Loch an Ath Ruaidh

In May of 2017 I camped for two nights by a beautiful loch in the remote interior of southwest Lewis. I had not planned to camp there. I'd wanted to make it all the way to the Aird Mhor, at the mouth of Loch Reasort. The hike had started at Kinlochrog. But due to the difficult terrain, after eight hours of hiking I'd only traversed ten miles. My legs were shot, and the pack seemed to get heavier with every step. It was getting late, and Aird Mhor was still another two hilly miles west. So I decided to call it a day and find a campsite. 

Circumstances create memories. The campsite I found was absolutely amazing. It was on the grassy shore of a little loch; a loch hidden in a cradle of hills; hills rich with deer, grouse, snipe, and the occasional eagle.  Oh, and one other thing - hills full of shielings and beehive cells.

The name of the loch is Loch an Ath Ruaidh, the loch of the red-stone ford. It is compact, only about four acres in size. Early hunter-gatherers appreciated this site; plenty of game, fresh water, and shelter provided by the surrounding hills. They liked it so much they built six beehive dwellings around the loch. The following photo, taken near a beehive on the north end of the loch, shows the locations of several of the cells.

Loch an Ath Ruaidh remains one of my favorite Hebridean campsites. I was fortunate in 2017, as it was sunny, with just enough of a breeze to keep the midges away. When I returned to the loch two years later, it was a cold, wet, and windy day. I decided to camp in a different location, as I did not want to ruin the memory of what had been a perfect island campsite. 

What follows are photos of Loch an Ath Ruaidh from 2017. My little blue tent shows up in all but the final photo. That one shows the only company I had during three sunny days in the Aird Mhor.

The Hamnavay Track and Beyond - Day 3 of 3

The wind died around midnight, which would usually mean the midges would be out in force. But fortunately it was cold, too cold for the wee beasts, so I was able to take my time packing up. The shieling hut had been a great campsite, one I hope to return to someday.

Just as I set out I looked towards the northern hills to see a St Andrew's Cross high in the sky. A sure sign I'd vanquish all foes who'd come my way; be they midges, bogs, rivers, or gamekeepers.

The road at Kinlochrog was five miles to the northeast. My wife was going to pick me up there at 3pm, so I could take my time and see a few shielings I'd not visited before. The most interesting was Gearraidh Uidh Phaill, just to the west of Loch Cro Criosdaig. The loch's name means loch of the Christian enclosure, so there was probably a monastery here. At Gearraidh Uidh Phaill I found the remains of two collapsed beehive cells set at the base of a rocky knoll. 

From Gearraidh Uidh Phaill I set out across the open moorland. It was sunny, and quite beautiful. The last time I had crossed this area was on a bleak, wet, and gray day, and all I'd wanted to do was get across it as fast as possible. But this time it was a joy. The next photo gives some sense of how spectacular this unpopulated, and rarely visited terrain is.

The final stretch of the hike took me to Morgail Lodge, at the north end of Loch Morsgail. From there an easy walk on the tarmac track led to Kinlochrog. Just as I reached the public road my wife drove up. She must be able to read minds - she kissed me, and then handed me a cold beer.

The Hamnavay Track and Beyond - Day 2

In the last episode we spent a windy night in a small tent atop Cleit nam Bothan Aird, the rocky eminence of the high bothies (beehive cells). 

Bothan Aird lies a mile east of the head of Loch Hamnavay. Unless you have a friend with a boat, it is a 12 mile walk to get there via the Hamnavay track, or an 8-mile bog-slog from Morsgail. The previous day I'd made the 12-mile hike via the track, a walk I did not want to repeat, so the plan was to end the hike by heading east to Morsgail over the next two days.

Where the Hamnavay Track reaches the sea

The goal for this day was to make it to Upper Fidigidh, visiting, along the way, the shieling sites of Gearraidh Aineabhal and Lower Fidigidh.

Although it had been a windy night, I was lucky, as it had not rained. So after a bit of a lay-in I packed up my gear, and after strapping the tent to the pack set out to the north.

Re-energized after the night's sleep, it was an easy hike down into the glen between lochs Gruinebhat and Bodabhat.

Then I started north up the pass between the two summits of Aineabhal (the notch you can see at the upper left in the next photo). Visible in the foreground of the photo is the stump of a WWI telegraph pole. A series of them once crossed the moorland from Hamnavay to Kinresort and Morsgail.

