Having read an excellent post over at Selfpowered in which David Lintern recounts his recent epic traverse of the HRP through some of his camping pitches, accompanied by some cracking pics, I was inspired to dig out some photos of favourite camping pitches in recent years for a post of my own. I noticed that many of my favourite pitches seemed to be accompanied by a roaring campfire, so I thought ‘why not have a campfire picture post’, so here you have it.

The handsome lad sporting the Manfur (TM) face muffler (whatever) in the above pic is the famous James Boulter, he of Backpackingbongos – probably the best walking blog in the world. The pic was taken at Harris Bay on the wild and wonderful Isle of Rum earlier this year. This is James and Rich being hypnotised by the same fire a little later:

The following pic was taken at Luskentyre on the Isle of Harris a few years ago when myself and The Lovely Fiona were cycling up through the Outer Hebrides:

There’s something wonderful about a campfire; you pitch your tent, go gather some driftwood or deadwood – depending on where you are – and get a blaze going. A fire keeps you warm during the chillier months, but it provides something far more than physical warmth alone. A campfire also seems to satisfy a primal human need – I don’t know about you, but I always feel more secure, relaxed and happy sitting in front of a fire, staring into it’s dancing heart. Look at James and Rich’s expressions in the picture above – they’re totally entranced. Literally.

Anyway, enough of this hippy nonsense, here’s some more pics. Here’s a couple from Shian Bay on the Isle of Jura – one of my favourite wild camping spots:

Here’s a few from winter trips in the Romanian Carpathians, when temperatures of -20C meant that a fire was absolutely essential in my book:

I fancy putting up a few more campfire pics if anyone has favourites that they’d like appended to this post. Email Jpegs to me at melancholicsanonymous@yahoo.co.uk go on…

Whippet whipped into a frenzy on the Ettrick Hills

Saturday morning, myself, The Lovely Fiona and the Hideous Mutt set off for a daunder around the Ettrick Hills accompanied by Young Finlay and Graeme Devo. Graeme is a whippet more usually known simply as Devo. ‘A non-usual name for a whippet’ I hear you chorus and can only agree. Graeme suits his moniker though and was so named, as many of you will already have twigged, in honour of the song ‘Whip It’ by the eponymous lampshade-wearing American punk wierdos. Young Finlay is Devo’s homey.

That’s the introductions dispensed with.

So we parked up at the south-eastern end of the Talla Reservoir and set off up Games Hope, following the old drove road alongside the fast-moving burn.

There was a lot of water thundering down the glen for obvious reasons given the recent weather and we were unable to cross over to the lovely bothy, which is a mile or so up the glen. I’m sure there was a bridge over the Gameshope Burn here the last time we passed by, but there wasn’t one any longer.

We squelched our way along the left bank of the burn sure that we’d be able to cross higher upstream. The plan was to make for Gameshope Loch then climb Din Law before taking in Cape Law, Hartfell Rig and Hart Fell. However, the burn was a frothing tumult and opportunities for crossing weren’t presenting themselves.

We were soon presented with the minor challenge of crossing a burn feeding into Gameshope. We weren’t going to get across with dry feet so I gave TLF a piggy back across the calf-deep burn and Young Finlay carried the water-shy Devo across. If only I’d taken some pictures!

The dogs had been leashed because of the woolies around, but we came to a sheep free stretch and let them off for a wee while. Joy was unconfined as they tore up and down and back and forth. Dougal is never, ever going to catch Devo, but attempting to do so on a regular basis has made him without doubt the fastest Labrador in Scotland!

We schlepped across the wet and springy morass of the appositely named Crunklie Moss until we were opposite Loch Burn, flowing down from Gameshope Loch. We looked for a crossing point, but the burn was just too deep, too wide and too fast flowing. The bed of the burn also seemed full of awkward boulders and pebbles. We weren’t getting across so we did what we had to do: change of plan.

We decided to launch ourselves up the steep and tussocky flank of Great Hill, a good old fashioned slog if ever there was one!

At the summit (774m), Finlay decided to demonstrate his prowess at canine rodeo:

The weather looked rather brooding over to the south-east, so we didn’t feel so bad at having to change our route.

We continued on our way, skirting around Donald’s Cleuch Head then perching on the collapsed remnants of the dry-stane dyke along the ridge for a spot of lunch. The dogs tried everything from abject pitifulness to  cold-eyed menace in an attempt to win some scraps, but we weren’t having any of that nonsense.

Off we set again along the ridge, taking in Firthybrig Head before descending precipitously into Talla Nick then climbing steeply up the other side to Lochcraig Head (810m).

The view over Loch Skeen from the summit is rather fine.

We dropped back into Talla Nick before continuing on a rising traverse around to Moll’s Cleuch Dod (785m). This is the view into the glen of Talla Water from Talla Nick:

As we climbed toward Moll’s Cleuch Dod, the sun put in a welcome appearance from behind high, scudding clouds.

Once on the ridge, we continued along in the lee of the dry-stane dyke towards the top of Carlavin Hill (736m).

The view back up the Gameshope glen with the burn and loch lit by the afternoon sun:

It was an easy and very pleasant walk out along the ridge in the sparkling afternoon light and soon enough we found ourselves beginning to descend along the dyke as the Talla Reservoir came back into view.

We were fast running out of hill yet still had 300 metres to descend, this could mean only one thing: we were going to have a very, very steep drop down into the glen. Sure enough, we were soon looking down a very steep hillside indeed.

Finlay and Devo brace themselves for the descent

We teetered down alongside the tumbling March Sike burn and all made it down without mishap. Other than the descent and the failure to cross the Gameshope Burn, this had been a remarkably uncontroversial day out on the hills.

The drive back through the rolling Southern Uplands was rather lovely and we were all feeling rather relaxed – especially Dougal who had a very comfy cushion for the journey home.

At the end of last week, myself, The Lovely Fiona and the Hideous Mutt set off for the wonderful isle of Islay on a mission, which we hope will soon come to fruition. While we were there we thought we’d take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy some fresh air and even fresher water.

We had decided to camp by the lovely beach at Sanaigmore – see pic above – on the island’s Atlantic coast, but before we embarked on our top secret mission we thought we ought to have a wee dip in the aforementioned ocean. There’s a very fine and sheltered bay just along the coast called Port Ghille Greamhair that’s ideal for a skinny dip.

