I awoke to the rattle of my window in the wind. Rain was lashing down, and it looked rather like a November morning (it’s August!). Today, I would be setting off for another walk—the Skye trail—and clearly, Scotland wanted to welcome me back in good style! Signing, I exited my bed and, frankly struggling for motivation, began packing last-minute bits and bobs.
It took some effort to leave the door – the weather was terrible, and I had an eight-hour journey ahead of me: I could stay at home, eat oven pizza, and watch Netflix all week and call it “relaxing”. Getting out of the door, the so-called “doorstep mile,” is always the hardest part of any adventure. The modern world bombards you with quick dopamine hits; things like TikTok provide immediate gratification for no effort and yet don’t leave anyone with any lasting satisfaction or joy. Your house is (probably) quite warm, it’s hopefully dry enough, and there is an excess of food and water. When backpacking, these basic necessities suddenly have a question mark over them; thus, you appreciate them infinitely more! Something as basic as a tap can trigger euphoria (No funny-tasting purified water for me!) and a comfy chair is frankly like a gift from the gods. This reappraisal of the value of things that we take for granted does not disappear immediately upon returning and leaves a lasting impression on one’s day-to-day life.
Enough rambling; back to the trail. The bus journey was long and a little boring. The rain continued all morning and until about midday, but when I left the coach and Broadford, it wasn’t actively raining, although the sky was dark and there was a fresh breeze.
I left the coach feeling a little unsettled. I was anxious about the distance I had to travel today (around 20km) given it was so late (around 5pm). I nipped to the toilet in town and then began walking.
The trail starts with some rather underwhelming road walking. The weather was holding off, and I was glad to be able to make some fast progress. The scenery was impressive but awfully bleak: it reminded me of Rannoch Mor in Glencoe. Quickly, you turn off the asphalt road and follow a dirt track adjacent to it for some kilometres. The ground is boggy at times, and quickly, it became fruitless to try and keep dry feet.
The first time you get wet feet on a long walk is always a strange relief – the anticipation of how awful it will be and the constant dancing and weaving around muddy bogs is far worse then just plodding through them and dealing with soggy socks. On this trip, I was wearing non-waterproof trainers, which worked excellently. I just had to accept wet feet, and then could cross rivers, march through bogs, and jump in puddles without worrying, safe in the knowledge that once sunny, the shoes would dry out and water would drain out quickly.
You cross over a pass and walk alongside an absolutely beautiful coastline. It felt like such a treat and such a beautiful place to be—I was very happy. It was also at this point that the shackles of social normality began to ease off—chaotic singing and dancing imminently began. On the bus up, I’d discovered a rather groovy song, “I Guess Time Just Makes Fools Of Us All,” and I wandered along the coast, bobbing and dancing happily.
I also began conversing with the sheep. This is a crucial step in becoming a Man of the Wilderness. As usual, to begin a conversation, imitate the BAHHHHHSSS in varying tones of aggression and affection based on the reaction you wish to achieve. This is like bowing to a Hipogriff – it establishes respect and makes them aware of your sheepy soul. The next step is talking to them. You can say what you want – tell them your troubles. They may run away, but short of that they’ll listen dutifully, despite having rather bland responses.
After the beautiful coastal section with many sheep, a few more kilometres of easy tracks brought me to a lovely coastal camp just before Torrin. It was an excellent little camp spot.
Day 1 distance: 19km
I awoke early with the sun and enjoyed a cup of tea looking out across a sea. The clouds were dark today, and heavy rain was forecast from mid-morning onwards. After some oats, I packed up my tent and began plodding along a road (there was an awful lot of road bashing on this trail) to Torrin and beyond towards Elgol. The scenery here is stunning and quintessentially Skye—with dramatic black gabbro outcrops sticking out from a lush green mountainside. What a beautiful sight!
