Win Hill Picnic

Took the kids up Win Hill on Sunday, setting off from Yorkshire Bridge and clambering up through the steep woodland path with regular rest stops for Haribo. My hidden agenda for the trip was to get a better sense of  the lay of the land as I’m thinking of entering the Hope Wakes Fell race in a few weeks which involves legging it out from Hope and running 6 miles around and over Win Hill. Reading ‘Feet in the Clouds’ by Richard Askwith from the comfort of my own home has got me thinking I could and should be doing all kinds of reckless hill running…………we’ll see.

Here’s a few pics from our feast up top, the tough upward muddy hike through the trees was rewarded with honey and peanut butter sandwiches, choccy biscuits and good clear views of a blue Ladybower and far off into the Hope Valley. Toby was able to spot the hills that he’s walked on over the last few years whilst Rufus was happy to point out the tiny cars inching along the roads far beneath us.  

Mist, Sunshine and a Horses Head in the Howgill Fells

Last weekend I spent a few days in the Howgills, an often overlooked but unique group of rolling hills and deep valleys in the far north western part of the yorkshire dales, though they are only really separated from Cumbria by the nearby M6. I guess by the time most folk head to this part of the world they are much more likely to drive another half an hour and visit the lakes leaving the Howgills relatively quiet. Perfect for a bank holiday wander and to find some relative solitude. Also the last time I visited the Howgills it was mid-winter and  they had a thick coating of ice and snow and the days had turned to night well before 5pm, I was looking forward to exploring them in more clement conditions without a frosty covering.

Borrowing my mum’s car for a few days (cheers mum!) I parked up near England’s highest waterfall Cautley Spout and headed up the valley between Yarlside and Wandale Hill which quickly turns to access land. Clouds and mist caked the hilltops and it looked more or less to be a grey day, the odd patch of sun broke through and lent a little light to the valley. Passing a ruined farmhouse I made for Spengill Head and along over Randygill Top which gave great views of the surrounding fells. Wainwrights description of ‘sleeping elephants’ still fits the bill.

The weather grew fairer and I had no real urgency to be anywhere other than where I was so  took a bit of time to faff around with a new stove and an aeropress to make a proper cup of coffee in the sunshine down by the beck. Some wild horses grazed on the adjacent side of the valley.

A sun soaked climb up the sides of Bowderdale lead to the exposed and wind battered plateau of The Calf marked by a lonely trig point. Strong gusts caused an ever changing sky, occasionally the distant peaks of the Lakes were clearly defined in the sunlight, minutes later they became dark blurry shapes under cloud.

After walking over Windscarth and Simons Seat I made for a tucked away spot in West Grain to pitch up for the night, there was hours of light left and endless other places to pitch a tent but this had caught my eye as a particularly secluded little nook next to a stream and a perfect place to call home for a night. Before sundown I had a quick dash up Cobles to catch the end of the day only to find a thick rolling foggy mist tumbling down off the plateau. It was coming at such a rate that it looked like someone had procured a huge vat of dry ice and chucked it downhill.

After a quick run up Hazelgill Knott to send a few pics to the kids it was back to the tent, I cobbled together once of those big ‘Look At What We Found’ packs of chilli with rice, the new stove uses a small titanium pot and burns those solid fuel tablets so I kept on filling the pot with chilli and having a bit at a time. Quite civilised grub for a night on the hills, far better value than the £6 bags of overpriced nonsense I’d got used to taking on backpacking trips.

The night sky clouded over cutting out any trace of moonlight and stars, when I turned my headtorch off it was near enough pitch black. The sound of the stream rushing and pouring down into the valley provided a comforting background noise to drift off to sleep to.

The morning was very misty, looking out from my bag I could see only about 20 metres and a light rain it held up fpattered on the canvas. I haven’t yet seam sealed the Trailstar but it seemed to hold up just fine. The beauty of sleeping under a such a wide tarp in such weathers is that you don’t feel cramped in and don’t have to pack up your gear whilst performing body contortionism.

