The Roof of Britain Kayak Expedition - Part 2/3
By Sean Morley & Ian Wilson

The Cuillin Mountains were obliterated by thick oily clouds. In my mind's eye I had pictured Skye, perhaps the most romantic of all the Hebridean islands. It had looked nothing like the real image that now presented itself. The steep low cliffs backed by forbidding hills under a gloomy sky. We entered the Sound of Sleat, a steep choppy sea making the going difficult despite the flooding tide. At last conditions began to improve.

The rain had stopped and the sun was starting to come out, it was actually warming up. I was feeling really strong and was enjoying the fun of the surf as we shot along, waiting for the nose of the boat to start to dip as the next wave picked up the back of the boat. A quick sprint and you were on it, roaring down the face. I find surfing so exhilarating using the power of the sea to push you along. Sean was also having a great time and between sprints, when the two of us tried to out do each other with the longest surf ride, we swapped stories and told jokes. This really was the life!

There was the promise of a bed at Ornsay, a friend of a friend - you know how it is, but that was too far. We had to settle for Armadale Bay where we knew there would be a phone and fresh water. There appeared to be lots of places to pitch a tent on the lush green grass. Closer inspection revealed it to be salt marsh riven with little gullies and ankle breaking pot holes. Eventually we found a solid piece of turf, just a few feet above the high water mark. I was conscious again of the imminent spring tides and we waited until we could be certain of pitching the tent without it being flooded . The morning tide would be higher again so we would have to be up bright and early. Phone calls made to the coastguard and respective partners, I was happy about the progress we had made in what could only be described as crap conditions but Ian's thoughts were with Teresa:

We phoned the girls, neither was very happy. It does not matter how many times a year I go away it's never easy leaving Teresa and the kids, if you have a loving family I do not suppose you get used to being away. It's a good job I never remember how guilty I feel or how much I miss them when I'm away or I would never get out of the front door.

We used the toilet at the nearby boat yard. Cor! A sit down job! We were shattered by the days effort and it was tent, grub, bed in rapid succession.

Day 4 Armadale Bay to Applecross Bay (39 miles)

I did not sleep well, whether it was the rain squalls rattling the tent or the subliminal worry about the morning high tide, I'm not sure. I woke with a start just after 6.00am. Quickly looking outside, the sea had crept silently to within two feet of our tent. I shook Ian, still deep in sleep.

"I think we had better get a move on!"

As it was the tide came no closer and we were able to eat our porridge without getting wet. It had given us an early start though and by 8.00am we were getting into our paddling gear. Ian describes the daily ritual:

The next morning was a fairly early start and we were more organised packing away our kit, plus we only had to carry the boats a few feet to the water's edge. It was raining and cold, our canoeing clothing had been hanging on the fence all night and was soaked. I have been canoeing since I was seven, for the last ten years I have been paddling at least four times a week all year round, but I still cannot get used to the feeling of putting on wet canoe gear. You see, in our house I am not allowed to bring my canoe kit in the house; something about it smelling; so unless I dry it in the car during the day or find a boiler room at work, it stays on the line all year round. Now the car thing is okay but it can make passengers gag when they get in - I suppose the smell of wet rubber booties and cagoules has its own particular bouquet! I was slung out of the boiler room at work because of the fire risk when I filled it full of tents and climbing kit - some rules are so strange!

Paddling out of the bay we were into a following sea. The wind was being funnelled up the Sound of Sleat and we made excellent progress towards the island of Ornsay, gliding through the shallows into the small port.

It was raining heavily as we trudged into the only shop, water dripping all over the bare floor boards. It was busy with local people getting their morning paper and bottle of milk. No-one batted an eyelid as we searched the shelves for something tasty. They must get visitors dressed in neoprene skirts all the time! As we discussed what we could supplement the days lunch with Ian performed a neat juggling trick with a can of beans. As it slipped from his grasp he batted it across the room narrowly missing a display of carefully placed bone-china trinkets, probably worth a small fortune.

"I thought it was set up for bar billiards", he explained.

"Do you take credit card?" he asked the shopkeeper.

We left the shop in tears of laughter and found shelter from the downpour in a marquee erected on the harbour side. It was the remains of a very posh do; chandeliers, 'champers', the lot. We felt a little incongruous as we sat there, our warm bodies slowly steaming. When it was time to head off again we both felt the urge as soon as we stepped out into the cold. Having completed our business against the nearest hedge I was just adjusting myself when a very smart looking woman appeared from around the corner.

"Do you work here?" she asked in a very English accent.

"We were sheltering from the rain" I explained.

"You're in my garden" she exclaimed indignantly.

I did not bother to communicate any further.

I puzzled as to what job she thought we might have been performing. Perhaps all her servants dress in dry cags, waterproof trousers and wetsuit boots!

