29 - Na Gearrannan to Siabost

Tuesday Afternoon - 23rd May – Continuing Gearraidh na h-Aibhne to Siabost

On the cliffs north of Gearrannan

Reaching the north-east side of the headland (around 1:40 pm), I sat down for a sheltered lunch-stop – cutting across the top of the headline, having explored it in detail and in better lighting on the previous day. However, it was starting to brighten up. The sun came out and this became a relaxing spot to rest awhile, with the gentle washing and hissing of the sea below accompanying a soft-boiled egg – creamy and runny (I’d brought a teaspoon for the egg since runny yolk and solid white was my objective) – along with a bacon sandwich, ginger and chocolate spread sandwich and ginger oatcakes. Boots off, feet airing, toes recovering their shape, I watched the fulmars’ aerobatics: dancing in the air along the cliff and below it, circling around the cove, over and over again - showing no purpose other than practice or enjoyment – flying like fixed wing aeroplanes, tipping the wing-pair, held straight out – to left, then right, then left – a smooth flap of rigid wings, dipping down and up, flying straight at a cliff face, pulling into a vertical rise, stalling, falling, pulling back ‘on the joystick’ to curl out of the accelerating dive and then curling about for another repeat. Further out twenty gannets were completing rising and falling circles and figure of eights; swooping across the water, rising higher until their target was clear as they plummeted down into the sea; folding their wings back for a tidy entry before using those flying wings as swimming wings, to pursue and catch the fish they’d been stalking from the air.

Looking north from Aird Gouham (north of Gearrannan)

Booting up (2:24 pm), I set off again, with spots of rain and a spot of sun. As the path plunged down into a dip, creamy sheep retreated cautiously. The ragged ewes and neat cotton-wool lambs, with resplendent blue daubs of owner-marking dye, eyed me suspiciously. A wheatear stood on a marker post, then glided away, displaying its prominent white chevron rump. Around the next headland, vertical cliffs lined a precipitous gash where fulmars sat on the rock ledges as though nesting – but no sign of eggs as yet (202455). Edge after edge, chasm after chasm, intimidated and seemed to pull me towards them, while the wind gave a definite push from behind. Attempting to avoid climbing over the high hillock, I attempted to go around the headland at 206451.  
(https://osmaps.ordnancesurvey.co.uk/58.30581,-6.77073,14) 
This proved to be fruitless. I found I was trying to contour my way around an increasingly steep slope that was turning into a precipitous cliff edge, so I had to back-track and go over the hilltop anyway, from where I looked out over Dail Mor Bay, with its cemetery, before descending down the path to the parking area (3:50 pm).

The path to Dail Beag was clearly marked, leading me over and between the hills. If I’d been feeling more energetic, I’d have left the path and followed the cliff-line around the coast. The post marked track comes out more than half way up the road from the beach, with no sign of an onward path. I passed a farmhouse on my left and a Land Rover on my right. A man appeared, asked me if I was going far and whether I would like a lift. I said where I’d already walked but hadn’t far left to go. He was rather surprised 'at my energy'. Then he asked me what I thought about the Blackhouse Village and I think he didn’t really want my answer – its so neat, so smart, impeccable rooves, skylights in the rooves: it doesn’t look very real. He reckoned they really were that smart in 1939 when the men went off to fight, but they couldn’t be approved to be built or used for income generating accommodation without meeting modern rules and regulations. He’d heard the same “complaint” before and he didn’t like it. I had to understand that the village was there to bring in money, not to be a realistic reconstruction. He then got onto his next theme – people not working – “If a man doesn’t work, he should not eat. Where’s that from?” he asked. I said “Saint Paul”, which did not satisfy him. “Its from the gooode book!” he proclaimed. Anyway, after quite a long conversation about the EU, the SNP, over-fishing, foreign fishing, loss of the fishing industry, migrants being prepared to do the work that Scots won’t do, etc. we parted amicably. He drove and I walked – reaching the campsite at 6 pm. I’d watched the rain passing along just off-shore – lots of it, just missing me – until I reached shelter. It then swept in and poured down.

After a cup of tea, I set about a meal that would supply energy but without demanding much energy to cook – 'instant curry flavoured noodles' with a tin of sardines in brine, plus a boiled egg; followed by cocoa, fruit cake and crunchy flap-jack.