Setting out from
Gourock on the Clyde ferry, hills over on the other side were a grey blur
through the mist. It was quite a special moment nearing land then, when the
details of Holy Loch slowly became clear and lucid. He could see straight away
that he would be passing through an area much, much wilder than those he'd
already visited. He got off at Hunter's Quay and had a pleasant surprise when
the young ticket collector onboard didn't want any money from him for his fare.
Dunoon, seen from Alexandra Parade on the seafront, was a great looking town.
He would have liked to explore it further but still had a lot of ground to cover
before nightfall.
The long miles to
Toward Point were no task, and back in his stride again he was completely in
his element. The four weeks already spent trekking north made it all the more
gratifying, as opposed to just starting out at this point instead. At the beach
by Toward lighthouse the Bute ferry came chugging past. So close it seemed that
it would graze its bottom on the shingle bank. A hard stint of rough stony
beach brought him back to the road. Whereupon he continued along to Loch Striven.
The evening scene here was perfect. The water was calm, like a mirror
reflecting the peach sun as it dipped behind the subtle grey outlined hills. A
better first night in the Highlands could not have been wished for!
*
The path to the head of the loch was the roughest walk so far and included many
rewarding sections of shoreline and woodland. With more birds of prey filling
the air along the way than seagulls for a change. A long steady climb up the
B836 brought delightful views back down the loch in midday sunlight, and then,
after topping out, of Cowal's interior moorland.
After taking a left
turn to head south towards the Kyles of Bute and the ferry crossing, another
lochside walk to send spirits souring unfolded. It worked out very nicely as he
walked his own pace to the ferry jetty and they set sail right after he
boarded. As if delaying especially for him. There was only one car on the big
ship, and it was clear to see that this was the back way onto Bute. It was then
an eight mile long haul on the road. The late afternoon stretched into evening,
but it was totally worthwhile to arrive in prim Rothesay just as night fell
upon the isle.
*
The rain showers of the night had eased, so he set out in good spirits to
complete the circuit of Bute. Just a little way on, at Kerrycroy Bay, he
arrived at the start of a wonderful woodland shore track leading onwards.
Stepping out into a clearing at a church a short while later there was an
interesting statue of Jesus; very lifelike, lit up with vivid detail in the
morning light against a backing of bare trees. The carefree mood Alex was in,
he just said to himself 'Hey Jesus. How's it going?' and then carried on along
his way.
Reaching the
southeast of the isle at Kilchatten Bay he walked out along the orange sands
there. A gorgeous shade quite unlike any other beach he'd seen before. After a
muddy path through some woods, he joined a lane which lead on to the road up
the west side of the isle, the A844. This took him through pleasing farmland
and would certainly have been very special indeed if the views across to the
Kintyre Peninsula weren't shrouded in low level cloud. However, this afternoon
still proved memorable enough for seeing several nice rainbows climbing high in
the sky.
Further along, the
wind had really picked up and was making the going quite hard. So, in spying a
bird hide, he opted for a brief respite. Luckily it was made of stronger stuff
than the storm-battered one of a few weeks ago. It was warm and fully weather proof
and he easily could have drawn out the ten minutes he'd allocated. But, soon
enough, there was nothing else for it except to wrap himself up tight and
stride out into the now head on gale.
The wind remained a
factor for the rest of the walk back to the ferry and was intermingled with
lashings of rain. Half a mile from the jetty, the ferry was just coming in. He
sped up his step with a hope to board it, though only a few hundred metres
short it drew off to leave him with nothing else to do but wait for the next
sailing. Arriving back on the mainland in another shower, he went no further
than the ferry shelter to cook some food, and, once settled, didn't end up
leaving there till the following day.
*
The sound of the ferry starting its morning runs awoke him at five thirty and
it was with no great hurry that he prepared himself for setting out. The first
few hours were spent retracing the way back up Loch Riddon. One particularly
bitter hail shower blasted through for a while, though it did also ease off
just as quickly as it started. After getting back to the Auchenbreck road
junction, it was still a couple of miles more before the steep cross country
narrow lane he had been looking forward to. Rising to over three hundred metres
in no time at all, through a forest with many twists and turns, the view soon
opened out. Before long he could clearly make out the sizable town of
Lochgilphead directly across Loch Fyne, whilst Kintyre stretched away into the
far distance southwards.
