Back in the saddle on Beinn Dearg

Hemingway stated that there are only three sports: motor racing, mountain climbing and bull fighting, all other pastimes being mere games. Mountain climbing - the only one of Hemingway's sports in which I participate - covers a huge and diverse range of endeavour, all the way from a gentle summer afternoon's hillwalking at one end to extreme alpinism at the other.

Scottish winter climbing sits somewhere in the middle of this spectrum. It is difficult, perhaps impossible, to explain the attractions this bizarre sport to the uninitiated. It is often uncomfortable and frightening. It always makes obscene demands on your time. A day's sport involves rising in the middle of the night, driving for several hours, then walking in to a remote coire with a heavy pack for several more hours to find yourself at the bottom of a route by 1000 hrs, if you are lucky. At this time of year that leaves six hours of daylight, so it almost inevitable that you will be completing your descent in the dark. It doesn't take too much in the way of unexpected delay - route finding difficulties or icy roads for instance -  for night to fall before the technical climbing is complete. Despite- or perhaps because of - these hardships, a good winter day  repays this effort and more. For a winter route is a true adventure; once committed the route fills one's awareness completely, there is a tangible feeling of  memories being indelibly etched onto the consciousness, to be drawn on later in defense against the humdrum and the mundane. 

Toddy setting off on  Penguin Gully, Beinn Dearg

The trouble is that very often one is not rewarded with a good winter day. Many factors can conspire against success, but the main difficulty is in the prediction of conditions.  There are few experiences more deflating than arriving in a coire to find the buttresses black and dripping, with no routes in acceptable condition. This deflation arises not just from the feeling of having wasted the physical energy expended on the day, it is also the mental energy that has been invested during the preceding weeks: poring over weather forecasts, avalanche forecasts, guidebooks and maps;  scouring discussion forums and blogs; juggling work, social and family commitments so that they can be dropped at a day's notice when the the stars align. For conditions are fickle; some routes may be in condition for only a few days a season, others may be climbable only once in a decade. It is disappointing to waste energy by heading out on a poor day, but that is nothing compared to the pain of having to spend a perfect winter day at work. The stress of walking this tightrope between glory and  disappointment can result in a winter angst so all-consuming that it is often a great relief when spring comes and the ice tools can be stowed away for another season.

For a variety of reasons I have drifted away from winter climbing over the last few seasons, notching up fewer and fewer routes each year. Last season I didn't even attempt to go climbing, investing my energies in ski mountaineering instead. Ski mountaineering is has many selling points: less equipment is required, reducing both bag weight and preparation time. One can move much faster, reducing the need for early starts. Skiing is not frightening. But the main advantage of taking to the hills on ski is it provides the opportunity to soak up the precious winter sun. The winter climber is perversely compelled by his thirst for ice and frozen turf to grovel in the cold shade of north-facing coires while the ski mountaineer is up on the ridges basking in sunshine. We see so little winter sun here that it seems criminally wasteful to deliberately avoid it.

Happily leaving the ice behind for some more reassuring  frozen turf

Back in September I was inspired by Pete Macpherson's record of his previous season and decided that I would climb again this winter. On the 3rd of January I followed through on this threat, arranged a strong and highly motivated climbing partner and headed to Beinn Dearg, our sights set on Penguin Gully. We found two good ice pitches at the bottom of the gully but the snow on the easier upper section looked to be incomplete and so we traversed off to the right instead of finishing the route. The ice turned out to be quite variable, sometimes providing trustworthy placements  and sometimes cleaving off in disconcerting dinner-plates.This  fine day out had two effects on me. Firstly it confirmed my long-held suspicion of ice as a climbing medium,  secondly it restored my urge for winter climbing.  I fully intend to indulge further this season, with turfy routes in remote northwest venues and late season Nevis classics being top of the hit list.. 

Solar Arc

We are blind to much of the wonder of the natural world. The beauty of great nature writing  is that it can open our eyes to this unseen splendour and provide us with the vocabulary needed to describe phenomena which might otherwise pass us by.

