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.