When we arrived above the bay, a huge grey seal was lounging around in the shallows, but it swiftly buggered off when confronted by two naked middle-aged loons and their Labrador crashing into the icy waters of the bay. It was bloody freezing and I could only stand a minute before removing myself swiftly to the beach once more. Fiona and Dougal were having a whale of a time though, careening back and forth across the bay exhibiting a fine display of multifarious swimming strokes, well, breast stroke and doggy paddle anyhow. How that Labrador learned breast stroke I’ll never know.

Much invigorated, we set off on our mission, returning several hours later to set up camp. The forecast was not good, but thus far the evening was very pleasant and we cooked venison burgers on the trangia, which we washed down with a bouteille of Chateau Poop du Naff. Very pleasant. A sunset would have been nice, but as often happens, the Hebridean evening sky built itself up to an impending pyrotechnic display of oranges, reds and purples only to fizzle out in a damp, smoky grey squib.

Anyhow, here’s some teaser pics of writesofways new bomb proof tent. If you can guess the make and model, Mr Alan Sloman, there’ll be a prize in the post!

After a blissful night’s sleep, we woke early to the steady patter of rain on the fly sheet. Heavy rain was forecast for the day so, seeing as it seemed to have arrived, we decided to abandon our plans to walk out from Bunnahabhain and camp beyond Rhuvaal Lighthouse  on the north-west coast in favour of heading along the sound of Islay to the shelter of An Cladach (only the one ‘d’, James, Armin) bothy instead. Decision made, we drove off to Dunlossit. By the time we arrived, the rain had gone off. Hmm. The forecast had been bad so surely the weather would soon take another turn for the worse?

Unfortunately, the weather only seemed to improve, which was rather annoying, especially as I had waterproof trews on. Bah!

The Lovely Fiona skips elegantly across the outflow of the Abhainn Gleann Logain

Dougal was particularly enjoying the walk along the shore as it presented opportunities to roll in a very dead seal – yeuuchh! – and scoff a gannet’s head. Removing said item from Labrador’s mouth was made all the more unpleasant owing to the bird’s recent demise.

Various other body parts and poos of a variety of avia and fauna were also enjoyed by the hideous mutt before we arrived at the bothy. Once there, we got a brew on and Dougal took the opportunity to practice his thermarest surfing technique.

As the weather had continued to improve, Dougal and I went for a saunter along the shore while The Lovely Fiona stayed home and painted her toenails.

It wasn’t long before Dougal had found a sun-dried dogfish to eat, boy did he enjoy that!

The only problem being that he then walked round for the next few days going ‘hack, hack, hack’ every few minutes, presumably because of a bone stuck in his throat. That’ll learn him. Not.

During our 24-hour stay at An Cladach, we were impressed by the number of CalMac ferries steaming (so to speak) up and down the sound. Here’s the new MV Finlaggan coping admirably with that pesky incline.

The Finlaggan is registered to Glasgow, but was built in Gdansk. The Clyde shipyards were once the world’s pre-eminent shipbuilding centre…

The evening turned out lovely. So much for the doomy gloomy forecast. A pleasant evening was spent around the fire, munching further venison burgers and drinking litres of tea.

As night fell, so the wind picked up. By morning it was a very wet and windy scenario outside the bothy. Dougal was not impressed.

We eventually braved the outdoors and went for another wander along the shore, it was then that Dougal made another tasty discovery. This one was so much worse than seal, gannet or dogfish though. It really was quite bad. So much so that I was prompted to leave a note in the bothy book:

Do not poo upon the shore,

But walk 100 yards or more,

Then saunter carefully into the bog,

And leave it there,

Your morning log.

That dog will eat anything.

The above picture is a fabulous greengage tart that The Lovely Fiona made a couple of weeks ago. It was lovely. The reason it appears here is because I have no other relevant pictures to accompany this post and it feels sort of wrong to have a post without pictures…

What this post is actually about is the small victory scored by writesofway the other day when he took the broken ruins of his Terra Nova (boo, hiss!) tent back to Cotswolds in Partick from whence it was purchased a couple of years back. Anyone who read the earlier posts about my Terra Nova (boo, hiss!) Voyager XL being blown into the sea on the lovely isle of Canna and the subsequent rubbish treatment I got from Terra Nova (boo, hiss!), will be glad to learn that the folk at Cotswold refunded my hard-won cash immediately.

The area manager happened to be in, he had a look at the tent  and identified the torn out peg tape on the ground sheet as a failure in the manufacture of the tent. He was aghast that having ‘inspected’ the tent themselves, Terra Nova (boo, hiss!) failed to replace the tent, which was beyond repair.  I’ve given Cotswold my extensive correspondence with Terra Nova (boo, hiss!) and they’ve said they’ll take the matter up with them. Thanks Cotswolds, that is good customer service.

We needed a replacement tent so we immediately reinvested our funds in a shiny new one. The criteria being that it had to be a spacious and robust 2-person(+1 Labrador) job. So we purchased a two entrance, 4-pole semi-geodesic number that you could drop a bomb on. It weighs a whole kilo more than the XL, but I’m happy to carry the weight, secure in the knowledge that this little beauty is going to stay put when pitched, even in a stiff wind. I think sometimes the whole lightweight thing can go a bit far, in fact I might start a new blog entitled ‘backpackingheavy’ or somesuch.

But actually I won’t, because from this day forth writesofway declares itself an officially ‘kit-free’ walking blog. Hurrah!

Myself and The Lovely Fiona have been staying in Wales this past week and we were visited at the weekend by intrepid outdoorsman, James Boulter, who popped across from Nottingham for a couple of days’ walking in the Welsh hills. This was a good combining of resources – we supplied the borrowed accommodation and James pitched in with a couple of excellent routes. Aside from the Pembrokeshire coast, the Brecon Beacons, the Glyders and the Carneddau, I’ve done very little walking in Wales, so it was good to be able to tap into James’ extensive knowledge and enjoy the unusual experience of being led on a couple of walks for once.

