Amidst
that I’ve been putting extra effort into making sure lots of my reading & thinking is done outdoors. So one week I nestled myself between Snowdonia
crags, in weather so miserable the camera rarely came out, and spent an evening
buried in books and snow:
The next
week, in fierce winds, I wandered some glorious old coral reefs in the
Peak District, reading 1870s arguments about arcane questions of human nature:
Between
these brief jaunts I was seeing the year’s teaching come to fruition, with
hundreds of essays to mark. The most challenging questions I set for the 2nd
year undergrads (particularly ‘Is historical time Newtonian time?’) produced
some astoundingly brilliant results, so work was perpetually pleasurable thanks
to interesting people thinking interesting things.
However,
while juggling all this (and the actual teaching), I’ve also been thinking
about my project of a book about nature, history & travel
on the West coasts of Britain & Ireland. Currently called The Frayed Atlantic Edge, this is
intended not just as a diverting side project but also to help me change the
direction of some of my future research & teaching. The most exciting development this month has been the proposal for that project being submitted: suddenly it feels real. (I was initially intending to explain the project, and ask for advice on it, in this post - something I'll do in the near future - but if anyone does want to know more, please get in touch). With that project in mind, I’m using my
usual reading & writing trips to visit places I’ve not been before &
places I should know better. This month that meant the Morvern peninsula (a
spectacular & strangely underappreciated chunk of the West coast) and, just
a 15 minute crossing away, the Isle of Mull.
Given
ongoing storms & the likelihood I’d be holed up indoors for much of the
trip, I changed my mind about where to stay at the last minute, going for
somewhere more luxurious & atmospheric than I’d planned. This was Achleanan farmhouse on the Drimnin estate, set deep in dramatic landscape with views
over the sound of Mull & unbroken solitude except for highland cattle,
sheep, & an unexpected lama in the next field:
I set
off from Birmingham as early as I could bear, in the hope I’d have time to get
on the water & kayak past my week’s home before I drove to the door (there
was also an evening talk to get to at the Drimnin Village Hall, by a BBC
wildlife cameraman, Jim Manthorpe, if I was still awake).
I had
the boat on the sea by 3 & was soon finding that Drimnin makes an ideal
spot to get on the water. At the head of Morvern, with the sound of Mull to the W and Loch
Sunart to the N, it has awesome views of the Ardnamurchan peninsula as well as
an abundance of wildlife & history. Here’s the view down the sound, with
the chapel of the Drimnin estate on the left…
…and the
view across Loch Sunart:
I’d soon
seen a distant sea eagle, as well as, closer up, unusually casual turnstones, oystercatchers,
curlews, herons (including one up a 17thC ruin) & a fleeting otter:
Remarkably,
many sea birds, such as this tystie at the bottom of Ben Hiant, were already in
summer colours:
I stayed
on the water until after sunset…
…and
landed as the light failed…
…then
made my way up the farm tracks to the place I’d be living. Here’s the farm (taken, as the rain cleared, on a later evening):
Next day
I worked the morning, then began to familiarise myself with the area by driving
across Morvern. Passing through the community of Strontian I thought of the historian
Jim Hunter’s grandfather’s stories of the clearances. But continuing N I made
my slow way to Arisaig for a few hours at sea. Here, the Skye cuillin…
…towers
over the string of Small Isles – Eigg, Muck & (in this pic) Rum, site of one of my favourite week's wandering several years ago...
...while the mainland
mountains, such as Sgurr na Ciche, provide a dramatic backdrop to any birds
hanging around on the headland.
Arisaig
bay contains a host of skerries separated by shallow lagoons. These sheltered
waters provide a wildlife extravaganza. All three UK loons – black-throated,
red-throated and great northern divers – were here in extraordinary numbers as
well as mergansers, various ducks & lots of grey seals. At one point I sat
looking across the water as low February sun turned the waves deep blue; just
as the light reached perfect intensity, a face, dripping with sea, surfaced
from the nearest wave. This was the best view I’ve ever had of the magical rich
red eye & thick steely bill of the great northern diver.
This is also
the bird known in Norwegian tradition as the Ember Goose – fitting for a bird
with these smouldering eyes. (Thanks to Rosalind Maud for making sure I'll never again get a
great northern and a black-throated diver mixed up…)
I hung
around where a young gannet dived & dived again against the backdrop of the
cuillin…
…and
then spent a while watching seals & black & red throated divers amongst the lagoons:
Heading
S, the changing mountain backdrops never let up.
But, as
the sun set, the view across the islands was the real highlight of the day:
Because
I walk/kayak/sleep warm (one reason I love winter) I don’t own anything like a
drysuit. Unless conditions are such that I’m likely to roll (when I reluctantly
wear a wetsuit), I kayak in wetsuit trousers, a t-shirt & a pair of
ordinary light hiking gloves. After sunset in winter, a northerly picking up
& wet hands achingly numb, I began to wonder whether I should rethink that
strategy until, back at the car, a few minutes with the heater had fingers functioning
again. As I drove back, listening to Seamus Heaney read poems from North, two wildcats crossed the
single-track road ahead.