Our delay had been deliberate. We were about to enter Kyle Rhea, a fjord-like channel between Skye and the mainland. The tide would be flowing at up to 8 knots in the wrong direction and would not be turning for another couple of hours at least. We decided to push on anyway - at least the wind was behind us. The channel narrowed until the steep wooded cliffs engulfed us. Dramatic falls of brown peaty water cascaded down hidden gullies as if the very mountains themselves were bleeding to death in some sacrificial act. A pair of Peregrine falcons shrieked obscenities as we passed underneath. The wind was more than a match for the tide so long as we hugged the shore. The six foot swell kicked up by the weather tide helped us surf past each rocky outcrop. It was stunning scenery despite the miserable weather and I revelled in being able to defeat the opposing tide.

We reached the reverse eddy in the bay of Bagh Dunan Ruadh without a problem. The next section presented a bit more of a challenge though. The channel was just three hundred meters wide and we were reminded of the speed of the south flowing tide as a large Royal Fleet Auxiliary vessel came crashing down through the standing waves at high speed. It was an impressive sight and was evidence of the depth and volume of water rushing through the narrow gap. At first glance there appeared to be no way that we would be able to paddle against it. On closer inspection however it was apparent that if we hopped the eddies along the Skye shoreline we could just about do it. After a couple of careless break-ins where the tide swept us 180 degrees back the way we had come we got the angle right and with the speed of the Inuks we were able to paddle upstream against the flow. We were being watched, not just by the passengers and crew of the ferry working the narrow crossing, but also by a gang of seals fishing and playing in the eddy lines. As we finally made it into the reverse eddy by the lighthouse half way up the narrowest part of Kyle Rhea we came across a colony of a hundred or more seals of all shapes and sizes. The young pups had possibly never seen a kayak before and could not have been taught about the historical use of the craft in Arctic waters. They came to within a few feet before diving in a melodramatic flail of fins. One youngster had obviously watched too many 'Flipper' episodes as he came leaping past with carefree abandon. We just floated and admired their agility in the water. Any attempts to photograph them were hopeless as they deliberately dived at the critical moment.

We could have sat there all day but we were both getting hungry and we still had a few miles to do before lunch. Turning the corner into Kyle Akin the wind was on the nose again. It just goes to show that any wind forecast is almost irrelevant in these parts as the islands and glens just direct the airflow down the line of least resistance. It was a hard thrash across to Kyle of Lochalsh, passing underneath the controversial Skye Bridge. I do not pretend to understand all the issues but I have some sympathy with the opposition to such a bridge. Anything that takes away what Jim Crummley describes as the 'Island-ness' of Skye is sad and I would be the first to agree that the many ferries that serve the Hebrides should be subsidised by central government to ensure their economic viability. However, unless national and local government policy has, as its aim, to keep the young Hebrideans on the islands by providing opportunity and prosperity the identity of this place will be lost - forever.

The depopulation of the Highlands and Islands began when the Hanovarian army crushed the Jacobite uprising at the Battle of Culloden in 1745. The lairds and landlords, once dependent on their tenantry for military support found they were no longer able to raise arms. At the same time they realised there was more profit to be had in sheep and sporting estates. The relatively large populations in the glens and on the islands of Scotland's west coast, were forced off their crofts and given little option but to emigrate, mostly to Canada and America which they did in great numbers. The Clearences continued until the Crofter's Act of 1886 when a degree of security of tenure was introduced. Emigration caused by unemployment and the promise of 'a better life' in the cities continued through the twentieth century and only recently has the trend been reversed. How many of the once empty crofts have been renovated by settlers from the city in search of 'the good life'? The interest in all things Celtic has done much to revive the economy of the Hebrides. Whether the building of a bridge will detract from the romantic ideal of the Isle of Skye is difficult to say. It has certainly made it more accessible to those lacking imagination who are slaves to the car.

Ferry gliding through Plock of Kyle we sought shelter in a gully to the north of the town. Ian did his 'chef thing' whilst I tried to find the shortest route into town. I came across an old man collecting huge lumps of coal from the side of the railway line. Relics of a bygone age they still provided good fuel, he explained. Kyle of Lochalsh is the terminus for one of the great rail journeys of Britain. With lunch eaten in warm sunshine in the undergrowth to escape the chill westerly wind, I volunteered to walk into town to buy some extra gas canisters. Ian had purchased a gas conversion kit for his Trangia which was proving to be very efficient, boiling a kettle in about eight minutes. He was now able to estimate how much gas we would use for the whole trip and as this was the last town for many days it seemed sensible to get it now. I left Ian sat in his boat to keep warm. Even so by the time I had returned from a successful shop he was shivering with cold.

We headed north. My original plan had been to go across to Scalpay and up through the Sound of Raasay to Iona. The Force 4-5 westerly put paid to that idea. Instead we crossed Loch Carron to the Crowlin Islands. The Skye peaks of Sgurr Mhairi, Beinn na Caillich and Bla Bheinn (926m) with the Cuillin massive behind were silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. Looking across to Ian, the sunlight turning the spray from his paddles into showers of molten metal, I was moved by the enormity of what lay ahead. We were leaving the shelter of the Inner Hebrides, heading up into the Minch and beyond to the North Atlantic. Cape Wrath, the notorious 'turning point' seemed so far away, yet it was just one of many major headlands that now lay between us and the relative sanctuary of the east coast.

