A Caravan Christmas.

The nights have comprehensively drawn in now, the Winter Solstice is behind us and Christmas is very nearly upon us. At this time of year there are very few sites still open, but even parked up on our drive the Road Snail continues to be a useful member of the family.

We're entertaining Mrs Snail's family over the holiday season, and so it's very handy to have an extra en-suite double bedroom sitting outside to provide extra accomodation. There is always room at Chez Snail...

It's not just the extra sleeping space that is useful either. Come Christmas day there's always something that either won't squeeze into the oven or needs cooking at a radically different temperature to everything else. In such circumstances all we need to do is nip out onto the drive and crank up the oven in the caravan. True, you do look a little odd walking up the drive carrying a steaming dish of Yorkshire Puddnings, but since most of our neighbours think we're a little strange anyway we really don't have a lot to lose...

So, when friends have asked us if we're going away from Cristmas our reply has been "No, we'll be on the drive". In truth I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be.

Not that we haven't gone roaming with the 'van during the holidays. Not at Christmas, but at New Year. We celebrated New Year 2008 at a Camping and Caravan Club site in the north Lake District. There's a lot to be said for it. The hours of daylight were short and the weather was grey and rainy. The atmosphere however was wonderful.

Every caravan sported a colourful display of coloured lights - something that is much easier to do on a caravan since the advent of effective solar and battery powered sets - there were signs reminding Santa to stop by (which given that it was New Year was perhaps a little redundant, but let's not be Grinches) - there was tinsel, there were Christmas Trees. It was like being in a little festive village.

Because it's easy to stay at home for the holidays. I think that when the nights are long and the weather is cold, there is a tendency to snuggle up on your sofa and do the things you do every year. But getting out, going to places you wouldnt normally be, that can be a real experience. Seeing what unfamiliar towns - or even places you know well at other times of year - are like at Christmas is fascinating. Think about what the town where you live is like at Christmas. It's different, isn't it? So give those places you know in the summer a bit of a winter visit. You'll be surprised. And probably entertained.

Where ever you'll all be spending the festive season, and whoever you're spending it with, everyone here at Snail Towers would like to wish you all a very Happy Christmas. I'll be back in the cold dark days between Christmas and New Year with tales of castles, food and frolics in the North of Scotland. I hope I'll see you all then.

Telling Kintails.

If you spend a week in the highlands as October turns inexorably into November you are clearly not a worshipper of the Sun. Even so, you might perhaps hope for a little bit of fine weather.

I think it's fair to say that on our late Autumn expedition to the environs of Loch Alsh we were plumb out of luck. We left home in freezing cold and driving rain and as we headed north it just got worse. The week was spent under leaden skies with the heating cranked up high. It was great.

There is something astonishingly comfortable about the feeling you get when you're snug inside your little tin box listening to the rain pounding powerlessly on the roof. Getting out in weather like this is one of the great advantages that a caravan has over a tent. Had we been under canvas the weather would have been a nusiance, maybe even a problem, in the 'van it was just part of the background.

It's an area we he never really visited before, having merely driven through it on the way to the Isle of Skye a couple of years ago*.  It sits somewhat to the south of our more regular highland haunts in Assynt and Strathnaver and as a result we decided we'd gave a go at doing the journey in one go, rather than stopping overnight half way as we do when hitting the far north.

Despite the vileness of the weather we made the journey from North Yorkshire to the shores of Loch Duich in a shade over eight hours, which I think was pretty good going. We were fortunate to be pitching up at the Morvich Caravan Club site during a lull in the rain, but as the sun began to drop behind the mountains and the already grey sky grew even darker we opted to forgo any late afternoon sightseeing and settled in for an evening of hot food, good books and planning for the rest of the week.

Because even when the weather is bad and hill walking isn't all that attractive there is rather a lot to do...

One of the places we were particularly keen to visit was the little seaside town of Applecross. We'd heard it was a beautiful place, and checking it out on the map it seemed that the drive there would be pretty spectacular in itself. 

We were right.

The roadled us over hills and through some pretty little villages that we'll probably talk about more in a later post.

Finally you get to the hill. 

Oh my.

You need to understand - we're from Yorkshire. We know hills. We've spent a lot of time in Scotland, and the Lake District. Sutton Bank, the Hardknott Pass, The Struggle, which leads you up out of Ambleside to the Kirkstone Inn, these are all legendary hills which we have taken in our stride. We've towed a caravan up onto Rannoch Moor and up to the Commando Memorial above Spean Bridge at the southern end of the Great Glen.

We are not phased by steepness, is what I'm saying.

