Tuesday 27th July
I moved into my new place two weeks ago, and have already had a few nights on my brand new mattress, which was only delivered recently. But the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long while was just now – with only a quarter inch of foam pad separating me and my sleeping bag from the dusty hardwood floor of this remote bothy in the Scottish Highlands. I first wake up at 6:30, then go back to sleep until 8. For the past few months, this kind of sleep luxury has been unheard of for me. I wonder what it is – did the long journey just tire me out yesterday? Did all the many stresses I was overthinking culminate at the Skye Trail? Did I just miss my sleeping bag?
Instead of contemplating my good fortune all morning, I get up, and go to find a good spot for a morning pee. Overnight, a thick mist has dropped, and we can no longer see the beautiful headland we could see yesterday. We can barely see anything, actually, not even the tent the three other girls slept in, only a few metres away.
We eat brioche rolls for breakfast, and I stuff some snacks in my hipbelt pockets for the day ahead. I take ages to pack up, partly because I’m out of practice, partly not wanting to go outside in the drizzle, partly knowing we only have a brief amount to walk today anyway. Kate and Alexandra leave before we do, wishing us luck as they head off back to the car park. We finally set off in the thick mist, and we can’t see anything at all. I think about what Clare wrote in the guest book at the bothy – ‘heading off now to complete the Skye Trail’. Complete? My head is so full of doubts that this seems very optimistic. The bus stop is just *right there*. We could so easily return to it. I realise that if Clare turned to me and said she didn’t want to do this anymore, I would retreat in a heartbeat.
We can hear the sea down below us, but we see nothing. We are tracking our way around the northeastern corner of the island today – in the car yesterday I had spoken of my idealistic view; that we would try to rely only on the physical map and not on the GPS track on my phone. Now that we’re actually here it’s just… so much easier to rely on my phone. And we use it a lot this morning, since there is not much path to speak of. The Skye Trail is not waymarked at all, and there are several sections where there is no visible path either. There are mountains, and grass, cliffs, and sea, and it’s our job to figure out the best way to navigate around them all. We lose the ‘path’ several times this morning, but that’s ok. I guess it’s the whole point. We pass many flocks of sheep as we go about this whole endeavour, and they seem bemused. They also seem a lot friendlier than regular sheep – I’m not sure they see humans much.
We venture past a graveyard, made even eerier by the low stubborn mist that refuses to lift. Shortly after, we pass a stone house painted white, where we hope to find an outside tap to sneakily fill up our water bottles. Nothing. Somehow we’ve ended up back down at sea level despite not really feeling like we went down any major hills – all part of the magic of Skye.
As we walk, I think about my question from yesterday – will I ever grow out of wanting things to be as they are not? Is that just the human condition? I come to the conclusion that these kinds of experiences are perfect for training my mind out of that. Things won’t turn out perfectly on a hike, but you just have to roll with it. We didn’t have any views this morning, and we may not have any tomorrow, but we’ll still walk.
We find a stream, but the water running through it looks like farm run-off. Unsurprisingly, we don’t fancy drinking it. A little while later, I feel something crawling up my leg, and see a tick making its way up towards my knee. Well then. Seems we do have to be wary of ticks – we had just been wondering if I needed to add them to my list of worries. I flick it off – luckily it had not bitten in yet. We stop for our first break at a viewpoint; an old stone structure, with no roof remaining, but with stone slabs to sit down on. I’m sure the view would’ve been excellent, but we see nothing thanks to the mist. We flick the sheep poo away and relax on the slabs, eating snacks and talking about our favourite things about trail life.
After another brief clifftop walk, Clare suddenly realises that we can see out to sea a little bit – it seems the mist is finally lifting! We decide to fly the drone for a bit, and even though it’s still drizzling slightly, we get some good footage. I am still very much a novice but it is definitely a lot of fun! We continue on, crossing another farm run-off stream, with a sheep skull attached to a fence overlooking the water. It feels like a warning.
We carry on over the clifftop, and realise at some point that we have lost the path, but only barely. We are meant to be a few feet to the left, so it doesn’t seem that important, and we decide to forge on. But we soon realise there’s no point, and that we need to backtrack, because we are supposed to be making our way down the cliff right now, to the shore below, somehow. How the…? There’s no obvious path, and the headland seems so, so far down. But we backtrack and see a very well hidden stile that is barely a stile, leading to a very overgrown path that is barely a path, down the cliff. It’s nice, in the end – grassy and steep, lined with bright pink foxgloves, and we are happy to have found our way again. The path becomes a bit more well-trodden, and the mist has almost fully cleared from this bit of headland, so we decide to get out the drone again. It’s fiddly, with a few different parts to put together each time, but it is worth it for the footage we get.
