Day 274: Fionnphort to Carsaig

To visit the second arch requires a real head for heights, hillwalking experience, extreme care, and decent weather. The path is more of a sheep path and any slip would be fatal.

The Walkhighlands website has this cheery description of a popular there-and-back walk from Carsaig Bay to Carsaig Arches.

John, the B&B owner, considers my planned route while I enjoy a delicious cooked breakfast. He points out an alternative track through the hills to the coast. There’s a way down the cliffs to the rocky shoreline, following the narrow strip round to the arches from the opposite direction, connecting with the official path, all passable at high tide. I trust him as he’s fished these waters for 30 years. We study the OS map.

“You can scramble down to the left of the waterfall.”

“As you look up or down?”

“Down.”

I have my doubts given the contour lines.

The bus driver between Fionnphort and Craignure will drop me off wherever I want, which is handy as the overland route starts in the middle of nowhere.

A wide track climbs gently up the hills and across a shallow ford above a waterfall.

A warning sign bars my way into the forest but I can’t turn back. These signs are often fixed in place for the shooting season, regardless of whether there is activity on a particular day. I don’t hear any shots so push on, listening carefully.

George Campbell, a fisherman, was only 25 when he caught his foot in a rope attached to a lobster pot which he was throwing overboard and drowned.

Emerging from the forest, a breathtaking view appears. A photograph can’t capture the sheer scale of the cliffs, the moorland falling away sharply as though someone took a giant bite out of the land. I feel on the edge of the world. Thank you, John.

There is no obvious path. I try to follow sheep trails or just cut across the moorland to approach the left side of the stream disappearing over the cliff edge. Suddenly, a large bird of prey — an eagle? — bursts from the ground in front of me and soars into the sun. Another surge of emotion and suddenly, laughing, tears run down my face. I received a message this morning from a friend about a terrible diagnosis for his son, only slightly older than my children — the swirl of conflicting emotions overwhelms me.

Edging closer to the waterfall, peering over the edge, the water plummets down a 200-foot drop. “Climb down to the left of the waterfall.” Is he insane?

The view is staggering and I’m glad I came this way but now what? I don’t want to retrace my steps to the road, so decide to work my way along the top of the cliffs following sheep trails.

After crossing the stream and climbing a peak, I look back to the waterfall and notice a narrow track across the grassy bank to the right of the base of the waterfall. Did John get his left and right wrong? I trudge back down the hill and sure enough, a hundred yards past the waterfall, a concealed grass-covered gully appears. It’s very steep but safe to clamber down.

To help anyone else hiking this route, I mark the descent on my OS app screenshot.

It’s amazing to see the water thundering down the cliffs from where I stood a short while ago. I feel rather tiny down here, an insignificant speck trapped between these mighty cliffs and the sea.

Passing the waterfall and a shingle beach, the way ahead does not look promising. I can’t scramble over boulders like these for three miles to the arches.

I try to skirt above the rocks on narrow sheep trails. Looking back, the tiny path to the left of the waterfall is what I spotted from high up. You need a head for heights as the grass slope is very steep. I did cut down to the shoreline at one point as I was not comfortable.

I strain my neck to look up at the towering stepped cliffs.

Progress is slow and I stop twice, checking the tide, the narrow terrain ahead and my OS map. Should I turn back?

Eventually, the shoreline flattens slightly and there are a couple of grassy patches below the cliffs where I could camp if necessary, albeit on a slope, which gives me comfort should John be wrong about the high tide mark.

Movement on the ridge catches my eye — a stag leading a herd of deer and goats.

This is hard work and I’m soaked in sweat, stripped down to my base layer.

Finally, I round the headland and see the magnificent arches before me. A perfect spot to throw down the pack and enjoy a late lunch, secure in the knowledge that the official path starts from here and I can reach my destination regardless of the tide.

I can see the precipitous path winding above the first arch. One of the benefits of my route is removing any decision about walking this section — I have no choice.

Exploring the cave, I find a backpack and jacket on the shore, soaking wet. Has someone left his? Presumably, they dropped it from the path above and were too nervous to retrieve it. For a horrible moment, I wonder whether I might find a body on the shore. Searching the pack for some identification, all I find of use is a wedding invitation. I take a photograph to post on one of the Mull Facebook groups before carrying the heavy pack above the waterline and securing it with a large rock.

The dangerous path is certainly not for anyone uncomfortable with heights, and I’m glad to reach the shore on the other side. The stunning views continue.

I’m not alone — a large herd of goats is unfazed by my presence.

Another bird of prey circles above before perching on a rock. I sit and watch for a long time, excited that it might be a rare female hen harrier, but it turns out only to be a buzzard.

A lone goat chills out by the water.

I’m relieved to see Carsaig Bay. The excitement and exertion of the walk have drained me, physically and mentally, given the need to concentrate on every step.

The light is fading quickly and I’m struggling to find anywhere to pitch. A gnomic little fellow with a grey pointy beard and bright orange hat appears from the trees carrying a pile of driftwood. Am I that tired? Then he speaks but not in a language I understand. I gesture to my tent and open my palms. He points to his camper van parked near an old stone jetty and a grassy hollow beneath a lone oak tree, a shelter for travellers through the ages. I’m wary of branches falling on my tent so squeeze into a tiny boathouse driveway.

I’m tormented by the lovely smell of wood smoke drifting down from the camper van.

The sun sets over the jetty. What a fantastic day — adventure, excitement and spectacle. The West Coast of Scotland is living up to my high hopes. What lies ahead in the years to come?

Date of walk: Monday 14 October 2024.

Walk distance: 10 miles.

Total distance: 4,611 miles.