I’m expecting James to do a post on the walks – maps, eloquent descriptions, excellent pics etc – in a few weeks’ time so I’ll just post a few pics and a general description for now – before I recount a startling event that myself and James witnessed on Sunday towards the end of our walk on Arenig Fawr.

On Saturday we set off for Blaenau Ffestiniog from our base in the Tanat Valley; this was a leisurely drive as we were stuck behind a tractor driver who would surely have pulled over to let us pass if he knew how much we were actually enjoying the stately pace and the opportunity to admire the splendid scenery all the better…

Having parked the motor at Tanygrisiau, just outside Blaenau Ffestiniog, we set off into the cloud-shrouded Moelwyns and entered a haunting landscape of long-abandoned slate quarries and the crumbling edifices of the old quarry works and barracks. The weather certainly seemed to suit the environment.

Our route took us past the remains of the Cwmorthin Quarry along the edge of Llyn Cwmorthin and up a steep track past an enormous slate tip and on to the desolate ruins of the barracks at Rhosydd Quarry.

We stopped for a bite to eat and watched the low cloud billowing around the summits of the surrounding hills. Another pair of walkers appeared, looking slightly uncertain – like extras from central casting who aren’t sure that this is indeed the right film set. They exited stage right and we set off shortly after – it wasn’t what you’d call a typical August day, weather wise.

Our route contoured around the flank of Moelwyn Mawr, initially from the north-west, following a vague path across boggy ground. We passed the dammed outflow of Llyn Croesor and were soon looking down on the remains of Croesor Quarry and across to the summit of Cnicht – ‘the Welsh Matterhorn’.

We descended to the old quarry works then contoured around the hill once again, following the course of a dry stone wall before picking up a broad, level path that had once been a tram track. Far below to the north-west, Porthmadog gleamed beneath the low bank of cloud flowing up and over the Moelwyns.

We ambled along the track, scurried over a slate tip and rejoined the tram path a little higher up the flank of the hill.

We continued around to just before Bwlch Stwlan – the pass between Moelwyn Bach and Moelwyn Mawr – then launched an assault on the western ridge of the former. This was tough going as the ground was steep, soft, wet and springy – a bit like trying to climb over a series of very damp matresses! Once on the ridge it was a straightforward climb to the summit on a faint path. As we descended, the same two walkers from central casting that we’d encountered earlier appeared from stage right, making for the summit of Moelwyn Bach.

We descended to Bwlch Stwlan and decided to continue up along the sharp ridge of Craigysgafn to the summit of Moelwyn Mawr. It was a stiff old climb in a real pea-souper. The views would have been great, but hey, it was a grand walk anyhow. James habitually subjects his poor wee Staffie, Reuben, to a bizarre form of humiliation which involves getting the hapless dog to perch on trig points to have his picture taken. I felt it was only fair that Dougal should  demonstrate canine solidarity by doing the same…

Back down the hill we headed, emerging below the swirling cloud cover, making for a path skirting around the southern flank of Moel-yr-hydd.

The path was vague in places, but we kept on track and just before arriving at the old quarry on Craig yr Wrysgan, we passed a smallish cave entrance and heard voices emanating from within. We weren’t not going to have a look, so in we went. The entrance opened out into a massive cavern and we could see figures with head torches moving around. Dougal was unsettled and barked at the people – who I assumed were cavers – so I stayed back with him while James and Reuben went for a closer look. There were a lot of people in there, James reported,  all with tinnies or bottles it seemed. Was this the local ‘party cave’? We thought we’d leave the folk to it and continued on to the quarry.

Our descent on a tip of loose slate was interesting and fairly rapid. We were soon back at Cwmorthin and followed the track along the river and down to the car park. It had been a grand walk and the weather hadn’t detracted from our enjoyment one jot. It actually seemed to enhance the austere beauty of this rugged, post-industrial mountain landscape.

The following day, myself James and the dogs set off for a walk on Arenig Fawr, which is around eight or so miles west of Bala. Having parked near Arenig Quarry, we walked back along the road for a mile or so to pick up the path by Pant-yr-Hedydd. The path climbed steadily up through heathland being grazed by sheep.

Ahead of us, a couple were yelling at their dogs a lot. It seemed that the dogs were very interested in the sheep and were running around off the leash. Reuben and Dougal were also off the leash at this point, but we were keeping them close. Reuben is a well-behaved, obedient pooch and James had no problem keeping him to heel despite the wooly temptations all around. Dougal is still a puppy and I thought it good practice to keep him close, off his leash for some of the time, to learn to resist the urge to chase sheep. He was pretty good and when he did briefly bowl off after a couple of woolies, he came back sharpish when called back. There was clearly no intent to chase the sheep down and I thought no harm there, good to get him taught not to chase sheep as it will make both our lives easier when he’s full grown. It’s not always apparent that sheep are around when you’re on a hill and if your dog see’s one before you, you want to be sure that they’ll not chase them or that they’ll come back sharpish when called if they set off after one. The alternative is not good.

Anyway, we followed the path around to the tiny MBA bothy near the outflow of the Llyn Arenig Fawr reservoir before crossing the outflow and continuing on our way.

We followed the ever-steeper path up the Y Castell ridge, catching up with the two people and their dogs in the process. The people were Dutch and very friendly, unlike their dogs – a Jack Russell and some sort of Alsatian cross – the latter pinned Reuben to the ground, but we laughed it off and continued on our way.

We battered our way up to the summit ridge to enjoy the truly panoramic views across the whole of Snowdonia. The cloud had lifted off the summit of Arenig Fawr and we were very pleased with our timing.

Some other walkers turned up while we were enjoying our sandwiches and they were followed by the Dutch people and their dogs. The feller asked me to take some pictures of him and his wife and then he insisted on taking some pictures of myself and James. We finished our pieces and set off on our way once more.

It was all downhill from here, literally at first as we descended along the ridge to the saddle, and then metaphorically as – half an hour later – we watched a grotesque scene play out in the distance.

