Thursday, August 18, 2016
Cranstackie and Beinn Spionnaidh - the far north
The picture of these two rocky Corbetts and their green, pointed outlier was taken at the end of our walk, with the sun better placed than in the morning.
Parking on a useful rough patch by the single-track road, we set off in already warm sunshine along the stony track to the farm at the foot of the hills, and then started the climb across pathless and sometimes wet moorland up to the bealach. Just below the bealach (at about 500m) several meadow pipits flew around calling and a wren burst into song and was answered by another.
Further off, a golden eagle cruised across a bouldery slope.
To gain the first top, Greger suggested cutting up the flank to our right while I thought the steep narrow section onto the col looked more interesting. I won, but he was probably right! By the time we reached the col it was very hot and still, and I decided to leave my rucksack behind for the final pull up to the summit of Cranstackie (pronounced Carnstackie) - 801m.
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Looking to the north-west we could see below the road crossing the River Dionard while beyond, the small but characterful hill Fashven (457m) rises above Loch Airigh na Beinne in a wild area known as the Parph. And beyond that, unseen, is Cape Wrath.
On a holiday many years ago Greger, my dad, and I were driving along the north coast when we saw signs to a ferry for Cape Wrath. We joined a group of other tourists standing around uncertainly near a small boat, until a man approached with a can of petrol. We boarded the boat, and the man proceeded to fill his outboard motor; he had a lit cigarette in his mouth and we all sat very still, exchanging worried glances and waiting for the big bang. Safely across the kyle, we stood around again for quite a long time until an ancient Mercedes minibus appeared and we all piled on. A little way along the rough track we caught up with some more people who had been deposited by the boat but had got fed up with waiting and started walking. The driver told us cheerfully we'd have to double up (making an exception for Dad, who was over 80 at the time) so I sat on Greger's lap and two jolly Dutch ladies squeezed into the seat next to us. At Cape Wrath there was a military exercise going on, and I was speedily divested of my binoculars as the aerial bombing of a small rock offshore took precedence over birdwatching.
Some enjoyable walking up the grassy slope and then along a short ridge was followed by a scramble over a fairly extensive boulder field, which made for slow going. At the summit cairn, Greger wards off a large swarm of black flies - visible when the picture is clicked up.
For this reason, we didn't linger - pausing just long enough to admire the intricate ridges of Foinaven to the south-west (photo from G's mobile)
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After renegotiating the boulder field we stopped for lunch above the col, looking down on the loch in Coire Uinnseinn and eastwards to Loch Eriboll. On the skyline are Ben Hope (the most northerly of the Munros) and Ben Loyal.
Ahead lies our second top of the day and beyond, the north coast of Scotland.
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We descended to the bealach where I retrieved my rucksack, and set off to climb Beinn Spionnaidh (Ben Speeonie). This hill is also capped with a boulder field, though not as steep and bothersome as that on Cranstackie; and close to the bottom of it, we were cheered by the sight of a ptarmigan.
Eventually the ground levelled out, but it's quite a long summit plateau (and all of it still covered with boulders!) with the highest point at the far end. The views were stupendous, though hazy. Below is the Kyle of Durness, while far away in the misty east Greger picked out Dounreay nuclear power station.
Looking to the north-west we could see below the road crossing the River Dionard while beyond, the small but characterful hill Fashven (457m) rises above Loch Airigh na Beinne in a wild area known as the Parph. And beyond that, unseen, is Cape Wrath.
On a holiday many years ago Greger, my dad, and I were driving along the north coast when we saw signs to a ferry for Cape Wrath. We joined a group of other tourists standing around uncertainly near a small boat, until a man approached with a can of petrol. We boarded the boat, and the man proceeded to fill his outboard motor; he had a lit cigarette in his mouth and we all sat very still, exchanging worried glances and waiting for the big bang. Safely across the kyle, we stood around again for quite a long time until an ancient Mercedes minibus appeared and we all piled on. A little way along the rough track we caught up with some more people who had been deposited by the boat but had got fed up with waiting and started walking. The driver told us cheerfully we'd have to double up (making an exception for Dad, who was over 80 at the time) so I sat on Greger's lap and two jolly Dutch ladies squeezed into the seat next to us. At Cape Wrath there was a military exercise going on, and I was speedily divested of my binoculars as the aerial bombing of a small rock offshore took precedence over birdwatching.
One odd and slightly annoying thing about this summit is the wall of stones built around the triangulation pillar. Unlike most such structures on hill-tops, this one formed a complete circle; so you couldn't get in, whether to snap yourself next to the trig point, read the flush bracket properly, or seek partial shelter in cold, windy weather. Who done that?!
I just about managed a shot of the flush bracket by balancing precariously on the lower stones and leaning over the highest ones. The flush bracket number is S6098.
A wasp was having a wash-and-brush-up on the wall of the shelter, while a large hoverfly (Sericomyia silentis I think) was flying around, landing now and then on the summit rocks.
Tearing ourselves away, we began our descent down a grassy slope and then up towards the pointed top of Cloch Mhor - but then contouring round the flanks of this hill rather than going over the top, as we were, by this time, very tired. The lower slopes were steep, boggy, and rough, and it seemed an age until we were down again by the farm and setting off along the track for the road. Greger went on ahead, and in his relief and joy at the prospect of sitting down in the car, took a picture of it on his mobile!
Poor Greger suffered with very painful feet after this hill-walk - probably because of the leather boots he was wearing. Fabric boots are the way to go - much more comfortable.
The walk was about 14km with almost 1,000 m of ascent, and took us ten hours. Other birds seen: two wheatears on the moorland and seven golden plovers flying over.
// posted by Christine @ 6:36 AM 