In that context you need to understand the full import of what I'm saying. This hill is seriously steep. It rises from sea level to a shade over two thousand feet in less than five miles. By the time you are approaching the top there are some hairpin bends where it felt as though the car was nearly vertical. Add to this the fact that it was raining hard, blowing a hoolie** and we were climbing into cloud and I was pretty happy that we were inside the car with the heating pumping away. You'd have to be crazy to be outside in weather like that.

So when, as we crested the hill, we saw an oldish bloke standing next to a Ford Focus waving a set of jump leads at us, we had to stop to help.

It turned out that he was a keen cyclist. He'd just ridden his bike up to the top of the hill - the hill we'd just found moderately challenging in a car, mark you - where his wife had been waiting to meet hime in their car.

Because you wouldn't want to go down the hill on a bike - that would be insane. Or something.

Anyway. It seems that Mrs cyclist had become bored sitting at the top of the hill and had made the mistake of listening to the radio. For quite  a while. This had flattened the battery of the car and now they were stranded at the top of the hill in increasingly hostile weather.

 Trust me. This picture gives you absolutely no idea of how steep this is.

We squeezed our car into the little layby and I got out to see what - if anything - I could do. The wind - and "wind" is probably the wrong word, I swear it was damn near hurricane force - was what we'd call in Yorkshire a "Lazy Wind", one that is too idle to bother going 'round you and instead just goes straight through. It was icy cold and utterly relentless. With one hand holding the bonnet to make sure the icy blast didn't rip it off and send it hurtling back towards Lochcarron I helped the cyclist to connect up his jump leads and Mrs Snail gave the engine some revs to see if we could spark the Focus back to life.

We couldn't.

After a quarter of an hour's freezing but fruitless effort we gave it up as a bad job and offered the couple a lift down into Applecross so that they could find a phone signal (there was no discernable network coverage of any kind up there) and get some slightly more mechanically competant assistance than me.

While Mr and Mrs cyclist set about phoning various garages and mechanics, myself and Mrs Snail retired to the Applecross Inn for a spot of lunch. The place had been recommended to us by many people, so I'm going to assume we were there on a bad day. Let's just say that following my Grandma's rule about saying nothing if you can't say something nice, I'm not reviewing the food. Mind you, the speciality is seafood, which as regular readers will know neither myself nor Mrs Snail actually eat, so we weren't experiencing them at their best in any case.

By the time the lunch ordeal was over Mr and Mrs Cyclist had arranged for a guy from Lochcarron to meet them at the top of the hill so we gave them a lift back up and waited 'till he arrived. The weather had not in any way improved, so the hoped for views had not materialised. On a clear day though they must be spectacular, and given that we'll almost certainly be back in the area we'll give the Applecross hill another try when the weather is less hideous.

*On that occasion I came home with pneumonia - not the best souvenier, and one that might have put me off Skye a little... 

**I'm not sure if this is a generally used expression. If you're new to the expression it basically means that the wind was very, very strong.

Eating at Kylesku - a bridge just far enough...

When we left the wonderous beach at Achmelvich we couldn't help noticing that the time was getting on for "lunch o'clock" - perhaps the most important time of the Road Snail day, and we were beginning to feel a little peckish. Fortunately we knew exactly where a decent lunch could be found and set off again along the twisty little road around the coast.

 As we drove we passed Clach Toll with its distinctive split rock - another superb beach, although it's nowhere near as big as Achmelvich. There is an excellent campsite here too - we've stayed here many times but now prefer to pitch up inland at Elphin because like Achmelvich three miles or so up the road it's just become too crowded at peak times. Like Achmelvich it is something of a victim of its own success - well worth a visit of you're in the area though.

There's a carpark just on the other side of the campsite (take care as you drive through - popular campsite means lots of kids running around) furnished with a warden's hut much like the one at Achmelvich, a decent set of loos and - somewhat incongruously - recycling facilities. I presume these have been provided because of the campsite, although I don't recall anything at Achmelvich.

Anyway, from the car park you can take the boardwalked path down to the beach - soft white sand, hard black rocks and the same crystal clear turquoise sea you found up the road at Achmelvich - or you can stay on the headland and explore the Salmon Bothy.

This little stone house sits on the end of the Clachtol headland overlooking the beach. It was originally used by salmon fishermen who used to net the fish (none of your poncy fly fishing here - it was about catching as many as you could) as they migrated past on the way to and from their breeding rivers - you can still see the massive poles rising up around it which were used to hang the massive nets on as they dried. These days they serve as perches for seagulls...