After descending from the north side of the pass I came to the shielings of Gearraidh Aineabhal. There are three of them: Gearraidh a' Stigh Aineabhal, Gearraidh Meadhonach Aineabhal, and Gearraidh a' Muigh Aineabhal (Inner, Middle, and Outer Aineabhal). The shielings were all placed such that the residents could see the head of Loch Hamnavay, a mile to the west.

In total, between the three sites, there were ten shieling huts, including three beehive cells. I always like to crawl into these beautiful structures and, if there are no midges, take a short snooze.  It was too cold for the midges, so I had a brief nap.

From Aineabhal it only took 15 minutes to descend down to the Hamnavay River. I was a bit concerned that I might not be able to cross the river, which would mean having to walk a mile west to the bridge near the lodge. But the river was low, and there were several spots where it would be easy to ford. As it turned out there was no need to ford, because I was able to use a board that spanned one of the salmon weirs as a bridge.

Once over the river I turned east to follow the fisherman's path to Loch na Craobhaig. Portions of the path have wood planks that make the going easier across the soggy moorland. Although many of the planks are rotted, they still speed your progress east.

At a point just west of Loch na Craobhaig (the bushy loch) I turned north towards Fidigidh. Here there are several 'false' beehive cells, the grouse shooting butts I described in the April 16th post.

I was now in Fidigidh, and as I made my way north I took a look at each of the many shielings of Fidigidh Iochdrach (Lower Fidigidh) and Fidigidh Uachdrach (Upper Fidigidh). At Upper Fidigidh my quaking legs told me it was time for a very long break, say eight hours or so. The time had come to set up camp. (See the May 31st post where I described how the wind made setting up the tent difficult, and how I ended up pitching it inside a roofless shieling.)

Sunset on that May evening was at 10 pm, and it was still bright at midnight when I got up to take care of some urgent business. The wind died out around 3 am, and I had a lazy lie-in, stepping put of the tent at 8 am to find a calm, sunny morning. I would have an easy day ahead of me, as the road at Kinlochrog, where my wife was going to pick me up, was only six miles to the northeast. Along the way I would visit several of the shielings that dot the moorland near Loch Cro Chriosdaig, the loch of the Christian enclosure. A name that implies there was once a monastic settlement in the area. 

After breaking camp I set out to the east with the sunlight for my load (and the full pack). You have to pay attention to every footstep as you cross this boggy terrain, which was very hard to do. The reason was I was distracted by an amazing sight: the stunning views across the loch-studded moorland to the high hills of Harris.

The Hamnavay Track and Beyond - Day 1

I have posted before on the Burma Road of Lewis, also known as the Hamnavay Track (see the Feb 17, 2015 post). It is a 10-mile unpaved road, gouged out of the moorland and hills in the interior of Uig, that leads from Ardroil to Hamnavay Lodge.

I have walked this road about 10 times over the past 20 years. After each time I tell myself I'll never walk it again. It is a hellish grind, this long and winding road, with its seemingly never ending series of false summits. It saps your strength - especially if you are carrying a pack with 30 pounds of gear to camp for several days. But I always seem to end up walking it again, as it is the quickest way to access the remote interior of Uig.

And so, last month, I decided to walk it yet again, in order to visit some of the shieling sites that dot the moorland in the Ardveg. An hour into the walk I came to the gate that was installed when they built the road in 1999 to prevent riff-raff (like me) from driving the road. On all my previous walks the gate had been locked, and so I was surprised to find it propped open.

Another surprise awaited two miles past the open gate: it was another gate, one that had been installed since my last walk this way in 2017. This gate was locked, but I was happy to see they'd provided a bypass for walkers around one of the posts. I had no idea at the time why they'd built this second gate. But I was to learn why in a few days. (I do not know the details, but it seems the old gate blocked access someone legally had to the nearby moorland lochs, so they have to move the road blockade a couple of miles south.)

As I passed around the locked gate I wondered what other surprises awaited; I would have to wait three hours to find out, as that's how long it took to climb the pass (1000 ft), and then make the descent to Loch Tamnavay.

The surprise was yet another new, and locked gate, blocking the track just before it reached Hamnavay Lodge. Not only was it locked, but there was no way for a walker to get around it. If I'd had wire cutters I'd have clipped the barbed-wire on one side of the gate to get past, as it in not legal to block access like this. But lacking cutters, there was nothing to do but climb the nearly 5-foot-high gate. I have always respected their privacy when walking in this area, staying as far from the lodge as possible, and I have always checked with the Estate Manager when passing this way in hunting season, and so this gate made me mad. Respect has to be two ways, and this onerous locked gate was a blatant sign of disrespect.

