Through Morvern and up to Mallaig

Mid April 2009

Alex was in Lochaline long enough to visit the general store and exit with full pockets. Buying a nice yellow half pounder bag of boiled sweets, and also packs of oat cakes, which he was now consuming as an accompaniment to every meal. Suitably prepared for the Morvern mission, he was treading to the wilds before island withdrawals could bubble up. First, a few straightforward miles along the A884, and then back to business, passing the lovely Loch Arienas.

Since abandoning the mainland at Oban the terrain appeared to have taken on a more sinister bent. Harsh boulder and heather covered slopes, quite unwelcoming for any cross country yomps. In little time it seemed, he was homing in on Loch Teacius. Passed only by a post van, while scanning ahead for the route leading to Glencripesdale. He was anticipating testing himself on the unknown qualities of this path, and it was apparent already that it would traverse very remote country. This linkage would be somewhat crucial, because it would guide the way to a track on the southern shore of Loch Sunart.

The access point was easy enough to find at Kinlochteacius. Some kayakers directed him up the first clearly marked section, but they didn't offer any further guidance. This wasn't the clear cut path to hopefully doddle along, but it sufficed for a start. After quite a bit of pistoning leg work over splodgy ground, he was a couple hundred metres above the loch, at a plateau between peaks and a crossroad of trails. Just about to unshoulder his backpack to call on his compass for the first time, the sun dissolved the clouds enough to reveal its southwestern, late afternoon hideaway.

Consequently, he was off along the left hand path that would take him northward. Reassuringly he'd seen intermittent Scottish Ramblers waymarks going up to the apex via a shallow gully. Here a wonderful viewpoint came to fall upon the eyes. Mull, Morvern, Sunart and Ardnamurchan; certainly somewhere that the mountain was king. The next waymark beckoned. With renewed motivation he tramped along through a waterlogged channel, as the descent unfurled without complication. It seemed. He kept a good pace, and when a stream flowed to the right, he followed its course, quickly losing more height. He'd found his way down a quarter of the total in no time, but a false economy this proved, now that the rest of the way to the lochside was in view.

Very aware that he hadn't seen a waymark for some distance, it was not rocket science to conclude that he'd navigated off piste. The stream had become too precipitous to follow. Hurling itself off crags with reckless abandon, while heather had shot up to a height that left the sides impassable. He climbed back up a bit to the left, not sure whether he had strayed from the path by coming down too early. It was not to be found, and the map was of little help either.

The plantation line was but only a quarter of a mile beyond. However, the vegetation and steepness would demand a precise and technical escape. Alex crafted a winding and gravitationally improbable course amongst the boulders. Straining to counterbalance the weight of his load with each scramble he made. Just over 15 minutes it took, but it was an intense workout, and then, at the deer fence, he had to pick left or right. Still with no evidence of a path or a gate, he set out east in the direction of Glencripesdale.

After a few moments he found a corner post which he could scale. To negotiate it, he took his arm out of one of his shoulder straps and loosened the other, before climbing to the top. He was then able to lower the pack part of the drop, whilst gripping the fence with his free arm. There was no other choice but to let fall it the next few feet. It hit on the soft side and performed two complete roly-poly’s, before landing gracefully upright with no damage inflicted. Alex gave it a 5.3. He was soon after down himself on the plantation side, though with less grace.

He stole an opportune sit down here for some minutes to regroup, and marvelled at what a bright and mild evening it had turned out to be. For now though he only wanted to make it down wholesome from this hillside. There was a gentler grassy slope next, and glad to be unobstructed he marched on ... SNAP! He flailed wildly, before steadying himself to discover his left leg stuck in a hole halfway up to his knee, whilst his best walking pole had buckled beyond repair in the unseen hazard. It had served him soundly on his travels, but now had to make the ultimate sacrifice. He regained his feet and set about improvising with his little stumpy one to complete the rest of the route.