The bothy is open to the public during daylight hours - providing useful shelter when the heavens open - and houses some interesting displays about local history. It is also, I should warn you, occupied by a strangely creepy mannequin of a fisherman who sits in a corner behind the door. Scared the life out of me the first time I want in there and judging from the occasional startled cries I've heard in there over the years he continues to startle tourists to this day. 

But on this occasion we were hungry and didn't hang about, speeding (well, drivng as swiftly as you can on a road so narrow, twisty and undulating) on towards lunch.

As you leave Clachtol the remains of a Broch can just be made out on the shoreline to your left - look for the big pile of grey rubble. The road then takes you up again, past some stunning scenery, through the little village of Drumbeg - home to an impressive viewpont and one of the finest little shops we've ever seen, and on back to the main road. I'm skimming over the delights of this route on this occasion because I'll need something to talk about the next time we're up there. So, I'm skipping forward a bit to the incomparable Kylesku Hotel.

This remarkable place sits just off the main road next to the slipway for the ferry which took cars and passengers across the narrows where Loch Glencoul and Loch Gleann Dubh meet. This is an old ferry point, there was a rowing boat that took foot passengers across the water back in the ninteenth century - and with good reason. The narrows are not wide - which is rather in the nature of narrows, of course - but they are relatively deep. You can't wade across, and if you don't cross here the only way to get to the opposite bank and the settlements to the north is to take a massive detour through the town of Lairg.

In short, cross here or you're taking a detour of well over a hundred miles. Irksome if you're driving, a major problem if you're on foot, or even on horseback. The the only really large traffic across the narrows until relatively recently was cattle, and they swam their way across. People were less keen on this though, so the ferry thrived and grew. Between the wars a small car carrying ferry was launched, to be replaced in the fifties by the ferry Maid of Kylesku capable of carrying two cars at a time.

The Maid was replaced in nineteen sixty seven by the larger Queen of Kylesku, which served with distinction until nineteen seventy six. But although bigger than the Maid the Queen was still too small to carry full sized commercial vehicles, which were forced to continue trucking their way via Lairg. This finally changed when the much larger Queen of Glencoul was comissioned in that summer of Punk and drought. 

As the Ferry prospered it must surely have seemed a no-brainer to set up a hotel on the slipway. Ferries mean queues. Queues mean customers.Often thirsty ones who could do with a bit of a feed.

It is surely no surprise therefore that the Kylesku hotel should have prospered in a similar manner. However, as traffic on the road increased the ferry became more of a frustrating bottleneck than a vital public service and in 1984 work was completed on the beautiful bridge which now allows cars to speed across the narrows unperturbed. This spelled the end of the Kylesku ferry of course, and the Queen of Glencoul relocated to the Corran Narrows just South of Fort William.

The road to the ferry slipway is now a dead end as the main road north sweeps smoothly past over the bridge without so much as a by your leave. This could, I suppose, have been the death knell of the hotel too, but it has soldiered on manfully, building a solid reputation among both locals and regular visitors alike. As a result it has always seemed to be thriving.

On this occasion we arrived in glorious sunshine and found a table by the window in the little bar area. We were busy being distracted by the cutest and most well behaved little dog we've ever seen which was sitting in under the next table when the waiter, whose name I missed but who could have stepped straight off Bondai Beach, were it not for his marked southern English accent arrived. As I was perusing the menu he was keen to assist with recommendations. On learning that I hate seafood and that Mrs Snail is allergic to it he paused for a moment before suggesting "Go on, 'ave a steak..."

I very nearly did, but was instead enticed by the burger  - something which regular readers will surely not find in any way surprising. I'd say that it was fabulous, but such a word hardly begins to do justice to the bun swathed meaty perfection that was placed before me. It was lovely - as was the beetroot and goat's cheese salad which Mrs Snail selected from the veggie menu our Antipodean looking waiter produced when she told him she didn't eat a lot of meat.  

The view was equally stunning - the odd common seal swam lazily past the ferry slipway while a colony of Arctic Terns provided a spectacular airshow, looping and whirling around each other before diving spectacularly into the loch to emerge with a flashing silvery fish firmly grasped in their beaks. 

And on this sunlit scene I will draw the curtain on our summer expedition. There was much more - as we took the snail north of Kylesku through the north eastern settlement of Durness with its vast beaches and the insanely brilliant "craft village" of Balnakiel, then "over the top" to the beauty of the far north east and Dunnet Bay.

But these are tales for sunnier times. Now, as they say, "Winter is coming" and it's time to turn to more recent travels. 

The most beautiful beach in the world.