Despite the strong side wind and the fact that Ian had been unable to get warm since lunch, our pace was perfectly matched. We arrived in Applecross Bay in pleasant evening sunshine. Finding a nice spot next to a stream beside a couple of wooden boats resting quietly on the turf, we soon had our kit strewn everywhere. A very tame male Chaffinch entertained us as we fed him leftover crunchy bar. He sat happily on a deck hatch whilst we prepared his and our supper. As the sun sank over the Western Isles I was reluctant to get into the tent. Another big day to come, I was making the most of being warm and dry. This was why we were here. This was just the beginning.

Day 5 Applecross Bay to Mellon Udrigle (48 miles)

I awoke early but dozed until 7.30am. The bay was calm with a light south westerly breeze just ruffling the surface. It had been a great campsite and for that reason perhaps we were in no hurry to leave. By 9.30am we were finally underway. I had a tendency to 'faff' which occasionally meant Ian was waiting for me to get my butt into my boat. It was a tail wind again. I made a silent prayer of thanks to whoever was responsible because we needed a big mileage day if we were to reach our goal of the Summer Isles. We surfed past the Royal Navy exercise area off Ru na Lachan. I could see someone watching us from the traffic control tower as we sped past at around seven knots. We were now due east of the northern tip of Rona with its gleaming white lighthouse. This narrow island ridge is high on my list for a return visit. Further west the broken ridge on the Trotternish peninsular of Skye dipped towards the Outer Hebrides, clearly visible on the western horizon. As we crossed Loch Torridon the three great mountains of Liathach, Beinn Eighe and Beinn Alligin dominated the view inland, cumulus cloud just caressing the high summits. I took a photo of Ian; he had climbed most of the mountains in the Torridon range but he had never seen them from this angle.

We were reminded of how far north we were by the first of many Great Skua. These powerful birds would glide low towards us, checking us out to see if we were edible, angling away at the last moment. We passed Red Point, our progress slowed by opposing tide. Without a break we pushed on to Longa Island, in the entrance to Loch Gairloch. Ian was going well. His ability to surf his Inuk down the steep following seas whilst I floundered around in his wake, convinced me that my rear hatch was full of water. The large hatch cover was several years old and quite perished. I had decided it would do one more expedition but I was concerned it may be letting in water whenever it was rough. I inspected it at lunch time - the rear compartment was dry, so I had no excuse I had to face facts - Ian was supremely fit and his confidence and familiarity with his kayak was increasing with each day. I would do well just to keep up with him.

There was no beach on the island but having paddled non-stop for three and a half hours we were both desperate for a break. We hauled the kayaks over large rounded boulders above the surge of the small swell. We ate lunch in the lee of a low cliff in the entrance to a cave the size of a double garage. A gang of seals we had accidentally disturbed on our way in came to see what we were up to. Ian posed for more photos. His father ran a business importing vacuum bagged Saarlander sausages from Germany. These mini 'Bullets' really hit the spot when we were feeling hungry. During a long trip I have found that just eating high energy cereal bars leaves you craving something savoury. A couple of 'Bullets' were a convenient way of taking the edge off that desire. Having scoffed half a packet of Chinese noodles, a Fruitini and half a plum loaf each we were ready to make more miles. The falling tide had exposed a forest of two-foot-tall kelp between the boats and the water. Sliding up to our waists between the boulders and mindful of the many sea urchins, we heaved the reluctant boats back into the sea. By the time we had accomplished this we were hungry again!

Following the coast due north we approached Rubha Reigh. Huge caverns and countless sea stacks kept us fascinated, then under the lighthouse, seemingly one of the few that is occupied, Ian pointing out the clothes fluttering on the washing line in the stiff breeze. We landed on the isolated beach of Camas Mor, the virginal sand and vertical stacks reminiscent of the golden beaches of Cornwall's north coast. A quick toilet break trying to not feel guilty about soiling somewhere so perfectly pristine, we made yet another big crossing to Greenstone point eight miles away. The flat headland of layered Torridonian sandstone, 'one of the oldest rocks in the world' Ian informed me, seemed to take forever to reach. The western horizon was darkening with the approach of a warm front. The wind picked up as we crossed Loch Ewe. I doubt if the crew of the Royal Navy destroyer even saw us as they entered the loch behind us. By now it was raining and the wind was steadily increasing. The Summer Isles were another ten miles of open water away. We decided to head into Gruinard Bay to the curiously named Mellon Udrigle which, according to my map, at least had a telephone. As we arrived Ian spotted an 'old' lady walking her dog on the crescent of white sand. She might have been advanced in years but she was 'young' enough to paddle her own sea kayak out to the many islands that litter the bay. She warned us that unless we asked permission at the croft up on the hill, we were likely to be kicked off the grassed sand dunes that formed a most basic campsite. The concept of paying to pitch our tent was somewhat alien to us and I am still not sure what we actually got for our £2 - there were no toilets or fresh water provided, but we worked quickly and efficiently to get the tent up so that we could shelter from the steady drizzle.

