Tiree

Campsite at Balephetrish

Back in May 2011 I set off with family and friends for a cycling tour to the islands of Col and Tiree. Our visit to Col coincided with severe storms that caused devastation across Scotland, as featured in the recent BBC series 'Hebrides: Islands on the Edge'. I watched the programme with interest because I didn't see much of the storms at the time due to spending the windiest 6 hours inside my tent physically pushing the roof upwards in a partially successful attempt to save it from destruction. It survived, but sustained such severe damage that it has never been pitched again. So instead of travelling onwards with our friends to Tiree we stayed on the boat, bade them farewell and returned to Oban and the safety of our van. 

At the time I was delighted to have been safely evacuated from these windy isles, but over time a sense of dissatisfaction developed at having gone all that way only to dock briefly at Tiree without disembarking, so this year we returned, equipped with a 4 season tent and a camper van, confident that we could handle whatever weather Tiree had in store for us. This time the weather was sunny with a relentless but relatively benign 20 mph wind, gusting to 30 mph, all day, every day. 

Campervanning is regulated on Tiree; wild parking is prohibited, but for a small(ish) daily fee one gets to choose from 20 or 30 van parking spots. Similar schemes are found outside the UK, for example in North America, and in my opinion they represent the future of campervanning.  The vanner gets access to prime spots and an assurance that they will not be crowded out by others; the locals get a small source of additional income and the means to ensure that fragile sites are not spoiled by overuse. We camped at Balephetrish on the northeast coast, a beautiful spot right on a sandy beach. 

The Ringing Stone, one of Tiree's premier tourist attractions. It is a glacial erratic transported from Rum, perched on the local rock in such a way that it rings when struck with a stone. Extensive cup-marking shows that it has attracted human interest for millennia.

The outdoor media often paint Tiree as a mecca for all forms of surfing, traditional, wind and kite, so I expected to spend the week tripping over salty-haired, VW-driving, doobie-tooting bums, but the reality was somewhat different. Tiree's population of 700 was augmented by only one would-be kitesurfer that I saw. He seemed able to get his kite into the air and sometimes also managed to get his feet onto his board, but no actual surfing occurred. Perhaps it is busier in the main holiday season.

Tiree is important archaeologically. Until recently, the discovery at Balevulin on the west of Tiree of a particular style of flint arrowhead suggested that the island was one of the earliest regions of Scotland to be visited by people after the last ice age, at around 12,000 years ago. (Subsequently Howood farm near Biggar has been dated to around 14,000 years ago. I've been following research in this area for a couple of years now - it's a rapidly evolving field in which the accepted facts often change). 

In many ways the presence of people on Tiree 12,000 years ago is more remarkable than that of people near Biggar 2000 years earlier, for the Ice Age did not end smoothly. The ice sheets slowly receded from their maximum extent around 22,000 years ago, culminating in a warm period during which wooded steppe spread to the north of Scotland. The Biggar site dates from this warm period. But the ice returned 12,800 years ago in a period known as the Younger Dryas or Loch Lomond Re-advance and stayed until 11,500 years ago. The ice caps of the Younger Dryas were confined mostly to western Scotland, but cooler conditions meant that the whole of northern Europe lost its tree cover and  reverted to steppe-tundra. 

Steppe tundra is a good habitat for reindeer, and the people of present day Germany developed the Ahrensburgian arrowhead in order to hunt them. These arrowheads represented a technological leap forwards; they had a tanged point, meaning that the stone was worked into a classic arrow shape with a pointy end and a straight section behind. It is claimed that arrowheads of this style have been found in Islay, Jura, Wester Ross and Orkney. The Islay finds are disputed, the Orkney specimens have disappeared, the exact circumstances of the Tiree find cannot be verified. The Wester Ross arrowheads are the most convincing, and if the hunters made it that far north then surely it is credible that the more southern finds are also genuine.

After 2200 hrs, the setting sun highlights  the Outer Hebrides on the horizon

Tiree has a feeling of being 'out there', a low island surrounded by a violent sea, so far west that the  view north is to the Outer Hebrides. At first it seems incredible that it could have been reached by hunters using the nautical technology of the Upper Paleolithic. However the sea level was much lower back then, so the hunters who left the Ahrensburgian arrowheads  may have been able to make the journey by hopping over a succession of relatively narrow channels. The sea level near the equator has risen by around 60 m since the Younger Dryas. Present day charts show that the shallowest route between Mull and Tiree isn't much deeper than 25 m. Precisely how much lower the sea level was in the Younger Dryas is uncertain, for that would be determined by a number of factors including:

• the extent of the ice sheets further north (the water locked up in them would lower sea level, additionally and less obviously they exert a gravitational pull on the ocean, resulting in a rise in sea level nearby and a corresponding drop further away);
• the temperature of the sea (thermal expansion raises sea level);
• the extent to which the more local ice sheets had depressed the land beneath, and  the extent to which this local depression had elevated the land more remote from them;

I find it fascinating to consider how different the landscape was back then, and tempting to speculate as to the similarities between those first reindeer hunters and ourselves. They were after all the modern people of their time, doing what was required to make a living, equipped with the very latest technology. Was the satisfaction and joy they felt as they sat down with full stomachs to watch the sun setting over the Outer Hebrides any different from my own?

