free to be able to rate and comment on reports (as well as access 1:25000 mapping).
Boreray by
Anne C, on Flickr
Given we live in Glasgow and have been curtailed by a travel ban ( since beg Nov
), maybe that’s why my thoughts have been straying to past trips and walks further afield and in the UK, none get much further than St Kilda. In May 2015 we were all set to make the lengthy trip out, only for it to be cancelled the day before due to high winds and big seas. A very common occurrence! Two years later, in June 2017, we tried again, booking and paying for the trip 7 months out, picking a random day in June ; I remember at the time thinking that it was as likely as finding a needle in a haystack, that I would somehow pick the one day in a random week when the boat would go out!
I say this because the boat operator we chose - Seamus from Sea Harris – told me that their original business plan was based on going out 4 times a week but the harsh reality had been half that – twice a week on average. Hence, the cost had now soared to £180 + each; the first time I’d looked at the trip years ago it was £80.However, all I can say is, I still think it’s worth every penny and more! In fact, for any lover of wild, remote places it must be one of the most exciting day trips to be had, an incredible adventure; even the 40 mile sail beyond Harris across a vast empty ocean is unforgettable - unfortunately for some, this might be in a bad way as on average even on a ‘calm’ day there is usually at least a 2m sea running.
Seasickness tablets are recommended pre- trip
We travelled up to Skye initially , wild camping above Camasunary, probably my favourite spot on the whole island and were treated to a magnificent sunset.
Sunset over the Black Cuillin by
Anne C, on Flickr
P1290442.jpg by
Anne C, on Flickr
P1290440.jpg by
Anne C, on Flickr
A few days on North Uist and then over to Harris where we wild camped the night before the trip on a peninsula a short walk out on the grassy machair above the white beaches at Northton and below Ceapabhal.
Calm before the storm, Northton by
Anne C, on Flickr
This also meant we were only a short drive away from Leverburgh, where next day, with any luck, The Emerald Isle catamaran would whisk us out to Ultima Thule.
However, it did not look promising!
Wet windy weather had been promised for a few days but hadn't really come to anything. We managed to set up the tent and eat in the dry, with even a sighting of a lovely wee porpoise not far off-shore looking for his (or her!) own tea
Porpoise from Northton camp by
Anne C, on Flickr
But out of nowhere, a gale began to blow and the first drops of rain fell.A listen to the Shipping Forecast confirmed that the low was now making its appearance and the next 48 hrs looked increasingly poor and VERY windy. I honestly could have wept at that point
No way was this boat going out - foiled again ! A phone call from Seamus, one of the two Harris operators who run the St Kilda trips, also confirmed that it wasn’t looking good but that we should turn up anyway next morning around 7.30am. A southerly wind can make it too difficult for the boats to land in Village Bay and yes, the steadily increasing wind was coming from the south! You sign up for a two day weather window with the St Kilda trip but if tomorrow’s forecast looked poor, the next day’s was even worse with a severe low coming in.
I'm sure at this point I said 'drats' or words to that effect
Hardly slept a wink that night – anxiety about the weather, rain drumming on the tent, the wind whipping the sides furiously – Chris of course slept like a baby as ever, a man who never worries.
I really didn’t appreciate his ‘It doesn’t matter, St Kilda will be there a long time’ attitude to cancellation. ‘Maybe not, but WE won’t be,’ I grumbled. But he just shook his head and went to sleep. Neither of us ever understands the others attitude about these things and this reaction sums up much about our respective, very different personalities
At 7.30am on the dot next morning, we arrived at Leverburgh harbour, joining other folks milling around, all waiting on news. One guy was from New Zealand and this was his once in a lifetime chance to go out, something he said he'd always longed to do, which put my worrying into true perspective.
There was some minor activity at the boat, with Seamus and his assistant crewman, Ian Angus, making phone calls to the Army Base on St Kilda, accessing their more detailed and accurate forecasts and on the spot assessment of conditions in Village Bay.
Suddenly, Seamus waved to us all over - the trip was on! Seas were still quite big but more importantly, the navigation into the bay and the ability to land was given the thumbs up. I could hardly believe it!!
Puffins on the journey out by
Anne C, on Flickr
It’s a 2hr 45 journey out to Hiort (the Gaelic name, pronounced Hirsht) though ‘Emerald Isle’ is the fastest boat and cuts about 15 mins off that. Sitting in the airline-like high backed seats, there was a lengthy safety briefing first and life jackets issued – no going out onto the small rear deck unless these were securely on and Ian Angus was there to supervise.