Next day
was windswept, so I spent it in Achleanan farmhouse, by the woodburning stove, with books and a diet of
morning espresso & evening Scottish stouts.
But the
forecast showed that a gap in the winds was on its way. The first of two better
days looked made for mountains: cold & clear but still moderately windy. The
second day promised sunshine & snowshowers with just a gentle
north-easterly: unexpected kayak heaven. I decided I’d spend the first night
outdoors, so scoured my maps for somewhere I could first walk, then kayak
without wasting time by driving in between. Fortunately, Mull is the perfect
answer to such needs: it’s one huge magical multigym.
If I
parked at Dhiseig on Mull’s Ardmeanach peninsula I’d be in a perfect place to
climb Ben More, where I could spend a night high in the snow. Next day I’d be
in an ideal spot to kayak out past the islands of Ulva and Little Colonsay towards
Staffa, site of Fingal’s Cave. This was partly a test. I’ve never done a full
day’s winter kayak straight from a tentless night on a peak. Given the future
journeys I have planned, I need to know that the numb fingers from an icy
mountain night won’t make hands less resilient to the chill of a wintry sea crossing.
I caught
the 10am ferry from Lochaline & set off up Ben More before lunch…
…conditions
were more or less ideal…
…except
that, knowing a night in the ice was ahead, I’d have preferred less sting in
the wind.
This
mountain is an exceptional view point; better, in fact, than I’d anticipated.
Across Islay, Jura & Colonsay I could see the Mull of Kintyre to the South.
Then, turning anticlockwise was Ben Cruachan, and more peaks leading to the
Nevis range, where snow was falling. Continuing to turn, the Kintail mountains,
Knoydart and Ben Sgritheall made up a rugged skyline before the Skye Cuillin
& the small isles, which were also partially obscured by falling snow:
Then
Barra and Berneray, the southern end of the Western Isles, could be made out
behind long flat Coll & Tiree. Closer, this peak had views of tomorrow’s
kayak: Staffa is the smudge on the far left…
I sat and
read as the wind slowly died, making the peak an ever more idyllic place to be...
…but what
perfected the evening was the presence of two Sea Eagles which, for over an
hour, soared at a distance, first far below, then high above. Travelling slowly
as a pair they chattered constantly to each other, occasionally tipping at each
other’s wings. These are awful photos (sorry!) but I can’t resist putting them
in, for the memory of an atmospheric hour on a mountain, silent but for eagle
blether:
Fragments
of cloud drifted in as the sun set, adding extra colour to the sky. Here the Paps of Jura are in the distance…
…and
here are views NW & NE from my sleeping spot (though I moved 5 feet or so
further from the edge when I actually went to sleep). This Mammut Shield
sleeping bag is one of my favourite possessions, keeping me warm and dry with
none of the encumbrance (or noise) of a tent or bivi bag.
The
sunset was great, and I then read history & poetry under the stars for several
hours, but the really breathtaking moment came at dawn. A few wisps of cloud were
still around as the sun - big, dim & deep red - rose. The view from the
sleeping bag was simply awesome...
...one of the finest mountain sights I’ve ever
woken up to.
February
dawn is still late, and I didn’t want to leave before the show was over. Nor
could I hurry the icy descent from the peak (always most treacherous first
thing in the morning). To add to this, there was a pair of hen harriers quartering the lower slopes. These are a pleasure to see, given their
persecution & endangerment in most of the UK. I can’t watch them now without
being reminded of Colin Simms’ obsessively-observed harriers, uncompromisingly written
into gloriously unsentimental poetry; whenever I see pine
martens, otters or hen harriers it’s Simms’ books, not any kind of field guide,
that I urgently feel the need to immerse myself in. The female hen harrier flew
close by just as I was taking off my crampons, but by the time I had the camera
out was too distant to photograph effectively. Still, there’s much to be said
for watching them patrol at a distance, unaffected by your presence:
So I wasn’t
early getting down: it was 11 o’clock by the time I was on the water. This put
pressure on my Staffa trip: I had to be back at the car by 5 if I was to catch
the last ferry from Mull to the mainland. More urgency was added by the latest
forecast, which I’d been able to check from the top of the Ben: it predicted gentle
north-easterlies until around 2, followed by southerlies rising to 22mph by 5.
The idea of battling back through a crossing with lots of southerly exposure in
a force 5 (not to mention that it would be under time pressure, in winter, and
after a cold night on the mountain) was distinctly unappealing. Not quite
certain how far the journey was (20km?) I wasn’t entirely convinced I’d make it
– this might just have to be a circuit of Little Colonsay.