There was the trace of a track not far below and it really was a right old mess when he got there. Up here all around had been clear felled and anything that wasn't off to the sawmill remained where it landed. So much dead wood entangled in chaos really hindered progress and he was a bit at odds minus one vital appendage. The time came to strike away from this one, eventually. Once it had its fill of clawing at his ankles like tentacles of horror. Next, a water course needed crossing. This was steep and awkward like earlier on, but at least it was clear of deep heather. An arterial forestry track on the other side gave a whisper of hope that soon there would be more merciful movement afoot.

... In the woods a final sharp descent via a rocky flashflood bed dumped him on top of a waymarker. Feeling somewhat bamboozled like a fly caught in a Venus Flytrap, and no wiser about where the actual right path went to. However, his map was useful once again, and minutes later he was dipping his bare feet in the mirror still waters of Loch Sunart.

Sunset was now peeking around the corner as he moved along the lochside track, seeking that night's dreamscape. Soon, a couple out for an evening stroll came along. They were friendly enough and advised him that there would be wild-camp spots nearby, but none further on. Also, regarding the path over here. It is notoriously difficult to locate. They still have trouble finding it and they know the route!

He left them, feeling much chirpier now. After a little way along the track, he made use of a space to set down his bedding. When the couple passed back, he was already enjoying his warm supper in his sleeping bag, Macpac Sanctuary.

*

The extended stretch of track along Loch Sunart was a bittersweet feast for the limbs early that morning. No big hills or rough ground, but just a muddy trudge. The prospect across the water was striking however. So long and narrow was the loch that he was just a brief boat ride away from where he would reach at the end of the days walking. By the point the track became a road he had drawn level with Strontian. The first town on route since Lochaline, however the loch head, then bridge to cross were still a few miles off yet.

Through the morning Alex got progressively hungrier. At this time he'd long passed the stage of tummy rumblings and had come over quite light headed. Keeping on his feet had become as much of challenge as putting one in front of the other. He had meals in his food bag, but, not inclined to stop and prepare them, he rationed out the last handful of oatcakes. This was all part of the experience for him, seeing how his body would react to the gruelling routine. This spring he had already walked a good deal further than he had any other time before and the sensations from such an effort were now blossoming.

He continued for a period where his mind seemingly transcended the outcries of his gut, observing all with a redefined eye. As he regained the A884 he put a short term end to the crisis of calories with a quartet of boiled sweets. He persevered for some way more. Around the head of the loch to finally join up with the busy main road.

For some time he had been anticipating arriving at Strontian, which gave its name to the metal. As he drew in all the elements were eloquent: the hills, the loch, the houses and also the locals. He called in at the post office, and then the general store, before, lastly, the cafe, to obtain a few cakes for the road. A young local man serving the tables took interest in his travels, and gave reassurance, looking at his maps, that the paths approaching in Ardnamurchan were all well established routes.

In the morning he had been quite intrigued with the signs at each burn. Listing their Gaelic name and the Ordnance Survey grid reference number. Now, the easting values were decreasing as the late afternoon sun tanned his face. After having a well overdue foot bathing at Sron na Saobhaidh, he began the day's ultimate stint and soon a reasonable hill's climb presented a remarkable view back to Beinn Resipol painted orange with mature sunbeams.

Salen looked really great as the road swooped in from above, and, whilst taking in the surroundings, he was keeping an eager eye and parched throat peeled for a drinking water tap. There were no public toilets and no outside tap at the community centre, so he slumped down across the steps and munched on dry sandwiches for dinner. He was most uncertain about the prospects for the night. It was just about pitch black and he was on his way out of town, when he thought to try scouting out the little jetty. Lo and behold, there was a tap and a nice little spot to be lulled into the goal of slumber by the sound of lapping water.

*

There was warmth in the sun already as it rose up from behind the hillside. While he was packing away the last of his things a man came down to use the jetty. He wasn't bothered with Alex being there, in fact he seemed quite bemused as he sailed away. The miles through beautiful Glenborrodale got the day off to a magnificent start, and before leaving the shores of Loch Sunart for the last time, he sent a picture message home as an Easter treat. Showing exactly where he was at that very minute.