Around a kilometre away, back up the ridge we’d just descended we heard barking and saw the Dutch people’s dogs thundering along the flank of the mountain in pursuit of a sheep. Surely, I thought, the owners will call the dogs off – the dogs will pull up, turn tail and head back to their masters having had their fun. But no; the dogs kept up their pursuit, catching the sheep and bringing it down. I pulled out my binoculars and James and I watched the scene unfolding. High up on the shoulder of the hill a tiny figure called  to the dogs who remained utterly heedless of their master’s imprecations. The sheep struggled to stand and attempted to flee the dogs; they pursued and brought it down again. Again the sheep struggled away from the dogs again they bought it down; a cacophany of snarling barks tumbled across the head of the valley towards us. Why is the feller not running down there and getting his dogs off? Still he stood about 750 metres up along the flank of the hill, an occasional call bereft of conviction hanging on the air.

The sheep tumbled like a child’s rag doll over a low cliff and down a steep scree slope, legs akimbo, pitching over and over before finally coming to rest. Surely the poor beast must be dead. The dogs pursued the carcass down the slope and kept up a hoarse and incessant chorus over the broken remains.

We resolved to get down the track to the road as fast as we could to alert the farmer. I think we were also a bit fearfful that our own dogs might be taken as the culprits – two dogs on the hill, one being a Daily Mail-styled ‘devil dog’ and all. Two walkers were ahead of us watching the whole business from the foot of the scree slope. We conferred with them and watched as the poor beast still moved weakly. There was nothing we could do, so we beat our retreat.

Eventually we got back to the road and flagged down a local man who sped off to alert the farmer. It felt a bit grim, but we were convinced that not reporting the incident would be a cop out. We don’t know the outcome, but I’ll bet those Dutch folk will wish they’d kept their dogs leashed. I know I will if I ever have the slightest doubt.

The picture shows two tents pitched beneath Coroghon Mor on the beautiful isle of Canna. The picture was taken late one evening at the very end of May this year when I visited the island with Fiona, Dougal and our friends, Clare and Sarah. Both tents were mine – a Terra Nova Voyager and a Terra Nova Voyager XL. I pitched both of them.

It was a blowy old night in the tents and it was still very windy the next day when we went for a bracing walk along the high cliffs around the island’s coast. It was, however, a long way short of storm conditions otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to undertake our walk along the exposed 200m-high cliffs. When we came back from our walk one of the tents – the XL – had blown into the sea, the Voyager and a Crux two-man tent pitched nearby were unaffected; thankfully our possessions were rescued by the lovely Julie McCabe. Julie and her partner, Stewart Connor – the island’s NTS warden, loaned us sleeping bags (ours were wet) and a cheapo Eurohike tent, thereby rescuing us from our predicament. That night the Eurohike survived a windy night where the £500+ XL had given up the ghost.

In my opinion the tent blew away because of the combination of its larger (than a standard Voyager, for example) profile and its lightweight build. Arguably the tent’s lightweight, titanium pegs are also inadequate to withstand a strong wind. The XL is sold as a four-season tent and claims to have ‘great stability in windy conditions’. It doesn’t.

After two months of correspondence – emails, letters, phone calls – during which various employees of Terra Nova have claimed that I must have failed to peg the tent out properly and even that I should have used pegs other than those supplied (!), I have been offered a 35% discount off a replacement, which I declined. My insistence on a 100% refund was rejected in an email sent this afternoon. They’ve lost a customer, but they obviously don’t care about that.

I’ve always rated the Voyager and I want to be able to buy British products where viable, but I can’t accept such poor treatment from Terra Nova. I don’t have a lot of money and losing an expensive tent like this is a bit of a blow. What a shame that Terra Nova don’t care.

Muck can be a little awkward to get to from the other Small Isles and I’d had trouble trying to fit it in to the itinerary along with Canna and Eigg. I have to admit that I saw the prospect of visiting Muck as slightly annoying – a bit of a detour just for one walk that didn’t look that interesting.  Muck is very small – even for a Small Isle – it’s possible, so we discovered, to walk around the little critter in its entirety in four or five hours. You can probably see what’s coming – another one of my ‘how wrong can you be?’ posts. How wrong can you be? Muck is very small, but a more idyllic wee island would be hard to find.

We set off from Eigg on the Shearwater, the wee ferry/island cruise boat that sails out of Arisaig. There were a few tense moments as a doomsaying scaremonger was spreading the untruth that the Shearwater was fully booked and then Fiona mislaid her purse etc. But in the end it was all fine, purse found, plenty of space on the boat.

The crossing was very enjoyable; we stopped out in the middle of the Sound of Eigg as the skipper thought we might see some dolphins, but they were a no show. Within an hour we’d arrived at the pier by Port Mor, Muck’s harbour and main settlement.

We headed straight over to the north coast of the island – less than a mile – to pitch our tent on one of the loveliest informal camp sites you could wish for. There is a permanent yurt for hire and a composting toilet, a wee burn for your water and magnificent views of the Rum Cuillin. A friendly family from Southport were staying in the yurt, but ours was the sole tent.

Having pitched, we headed back to Port Mor…

…and made a beeline for the cafe/craft shop to refuel with an outrageously good and incredibly cheap herring salad before starting our circumperambulation. By the time we left it was nearly 3pm!

The plan was simply to walk around the coast staying as close to the shore as natural and man made obstacles allowed. We headed initially south-east out of Port Mor, through a few stock gates and fences onto the low-lying coast. This was easy enough, contouring along on a faint, narrow path avoiding boggy bits, crossing the odd fence, leashing Dougal when sheep or cows were in the vicinity. In truth the coastline of eastermost Muck isn’t all that exciting, but what it does have is some fine views on to Eigg and Rum.

We continued on our way and within an hour we were looking down on our campsite and beyond to the tide-separated islet of Eilean nan Each – Horse Island.

The skies had darkened and a soft, silvery light underlit a blanket  of  low cloud sailing in from the north-west. Would our circumperambulation be scuppered by rain and poor visibility? We’d have to take our chances. Continuing on, we briefly joined the road to Gallanach Farm, which sits above a lovely bay with a fine beach.

We walked around the bay and followed a path up along the coastline again to walk out along the peninsula of Aird nan Uan.

Looking back on Gallanach Bay

The tide was in, so we’d not be able to walk across to Horse Island this time. Next visit for sure.

We retraced our steps back along the peninsula and then continued along the coast, passing this rather splendid private bothy – must be a hassle mowing the roof.