In his book 'Arctic Dreams' Barry Lopez describes how reflection and refraction of light by ice or water particles in the polar sky can give rise to a variety of arcs and halos. The most spectacular is the sun dog, rainbow patches that appear 22 degrees from the polar sun. You can see from the picture in the link that the sun dogs describe two opposite edges of an incomplete circle. This image shows a complete solar halo. Lopez notes that such features can also be observed in the part of the sky directly opposite the sun and that they are not limited to the polar regions, also being observable in the temperate latitudes. This piqued my curiosity and I have been on the lookout ever since.

Two days after Christmas I photographed the solar arc above while descending from Cul Mor in Assynt. It is in the sky to the north, directly opposite the late afternoon sun. It's a pretty subtle effect and would have been easy to miss had I not been primed by reading Lopez's book.

It was a grand day to be on the hill; still, though not as clear as had been forecast. Some high cloud resulted in the landscape being selectively illuminated by shafts of light, further accentuating landscape features that had already been rendered unusually prominent by a combination of low winter sun and residual snow lying in the gullies and hollows.

North to Suilven, Quinaig and Canisp from Cul Mor

To the south, in front of the Fannichs, a curtain of cloud spilled a low ridge. Sgurr Mor is prominent just right of centre.

South to the Fannichs from Cul Mor

Roads from the Isles: The drove roads and old tracks of the North-West coast of Scotland

This post takes its title from a book by D.D.C. Pochin Mould, published in 1950. I have recently purchased a copy second hand and am currently reading my way through. The writer makes the point that, unlike the rest of the UK, the Northwest has many more old, unused routes than it has modern roads. I am fascinated by these direct and logical routes and can feel a great urge building to shoulder my pack and sample them for myself.

The first route that the book discusses is one from Poolewe to Fort Augustus, not a route I have ever considered walking. It was formerly an important route thanks to Poolewe's role as a port for boats plying the waters of the Minch to the Outer Hebrides. Fort Augustus is the end point of this route, for the book restricts itself to the area north of the great glen, but for the historical walker it would merely have been a staging post en route to Inverness or Fort William by way of the great glen, or over the Corrieyairack to Dalwhinnie.

Approximate route of the old track between Poolewe and Fort Augustus

Examination of the image above reveals how direct and aesthetically pleasing the route taken by old track is. Completing the journey using modern roads involves considerable detours: eastwards via Inverness, Garve and Achnasheen; or westwards via Glen Shiel, Attadale and Torridon. One consequence is that the old route avoids roads to a large extent, the only significant sections being between Kinlochewe and Loch Clair and around Glen Affric. This scarcity of tarmac means that it would likely make a highly enjoyable backpacking trip. There are only a few trackless sections with much of the route being on good landrover tracks so I reckon it might even make a decent mountainbike ride.

Writing in the late 1940s, Miss Mould was optimistic about the potential of the first hydro schemes to bring development and hope to the depopulated highlands, yet I feel sadness at the impact of many of these schemes on the environment. When the modern traveler threads his through the Monar hills to the north shore of the loch by way of Strath Mhuilich he is not greeted by the croft house at Strathmore and easy access to the tracks leading west to Kintail. For Strathmore lies beneath the waters of the now dammed Loch Monar, the vastly expanded waters of which necessitate such a lengthy detour that the westward route to Kintail is all but dead; the traveller would be better advised to use the route over the Bealach Bearnais instead.

Another section that has been significantly altered by progress is that which crosses the moor between Glens Affric and Moriston. There is no need now for the cairns that aided Miss Mould's crossing, for the way is now clearly marked by track and pylon. I am delighted to find that this old track is largely still there to be walked as it has been for centuries, yet the huge changes that it has seen over the last 70 years suggest that it would be best to walk it soon, before it is further despoiled by progress.

North Coast Cycle Day 4: Strathy to Thurso

One question has been burining in my mind since finishing the tour. Does the act of cycling itself induce flatulence, or is it simply that gas is generated in direct proportion to calorie intake, three times the calories generating three times the wind? Perhaps the liberal consumption of foaming pints of Radler plays a part. Or the fact that a vegan cycling partner meant that Beanfeast featured heavily on the menu.

