my My Wandering

On a map this small group of small islands appeared to be just a hop off mainland. And yet merely looking through the Calmac timetable sufficed to show that this hop was not at all straight, nor did it religiously observe any day-by-day frequency; instead ferries ran one day Westwards, the other Southwards, then Northwards and slightly Westwards, then first Northwards, then all the way South-Westwards, the only rule being that no matter where they went, they did return back Eastwards for the night. A spider web-like operation map observing more the ferry availability than the actual need of serving the said ashes in a useful or intuitive manner. In fact, the ferry old world countryside fair-like schedule finely blended in with the fact that ferries next to never met incoming or outgoing trains even though the mainland ferry terminal and railway station lay less than 5 minutes walking apart. A GSM coverage map of the area showed the smallest (and also flattest) of these small islands well covered, while the biggest (and also those with a more dramatic scenery complete with cliffs and crests) only had service on the mainland-looking slopes, as they had obviously been endowed with no repeaters, and the signal was coming from mainland GSM infrastructure.

But then, this might have had something to do with the fact that the biggest of these small islands had a population of 105 permanent residents, while the smallest had one of 11. And it is true that the labyrinth-like logistics had played no part in my failing to actually reach the Small Isles the previous year, the reasons had been of let us say a simpler nature: a change of jobs, certain financial considerations and a lack of determination, or, well, to be more precise and honest, the latter. At the end of the day, when one gets stuck in logistics, the actual barrier is a psychological one; this is what personal development gurus got right, but, alas, it is the only thing they got right, as everything else they preach then goes banana-flavoured marketing. The said gurus aside, barriers do exist and some are beautifully erect, but the road needs not always be straight-forward, so that what appears to be a barrier might just be a fence on the side of the actual road. It was a lesson I had learnt more and more the last few years, with my father’s depreciating condition that sometimes had me go to bed to a reality, just to wake up to another and then change one or two more before calling it a day again. Barriers, fences, odd ferries, typical cold showers joined by the de rigueur fierce winds, cold feet, wet feet, cold and wet feet, pools, bogs, ankle-deep water, knee or waist-deep creeks to ford, they all fade out when other, non-logistical issues show up, well beyond the hands-on, material world hedonist, time and task-conscious, perfectionist man is obsessed with.

It was chilly, yet the night was still at half past midnight when I got to Glasgow. The city looked deserted, fact that emphasized even more the few noisy parties here and there, with young and not only young people clustered around pub or club doors. The receptionist at the hotel I had booked did not hear the door bell, but a hotel guest smoking some strong pot outside obliged and opened the door for me with his room card. At 6 AM the bus station was quite busy with a few dozens of hikers, climbers and walkers, with the typical local jokes and healthy laughter filling the air. The complex, vibrant Scottish spirit was, as always, welcome, and it would have been, respectively it shall always be reason enough to travel there. Starting at past 6 AM in Glasgow, a bus to Fort William, another one farther to Mallaig and a ferry had me step on the Isle of Canna almost 10 hours later, which invited to a leg stretching session towards the Carn A’Ghaill, the highest point on the island. It was sunny and rather cold due to the wind, so that conditions for moving around were optimal. The ground was quite dry, so that, save for boggy areas, the going was rather fast. The views over the isles of Rum and Skye were grand, while the many sheep and cattle completed the image in a wonderful way. The fine day or maybe the fact that I had stood still for such a long time kept me going almost all the way along the island before calling it a day while pitching the tent in a sheltered cove with only some distant sheep bleating and some not so distant crickets as company. A sense that I was in the right place prevailed, so that minor matters were quickly dismissed, such as having forgotten the tent poles at home (there is a first time in everything), which had me get back to the 10 year old Scottish tradition of using trekking poles with an addition of short, slender branches instead; for some reason, the resulting tent stood better in the wind than when complete with its smart poles. 

It rained overnight, which granted the morning air a particularly intense freshness, so that the way back to the ferry dock was highly pleasant, this time above the Southern coast while crossing intense green pasture patches and fast creeks. Upon reaching the flat ground along the coast, while visiting the typical little shop (the only one on the island), I met the same old tradition of egg selling on the Isle of Skye and not only (as I was to find a similar shop on Muck and also a non attended campsite on Rum): the shop was open, but it was not attended. Products were labeled with the price, there was a small calculator on the counter and a basket for cash, respectively a POS for card payments, all that next to a book where customers would write exactly what they bought and the total amount they paid. The same sense I had got during that drizzle and chilly headwind morning several years back on Skye returned: civilization and humanity in extenso do not reside in fancy malls, elegant concert halls, rich museums, expensive cars, smart office buildings and state of the art infrastructure. Quite on the contrary: all those are rotten and dead in the absence of non compulsory common sense and respect. Once one needs enforce common sense and respect with laws, cameras, scanners and police, the respective community is a failure and will, sooner or later, be eaten up, trashed by another, greedier and mightier community, fact that is not part of human evolution, but just another pathetic episode in a long history of such pathetic episodes, where one conquest if followed by another one and so on and so forth, all that, of course, in the name of some glorious ideal, be it national, ethnic, religious or clan-related; not to mention the ‘who was there first’ and the ‘Great(er) X country’ tag, which are just as often met as they stand as proofs for their authors’ outstanding imbecility.