Ian was at it again. He went up to a very smart looking caravan to ask if he could use their washing line to hang his wet kit on. Within minutes we were ensconced on their luxurious sofa consuming tea and ginger cake. Ian warned me with a look that did not need reinforcing with words. He did not intend moving from that spot until he absolutely had to. I went off to phone the coastguard and Linda whilst he did what he does best.

I returned three quarters of an hour later to find him still chatting away to the very pleasant couple. Chris, it turned out, spent most of the year at Mellon. He had left in December last year returning again in February. His partner joined him whenever she could. Chris reassured us that it is lovely there when the sun shines and I am sure he is right. It was just a shame that right then the warm front had brought visibility down to less than five miles and it was not looking good for the next days paddle.

Before going to sleep Ian and I chatted about the trip so far. I had come to the conclusion that it was not what you do that matters but who you do it with. During my journey around Devon and Cornwall I had become incredibly lonely. It took me by surprise and I did not really have a strategy to deal with it. I missed Linda to the point where I became desperate to finish the paddle, somewhat undermining the adventure. Before this trip I had mentally prepared myself for this and Ian's company meant that I was really very content. Of course I still have the same feelings for Linda and was already looking forward to seeing her again, but although sometimes alone during a long crossing or because I felt like some space, I was never lonely. Ian proved to be the perfect travelling companion and I was so pleased he had agreed to come with me.

Forecast for the next day? 3-4 sou'sou'westerly increasing 7-8 later!

Day 6 Mellon Udrigle to Reiff (13 miles)

One look outside confirmed the forecast had been accurate. It was drizzling and the western horizon was an ugly, dark shade of grey. Well into the routine now we had the boats packed and we were away by 8.30am. We could just about make out Achiltibue on the mainland behind the Summer Isles so we felt confident of at least getting some mileage out of the day. Our first waypoint was the eastern side of Priest Island. Once we came out from its lee we began to feel the first gusts from the impending gale. Heading for the northern tip of Tanera Beg, the smaller of the two main Summer Isles, the sea began to build. We were doing a broad reach with the occasional surf run. We saw several Great Skua, thugs of the bird world. One flew directly at me low and fast, staring me right in the eye as if trying to intimidate me. It worked, the thickset shoulders and hooked beak looked quite menacing from three feet away!

The tops of the five to six foot chop began breaking over us. We took a line straight for Reiff Bay, Ian dealing well with the increasing seas, the biggest he had ever been out in he revealed later. The Inuks held their line despite the oblique angle of the swell but as we approached Reiff Bay it was becoming apparent that to continue would be foolhardy. After Reiff Bay was the major headland of Rubha Coigeach with little prospect of a safe landing if we needed it. Our only option was to wait for the wind to drop. We looked into Reiff Bay but the surf made the stony beach too risky. We decided to head into the small bay to the north which should at least offer some shelter from the breaking seas. A tricky paddle with seas breaking all around us confirmed our decision to get ashore as quickly as possible before the storm really blew in. As we came into the bay I was disappointed to find just a steep storm beach of large boulders and no sand whatsoever. We had no choice but to gingerly get out on the smoothest rock we could find and haul the boats above the high water mark. I apologised silently to Kirton Kayaks as we left deep scratches in the hulls of their works Inuks. Once they were clear of even the most determined swells we searched for a place to pitch the tent. We found the only patch of level, boulder free turf in the lee of a dry stone wall, an effective windbreak. We got the tent up quickly and dived in for a rest.

It had been an epic morning and we both felt the need to communicate with our partners. We walked alongside Loch of Reiff, a small brackish stretch of water strewn with jetsam both interesting and foul smelling, evidence of many more severe storms that have battered this lonely spot. Arriving at a small collection of houses that in these parts represents a village we met some mountain bikers out for a blast. We sheltered from the rain behind a rocky outcrop as we shared our experiences. They had not seen a phone for a least a couple of miles. We walked on. As we passed a bungalow a young girl swept onto the drive in her Golf GTI. She confirmed the nearest public phone was in the next village, twenty minutes at least on foot. This was her mother's house but she wouldn't mind us using her phone. We did not need to be asked twice. Ian and I were soon sat in the bay window, the right side of the double glazing as the wind and rain came in with a vengeance. I scored an immediate hit with the elder daughter, a middle-aged, stern faced woman dressed in a donkey jacket, jeans and men's leather boots;

"I love that picture"

I indicated a large, bold, colourful oil painting of three fishermen dragging a net in over the side of the open boat. It transpired she was the artist. It really was an excellent work. I particularly liked the way she had used a tartan pattern of blues, greys and black to represent the choppy sea.