At 8am, we set off into the Sound of Harris, the powerful engines quickly pulling us away from the other boat. The gloomy skies were brightening and blue sky was appearing – it felt almost too good to be true.
I don’t mind a rough journey on a boat if I can stay outside but if stuck inside, I soon feel sick. I’d taken a Stugeron as recommended so maybe that helped but I actually found the inside of the boat incredibly comfortable and stable – it’s a catamaran (though I would never have known but for the boat’s description on the website) – brand new too.
But I love breathing in the sea air and looking out for any wildlife so very soon, we unclipped from the seats, got the lifejackets on and slipped outside onto the rear deck where Ian Angus joined us with a few other like-minded souls; there were 12 of us plus 2 crew on board. The sea was boiling behind us, churned up by the engine and being in such a relatively small boat the waves felt within touching distance. Big, big ocean, fast craft (21mph) increasingly blue skies – I thought it was all quite magnificent, truly mesmerising. The sea was fairly big and rolling, with a great swell lifting our tiny craft but the photos don't capture that at all. It was a robust boat but in this vast empty ocean, we and it seemed like tiny, insignificant specks:shock:
Heading out with Sea Harris to St Kilda by
Anne C, on Flickr
About 90 mins out, Boreray appeared on the horizon, very green and precipitous looking and then dead ahead – St Kilda itself. The whole archipelago is a Double World Heritage Site for landscape and culture, home to one million seabirds.The people who lived here were known as The Bird People of St Kilda.
Boreray by
Anne C, on Flickr
An hour later, we were staring, necks craned, at the stupendous 1,400 foot cliffs of Hiort, our boat seeming very tiny and dwarfed by the scale of everything out here. I also looked at the impossibly steep grassy slopes of Conachair (430m), the island’s highest point which I really wanted to climb but worried (my default state
) that if my vertigo might wobble when faced with that great vertical plunge into the sea.
Approaching St Kilda or Hiort by
Anne C, on Flickr
And then the boat slowed and we were cruising quietly into Village Bay and there was the curving emerald sward so familiar from photographs, the sea a deep turquoise and the steep, broken outline of the prehistoric outline of the island of Dun to our left.
The 'Emerald Isle ' in Village Bay, St Kilda by
Anne C, on Flickr
The jagged outline of Dun, an island by
Anne C, on Flickr
It took 15 mins or so for the Emerald Isle to drop anchor and get the landing dinghy sorted. Then 6 of us at a time were transported across the bay, jumping out onto a very slithery jetty, where we were greeted by the NTS Ranger. Once we were all gathered, he gave us a short introduction to the island and also what was allowed (and not!) The main advice was to beware of gusts of wind at the cliff edges and to keep well back from them given their instability in places. It was now 11am, so we had 5 hours to explore.
The Street, Village Bay by
Anne C, on Flickr
It struck me now, that I was standing somewhere that my grandmother, 100 years before, had always wanted to visit. Every summer, she journeyed out from Glasgow to the family croft in North Uist where she had grown up, a gruelling 5 days of travelling ‘steerage ‘ on the Dunara Castle or The Hebrides and with 3 young children in tow (my mother and uncles.) They survived on fruit to stave off the worst of sea sickness, the worst bit of the trip being the rounding of the Mull of Kintyre. It’s difficult enough nowadays to make the trip out here so for my grandmother to stay, with the family, on the boat for the extra day or so that it would take to reach and return from St Kilda – IF weather allowed - would have been a journey too far. I'm sure the cost too would have been prohibitive.
We spent some time exploring the village street, the houses very striking with one or two open with small displays which were very interesting. The adjacent Army Base and storage above the beach, does detract from the initial impressions of the village area, but it’s soon left behind and the wonder of the whole place takes over.
The street, St Kilda by
Anne C, on Flickr
Behind the village lay thousands of stone cleits - beautifully built storage huts, turf roofed and surprisingly large, with an opening at head height. They dotted the moorland, all the way up Oisebhal too. The whole place felt like stepping back into the Stone Age. The people lived as hunter-gatherers, surviving on a largely seabird diet as the seas were too unpredictable to rely on fish as a main food source. Even the skins of gannets were used for making shoes, feathers used to fill pillows, oil to burn candles.
A Stone Age landscape by
Anne C, on Flickr
The dainty little dark brown Soay sheep - the lambs were wandering about looking at us curiously, like a wee bunch of children out for mischief - are from Neolithic times and are the most primitive domesticated animal in Europe.
