Among the glens, bogs and lochans of the western Highlands of Scotland the dividing line between the natural and the supernatural is thin indeed. Beside Loch Shiel
A dagger and a ram's skull
in the summer tanglewood
no birds sing.
That was the explanation why, several years previously, we had camped overnight on the trackless shore too weary to go further, yet each gripped by too much inner terror to communicate it to the other. That night we were tossed by identical nightmares. Unknown to us then, there was that curse in the wood, only a hundred yards away sitting atop the wall of a ruined cabin, the one grinning and the other rusty. This time, Noragh was able to get down to some ancient Irish and Scots Gaelic anti-curse procedures... But no way would she let me go back into the wood to have another look.
Later, in the ascent of Beinn na' Caillach -- the Hill of the Hag, we had a more down-to-earth encounter with Celtic myth. Our base was in Knoydart beside Loch Hourn -- the loch of Hell. It is a snug little bothy of a place, running on paraffin and peat:
In the pine lined room
twin beds
tongue and groove
The day began fine, with a perfect reflection of the trees that cling to the steep lochside spring-green in the sunlight. With our host at the tiller, we putter the nine miles down this sea loch between tall mountains and steep glens: no roads, no houses, no people, only the occasional ruined cabin.
Our wake
sweeping the narrow waters of the loch
morning calm
At a six figure map reference,
Wading ashore
the loch cold
in my left wellie
Thence following a roaring burn up steep through heather, bog and tussock, we reach a rough plateau, the crag-bound gathering grounds of many streams, each eventually making its passage this way or that.
Above bogs and lochans
through snow and mist
the Mountain of the Hag
She is protected to left and right by steep cliffs and the only approach is over her nose, over black "boiler plates" and tumbled rock. Scrambling the last few yards we discover that The Hag is dignified by a rounded well built summit cairn, now fast disappearing in mist and snow. We have, however, safeguarded our way back through this blinding wilderness.
Coming off
the misty Mountain of the Hag
our line of marker stones
However, even the lower slopes are now full of whirling confusion. We stare through the mist, trying in vain to discern any outlines recalled from our ascent.
White out -- now
only the compass needle
has anything to say
Back down on the tumbled plateau, "I don't remember this. Do you?" "Me neither!". Nothing appears familiar. A lochan that should be on our return route suddenly is. Glory be! The Caillach relents.
On the map
Raindrops
smudge my little arrows
Finally off the plateau, the mist thins and the loch is visible hundreds of feet below. On the loch shore a sheep peacefully asleep on a rock. It is dead. The pick-up is well timed... slithering across the seaweed... brewing tea in the galley. And at last, at the end of the day,
In soft lamp light
starched sheets
folded back.
