On the Beat

Running along the north side of Glencoe, a deep glaciated valley with a long, sometimes barbourous history, is a long, steep-sided mountain ridge.I like ridge walking; I have climbed many of the ridges in the Scottish mountains - Liatach, An Teallach, and much of the Skye Cuillin - including the Inaccessible Pinnancle, an ill-named, very exposed blade of rock sticking out of (and a very little higher than) Sgurr Alasdair. To climb the Inn Pinn, you need ropes - it is the only one of the 283 Scottish mountains recognised as being over 3,000 feet ("Munros") for which you do need ropes.

But the Aonach Eagach comes close. And it is much, much harder than the rest of the Cuillin: once you have reached the ridge, an hour and a half's climb, there is only one way to go. And the scrambling is incessant for four or five hours, without a break.

It was foggy, as it was when I climbed the Inn Pinn, which I think was an advantage: it stops one thinking of the possible dangers when you can't see down.

It is a narrow path along the top of the ridge, and lots of ups and downs - pinnacles - that require scaling and scrambling. On Liatach and An Teallach, there are ways to avoid the more uncomfortable pinnacles; on the Cuillin, whilst the ridge is precipitous, there are lots of flat bits in between those that require scrambling. The Aonach Eagach lacks both alternative routes around the pinnacles and much space in between. Certainly nowhere to stop.

I quite enjoy scrambling, but the intensity of the Aonach Eagach is just wearing. And it is not an easy scramble - it is the most difficult route before it becomes real mountain climbing (what I do I usually describe as walking!). The guide I and two others hired - absolutely essential, I reckon, and I couldn't have done it without him - had to direct me a fair bit - where to put my hands and feet. There was a lot of stretching between hand- and footholds - my limbs ached for several days after. There were many times when I couldn't see what was below me; the was one moment when I had to stretch my leg down and down a bit more, and I could feel my hands losing their grip, and I couldn't see how far I would fall. It turned out to be about two inches. But timed stopped...

At other points, the path was barely a foot wide on the ridge, with sheer drops on each side. I happily surrendered my dignity and crawled along, one hand and one foot on each side of the ridge.

I am pleased to sat that I shall not be climbing the Aonach Eagach again. I may well climb the first (eastern) Munro again, from the north. The second, westerly Munro I have climbed before. It was actually the first Munro I ever climbed, before I knew any better. I was staying at the Clachaig, a pub at the west of the glen, in 1987 or '88. It was a glorious early summer day. I had had a pint and lunch, and I noticed a path going up the hillside opposite the pub. So I climbed up, right to the top. Several years later, I read "this route should be avoided... a hazard... Not recommended".

(The cloudy photos were taken on this trip. These sunny photos were taken on a - sunnier - trip last year. I must have many old, black and white photos of Glencoe and the Aonach Eagach amongst my negatives. Another scanning project, perhaps...)

I went on a couple of walks along the coast near where I was staying, on at dusk, the other, longer, during the day.

I went at dusk hoping to see otters, active around the turn of the tide (apparently). No otters, but a striking sky and a good walk along the shore.

Haroldswick - "Harold's bay" (those Vikings again) - is a broad bay, bounded on the north east by cliffs leading to the Hill of Clibberswick, the Giant and the Horns of Hagmark. Clibberswick (a place rather than the hill) is home to a large deposit of mica schist, which is mined for use as talc (mica is derived from serpentine deposits).

Along the shore, the sea has cut into the cliffs forming deep geos; the sea has eroded the cliffs, leaving jagged stacks and natural arches.

No otters, but lots of Shetland ponies - which are very cute. And their foals, which are even cuter. There were few birds, though.

I could see the cottage I was staying in, in the distance.

Unst is nearer to Bergen in Norway than it is to Edinburgh, and it was Norwegian before it was Scottish, the result of Viking invasions in the 8th century. Before that, it was inhabited by the Picts.

Nobody is really sure what happened, of course (unlike the transfer from Norwegian to Scottish power in the 14th century, the political shenanigans of which are well documented - needless to say, Norway might have a valid claim to Shetland, even today...).

There are three possibilities.

