Mountains, Midges and the
Rebels of Knoydart David Lintern found magic in the corries, a powerful history in the glens, and midges everywhere on a trip through Britain’s ‘Last Wilderness’
For
as long as
I’ve
been hillwalking,
Knoydart
has held
a particular fascination. It’s a bit of a cliché, but that last wilderness tag is pretty alluring when you live in the city centre. It’s supposed to be demanding terrain days from anywhere, but just how rough are those Rough Bounds? How remote is it? It’s hard to get a handle on the details if the view from the office window is a brick wall. Equally intriguing was the political backdrop. Back in the 1980s, the athlete Chris Brasher and some like-minded hill folk got together to form the John Muir Trust. They spooked the MOD enough to prevent them purchasing the area for military training. Later, the beleaguered local community formed the Knoydart Foundation, and with a little help from their friends, bought the land themselves. I’d long been inspired by this heroic tale of a rebel alliance rising up in the name of nature and local community – it seemed to be a perfect marriage between people and place. I imagined myself standing on a weather-swept summit, surrounded by a sea of high peaks divided by deep green glens, in a primal land populated by wild animals, anarchist crofters and mad aristocrat landowners. It was only a matter of time before my curiosity got the better of me. Rather than opt for the easier and more usual entry point of Inverie via Mallaig on a boat, I decided to start from the road end at Loch Arkaig, walking into the peninsula from behind. A proper challenge deserving of the place, I thought. I planned to spend six days covering as much high ground as I could manage, visiting both Inverie and the Trust’s land on my way. 26
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The magical Lochan a Mhaim in Glen Dessary
Backpacking knoydart
The rain had finally subsided. Water was turning out to be a defining feature of the trip. My feet would end up suffering from six days of constant soaking 27
Backpacking knoydart
Looking back to Sgurr Beag and Sgurr Mor
The simply awesome Garbh Chioch Mhor and Sgurr na Ciche
I was especially impressed by Gharbh Chioch Bheag, sitting on its haunches in a heavy grey tortoiseshell cloak, the fabric of the mountain laid out over the fingers of a splayed hand Around Canute’s Bay
The name Knoydart derives from ‘Canute’s Bay’. King Cnut was a Norse king who took the English throne in 1016 after centuries of plunder and trade in the north-west, an important staging post between Ireland and the ports of Scandinavia and Denmark. A fiercely independent community, the Gall-Ghàidheil grew over generations of contact between cultures. After the Norman Conquest, the Viking hold on the country diminished, but these tribes of ‘foreign Gael’ persisted, spread thinly along the west of coast of Scotland and throughout the Hebrides. This history, as well as more recent events, is key to understanding why Knoydart became such a powerful symbol for resistance and self-determination. The peninsula itself is a self-contained world of sea and summit, water and rock enclosed by the ocean on three sides, sandwiched between Loch Nevis in the south and Loch Hourn to the north. Adding further to the myth and mystery of the place, Nevis translates as heaven and Hourn as hell in some readings of the Gaelic. Was I was about to spend a week in a Viking purgatory? The wind was fierce as I made my way over the pass towards Glen Kingie. I followed an Argocat track, an all too common sight on modern stalking estates. Bored with the mud, I took a narrow deer path following 28
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the edge of a stream bank, which made for easier off-trail walking. This was a pattern that was to repeat many times over the coming days. I was immediately struck by how easy it was to lose sight of man-made intervention, and how remote the little burn felt, replete with dwarf oak and rowan coming into blossom. Descending towards Kinbreack bothy, I was confronted by the barren emptiness of Glen Kingie laid before me. The old mill ruins at the foot of the Allt à Chinn Brich speak volumes about what’s absent. The legacy of the Highland Clearances hangs heavy here; it’s a haunted place. The door of the bothy creaked as I opened it, of course, setting the scene perfectly. I followed an arrow up a set of wooden steps and opened the hatch. I hadn’t planned to stay the night, but the clean and cosy room was too good to pass up. Laying out my gear, I collected some water from the burn outside and put on the first of many brews. The rain came, the
plastic roofing shook, and the building groaned in the wind. I read the bothy book until it grew dark, and to my surprise slept soundly. It felt very lonely here, but strangely peaceful.