As the weather was a bit glum and it was still early I stayed in my bag for a few hours, reading, listening to music (new John Grant and Kurt Vile albums: go and get them) and drinking strong black coffee and eating biscuits. Can’t remember the last time I had such a relaxed morning. It put me in such a good mood that I felt perfectly happy to pack up and venture into the cool morning amongst the mist and rain. The morning was only slightly marred by finding a dead lamb that had drowned in the stream, poor wee thing.

Despite being very blowy up top, the mist appeared to be here for good, I stayed low for a few hours and walked the length of Langdale, criss crossing the meandering river with my back to the rain.

Walked up into the thick grey and made use of map and compass to navigate over Rispa Pike and onto Uldale Head, there were decent enough tracks to follow but on higher ground visibility was really poor, at times no more than 10 metres, the wind had also picked up and was chucking a lot of rain about. It turned into a very different day, void of views and at times disorientating and claustrophobic. With only one slight error where I wandered off course for 15 minutes and found a cairn which I wasn’t expecting I did okay and managed to work through the mist over Docker Knott, Taffergill and Bush Howe. I found myself counting paces and checking the map every two minutes when the mist got really thick, it was a relief to finally see the Trig Point at the Calf emerge out of the murk some hours later.

This was about as good as the visibility got on Sunday…..

And this is about as bad as it got, it was a right bugger to navigate…

After 6 hours stumbling about in thick mist, sideways rain and blasts of wind the plan was to drive back to Leeds and enjoy a comfortable night with the folks where there’d be good food, a hot bath and a warm bed. A night camped out in bad weather after a day walking in bad weather didn’t appeal and I had a train to catch back to Nottingham the following morning. Heading towards the top of Cautley Spout the mist abruptly dissolved revealing the steep face of Yarlside, it was as sudden as someone lifting a veil and for the first time that day blue sky appeared above and bright patches of sunshine moved across the land.

So I decided to stay out another night.

After descending alongside Cautley Spout I walked around and over Ben End to Randygill Beck to pitch for the night, the mist continued to blow off around the edges but remained thick over the plateau.

At the bottom of Randygill a large white shape stood out against the green. You see a fair few dead animals in the hills, usually sheep and the odd bird but this was bigger. As I got closer it was clear that this was the skeleton of one of the wild horses which judging by where it lay had taken a tumble down the steep hillside, bleached perfectly white by the sun. Too rare a thing to leave behind, maybe I can wear it for Halloween or leave it on someone’s pillow if they get on my wrong side…….

The sunset compensated the dearth of views that the day had given, you really appreciate the feeling of sunshine on your face after it’s been blasted by wind and rain all day.

The night was incredibly windy and the direction of the wind seemed to constantly change, this caused a few problems with the Trailstar which to be fair was probably down to my lack of experience pitching it just right and getting it taut. I made the schoolboy error of not tying the door cord round the pole handle (the beauty of 20:20 hindsight) and as a result the cord repeatedly shuffled down the pole leaving the doors whipping around in the wind and needing repitching, at worst the centre pole fell leaving the whole thing to collapse on me at 3am. Oh well, live and learn.

I submitted to the weather when it got light just before 5am and decided to pack up and make for the car. I think it’s a fair bet that at that particular point in the time I may well have been the only person on the planet wandering a hillside whilst the sun rose carrying a horses head……

Blue Skies and Soggy Trail Shoes

With the clock ticking for this years TGO Challenge  James had mapped out an extensive loop starting in the quiet little village of  Allendale in the North Pennines to give himself a bit of training. Whilst I’m not really in a position to embark on a fortnight long trip across the highlands just yet (maybe when the kids are a bit older, then they can come and carry all my gear) I was happy to tag along for three days of high level plodding and hopping across empty moorland under the warmth of a sun that I’d almost forgotten to exist.