1. the Vikings landed in Shetland and specifically Unst and peacefully coexisted with the Picts until the two cultures were completely integrated. Everyone knows how peaceful those Vikings were
   
2. the Vikings landed and killed all the male Picts, taking the women for their own
   
3. the Vikings landed and basically killed everyone, removing every last remnant of Pictish culture

One clue which archaeologists and anthropologists reckon is pretty telling involves the place names. Unst is full of place names derived, apparently, from Norse languages. No, not "full of"; it consists ENTIRELY of place names derived from Norse and Anglicised versions of them. The are no Pictish place names at all.

They believe that had any Picts survived the Viking invasions, their place names would have survived, too. The most likely scenario is (3), annihilation of the Picts by the peace-loving Vikings.

Unst's Viking history is revelled in today, despite its bloody nature. Viking costumes can be seen (though much more so in Lerwick, where Viking weapons and regalia decorated the walks of the B&B I stayed in). On Unst they apparently elect a Viking chief. Near where I stayed in Haroldswick is a replica longship, the Skidblader, and they are building a Viking longhouse.

There are archaeological remains of Viking settlements all over Unst. A large group of settlements north of Belmont at Snabrough appear as a series of mounds and ridges, stones poking through the soil, the outlines of large buildings and rooms, maybe farms.

There are remnants of Unst's prehistory: there are two large standing stones and, in the field next to where I was staying, were the unmistakable remains of a stone circle. Well I think they were unmistakable, but they do not appear on any map and i haven't been able to find any reference to them. Perhaps they are a more modern creation; perhaps I am just imagining it. But whilst I have looked for stone circles marked on maps many times before, all around Scotland (often fruitlessly), I have never ever found, or believed to have found, a stone circle not marked on a map. Except this once.

Shetland became Scottish through marriage. Kind of. Margaret, the daughter of the King of Norway, was married to James lll of Scotland, and had a big dowry. Unfortunately, Norway was broke, so Scotland took Orkney and Shetland as security: the islands were pawned, basically. Apparently, when Norway later tried to pay, Scotland wouldn't accept, deciding to keep the security rather than the cash. Scotland then just annexed the islands.

They ruled the islands - whose people were basically Norse - via a series Earls, who generally behaved badly, leading to various revolts. So the Earls built castles, like Muness (across the road from one of the large standing stones), built by the people they were designed to oppress.

Its northerly position makes Unst militarily important: RAF Skaw was established during the war to monitor (potentially hostile) shipping traffic; and RAF Saxa Vord joined it and continued after the war as a radar tracking station, part of the cold war effort.

And cold it must have been. The tracking station itself is the top of the highest hill on the island; it is the site of the highest recorded wind speed in the UK - 197 mph. At which point the equipment was blown away. So it might have been even stronger. (Two people died in Hermaness in the storm when the hut in which they were sheltering was blown away.)

The radome apparently blew away with some frequency, turning up in different places down the hill. The station is now unmanned, the last personnel leaving in 2006. (Though many didn't leave, staying on as civilians.) The hill on which the radome stands is called Saxa Vord, as is the base which housed the personnel, which is basically in Haroldswick. The staff quarters were sold off (several being bought the ex RAF people, apparently) and the offices have been turned into a business park and "resort" (with bar and restaurant! Which opened the weekend I left!). You go in through the medical wing; there is a good cafe (though serving Nescafe!) where they make good chocolates, and an interesting display of the history of the base. There is a brewery next door, too - called Valhalla. One for all you Wagner fans. "Britain's most northerly..." etc. (Also, I would guess, Britain's most remote!) I enjoyed several of their beers during my stay...

The thing about the military is that they have infrastructure. And lorries. Which need roads. The main road on Unst is a decent width double-track, probably because of the lorries. And the road up the hill is still in pristine condition, presumably because the RAF patch it up.

And so I walked to the end of the road.

The north end of every British road, that is. Marginally further north than the road at Skaw. (No more "most northerly" after this, I think. Though I won't promise.)

The sign at the bottom of the road clearly states "No Entry", but everyone seemed to ignore that: despite only going up the hill, it was surprisingly busy. I saw three vehicles in two hours.

There were great views of Muckle Flugga, Burra Firth (the stretch of water) and Hermaness. There were scores of bonxies, and larks singing above me as I climbed.

The hill is covered in peat, and piles of freshly cut peat lay beside the road.

The entrance to the radar station itself is secured, and I had no wish to set of any alarms (it being a very large observation post, it was hard to imagine that I wasn't being watched - albeit remotely); and beside the road went past the main station down to a remote weather station near the edge of the cliffs. I followed the cliff top around to the Noup and above Brei Wick before heading back.

