Three Weeks - Ten Islands: Starting with Little Cumbrae

Over three weeks in September, I was fortunate to visit ten islands. The weather at the beginning and end of those weeks was brilliant sunshine. The weather in the middle was less brilliant: lashing gale-force winds laced with cold, Arctic air. That meant my planned itinerary for a ten-day cruise around the Western Isles was not to be. But 'Plan B' was as exciting. The islands we visited on those ten days were Skye, South Rona, Rum, Ulva, Gometra, Inchkenneth, Eileach an Naoimh of the Garvellachs, and Easdale of the Slate Isles. 

Prior to the cruise, I spent five days in Largs, hoping for a weather window to get to Little Cumbrae. Fortunately, the weather on the first day was gorgeous, with just a gentle trace of wind. And so, on a sunny Friday morning, my friend Gareth Robinson and I boarded a RIB at the pier in Millport. 

I had wanted to return to Little Cumbrae for 16 years. My one (and only) visit to the island had been in May of 2008 when I'd unsuccessfully searched for St Bey's Cell. (See Chapter 2 of 'Firth of Clyde to the Small Isles'.) The 6th (or possibly 9th) Century St Bey came to Little Cumbrae to establish a place of retreat where, to quote from the Calendar of Scottish Saints, ‘she lived in solitude surrounded by birds and beasts.’

Since that visit in 2008, I'd determined what I believe to be the exact location of St Bey's Cell. The site, as described by Historic Scotland in 1964, had "the remains of a rectangular building, 6.0m by 5.0m, its walls turf-covered and 0.4m high. From the appearance of the debris on the east side of the structure, it seems likely that there was a second compartment."

The 'second compartment' may have been St Bey's Cell. As it turned out I had missed it in 2008 by 40 feet. And so, once ashore on Little Cumbrae, Gareth and I followed a path that climbed north from Little Cumbrae House. (The next photo shows Little Cumbrae House seen from the ramparts of Little Cambrae Castle.)

About a third of a mile northwest of the house, at an elevation of 200 feet, we came to a sign that marked the site of St Bey's Chapel. The only remnants of the chapel are the meagre remains of low walls hidden in heavy bracken. St Bey's Cell lay 500 feet to the northwest, across a vast sea of bracken and brambles.

I knew the bracken would be fierce in September, but I had not counted on the brambles. Thick, thorny branches interlacing the tall bracken: as effective a barrier as razor wire on a chain link fence. It made a direct approach to the site impossible. Our only option was to climb to the top of Priest Hoy, the wedge-shaped hill mentioned by William Lytteil in his 'Guide Book to the Cumbraes' (1886). It was a triangular plateau, partially surrounded by a stone wall. Once on top, we followed the wall to a point where the GPS told us we were above the site of the cell.

Below us, about 100 feet to the west, lay an oval patch of yellow-green grass surrounded by a jungle of bracken. On its far side was the burial cist (CANMORE ID 40690) I'd seen on my last visit, cloaked in heavy grass. On the near side lay the site of the cell. But if there were any remaining ruins, they, too, were not visible. 

We walked north to a break in the wall, took a deep breath, and descended into a bracken and bramble hell. Guided by the GPS, we started making our way to the location of the cell. Progress was glacially slow, and after fifteen agonizing minutes, a look at the GPS told me we were still 60 feet from the site of St Bey's Cell.

We tried to carry on, but it was not to be. My legs and arms were getting severely scratched, the thorns ripping through my pants and cutting into sore thighs. In addition to the thorns, clusters of nettles were lurking in the weeds. Occasionally, a nettle would stab its way up the insides of my pant legs, leaving stings that would last for hours. (I forgot to bring gaiters.) After another few minutes of thrashing about, yet another obstacle appeared. The ground was getting marshy; boots sinking nearly a foot with every step into a soupy morass. Finally, after making only another 10 feet of forward progress, we gave up. To find the site of the cell I'd have to return, yet again, in early springtime, before the bracken went wild.

A painful and disappointing backtrack led to the top of Priest Hoy, from where we descended to Little Cumbrae House. We still had a couple of hours to explore, so we decided to walk across the island to visit the 1757 coal-burning light tower at the summit, and then descend to the western shore to see the 1794 lighthouse that replaced it.

Under blazing sunshine, we climbed the lighthouse path to where it crested a rise, marked on old maps as 'Rest and be Thankful'. (We did rest and were thankful.) As we traversed the island, hoping to reach the summit, we were, again, thwarted by the bracken. There was no visible path to the top, and we'd had far too much bracken bashing for one day. (The next photo, taken in May of 2008, is of the 1757 light tower.)