If, as you leave Lochinver on the Ullapool road you take the first left turn after Baddidarrach, you find yourself on a little single track road that hugs the coast for many miles before arcing back inland and joining up with the main road north just south of Kylesku. There are too many delights along this narrow twisting ribbon of asphalt to name in one posting, but I really can't write another word about Assynt without mentioning the wonder that is Achmelvich beach.

We first came here on our first visit to the area twenty years ago, when we walked over from Lochinver on a grey, overcast day. Even in bad weather we were blown away by the astonishing beauty of the place. Anyone who has spent any time at all on the West Coast of Scotland will know that dazzling white sand and crystal clear waters are not unusual in that neck of the woods, but Achmelvich really is something else.

These days we tend to arrive by car, because we are older and lazier than we used to be. The approach by car is pretty interesting, as you leave the narrow and twisty road and join a narrower and twistier road which takes you up a steep hill with a sharp turn at the top. Don't worry though - however tight you might think it looks there's a caravan site by the beach which means the road is towable, which means unless you're driving a very large car indeed you won't have a problem. Indeed, we've often thought of staying at the caravan site, but are unlikely to now for reasons I'll go into later.

There's a largeish carpark behind the beach, equipped with an un-staffed warden's hut displaying information about the area, examples of local flora and fauna and details of the various ranger guided walks and events that happen throughout the year. Beyond that is a short stretch of Maccair (free draining and fertile grassy plain) before you finally hit the beach.

Just look at it!

When the tide is out - as it was in this picture - the beach is huge and insanely inviting. The view is tropical - although the temperature often is not, this is still the highlands after all. To stand on the dazzling white sand, gazing out over the azure waters and breathing in the crisp pure air is to fall in love. You won't be able to help yourself.

You'll see all manner of sea birds here - this bay is where I saw my first family of Eider Ducks, for instance - as well as other, larger wildlife. There is a rather arresting photo in the warden's hut of a Basking Shark crusing just a few metres off shore and whales have been seen off the headland.

Can you not feel the water lapping at your toes?

Sadly, this could in the end be the place's downfall. It looks very peaceful and empty in these pictures. The truth is that beauty this exquisite cannot hide for long and when it is discovered it attracts, well, pretty much everyone.

The brutal truth is that when we first came here nearly two decades ago, this was a deserted stretch of sand. Now, twenty years later the only way we were able to take pictures that were not full of other people was to arrive ridiculously early - and even then this once isolated haven was far from deserted. The caravan site which is just out of shot on the left of these images is now huge and rather chaotic, as are the fields of tents crammed in behind the Machair. 

It is, sadly, an age old problem - and something that particularly afflicts the highlands.

Beautiful places attract people who want to experience that beauty. This is understandable, and more people experiencing beauty is clearly a good thing. But for most places there's a tipping point wher the weight of numbers visiting a place starts to erode that beauty and I think that sadly Achmelvich may be reaching that point.

The question is, what can be done about it? I mean you can let market forces do their work - once the beauty of a place has been destroyed people will stop visiting and the issue resolves itself, but this is hardly satisfactory. But what else do you do?  You can't just restrict access - who do you restrict access to? Who do you say can or cannot visit the beautiful places? I've often joked that while it's fine for us to go to places other tourists should probably stay away - but that really is nothing more than a selfish joke. Such places must be available to everyone.

So. Visit Achmelvich. It really is the most beautiful place in the world. But tread lightly. 

Eating at the Summer Isles Bar.

I said in the previous post that our interest in the Summer Isles was largely rooted in the shore that overlooks them, and this is unquestionably true.

At the end of that last edition we were just approaching the village of Achiltiebuie - our ultimate destination. Achiltiebuie is much larger now than it was on our first visit back in the mid nineties. There are a lot more houses, a piping school and an excellent village hall which plays host to a regular display of local art and crafts. Sadly it's biggest tourist attraction, the Hydroponicom has been closed for some years and now presents a sorry and semi derelict face to the world.

This is a shame, because the Hydroponicom was awesome. Essentially a massive greenhouse using hydroponic technology to grow all manner of food plants you wouldn't normally expect to find at such northerly latitudes. Amongst the salad crops, fruits and vegetables could be found all manner of exotica - including Bananas! The place also incorporated an exhibition of green technologies and was a genuinely fascinating place to visit. It also provided fresh produce to the Summer Isles Hotel - a vital service in a part of the world where fresh vegetables are still annoyingly hard to come by at times, let alone things like salad leaves that perish quickly.