Benighted on Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan

Mullach na Dheiragain from near the summit of  Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan

I panted my way to the summit of Mullach na Dheiragain at 2030 hrs.  After fueling up on trail mix I rummaged in my pack for my head torch. The prospect of benightment didn't concern me in the slightest. After the short, light nights of summer, I was looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with the constellations as I strode along under the starlit sky, 

The torch was nowhere to be found. I realised with a sinking feeling exactly where it was - back in my camp, about 6 km away and 700 m below. Suddenly my impending benightment seemed to be a very serious predicament indeed. I had seen a small slither of moon low in the sky earlier in the evening so knew that  there would be no reprieve from a full moon; my error would not go unpunished. Less than an hour of usable twilight was the most I could expect before true darkness set in. I looked around and took stock of my situation. If you were to hand me a map of Scotland and ask me to point out the place in which I would least like to find myself alone, in the dark, without a torch, the place in which I now found myself would be a strong contender.  I was deep in the wilderness, at least 15 km from the nearest road in every direction.

It was clear that I had to move fast, to get down off the summit, traverse across to Coire nan Dearcag, then climb up and over the east ridge of Sgurr nan Ceathreamhnan to start the descent into Glen Affric.  The route would be on unfamiliar, trackless terrain, but I had prospected the initial section of the route carefully on the way out. I would make the coire before light faded completely. Once in the coire I knew that the east ridge would be silhouetted above me and I knew exactly where I had to cross it, on the left side of the third top. Once on the other side I may be lucky enough to pick up the stalkers' path. I hoped that I would see the light of the remote Alltbeithe Youth Hostel and that this would give me something to aim for. I made haste.

Campspot with Beinn Fhada beyond

It was very dark indeed as I began to scramble up from the coire floor to the ridge. I felt my eyes bulging open, as if by opening my eyes as wide as possible I could actually let more light in. I had Tam the dog on his lead a few feet ahead of me. It was possible to pick his body out of the surrounding gloom, thus providing a useful gauge of the aspect of the terrain. My plan had been to push on until I could see no more and then assess the situation. I had a mobile phone but was knew that using it would kill my night vision for at least 10 minutes. I wanted to save the battery in case I needed its feeble light during the intricate micro navigation that would be required to locate my camp.

The light of the hostel was not apparent on the initial descent from the ridge but the outline of Mullach Fraoch Coire on the other side of the glen provided a guide as to the correct bearing. Hitting some steep ground made me realise that I had to be exceedingly careful, I couldn't make a single step without being very sure that there was something to step onto. Darkness could hide anything from a tiny divot to a leg-breaking cleft or the edge of a cliff. I resorted to tapping the ground before me like a blind man to verify its solidity, even shuffling on my rear at times. As I weaved to and fro in search of an easy route I dreaded finding myself stuck on a crag with no option but to put on my coat and hunker down to pass an unpleasant night, waiting for the dawn. 

The lights of the hostel came into view, lending me great cheer and giving me something to aim for. The terrain hid them on a few further occasions and each time I fervently hoped that the guests had not retired for the evening, depriving me of my beacon. I blinked, trying to interpret a tall, totem pole-like object a few feet in front. I realised that it was part of the fence that encloses the burn above the hostel. Its purpose is to keep the deer from eating the young birch that are doing their best to replace those that originally gave the burn - and the hostel - its name, Alltbeithe. This provided me with a handrail with which I was able to feel my way down the slope. When the wire ran out I glanced above to where an embarrassment of stars and the milky way peeped between shifting cloud. The lights of the hostel were now close and the angle of the slope had eased off considerably. The worst of it was over. I decided to use my mobile phone display to negotiate my way back to the tent. The puny light did little more than illuminate the ground on which I stood but this was a tremendous improvement. With its aid I picked up the track and made straight for my campsite. I was practically standing on my tent before I could see it. I have never been so glad to see a tent in my life. The time was just before 2245 hrs. I had been on the hill for just under five hours but was was completely frazzled after concentrating so hard. I stretched in my tent with a brew, deeply satisfied at having successfully extricated myself from what could all too easily have turned into a right old pickle.