Continuing on in the gathering murk, the coastline soon began to take on a different character. The landscape was beginning to look a lot craggier and we soon found ourselves climbing up along the high cliffs of Muck’s west coast.

This  was exciting stuff, the coastal landscape of high cliffs and rugged shoreline in the murk made for something of a contrast with the earlier part of the walk. It would have been great to have some views, but at least it wasn’t raining.

We continued, following a narrow path along the agreeably springy-turfed cliff tops and eventually found ourselves beneath the looming bulk of Beinn Airein, rising to 137 metres above the cliffs at Muck’s south-western extremity. The top was shrouded in a mantle of murk as we climbed steeply up the hill’s south-western flank near the cliff edge. This added to the excitement of what had turned into a surprisingly engaging walk.

However, a little too much excitement soon appeared as we arrived on the summit to find the place packed tighter than a can of corned beef with frisky cows. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, but by ‘normally’ I mean when we went walking before we had Dougal. The big scary Labrador is fwightened of cattle. He is cowphobic, or bovinophobic (natch) to give this terrible malaise its pathologised name. Dougal chooses to express his fear of cattle by barking gruffly and persistently while emitting clouds of tangible fear odour – a combination that whips cows into a wild-eyed murderous frenzy.

Removing ourselves and Dougal from this fraught situation – atop a high cliff in dense murk surrounded by hostile cows – provided a tense couple of minutes. We eventually descended beneath the murk having out-manouvered Dougal’s bovine nemesis

Continuing along the coastline, we had a few more stock fences to negotiate and we were soon feeling fairly knackered. Behind us the clag finally lifted from Beinn Airein. Mysteriously there was no sign of the cows…

We decided to cut directly across the peninsula south-west of Port Mor to return directly to the village. This probably didn’t save us any time or effort as our cross-country route was rough, boggy and tussocky in places. However, we had soon joined the track winding down to Port Mor and we decided to call in at the Port Mor hotel for a pint and some crisps. We’d been told that the hotel’s restaurant was fully booked, so we were happy to sit in the garden enjoying the view out over the harbour while nursing our very welcome pints of ale. We were a bit sweaty and dirty anyway and didn’t want to put anyone off their dinner.

The hotel owner seemed concerned that we would be returning to our tent unfed and wondered if we might like some steamed langoustine followed by pork curry. Yes, we might like that very much we answered and ordered a second pint each to boot. It has to be said that we weren’t charged a great amount for the fine food we were served. We felt well and truly rewarded for our endeavours. It was a lovely evening and we returned to our tent well and truly at peace with the world.

In the morning it was a bit blowy. Our friendly yurt-dwelling neighbours hadn’t slept a wink as the sail cloth fabric of the yurt was quite noisy in the wind. We’d slept soundly and not heard a thing. We packed up and headed back over to Port Mor in search of coffee.

Fiona and Dougal installed themselves at the cafe/gift shop while I headed off round the peninsula that we’d missed out the previous day. I needed to check out the route and take some snaps for guide book purposes.

Near the end of the peninsula the remains of the Iron Age fort of Caisteal an Duin Bhain (castle of the white rock) sit atop a cylindrical upthrust of volcanic rock standing sentinel above the entrance to the harbour of Port Mor.

Further round the peninsula the coastline is rugged and beautiful and I was glad to have had the opportunity to see it in clearer conditions than the previous day’s.

Having walked the remaining stretch of coastline, I headed back to Port Mor and soon enough we were making our way to the pier to catch the ferry back to Mallaig. All in all it had been an excellent 24 hours on the lovely wee isle of Muck.

Having visited the marvellous Hebridean isle of Eigg, there’s no limit to the cheesy blog post title possibilities. The above is just one of many that sprang to my irritatingly predictable mind. Does the title have any bearing at all on the actuality of my experience while on Eigg? Well, I really liked the island, but perhaps ‘ecstacy’ is slightly overstating the case. As for the agony, that came a couple of weeks after the Small Isles trip when I parted company with my mountain bike at high speed, badly staving my left elbow and shoulder and removing sizeable areas of skin from left knee, hip and elbow. Twelve days later and I’m on the mend though I can’t move my shoulder freely and it hurts quite a lot. Poor me. I feel lucky not to have broken anything, though. When I was 25 I bounced when I came off my bike, now that I’m 45 my elasticity seems to have dwindled. Ho hum.

Anyway, where was I? Staying in a yurt on Eigg actually – one of two bijou canvas palaces rented out by Clare and Phil at Eigg Yurts; this proved to be an excellent choice as the weather was ‘mixed’ and having a big space for four of us and Dougal the dog with an excellent solid fuel stove to boot was the business. Besides, we’d already had one tent blown away on Canna…

Clare and Phil are the milkwoman and milkman of human kindness – to paraphrase Billy Bragg – and two people less-arsed about profit margins you’re unlikely ever to meet. If you’re going to Eigg, stay with them! The yurts are strategically located half way between Galmisdale – where the ferry arrives/departs and Cleadale, the main settlement on Eigg’s north-west coast.

Anyway, we managed to pack in a creditable amount of walking despite the weather and on our first evening we wandered the mile and a half down to the beach at the Bay of Laig near Cleadale to enjoy the spectacle of the sun setting behind the isle of Rum. Well, it didn’t actually set as such, it sort of slumped into the cloud, but there was a pleasing pinky-purple blush in the sky, which seemed adequate reward for our modest endeavour.

Next morning dawned bright and clear, which was an excellent result as we planned to scale An Sgurr, Eigg’s highest point at 393 metres. The summit ridge is a huge prow-like pitchstone monolith, which is instantly recognisable and visible from afar. With sheer cliffs on three sides, it  looks a daunting prospect from below.

We followed the waymarked path up through the dense heather and boggy terrain and as we drew close to the imposing east face of the Sgurr, I realised that it reminded me of something.

Yes! That’s it, the mountain in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, you know, the one Richard Dreyfus makes out of mashed potato… Devil’s Tower National Monument in Wyoming apparently. Like the Sgurr, it’s volcanic in origin though this little beauty is a ‘volcanic neck’ (?!) whereas Eigg’s pitchstone eminence is a volcanic ‘plug’. The things you learn off t’internet.