The way down to Otter
Ferry took a long time, but the colourful panorama ensured it never became
dull. The place itself on arrival was welcomingly sedate. After a brief look
around, he headed south through a large estate to reach the B8000.This long
stretch was marked by sleet showers between radiant sunshine, and, wide
expanses of desolate moorland followed by prime ancient woodland. Alex was
certainly adjusting to the highland experience with alacrity by now.
A few miles later, he
was able to steal a brief catnap along one gentle downhill section of the
route. As long as he could sense one foot and walking pole still making contact
with tarmac he was comfortable enough to continue walking with both eyes
closed. After this reviving stint a crossroads was reached at Millhouse. Westwards
was the ferry across to Kintyre, but he was opting for an eastern diversion
tonight instead.
It was a pleasant
mild evening, with the low sun giving western Bute a warm glow. A rainbow
rising right out of the sea between Kames and Tighnabruich brought the day to a
magnificent end.
*
Waking up near Kames
very early Alex was treated to the glorious sight of a deep pink and red
sunrise. Such a lovely sky could only suggest one thing; rain was on the way.
As he walked down to the southern end of the peninsula it managed to keep dry
however. Walking north again, back to the crossroads, he was offered a lift by
two locals in a pickup truck. As always he declined the kind offer without
thinking twice.
This time at
Millhouse he headed west towards the Portavadie jetty, with ferry traffic now
keeping him company along the well beaten road. This was the moment that the
inevitable drizzle began to fall. At this stage he welcomed it, feeling unclean
from sleeping alongside a bulldozed gravel pile the night before. Having thirty
minutes to wait, he ducked into the waiting room and freshened himself up as
the ferry returned. Stepping off the ferry at Tarbert he took the opportunity
to stock up on provisions, whilst the rain grew ever steadier.
First call was the
post office and the owner asked him straight away if he was walking the Kintyre
Way. Alex replied that he intended to follow its route over to Skipness to
begin with, but then planned to stick nearer to the coast further on, right
down to Campbeltown. The man mentioned that they had a baggage transfer service
available, but he was quite prepared to lug his pack up and over the hill.
However he was glad to leave it in the shop for an hour when offered a chance
to browse around the town unladen.
Leaving
Tarbert behind the start of the Way was easy to locate. He gained altitude very
quickly via steep steps and a well waymarked footpath. It had the makings of a
first class walk, if only low cloud wasn't blocking all the view. On the good
path he progressed across the first few miles with relative ease. Unfortunately
the hardened surface then gave way to a sodden moorland path, getting ever more
saturated by the now horizontal rain.
After half an hour of
getting ice blasted from the north his hands were turning numb. He didn't stop
to put his gloves on as he was toiling Nordic style with both walking poles.
Even managing to lose the bottom segment of one which got sucked down beneath
the mire. Relief came a good deal further on when a forest brought some shelter
against the worst of the weather.
Getting to Skipness damp and cold he opted to take up temporary residence of a
phone box. Spending a long half hour trying not to catch a chill, he pondered
his next move, as the rain was etching into the glass like from a power hose. A
woman approached, so he poked his head out to see if she needed to use the
phone. Unsurprisingly she didn't. Having an idea, he asked her if the nearby
Claonaig ferry jetty had a shelter. She said yes, but some locals had been using
it over the winter and he might find himself needing to lift some hay bales! A
bit perplexed as to whether she was talking about a barn or something else he
was still optimistic that it was a better prospect.
Waiting another long
while for the rain to abate slightly, the time came at last to dash along the
couple of miles to the shelter. The shoreside along this stretch couldn't have
suited the situation better. All around was an angry jumble of angular rocks
and boulders. A far more grim reality than the land of green and brown he had
envisioned from across Loch Fyne.