Soay lambs, St Kilda by
Anne C, on Flickr
Before exploring the village further, we decided to follow the tarmac road up onto the ridge to Mullach Mor (the Big Headland) where the Radar Station is, then ascend Conachair from there, giving us a clockwise, circular route. Plus, Chris always prefers walking sun-wise
We made steady progress up the excellent road, with wonderful views over Village Bay, across wild Glen Mor to the north and 360 degrees of an endless, empty Atlantic. It really emphasised that where we were was utterly isolated, a speck in the Atlantic.
Then there was a short descent and a final 120m or so pull up onto Conachair.Now the fun started as this was Great Skua territory and breeding season!
Great Skua watching warily by
Anne C, on Flickr
Some looked settled on nests but most were still flying around together in pairs. I’ve never seen so many Skuas, patrolling warily, ready to attack. Sure enough, suddenly Chris shouted – ‘watch out, left!’ as one headed straight for me, dark eyes staring menacingly - they are like Exocet missiles, homing in on their prey. Big powerful birds too, impressive but very intimidating! We’d come armed with our walking poles and a quick raise of a pole saw them veer off quickly. This pattern of attack continued all the way to the top, so we had twenty minutes of constant vigilance and defence before we left their territory behind and everything calmed down. I heard a story later of one chap on the boat who didn’t have a pole and was so relentlessly attacked that he dropped and broke his camera in the melee of escaping the onslaught.
What a spot that summit is...the emerald green of the village below, the grey stone of the cleits peppering the moorland, the turquoise water of the bay and the deeper blue of the ocean all around. Boreray looked tremendous too, very green and sheer. Stac Lee and Stac an Armin looked quite small from here…we were soon to find out how wrong that impression was!
View from Conachair highest point on St Kilda. by
Anne C, on Flickr
Boreray, Stac Lee and Stac an Armin from Conachair by
Anne C, on Flickr
Myself on Conachair by
Anne C, on Flickr
There was no one else here so we had it to ourselves and I just sat, quite overwhelmed with it all and the reality of actually being here, a dream destination. In fact the thought struck me – cancelled 1st trip not withstanding, why on earth had I left it so long?
A short way down took us to a Trig point which gave the classic view over the village, looking just as it does in the photographs I’d long poured over.
A few people - not many – were making their way up the grassy sheep track to Conachair which we planned to use on descent, but when we contoured over to it I gulped at the steepness and the visual effect of what looked like a sheer drop below my feet to the ocean below. The angle made it look worse than it actually was but I was a bit unnerved and the path was slick, so we contoured down the slope on thicker vegetation which gave plenty of grip.Back came the Skuas...
Protecting ourselves against Skua attack on the descent by
Anne C, on Flickr
We were now at The Gap, a bealach between Conachir and Oisebhal with great flat slabs to sit on. Below, St Kilda’s famous cliffs fell sheer to the sea.
The Gap and views to Boreray by
Anne C, on Flickr
Fulmars patrolled the cliff edge, thousands upon thousands of them keening and squawking on their nesting ledges, warning other birds to stay clear of their patch. The cliffs rose to their highest on either side of this spot, fearsome looking. A brief peer below and the birds closer to the water looked smaller than pinpricks, so great was the drop. It was unbelievable to imagine the St Kildans lowering themselves over these edges to catch seabirds and collect eggs. Years ago, I read Charles Maclean’s book ‘The Island on the Edge of the World’, a fascinating account of the lives of the inhabitants. Just as birds and other wildlife make adaptations in remote places (the St Kilda wren and mouse for example) so too were some of the inhabitants developing feet which had more pronounced webbing between the toes because their toes were longer - described as prehensile – and their ankles much thicker. Both would have helped as they inched their way along tiny vertigo inducing rock edges taking only one egg, knowing that the birds would soon lay another – sustainable hunting.
It was an unforgettable lunch spot.
But it was getting time to descend, down easy slopes to the cleits again.
One of thousands of 'cleits' or stone storage houses by
Anne C, on Flickr
They were beautiful structures and looked ‘right’ in the landscape, complementing it - I wish modern buildings managed to improve their surroundings but they too often jar and look ugly
The entrances were head height, the whole thing much larger than I'd imagined, small howff size!
The cleits are surprisingly huge by
Anne C, on Flickr
The cleits helped dry and preserve the seabird bounty of the summer months, as the birds left the island during the winter. Some supplies were also dropped off from the mainland by ship but this couldn’t be relied upon as the islands were regularly cut off due to weather and sea conditions.
A great stone wall separated the grazing from the arable area and there were even more cleits now as we returned to the village itself.