Then, I found a toilet – a highly convenient stop. Regular readers will know I take great pleasure in a nature shit – but there is a time and a place. Scotland is becoming increasingly overrun (I blame bloody youths and Instagram!), and many of these people are not conscientious shitters. Its not uncommon to see toilet paper and literal shit completely out in the open, and even respectful shitting (and of course, carrying out toilet paper!) puts a strain when there are a lot of people. The Cairngorm National Park authorities are encouraging wild campers to carry out shit – the Snow White Project. The project started originated as lots of Winter Mountain Leader courses run from the Cairngorms, all involving a night or two in a snow hole. Participants would dig a hole in the snow, bury it, carry out toilet paper, and leave. Sounds ok, right?
Well, keep in mind, there are only a few areas on the Plateau that regularly have enough snow to dig multiple snow holes close together, thus, over the course of the winter, many people would stay in these places, bury their shits in the snow, and move on. Sadly, this meant that when the snow melted, these places would be littered in excrement! Shocking! The Snow White Project (originally Cairngorm Poo Project) is run out of the ranger station. If you ask for it, you will receive a PVC tube with some dog poo bags and kitty litter – I’m sure you can figure out the rest (although our ML provider felt the need to demonstrate how he pooed in his tent every morning…). This is a rather extreme measure and isn’t always necessary, especially away from crowds, but the impacts of nature shit should always be considered, especially when in a large group, and if in doubt, carry it out!
At long last, I left the road and began walking along a singletrack path in the woods. The views were stunning, but soon, the driving rain started, and headphones were deployed to keep me entertained.
“Gore-Tex – Guaranteed to Keep You Dry.” What an absolute load of nonsense. Anyone who thinks a jacket can be waterproof has never actually spent a day walking in proper rain and should not be taken seriously. Over the course of the next couple of hours to Elgol, the rain penetrated through every layer of protection – at first seeping in through the wrist and neck holes, then the zip, and eventually, dampness from sweat just means you are wet all over. I hate the fact that modern jackets have these daft waterproof zips. Yes, they look cool and ‘alpine’, but they don’t work, and I’d happily carry a few extra grams for proper storm flaps. Alas, aesthetics matter more in outdoor gear design than functionality for the majority of customers.
Originally, my goal for the day was to reach Courusk Bay and camp there, but that seemed very unappealing—instead, I decided to stay at the Camnusary Bay bothy. I plodded North up the coast towards Camnusary Bay, crossing several rivers and often literally walking in one. I was utterly soaked and relieved to pass through the door indoors.
I met some lovely folk in that bothy, deploying the tried and tested friend making strategy of making tea. The two folk I was trying to befriend (Charlotte and Owen) didn’t have a stove, so the offering of warm tea was the social equivalent of a critical hit! Great success!
The evening passed uneventfully until two English lads, wearing dress shoes, trench coats, and kilts poked their heads in. They had very very posh accents and gave of pretty poor energy – they’d carried in only sleeping bags, beer, and vodka and clearly were just here for a piss up. Luckily, they moved to the old bothy (which they broke into – it’s closed!), and I didn’t see them again.
Day 2: 27km
It was meant to be dry today. It was not. In fact, it was absolutely pissing it down, and I was rather pissed off about it. My planned route around Courisk was a no-go – the river was too high to cross, so I went directly to Sligachen. This was a beautiful valley, Sgurr Nan Gillean on one side, Marsco on the other, and shitloads of river to ensure that I was absolutely saturated. Many were knee-deep, and one proved particularly challenging.
Confident in my skill at fording rivers, I began crossing the raging torrent and was quickly up to my upper thighs – it was still getting deeper. Retreat was required, and upon returning to the bank I pondered if the river was crossable at all in it’s current state. Further upstream, the river fell into a gorge, so was not possible to cross at all, so against intuition, I headed downstream, hoping to find a widening. After ten minutes of debate, I found a suitable crossing point. An initial channel that was relatively deep (upper thighs) had to be forded at it’s widest (and therefore shallowest) point, before it became shallower in the middle (knee deep). Walking downstream along this shallow bit for twenty or so metres brought you to the second channel, which was deeper (waist deep) and swift-moving. Facing up stream, and taking immense care, I forded the river and performed a mantleshelf on the far bank (which turned into the old classic beached whale manoeuvre) to cross safely. I was rather damp but glad to be across – any more water, and I’d have deemed the river unsafe to cross, and as it was, it was cutting it very, very fine with what I felt comfortable doing alone.