Lonely winding lanes led us upwards out of Allendale and joined a network of bridleways which passed the remains of various abandoned lead mines and chimneys. It was a perfectly clear day, the Cheviots graced the distant horizons to the north, the barren moorland of the pennines shimmered with gold in every other direction. We spent the next few hours crossing moorland, the occasional road and wandered upstream alongside rivers to their higher sources. My only contribution to the route planning of this trip was to occasionally pass James an OS map from his pack so he could verify our whereabouts, so you’ll have to forgive the lack of specific detail about locations here.

I made a new friend.

Our afternoon was spent under an endless sea of fluffy cumulous clouds that hung lazily under a warm blue sky. The last time I went backpacking was less than a month ago and I’d needed crampons and an ice axe, this time I needed sunblock, the joys of living in the UK.

The evening was slightly marred by a busy farmer on a quad bike who was out feeding his sheep until nightfall, we were hoping to set up camp but remained obviously visible to him, our elongated shadows from the setting sun didn’t do much to aid our discretion. We headed for higher ground out of sight and found a decent enough if not slightly steep pitch, having to tie the loops for first time on the Trailstar numbed my fingers and it was clear that it would be a cold night.

Sure enough, a thin layer of frost coated the inside and outside of our shelters by early light. I was up before the dawn chorus and wandered round the empty hillside with a cup of coffee whilst an orange sun crept over the horizon.

By 9am the frost had all but gone leaving us with the beginning of a day that felt more like August than April. Not having to wear a down jacket whilst having breakfast, or to drink hot drinks before they froze was a novelty, I’m a big fan of a good old fashioned winter camp but the rare treat of lying down on dry grass under a warm sun was welcome. 

A short climb took us to some isolated buildings at the head of the valley which turned out to be locked, the silver lining was that I found some a pond full of frogs full of the joys of spring getting right down to it and making sweet froggy love. Not something you see every day.

We left the amphibian debauchery behind us and made the most of the clement morning climbing higher and contouring round The Dodd before a descent to the boggiest of bogs. It was like walking on thick porridge and required much toing and froing to avoid being swallowed up by some of the soggier sections. The disturbing sight of the back end of a sheep sticking up out of one of the less solid areas of ground suggested a fairly horrific death, walking across such terrain isn’t to be taken lightly.

We spent the following hours meandering peat hags, moving at a snail’s pace towards the wind beaten summit of Killhope Law. As the crow flies it was no great distance but we arguably doubled that by navigating around the myriad channels of dark peat. An all too brief visit to the summit was followed by a stop off at a dilapidated shooting hut  where we ducked out of the wind to cook up some well deserved lunch.

We enjoyed a brief return to civilisation crossing the road near Allenheads only to disappear into the hills again along a easy going track walking past idyllic farmhouses that sparsely populated the hillsides, the firm track was welcome after a full day of traversing bogs and moors and gave our damp shoes chance to dry off.

A sheepfold near an abandoned farm building was earmarked as a camping spot, from a distance it looked perfect; flat, short grass and next a fast flowing stream. As we got closer it became apparent that the area was covered in sheep poo. Our higher standards lead us upstream where we found a more appealing location. It’s worth shopping around sometimes.

I spent the evening taking timelapse shots of our camp, I must have enjoyed myself as I spent a good hour wandering round in cold wet trail shoes as the temperature returned to zero. A pair of birds circled above  making unusual wobbly kazoo like sounds, James recognised them to be Snipe and the sounds come from their tail feathers whilst they perform courtship display flights.

 

Dawn was cool, windy and damp, a faint red glow in the east looked to be the most we would see of the sun today. I stayed in my bag and snoozed for a few hours, only to be woken by James walking over and pinching my nose (maybe that’s part of his courtship dance?). As you can see it put me in a strop.