Well, the Hydroponicom may well be defunct, but the Summer Isles Hotel is still going strong, as is the attached Summer Isles Bar. For us a trip to this area isn't complete until we've eaten here, which means that although there is often a long time between visits we've been coming here regularly for damn near twenty years.

The bar is actually very small, consisting of two rooms that for now I'll call "compact", because calling them "poky" sounds derogatory and I love this place too much to say anything that might sound negative. The bar was originally built in the nineteenth century as a watering hole for local crofters, and has apparently been extended over the last forty years - although if this is the case I can only imagine how snug it must've been back in the day...

You enter through a small porch into the "front room", which boasts patio doors which rather predictably look out onto  a small patio area and the view beyond. These days this room is furnished with dark wood dining tables and chair, and is light and cosy although I rather miss the high backed wooden pew-like arrangements that used to occupy this space to form little booth type areas. Still, there's more room for more people now, and fair's fair - a place as good as this really ought to be able to accommodate as many people as possible.

Beyond this is the bar itself, a small room with an inviting fire and walls covered in pictures of days gone by. There are now windows in this area, all the light coming either from the patio doors in the front section or from lamps. This could make things seem a little gloomy, but actually just gives the place a more intimate feeling.

We actually arrived only just after noon, and both rooms were empty when we entered. We grabbed seats at a table near the patio doors and I wandered into the bar to order drinks and grab a couple of menus. The bar always has an interesting selection of beers brewed in the Highlands, and I think perhaps my only beef with this fantastic little pub is the fact that it sits at the end of a long, narrow and winding road and whenever we visit I'm always driving, which means I can never sample any of them.

I took Mrs Snail's glass of wine and my Coke back to the table and we perused the menu.  The bar is famous rightly for it's seafood, and no review could fail to omit mention of their astonishing seafood platter. For a little bit short of twenty five quid you will be provided with a plate size of a small island piled high with local langoustines, smoked salmon, pickled herring, shellfish and whatever else happens to be in season. It is a sight to behold, let me tell you.

Personally I don't like seafood much, so would never consider such a thing. Mrs Snail loves seafood, and would probably order one every time we came. Sadly, presumably because the culinary gods have a profoundly sick sense of humour she has developed an allergy to shellfish and crustaceans like prawns and langoustines which means the delights of the seafood platter are off limits. One time we were there, she stared so longingly at a neighbouring diner's lunch he actually offered her a langoustine. It really is that good.

But as I say, not for either of us, so Mrs Snail opted for the duo of smoked salmon, and in the absence of my usual burger (the bar is too classy for that) I went for a steak sandwich, which in many ways is the same thing, but in a purer form. There was a little discussion as the waiting staff realised that they didn't have any of the grain mustard mentioned in the menu and wondered whether I'd be happy with English mustard instead.

I assured them I didn't care, and was rewarded with a brown baguette filled with fried steak and onions. There was some side salad nonsense of course, but I'm from Yorkshire, so I ignored it. It was truly lovely. If anything, Mrs Snails smoked salmon duo was even better. Basically her plate was laden with two massive piles of smoked fish, one hot smoked, one cold. Cold smoked salmon leaves me, well, cold. I've never seen much attraction in what is, essentially, raw fish*.

Hot smoked salmon however is one of my very favourite things, however and to my delight the massive piles of piscatorial delight were to big for Mrs Snail to manage so I was able to purloin rather a lot of the hot smoked pile.

It. Was. Astonishing.

Soft and moist on the tongue with that wonderful kick of smoke, it was fish to fall in love with. 

The sky had been looking rather threatening when we arrived (I confess that the picture above was taken as we left) but by the time we'd eaten our lunch the sun was shining so we took the opportunity to adjourn to the patio for coffee. We sat for a while looking out over the stunningly blue sea, out towards the island of Tanera Mor.

As I mentioned in the last post this is the only inhabited island in the Summer Isles, and at the time we were there (August 2013) it was up for sale with an asking price of £2.6 million. I have to say, if I had that kind of money burning a hole in my pocket I'd be making an offer. I've always wanted to live on an island, and an island in such close proximity to such a wonderful eaterie? What could be better?

Of course, from the patio the view is somewhat obscured by the trees that run along the hotel's fence. So, take a look at the panorama you'll see from the beer garden:

Beautiful, isn't it? And the view is always this good. Not always this blue, I'll grant you, but when the weather is poor it just gets more dramatic, not less beautiful.

You really should go.

*Yes, I know, technically it isn't raw because the smoke cures it. But in terms of texture and appearance there is no difference between cold smoked salmon and a slice off a salmon you just dragged out of a stream. Prometheous stole fire from the gods and ended up getting his liver eaten by eagles for all eternity so that we could cook stuff. Given that, it seems rude not to.