I hadn't particularly been relishing the last stage of this journey, leaving behind the peaks of the Northwest for the agricultural lands of Caithness, but the 20 or so miles into Thurso to pick up the train south was the most enjoyable part of the tour - perfect cycling terrain of gentle rises and long sweeping descents. The sun on our faces and the speedo reading over 20 mph. This is what cycle touring is all about. What a contrast to the coast road between Coigach and Kylesku, alternating between 40 mph downhills and grinding, thigh-busting 4 mph uphills.

I've not done any long rides this year so my ass was ruined and I was quite glad to dismount after 170 miles in the saddle. A great trip, a true journey, with highs and lows. I loved the long downhills, but would happily have accepted a lift if one had been offered during the wet climb after Loch Eribol. All the unpleasantness has now been forgotten, and if I do this tour again, which I surely will, but in settled high pressure next time, I would blast up the main road to Durness in a day, nab a hill or two, then scoot all the way to Wick.

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.

Perlerorneq and Periglacial Trimlines

Have you ever become so disenchanted during the dark winter months that you've felt the urge to chomp on a dog turd? Me neither, but it does happen. Canine coprophagia is a symptom of perlerorneq, the Inuit name for sickness of life in the dark months. I was introduced to this condition  through Barry Lopez's engaging account of the social and natural history of the arctic regions, 'Arctic Dreams'.

It's pretty dark in here in Inverness at present, but I've managed to stave off the urge to scoff any sled-dog's stools by following through on my earlier threat to use the long evenings to brush up my knowledge of Scotland's geology and geomorphology.

This week I have been reading the excellent Geographical Society publication 'Classic landforms of the Assynt and Coigach area' by Tim Lawson (ISBN 1 84377 017 2). It's a slim volume but it contains exactly the kind of information that I've been looking for; detailed maps showing the movement and extent of the ice sheets during the last (Late Devensian) period of glaciation.

I'd previously assumed that the whole of Scotland was encased in ice during the last ice age, but while reading 'Hostile Habitats' earlier in the year I learned about the periglacial trimline. This geomorphological feature - which can be traced on many of the mountains of the Northwest - is a line marking the maximum extent of the last ice sheet. Below the periglacial trimline the rock has been scoured by glaciers; above the periglacial trimline the rock remained exposed and is often heavily frost-shattered as a result. These exposed peaks are known as nunatuks. If you're lucky enough to have a window seat on a transatlantic flight you may be treated to a view of present day nunatuks poking through the Greenland icecap. The nunatuks of Coigach and Assynt are shown in the figure below.

Devensian ice sheet in Coigach and Assynt. Reproduced from Classic landforms of the Assynt and Coigach area, Tim Lawson, Geographical Association, 2002  

This tremendous little look also contained a diagram showing the extent of the Loch Lomond Readvance glaciers, formed when the climate cooled again about 11,000 years ago. Most of them are where you'd expect glaciers to form, in high north facing coires. One of them, the one near Stronchrubie, just south of Loch Assynt in the map below, seems strangely located. I'm looking forward to examining the site in more detail next time I'm up that way.

Location of Loch Lomond readvance glaciers in Coigach and Assynt. Reproduced from Classic landforms of the Assynt and Coigach area, Tim Lawson, Geographical Association, 2002 

Sadly only three of the eighteen titles in the 'Classic Landforms' series deal with Scottish areas (Skye and Loch Lomond being the other Scottish titles). This seems a pretty thin representation for the country  in which the subject of geology was born.

Finally, if, like me, you enjoy a bit of beaver action, have a look at this.

Siberian rats, mass emigration and the Scottish psyche

Might Siberian rats help explain cultural differences between Scotland and the USA? This thought occurred to me as I hunkered down on the slopes of Beinn Bheag, one of the two small hills that are prominent in the view down Loch a'Bhraoin from the A832 past Braemore Junction.