Midges and Munros
Crossing the glen the following morning meant wading thigh-deep through the mire before finding a shallow place to ford the river. The wind had dropped and the midges were now out in force. I sweated through my head net, then gave up as intermittent showers strafed my ascent of Sgùrr na Fhuarain on its east side, to begin the walk towards today’s target, the Munro of Sgùrr na Cìche. Showers turned to heavy squalls as I climbed higher, but at the summit and right on cue, the weather settled for a few hours and I was blessed with the ridge walk
of a lifetime. The highline west takes in a further two Munros and a few subsidiaries. It rises and falls over many hundreds of metres, sometimes following the broken line of old iron fence posts or drystane walls, then climbing up through smooth slabs to reach flattened, gritty summits. It was a graceful, and appropriately strenuous way to enter the most remote part of mainland Britain. I was especially impressed by Gharbh Chioch Bheag, sitting on its haunches in a heavy grey tortoiseshell cloak, the fabric of the mountain laid out over the fingers of a splayed hand. There was a sudden stinging rainstorm on my ascent, an easy scramble over cold, wet granite and a burning highland twilight afterwards. I stopped short of the pyramid shaped Sgùrr na Cìche in order to camp, but clambered up early the following morning in heavy rain and high winds. It felt a little pointless on the top, but I was too close not to try, whatever the weather. Spring 2013
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Backpacking knoydart
How to do it
A week in Knoydart – the gear, and some tips
Maps
OS 1:25,000 Explorer sheets 413 (Knoydart, Loch Hourn & Loch Duich) and 398 (Loch Morar and Mallaig); OS 1:50,000 Landranger sheet 33 (Loch Alsh, Glen Shiel and Loch Hourn); Harvey 1:40,000 British Mountain Map (Knoydart, Kintail & Glen Affric)
Getting there
My route started at the west end of Loch Arkaig, for which there is no public transport. This means driving a vehicle in, and a circular route. From Fort William take the A82 to Spean Bridge and the Commando Memorial. There is a small turning here, left onto the B8005 towards Clunes. At a junction turn right and continue through woodlands past Clunes to meet the head of the loch. Continue on the winding road with the loch on your left until the road ends at the farm of Strathan. Park your vehicle off the road, with the small end pointing into the wind! In remote places like this, I leave a note saying when I plan to return, with my name and brief details of my route. Alternately, you can take the ferry from Mallaig to Inverie and do a number of circular walks around the peninsula, including variations on my route. Details from knoydart-ferry.co.uk. To get to Mallaig by car, take the A830 west from Fort William. There is also a regular train service scotrail.co.uk/timetablesroutes/1801, and between May–October you can even take a ‘Harry Potter’ steam train! westcoastrailways.co.uk. There are bridge repairs on the Loch Arkaig road, due to last until mid or end May. For an update see here: walkhighlands.co.uk/news/ loch-arkaig-road-repairs-update/008258/ For more information about the area, and the rebel alliance: There’s a lot going on in Inverie for such a small place, which makes it a great base for hillwalkers and families alike. There are numerous places to stay including a campsite and a bunkhouse, bike and boat hire, a cosy café with an amazing library/ book shop, a small but well-provisioned grocery store-cum- post office, and a famously hospitable pub, the Old Forge. knoydart-foundation.com theoldforge.co.uk jmt.org/li-coire-dhorrcail-estate For camping (Long Beach) or the bunkhouse: call 01687 462242 or 01687 462163
The very cosy kinbreack bothy
Too wet to continue as planned along the long south-westerly nose of Sgùrr na Cìche, I descended via a slippery, slightly treacherous path alongside the burn of Allt Coire na Ciche, draped in cloud, moss and fern. Meeting another stalkers’ track, it was possible to cut down to join the Glen Dessary path a short distance before Lochan à Mhàim, silvery still and filled with tiny trout and whispering grasses. The rain had finally subsided. Water was turning out to be the other defining feature of the trip, aside from rock. My feet would end up suffering from six days of constant soaking. I brewed a cup of tea at the ramshackle sea shanty of Sourlies Bothy, near the head of Loch Nevis, and then forded the river, not realising there was a fragile footbridge a little further on. Climbing up the switchback path towards the col, I walked late into the beautiful Gleann Meadail towards Inverie. The sight of the sun shining on the sea from the pass an hour before darkness was beyond words. The Highlands really are such a special and unique place at times like these. Running out of both light and steam a good while before reaching The Great Outdoors
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• Carrying no mesh inner for my shelter was a huge mistake – make sure you have a place to hide from the midges if you are going between June and September. They are relentless! • I wore mesh trail shoes which stayed wet for six days. As a result my feet got a little raw. The ground was so wet that Gore-Tex or leather boots would also have been saturated within a day or so, but next time I would pack a small bottle of iodine and some talc to keep my feet healthier.
