Taynish

We live in a corner of the country where there are many trees. They come in two recipes; there are those planted as a crop, with the expectation that they will be harvested a few decades later and then, often right next to a man-made plantation, there are areas in which the trees have planted themselves, natives if you like, having grown from seed lucky enough to have fallen on fertile ground and to have avoided being eaten or trampled on whilst still a juicy young sapling. This contrast between the managed and the unmanaged is all around us. Stands of densely planted Sitka Spruce are dark places where beneath the trees only mosses can survive and when a tree is toppled by the wind its roots are wrenched out but it only leans against its fellows as it lacks the space to fall to the ground. The contrast with the areas of natural woodland, places where the light shines through the canopy and where trees that have fallen lie horizontal along the ground, their roots exposed as a vertical mass of soil and rock, is remarkable.

These are places where ferns and grasses grow alongside vigorously growing oak seedlings. Life is abundant here. Insects flit about - bright yellow butterflies, damsel flies, wasps and bees - seeds float through the air, drifting along on whatever breeze there is and the smells are of fresh living things or of damp wood being absorbed back into the land by the natural process of decomposition.

Taynish Nature Reserve occupies a peninsula on the western shore of Loch Sween, a long sea water loch which cuts into the land bringing the Atlantic Ocean into the west coast of Scotland. There is salt water on both sides, although there are fresh water lochs within the landscape too, and this is an area of native woodland that has existed for thousands of years, since the ice retreated from the land, being revered and respected today just as it has always been.

Parking Martin at the end of the narrow single track access road we set off on a circular walk (or as the Americans would say, a hike) which follows a waymarked route through the woodland to the base of a steep hill. Everywhere we look are trees, mostly oak, but these are not nice symmetrical upright specimens as you might see standing alone in a field with sheep grazing all around. Instead these trees are just as old but they are gnarled and twisted, branches going off in all directions, some of which are lifeless, hanging on or broken and drooping onto their fellows. Wild storms sometimes blow in here and these dictate the shape of these trees, ripping out the tallest, encouraging adaptation, evolution if you like, to occur with the result that native oak woodland has a look all of its own. Fallen timber lies on the ground, gradually being dissolved back into the landscape and in doing so providing food for beetles and a variety of multi-legged critters. Oaks have been described as hotels due to the fact that they provide homes for so many different species. But although oak is dominant here it is not unique and this variety provides subtle shades of different colours. The ferns popping up all over the place are startlingly varied too. Bracken, common and widespread all over Scotland, has some serious competition here and, unlike elsewhere, fails to prevent small tree saplings from getting to the light with the result that the forest here is regenerating, reinventing itself constantly.

We follow a well made path which begins to rise, rough stone steps guiding us up towards steeper ground and giving us a different view at each step. Through a gap in the tree cover we briefly see water glinting behind us although by this time we have lost our sense of direction and cannot work out which body of water we are looking at, the path having changed direction so often. Higher now we leave the tree cover behind and follow a faint track across an overgrown meadow, ever upwards towards a distant ridge summit. The plants have changed but the variety has not - small white daisy-like flowers, blue and pink blossoms - and I am made painfully aware of my ignorance when it comes to naming wild flowers.

Above the tree line we suddenly get the views. In every direction there is a body of water and working out what's what isn't as easy for us as we might have expected, given our familiarity with the area and having travelled around it both by land and by sea. 

We recognise the paps on the isle of Jura but it looks like there is another piece of land in front, in which case what is the water in front of that? And does that connect with another body of water to the north? And where is Corryvreckan, the narrow gap between Jura and Scarba through which those powerful tidal currents run? Eventually, as we rest our legs on a conveniently placed bench at the highest point, we gaze about us. The air is clear, no haze hiding the details but even so it takes us a while to work it all out, to put names to what we see. We get there in the end, naming each summit and stretch of water as we watch a distant yacht making its way along the Sound of Luing.

The descent from the high Taynish ridge is steep, dangerously so, made easier by the rock steps placed there but this is not a place to stumble. Rocks are hard things to fall onto. Soon we are back in the trees, our eyes boggling at the uncurling leaves of yet more ferns we have never before encountered. The sun has shone all day and this has clearly brought the tourists out onto the roads but on our walk we have met just one other person, a fellow admirer of the wild, who stops for a brief chat before moving on. Somehow this makes us feel special, privileged even, and delighted that just for today we have not had to share this special place.