A'Chralaig and the ridge connecting it with Mullach Fraoch Coire

On waking next morning to the sound of rain I opened the flap to inspect the day. On seeing that a thick swarm of midges milled outside, waiting for me, I decided to return to sleep and didn't wake until after 1000 hrs by which time the sun was shining, a light breeze had dispersed the midges and all was well. I walked out over Mullach Fraoch Coire and A'Chralaig in beautiful conditions to round off what had been a splendid - and unexpectedly exciting - weekend amid the high peaks of Affric and Kintail.

Isle of Jura backpacking and snake charming

The wild, uninhabited west coast of Jura captured my imagination when I glimpsed it between fleeting clouds from the summit of Beinn Shanntaidh two years ago. We returned at the weekend and made two traverses from the road on the east coast to the west. The first skirted the northern flanks of the Paps to Glanbatrick with its fabulous raised beaches, the second to the Glengarrisdale bothy near the north end of the island.

We saw only two other walkers the whole weekend, but there was plenty of wildlife. At Glenbatrick we watched a seal playing in the water, barking loudly when he surfaced and even breaching on a couple of occasions. At Glengarrisdale deer and goats infested the beach. The walking was rough, pathless bog and tussocky, waist-high grass. I saw one young adder, who knows how many I missed?

Having two encounters with poisonous snakes in the space of a month made me check what to do in the event of a bite. The advise from the NHS is remain calm, immobilise the affected limb to prevent the poison spreading then seek immediate medical assistance. It sounds like they usually just keep an eye on you in hospital anyway, so if bitten when right out in the wilds I'm not sure whether it would be best to sit it out or to push on in the hope of getting to a doctor or hospital.  

Does anyone have any good snakebite stories? I don't mean the lager and cider variety........

MV Finlaggan steaming between Kennacraig and Port Askaig

Sunset from Glenbatrick, Jura

Sunset from Glenbatrick, Isle of Jura

Glengarrisdale bothy, Isle of Jura

Campspot near Glengarrisdale bothy, Isle of Jura

Plan A: Coll and Tiree by bike. Plan B: Coll by bike and Mull by van.

Traigh Feall at the western end of Col

The Isle of Bute is, as the tourist board have long maintained, a beautiful island. But is not Hebridean. It lacks that Hebridean magic, the great luminosity which Murray attributed to light reflected from the surrounding sea. That Bute belongs to the B list of islands became clear to me as I walked in the hills of Jura a few years back, amazed at finding so much space out there in the west. Space that I had lived much of my life within a few miles of but which had been hidden completely from view and from consciousness by the smothering arm of the Mull of Kintyre. The islands of the Firth of Clyde are more mainland than ocean. This month brought an opportunity to experience this great contrast between the Hebridean and the non-Hebridean, following a visit to Bute with a much anticipated cycle tour of Coll and Tiree. 

The decision to tour Coll and Tiree by bike rather than by campervan was made and unmade many times in the preceeding months. The potential gains of cycling are not to be sniffed at: complete flexibility in choice of campspot; a week without motor vehicles; aligning our schedule with the other members of the party. The most important advantage is the ability to drink at will. The potential drawback is having to spend all week outside in crap weather being damp and cold. The rewards are only available to those who commit. I thought of the cycle tours that I had come close to cancelling because of the forecast that had turned out fine: the traverse of the Hebrides from Barra to Stornoway; Islay and Jura. All the while I tried to suppress any recollection of last year's wet tour round the north coast. 

In the end the memory of Islay, of beach camping by five miles of impeccable sand at Kintra in warm may sunshine, of the evening light as we supped Ardbeg at our campspot near the Feolin ferry,  prevailed and the bikes won out over the van. This recollection caused me to choose my highly spacious Wild Country Levache 3 man tunnel tent over my 2 man Hilleberg Jannu, a decision which was to ultimately set the course of the trip.

On the way to Oban we were stopping over in Taynuilt which provided the opportunity for a bit of sport. My original plan, to run over the Munros in the Ben Lui group, did not look appealing on the day. The tops were in cloud and the rain was heavy, windblown and almost incessant. I chose a low level alternative, the 17 or so miles down the lochside from the head of Loch Etive to Taynuilt. As I was changing into my running gear I read a text from Paul announcing that storm force winds - gusting to 60 or 70 mph - were forecast for Monday. By that stage we were committed to the large tent. I came close to booking the van onto the ferry but held back. We would pick a sheltered pitch. The forecast was probably wrong. I had  pole sleeves and some tape so could recover a pole failure. It would be all right.