Making our way to the Summer Isles

The Summer Isles are made up of a seemingly endless number of tiny pinpricks of land to the north of Loch Broom, off the coast of Coigach. 

Only one, Tanera Mor, is inhabited and is perhaps best known for issuing its own postage stamps - something it's done since nineteen seventy. Given that according to the 2001 census only five people live on this roadless three and a half kilometre square lump of torrodonian sandstone I've never been entirely sure how they've kept the post office staffed, but fortunately such issues happen above my pay grade so I've never really worried about it. 

We've often gazed across the waters of the Minch and considered paying it a visit, but somehow have never quite managed to actually do it. One day, perhaps...

The truth is our interest in these islands is firmly rooted on the shore that overlooks them - but more of that later.

If you're not approaching by sea, there are only two routes in to the isolated little enclave of villages that occupy the mainland shore beneath the shadow of Ben More Coigach and Stac Pollaigh.You can take the narrow, single track twisty road that runs out of Lochinver, past the Culag woods, the school and Loch Culag, or you can take the narrow, single track, twisty road that branches off the A835 about half way between Ullapool and Elphin, with Cul Baeg and Stac Pollaigh on your right and Ben More Coigaich on your left.

Either way, the scenery is spectacular and the road is easier than you'd imagine. I've said this before, but I've never understood why some people have an issue with single track roads - all you have to do is drive at a sensible speed and pay attention to what's in front of you and what's coming up behind. Things that you should be doing anyway if you're behind the wheel of a car.

So.

The little twisty road winds its way along the northern shore of Loch Gurlainn, on the other side of which stands the lumpen mass of Ben Mor Coigach - all seven hundred and forty three metres of it. Like many big hills in, poor old Ben Mor doesn't look all that impressive. It is, essentially a big rolling rounded lump. As you approach the end of Loch Lurgainn the more diminutive Stac Polliagh (a whole ninety metres shorter) sits demurely on your right, presenting a far more interesting vista.

There's a fairly sizable car park at the base of Stac Pollaigh (it's pronounced "Stak Polly") should you wish to make the ascent. I've never climbed it - but am assured that the summit requires rather a lot of rock scrambling which pretty much guarantees I never will. I'm a hill walker, not a mountaineer, the distinction being that I rather like have solid ground beneath my feet and clinging to a rock face doesn't appeal in any way...

If you feel the same way, eschew the charms of the Stac Polliagh ascent  and bypass the car park you'll leave Loch Lurrigann behind and almost immediately find yourself with the wider but shorter Loch Bad a Ghaill taking its place on your left hand side. To your right you'll catch some views of the sea looking north towards Stoer Point and it's lighthouse, then the road begins to climb and the sea disappears, before reappearing briefly as you descend once more to a "T" Junction. Just before the junction there is a spectacular view out over saltmarsh to a wonderful golden sandy beach and the crystal blue sea of Achnahaird Bay beyond.

It's worth stopping to take a look - especially if the weather is good, because this photograph utterly fails to do it anything approaching justice:

 Honestly. It looks spectacular when you're there.

 Turn right at the junction here and you can gain access to the beach a few hundred yards down the road just turn right when you see the little sign marked "to the beach" - it's a dead giveaway. It's a good beach, provided with more than ample car parking, from which you have access not only to the beach but also to a couple of pleasant footpaths, should you fancy a walk.

Continue on this road and you'll make a loop the two hundred and three metre lump of Mael an Fheadain - the road offering some impressive views to the north, although very few places to stop and enjoy them unless you're walking or cycling. As of 2012 there's a camping and caravan site along here, just outside the little settlement (it really is too small for me to call it a village) of Althandhu. It's a smart and well appointed little place, offering excellent views, great walking and access to the beach. We've never stayed there, but we probably will at some point.

As a point of information I should point out that the Camping and Caravan site marked on my copy of the local OS map by the beach at Achnahaird has been closed for some time, so if you fancy pitching up in this neck of the woods you'll need to keep going for a bit. There are a fair few self catering chalets around Altandhu as well, so there are plenty of opportunities to linger.

Altandhu is also where you'll find what used to be called the "Achiltiebuie Smokehouse", but now seems to have rebranded itself "Summer Isles Foods" - a rebranding which makes sense because while you can see some of the Summer Isles from their car park, you are manifestly not in Achiltiebuie. Here they smoke all manner of local seafood, and operate a little shop which sells not only their own wares, but also high quality stuff from other local producers.