Gear checklist • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
Backpack - Gossamer Gear Gorilla Shelter - Mountain Laurel Designs Trailstar Bivy bag - Mountain Laurel Designs superlite Sleeping mat - Thermarest CCF and half Z lite Pacerpoles Aluminium Sleeping bag - Go lite Adrenaline 3 season Stove - Trail Designs caldera cone + 700ml meths Pot - Evernew Titanium 900ml Cup - Woolworths Plastic 500ml Foldable metal spork Rain Jacket - Rab momentum Walking top - Rab Boreas Trousers - Montane terra pants Rain Trouser – Rab Drillium Insulation - Montane Antifreeze down jacket La Sportiva Raptor shoes Innov8 mini gaiter Midge head net, repellent and coils Merino socks and undies x 2 Merino baselayer (sleeping) Merino long johns (sleeping) Water bottles - 2x platy, 3 litres capacity Small washbag, flannel and first aid kit Printed maps/Camera/Phone etc
• A fleece for insulation would have been sufficient instead of my down jacket. I get cold when stationary, but it was mostly warm and humid in the summer evenings. Synthetic materials would have fared better in the damp conditions too.
Finally, two very different sides to the ‘Seven Men of Knoydart’ story: redflag.org.uk/frontline/nov11/knoydart.html caithness.org/caithnessfieldclub/bulletins/1993/ sevenmenofknoydart.htm
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• Packing six days food was unnecessary. You can resupply after three days from the grocers/post office at Inverie itself, which has a good range of camp-suitable provisions. Although I did shop in the grocers and the café, I’d feel better supporting the local economy a little more next time.
• Knoydart is an incredible place, but very demanding. The Munros feel higher because you are walking from sea level to summit. Allow extra time, and don’t tackle this trip unless you are confident in your abilities to look after yourself, off path, in high and remote mountains. If you go missing out here, it may take a long time to find you.
Inverie, I decided to camp on a small hill above the path. I had definitely underestimated how long the route would take. Initially I’d intended to keep to the mountaintops south of Gleann Meadail, but there was too little time and too much water. The bounds of Knoydart were indeed rough! Camping in the glen, I also realised I’d made a stupid mistake bringing only a bivi bag for this trip. The warm, damp and windless conditions were midge nirvana. It hadn’t been a problem up high in the rain, but no inner for my tarp down in the glen meant no respite. And so, for the next four nights, as I dined, so did the midges. No amount of repellent and midge coils were going to keep these critters from their blood supper!
The Rebels of Knoydart
If Glen Kingie is a ‘green desert’, then the village of Inverie is an oasis. The township is famously remote, its roads not connected to any others on the mainland. But Inverie is not cut off, it faces the sea, as it always has. It was quite a novelty to see other people. I hadn’t met a soul in three days.