View up Loch Etive, part way into a very wet 17 mile jog to Taynuilt

On Monday morning the wind, which had been very strong, began to intensify. We had eschewed a beachside wildcamp in favour of pitching in the lee of Coll's highest wall, that surrounding the campsite at Garden House. As our companions prepared to bail out to the shelter of the pub in Arinagour (sheiling of the goat) we suffered our first pole breakage and as I repaired it it became clear that we would be lucky to have a tent to sleep in that night, even if we devoted all our attention to nursing it through the afternoon. If we went to the pub we would return to find our tent in tatters. Soon after, as if to confirm this gloomy prognosis, the pole sleeve split and I had to reinforce it with a short section of plastic piping that I had collected, presciently, from the beach the previous night.

Perhaps the most sheltered pitch on the Isle of Coll

By 1000 we were in our positions, sitting on Ortlieb bags in the porch of the tent, preventing it from collapsing completely and in doing so bending the poles past breaking point. It was like sitting in a wind tunnel while being whacked periodically over the head with a tin tray.  The hours passed slowly and uncomfortably and the wind continued to intensify. Power cables nearby enhanced the wild wind, making it sound even stronger than it was. I was tempted to adopt a fatalistic attitude and just lie down in my sleeping bag to let the tent take its chance, but I knew that the poles would shatter if we dropped our guard, leaving us roofless in the middle of a storm. It all seemed pointless as the storm built further, for surely the tent would not last anyway. I started to drink beer to numb the pain. I read as best I could but Gaener, having no reading matter, was left to think dark thoughts. Erin slept.

Improvised repair of pole failure No 2.....

..... and pole failure No 3.

By 1400, four hours in, it seemed as if the winds had stabilised at storm or violent storm force and that, having made it this far, we may make it through the day. Despite the beer the time was passing so slowly that I began to monitor the air pressure instead. It was, thankfully, rising steadily at about an mbar per hour. I realised that cycle camping on remote islands is an extremely committing pastime.  There is no vehicle to retreat to. There is no possibility of purchasing a replacement tent. The hotel was full. If we lost our tent we would be in a bit of a pickle. The fragility of our situation was reinforced when another pole snapped, this time one of the critical central poles. Fortunately the owners of the campsite had a hint of the Steptoe about them and the place was littered with useful objects. I had made a mental note of the location of a pile of off-cut copper piping near the gateway and used a section to improvise a splint the on the pole. In the brief lull that followed I wheeled the child trailer into the porch. This held the front of the tent in position and allowed us to leave our stations. After 6 hours holding our tent together we were frazzled, but the tent was still up. By 1800 the pressure was nudging 1000 mbar. We had made it. 

Traigh Garbh, northwest Coll

A great relief to see the Tuesday afternoon ferry approaching

We later learned that gusts were recorded that day of 75 mph on Tiree and of over 100 mph on the mainland. With a windy forecast for the rest of the week and a crippled tent we decided to not to go on to Tiree. Instead we returned to Oban, picked up the van and headed to Mull. At Fidden campsite I met a man whose tent original tent had been destroyed on Sunday. He had purchased a replacement locally which had survived Monday's storm. We discussed tents and their common failure modes. When I mentioned that I had suffered breakages to three of my four poles he perked up noticeably, keen to share his wisdom. 

"Aluminium poles?" he inquired in a leading tone, like a barrister setting a trap during a cross examination. When I replied in the affirmative he nodded sagely before continuing. "Carbon fibre poles are what you need, then the tent can flatten completely and spring back. The inside got a bit wet, but the tent survived. I spent the afternoon in my car moving it round as the wind direction changed to give the tent some shelter."

There was more. He was in his element now, holding forth on his area of expertise. "I had six extra-long pegs and I kept swapping them round as the wind changed." I suspect that the poles were plastic rather than carbon fibre, but was heartily impressed that his tent had survived the storm. 

Better weather for vanning than for camping. Lava flows by Loch Na Keal at the foot of Ben More, Mull.

All in all the trip deepened my conviction that if you want to go camping for any extended period of time in Scotland, even during the summer months, it is best to have a sturdy 4 season mountain tent. For an overnight or weekend trip in settled conditions a more lightweight approach is viable, but if you make a habit of relying on less robust shelters such as 3 season tents or tarps you will eventually be caught out.

We took advantage of the Fishnish-Lochaline ferry and traveled back through Morvern. Sunshine on the granite coastline east of Kinlochgairloch with cloudy Lochaber hills in the distance.

Cairngorms: Camping in Glen Quoich

Camping amid the remnants of the Caledonian Forest in the Southern Cairngorms

Of the many outdoor blogs that I read Will Gadd's is one of my favourites. He did a post of top tips last year that stuck in my mind. Not because I agreed with it most of them but because I agreed and disagreed in equal measure with one particular tip.

'Camping is vastly over-rated. Most local trips can be done without camping.'

