Far from the tourist crowds
HAS anybody else ever enjoyed a day which began on Eilean Hoan, north of Durness, took in a circumnavigation of Handa Isle and ended at a remote bothy east of Kylesku at the head of Loch Glencoul?
No? I didn’t have a fast RIB, just a sea-kayak and a car.
Late in the afternoon I rounded the last corner of the twisty Loch Eriboll road to see a huge swell rolling into the sands of Sangobeg. My plan had been to kayak out to Eilean Hoan, just a mile off shore, but no way was I launching through that surf with so many people on the beach to watch my likely capsize… so I drove on.
I don’t like the touristy atmosphere of Durness but had no option but to park by the visitor centre and try setting out from Sango Bay, where the surf was marginally less. Indeed visitors were down on the beach taking photos of the white breaking rollers, while I, attempting to look the nonchalant experienced mariner, dragged the kayak, laden with camping gear, into the surf.
This spot is overlooked, too, by a big caravan site… fortunately I made it out successfully without being washed back clinging to an upturned boat. It was a couple of miles from here to Eilean Hoan, by no means a gentle paddle with the swell bouncing off the cliffs giving rise to that confused water known as clapotis and far too rough to paddle in for a look at Smoo cave.
Forty-five minutes later I thankfully reached the shelter of Eilean Hoan with tranquil waters of waving kelp forests and seals.
The RSPB owns the little island and has a small bothy just above the sandy beach on the southern shore, a lovely spot to spend the night after a late-evening’s potter around watching the sun going down with showers still to the south over the cloud-capped hills of Foinaven. So near the tourist rush but so far removed from it!
LATER that night a local fishing boat, seeing the kayak on the shore, made sure I knew he was there with a rattling engine and loud music, then gave a big toot when coming back at seven the next morning. Oh well. Everyone from Kinlochbervie to Tongue now knew that Ralph had spent the night on Hoan.
The morning’s paddle back to Durness was just as rough as the journey across, with the added excitement of a surf landing on Sango Bay under the eyes of a hundred caravanners.
The day was, though, shaping up for the best of the week – clear and sunny with very light winds. There would be no better opportunity for a paddle at Handa Island, a place I’d never visited before.
The roads had been quiet, I turned off the main Scourie road down to Tarbet – and couldn’t believe the dozens of cars parked near the harbour where a little boat was shuttling tourists across to Handa.
Owned by the Scottish Wildlife Trust, this small island is roughly circular and about a mile in diameter with 400ft cliffs on its western side hosting large sea bird colonies.
The rocky bay was sheltered from the open sea by many skerries and small islands; I paddled out from the beach in hot sunshine, rounding various rocky shores before a short crossing to the low cliffs of Handa. It would, I’d assumed, be too rough to paddle round the island but easy to head north then westward along the rising cliffs before turning back.
However, there was less swell here, and it was quite manageable to carry on, rounding each little headland to find higher and higher cliffs. There were colonies of cliff-nesting kittiwakes, guillemots and razorbills, but fewer in numbers than you see on the east coast of Caithness.
Here was the great stack of Handa, a huge 400ft-high block with a narrow passage between it and the island, with the swell surging through – not to be attempted on my own. On the clifftops were the tiny figures of tourists watching the birds through their binoculars.
Round another headland, past skerries and through a small tidal overfall, then, almost to my surprise, I was past the last headland to the sheltered southern side of the island.
A mile on was a magnificent sandy beach, totally deserted like a tropical paradise under the hot sun, just the place for a late lunch.
A WELL-made path, with boardwalks, circuits the island with spectacular views of the cliffs and bird colonies, though for the best views you have to defy the warning notices and leave the path.
The summit of the island gave a superb 360 degree view of the rocky west coast and the mountains of Quinag and Assynt to the east and south. I felt a bit guilty in jogging round in under an hour, it would have justified much longer, especially on such a fine day, but at least I’d had a flavour of the nature reserve.
This is the only place I’ve seen an arctic skua attacking a great skua which had come too close to its chicks.
The famous puffins? Saw none, the Caithness stack at Drumholiston is much better than anything Handa can offer.
A gentle paddle through sunlit waters took me back to Tarbet.
I’d have liked to spend the night on another offshore island but didn’t trust the forecast – cloud was thickening from the west which usually means strengthening south-easterly winds.
So instead I drove the few miles to Kyelsku for another trip I’d always wanted to do – up the loch to Glencoul bothy, a place I’d only previously visited by means of a long overland trek from Loch Shin.
From the Kylesku Bridge the two arms of the sea loch, Loch Glencoul and Glendhu, stretch tantalisingly into the distance, backed by steep rocky mountains. Few take the opportunity to do other than look.
IN the late afternoon sun I packed the boat by the old ferry slipway and set off for the third time that day, into the calm sea-loch. There’s no path to the head of Loch Glencoul, on foot it’s a rough, arduous trek but by kayak or canoe just an easy three-mile paddle, coasting along looking at the steep rocky shoreline.
There are large mussel beds for those trusting seafood, the loch is full of fish – but I took the easy option of carrying tinned food. The bothy is in a dramatic setting, near Britain’s highest waterfall, and adjoins the old farmhouse, now shuttered and locked.
I found it a rather sad location; not so long ago it was a family home and a working farm. It doesn’t feel that remote, down the loch you can see the houses of Kylesku, and tourists often come past on RIB boat trips.
Come morning I was glad to have decided to stay on for a second night, the wind had risen as expected and the weather was deteriorating.
I set off to paddle about another half mile to the end of Loch Beag and then have a walk up towards Ben More Assynt, but on rounding the corner met a wind that must have been a good force seven.
Paddling flat out I just made it a couple of hundred yards to a small island and gave up, turning back to the bothy, the wind speeding me along without paddling and the strange experience of being able to steer the boat by holding the paddle out of the water as a rudder in the air.
SO a morning walk instead, visiting the high waterfall and scrambling up through crags to the rocky Stack of Glencoul which dominates the head of the loch.
Stags already had antlers covered in velvet, while hinds had young fawns. It would soon be autumn!
The wind dropped away in the afternoon, allowing an exploration by boat of the various little rocky islands near the end of the loch. Harbour seals had very young pups with them, some suckling, and the fin of a porpoise arched out of the water. A bouldery shore under cliffs and out of reach of the deer hosted aspen and birch trees with a garden of wild flowers.
The next morning was grey with spotting wind and a gentle easterly wind to help me on my way.
Instead of heading straight back, though, I first had to explore the other arm of the sea-loch, Loch Glen Dhu, an easy detour in almost calm water below the steep rugged mountainsides.
At the head of this loch is another bothy. I landed and called in on a mountain-biker who had been staying and now faced a hard four-mile wheel down a rough path to the road.
He probably envied me paddling off into the calm loch to be back at Kylesku in less than three-quarters of an hour.