Mull, Iona and Ulva

Early April 2009

It was a bright, sunny morning with a calm sea, as the ferry made the crossing over to Craignure. The visibility was notably exceptional, with many mountains of the Lochaber area in sight. Lismore, Alex noted, was well placed in this landscape. However, he was all too eager now to get to one place he wanted to most of all. The Isle of Mull.

The first few hours walking eased him in gently. He started off heading around the island clockwise, and once all the ferry traffic had set away he had the road to himself. Most were heading directly to Iona, but he selected another, much more interesting, longer route. A lane to the left of the main road led sharply up and down a brisk hill. Setting up a majestic sweep of Loch Spelve, with views of faraway mountains to the east of the loch mouth. Covered over with snow, they were likely peaks of the lofty mount Ben Cruachan.

Next was the freshwater loch, Loch Uisg. What it lacked in size, it reaped in avalanches of abundant splendour instead. He had heard several times before that, in the right light, colours within Scottish landscapes can have enchanting, illuminated qualities not to be surpassed. This afternoon, the greenery on the slopes glistened like emerald, and there revealed with glowing globes in the loch was the sky. This would be the segue to the Lochbuie to Carsaig coast path, a route which he had seen featured on one of his dad's walking videos. It felt quite surreal as he sat on the shoreline, now about to echo in the footfalls of the great Scottish wilderness hiker Cameron McNeish.

The first few kilometres were straight forward enough on a well defined track. Until, the precarious burn crossing at Glen Byre denoted movement into more challenging terrain. Strewn rock obstacles coupled with unremitting scrambling, equalled the most brutal of coastal treks. After a succession of momentum nullifying clambering moves, he ground to a halt. He had reached the ten foot boulder he was forewarned of from the video. Not too serious for an unladen person, but, with all the kit he was carrying, it was not to be tackled with haste. Especially with a menacing froth of waves inundating the landing spot periodically. To make the descent less apt to mishap, he dug out a climbing sling festering in the bottom of his bag. He lowered everything down the drop and then followed on quickly himself. Hauling all up the shingle just before another wave swept in.

That section now negotiated, the conditions remained strenuous. Steadfast, Alex observed how much of a contrast the dismal foreground was with everywhere else, and even paused a moment to look back at the head of the loch awash with radiance. Little by little, progress was made to the open sea at Rubha Dubh. Way out near the horizon were familiar islands, but now with a whole new aspect. Still though, the Paps of Jura were unmistakeable, and seeing their welcoming shape gave him renewed impetus to endeavour forwards. The cliffs to his right towered precipitously above, and reaching an impressive waterfall he was inclined to stop for a photo. The rotting misery of a sheep carcass below the cascade quickly caused that idea to vanish though.

All this hard going had taken a lot longer than the distance would have suggested, and at present evening was well advanced. With the sun gone below the crags now, shadows on the bouldery foreshore lent a somewhat alien ambience to the locale. Nightfall was looming very imminent, and still there appeared to be no clear break where the Carsaig 'get up' would be. This was certainly not any place to loiter, so he persevered some more. When he at last stepped out of the final wooded stretch onto the track and then tarmac road it was with only little relief, as there was one more great big uphill push to go. This really was wicked after all the energy expended in reaching it, and he had to find his way up to the top on fumes. Once he was up on the level moor he didn't continue much further. Settling down on a grassy area next to the road. In his sleeping bag he drifted into a blissful slumber, loving life after a wholly engaging beginning to his time on Mull.

*

Upon unzipping his bivvy hood he was disappointed to see an deep grey sky outside and low cloud blocking any view to nearby mountains that he hoped would now display their faces in the daylight. However, it was still dry for the meanwhile, and he got about the task of walking along the Ross of Mull in the direction of Iona. As he walked he recalled what the man at Chaperdonan near Girvan in South Ayrshire had told him about this route. Saying that it was the most pleasing of all his travels. On this day the view across Loch Scridain was very limited though unfortunately.

