Ardnamurchan and Moidart
by David MacGregor
This is actually two articles which have been combined into one...
1. Much Muttering In A'Mharbhairn
For once, we were lucky with the weather. The sun shone down from an azure blue sky and the bright light sparkled off frozen waterfalls and lochs, but it was cold, very cold, especially at night.
We'd driven up from Arran in MacGromit's van to Corran Ferry and the hotel, sampled their real ale at a jaw-dropping £3.70 a pint before crossing over to Ardgour and the hotel bar to try their prices - not much different, but a warmer, friendlier bar. We slept in the van that night, waking up with ice on the roof.
Our destination was Leachraithnaich Bothy beyond Ardtornish, but first we warmed up with a ride down a winding single-track road past Loch Arienas and Loch Doire nam Mart to the sea at Loch Teacuis and a brew on the foreshore - plenty of driftwood for the billy. It was good to soak up the warm sunshine in the still air and dream of another day, exploring here and about the Isle of Carna by sea kayak. We passed the site of a cleared township with signs to remind us that this peninsular bounded on three sides by sea once had a population of over 2,000 - now it was around 320.
Back at the Ardtornish Estate we loaded the bikes, but were constantly interrupted by curious estate workers asking questions and telling us their stories, so it took like hours before we were away, just as the light began to fade. Now in all that chat no one mentioned the state of the track. Sure we knew they were putting in a new road for the hydro scheme: that there might be machines barring the way. The well-worn vehicle track climbed steeply and painfully for our tired and unfit limbs, past the last estate houses, above the roaring burn onto open moorland. Soon crushed and broken rock of the new "road" made going even slower. We passed the big diggers and the last worker tramping down alone. By now we were pushing the bikes heads down and hardly noticed till it was too late - we were now in a peat ditch, a deep one. The first bike sank to its axles in black goo. Extricating ourselves in the deepening gloaming became a battle, finding a route over the quaking peat banks a curse - the bag of coal fell into a deep puddle; a mighty hiss came from my front tyre!
Eventually, the old track was found and in the very last of the loom we saw a gable end silhouetted against the night sky: the bothy. The fire was lit, tea brewed, a mound of beef curry scoffed. More tea followed then a dram to calm the nerves as we stood outside in the cold still air, marvelling at the canopy of stars overhead; not a light or a sound to disturb the calm - magic.
Though replete and tired it was not a good night. MacGromit's airbed deflated slowly onto the ice-cold concrete floor. More cursing rent the air and it was a grumpy old man in the morning, who was stoking the fire alive and brewing tea, but the water in the billy was frozen! More tea, porridge and more tea gave a partial fix till the sun keeked over the ridge of Meall a' Chaorainn: soon we were sat outside sunbathing, warmer than inside, with not a cloud in sight. The pure silence and stillness was like a soothing balm; nothing moved, but the twinkle of light off the frozen loch below, sheeted in ice: had it been thick enough we could have walked out to the crannog, but we did crack the ice to wash the pots and ourselves; gather driftwood.
Three punctures were patched and the offending thorn removed. The airbed was inspected, but the leak never found. An old drover's track ran on the far bank of the loch so of for a walk we went, circling the loch, wandering as far as the beallach above Loch Linnhe and climbing the long ridge of Meall a' Chaorainn, 481m for magical views over to the mainland Appin, Lismore Island and snow covered peaks far away; even Arran to the south and Rum to the north and not a soul in sight or noise to intrude. Morvern really is a forgotten quarter of the Highlands. The track, we learnt, was once used in Victorian times by pony and trap and in parts was still perfectly rideable by bike. There is a bothy down at Eignaig on the shore, leased from the estate, but, we were told, sometimes available upon request. There are more small bothies along that coastline too.
Sunset and ice forming
Riding back to Ardtornish
The old Ridgeback bike loaded up
Back at the ice-box bothy, despite a roaring fire, tea, a corn-dog curry, even more tea, Dundee cake and the last of the malt it was another cool night for MacGromit, constantly up and down stoking the fire, cursing the concrete floor - why wasn't there a wooden sleeping platform, a decent grate, etc? I kept quiet, snug in a four season down bag!
