Wild WALKS
7 varied routes in Scotland, England and Wales
the end, the prospect of a stroll above the loch in the beautiful evening light proved too much of a temptation to turn my back on.
Meall Blair is the furthest west of three Grahams on the north side of the loch. It can be paired with its eastern neighbour Sgurr Choinnich, but that would have added too much time, distance and boggy ground for my liking.
It’s also a hill where the hardest navigation could be finding the right starting point. Recent hydro works mean any coherence between map and reality are sketchy at best, and I convinced myself I was in the wrong place and then overshot at the second pass.
After wasting some 20 minutes, I found myself back at the first option, and took a new track up to the right of the Allt Arcabhi, which made for fast progress.
Any concerns that I still hadn’t got it right were allayed when Loch Blair came into view at the top of the first ascent, a slash of blue, ringed by gentle slopes and verdant grasses with silently weeping streams squeezing out.
The grass slopes ahead were easy but the heat was intense, and the summit remained elusive amongst the undulating terrain. As I crested the final approach, a long line of deer were trotting along the horizon in formation, startled by my unexpected arrival. Then, all of a sudden, there was the cairn and trig point, sitting in the middle of spattering of tiny lochans and outcrops. The ascent had taken less than an hour and a half.
The views were sublime: the Corryhully and Arkaig Munros standing in retreating shades of blue above the head of the loch, and off to the east the unmistakable scimitar form of Ben Nevis and its arête.
I was a solitary figure in a solitary spot, and it seemed rude to rush off. The descent was a fast run down over soft terraces and shades, the late sunlight turning the waters of the loch a shimmering silver, and the seemingly endless swathes of bog cotton swaying like miniature candy floss in perfect harmony.
Even the road out seemed benign, the water of the loch gradually darkening, the slopes along its banks silhouetted. A mellow end to a worthwhile diversion. [
The view east from the summit of Meith Bheinn; Lonely Loch Beoraid from the descent through the trees; The lochan just before the final climb
pack an improvised lunch and wander off down a mossy woodland track. Colonsay is the remotest of the main islands in the Inner Hebrides and I soon discovered that it packs an astonishing variety of wild scenery into its twenty square miles: a ragged coastline with high cliffs and headlands; rolling heather moorland with a sprinkling of reedy lochs; extensive open machair, tall sand dunes and beaches that will take your breath away.
A narrow path crept through damp pasture and met the island road. My pace quickened as I reached the start of the sandy track to Balnahard. Dainty flowers decorated the short grass and a peat-stained stream ran out to the mile-long Kiloran Bay. Some say this is the most beautiful beach in Scotland, and I danced across wriggling rivulets to the caves at the north end of the strand.
The climb to Carnan Eoin – the highest point on Colonsay – was rewarded with views to Mull, the Paps of Jura and a few mainland Munros. A bumpy cliff-girt escarpment trailed east with grandstand views of the island’s empty northern quarter. Occasional lonely ruins were hints at past lives: almost a thousand people used to live here, but today’s residents number little more than a hundred.
I reached the east coast near Cnoc a’ Charragh and ploughed north through deep heather to Rubh’ a’ Geodha. The glorious sweep of Balnahard Bay, backed by marram and machair, now lay straight ahead. At the far end of the sands, beyond Leac Bhuidhe, a wedge of moorland and a swathe of sandy salt marsh provided access to the island’s northernmost point.
The west coast meant further rough walking as low cliffs guarded the remnants of ancient forts and dropped into a series of wide pebbly inlets. Port Sgibinis came with a fringe of sand, and part of the adjacent raised beach had been sculpted into the outline of a huge whale. I added a couple of pebbles to the fluke and speculated how long it would be before the cetacean is declared fully complete.
The track below Beinn Bheag twisted sharply downhill and soon turned to sand as it wove across the dunes at the back of Kiloran Bay. Another cuckoo was calling and it made me wonder whether the Viking chieftain who was once buried here in his upturned galley had ever been woken by Colonsay’s vocal summer visitors.