In Tarbert we planned to meet up with Jo, who had travelled up the length of the Western Isles by a combination of ferry and bike. We had also agreed to meet some friends of ours from Warnham who have a house a few miles down the road from Tarbert. They had kindly offered to give us all a meal and a proper bed for the night, so when they came to meet us in the afternoon of our second day there, we piled into two cars and went along to their house. The cars were an open-topped two-seater Aston Martin (Adam bagged the passenger seat for that one) and a Corsa kindly lent by one of the locals.
Our friends’ house has a breathtaking view out over the Minch, including the Shiant Islands, a notable haven for sea-birds. The house has its own mini-loch, and behind it some stately hills. That night we had a splendid feast: high-end takeaway fish and burgers, and then some local scallops and lobster that had been caught that very afternoon, all washed down with some Harris gin and good French wine.
The following morning, Adam, Mike, Chris and I set out over the hills to walk to Luskentyre beach on the west coast of the island. Our hosts provided us with walking-sticks, directions and advice, while Jo shook her head and said ‘you’re mad to do that on such a hot day!’
The walk should have taken us over a ridge joining three substantial hills. We had been shown the easiest way up to the ridge, and three of us followed that advice, while Adam shot up the side of an almost vertical slope and disappeared from view. We assumed we would meet him at the top.
The actual ridge took a long time to reach. Every time we thought we were there, another bit of hill hove into view and we had to continue upwards. Eventually we reached the ridge, but there was still no sign of Adam. I started to worry that he might be lost, or hurt, and we had a tense hour trying to make contact. My phone was back at the house, out of charge; and Mike and Chris had only intermittent signal up on the hill. We did finally make contact, and found that Adam was fine and way ahead of us, already in sight of the beach.
So we plodded on. The ridge was far from level: it dipped down and then forced us to climb up again, over and over. On the way up the ground had been difficult: heathery, mossy and peaty, with thick vegetation that sometimes concealed a hole for the unwary walker. We had been warned to avoid the red-coloured plants on the ground, as they indicated a bog which could easily claim a boot. Once we were on the ridge itself the going was a bit easier, with boulders and slightly firmer vegetation.
The views were spectacular. The higher we went, the further we could see in almost all directions. The hills were an intense green, rounded and majestic; the sea was Mediterranean blue, swathed in a thin mist. We could see in the distance the bridge over the Sound of Scalpay, where we had sailed when we arrived here. At one point, out of the corner of my eye I saw something large rise into the air: a golden eagle, soaring in the breeze, close enough for us to see its face and the coloration that gives it its name. Mike tried to get a picture but the bird had flown off before he could get a close enough shot.
We walked on, down a bit, up a bit more, down a bit, up a bit more. After what felt like a long time, we could see the beach in the distance. But it was still the far distance, and there were still some serious uphill bits to walk. We trudged on, beginning to flag a bit from the effort and the heat.
Then, when we came over the brow of a hill and saw in front of us the final peak of the ridge, a little bit of the morning’s gung-ho died, and we tried to think of a plan that didn’t involve any more climbing. We could see a road to our left, which led up to the beach, so we figured that if we could find a way down to the road we could get to our destination with a bit less effort, albeit at the cost of missing some of the views.
This turned out to be a big mistake.
Down from the ridge, the ground was back to the heather, moss and bog that we had encountered at the start. This time, if anything, it was worse. At every turn the landscape seemed to be conspiring to prevent us from making progress. Streams crossed our way, bordered by boggy patches. Invisible holes in the ground made us lose our footing. There were even barbed-wire fences that could only be passed by gates, which had to be reached by going out of our way. Adam called and we told him we would probably be another two hours, but in the event it was more like four. It seemed endless, and it was made worse by the fact that we could see where we were heading, but it never seemed to get any closer. There was uphill as well as down, despite our best intentions. It was hot, we were tired and fed up and plagued by ‘clegs’, horseflies that land on you and start to feed on your blood.
That day we were walking for about seven hours. When we finally reached the road, we were still a mile from the beach and we felt we could walk no further. We managed to get enough phone signal to call the others and we were given a lift for the final mile. If only we had stuck to the ridge, we were told, it would have been ‘easy’.
But the day ended well. Luskentyre is an amazing beach of fine pale shell-sand. In the early evening the sun was still shining brightly, and the scene was just heavenly. No wonder this has been voted one of the top beaches in Europe, despite being located in the weather-beaten Outer Hebrides. The barbecue was already lit when we arrived, and there was swimming and eating and drinking till just before the sun went down. It made the gruelling walk worthwhile. Well, almost.
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