Sutherland Round, 28-29 June 2021

 91.7 km, 6450m ascent, 28 hours

Sutherland – sounding like a land of the South but actually marking the far North of these Isles – home to Cape Wrath, Ben Hope (the most Northerly Munro) and latterly, the marketing genius of the North Coast 500, this is a land of empty spaces, ancient rocks, myriad lochans and dreamy shorelines.  For me, ‘The North’ somehow resounds with mystery and intrigue, exploration and adventure, a big unknown that pulls me irresistibly.  Yet like a Bunyan pilgrim, I had hitherto failed to pay more than fleeting visits, being ensnared by more accessible playgrounds. A family holiday finally provided the opportunity to rectify this omission, and scrutiny of the map revealed a satisfyingly logical natural line, linking several of the major summits, most notably the very fine shattered ridge of Foinaven, the queen of these parts.

Foinaven at sunset

Keen to put the route to the test, day two of our holiday saw me bundled out of the car and ready to go at the amenable hour of ten to ten in the morning.  Except of course, that you are never ‘ready’ to go, apprehension at what lies ahead and the vagaries of an ageing body, conspiring to create uncertainty and a vague feeling of inadequacy.  Only by pushing this aside and placing one foot in front of the other, does the journey begin.

Ready to go?

Somewhat surprisingly, the lethargy of the day before has been dispelled, and rested by an increasingly rare good night’s sleep, I make efficient progress on a splendid stalkers track. Even when this ends, the springy vegetation facilitates easy going, dried by months of fine weather which has transformed the otherwise ubiquitous bog into something far more pleasant.  The morning mist lifts steadily above the summits, banished by the ever-growing power of the sun. The lochans twinkle, birds sing merrily and all is well with the world.  Nothing interrupts the overwhelming sense of well-being. I’m in resonance with the beat of the land, moving through it, yet connected, attuned, integrated.  This feeling of at-one-ness grows as I descend to the sea, bounded by rugged rock walls and plunging waterfalls. I meet the first people at Glendhu Bothy, sunning themselves on plastic chairs, but there’s little to disturb the harmony on the run-in along the sea loch, glinting in the midday sun.  The bold buttresses of Quinag hold the gaze at the head of the loch, whilst the Stack of Glencoul protrudes thumb-like to the Southeast, beckoning for another day.

For now my thoughts are firmly centred on lunch and re-hydration, both of which are fully satisfied at my first point of support. Alison has assembled an array of goodies on the parcel shelf of the car, from which I graze as I please.  The sun beats mercilessly, more characteristic of a Mediterranean shore than the far Northwest of Scotland. I embrace the warmth, but chug slowly up the NC500, Scotland’s own Route 66, and now a procession of motorhomes, campervans and roaring motorbikes.  I’m glad to turn off the road after a couple of miles and follow the minor road down to a fish hatchery.  I pass a worker on my left and am about to join the stalkers track when I’m stopped in my tracks by a tirade of verbal abuse. I’m directed to turn around and return to the main road, since this road is closed and there are helicopters.  I never manage to ascertain quite why the presence of helicopters is relevant, but am led to believe that they are there on some sort of clandestine mission of national security.  I don’t buy this argument, and despite the intimidation, simply state that the stalker’s path is a matter of metres away and I am going to proceed to it whatever the aggressor says.  I’m undeniably shaken by this intimidation, but no gun is pointed in my direction, nor is a vicious hound released, so I determinedly jog away until the swearing hothead is nothing but an unpleasant memory.  I’m bothered by this unexpected and disturbing altercation, but the gentle miles of delightful lochan strewn terrain soon dissipate my disquiet and the world is restored to its natural rhythm.  If the previous experience was unexpected, then so is this – a delectable patchwork of crag and lochan, with the glittering sea beyond and the conical form of Ben Stack drawing ever closer.  Nothing disturbs the at-one-ness for I am alone, but yet not alone – a part of this intimate landscape. 