 

It was a good day to head back to the car, the sky was dirty grey and full of drizzle. A reminder of the changeable nature of Britain in all seasons and that it’s always a good idea to bring waterproofs. As we headed north west along the moors back to Allendale we came across an unlocked shooting hut which gave us a little shelter from the screaming wind. Whilst it’s always a pleasure to be out the day was less than photogenic so we hardly bothered getting our cameras out on such a dreary morning.

Just after noon we joined the steep road that led down to the car park at Allendale to engage in the guilty pleasure of pulling off cold wet socks and replacing them with ones that are thick, dry and warm. Makes it all worthwhile.

Bike and Bivi on Thorpe Cloud

I left work at 4pm and cycled the 50 or so miles from Nottingham to Dovedale with the intention of sleeping out on Thorpe Cloud, an isolated hill with a strikingly narrow ridged summit. Strapping the bulky seat post bag from bikepack on to a spindly road bike felt a little unconventional, but I wanted to get in as much distance as possible, this was a school night and I was due at work at noon the next day. I can’t recommend these bags enough, they have an impressive capacity easily housing a winter bag and air mattress, plus they compress really well and barely move whilst riding.

The air was bitterly cold and a strong wind was blowing in from the east, helpfully I was heading this way and appreciated the tailwind. Giant frozen snowdrifts from the recent unseasonable easter weekend continued to dwarf quiet winding lanes, the only factor that contradicted an otherwise wintry scene was the light, the sun didn’t dip until after 8pm.

The only slight hiccup was that the pub in Thorpe that I’d seen on the OS map and had planned on getting some food at was all boarded up and looked like it had been closed for about two years. With nowhere else obvious around to eat I opted to have tomorrows breakfast as tonights evening meal.

It was a relentlessly windy night on the summit with the gusts seeming to come from every direction. A perfectly sized plateau of grass well sheltered by the ridge served as home for the night, the skies above were clear and just right for a night in a bivi. Despite the freezing wind, I managed to get warm and comfortable, leaving my head poking out to lose all sense of time and place by staring up into the night sky. Eventually I had to zip the bag up, you know it’s a cold night when you can’t sleep because your eyes are too cold.

Morning light came before 6am, the sunrise was thwarted by an overcast morning, I used a GoPro to have a go at making a timelapse film from the top of the hill. I wish I could pack my gear away this quick in real time.

With the clock ticking and a growling stomach I was pedalling again before half seven, the return journey was made trickier by a headwind and the black ice that had formed over night, most of it being from the slowly melting snowdrifts.

Passing through the village of Wirksworth I had one of those experiences that restores all faith in humanity, I found a local butchers that made reasonably priced yet unreasonably huge bacon sandwiches and just round the corner was a churchyard which served as good a place as any to eat. Whilst I was tucking in a tiny voice shouted out,”Excuse me!”.

My initial thought was that some interfering busybody was going to tell me to move on, I was all braced for an early morning confrontation when the voice shouted, “Can we get you a cup of coffee?”.

A well to do old couple wandered over with a mug of hot coffee and wanted to know if I was okay. Maybe it’s time I had a shave…..

With not much preparation, no real financial cost and no time off work I’d racked up 100 miles, a night on a hill and felt the benefit of the kindness of strangers, all within 24 hours.

The Deep Mid Winter of Late March

Somehow I still had three days of holiday to take before the end of March, so quickly cobbled together a plan to catch the back end of winter in the western lakes. I’d arranged to leave the car for a few days at Buttermere YHA in return for a small donation, this took away the stress of abandoning the car on some derelict layby and gave a good starting point to wander uphill and pitch a tent. The snowline looked to be around 250m, everything higher than this was decidedly white and wintry, many of the surrounding summits were lost in clouds, those that weren’t appeared jagged and menacing, not of them made a friendly beckon of “come and camp up here for a few nights”.