The road rapidly scooted him up from the waterside and right into the bosom of Ardnamurchan, where Ben Hiant was standing immediate sentinel. This green, grass covered bulk was a pleasant distraction from all the boulders and heather of late. It was just a little while before he was tackling the path leading up from the roadside. He intended to follow the path marked on the map, contouring around the side of a plantation, but now this looked uninspiring. Much more involving was the summit path, where ahead a solitary lady walker was ascending to lands of freedom. She was on her way back down when he met her a short distance below the top.

Now that he'd gained height a fresh new set of islands and Highlands had been discovered. With such clear visibility one would be fortunate to see all this for just only a handful of days in a whole year. Together, they scanned the horizon, and she pointed out the mountainous Small Isles: Rum, Eigg and Muck. Behind them could be discerned the Cuillen Mountains of Skye as well, and inland was Moidart. Alex was already familiar with the shape of Ben More on Mull, which was shrinking into the southwest. They were both surprised to see a white topped behemoth thirty miles or more away to the east, which they speculated was Ben Nevis.

After spending a brief time at the summit, he mapped out his route onward. The way to the road and Kilchoan was plain to see, like the lady said it would be, and with no apparent obstacles presenting themselves. There was a slope immediately at a sharp gradient, but it was dry, grassy and heading in the right direction, so he tackled it with care. Before long he found himself down on a lower plateau where many red deer were waiting. Another steepish decline took him to where he thought the path should be. It couldn't be found though. So he jumped a gate and again made his own beeline.

About half a mile from the road, there just had to be a dratted deer fence to slow things down. A strong gate used as a ladder made the obstruction straightforward to negotiate this time. From here he joined up with a farm track that lead to the main road and then it only needed a little walk to arrive at Kilchoan.

Alex was on the lookout for some food and drink, but didn't fancy his chances here on a Sunday. At the junction for the Ardnamurchan ferry a woman enlightened him that there was a slim chance the community centre might have some tea and cakes going. It was ten to five and the front entrance was shut fast, however a few families were piling into their cars outside. One young lady was considerate enough to go back inside to fill his water bottle. Much needed on such a bright day. There had been a party there earlier that afternoon, so otherwise it would have been closed all day. She also recommended the Sonachan Hotel three miles further along for food and refreshment.

As the road took him up into the hills there was a most marked transformation in the landscape. Maybe it was something to do with the dryness in the air that day, but he had never before seen such an arid and barren looking place in this country. Parched, dark brown heathers sprouted feebly like pimples with little purchase on a gnarled face of stubborn, frazzled rock. Churned from the precipice of a topographic ocean by a primordial volcano blast. Perhaps.

Taking full advantage of its position was the Sonachan Hotel. After placing his order, he dragged himself out onto the balcony, which actually had a vista of the southern Outer Hebrides that took some devouring on its own.

It had been the best day since Mull easily, and the denouement was waiting at Ardnamurchan lighthouse, the most westerly point on the British mainland. The sun was going down and quite a reasonable crowd of cars still filled the car park. The colourful lightshow in the sky entertaining all. Such spectacular sunsets are commonplace enough, but the setting here really had to be seen to be believed. The most sublime ornament of the Black Cuillen Ridge pinnacles, never painted more vivid than now, and just plain vicious on the skyline, piercing where they might.

It was fifteen minutes or more until the sunset, but he still had to press on back up to Achosnich, where he planned to sleep out in a field. With an empty water bottle again, he had to fill up from a shallow stream at Grigadale; even if he couldn't guarantee its absolute purity. Especially with a sheep peering around the hillside quite conspicuously. He supped a bit for the moment and would finish the rest the next day if no ill effects developed.

