Day 350: Lochailort to Smirisary

Sunday is the day of rest, and I make the most of it, lying in bed until mid-morning before lingering over a long breakfast in the communal kitchen.

Tamara, a young German woman, was the one leaving footprints in the snow yesterday for me to follow. She’s hiking the Cape Wrath Trail with a thin insulation mat and no stove, microspikes or crampons. I can’t decide if she’s incredibly tough or foolish. Possibly both. She’s not happy that the Sourlies Bothy mice ate her trail food. I made the right decision to camp.

I’m so late that Jenny, who runs the bunkhouse with her husband Ben, arrives to clean the kitchen. She’s happy to work round me and chat. They’ve managed the place for a few years and hope to build a house nearby. The Knoydart Foundation runs a points-based system to ensure it attracts the right people, scoring based on how long you have lived on the peninsula, your skill set (that would rule me out), and how much you have contributed to the community. I like it. Jenny knows everyone, apart from one recluse. There was a major population increase last year – three babies! The children run free. I can see why it attracts those seeking a different life.

Outdoor entertainment lies within the trees on the coast road to the Old Forge, where I enjoy a tasty roast lunch.

Back at the bunkhouse, I chat to Steve and Karen, part of a small group of hikers spending a week on the peninsula. Karen paints in the dining room while Steve, a regular visitor, describes some of the more challenging hikes.

The common room has a rather amorous large dog, Skye, that, in an excruciatingly embarrassing sequence of events, refuses to stop humping a poor young lad sitting on the sofa, with the ineffectual owner trying to call him off. The excited dog tries his luck with me, but both hands firmly round his throat with a light squeeze establishes who’s the Alpha.

Next day

The early morning ferry to Mallaig, barely visible in the damp gloom, seems much bigger than the one I sailed on last time.

It’s only when I reach the jetty that I see it’s not a ferry. A man leans against a doorframe, happy to answer questions. This is a support vessel for the salmon farms along the coastline up to the Shetland Isles, hoovering fish into large tubes, running through warm water and emptying back into the nets. The temperature difference kills the sea lice.

The real ferry arrives, unloads supplies, and we board. I’ve left my hat in the bunkhouse, too busy chatting as I left the lounge. This is not good. Although my top two layers have hoods, I don’t like to be cocooned, detached from my surroundings. I can put up with cold and windy weather quite comfortably with my beanie hat, whilst also feeling immersed in the landscape.

I’m filling a gap today, catching the train south to Lochailort and hiking along the coast road to Glenuig, before exploring the headland.

The A861 contours Loch Ailort. It’s reasonably quiet with pretty views. I’m immediately distracted by a crumbling manor house, Inverailort House, with locked gates and warning signs. Pushing through trees to the rear of the property, I bypass the fences and walk round the perimeter, peering into broken windows. This was another building requisitioned during World War II as a training centre for Commandos and Special Operations.

Despite the grey drizzle, the long loch is beautiful, flanked by rocky slopes. Now, every time I see a salmon farm, I think of sea lice.

Someone is inspired by the Duke of Wellington statue in Glasgow.

An otter surfaces briefly by the shore before vanishing beneath the seaweed. I remain still and wait for some time without any joy.

Finally, the loch opens out into the sea, where a moored fishing boat tosses in the wind before the Small Isles.

Passing Glenuig and my room at the inn, I follow a road toward Smirisary Bay, which ends at a small collection of houses. A man appears with a border collie and sets off up a path into the woodland. This is also my route.

I branch off to take some photos and lose my guide. A descent through the trees brings me to the lip of a wide horseshoe facing the sea, sheltering a collection of small cottages. The man with the collie is standing at the doorway to one of the buildings, talking to a man, presumably the resident. I’m so busy watching them that I slip on the bank, legs sliding away from under me, and fall on my bum. That’s never a cool look. I hope they did not see that.

Smirisary was a tiny subsistence crofting community. There are no roads in, so supplies must either come via the path I’ve taken or by sea. A fellow blogger, Salt Air and Sea Pinks, recommended I visit here after she read Spade among the Rushes by Margaret Leigh, first published in 1949, an account of the author’s life here as a crofter during World War II. I’m glad I came.

The path out of the village is wilder than expected, and it’s a hard slog over rough and very boggy terrain, but worth it. This has to be one of the most beautiful wild camping spots I’ve found, a white beach nestled below the cliffs, a large expanse of flat grass, a fresh water supply and fine views of Rum and Eigg. I wish I could cancel my room at the inn.

Retracing my steps, the views inland are gorgeous.

The Glenuig Inn is friendly and pleasant, but the restaurant serves the meanest portion of venison stew known to man for £17. I could have eaten three bowls that size, and I’m not a big eater. Regardless, it’s been another wonderful day, better than I’d expected, given half the day consisted of road walking in the rain. These small peninsulas are fantastic places to explore.

Date of walk: Monday 16 February 2026.

Walk distance: 14 miles.

Total distance: 5,620 miles.