On my final weekend before returning to Boulder, Kelly and I set out by train for a few days exploring the treeless glacial valleys, ancient standing stones, and small farms and settlements of the Isle of Arran in Scotland. We'd taken day trips from Leeds, but this was my first overnight outing, and it was great to take an adventure together before parting ways for the winter.
Amid strong westerly winds that tore across the waters of the Firth of Clyde, we boarded the ferry. To leave the pier in the face of these strong onshore winds, the ferry captain kept the ship firmly wind-pressed against the pier and pivoted the craft back into the wind before setting out. As the ferry skirted between the breakwaters, Kelly and I climbed to the uppermost deck and took in the view from the leeward shelter of the exhaust stacks before retreating inside for the hour-long crossing. The powerful gale drew streaks of foam across the water and knocked over wave crests. Hunkering behind the metal barricades of the bow, I braced off and took a quick photo just over the rim of the wall, like an arrow-shy defender tentatively peering over his fortification. On reaching the harbor in Brodick, the ferry was moored at the pier where it would stay, made fast with 'storm chains,' for the entire following day of strong winds and cancelled crossings.
In true form, we stopped in and made friends at the pub that we were warned against, then settled in at a bed and breakfast down the road. Our host was a former Englishman, who served us each morning the 'full English' breakfast of flatbread, poached eggs, beans, sautéed whole mushrooms, cooked tomato halves, bacon, sausage links, blood sausage, juice and coffee. It was a lot, but it really kept us going during the days. We took a pair of nice hikes: one along the northern coastline of the island, and another into the glacial terrain of the island's interior. Our coastal walk was relatively sheltered from the westerly gale: powerful gusts traced patterns on the ocean, but left us unscathed on the narrow skirt of flat coastal land. We travelled along the saturated ground of the coastline on inter-fingered beds of moss, grass and cobble beach. After a couple hours, we started to lose our light and decided that we'd try to cross the ridgeline above, descend to the next valley, and reach a road. On the way up, we flushed several groups of large, elk-like Red Deer. As we gained the 600-foot ridge, the full blast of the wind hit us, and we hunkered in some peat-lined depressions to appreciate the final sunlight of the day and the pink tones of the heather.
With the arrival of the evening bus just ahead and a light rain trailing just behind, Kelly led us at a run down the long rutted road to the valley, skipping along narrow embankments and hopping the streams that shared our course. Diving off the road, she struck across a sheep pasture, passed through a thin hedgerow, slipped in front of the farmer's house, across his bridge and up to the road. With slightly more apprehension about the attitude of the farmer, I followed. There's a different land ethos here, and I'm still adapting. The bus driver spotted us and we boarded in the twilight.
The next day, we headed for the mist-blanketed rock of the high country. Leaving from our B&B, we walked north out of Brodick (turning left at the ancient stone monolith) and set out along a dirt road through a conifer plantation. Treeline came fast, and we travelled up the U-shaped Glen Rosa valley in bouts of rain and bursts of bright sun.
A gradual climb led to the saddle at the head of the valley and we met a steep dropoff to the adjacent drainage. Braving the cold, damp winds at the edge of the cliff, we could just peer downwards through breaks in the cloud to the coastline on the far side. Looking back, we could trace our route up the Glen Rosa drainage.
From the saddle, we followed the sheer-sloped ridgeline up further up into the mist. Our route had an eerie cast, as the rock landforms fell away into the fog. Moss and snow hung from coarse, loose granite blocks. High in the mist, we reached the summit of North Goatfell, then traversed onward, past some mesmerizing sleet-splattered rocks, to the adjacent main summit of Goatfell.
Just as we descended from the summit of Goatfell, the cloud base lifted to reveal some great views of the coastline and the ridgeline we'd followed. After several hours of traversing the ridgeline in the subtle visual landscape of heavy mist, the sharp, saturated vistas were stunning.
Before we left, we fed some eager ducks--the black and white one was particularly bold. We caught the ferry to the mainland (err... the larger island) and a giddily fast 125 mph train back to Leeds.
