After following, via the competitor live tracking, the epic Celtman Extreme Triathlon in Wester Ross a couple of days ago I thought I would repeat a related bit of writing about an experience on the Isle of Skye...............................................
Against the backdrop of the Cuillin Mountains with their dark rocky shadows, across the bluey green waters of the tidal seawater loch and during the couple of hours, only, per day in which the horizontal driving rain or the bone chilling mist ceased to conceal everything from view I caught a brief glimpse of a shining jewel in the bay below the house.
After a good soaking on such a regular and rather monotonous and predictable cycle- a.m. Rain, p.m. Rain, the colours of the land, sea and sky are fresh and vibrant. At some distance the mountains show depth and contour when fleetingly scanned by a column of sunlight which manages to find a break in the dense cloud steaming in from the Atlantic Ocean. Then, the shaft of golden rays is switched off abruptly and the peaks and slopes return to a rather flat, one dimensional silhouette.
On the line between sea and sky the white crested bay waves are broken by the large and strangely regular angular profiles of the islands of Rhum and Eigg- an interesting combination and no doubt a staple diet at some time in maritime and naval history. The sheer volume of water running off the land mass is constant and persistent in eroding and sculpting the silica embedded rocks, washing away the lighter soils and peat deposits and giving a rusty tint to everything in between.
The far shore of the bay of Loch Eichort is just a vertical cliff. At night there are no signs of habitable dwellings and the absence of even a single glinting light from a porch or window is strange and eerie when we expect such things for comfort and reassurance. The night sky, with no dilution from sodium lighting, is simply spectacular and the Milky Way appears close enough to touch.
If the wind dies down for a few seconds the sound from waterfalls and cascades over and down the precipice is just audible. The combination of sights and accompanying soundtrack are captivating and I found myself regularly running to the window of the holiday house just to check on what was coming in on the next weather front.
It was in a short bright spell of weather and at low tide that a glaringly crystal white causeway appeared in the inlet of the bay. I had not noticed it before. Perhaps a particular lunar phase was in play dragging the tide to a swelling peak far out in the Atlantic.. The colour was dazzling and beautiful. It ran from the loose rocks of the shoreline out across the pale sand and terminated on the golden beach of a small tufty grassed islet. As though a revelation I had to go and see the thing for myself. It was as if the mythical sirens were summoning me to the rocky outcrop. I was totally drawn towards the sparkling tantalus and was soon clambering down the cliff to the start of the newly emerged pathway.
The closer I came to the causeway the less glimmering it began to appear. After enjoying the sights and sounds of the bay a third influence came into play- the smell. It was a pungent mix of peaty acidic soils, sheep droppings and the unmistakable odour of seaweed, kelp and sea salt. In the absence of a breeze the stagnant air caught between sea and mountains was slowly warming up and the cocktail of sealife was partially stewing in is own juices. My shoes and socks came off on the first sandy part of the beach.A large boulder povided a reasonably safe place to leave them. A bit risky as I had no idea of the tide times and levels. With trouser legs carefully rolled up and held in place by my kneecaps I was crossing the shallow course of a stranded stream. The water was cool and then tepid in alternate sequence dependant on the depth and the ability of the sporadic sunlight to provide radiant heat to the briney solution.
I reached the recently exposed pathway. The decision to shed footwear rather than let them hang by intertwined laces over my shoulder had been poor judgement. The causeway and its distant sheen was now fully explained. The composite parts were the remnants of a billion or so shells and corals, blended and interlocked in a jagged carpet pile which threatened to lacerate and mutilate my bare feet. I had stumbled not across a wonder of nature but a mollusc and crustacean graveyard. The multitude of creatures had over millenia come to this specific place to curl up, die, decompose and leave their mother of pearl and mineral remains as the only indication of their prior existence.
I retreated back to the shore and properly shod made good speed over the ground. I did not glance back until reaching the dry stone wall which bounded the kitchen garden of the house . In that short period the tide had rushed in and again concealed the causeway. In my mind it had been a bad experience and for the rest of the stay on Skye I only looked westwards and out to the far horizon.
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