Happy to get lost going for a Plock in the woods

Our intrepid adventurer finds himself wandering woodland trails and scrabbling around rocky coves when he opts to take the “pixie paths” as he heads for Skye once more

We need to talk about… The Plock. It’s an unprepossessing name, I’ll grant you, but when you consider it puts the P into Plockton, a weel-kent bonny place, perhaps you’ll grant it some space. The space occupied by The Plock is just on the right-hand side as you come out of Kyle of Lochalsh and prepare to pooter over the Skye Bridge. I’d passed a sign for it many times before and never given it much thought but, on this day, I decided to park thither and venture forth.

Oh boy, was I glad that I did. What a fantastic place! Plock is from the Gaelic “ploc”, meaning “lump”, as in lump of land or promontory jutting into the water. The 100-acre area of native woodlands and rocky coves is looked after by the Kyle and Lochalsh Community Trust, and what a fantastic job they have made of it.

There’s been scary talk of camping sites, wine bars, dog exercise areas and even golf courses (there was one here in the past) to “generate income” but, thankfully, these have come to nothing so far.

The best thing to do with the area is to leave it alone, apart from maintaining the many discreet little paths and occasional signposts. How I enjoyed following the various trails, occasionally veering off them, getting gently lost, then finding another path and following it, sometimes ending up in a quiet, “secret” bay where I did my usual thing: lying on a rock and looking up at the sky.

I saw a seal for what felt like the first time in years, though he dived for cover as soon as I whipped out my camera. I think they feel the same about having their photie taken as I do: couldn’t possibly do the subject justice.

Shortly afterwards, desperate as usual to see round the corner of the shore, I undertook a mildly hazardous climb around some rocks, gripping on by my fingers as I inched along, only to discover shortly afterwards that there was a little path just a few yards higher up.

It felt like a metaphor for my life somehow, making things difficult for myself, but I enjoyed my childish adventure climb all the same. I’ll never grow up and have no wish to do so.

A winding road in The Plock takes visitors up to a viewpoint and picnic tables on platforms which, I think, were once part of the coastal defences during the Second World War.

The view of the mountains and surrounding coastline is spectacular, apart from the bizarre carbuncle only just out of the main sightline as you enter Skye by the bridge: a gigantic fish-feeding plant that looks like the sort of thing you’d see in industrial docks.

It’s bringing 50-odd jobs, so I guess it had to happen, but I wonder if locals knew just how hideous it was going to be. Oh well, so much for the real world. I was happier on my pixie paths round the coastline and in among the woods.

In truth, I’d hardly been out anywhere on this latest Skye trip – happy with my own usual patch of shoreline – but was so glad that I had taken time off to explore… The Plock.