Devil’s Tower National Monument

Anyway, back to Eigg; the path skirts around the sheer north face of the Sgurr, which becomes more impressive the closer you get…

The path gains the summit ridge by way of a gully, which is fairly steep, but undemanding.

Where the path emerges onto the spine of the ridge, there are fine views on to the wee isle of Muck.

A ten minute daunder along the pleasantly airy summit ridge and we’d reached the summit trig point. The views are remarkable and we were lucky to have a relatively cloud free day.

Looking back across Eigg’s hinterland to the isle of Rum

Dougal keeps an eye on everyone as we head back down the ridge

Rather than just retracing our outward route, we had decided to look into the viability of a route down off the Sgurr to the ruined village of Grulin, which sits above the south-east coast. Having descended from the ridge back down the gully, we were beneath the north face of the Sgurr once again. Instead of continuing east back down the path, we struck off north-west on a vague path making for Loch nam Ban Mora. Though a little heathery and boggy, the going wasn’t too bad and Dougal soon saw an opportunity to strike another pose.

We continued around the shore of the loch to its outflow then struck across country to pass by two very beautiful lochans beneath the Sgurr.

We now had to find a route down to Grulin below us; the map and what we could see suggested a traversing descent rather than heading straight down the rough and steep heather-covered slopes. This we did, but it was still an awkward descent on account of the height and density of the heather. We made it down with out any scrapes and we were soon amongst the ruins of Grulin township.  Grulin is actually two villages that were abandoned in the the mid-19th century; many families left after the 1847 potato famine, then 14 families were cleared from the land to make way for sheep in 1853. It’s a beautiful and poignant spot.

We sat amid the ruins and ate our sandwiches in the perfect early afternoon stillness before heading back along the path towards Galmisdale beneath the impressive south face of the Sgurr.

Perched in splendid isolation along this stretch of coast is a wee bothy that is now apparently someone’s holiday home. What a lovely place for a billet. It’s all done out very tastefully inside – if slightly Laura Ashley-esque; we had a good ogle through the windys.

We continued back along the track bound for Galmisdale and having encountered only one other walker all day we were suddenly confronted with the bizarre spectacle of a group of 20-odd Scandawegian tourists on a guided walk, many of whom were kitted out for Spitzbergen in the depths of winter; I know the weather in Scotland can be shite, but…

Soon enough we arrived back in Galmisdale and enjoyed beer and carrot cake – a fine combination – at the very excellent Eigg community cafe. The place was thrumming with Eigg-folk and visitors and very lively indeed. The 20-odd Scandawegians soon turned up and Deuchar the cafe’s resident black lab tried to hump Dougal – it was all happening! The tour group made ready to catch their ferry and, not without a slight tinge of whatever the Scandawegian is for schadenfreude, the tour group leader informed us that the following day’s forecast was for gales and driving rain…

There was no chance that the day after our circumperambulation of Canna could be any more eventful. The Eurohike had stayed up, the wind had dropped over night and dawn was heralded with sunshine and blue skies traversed by lazy flotillas of fluffy white clouds. Perfect conditions for exploring Canna’s tiny, tide-separated sister island of Sanday.

Happily, a new footbridge connects the islands so we didn’t have to wait for low tide to get across. I was intent on an anti-clockwise circumperambulation (the last time I’ll use this word, this year. Promise) of Sanday while the girls and Dougal were content to potter along as their collective whim took them.

Through a gate, across a lovely little sandy beach and I was soon atop the cliff top summit of Tallabric (59m), looking out along the south coast of Sanday to its easternmost headland with the isle of Rum beyond.

Dropping down to the shore again, I  caught a familiar whiff. Several years ago I found a small whale’s skull on Jura and bought it home in my rucksack. It exuded a lot of oil that gave off a very distinctive and not entirely unpleasant odour; a bit soapy, perhaps. That was what I could smell now. I didn’t have the time to search for the source of the smell as we were catching the 2pm ferry to Eigg, but I subsequently learned that a dead whale had been washed ashore and its bones are gently bleaching away on the shore.

The light was lovely, shifting and sparkling, with clouds scurrying across the heavens in evident haste. Sanday was looking very bonny indeed; what a lovely place to be able to call ‘home’.

I saw the girls being dragged along in Dougal’s slipstream near the north coast and Sanday being so small I was able to skip from coast to coast in half a minute to join them briefly. We agreed to rendezvous by the south coast cliffs looking onto the rock stacks of Dun Mor and Dun Beag;  I then set off to continue my route once more. I followed the coast around, followed a dry stone wall to a gate and went through. The ground was pretty boggy around a small reed marsh, where cattle had also churned it up. I picked my way across the morass and was soon able to take to the cliff edge again. Very soon I had my first sight of the remarkable rock stacks.

I upped and downed and upped again along the cliff tops until I was soon stood at the perfect view point onto the stacks. There came the sound of barking from the direction I’d come. I turned to see the girls and Dougal stood on a high cliff top a few hundred metres back. Below them to landward was a small herd of young bullocks who seemed somewhat galvanised by Dougal’s barking. He’s scared of cattle and has yet to grasp that this being the case it’s best not to alert them of your fearful presence. Awruf! Awruf! Barked Dougal in his suprisingly deep tones. Amoo! Amoo! Responded the pesky ruminants as they thundered up the slope towards my stock-still companions. A quick piece of mental arithmetic pointed to impending catastrophe. I threw down my pack and hurtled towards the ill-intentioned bovine phalanx, waving my arms and emitting a roaring, gargling scream that would have put the bejabbers up Stanley Baxter in Zulu. This had an instant effect.

With the coos now safely departed, we were able to continue our walk unmolested. Apologies to the owner of said cattle, but at worst they were mildly perplexed by the whole business and much as the fox enjoys the chase, they too seemed fairly stimulated by the pursuit.

Looking across to Dun Mor, we could see various sea birds nesting on its sheer sides. Puffins nest here from late April, but they make deep burrows so aren’t always apparent around the actual stacks. However, a few hundred metres off-shore several hundred sea birds were floating in several large rafts numbering a hundred and more birds each. Through the bins we could clearly see that they were  indeed puffins. I’d never seen  a solitary one before and then here were hundreds at once. Deep joy.

