Beinn an Tuirc

Deep inside the forest a long clearing between the trees continues ahead of us following roughly the same line as the rough forestry track that brought us here.

 Although the sun shines brightly and there is a fresh breeze blowing, here in the forest it is still and shaded so last night’s rain drips from the vegetation. We continue upwards, struggling through a thick blanket of sphagnum or peat moss, like walking on a layer of wet sponge. Growing through this is a coarse reed-like grass which reaches up to knee height, each blade being topped with a cluster of water droplets, so that as we pass by, our feet sinking into the spongy surface, the water transfers easily from the grass to our clothing making our legs wet and heavy, the cold seeping right through to the skin. Having climbed this far we can only press on upwards, slipping and sliding in the damp, stepping over hidden gullies where the water runs even more freely and stumbling over broken branches and small pink mushrooms. Somewhere up ahead we can see the wind-farm towers on the summit ridge beyond the forest, although these remain illusively distant, teasing us on.

We started out later than planned, following the Kintyre Way almost from our doorstep out of the village and along the shore path to Torrisdale.

A line of cormorants stands at the water’s edge catching up on some late season sunbathing so we try not to disturb them as we negotiate the rocks behind them.

We are at sea level but our plan for the day is to ascend Beinn an Tuirc, the highest summit on the Kintyre peninsula standing 454 metres (1,490 feet) above us.

It is close enough for us to begin the walk from our front door but the route is far from clear, no signposts point the way, so we must follow the forestry roads then do the best we can from there on up. The sun beats down as we ascend and the scenery opens up behind us, more and more of Arran’s mountains coming into view. Then we plunge into the dense forest where the air is motionless and all noise is sucked away by the trees. Between them there is deep shade, an impenetrable tangle of branches and moss-covered roots. Go only a few metres in and the trees swallow you up so you become disoriented with the uniformity around you, unsure which way to turn even to retrace your steps. We stay in a rough clearing between the trees, plodding ever upwards in the hope that sooner or later we will reach the upper edge of the tree line. Our legs are soaked below thigh level; we have reached the point where our feet cannot become any more wet so it matters little how deep are the streams we cross.

Each foot is pulled from the spongy moss with a sucking noise, the effort sucking our energy away and we have only our grim determination and the thought of lunch on the summit to keep us going.

At last we scramble out onto the open hillside where the going becomes a little easier. It is still very soft under foot – the amount of water lying trapped in what passes for soil here just beggars belief – but we pause to orientate ourselves and identify just where we have emerged from the forest in relation to our summit. We set off again, steeply upwards to where we can see sheep browsing the upper flanks of the mountain, finally gaining the summit trig point where the panorama is stunning (the wooden sign marked ‘Viewpoint’ is rather superfluous).

To the north-west beyond the wind-farm towers the Paps of Jura nudge the skyline and north of these are larger summits, maybe Ben Mor on the Isle of Mull or possibly even Ben Nevis further away still. South there is the faint outline of Rathlin Island in Northern Ireland and over across Kilbrannan Sound to the south-east we can make out the shape of the Mull of Galloway. East of us the Isle of Arran is spread out from end to end just like a map with fluffy clouds hovering over it and north of this there is Bute and Cowal. What a view!

The fresh wind is tempered by the sun’s heat but despite the stunning view this is not a place to hang about. It is mid afternoon and we have to choose a descent from the summit. There is no easy walking terrain hereabouts, no footpaths or waymarks to follow and to return the way we came is not appealing. So the choice is between a long walk over rough country along a ridge above Torrisdale but from which there is no clear descent path, or else we can follow the wind-farm service road, a longer roundabout route that leads onto a forest track lower down the valley above Saddell Water.

This is the route we choose, but it is a long march, and we know that we may be faced with a steep and dangerous descent yet and then finally a long walk once we do get back to our coast road.

The shadows are lengthening now and our legs are beginning to shout back at us as we pound along the forest track towards the sea. “No more”, they say, but as we round a corner we surprise a small herd of deer from their browsing and this encourages us on. Large birds of prey, buzzards we think, hover over the deep wooded valley to our right but our route stays high above this following the contours of the hillside. Then suddenly there is a sign we recognise, a waymarker for the Kintyre Way placed beside a track leading off to our left.

