Motivation and distraction is a common problem for me and so I’m really grateful when I’m blessed with some focus and drive. I wrote about the difficulties I sometimes face back in 2021, when I spend too much of the day being indecisive about where to go for a hike. Because I know that I usually do better when I plan ahead, I knew that I needed to be organised when we were in Scotland in July, so I worked out the best day to take a break from the laptop and get out into the wilds of the north western region of Assynt.
I was marvelling at distant views of Suilven on the drive north (as always) and as I was driving along the single-track A837 towards Loch Awe, I saw another ridge and large domed mountain which I thought would provide an elevated view of Suilven: one of two ideal angles from which I wanted to photograph. (I’m saving the other viewpoint for another, less energetic visit.)
After passing Ledmore Junction, I stopped at a lay-by in which a couple of other cars were parked; one of which belonged to a couple of walkers who were donning their boots, and another which had just been vacated. I surveyed the land between the road and the mountain and watched the first couple of walkers as they headed away across the landscape. Realising that they were headed for the mountain I’d seen, that gave me the confirmation that there was a feasible track to get there. After having a chat with the second pair of walkers before they headed off, I decided to change my plan at short notice, donned my boots, and headed off a few minutes ahead of them.
I’d checked the distance and total ascent on the Outdooractive app and decided that my first goal would be the ridge to the south of the main peak, given that I wasn’t sure whether I’d make it all the way to the top. Canisp is a daunting mountain when viewed from the road, and as the summit was seven kilometres and over 700 metres of ascent away across unfamiliar and potentially tricky terrain, I would’ve been happy to get as far as a photogenic viewpoint.
The first leg of the walk—and the last on the return—is across a boggy section of glen, so I covered up as much as I could to protect myself from the “clegs” (Scots name for biting horse-flies) and made double-time. The track was relatively well-defined at this point, although much less-well-trodden than the hiking paths I’m used to. I made fairly quick progress, and was glad to get past the muddy parts of the route and onto a harder, rock-strewn part of the landscape.
As the proper ascent began, the helpfully obvious path petered out and so I had to rely more and more on the route marked on the map in my phone app. (Internet connectivity is pretty good in this part of the northern Highlands these days, once you get clear of the bottoms of the glens.) The easy-going gave way to a much more challenging kind of walk than the one I’m used to: much of the second half of the route was across a mix of heather-strewn and rocky landscape.
I kept as close to the route marked on the map as I could, although comparing the ground beneath my feet and the line on the screen showed that the digital directions were intended more as a guideline than as a real indication of a proper path. It was with quite some surprise each time I came across a narrow few feet of ground which had obviously been trodden by other walking boots, which gave me reassurance that I was doing a reasonable job of keeping to the “proper” route.
I took my first proper break after around an hour’s walking and it was then that the second couple of walkers from the car park caught up with me. We had a pleasant chat for a few minutes and walked together for a few more, exchanging tales of other hikes in Scotland and in the Alps. Being British, though, it was plain to us all (but unspoken) that we weren’t here to be sociable for the afternoon, so the others turned off the main route and headed towards a large flat-topped boulder with a marvellous view across to Stac Pollaidh and the surrounding lochans.
As I discovered from the point where the route began ascending, the lack of a clearly-defined path became the biggest challenge for the walk. I spent the remainder of the route stepping carefully across rocks and avoiding the gaps between the stones, walking around larger boulders and particularly uneven sections of the landscape, and occasionally re-checking the map to ensure that I wasn’t straying more than a few dozen metres from the dotted line marked there. As I headed ever-upwards, I came to the realisation that I had literally all day to get as high as I wanted to and back down again, as Scottish days are ridiculously long in summer and the weather forecast was clear and dry and warm. That being said, I did keep a keen eye to the coast and to the Outer Hebrides once I got enough elevation to see them, so that I would know immediately if any kind of rain or less comfortable weather was on the way. As it was, the weather was to remain beautiful throughout the hike and perfect for capturing the scene I’d come to see.
I’ve only discovered through the writing of this that the dramatic, isolated mountains in this part of the world are called (in English) “Inselbergs”: a loan-word from German for “island mountains”. You can see why they’re called that: vast plugs of Torridonian sandstone sitting on Lewisian gneiss sticking up from the largely flat surrounding landscape in a most pleasing way.
The view I’d come for—Suilven with the sea behind it—hove into view some three-and-a-half hours after leaving the car and with it, the wind from the coast heading straight over the ridge around 120 metres below the summit. I cursed some German hikers silently as they picked the best place to sit just before I got my photograph, then sat with the view above after they moved on.
I enjoyed my lunch, before weighing up whether or not to carry on from here. The wind was quite cold after the hot walk up to the ridge, so I wrapped up in a fleece top and put up my hood, then decided that the additional 20 minute slog to the summit would be worthwhile. Although I’d come this far to get a photograph, which I’d taken, I decided that it would be nice to just get on with it and get to only the third mountain summit I’ve achieved on foot in Scotland.
Once there, I greeted the walkers I’d chatted to earlier and left one of them to capture the scene more slowly: painting is his thing and his friend was happy to lean back and enjoy the sunshine whilst Suilven was captured for posterity. I took in the view for ten minutes or so, tried to react excitedly when a kestrel was pointed out (we see them a lot), then took a few more shots of the rocky mountain-top, the summit cairn, and the view looking north to the mountain I’d initially intended to hike: Sàil Gharbh (Quinag). That would, as it turned out, have been slightly easier and would have been a shorter walk, too. I’ll save it for next time…
Leaving the others to continue enjoying the summit, I packed my camera away and began the two-hour walk back to the car, taking my time, enjoying the cracked rocky formations caused by the incessant thaw and freeze of countless years’ harsh weather. I stopped to sit and listen to the almost complete silence, enjoying the way in which I could hear the very slight and brief gusts of wind passing by; almost as if there were solid but invisible pieces of air moving around.
Although this hike was one of the longest, with the most ascent, which I’ve ever done (14 kilometres and over 750 metres of total ascent and descent), it was also one of the most memorable. The luck of having perfect weather with enough of a breeze to ensure no midges, the spontaneity of doing an unexpected and challenging route, and the fitness to make it all the way to the summit and back with no undue difficulty, all added to a truly memorable day.
Leave a Reply