After extensive observation of our small feathered friends, we set off again. The girls cut straight across the neck of the headland to the north coast and I continued around the headland at a trot.

Looking back on Dun Mor

Lighthouse at Sanday’s eastern tip

I soon caught up with the girls along the north coast – in time to get battered by a sudden and intense hail shower (June, fer chrissakes!). After that it was an uneventful stroll along to St. Edwards church…

St. Edwards is deconsecrated and in the early ’90s it was officially opened as a hostel and visitor centre linked to the archive of Gaelic tradition, song and folklore amassed by the island’s former owners, the late John Lorne Campbell and Margaret Fay Shaw. However, the centre has remained locked and unused since. I don’t know, but I suspect and hope that this won’t be the case for many more years.

I continued along the track that skirts around the shore of Sanday’s tidal sand flats, while the girls returned to the bridge via the ‘overland’ route. The route along the shore is passable at low tide.

At the Sanday side of the bridge stands a rather fetching Marian shrine:

My mum is of Irish Catholic descent and I remember there being lots of plaster statues of Jesus and his relatives around the house when I was wee. Frankly, all that stuff used to give me the willies, but I like this stained glass shrine. You don’t have to believe to appreciate religious-inspired art when it’s good.

Anyway, I should have sought divine intercession at the shrine and then maybe the lovely Gille Brighde cafe/restaurant would have been open, but this was a Sunday so we sat outside and pretended we had coffee and cake instead.

Soon enough we were on the ferry enjoying a relatively unbumpy voyage to Eigg. Ah! Lovely Eigg.

We were met at Galmisdale pier by Phil, a tall and immensely good-natured chap from Altrincham who had relocated to Eigg a year and a half ago with his partner Claire. They have a couple of yurts in their garden and we had one booked for the next four nights. Phil ferried our bags and our Fiona yurtwards and the rest of us walked the two miles along the road towards Cleadale to yurt central.

The yurt made for a great billet for our stay, not least because of the excellent stove, but also because of Phil and Claire’s warm and jolly hospitality.

Late that evening we walked over to Laig Bay at Cleadale to watch the sun set behind Rum. Sunset didn’t really happen, but  the evening was imbued with a pleasant pinky-purpleness, which made the walk worthwhile.

The forecast for the next day was good and we had plans, oh yes…

The ferry journey from Mallaig to Canna was a bit of a rollercoaster to say the least. It was a blowy old day and the ride was a bit bumpy, not least on the Sound of Eigg. The skipper of the CalMac ferry MV Loch Nevis took one look at the approach to the harbour at  Port Mor on the isle of Muck and decided that this one port of call that wouldn’t be made today. Unfortunately there were a fair few folk aboard who were intending to visit the island including several families with young children. The ferry heaved around and bumped and rolled its way back towards Eigg. It was a bank holiday weekend in Scotland and the half term school holiday in England, so the ferry was teeming with children many of whom were compounding their own misery – and that of their parents – by throwing up all over the ship’s carpets and soft furnishings. Oh well, nothing for it but to tuck into a large plateful of CalMac fishcakes and chips. I fear that the smell of my dinner and the enthusiasm with which I was consuming it proved too much for the queasy-looking lady on the next table who lay prone on her seat retching pitifully into a sick bag. Apologies.

Anyway, full and contented I enjoyed the rest of the journey around the east coast of Rum and before you knew it we were easing into the calmer waters of Canna’s deep water harbour. As we disembarked, there were plenty of folk ready to board the ferry, many of whom had been attending a Gaelic festival on the island. Canna House was formerly home to the island’s previous owners John Lorne Campbell and Margaret Fay Shaw who had amassed an archive of traditional songs, stories and folklore gleaned during their extensive peregrinations around the Hebrides. They left the island to the nation and Canna and Sanday are now maintained by the National Trust for Scotland. The deconsecrated St Edwards church on Sanday was converted into a hostel and study centre linked to the archive in the 1990s, but has been left locked and unused ever since – perhaps there are moves afoot to move the project forward?

Anyway, the departing festival-goers looked full of vim and good cheer and as we walked up the track road from the pier we were hailed by Stewart Connor, the island’s NTS warden and a very fine fellow to boot – he pointed us in the direction of the island’s camping ground and that’s where we headed.

It was a wee bit blowy, but we found a good pitch in the lee of Coroghon Mor, a large rock stack standing sentinel by the shore and crowned by a rather structurally unsound-looking stone turret of ancient origin that looked just like it might make a suitable prison for a wicked witch – which as it happens is what it once was…

I was accompanied on this trip by The Lovely Fiona, Dougal the dog and our friends Clare and Sarah – teachers both, who had decided to let themselves in for a bit of Hebridean weather rather than going to Spain… Dinner cooked and consumed, we retired to our tents; this was Dougal’s first night in a tent and I’m glad to say he made an excellent foot warmer and didn’t snore nearly as much as The Lovely Fiona.

The night had been a bit blowy – though nothing to write home about – and the morning dawned with conditions much the same You can’t be letting a bit of weather stop your outdoor activities in Scotland, so we set off to scale Compass Hill as the first way station on our intended circumperambulation of Canna. We got all of 300 yards from the tent before we were hit by a torrential downpour. We put our backs against it and waited for it to pass, which it did gratifyingly swiftly. So, on and up over Compass Hill, a large lump of volcanic tuff that distorts the compasses of passing ships – perhaps this was why a french trawler captain ran aground on Rum in January

Anyway, we continued along to the north coast cliffs and it was a little while before it was safe enough to get the camera out without fear of drowning it.

Clare and Sarah sporting gloves in (almost) June

We followed a narrow path – part sheep path part footpath I reckon – that does a pretty good job of forging the best route along the towering cliff tops; the heather cover is kept short because of the exposed position, so apart from a bit of bogginess here and there, the going is quite good.

The view back to the east

We continued on our way, crossing the odd stock fence by way of handy step stiles and crossing an occasional wee burn. Suddenly there was a large feathery kerfuffle off the cliffs below and to our west – not one, but two sea eagles! We stood on our lofty vantage point taking turns with the binoculars to enjoy this fine avian spectacle – the birds were to-ing and fro-ing along the cliffs for so long we almost got bored watching them! They eventually drifted off, irritated by the attentions of some hooded crows that were gamely mobbing them – a bit like Charles Hawtrey taking on Mike Tyson in his pomp, I feel.

