11 February: Glenuig to Mallaig

Chinks of blue sky. I try not to get too excited.

My hostess, Rona, is planning to travel to Orkney tonight. “People tell me, why bother – the weather is going to be terrible. But I put on my wet-weather gear, go out and get wet and then come back and have a bath. What’s the problem.”

I divert west to check out the hamlet of Smirisary at the end of the peninsula. In daylight the track passing the village hall, so challenging in the pitch dark, is ridiculously benign. Looming rain clouds chase me on my way. 

Resuming my itinerary I spin around Loch Ailort. The hotel on the edge of Lochailort is closed. Drat. Coffee gratification must wait until Arisaig. But in the meantime there is mile after gorgeous mile of water, hills, woodland, skies. I’m on an A road now but – apparently, still – the only tourist out. Apart from motor home cruisers niched into lochside lay-bys. The closest to sun I’ve yet seen lights distant hills. Other worldly.

At Inverailort I am surprised by a massive abandoned house. I later learn it was used by the SEO (Special Operations Executive) for 2WW training, and was never returned to its original function. The road, completed around 1966, is known to the locals as The New Road. So Family Skillman must have been some of the first holiday makers to use it.

Shortly after Lochailort there are regular crossover points with the single-track railway that runs from Oban to Mallaig. I’m looking forward to travelling on it on my return south.

Arisaig delights with an open café. I’m not hungry but a bowl of soup will keep me out of the rain, until the best weather of the day arrives. As Elton John’s “Daniel” plays, I have an emotional moment. Arisaig has many associations. Neither me or my sisters will forget the skinny dipping in 1976 (?), on the sands just north. Dad infuriated us by immortalising the moment on camera. In most ways nothing has changed. Except the volume of traffic. There are now double yellow lines and absurd signage. I feel excessively smug on my oh so manoeuvrable bike. And deliriously happy when the beach is briefly lit by faltering sunshine.

The rest of the day is an unpredictable mixture of rain and sunshine.

Arriving at my destination, Mallaig, mid pm, I watch a laden boat – from one of the islands, to judge by its load – attempting to berth. The landing angle is misjudged and the boarding ramp has to be winched down a second time. Many are the complications involved in living in these remote places.

I love a harbour, especially an operating one. But I remember a visit with my friend Kevin in 2017, when we learned that the crews come from NE England, the fishing ever further from port as fish populations diminish, and the catches shipped straight out of the area.

I check in to the Mission House bunkhouse – run by a lovely Bulgarian woman. She has lived here for 10 years but this winter has been the worst, with the town ravaged by storms for 6 weeks in a run. 

In the living room a rough-edged character (please forgive my language, and my snap judgment) is watching TV. I’m guessing a social housing dimension. 

On the recommendation of my hostess I retrace my route back to Morar, and take the road to the loch. I must have been there on that same family holiday but have no memory of it. The first glimpse is hallucinogenic. The light continues to dance: brooding clouds juxtaposed with late-afternoon sun spotlighting stands of Scots pine. 

All this becomes a backdrop for a Sisters WhatsApp call. It’s an important conversation. But there are pluses and minuses in technology’s capacity to connect us.

In view of the slightly peculiar vibe in the bunkhouse I take myself out for supper. I can heartily recommend the Chlachain Inn. Or certainly the Thai-style risotto with smoked haddock. Taking fusion cuisine to an arguably silly height. I live dangerously by following this with lemon cheesecake. Apologies, liver. And it’ll be fruit for breakfast.