Once over the locked gate, and past the lodge, I crossed the footbridge over the Tamnavay River. Then a climb up the hillside to the south led to Loch Grunavat. After seven hours of hiking I was nearing my destination for the night, the beehive cells of Bothan Aird: a place I'd been to before, but had never spent the night. 

From Loch Grunavat I followed several of the petrified WWI telegraph poles to the east, then headed up the slopes of Cliet nam Bothan Aird.

Near the summit of Cliet nam Bothan Aird I came to its two beehives cell, one of which is 100% intact. I had been considering sleeping in the cell, but its floor was covered with stones and wet moss, so I pitched the tent next to the cell. 

I then enjoyed supper, and the can of beer I'd lugged for 12 miles, while sitting at the summit of the hill. The cell-dwellers here had a fantastic view west to the Atlantic and the island of Scarp.

The night was exciting. Around midnight a storm blew up, and I was glad I'd securely staked down the the tent. After putting in earplugs to drown out the howling wind, I managed to get back to sleep. I would need the rest. The plan for the next day was to head farther inland to spend the next night at Fidigidh, a cluster of shielings, some used up until WWII.

Beinn a' Bhoth - The Mountain of the Beehive

One of the overnight excursions I made last month on Lewis was to pay a visit to Beinn a' Bhoth - the mountain of the beehive cell. Although it is only 1000 feet high, it is a challenge to climb as it lies five miles south of the road at Kinlochrog, five miles of ups and downs over boggy terrain.

So why, you ask, did I want to climb this remote hill? It was because of a cryptic note in Donald MacDonald’s Tales and Traditions of the Lews, a book posthumously published by his wife in 1967, six years after he died in 1961. (A paperback version was published by Birlinn in 2000.)  The book includes a short chapter entitled The Beehive Huts on the Uig and Harris Hills, which ends with the following sentence: On the side of Ascleit are a group of boths (beehive cells) still with the roofs on and one on Beinn a’ Bhoth.

Beehive cell on Ascleit (2018)

I had easily found the Ascliet cells on a walk in 2018 (see the September 7, 2017 post). But the cell MacDonald mentioned on Beinn a’ Bhoth was a complete mystery. Beinn a’ Bhoth (the mountain of the beehive) is 1000 feet high and spans over two square miles. The CANMORE database does not show any sites on the hill. Neither does the 1854 OS map, which is usually a good source to find ruins. 

I knew I would not have the energy to walk over every square foot of the hill, especially after the long trek in, so I spent some time looking at the aerial photography overlays available on CANMORE. In scanning the images, I noticed what looked like a small pimple high on the hill—possibly a beehive cell. During the walk described in the above-referenced post, I had passed right below it. In addition, I also noticed what appeared to be an intact cell at Griosamul, a mile east of the hill. And so a return to Beinn a’ Bhoth became a must. It would require a 12-mile round-trip walk from Kinlochrog. A bit far for a day-trip, so I decided to make it an overnighter. 

I was on familiar territory as I headed south along the track to Morsgail Lodge, crossed the footbridge just before the lodge, and then traversed down the eastern shore of Loch Morsgail. At the Beinn na Gile beehives, I turned southeast to follow a very old track up to the saddle between the summits of Shèlibridh and Cleit Shèlibridh. From the top, I had a clear view south to Beinn a' Bhoth.

Beinn a' Bhoth (at centre) seen from Shelibridh

From Shèlibridh, an easy descent south took me to the shielings of Airigh an-t-Sluic. This was where I would camp for the night in a few hours. To lighten my load for the rest of the day’s hiking, I dropped my tent and sleeping bag next to one of the ruined shielings. Looming above me was Beinn a’ Bhoth, the mountain of the beehive.

The north and west sides of Beinn a’ Bhoth are a mix of steep, grassy slopes and craggy cliffs. I entered the grid coordinates of the object in the aerial photo into my GPS and let it guide me to it. As I climbed, a grand view west to Loch Reasort and the Atlantic gradually opened up. When the GPS indicated I had 100 feet to go, I saw something and gasped. Lying half enveloped in heather, moss and grass, stood a very old beehive. (Sorry, but I am not going to include a photo. I am saving it for a book on the beehive cells of the Hebrides, which I hope to get published later this year.)

