Willie Shand enjoys a walk to the Highland village of Peanmeanach
Willie Shand goes off the beaten path to find tranquillity in the west Highlands.
IT’S not easy these days finding an unspoiled spot, far from any roads or other people. Today, however, I find just that perfect place – to reach it I’ve driven for over three hours, then hiked for a further seven miles.
As ever, I’ve left home early to avoid the traffic, and I welcomed the sunrise around 4.30 a.m., just as I passed Gleneagles.
I’m heading west for Fort William, then joining the Road to the Isles by Lochailort, to meet the lonely Ardnish Peninsula.
It’s a good drive across, with only one wake-up call – I have to clamp on the anchors by Loch Earn when a stag decides to cross the road in front of me!
Judging by the size of him, I’d have come off worse if we had collided.
Ardnish is the large peninsula that lies between Loch Ailort and Loch nan Uamh, and is now uninhabited.
It wasn’t always so quiet, though, and not all that long ago – before the wars – as many as 500 souls lived out here.
Remains of old, vitrified forts show us that our ancestors were even settling out here more than 2,000 years ago.
Of the more recent settlements, all that remain are the crumbling ruins of a few abandoned villages.
Villages like the one I was
making for today at Peanmeanach.
Two miles west of Lochailort, the Mallaig road passes the picturesque former chapel of Polnish – known as Our Lady Of The Braes.
The old chapel might look familiar even if you’ve never been out this way before, thanks to its role in David Puttnam’s film, “Local Hero”.
Less than half a mile beyond the chapel, at a roadside lay-by, is the right-of-way fingerpost sign for the village of Peanmeanach.
No-one has lived in the old village since 1942.
It sits at the end of the peninsula overlooking a wide sand and shingle beach, and the only way to reach it – other than by sea – is on foot.
Nowadays it may seem isolated and remote, but in not-so-distant times the sea was the natural highway to such places around the coast.
My boots are on by 7.30 a.m., and I’m ready to set off.
I don’t expect the way to be too muddy. But a few arduous, rough sections mean a good pair of boots is advisable.
Don’t be deceived by the nice gravel start to the walk – that very soon deteriorates as we head steeply downhill and into the birch woods.
This is a rare walk, with wonderful coastal views virtually all the way. In a short distance, the track brings us down to meet the sheltered waters of Loch Dubh.
The West Highland railway line bound for Mallaig hugs closely the loch’s western shore, and a wee concrete footbridge
takes us over the line.
I’m amused by the warning sign, which reads Not suitable for vehicular
traffic. With no road to it and a two-feet-high step – really?
Two bouncy planks of wood carry me easily across a stream and out into more open country.
Rising above the purple flowering heather, swathes of bog cotton sway gently in the breeze.
It’s not long before the sea views open up with an introduction to Loch Beag.
The white sands extending beneath it give it an amazing range of colours, from marine and cobalt blue to turquoise.
Loch Beag is a small offshoot of Loch nan Uamh, which soon comes into the picture.
Far across the loch, we can see the main road leading out to Arisaig and Mallaig, and the large concrete viaduct on the West Highland Line.
With good eyesight or binoculars you might even manage to pick out the Prince’s Cairn, which marks the spot where Bonnie Prince Charlie both arrived and hastily departed during the Jacobite Rising of 1745.
Much further west is the distinctive Sgurr of Eigg.
There’s an interesting story told from the construction of the impressive Loch nan Uamh Viaduct.
Apparently a horse and cart fell into the shuttering of one of its tall pillars and, as it would have been too difficult to remove, it’s still there, encased within the concrete.
Spare the horse a thought the next time you take the train to Mallaig.
Although the track to Peanmeanach is rough and sometimes hard going, it’s easy to follow.
While the eye will undoubtedly be drawn to the west, a look to the ridge of the nearby hill on our left shows us a remnant of the Ice Age.
On the skyline sits a huge “erratic” boulder, left just where the melting glacier dropped it over 10,000 years ago.
It looks like a wee shove might just send it rolling all the way into Loch nan Uamh.
Turning inland for a bit, the eye-catching views change to the eastern hills of Rois-bheinn, across Loch Doire a’ Ghearrain.
This is a good place to find red-throated divers, skylarks and, in the higher hills, possibly golden eagles.
As we begin the long descent to the point, we’re now looking out towards Loch Ailort.
The name of the peninsula, “Ardnish”, appears to come from a mix of Gaelic and Norse – “airde” and “nish” both meaning “a point”.
There seems little doubt that Vikings lived out at Peanmeanach, with archaeological evidence of a “naust”, or boathouse.
The stone foot track that takes us down to the bay was constructed over a century ago, and would have been regularly used by those who lived here.
Purple foxgloves add a splash of colour to the more level, grassy final
approach. In the shelter of the odd tussock hide wild orchids and, heard but rarely seen, grasshoppers.
I am surprised to meet a chap heading the opposite way.
He has been camping overnight at Peanmeanach.
Away out here, of course, you can’t just pass someone with a mere “hello”.
It turns out it has been 50 years since he was last here, on a church camp from the Gorbals.
What greater extreme could you find between Glasgow and this place?
He admits that he was much fitter then.
He didn’t need to carry a tent this time, though – one of the old houses at Peanmeanach is wind- and water-tight, maintained as a bothy by the Mountain Bothies Association.
But don’t expect five-star accommodation; there’s no electricity or toilet, and lighting is by lamp.
A couple of wellblackened frying pans hang from a cupboard by the window.
This was the last occupied house in Peanmeanach, and was home to a Nellie Macqueen, daughter of the schoolmistress.
All the other seven or eight blackhouses are roofless, and filled with nettles and brambles.
It would have been an extremely hard life out here, tending the cattle, fishing, trying to grow crops and scrape through yet another winter.
But, boy, what a view they all enjoyed from their doorsteps – a view that can’t have changed any for thousands of years.
There’s hardly a breath of wind today, but that’s probably more an exception than the norm.
They’d have had no local supermarkets or shops, and food must sometimes have been scarce – particularly through the winter.
Their diet would consist of seal meat, deer, rabbits, bird’s eggs, mussels, fish, even seaweed; whatever the land or sea could provide.
Climbing down on to the beach, I find every rock encrusted with thousands of mussels.
Personally, I’d give them a miss!
Lack of food was probably one of the chief reasons for people abandoning these wee settlements.
Disease and the effects of two world wars would also have taken their toll.
There were no cars here. No computers, telephones, television, or even electricity.
But, hardships aside, I dare say they were all the more content without them.
Wandering around the ruins and along the beach, it’s easy to lose all sense of time. An hour very quickly becomes two.
There are no footprints on the dazzling white sands, just hundreds of little worm casts.
Heading back to the car, I can’t believe my luck: I am just stepping on to the wee railway footbridge when I hear what sounds like the chug of an engine.
Less than a minute later, the Jacobite steam train (or the Hogwarts Express to younger folk) is rounding Loch Dubh and making its way towards me!
Even if I knew a train was due, I couldn’t have timed it better.
I love the smell of steam engine reek – which is just as well, for I’m left in a cloud of it as the train rumbles beneath the bridge.
It’s a perfect end to a fantastic coastal walk. ■