Gadd, like many enthusiasts of the outdoors, is an activity based person. My impression is that the outdoors is primarily an arena in which he can strive for excellence in a variety of activities, each of which he practices to a very high standard. At the other end of the spectrum is someone like Ray Mears. When I heard him speak last year he modestly described his lifelong devotion to bushcraft as an excuse to spend time outside. I have a foot in both camps. For instance, I will admit that it is usually a mistake to attempt to combine camping - or bothying - with climbing, particularly in winter. So often the effort of humphing the huge bag that such a combination trip requires reduces or eliminates the possibility of actually doing any climbing. What you are left with is a camping trip that would have been more enjoyable without the climbing hardware in the bag. On the other hand, camping as an activity in its own right is my favourite way to spend time outdoors. That was the sport for the weekend past, a pure and simple camping trip.

Beinn a'Bhuird from the south

The best camping in Scotland is perhaps to be found in the glens of the southern Cairngorms, accessed from Braemar.  On offer is an unusual combination of upland forest, mighty Scots pines that need the linked arms of a whole family to hug, rivers and flat green grass on which to pitch. I had my first taste of it last year at Derry Lodge in Glen Lui and resolved then to bring the family along. Having found Glen Lui to be patrolled by officious representatives of the National Trust I decided to try nearby Glen Quoich instead.

My first glimpse of the pinewoods of Glen Quoich was on just the type of combination trip that I mentioned as being often unsuccessful above, a cycle and skitouring trip to Beinn a'Bhuird. When Pete proposed the idea to me I had scoffed that there was no snow and that he must be insane to consider such a plan. After some rumination, however, the audacity of the plan took hold of me. The absurdity of biking with ski and overnight kit into one of Scotland's most remote Munros, in the full knowledge that there was no snow, became an irresistible proposition. I mustered my family, at that point consisting only of partner and dog, and departed for Invercauld. After a moonlit cycle we passed the night in a place that shall remain nameless but that will no doubt be known to many readers of this blog. We woke to a fine and still spring day, the distant pinewoods of Glen Quoich looked so tempting, like a tiny oasis of North America lurking on the fringes of the Cairngorms, that the idea of camping there lodged in my brain. Life being what it is it took 5 years to return, my original party enlarged by the addition of a 3 year old daughter.

Evening light on the pinewoods below Beinn a'Bhuird

The glen did not disappoint. After a distinctly moist cycle in, the weather dried up and we passed two very pleasant nights amid the pines. The nearby summit of Beinn a'Bhuird tempted me but I did not give in, this weekend was all about chilling and simply spending time in the outdoors.

Finally, a plug for a new blog that I have found, devoted to this tremendous area of Scotland, Cairngorm Wanderer.

Badrallach and Beinn Ghobhlach

Beinn Gobhlach

My first visit to Badrallach was over ten years ago. It was a one night stopover en route to Coigach and Assynt, so we didn't adequately explore the surroundings. On revisiting at the weekend I was extremely impressed, both by the campsite and by its environs. Badrallach is a tiny crofting community occupying a sunny spot the end of an eight mile single track road on the north shore of  Little Loch Broom. It is the access point for an even more isolated but rather larger off-grid community of Scoraig, five miles down a track from the end of the tarmac road. A quick squint at their web page revealed that there are a couple of crofts for sale for those who fancy it. It's certainly not for me; I grew up on an island so isolation and its attendant inconvenience holds no romance for me. I can still remember how liberating and novel I found my first taste of mainland life, being able to simply get in the car and go wherever I wanted whenever I wanted, rather than being a hostage to the weather, to the ferry timetable or to both.

View west from Beinn Ghobhlach to Scoraig and the Summer Isles

View from Beinn Ghobhlach towards the Corbett Sail Mhor and a snow-dusted An Teallach

I've been dabbling in a bit of hill running lately but hadn't taken on any proper hills, no Munros or Corbetts.  At 635 m Beinn Gobhlach is a Graham and on a sunny Sunday morning it made an irresistible objective.

Sail Mhor and Little Loch Broom from Kildonan

Saturday's stroll was more gentle, tailored to 3 year old legs. East of Badrallach is the stony beach and abandoned township of Kildonan. By the shore is a relatively modern building, in the first stages of deriliction, still roofed and with staircase and fireplaces intact, but carpeted in sheep dung and already past the point of no return. I recently read Adam Nicolson's book 'Sea Room', the story of the social and natural history - and prehistory - of the Shaint Isles. Due to their small size and to his tenacious curiosity he was able to piece together a complete history of the human habitation of the islands. As I read his account I realised that with the right eyes, layer upon layer, millennium upon millennium of human history could be deciphered in every little corner of Scotland. Kildonan is such a place; even the layman can see that relatively recently there were few and a short time before that there were many. Now there are no people, the foreshore has been relegated to the status of an outdoor feeding station for cattle and sheep, slurry seeps from the poached soil surrounding the feeder into the pores of  the stony beach. My daughter wanted to have her legs buried in the stones. I refused, explaining that the beach was full of poo. I am not in any way against people using the land to make a living, but it seems absurd that we all subsidise these polluting practises through the EU. Custodianship of the countryside it most certainly is not.

