Attack of the ‘super midge’... I still bear the scars
AFTER a lifetime of wandering through the wilder parts of the Scottish Highlands, I thought I knew the insect hazards of the summer season pretty well.
The author of the Book of Revelation, chapter nine, could have advised me better; I was in for a rude awakening. Even the familiar insects can cause considerable grief to the unprepared. My least favourite is the tick, increasingly nowadays there’s a risk of catching the unpleasant Lyme disease if you don’t get them off within a day or so. Anywhere the vegetation is more than ankle height swarms with them, the worst are those at the beginning of their life cycle which are so tiny you can hardly see them.
Next stage is a size up – the freckle that crawls – while the adults are half the size of a ladybird with a handsome red mark and a nasty bite. I’m pretty paranoid about them, covering up anywhere they are about. Even so, after a foray into the great outdoors there are always one or two which have evaded my defences and fastened on...
Then, of course, midges. There are enough midgy tales to fill a few books. They are rarely a problem though if you keep moving – except after a big hatch in calm weather when you may have to run to avoid the swarms. The only repellent that works when it is seriously bad is DEET – and even then the insects will find the little bit of skin that’s not covered. Midges are a pest, a nuisance, a serious deterrent to summer, lowland camping...but you can usually cope, even if it means sitting sealed inside a tent on a fine summer evening.
Some folk hate clegs. But they are fairly slow, only come out in warm weather, usually attack in just ones or twos and are easily swatted when they land. If they bite, you feel a sharp prick and can flick the insect off before any significant damage is done. I have, though, on rare occasions been attacked by a swarm of a dozen or two when crossing the Caithness moors and one’s entire attention is then devoted to fighting the things off.
One of the worst nuisances is the sweat-sucking fly, slightly larger than a housefly, which can swarm around you in huge black clouds on a hot day, trying to land and drink your sweat. There’s little you can do except attempt to wave them off and to keep going till you reach fresher, windier conditions. Then there are the familiar mosquitoes which bite quietly without you knowing anything about it till you notice an itchy lump. Being aware they are about, using repellent and covering up is the best protection.
And don’t pitch your tent on an ants’ nest! It’s easier said than done, as the few dry spots in wet Highland ground are the places favoured by these little biters. August is often the worst month, but at the end of June none of these pests should yet be too bad. My plan was to kayak to the end of Loch Veyatie, in the heart of Assynt west of Elphin, try out a brand-new tent for the night, then climb Suilven the next morning before paddling out and heading for home.
A track leads from the road for about half a mile down to the loch where there is a salmon hatchery, a locked gate bars vehicles so it was a case of lifting everything over the gate, strapping the boat to a little two-wheeled trolley and trundling it down the hill. An hour after arriving I was at last in the water and paddling westward up the quiet, grey loch. It was a damp, muggy, afternoon threatening more rain.
The narrow Loch Veyatie stretches for several miles west into the hills, all empty roadless country, with scattered birchwoods along the hilly shores. Under the grey, misty skies the feeling was of rapidly entering a truly wild place. The promised rain began, I paddled in to land on a little stony beach below the trees to put my waterproof top on. This took a while, having to remove the life jacket first and, while doing this, a swarm of little insects gathered. I thought at first they were midges but they were bigger, and more determined. Dressed in all my gear I was pretty well protected from them, whatever they were, but headed out as quickly as possible into the loch.
Dimly through rain and drifting mist rose the isolated peaks of Culmor and Suilven. I paddled on down the long, narrow loch, stopping again to land briefly on a shingle spit and just savour the peace and solitude of the landscape. The rocky country south of the loch had been burnt by the huge fires of early May, but most of the scattered birches had survived and already the landscape was green with fresh growth.
At the far end of the loch was a rare perfect campsite, a grassy knoll just above the shore and sufficiently breezy, I hoped, to dispel the midges. In the heavy rain I set about erecting my new tent for the first time – it was a modern, hooped design and I needed to follow the written instructions. Unfortunately, these were printed on flimsy paper which rapidly disintegrated under the downpour and it was a race to get the tent up before they became completely illegible.
A couple of dozen of those pesky little flies had followed me into the tent, some kind of biting black fly I thought and hunted down as many as I could before cooking my tea. Unfortunately, the odd one must have been missed which, unknown to me, enjoyed its own meal. The weather relented later, allowing an evening walk into the very rough country of rocky knolls and lochans below the towering crags of Suilven, on top of one knoll was a tiny lochan not even marked on the map – with a red-throated diver calling with its weird wails. I now noticed I’d been bitten – one or two nasty red spots – and did my best to fend off the determined insects back at the tent. By morning the bites had become huge itchy sores the size of a 50p piece, the worst bites or stings I’ve ever had.
The morning was bright, fresh and breezy. By 6.30am I was on my way up through that tangled country, soon climbing steeper and steeper slopes to gain the col between the two tops of Suilven. Here the illusion that you’ve reached somewhere really remote is rudely dispelled in the form of a very fine dry-stone wall built right across the col, huge stones emplaced on ridiculously steep slopes.
Nobody seems to know why this wall was built at incredible effort, or by whom. Perhaps it was a scheme to provide employment during the Highland potato famine 160 years ago, like a wall built across Ben Dearg to the south-west. A work of art, a truly amazing piece of architecture.
From the col it’s an easy walk to the main western top of Suilven – a top I watched sunset and dawn from, nearly 40 years ago – then one of the finest hill walks anywhere, back down to the col and along the narrow ridge to the main eastern top, with some nice scrambling up sandstone ledges. The views are literally out of this world, high above that Assynt jigsaw of lochan and rock with other isolated peaks such as Stac Polly and Cul Beag rising in the distance. Lochinver lay far below to the west with the ocean beyond, and the familiar peaks to the north such as Ben Hope which you can see from home.
Back at the tent, a lovely sunny late morning and most thankfully a good breeze to keep down the insects. An idyllic, quiet spot but whenever the breeze dropped a bit those flies were not far away... nevertheless, I could enjoy taking my time packing up, listening to the sandpipers and the curlews and the distant wailing of divers while the scent of thyme rose from the short grass in the sunshine.
The wind helped me back along the loch, a lovely easy paddle to Elphin. I’d received six awful bites in spite of my efforts to fend the insects off, had I been less careful I’d likely have ended up in hospital. Whatever were the things? Birch flies. Supposedly only found on Speyside, but the Assynt folk would hardly advertise their part of the world has them
Sometimes called “super midges”, their bite is known to be very nasty, far worse than a mosquito, and folk have indeed ended up needing medical attention. Fortunately, my bites gradually subsided but I still bear the scars. And yet the Highlands would not be the wild and wonderful place it is without its hazards of insect life in addition to weather and rough country. There’s a place even for birch flies…as long as its not where I happen to be!