23 February: Rum day 12

My last day on the island. And I have visited the high places – not a peak, but close enough, in the centre of the hilly part of the island. Now I feel I have been to Rum.

I retrace the now-familiar path to Coire Dubh, leaving my bike by the river. The path continues up to the centre of the corrie. From there, a reasonable route takes me up to the saddle north-west of Hallival. I shelter in the lee of any available rocks to dodge the hailstones.

I am close to Barkeval and I am tempted to “bag” it. But I am walking solo, with no walking poles, and visibility is coming and going. I decide to play safe, and take a break, sitting on a rock and eating some dark-orange chocolate as snowflakes flutter down. Hallival’s snowy peak on my right, a desolate scene in front of me – boulders, lochans, a smudgy horizon with indistinct views of the mainland.

I approach the descent back into the corrie and a deer track invites me to turn left and then contour around the corrie. The Sun is beginning to emerge and views are opening up, linking up the different places I have visited in the last two weeks – the bay, adjacent peninsula, nature-reserve track.

As I walk, I mull over the young ones and why we haven’t quite bonded as a group. Am I the problem? Is it age related? Perhaps it’s normal for young people not to say good morning to each other, or not share their treats when they are on a tight budget. Or to not want to formally organise cleaning and cooking.

I now know that “…” is no go in terms of texting punctuation (Madeleine rolled her eyes, as though this was the most pointless thing anyone could do) and a sentence-ending full point is apparently perceived as aggressive. This I can understand, if you consider the emotive force behind the emphatic, “Period”. But what about replying to messages – Including the offer of a celebratory drink. Do the young only bother to reply in certain instances? And then there was three of us going to Kilmory, individually, on three consecutive days. 😂 Had we all had enough of each other?

Scott has continued to withdraw, ensconced in his room – whilst maintaining friendly contact with me and Leah. A whiff of bacon in the kitchen flagging up a bacon-sandwich existence.

I know I am grossly simplifying – apologies to young friends, I am talking bollocks. But I do feel out of kilter. On the other hand, despite some perplexity, it has been a wonderful trip. And, who knows, I could be back another year.

The snowy maelstrom changes to a benignly sunny, peaceful glen. I sit and eat the rest of the chocolate bar. And the ache, the longing, I feel when I look at this watery, ephemeral paradise merges with yearning for my departed father. I have been missing him sorely.

At the western edge of the corrie, modestly proportioned Meall Breac beckons. As I walk up its gentle slopes I look west to a distinctive dome: The Black Hill. To the east, far away on the mainland, the snowy peaks of Kintail (?) are revealed. Wonderful.

The final stretch, to bring me back to my bike, is un-pathed tussocky grass. It is exhausting, and I notice I am using exactly the same muscles as walking through deep snow. I look out for deer tracks that will reduce the depth my feet sink. And it is a relief to find the original track once again. My bike is well positioned for a last dip. It is scintillatingly, exhilaratingly cold.

At the bunkhouse, the necessity of taking bags of rubbish down to the jetty, and a general clean, is an unavoidable anti-climax. But these things have to be done.