Uig Sands, Lewis

It's great to watch the mainland receding from the deck of the Ullapool - Stornoway ferry, although I have to admit that such journeys are much more relaxing when sitting in the bar scooping beer rather than refereeing in the children's soft play area.  We were headed for Uig Sands on the west coast of Lewis, a place that has been calling out to me ever since my last visit in July 2003, having stuck in my  mind as one of the most relaxing and enchanting places I have ever been to.

Uig is approached through the incongrous narrow defile of Gleann Bhalthois. I love landscape features like this narrow, steep-sided glen, that act as passageways between different areas,  in this case linking the  peaty moorland of which much of Lewis is composed to the magical land of Uig. There is just something about the landscape - the brooding grey hills, their profiles aped by the gneiss knolls, dunes and banks of moraine in the foreground;  the beach - really two beaches, the vast sandflats of one remaining substantially unharassed by the turquoise waters other than in spring tides. The bold outcrops of striped pink and grey gneiss that separate the two beaches are doused in sand at each high tide by any Atlantic breakers that make it through the narrow mouth of Camas Uig.

The winds were strong, perhaps gusting up to 70 mph, so I sat in my van, watching the sand snake across the sandflats like spindrift across a mountaintop. The features of snow were there in the sand.In  the wind-scoured areas shells stood aloft like ice nodules, capping tiny pillars of sand. The blown sand accumulated in soft drifts of floury powder. Where the sand had been compacted by footfall it resisted erosion by the wind and reared up, as if fossilised in plaster.

At the both sides of the bay rivers flow down the perimeter, making an island of the sand. Through my slightly rose-tinted shades the water appeared bright purple, like August heather. As my eyes tracked downstream they registered a psychedelic transition through green to bright yellow as my shades augmented the van's tinted windows.

The cost of camping at Ardoil has doubled since my last visit, to two pounds per person per night. By contrast, the ferry fare has shrunk thanks to the Road Equivalent Tarrif. In 2003 I'm pretty sure it cost at least 250 for a car and two adults,now it's only 105, much less than even the 1996 price of 154 pounds quoted in the SMC climbing guide. Let's hope the pilot RET scheme is rolled out to other routes.

Just down the road are the astounding sea-cliffs of Mangurstadh, without doubt one of the most spectacular pieces of coastal scenery I have seen anywhere in the world - remarkably clean. boiled sweet stripey gneiss, pounded by a pulsating, foaming sea. A fantastic treat awaits for lovers of bothies and howffs, for a local man has built a charming small bothy on the clifftop. Through its spray-dampened window the view blurs to become an oil painting hanging on the wall.

The outer isles never fail to inspire me - check out the post I wrote last year when the Sunday ferries started up, or another more recent one discussing Jonathan Meades' comments on the island's built environment.

Cairngorms: Carn A'Mhaim from Lin of Dee

The southern approaches to the Cairngorms have a charm all of their own, the crunch of granite gravel under the mountain bike tyre, camping amid great stands of Scots pine. All in all a more leisurely and dignified experience than rushing towards the ski infrastructure from the Coire Cas car park to the north.

A fresh perspective on a familiar hill. Ben Macdui from Carn A'Mhaim.

Heading east was the only sensible option given the weekend's weather forecast and what a treat it was, a chance to spend time on some previously unseen country and to catch up with some old friends at the same time. A pleasant change from last weekend's solo trip, and my first visit to the Cairngorms since the last ski trip of the year in May - it seemed incredible in the cooler days of spring that such as vast quantity of snow would simply melt away, but melt it has in this particularly warm and dry summer. 

Campsite in Glen Derry, more reminiscent of North America than of Scotland 

There is something wonderfully subversive about drinking in the great outdoors, free from the roving eyes of CCTV cameras and the influence of authority figures. When you strip away the commercialism and regulation of city fleshpots – the queues, the curfews, the dress codes, the cover charges - all that remains is a raw, primal drinking experience. 

Or so we thought. Imagine our surprise when our camp was visited not once but twice by just such an authority figure, a representative of the National Trust for Scotland, owners of the Mar Lodge Estate. On his first round of the various campsites scattered round the glen he passed on his employer's objection to campfires. On his second visit, an hour or so later, he was armed - almost unbelievably - with a bright yellow bucket full of special ember-dousing water. It must have been special water for it to have been worth his effort to carry his full bucket several hundred metres from his Landrover, rather than using the water from the burn adjacent to our camp.