Heading down to the grazing area at the village by
Anne C, on Flickr
A final last wander along the ‘street’ where the St Kildan men held their daily Parliament to discuss the day’s tasks and plans. Then it was 4pm and there was just time to sit and enjoy the sun for a while. Where did the time go? A small luxury cruiser was in the bay now too so there were more people around.
The Village , St Kilda by
Anne C, on Flickr
A girl came over, a student, who was carrying out a survey as part of her Degree and she asked me my impressions of the island. Bad weather had meant she’d been marooned on St Kilda for over a week and had only today as a window to get off, before more rough weather arrived and kept her for another week! I told her that I’d found St Kilda almost overwhelming - savage, ancient, magnificent but also intimidating. My mother - in - law on Skye, a Gaelic speaker and now 97, said that whenever there was something she or anyone didn’t want to do they would say ‘I’d rather be on Hiort!’
Back into the dinghy under sunny skies and we were treated to Seamus’s mum’s homemade gingerbread and a cup of tea; I felt quite ecstatic at having explored some of this Island on the Edge but also sobered by its rawness; there is nothing soft about it.
But the wonder of the day wasn’t over yet...
We headed out across a lively sea to the two sea stacks and Boreray and if I thought St Kilda itself was quite a place, this next part of the trip was off the charts! Stac an Armin and Stac Lee were giant, prehistoric pillars of rock over 600 feet high, towering above our tiny vessel which was pitching wildly, so much so it was impossible to stand upright without holding on tightly to the rails or someone else!
Stac an Armin with Boreray behind by
Anne C, on Flickr
The Stacs were heavily streaked with white from gannet guano and also from the dazzling snowy white of the birds themselves, crowding every tiny ledge, guarding their nests. Pungent was a mild word to describe the smell in this, the world’s largest northern gannet colony! The whole spectacle was just magnificent.
Gannets on Stac Lee - the rock was white with them by
Anne C, on Flickr
Gannets like thousands of stars around Stac Lee by
Anne C, on Flickr
Stac Lee's gannets by
Anne C, on Flickr
Above us, gannets flew on outstretched wings, screeching and screaming. Some plunged missile - like into the sea, on the hunt. Two skuas harangued one bird as it bobbed up with a fish in its mouth, holding its head under the water, forcing it to release its catch or be drowned. It was a tremendous wildlife spectacle, the sheer scale of it overwhelming. There were fault lines criss-crossed on the Stacs, like giant diamond patterns carved into the rock and these miniscule ledges were used by the St Kildans to access the nests. Their supreme ability on rock was mentioned by Martin Martin after his visit in 1697 as was the fact that they sometimes climbed the cliffs for pleasure alone. Accordingly, they are considered the first recreational rock climbers in Britain!
Between Stac Lee and Boreray by
Anne C, on Flickr
Stac Lee by
Anne C, on Flickr
We spent a long time pitching around the bases of the Stacs, necks craned, occasionally drenched by heavy spray crashing over the boat, then we made our way towards Boreray’s intimidatingly sheer cliffs. Together with Stac an Armin, both look like they belong in a Lord of the Rings fantasy landscape...
Boreray by
Anne C, on Flickr
Stac an Armin by
Anne C, on Flickr
Boreray where a fowling party lived for 9 months by
Anne C, on Flickr
How on earth the St Kildans ever landed here, it seemed impossible given the size of the swell and the slithery rocks. To think too, of a group of men having to stay on Boreray for 9 months over the winter, due to a smallpox outbreak and facing winter gales with up to 145mph winds not unknown - it doesn’t seem possible for human beings to survive such a place.It just confirmed that they were hardy, hardy people with great knowledge and affinity with their environment. Boreray also has its own fresh water source, so that and rainfall helped make it possible too.
Finally, it was time to leave St Kilda behind and return to Harris (wild and raw itself though not compared to here!) and the Emerald Isle’s powerful engines fired up fully, sweeping us at speed back to civilisation.
Two and a half hours later, the relatively soft outlines of Berneray, Pabbay, the Uists and Harris welcomed us back to an easier world. The boat slowed as we entered the beautiful Sound of Harris and then we were at the jetty on slightly wobbly legs, adjusting to being back on land and saying goodbye to two really lovely, super - professional guys, Seamus and Ian Angus. What a day - long, quite hard in a way but leaving me on a huge high. It had exceeded expectations ten – fold for landscape and drama but also perhaps as much too, for a glimpse into a way of life not too far removed from Neolithic times.
A calm Leverburgh from the Butty Bus by
Anne C, on Flickr
