Wednesday 10th May – Between Loch Baghasdail and the Machair - 11.3 km
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The wind died down in the night. I was thoroughly awake and rested by 6 am, mentally keen to get going, but found some muscles reluctant to join in with my enthusiasm. Peering out at the soft light of an overcast sky with rolling folds of grey, the prospect of rain adding support to my limbs’ protests; no sun-warmth to embrace me, so, instead I take a hot shower and add warm layers. After a gentle hour to complete yesterday’s journal, before a late breakfast of muesli and malt-wheats, and a reorganisation of the van, it was 11 am before I trundled off toward Dalabrog via the yellow roads on the map. I noted the contrast between the stark, geometrical shapes of the ‘new’ homes and the soft outlines of the dilapidated old ones – in varied stages of decay and collapse.
I parked just before Cladh Hallan Cemetery, perched on a slight hillock, and walked to the round-houses on the track toward the shore (731220). A pipit darted out of the step of sand and grass at the edge of the track, almost beneath my feet, feigning weakness, quivering its wings and trailing its tail feathers along the ground – an effective ploy to distract and tantalise a predator, using itself as bait – before turning into a hollow and scurrying away along the ground.
The cloud was thinning, an indistinct self-shadow appeared in front of me, from filtered sunlight, and a skylark started to sing from above. The roundhouses have given up secrets of 4000 years of human presence, of coastal plains, long submerged, of forests and encroaching sand, buried fields and of customs and beliefs from long before the Viking settlers. I continued to the point where grass tethered sand plunged down to loosely blown shore sand, descending more gently to sea-weed and cobbles; surveyed the diagonal sweep of shoreline, curving away to the south – topped with machair grasses. Above this diagonal, the sea and a graded haze of blue-grey gave a shadowy hint of Barra and its isles.
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| The long beach west of Dalabrog |
Walking along the top sandy path, a curlew made me start with surprise, noisy beating of wings as it flew up from a space in front of me, followed by two more, a little further away. Making my way up to a rise with two picnic tables, it was disappointing to find their brown wood construction was, in fact, moulded plastic. Observing a mushroom shape of dark cloud directly up wind, its supporting leg a dark blur merging cloud indistinctly into sea, considered my enthusiasm for dramatic wind, rain and a good soaking, and retreated briskly, in cowardly fashion, back to my van. There was a good leeway before the first fine mist and rain swept in – not so much to flee from really – and a consequence of the high wind current taking the cloud-burst in a different direction from the local surface wind that I had felt.
I knew that Dalabrog had a large co-op, so I thought I’d call in to top up my stores. The parking area was filled with commercial vans and trucks of various sorts, but I found one tight spot to park in. Walking in, I found empty shelves and five men in workwear, helmets, boots, protective jackets, handling construction materials and doing a refit. One of them showed me around to the right of the entrance towards a temporary shop – weaving my way between construction vehicles – to find a small kiosk – the size of a garden shed or small caravan – with some basic essentials for the locals without transport – three types of meat, ready meals, milk, cigarettes, but to the consternation of the lady before me, no cat food – “Why not?” she asks. The serving girl just smiled and asked “Is that all?”
Looking for a quiet spot to eat my lunch, I headed down the no-through road to Airigh Varrinish (768189) and found a place to park, looking over the sea-loch. I had in mind to walk a loop from there, linking up with the top of the previous day’s loop and walking the section where I’d had a short ride. While I ate, a comfortable mid-priced car drove slowly up, parked and an elderly couple got out and began work on their peat. Some peat was already in stacks drying. The lady turned and stacked peat blocks further from me, while the man was cutting a channel to allow water to drain away from the edge he had previously been cutting. He called a greeting, so I replied and went over.
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| Angus |
He told me about the peat cutting and stacking; about working in his younger days, whaling down by South Georgia – of the cold and how urine would freeze immediately on contact with the ground; of how they used to catch rabbits here – twenty pairs at a time, just by chasing them with a dog, carrying them back with a bike, pushing it to carry the weight; of myxomatosis decimating the rabbit population; of collecting winkles at Thairteabhagh (830155), walking back with them in buckets along the track I’d followed the previous day; of how the track had now deteriorated and been spoilt by quadbikes. Eventually, I let him get back to his cutting and set off towards Caireasbhal, passing his wife, who by this stage was taking a rest in the car and who told me that now Angus was past eighty, he had to do just a little bit on the peat each day. I saw no sign of him easing up though.
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| Peat drying; Stulabhal behind |
From grid reference 768189 to 760186 - a kilometre up the gradual, lumpy slope onto Caireasbhal, gave me views over Loch Baghasdail on one side and over the west coast to Orasaigh on the other; views up the coast to the north and down to Barra.