It's a lovely place. You can't take a tour of the production line as such, but since production takes place in what are basically a couple of big sheds, there are huge windows you can peer through, with signboards outside explaining what is going on at each stage. In this pre-packed world, it is very nice indeed to see real food being made. Also, you can stand under the vent from the smoke room and breathe in the awesome smell. Honestly, two or three lungfuls of that are worth the trip ontheir own.

As you leave Altandhu the road begins to climb, and after about a quarter of a mile you have an opportunity to make a hard right turn down to the little harbour at Old Dornie. Nobody lives down there, but there is a very sheltered harbour, protected by the bulk of Isle Ristol - one of the largest of the Summer Isles, and on a sunny day it's a wonderful place to stop for a picnic.

Carry straight on and the road sweeps you on to Polbain - which is basically a street with houses strung along it like gems on a necklace - a tiny settlement posessed of one of the finest village stores we have ever seen. I have no idea how they fit everything in, but there is very little you might need that they don't have.

Beyond Polbain the road sweeps back down to sea level, and then back up towards Achiltiebuie, another sort of "necklace village" which has grown rather a lot since we first ventured down here in the nineties. Achiltiebuie is home to the object of our visit to the Summer Isles, and that my friends is the subject of the next post.

A walk around Knockan Crag - the heart of the North West Highland Geopark!

I mentioned in an earlier post that geology is important in Assynt, and I've already made an oblique reference to The Rock Route, a driving trail that takes the curious motorist around this unique geological landscape. There are laybys at geologically interesting points, equipped with informative signboards which explain clearly what you're looking at, and why it's important. Indeed, Assynt is part of the North West Highlands Geopark, the centerpiece of which is the excellent visitor centre at Knockan Crag.

This is perhaps my favourite visitor's centre anywhere, mostly because it is so well done, and so utterly appropriate. You see, one of the reasons we love this part of the world is the opportunity it provides for solitude and for getting away from the routine imposed by clocks, timetables and opening times. Well, the Crag is a visitor centre which you can have totally to yourself if you turn up at a quiet time because it has absolutely no staff. As a by product of this it's open twenty four hours a day, fifty two weeks of the year. Turn up and experience it whenever you want - although as you'll see, it might not be a good idea to turn up in the pitch black or in really bad weather...

Knockan Crag is about a mile south of the little Certificated Location we were pitched up on in Elphin, so after a day of vehicular exploration around the wider area I took myself for a little stroll around this geological showcase.

Even from the car park the view is spectacular, looking out across the water, between Cul Mor and Cul Baeg, towards the rocky peak of Stac Pollaidh in the distance.

Looking up the hill from there you can see the little turf roofed shelter that houses the main exhibition. This part of the trail is wheelchair accessible, and fine for people with other mobility issues, I'm afraid that the rest of the crag probably is not...

This is in fact a fairly new exhibition, the centre was refurbished and renovated a few years ago (and indeed in the great Highland spirit of recycling some of the large sign boards from the old display can be seen serving as the walls of a sheep shed in Elphin) and the whole thing is now very slick and interactive.

You're met initially at the entrance to the little eco shelter by bronze statues of legendary geologists Ben Peach (seated) and John Horne (standing). If you're unfamiliar with these names and have never heard of their achievements in geological theory, don't worry - this is also where the interaction starts.

By the side of Ben Peach's seat (which is large enough for you to share with him and offers a pretty cool photo opportunity) is a set of buttons marked with national flags. Push the flag most closely associated with your language and Messers Peach and Horne will tell you a little bit about themselves, in whatever language you prefer.

Basically- and real geologists will need to forgive me here because I'm going to massively over simplify this - Peach and Horne figured something out that revolutionised our understanding of geology and the way the Earth's crust as we know it today was formed. Before the work they carried out in Assynt the standard view was the fairly logical assumption was that new rocks were laid down on top of old rocks. This "layer cake" idea makes perfect sense and allowed geologists to date the rocks they were looking at.

So far, so straight forward.

The trouble was that here in Assynt some of the oldest rocks in the world are sitting on top of rocks that are much younger and to the nineteenth and early twentieth century geologists this simply didn't make any sense at all. Peach and Horne worked out the solution, and changed the outlook of the science of geology forever. 

In 1907 they identified the "Moine Thrust", a geological feature that runs all the way from Loch Eribol on the North Coast of Scotland, through Assynt and down to Sleat on the Isle of Skye. They showed that the thrust forced one older sheet of rock over the top of a much younger series, masking the geology beneath. Small "windows" in the top plate allow geologists to estimate what the previous geology was like. Assynt is one such window, and through it you can see a great chasm of time.

