A 2 day walk through and around Barra and Vatersay

[Graham Douglas]

Saturday 6th May – Barra and Vatersay - 20.7 km

I left my campervan in the carpark on Eriskay with screens fixed on all the windows and at around 7:50 I boarded the ferry to Airdmhor – a very scenic crossing to Barra, with diving birds and seals – especially on the rocks approaching Barra.

I walked to the bus stop, and finding no bus and no passengers waiting, I turned around to the back of the terminal building to take a photo of the otter sculpture – a very captivating portrayal of two otters pursuing a fish, glinting in the morning sunlight.

As I turned back, a minibus swept through the carpark at its maximum safe speed, as though negotiating a motorway roundabout, and despite my frantic waving, was gone again in a matter of seconds. That was my planned bus ride to Castlebay that I had missed. I therefore needed to review my strategy for my traverse of Barra. I could wait for the next bus, which would mean reaching Vatersay in the afternoon and would probably add a day to this excursion. I decided to reverse my plan and walk south over the tops of the hills and then make a choice, whether to return north by bus or walking via the west coast. Once I’d set off, it dawned on me that the morrow would be Sunday with no buses. My new route plan was set: south via the spine of Barra; north via the west coast. However, my time scale was still flexible.

The first road section along the Airdmhor peninsular is gentle but not remarkable in its sights, but the sounds on this late spring, sunny morning were a delight. Sounds I recognised from my 1975 trip to Barra of snipe display flights – a throbbing, drumming sound, repeated from all sides – so distinctive. Although I’ve seen snipe since – so often flushed out of hiding among boggy tussocks, and darting upwards before coasting down to a new refuge – I hadn’t watched and listened to their display flights and was looking forward to renewing this experience, but not today – they were to be heard but not seen. After the junction and a turn south, cuckoos were calling and the day started to warm a little. I took a photo at Bagh a Tuath (Bagh = bay, Tuath = north, so literally ‘North Bay’); a somewhat silhouetted image of a scatter of islets, seaweed and promontories with glistening reflections of sunlight on a shimmering sea.

Turning west at the A888, I was transported into a different setting altogether, with woodland, a stream and banks of bluebells and primroses. I then was faced with a decision. To continue along the road to its highest point before turning south over the line of hilltops leading south down the spine of the island would have been easier, but I was keen to get off tarmac onto wild land. So, at the end of the woodland (695033) I took the second gate, crossed the stream and tried to follow an impossible objective of curving around the loch following the contours. I found it difficult and slow going with lots of lumps and hollows. I think it would have been quicker to have continued up the road to the end of the loch and then turned SE on the well-made track(at 688033). Joining this track (694027) south of the loch, I turned SE until I spied a brown post ( 696023) marking a route toward Beinn Bhirisig. Intermittent posts continued to mark out a route on the north side of a gully with a small stream (bearings of 225 then 260 degrees). Once clear of the lower track the posts bore “Hebridean Way” plates – perhaps the lower ones had fallen victim to trophy hunters? Around 690024, the stream turned with a babbling drop, the barbed wire had a convenient break, and I topped up my water and added Aquaclear – 11:05. Looking back, the hills of Rhum and the Cuillins of Skye dominated a blue trace of islands across the indistinct sea horizon.

Reaching the col at 11:30, I turned north, left my rucksack on a rocky hump, and went for a quick spree up Beinn Bhirisig. The panorama from east around to north, incorporating smaller isles off Barra, Eriskay and South Uist is somewhat obscured by the closer hills, but well worth the detour.
360 degree panorama from Beinn Bhirisig - from left to right: east - south (Heabhal) - west - north (S. Uist) - east
For some mysterious reason, the Hebridean Way is signposted to ascend one gulley to the col and then descend through the opposite gulley, so that its highest point is one where most of the view is obscured and the ascent and descent appears to be for the sake of the exercise or for the notion of following a historic route followed by Hebrideans in past times – if the latter, then why not just use the road, which lies along the most used historic route? Alternatively, to make the route a pleasurable and satisfying experience, it would be so simple to incorporate a traverse of Beinn Bhirisig (from the col to the high point of the road at its north - 684033) into this route without any addition of distance.