A chilly amble along the wooded shoreline of Buttermere preceded an ascent of Whernside Pass, the craggy monochrome faces of Fleetwith Pike, Haystacks, High Crag and High Stile dominated the skyline. My pack seemed unreasonably heavy for just a few nights out, extra food, clothing, crampons and walking axe adding a few kilos I’d normally be without, the extra weight coupled with a bit of a climb resulted in some sweary huffing and puffing as a I worked up a bit of sweat.

The wintry conditions certainly deterred the crowds, I only met one other walker who was coming down from Fleetwith Pike. We stopped for a brief chat about bothies and snow whilst I tried to contain my jealousy of the fact she lived in Wasdale. Though no doubt she was envious of the virtues of living in Nottingham and having so many different branches of Greggs to choose from. The first of many snow showers began and we both went our separate ways, stopping for just five minutes was enough to feel the chill in the air and it was good to get moving again.

Warnscale Bothy was visible on the other side of the stream, I stuck my head in to make to make a quick brew and have a look around. The modest but charming shelter sits well camouflaged shelter against the grey slate. It’s so small that you virtually have to crouch down to get through the doorway, but once inside there are raised platforms and a decent fireplace, decent stack of wood and coal would create a very cosy home for the night. If the weather turned truly dramatic it was good to know that there was a decent refuge to retreat to.

A quick scramble up the snow covered slate was rewarded by some expansive views back down to Buttermere and Crummock Water.

The landscape beyond this point was plunged into a world of snow, rock and ice. There was little wind, only that eerie muted silence that comes with thick snow, the only sound was my own crunching footsteps which gently punctured the quiet.

After a wander, I pitched a tent by a frozen Blackbeck Tarn, it was a well sheltered spot next to the outflow and at this time I was confident that nobody else would be passing this way for the rest of the day. It was a relief to give my aching shoulders a rest from the heavy pack I’d lugged up the hill and before I bedded down for the evening I headed to Haystacks to try and catch a glimpse of the sunset. Although it felt like midwinter there was still plenty of light remaining and the sun didn’t pass under the clouds till after half six.

As the light faded the world turned into a mass of icy blue white and black, the eastern faces of Pillar and Kirk Fell both looked decidedly savage and intimidating. A biting wind had also picked up and made removing gloves to take photos painfully cold, the previously wet soft snow became frozen and hard as the temperature plummeted further.

Whilst the wind had picked up, the sunken position of the tarn gave decent shelter and in the tent there was barely a ripple, the only audible sound was the gentle pattering of snowflakes on canvas which continued well into the night. I used the old trick of keeping my gas cylinder stuffed in my warm bag which meant I didn’t have to wait 10 minutes every time I wanted to boil water.

The snow continued through the night and there was an extra couple of inches on the ground by sunrise, when the door was unzipped  a miniature snow drift collapsed inward. The morning also brought along a widespread thick mist, visibility was generally less than 20 metres and there was little sign of it shifting. This prompted a lazy few hours around the tent, reading, eating, drinking coffee and a fair amount of sitting and staring into the whiteness of the outside world. The fog briefly lifted to the extent that I could see the end of the tarn, maybe there was hope of some improved visibility? Within minutes the mist sank back down, removing all features from the surrounding landscape from sight.

This morning obviously wasn’t going to provide much in the way of views, so once I’d packed up I used the adverse conditions as an opportunity to work with map and compass and test my navigation skills heading first to Brandreth and returning back down to small pools near Grey Knotts. It was a challenging morning, at higher levels the mist was incredibly thick and interspersed with heavy flurries of snow causing near whiteouts, this was exacerbated by waist deep snow drifts which concealed small gullies and streams. I had to stop regularly to take bearings but managed to stay on track for the most part. Aside from not getting very lost it was largely a thankless task as there was literally nothing to see but snow and mist. If the conditions had been better I’d hoped to take in Great Gable and head down to camp by a beck but given the poor visibility and heavy snowfall I decided to stick to plan B and seek out lower ground.

