30 – Siabost to Borve

Wednesday 24th May – Siabost to Borve - 19.4 km, 198 m ascent 
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Rising at 5:15 am (the cuckoo had a lie-in, only calling from 6:10 am), I was washed, breakfasted, packed and driving out at 6:45 am. I parked at Borve church, where there is a nice large parking area; at 7:07 am I was ready and waiting for the 7:16 am bus. It arrived at 7:25 am, but the driver told me there would be no connection for the Siabost bus at Barvas. The driver on Tuesday had told me there would be a connection so I was a bit disappointed. If this bus had been running on schedule, I’d have been in Barvas ready for the Barvas-Siabost-Stornaway bus. On the other hand, that bus might also be running late.

So, I crossed over the road at the junction and waited for a bus that might have already gone while attempting to hitch a lift. The hitching proved successful and I was at Pairc Siabost walking north by 7:45 am. It wasn’t quite a drizzle, more like a sea-level cloud – fine droplets in the air, travelling suspended in the wind – so I was wearing a peaked hat with my cag hood up. However, by 8:15 am I was warmed up and my hood was down. The big bus had not passed me as I walked, so I had definitely missed it. (I conclude that someone wishing to use bus and car to walk this section would be better off parking at Barvas to catch one bus south, then the next day parking further north, catching the bus to Barvas to walk north.) The open road was very open – no hedges or bushes – an open bleak landscape with nowhere to hide. Taking a relief-stop comprised choosing a gap in the traffic and being quick.

Boat and brock at Bragar Dun

At Bragar Dun I stopped to photograph an old boat in front of an old brock or Dun (a dry-stone wall constructed iron age fort), and I wondered if the photo should be titled ‘Dun for’ or ‘Brock’n boat’.

At 8:40 am, the skylarks were singing; the cloud had risen to 150 m above sea-level; visibility was good; the sea horizon fuzzy; my pace a comfortable 100 steps/minute at 0.85 m per step – a quick bit of mental arithmetic converts that to 5 km/h or 3 mph – not exactly fast, but speed doesn’t matter – its about endurance with style of movement that minimises fatigue. However, all the toes on my right foot were giving pain as they flexed backwards on each step.

Two curlews came in to land quite close and moved about on the peat channels feeding. One rose, “chooweet-ing” as it flew, and then burbled elegantly, circling and landing again. Entering Galson at 10:30 am, corncrakes were “crake-ing” in the field on the left; the drab land was covered in last year’s browned heather, old dry grasses, and with iris leaves along the water channels. By the time I’d left Barvas, the cloud was down again, bringing moist coldness.

Moving out onto the open moorland, three wind turbines turned slowly, a corncrake called, and an elusive snipe made its drumming sounds, all around and on each side, but still I searched the sky but failed to see it. Then I caught sight of it weaving low through the moor – below the horizon, managing to make its tail quivering whorra-whorra in level flight. Passing the wind turbines, the sound changed from a continuous shoosh to whoosh-whoosh-whirr-whirr-whirr and to pained groans. To my left lay flat moor and featureless sea; on my right, the same moorland in gentle gradations of hue and tone, like waves without any detail; and ahead, several kilometres of slightly descending emptiness, until Lower Siadar sits on top of the next sweeping rise. It is rather interesting that Upper Siadar is at the bottom of the hill, and one must climb up to reach Lower Siadar. I stopped for lunch at the entry to Siadar (11:30 to 12:00) but putting my weight back on my left arch was painful and it was difficult to get walking again. Part of the problem was not finding anything to sit on to take a break – along the road, the ground alongside is barely suitable to sit on; the best is a gate, and a lot of them are too crooked and falling over.

Out onto the open moor again, with skylarks and cuckoos, the world crept slowly behind, until, at 12:50 pm, I was back at my van. I realised I could have set myself a larger distance for the day, but not double the distance. I drove to North Glen Dail (Dail bho Tuath) to check out the coastal “Ness footpath” that starts there. There was a brown pointer sign at the main road (497613), a car parking area by the last house (494620) and a gravel track to a junction (492625). At this point there was a marker post but no pointer and no other marker post in sight. I guessed that one should go left, towards the sea – interesting, but I gained no confirmation of a likely route from the end of the track.

Traigh Dhail near Dail bho Tuath

A sizeable stream was running down close to the right cliff edge; banks of thrift were in full bloom, but large areas of storm pulped and rotted seaweed, looking like a brown porridge, were obstructing passage between stream and cliff. I squeezed my way between this foul-smelling sludge and the stream. The stream had made a cutting through sand-cliffs and stationary waves stood where the wave speed upstream matched the speed of the water flowing down. Horizontal lines of small rock islands stood off-shore, a group of gulls on the left beach huddled in a feeding group, while fulmars wheeled around on the air currents. On the right cliff, lots of fulmars were sitting broodily on ledges, preparing to lay. Having ascertained that the beach didn’t give access to a cliff-top coastal path, I returned to my van. On Thursday my route, from Borve church to the Butt of Lewis, would take me directly over the fields from that last marker post to the cliff edge. I would spend the night somewhere near the Butt of Lewis, so I drove up to Port of Ness. Finding nowhere suitable to park in Port of Ness or on the peir, I took a look at the Eoradal side-road. A short walk to the cliff edge was uncomfortable but interesting – there was a huge flock of shags and twenty or more gannets were fishing offshore. I always enjoy watching gannets fishing.

At the end of the Sgiogarstaigh road, there were two parking spaces. I eased my feet, changed my insoles and read. The wind was strong, the uniform cloud layer was low, but it was dry. I cooked up a double quantity – two days’ dinners – Matterson sausage – quartered then sliced – in a tomato and basil cook-in-sauce, served with couscous. Oh, so simple! Then I made up Thursday’s packed lunch.