Rough Bounds to Canna
by Henk Francino
"Och dear, och dear, och dear...".
What he really wanted to say was: "Can't you simply follow to A830 and jump onto the ferry at the end of The Road to the Isles?" No, I couldn't. Besides, that would be the second ferry I had to catch, the first one waiting for me 'just' 6 miles to the north from where I was now. Friends of mine, carrying out deepwater research on Loch Morar, had promised to pick me up at Camas Luinge (South Morar) and ferry me and the bike across the deepest point of the loch to Swordland (North Morar).
So I left a flabbergasted landlord at Lochailort (the Mallaig lobster was fabulous, highly recommended!) on a calm and sunny summer morning and cycled east along the A830 to the point where trunk road and railroad part. Had the Redcoats passed this point after Culloden it would have been easy for them to check if Charlie was home, for a sign 'Prince Charlie's Cave' directed me northward from here. Two wet miles of steepness, midgeness, slitheryness and sweatyness (you can add a few new words to the dictionary here) were followed by a short coffee break at the cave. A small round object in the grass drew my attention. For a moment I thought I had found one of Charlie's uniform buttons, but after a clean-up it turned out to be an item that must have belonged to a former British Rail employee. Murder on the West Highland Line? A long forgotten derailment perhaps?
Steeply down now (walking) to where the river Meoble leaves Loch Beoraid, the track further north to Meoble allowed me to cycle quietly on and to enjoy the Rough Bounds. These are the well-known parts of the West Highland landscape that were once (in the Ice Age) shaped by immense forces, with all the elements available. Today's elements were benign to me, only a strong westerly starting to develop, fortunately driving the horrible midges back to where they belong. The rough turned into the smooth and the woods of Meoble into the Elysian Woods you often dream of but which actually never materialise. My dream was short but sweet, a couple of estate workers woke me up and jokingly told me the road ended into the loch a mile further down the road. When I told them I was on my way to Mallaig to catch the ferry to Canna I was met by a couple of eyes in disbelief, soon followed by a slap on the back by one of the men wishing me a good swim across Loch Morar first and to be aware of the monster A big laugh followed.
"Och dear, och dear, och dear..."
What they really thought was: "This cyclist is a nutter, hopefully soon returning to sanity and to the A830". I cycled on, though, good-humouredly and soon a white-topped Loch Morar greeted me. The once-in-a-lifetime ferry here wasn't in yet, we had arranged for 12 noon, but eventually it turned up half an hour late: research first, bike-ferrying second. On leaving Camas Luinge the afore-mentioned estate workers had also come down to the shore just in time to see the nutty cyclist being ferried away to yonder shore. During the crossing I was given a brief update of Loch Morar's interesting underwater geology, the result of extreme glaciation. With 1,077 ft. of water under my own two feet I was now sailing across Scotland's deepest loch.
They put me ashore, well, to be honest into shallow waters, just west of Swordland and from there I picked up a path leading west to Brinacory. Cycling and walking were more or less kept in balance; at the hamlet of Bracorina I turned north to work my way up to Loch Eireagoraidh first. North Morar's desolate and rather soaky landscape is awe-inspiring and, I soon found out, totally unfit for cycling, unless you happen to find some level tracks. And there aren't many of them! It took me a good two hours to cover the two miles or so to the loch and, surprise surprise, a path of sorts allowed me to cycle pro forma for a couple of yards. The map showed a number of paths leading west to Glasnacardoch, just south of Mallaig. But no, that would be too easy for me to finish today's ride/walk. I dragged myself and the bike northwest from here until I struck a path leading from Mallaigvaig to Mallaig. The last few hundred yards were rather steep but in the end I rolled into Mallaig. Finally I found myself on the road so many people today had wished me to have followed in the first place. The detour over the Rough Bounds, though, had been very rewarding.
The small isles lay sunbathing in the late afternoon sun, Canna playing hide-and-seek behind Rhum's big shoulders. After a good night's rest I went to the CalMac office next morning, and when I asked the lady for a ticket to Canna for me and the bike, her specs slid to the very tip of her nose while she started moaning.
"Och dear, och dear, och dear..."
What she really wanted to say was: "You can't cycle there, love." But she was 8 miles wrong.
The captain allowed me to walk on board the 'Lochmor' the usual way but the bike had to follow the unusual way, i.e. being hoisted on board on a pallet full of building materials. Yesterday's strong westerly was still with us but soon after the ship had left Mallaig harbour the difference between Loch Morar and the Sound of Sleat became obvious. The 'Lochmor' rolled and stamped her way to Rum, the Loch Scresort interchange was a short one due to only a handful of passengers coming and going, and soon we sped away further west. There was a big luxury liner riding at anchor in the lee of Canna Harbour, from time to time its passengers, reminding me of blown-up orange balloons, were ferried ashore in small dinghies. No dinghies for us, the captain parked the 'Lochmor' exactly where he wanted it to be and it was good to see that after some ten years of wear and tear the message we had left on the rocks after having sailed here under our own steam, was still there: welcome back to Canna, lovely Canna.
It took considerably longer to unload the bike due to a 'mechanical failure'. When solved I first made arrangements for a two-nights' campsite on the island's west end and cycled oft On the first part of the track round Canna Harbour I met dozens of the earlier spotted orange balloons: they turned out to be British tourists on a cruise to various Scottish islands. But why on a Russian ship?! This surprised me, but they seemed to be equally surprised to meet a cyclist in these 'hostile surroundings'.
Hostile? Well, thinking about yesterday's experiences in the Rough Bounds I thought Canna was bliss. And right I was. A fine track of just over two miles leads to Tarbert, with a split-off across the bridge to the island of Sanday. I put up the tent west of Tarbert in the lee of a huge rock, hoping the sheep and cattle wouldn't interfere. Strange thing is, they didn't, but the seagulls proved to be more of a nuisance, behaving like sparrows. Which reminded me of my ultimate goal: observing the breeding population of Manx Shearwater. Since this is an overnight business I had some time left to roam around. Canna became a National Trust for Scotland property in 1981 when the then-owner Dr John Lorne Campbell presented it to this worthwhile institution. John Campbell..., way back in the 1970s and 1980s I had frequently seen this remarkable man on the small isles' ferry, his dark beret being his hallmark. Some things in life are dearly missed, for me John's beret is one of them. But Canna as such has taken over its symbol: a fragile Hebridean island, now under the protection of the NTS.
After two busy nights out on the hills, a few hours' sleep and a final quick brunch I had to race back to the harbour 48 hours later. In all I registered a good 8 cycleable miles on Canna's only 'road'. Taking the island's fragile eco-system into consideration I think it is better to forget about any off-road cycleable miles here, there are far better places for that.
Maps used: Ordnance Survey, sheet 40: Loch Shiel, edition 1988. Barts., half inch series, no. 50, Arisaig and Lochaber, edition 1972.