Visibility improved lower down the hill, the recognisable shape of Dubs Quarry Shelter was perched clearly at the base of Fleetwith Pike, it seemed like a good place to head for a brew and to consider some more realistic options for the rest of the day.

After a solid 24 hours of not speaking to anyone it came of something of a surprise to walk into Dubs hut to be faced with 15 teenage lads in jeans and trainers who had been dragged out on a school trip to the nearby slate mine. After some awkward forced conversation they collectively shuffled off leaving me to get a bit of lunch in, the hut was sizable but not particularly homely and felt quite run down, probably not helped by a higher footfall than most shelters and bothies receive.

Warnscale bothy is tucked away somewhere in this photo, can you spot it?

With the mist firmly clinging to the hills I set back out in the direction of Haystacks, the Western fells seemed to be clearer and I made a beeline for Bleaberry Tarn just past High Stile. I needed to back at the car for no later than 08:30 the next morning so I could get back to Nottingham for the school run. In between the mist lifting and falling I caught some impressive views from Haystacks of High Crag, Green Gable and Great Gable. It’s amazing how a dusting of snow and a swirling of cloud completely change the appearance and an atmosphere of a place.

Descending to Scarth Gap Pass was tricky, at the lower altitude the hard ice turned to soft melting snow which was constantly balling up under my crampons but was far too slippy to walk on with boots alone, I’ve since read a few DIY approaches to prevent balling that I’ll have to try next time. Again I was a victim to poor visibility as thick clouds hung around the summits of High Crag and High Stile, I’d planned on walking over both before camping at Bleaberry Tarn but settled to contour round from Seat. Had it been a fine Spring day I would have been keen to get a lot more summits under my boots, feeling a bit cheated and defeated by the endless slipping and sliding I considered driving back home after the sunset but managed to dig out a bit of resolve. In the end I took the easy route of heading down the hill to Buttermere and taking the very steep path up to the tarn just before it got dark. Sometimes you just have to submit to the conditions and be happy that you’ve managed to get out at all.

Staying out another night was definitely the right decision as the tarn offered a really stunning place to spend the night. I pitched a tent in dwindling light next to the frozen water sheltered and encircled by icy mountains. I had perfect views of the Whiteless Pike, Wandope and Grasmoor to the North, all hunched together with white sharp pointed peaks and frozen ridges.  Not a bad view to look out to from your bed. Once I’d collected water from the outflow I cocooned myself in my bag for the evening with a mug of hot chocolate and biscuits. Walking through the snow, ice and mist had done me in for the day and getting a good nights sleep was not a problem.

I set an alarm for 6am and was up walking by half past stopping only for a few minutes to boil up water for a brew and to drink in the sunrise as the morning light flooded into the valley. Whilst I hadn’t covered many miles, or reached as many summits as I’d intended, the experience of being out for a few nights in a quiet frozen world was very enjoyable and quality had easily surpassed quantity. I was back at the YHA in an hour or so and wished I’d given myself enough time to get one of their fine looking cooked breakfasts but the clock was ticking and I had to make do with a sorry looking squashed malt loaf whilst I headed back home. It’s always a good thing to give yourself a good reason to return.

Things I found on the island

Most backpacking trips involve a reassuring process of an increasingly lighter pack as the days pass by. Inevitably as food gets eaten, a pack is relieved of a several kilos, making the last few days generally easier going than the first. Our recent trip to Scarba reversed this trend as I left the island with more than I brought.

I would have been happy to bring back an antler as a souvenir so it felt like a lottery win when I found a red deer skull with both antlers intact. The carcass was in a sorry state in a desolate boggy area near the coast, if I hadn’t partially exhumed it, it would have probably remained there for years to come. A bit of elbow grease and treatment with peroxide have given it a new lease of life (as much as a dead thing can have a new lease of life).

