Skye High Pt.3
After an exhausting previous day, we hadn't set an alarm for the morning. Instead, we were woken by the drumming of fat raindrops on the slanted rooftop of our wigwam. Rather than go out wandering, we decided that we'd spend the morning around the nearby coast hunting for more eagles, and then later on in the day we'd head over to Niest Point for the sunset we missed the night before. This last full day in Skye turned out to be the most surprising of them all.
So, Mealt Falls did not reveal another eagle. Nor did Staffin Bay. We were a little unsure about what to do after an hour scouring the seas and cliffs, so we sullenly began to drive back to the wigwam. As we were going, I remembered a lay-by at Lealt that always had visitors, but I had never known what was actually down there. We parked up, donned our raincoats, and stowed our camera equipment in the boot.
Almost immediately, a signpost told us to keep to the footpath, which seemed rather intriguing. We followed the narrow path along the a ridge which soon revealed a series of cascading falls within a ravine that is perfectly hidden from the roadside. We were brought to a sign board that overlooked ruins and a pebble beach below, green-grassed slopes, and the last few drops of the waterfalls. The sign asking visitors to stay safe had had all the effect of a big, red button.
The worn path downwards was steep, but it wasn't too bad even in the drizzle that continued to fall down around us. While there was an obviously faster route down for the unfortunate, it only took five minutes before we were walking along the edge of the stream to the high waterfalls themselves. Before this point, I had driven past Lealt on at least ten occasions. It felt like I had discovered some secret location, and was half expecting a trophy sound effect to pop at any moment.
Moving away from the falls, we explored the ruins that stood on the side of the beach. The ruins are the remains of an old Diatomite Works. The sea facing wall of the building remains, along with the kiln that was used to dry the diatomite. With the falls hidden behind the ridge of the hill, a silence blanketed the ruins, broken only by the soft lapping of the water on the rocks below. Lealt Falls and ruins are a short walk, and one I'd recommend to anybody visiting the area; don't just drive past the lay-by!
As we were clambering back up the steep hillside, my brother discovered that the rain was largely east coast, and that the west was supposed to be free from rain, if not clouds. Dunvegan was the next destination, a waypoint on the journey to Claigan and the Coral Beach. A cool sounding location, that also has the added bonus of reminding me of Sandor Clegane (clearly the best character in a Song of Ice and Fire).
It turned out that the Met Office wasn't entirely accurate in their predictions (when are they?), but the rain was light to begin with. We stopped off in a lay-by that overlooked Loch Dunvegan, where I had taken a boat ride to see the seals last year with my wife and daughter. This was not a trip I was planning on making this year. Clearly, I need more experience with boats, but the little vessels that the Dunvegan Seal trips take place on are essentially row boats with a motor attached. Six or so people sit in the boat, being frequently showered with the waves that slop over the side. Lifejackets are worn as standard (safety first, but my overactive imagination simply assumes that means I'll be going in), and the boats glide around the rock formations that emerge from the loch, where the seals bask in the sun. If you want to see some seals, I've not got any better options for you. You are taken really close, there are hundreds of them, and you can get all manner of angles on them if you dare bring your camera on-board. But like I said, this time I wasn't getting on a boat. Instead, I took some photos of the poor saps being sloshed around in the boat, while my brother frantically yelled that dolphins were in the area.
I had no reason to disbelieve that seals were afoot, and I turned my maxed out zoom lens in the direction of the rocks where the suspected cetaceans had been sighted. Sure enough, something leapt out of the water, and pictures were snapped. However, it wasn't until I zoomed in on the zoomed in photo afterwards that we found that these weren't dolphins at all, but seals porpoising.
Mildly disappointed that we had simply seen more seals (we had already seen seals on the rocks!), we got back in the car and continued towards Claigan. The theme - as you'll no doubt have picked up on by now - of small car parks made itself known again. We managed to find a last space at the far end of the car park just in time for a heavy shower to begin. Undeterred, we waited it out until it returned to drizzle, and began to check out the area.
The signage before the beginning of walk suggested that the 1.1 mile journey to the Coral Beach would take 45 minutes. Now, I'm sure that the sign was being lenient to allow for all ages, but I was already scouring the flattish horizon for a steep hill that might delay our progress. Sure enough, it was fifteen minutes before a gap in an old stone wall revealed the Coral Beach itself.
The beach is a bright, white crescent, not actually made of coral, but of bleached algae. The white sand makes the water within seem all the bluer, and it really is a delight to look upon. The beach and surrounding hills are covered in freshly pried open shells, left by the local sea birds. Seaweed clings to the pebbles, small pools are left by the tides, and pleasing hexagonal rocks make up the northern tip of the area. Views of nearby Isay and surrounding islands add to the open water, and the shores or hills are a fine place to sit as you keep an eye out for seals and other sea life.
For us, the wind and the rain was off and on. Somehow we were approaching 5pm as well, so after a scout around the edges, we made our way back to the car and set off for Niest Point.
The skies were already grey once we had made it back to the car, and from the moment the engine started running, they only got lower and thicker. We started to doubt the sense in making the Fairy Glen the finale for the previous night as we travelled slowly along the long, single-track road to Niest Point. Again, I had visited the area during my trip the previous year, and my only memories of the drive were ones of frustration and worry. Fortunately, it was a lot less busy this time around, but the continually thickening cloud more than made up for that.
We parked up on what we knew was the headland parking area - whether or not we could see it - and sighed deeply.