Another great walk, with great views.

But still no puffins.

I was staying in Unst, the most northerly (inhabited) of the British Isles, in Haroldswick, the second-most northerly hamlet on Unst; Norwick, as the name suggests, is further north (and there is a house at Skaw which is Britain's most northerly habitation).

Pretty far north, then. So what I did on my first full day was go as far as I could. I walked to the end of the British Isles; at least, the end you can get to.

The most northerly point on Unst is Hermaness; a nature reserve. Just off Hermaness is Muckle Flugga, one of the lighthouse Stevenson's lights built on one the largest of a chain of skerries; the end of the series, the end of the line, is the literally named Out Stack. (The BBC can get permission to land on Muckle Flugga, but for most people it is prohibited. It also seems quite dangerous, so whilst one can get a boat around Muckle Flugga, I chose not to.)

I walked out across Hermaness Hill, climbing through the heather (avoiding the breeding area set aside for the birds) to the brow of the hill, when the lighthouse came in sight. It was a lovely morning with bright blue skies. The hill slipped steeply down to the sea, with tall cliffs dropping down to the water. There were large numbers of birds - Arctic Great Skuas ("bonxies") on the heath, gannets and fulmars on the cliffs. (And lots of little brown jobs - lbjs - on the heath too, but I could only recognise a few.)

Walking along the cliffs was very bracing. Looking north, with nothing beyond the light and Out Stack, somewhat daunting. I was the most northerly person in Britain. Everyone was south of me. It did feel a bit special.

I walked back along the cliffs, on the west coast. There were large colonies of gannets clinging to the steep sided cliffs and skerries. Gannets are vary beautiful - but the fulmars are the most graceful flyers. Both were a joy to watch. Their numbers were impressive, their flights hypnotic. I spent a long while just watching.

What I didn't see were puffins. I had expected many: Hermaness is famous as being one of the largest puffin colonies in the world. Last time I visited Shetland, I saw large numbers of puffins at Sumburgh; they are captivating birds. They were so impressive when we visited in mid July, we went back the next day, and watched them flying - and clowning! We went back a third time; and there were none: overnight, they had flown away, not to return to dry land until the next spring.

But this time, at Hermaness, there were none. I met a group of six or seven walking the other direction - the only people I passed the whole day. I asked if they had seen puffins, keen to know where to look as I took the long walk back; they hadn't seen any either. At least this meant I wasn't just being thick! They were a group of geologists: Unst has an interesting geology, half of it derived from north America (the result of continental drift - the Highland fault that separates the ancient north American rocks in Scotland from younger European rocks runs through Unst), the rest from the Atlantic floor, including a large chunk of very rare serpentine soil. I have travelled half way around the world looking at plants growing on serpentine (namely, New Caledonia) - ironic that a large area of serpentine is found in old Caledonia, too.

It was, though, a glorious walk, following the cliffs; warm (not hot!), sunny, a bit breezy. The birds I did see were so impressive and beautiful.

We stayed overnight just south of Fort William. In a pub, conveniently enough.

We had no specific plan for the next day, but I had asked the jovial guard on the Jacobite what time the train left Fort William the following morning.

We decided to go back and watch it cross the Glenfinnan viaduct.

I had walked in the area (there are a couple of munros at the head of the glen) and had explored the monument, so I knew some of the paths up the glen.

It was a dreich morning, with low cloud and a gloomy threat of drizzle. We parked in the NTS car park and walked up the glen, trying to work out (ie arguing) where we'd get the best view. We walked past the viaduct and climbed the hill.

We waited a while, later than we expected it. We had seen the engine in Fort William as we drove past the station on out way north, so we knew they were running

And then we heard the rhythmic chugging and the hiss of the steam. It was a while before we saw the engine. It slowed as it reached the viaduct, almost as if it was showing off.

It was a real treat, standing on the hillside watching the train pass: a giant train set. It might almost have been better than being on the train itself. (On the train, you rarely get to see the engine, of course.)

The driver waved as the engine went by. As did most of the people in their window seats.

After the train had passed, we walked back down to the car, and drive the short distance to Glenfinnan station. There is a small museum there, celebrating the West Highland line. Small, but great fun. I liked it a lot.