Two hours on the same big ferry delivered me to Muck, the key problem while trying to put together a plan for the Small Isles. With an area of about 4 square kilometers, no high peaks, a permanent population of 27, Muck did not get the same ferry service like its neighbours, but Saturday seemed to be a lucky day, with a morning and an afternoon service, probably meant for the day trippers from the mainland or, more likely, from the more popular Rum. Well, at least that Saturday not a very efficient service, as I shared the big ferry that could easily hold 100 passengers and more than a dozen vehicles only with two trucks and their drivers. Quite differently from Canna, Muck seemed to have more fertile (or fertilized through the centuries by them sheep and cattle) land and therefore a more visible human presence. Its Western part, past the Beinn Airein, its highest point, was however wild, as the rugged terrain and cliffs alternated with patches of green grass and the unmissable, but smaller here, bogs. The Eastern part was a maze of fenced plots where hundreds of sheep grazed in all their fluffiness (now that wool no longer had the value of times past), carelessness and tranquility, with the dramatic background of the Sgurr nan Gillean, Trollaval and Askival on the Isle of Rum nearly always there. Every now and then, pheasants crossed one’s way as if to remind man that their population on the island was greater than that of men, and that by quite a lot. A book on a shelf in a small house off the pier told the story of the iconic island laird, Lawrence MacEwen, a man that had ruled over the Muck the community of which lived like one solid family, until his death in 2022. My walking ended in the soft afternoon sunlight, with the wind down to a breeze, after a day when clouds and the adjacent showers managed to somehow avoid Muck either to the East (for the most part) or West, and the same big, respectively nearly equally deserted ferry delivered me to Rum as it was getting dark.

After a damp night, there followed one of those great days in the outdoors. It was sunny and the wind was barely existent as I started walking by the deserted Kinloch Castle. The trail first followed the wide and scenic Allt Slugan a’Choilich, with fine views over the bay down. After leaving the valley and reaching the crest, the haystack-like Hallival came into sight. The trail got fainter and sometimes disappeared all the way as the terrain got rocky – particularly interesting with a big backpack – and orientation was needed in certain places. Then the Askival came into sight, a trapezoid figure with a funky haircut given the cliffs on its top. Down in the col following the Askival, I carried on up the Trollaval, another funky haircut figure. The scenery from here on along the ridge changed, as the following peak, the Ainshval, was a massive, steep (from this side) pyramid. Yet for the time being I headed down Dibdil River with its wonderful, almost perfectly round valley running straight to the sea, a wonderful place to explore, especially as instead of plying the river, I kept going on a 200 m. level on the slope so as to get wider views. When I got above the river mouth and the homonymous bothy, remembering the Ainshval, I started going up and looking for a  breach in the massive buttress above my head. Steadily and often steeply going back up again, I reached the Sgurr nan Gillean in the soft afternoon sunlight. The way along the ridge to the Ainshval, past a slightly rockier and steeper col, was straight-forward. Just before reaching the peak, I met again a couple that I had met just as I had started on the way down River Dibdil, getting a strange look from them, as they had only climbed the Trollaval and Ainshval, while I had gone down the mountain and back up again from the other side. The views in the afternoon sunlight were wonderful, as one could see all the way to Orval Peak. After reaching the Ainshval, I backtracked a little, then leaving the main ridge and heading Westwards towards Ruinsival, then heading down and meeting a train running above the coast, that was heading to Harris. Spotting a fine, small lake at the foot of the imposing Ruinsival wall, I called it a day, enjoyed a cool bath in the sunset and fell asleep in the sound of distant birds and not so distant deer that were plentiful in the area.

Driven by the rather strong wind, clouds were quickly filling up the sky in the early morning, a reminder that this was Scotland, where four, sometimes five seasons could be observed in a single day (of which two winters). Packing up, I went down to Harris with the evocative ruins of its bygone settlements and only with a dozen of beautiful ponies, just as many deer and a few sheep as current inhabitants. As I left the quite deep valley of River Glen Duian and headed up the long crest, it started raining, which brought the freshness quite welcome on the way up. The rain teamed up with the ever stronger wind, making them limbs turn numb. There then followed the thick mist I could see from down below, which only rarely allowed one to see the scenery, and every time it did, a pile of dark clouds quickly moved in bringing yet more rain and mist.  During one of these short breaks, as I reached the Sron an t-Saighdeir, I could see down to the Isle of Canna and during another one I could spot the massive Orval with its dramatic buttress. The unleashing elements, in a stark contrast from the day before, only showed once more, if ever needed, how wonderfully diverse, beautiful and harsh Scotland could be, the reasons that actually made me return over and over again there. It was then down to the Bealach a’Bhraig Bhig, mostly ‘sniffing’ the right, trailless way in the thick mist. And there then followed the way down an offroad car trail and eventually down the dirt road into Kinloch, with a few of the many wild geese flying overhead. The rain was even stronger down the valley and even the usual distractions – deer, sheep or cattle – were nowhere to be seen. Reaching Kinloch and heading to the local shop with some two hours to the ferry on to the Isle of Eigg, I popped into the news that the ferry had had some technical issues, so that there would be no service, with the next service scheduled in two days’ time, which meant the day of my flight out from Glasgow.