Getting to the
shelter actually half dry from a strong wind, he was clear about the equine
issue. There was grooming kit and some hay for the horses in a field opposite.
More importantly, the Perspex and steel structure was wind and rainproof and he
had no hesitation in making the bench his bed for the night.
*
The storm continued through the night and into the morning. Really threatening
to blow the sides in at times it seemed; but they held fast. As he was nearly
leaving, a mother and daughter arrived for their morning visit tending to the
horses. He apologised for being there but the girl said it was okay, as they
were only making use of the shelter whilst the ferry service was stopped for
the winter. He had planned to go over to Arran at this point, but knew that it
was still a few days until the ferry started running again. So, therefore, he
decided to double back over here later in the week, on the way north up the other
side of the peninsula.
Remarkably the day
brightened into a reasonably sunny affair as he strode out along the coast road
south. He opted to ignore the Kintyre Way as it took a turn inland, but did
follow its lead a few miles later on though, when it returned for a more
coastal route through Kirnashie Wood. A long stretch of this kept to the
forestry tracks, with the trees well and truly hiding the sea, but ultimately
gave brilliant views of the west side of Arran and then down to his next stop,
Carradale.
Finding the village
shop closed for their lunch break, he left his pack unguarded at a picnic table
to walk down to the harbour and thought nothing of it. After a peaceful hour in
Carradale, he headed onto the coast road again. At this point in his walk he
was feeling really up for the challenge. Being able to walk the morning and
afternoon stints without slowing or stopping. He halted a few miles outside of
Campbeltown that night, so that he could have a food shop there in the morning.
*
Having an early start, Alex was in Campbeltown before eight and started the day
off with a warm scotch pie. It was a place he'd been curious to visit for a
long time. So he wandered around the streets for a short bit, getting strong
wafts of liquor from the distilleries, before returning to his route.
The coast road around
the tip of the peninsula was one of the best of its kind. With many dips and
rises, great scenery and long ranging views across the Firth of Clyde. By the
time that Southend had been reached and passed, the wind had gotten up to gusts
of gale force speeds. Taking the time of day and conditions into consideration,
he knew that he could just make it to the Mull of Kintyre lighthouse and then
take whatever shelter might be available there.
The single lane
lighthouse road really was a great walk, even with the strength sapping
headwind. Starting very steeply and then winding through the moors. It was
quite a few miles before the highest point was reached and the lighthouse came
into view. Such a scene of natural fury filled Alex with awe. The wind was
pounding enormous waves at the cliff base far below. The sky was a deep grey,
depositing another blanketing shower, and set as the backdrop was a blackened
apparition of Northern Ireland's sea cliffs.
The
lighthouse was close now it seemed, but the winding road meant there was still
over a mile more to go. Jogging most of the way, the weight of his pack soon
helped him make the descent. There were lights on throughout the lighthouse's
living quarters, but after a complete circuit it appeared deserted. He came
round to a courtyard, where, between the two apartments, 'Harvey's house' and
'Hector's house', the wind and rain was being fully blocked out by the
building. It seemed like again he had found his spot for the night, and after a
hasty meal he was drifting away to sleep.
About ten o'clock he awoke to the noise of a car arriving. Hector or Harvey? he
thought, but nobody spoke, and then, the cold iron shunt of the lighthouse door
shutting. There were no other disturbances that night. Only the wind
perpetually howling around the lighthouse, and it felt like sleeping just below
a wind tunnel experiment that had gone horribly wrong.
*
Playing on Alex's iPod that morning was not the famous Paul McCartney song
about the place, but Van Der Graaf Generator's A plague of lighthouse keepers.
Alas there was no Hector or Harvey in residence, but in fact a middle aged
Dutch couple who, he now realised, had driven past him the previous evening. After
the steep climb up to the public car park, he had the choice of going north
cross country over rough ground to follow the line of the coast. Or instead,
retrace his way, many miles further, along the road. Facing the prospect of
strong wind and bursts of hail he resigned himself to the tarmac backtrack.
However in these surroundings it was a pleasure to follow the course of the
road for a second time. With the sight of Sanda Island in a blustery sea and a
very distant Ailsa Craig keeping his eye occupied.