Then we went to the Glenfinnan dining car. This is a cafe set up in an old dining car on a bit of track. I have been past so often, and never stopped. My loss. It was a great place, and it felt very right. It will become the second obligatory coffee point on the road to Mallaig. (There is also a sleeping car, converted to a walkers' hostel!)

We decided to head towards Oban for lunch. Just south of Fort William, we got caught up behind the massive earthmovers again; in over 24 hours they had moved maybe fifty miles. It took a while to pass then again, and by then we were too hungry to wait until Oban, so we went to the Seafood Cafe outside Kinlochleven. This was very good - absolutely delicious! - and highly recommended if you're in the area!

Indeed, the only thing missing from the journey back was a pint at the Clachaig. But then, I was driving...

I think I have just been in the most depressing bar I have ever been in. Still, the food was good.

The Grand Hotel, Lerwick.

They serve food in the lounge bar, which has no windows. It felt like purgatory. Only with less life.

Bad selection of beer, too.

I thought I'd go for a pint elsewhere after I'd eaten to wash away the gloom; the two pubs in town didn't look at all inviting, so I went to the Queens Hotel. Turns out it was owned by the same people as the Grand. I went into the bar - I was the only person in there, awful choice of beer, so I turned around and walked straight out.

I am going away.

I am going as far north as it is possible to be and still be in Britain.

Well, nearly. I am going to Unst, the most northerly inhabited of the Shetland Isles. Muckle Flugga, an island which is home to Britain's most northern lighthouse, lies just off the coast, and there are a few rocks just north of that, too.

I am staying in Britain's second most northerly hamlet, Haraldswick (Saxa Vord is a mile north east) for a week. It is barren and, at this time of year, light; this time of year, there are 16 hours of daylight in Edinburgh (at least, there would be were the sun shining) - when I am in Shetland, there will be nearly 18 hours of daylight.

I had thought of going in April, but given the weather we have had for the last month I am glad I didn't. The attraction of April was, paradoxically, the long evenings: more chance of seeing the aurora. (Not if it is cloudy, obviously; which it probably has been.) The downside of April is that it is early in the season for birds. This is also an upside, since it would have meant that the bonxies would be less likely to attack me.

But still, the nearer the solstice, the better (with some chance of aurora...!).

So - lots of walking, though no big hills; lots of birds - I've even bought some binoculars; a fair bit of wine, beer and whisky - although it is still out of season on Unst, and the pub doesn't open until the end of May, so it shall be very much self-catering.

What I hope to see

• puffins
  
• gannets
  
• skuas
  
• eagles (sea or golden, I'm not fussy!)
  
• otters
  
• that's OTTERS
  
• seals
  
• whales - there is currently a pod of orca around Shetland, sperm whale off the Scottish east coast, and minke are common visitors (but hey - sperm whales would be cool!)
  
• vikings - no, really
  
• a famous bus stop
  
• oh and maybe - just maybe - the northern lights

After Unst, I have three days in Lerwick before getting the ferry back to Aberdeen.

I am really, really looking forward to it.

Islay is a special place. It is an island – so you have to really want to be there: it takes some planning and effort to actually make the trip. It is famous for its whisky – it now has eight distilleries, producing a wide range of spirits – and its bird life. And for one weekend each year, it is home to a jazz festival.

Which makes it a very special event indeed.

The island is large, but has a small population – 3,000 or so; and it has no ordinary venues – no jazz clubs or concert halls. Instead, concerts are housed in unconventional surroundings – previous years have seen gigs in the Round Church and the bottling room of a distillery (one of my favourite all time venues!); this year they went to several distilleries and the island’s bird sanctuary.

The festival starts on a Friday evening; but it really starts on the Friday lunchtime ferry across. The boat was packed with punters, musicians, and the festival’s organisers, waiting anxiously to make sure the musicians actually make it. There was a audible sigh of relief when, with moments to spare, the last musician on the list turned up. (Though one musician was stranded on the island for the return trip, having gone to the wrong port!)

Others fly to Islay, though they miss the grandeur of the trip, leaving the hills of the mainland, passing islands before the ferry sneaks through Caol Ila (the strait, not the whisky) between Islay and Jura. It is a wonderful way to travel.

The way it works – more or less – is that a couple of more famous musicians are booked – people from the London scene, Europe or the States – and then a load of Scottish musicians come across (usually from Glasgow or Edinburgh). The ferry is a bit of a jazz Ark, because essentially there are two of each instrument. The programme basically mixes everyone up: lots of scratch gigs, and by the end of the weekend one has seen most of the musicians several times. Musicians and punters hare around the island from venue to venue.

