Skye and Raasay

Mid/Late April 2009

Late in the evening a man arrived at the hostel, prior to catching a rare ferry back to his home on Eigg. He advised Alex to could go over to the harbour at dawn and see if any fishing boats were scheduled to make the crossing. He had no trouble rising before the sun. Unable to sleep with anticipation, he'd just dozed in the lounge for a few hours. He must have been up before all the fishermen too, because there was nobody outside to be seen. It was nice to watch the daybreak in peace, however.

The ferry voyage was brief enough, but Alex could have been apt to dive overboard and swim the last metres, as it idled to the jetty. 'Just get me there already!' he was screaming to himself. Things weren't so speedy to begin with either once on the island. Firstly, he had a discussion with a local artist in the craft shop, after finding some highland knick knacks to send home. Next, at the garage he was halted for nearly half an hour whilst the shopkeeper got the post office records in order. He was then able to mail a shaggy gift surprise home. He liked the laid back ways of island life and was happy enough to float with the flow. Now though, with just a snappy hill's walk between him and the doorstep of the Cuillins, he was as a husky awaiting the call to 'MUSH'!

To mark the start of this fresh new island jaunt and the mild weather that it hoards, Alex had packed away his walking trousers. Releasing his pasty legs in the clean pair of shorts he now sported. The immediate walk over the moors eagerly blew any possible cobwebs away. Even with a retrospective into Knoydart to revel in, he found himself already unswervably drawn on by an invisible forcefield of the magnetic mountains ahead. The Strathaird peninsula was still in between and a humidty haze too, but this did nothing to dwarf wicked peaks that must have climbed down from the stars on one black night in time. Before he could comprehend where he actually was, he found himself moving on eastwards once more and passing the interesting scattered village of Tarskavaig.

On the hill down to Ob Gauscavaig there was a pair of photographers, who were taking advantage of contrasts in light today had offered. Alex heard a click from a lens to the right as he passed. He's still not sure if the man was unfortunate with his timing to capture a hairy monster in his wonderland, or just had a peculiar sense of what is scenic. This small bay was far too nice to rush past, so sat down by the shore, he ate a sandwich while content to study all around for fifteen minutes. Taking everything in, down to the minute detail of a sunlight slint shined through a hole in the mid distance castle ruins. It was quite a shame having to head back across Sleat so soon but the trek alongside Ord River lifted him with it's delightful sylvan spirit.

Now that he had found his way once again to the A851 there were cars for company amidst his latest joy. A train of odd looking three wheelers pittering along soon giving variation to the procession. After passing the Raphaelite Loch na Dal, a long inland walk let him contemplate the ethereal experience Skye had kept, awaiting his glide through.

In Broadford he heated some food up in the little park by the petrol station. A man walking through asked Alex if it was tasty and confessed that he was quite envious of his free ways. When it was almost dark he departed town to the south west, willing to bed down at the first available spot. He scaled a barbed wire fence seen immediately on his left, but knew he could do much better than the tatty rough pasture found there. A short step more along the B8083 and there was a convenient area far enough away from the road to be able to sleep comfortably.

*

The morning began bright and sunny once again and there was a good path along the dismantled railway track to chug up to full speed on. This led onto another fair trail, ending at the abandoned settlement of Boreraig. Like many others in the Highlands, it had been forcibly cleared to make way for sheep in the nineteenth century. Alex paused for a morning snack thinking he was the only ghost in the ruins, but strange voices soon tickled his ears. The apparitions were not translucent, but infact a friendly English couple who were enjoying a great morning in the hills. They gave him company for some of the way to Suisnish, then he was on his own as far as Loch Slapin. Smack in front of him Bla Bheinn faced down all opposition with a bullish pose. Consequently the benevolent village of Torrin couldn't pass by fast enough, as he walked a giddying loop around the loch head into the early afternoon.

Later at Kilmarie he had a choice of routes to get to Elgol. The road raced directly in and could likely help him just about beat the local store's closing time, certainly improbable via the coast path. Aware he'd been so fortunate with perfect weather conditions, Alex wholeheartedly settled on the golden path, scooting forward in an instant like a spinning top. This little coast walk was lovely enough on its own, with open sea views improving all the way. However, the day's crowning moment undoubtedly came at the final descent into Elgol. Here the complete Cuillin Ridge was seen stretching its legs without a kilt of hills intervening and he continued almost weightless, knowing that the definitive experience of his spring was unfolding.

