A month from today, the Islands Book Trust will be hosting the launch of my next book, Thirty Years of Adventures in Search of the Past: Skye and the Small Isles. It will be held at the Portree Library on Thursday, August 20, at 6 pm. If you are on Skye at the time, I hope you can make it. The book tells the stories of three decades of journeys to Skye, the Small Isles, Raasay, Rona, and the islands of Gavin Maxwell.
After a snooze on the Singing Sands of Gigha, I started back to the road. After a brief visit to the north pier, which sits precariously on beach boulders, ready to topple at any minute, I noticed a waymarker for the ‘Northern Loop—Càrn Bàn’ path. Long ago, I’d read about Càrn Bàn, a once notable site of Neolithic tombs. I’d also read a description of how to get there, a route that sounded quite difficult. But in the intervening years, a network of walkable and bikeable paths has been created on Gigha, and I was delighted to see that this one went to the site. The path started with a boardwalk over a section of marshy ground, which ended just before the two stunning white-sand beaches of Tràigh nam Beachan.
The most evident early Metal Age innovation was to change from collective burial in chambered tombs to individual interment in small stone-lined graves, with or without a protective cairn of stones. Carn Ban on the N. Gigha coast is a good if now denuded example. First dug into in the eighteenth century, the cairn was then said to be about 50 feet across; it probably covered seven short cists—average size about 4 feet by 28 inches, by 20 inches deep—all orientated NNW.-SSE. and with much white quartz, often part of early ritual, included in the packing.
TS Muir, in Ecclesiological Notes on some of the Islands of Scotland (1885), describes the site as it was over a hundred years ago.
Still keeping on in nearly the same direction till nearing Cairnban Point, in the north-eastern extremity of the island, you are brought to another place of sepulture, which I rather think the antiquary will regard as the most interesting spot in Gigha. It was almost dark before I got to it, though even with plenty of light I doubt whether I or any one could have seen much to have made anything out of, without no end of going down into holes and digging therein. Things of the kind are not easily described; but conceive scattered over a weird-looking plat so many cyclopean-like cells, cromlechs, kistvaens, or whatever else or otherwise you may call them, each more or less slantingly roofed over with a ponderous slab, and showing, in two or three of them, appearances of passages in all likelihood to underground chambers.
One remaining tomb did have a ‘ponderous’ slab, but many of the stones from the other tombs, along with those of the fifty-foot cairn that covered them, have been taken over the years for building material. You can see them now embedded in many of the field walls in the area. Scattered around the remaining tombs were several large, white quartz stones, thought to have been placed in them as symbols of wealth for the dearly departed.
The path turned southwest from the tombs to traverse the shoulder of Cnoc an t-Sabhail (Barnhill). After cresting a series of low ridges, the path dropped down to the road.
As I started marching south on the tarmac, my weary legs, used to the mushy ground, began to complain. I had seven miles under my belt and had another four to get back to Achamore. So when a car came by, I stuck out my thumb. All I got was a smile as they zoomed by. I realised I had been pointing my thumb towards the sky, so they probably thought I was just giving them a thumbs-up. Five minutes later, another car came by. This time, I held the thumb a bit more horizontally and was given a ride.
As we motored to Ardminish, I took advantage of the encounter to ask a question. One of the things on my Gigha agenda was to meet up with Kenny MacNeill, who had taken me to Càra in 1996, exactly thirty years ago (see Chapter 3 of Firth of Clyde to the Small Isles). I’d corresponded with Kenny in 2021 to ask permission to use a photo of him (below), and I was hoping to see him. But when I asked where he lived, the answer was startling. I was told he’d passed away unexpectedly a few months earlier and was laid to rest in Kilchattan Cemetery. The following photo shows Kenny taking me to Càra in 1996, and on his way to Cara in 2017 (the 2017 image courtesy of Christina Macauley).
Once back at Ardminish, I made my way to Kilchattan. There was only one new grave, covered with dried-up flowers. I assumed it was Kenny’s, as it was marked by a worn tombstone for a MacNeill who died at sea in 1949.