His route back north
took him through Glen Breackerie, and again he decided to keep on following the
road instead of taking to the hills via the Kintyre Way track. The walk to
Machrihanish was long and the afternoon did seem to drag on quite somewhat. The
weather had mostly been unconducive to fun walking, so he took an early night
stop in the vicinity of the golf course.
*
The move from golf course to beach of Machrihanish Bay at first light, placed
him in the teeth of a northerly gale. The few miles along to the road took as
many hours. Every step a struggle, often being blown backwards, whilst getting
sand lifted up into his face. He even reverted to walking backwards for some
periods. Though slightly slower, it took less effort and kept the wind from
freezing his skull. It wasn't the normal routine to have a break after walking
a comparatively short way, but he plonked down exhausted on a rock at the end
of the beach.
It was still only
nine o'clock when he took to the road, and being not nearly as exposed to the
wind here he began to make up for lost time. He was a bit disappointed now,
hoping to be getting his first views of Islay and Jura, but a thick cloud mist
covered the horizon. However there was a great improvement in the weather as he
progressed, and nipping inland to pass through Glenbarr, the sun had broken
free and was bringing the place to life with colour.
Back on the main road
going along to Tayinloan the view of Islay and Jura had totally opened up. In
the foreground Gigha was beckoning, just waiting to be explored. As it was well
into the afternoon, he was only afforded one hour to explore the island to make
the last ferry back. Or otherwise face spending the night there.
Once the ferry had
landed and he stepped out on the eastern shore of the island it was evident
immediately that the prevailing wind was being cut out by the land. Taking in
the beautiful surroundings, it was the first of many times in the coming weeks
that he felt like being in an island paradise. Unfortunately there was little
time to linger as he wanted to get over to the other side of the island and the
clock for the ferry was now ticking.
It was not a very
wide island, but the route was long as he took a road parallel to the shore for
a good mile, before heading upwards and across on a farm track to Mill Loch.
Now with a view from the west side Alex was as close as he would get to the
islands Islay and Jura this time. Very wild and unexploited, most tempting for
future excursions.
It had taken thirty
two minutes exactly to get to this point. He started jogging back but was soon
hindered, encountering a herd of cows across the track. Walking slowly not to
send them into a panic, they all eventually moved on except for one. Which
preferred to join the sheep, forcing through a fence into their field. This
delay left him needing to run most of the way, but he still got back with time
to spare. Though it might have been a fun experience anyway to stay on the
island. The ferry conductor revealed there was a night of Gaelic music planned
and Alex was not sure when he might next get a chance to take part in such
revelry.
*
Back on the Kintyre Way, he enjoyed a leisurely walk around Rhuahaorine Point,
before going along the A83 to Clachan. At a garage he bought some milk; the
shopkeeper there interested in his walk. The Kintyre Way seemed to be very well
promoted in the area. In all places along the Way, locals kept asked him if he
was walking it. Seeming almost disappointed when he had to concede that he was
just following coastal sections of it.
Now came the time to
return to the east coast and catch the ferry over to Arran. Walking over to
Claonaig on a newly constructed route, he envisioned himself walking around to
Glen Sannox and quite possibly up Goatfell the next day. Reaching the coast
road again the conditions seemed fair.
In less than half an
hour he was strolling the last few yards to the jetty. Down here it had become
noticeably more windy and the waves were breaking over the jetty with quite a
size. His attention was drawn to the Calmac ferries display board. The message
scrolling across told that the next sailing to Lochranza had been cancelled and
all others for the rest of the day would be 'subject to weather conditions'.
So, he occupied the shelter once again, cooking some food to pass the
time.
Before long, the
message changed to say there would be one more sailing ... But from Tarbert.
The line of cars waiting all headed away. Observing the worsening weather Alex
knew he wasn't going any further that evening. The realisation grew that he was
most likely not meant to visit the island now, and having already seen road
signs for Oban, he geared himself up for moving onwards and northwards first
thing in the morning.
No comments:
Post a Comment