A short while after setting off again, Flodigarry begins to come into view. It’s stunning, and exactly the kind of Isle of Skye vista I was hoping for on this trip. Little white houses are dotted over rolling hills, with strange sandcastle peaks, and all framed by the wildflowers at the sides of our overgrown path. I can’t get over the view, and literally will not stop saying how stunning it is.
Surprising to no one, we lose the path again, and decide to walk on the stone beach for a bit instead of doing battle with the tall grass, fed up of turning our ankles on the uneven concealed ground. Once we’ve rejoined the path for a little while, I notice that the map is leading us off the well-defined, recognisable path, and into more tall grasses. And so, away we go, traipsing through chest-height plants and wildflowers, up to the Flodigarry hostel. A kindly older lady is waiting for us up there, waiting out with an umbrella – she saw us making our way through the tall grass, and came out to say hi and let us know we are on the right path! She gives us the local info – she reckons the amber weather warning for rain might even miss us. We aren’t so sure – but maybe that’s just my pessimism talking. We say goodbye and cut across to the Flodigarry Hotel, a rather grand building overlooking the bay, hoping for a cream tea. The good news is that they are serving high tea, but the bad news is it would cost us £30. We opt for a coffee instead, and sink into cosy armchairs at the gorgeous bar, hands cradling warm mugs, admiring the lovely views, but feeling very out of place.
With all our electronics plugged in for a brief charge, we get out the map to plan out our next steps. We deliberate over small decisions – water, food, where to camp. How to avoid the worst of the weather, if at all possible. Tomorrow’s hike is the longest stretch, and with the worst weather forecast. If we need to break up this next stage at all, we will be forced to find a camping spot on the Trotternish Ridge, which will not be easy. What to do, what to do. We stay until all the other fancy teatime guests have left, but I’m not sure we make many decisions in the end.
We go to the loo, and get rid of our accumulation of litter in the bins there. We have our water bottles filled up at the bar, and then there is nothing left to do except walk. We set off on the hotel road track through a wood first, then follow a lovely road walk up the hill. On the Isle of Skye, even the road walks are lovely. But the knowledge that we are leaving behind the comfort and warmth of the hotel in favour of discomfort and the uncertainty of a storm tomorrow, weighs heavy upon both of us. It reminds me of when MVP and I had to leave the roaring fires of the Timberline Lodge in Oregon, stuffed full of buffet food, only to trudge through mist in full waterproofs, heading for what would turn out to be my worst night on the entire Pacific Crest Trail.
We leave the road and take the path up to Loch Langaig, where we had decided to camp early in order to set up before the heavier rain starts. But when we get there, we decide to push on and try our luck at the next loch up the path – it’s still only drizzling, and we’d do anything to make tomorrow’s hike a little easier. The path, lined by foxgloves, is well established and easy to follow, which makes sense as it’s part of a loop heading up to The Quiraing – a group of stunning rock formations, and one of the more popular spots on the island.
We soon reach Loch Hasci and scout around for a tent spot. There aren’t many options, and with the weather closing in, we pick a patch of ground and we make it work.
When all the stakes and guylines are adjusted just so, we jump inside the tent and settle for a bit. I had been getting a little stressed, imagining that if there were even a little bit more rain or wind this would be a very difficult task. What will we have to face tomorrow? I go out into the drizzle to cook our dinner – same as yesterday, of course. Back in the tent, it takes a while to get dryish and comfortable and to not feel stressed anymore. I need to get out of my head! For now, getting into my sleeping bag will do just fine. I switch my phone off airplane mode, and realise again that I have signal here, so send a few messages, then write a few notes. Clare and I look at the map together for tomorrow – there won’t be much path to follow, but we figure it should be easy enough to follow the ridgeline. We’ll be keeping the cliff edge of the Trotternish Ridge to our left for most of the way, so if we’ve gone wrong somewhere, we’ll probably know about it.
The rain starts coming down hard, and we both drift in and out of sleep. We go for a final wee during a random and fortunate pause in the rain, then say goodnight.
Notes from the PCT 