Later that evening, as the sun started dipping into the western sea, I was snoozing on the bench that crowns the viewpoint above the west end of Achamore Gardens. Seemingly out of nowhere, two children, a boy and a girl, dashed by. They stopped at the verge of the hillside, as heavy brambles prevented running down the hill. Only then did they notice me and say hello. Their mother showed up a minute later and apologised for intruding on my nap. “No bother”, I said. “I’m glad for the company”. I asked if they knew Kenny. All three immediately said yes, and the boy mentioned it was always exciting when Kenny brought out his nautical charts.
Rest in peace, Kenny MacNeill. Though I did not know you well, you gave me, and many others, memories of Gigha and Càra that will last forever.
It was in the spring of 1996 that I first crossed the Doirlinn that connects the small island of Eilean Garbh to Gigha. It is a beautiful place to spend a few hours: a 500-foot-long tombolo, cradled by beaches on each side. The following photo shows these 'twin beaches' on that spring day in '96.
During a stay on Gigha last April, I made a long walk from Achamore to the north end of the island. It was a blazing-hot day, and I started looking for a place to take a snooze around noon. A mile north of Tarbert, a roadside sign brought back that memory from 1996: 'Eilean Garbh Beaches'. My search for a place to snooze had ended. It was time to live in the past—time for a nap on the twin beaches.
Unlike three decades ago, a well-made path led down to the tombolo. From the end of the path, I crossed a short stretch of grassland to the north beach. It was there that things got interesting.
Something I've always done since a visit to a well-known beach on Eigg in 2006 is to scuff my feet whenever I cross a beach. I had not done this when I was on Gigha in 1996, but I did it this time. Usually, nothing happens. But something extraordinary happened this time. A squeaking, almost musical sound arose from the sands with every scuff: the unmistakable sound of singing sands. I’d done a bit of research on singing sands a few years ago and had come across a list of the 33 known musical beaches of the UK and Ireland. Gigha was not on the list. The nearest listed sands lie twenty miles to the west at Tràigh Bhàn on Islay (see the October 19, 2019 post).
The northern beach of the tombolo is not named on the map. But after Elizabeth came here during a cruise on Hebridean Princess, it became known as the Queen’s Beach. I don’t know if the queen made the sands sing, but she may have taken a nap. For a map of the singing sands of the UK and Ireland, see the July 23, 2024 post (which I now need to update).
After an hour-long snooze on the beach, I made it sing again as I started back to the road. After a brief visit to the north pier, which sits precariously on the shore, I noticed a waymarker for the ‘Northern Loop—Càrn Bàn’ path. Long ago, I’d read about Càrn Bàn, a once notable site of Neolithic tombs. I’d also read an old description of how to get there, a route that sounded difficult. But in the intervening years, a network of walkable and bikeable paths has been created on Gigha, and I was delighted to see that one of them went to the site. Next time we'll follow that tempting path to see what's left of the tombs of Càrn Bàn.
I returned to Islay last month to spend the better part of a week. The highlight of the trip was the place where I stayed, the Four Winds Lookout Tower. It is a former coast guard facility that has been renovated into stunning, self-catering accommodation. Standing high above Pornahaven, at the tip of the Rinns of Islay peninsula, it has an expansive view overlooking the lighthouse island of Orsay and the far-off coast of Ireland. In the first photo, the tower is visible on the hill above Portnahaven.
The top-floor bedroom was reached by a near-vertical ladder, one that reminded me of the steep stairs down to the cabins on many of the ships I'd been on over the years.
Every night but one was a peaceful paradise. On the third night, I was woken by a loud banging on the door. Wondering what the hell was going on, I climbed down the ladder and looked out the door. I found myself face-to-face with a dozen sheep, their noses pressed up to the tower, who'd found a place to shelter from the wind.
Four Winds is truly unique, and I hope to return someday. Adding to the appeal, a friendly pub, An Tigh Seinnse, is a short walk away.
