20 - South Harris, Rubha Reinis to Aird Mhighe

Wednesday 17th May – Roghadal, around Rubha Reinis and to Aird Mhighe - 14.6 km, 289 m ascent
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It seemed appropriate that I should include the most southerly point on Harris, Rubha Reinis, and trek along a continuous route through Harris and Lewis to reach the most Northerly point on Lewis. I also expected Rubha Reinis, a rocky peninsular thrust out into the stormy and windy sea, to be an exciting place. I was up at 5:30 am, but I didn’t feel like hurrying, so after a leisurely breakfast and a long sort out, I drove off to Roghadal (Rodel) and parked by St Clement’s Church (8:20 am, 047832), appreciated the loos, and set off prepared for the forecasted weather – “high winds, especially in the Western Isles, with showers, some heavy.” Seeing a squall heading my way, I put on over-trousers and was glad of them as a barrier against the cold wind. 

Turning onto the footpath at the north of Roghadal (047837), I followed its clear route to Borasdal.  I’d expected this might be boggy, but it was very well made, 1½ m wide, with a level well drained, smooth top of fine grass. Borasdal had quite a closely spaced set of houses on the top road, however I cut straight down to the lower road, and down again to the gate before rising up beside the rocky knobble (035833). There was a splash of sun and a splatter of rain, as the squall hit Roghadal and missed me. Another one loomed so I didn’t need to feel left-out. 

On the Rubha Reinis peninsular, looking towards Borasdal, 
Sranndabhal rising behind, Roineabhal hiding in the cloud.

From the central marshy part of this promontory, three brownish geese with whitish rumps, “squa-honked” their warning, rose, flew in convoy, circled and returned to where they started, continuing their calls from the bog. I followed the sedge growing where the ground was better drained around the edge. I flushed a snipe out of the bog. It rose a little, darting quite low into the head wind with its characteristic zig-zag flight. Over the brow of a hill, there was a brown peaty sea-inlet to pass. I made a mental note to return further towards the north of the peninsular. At this point the trig point looked far off, but the map told me otherwise. Seeing the sprawled wreckage of a dead sheep, I passed on the windward side. Flesh and bones were spread a little, but wool was spread over a halo of two metres. Oystercatchers called, the wind buffeted and the sea pounded, creating spray-splashes and hisses. The skylarks sang with an accompaniment of ‘baas’, ‘bleats’, ‘peeps’ and ‘eeks’.
Rising onto the final lump and trig point, I was walking upwards in the shelter of the hillock – sweltering with my fleece and cag both wide open. 

On the Rubha Reinis peninsular, looking towards Borasdal, Sranndabhal rising behind, 
Roineabhal hiding in the cloud, Sound of Harris on the left, East coast of South Harris on the right.

 Then, stepping over into the wind, my light-weight towel (doubling up as a scarf) whipped about and cag cords with toggles thrashed my face. Hardly able to stand up, but exhilarated, I revelled in the excitement of the dramatic scene – bright patches of sunlit sweeping across, dark cloud bases with their deep shadows, glints of light on wave-caps, spray of waves on rocks, turmoil from submerged rocks – turning myself about – taking in a 330-degree perimeter of sea lined peninsular, the south-west coast and south-east coast diverging from each other, separated by cloud-capped hills, above white-faced houses sprinkled along a line of green hillside. A bright highlight emphasised Berneray’s sandy softness; then moving off, it eventually placed a spotlight on the distant, disparate cluster of port buildings and stark houses called Leverburgh.  I chose to go clockwise around every lump and projection on the promontory, taking photos of waves and water; splash and spray; wet rocks, pebbles and sea-weed, reflected and glinting light. 

From the Rubha Reinis peninsular, looking along the SW coast towards the linear-linked hamlets of 
Borasdal, Srannda, Cairinis.  Leverburgh out of sight 5 km away.

Returning on the south-west side, reaching the central bog, a lone skylark was still singing. Another dead adult sheep lay with exposed flesh still freshly pink. Heading for the return path back to Roghadal, I met a cyclist who had taken the wrong road out of Leverburgh, finding himself on a no-through road instead of the east-coast route to Tarbert. He thought he might follow the track and I agreed – I would have done so – but his bike was vastly overladen and he gave up when he saw the gradient of the track, choosing a 9 km loop of road rather than 1 km of track.

Reaching Roghadal at 12:30, I walked around the lower loop of road by the harbour and noticed a coastal path, looking rather like an old style, well-constructed path of stone topped with grass. I followed it but it faded out and I met the road. Perhaps it was the old ‘road’ before there was a tarmac road. Following the 'east coast road' NNE, I stopped for lunch by a path and a stream (056846), with a quarry in front, an island alongside, and a bleak, barren landscape of randomly scattered rocks, some very large and embedded, smoothed to profile the smooth hill-shapes. Roineabhal, on my left, remained in the cloud as it had all day, so I was glad that I had made my little escapade onto its shoulder peak the previous afternoon.

St Clement’s Church and graveyard, Roghadal, from the SE

N side of St Clement’s Church, Roghadal, from the entrance gate

Moving on again at 1:40 pm, aiming to turn around at 3 or 4 pm, perhaps, I walked through Linguabhagh (1:55 pm, 1 km/15 min, so 4 km/hr), and the inlet at Fionnasbhagh / Aird Mhighe (2:35 pm). Six or more seals were swimming in the inlet and a cuckoo was calling from the other side (upwind). I turned around at Aird Mhighe bus stop at 2:45 pm. A small bus came up from behind very soon after. The driver knew I'd want picking up before I’d realised it was a service bus and then picked up another passenger. The other passenger was a weaver from Boirsean returning home after doing hand-powered weaving of tweed. Murdo, the driver, told me that he travels down the same road every school-day leaving Tarbert at 8:10 am, so I decided I’d look out for him the next morning. I paid the £1.20 fare and alighted at Roghadal at 3 pm. Having plenty of time in hand I took a look around ancient St Clement’s church and its beautiful churchyard of fine grass, primroses and old gravestones.

I then went to look for a campsite or camping place. Likisto (Liceasto) advertised camping, but there was very little room – a car parking space that could fit three vans close side-by-side (taken), two yurts for hire (taken) and two former cattle-stalls with thatch turned into sleeping shelters (taken). The owner lived in the apparently unaltered blackhouse, with a kitchen available for guests and campers to share. I had some conversation with the friendly host and he offered that I could top up my water supply. Then, since there were no vacancies and no available parking space, I continued north along the east coast road. 

About 1 km before meeting the A859, I found a convenient parking area with a semblance of flatness (132933), tucked my van as far from the road as possible, and attempted ‘horizontality’ by making use of hollows to lower the wheels on the higher part of the slope. I then hatched my plan for the morrow while boiling six eggs and grilling bacon on top of two slices of bread – my scheme to waste no bacon juices and also save effort on washing-up. Saving some of the bacon for the next day’s lunch, I laid more slices of bread on top of the bread-n-bacon and grilled some more. One egg (five saved) and bacon sandwiches, eaten with three tomatoes and half a bell pepper, followed by yogurt, banana and an orange – made a nutritious meal, while I also prepared a packed lunch for Thursday's saunter from Fionnasbhagh, north through and over the central hills of South Harris.