I set off to Kilmory in hail. Catching up with Scott, walking up the track, I rightly guess that he is heading for his bridge. (“I just need to check a few things.”) I divert off my route to walk there with him, and have no difficulty expressing my appreciation of his craftsmanship. The bridge looks great. He shows me a photo of a plaque he has designed, with nails spelling out his name. He has drilled away the tops so that they can never be removed. The plaque itself is screwed under the bridge. It is inconceivable that it will be seen or removed. Immortality.
I continue on my way, rain coming and going. As I approach the descent into Kilmory bay, sun illuminates the landscape. I have heart-stopping views across to Skye.
On the beach I take off my walking boots to cross the river that disgorges ever more broadly into the sea. It looks twice as wide as last time I was here. And the cold and discomfort are weirdly difficult to deal with.
I walk around to the next bay, flagged up by Alex as smaller and more secluded. On the way, lining a curiously wet depression dipping down to the sea, is a ruined hamlet. The tuft-hopping, walking boot-immersive bog experience is strenuous, and I am well heated up by the time I arrive at the second beach. Perfect for a plunge into the sea. It is easy to motivate myself: when am I next going to get the opportunity to swim with a view of the snowy Cuillen. I go in twice. And observe my body turning pink, from head to toe. I run around the beach naked. Because I can. A life-affirming and unforgettable experience.
Looking at the map I realise I know the area I am looking across to well: Elgol, Bla Bheinn and Loch Scavaig. There are memories wherever I am in Scotland. It was in a converted black house, where I was holidaying with Juan, in 2001, that news of the 9/11 attack broke. During that trip we walked along Loch Scavaig to Camasunary, and then Loch Coruisk via the infamous “bad step“. I wonder if that dodgy and terrifying navigation of a huge rock, with the very real risk of falling off into the sea, is still a feature of the path.
Before I leave Kilmory I make contact with the ranger, who has arrived in a jeep. She is part of the deer-study team. After 50 years research I wonder how much more needs to be known about this animal that is now the wrong side of the environmental debate. Although some of the results of their earlier research were used by teams on the mainland in their decisions about culling, this is not what the researchers want now as it would upset their data.
I stop at the village shop and agonise over whether to buy 10 or 12 eggs for an omelette for supper. I could have saved myself the angst: at the bunkhouse a shipment of tinned beans and soup packet mix has arrived, courtesy of Madeleine‘s father. As Alex puts it, Madeleine can supply the Small Isles with soup for the foreseeable future. I should be grateful, but I find myself thinking, we could easily and cheaply get these things from the village shop – a case of wine, some fine cheese, and a stash of chocolate would have gone down better!
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