OUT AND ABOUT WITH RALPH A walk through seriously boggy country in the Caithness flows, to a little village that has been completely forgotten

I NEVER dreamt that a time would come when I would have to await Nicola Sturgeon’s permission before going out in the boat or onto the hills. But now, at last, we all have that freedom. Make the most of it before it is taken away again! I reckon most of us will meet the virus sooner or later anyway. It does no good worrying about it, so do as much as you are allowed.

Strong winds ruled out a sea-kayak trip. However, a windy, bright July morning was ideal for a walk out across the flow country. The midges, clegs and clouds of sweat-sucking flies would be kept at bay and, with legs covered as protection against ticks, the insect hazards of the Highlands in summer could be forgotten.

Someday maybe somebody else will sing the praises of the Shurrery area, of the remote lochs of Scye and Caluim, of Beinn nam Bad and Achforsiescye. It has always been a favourite stamping ground of mine and I often had long runs out along the track from Loch Shurrery when I was fitter.

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You can drive all the way to Shurrery Loch but it was worth setting off half a mile down the road to enjoy the walk through gardens of wild flowers. A track circuits the woods around the lodge before emerging into open country, slowly gaining height with grand views over miles of empty moorland with the Sutherland peaks in the far distance. I always reckon that the Caithness flows, even with all the encroaching forests and wind farms, are wilder than the Cairngorm plateau where there are many paths and visitors. You’ll never meet anyone on Beinn nam Bad!

As the path rounds the first hill with views south to Loch Caluim, there’s a rusting corrugated-iron hut. Once a small stables, it has survived 100 years of storms with names and dates on the walls back to the 1930s.

A very peaceful place to sit listening to the curlews and lapwings and falling water and thinking of those unknown folk who lived, loved and died here.

This was just a morning’s walk, so rather than carrying on three miles to the magnificent Loch Tuim Ghlais I climbed up through the heather and bilberry to the crest of Beinn nam Bad Mor. The exposed trig point is the highest point for many miles and feels like more than twice its modest altitude. Just under a boulder by the summit was a stunted, bonsai rowan tree grazed down to 30cm by the deer yet strong and healthy and even harbouring a large hairy caterpillar, probably an oak eggar.

I picked my way down short, steep slopes to the shore of Loch Scye where choppy waves were breaking on the little sandy beach near the boathouse. I now headed boldly out across the roughest and wettest of moorland, first rounding the end of Little Loch Scye then picking my way towards the glen of Forsiescye. After some serious bogs one suddenly emerges at an old settlement. The ground steepens and the burn has been partially diverted so that twin waterfalls cascade around slightly higher ground where low walls remain of two houses, one with a round kiln end. There are other signs of past habitation, but this little village has been completely forgotten. A very peaceful place to sit for a few minutes listening to the curlews and lapwings and falling water and thinking of those unknown folk who lived, loved and died here.

But this is not an easy place to reach. Between here and Torrovaich are the worst of bogs, places where you might disappear without trace were you not careful, as well as awkward deep ditches. Deer paths provide some help. Eventually the former shepherd’s house appeared above the long grass but even now a deep, wet ditch barred the way.

There used to be no road to the cottage and the resident walked in from the road half a mile to east using a footbridge over the Forss. Now the house has been renovated by the estate for guests, with a good access track from the lodge. The river was high today; I’d only cross by swimming if the bridge had gone, but it was a long detour back round by the lodge.

The path had vanished but the bridge was still there, just. It won’t last much longer. On the other side the route was lost in long grass and very wet bogs, but the struggle back to the road was worth it. The globe buttercups were in full flower, still growing where they had always grown.

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