Arisaig

Photos:

Top: Eigg and Rum from the Croft Campsite, Arisaig

Middle: The tropical sands of Morar

Bottom: View over Loch Morar to the Cuillin of Skye

It's possible that the coastline between Arisaig and Morar has the highest concentration of campsites to be found anywhere in Scotland. I've neglected this area until now, only having visited it in passing. This weekend was the time to put that right and we loaded the van and set off for the Croft Campsite. I selected this one based on the online reviews. Two things appealed: lack of shower facilities (keeps the crowds away) and reports of the proprietor's laid back attitude (nothing worse than an officious warden bothering you while camping). It was indeed a splendid site, a large expanse of flat grass, fine views to the Small Isles and Skye and direct access to the beach. The beach is quite unusual in that it is composed of shingle; ground shells and some quite large fragments of coral. I was dismayed to learn from the campsite owner that many of the coral fragments may be a consequence of commercial clam dredging. No matter where one looks nowadays there is an example to be found of the destruction of beauty in pursuit of profit. Presumably it is elements such as these clam-dredging vandals who are opposed to the establishment of a marine national park off the west coast. Another pertinent example is the recent wildlife crime raid on my near neighbours, the Moy Estate. I have had my eye on them for a while and will be watching the case with interest.

Comparisons are often drawn between the white sands and turquoise sea of the west coast and tropical beaches. Nowhere is this more valid than at Morar. The wind has blown the fine white sand into a satisfyingly steep beach, fringed and shaded by the fresh foilage of springtime trees. It brought to mind Cape Tribulation in tropical north Queensland. Donning my flippers and snorkel I took to the water and swam among spiky towers of brown seaweed. Crabs scurried along the sea bed beneath me. The water was so pleasantly warm that I stayed in long enough to become mildly hypothermic.

Pleasant though it was to lounge on the beach I was not totally at ease. The wild hinterland had been calling to  me from the moment I arrived. Old friends were visible to the west: Beinn Bhuidhe, rising above the  waters of Loch Nevis, unseen but prominent in my consciousness; the pointed summit of Sgurr na Ciche, Matterhorn of Knoydart. Much as I would love to set off into the empty country in this most beautiful season - long days and warm weather, with the summertime  menaces of midge and bracken not yet in full swing - there was no time, or was there?

While perusing my map my eye was drawn to a track which skirted the southern edge of the intriguing plains that link Loch Morar to the coast. I presume them to be a raised beach,  moraines flattened by the action of the sea when its relative level was higher than at present. After 5 km or so on the flat the track cut up onto the hillside, passing near the summit of  Carn a'Mhadaidh-ruaidh (hill of the red fox lair?) before descending to join the main road by Arisaig House. I left my map with my  support crew so they knew where to meet me in 90 mins and set off from Kinloid at a jog. It was only when I reached the end of the flat that I realised the seriousness of my undertaking. The whole enterprise was reliant on the track depicted on my 21 year old map actually being discernible on the ground and leading to the agreed rendezvous point! Fortunately it was for the most part and it did. Some adventurous cyclists had even pushed their bikes over the hill in the recent past though I would not recommend it.

The afternoon was warm and the run a great illustration of the superior endurance of the human being over almost any other animal. The Border Terrier is a hardy dog, bred to follow horses at the hunt, yet I had to stop at every water source to splash him with water to cool him down. What will stick in my mind is the view north over Loch Morar with its wooded islands and sandy beaches, over the sea to the Cuillin of Skye. So many more adventures await in this tiny corner of Scotland alone....

It is spring. Enjoy it.

Coigach Campsites

Achnahaird Bay in Coigach: the great expanse of machair to the left of the sands was home to the best campsite in Scotland, if not the world, until 2008, when the proprietors retired and the estate who own the land chose not to renew the lease. Over the years I spent many a happy weekend there, enjoying the view of the peaks of the northwest highlands: Suilven, Cul Mor and Cul Beag, Ben Mor Coigach and that most spectacular small peak, Stac Pollaidh.  We paid the site a last visit in September 2008, climbing on the sea-cliffs of nearby Reiff by day and burning Scandanavian Candles among the dunes by night.

A new campsite, located near the pub on the other side of the peninsula at Altandhu, was promised for the 2009 season, but the credit crunch made the bankers hold back the necessary funds. A dubious decision given the 'stay-cation' mania that accompanied the crunch, and a cruel blow that kept a lot much needed money out of the local community. The lady in the Polbain Stores estimated that she was down about 6,000 pounds last year.