For more information on Four Winds, the website is: https://www.fourwindsislay.co.uk/
While on Islay last week, I made my way to Kilnaughton Military Cemetery, a mile west of Port Ellen. It's a small cemetery, with around a dozen tombstones. Many tourists pass by the cemetery without even knowing it's there, when they drive the hilly single track to the Mull of Oa. For, it is on the Mull that you'll find the American Monument: a sixty-foot-tall stone tower that commemorates the Otranto disaster off the shore of Kilchoman in 1918 and the sinking of the Troopship Tuscania by the UB-77 earlier that year. (For more on the Otranto, see the October 11, 2019 post.)
The Kilnaughton Military Cemetery lies above the beach, northeast of the burial ground that surrounds the fifteenth-century ruin of the chapel of St Nechtan. The only American still interred in the military cemetery is Roy Muncaster, a Private in the US Army, who perished when Tuscania was torpedoed. Before joining the Army, Muncaster had been a forest ranger in the Olympic Mountains of Washington State, where the 5,910-foot-high Muncaster Mountain, fifty miles west of my home in Seattle, is named for him. With the lone exception of Muncaster, all the American victims of the Otranto and Tuscania disasters were returned to the States or buried in the American Military Cemetery in Surrey. Muncaster’s parents wanted him to remain where he died, here on beautiful Islay.
The details for the launch of my next book, Thirty Years of Adventures in Search of the Past: Skye and the Small Isles, have been finalised. It will be held at the Portree Library on Thursday, August 20, at 6 pm. If you are on Skye at the time, I hope you can make it. The book tells the stories of three decades of journeys to Skye and its neighbours, including the Small Isles, Raasay, Rona, and the islands of Gavin Maxwell. An outline map of the contents can be found below.
On another note, I am happy to have been asked to supply an article for the first issue of the Islands Book Trust's relaunch of Scottish Islands Explorer. Once a publication date is known, I will pass it on.
I am happy to announce that Volume 2 of the Thirty Years of Adventures Series, Skye & the Small Isles, is to be published by the Islands Book Trust this summer. It will be the same format as Volume 1 (The Outer Hebrides) and will include a large selection of colour photos. A launch event in August is being planned, possibly in the Portree area. I will post an announcement once the details have been firmed up.
I've learned that Scottish Islands Explorer will live on, as the Islands Book Trust has acquired the rights to publish the magazine. It has yet to be decided, but it will probably be an annual or bi-annual publication.
To quote from the latest Islands Book Trust Newsletter:
We became aware in late September 2025 that Scottish Islands Explorer, a high-quality magazine published six times a year carrying articles and wonderful photographs of Scottish islands, was ceasing production. The magazine has gone through several changes in ownership and location over the last quarter of a century, starting in Fair Isle (Shetland) and latterly run from Lewis under the auspices of Intermedia Services (Stornoway) Ltd. There have been close links between previous owners of SIE and IBT for many years.
Following discussion with the previous owner, IBT has therefore decided to step into the breach by acquiring the right to continue publishing Scottish Islands Explorer, albeit in a radically different version from the previous format and business model. This is because we believe there is considerable synergy between the aims of SIE and those of IBT, and the interests of previous SIE subscribers and members of IBT. Like many others, we would be sad to see it cease altogether.
I am delighted that the magazine, which has meant so much to me over the past 20 years, will live on thanks to the Book Trust. Please consider joining the Trust - for more information on how to do so see the following link.
https://islandsbooktrust.org/pages/membership
As I stood on the Bridge to Nowhere last July, I did some time-travelling. I could see myself, 27 years younger, standing on that very spot, as I set out on one of my first long-distance Hebridean walks, the 12-mile trek along the coast to Ness. The agenda for my walk this time was not as ambitious. It was a sweltering hot day, and I only wanted to hike the first three miles of that route to the rock stack of Dùn Othail.