The weather was improving, it was still a bit blowy and an occasional shower would sweep in, but there were also some welcome outbreaks of sunshine to enjoy. We continued on our way, marvelling at the fine views along the cliffs to the west.

Somewhere in there, Clare slipped and bashed her knee on a piece of wood, causing a sore-looking raised bump on her patella, which made her limp. Luckily we weren’t far off the narrow, low-lying isthmus at Canna’s wasp-waist, which meant that Clare would be able to bail out and return to A’Chill by crossing over to Tarbert on the southern side of the isthmus and following a well-maintained track along the raised shore platform along the south coast.

Once we had descended to the beach on the north side of the isthmus, a heavy shower swept in and gave us a bit of a pummeling as we huddled beneath a low cliff. Our drenching was over before w’d actually drowned and blue skies appeared once more. With glad hearts we found a suitable picnic spot and tucked into some sarnies, fortifying ourselves for the next leg of our circumperambulation. Lunch over, we said goodbye to Clare who limped off to A’Chill. Our depleted team continued on its way, climbing back to the cliff tops.

A raised shore platform is visible beneath these north-western cliffs from some distance; on the map it looks as if you might just be able to get right along to Garrisdale Point – Canna’s westernmost point – although it looks tenuous in a couple of places. Still, I was here to test the bounds of the possible – even if my trusting companions were oblivious of this fact. So, down we went with great ease to gain the shore platform. We got all of about 500 metres along the platform before a steep-sided gully dropping a cascading burn precipitously into the sea cut short our promenade. A scramble back up to the cliff tops, along a bit more and try again. We had to pass under a wee waterfall and zig-zag down to the platform this time, but it was a lot of fun.

This time we didn’t get very far at all. Sometimes I just refuse to believe what the map is strongly suggesting, but in truth I wasn’t that surprised to encounter the sheer cliffs that meant we would have to return to the cliff tops yet again.

It was worth it just to enjoy the waterfall being blown back up the cliff:

Back on the cliff tops, I was convinced our third attempt would bear fruit. Amazingly, my companions didn’t object. Perhaps it was the view down to the lovely sandy beach that we’d glimpsed from afar that did it.

The route down was easy and we were soon in an undercliff world that time had forgot. Here there were the vestiges of shielings and stone enclosures and what might have been grave markers. The greensward was corrugated by the undulations of ancient lazy beds, testament to Canna’s earlier inhabitants’ battle to eke a living from the land. After exploring a while, we continued on our way and were indeed able to walk as far as Garrisdale Point. Here there were fine views over the agitated seas around the island and, nearby, the once-fortified rock stack of Dun Channa. Ten kilometres to the south-west, Hyskeir – or Oigh-Sgeir – lighthouse stood proud upon its rocky domain.

We retraced oor steps a few hundred yards to take the easiest route back to the cliff tops and once up we continued climbing gently to arrive at the cliff top summit of Sron Ruail (129m) with its commanding views over the southern cliffs and far and wide beyond.  After admiring the vista of islands around the Sea of the Hebrides, we continued along the cliff tops. The going was that much easier along the springy turf of the southern cliffs and we were glad of this as we were all beginning to feel a wee bit tired – not least Dougal who had already walked further than ever before in his furry young life and there were still a few kilometeres to go.

Approaching the cliff top summit of Am Beannan with Rum beyond

Below and east of Am Beannan lie the remains of what is believed to have been an Early-Christian monastic hermitage – possibly a nunnery, which gives the site its name: Sgorr nam Ban-naomha (cliff of the holy women). A fixed rope facilitates access to the site from the cliff tops, but today we’d give it a miss as there was still a way to go and getting down with the dog wasn’t feasible. Another reason – as if any were needed – to come back to the wondeful isle of Canna!

We continued on our way and soon enough we were heading into the wasp-waist of the island at Tarbert. From here we picked up the track and sauntered along enjoying the views across Sanday.

We were glad to arrive back at A’Chill with tired legs, having had a fantastic day’s walk. The girls took advantage of the facilities near the farm buildings and I was just wondering where we’d find Clare when she came bursting out of a nearby house accompanied by Julie, the wife/partner? of Stewart the NTS warden. Clare was fine, she said, but when she’d got back to our campsite she had encountered Julie who had discovered that mine and Fiona’s tent had blown into the sea. Boo. Hoo.

Julie and Clare had rescued most of our stuff and were drying our sleeping bags and down jackets on the washing line. They thought the tent might be salvageable. Julie kindly made tea for everyone, but I felt the need to go and check the damage.

Clare and Julie had indeed saved almost everything, but after an initial inspection of the salvaged tent it was clearly a write-off. It’s only stuff, but it was expensive stuff and it had let us down and now we had no shelter. Fear not though, for soon enough Stewart, Julie and a couple of their friends turned up with a tent and sleeping bags for us and we were soon having a right old laugh pitching a Eurohike tent.

Say what you like about Eurohike tents, this one would have cost a tenth of what we paid for our Terra Nova Voyager XL, but at least it stayed up that night, which was also rather inclement on the weather front. Sarah and Clare were pitched next to us in my Voyager, which was entirely unaffected; our lovely neighbours from Teeside, David and Moira, were in a Crux tent that was also unmoved by the conditions.

I’ve emailed a comprehensive account to Terra Nova and have offered them the chance to make redress. Three days later, I’ve not heard anything; I suspect I may not, given past experience of complaining to them about poor quality tent bags. I’ve always loved Terra Nova’s Voyager tents, but you need to be able to trust a manufacturer if you’re going to give them repeat custom. I’ll let you know how I get on.

Anyway, our mishap was made up for by the generosity and all-round thoroughly decent behaviour of Stewart , Julie and friends; David and Moira popped by with some wine for us too, which took the edge off matters – it made cooking in the rain quite enjoyable!

It was quite late by the time we turned in – 10pm maybe! Tomorrow we’d be visiting Sanday, come what may…

For a far superior account of an excellent walk around the coast of Canna, see Alex and Bob’s posts at blueskyscotland.