Returning to my rucksack, I devoured two chicken thighs held between slices of bread, while a sense of doubt crept in about the distance to Castlebay with the ascents and descents along the hill tops. ‘Onwards anyway, take it gently’ became my theme. I was rising onto Grianan (295 m), about 1:15 pm when an eagle rose up from the eastern edge of the top, a white / pale feature visible where the long tail left the body – on the rump or below it or both, I could not tell. I realised I would not take a good photo, but wanted both proof and an aid to distinguish Golden Eagle from Sea Eagle when my bird guide was available. As I tried to lift my camera, the strap was under my rucksack shoulder strap, I attempted to release the strap extension clip and found I had the strap on back to front so I would have been able to swing out the camera behind me but not in front of me. I attempted to lift off the rucksack, but once its weight was off my right shoulder, I found the map case strap was over it and I could neither lift the rucksack back on or get the map case off. Thus, in desperation, I flipped out the viewing screen on the camera, zoomed in on the now ascending bird, and attempted a few snaps with the camera held against my waist, before depositing myself horizontally on my side to disentangle three lots of straps and try one futile snap of a dot in the sky majestically rising without any wing movement or effort. The contrast between my uncoordinated collapse and the eagle’s serene ascent did not escape my notice – fortunately there were no other witnesses. Passing over the hilltop, I discovered a dead lamb – almost completely intact, a ready meal to be returned for later - and a little further on, the scattered remnants of a dead gull – a meal thoroughly completed. My blurred snaps later confirmed my encounter with a Goldie – if I’d done my homework first, I’d have had no doubt. Body, pale patch, long dark tail, not the short wedge-tapered tail ending with a white border of tail feathers.

Making my way down to Beul a’ Bhealaich – 1:40 pm – and then up on to Harabhal (356 m) by 2:00 pm, my left foot big toe was burning, and I realised that my orthotic arch supports don’t breathe or absorb moisture and it was getting rather wet under my toes and the ball of my foot, so I stopped to air my socks and change the orthotics for Meindl insoles and my own homemade instep supports (cut with a very sharp knife from old Karrimat, closed cell foam). At 2:40 pm I was on the top of Hartabhal (356 m) and by 3:15 on Heabhal (383 m), with a splendid view all around; the view SSW over Castlebay to the line of retreating islands – Vatersay, Sandray, Pabbay, Mingulay and Berneray – backlit by afternoon sun; the hills of Barra leading the eye to the NNW, to Eriskay and South Uist. It was very blowy on the top, so after taking photos to the north and south, I took advantage of the conveniently positioned crest of rocks which provided a sheltered summit rest.

From the map I set a 172-degree bearing towards the parking area on the ‘main road’ and descended roughly in that direction, following a series of ‘best options’ of sketchy tracks down the steep slope - passing the statue (Our Lady, Star of the Sea) – smaller than I expected – and down to the parking place, then right, along the road through Castlebay.

Deviating a little, I followed the lower street past a few shops, to pass the ferry terminal and jetty, then on to the co-op (656985), where I bought two bananas, grapes and the cheapest ice-lolly (£3.50 in total) – the latter to be eaten on a convenient sunny bench just outside the store, where I was assured by a lady, eyeing my camera and saying it was a good day for photos, that ‘May is always the best and driest month here’. She then proceeded to recount the monthly summer weather for the past five years.

By 5:30 pm I was heading for Vatersay, but with aching arches, so I sat by the roadside on the climb away from Castlebay, swapping the insoles back again, with the addition of extra support of my own. However, at 6:10 pm my extra supports were out again, since they were too much. Now staggering onwards at my most leisurely pace, aiming for the community campsite on Vatersay 6339955, I accepted that my left foot arch could not walk that far – a rest now and I would risk being too late to pitch and eat and prepare to sleep – I decided not to pass any acceptable pitching place if I saw one. At 635966 beside Bagh Chornaig, finding an old stone enclosure with some slightly soggy hollows almost the length of my body, looking nearly adequate – a bit too wet in the levelest hollows, inconveniently scattered sheep droppings and cow pats, hardly room for the groundsheet part of my tent. So, I set up my tiny tent on the humpy, sloping strip of land between shore and road, the slope running downwards to my feet and with a cow pat in the doorway. The difficulty here was that the tent was too low to sit up in, so entering a long low side door over a cow pat while almost lying down, was a risk, but only really needed to be done once entering in the evening and once exiting in the morning. A couple of cars passed during the remainder of the evening, with drivers possibly wondering why I should choose such an unsuitable spot, 3.5 km short of fine, smooth grass, on a well-drained pitch with loos and water taps. By 8:00 pm I was pitched and settled in my hollow, so with two chicken thighs between sliced bread assigned a gastric location (one thigh sandwich left for tomorrow), I lay down to rest.