Once over the bridge, I came to a way-marker sign that had not been there when I last came this way. As I would soon discover, the route is now extensively dotted with marker posts, which made for an easier hike than I'd had last time.
A MacNicol was castrated for some misdeed. Seeking revenge, he kidnapped the infant son of the chief who had sentenced him to this punishment. His pursuers almost had him in their grasp when he managed to get up onto Dùn Othail. Dangling the child over the sea, MacNicol had some bargaining power. He demanded that the chief castrate himself; otherwise, he would drop the child on the rocks. The chief did as demanded, and once MacNicol saw the bloody proof, he shouted, "I will have no heir, and neither will you." He then jumped off the rock, killing himself and the infant.
It was now time to turn around, as I was going to hike part of the north end of the path the following day (see the August 12th post). After retracing my steps back to the Bridge to Nowhere, I made my way down to take a close look at the sea stacks of Tràigh Ghearadha.
The largest stack, nearly a hundred feet high, is Caisteal a' Mhorair, the Nobleman's Castle. At its top are the ruins of a small fortification and, like the stack of An Coroghan (The Prison) on Canna, the only access is via a steep, turf- and rock-covered slope that you can see at the centre of the next photo.
I am too old these days to attempt the climb. But there was still something spectacular to see, as the stack is pierced by a cave that is accessible at low tide. Fortunately, although the tide was on the rise, the cave was still reachable.
The rising tide was starting to flood the cave, but I made it through without getting too wet.
As I drove away from the Bridge to Nowhere, I recalled the first time I was there, on a May day in 1997. It was, in a sense, a sad day, as our vacation was at an end, and I did not have time to make the long walk to Ness. It was a walk I had to do, so I came back a year later to do it, as recounted in Chapter 7.2 of Thirty Years of Adventures in Search of the Past: The Outer Hebrides. It is one of the supreme Hebridean hikes that can be done in a day, and along the way you'll encounter several shieling sites, some still in use, along with a view of Dun Othail, and the evocative ruins of Dune Tower and its cliff-top chapel.
Last month, I had the chance to return to a few places on Lewis I'd not been to for nearly 30 years. It was back in 1998 that I made the Tolsta to Ness walk on what is now called a "Heritage Trail", a 17 km (10-mile) walk described in Chapter 7.2 of Thirty Years of Adventures in Search of the Past: The Outer Hebrides.
Taking advantage of some spectacular July weather, I drove up to Ness and took the side road to Skigersta. At the end of the paved road, I found a small parking area next to a Heritage Trail marker at NB 5431 5129. There was room for three cars, but it was empty. It seemed no one else was interested in walking this brilliant stretch of coastline on a perfect July day, which was fine by me.
Two miles into the walk, I came to Cuidhsiadar, a group of shielings still in use, clustered along An Abhainn Dubh, the Black River. The river is spanned by a cement bridge, which I remembered crossing back in 1998. For someone walking north, which I was back then, it marked the end of the boggy parts of the walk. For me, heading south this time, it marked the beginning of dealing with soupy, squishy, and tiring terrain. The next photo is looking back north across the bridge to Cuidhsiadar.
After crossing the river, the track became fainter with every step as it climbed to the south. If I kept straight, the track would take me to Filiscleitir, another village of shielings still in use. However, I noticed a series of waymarker posts for the Heritage Path, markers that had not been there in the last century, which led off to the east. And so I followed them to the clifftops.
A boggy series of ups and downs had to be crossed, including two treacherous swamps that required a lot of zig-zagging to conquer. The gaiters saved the day, as at one point I sank to my knees in slimy muck. But it was worth the effort when I reached the cliff edge and Dune Tower came into view.