The people of Knoydart took control of their destiny, which ranks alongside the community buyout on Eigg as a pivotal moment in the history of land reform in Scotland I spent some time at the visitor centre looking through old cuttings about the history of the community here. After potato blight and the clearance of the 400-strong population in the 1850s, the area was reduced to a Victorian game park for deer stalking. High above the town there still stands a stone memorial to Lord Brocket, the landlord who opposed a rebel crofting movement. The ‘Seven Men of Knoydart’ claimed subsistence farming rights in 1948, taking land owned by Brocket, who as a Nazi sympathiser would have attracted no sympathy at all from these returning war veterans. Although it was a tiny acreage in the wider scheme of things, Brocket was incensed and fought his ‘squatters’ in court. Persuaded by their lawyers that they should vacate
their land, the seven also lost their case, as the then Labour government refused to uphold their legal right to resettlement. The men may have lost the battle, but there was a public outcry and the seed was sown for subsequent resistance. Fifty years later, the Foundation was borne and the people of Knoydart took control of their destiny, which ranks alongside the community buyout on Eigg as a pivotal moment in the history of land reform in Scotland. The country to this day has the most feudal pattern of land ownership in Europe (much more so than England), so these victories are very significant. As such it’s heartening to see the little signs of life – local school kids selling art projects on DVD in the café, the dozing postman selling political posters and sweets from North Africa imported through Rotterdam in the grocers. It’s their land now. I found my visit to this outpost of freedom very inspiring. At midday, I moved up to the head of the Màm Li to camp among the lake labyrinth. On the way, more oak, birch and willow lined the riverbank, and waterfalls and whirlpools cut deep into the rock on every bend. The following morning I went high into the corrie under Ladhar Bheinn in good weather, seeing a huge herd of stags at the bealach before Stob à Choire Odhair. I sidled onto the ridge, partway along the more usual horseshoe route for Ladhar Bheinn. This is the most westerly Munro on the mainland, a magnificent, sprawling web of elegant crags, though I’d advise more caution than I employed on the razor fin of Stob à Chearcaill. It’s worth going around, and not over and down, especially carrying a backpack. I found it a nasty scramble downhill from one The summit of Ladhar Bheinn
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Backpacking knoydart
Here in the corries is where the real magic lay. Small pools of water glinted in the pale sun, providing easy drinking and shelter for deer, who darted in and out of knobbly outcrops greasy terrace to another, made no more comfortable by being eaten alive by my tiny flying friends all the way down. At Barrisdale the insect situation was no better, and I left early after an uncomfortable night. This was the last part of the walk, taking in the final Munros. From the summit of Luinne Beinn, sunlight danced across Barrisdale bay and Ladhar Bheinn. I descended to explore the lochans between Luinne Bheinn and Meall Buidhe. Here in the corries is where the real magic lay. Small pools of water glinted in the pale sun, providing easy drinking and shelter for deer, who darted in and out of knobbly outcrops. The hanging gardens on the walls around me blushed with soft pinks and purples, vivid yellows and greens. A damp shroud of cloud accompanied me on the climb over the bony spine of Meall Buidhe’s eastern ridge. Navigation down towards the bay at Loch Nevis proved tricky, but once through the clouds I put my faith in the deer tracks again, and was guided slowly but steadily down the enormous south-eastern flank of Sgùrr Sgeithe to the valley floor. 32
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After the rain – looking towards Loch Nevis
The next day, I walked out on the Glen Dessary track in the finest weather I had seen all week. Meeting walkers coming in for a day or two I talked and felt like a veteran, and probably smelt like one too. Devoting six days to exploring this isolated rain forest of deer, midges and glacial debris, seeking out the rolling grades and contours of sticky rock and oozing moss, I’d managed to find a real adventure. I don’t know if it’s the ‘last wilderness’ in Britain, but it is certainly one of the wildest places I have walked in the UK. It’s good to know there are a few places where the road does still end, and where pirates, rebels and even backpacking hobos from the city can still find refuge. Long may it continue.
See a video from David’s trip here: https://vimeo.com/48401687 getamap.ordnancesurveyleisure.co.uk/?key=iC46x7CkYFY03WH4QxcaEw2