On such a long stretch the sequential milestones counting down to the Iona ferry provided somewhat of a distraction, and he arrived at Fionnphort at three thirty sharp, precisely as he calculated. It took quite a bit of adjustment now encountering coach loads of tourists after so far being lucky enough to visit all the popular places in quieter times of the year. On Iona he took some time to see the abbey, and then, heading to the end of the island, he soon left the throngs of sightseers behind.

There was an independent hostel situated on the working croft of Lagandorain, and, after briefly looking about, his mind was firmly made up to stay for the night. Two Dutch volunteers had a cup of tea waiting for him, as he took a seat in the homely communal area. Sufficiently warmed up, he donned waterproofs again, and ventured out into the bitingly cold sleet squall that had built up since landing on the island. Still eager to put the evening to good use by getting to see more of the place.

The ferry service had now stopped and tranquillity was reigning throughout. Even the rain lightened as he surveyed the pristine white beach of the western shore. It was a great credit that it could still look like a paradise without so much as a glint of sunlight to titivate a painter’s palette. Heading back, he made a spur of the moment choice to scale Dun I, the top of the island, where all this hallowed landscape stretched out beyond his feet. The day came to a heartwarming end back at the hostel, as he enjoyed the hospitality and company of the other guests. It seemed just right then that there should be two girls with separate families staying there, both with the name Iona.

*

The day’s weather started out glumly, and this mood seemed to filter through the small crowd waiting for the first ferry to depart Iona. The crossing was pretty rough as well too, with waves blown in from the Atlantic causing the vessel to rock and roll. Alex, who was not feeling his best either, felt slight sensations of seasickness. Thankfully the sailing was far too short to succumb seriously. After the lengthy traipse this way yesterday, he was keen to vary the return route wherever possible. Straight away in Fionnphort he diverted off the main road and took a lane which navigated him nearby the island Erraid. Just what he needed that morning, the peaceful and absolutely tranquil place perked him up no end. Connecting with a good track through the Pottie farms, the return to the A849 seemed no hardship at all.

At Bunessan he paused to take some time to call into a few shops. He observed that at first glance the village could be construed as nondescript. All the touring cars were seemingly bound solely for Iona and not taking a blind bit of notice. Even he himself strode straight through yesterday. Now though, after having taken time to absorb the character of the place, he realised that it really had its own special charm.

After a couple more detours along lanes and tracks he passed Pennyghael, where he'd joined the road early yesterday, and then, after a few more miles he finally reached the head of Loch Scridain. By which time he was well due his supper. In the middle of cooking up a pan of noodles the heavens opened. He did the best he could to cover his assorted strewn belongings, but without a hint of shelter in sight a drenching was unavoidable. With the meal taking longer than planned, the failing of the light was inevitable. So, on rounding the other side of the loch, he was on the lookout for the first suitable place to bivvy.

He passed a few areas of good short grass where he could have had his tent up in an instant, but stubbornness made him carry on. In the meantime it had got fully dark. The time had now come to leave the waterside and head up over the hill across the Ardmeanach peninsula. Resorting to trying farm outhouses or anywhere. Still nothing was suitable and now the road was passing through a deeply wooded plantation. When the brow of the hill had been summited, he knew that the tent would surely be making its first appearance, and the sooner the better.

He was already well on his way down to the next loch, and malevolent crags towering around gave an eerie effect in the dark. By a hairpin section of the road, a footpath suddenly appeared as a green beacon. Here was the only possible place to pitch up it seemed. It came none too soon. During pegging out, the rain redoubled its attack with aplomb, and zipping himself in it was at its most incessant. It was approaching midnight, this spot was rocky and on a slope, but bivviers can't be choosers, and deep sleep came rapidly.

*

This was the first morning that he hadn't set his phone alarm to haul himself to his feet at first light. It was a luxury to wake up by his own accord, and the clear blue sky right to the horizon saw him diligently drying off, then packing away, everything.

