Feature

Wild West Scotland
Corbett Country

By John Allen
Photos by the Author

Perchance to dream? Where is this place? Inside your head? Well, no it is there in reality, and different from the usual west coast Munros beyond the inner world of Fort William. Some of the best bits are not even that high, which is good; no paths, few if any people, not many sheep, some proper wildlife, and sea and sky. Or bad, with big tussocks, rain, bogs, rough and tumble ridges which throw your rhythm and put your timing from A to B in turmoil. Or perhaps you were dreaming after all.

And another thing. Some of the wildlife bites, so pick your season carefully. I have never learnt from one visit to the next that the environment can bite back when you’re not really in the mood to resist but are compelled to fight or go under from the onslaught. That’s part of the wild. The creatures out there, every man jack of them, have to fight back to survive, especially when it’s inconvenient, or down another’s throat they go! Frogs, birds, voles, fishes, insects, foxes, they all live off each other, dead or alive. So thank god it’s only the midges that really bite us, and no matter what we say, don’t actually eat us alive. No wolves yet, unfortunately, to control the deer, but perhaps only time will tell on that one. They certainly don’t go for man - too timid and wary. Maybe a start could be made with the once native lynx, but the beaver has perhaps the best chance in the re-introduction stakes, and they only eat willows.

Much can be done out there on a single map, the OS 1:50,000 sheet no 40 for Loch Shiel. That’s all you need. It is so captivating even in map form that I suspect you could spend a lifetime domiciled somewhere there, and never need to leave, except to buy a car or a TV or earn a living if you’re not into fish farming. You could probably manage with a bike and a regular supply of parts and a few pairs of boots and addresses for replacements. Just look at how blue sea wanders into the map, or the blue of fresh water lochs are splattered throughout the brown. That’s the effect of rain, of course, but don’t despair, get good waterproofs, a decent pair of gaiters and feel like a royal wandering on a private estate. The interior is there with its solitude.

Where do you begin? Corran ferry to Ardgour. Leave the car behind, and take a bike (free with passenger on ferry). It’s a sea crossing to an outer world, so feels like arrival on an island. Motor if you will, but you need to keep braking to appreciate the place, and biking does it best. Once across, take turns in cycling either north or south for a few miles. Map sheet 41 actually does the northern route bit for you. Whichever way you turn, you will be alongside the coast, and can plan walks into the interior from sea level to Corbett height. Try a trip inland from Sallachan (sheet 40) along Glen Gour, to the Corbetts on the north side. Even Sgurr Dhomhnuill can be included.

My first visit there was in April; sunshine and showers at the start; heavy snow near the summit, without a waterproof jacket - I just forgot it; an idyllic stroll out to Strontian and a pint at the hotel. Another visit took us to Carn na Nathrach and Sgurr Dhomnuill from a May week-long base overlooking the sea of Loch Sunart. You become addicted, you hurt from the absence, and can’t wait to return.

Eventually you grasp the size of the area as a whole – Ardgour, Morvern, Sunart, Moidart, Ardnamurchan, Arisaig, Morar, Locheil, and a car becomes more practical. Next comes the yearning to be there, with or without companion, despite solo excursions being more costly in travel. The compensation is the precious feeling of added value for self; so utterly selfish really, but not everyone can make a Monday on the hill. So Mondays are targeted for the solitude and near certainty of having the place to oneself, a royal privilege, an Ace of spades, the top “Who wants to be a millionaire?” answer. I succeeded with the three Corbetts on the north side of Loch Shiel, south of Glenfinnan, in this way, except that it was a Tuesday, and I had just finished a four-week continuous spell of concentrated work in July, which needed a big day on Ben Nevis to get over it. Instead of the Ben, as if by magic magnet, the fascination of unknown lands attracted me to turn left at the Corpach traffic lights and in minutes was being drawn towards Glenfinnan and Bheinn Odhar Mhor and Bheag, and Mhic Cedidh. I would go clockwise from the roadside at a railway crossing. Steep, wet, craggy, tussocky ground made scrambling upwards a laborious business, with irritating descents to minor bealachs, long grass and boggy patches. But distant views to Rum and Eigg came slowly onto the screen, the hills of Knoydart opened to the north and the circuit I was bound for. No mammals, though, no deer, not even any sheep, just pipits, wheatears, a swooping peregrine, and an eagle. Hot and airless at the fractured trig point, I could soak up the new panorama down Loch Shiel, take lunch and a usual snooze. No midges. Nothing was to interrupt the flow of this round of wild hills except its inevitable end back at the car for home.

I was back again in three days time, with Ian Marshall and a tick list quest of peaks on the south side of Glen Shiel. The weather forecast was still good, but the sweat (his) level and midge count had increased, despite a cool breeze. Retired from making money to hill walking, Ian has the commando yomping strength of a Falklands veteran, but his warring was at Suez and Cyprus, and his desperate tales from a former life make the freedom of the hills so eternally precious to a non National Service (ended 1960) student like me at the time. Light winds helped keep the sweat level down, and after Meall Mor over Beinn Tarsuinn to a trickling dribble of water we took the regulation siesta. The next section was the best of the day. High over Loch Shiel and its sandy bays, with hazy afternoon sun along a series of grey whaleback tops to Sgurr Ghiubhsachain and Sgurr Craobh a’ Chaoruinn and the marvellous evening light down the rocky ribs of Meall na Cuartaige and back to the woodland path to Callop. Eleven and a quarter hours out. Now that was a day to savour.

