fada as it is named on the map. Alongside the water, the path was clear. At the loch’s end, the path crossed the outlet burn, then followed it closely down Gleann (Glen) Dorcha for about a mile.
It was now warm, and the walking was highly enjoyable. Progress is necessarily rather slow on paths like this, as they twist and turn, ford burns, and are frequently rocky or splashy; but as long as you are careful, there are no particular terrors. And no noise – the nearest road was now miles away, and few planes cross this area. No sheep ventured this far. There were a few trees, as usual tucked into the sheltered valleys of small burns.
Beyond the burn, the track becomes wider. Someone has gone to rather a lot of trouble to make it fit for vehicles, although they would have to be pretty rugged. Some rather comical decking had been cobbled together from logs to bridge the deepest ruts; other ruts were plugged with logs laid lengthwise. Two new bridges have been built over the outlet from the last loch. I understand that this area might be part of a recent community buyout; the community are probably now trying to generate some income by getting stalkers up into the hills.
I had briefly spoken to two women walking alongside Cam Loch earlier; now I met a chap on a bike, followed some way behind by his wife. They were scouting a possible route to climb Suilven. Then I saw two more people, sitting on a bluff above the burn. Honestly! It was getting really crowded!
This estate was bought by the community, and a series of paths, including an all-abilities path, wend their way past lochs and tree-planting, with Quinag, the next weird and wonderful mountain, providing a glorious backdrop. Reaching the car park, I was whisked away for more luxurious living.
Day Fifty Nine
Thursday 5 May – Ullapool to Elphin
The British Fisheries Society commissioned Thomas Telford to design them a herring fishing port on the shore of Loch Broom, and Ullapool was established in the late 18th Century. A railway gained parliamentary approval in the 1890s, which would have connected to the national network at Garve, but they couldn’t find the cash. The harbour remains the focus of the town, despite the decline of deep sea fishing. Inshore fishing accounts for some of the harbour traffic, along with boats tending to the needs of fish farms, and the car ferry to Stornoway on Lewis.
Ullapool is a shopping centre for a large area of North West Sutherland, and also an important tourist and cultural centre. There are several music festivals throughout the lighter months of the year, and a well-established book festival in early May (this year’s was just after I left).
There are also geological conferences, for the good reason that many of the crucial discoveries about geology, especially concerning tectonic plates, have been made in this part of Scotland. Victorian geologists made many advances in this field, based on observations of rock formations in Sutherland, and the discovery in 1907 of the Moine Thrust, which stretches from Loch Eriboll on the North coast of the mainland to the Sleat peninsula on Skye, was a major step forward.
What, you cry, is so exciting about the Moine Thrust? If (I say if) I understand it, the big thing was that they found older, harder rock on top of younger, softer rock, because the former had been shoved up across the latter when the tectonic plates moved and collided – like a sort of car crash, only with rocks.
Rain was promised, and clouds were in the sky. After four days of warm. Sunny weather, did this herald a change in the weather? I left Ullapool by crossing the river, then following its bank up to the main road. Scottish Hill Tracks recommends a path starting just over half a mile up the road, but clever clogs had spotted another path starting nearer. It looked straightforward, but it soon disappeared on a soggy hillside, just like yesterday’s paths. I needed to pass just beneath some crags, but I chose the wrong crags, ending up about half a mile off course – careless. After a GPS fix, I was soon able to correct my course, finding the path (again on stonier ground), and crossed into the next valley without further faffing.
Ullapool is a shopping centre for a large area of North West Sutherland, and also an important tourist and cultural centre. There are several music festivals throughout the lighter months of the year, and a well-established book festival in early May (this year’s was just after I left).
There are also geological conferences, for the good reason that many of the crucial discoveries about geology, especially concerning tectonic plates, have been made in this part of Scotland. Victorian geologists made many advances in this field, based on observations of rock formations in Sutherland, and the discovery in 1907 of the Moine Thrust, which stretches from Loch Eriboll on the North coast of the mainland to the Sleat peninsula on Skye, was a major step forward.
What, you cry, is so exciting about the Moine Thrust? If (I say if) I understand it, the big thing was that they found older, harder rock on top of younger, softer rock, because the former had been shoved up across the latter when the tectonic plates moved and collided – like a sort of car crash, only with rocks.
Rain was promised, and clouds were in the sky. After four days of warm. Sunny weather, did this herald a change in the weather? I left Ullapool by crossing the river, then following its bank up to the main road. Scottish Hill Tracks recommends a path starting just over half a mile up the road, but clever clogs had spotted another path starting nearer. It looked straightforward, but it soon disappeared on a soggy hillside, just like yesterday’s paths. I needed to pass just beneath some crags, but I chose the wrong crags, ending up about half a mile off course – careless. After a GPS fix, I was soon able to correct my course, finding the path (again on stonier ground), and crossed into the next valley without further faffing.