The view west from Beinn a' Bhoth to Loch Reasort and Scarp

The cell had a spectacular view west to Loch Reasort and the Atlantic, with the island of Scarp on the far horizon. A more perfect place to spy on unwanted arrivals by sea would be hard to find. I regretted leaving my tent at Airigh an t-Sluic, as this would have been a memorable place to camp. But it was for the better, as the severe winds I experienced that night would have been much stronger at this elevation.

The sun blazed down relentlessly as I left the cell and spiralled up to the summit. A joyful surprise startled me when I crested a small rise. On its far side was a large pond; in it a dozen deer lazily enjoying a cool soak. When they noticed me, they jumped up in unison, sending sprays of water into the air. Then they elegantly sprinted away at breakneck speed. Within five seconds, the only signs of their presence were ripples of water slowly spreading across the surface of the pond. By the time I got the camera out, they had reached the ridge top above me.

Look north from the summit of Beinn a' Bhoth

I took some time to enjoy the 360-degree view from the summit of Beinn a’ Bhoth, then headed down its grassy eastern slopes. It was a 300-foot drop to the boggy floor of Gleann a’ Ghàraidh (they are all boggy), where I forded the Abhainn Gleann a’ Ghàraidh. As I ascended the hillside east of the stream, a shout of joy burst forth—which scared a snoozing grouse out of the heather. At the shieling settlement known as Griosamul stood a compact triple beehive cluster, one of the cells 100% intact. It was the other cell I'd seen on the aerial photo, marked on the map as Both a’ Ghriosamul.

There were once three beehives clustered close together atop a mound at the centre of the site, two of them interconnected. Only one of the three stands complete, and it is one of the best intact cells anywhere. After crawling inside, I could see that the only large gaps in its dome were the smokehole at the top and a small window to let the occupants keep an eye on what’s going on down in the glen. Having a window opening is unusual; the only other cells I know of with windows are St Ronan’s Cell and one of the beehives at Gearraidh Aineabhal. Inside the cell lay an old whisky bottle - unfortunately, it was empty.

Inside the cell - Both a' Ghriosamul

Looking north over the cell at Griosamul

I am glad the users of this shieling site left one of the cells intact, for there was no mystery as to where the stones of the other cells had gone. At the base of the mound stood the ruin of a newer, oval shieling hut, obviously made from the pillaged stones of the other cells. And 100 feet to the north lay the foundation of another beehive, almost completely plundered for its stone.

After leaving a note for the next visitor (see the May 24, 2023 post), I crawled out of the cell and then made a level crossing of the wide glen back to the shielings at Airigh an t-Sluic, where I’d stashed the tent and sleeping bag three hours earlier. As the sun started dipping west, I pitched the tent by the meagre remnants of a shieling hut. I fell asleep atop the sleeping bag in the hot, sun-baked tent, only to wake shivering at midnight as a storm blew through.

Lashing rain and howling winds came and went all night. In the morning, I put off getting up as long as possible, hoping the rain would stop. But it didn’t. It was only after rolling up the wet tent and strapping it to my pack that the rain decided to stop. It was time to return to Morsgail, but only after making one more stop.

I headed northwest over a mist-shrouded ridge to find one of the old paths leading north to Morsgail. These old, mostly abandoned paths are more interesting to follow than the muddy, quad-bike tracks that scar the moorland. Here and there, these older routes cross substantial, and in some cases elegant, stone-slab bridges built in the early years of the estate. After crossing one of those bridges, I came to a large, sunken, brown swath of moorland, 600 feet long and 200 wide, that marks the site of a vanished loch.

What's left of Loch nan Learga

Here I stopped to gaze skyward, hoping that a flaming interplanetary traveller would not plunge down on me. For it’s said a meteorite destroyed the loch that once lay here. In 1959, the missing loch, Loch nan Learga, collapsed in what is known as a peat slide, or bog burst, and its water drained into nearby Loch Mòr Shèlibridh. But what triggered it? It was possibly heavy rainfall, but at the Aird Uig radar base, twenty kilometres northwest of the loch, a giant “burning ball of hell” reportedly flew overhead. An expedition to the area discovered that the loch had drained. But there was no sign of any meteoritic debris.

The vanished loch and the final Postman's Stone

Fortunately, no meteorites plunged down on me as I carried on across the bog—talk about going out in a blaze of glory—oh, to think how the books would sell after that!  Near the vanished loch, a pillar-stone stands atop a large mound, visible for quite a distance. It is a significant stone, a guide-stone, the last of the Postman’s Stones that lead you across the bogs from Kinresort to Morsgail. From there it was an easy trek back to the Beinn na Gile beehives, and then on to the quiet road at Kinlochrog.

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