Moments
before I set off, I was stood at the car, a few metres from the kayak, when a
Sea Eagle flew into view. I grabbed the camera, thinking I might get a distant
shot as it veered away once it saw me. Instead, completely oblivious, the eagle
came closer & closer until it made to land right next to the kayak. I was
still switching the camera on as it realised its mistake & turned, but I was
just in time to get a couple of shots, albeit on entirely the wrong settings,
as it headed off over the water. Some kind of augury for the trip ahead? (The
morning so far had been a bizarre story of amazing birds of prey &
incompetent camera fumbling.)
I set
out towards the islands, with a patchwork sky of sun, rain & rainbow. There
were more loons around, and for the first time I heard an ember goose cackle. They
only make their evocative sounds near the breeding season, and they don’t breed
in Britain. This is the sound referred to in a jazz standard (‘Wanna cry, wanna
croon, wanna laugh like a loon, it’s that Old Devil Moon in your eyes’) and the
term ‘loon’ itself is derived from the Old Norse lomr, meaning ‘moaning bird’; in Iceland they’re known as him-brimi: ‘surf roarers’. Within half
an hour I had views across the Isle of Ulva (some of its many peninsulas lit up
in this photo), as well as Little Colonsay & Staffa, with various Treshnish
Isles popping up in the gaps between them:
This is
an exceptionally beautiful bit of broken coastline, full of riches like
isolated historic blackhouses & (as I heard from some people I met the
previous day) bays of scallops for summer picking: I intend to make it back soon.
But with skerries & reefs along the way, care had to be taken. Here Staffa
peeks over the left of a large unexpected breaker near the islands of Inch
Kenneth:
There
was plenty of wildlife along the way – lots of razorbills & guillemots –
but this was a different kind of journey from usual. I didn’t have time to hang
around with the camera out. I made one exception, when I saw two razorbills in a
scene that also featured Staffa & the Treshnish Isle known as the Dutchman’s
Cap.
Then I paddled on. Soon, Staffa was coming close to its classic summer appearance
as an emerald outpost in a sapphire sea.
Conditions
were still good as I got close enough to see the strange hexagonal basalt columns
that make this island famous.
But the closer I kayaked the livelier the sea.
The swell was increasingly substantial, and the confusion caused by its impact
on the island was immense. I needed to keep one hand on the paddle as I took my
first glances into Fingal’s Cave:
These
basalt columns are what inspired the eighteenth-century poet James
Macpherson (he who wrote/collated Ossian poems & who has too readily been dismissed as a 'fraud' by literary history), to give the cave its name. Fingal was intended as a
Gaelic rendering of Fionn, the legendary Irish figure said to have built the
Giant’s Causeway. (By coincidence I was here for the 220th anniversary
of Macpherson’s death on 17 Feb 1796.) After its popularisation, thanks to
Joseph Banks, in 1772 this cave became a weird fetish for the 19thC people I
write about – every self-respecting artist, poet, musician or monarch had to make it here by any means
possible. Here’s Turner’s version…
...and
here’s Thomas Moran’s from 1884:
Photos like
this…
…do no
justice to the movement of this water. For that, I needed to take a pic in the
other direction: 
This
made it impossible to get near the cave, which requires truly perfect conditions.
Its Gaelic name is An Uaimh Bhinn –
the melodious cave – because of its unique acoustic properties. I could see
inside during brief moments between the driving surf…
…but today
was more roar than melody.
With
time running out & the wind already veering S, I couldn’t hang around (I wish I'd been able to). The
way back was much tougher than the outward journey, and sunset colours were
beginning to show by the time I had my last views of the Ross of Mull. The book
I’d taken on this kayak trip was A Song
Among the Stones by the highland poet Kenneth Steven. These poems evoke, in
spare style intended to echo a medieval manuscript, the journeys of 6th
century pilgrims setting out from the mainland in search of solitude. With the
Isle of Iona in sight, this seemed fitting. Despite the pressures of time I
felt it’d be wrong not to stop, bobbing about on the waves, and read. This was
the view as I did, Iona the last land on the right:
And there was plenty of wildlife around as the sun set, including the famous Mull otters:
I made
my ferry, and by the time I was on board, even the water in the sheltered sound
was beginning to bear witness to the coming gales. Timing had been perfect, as
the next day – constant gales & heavy rain – confirmed. I sat by the 270
degrees of windows in the farmhouse, wrote my keynote lecture on
Egyptology, knocked back more black coffee than is probably advised, and
watched the weather sweep the sound. I did manage one more kayak, from Drimnin
into Loch Sunart & the island or Oronsay, but the wind & rain made
conditions too messy to get the camera out (at least until the sun briefly
appeared at the end):
Also during these last two days, I saw the first publicity for two publications I have some writing in:
These to go with my new (but not very mountaincoastriver) book, out this month:
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