The Grahams Groban and Beinn Bheag, flanked by the Munro A'Chailleach (left) and  the Corbett Creag Rainich (right)

As we squatted on the yellowed autumnal hillside, our backs to the driving rain, it seemed amazing to think that this area had once been populated, that families had lived and worked in the glen's now ruined crofthouses. Perhaps the ground was drier, more fertile and more welcoming in the relatively recent past. Or maybe the lack of any alternative compelled the hardy inhabitants to endure a hungry and miserable existence until the prospect of a new start lured them onto boats bound for the New World?

I read recently of experiments carried out by scientists in Siberia (New Scientist 2728). As part of a 30 year study into aggression in animals they made parallel lines of timid and ferocious rats from the same original stock. They did this by selectively breeding from the more docile and feistier animals in each generation. This fascinating piece of work shows that behavioural traits may be enhanced by means of natural selection over relatively short time periods.

The unusual low angled quartzite slabs of Sgurr Ban and Loch an Nid viewed from near the summit of Beinn Bheag. These Munros had been the original target for the day but windy conditions and a lowering cloud base made the lower hills more appealling.

One could argue that, thanks to successive waves of mass emigration, an experiment similar to that conducted on the Siberian rats has been running in Scotland since the 17th century. While some of our diaspora left unwillingly as a result of forced evictions, the vast majority left Scotland willingly, eager to take control of their destinies, to escape from scraping a living on ground rented from feudal overlords. By these means perhaps as many as a dozen generations have been partially depleted of those more adventurous souls who chose to take the gamble of emigrating in search of a better life.

The question I pose is this - what personality traits may have been amplified as those who remained bred with one another? Might the dourness and stoicism for which the Scottish people are renowned be partially explained in terms of natural selection?

If you agree with (or object to) any of these ramblings do leave a comment below.

A bright future for Scottish winter climbing?

We may be standing on the threshold of a period of bumper winters! This glimmer of hope for Scottish winter climbing in the face of seemingly inevitable global warming comes from the recent prediction that, over the next decade or so, temperatures might fall, rather than rise.

The prevailing westerly wind plays a large part in determining the humidity and the temperature of the British climate. The strength of this wind is in turn dictated by the balance between the Iceland Low and the Azores High, two pressure systems that lie to the west, an effect known as the North Atlantic Oscillation

It's important to emphasise that global warming has not ended; the overall warming trend will continue. It is just that the cooling effect of a shift in the North Atlantic Oscillation may briefly overwhelm mankind's effect on the climate.

Will we see more of this over the next few years? Coigach in winter; Stac Pollaidh from Cul Beag.

My appetite for this impending bonanza of winter sport was whetted by Dean Lords' article in issue 27 of Alpinist magazine. I quote a few lines below:

“Our remote mysteries require perfect timing and luck to unlock.......A line could vanish for three years, then flicker back like a ghost.....this landscape rarely reveals its secrets on the first or second visits; it could take a lifetime to know.”

Lords was describing the Lost River Range in Idaho, but to me these lines encapsulate all that makes winter climbing in Scotland's fickle climate such a compelling and satisfying sport. Charming though this unpredictability is, I certainly won't be complaining if the North Atlantic Oscillation dishes up some more reliable conditions in the coming seasons!

The White Shepherd: Walking the Strathfarrar Hills

The weekend saw the appearance of the 'white shepherd', a name for the first snows of winter derived from their effectiveness at flushing grazing sheep from the high tops. The phrase dates back to a bygone era; it was the roaring of stags rather than the bleating of sheep that provided the soundtrack to Sunday's traverse of the ridge separating Strathfarrar from Glen Orrin.

The 'white shepherd': the first snows of winter on Sgur na Lapaich at the head of Glen Strathfarrar

I read about the white shepherd in the book 'Isolation Shepherd', Iain Thomson's delightful account of the years he spent as a regular shepherd in the upper reaches of Glen Strathfarrar. He was to be the last to experience this lifestyle, for the glen changed forever when Loch Monar was dammed as part of a hydroelectric scheme in the 1960s, consigning his Strathmore croft and its few acres of arable land to a watery grave. Even if the loch had not been dammed it is unlikely the softened population of today could produce people hardy enough to live the life that Thomson described, capable of working the land and raising a family so far from the comfort and convenience of civilisation.