Further on at his nightspot near Achosnich, he was struggling to find things as the once ubiquitous daylight smouldered to a red ember's fire. Try as he might, he couldn't find his pocket torch after numerous thorough sweeps of all likely hiding holes. He couldn't help thinking of stories he'd read of mischievous faeries bewildering lone travellers in places like these. Then as he went to fill his cooking pot at the burn, he almost stumbled over an unseen rock in the gloom. Later on, he lay awake cosy in his bivvy, stargazing. It wasn't until after eleven o'clock that it was dark enough to discern the twinkling of faint stars. Just before the trail of a meteor finally dislodged matchsticks keeping his eyelids apart.

*

He anticipated a pivotal day coming. A succession of paths promised passage through Ardnamurchan's northern coast. Breakfasting, he discovered the wonder of generous chunks of Kendal Mint Cake sandwiched between Digestive biscuits. An indulgent but tasty way to help face the day's demands. Last in his packing away routine he peeled off his Rab mohair bedtime pullover and sensed something metallic. A lump in the breast pocket, which he was certain that he ransacked in the night's torch hunt. Of course Alex was elated to be reunited with his silver shiner, but it would get little use for several months now, with the rapidly lengthening days.

The day began nice and easy with a quick little walk down to Portuairk. A quaint village looking out to sea that would be the ideal place to retire for many wandering souls. From there a path was signposted over to Sanna Bay. It started off clear enough, but before long he had conspired to wander off route. Having to: climb a fence, scrabble about some rough ground, and ford a river to rectify. The way ahead then was plain to see, and drawing into the village it turned into a very pleasing morning.

Again the scene here was most agreeable to behold and he was fortunate to enjoy the sights with barely another being in view. The place had a feeling of remoteness about it, far off from anywhere else. Yet unlike the majority of wild areas he had passed through, it seemed kindly hospitable and a resourceful person could comfortably eke out a settled existence.

At a lay-by a carload of walkers were just piling out as he hovered along the road in their direction. Whilst they waited for one to take a comfort break in the corner, Alex gleaned information from a helpful chap that he would now have a good track to follow from here to the ruinous Glendrian. It would then most likely be wet underfoot for the rest of the way.

A water board style track led the way. Propelled by some high octane thrash metal buzzing in his iPod earpieces Alex scampered like a squirrel across the treeless Ardnamurchan moor. Leaving the four ramblers behind to their own plod. The ruins of Glendrian were a sad sight, and after ruminating around the rubble for a period, he found the footpath that would go right through to Fascadale.

Wet underfoot would be quite a wild understatement. For the next mile or so he found himself wading through a swamped area, often much deeper than the top of his boots. Seemingly trying to suck him beneath the remains of rotten biota. It was as if all the water from around was stagnating here, because, up on crag tops adorning the horizon, there was not one sign of even a trickle to tickle the toe of a toad. Further along, Alex and his squidging socks were squeezed through a tight gully where a canoe could have been helpful for keeping to the path line. There was nothing else for it but to clamber along the rocky sides until it was somewhat solid ground once again.

Improving conditions took him to a junction of trails. He moved along the left one, leading seaward. A few minutes passed and he could see it was the wrong choice, but he ploughed on regardless. It descended to a magical secluded cove, by Rubha Groulin. Across the water the island Eigg was now visible in vivid detail, casting its spell over the envious mainland viewer. After allowing a quick breather pause to attempt to inhale what was in fact breathtaking, he rapidly retraced his footprints and soon again was progressing eastwards, where the going was fair to good.

The last section of the path was a rocky descent, and waiting for him on the stony beach was a welcoming committee of cows. A brief struggle up the opposite slope rewarded him with a rest stop, propping his pack up against the gate at Fascadale. It took the weight off his shoulders and allowed oxygenated blood to swim back through his brain cells. A lengthy, but enjoyable, speed walk inland was called for then to bridge Achateny Water, and the seemingly deserted village Kilmory was reached a short bit further.