 

 Inside the little turf roofed gazebo there are many displays and interactive thingamiebobs to help explain what all the different rocks are hereabouts, how they formed, what they're called, where you'll find them and how old they are.

There's also a rather wonderful display around the edge showing the horizon in opaque perspex. Each of the visible hills is not only identified, but the meaning of each of the hill's names is explained. Even better, given that most of the names of landscape features in Assynt have their origins in Gaelic, which has a very different spelling system, you can push a button and have a voice pronounce each of the names correctly.

Turns out I've been mis-pronouncing some of them for years, although I feel safe in the knowledge that I'm not alone in this...

If you step through the eco-gazeebo, on the other side you will find a well made path heading off up the edge of the crag, and a bronze statue of a geologist encouraging you to see where it may lead. Anyone with two functional legs and a moderate amount of fitness can follow from here, but by its very nature the terrain beyond this point is unsuitable for people with mobility difficulties and is absolutely not wheelchair friendly. If you suffer from vertigo you might also want to give this a miss - there are some steep climbs with even steeper drops on one side.

Everybody else, follow me - this is a spectacular journey through time and landscape.

You follow the path along the side of the hill and before long you come across a fork. The right hand fork takes you on the rest of the walk, the left hand takes you down a short dead end where two inscribed slabs give you information about fossilised deep sea worms that can be found here, a few hundred feet above sea level. 

Yet more evidence that the landscape of today is radically different from the landscape of the past.

Make your way back to the main path, and there's another carved stone showing what the worms would have looked like, swishing around in shallow tropical seas so many millennia ago.

 The path leads you through a geological timeline for the rocks in these parts, all the time ever so gently taking you higher and higher. The path at this point is not steep, but the drop to your left does keep getting increasingly pronounced. People with vertigo might want to hang on to a companion, or stare fixedly up the hill at this point - although if heights really are a problem for you be warned - it's only going to get worse from here. Trust me though, the views are unquestionably worth it - they really are spectacular!

As the trail leads you further up the hill you are treated to many features created out of the rock that forms this amazing landscape. If you look up from the timeline section of the trail you'll see a perfectly formed stone sphere constructed in the manner of a dry stone wall. It sits on the side of the hill without explanation. I have no idea what it demonstrates, but it looks extraordinarily cool.

Other - what shall I call them? Exhibits, I guess - are more informative than decorative, although there is a strong and pleasing sense of  design throughout the crag. The two stone hands pictured here illustrate the difference between the sandy coloured rock at the bottom and the grey coloured rock above. Place one hand on each, you are told, and you are spanning three hundred million years of history.

Seriously, where else can you go and hold three hundred million years between your hands? 

Eventually the path takes you up a steepish set of stone steps. Again, care is required - it's not in any way a difficult climb, but at the same time you need to remember that the consequences of a fall could well involve dropping a few hundred feet to the road below - something which I suspect would be less than fun.

As you climb you'll want to keep your eye on the view though, because the higher you get, the more you can see. Once you reach the top you are rewarded with an utterly spectacular viewpoint offering views across Assynt and Coigach and beyond. Truly spectacular they must be seen to be believed.

I mean, look at it - have you ever seen anything more beautiful? Here you're looking out towards Lochinver with Cul Mor at the far left, the long ridge of Suilven in the distance just to the right of it and Canisp more or less in the middle of the image. Under blue August skies I honestly could have sat there all day watching the shadows of the clouds scoot across the hills and valleys.

From the viewpoint the path takes you along the top of the crag. The views are amazing, but you do become aware that you're at the top of a hill. On the day I was there the wind was blowing pretty fiercely and I was obliged to remove my hat* because if I hadn't it would currently still be flying somewhere in the jetstream.

The path takes you back along the top of the crag until you are more or less above the car park, and then begins to descend. There is one final viewpoint, looking out towards Coigach with the distant hill Stac Polliagh framed once more in the "V" formed by Cul Baeg and Cul Mor.

The flat triangular stone in the foreground of this picture is inscribed with the words of acclaimed Scottish poet Norman MacCaig:

"I don't remember the Eagle going away

but I'll never forget the Eagle shaped space it left

stamped on the air."

   

Reading those words and looking at that view, I could feel the eagle shaped space in the air. Assynt is a wild, wild place and from this vantage point you can really appreciate that without all the hassle of day long walks and cumbersome walking gear.

But it was getting late, so I began the descent back to the car, knowing that the following day we'd be pointing the car towards Coigach and getting deep into that landscape.

*Rather a big thing from my point of view - I am seldom seen without a hat.