Having no reason to linger in the village, Alex tucked himself into a fat slice of Loch Scavaig. Feet nibbling precisely along the airy route with a pine marten's bite. There would be no trouble finding Camasunary Bothy, a belittled doll's house placed in front of Sgurr na Stri. On arrival three kayaks were already parked outside. Certainly this was a haunt of all lovers of the outdoors. As he traipsed in the paddlers popped out and gave him a kind welcome, but he could tell that they had already settled on having the glen for themselves that night.

It was enjoyable to share the company of others his age for an evening. They'd earlier come in from the sea and had a day up the mountains planned tomorrow, before spending a final night at the bothy. Each scuttled off into separate rooms quite early and Alex immobilised himself in the kitchen, making quite a dent in the free bags of pasta and porridge. He spent an unrefined night on the cold concrete floor there, but it was great! Wild Scottish dossing at it's finest.

*

It was a different start to this weekend. Alex sat out in the early sun, pouring over an OS Explorer map until after nine o'clock, when the last guy emerged from the bedrooms. He wanted to pick his brain about Ollisdale Bothy, over in the northwest corner of the island. Quite possibly near enough to reach the following night. From his account, which was a foggy decade old, there would be a cliff top path most of the way from Idrigill Point. It did sound promising as Alex held bold intentions of following the coast around the Duirinish Peninsula.

He eventually left the bothy on the track leading northwards. An easy way around the lethal mountain barrier, which would rise and fall with many improbable pinnacles. To be fair, there was zero adventure to grasp down in the confinement of the valley bottom, but Alex had exercised self control with his route plan here. Electing to just let the ridge ride the sky solo, with far distanced targets still paramount.

It was suprising that he had progressed most of the way through Glen Sligachan before meeting anyone else on such a glorious morning. There was no shortage of people at the car park though, with a coachload fresh out for some mountain air. Alex held back for a little while at a gate before entering the welcoming shade of the famed Sligachan Hotel. He took his time over a glass of fresh orange juice whilst paying particular note to the FA Cup semi-final preview on television. Unfortunately that day's match was between Arsenal and Chelsea. Alex's team Everton weren't playing Manchester United until the following afternoon.

Outside in the heat once more, he quickly left the main road behind, selecting the mid level path to Glen Brittle and a return to the peaceful west coast. Snow on Sgurr nan Gillean had buried itself deep into the high corries, but the many rock pools of Allt Dearg Mor were still almost tempting enough for a cool plunge. The mountains soon started a shrinking act and it felt like the same force which had once dragged him to them was now evicting with equal vigour.

It could have been all very anticlimactic now, but Alex carried on unflappable with his continual explorations. At present he'd crossed over into Glen Brittle Forest and the alpine mountain tops had been replaced by smaller hills that were no less memorable. He improvised a dinner table with a log next to the track and the ten minutes after eating were filled in marvel. The subject of his attention, An Cruachan, demanded such devoted scrutiny that he was fastened to the point until its image was engrained upon his retinas and digital memory card as well.

Still too early for camping down in silent Glen Eynort, Alex took chase of that great orange ball which smothered the hills ahead with peeling radiance. A game he shouldn't play with hopes of winning and inevitably, just before a quarter to nine, the sun was set on one more everchanging day. May was a couple of weeks away yet, but with the twilight lingering so long it seemed like a mild summer's evening and Alex was content for the moment to keep on walking.

He entered Glean Oraid conscious of some presence there lurking in the dark. Stockval, a mountain now of murky character. So far out here, the shadows dance before your eyes. The evening scene animated with supernal castings through depths of gloom. Shortly, he had cocooned himself in his sleeping bag. Snug to the skin whilst shivers travelled highways of his spine, when an unseen peacock's cry echoed eerily about the moonless ampitheatre of crags. Heralding night's eventual conquest of day.