There was a 'P' marked on the map at Kilmory. From experience he wasn't pinning hopes on finding a shop and sited on the spot was just a weathered red post box. Regathering morale and motivation for the afternoon’s efforts, he chewed on dry crackers and soaked his feet in the sympathetic stream for a short half hour. Before reapplying his increasingly worn out Raichle boots to the asphalt again.

His route led him on through Ockle. A great spot, much to his taste, and certainly a seldom visited corner of Ardnamurchan. The final link path was getting nearer, and the lengthy farm track could be seen winding through the sweep of hills. Where the path itself meandered amidst the imposing boulderscape further on was still a mystery. Walking along the airy track, which was much appreciated for its ease across the rough hillside, he could only guess at what demands the path would make of him when it appeared. Mixed fortunes with Scottish footpaths had spawned a concern in the back of his mind. He could be forced to backtrack to the B8007 through Glenborrodale and Salen again if this way was going to look too dangerous or impassable.

The line of power cables parallel to the track descended to Eilagadale, at the foot of a valley. Round the corner of a bend up top, a signpost solved the riddle of meander in one stroke, when the needle threading route was finally unveiled. He needn't have been concerned, because though this walk was not going to be straightforward, the way ahead was distinct and promised great views. A boot width's trail strangled onwards, along the side of a steep ravine covered in heather. It was somewhat reminiscent of Tryfan's Heather Terrace he thought, but not on such a grand scale.

On the other side it was a sharp switchback climb up rugged slopes, before leveling to a gradual ascent amid rock outcrops. Soon he was cresting the hill and looking out from Ardnamurchan at a landscape that would occupy him for a couple of days. The next track could be seen now a quarter of a mile away, but there was still another slightly precarious slope to be traversed with care first. He was quietly content with proceedings once on the easy track, barging ahead with the way through to Moidart clear of complications.

The evening now was coming fast and his energy was waning equally, so he nibbled on Dolly Mixtures for a quick sugar fix as he descended to Kentra Bay. This seemed to help, because he then got his head down through a long deep forest mile, eager to get the view of the bay and his eyes acquainted. Coming out into the open at last, it was worth all efforts, with the bay indeed being quite a sight for sore feet.

Nearing Kentra Moss his first and foremost concern was getting to Acharacle a.s.a.p. Back when he came into Salen on Saturday night he had seen a sign for pies and cakes available in Acharacle. Just a couple of miles away then, but it would surely be too late when he'd roll into town tonight. He got to a junction that he thought would place him five minutes from town, but was getting ahead of himself, as the main road was clearly still some distance away yet. The Dolly Mixture energy burst had dwindled, but he was determined to through-hike right into the town. However, with an armchair comfortable boulder coming up on the right, and a bootlace undone to his left, all propulsion petered away and he flopped to his first sit down since Kilmory.

He took a few minutes to organise the sheet maps needed for the morning and refamiliarise himself with the route. For the meantime however, he was just looking to redouble his efforts and cover the final stretch into Acharacle, hopefully finding somewhere close by to sleep. It didn't take long, once he'd re-established vertical equilibrium. There was the inevitable graveyard on the way into town, which he could reluctantly sleep in as a last resort. The only place open was the hotel bar, where he was made to feel very welcome by the friendly bar staff. Leaving there nicely refreshed, he skulked across the street to a spacious shelter, making sure to note the time of the first bus, before racing off to sleep.

*

With his alarm set for sunrise, he was already packed up and walking before seven o'clock. This morning required a long main road walk and he was keen to get some distance covered before it got busier. He retraced the short way back through Acharacle, before crossing the Shiel Bridge and noted to himself that he would like to see more of these waters another time. As the morning aged, the traffic flow got slightly more concentrated. However, with room to spare on the verges there was passageway aplenty for everyone. Walking up the first hill of the day he had a lengthy coughing episode. His chest was a bit rough, largely down to many consecutive nights sleeping out, but he managed to loosen the worst of it reaching the crest of the hill.