As the road went downhill, it twice crossed the pipeline carrying water to the power station on the valley floor. Eventually the track reached the main road from Ullapool to the North. This was to be my walking route for the rest of the day – I had not been able to spot any alternative. But it turned out to be OK to walk; after Ullapool, traffic is much reduced, and there was usually plenty of verge to retreat to if necessary. And the scenery is often just as good from Highlands roads as it is from paths and tracks.
There had been a few drops of rain; now it started to fall steadily but not heavily. I looked out for a lunch stop, but there was little cover. Beyond Strathcanaird, the ground fell away on the right hand side of the road – the side the wind was blowing from, so I pressed on in a roughly Northeasterly direction.
Eventually the ground on my right levelled and rose until it formed a cliff, while on the left the ground was lower and uneven, littered with lochans and framed by the first of this region’s eccentrically-shaped mountains.
Knockan Crag is a very agreeable sort of visitor attraction. There is a car park and toilets and, just up the hill, tucked beneath the crag itself, there is an interpretation centre. There is a lot to interpret round here. It was very close by that geology came of age (as described at the top of this post). I was a bit miffed to find that, although you can do the geology under cover, the seats are all in the open. But I had on my waterproofs, so I sat in the still-light rain and ate my lunch.
Just along the road from the visitor centre, there is a strong fence alongside the road to catch falling rocks. Its necessity was proved by a large boulder, 2 to 3 feet across, resting against and causing a pronounced bulge in the fence. I was glad it hadn’t fallen while I was around. Soon I reached Elphin, which looks in many ways like a typical crofting township, a loose collection of houses and farm buildings strung out along the road and on side roads and tracks.
It’s a pleasant enough place to walk through, with a few tourist resources, including a b&b and some tearooms. Just beyond Elphin was what Scottish Hill Tracks describes as “one of the best long-distance paths in Assynt” (the district I had now entered). Tomorrow I would test this for myself, but first I had an assignation with a lady.
For the next three days and nights, I was to be picked up, entertained royally, and dropped off again by T and S, friends of long-standing, who spend an increasing proportion of the year at their superb cottage North of Lochinver. I will have more to say about their magnificent hospitality in future posts.
Day Fifty Eight
Wednesday 4 May – Inverlael to Ullapool
This morning's lift to my starting point was provided by a sales rep for a textiles company which actually produces in Scotland – very unusual these days.
Inverlael, where the River Lael flows into Loch Broom, was a centre of population a long time before Ullapool was established. Many of the bloody events of the Jacobite rebellions and their aftermath were played out here. These and subsequent famine reduced the population by death or emigration.
In the 20th Century, much of the valley through which the Lael flows was given over to forestry, and now many of the trees are “second rotation” - one lot of trees has been grown, felled, and replaced by a second crop which is in some cases reaching maturity.
From Inverlael, Ullapool is about 8 miles up the road. My plan for today was to strike off at a right angle, climb steeply to 1,000 feet or so, make my way in an arc across rough country, to arrive at a point about... 8 miles from Ullapool! Then I would walk down another valley to finish off the day.
I started up a farm-cum-forestry track, crossing the river after about ten minutes. Hill-walking and forestry are companions of many years in Scotland, so made-up forestry roads are often interspersed with tracks or paths established specifically for walkers and riders. So it proved here. After climbing gradually through the trees, I turned on to a narrower track which rose brutally up above the tree line and on to the treeless moorland, skirting a gorge in which, far below, a burn flowed.
The book (Scottish Hill Tracks) suggests that the track peters out around a particular grid reference, but in fact vehicle treads could be followed well beyond this point. The track was easiest to follow where the vehicles responsible had broken the surface of the peat, producing muddy ruts. This had no doubt happened in wet weather; today was warm and sunny again, rain being threatened for tomorrow.
When the track did eventually disappear, I kept on an Easterly course, swinging round gradually to the North East and then the North. This was rough going across tussocky hillside with splashy interludes. Reaching a ruined farm, mentioned in the book and shown on the map, I looked for a track to take me onwards. There was no sign of it. In the absence of recent vehicle use (maybe any use at all), it seemed to have been reabsorbed into the heather, a phenomenon which was repeated in coming days.
Never mind; I sat out of the freshening breeze and ate my lunch. I knew which cleft in the hills I was aiming for, so I set off again across the difficult terrain. When I reached higher, rockier ground, the track appeared – it takes a lot longer for it to disappear on bare rock or poor earth.
Since leaving the forestry, I had seen no trees, but suddenly I was looking down on a lovely sheltered valley, a burn running through it, and lined with broad leaf trees. The track went AWOL again, so I looked for a fence marked on the map, found it, spotted a gate through it, and found the track again. I descended quite steeply; the track had been puddled by animals and was muddy in parts.