Construction of the new campsite is underway at present and it is forecast to be partially open by July or August this year. You can make out the considerable earthworks that are underway in the picture above, installing roads, leveling pitches, digging foundations for shower blocks.

It seems absurd to go to such lengths to carve a campsite into an unsuitable location when such a perfect site lies lonely and unused nearby on the machair at Achnahaird. This is a fine illustration of what is wrong with the land ownership situation in Scotland. One individual can make a decision that deprives the nation of one of its treasures,  negatively impacting many thousands of people. Assynt and Coigach is one of Scotland's National Scenic Areas. I don't know precisely what this means, but I believe there are some planning restrictions involved. Would it be unreasonable to modify the relevant legislation such that there is a statutory obligation to provide minimalist drive-in campgrounds with established fire pits and composting toilets in our 40 National Scenic Areas?  

It is true that under Access Legislation there is little that anyone could do to stop responsible wild camping at Achnahaird, so those who are willing to and capable of carrying their equipment will still be able to use the site for camping, as the archaeological record shows our ancestors have done for many thousands of years. However, much as I enjoy backpacking, I wish we had more campsites along the lines of those found on public lands in the US; spacious, established campsites with limited facilities that you can drive to, with a good distance between pitches. The private sector so often fails to provide adequate campground facilities; packing in too many tents or worse still, giving the best pitches over to static caravans and squeezing tents and campervans into squalid, viewless corners.

The new campsite may well avoid these pitfalls and prove to be a very nice site but it will not have the space for children to run about, the beach access, the fud-deterring absence of showers or, crucially, that outstanding panorama of the peaks of the northwest.

Alone in the Wild

Take one man, issue him with a camera, drop him in the midst of grizzly country and leave him there, fretting about the risk of bear attack, for three months. This is the wonderfully simple formula for the Channel 4 series 'Alone in the Wild', the first episode of which was broadcast on Thursday night.

California's High Sierra just after dawn

I found it compelling viewing, having experienced this primal bear fear at first hand while backpacking in California's Yosemite National Park. We had taken dehydrated food in order to minimise the weight of our packs, but my friend Mark was so horrified by the unmistakably vomit-like appearance of our Mexican chicken meal that he refused point-blank to eat it. As darkness descended I harangued him to consume his share, painfully aware that the scent of his uneaten food was wafting through the surrounding forest, acting as a beacon for any bears in the vicinity.

North American National Parks are as full of rules and regulations as they are of bears, and we had been well informed about bear danger. One must not keep any food or other odiferous items in the tent. There was no suggestion that a bear would be interested in food that had already been eaten, so they must be wary of the smell of people. There must, then, be a tipping point at which a bear's fear of humans is overwhelmed by its desire for food. I expect that a couple of pounds of pork links would do the trick, but what of more minor smells, such as that produced by the Mexican chicken that I had spilled down my front? Would that embolden a bear sufficiently to slash our tent canvas with his sharp claws and make off with my soiled shirt?

Half Dome from the approach

It was imperative to fill the bear cannister - a black plastic cylinder which the bears, lacking thumbs, are unable to open - and get it away from the camp. Our stuff wouldn't all fit in the box, so we put our non-food items - bug spray, soap, toothpaste, tobacco - in a stuff sack, which we hung half-heartedly from a puny tree. The unfinished food felt dangerous, like a cartoon bomb with a hissing fuse. We placed it on a boulder in front of the tent, then retired for an uneasy and broken sleep, unexpectedly tormented by bear-related thoughts. During the night I was woken by a loud bang vibrating through the ground. In my dozy stupor I attributed it to falling rocks.

In the morning bear tracks were evident all around. The audacious beast had even deposited a stool 20 feet from our tent. I realised with a start that the bump in the night had been caused by a bear resuming its four-legged stance after plucking our stuff sack from the tree. Gingerly, we followed a trail of chewed possessions until we found the shredded remnants of the bag. Perhaps the brute had been upset by a mouthful of mosquito repellent or tobacco, perhaps he had picked up the scent of our leftover food, every scrap of which had been carefully licked from the bag.

Bear attack aftermath

The chap on the programme, Ed Wardle,  recounted a story that a bear expert had told him just before he set out on his Yukon adventure. Two men were camping when a grizzly pulled one of them away, presumably with the intention of eating him. Cocooned in his sleeping bag, he was powerless to resist. Fortunately all ended well, his quick-thinking friend shot the bear dead. Even though my own encounters were with less ferocious black bears I am glad I didn't know that story at the time. I'm planning another trip to bear country next summer – hopefully by then I will have erased it from my memory!

Half Dome from Clouds Rest Summit

Half Dome. The cable route is visible to the left of the photo. Hikers are (just) visible near the top.