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| From Caireasbhal, Loch Baghasdail and the three hills, from right to left Beinn Ruigh Choinnich, Triuirebheinn and Stulabhal |
Another cloud-burst loomed, I wondered about over-trousers but decided not to – yet. Heading on 160 degrees, the direction of Easabhal, I followed the higher ground aiming to meet the highest point on the North Glendale road, with a bold white passing place sign, but I then picked up an intermittent track, guiding me clear of most of the soggy ground. I reached the road close to where I picked up the short conversational ride the day before, so I walked the short section missed out on Tuesday.
A skylark sung and the sun faded through, shyly and weakly, bringing some cheer and a little warmth. The storm was still lingering up-wind as I walked into the breeze towards it, but the wind direction at sea must have been from the south-west, since it passed gradually to my right. At Baghasdal the corncrakes called to me again and as I approached, one scurried away, then obligingly posed three-quarters visible for a distant portrait.
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| A poor shot of a corncrake - but proof that I spied it |
Continuing west, I could hear the snipe display flight to the north, and then ten or more lapwings came circling in various directions, all calling – the same sort of cry but with a variety of pitches - some rising, some falling – and again the snipe caught my attention; I scanned the sky, following the sound, but could not see it. Reaching the point where the road turns left (735179), I turned right onto the route north through the machair – a sand and gravel road, flanked by the usual squared wire fencing, topped with multiple ages of barbed wire, between a variety of posts – old whitened wood posts, newer round or square ones, or once square but now gnarled, crenelated, splintered, ragged. A skylark above and a ‘too-too’ song repeated alongside me. The whirr-whirr, almost a bleating sound, made by the snipe diving and letting the air quiver its tail feathers, carried from the distance. One or two hundred metre rectangular plots of turf covered sand had been ploughed, and in some cases spread with rotting, pungent smelling sea-weed, partially turned into the ‘soil’. I encountered an ancient tractor and plough, silhouetted proudly on the top of a gently domed rise of grassed sand. It had obviously seen better days but was still maintained enough to continue its service, despite exposed metal surfaces rusting away. As I took its portrait, two curlews passed overhead and the skylarks continued their babbling music.
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| Tractor - still in service. |
Then continuing, I passed a field of rabbits on my left, and on my right, a rabbit bobbed along the fence line, darted across the road to its field and disappeared into its hole. Reaching the dune edge, I looked back at what appeared to be a sea-kayak, just offshore, with no kayaker. Taking out my binoculars, I discovered it was in fact a seal resting on a submerged rock, water half way up its body and with its tail and head curled up at each end.
My path turned inland (728196) until it reached a fork (734202), where I intended to turn right. A classic old red Massey Ferguson 35 tractor caught my attention and Angus’s car approached hesitantly over the ploughed field – he smiled and waved. The tractor looked well preserved and stood with its plough attached ready for action.
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| Massey Ferguson 35 |
Heading for Cille Pheadair, “schdowey-doop - schdowey-doop” called a bird of snipish shape, with black wing trailing edges and white wing leading edges. “Whirr-whirr” answered the snipe from behind me, while the hills of Barra, appearing above the golden-tan dry grasses of the marshy plain, glowed in the weak light of the evening sun, filtering through the grey-sky-haze. I stopped to look at an old house with round corners and no roof, then met the driver from yesterday who stopped to joke that I’m going the wrong way, briefly chatting, but then having to move on as another car was waiting behind.
Crossing straight over at the cross-roads, an all-female group of joggers (all ages and shapes too) approached – most struggling, but one talking easily as she comfortably ran past. The still, tidal water, with sea-weed, showed a murky surface as though there was too little change of water. The reason became clear when I reached the barrage, where water was able to spill in over an inner sluice at high tide and presumably a little would flow out if it rained. A very small hydro-electricity generator might still be working here.
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| Loch Baghasdail and the three hills, from right to left Beinn Ruigh Choinnich, Triuirebheinn and Stulabhal |
A little further on, a father and son were working together on the peat – the son working from above the peat edge with a long slicing blade on a pole, while the father caught, lifted and threw the peat blocks on to dryer ground to stack later. Talking with them about my route for the next day, over Stulabhal to Loch Aineort, the son suggested that I go over the three main hills north-east from Loch Baghasdail town – Beinn Ruigh Choinnich, Triuirebheinn and Stulabhal – just like they do when bringing in the sheep. His father looked a little doubtful, and I quietly wondered if he would be doing that when he was sixty.
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| Synchronised peat cutting and 'stacking' |
Back to the van at 7:40 pm, I went straight back to the campsite to cook rice and mince with a jar of ‘Tomato and Basil Sauce’ – made to the recipe of a leading chef – it was so bland it definitely needed my addition of cinnamon and diced yellow pepper. Was my drive back to West Kilbride necessary, since I would drive back up again next morning? I planned to park up on Thursday night where I would begin Friday’s walk.
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