As he swept down to the shores of Loch na Keal a grand new arrangement of islands revealed themselves: Gometra, Ulva and Eorsa. Where a grouping of nice looking houses overlooked the waters a tall, well tanned guy, with his two children in hand, approached. He looked well at home in this setting, most probably a climber, but an incomer certainly from his accent. Alex told him that he was headed over to Ulva and learnt that even though it was just a short way directly across the water, it would be 18 miles following the roads course around the loch. He also pointed out where there was a bothy at the end of a clear line of a track. This grabbed Alex's attention, because owning a Mountain Bothies Handbook, this was one he was unaware of existing. Having an impassioned discourse about walking in Scotland, the guy was getting serious chuffties telling him about the places he was to be headed. In particular Assynt and the Isle of Raasay. Alex found it scarcely credible that the journey would keep on getting better after all the places he'd been to, but it undoubtedly would, and sooner than he would have chance to believe.

What followed was a most memorable day’s hike to have the privilege to experience. The road was helpless in its progress onward to flail a most vulnerable path below immense cliffs, towering straight up from its side. All around were signs of previous rock falls and he kept one eye watchful for any projectile that may have loosened. Not normally one to stop and look back at where he had just come from, he really couldn't help stopping a mile past the crags, indulging in the panorama. It would appear that nobody in their right mind should have considered constructing a road. Let alone those willingly treading the land/sea divide, where it looks like a gargantuan blunt guillotine has taken its slice. Outlines between the sundrenched, vegetated top and shadowy buttresses were so well defined in a golden light, those with fruitful imaginations may deem that the manifestation of landscape was purposely trying to astound. Just because it knows it can so magnificently.

Even though the way was so long, the minutes and miles had no importance in Mull Time. Alex dragged himself down from the clouds metaphysically, and down the hill in person, to the lane accessing the Ulva ferry. Greeted by three cyclists who had just disembarked, he nipped down to the waiting boat. Curious, he asked the ferryman what time the last return was that evening. Five o'clock. Less than half an hour away! When quizzed about the bothy, he informed that it would　cost thirty pounds and with the landowner's permission only.

A quick rethink saw Alex plant his feet on Ulva's soil for only ten minutes, as he ducked into the tea room to procure some delicious beer and fruit cake. He knew well that his mother would be scouring the internet for recipes once she discovered about it. It was a disappointment to only uncover the face side of this island, with much potential exploring unrealised, but it did present a sublime retrospective of its parent isle. The Ben More massif standing guard, and the Eas Fors waterfall a white cloud of thunder, unleashing itself from the cliff like a wall of anger.

This reroute to remain on Mull gave him a chance to skirt around Loch Tuath, as the day advanced to maturity. The largest gathering of red deer he'd seen anywhere were beside the road. He managed to get a good close look before they all trotted off. Caesar's palace this was once. With wild flanks of Ulva the backdrop, the BBC series Autumnwatch documented Caesar, the most successful stag of Mull, rutting and tending to his harem. He sadly is now deceased, but the genes of the monarch survive in many virile descendants still plentiful in the glen. Alex really couldn't be any further from the urban wilderness, and spent the night on a path by Kilninian Parish Church, in full view of the road. But it wasn't unwise, as not another being passed in the night.

*

Alex was warned yesterday that a deep depression over the Atlantic was due to bring some gale force winds. When, at five thirty, the wind started whipping up the waves, he wasn't going to wait in his lazy bed for it to get worse. It was blustery enough already, making packing a challenge in its own right. Raindrops were soon added to the mix, and all was damp before even setting off.

The progress at this unkind hour was actually aided though by the tailwind propelling him up the hills and around to Calgary Bay. His feet just acting as brakes and steering wheel. The beach here was a recognised wild camping site and there was an array of tents pitched. It was plain to see why, as it was a place of great natural beauty. All campers here were wise enough to be well zipped in, and he also took some shelter in the public conveniences. Whilst walking over to Dervaig, as the rest of the island was awakening, he pondered his next route choice along to Tobermory. After savouring a scotch pie from the local shop, he plumped for the more direct road in favour of forest tracks through Mishnish, as it was not a day for sightseeing.

