A Night in Crolà - 8 Years On

Eight years had passed since I last spent a night in Crolà - one of my favourite places in the Hebrides - and so this August I decided to stay there again. Crolà lies at the head of Loch Reasort, a difficult five mile hike from the nearest road. When I camped there in 2010 (see chapter 22 of Skye & Tiree to the Outer Isles), it was a sunny summer day. I was not so lucky with the weather this time.

Crolà - 2010

I reached Crolà last August after visiting the Clàr Mòr beehive cells described in the last post. From Clàr Mòr I carried on for another mile south to pay a visit to the Clàr Beag beehives, an amazing place I'd only visited once before, way back in 1998.

From Clàr Beag a descent along the banks of Abhainn a’ Chlàir Bhig led to the ruin of Tota Choinnich. (See chapter 17, Skye & Tiree to the Outer Isles, for the story of Tota Choinnich.)

Tota Choinnich

At Tota Choinnich the Clàr Beag stream joins the Abhainn Mhòr Ceann Reasoirt; a substantial river that is not easy to cross after any significant rainfall, which there had been all week. Fortunately, I didn’t have to cross it, and so I continued along its north bank for a half mile to the old lodge at Kinresort.

Approaching Kinresort from the east

The lodge at Kinresort is not a place you can count on for shelter out in the back of beyond, as they’ve gone to a lot of trouble to prevent anyone from getting in. A place more heavily defended from bog-weary intruders would be hard to find; most of the doors and windows are securely covered with padlocked wrinkly-tin shutters; and those not so covered are tightly blockaded with stone.

Kinresort Lodge - 2018

The old lodge looks a lot different than when I first passed through here in 1998.

Kinresort Lodge - 1998

It started to rain again as I made my way along the north shore of Loch Reasort. Only one more obstacle lay between me and Crolà: the Abhainn Leatha. The stream was in heavy spate, which forced me to climb to find a fording place. A hundred metres up the hillside the stream split to flow around a small island. On each side of the island flowed a narrow stretch of cascading water that I could cross. It was there that, tired, and in a hurry to set up camp, I made a mistake, My boot slipped off a boulder and plunged into the stream; cold water flooding into it. Cursing myself for the mistake, I continued across the stream, and then descended to the shore and the ruin of the postman’s house at Crolà.

Crola - 2018

I was not too happy when I saw a large, rusting barrel lying next to the house. I had rolled that damn thing far away when I'd cleaned up the flotsam littering the site in 2010. But the sea had rolled it back, along with even more flotsam.

Before the clean-up in 2010

After the clean-up in 2010

The junk is back in 2018

The rain had decreased to a light drizzle as I pitched the tent. Unlike the previous night in Glen Shanndaig there were no midges; a light breeze off Loch Reasort kept them away. Before sliding into the sleeping bag I stuffed my boots with newspaper. They were a bit soggy after two days of hiking over wet terrain and my earlier misstep crossing the stream.

I woke at midnight to the sound of a deer barking as it was taking a drink at the nearby stream - I barked back and it ran away. I am used to nights not being very dark this time of year in the Hebrides (early August); but with the heavy cloud cover it was pitch black when I stepped out at 2am to take care of business. I was asleep again in an instant. Lapping surf, and the pitter-patter of rain on a tent, are the best sleep-aids in the world.

It was still raining at 7am. When I crawled out of the tent I was happy to discover the midges were still missing in action. It was a gray, breezy morning, with on and off rain sweeping in from the Atlantic.

I shook off as much water as I could from the tent before rolling it up and strapping it to the pack. The time had come to face the streams and bogs once again; to plow through thick heather and tall, wet bracken. It was time to head north to Morsgail. Halfway there I came across the first of forty old friends. Those old friends are the Postman's Stones, which guide the walker across the bogs between Morsgail and Kinresort. I was done navigating, it was time to follow the stones. I would reach the Morsgail road an hour later.

One of the postman's stones

The Beehives of Airigh a' Chlàir Mhòir

When I last left you I was battling the midges of Gleann Shanndaig, a remote part of Lewis, three miles east of Kinlochreasort. After a night in the tent I packed up and, walking fast enough to keep ahead of the pursuing midges, set out to find the shieling site known as Airigh a' Chlàir Mhòir.

A bit west of Gleann Shanndaig I rounded the north shoulder of Beinn a' Bhoth, where the vast interior of the Morsgail moorland came into view. Off to the west lay the narrow end of Loch Reasort, and the old lodges at Luachair (Harris - to the left) and Kinlochresort (Lewis).

It was a pleasant, warm day, but dark and wet-looking clouds loomed over the Harris hills to the south. As I walked towards them something fascinating slowly became visible in the distance: two grass grown humps rising from the rolling green terrain on the far side of a small stream.

Only after fording the stream did I realize just how fantastic these two structures are. Possibly the most impressive pair of multiple cells I've ever seen - a double double - the Epsilon Lyrae of beehive cells sites.