With a new hot sun the next day we eat the last of the food, cleaned up the bothy and washed by the loch: it was easy to bypass the quagmire that morning, whiz down the hill on the old track to the van and another hot brew: we were off to find another bothy on Mull.
We didn't get onto Mull. Just as the ferry docked at Lochaline, it broke down! Morvern was once known as Cean Albin, the extremity of Albin.
The view of bothy and loch
Gromit leaves
2. Two Wheels Into The West
With the ferry to Mull out of action a Plan B was needed: the bothy at Resourie in Gleann Hurich or the Independent Hostel in Strontian? Hot showers and soft warm beds won out - got to pamper old bodies sometimes and for £12.00 per night we got fresh linen and towels too.
The road to Kilchoan above the shores of Loch Sunart is a narrow, windy road through oak woods. Slow is the only pace, with blind bends and passing places to negotiate, but with glorious views through the trees. Beyond the inn at Kilchoan, where the Norse invaders held sway for many centuries, there is a fork in the road. We took the right, towards Sanna. On the steep stretch, too steep to pedal, there was a sudden loud hiss from the back wheel: not a puncture this time, but two splits in the tyre. It was another glorious sunny day so it was not too much of a chore to sit in the road with the wheel off, repair the puncture, reinforce the split: not a car came our way!
Unlike around Strontian, this was a bare landscape devoid of trees with little habitation: the crofters had been cleared off the land for sheep in the 19th century: now there are few sheep to be seen! We were now crossing into the bowl of a collapsed volcano, the rim a series of high rocky kopjes circling around us. It was a great ride of steady climbs followed by long swoops in to more shadowed hollows. Soon we arrived at the township of Sanna, deserted like many here now. A short ride over the machair led to the white sands and out of the wind, a brew stop and a chance to laze in the bright sun; listen to the oystercatchers and the waves break on the strand.
Sanna is a product of the Clearances in the early 1800's, when crofters and cottars were forced off the more fertile land to the east to make way for the achaora mhor, the big sheep. Forced to scratch out a living on this bare foreshore they were encouraged by John Murdoch and the Land League to battle for permanent crafting rights. Sadly, the last crofter gave up in the '70's and all that remain now are holiday homes.
Tea drunk and shells gathered, it was time for off, across to Portuairk, facing north over the bay. The track across the machair was easy riding, but the footpath was harder and steeper, over headlands and down into gullies. Rocks were clambered over, burns negotiated and bikes on backs to arrive at a restored fisherman's bothy above the shore. The clachan houses lay in shade, permanent at this time of the year and apart from one elderly gent, empty of life: the heart and soul sadly long gone, along with its history and Celtic culture.
Cold once more, we mounted up for the long slog back, but a diversion was called for, to the furthest point west in the British mainland; Ardnamurchan Lighthouse - 6 degrees, 20 minutes west of Greenwich. Another ride on an undulating single track road guided us to the barren headland, hemmed in by an electrified fence on both sides, preventing any Right to Roam; to reach that sandy beach on the north shore. We had the Stephenson lighthouse to ourselves. Its pink granite glowed in the evening sun. Apparently, it's the only lighthouse built in the Egyptian style, but magnificent and stark in its lonely vigil.
The last choccy bar was scoffed as the sun sank down, the panorama of surrounding islands now black edged, until only the deepening chill remained: we had to move. It was a fast drop down from the lighthouse, past the shore and on. We paused at Sonachan Hotel with its open fire and café bar, noted the newly refurbished hostel attached, for a future occasion and peddled on, now very tired and without proper lights. Back at Kilchoan, the pub was open and there was no stopping MacGromit this time. A glorious cool pint and jaw-challenging beef growler later there was a smile back on his face - another magic day!
Later, a closer and longer look at the map revealed a number of ancient drove roads offering challenging rides: one climbs between Beann Hiant and Beinn nan Losgann over the bealach of Lag na Bo Maoli, shortening the current loop in the road; a longer drove road connects the north coast with Archaracle crossing remote country from the road-end at Ockle - something for another day!
Bothy Will January 2010
The lighthouse fog horn!
Ardtornish Castle
Gromit wi porridge pot
Views north to Isle of Rum
Repairs in the sunshine and not a car passed
A blowout of the wrong kind - Gromit in dismay!