Although there was no practicable way to reach the summit, the path to the west light was clear and easy. Fifteen minutes later, after downing a couple bottles of Peroni, we started the descent to the lighthouse.

Several of the abandoned buildings were open. We explored the interiors, finding signs that people had camped in them. The highlight was the ascent to the lantern room of the 1794 lighthouse. 

The original lamps of the lighthouse were replaced by Argand lamps in 1826, and in 1865 a foghorn was installed - the first in Britain. The tower was restored in 1956, and a solar-powered light was installed in 1974. The light was extinguished for good in 1997 when a 36-foot-tall automatic light tower was built adjacent to the old generator house.

From the balcony of the lantern room, we could see down to the slipways and the tram track used to bring supplies ashore.

An hour later we were back on the RIB, jetting across the sea to Millport. For a description of life at the Little Cumbrae Lighthouse in the early 1960s see this link: https://www.lighthousedigest.com/Digest/StoryPage.cfm?StoryKey=2302 

Getting to Little Cumbrae on the first day in Largs meant I had a few days to fill before heading to Oban for the cruise. The Largs Viking Festival was in full swing. The town was packed with tourists - carnival rides and vendors lining the waterfront. Next time I'll tell you what I did to escape the madding crowd.

The Harris Eagle Observatory & the Sron Smearasmal Beehive

During my visit to Lewis and Harris in May I set out one Sunday to revisit the stellar beehive cell of Sron Smearasmal. Eleven years had passed since I was last there, and I was curious to see if it was still intact. Another site I wanted to visit was the North Harris Eagle Observatory.

The walk started by following the track to Loch Bhoisimid. After passing through the kissing gate - unfortunately, there was no one to kiss - I headed north along the track.

A kilometre into the walk I came to the bridge over Abhainn Mhiabhaig, which marks the halfway point to the observatory.  

The observatory was soon spotted in the distance, below the looming prow of Sron Scourst. 

After 30 minutes of walking, I reached the observatory. Timber-built, with a turf roof, it has large picture windows that allow for expansive views to the north and west.

Being a weekend, the observatory was full of people. The only place to sit was on a bench at the back, which still provided a good view.

After spending some time in the observatory - without spotting any birds - I returned south along the track to the bridge over Abhainn Mhiabhaig. The bridge is a good place to start the climb to the Sron Smearasmal beehive. The cell lies a kilometre west of the track and involves an elevation gain of 170 metres. It was hot and humid, but a steady breeze kept the midges at bay

There are two cells here (NB 0900 0749). One is completely intact but only the foundation remains of the second. The intact cell is four metres in diameter at its base, two metres high to the top of the dome, and has four cupboards built into its lower walls. 

Although it has collapsed, the second cell has a unique feature, a two-metre-deep rectangular compartment that may have been a sleeping place. You can see its entrance in the previous photo. 

Although over a decade had passed since my last visit, the cell looked the same, unlike the cell at Clar Beag, that I returned to a few years ago only to discover that it had collapsed. I crawled into the cell, cracked open a can of Export, and listened as the wind blew through gaps in the cell wall.

From the cell, a gentle descent to the south across the heather-covered hillside led to the highway and the waiting car. As related in Beehive Dwellings of the Hebrides, the last time I was here was also a Sunday. I had been unable to find a meal and had to settle for a banana sandwich and tea from my B&B hostess. I was better prepared this time. I had booked a table, and an hour later dined at the Harris Hotel. The steak pie and a pint were much better than that banana sandwich and tea,

Sept 11 Cruise - Spaces Available

There are still a few spots available on our cruise around the Western Isles that departs from Oban on September 11. See the following link for more information:

https://www.hebrideanadventures.co.uk/products/adventures-in-search-of-the-past-cruise

The Lewis/Harris Bridge

I have driven across the Lewis/Harris bridge many times over the past 30 years. The bridge, on the A859, links the two islands as it crosses over Abhainn a' Mhuil. Next to the highway bridge is the old bridge, which is no longer used for vehicle traffic. The last time I passed this way, I did something different. I parked at the pullout 300 feet south of the bridge, then walked along a stretch of the old highway to the two bridges.

Once there, I scrambled down to the bank of the stream. It had been a dry summer, so the stream was low; its turbid waters cascaded under the new bridge, then under the old one, before tumbling down to Loch Seaforth.