The plan is to find a decent place to wall mount the skull, Pete suggested that the done thing is to do away with most of the skull with an angle grinder leaving just the crown and antlers. When mounted this places more emphasis on the antlers and probably is better on an aesthetic level. I’m going to leave it as it is for the time being, it seems like too grand a thing to alter at this moment in time.

There’s some intricately beautiful detail where the fontanels join, they almost look like contour lines on a map or a wildly meandering river.

On the other end of the spectrum I found a mostly intact skull of a seabird, the brittle thread-like bones had survived the elements and had avoided being bashed to bits by an otter. We think it was/is a razorbill.

A twisted stick of driftwood which had been made smooth by the sea caught my eye.

Last but by no means least was a three pointed antler that I found near a cave on the west coast, it’s now living above the fireplace and has been taken into Toby’s school for show and tell. I was going to take the full skull in but figured it would give half the kids nightmares.

Here’s one more photo of Scarba. or rather a few photos stitched together of the bothy sitting in its secluded bay at the base of the glen under a grumpy sky.

All being well I’ll be taking young Toby for a wander round Gargareth in the Yorkshire Dales tomorrow, fingers crossed for some snow and sunlight.

The Scrambling Stags of Scarba: pt 3

It rained through the night and I woke up feeling like I could have had a few more hours, an extensive day of walking, climbing scrambling and dog carrying had done me in. An unzipped tent door revealed a cool grey cloudy morning with a sky that promised more drizzle, all signs were pointing towards today being a slow day.

Lately I’ve become a bit bored and jaded with the usual backpacking food, those expensive foil packets of dehydrated matter that never quite fill you up or make you feel as happy as the people look on the packaging don’t seem to do it for me at the moment. On this trip I decided to give things a little balance and tried something new, the previous night I cobbled together some fresh ingredients to make a french onion soup with a little butter, cheese and seasoning. Seeing as I was so knackered this morning I knocked a few tasty flatbreads together using flour, water, butter, cheese, onion and chorizo. So much more satisfying than the usual affair, though I’m not sure I’d bother in a tent. Watch this space for future outdoor culinary innovation.

The more subdued conditions gave a good opportunity to wander the lower level and more sheltered eastern coast of Scarba which offered a softer greener alternative to the rocky jagged west. James and Pete had both ventured out an hour or so earlier, feeling a bit more idle Rob and I headed out mid morning and entered into a world of hebridean murk. As James had said, it’s good to see an island in all of its moods, the oppressive grey clouds and light drizzle fostered a very different feel to the island, the rain doing a fine job of making the greens, yellows and oranges of the landscape present more vividly. It didn’t half make the rocks slippy though.

We soon came across James calling his wife to be from an ornate cave, he looked quite at home, like a tweeting hermit. The cave had been stocked with a pile of logs, possibly by a forward thinking sea kayaker making a nest for a future visit. Sea kayakers and stalking parties probably represent the entire demographic of Scarba.

Rob decided to head back to the bothy at this stage, a decision he’d later regret as he had been keen to see some otters on the trip. Within a few minutes we spotted no less than three swimming off the coast, their lengthly bodies gently twisting around on the surface giving them away. Again my budget photography set up isn’t really going to provide much of an insight, but if you like blurry dots against a blurry grey background, brace yourself……

My personal low points and high points of the trip occured within ten minutes of each other, a lethal combination of an unzipped pocket and leaning forward meant my iPhone met a watery grave in a rock pool. It survived the plunge but developed some strange Hal like independence turning itself on and off and opening apps all by itself. Note to self, buy waterproof covers for anything worth more in value than a waterproof cover.

All of lifes problems were rendered entirely insignificant in the minutes that followed, as we entered an area of woodland I found the remains of an enormous stag, only the bones remained and the boggy undergrowth and lack of sunlight had given the skeleton a coating of green. The skull came complete with both antlers in fine condition with eleven points, I would guess that the animal had laid here for some time, and had I not found it would have rotted into the ground. I had no qualms about lugging the great heavy thing back to the bothy for a bit of a scrub up.