This was not the classic view of Niest Point that you see in every other image as you scroll through your Instagram feed. You could just about make out the figure of a man in the distance, but that wasn't what we were after. Even so, we had about an hour and half until sunset, and we decided to stick around and make the best of it (unlike a number of other visitors, who arrived on the scene, performed a three-point-turn at the end of the car park, and drove away).
We trudged through the mud of the headland, making for the viewpoint so beloved by photographers. We slid on the wooden planks laid down for supposed easier access, lost feet in the mire, and slipped over slick rocks. Finally, we were hit full in the face by a waterfall travelling up the cliff side in the savage wind.
Despite all of this, there was a glimmer of hope in a thin band of light that was beginning to tear through the bottom of the horizon, hinting at a sunset to come. Eager to see where this was going, we hurried down the sloping path to the bottom Niest Point headland to get a better look. With each minute that passed, the mist lifted further, finally revealing what we had been waiting so long to see.
The angle on the lighthouse lower down was good for an atmospheric shot of it emerging from the haar (as can be seen in the photo at the beginning of this piece), but the best of it looked to happening closer to the cliff edge down by the lighthouse itself.
The photo above is one of the most terrifying pictures I've ever attempted to get, and part of a short line of generally scary vantage points with which to take photographs in the area. The photo is a common enough place for people to take shots, but what you don't see in the image (because there is so little to stand on) is that right below are the waves crashing into the rocks of the headland. The stone affords a decent amount of grip, but rain, seawater, and algae all conspire to see that your heart rate rises to dangerous levels, if it doesn't chuck you over the edge altogether. I'm fairly sure someone will have inadvertently fallen in here in the past, and I'm sure that it will happen again. I wouldn't want to think of the situation facing the person should that happen, assuming they're still conscious at that point! Despite my racing pulse, I held fast and took somewhere in the region of a hundred photos of the same scene. Not something that I would normally do, but as the light kept changing, so did the type of shot I was getting. I was also making mental plans never to return to this specific location again after this, at least not so close to the edge. My brother was even closer, no shits given.
The rising cloud on my right and brilliant sunset on my left set up an awesome rainbow that lit the skies over the cliffs. Fortunately for me, I was in a position to just turn around and snap it, though my brother was so deep in his designs for the shot of the lighthouse that it all but passed him by.
In one of the greatest turn arounds of bad weather that I have experienced, the following minutes saw the mist was fade away, the skies were clear, and a pleasant evening descend. I semi-reluctantly left my brother on the edge in favour of exploring the headland and getting some different photos. The light was ideal for a number of shots, and I'm pretty sure that anybody viewing my social media is going to get very bored very quickly of seeing the same damn lighthouse from different angles. But hey, you've got to take these opportunities when they arise.
We eventually moved to the sickeningly sloped cliffs on the opposite side of the lighthouse. From a distance they look like you'll simply roll off and into the sea, but once you're within them there are many sheep / human-worn routes and rocks to take hold of. It was actually quite comfortable just being sat on the edge, watching as the day faded away.
Skye is an island that is full of awe-inspiring locations. From the otherworldly layout of the Quiraing to the towering Storr, the imposing Black Cuillins to the quiet calm of the Fairy Glen. Niest Point, however, has to be among the most humbling of all locations in Skye in my book. Again, the rock formations here are huge. They look at once powerful, and terrifying. Peering over the edge creates a trembling deep in the pit of my stomach, and the way in the which headland rises up and over the seas looks sort of impossible as it undulates down to lighthouse level. The waves don't just flow over the rocks, they smash into them, wearing them away one crash at a time. Swirls and whirlpools twist and churn over rocks that lie just below the surface of the water, reinforcing that if you were ever unlucky enough to fall into the brine, it would make very short work of you indeed.
It is very pretty to look at, though.
By the time we got back to the car, night had fallen. The fairly unpleasant drive from Niest Point had the added bonus of sheep sleeping in the road, and I was tired enough that staying awake at this point was becoming a struggle. Once again, we hadn't eaten much, but to our surprise the Co-op in Portree was still open when arrived outside it at 10:40pm. A meal of Micro Chips, coleslaw, potato salad, and microwave meatballs was had.
In the morning, the worst part of the trip was upon us: the need to go home. Four days isn't really enough in Skye (I'm pretty sure I could happily spend an entire lifetime uncovering all of its secrets). The rain was on and off once again, but before we left the island my brother wanted to travel to Elgol. After a turn off from Broadford, the road through Torrin to Elgol is fairly reminiscent of the Niest Point drive; the only time I had been here before was in 2014 when my wife was driving, and having a terrible time of it (there is a steep section just before Elgol itself where we came a cropper as a lorry appeared at the top of the the very steep hill while we were trying to climb it). This time was easier, but our arrival in Elgol was prepped for a heavy front of rain arriving. My brother made a misguided dash for the coast, only to start legging it back to the car when it began pouring it down. We waited at the car park, overlooking the grey scene until it was decided that waiting any longer was simply dragging out our return journey.
Fortunately, we got a few decent minutes with some Highland Cows on the way, and scan of the waterfalls that tumble down into Loch Slapin on the way back.
We had a quick meal in Broadford from a fairly odd takeaway that was fairly awkward in its ordering system, and then our journey back began in earnest. Rain stopped us from making much of the sights on offer, but we did manage a brief stop by Loch Duich, Glengarry, and was seen off from the Highlands by a decent rainbow over Dalwhinnie.
Back at home, post-holiday blues quickly set in, and I'm unlikely to get another chance for such a trip for at least another year. But, I do have all the photos to remind me!
2214 photos taken
746 miles driven
34.6 miles walked
4 bags of Beef Jerky eaten
4 of 15 beers quaffed