The route to Sligachen became more busy, with bloody tourists and day walkers walking towards me. I disliked the crowds immensely (crowd is a strong word for ten or so walkers), and I opted to avoid the busy and likely very expensive pub and have lunch in the drizzle instead. From here, you carry along next to the coast before a long road walk to Portree.
There was a very large-looking river to cross along the coast, and I must admit, I was a little nervous. I’d heard this one was difficult at times, and given that the river that nearly turned me back wasn’t mentioned, I assumed it must be much worse. Luckily, it proved straightforward—ankle-deep at most, although the ground was very flooded. I was glad for trail runners: Goretex boots would be acting like buckets at this point.
The coastline was beautiful – a nice path and great views, and the weather was finally starting to improve a little. Incessant rain had turned to showers, and I was starting to dry out. Soon enough, I reached the road.
Road walking is never enjoyable, but it can be a satisfying way to clock up miles quickly. The flooding and spate conditions this morning had meant the first 15km of the day were difficult and took me around five hours or so with a lunch stop. I still had 20km to go before I reached my camp spot, so it was nice to be able to put on an audiobook and race along the coastline on easy terrain.
The traffic, although there wasn’t loads of it, irritated me a lot. I’ve become very anti-car nowadays: I think that racing through the highlands and seeing it from the safety of a metal box is a really crap way to explore. It makes places to easy to get to, and means that people focus on the tourist spots alone and race through the beautiful scenery. Spoilers: the tourist spots are a bit shit. They are always busy, with clear stamped out paths, noisy, and polluted. To see the best of the highlands you need to leave all that behind and travel at a much slower pace.
The accessibility of certain regions of Scotland has changed massively in the last hundred years. One hundred years ago, cars weren’t a commodity, and the most accessible areas of the highland were places like Knoydart, which could be accessed by train to Mallaig, then by boat. Modern hillwalkers always talk about Knoydart with superlatives: it’s the roughest place, the most inaccessible, but it’s worth casting your mind back to the likes of WH-Murray, for whom travelling to Glencoe for a few days of climbing would take him a few days from Glasgow. There has been almost a flip-flop: the places that were once inaccessible are now busy and overcrowded, and the most accessible places for mountaineers in the past are now seen as ultra-remote. In many ways, this is a good thing – it means we can access the highlands readily and easily, but any mountaineer and hillgoer worth their merit is surely disgusted when looking down at the A82 from the Buchallie? I appreciate that economically, these roads are essential nowadays, but holiday makers should not be driving along them if possible: if fewer people drove and made use of the excellent and affordable bus services, the highlands would be far more enjoyable and there would be a lot less road noise and pollution.
Ok, old man rant over. I made it to Portree and enjoyed an excellent fish and chips, then carried on for another two or so kilometres to camp (the driving rain had started again).
Some days are not meant to be. And upon pitching my tent in the pissing rain and having the zipper break, today certainly felt like one of those days. I felt like crying: there was nowhere I could stay in Portree (without selling my kidney), and sadly it’s not the kind of place you can get away easily with sleeping in the bus stop, so I knew it would mean an expensive taxi or hitchhike to Broadford or Kyle, and then an uncomfortable night sleeping rough. WIth this on my mind, I fiddled and faffed until I managed to get the zip on again and crawled in side. I was glad for my pea bottle – I was not going to leave the tent until I absolutely had to for fear of the zip failing again.
I really wanted to watch some telly that evening, and worked out an excellent solution to camping binge watching. By looping two hairbands through the washing line of my tent, I could suspend my phone from the ceiling, and enjoy Brooklyn Nine Nine whilst lying down – great success!
Distance: 35km
Today was due to be a big day. I wanted to cover a relatively modest distance of 20 miles, but I had just under 2000m of climbing to overcome in that time. I also woke up feeling pretty unwell – a nasty bug I’d caught before the trip had finally sunk it’s teeth into me. Today would be a little tough!