This is a surprise since we know we are not on the present KW route but we follow the signs just the same and soon find ourselves descending a freshly made path through an area of felled timber then across a burn and back into the forest itself. By following a series of flags attached to trees this finally leads us out of the darkness onto the very forest road we had used earlier in the day. We have discovered, by chance, a Kintyre Way diversion in the process of being built which has worked for us as a short cut back into Torrisdale. Great relief brings new energy to our legs for the last few miles back home. Our aching limbs are testament to perfect day - visibility as good as it gets and sunshine to boot. Before long this land will change into autumn then winter colours – this one tree is ahead of the pack – and we are now looking forward to the whole lot following suit.

Storms and fire raisers

Peering down through the conifers from the footpath above our village it strikes me just how isolated a community we are, something not unusual in Scotland where towns and villages can be located many hours travelling time away from a big city. So many live this way that the whole economy is geared to accommodate this. The fact that services in the many remote communities cost more per individual to provide than in a city is accepted as part of what living here is all about. To avoid population drift away from the countryside the Scottish government actively encourages re-population of the Highlands and Islands – to do otherwise might result in many of these communities stagnating and dying altogether – so we live here confident that we are not going to be forgotten.

We do not, it is true, live on an island but the length of the Kintyre peninsula does put us in a similar category to those who do. We are newcomers to this life but we are slowly learning the tricks needed to get around some of the difficulties that our remoteness creates. Running out of basic foodstuffs like bread and milk, for example, has to be anticipated. We keep a few cartons of milk in the freezer and our bread-making machine keeps churning out the loaves when we need them. So long as we remember to stock up with the right sort of flour when we do a supermarket trip and to buy extra milk, all is well. We keep stocks of what we need in the house and then make lists of things we need to buy to make the our shopping trips more productive. That, and also learning where to buy what we need from the limited choice available locally, is important, but if it is real choice we want then we must be prepared to travel to Glasgow. Good research on the Internet will tell us where the shops we need are located.

As I write this the wind is hooting down the chimney above our newly-opened up living room fireplace which waits for Robert-the-stove-fitter to come and install a compact multi-fuel stove. With the high winds and rain we are experiencing this is not the time to be climbing up on a rooftop so we must be patient. This is the second severe storm we have experienced since we moved to Carradale. Back in May, when the tree buds were just bursting and small leaves were beginning to form a blast of air came in from the west, gusts well over eighty miles an hour and salt-laden too, all of which caused widespread damage, not so much by knocking trees over (which it did) but by ‘burning’ the young leaf growth before it could get going. The effects of this, brown wrinkled leaves still clinging to the trees, have been with us all summer like a premature autumn.

This latest storm arrives after days of rain, heavy rain, which elsewhere might cause flooding and distress but here it merely disappears into the ground and runs away. In May we lost our electric power for several hours and again this time the lights flicker but they stay bravely on through the worst of the storm. It is unwise to venture out of doors when there is tree debris flying about and driving along wooded lanes carries a risk, however slight, of meeting an uprooted tree on its passage to earth, so we gaze from our windows as the trees bend before the blast and swathes of rain lash down. Unlike in May, the trees now carry a heavy leaf burden. In another month the trees will release their leaves but for now they still cling on to each one, against all the odds and irrespective of the harm this may cause the tree. Twigs snap and fly away downwind, whole branches are broken off but this eases the burden on the trunk which clings on to the shallow soil using every root and rootlet. Most violent are the gusts which drop on our house as it nestles low beneath Deer Hill. The glass in our windows creaks to these onslaughts, every blade of grass in the garden is flattened smooth and water briefly flows uphill in the gullies. It is exciting to watch from inside and the house is used to it - it doesn’t complain.

After a few days the storm passes away somewhere else, a remnant of hurricane Katia so we are told, and we get the telephone call we are waiting for.