The steep road up from Dervaig wound its way about zigzag switchbacks and the direction change saw Alex's allegiance with the wind reversed. Across the moors he was blown about all over the shop. The mainland was in clear view now and he had mixed feelings because even though he was eager to get there he was also reluctant to end his visitation of Mull. In the meantime, the iconic highland harbour of Tobermory was just a downhill canter beyond, and he wondered if his mental picture formed of the place would match the real thing. He fumbled about the back streets for a whiles’ interlude, not exactly finding the sights his daydream was seeking out. Until, just a few steps deep into the seafront, the scene was realised to perfection, down to the small details of the painted houses and the masted boats.

It could have been very tempting to slump into the ideally located youth hostel and spend the afternoon carefully exploring the town. Though with no thoughts of slowing and easing back, he pressed on, to immerse himself for a brief spell in that day's living snapshot of Tobermorian history. A newly converted church was being stocked up in preparation for the grand opening of a local Spar store, but there was nothing there for his wants. He was quick to spy a fish and chips van for the large portion he'd been promising himself since he began his time in Scotland. Lastly, he gave over half a minute more to fly into the bakery, before returning to the open road.

He was due to pass the hostel at Glen Aros, but, if he covered the remaining distance quickly, he might just be able to reach a bothy, up at Tomsleibhe. There was a pedestrian route through trees on the long ascent away from Tobermory. After the crest, it was a disjointed walk along the narrow and busy main road. It was apparent that the northern part of the isle had been comparatively sheltered, because he was taking the full brunt of the wind and rain now. In these conditions a night at the hostel would be a much more sensible option. There was a steady flow of ferry traffic hindering his stride, so he stopped and took the weight off his shoulders for five minutes. Resting his backpack on a fence outside a B&B, whilst the last of the vehicles crawled through.

It was not far to Glen Aros and there was only one insignificant hill to overcome on the way. At the point where the road cornered a brow, massive gusts of wind funneled through, knocking him sideways and blowing the rain cover right off his pack. He was very glad that he had foresight to tie the cord to his shoulder strap and turned to see the cover billowing behind like a slapstick sail. Thankfully not airbourne halfway to Skye. He gathered the black fabric in his hands and was even more relieved to find the bread rolls he'd stuffed under the cover had been caught in its flight. The final kilometres into Glen Aros were improvised under the mercy of the elements, having to hold: pack cover, bag of bread and walking poles together whilst the downpour seeped into all his stuff.

At the hostel, a couple of hours had passed and everything wet was now drying by the fire. Alex had a warm glow of hot food in his stomach like a Ready Brek kid and a strong cuppa in his hand. There was quite a singsong going on that night, with the three cyclists from the Ulva ferry there. Each with a guitar in their hands, and another, performing Wish you were here by The Floyd note perfect, including the full intro. Later, the highpoint of the night was certainly the traditional classic The Wild Rover, with everybody playing along. He had half a mind to play the metal version of it by Týr he had on his phone, but wimped out in the end. The open fire had been kept blazing high, and after everybody retired upstairs he stayed up to make sure everything of his was dry. In fact, he took some sofa cushions and stole a meagre couple of hours of shuteye, happy enough on the floor down there.

*

As he drew back the curtains at dawn, he was greeted by the sight of an absurd number of pheasants pecking away at the lawn. In the kitchen, as he was rustling up some breakfast, he noticed a box labelled 'Bread for the birds'. Later, the warden told him that after starting to feed a few they must have invited all their mates along! He started walking for the ferry through Salen and at Fishnish Bay a police car pulled over. The policeman kindly offering him a lift to the pier, but of course Alex declined. As he neared, cars were still rolling onto the ferry. He broke into a jog to board before it left, but he was just too late and it left without him. This gave him the reprieve to spend some more time on the island and enjoy a  Lorne Sausage sandwich ... And succulent memories.