Not so good was Braigh nan Uamhachan, solo, with rain at point of departure on the Mallaig road and a doubtful forecast. Moral fibre was lacking, and I might have turned back at any minute. Still, the first bit was on a track, so no excuses yet. I needed the fresh air, a day out, and got it, the fresh air that is. Hurrying grey skies and unsteadying cross winds blew my cap off twice and forced use of the hood. With the wind hammering in my ears the long ridge to the distant summit beat me up a bit, but Knoydart lay ahead with its days of memory and promise, and I made it to the turn for the slog back. A good result in seven hours.

Using the same approach track Streap provides a circuit not to be missed. I found it with Ian on a beautiful day in May via Stob Coire nan Cearc, with springtime birdsong, chattering and gurgling rivulets on the still winterbrown hillside. Fresh birch leaves led to thoughts of summer. Once on open hillside, the scenery of the round is revealed; sunlight and warmth, but no path; so a deeper sense of wildness results. The main ridge then offers high class wandering, its rocky undulations, minor knolls and hummocks and tiny pools reaching fully four kilometres if taken whole from Beinn an Tuim to Streap Comhlaidh. Pick a sunny day, there is so much to see, and savour the final knife-edged arête to Streap. The exquisite summit provided our grassy backrest for a twenty-minute catnap on that warm day. With time up, and the dreamworld over, we re-entered the world of living nature to wander along the patchwork of starched snow crests remaindered from winter, to a final steepening at Streap Comhlaidh. Another lofty perch, another uniqueness; no cairn. A photograph is a memento, but not the same as being there. For a few hours you could belong to the place.

Another worthy excursion is the western section of the Rois Bheinn ridge from Inverailort, though for me on a recent August visit it spells midges. Demonic hordes of the blighters were waiting on the other side of my tent flap for their breakfast just as I hungered for mine. Groan. No wind to blow them off. Once outside standing still was not an option. For least discomfort everything had to be done walkabout, and some vital functions are not possible that way. I sprayed repellent over all (or nearly all) skin due for exposure (!), but it was still purgatory within the clothing. How I was relieved to start walking, yet they still sprang up from the dew laden long grass! Deer stalking priorities were not significant that day, which could be a relief for stalkers versus deer, but midges versus deer would continue unabated, the deer still the sufferers. Maybe stalkers know something hidden from normal mankind, and stay under cover on midge weather days!

By the time I reached the first summit, Druim Fiaclach, a breeze kept the air clear of the loathsome blight, and I saw an eagle, briefly. Travelling steadily at high level along rolling bluffs and turning towards the ultimate objective of Rois Bheinn brought Eigg, Rum and the jagged sea coast of Moidart into view. Distant further were views to Ben Nevis, Skye and even Ben More on Mull. I forgot about my tormentors. A new summit book in a box (a rare occurrence in Britain) on Rois Bheinn caught my surprised attention, so I recalled a previous occasion to the text, when in 1966 I had been the next visitor to the summit book after Walter Bonatti on the top of the Dent de Géant in the Alps. The view from the minor summit of Rois Bheinn takes in the rewards for the day – the wonderful panorama of western Scotland’s island coastline.

A summit not to miss is Garbh Bheinn close to the Corran Ferry, strikingly visible from Ballachulish Bridge down the entrance to Loch Leven. By now you should have discovered that the Corran ferry is free for passengers with pedal bikes and a bright morning ride alongside the sea loch to the foot of Glen Tarbet a mile beyond Inversanda well repays the effort. The walking begins here. The path along Coire an Iubhair can be very wet but gives access to the upper coire approach, and the possibility of achieving one of the best long scrambles on the Scottish mainland, namely Pinnacle Ridge – see Noel Williams’ book ‘Scrambles in Lochaber’. This upper coire is hanging with cliffs on all sides, and becomes a rock climber’s arena on solid grey gneiss at its highest and steepest – get the SMC guidebook for this. Regardless of rock climbing this peak is heady, in a magnificent position, one of the best viewpoints in Scotland. Again, photos don’t do justice to the experience on a clear day. You have to be there. Another wonderful seat in the sky. I haven’t done the anti-clockwise traverse above Coire an Iubhair but believe it is very fine. So nothing is more certain than that I will return again to Garbh Bheinn for that, and some unfinished rock climbing in warm sunshine on the upper south face buttress.

Plenty of other excursions are just waiting for the doing. Sgurr an Utha is short but will knock you about a bit – there’s a touch of the Rough Bounds of Knoydart about it. Fuar Bheinn and Creach Bheinn; Beinn Resipol; Beinn Hiant almost to Ardnamurchan Point; and more to choose. A selective tick list is one thing (get the SMC guidebook ‘The Corbetts and other Scottish hills’); but being there anywhere between the sea and the sky is the thing. The experience will be in your memory for a long time, and you may well become addicted to the whole of this region.