It was undoubtedly more romantic when travellers sailed on a bonny boat like a bird on the wing. But nowadays you arrive on Skye (probably half-knackered from a dozen hours driving) over the decidedly unromantic concrete bridge. No sea legs required; no toll to pay; and, in our case, no company of the lad who is born to be king.
The Teesdale Viking, the affable big black dog and I arrived on the island on a fine June evening. We'd shared the driving (The Viking and I, not the dog) but I was at the wheel feeling hot and bothered as we headed for Glen Brittle. The scenery was a travel writer's dream, mile after mile of adjectives.
We weren't overly impressed with the campsite at Glen Brittle to be honest but we settled in with dozens of other people and millions of midges. They were awful (the midges, not the other campers) and got in the dog's ears driving the poor animal to distraction. Bastard things! On the plus side, it was a lovely balmy summer evening and the Cuillins formed a magnificent backdrop. We zipped up the tents and turned in early with the murmur of waves on the beach as a lullaby.
The next morning we were up with the lark (and midges) and after a hasty midge-marred breakfast we set off with Ciore Lagan as our initial goal. The path wended gently up the slopes behind the campsite, a few sheep grazed the turf and the sun warmed us through hazy cloud. Despite the bog cotton (which was in full flower) the ground underfoot was dry and the path, pitched in some places, clear and easy. The vista opened out as we ascended and every so often we paused to look over our shoulders as Canna, Rhum, Eig, and - eventually - the outer islands appeared in view.
After passing a small loch on our left, the path steepened as we approached the corrie. There were a few rough sections and some little rock steps until, within a few dozen yards from the corrie itself, the path veered to avoid some distinctive whale-backed slabs of grey-brown gabbro. The surface of this igneous rock is coarse and crystaline which makes it very grippy - 'velcro rock' - so we were able to walk surefootedly over the whale-backs beside the outfall from the lochan.
Topping the last slab of gabbro we found ourselves in a wonderfully enchanting place. A beautiful little loch of limpid greeny-grey water nestled in a cirque of crags and great fans of scree, the whole scene topped by the jagged peaks of the Cuillin. A magic spot indeed! The dog bounded into the lochan and swam across while we sought out a good spot to sit and gawp at the view. It is a lovely spot to linger, to just soak up the atmosphere, to savour being among mountains.
By this time there were quite a few folk about, some just sitting, some enjoying their picnics and others pressing on towards the various scree runs. Of these, the fan with the most prominent path was the Great Stone Chute to our right, the route up to Sgurr Alasdair. An obvious path made white by dust stood out against the dark bouldery slope. It looked bloody steep from where we were sitting but a pair of lads who'd passed us earlier seemed to be making good progress up the chute.
After strolling round the lochan, we went to assess the scree path to see if the big black dog would cope. We needn't have worried - with a happy woof she bounded upward. We followed at a more sedate pace. The scree was fairly uniform and not too loose and, with a few diversions onto the boulders, we found ourselves at the top of the fan and entering a broad gully.
Continues...
