Isles to Be - Mealasta

This is the first in a series of posts on the Elusive Ones; islands that have resisted all my advances; islands I hope to set foot on someday. The first is Mealasta, off the coast of Uig (Lewis).

Over the years I've sailed past Mealasta a dozen times. Three of those times we wanted to get ashore, but on all those occasions the swell was too large to safely land.

Mealasta seen from Scarp

Traigh Mhor an Eilean - Mealasta

Mealasta has a fantastic beach of golden sand on its east side  - Traigh Mhor an Eilean (previous photo). To the north of it lie the remains of a few structures: Airighean a Chraois; a name that implies it was a summer shieling.

I am not sure if, other than the shielings, the island was ever inhabited. (Haswell-Smith, in his Scottish Islands book says it was, but that there are no records.) There are indeed references to people from Mealasta, but those mentions may be referring to the township of Mealasta, opposite the island on Lewis. That Mealasta had a population of 11 in 1766.

The most well known story about the people of Mealasta is the incident of the Pairc Murders, when the crew of a boat from Mealasta were killed for their cargo of lumber. (See the August 1, 2017 post for more on this).  In his book Waypoints: Seascapes and Stories of Scotland's West Coast, Ian Fisher includes a version of the story that says that the doomed crew was from the island, not the mainland.

You can get to within a mile of Mealasta island by driving to the end of the Uig road, where there is a small jetty. Last time I was there the azure sea was calm and the wind light; ideal for a voyage to the island. At the foot of the jetty a boat sat invitingly on a trailer.  If only it was mine...

Scarp seen from near the old Mealasta township - Mealasta island to the right

I hope to set foot on Mealasta someday (without stealing a boat). But, for now, it remains one of the Isles to Be.

Scarp (left) and Mealasta seen from Lewis

History of Rona

I am looking forward to setting foot on Rona again this coming July (see this link). So I was delighted to be told of a new website dedicated to the history of Rona. Here is what its author, Jonathan Machin, told me about his vision for the website:

Rona represents one of the few true wildernesses left in the UK, granted protection by its isolation – more than 40 miles from the nearest inhabited land – and made wild by the harsh Atlantic Ocean. The very existence of such a place seems to defy the every-day mundanity of my own city life. Yet despite its remoteness, the island of Rona is layered thick with history, its unique location and circumstances providing the perfect backdrop to the human stories that fill it. History of Rona seeks to give a glimpse of what it was like to live on Rona, and illustrate just some of epic stories that come out of this most remote island.

If Rona is of interest, whether you are an armchair traveler, or planning to visit the island, be sure to take a look at Jonathan's website History of Rona.

Kerrera - The North End

My last visit to Kerrera was in June of 2018. I discovered then that the ferry I'd taken many times in the past, Gylen Lady, had been replaced by MV Carvoria (an old Norse name for Kerrera). The ferry, now managed by Calmac, is still run by Duncan McEachan  (see this link).

Gylen Lady in 2017

MV Carvoria

MV Carvoria

Most people who take this ferry walk the Gylen loop: a six-mile hike that visits Barnambuc and Gylen Castle. Another great walk is to head north up the west coast to visit the Hutcheson Monument, and the monastic cashel at Cladh a' Bhearnaig. See chapter 22 of Book 1 for a description of Cladh a' Bhearnaig, and the history of the monument.

North tip of Kerrera - The cashel of Cladh a' Bhearnaig at centre

The north tip of Kerrera is very close to Oban, and from the vantage point of the Hutcheson Monument you can watch the ferries rumble by on their way to and from Mull and the Western Isles.

The high ground near the monument is also a great place to enjoy a packed lunch. Chances are you will have the place to yourself.

A north-end Kerrera monument that disappeared several years ago was a statue of Sampson that stood guard over the waters at Ardentrive. If anyone knows his whereabouts please let me know.

Sampson of Ardentrive - where did he go?

Next time you are in Oban, and looking for something to do (and escape the summer crowds), there's no better day-out than a long wander around Kerrera.

Leif Erikson in Uig

When I arrived in Uig (Lewis) last August, the first thing my wife and I did was visit the museum run by Commun Eachdraigh Uig, the Uig Historical Society. As we were walking in we passed a bust of a viking on a plinth. At first I thought it was a large version of one of the Lewis Chessmen, as statues of them appear in Uig every now and then.

As it happened, the night before we arrived on Lewis the bust was presented to the people of Uig by the Leif Ericson International Foundation. The statue commemorates Lief's probable visit to the Western Isles a thousand years ago. It is the final, in a series of statues they've commissioned over the past 20 years. As it turns out, the foundation is based only a few miles away from where I live in Seattle. I'd never heard of them, but I was very familiar with the large statue of Lief Erikson in Seattle that dates to 1962, and overlooks a large marina at the north end of town. There is a large population with Norse heritage in Seattle. Tens of thousands came here in the late 18th and early 20th century, because the environment reminded them of home, and there were lots of opportunities for work in fishing and logging. 

The Lewis chessmen are dated to the 1100s, but they could be off by 100 years. If so, maybe one of Leif's crewman lost the chess set found in the sands of Uig in 1831. Could Leif had been the model for the Berserker, or the Warder?

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.