We sat for three hours talking to mother and daughter about life in the North West. Reiff was known as 'the busiest dead end in Scotland'. The area had suffered much at the time of the Clearances and was now sparsely populated. Nearby, Achiltibue had until recently an active salmon fishing station and still has a smokery, but now most of the fishing in these waters is done for sport. Many locals still practice the crofting way of life and are part farmer and part fisherman but, to an increasing extent, the revenue-earning activities are now more likely to be related to tourism. The unpredictable weather meant you could not rely on one source of income. Despite (or perhaps because of) the distance to the nearest town, Ullapool, some thirty miles away by road, their quality of life was good. Sky TV kept them in touch with the rest of the world. It was clear though that fashion was not high on their list of priorities as mother sat talking to us in her floral dress and Wellington boots! It was good to talk to Linda on the phone, although it was apparent she was unable to comprehend just how bad the weather was here in Reiff. She was complaining about being sunburnt at home in Devon! When the children arrived after their hour long journey home from school it was time to leave. We thanked them for their hospitality leaving a pound coin beside the telephone despite mother's protests.

We ran all the way back to the tent a mile or so away along a slippery path, the rain soaking our backs. Gasping and laughing we dived into the tent soaking wet. We crashed out in our wet clothes our bodies steaming. We must have slept for well over an hour. I was awoken by sunlight through the walls of the tent. The storm had passed. A strip of blue sky the length of the Minch was coming our way. The sea was still too rough to make launching for an evening paddle an option. We set about drying our kit and hauling the boats over the narrow isthmus onto the shore of Loch of Reiff. We had decided that to launch into Reiff Bay would be safer if the swell was still big in the morning. A shallow watercourse would allow us to float the boats out of the loch and into the bay. I attempted to take a few artistic photos in the evening sunshine. The quality of light was superb, my skill in capturing it on film questionable. Large clumps of Sea Pink and thick hairy lichen clung tenaciously to the cliffs. The view back towards the Summer Isles explained how they had got their name, the rocky islets bathed in bright sunshine surrounded by a sea of deepest blue. An isolated croft in a small valley of its own demanded closer inspection. Not a bothy but clearly someone's wilderness hideaway. I was enthralled by the Hebridean sunset, Ian found his ThermaRest more attractive! Radio 4's 'Book at Bedtime' then sleep.

Day 7 Reiff to Cape Wrath (51 miles)

The plan to paddle down the loch to Reiff Bay worked well. We walked the kayaks down the manmade watercourse and launched without difficulty. There was a residual swell from the previous day's storm but we rounded Rubha Coigeach without much problem. The target for the day was Kinlochbervie or possibly Sandwood Bay, the last possible landing before Cape Wrath. It was important that we achieved big mileage again as we had lost our half day advantage because of the storm.

From Rubha Coigeach we commenced the first of the day's three big crossings. Ten miles to Point of Stoer, the lighthouse clearly visible. Sea conditions improved the further out to sea we went. The substantial north westerly swell rolled beneath us at a rate of knots. We were able to catch the occasional perpendicular runner caused by the light south westerly breeze; just enough to lift the kayaks in a forward surge for a few metres before dying back. The view to the east was dominated by Cul Mor, Suilven, Canisp and Quinag, the height of these peaks exaggerated by the surrounding ice-scoured lowland. Once as mighty as the Himalayas, the mountains of the North West are now just stumps but no less beautiful for that. The action of wind, rain and ice have left rugged, craggy summits that can provide some of the toughest mountaineering in Europe with extremes of weather and total isolation. Our excellent progress towards Point of Stoer was almost halted by big clapotis caused by the north westerly swell being reflected back off the vertical cliffs. As the rebounding wave met the oncoming swell the wave height would double, often exploding in a burst of spray. It was impossible to maintain any sort of rhythm as we were thrown first one way then the other, the bows of the Inuks slamming into each wave trough. I had to use every bit of strength I had to maintain any forward momentum, heaving the boat up the oncoming wave faces. It was the biggest swell of the journey so far and I would estimate it at around twenty feet from trough to crest. We were suffering the consequences of passing too close to the cliffs, something we would remember for the rounding of Cape Wrath where the clapotis was likely to be much more severe.

As we neared The Point, the 66 metre pinnacle of The Old Man of Stoer came into view. It was first climbed by humans in 1966 but the only rock athletes we saw were guillemots and razorbills. As soon as we got past The Old Man, the clapotis died away. We found nowhere to get out. We had been in the boats for nearly three hours. We resigned to the inevitable. Readers who have not had the pleasure (?) of sitting in a kayak for hours on end will probably be disgusted by the thought of urinating in the boat. Certainly I would not do it out of choice but the bent paddling position and constant twisting of the trunk and abdominal muscles produces an overwhelming desire to relieve the pressure on the bladder. There are catheter systems that have been used effectively on very long open crossings but we were not that well prepared. I will admit to enjoying the warm trickle down my legs and promised myself a quick dip in the sea at lunch time! The problem was that having given in once, my resistance was gone and the floodgates opened - literally. During the next two and a half hour crossing I had to go three times. My cockpit smelt pretty unpleasant I can tell you!

As we paddled away from Point of Stoer heading directly for the solid buttress of Handa Island, I began to allow a thought that had been in the back of my mind all morning to come out into the open.

As we sat consuming another pack of 'Bullets' I ran it by Ian.