Some people hitch-hike on cars, others on trucks. But there is more to hitch-hiking. For instance, standing under a shed in the pouring rain and scrutinizing the horizon line for incoming boats one could subsequently ask whether 1. they were heading back to Arisaig or Mallaig on the mainland, and 2. they could give one a ride there. With traffic next to nil mostly consisting of private boats on lengthy cruises or of fisherman boats not going to the mainland until full, only some 2-3 hours later, when a roofless speedboat moored, one of the staff there, working for a company managing the infrastructure for local ports, told me they could give me a lift to Mallaig the following morning, as they were leaving sometimes between 7 and 10. With things sorted out and looking forward to a refreshing ride, I resolved to call it a day while camping next to the shore, with the rain coming and going, the wind blowing and different birds having their say. 

’Shaun, he found a way out, someone if going to give him a lift’, said one of the two tourists I shared the campsite with, his face red of emotion and his voice full of empathy and pure joy. 

When all is said and done, life is not what one draws when warm and dry, it actually is what one gets when such comforts remain at home, while one is left with the very alternation of feelings, of backgrounds and facts creating a great and worth living.

The rain kept on coming and going throughout the night, but the air was still at 5 AM when I woke up automatically. It was rather cool, but the sky was nearly clear, as if inviting one to roam, to explore. I packed and headed to the pier, preparing breakfast and brewing tea there, with the deserted bay in front of me. At shortly past seven, the team showed up and, enticed by the weather, as well as by a will to carry on across them bogs, shrub and swollen creeks, I mentioned Eigg.

‘Are you headin’ to Eigg? Half of us are going to Mallaig, the other half are going to Muck, but Eigg is not much of a detour, so we can give you a lift there if you will. Yet do not bet everything on the ferry out, as ferries here are a matter of luck sometimes.’

An hour and a half later, under a bleak sky invaded once more by dark clouds, as well as after a ride on a technical boat operated by a man in his 20s and an equally young skipper, I set foot on Eigg. I had some 4 hours to go up to the An Sgurr and come back down, so that, leaving the backpack in the then deserted toilet and cafeteria block, I got going. I took only a small bottle of water (pretty useless, as I was to miss anything but the water along the way), some sweets, the camera and the hat (the latter was part of the wishful thinking approach), all that placed in a bag hung on my shoulder under the jacket (it had started to rain again). Rising from the vast grassy, smooth terrain around it, the An Sgurr was impressive and looked higher than it actually was, even though its ramparts did not exceed 200 m. As it was still early, I carried on towards the scenic Loch nam Ban Mora, on the shore of which a small, rudimentary bench bore a metal plate like countess of such, sometimes more elaborated, benches  on Mull or Arran; on this one however there was a single word: ‘Honesty’. Not willing to return the same way, I started approaching the Cnoc Creagach with the seas of heather and other shrub alternating with well concealed bogs and drenched, fluffy moss. 

After an energizing exercise across such a picturesque terrain if seen from afar, I went back down to the pier that saw more activity than the one on Rum, as the island was obviously better populated than its three neighbours. Yet more activity did not necessarily mean that the ferry would work, and they hadn’t actually managed to fix it, as I was to later see in Mallaig.

‘The Calmac ferry at 1:00 PM? Well, it doesn’t work, but today there is a replacement, a smaller one. However, as it is a replacement and it is not actually run by Calmac, if I were you, I would be ready to board at 12:30-12:45 PM, as soon as it shows up.’

And indeed, as 12:30 PM the small cruise boat replacing the huge ferry started, which, past a brief halt on Muck and past a few showers, got me to Mallaig, where I could also buy the ticket for it (as, being run by another operator, they could not issue a ticket on board). Even with the rain coming and going, the handful of narrow streets in Mallaig were full of tourists, mostly sunburnt and rain drenched walkers, but not only. An hour later, after stocking on (more) cheddar, tomatoes and a big loaf of sourdough bread, I got on the familiar blue train that was to take me out of this wet, harsh, misty, meandering part of the world – one where however all gates had a latch one was invited to use provided he or she would close them again after passing through -, a world that managed to call me back over and over.

Since times immemorial, labyrinths have fascinated man. From the structure revealed at the foot of Amenemhat’s pyramid in ancient Egypt and Daedalus’ famous labyrinth meant to hold the Minotaur (but one Daedalus himself nearly remained captive of) to the impressive floor design in the Chartres Cathedral and the hedge maze in Versailles, there has always been something mysterious about them, as they seemed to take those approaching them to another level of reality, one of the same make with alchemy. And most times it was not necessarily about finding the gap, the way out. It was rather about turning barriers into actual fences showing a way and dead ends into turning points. At that point, hitching a ride on boats, crossing vast, drenched heather and bog lands or facing them unleashed elements, all these turn into actual joy. Because there is no bluer sky than that of Scotland after a day, two or more of rainfall, winds and mist.