*

This innocent new morning did begin as the epitome of tranquility. The peacock soon found its voice however and not to be outdone, Alex clunked away an empty gas canister. He jettisoned it into the bin with delicacy he thought, but it crash landed with a cacophonous maximum. He scarpered up the hill to Huisgill before the community had any time to pull back their blinds.

It was routine now to be savouring sunbeams as the first few miles digested breakfast. Walking along to Carbost, a substantial island out there, Wiay, floated in Loch Bracadale like a waffled dumpling before him. Crisped brown to the sharp edge of columnar basalt. He passed a couple of youth hostels on route which certainly would have been pleasant to rest in, but now the sun was beaming on him he knew it was imperative to heed the beacon of progress.

Three local ladies out for a stroll overtook him in Fernilea, but he jogged ahead of them before long down a steep hill, just prior to passing the aromatic Talisker distillery. His luck was in at the village general store, now doing business on Sundays. With some salty snacks he sat on the step outside, drinking fruit juice like a desert bound pilgrim. Sparkling from all the vitamin C, the time was well due to complete the walk around Loch Harport and get going up to the northwestern corner of the isle.

He was waiting for a shoreside path to lead him away from the A863 and it did initialise as a great track down by Meadale Burn. At the bottom however there was a complex of sheep trods snaking away. He soon ended up on the very rough foreshore, struggling to cover any sort of distance. Getting back up the slope was not going to be easy now and against his better judgement, he had an attempt at hauling up the steep overgrown bank anyway. A few metres from the top he'd reached a virtual impasse, but with the way down no more inviting he commited himself to forcing through by whatever means needed. Boots dug trenches in the unstable soil, branches snapped away in the hand, roots showed similar frailty and thorns crisscrossed scratches onto his forearms, but Alex's will to power over the crest saw him negotiate this needless hazard only just.

Out in the open once again there was still no path to follow through the long grass and ahead a burn cut a rocky channel through more trees. The ways above and below were either blocked or inundated by the cascade. Right in front of him, either as a blessing or a curse was a decaying tree which spanned the gap. It was just a few metres to the other bank, but he wasn't able to launch his backpack over safely. So after a rudimentary weight test he shimmied across Bear Grylls style. He felt it warp slightly when his full load was over the middle, but thankfully it held strong for the meantime. It was then a relief to clutch one vertical, live branch, clambering upwards with shaky knees back on terra firma.

Now that he was across the going would be more straight forward, wouldn't it? Not a bit of it! In fact after running into thick gorse up to his shoulders and with seemingly more of it up the hill, he was resigning himself to going back the way he had come. Determined to make passage somehow over here, he ditched his pack and bumbag, then sniffed out what appeared to be a seldom trod sheep trail. It went through the whole of the gorse patch and led him out onto open hillside, albeit with a good deal of crawling on hands and knees involved. Coming back he took ten minutes to snap or bend away undergrowth and clear enough space to return with all his gear. Before setting off again he spent a short while sitting in the shade as he'd started to overheat on this roasting hot, west facing lochside. It was mid afternoon now and quite out of his stride, Alex sensibly decided not to push the pace anymore today pursuing another bothy stopover.

The following kilometre gave him the chance to enjoy the view across the loch and he was unhindered, until Sumardale River. Getting across was to be as chancy as the sections he'd passed earlier, but this time he went by his own free will. The marked route was shown to go further inland, however Alex took the direct line, straight over the quite sheer sides of this minature gorge. There were a few unsteady moments here, especially crossing the river itself, but how the day had developed it didn't seem to matter anymore at this point. Over an hour later than expected, he stepped foot back onto the road, just a mile and a half along from Inver Meadale where he had struck away.

He turned on his mobile phone at the Loch Beag picnic site to find out that the big match had already kicked off. The curiosity was too much, so he called up his sister's house where his family were all cheering on the Blues. From their report of no goals it seemed inevitable that the game was bound for extra time, which he actually would have settled for beforehand. As he was walking away he found some edible jewelry. Somebody had left a candy watch there, still in the wrapper. This was worth keeping to hand and would give a symbolic sugar pick up along the way.

