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Rising at 5:05 am, the sky looked promising at first, but the wind was getting stronger from the west - continuous rippled cloud over the land, brighter over the sea in the west. Feeling cool, I wondered if I might need to start off wearing my down jacket and peaked fleece hat. 5:55 am – the short-eared owl put in another appearance – a quicker flight in a stronger wind, but still twisting and turning so lightly. 6:30 am – the owl came along again – where the sea at high water is inland of the road connecting with the outlet of the loch – flying lightly and slowly, it paused in the air and then dropped about a metre onto the ground, talons outstretched. Part hidden between clumps of heather, it stayed to eat, giving me time to take out my binoculars and watch. It spent ten minutes feeding, intermittently, head up and looking around warily; then moved forward slightly into fuller view, keeping watch. After another five minutes it returned to its kill, just head and shoulders showing, but seemed to be guarding it – warily watching every passing bird and looking all around. Fifteen minutes later, two greylag geese came ambling along the grass, just above the rock shore-line, with two goslings following behind. They stopped ten metres short of the owl, watched for some time, and then turned back and ambled away.
7:30 am – I was ready to go; the W17 bus passed going north; the sky, a continuous high layer of steely grey; the wind coming from the east, where the cloud looked thickest, greyest and lowest – I shivered to wait, wearing vest, thick shirt, fleece, down jacket and cag. The two buses kept to time and linked perfectly; all the passengers except for me were heading to the Lionacleit school.
Alighting at Clachan (8:15 am; 811641), I set off along the A865, north-west – after settling in to a comfortable amble, I checked my pace - 106 steps/minute of 2.5 boot lengths (roughly 5 km/h or 3 mph). Of course, I could walk a lot faster, but I want a pace where I could walk all day without getting tired. Two curlews, sounding as though they were calling “curlew”, circled around; after which I picked up a continuous escort of lapwings and oyster-catchers. The smooth low hills on my right looked uninviting – dark and gloomy. Some lapwings feigned dive-bombing attacks but fortunately sent no missiles. Three ewes and four lambs came scampering towards me, looking very hopeful, but I was not the one who brings their morning feed.
Approaching 9 am, it started to brighten a little. Quite a few flag irises were fully out in flower. A young man in a car, stopped to offer me a lift - I thanked him but declined. 9:07 am – the first snipe of the day was displaying and bleating at a skylark sort of height, flapping circling and meandering ascents followed by shallow dives with bleatings. I stood and watched for a good five minutes with oyster-catchers “kerwit… kerwit… kerwit-ing” around me, then I walked on. The sun was just showing through the high icy cloud lying above an area of dappled fish-scale cloud. There was traffic in intermittent bunches, and then long lulls. Most drivers carefully slowing down and waving thanks because I’d stepped off the road, well ahead of their passing. Others speeding straight for me, giving no space nor decrease in speed. A wren sang somewhat unusually, from the centre of a bungalow roof and then moved to the end to repeat the song. 9:20 am, the sign told me I was entering Cladach Chaolais, an area populated by starlings. The fields, white with cotton-grass, looked like they were dusted with snow. I could have turned right on a track here (773667) or even earlier at Cladach Chireboist (784655) but decided the break from the road might not be worth the risk of having to weave about over potentially lumpy and boggy ground. I was quite glad of easy walking where I could look about me without having to watch each footstep.
Beinn Mhor and Hecla showed clearly across the sea and the low landscape of Benbecula – deep grey silhouettes in front of a pale blue-grey clouded background, with cotton-wool wisps in front and to the left of Hecla. Snipe were still displaying and a group of orange-red legged redshanks “eeked” and took exception to my presence, joining with the lapwings.
9:45 am – the warmth from the sun was coming through as I reached the junction, turning right to follow the “Committee Road” (768672), and removed my cag and down jacket. A narrow road with very few vehicles, made a very gradual ascent, my lapwing escort departed, the air cooled, skylark song blended with the sound of the wind, heather, bog, grass and cotton-grass dancing, the scene became quite bleak and open. I stopped for a chat with a man by a parked car – his wife and daughter turning the peat on the peatland. Spits of rain blew across. I was walking quite comfortably, then suddenly a pang from my Achilles tendon made me slacken and shorten my pace – 100 steps/minute x 0.6 m (3.6 km/h or 2.25 mph). I passed stacks of peat, some in dry mounds and alongside, white sacks, full and ready to be collected. A cuckoo called ahead from a plantation of conifers, a quarter of which were white and flattened on the west edge by the wind. A curlew “warbley-chortled” behind. On the col, at the car park (11:00 am; 792705), a young man was setting up a tripod and telescope, hoping to see hen harriers and short-eared owls. He'd gathered this was a good spot to see them.
