A short section today, so a leisurely morning waiting for the Visitor Centre cafe to open. They don’t serve cooked food until noon, but I met the chef last night, picking herbs from the garden, and he kindly rustles me up some bacon and eggs. It’s midday before I head back down the road to the sea, leaving the Centre nestled beneath the hills.
It’s a pleasant afternoon for a gentle walk north along the quiet coast road.
The path branches from the road at Imachar. An oystercatcher, perched on a rock, whistles and stares in the direction of the echo from the cliffs. He strikes up an endless series of calls. Does he recognise his own voice or is this a doomed courtship?
I pass a couple of tiny burial grounds before reaching the pretty village of Pirnmill.
Time to leave the coast at Thundergay and trek into the hills to camp 1,000 feet up at Coire Fhionn Lochan. A guy coming down tells me there is nowhere to pitch, as the pebble beach can’t hold pegs in the wind, and the beach is surrounded by bog. I’ve learnt not to be put off by others, although it doesn’t sound promising.
As I climb higher, the blue sky is replaced by grey clouds.
The lochan is deserted apart from a couple of backpackers who want to camp here but are worried about the weather forecast and not being able to find a secure spot to pitch. They disappear over the rim of the corrie, leaving me alone. My tent is just small enough to fit on a tiny grassy knoll on the beach.
As I have the place to myself, I strip off for a freezing dip in the water. It feels great when I slip into a warm sleeping bag.
The cloud slowly creeps down from the ridge. A solitary bird swims across the lochan, just a dark outline, before diving down for food. Rain begins to fall — silence, apart from the occasional bird call, ringing round the corrie.
Music? Am I hearing things? A young man appears out of the mist, followed by three companions, strung out at intervals. We chat briefly about possible pitch spots, and they work their way round the bog to the other side of the lochan, vanishing into the gloom. I don’t see or hear them again.
I’m woken in the middle of the night by strong winds and rain. Perched on the knoll, I’ve pitched too high, allowing the wind to whip up the sides of the knoll, under the tarp, carrying the rain. To make matters worse, I left one storm door rolled up for ventilation, and the wind has changed direction, swirling round the corrie, so rain is also blowing in from the side. I make the fatal mistake of trying to undo the flap toggle in the dark and twist it the wrong way a few times, making it almost impossible to undo when soaking wet. Flipping my headtorch on, I hold my towel up against the rain blowing in, taking a several minutes to undo the toggle. Finally battened down, carefully positioned in the middle of the tent, I’m dry for the night so all is well, but another lesson learned!
Walk distance: 8 miles.
Total distance: 2,034 miles.
On one of my earler visits to Arran (over 40 years ago!) I remember walking to the loch and can still recall that magical/awe inspiring feeling on arrival. Wonderful spot – although no dipping in the loch for me.
Shame about your weather.
Lovely to share the same place. On the way up I passed quite a few people coming down who had been swimming / paddle boarding (inflatables) in the lochan during the day. I can imagine it’s a bit of a sun trap.
Glad you survived without losing the tent or getting wet. Sounds an idyllic spot.
I suspect I may be adding quite a few miles to my coastal walk as I’m tempted to explore inland and camp in the hills and mountains, as I work round the west coast of Scotland.