Sat outside the shop in Struan, Alex readied himself for either the best or worst news. By his reckoning the extra time period was almost over and he felt a flutter of nerves when he found the phone number in his contact list ... Before dialling. The suspense would be drawn out further yet though. Two hours of football had ended in stalemate. Also to make him feel even more helpless, he was stuck with second hand commentary of the penalties over the phone.

It was an agonising start when Cahill missed his opening spotkick for Everton. Mercifully Berbatov and then Ferdinand as well returned the favour, failing to score for Manchester United. Baines, Neville and Vaughan each found the back of the net to put the Toffees into a commanding position. With all hopes of the blue half of Merseyside resting on his shoulders, Jagielka stepped forward and blasted Everton into the cup final for the first time since they won the competition in 1995. Even though he was relieved and elated, the surrealness of the situation at his end stopped him from joining in with the others' celebrations, so he gave off a stifled w00 and was on his way again.

He had not made any progress while all this unfolded, just in case he lost the mobile's signal. Only five minutes more up the road at Dun Beag Broch viewpoint he elected to stop once again. Now it was to piece together a much needed supper. Eaten whilst the broch watched his back and he, the onset of evening.

Finally on his way at last, the time and place created a unique scene that caught his interest. As the sun sank it seemingly melted into a crucible. Shaped on the western horizon by twin hills, Macleod's Table North and South, which rose skywards to form a colourful arrangement. Continuing around the final section of Loch Bracadale the day noticeably became very old. He wasn't satisfied that he had progressed far enough to call it a night however. Not until he was well off the main road, bedding down near the village Roag.

*

The weather changed drastically in the hours of darkness. Awakened by the rhythm of rain, he unzipped his bivvy hood to find all nearby hills disfigured with an ugly mist over halfway down to him. It really was a grim morning through and through, so with his tail between his legs Alex set about covering the short distance into Dunvegan. A scrumptious pie bought at the bakery there lifted his spirits no end, being the first he had savoured since back on Mull! Feeling much more smiley now and with a bag of fresh cakes under his arm, he enjoyed an easy but longer walk over to Glen Dale. The sky improved it's mood aswell now, bringing a great reward once the view out from Loch Pooltiel unfolded across The Little Minch. There Eaval was set within a string of several bright hills, highlighted just fifteen miles away, on the supposedly distant island North Uist.

A concoction of oddly moulded hills, emotive coastline, wildlife and alchemistical atmosphere formulated a curious difference about the whole locality, far removed from the core solution of middle Britain's fission. He knew geting here meant that he had come as far west as was realistic, today. A silent moment, spent without dwelling on a milestone reached, gave more freedom to experience the place a little longer. Eventually he made an about-turn, glad that he'd still put in the effort after the weather had tried it's upmost to thwart his planning.

The return walk to Dunvegan took a couple of hours but seemed to pass by even quicker this time along. Firstly he headed right through town to get a view of the castle, but was left frustrated finding it hidden completely from the road. Late afternoon now, it wasn't worth paying the entrance fee for the briefest of visits, so he found his way back into Dunvegan one final time. After collecting his backpack from the cobblers shop, he treated himself to a generous chip bap supper from the bakery, which also doubled as a cafe.

Unfortunately progress throughout the day had been very disjointed, but with the evening still young, Alex was back on the main road trying hard to finish on a positive note. The cloud came back once more and sure enough the twilight soon dissolved the air into floating fractions of fine rain. Lights of Edinbane were flicked on a short way ahead, but he didn't relish carrying on past to find a place to sleep. With relief he rode his luck into a lay-by that had an emperor sized picnic table secreted beyond a heap of gravel. He managed to get quite comfortable there stretched out on the table top, eating his pudding en-bivvy with the hoop up against the rain. All would be snug and snoozy on the table top, just as long as he didn't roll about too much in his sleep!

*

It must have been the rainy morning or unroutine pack up which diverted him, but he was lucky to have only walked for five minutes before noticing the Therm-a-rest missing from his pack. He jogged back up the hill and sighed a puff of relief, seeing it still there below the bench. Even though showers chucked their worst at him all morning, Alex had no cause for complaint because he'd been expecting this most of the time. At this point he was walking out of habit and planned to continue all the way to Uig if the rain held up.