One of the beautiful things about long distance walking is it’s like teleportation. It’s hard to put into words, but it feels surreal to look at something in the distant horizon, to put the head down, and then before you even notice it you’re there. Sometimes this is because you’re listening to music or an audiobook and loose yourself in the story, conversation with a good friend can do the same. One of the most remarkable ways this can be achieved is because in walking, one becomes exceptionally aware of the sounds of the world and sensations of the body. You become fully aware of the present moment, in an almost meditative fashion, allowing you to simply focus on putting one step in front of the other without thinking about the previous step, or the thousands more required to reach your goal.
Along this beautiful section of the walk, I deployed the teleportation mentality. I’d focus on some distant rise or hill that looked impossibly far away and then simply focus on the present, and as if by magic, I’d appear on the distant hill and look back with a smile on my face. It was a beautiful morning, and by the time I reached Storr, I felt far better, although disgruntled and angry and the crowds.
I had lunch by a stream, purified some water, and then pushed onto the Trotternish ridge. This is an absolutely beautiful part of the walk. Huge cliffs cut through the hillside, and the views out to sea were spectacular. At last, the weather had turned good, and I was in a state of bliss.
The Trottenish ridge isn’t just a beautiful walk. 175 million years ago, dinosaurs roamed the landscape: fossils have confirmed that both carnivorous and herbivorous dinosaurs lived here, and it’s easy to see why. I think if I was a T-Rex, this would be a nice place to settle down, although I must admit I’d rather somehwere with a bit more sun!
Despite the views, the going was tough and I was noticing the harsh elevation changes. I was glad to set up camp, although a little upset when the zip of my tent failed completely. Luckily, it was forecast to be sunny and I was glad to have the door open so I could gaze and the stunning sunset.
Totals: 30km
I woke up and was a little sad – today I had a mere 25km to cover before I would be finished. I’d been carrying a can of Northern Monk Faith – on of my favourite beers – since Portree and I was looking foreward to having it at the Lookout bothy.
First, I had to cover the final section of the Trotternish ridge, just one short climb and descent led me to the Quirang, a beautiful section of walking, if a little busy. I stopped and gazed back at the view – the Old Man of Storr was now far far in the distance and I couldn’t even see the Cullin where I’d been just 48 hours earlier. The views across and out to see were amazing, and I had plenty of food left so enjoyed feasting on a few packs of MnMs in the sun.
As I reached the road, I began fantasizing about a cooked lunch in Floodigarry: I even took an swim to try and clean myself. When I reached the hotel, I plugged in my phone and went up to the bar.
“Could I have a pint of coke please mate?”
“Man, you don’t want a coke – it’s £9. I’ll give you a tap water for free and you can charge your stuff anyway, don’t worry”.
Kind of him to warn me – but I was still upset at the cost. It goes without saying, I did not ask for the food menu, and made do with wraps with very sweaty cheese. Guests started at me in disgust as this unshowerd hiker covered in mud and grime sat in the corner of their fancy £400 a night hotel, but I felt no remorse for these people: they were rude to the staff and were driving around the highlands in big Bentley SUVs. I hope they enjoyed my smell, I only wish I could have thrown one of my socks at them to see their reaction, but alas, I did not have the confidence for that.
This left just one short section of trail before the lookout bothy. The walk along the coast was beautiful, and I was sad this trip (my last big trip before Uni starts) was over. I stopped to collect water a couple of times (there is none near the lookout bothy) and enjoyed the warm Scottish Sun and the views out to sea. With a heavy heart, I reached the bothy, left my bag, and made the final one kilometre journey to Rubbha Hunish, the very northernmost point on Skye.
When I returned, I had my can of Faith looking at an amazing sunset. Long distance walking is a beautiful, beautiful thing. At times, it’s crushingly difficult, and at times, it’s superbly blissful. You miss the most basic things – a chair seems like the height of luxury, as does water that doesn’t taste of chlorine, but you also realise how much you don’t miss. It clears the head of distraction, and leaves you with a lasting sense of serenity. The Skye Trail was a beautiful journey and is one I’d commend anyone and everyone to do. A wise man (Hazey) once said, “Getting to the start is the hardest part, and if you make it there, you’ve already won”, and to me, he is spot on. Book the bus, pack your bag, and just go, and after that, the trail will provide everything you need.
Oscar Outdoors 