Why, you ask, did I come here? The reason was to see the two inscriptions beneath the bridge. The first, on the southern (Harris side), was very worn, and read:

Eilean na Hearadh, eilean cùbhraidh nam beannaibh: The island of Harris, the scented isle of hills

The inscription on the Lewis side was in better shape, probably because it is farther from the stream. It read:

Eilean Leoòhais, eilean bàigheil an fhraoch: The Island of Lewis, the friendly heather isle

Some of the history of how the Lewis/Harris border was established can be found in the March 22, 2018 post. You can see a video of someone visiting the inscriptions under the bridge at this YouTube link.

Nostar & the Seaforth Roller Coaster

If you ever find yourself staying at the Rhenigidale Hostel, be sure to wander a mile up the west shore of Loch Seaforth to the deserted croft at Nostar (NB 226 033). To get there, you start by following the path that leaves the Rhenigidale road 150 feet SE of the hostel.  

If you are lucky, you may encounter Widget the cat on the road or somewhere along the path.

The path takes you up and over a low ridge where you pass through a gate that marks the beginning of the Gearraidh Mhurchaidh croft. The path then continues north before dropping down to Taigh a’ Phuist, the Postman’s House, at Gearraidh Mhurchaidh. When the Postman lived here, the house would be a welcome sight after making the 12-mile round trip to Tarbert, which involved climbing the 950-foot-high mountain pass between Urgha and Rhenigidale. Taigh a’ Phuist is known for its ‘Roller Coaster’, a 250-foot-long tram used to bring supplies to the house. It consists of a trolley that slides on four iron rails down to the shore of Loch Seaforth. 

The path ends just beyond the house at an elegant footbridge over the Gearraidh Mhurchaidh Burn. From there it’s a cross-country bash through heavy vegetation as you climb 200 feet up and over the east shoulder of Mulla. Once at the top, it’s an easy descent into the croft land of Nostar. 

At Nostar there are the ruins of several homes. The most substantial is a house that was never completed. A while back I was told the story behind the unfinished house, but my memory fails me. If anyone out there knows the story, please get in touch. 

In the 1890s, Nostar was home to a family of eight: Donald MacInnes (Domhall Nostair), his wife Chirsty, and their six children. Their story is quite tragic. Donald had acquired a 30-foot herring fishing boat in 1893, and in December of that year Donald and his crew of four went missing. 

The crew that sailed out with Donald on a December day in 1893 included his 15-year-old son Norman and three men from Eilean Anabaich, which lies three miles northwest of Rhenigidale. The men from Eilean Anabaich were Donald MacInnes’ brother-in-law Roderick Shaw, Roderick's son Angus, and  Roderick's brother Angus.

After anchoring off the west coast of the mainland with two other Rhenigidale boats, Claymore and Try Again, the three ships set out to return home. A storm blew up when they were near the Shiants. It started snowing and they became separated. Only Claymore and Try Again made it home to Loch Seaforth. A few days later (Dec 12) a shepherd found two drowned men tied together on the shore near Sandwood Bay (pictured below), 60 miles from where they were last seen. 

The Sandwood shepherd was from Lewis and recognized the bodies as Donald MacInnes and his son Norman. (The two men were buried at Oldshoremore Cemetery, four miles south of Sandwood). A bit later a search party discovered the wreck of Donald’s boat north of Sandwood on Strathcailleach Beach. Then, on Dec 18, the bodies of Angus Shaw and his nephew were recovered and buried at Oldshoremore. The last of the five-man crew, Roderick Shaw, was never found.

Donald MacInnes of Nostar left behind his wife Chirsty and six children: Duncan (13), Roderick (11), William (9), Margaret (6), Marion (4), Donald (2), and Norman (10 months). Roderick Shaw of Eilean Anabaich left behind his wife Salvia (Donald MacInnes’ sister) and five children: Duncan (14), Donald (13), Kenneth (11), Margaret (8), and Mary Kate (18 months).

The most recent tenant of Nostar (that I know of) was Kenny MacKay, who still lives in Rhenigidale. Kenny was the last postman to have the route to Rhenigidale before the road was built in 1987, and his story is told in Rhenigidale: A Community’s Fight for Survival, published by Acair in 2016. An interesting reminder of Kenny’s time at Nostar is the rusting ruin of his tractor.

Also to be seen at Nostar is a strange object snaking its way down from the top of the ridge. It is the remains of a very long pipe set in place to bring fresh water down from a mountain loch to the shore. It was a failed attempt to come up with a way to clean sea lice from farmed salmon (freshwater kills the lice). It was a failure, but the fish farm is still there. (The location of the pipe is indicated with arrows in the next photo.)  The second photo below is looking east from Nostar to the fish farm and 1470-foot-high Caiteseal.