Something made him stop at a bus shelter which he almost walked past. It turned out better, because once he saw the map he realised he'd just gone past a short cut to the A87. He took the opportunity to put his waterproof trousers on and typically, this was a cue for the rain to ease off. After midday and walking northward up Loch Snizort, Alex gloated as the sun displayed it's fathomless mastery across the sky. Just like it had done every day at some point all this past week.

Completing the extended walk against ferry traffic, Alex edged himself to a point overlooking Uig Bay and stood back briefly, just adoring the simplicity of its prettiness. He set aside a long hour for relaxation in the village. After calling into the post office, garage and cafe, he draped his bivvy bag over a bench to dry. Workers appeared busy outside the ferry terminal, weeding and then jet washing the area. Elsewhere, there were very few signs of activity. A touring cyclist disappeared into the cafe, an old couple milled by and occasional noises clattered around the harbour.

A quickly darkening sky brought Alex round to action with immediate effect. Cramming the bivvy away whilst making a dash for shelter in the toilets. Dollup sized raindrops bombarded most surfaces. All exposed paving was waterlogged now, but an ant's sundeck just a moment previous. Fifteen turbulent minutes passed before he hatched out of the gents, fresh as a newborn butterfly, taking the opportunity to warm his wings up the hill. As the cloudburst already bumbled its way inland, he set about climbing the switchback road out of the village, with his lungs softened by the soothing smell of rain.

After passing the very interesting looking (but closed) Skye Museum of Island Life at Kilmuir, he got an early view of where he would be spending the night. The old lookout bothy above Rubha Hunish. Clear to see on the headland, but still an hour of walking away. The next mile of coast road into Duntulm stuck in his memory as a particular favourite. Well shaped bouldery crags sank to the road as it traced the rough shoreline of Lub Score. Alex, seeing a group of four returning to a car from the castle ruins, waited to ask if they had been to the bothy. English wasn't their first language, but he did understand that they'd only been out to visit the castle. They showed some interest in what he was doing there himself. He revealed that he was headed around the island, but didn't give away too many more details.

He now opted to take a slightly inland line up to the bothy. So, just a little way along he turned left onto a farm track. He could see somebody outside already, tending to a flock of sheep. Alex entered the field sensitively, asking from a distance if he'd be free to roam across their land. A jolly Irish shepherd, he was all too glad to describe the best way with enthusiastic detail. Giving the sheep plenty of room to fluff out, Alex shortly reached the boundary fence he was told to expect. Once over, he could move more directly across the open heath and only stopped to collect some streamwater for the night's cooking.

Halfway up the slope onto the headland he stumbled upon a well worn path. This was easy to follow, except for some waterlogged parts he had to manoeuver around. Now that he stood outside the bothy, he was taken aback by the whole grandeur of the Western Isles, spanning the visible horizon's width. On this crystal clear evening, the distance across the water again appeared to be much less than the sixteen miles it was in actuality.

Inside the bothy it was quite cramped in the main observation room. Two young lads were staying over. They looked only just over the legal age to drive, but were really eager to be here. Also two older men out for a walk had popped in for a chat and Alex sat with them all for a while. He gratefully received a ham sandwich, but soon his stomach was petitioning for a proper meal. He boiled water up with pasta in the little cooking area and left it to stand with the lid on while he went outside.

He needed to bathe his feet before it got dark, but with no running water around a savory puddle had to do. In the few minutes out here, the main Outer Hebridean Isle of Lewis and Harris coyly made a subconscious appeal to the adventurer in him. After travelling amid so many epic and inspirational landscapes already this year, he now pondered new wisdom that this region of undulating mountains before him sheltered many forgotten qualities. Imbued with an untamed spirit, freely able to conjour its elusive essence, lost mostly around the mainland or inner isles. He wasn't too disappointed knowing he could not find himself there any time soon. Deep in his bones a rumour confirmed that he would indeed see those remote glens up close one day. Tonight's viewing demanded it ... From a tantalising glimpse.