"I've been thinking, with this great weather just now and a bad forecast for tomorrow...."

" I know what you are going to say, you want to do Cape Wrath tonight."

As usual we were on exactly the same wavelength. We both knew that Cape Wrath was the crux of the whole trip. Once around the Cape, we should have the wind on our backs or be in the lee of the cliffs along the north coast. At least that was the theory. I hadn't given much thought to what would happen if we were unable to get around Cape Wrath. To paddle back to Fort William the way we had come was out of the question. We would've had to leave the kayaks somewhere safe and make our way overland back to the car. It would be a costly, soul destroying fiasco. I had therefore banished such thoughts and focused on the positive. The problem was that Cape Wrath was still over twenty miles away. It was a major undertaking, a totally committed paddle and not something to be underestimated. My original plan had always been to attempt it in the morning when we would be fresh. To do it last thing in the evening after a hard 45 mile paddle was perhaps not such a good idea. We agreed to postpone a decision until we had obtained the latest weather forecast from the coastguard at lunch time.

The Cape could be seen emerging on the northern horizon. It did look tantalisingly close. But first we had to finish the crossing to Handa Island. The cloud cover was breaking and we were soon down to just rash vests. As we approached we were met by dolphins who criss-crossed our path at high speed, seemingly frustrated by our pedestrian pace. A couple of high leaps within feet of my bow and they were gone as quickly as they had arrived. Their effortless grace and vivacious energy made our efforts seem cumbersome in comparison. We could hear the thump of big swell hitting the reefs on the west face of the island. The shock waves caused by the explosive release of compressed air could be felt as well as heard. Several puffin, and many more guillemots and razorbills came to inspect us as we entered the Sound of Handa. An RSPB reserve, Handa Island is further evidence of the excellent work done by this charity. An aluminium launch ran past us ferrying more twitchers to the various hides perched high on the cliffs. I smugly contemplated how none of them were likely to ever get as close as we could to the bird and animal life of this wild place.

We arrived at Tarbet tired but in good spirits. Two major crossings behind us and with the prospect of settled weather for the rest of the day we knew that Cape Wrath was possible. We chatted to the two fishermen from the launch we had seen earlier. Red headed, thickset, Viking blood still in their hearts, they appeared contemptuous at first. But as Ian chatted to them, outlining our journey so far, their respect for us grew. They confirmed the forecast we had heard that morning predicting a blow the next day. We needed a quick lunch so that we could get back out there. We decided to splash out on a meal at the very expensive but extremely pleasant cafe over looking the small harbour. As we sat there dripping all over the carpet I was very self conscious of our body odour. No-one seemed to mind. The customers and staff were fascinated by our adventure. The French waitress was a slim, middle-aged, good-looking woman with a mess of dark curly hair. Her pleasant, deferential manner reminded me of my mother. She lived in Lourdes but spent three months each summer in the north west of Scotland - she liked the contrast! The quality of the food matched the price so, fat and happy we headed off again at 2.30pm towards Sandwood Bay. We were quiet though, both of us knew that the afternoon's paddle was potentially the most challenging and dangerous of our lives. Success was essential, the consequences, if things did not go to plan, did not bear thinking about.

I had spent many hours studying the tidal streams around the Cape. We needed to delay our approach if we were to avoid wind against tide conditions with resultant overfalls. I planned to land on the beach at Sandwood Bay before making our final assault. As soon as we came out of the shelter of the Sound of Handa the swell was massive. Huge walls of water threw themselves on the reef slabs just to our right. Cascades of foam and froth poured from every gully as the swells retreated, wounded but defiant. In no time at all we were into the clapotis off Rubh'an Fhir Leithe. A foretaste of what was to come off the Cape. It confirmed our strategy. We would give the Cape a wide berth and aim to be at least half a mile off the cliffs until we were due west of the lighthouse, only then would we start heading east. The Cape was still six miles away and we needed to wait for the flood tide.

Am Buchaille, 'The Shepherd' had been a prominent feature in my subconscious. The layered stack of Torridonian sandstone at the southern end of the beautifully remote Sandwood Bay was as significant a landmark as any we had passed on our journey north. It told me we were right there, at the crux of it. Months of training and planning were now to be realised. In my mind, perhaps mistakenly, the next couple of hours would determine the success or failure of the circumnavigation. If we could just get around Cape Wrath surely we would make it all the way around and back to Fort William.

We were unable to land anywhere on the mile-long beach. The surf was huge, well in excess of six foot. The lulls between sets were too brief and every so often a monster would rear up from the sea bed, threatening to break over us as we sat contemplating our next move. We decided to push on, in spite of the tide. It would be virtually slack by the time we got to the Cape itself. We headed out, making a conscious effort to put distance between us and the towering cliffs. The lighthouse came into view, built by Robert Stevenson in 1827, I wondered just how many vessels had passed beneath its gaze. Very few as small as ours I mused. The swell was large, perhaps twenty feet, but the clapotis was not as bad as it had been off Point of Stoer. We continued to head north resisting the temptation to turn right. Only when we were due east of the light did we allow ourselves to drift in, passing within a few metres of the north-facing cliffs. Viking long ships sailed these seas in the Middle Ages, making forays south from their bases in the Orkneys. The name Cape Wrath comes from the Norse, "Hvarf" meaning 'turning-point' and I could see why. For days we had been following the cliffs and mountains forever northwards. Suddenly the coast bore away to the east and the only thing between us and the Arctic Circle was ocean; vast, storm-ravaged ocean.