Ben Stack rising above Loch Stack

On the summit ridge a helicopter swoops in, but I am not whisked off the hill to an internment camp.  Instead, I chat amiably to workers on the telecoms mast who are engaged in a maintenance exercise, facilitated by the helicopter winching equipment in and out.  The helicopter makes two more journeys as I lollop down the broad ridge to my teatime support.

I’m well short of half-way, but this will be my last point of support, and untroubled by midges, I can sit back and enjoy a proper feed before the ardour of the night.  Mist starts to envelop Ben Stack, lending it an air of mystery, whilst my next hill, Arkle, remains clear in the soft light of evening.  I pack my new running vest to the brim, such that it is bulging at every seam, and begin the real adventure, all that has gone before being the aperitif, the warm-up act for the main show.  The feeling of content is palpable – a refreshing breeze counters the heat that seems to ooze out of the ground, and causes gentle ripples to run up rhythmically against the shore.  I stop briefly to savour the serenity, imbibing the evening air and drawing on the perfect peace. The moment is all too brief, but made all the more special by its brevity. 

The mists bubble up below Arkle

The path passes between two giant boulders in a wood, conjuring images from Tolkien, but Gandalf does not cry ‘You shall not pass’ – that’s already been said by the hatchery man – and I continue in the balmy atmosphere of a perfect summer’s evening.  I rise out of the deep shadows to chase the sun up the silvery scree. Mist swirls in and out of the valley cauldron, tops poking above the fog blanket that reaches out to the sea.  A royal highway leads onto the summit of Arkle, a line above the clouds, perfect in symmetry and form.  Opposite, the long stony ridge of Foinaven rises above the sea of mist that now envelops the valley.  Reluctantly I descend into this sea, skittering steeply down unstable scree and troublesome heather.  Mercifully this abates as the long descent proceeds, but each step down is a step to be won back.  It is now 10 pm and the sun sets a delicate pink on the rocks above.  By the time I reach the summit ridge, the sun has long set but Arkle retains a deep pink hue above the dense sea of bubbling cloud.

The afterglow beyod the sea of fog

Day is not yet ready to surrender to Night and delivers a last hurrah that tops all that has come before.  The sharp rocky ridges become dark silhouettes rising above the fog, tendrils of mist whisked across their flanks by a stiff wind.  I stumble down and then up the broken rock ridges, half-seeing, half-feeling my way with my poles.  There is an energy in the cutting wind, a spinning vortex that spits out of the cauldron.  And to the West, a deep orange glow holds the gaze, an intense line of fire marking the horizon.  Only Foinaven’s highest summits lie above the now dominant sea of fog that stretches to the Western seaboard.  There is a purity in their form – stark black pyramids rising out of the bubbling brew, and still the furnace-like glow bounds the horizon, though it is now 12:40 am. The magic continues as the moon rises to full power, gleaming brightly over the fog blanket. Mists play with the peaks, swirling unpredictably to and fro. 

Moon over Foinaven

And then the show stops, the magic is lost, the fire goes out.  I’m enveloped by the mist, not to emerge for another eleven hours.  Rocks are greased as all is gripped by a dap, insidious cold.  The torch beam bounces off the mist and my world is reduced to a dreary, grey microcosm, a repeating loop that never seems to end.  Day emerges but gradually, tentatively emerging out of the gloom.  Summits come and go, but there is a monotony in the process. Lack of sleep, the physical demands and the sameness of it all, makes for a drawn-out morning.  This is now all about finishing. There is little joy, just a determination to realise the vision.  The magical has become mechanical and the moving parts are creaking, sorely in need of service.

Finally, the gloom lifts on Ben Hee as the sun makes a re-appearance for the last couple of miles down the glen.  I meet the first person since leaving my support and then I’m back. The circle is complete, the round has become a reality, I can stop.

Photos

OS Maps Route