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| A soft view NE from near Ormacleit |
Waking at 5 am, my mind was ready, the weather looked promising but my body was reluctant. A gentle, high thin cloud hung over the sea. I was ready for some sun to brighten and give some warmth, but a pitter of drizzle arrived. Stepping out to inspect the prospect, the east and south were a misty haze, the lower hills indistinct shapes, the higher ones obliterated. Having mulled over the map for so long, wondering how to include Beinn Mhor and Hecla in a traverse – too long without a tent for one overnight and too strenuous for me to carry it over both hills – I now decided that the weather was not suitable; that this day would be a flat walk northwards; that I would need to finish early enough for a bus to bring me back to the van, and consequently that I would need to start from near the main road, and use minor roads and machair paths, before returning to the main road in time for a 5:30 pm bus.
Parking at the Ormacleit junction (757304), I set off, despite the rain, north-west along the minor road to the junction (743322). As I got into my rhythm, a lapwing began circling and squawking harshly, brown cows stared and a goose honked, flapped and ran along the water surface of the lochan on my left. The seemingly vast plain spread northwards into the mist, with reedy lochs and dull green, softly shaped waves of wet grass, adorned with dead, tan-brown grass tufts and bristly stalk-crests in hues of old straw. As drizzle turned to steady rain, I replaced my wide-brimmed, waxed hat with my hood. I don’t like my neck movement and vision restricted like this, but the cool north-east wind was not comfortable around my bare neck and ears. At the junction, I turned left, walking south for a short distance. A derelict house and an old castle (Caisteil Ormacleit) stood surrounded by farming equipment, with wary sad-eyed cows loitering disconsolately. Veering west along the farm track (740318), the cows ran in front, then allowed me past. Two oyster catchers passed overhead, lapwings rose calling and a lone bird in a small reedy pond repeated a single note call. The gloomy mood was completed by a solitary starling making short cheeps from the top of one of several rolls of square-linked fence wire, piled on an old rusty trailer by an old rusty tractor. Turning right, northwards again, towards the expanse of Loch Olaidh an Iar, a sign informed me that I was on “The Hebridean Way” – an easier route, particularly for a dull day with low cloud levels, probably enchanting with the sun shining, the machair in full in bloom and the birds all in song, however, I still would have preferred the hill-top route! I intend to return! But would I when I’m seventy? Hmmm.
As I approached the loch, two geese rose, and then I noticed another fifty in a ploughed field – the farmers may not be helped by their plunder, but, perhaps the geese do enrich the soil. I set my camera in anticipation of their flight – higher ISO, faster shutter, auto-tracking focus – looked up and realised they’d all gone. A skylark sung from above and the sky brightened a little. Two whooper swans remained swimming nonchalantly, with occasional honks. Nearing the end of the loch an oyster-catcher flew directly at me, bill pointed at me like a dart, then at the last moment, rose, hovered above me calling, then retreated to repeat its ‘attack’. Following that, two terns acted in the same fashion, but a little higher. The field was alive with the continuous running motion of ringed plovers, calling “tur-wilp” repeatedly; and while the sound of oyster-catchers penetrated through from the grasses beyond, the skylark competed with the lapwings. In the hemisphere around me, I was surrounded by two symphonies – one sweet and melodic, the other avant-garde and discordant. Past the end of the loch (736335), five doves - small, fat and stocky - flew past. Rock doves and snipe rose from the iris blades.
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| A standing stone near Staoinebrig |
I turned left to view the standing stone (734336), a curlew rose from the newly turned soil, while nine oyster-catchers remained dibbing and poking in the dry earth, only rising as I approached more closely. I weaved my way through the maze of fences and then tackled a reluctant gate bolt. The gate fell twenty centimetres as the bolt retracted, leaving me struggling to lift the gate and close it. I really needed two hands to lift and close the gate and another hand or two to push the bolt against its strong return spring. I managed, but still imagined the Hebridean farmer complaining about the feeble wanderers that leave the gate unbolted. There were some convenient stones to sit on, so of course, why miss an opportunity? To the south a typical Hebridean cemetery sat on a mound by the shoreline – its stark, featureless stone perimeter interrupted in only one place by two Celtic crosses on the large gate-posts. Most of the large rectangle looked empty, ready for arrivals from a dwindling population. Moving from the standing stone, I attempted to follow the shore. Two shelducks arrived, splash-landing and then paddling just off shore.
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| On the edge of the 'Danger Area' |
Candy-striped rocks caught my eye, so I descended and walked along the edge of the sand and rocks – the dividing line on the map between “Danger Area” and safety. Further along, dead sea-weed lay in heaps - threshed, thrashed and washed in by ocean storms – once the heart of a thriving industry, now only collected and used locally, ad lib, by subsistence crofters and farmers.
As the coast turned towards the north-east (734347), I left the sand and proceeded on the path above it. The road receded to the right. I slowed and looked across the tiny Loch Mhoil next to me and over Loch Altabrug beyond it, while a corncrake called from the reeds between the lochs. The oyster-catchers monitored my movements, calling and circling, while I identified marsh-marigolds growing by the loch edge.
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| Marsh marigolds by Loch Altabrug |
Two curlews rose from the beach, the wind howled coldly around my ears and I continued north-east on a cobbled mosaic melded with grass, at the top of a steep rise of storm thrown cobbles above the flat yellow-white sand. It made me think how frightening this place would be with westerly Atlantic gales bringing raging seas, rolling and banging large boulders, grinding and rounding their edges, and throwing bowling-ball sized cobbles high up the slope and onto the grass and path above.
A barbed wire fence blocked my path, but a way through was shown by a trailing single wire decked with a fringe of tasselled sheep’s wool – the place where sheep regularly pass the fence, so what is the fence for? Returning to the rocky shore, the beach was awash with bird-life. Curlews fled, but eider-ducks – large with black and white bodies clustered on rocks and meandered close by; flocks of gulls stood facing the wind; oyster-catchers stood, watching me warily; dunlins scurried about the beach nervously, moving as one flock with jerking steps, then pausing, rising, circling – flowing together in one tight group almost like schools of fish - and landing again where they started.
Above the beach, on the edge of the fine grass, a rusty iron storage tank, with a mound of abandoned fishing gear alongside, fuelled my curiosity. What was it from? Why was it here?
An old pick-up stood forlorn, sinking into the grass covered sand, being dismantled by rust in languorous stages: it made me wonder about a time-lapse movie - one shot every month over the course of seventy years, played back at 25 frames per second: an unusual half minute movie from a lifetime’s project. I’ll just imagine the result.
I walked by a group of cyclists sheltering in the lee of the sand-cliff, topped with grass, and then at an incision in the coast, formed by a small river outlet, I spotted three sand-martins dashing in the lee of the sand-cliff, then occasionally rising into the blast and turning down again. Then, to my surprise, a single swallow joined them in the same game, causing me to look carefully to be sure of my identification. Two ladies, each walking their dog, passed me with cheery smiles. That meant I’d seen seven people in four hours – a lot more than on the previous day, but not many considering the number of houses dotted about nearby. Realising that the opportunity for some shelter might not occur again for a while, that the sky looked threatening, with hazy dark clouds, fading from pale grey to deep navy, with all visibility obscured below, I decided that this was the time to sit, tuck into my boiled eggs and tomatoes, followed by ‘ginger-and-orange-marmalade mixed with chocolate-spread’ sandwiches.
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