The huge gneissic slab forming the most northerly point of the 'foreland' was a bird city. A vertical conurbation of individual bird colonies; kittiwakes, guillemots, razorbills, puffins all competing for space on the guano ledges. Thousands of birds whirled above our heads like a plague of huge insects.

"I see what they mean about these Scottish midges!" Wilson remarked.

We hugged the cliffs searching each geo for the slipway indicated on the map. We were both shattered and had decided to call it a day. We knew there was little likelihood of finding a phone on this remote stretch of coast. We resolved to walk up to the lighthouse, hoping that its three hundred foot elevation would be sufficient to enable our VHF handheld radio to reach Stornoway Coastguard. We eventually found the jetty and a fisherman's hut which would do nicely as our shelter for the night. There was certainly nowhere to pitch the tent in the steep rocky valley. Having lugged our kit up to the hut using an old wooden thingamajig (I have no idea what it is called but it was designed perfectly for the job!) we soon made ourselves at home. We then set out on a march up to the lighthouse. The track seemed to go on forever, climbing around Dunan Mor giving a view back across the peninsular to Sandwood Bay. Inland the Flow Country of bog, moor and mountain stretched as far as the eye could see without any sign of human habitation. The weather had closed in and it started to rain. Yet again we had made it around a major obstacle in the nick of time!

At last we arrived at the lighthouse, a rather forlorn building lacking the charm of its Southern cousins. It was surrounded by an odd assortment of outbuildings some of which were clearly in use, others seemed to have been abandoned to whatever fate befell them. We took a look around to see if anyone was in residence. I knocked on a few doors but the place was apparently deserted. Our slim hope of borrowing a telephone faded. Suddenly Ian called out. I ran around the corner to see him talking to a couple of very odd-looking chaps. I use the word 'couple' deliberately. They were clearly very good friends with matching short-cropped haircuts, bushy moustaches and effeminate voices. They were from the Netherlands and had walked all the way from Fort William along the coastal path. It put our efforts into context. They were fascinated by our journey too and Wilson related tales our adventures so far. I wandered off to try the VHF radio. I was disappointed to find that Stornaway Coastguard were unable to hear me. It further reminded me of our isolation. I was concerned that we were unable to inform the Coastguard of our safe arrival at Cape Wrath, especially since the weather was deteriorating all the time. I did not want a Search and Rescue mission initiated mistakenly on our behalf. I expressed my concern to Ian who suggested I call up a passing ship. It had worked on the Irish Sea crossing, why not give it a go? I put out a broadcast to "any vessel". I immediately got a reply and was able to relay a message to Stornaway via a passing trawler. A hint of disbelief in the voice of the radio operator, he seemed pleased to help.

We asked the 'Dutch Boys' to take a photo of us and the lighthouse, then we bid them farewell. They were camping in the lee of a stone wall on the cliff edge and were hoping to catch the minibus that infrequently makes it out to Cape Wrath and return to civilisation. We yomped back to our valley. It was raining heavily by the time we got back. More kit to dry out. We searched the boulder 'beach' beside the jetty for wood for a fire. It was barren. The evidence suggested many other travellers had used this unofficial bothy and almost everything combustible had been turned to ashes in the soot blackened hearth. We found a few meagre scraps and those combined with our own rubbish gave us sufficient for a small fire that lasted long enough to light the dark interior of the windowless hut during dinner. Then it was diaries by headtorch whilst snugly cocooned in our sleeping bags. The wind rushed down the valley sides buffeting our small home, rain clattered on the slate roof. The only radio station we could pick up on my little Sony was Norwegian. We had no idea what the next day would bring but at least we were on the 'Roof of Britain' and comforted by that thought I slept soundly.

Day 8 Cape Wrath to Strathan (21 miles)

It was windy, very, very windy.

I tried to rationalise it. Yes it was windy, at least a seven with gusts that were much, much stronger. But it was offshore, or at least cross/off-shore. Surely the cliffs would give us shelter? We did not really want to stay where we were. We had no contact with the outside world apart from the VHF and we needed to save the battery life for a real emergency. We were out of drinking water and the stream had turned brown with overnight rain. We discussed our options. I was keen to press on. Ian was more reserved. He reminded me that he had sailed in this sort of wind and knew we would not be able to paddle against it. I argued that we shouldn't have to. Ian agreed to give it a go with the proviso that if it got worse we would stop at the first opportunity.