The map shows a footbridge over the tree-lined burn, leading to another over the Rhidorroch River. I didn't see the first bridge, and didn't look very hard – it was clear that the river was very low and easily fordable. Across the river, I took a farm track which ran down Glen Achall, near and sometimes right beside the river.
I saw a couple of deer, then a few more, until eventually I counted more than 30. They were mostly just across the river from me, and those which were on my side quickly forded the river when they saw me. They were confined to a strip of land alongside the water, the higher slopes being fenced to provide grazing for sheep and protection for young trees from the greedy attentions of the deer.
Leaving East Rhidorroch Lodge and some farm buildings behind me, I pressed on down the valley. On my right, crags rose high above the Glen, then on my left the river flowed into Loch Achall, about a mile and a half long. When I was sheltered from the breeze, it was now very warm. At the Western end of the loch, I saw some people, the first since I had left Inverlael. They seemed to me young walkers. I didn't try to catch them up – too much effort.
Near the loch, but completely hidden by trees, was Rhidorroch House: I only saw its boathouse. I had intended to take a bridge back over the river. A sign said “dangerous bridge”, something of an understatement – it wasn't there at all. But soon another bridge appeared; once across, I had transitioned from farm track to estate road, which served the needs of local farms, houses, and a limestone quarry, into which I could peer from an embankment. Toy diggers and trucks were parked way below me.
On the other side of the road, I was now high above the gorge through which flows the river, renamed the Ullapool River below the loch. Further on, I passed the plant where the limestone is processed. Ahead, an Outdoor Adventures van with, I guessed, the young walkers aboard, whisked away.
I reached the road into Ullapool, following the pavement into the centre of the town. Loch Broom looked ridiculously beautiful in the early evening sunshine. A posse of walkers/riders/climbers (or whatever) thronged the pavement outside the Youth Hostel. A few yards further on, I found my hotel.
This morning's lift to my starting point was provided by a sales rep for a textiles company which actually produces in Scotland – very unusual these days.
Inverlael, where the River Lael flows into Loch Broom, was a centre of population a long time before Ullapool was established. Many of the bloody events of the Jacobite rebellions and their aftermath were played out here. These and subsequent famine reduced the population by death or emigration.
In the 20th Century, much of the valley through which the Lael flows was given over to forestry, and now many of the trees are “second rotation” - one lot of trees has been grown, felled, and replaced by a second crop which is in some cases reaching maturity.
I started up a farm-cum-forestry track, crossing the river after about ten minutes. Hill-walking and forestry are companions of many years in Scotland, so made-up forestry roads are often interspersed with tracks or paths established specifically for walkers and riders. So it proved here. After climbing gradually through the trees, I turned on to a narrower track which rose brutally up above the tree line and on to the treeless moorland, skirting a gorge in which, far below, a burn flowed.
The book (Scottish Hill Tracks) suggests that the track peters out around a particular grid reference, but in fact vehicle treads could be followed well beyond this point. The track was easiest to follow where the vehicles responsible had broken the surface of the peat, producing muddy ruts. This had no doubt happened in wet weather; today was warm and sunny again, rain being threatened for tomorrow.
Never mind; I sat out of the freshening breeze and ate my lunch. I knew which cleft in the hills I was aiming for, so I set off again across the difficult terrain. When I reached higher, rockier ground, the track appeared – it takes a lot longer for it to disappear on bare rock or poor earth.
Since leaving the forestry, I had seen no trees, but suddenly I was looking down on a lovely sheltered valley, a burn running through it, and lined with broad leaf trees. The track went AWOL again, so I looked for a fence marked on the map, found it, spotted a gate through it, and found the track again. I descended quite steeply; the track had been puddled by animals and was muddy in parts.
The map shows a footbridge over the tree-lined burn, leading to another over the Rhidorroch River. I didn't see the first bridge, and didn't look very hard – it was clear that the river was very low and easily fordable. Across the river, I took a farm track which ran down Glen Achall, near and sometimes right beside the river.
Leaving East Rhidorroch Lodge and some farm buildings behind me, I pressed on down the valley. On my right, crags rose high above the Glen, then on my left the river flowed into Loch Achall, about a mile and a half long. When I was sheltered from the breeze, it was now very warm. At the Western end of the loch, I saw some people, the first since I had left Inverlael. They seemed to me young walkers. I didn't try to catch them up – too much effort.
On the other side of the road, I was now high above the gorge through which flows the river, renamed the Ullapool River below the loch. Further on, I passed the plant where the limestone is processed. Ahead, an Outdoor Adventures van with, I guessed, the young walkers aboard, whisked away.
I reached the road into Ullapool, following the pavement into the centre of the town. Loch Broom looked ridiculously beautiful in the early evening sunshine. A posse of walkers/riders/climbers (or whatever) thronged the pavement outside the Youth Hostel. A few yards further on, I found my hotel.
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