18 February: Rum day 7

Yesterday’s coffee does for me – I am awake most of the night. But I finish William Boyd’s The Romantic, an enjoyable romp through the 19th century based on the loves, adventures, twists and turns of the lead character. It feels suitable reading material for my little Scottish adventure. But I wonder whether it was wise to take myself away from my island present moment to quite such an extent. I make a point of not starting to read another book.

My plan for the day is to cycle to Harris, on the west side of the island, and then see if the weather allows climbing one of the hills near to base. I take the left fork, instead of the route I took to Kilmory yesterday. The track climbs steadily, solid stone bridges crossing a number of streams. There is the remains of a quarry and a dam. Evocative of the atmosphere of that time.

I have been casual about charging my bike battery and see that am running low. I decide to leave the bike before the track starts to descend, and I walk the last mile or so down to the bay.

I hear the bellow of the muckle coos before I see them. Emerging out of the gloom they are intimidating. But in fact completely uninterested in me. (When I return a couple of hours later, they don’t seem to have budged at all.) 

Shortly afterwards, I come across a number of ponies, and then – on the beach – goats. A four-legged fest.

The track snakes down towards Harris, and I catch sight of the preposterous mausoleum, an enormous Doric temple of polished sandstone containing three large sarcophagi. Built around 1900 it is “an echo of classical Greece standing in splendid isolation against the sublime backdrop of the Cuillin; also, a monument to the inflated ego of the Bulloughs” – the Bulloughs being the owners of the island before they sold it to the Nature Conservancy Council in 1957.

The coast here is spectacular. Very different rock from yesterday. The waves hammering.

Retracing my steps, to walk back up the track to my bike, I watch a group of goats running across the turf and then crossing a stream. A white kid is stranded on a hillock, bleating helplessly while its mother watches from the other side of the stream. My presence isn’t helping and I have to leave them to it.

The cloud remains low, with an occasional sliver of silver on the sea as the Sun penetrates. The hills remain enshrouded. Rum is yielding its secrets reluctantly. 

I have fun playing in a waterfall off the track back to Kinloch. I consider positioning myself under the full flow of the waterfall but it doesn’t feel safe – the cold, remoteness and slippy stones. So I get as close as I dare. It is yelp-out-loud cold.

I am still hoping that the peaks will clear, mid afternoon. All I need is an hour or two to get up and down. I start to walk up to Coire Dubh but the weather doesn’t oblige. I concede defeat. It’s a pleasure, though, to see those lovely Scots pines again.

I am the first back at the bunkhouse. So I finish cooking the quiches started yesterday and hope that the others will be back in time to join me for supper. Simon chooses to eat in his bedroom. This is so unsatisfactory.

The girls return shortly afterwards, having had a very long walk. I have no regrets about having done my own thing. 

I broach the subject of our overspending and suggest a couple of ways of remediating it. These seem to go down okay – a relief, I have been over cogitating.

In digging around to try to find out about the mausoleum, I found myself on the Rum website. Check out https://www.isleofrum.com/amazing-rum/  regarding how the community works here. Including how, historically, Rum’s population was different from many islands because the islanders were here to work on estate. This is the root of the unsatisfactory housing situation on the island.

Looking at photos of the island in the summer, I realise quite what I am missing, these cold February days!