With my new pet in tow, we shortly arrived at the remains of the chapel, a scattering of weathered headstones from the 17th century sat adjacent to a mossy block of stones that had once served as a place of worship. A reminder that the island had once been the home of small number of families.

After leaving the damp dark woods we rejoined the main track and once again passed Kilmory Lodge, the sky remained grey and moody. A phone call from Duncan the day before warned of some more dramatic weather on the way, Duncan didn’t fancy our chances camping in the gale force 8 winds that had been forecast for later in the evening and had offered to collect us a day earlier. With our collective testosterone levels peaking we opted to stay and brave the elements, the spooky old bothy would always give us a place to shelter if necessary.

James, Reuben, the rotting stag head and I made our way back to the bothy, the return journey was made more lively by Reuben who terrified some sheep by running up to say hello by heading them off, the poor things were terrified.

I spent the next hour giving the deer skull a thorough scrub in the burn,washing away months and months of accumulated earth and detritus, great way to spend a sunday afternoon. My discovery had understandably fostered a fair bit of envy from the others and took pride of place on a windowsill as day turned to night. I’ll post some pics of it when its a bit more presentable.

We had another evening in front of a roaring fire, made infinitely more cosy by the howling winds that had picked up outside, a small shattered pane in the bothy door allowed the wind and rain to whistle through. The time came for us to reluctantly leave the sanctuary of the bothy for our tents. The weather peaked and troughed throughout the night, even though we were relatively sheltered there was rarely a moment when our nylon canopies weren’t being bowed by the wind and blasted by rain and hail. No damage was done, it was refreshing to spend a night in a tent whilst a storm raged outside, such nights can test your resolve and your gear and provide a night to remember.

The following morning was best described as ‘changeable’ as in the sky changed colour every 5 minutes. In true hebridean form we had all four seasons in regular succession, sunshine and warmth, freezing hail, moments of calmness interspersed with violent gusts, heavy showers and blue skies. Pete recalled a bit of local wisdom, “if you don’t like the weather in Scotland, wait twenty minutes”. As it was our last morning we made the best of it, Pete and Dougal wandered off up the glen whilst James, Reuben and Rob stayed by the bay. I wandered up into the neigbouring glen to catch a final glimpse of the sun poking through the grey over Jura and the Corryvreckan.

On the walk back in I noticed a lone seal swimming amongst the cold grey waves close to shore, it was close enough to see it’s black glassy eyes and meant that my photo could graduate from a faint grey dot to a small black lump.

We gave the bothy a good once over before we left, sawing the wood down and giving the floor the a sweep. Attaching the skull to my pack was a bit of a mission, the final result making me look like a budget extra in Game of Thrones I made a conscious effort to not turn around quickly and give any poor passer by an antler in the eye.

We closed up the bothy and headed out to meet Duncan by the jetty, a strong wind was now constantly blowing in from the West making the sea choppy and flecked with white. We sheltered by Kilmory Lodge, an open window gave us chance to peer in and be nosy, it certainly looked more comfortable than the bothy. The Farsain was soon spotted bouncing into the wind, putting to bed any thoughts of being stranded.

The return journey was on the dramatic side, Duncan had to rescue his boat after it became snared by a lobster pot and just as we neared the harbour we watched as a wall of hail came in from out of nowhere under a black sky. Our wee vessel was flung about on the waves for a few minutes whilst the deck was covered in hailstones. There was a sense of relief when we moored and ound ourselves once more on solid ground.

Lock up your daughters.

A perfect four days was ended back at Pete’s with a much needed hot shower, proper food and a few good drinks. It normally takes me a few days after a trip before the thought of getting back out into the wild enters my mind, on this occasion I was missing Scarba before I even left. It had been a real treat to be within such an incredible part of the world with good friends (and dogs) for just a few days, I implore James to become a serial bigamist so he can have several stag parties each year.