Sunday 7th May - 29.3 km

Sleeping and resting until 5:00 am (Sunday), I rose to a promising dawn - by 5:15 am packing up and with the sun also up to dry the tent of dew and condensation – i.e. wet on the inside and outside – a certain amount of flysheet wafting and draping was required along with wiping. It took until 6:00 am for the first midges to appear and 6:15 am for their first bite of me – do they need to warm up to get hungry? By 6:30 am I was on my way along the road, eastwards and then south. Passing a small jetty, I admired the mists rising on the hills across the water, forming soft and wispy blanket covers on the silhouetted tops enclosing the bay of Castlebay.

Crossing to the south of this eastward projecting peninsular, there is a junction with Uidh Bhatarsaigh to the left and my route to Bhatarsaigh Baigh to the right – in the centre a triangle is enclosed by three roads, three roads emerging, three signposts and backed by three hills beyond – so I took a rather obscure 3x3 photo. Then I wondered about 3x3’s (as opposed to 4 x 4's) and considered how a 3-wheeled vehicle would fare traveling these roads with loose ridges of gravel or grass along the centre. Around 7:10 am I reached the site of the 1944 Catalina air crash - a war-time accident on a training flight in difficult weather - a memorial to those that perished and to those that survived – the survivors being more remarkable considering the state of the wreckage.

Reaching Bhatasaigh Bagh by 7:25 am, my first priority was to make use of the Vatersay Community Hall with loos, showers and washbasin. After a while sitting contemplating that the effects of exercise and minor dehydration were evident, I determined to eat more fruit – finish the grapes and eat the oranges (a task easily completed while walking). A full wash, top to toe, using a paper towel as a plug in the sink, freshened me up nicely.

I then made my way onto the east beach, through the slatted walkway between shifting sands and dunes (7:50 am), pausing for photos into the sun, using my sun hat to shade the camera lens, then south along the shoreline to an array of creels with grass growing through them and an enormous old rusted anchor, somehow standing with one point down and the other pointing skywards.

At the end of the beach I was about to cut across the last west-pointing peninsular, but what then caught my eye was a tractor on a sloping jetty lifting a large, well filled net from the sea. I had to investigate. When I reached the point where the road ends at the top of the jetty, I found there were five men sorting crabs into crates according to gender – one of them explained and showed me how simple it was – the males have a much larger claw for fighting with – and noted that the buyers give a better price when the crabs are ready sorted. The crabs are trapped in creels on the sea bed, each creel having a rope up to a float on the surface – lifted by boat, emptied into trays, transferred into nets, kept lowered in the sea by the jetty to keep alive until lifted for mass sorting. After a bit of chat, I asked if it was OK to take some photos and they were quite content to ignore me and continue sorting while I took a few.

Taking my time, I returned to the southern end of the beach and headed south across the south-east peninsular of Vatersay, the sandy land was festooned with primroses, especially over the grass covered dunes.

Skylarks, lapwings and cuckoos made their contributions to both scene and audio backing. I photo’d my way around the coastline from 640938, west along Bagh a’ Deas (South Bay) to Heilinish Point (9:40 am), eating grapes all the way, and ate the orange among the rocks within 10 metres of this very exposed tip of land jutting southwards into the passage between Vatersay and Sandray; I sat in the most comfortable crevice I could find - a level rock slab, with a drop to dangle my feet over and another rock slab to rest my back against, which also shielded me from the wind. Then, propping my camera up on the rocks, I took the obligatory photo of myself, 10:00 am Sunday, 7th May, standing on this most southerly point of my walking trip and wondered about my plan – to walk northwards for 20 or more days until I reached the northernmost tip of the Isle of Lewis, some 200 miles away.

Continuing west along the coastline, I was greeted by two curlews, making alarm calls, rising, passing around me in a wide circle and then departing. Then six more followed suit. Imitating their rising, circling path, I rose, gradually crossing the curved southern contours of Beinn Ruilibreac to reach a small cairn on its SSW flank. Here I could look along the length of the ‘Bishop’s Islands’ receding away on a 210-degree bearing, before rising to the top for a full 360-degree view, including Castlebay. Heading roughly NNNW, I met a very high and well barbed fence and was forced to follow it to the cliff edge. A sizable gap lay between fence and cliff edge, so it was easy to pass around the end of the fence, making me wonder why such an impenetrable barrier should be constructed with an easy access gap at its end.

Finding a comfortable clifftop seat, 11:10 am was a suitable time for the last remaining chicken thigh, wrapped in tasty bread and with two boiled eggs. That’s my protein consumed. Looking up, I noticed a flotilla of small sea-birds. Taking out my binoculars, I identified puffins, seeming to swim with little headway against the waves, following in a line, two or three birds wide, then disappearing from the front of the line, each bird following the one in front of it, until they must have formed an underwater hunting pack, and I imagined them flying beneath the waves using their short flipper like wings. Once they were up I counted at least seventy birds.