When he went back in his meal was ready for eating. The pasta had steam cooked in the boiling water. From now on he would use just half the amount of gas through this method. The others soon went for some early Z's in the bunkroom and Alex was left in the sea-facing room by himself. He mused that this was almost an ambition realised, to spend a night watching over vulnerable mariners like a lighthouse keeper or coastguard. About half of the room was glazed and facing the west it stayed warm well after sunset, when colours on the panes had deepened through to purple.

It was still quite light at ten o'clock, which was something unique against every other bothy he'd known. For the first time this year he was off to sleep before it was fully dark, after he'd lain awake a brief while. Thinking about how every day was moving along nicely and with this, felt quite unperturbed now about turning back towards the mainland in the morning. He shifted onto his side, slunk deeper into his sleeping bag and let all thoughts drift away, because tomorrow would bring another prompt start.

*

He wasn't well placed for watching the sun rise, but it was still bright for the first part of the morning as he started out. He followed the footpath back to the main road without difficulty. From a little car park he only needed to follow the quiet A855 and he would end up in Portree by the evening. This would give him the luxury to keep all his attention on the Trotternish landslip. This remarkable geological feature, the longest of its kind in Britain, extends for nineteen miles and the road would keep him somewhere below for the duration.

About when he was headed south down the coast, past Flodigarry, a raw wind steeled against him, siegeing the sky with miserable cloud. Alex found the shade compelling now however. Slashing drama vividly across the grassy, green curtains draped between buttresses of the Quiraing. A perfect backdrop to renowned rocky curiousites, named: The Table, The Needle and The Prison. It really is quite nature's own theater of the absurd set up there. Staged free indefinitly, all comers can visit and manage to awaken a different scene every time.

The course of the road soon diverted from the ridge to round Staffin Bay, a beautiful stretch of coastline in it's own right. Alex enjoyed a tin of fruit cocktail from Brogiag Post Office, slight recompense for his woeful lack of 'five a day' fresh fruit and vegetable portions. An old man soon came out of the shop to stand at the bus stop. It seemed like he would have a long wait because a rare bus had already been and gone. Only two minutes went by before a Royal Bank of Scotland mobile service pulled up. With much travelling required between towns it is easy to see why this facility is so important for many isolated communites. In Staffin itself he found another nice looking store, which tempted him in. With lemon biscuits going cheap he was a happy boy.

Now that it had gained altitude, the road was giving excellent views across to Raasay and beyond. Alex side tracked slightly to have a good look out from a viewpoint. Interwoven ranges of mountains lined up. From the Five Sisters of Kintail, into Applecross, then Torridon and as far as could be seen up to Loch Gairloch. He carried on once again. With an intense week's worth of walking in view, a new sense of purpose took over. He could be in Gairloch right now this second, about to round Rua Reidh, the way he was perceiving days, hours and minutes recently. With the road below just a rolling conveyer belt from one town to the next. 'Time what is Time?' he chortled. Spontaneously devouring the candy watch he'd rescued. As if a black hole's mass had dissipated from his pocket, he felt strangely empowered by the ritual gesture.

Today was a rare day, with Alex on schedule for an early finish. He wanted to stay at a Portree youth hostel and was over half way there already. So, he didn't mind taking a break at Lealt River to properly wash the treacly residue from his feet, after last nights poor effort. A long gradual hill brought him level with The Storr. As happens many times, the slope was easier on the legs than it appeared at first glance.

Half an hour later, beside Loch Fada, there was a small parking space where Alex stopped one last time. Gathering his efforts for the final few miles. A gabion cage took the weight of his backpack, while he caught a memorable photograph from the north. Silhouetted under a pale grey sky, The Old Man of Storr's bony finger pointed away defiantly, beckoning lunar confidants. He slipped back into his stride easily, a downhill tilt of the road pinging him along. Almost gone from Trotternish, but not disappointed with a simple day that has probably filled a thousand postcards.

There was plenty of room at Portree Independant Hostel that night and Alex had a whole dormitory to himself. He didn't get too comfortable before heading out into town once more. After bagging a wide selection of provisions, he had a pleasant little walk down by the colourful harbour, where sheltering boats waited to navigate the seas of Skye. He sat on steps in an alleyway by the hostel to make a phone call, but was soon back inside to claim his early night.