The first gig was a duo between (Scottish) pianist Paul Harrison and the visiting US alto player Jesse Davis at the Lagavulin distillery. Lagavulin were sponsoring the festival this year, which meant they handed out ample drams at each gig – this is a very good thing! (Though I’d have been as happy if it had been Bowmore, or Bruidladdich, or Buhnnahaven, or… well, they’re all good whiskies!) Davis and Harrison opened with “I Want To Be Happy”, which seemed like a pretty good philosophy for a jazz festival. Davis, who’s been to Islay before and seems to like it there, is an altoist in the bebop-Bird mold, bringing a soulful, bluesy feel to the slower numbers; Harrison can play in a lot of different styles (from funk to free), and his accompaniment was suitably bluesy, too. A great start to the festival!

The other “guest” was pianist Zoe Rahman, up from London. All her gigs were in the Bowmore gaelic centre, which housed a grand piano for the weekend. It seemed a bit like she sat there as a stream of some of Scotland’s best jazz musicians flowed through. First up later on Friday evening were bassist Mario Caribe, drummer Stu Brown, tenor player John Burgess and trumpeter Colin Steele. Caribe is a bit of an Islay fixture, the only musician to have been at every jazz festival – this was the twelfth. This quintet had only met an hour or so before the gig but they quickly built a rapport. Caribe and Brown became Rahman’s rhythm section for the weekend. Brown took a bit of warming up, but he got better with each gig. Caribe was excellent throughout, combining subtlety with energy – a great passionate player. Rahman was great throughout the festival, too. Burgess brought his muscular toned saxophone, whilst Steele added the pyrotechnics. They played several of Caribe’s numbers, including a couple from his Islay suite, written for the 10th anniversary of the festival. An interesting combination.

Saturday lunchtime saw John Burgess leading a quartet at Lagavulin, with Harrison on piano, Caribe on bass (looking very cool in his dark glasses – the lights were pointing straight at him!) and Doug Hough on drums. Burgess played both tenor and clarinet. A set of standards with a couple of Burgess’s tunes thrown in, this was a fun, slightly light set. Harrison played some great solos, Caribe really swung, and Burgess tried the set the gig on fire – in a shirt to match.

I skipped the afternoon gig, choosing to walk in the rain instead (not a great decision…) before getting to Bowmore for a trio gig with Rahman, Caribe and Brown. Playing a bunch of standards as well as Caribe’s and Brown’s tunes, this was a lovely gig. Caribe shone once more, and he and Raman worked really well together – there was real musical chemistry going on. A couple of the tunes came from a suite written by Brown for Islay last year (I wasn’t there…), about the birdlife – a drunken swan, a lonely egret. It was all lovely stuff.

The late night show on Islay is a thing of legend. I’d not been before, but I decided to stay in Bruichladdich so I could sample Colin Steele’s Melting Pot. The gig started later than its usually late start because so many people were trying to cram into the village hall. It was packed until there were no more chair, and packed a bit more. It was wonderful to hear Steele and co in such a different vibe: this time they were playing the most soulful of soul jazz. Subie Coleman sang, and she’s got a really bluesy voice, way down low. Andy Sharkey’s bass was simultaneously solid and funky – his sense of soul-time was immaculate. Steele and Phil Bancroft were a fiery frontline. I left at the interval, missing out on the party as the space cleared by those heading to their beds was apparently filled by dancers.

Sharkey was back on bass fort Davis’ quartet lunchtime outing at Ardbeg, another enjoyable set of standards.

But it was the following gig, Caribe, Rahman, Steele and Bancroft back at Bowmore which was the highlight of the weekend. Caribe opened with an exquisite, slow solo piece bearing a melancholy beauty; I’d love to hear him play an entirely solo set. Then he was joined the other musicians in a variety of combinations – bass and piano, then trumpet added, then sax. Rahman played a couple of solo numbers, and then the quartet finished their session together. This was marvellous music making.

There were two more gigs, a lively trio set by altoist Martin Kershaw with Andy Sharkey and Doug Hough, and a great tribute to Cannonball Adderley with “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy”, featuring Steele, Kershaw, Caribe, Harrison and Hough. They make the musicians work hard at Islay…