Pilgrimage
“I never thought I would get here”, I said to
myself as I pulled up on the tiny quay at Elgol. This statement was not
a reflection of the time it takes to get from Coventry to Skye but more
a recognition of a life long ambition to get to the island that all
mountaineers must go to at some time in their career. And what a
welcome the place gave me. It was 8 pm in mid Summer and the sun was
still high on the western horizon but beginning to redden the cloudless
eastern sky. The Cuillin were laid out like cardboard cut outs in
receding shades of grey with shafts of light forming and falling on the
spinal ridge of the central valley. From left to right I began to name
them from the maps and guide books I had studied for years - I still
found it hard to believe I was here.
The fortune of finding myself looking at this scene under clear
conditions held me spellbound and made me momentarily forget the aims
of the trip - walking and pictures. I soon came to life and began to
take pictures, first from the quay and then from the beach. I went out
as far as I could round the shore and tried all possible combinations
of filter to ensure that I had the range of interpretations that I
wished to make. A small fleet of fishing boats was active in the bay
and they provided occasional foreground interest and then a subject in
their own right. For two hours I watched the light and made pictures
until the sun hit a distant western cloud bank that heralded a change
for tomorrow. The scene lost its intensity and contrast so I resorted
to simply wondering at the scale of the mountain architecture in front
of me.
As I finally packed my camera away the driver of the car next to me was
doing the same. His passenger spoke to me - “ John and I have
been coming the Skye for thirty years and we’ve never seen it
as magnificent as this “, she said. “We really are
lucky tonight”. I told her that this was my first visit and
she advised me to make the most of it. “ Evenings like this
are rare here - you may have to wait thirty years to see it
again.” With this I was reminded of the advice a
photography tutor gave me a few years ago - “Film is cheap -
opportunity is priceless”. At 10.30pm I left the quay to get
back to Broadford Youth Hostel before it closed - stopping only briefly
to phone home and enthuse about what I had just seen. As I stood in the
phone box I was reminded of a similar scene in the film
‘Local Hero’. Before retiring to bed I
read the weather forecast for my first full day on Skye -
“Occasional showers, some heavy with bright spells and fresh
South Westerly winds.” I decided to have a low level day and
walk into Loch Coruisk from Elgol.
I first read about this walk in WH Murray’s book
‘Mountaineering in Scotland’ and its frequent
appearance in guide books suggested it was a good choice to get a sense
of the atmosphere that pervades the Cuillin. The walk basically follows
the coast round from Elgol into the heart of the mountains at Loch
Coruisk and includes an awkward section called ‘The bad
step’.
The forecast was right and I woke up to a dullish overcast morning with
quite low cloud. I got away fairly early and drove the ten miles to
near Elgol passing Blaven on the way. The cloud prevented me from
seeing the superb ridge that had been a dark silhouette on the previous
night. I pulled into the lay-by at Kilmarie next to a white BMW - I was
evidently not the first to set out today. The usual ritual of sorting
out the food, the clothes (Definitely full waterproofs in the sack)
& the camera gear took a short while and I was off. My first
footsteps on a walk on this Island of Dreams were steady and purposeful
along the stony road that led off across the land towards the ridge
that forms the spine of the Elgol peninsula. In the distance I saw some
Highland cattle and not knowing their temperament I was a little
apprehensive as I noted that they were on the route. My approach to a
gate was accompanied by these animals who seemed magnetised to my
presence. A hesitant test of their intention established that they were
nervous beasts who probably thought I was going to feed them -
nevertheless I closed the gate behind me with relief.
The road continued its roller coaster progress for a good mile or so (I
believe the Army built it originally - perhaps the squadies had trained
on Blackpool pleasure beach) until it peaked at a slight dip in the
ridge which revealed the view to the West across the bay towards
Camasunary. There were two habitations on this South West facing strand
of pebbles, a fisherman’s cottage and the bothy whose
romantic location I had aspired to visit as a result of all the
armchair study. The view itself was somewhat limited by the low cloud
but the shore was clear and the hills were detectable as a darkness in
the mist. The descent to the shore was pregnant with anticipation and I
finally crossed a bridge to gain the grassy area at the back of the
beach. The immediate impact was appalling - it was a tip! The back of
the pebble beach was strewn with plastic litter - cups, bottles, nets,
boxes and acres of polystyrene in many forms. This was a mess that took
the edge of the magnificence of the position. I walked past the fishing
house and on towards the bothy where the rubbish was slightly less
prevalent. In fact the shore in front of the cottage was clear and a
sense of remoteness returned as I nervously opened the door to the
building
Why nervous you may ask - well perhaps there were occupants and I felt
uneasy about disturbing their isolation - that is after all the draw
that these mountain refuges have for people. Bothies are fascinating
places with mixed memories for me. I am not a devotee of their
accommodation but I sense two contrasting circumstances in which I have
visited them. Firstly there is the wild party with many friends - hot
food, mugs of tea and a tot of whisky which released song and merriment
leading to sound sleep. Secondly there is the lone visit haunted by a
presence of another force ( probably only in the imagination ) that
made me sit up all night tending a meagre fire to keep up the morale.