The quick journey through the Highlands so far, had placed him up here already still only mid spring. So, with reasonable weather forecasted, he would snatch the opportunity for a considerable detour in the morning. A big Brucie Bonus island venture was there to claim. Across on wild Raasay.

*

As it turned six thirty Alex had just put the town behind him and was enjoying a tranquil walk alongside Portree Forest. On his way through Glen Varragil the morning 'rush hour' began, making this otherwise lonely road seem almost crowded for a period. After nine o'clock the waves of traffic settled down to an intermittent flow. Around a corner, the reappearance of hills familiar from last weekend helped him consolidate momentum. He was quick to descend from the plantation and then pass through Sligachan once again, drawing an imaginary X with his paths. Skye's unique winged shape had him playing along as a zig zag wanderer now, apparently.

A footpath on the north side of the loch was clear to see as he moved on. He didn't berate himself over his earlier choice to follow the road, sensing it would be better to save the time and effort for Raasay instead. He arrived at Sconser with time to spare before the eleven thirty sailing, which was useful because otherwise he'd have to wait until one o'clock for another to set out. It was clear already that the island was going to be quiet, with very few others travelling over.

The ticket collector was a cheery guy with a song. Ready to help out Alex, as he was looking at a poster displayed about the island. He was interested in visiting the eastern coast and hoped to complete the walk from Hallaig to Screapadal. The collector thought it could be done, but as there was also another crew member onboard with better local knowledge, he brought him in aswell. He confirmed that there was definitly a way to get through, but recent landslides covering the path could make it awkward in places. Alex thanked the two of them and when they docked, the ticket collector walked with him up the jetty to point out the quickest way, on the disused railway track.

The steep incline was a nice welcome to the island and straight away, the elevated view brought the best of the area out on show. When he reached the road, the path carried on to the north, leading to Dun Caan and high moorland. By now his mind was set on the challenge of a wholly new coastline, so he turned right and set off up the tarmac. He passed through North Fearns in comforting solitude, the road soon grassing over into a soft track 'plush with moss'.

The man he met at Penmeanach Bothy had made a specific point that night. Telling Alex that this was one very special place he could not pass by. Now he stood at the Hallaig memorial cairn himself, reading the evocative poetry of Sorley McLean. The words swelling with their power, freshly caught at the scene of the rhyme. He could see several miles ahead now and the walk promised to get him wholly involved with this surprising coast. The isle was in a great hurry to climb straight out of the sea. Streaking steeply to an immediate height over two hundred metres, Dun Caan capped the total of that twice again. No traces of any paths were visible at this point, but Alex was already plotting a theoretical line through.

The message of the poem had impacted deeply upon him and from the moment trees surrounded in the woodland onwards, all memories of the modern world were irrelevant. He followed a path briefly down by a quaint stream, but it was leading to the shore. His way was to go higher to begin with. After a sharp ascent he was up, looking about what little remains of the vilage of Hallaig. Not depressing himself about the loss, he concentrated instead on a vision of the community in its prime.

As he carried on to the north, the ground became much rougher and he trudged a mainly pathless route past Loch a Chadha-charnaich. At the outflow the way forward was obvious but steep, following the burn. He could make steadier progress for the last section, where the fence proved itself useful as a banister. It was not too long until he was back near sea level and now the fun coast walk could really get going.

The little walked path ahead had indeed been ravaged by landslides and great care was called for, to painstakingly traverse them step by step. At one point he went above on the slope to bypass the worst slumps. It was one of those situations again when he could see right in front where he was aiming for, but with such slow progress it didn't appear to get any closer. Just a selfless mechanical approach brought him steadily to the far edge of open ground, without a dint in his besieged morale.

The path through trees didn't get easier, but at least the change kept it interesting. Several times he had to avoid sections blocked off by thick branches. Forced to totter ungainly across the steep bank, with a quite nasty landing threatening below. When it got more overgrown, he doubted whether the path was still open, but managed to get through each time. There was a point soon when the hillside was obviously impassable anymore. He tipped himself onto the boulder beach and made a few hundred metres more headway down there. Glad that it was dry when he needed to balance between the unsteady rocks.