The easternmost double cell (at left in the above photo) stood six feet tall, and 25 feet in total length. About 80% intact, only the last couple of courses of its two corbelled domes have collapsed. I crawled into the north entrance of the first cell, and was able to continue on my knees through to the second compartment. 

After crawling back outside, over the damp, moss-grown stones that floored the connected cells, I made my way over to the main attraction - one of the biggest beehives I've seen - a double cell with much of its turf covering intact. The largest of the pair was 100% intact, but the adjoining mother-in-law cell has collapsed.

The big cell - collapsed connected cell in the foreground - the other double cell at left

It was a joy to push through the grass that blocked the northern entrance and make my way inside. Once through the low doorway I could stand up, the top of my head just a few inches below the top of the intact dome.

Top of the dome

It had been well worth the two days of hiking it took to reach Airigh a' Chlàir Mhòir. It, and Upper Fidigidh, five mile to the northwest, are the most amazing beehive settlements still standing. After exploring the site I set a course to the northwest, where I hoped to camp for the night by the ruin of the postman's house, where Murdo Crola lived a century ago.

Gleann Shanndaig - Midge Heaven

A few weeks ago I wrote of a wonderful campsite I had in Glen Shanndaig, on the isle of Lewis. It was an amazing place, where I'd pitched my tent below the ruin of a giant beehive cell. But I did gloss over something. There was a big downside to that spot. Something all who've hiked in the islands are well aware of: midges.

Midges are the bane of all who venture into the interior of the islands where, unless there is a significant breeze, or freezing temperatures, they are ever-present - eagerly waiting to feast on the warm, deliciously fresh blood of weary hikers.

While setting up camp my scalp started to itch. No, not from dandruff (though there may have been some). The itch was due to a million or so midges relentlessly burrowing through my hair in search of the mother lode; in search of a warm and sweet nectar, and a rare one at that. For my blood is a rare vintage in this part of the world (Cascadia 1957 - with hints of Canadian pine and Pacific kelp). An exotic blend not often found in the middle of a Lewis bog.

And so the bugs were in a ecstatic frenzy - drunkenly munching away on every inch of exposed skin and scalp. From their excited cries of ecstasy - over the years my ears have become attuned to midge cries of ecstasy - it appeared they'd never tasted anything so good, and so I had to quickly put on a bug net for protection. I call my net 'a bug hat', as it is a baseball-style cap with a handy net that pulls down over the brim. But it is not fool-proof (and I can be a fool at times). The trick to putting it on is to pull the net down without trapping a few hundred voracious insects inside, all deliriously happy to discover that their competitors have been walled off, and that they, now alone, have a tasty smorgasbord of fresh flesh to dine on.

Once the bug hat was on, and the tent pitched, I crawled inside, where I spent a half-hour trying to kill the thousand or so midges that had managed to get inside with me - I think I got three of them. But three was better than none, and so the mighty midge-killer, his blood-lust quenched for the evening, settled down to spend the night. Eight hours to rest weary legs; eight hours to re-energize enough to carry on across the moorland to visit what would turn out to be the most impressive beehive cell he'd ever seen. Stay tuned.

The Morsgail Beehive Cells

I first visited the Morsgail beehive cells in the year 2000. Since then I have passed by them a dozen times.  Except for a few stretches of soggy bog, the five mile round trip walk is relatively easy. 

The first part of the walk is a level stroll along the paved track to Morsgail Lodge. After a mile a sign once directed walkers away from the track to a footbridge spanning the Morsgail River. (The sign has since disappeared, but the bridge is still there.)

From the bridge an undulating quad-bike path carries on above the eastern shore of Loch Morsgail. You can choose to follow it, or just head generally to the southwest across the moorland. When I first passed this way, 18 years ago, several standing telegraph poles dating to WWI marked part of the route. But aside from a short stump or two they have all disappeared: including seven that were harvested to build a quad-bike bridge over the Beinn na Gile stream adjacent to the beehive cells.

A little over an hour after setting out you will come to the triple beehive dwelling in a shallow valley. The stone-dome of the middle cell is intact, but the domes of its two connected cells have collapsed. 

It is a tranquil, beautiful spot. A substantial foot-bridge once crossed the stream to the south, but all that left of it is an ancient wood plank. When I visited the site a couple of months ago I was tempted to use the precarious plank to cross the stream. But it looked a bit weak, so I used the nearby telegraph-pole bridge instead.

Below is a photo that shows both the cells, and a drawing made when they were completely intact.

The drawing is from an article in the September 1938 edition of Antiquity magazine. It is interesting that the drawing was not made on-site. It is a drawing made of a model of the cells in the Pitt Rivers Museum. I wonder if the model still exists.

Next time you are on Lewis be sure to set aside a day to take a look at these amazing relics of the past. Crawl inside one and think what it would be like to live here. Would you be miserable? Probably. But comfort is relative. When intact these cells were water- and wind-proof. Even more important; with a small fire going they would have been warm and mostly midge-proof. Seventeenth century four-star accommodation, indeed.