From Loch Coruisk to Sligachan

I’ll be honest with you… I wasn’t the one doing the navigating, so I’m not going to try and name all of the many lochs, rivers, mountains and glens we crossed – I would only get it wrong and make a fool of myself. What I do know is that for a relatively short hike without any challenging bits I’ve rarely come across a route so beautiful. Unfortunately, shortly after disembarking from the Bella Jane, I managed to fall flat on my face doing nothing more challenging than putting one foot in front of the other. Two things you should know about me and hiking – I am clumsy, and I am scared of heights. I know I’ll probably never manage the more glamorous ridge walks like Crib Goch or Striding Edge, but I don’t do too badly considering. Still, there I was, at sea level, sprawled flat on my face on a slab of “non-slip and beloved of mountaineers” gabbro rock. Apart from gaining some cracking day-glo bruises all I really hurt was my dignity (I fell so hard that the resounding comedy “thwack” turned heads quite a long way up the trail) but it certainly slowed me down. Enough of my foolishness; I know what you are here for – pictures! And pictures you shall have.

We climbed the slopes at the foot of Sgùrr na Stri, and as we looked back a chain of Lochs spread out below us, starting with the Sea Loch Scavaig in the distance, and followed by Loch Coruisk.

A series of shallow climbs and descents saw the lochs disappearing then reappearing again, each time more distant, cradled in the widening, ferocious landscape.

On one such descent, a greenshank began calling querulously. The further down the trail we got the more the bird whistled, wheeled and fussed. Its nest must have been close by – and as another bird joined in the commotion it is possible that there was more than one nest to be protected. The lonelieness of the place intensified – a path with birds nesting along it cannot be commonly used.

At the top of a wide, rounded ridge we stopped to take in the view and eat. This was the highest point on our walk, and although we were maybe only a thousand feet up or so, it felt like the top of the world as we gazed across at the crests of the brooding red hills, sailing among low cotton wool cloud.

From here was a slow, gentle descent back into Glen Sligachan from its south side. We didn’t make for the cloud obliterated top of Sgùrr na Stri, and it’s a good thing we didn’t try; I was so stiff from my bruises we wouldn’t have made it back before the midges descended. It’s a walk to be savoured another day.

Crossing Loch Scavaig

After our lazy day exploring Glen Sligachan we decided it was time to do something a little more adventurous. Rising early, we caught the bus to Elgol, then took a trip on the Bella Jane across Loch Scavaig. This mini wildlife voyage would take us to Loch Curuisk, deep into the heart of the Cuillins. As you can see the weather this day was most atmospheric, and swirling cloud lent the black mountains a sombre grandeur.

If you ever go to Skye I can recommend this boat trip; though the one way journey that we took is only 45 minutes, you get to see a wonderful array of wildlife as well as listen to a genuinely entertaining and informative guide.  Gannets glided around us, and Atlantic terns swooped and squabbled. Razorbills and guillemots floated in little rafts close by, but I am sorry to say my camera wasn’t up to capturing them. The water was dead calm, and I had high hopes of spotting dolphins or a basking shark, but these charismatic animals eluded us. Still, with mountains like these looming up to surround you, you don’t lack for things to feast your eyes upon.

I tried to photograph the mountains as we pulled closer to the shore, I really did. Sadly, the several thousand vertical feet of jagged black spires marching into the distance on every side refused to be crammed into the confined space that is my viewfinder, so I had to just goggle at them open mouthed instead. Our guide claimed that it is the most dramatic natural harbour in the British Isles, and I could only nod dumbly.

Close to the landing stage are two tiny islands, which give basking space to a small group of common seals. Fairly rare on British coasts and normally shy, they have learned not to fear man in this secluded spot. I’ve seen atlantic grey seals before but not common seals, so this felt like a privilege.

There were pregnant females, ready to pup, and last years young ones among them too.

It’s a lousy picture, but I was so excited at seeing these Common Eider I had to share them. These are the ducks from which Eider down is obtained. Like the seals they are normally very shy, but these mollusk eating sea ducks know that they are safe and unmolested here.

Although the journey had been a short one, it felt as if we had been plied with riches from beginning to end. Had we chosen to explore the loch and go back the way we came, hot drinks and a small picnic would have been served to us – luxury on such a little boat! As it was, our friendly skipper and guide saw us off with juice and shortbread to help us on our way, as we set off through the hills on our way back to Glen Sligachan.

Little Bog of Horrors

Much of Skye consists of boggy moorland, a habitat I know next to nothing about. I was so blown away by the profusion of orchids and sedges that it took me a little while to spot the locally common (but thrillingly unfamiliar to me) sundews. These tiny plants with their elegant succulent leaves sporting glistening red nectar tipped hairs are so small you’d be forgiven for not spotting them. On a sunny day however, large colonies of the plant are clearly visible, glowing warmly like alien jewels in the mud. Once I’d discovered one colony and knew what to look for, I glanced about in surprise, suddenly realising that I was completely surrounded by them for some distance.

That is when I began to feel glad that I am several feet tall and human, because this dainty botanical wonder is carnivorous.

Sundews inhabit soils with poor nutritional value and in order to obtain the minerals they need, they have evolved the ability to lure and capture small insects using their mobile, sticky tipped tentacles. Attracted to the bright colours and sweet, glistening dew an unlucky fly will become stuck, the tentacles of the plant slowly enveloping and smothering its victim. The plant then exudes enzymes which will digest the insect and extract valuable minerals. Some sundews are even capable of enfolding their prey completely in their mobile leaves.

