May 27. Cuillins tower…
…above my campsite, which is routinely spectacular. It is at Glenbrittle, on the south west of the Isle of Skye. I am parked virtually on the beach, whilst all around are the aforementioned Cuillins. They look as mountains should look; impossibly high, impossibly steep, impossibly craggy and impossibly menacing: the sort of mountains your imagination would conjure up if you were reading The Lord of the Rings. These are the Black Cuillins (the Reds are about 10 miles to the north east), although they are actually battleship grey. When the evening light softens the jagged edges of the ridges and scree, it looks as though they’ve been upholstered in grey velvet.
…above my campsite, which is routinely spectacular. It is at Glenbrittle, on the south west of the Isle of Skye. I am parked virtually on the beach, whilst all around are the aforementioned Cuillins. They look as mountains should look; impossibly high, impossibly steep, impossibly craggy and impossibly menacing: the sort of mountains your imagination would conjure up if you were reading The Lord of the Rings. These are the Black Cuillins (the Reds are about 10 miles to the north east), although they are actually battleship grey. When the evening light softens the jagged edges of the ridges and scree, it looks as though they’ve been upholstered in grey velvet.
The Black Cuillins from Glenbrittle
But if the mountains are magnificent, the mountaineers are much less so. Skye is overrun with people of all ages in lycra, fleece, leggings, fatigue trousers and, above all, boots. I haven’t seen anyone wearing just plain shoes all day. For the genuine mountaineers, I have nothing but admiration. But the mountain climbers – the ‘Munro Baggers’ as they’re known in Scotland for reasons I won’t bore you with – are an unappealing lot.
In the pubs, they talk of nothing but their climbs; on the mountain they appear to talk of nothing at all. As I passed them on a brief foray up Sgurr Alasdair this afternoon, their faces seemed set in a mask of determination. The couples tend to walk in single file, about 50 yards apart – and that goes even for those who aren’t married!
Anyway, I would rather they weren’t here in quite such numbers. The campsite is jam-packed with them, the pubs over-run (or perhaps that should be over-tramped), and Skye – whilst undeniably beautiful – lacks the sense of solitude – of other-worldliness almost – of Durness and the far north western Highlands.
Last night I stayed at The Sands caravan park, at Big Sand, a few miles north of Gairloch. It is a big site, with every facility you can think of, set behind a ridge of dunes, beyond which is a huge sandy beach. As I sipped a glass of cool white wine and recovered from the 140 tortuous miles I’d covered to get there, I could see the mountains of the north of Skye blue in the distance.
But much the best of yesterday was visiting Sandwood Bay, the almost legendary beach which is claimed to be both Scotland’s most beautiful and most remote. It took me about an hour and a half to make the four mile trek from car park to beach. The track got rougher as it went long, although the hardest part was the final slog through the dunes. It reminded me of dear old Fred Rumsey, a Somerset fast bowler of the old school, being set to run up and down the dunes at Burnham in his cricket boots, in order to get fit for an England call-up. I think he managed about three, before setting off with his ‘fitness coach’ to the nearest pub.
But if the mountains are magnificent, the mountaineers are much less so. Skye is overrun with people of all ages in lycra, fleece, leggings, fatigue trousers and, above all, boots. I haven’t seen anyone wearing just plain shoes all day. For the genuine mountaineers, I have nothing but admiration. But the mountain climbers – the ‘Munro Baggers’ as they’re known in Scotland for reasons I won’t bore you with – are an unappealing lot.
In the pubs, they talk of nothing but their climbs; on the mountain they appear to talk of nothing at all. As I passed them on a brief foray up Sgurr Alasdair this afternoon, their faces seemed set in a mask of determination. The couples tend to walk in single file, about 50 yards apart – and that goes even for those who aren’t married!
Anyway, I would rather they weren’t here in quite such numbers. The campsite is jam-packed with them, the pubs over-run (or perhaps that should be over-tramped), and Skye – whilst undeniably beautiful – lacks the sense of solitude – of other-worldliness almost – of Durness and the far north western Highlands.
Last night I stayed at The Sands caravan park, at Big Sand, a few miles north of Gairloch. It is a big site, with every facility you can think of, set behind a ridge of dunes, beyond which is a huge sandy beach. As I sipped a glass of cool white wine and recovered from the 140 tortuous miles I’d covered to get there, I could see the mountains of the north of Skye blue in the distance.
But much the best of yesterday was visiting Sandwood Bay, the almost legendary beach which is claimed to be both Scotland’s most beautiful and most remote. It took me about an hour and a half to make the four mile trek from car park to beach. The track got rougher as it went long, although the hardest part was the final slog through the dunes. It reminded me of dear old Fred Rumsey, a Somerset fast bowler of the old school, being set to run up and down the dunes at Burnham in his cricket boots, in order to get fit for an England call-up. I think he managed about three, before setting off with his ‘fitness coach’ to the nearest pub.
Arriving at Sandwood Bay
Sandwood was well worth the trouble getting there. To arrive was even better than the hopeful travel. It is a huge crescent of white sand, backed by dunes, and behind them, the dark waters of Sandwood loch. At the south end is a rock stack, whose gaelic name means ‘the shepherd’. Just off-shore is a large rock, called ’the sheep’ (although it actually reminded me much more of the rock off Cape Cornwall, whose name I forget, but which is known locally as “General de Gaulle in the bath”!) I couldn’t linger long, as I needed to make it to Scourie before the pub shut at 2.30, but I picnicked happily in the dunes, basking in the sunshine and reflecting on how glad I was that I’d made the effort.
And so back to the present, which is a bit lonely. They didn’t have a hook-up available (all those bloody mountain people!), so I’ve no television, there’s no mobile signal, so no phone or internet, the radio can’t even pick up Isles FM and I’ve just blown up the front of my gas grill, in which I was warming a pizza for my solitary supper. Claire will no doubt tell me that I’m stupid and shouldn’t have closed the glass door, but it seemed the obvious thing to do to speed things up.
Happily, it was safety glass, and no harm has been done – other than to my pride, of course.The Shepherd and the Sheep, Sandwood Bay
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