Having crossed the beach, Traigh Siar, lying west of the Community Hall, to reach its northern limit, I discovered it was an awkward pull up from the rocks onto the eroded edge of soil and grass above (easier at lower tide when the sand and rocks give access to the grass further to the west), but from there it was a steady rise up Heiseabhal Mor (190 m) for another panoramic view. From up here, it really stands out how narrow the isthmus is, connecting Vatersay together – a hammerhead with a shaft of green bounded by bright, almost white sand, leading the eye to the southern string of isles, pointing the way to Ireland.

At this point I noticed that my camera battery was down to the last bar – one step from empty, so I was heartened to know that I had a good fully charged spare. I set off from the top NW with the beach, Traigh Bhialais, giving me a direction, not a destination, but the best shape of land to descend towards. After passing the rockier, steeper drops on my right, I turned north and then NE to 625967 – not as smooth as the map indicated – lots of stepped drops, large enough to be a nuisance but too small to show on the map contours. (Looking back, the gulley from 626965 towards Caolas looks a smoother descent.) Reaching Caolas and crossing the short causeway back to Barra, I considered the time, my energy and the rising strength of the wind. I decided to follow the single-track road rather than going over Beinn Tangabhal - missing out on visiting the high cliffs with nesting fulmars and guillemots that I remember enjoying in 1975.

So, with a steady pace, it was up to the Castlebay co-op, left at the junction and down to Tangasdal on the West coast – lapwings flitting up, circling, complaining and landing again; the sandy bay with dunes beckoning, while the white waves and spray on the rocks warned of their hazards. A sole pale blue kite danced energetically over the beach. I rested on the stile to adjust my pack – binoculars packed inside, rubbish taken out and deposited in the bin – then walked through the dunes, sat on the beach and ate a banana with two rounds of bread and ginger jam.

At 3:55 pm, it was obvious that I would not be reaching the Airdmhor jetty to catch the last ferry of the day (5:30 pm) but decided that I’d like to spend the night close to it, ready for the first ferry on Monday morning. Dry sand was sweeping across the beach like driven rain. A strong wind blowing from the east or south-east told me that this was the most sheltered side of the island, so I walked north wondering where I might find a sheltered pitch. Passing Borve campsite – an exposed spot, perched, almost on a grassy ledge, between road and sea, with no shelter or feature - an ideal spot for a tent to get hoisted off into the sea – I walked on, and observed two rather bland, uninviting beaches, concluding that Bagh Halaman at Tangasdal was indeed the most scenic of these beaches. The road now led me from the west to the east coast, passing the reservoir, with the wind against me veering to the north-east. My next hope was to find some shelter in the woods near Airdmhor. All I needed was a clearish area – 2 m x 1 m – for my pitch, but I could find no area at all that I would be able to clear for my body area to lie on.

Knowing that the passenger waiting room for the ferry at Eriskay stayed open all night, I placed my last hope of a shelter for the night on the same arrangements for the ferry terminal building at this end of the crossing. So, on I walked, in hope of sheltering inside there overnight. As I turned onto the peninsular, towards the ferry jetty, I could hardly walk on just one half of the road, veering side to side with changes in the wind. A sheep with large curly horns started following me very closely – its shadow from behind getting closer and closer – not threatening, more like mistaking me for the person that feeds it – still, not wanting the possibility of a butt in the butt, I shooed it away. Across the 2 km of open sea between the islands the wind was whipping the sea into white caps, the islands opposite rising out of a haze of sea spray, while the sky above remained clear blue. Arriving at the terminal car park at about 7 pm there was a white van with a youngish man moving between a door at the back of the building and the open side door of the van. I could see it was set out for sleeping in, so I assumed he was also going to be waiting there overnight to catch the morning ferry. The waiting room door was unlocked so I chose the firm, solid wood bench furthest from the door for my overnight rest. 7:30 pm, my thighs were seizing up and aching to move, and I was sorting out my meal when the young man came in and we each explained what we were doing. It turned out that he worked on the ferry, one week on, one week off; lived in Glasgow one week and lived in his van by the ferry for the other; a hill-runner rather than a back-pack walker; knows these hills and recommended going from the end of the ferry road (705037), through the gate opposite, ascending Beinn Eireabhal for the benefit of the rocky scenery on top and for the view north over North Barra. He offered me a cup of tea, and then came back with electric kettle, tea bags and milk – leaving them with me for the evening and following morning. Six slices of bread with ginger jam and chocolate spread, two boiled eggs and two mugs of tea, and I felt ready to set out my bedding and contemplate the practicalities of my endeavour.