Coming out of the trees on the way down, he got the first of many visual treats that day, as Loch Moidart rolled out in front of him. Before he knew it, he was rounding the other side and passing the memorial Seven Men of Moidart trees. Sprouting out of the loch was the tidal island Shona Beag, which he had half a mind to visit. In the end he opted out, with a busy day already planned, though a party of older ramblers were evidently embarking that way.

Another energising walk saw him arrive at Glen Uig, and the stream of gorgeous landscapes kept up their consistent regularity. Loch Ailort and the Ardnish peninsula now flaunting their finest sides. Striding down into Glenuig village, two locals hailed him. One had driven past on the road earlier and they both thought he had made good time coming along from Acharacle.

In a reversal of the norm, he was too early for the shop opening, which was closed until the mid afternoon. Encouraged by handily placed signs, Alex gravitated towards the community centre, which had a cafe as well. He was a quarter hour before their midday opening, and so took the opportunity to use the luxuriant rest room facilities. There was a shower if he wanted, but that would have been far too indulgent.

On returning to the cafe he made light work of devouring a bacon and egg bap, washed down with fresh orange juice. He had a good study of a flyer for a folk music band playing around the north of Scotland, but all the dates seemed unlikely to coincide with his own tour. The lady serving the food gave great encouragement when he mentioned his plans and recalled how a girl walking round Britain had also passed through a previous year. Also, she confirmed that the bothy at Penmeanach would make a worthwhile diversion from the main road for the night.

Returning to the A861, the traffic was now light in the middle of the day. With mountains towering all around his attention was kept well occupied. This was all good walking, and even reaching the fast road, rocketing up to Mallaig, he found it not as oppressive as he feared. The car park for the bothy zoomed into his sight on the left in short time. From here, a three mile walk up Penmeanach's garden path and then he could enjoy a cosy night’s accommodation, courtesy of the Mountain Bothies Association.

The path was clear and easy to follow. Dropping down first to cross the railway line, then scaling the hillside to break free of the woodland and open up exquisite views of the area. This heathland path had multiple trods along its way. He did his best to note the most direct lines through the peaty bits so he could make light work of the return. He passed a family, with the father carrying an infant on his shoulders, before descending past the mystical Loch Doir a' Ghearrain. Filling his water bottles from the outflow.

As he got down to the final approach along the flat, a telltale sign of smoke rising from the chimney told him that someone was already at home. He had five brief minutes of suspense, and recalled a lively party of boozy middle aged Scots he encountered on the Southern Upland Way at Over Phawhope.

This evening the company was to be much less rowdy however. With a very hospitable mild mannered family of four in residence. They were on the final night of an idyllic week long 'get away from it all' vacation. Alex was impressed and quite jealous when they revealed that they had been on many similar breaks with the kids throughout Scotland. He then gave a brief run through of his own voyages to date. The father promised to sit up with him after the kids' bedtime. To offer guidance about footpaths and bothies, scanning through the portfolio of maps up to Durness. Alex was quick to notice the brimming spare food cupboard. When given orders to help himself, he relocated an unsuspecting tin of ravioli to prop up a flaming faggot on the fire.

With the first course now centrally heating his belly, he nipped out to the mouth of the river to bathe his fumy feet. It was a simple pleasure to watch the families' cooking pot races being held. The lad's sleek vessel piloting the rapids first to the sea each time. This was the first coastal bothy he had frequented and out here he could easily picture himself marooned in some uncharted territory. Such was the awe-inspiring impact of the mountains and the sea.

Snug in the bothy afterwards, he cooked up a deep panful of soup and rice by candlelight, finding the swing arm pot rest very useful for heating over the open fire. He really considered himself in the lap of luxury when he was handed a piping hot mug of drinking chocolate next. Later he crammed the remaining empty crannies of his stomach with a sugar rich pudding. Alone briefly, whilst bedtime stories were told in the other living area.