Here ends a stunning walk up the far shores of Loch Seaforth. If you are inclined to make it a loop walk, you can head west over the ridge from Nostar and then drop down to the road. From there, a two-mile walk will take you back to the hostel (pictured below). Otherwise, return the way you came.

Last Call - September Cruise

A few spots are still available on our 10-day cruise out of Oban that departs on September 11. For details see the Hebridean Adventures website:

https://www.hebrideanadventures.co.uk/products/adventures-in-search-of-the-past-cruise

Singing Sand Beaches of the UK & Ireland

I've only had the pleasure of making the sands sing on three Scottish beaches: Camas Sgiotaig of Eigg (first photo), Traign Bhàn of Islay (second photo), and Camas an Lighe near Kentra Bay (third and fourth photos). Be careful if you walk across Camas an Lighe, as you may stumble upon unexploded munitions. 

Curious about what makes the sands sing, I found sources dating from 1891 to 1973. The first was an article in an 1891 issue of Nature, written by Cecil Carus-Wilson. You can find it at this link:

https://archive.org/details/naturelond44londuoft/page/322/mode/2up

In the article, the author states that the music from sand was simply the result of the rubbing together of the surfaces of millions of perfectly clean grains of quartz, free from angularities, roughness, or adherent matter, in the form of clinging fragments investing the grains, and that these microlithic emissions of sound, though individually inaudible, might in combination produce a note sufficiently powerful to be sensible to us.

Another description of singing sands dates to 1923 and can be found on pages 261-340 of the book Tales of Travel by CN Curzon. Pages 261-324 describe sands around the world that sing due to settling and/or wind action. Pages 324 and on describe sands that sing when walked on, beginning with the famous sands of Eigg. You can find the full text at this link:

https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=njp.32101019098233&seq=322

The most informative source I came across was an article entitled Whistling Sand Beaches in the British Isles, written by K. Ridgway and JB Scotton. It appeared in Sedimentology: The Journal of the International Association of Sedimentologists, Volume 20, p.263-279 (1973).  The link to it is: 

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/229933615_Whistling_sand_beaches_in_the_British_Isles

Be aware that you have to pay to access that article. I am basically cheap, so instead of paying $15 for online access, I spent a whole dollar in bus fare and went to read a copy in the University of Washington Library. It was in a section of the library I'd not been to before, and to my surprise, I discovered a massive row of stacks filled with hundreds of journals and reports on Sedimentology—heavy reading, indeed.

The article described various experiments used to understand why the sands sing, which confirmed the theory stated in the issue of Nature quoted above. It also states that musical beaches are always near Bedload Partings (BLP) on the continental shelf. You can read about BLPs at the following link:

https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1002/9781444304138.ch1

Also included in the 1973 article was a list of the 33 singing sand beaches in the UK and Ireland. (See the map at the end of the post). If making the sands sing intrigues, here is a list of the musical beaches in Scotland:

Rackwick Bay, Hoy: ND 2063 9844; Dunnet Head; Cruden Bay: NK 0853 3506; Montrose Bay: NO 7351 6085; Lunan Bay: NO 6923 5113; Tyninghame Beach: NT 6268 8201; Broadsea Bay: NW 9712 6010; Ardneil Bay: NS 1869 4830; Traigh Bhàn, Islay: NR 3461 4409; Ardnish: NM 7001 8065; Roshven: NM 7044 7882 or NM 7099 7920; Camas an Lighe, Ardnamurchan: NM 6128 6903; Camus Sgiotaig, Eigg: NM 4710 8996; Guinaird Bay: NG 9509 9026; Clashnessie Bay: NC 0577 3106

As mentioned above, the only beaches in the list I've had the pleasure of making sing are those of Eigg, Camus an Lighe, and Traigh Bhàn. A short recording of the Blue Danube Waltz played on the Eigg Sands can be found in this post from 2013:

https://marccalhoun.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-sands-sing.html

There is one singing beach in particular on my list to visit, and that is the one at Ardnish. The reason is because of the stunning four-volume Ardnish series written by Angus MacDonald. If you've read the books, you'll understand why I want to walk out to the old settlements around Peanmeanach. Then, after seeing the ruins, I'd detour a mile west to make the sands sing. Directions to Peanmeanach are on this Walk Highlands page, which oddly makes no mention of the singing sands: 

https://www.walkhighlands.co.uk/fortwilliam/peanmeanach.shtml.