We were quickly sorted and afloat. The wind immediately blew us out of our little gully. I shouted at Ian to hug the cliffs. The sea was essentially flat but sheets of spray were being torn from the surface and whisked out to sea by the frequent gusts. The swell offshore was just visible through the murk. Horsetails of spume suggested a valiant struggle as the waves attempted to make headway against the fearsome wind. Ian describes the paddle:

The thing that struck me was the noise. The roar of the wind on the cliffs and the waves breaking on the huge stone slabs was deafening, any conversation was minimal. We could do nothing else but run with the wind and try and enjoy the ride but I really wasn't happy. It was a case of hang on to the paddles and try to angle the wing blade so as to offer the least resistance to the wind, otherwise the force was either too much to hold onto or the paddle was forced across the boat making the kayak unstable. It was a blessing having the rudders, we could just let the wind blow us and steer the best course we could. As we were being pushed along eastward, our bodies buffeted by massive gusts, our paddles trying to tear themselves from our hands, we both looked at each other and tried to take in the enormity of the situation. I have been caught in gales in yachts and Sean has paddled off the Devon coast in some big winds. We were both of the opinion that this was a Force 9 gale. We were committed, it was just too strong for us to paddle back to the safety of our jetty.

We made rapid progress in the lee of the cliffs to the small bay of Geodha na Seamraig.

Then we saw it! A shark's tooth stack perhaps 150 feet high, wreathed in a swirling vortex of spray. Between it and the towering cliff a narrow gap, twenty feet wide. A raging cauldron of white water. Catabatic winds were descending the peaks of Beinn Dearg, Fashven and Sgribhis-bheinn, accelerating down the Kearvaig River valley so that when they hit the surface of the small bay they were gusting in excess of Force 9. The stack stood boldly in the wind's path and as if enraged by its defiance the wind screamed around the rock tearing water from its base sending it spiralling upwards. You will have to take our word for it, but we had never seen anything like it before.

We had no choice. Although we were only a couple of hundred meters from shore there was no way we could paddle against the wind to reach the rocky beach and if we did manage it - then what? To go outside of the stack meant the risk of being blown out to sea. We had to go for the gap. Into the heart of the whirlwind! It would have been out of the question if there had been any swell. We were blown directly into the melee, we could not paddle, it took all our strength to hold onto our blades. I fought with my tiller bar to prevent my kayak from hitting the rocks. We were blasted through the gap out of control. I was slightly ahead of Ian. Trying to back paddle to keep us together, I caught a glimpse of his face. He did not look happy! With each gust I was being pushed flat onto the front deck of my kayak. My wing paddles were trying to live up to their name. They whipped about, trying to take off like some wild bird making a frantic fight for freedom. All around us water was being sent skywards. There was no distinction between land, sea and sky, it was all one tumultuous, chaotic mess and we were right in the middle of it!

We had to go for the gap. Sean was quite excited by the prospect. I was very aware that we were on the edge of ability and strength of kit and knew that there was no chance of any rescue should it go wrong. As we entered the gap the noise was deafening and the spray was stinging my face so hard it felt like I was being pelted with gravel. Waves seemed to come from all angles, the clapotis throwing the boat from one side to the other. I held onto my paddles with all my strength as they were being twisted about, the wind trying to throw them across the kayak. My body was being slammed from behind pushing my torso involuntarily forward onto the cockpit, I could see Sean just in front getting the same battering, I was just concentrating hard to keep myself upright and in a straight line, low bracing and slap supporting every time I got control of my blades.

Strangely enough, I was enjoying the experience. This was nature at its most raw. This is what I had come to the North Coast for. This was 'Extreme Sea Kayaking'. I was confident in our abilities and did not allow myself to contemplate the consequences if things went wrong. We had passed through the gap but there were more stacks ahead. Much taller, these megaliths blocked our path to shelter. We braced ourselves as we rushed towards them. As we roared past I began laughing to myself. A crazy, manic laugh of someone on the edge. I was loving it! We were close to catastrophe but I was loving it. I was brought back to reality by Ian, fighting to maintain his balance:

It is fair to say I was scared, perhaps I have had too many near misses in my life and want a bit of space in my ability to fall back on, but paddling under these conditions I felt there was no margin for error.

I looked at Sean and shouted,

"I WANT OUT!"

I immediately realised what a stupid thing I had said, as if right there and then Sean could have done anything about it. He looked at me and said very calmly,

"If I could get you out of this I would".

Fair enough, at least he was being honest.

It served to remind me of the seriousness of our situation and I felt guilty about placing Ian in this predicament. He hadn't really wanted to paddle that morning and in retrospect he had been right. There had been no margin for error whatsoever. Eventually we passed the last stack and the wind dropped. Stopping to catch our breath we discussed our situation. Ian had clearly been shaken by the experience and I was careful in my choice of words. Yes, we had been out of control, but even if the worst had happened and one of us had capsized and failed to roll......we would have coped? Ian was unconvinced. I thought back to an article I had read in Sea Kayaker magazine about the tragic death of Lone Madsen off the coast of Greenland when she had got separated from her partner in a squall. Surely we would be able to stay together whatever the conditions? I resolved to listen more carefully to Ian in the future. If he was in two minds about whether to paddle we would err on the side of caution.

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