As the night took full hold, Alex, and the father (whose name he didn't catch), spent a studious hour deep into the pile of map pages. The midnight hour came and went, and with it, a lot of darkness and mystery about the way on from here to Cape Wrath became bright and familiar in his mind.

*

He was awakened by his phone's alarm and stuffed all of his things into his pack by torchlight. The bothy was still warm from the last logs on the fire when he emerged out into the half-light. He'd secured only a few hours of restless sleep, but leaving now he would be on course to reach Mallaig by mid afternoon. He felt in good form, even at this early hour, and made quicker progress back to the road the second time along. The walk down the A830 was not too bad at all, and there was a cycle track for considerable parts of it. He had intended to branch off along a lane near Druimindarroch and take a nice looking route into Arisaig. However, improvements to the trunk road meant it was nowhere to be found once he got to where he thought it should be on the map.

Coming into Arisaig the road surface was steamroller flat and unblemished. Alex imagined he was walking on freshly fallen snow, as he coated certain patches for the first time with rubber off his boots. Earlier on he'd seen a sign announcing a road closure, and now he realised why. An area had been barricaded off and the red carpet was being rolled out anticipating a V.I.P to officially open the new road improvements. He had a little giggle thinking what the gathered masses would have done if he'd sauntered by half an hour later, just as the ribbon was being cut!

The sun was blazing high when he found his way into the centre of Arisaig, and he sat down on the waterfront with a crisp shopping bag stacked full with fresh goodies. The Small Isles were getting left behind now and irrepressible Skye was assuming control of the horizon. He had to show discipline and not get ahead of himself at this point. If he jumped onto a ferry straight away in Mallaig, he could be over there for dinner. More sensibly though, he would take a relaxing evening to gather his resources for the morning. His attentions were returned to the here and now, when a sightseer spied his Power Monkey solar slave charging up in the bright daylight and he had to give a quick run through of its functions.

When he reburdened himself for the road, he became aware of one notable missing item. The war wounded walking pole. His mind must have been across the Sound of Sleat already in the shop, when he'd abandoned it by the basket stack. Thankfully he'd not moved further than just across the road, and, with a minimum of fuss, they were both reunited again in pedestrian travel.

Leaving the town by Keppoch House, Alex thought he had slippers on along a gentle shoreline trail. The most soothing he could remember for a long time. After turning a corner he made a glaring directional miscalculation, heading uphill through trees, and then over a challenging open area. This detour consumed extra time, but it did provide an unique viewpoint of the region. With a few fence-scalings under his belt, he found his way to Back of Keppoch. He could have explored a little bit more of the coastline here. However, not eager to mess about finding his way through caravan parks, he just stepped it up again back on the open road. The B8008 curved its way about several bays of the purest white sand, and, after finally dragging its gaze from the front, the River Morar came onto the scene, to set pulses racing with a tumble of boulders and bush.

The afternoon was young and he was generous with his time, heading up to gape at the truly wild Loch Morar and its nearby church, which could have been lifted straight from the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. He passed through Morar Village, and, arriving in Mallaig in quite oppressive heat, was glad that he'd got the miles covered in the mild morning hours.

His first port of call was the Way Out West outdoor stockists. Leaving with a shiny new replacement tartan walking pole, he really did look the part now. He then snagged a bunk for the night in Sheena's Backpackers Hostel, and settled in with sweet seafood smells drifting up from the restaurant downstairs.

After a successful Spar and Co-op shopping spree and savouring the bustling harbour scene, he yearned again for more of the Vibram-cushioned foot itch. With the new Highlander stick in hand, he enjoyed an easy hour of evening exercise. He walked out of Mallaig, and just around the headland the most remote land of Knoydart graced the moment. To be reached only by boat or on foot, the harbour of Inverie lay proud with captive honour in a mountain fortress. Very near it seemed across the water, but completely out of reach. For this year anyway. He may get to return one day. Assuming he can crack the Skye first.