View west along the Strathfarrar ridge to Loch Monar

Even before I became captivated by Thomson's prose, the glen captured my imagination by virtue of its inaccessibility. Vehicular access is strictly controlled by a gatekeeper who lives in a cottage beside the padlocked gate. She grants access only during British Summer Time, and even then only between particular hours, lending to the glen the air of a forbidden kingdom. This medieval arrangement is a legacy of the public money used to upgrade the glen's 20 odd km of single track road during the construction of the hydro scheme. Under the terms of a deal brokered by SNH the estates are obliged to grant access to a maximum of 25 cars per day.

Snow flurries over Glen Cannich

When walking through this country it is easy to become sentimental about the past, to lament the passing of a simpler and less commercial age. I prefer to celebrate the fact the the human dimension of this splendid tract of country has been documented and preserved. What I do regret is that not all our hills and glens have been blessed with a chronicler of Thomson's eloquence; as their rich social histories fade the lands become barren, gradually turning one man's home to another's wilderness.


Up to date information regarding access arrangements can be found on the Mountaineering Council of Scotland's website.

I was accompanied on this outing by Donald. He has put some good photos on his blog.

Canadian canoeing on Loch Maree

The weekend brought news of a canoeing accident on Loch Maree that claimed the lives of a father and son. This got me thinking about the sport, about its risks and its rewards.

Canadian canoeing has grown in popularity in recent years due to the ready availability of affordable plastic boats. I have been a keen open canoeist for some time and love getting out on the water to enjoy the wildlife, catch fish and just generally chill out. Canoeing is best saved for the rare, windless occasions when it is a joy to slide effortlessly over the water's mirror-like surface. It is a particularly magical experience at sunset, while enveloped in swirling mists or under the light of a full moon.

It is easy to underestimate the seriousness of canoeing, especially in apparently benign freshwater lochs. However, if conditions change and a wind gets up, big waves can appear very suddenly, particularly if they have a long run over which to build. Where a loch narrows the waves can become magnified as they squeeze through the gap. In lochs with lots of islands the formation of interference patterns can lead to unexpectedly large waves.

It isn't absurd to compare open canoeing with climbing. Both demand accurate assessment of the conditions, have little margin for error and the consequences of making a mistake may be dire. The big difference between canoeing and climbing is the perception that the participants have of the risks involved. There can't be many people who don't accept that climbing carries with it a risk of severe injury or death, yet the same cannot be said of canoeing. After all, some canoes have built in fishing rod and beer can holders – even a cool box under the seat.

I was pretty blasé when I started canoeing but after a few scrapes I developed a healthy respect for the pastime. The first such adventure took place on Loch Maree. We had used the canoe to shorten our approach to the crags of Fisherfield, camping overnight on the northern shore before marching in for a day's rock climbing.


On the return journey the wind built steadily, and when we emerged from the shelter provided by the islands in the centre of the loch the situation became deeply uncomfortable. We were some distance from shore and it was a constant fight to keep the boat from going side on to the waves and being capsized or swamped. It was impossible to paddle directly to where I wanted to go, instead I had to maintain a zig zag course, keeping the bow facing predominately into or away from the waves. Changing tack was nerve-wracking. Timing was everything, for the boat became extremely vulnerable when turned momentarily broadside to the waves.

The consequence of a capsize in the middle of a loch would have been extremely serious. Lochs are generally very cold and it the righting of a capsized canoe is far from trivial. Even with a bouyancy aid it is debatable whether or not we would have been able to swim to shore before hypothermia set in. In the end we made it to shore, excited and unharmed. I recall someone posting on ukclimbing.com about a similar trip, again on Loch Maree, during which two boats containing six people capsized. Only one of the occupants didn't need airlifted to Raigmore.

I don't know details of the accident that occurred at the weekend, but it is likely that they were simply caught out by changing conditions; an exciting adventure turned to tragedy. 

Is shandy a sports drink?