Our stove fitter arrives armed with pipes and brushes to sweep the chimney then insert a steel flue liner and connect this to our stove. My part in this is ready - the stone slabs for the hearth I have been engaged on fitting over the past few days are smooth and level – but we watch in horror as his brushing dislodges an enormous pile of soot which descends and heaps up on our new hearth. On quick reflection though we feel far safer knowing that this lot is not still hanging up there out of sight.

Our excitement mounts as the day when we can light up comes ever nearer.

Even though we still have to tile and finish the fire surround we cannot wait any longer. We decide we need just the right important local person for first firing of the stove and who better than our neighbour Betty, who like us is a fan of a good coal fire to keep her home warm. We point her at the stove and seconds later the flames are licking up the chimney (it works!) and soon the warmth is filling the room and seeping through the house, just what we need for the winter ahead.

Life around Carradale

Just a few miles to the south of our village lie what few stones remain of Saddell Abbey, a monastic settlement established in the twelfth century by monks coming from what is now Northern Ireland.

Permission to build the abbey was needed, just as it would be today, and the story goes that this was granted by none other than Somerled, a powerful figure in the history of Scotland who after a significant battle in 1158 declared himself as the first ‘King of the Isles’. As such he ruled an independent kingdom which was subservient neither to Scotland nor indeed to the King of Norway whose influence was still strong in the Western Isles at this time. Although Somerled’s kingdom was short-lived his blood line still continues because as many as half a million people alive today can, according to the evidence of their DNA, claim him as an ancestor.

Although this is disputed by some, Somerled’s remains are said to be buried somewhere on the site of Saddell Abbey, something that gives these crumbling ruins something of an aura, despite their condition. The monastery did not survive to the present day, its fate is lost to history, and over the last two hundred or so years the site has been used as a graveyard, the gravestones peering out from every corner, even from within the bounds of the building remains themselves. Much of the stone from the original abbey has now gone, to be used in other buildings such as Saddell Castle where local tales tell of the bad fortune that this brings to those who stay there. Fortunately for the owners this does not appear to prevent holidaymakers coming to stay here, indeed they appear to make much of the tale to add to the cachet of the place.

Kate and I arrived here on our bikes after negotiating the five miles of road from our village, this being the horizontal distance we had to travel. The length of the journey, however, gives no impression of our movement in the vertical dimension. Both the beginning and the end of the journey are at sea level, as indeed are several other spots along the way and the problem is that each of these places are separated by high ground over which the road winds its merry way totally indifferent to the plight of those who try to ride a bicycle on its surface. To negotiate steep hills on a bicycle we change into our lowest gears but the fact is that the same amount of effort is required to ride uphill regardless of the number of gears a bike has. Then if the gears are too few in number and the hill too steep then there will come a point when the rider’s weight simply cannot push hard enough on the pedal to rotate the wheels and move the bike up the incline. This is a scientific fact few are aware of simply because they don’t cycle along the lanes around Carradale where most of the hills fall into this category.

Our real motive for visiting Saddell was to visit not the abbey but the beach which, aside from its outstanding natural beauty, was the setting for something even Somerled might have found entertaining.

This short strip of sand and pebble, dominated by the well maintained and classical features of the castle, was once the backdrop for a video made to accompany the UK’s best selling single of all time, ‘Mull of Kintyre’. In the song accompaniment is provided by the Campbeltown Pipe Band who were seen in the video marching along the Saddell shoreline beside the sea and being joined by Paul McCartney singing and playing his guitar. In subsequent verses of the song they are joined by local schoolchildren, many of whom may now be adults still living in the area – the song was released in 1977. In many ways the beach location would have been an obvious choice since it possesses so many of the vital ingredients needed – it is easy of access by road but secluded enough to remain undisturbed during the filming; it has the tall castle as a backdrop, a proper one with battlements all in good repair; there is spectacular scenery in every direction. It lacks, however, the most essential ingredient which is that the beach is not actually located at the Mull of Kintyre.

Having been to the Mull, of course, we know why this would not have been suitable for the video. It has no beach, it is a remote, inaccessible and windswept place often surrounded by fogs and it has no Disneyland-like castle to use as part of the backdrop. So perhaps history can forgive the deception. After all Saddell is on the Kintyre peninsula, so many would say it is is close enough to be authentic, and very few will ever know the truth anyway.