I felt fairly certain that the plants I had seen were round leaved sundews and oblong leaved sundews, but upon further research I’m no longer sure about the oblong leaved ones. Oblong leaved sundews are supposed to be rare in Skye, yet the ones I had seen were staggeringly common, suggesting that they could in fact be Great sundews. It may seem like splitting hairs to you but I’m a keen amateur plant geek and I care about the details. Plus, if I really was lucky enough to see huge numbers of a rare plant in an unusual place, I really should report it. I only wish I knew for sure.

Anyhow, that’s the science bit over. I will now invite you to imagine that you are 5 mm tall. You have struggled through head high spongy moss and swum through carnivorous beetle infested waters. Somehow, the gigantic, whirring dragonflies have failed to spot you. Eventually you spy an island, a safe place, and greatfully haul yourself up a blade of grass onto it. Huge bog-myrtle trees tower over you as you pick your way toward a patch of bare mud, and the air is filled with an oddly enticing sweet scent. A dried sedge stalk trips you up, and you stumble headlong into something…sticky. You look up, horrified, and see the questing scarlet tentacles tipped with sickly sweet goo, and no matter how you struggle, the supple, asphyxiating leaves are getting closer and closer….

Don’t ever let anyone tell you that mother nature is kind, be greatful that you are the size you are, and above all, don’t have nightmares!

Exploring the land that time forgot

We didn’t climb any of the Cuillins I’m sorry to say, but we did get a cracking view of their glorious slopes as we walked through Glen Sligachan. Once out of sight of the hotel the landscape becomes utterly prehistoric – the volcanic mountains and sweeping, glacier gouged valleys should by rights contain roaming herds of ancient megafauna. Our growing suspicion that any moment we might spot a herd of wooly mammoth was unshakable.

The glen is crisscrossed by many small streams which run to meet the Sligachan river, and there they pool, creating miniature waterfalls over the rocks and boggy areas all around the path. Here large green dragonflies whirr and dance and fight, the only moving creatures (beside ourselves) for many miles.

The weather, as you can see, was blindingly sunny and as such not at all typical of Skye. A local had told me the previous day that it had been gloriously sunny for weeks, but that the mountains looked wrong in good weather and he was missing the cloud. The people of Skye appear to like their weather ferocious and gloomy, which from what I’ve heard is just as well.

We were very lucky. I’ve heard and read accounts of the Sligachan river as a raging monster, but in late May it barely tickled its banks, and the bogs and streams that criss-cross the glen were not nearly as impassable as they often are. The breathtaking slopes of Druim na Ruiage gleamed emerald and dun against a brilliant sky.

Across the glen to the right, the fearsome Black Cuillins tower over the almost dry river bed. Don’t be fooled by the picture – they are a hundred times more impressive than they look on my tame little blog, and if approached from Loch Coruisk to the south of the range they display a staggering hostility. Beloved by mountain climbers the world over, they are made of Gabro, a black volcanic rock which is so rough it will take the skin off your fingers. Apparently this is what makes them so wonderful to climb – it is almost impossible to slip – although as I will reveal in another post I proved the exception to that rule!

Our gentle amble doubled back to the campsite when we drew level to Marsco, a handsome and inviting red hill. The glen walk was so peaceful and idyllic that not even the super-fit hikers among us were tempted to go up it. If there are any keen walkers or climbers reading, I do know it is terrible blasphemy not to sample those delicious peaks and crags in weather so rare but we were new to the island, not all of us (and by that I mean me) were in full fitness for a proper climb, and here’s the real reason perhaps – the two hundred varieties of Single Malt Scotch Whisky in the hotel bar ensured a late and hungover start to every single day. Next time we go, we’ll have to be a bit more pure of body and get up those wonderful hills.

Glen Sligachan

We camped at the head of Glen Sligachan. As we rounded the final bend on our bus journey and the driver called out to let us know we had arrived, the emerging panorama thumped me in the belly with a disorientating awe. No word or picture can begin to describe the immensity of the landscape, and I am sad that the pictures I include here can’t help but diminish the vastness and beauty of the place.

The campsite nestles beside the river, and it’s a short and happy walk to Hotel Sligachan with it’s jaw dropping single malt whisky menu. Glamaig, the highest of the Red hills was the first thing I saw every morning, and if I troubled to glance to the right, there were the stark and towering Black Cuillins. The latter mountains are considered a fair challenge to any climber, and although the red hills look impressive enough to me, Glamaig is host to a race from the hotel to its peak and back again, the fastest time being under 50 minutes! The wild landscape is not the only source of fascination on the inner Hebrides. Equally noticeable if you are camping (and a little disorientating to be sure) is the fact that at this time of year, the sky never gets entirely dark. There is still light in the sky at midnight, and wandering back to the tents from the hotel bar after a gruelling session of whisky tasting, we would be treated to the sound of cuckoos calling in the eerie half light.

How do you pronounce Sligachan? Well there’s a question, because while I’ve had the pronunciation described to me as “Slig-a-han”, the locals seem to swallow most of the middle of the word completely. To my untutored ears it sounded more like “Sliaccun”, and that’s only an approximation. It’s a friendly island, and despite my usual shyness I found myself chatting away happily to whoever I met, and whoever I met, they all seemed to be fiercely proud of their wild and beautiful home.

Of course, nowhere is perfect. Before your eyes start to cross with the grandiosity and smugness of my depiction of our campsite, there was one significant (ahem) fly in the ointment that you should know about. Midges. But more about that later…

Next Page »