Heading northwards and downwards, a young man was standing by a warning sign, 300 m further down, two men were standing on the road talking while a JCB digger with caterpillar tracks stood below the road, digging out a channel for drainage pipes to pass under an access track. Enquiring what it was for, I found out that the track led to an old concrete tank that was used to collect water and feed it by pipe to Bhalaigh, the sandy island lying offshore. The workmen understood that the water would run down the pipe but not how it could run upwards onto the island, and we joked about people choosing to inhabit an island that’s all sand and has no water.
An old tractor stood in the place where it last worked, with its engine cover removed – “rusting to return to the Earth from which it came”. A sculptor had added a plaque to explain the significance of it, but I failed to appreciate why it required a sculptor when it was there already.
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| A rusting memorial to former times |
I set off again (12:45 pm), and as I entered Greinetobht (1:30 pm; 814748), a corncrake called from the reeds, and the first bus-driver of my day stopped to find out how I was doing. A few cyclists passed by, battling into a headwind, which is no big deal on foot; a few houses, then empty land with no particular features. Skylarks sang and lapwings “peewitted”, but a hot and tired sensation in my feet and ankles and watery wind-blown eyes dulled my other senses. For more than half an hour an escort of lapwings, “eeking” redshanks and unidentified “chew-chew-cheewing” accompanied me until the road took me up away from the sea-plain to pass by a plantation, where I listened to another cuckoo.
At the junction to Berneray (3:05 pm; 873740), I turned left, then stopped by the sea inlet to complete my lunch. Ambling on at about 5 km/h, the air felt cooler with the cloud up-wind lowering in height. My ankles didn’t like to take my weight again after sitting, so I decided to stay on my feet until back at the van. I watched the short-eared owl hunting again (4:10 – 4:20 pm) – sometimes above the skyline formed by the line of small hills on my right, then repeating its traverse, below the hill, along the edge of the bog. By the last junction (4:20 pm; 895778), oystercatchers were chasing off the gulls – a pitched aerial battle with almost equal numbers on each side. The oyster-catcher attacks in mid-air looked pretty mean and menacing; the gulls backed off and dispersed. By the outlet from Loch an Sticir (4:25 pm; 897778), I stopped to inspect where the owl had been eating its breakfast before I’d set off. There were no feathers or fur, but a lot of vole tracks – 1 inch running routes, like bob-sleigh runs, through the grass, as well as some burrows of fist size, which seemed more on the scale for a rabbit. My curiosity about what the owl ate for breakfast was not satisfied.
Returning to my van (4:35 pm), my legs and feet were rather red and blotchy, my toes looking flat-edged, but without blisters. The next ferry departure from Lochmaddy was 7:30 am the next morning, so my first priority was to check whether the ferry terminal office was still open, so that I could book the ferry, or if it would open on the arrival of the evening ferry from Uig. I decided to go straight to the terminal, then buy some fresh food and back-track to a suitable overnight stop. The terminal was closed; I bought ready cooked, spiced chicken wings and a pint of milk from the stores; had a cup of tea, grilled the chicken, ate it with couscous and bell pepper; then chased it down with a tinned rice pudding. It was drizzling lightly when I arrived in Lochmaddy, but the cloud gradually lowered and the drizzle increased until it was proper rain; then alternated between rain and drizzle into the night. The evening ferry arrived late, 8:30 pm instead of 7:45 pm. I’d been told the ticket office would open before the ferry arrived, but it didn’t open at all. I’d tried the booking telephone number, but after being put on hold, the connection was cut off as soon as someone answered. A ferry crew-member said the office would open at 6:15 am – for a 7:30 am departure with a 45-minute check-in deadline. He also thought the Tuesday morning sailing was usually a particularly busy one for commercial vehicles. There was not much that I could do about that, except try for the earliest available crossing. I decided to be at the office door by 6:00 am, to be first in the queue, and to sleep in the ferry carpark.
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