In his book Island Memories, John Wilson Dougal writes about a nighttime arrival at Dune Tower. It was a much different experience than my approach on a sunny summer day:
Approaching in the darkness with great care, since the sound of dashing waters was heard on the cliff edge, a pathway was reached which, when seen next morning, revealed itself as the edge of a chasm, one side dropping two hundred feet to the sea. Inside the house blazed a cheerful peat-fire, on which a store of scones and cakes had been prepared by the kind folks who had arrived earlier. About midnight they bravely went off to their village, four miles away, lighting their path with a lantern, leaving me alone in the haunted house. This is a haven completely furnished, even to the cragman's rope lying in a corner of the kitchen.
It had been quite an undertaking to build the house. Between 1907 and 1920, Iain MacNeachail (John Nicolson), a former Baptist preacher in America, had a house and a nearby chapel built. Nicolson dreamed for years of having a home and chapel near where his father had a shieling. Nine tons of sand were brought in by boat and carried up the 200-foot cliffs. And several tons of cement, along with all necessary lumber and fixtures, were carted across the moors from Ness, six miles away.
In front of the house, almost completely covered in tall grass, were two low stones planted firmly in the turf. In his book The Haunted Isles, Alasdair Alpin MacGregor tells that they mark the grave of a man who fell to his death while birding on the nearby cliff, long before the house was built. By the time they retrieved the body, it was too decomposed to transport it to Suainebost Cemetery, so he was laid to rest here, near the top of the cliff where he died. In the next photo, you can just see the two stones in the foreground.
The house was much more dilapidated than when I was last here. The following two photos show how more of the north gable has fallen (the first photo was taken in 1998).
Five minutes later, Nicolson's chapel came into view. It looked just as it had in 1998, all four walls stood complete, and two lancet windows graced its western gable. Nicolson built the chapel for the people who inhabited the Filiscleitir shielings in the summer. It must have been a serene place to worship, as it overlooks the small bay where the Leum Langa River tumbles to the rough waters of the Minch. Here are a few photos of the chapel. The first dates to 1998.
It was getting late in the afternoon, so it was time to start back. Knowing where the worst stretches of bog were, I did not follow the markers, but kept a bit higher on the hillside. Once back through Cuidhsiadar, I followed a side track that cleaved through the peat fields east of the main track (NB 5468 6019).
The peat road turned into a grassy quad-bike track, and I was able to easily make it halfway to the coast. Where the track petered out, I could see my destination a half mile away: a white obelisk rising from the edge of the cliffs.
The ten-foot obelisk sits atop a two-tiered pedestal. It has a metal plaque embedded high up on one side. The plaque has an engraving of a rock-hammer, along with the name John Wilson Dougal and the date 1905.
It was in 1905 that JW Dougal noted the flinty-crush bands of the Outer Hebrides. He was the founder of a chemical company in Edinburgh and an amateur geologist in his spare time. For many years, he explored the geology of the Outer Hebrides and was the first to describe their flinty-crush rock formations. You're asking what flinty-crush is, aren't you? Here is one definition I found: 'It is an ultracrushed variety of mylonite, in which the primary structures and porphyroclasts are obliterated so that the rock becomes homogeneous and dense with little parallel structure.' In layman's terms: it's very hard rock.
Dougal, who died in 1935, believed that a band of this rigid material, stretching the length of the Western Isles, helped them survive the effects of glacial erosion. He wrote up many of his adventures in the Hebrides, and after he died in 1935, they were published in the book Island Memories.
I was tired of crossing bogs, so instead of returning to the track as I'd done in 1998, I decided to follow the spectacular coastline to the north. And so I followed the cliffs, aiming for Skigersta jetty, a mile away. It was the right choice, as it took me past Cladach Cuidhsiadar, a stunning white sand beach at the mouth of the Cuidhsiadar River.
A half hour later, the village of Skigersta came in sight, and after rounding the ravine carved by the Skigersta River, I came to the tarmac road that leads to the jetty.
I reached the car six hours after setting out. Next to the small parking area, hidden in tall grass and long ignored, was an old information board about the Tolsta to Ness path. I pulled out some of the grass to uncover it, as I wish I'd seen it at the beginning of the walk. If you ever have the chance to walk the route, even if only part of it, do it. It is spectacular.