During the day and unoccupied you could be forgiven for being critical
of their sparseness and dereliction but a careful inspection of the
contents reveals a loving attention to essential detail by its
visitors.
There is a single camp bed in one room - left for those in need
perhaps, a few tins of food, a box of matches and some fuel form the
basis of an emergency meal which is alluded to by a note which says
“ Please leave a little sustenance for those who take
refuge”. There is dry wood set out as the basis of a fire in
the grate with instructions on where to find more and an
official looking document drawn up by the MBA (mountain Bothies
Association) sets out the detailed procedure for environmentally
friendly toileting. An open book on the window sill invites the comment
of visitors - customer service feedback, but for whom? The answer is
clear. The book exists for pilgrims to record their thoughts on
reaching the promised land and it overflows with love for the place. I
add my comments using the pen kindly supplied and as I lay the pen down
my eye catches a small card on the sash window frame. ‘In
Memorium’ it begins then goes on to pay last respects to
Peter Lockhart McDonald of Watford who was cremated on 27th
April 1999 and wished his ashes to be spread on the shore at
Camasunary. An official letter next to it authorises the bereaved to
carry out those last wishes. Sad thoughts to some but also warming to
one who knows what it means to feel a passion for locations like this -
I would be happy here. They do not haunt this house that have died at
peace and where better to seek peace for your last rest.
I eat a little food and drink, take a few pictures and hear
occasional spats of rain on the roof then set off to continue the walk.
A look at the shore is essential and there laid out on the grass at the
top of the beach is a stone picture of a snake. Its sinuous body and
head are made up of carefully selected flat black stones laid on the
green turf and three small white pebbles form a forked tongue to
complete the icon. It provides a thought provoking foreground to my
picture of the bothy with a grey mist and looming hill behind. It is
time to move on and there is a great sense of relief at finding the
stream to be easily crossable by the stepping stones. Several
guidebooks refer to them as being washed out in high tide and flow
conditions. There was once a wire bridge here which was also Army built
but all that now remains is the two concrete towers at either end and
some rusty cable on the ground. On the far side of the stream there is
a reed bed which sways rhythmically in the wind and allows a slight
pause for photography. The movement is mesmerising and they look really
out of place here but I suppose I should not be surprised to see reeds
in such a wet place as this.
The path weaves its way along the coast staying a few metres above the
water and as it turns the headland there is no longer a beach but a
small cliff as the interface between land and sea. The hillside becomes
more steep and eventually I am walking a ledge-like path in heather and
now heading Northwards towards the Cuillin. ‘The Bad
Step’ approaches. As a reasonably confident rock climber I
should feel no fear of a few moves on good gabbro at an easy angle
above the sea , nevertheless my pulse raises as I turn a corner and it
is revealed at last. Can I get past it to the Mecca beyond.
As I get closer I see that a small cave is formed in the rock from
which a good ledge leads left towards the sea. I decide to sit for a
moment, have a drink and transfer all my camera gear from round my neck
into my rucksack. This tidying up and mentally winding up complete I
set out along the ledge. The cave roof recedes and in perfect balance
the ledge rises slightly to reveal a slab with a deep horizontal gash
in it for the feet and a flake for hand holds as the gash slowly rises
upwards to the left. There is one awkward move to transfer from one
gash to a higher one but it is exhilarating rather than fear inducing
and I let out a slight “Whoopee” as I clamber over
easy ground to a large platform. Not to lose sight of good practice I
look at the return moves and establish that they are tenable in
reverse. Paradise is gained as I set off up the good path towards the
mouth of Loch Coruisk passing some extensive slabs of rock lurking in
the mist to my right. As I reach the beach at the head of the
inlet I note some large black boulders on the beach that
glisten with recent rain and record them on film. There is then a short
pull up to the neck of land that is split by the Scavaig River flowing
out of the inland Loch. Another site of special passionate interest has
been gained.
There is a slight eminence just to the East of the outfall and I set up
shop to take some pictures of the scene in front of me. An inky black
loch is the foreground to a brooding scene of moving mists that imply
the presence of large rock formations. There are occasional thinnings
that allow a spire to appear and just as quickly hide again. The grey
sheets swirl around and the word cauldron comes to mind to describe the
melting pot of water vapour circulating around one of the most vaunted
corries in Scotland. Whilst waiting for a development of the scene I
get out some food and have a cup of lemon tea but after half an hour I
decide that it is if anything getting thicker and certainly not
improving so I choose to move on. A group of four people comes into
view on the far bank at the stepping stones near the end of the loch. I
wait for them to cross and note that they are very heavily laden with
rucksacks and ropes. “Not a good day to be on the
rock” I suggest as they gather on my side. “ Oh
we’ll give it a go if we can find the crag” comes
the retort. Their enthusiasm impresses me. Climbing a cliff you have
difficulty finding means you haven’t been there before and in
worsening weather with habitation about 10 miles away the prospect
seems quite challenging - or am I just getting jaded? I wish them well
and set out across the sinuous stepping stones to the far bank.