Now he'd covered a couple of miles the path became more defined, as a greater number of people had walked it, starting from the north. He still needed to be attentive, but could enjoy the surroundings better from here on. The sheer cliffs of Creag na Bruaich gave a satisfying visual reward after dangling in the distance like a juicy carrot to tease him. At the burn in Screapadal he was content with his lot and went on to finish the track through Raasay Forest without any fuss. When he got back to the comfort of a road he continued just one kilometre further, before granting himself a deserved break near Brochel Castle. He could spare a half hour here and still make it to the north tip of the island for sunset.

The next few kilometres of road were special as they were engineered solely through the determination of one man. Using only hand tools and dynamite, Calum McLoed created the road to give access to his house in Arnish. The single laned road road was as fun to walk as it must be to ride along. Tearing around corners with steep nerve-jarring cambers, it didn't shy away from an immediate drop into the sea. He turned left onto a rougher track above Loch Arnish and then followed a notable footpath up into the hills from Torran.

He quite urgently needed to find some water, as both of his bottles were nearly empty. There was nothing better than stagnant puddles, or a faint trickle on the path as he scanned around ruined shielings approaching the isle's northern tip. He was even preoccupied enough to barely notice the peaceful Island of Rona beyond, as the land rapidly ran out in front of him.

Daylight was extinguishing now after a sanguineous sunset and heavy rain clouds crept over from Skye, as he explored the northwestern extremity. With nothing more to see there he turned, about to start heading back. Over by the shore some unidentified black creature caught his eye as it speedily ran out of sight. It moved like a cat, but was larger and from a distance in the poor light he couldn't be sure what it was.

He returned on a direct line over the rough ground and from upon a knoll he spied the roof of Taigh Thormoid Dhuibh Bothy, hidden east of the path before. There was a pathetic, half submerged stream there, which he followed for a little way. Until it sprang out of a conveniently placed pipe in a slow, but consistant flow. The bothy was empty and very basic, but was a godsend when rain started hammering on the metal roof. Another user had left two eggs behind, so he boiled them simultaneously with some noodles for a stopgap supper. Not even bothering to clean the pan before zonking out for the night.

*

In the morning rain was still tinging off the roof and he lay there for an hour before making any movements. Now that it was light he had a quick nosey around the bothy. There was an interesting newspaper clipping on the wall about Calum and his road, so Alex delayed leaving by another ten minutes to find out more about the remarkable man.

The footpath was a stream now on the way back uphill and he waded directly through with an obsessive determination to get the miles covered today. He was doing fairly well, but didn't seem to have the usual overflowing cauldron of excess energy to help him along this morning. After the top of Calum's road he was soon passing the unique road sign depicting a pig over two humps. He'd certainly seen strange things, but mercifully no flying swine!

A couple of hours passed and even fewer cars by the time he got to the Alan Evans Memorial Hostel. It hadn't opened for the year yet but looked to be a fantastic little rustic place to stay. He went through the forest and village of Inverarish without stopping, to get half a mile from the ferry. A few cars came past in a row so he convinced himself that a sailing was due. He half ran, half stumbled round the last corner to find the ferry waiting there, but not ready at the jetty yet. He sat in the waiting room for quite a long while, glad of a break indoors before the time came to board. The same crew member from yesterday was there on the deck. He asked Alex if he managed to get through to the bothy, who replied that he did indeed, just about. The drained look all over him probably told the rest of the story.

When he got back onto Skye it was nice that he could leave the A87 soon by the golf course and follow a quiet road round to Loch Ainort. At Luib he phoned ahead to Broadford Youth Hostel, reserving himself a bunk. He planned to go to the supermarket and having conveniences of a kitchen for the night would be a little treat after such an awesome week.

The final few miles alongside the privately owned island Scalpay felt almost like a half marathon in their own right. Walking a really long straight before entering forest reminded him of the 1980's video for 'Road to nowhere' by Talking Heads. Alex stuck it out though, telling himself he'll be there in under an hour. Once at the hostel he left the backpack behind in his dorm room and soon felt much better going about his shopping. The earlier hard work paid off for him, because he was well fed, showered, packed ready for the morning and tucked up in bed comfortably at the clock's turn of midnight.