The idea of loading of loading my bike up and setting off on an adventure directly from home has always appealed to me. Last weekend I had the opportunity to indulge myself - my friends Paul and Robin have been working on a project to cycle the north and west coasts in a series of long weekends, relying solely on public transport to get to and from each section. Their itinerary would take them by the morning Bike Bus to Braemore junction and onto the coast road south, overnighting in Kinlochewe and Lochcarron before travelling onwards to Mallaig via Skye. I was unable to depart until after lunch so cycled from my house to meet them in Kinlochewe. Next day I accompanied them round the coast road to Lochcarron via Applecross.

There is something tremendously satisfying about undertaking a journey under one's own steam that would normally necessitate the use of a motor vehicle. The 55 miles from my home outside Inverness to Kinlochewe took a mere 3'15" in the saddle. I also spent an hour out of the saddle, including a surreal visit to Contin Stores. The shop was in darkness due to a powercut. I had to borrow a torch from the proprietor in order to locate the biscuits in the gloom at back of the shop. As I paid for my sugary purchases of sweets, biscuits and energy drinks it occured to me that cycling may not actually be any cheaper than driving when you take into account the amount of food required to maintain an average speed of 17 mph on an fully laden bike. I was however being extravagant, a bag of oat meal would have supplied flapjacks and mealy water that would have sustained me every bit as well for a fraction of the cost.

As I cycled away my mind wandered from the financial cost of bike fuel versus car fuel to the amount of energy required by each mode of transportation. In terms of the actual energy expended per mile the bicycle beats the car hands down. But what of the total energy cost of manufacturing, packaging and shipping those Licquorice Allsorts, Tangfastics, Sport Mixtures and Lucozade Sport to Contin? It all adds up.
After the long haul up Strathbran the final descent from the Viewpoint to Kinlchewe was a wide, smooth delight. I settled in the hotel bar. Presently Paul and Robin arrived. In an effort to rehydrate I gradually decreased the amount of lemonade added to my cooking lager, shifting to tops after a couple of shandies and ending the night drinking neat lager.
It is a curious feature of Germanic culture that shandy, or Radler as they call it, is regarded as a sports drink. Judging by the labelling it is particularly appropriate for cycling applications. I ingested a couple after our perfectly timed 1100 arrival in Shieldaig on saturday and can can vouch for its effectiveness. I found that it alleviated the sore head that had been afflicting me on the morning's climbs. I am not so sure, however, that the trio of Radlers that accompanied my lunch at the Applecross Inn did anything for my performance on the climb up the mighty 620 m Bealach na Ba.
I became increasingly flatulent as we crept up towards the summit, undigested fish and chips thrashing in a sea of shandy within, and was glad of the opportunity to pause and savour one of my favourite views, out to the Cuillin of Skye and Rum.

It was a tremendous relief to roll into the Wee Campsite in Lochcarron, lie down and let my lunch digest and my wind dissipate. If I'd had one of those charcoal dog biscuits I'd have eaten it. Had the chance presented itself, I might even have gone so far as to steal one from a dog.

Pioneering Puffins on Handa Island

Back in June we took a trip to the Handa Island nature reserve. It is located off the northwest coast, near to the village of Scourie. Access is granted by a small motorboat capable of carrying ten or so passengers. It was the prospect of viewing puffins that drew us there. I am very glad that puffins exist. Viewing them cheers me. I view with suspicion anyone not uplifted by their presence.


There puffins do not nest on the island itself, but on top of the Great Stack of Handa (above). The stack is very close to the island so the birds are still easy to observe. The main island is was previously infested with rats who would eat the eggs and young, so the puffins wisely retreated to the sanctuary of the stack. The pamphlet provided by the warden reported that although the rats were exterminated in 1997, the puffins have yet to recolonise the main island .

We did see one pair of pioneering puffins on the main island, nesting in a burrow among the thrift flowers (above). The twelve year gap shows that being born after the extermination of the rats was not in itself sufficient to encourage the puffins to recolonise the main island. Perhaps the puffins stayed put until the last of their number who could remember the rats had passed away, and the association between nesting on the main island and the threat of predation by rats began to fade from the folk memory of the puffins.