The main reason for crossing is to explore the Coruisk Memorial
mountain hut situated near here. It comes into view after a few minutes
tramp by the Scavaig river, huddled beneath a small cliff and proudly
flying the Blue Cross of St. Andrew to identify it as an SMC property.
An upturned sea kayak and mountain tent are close by so someone is
around but the hut is shuttered suggesting that it is not occupied. I
look out to the small bay and note an interesting picture but as I
frame it in the viewfinder I see a strange light coloured vertical
straight line that looks very unnatural. A second look explains all -
it is the mast of a boat in the bay. I move closer to reveal a
catamaran moored out in the bay and a tender on the beach. There is
however no sign of life. What a way to get to this place, to sail in at
night, drop anchor and wake up in the morning surrounded by ridges and
pinnacles.
My concept of the remoteness of this bay is about to be shattered as
the dull thud of a marine diesel engine gradually gets louder. But
there is worse to come as a loud hailer announces that the journey is
about to end as the boat lands to discharge its passengers at the jetty
that only now appears as I crest the ridge behind the beach. I skulk
behind a tussock of grass as the boat ties up. What happens next upsets
me as a crowd gets off the boat and one youth runs shouting and waving
a can of coke up the path from the jetty - “Beautiful here
innit”, he says as he throws his can away. I
can’t stand any more so I scurry off along the path to the
stepping stones to get there before them and set off back along the
coast.
The climbers have found their cliff and have established camp at the
base of it. One brave soul has set off up the climb and is currently
inspecting an overhang that guards the lower section of slabs. I watch
them for a while but the nut will take some cracking as he retreats a
few feet to find some protection. A band of rain is developing out to
sea - the forecast was right - I bet that slab collects all the water
from the upper section of cliff.
The walk back seems so different to the walk in, perhaps it is the
view, or the fact that I now begin to meet lots of other walkers coming
towards me. It is about midday and I forget that with daylight until
nearly eleven o’clock there is no need for early starts
unless you like seclusion or photography. Back at the river crossing by
the bothy a fisherman is casting his spinner in the
water - a wild place to come for angling. I cross the river
and head back into the bothy for a drink as a sheet of rain catches up
with me.
I am not alone this time. A purring sounds belies the presence of a
primus stove as somebody is heating up a soup. “Hullo
there” he says as I walk into the lounge. I pull up a seat
and get out my flask whilst listening to his tale. He is a weather
beaten Scot who tells me his recent itinerary. Last night was spent
near Coruisk under his bivvy sheet and today he was headed for Elgol,
but the list of places he reels off suggest he has tramped most of the
island in his two week vacation. Not one hotel figures in his sleeping
sites. I leave the Stirling Strider to his soup and start to pack up
and move.
Heavy footsteps are heard outside as three large walkers loom
big in the doorway. They are a wild bunch of long haired lads with huge
straggly beards - looking like something from a Hells Angels movie. The
first one throws his rucksack on the settee as a full bottle
of Glen Morangie falls out - luckily without mishap. The conversation
that ensues suggests they all have different bottles of malt whisky in
their baggage. Camasunary bothy is in for a wild night tonight.
The rain had stopped whilst I was in the hut but as I set out across
the beach head more sheets pour down and I resort to waterproofs for
the sharp pull up to the ridge. This really is penetrating rain coming
in straight off the sea and lashing at my face. A moment of melancholy
takes over as I crest the rise and leave the view behind me. A poem
takes shape that sums up the feeling of always having something left to
do.
Unfinished Business
The hills still constant lie,
Though I move on to die,
Adventures still to come,
Projects yet undone,
Pictures left unmade,
Footsteps never laid,
Unfinished business.
Back at the car I strip off the wet gear and put on warm, dry clothes
and set up the stove for a real brew of tea. The car park is now very
full and I try to match cars to the owners I may have met on
my journey. Just as the kettle boils two walkers arrive beating a
demanding rhythm with their ski poles. Sweat is pouring off them
despite the fact that they are in shorts and tee-shirts. I speculate
that they must be the owner of the white BMW that was there when I
arrived and I am correct. As they are next door to me I offer them a
brew which they accept willingly whilst recounting their two nights of
lightweight camping up in the corries. We all come for different
challenges but the shared cup of tea unites us all - not a bad way to
end a pilgrimage.
© Keith Ratcliffe - March 2000