A Loch on Hikes

As we got closer to Torridon House, we could see its multi-gabled stone edifice through the trees, but a sign--"strictly private"-- warned us off. We followed the road around to the farm buildings, crossing a rocky creek that gurgled down to join the still waters of the loch past a herd of highland cattle.

The sound of a rake being drawn across rocky ground led us to Aaron, a young Dutchman who had been visiting the Torridon region since he was a child and now worked on the estate. He, too, was reveling in the atypically mild weather.

"As long as the wind is from the east," he said, "the good weather will hold. If it shifts around from the west, it could rain all the time for two weeks." He grimaced.

He assured us there was a path around the coast to Daibaig, the last village seven miles west and our destination for the day. "Then you can catch the post bus back," he said. "It leaves Daibaig at 5:15. You just flag it down."

This sounded simple enough, so off we set into the weakening sun.

* * *

Walking in Scotland is like walking on a sodden sponge. To listen is to hear the gurgle of creek in symphony with the splash of waterfall. To step is to sink into wet moss, springy as a mattress.

Our path was not entirely mapped out for us. When trails disappeared, we spent an hour and a half at Torridon bush-whacking around the hills in semidarkness, stumbling over rocks, sinking into bogs and skirting high, small lochs -- lochans -- where the kelpie, a spirit in the shape of a horse that delights in drowning travelers, is said to lurk. We didn't see a kelpie, though a great stag lifted its head from drinking at our approach, then bounded away.

Despite our plans, we arrived at Diabaig, a handful of houses clustered around a cliff-lined harbor, long after the post bus was scheduled to leave. Thoroughly disheartened, we walked down the empty main street. Through the lighted windows of the cottages, we could see the inhabitants of this tiny village at the end of the road going about their evening routine unaware of how interesting they appeared to two tired passers-by whose day had been anything but routine.

"I suggest we hitchhike," Marybeth said, after we'd trudged along the unlit road for half an hour. "We're at least five miles from the car."

On we walked, our footsteps loud in the silent night. Then the sound of an engine, and around the corner came headlights, leaping and swaying on the curvy road. We stuck out our thumbs and the vehicle stopped. The post bus!

"You're lucky," said postmistress Jill. "I stopped for a cup of tea with a friend, so I got a late start back." We gushed our thanks and hopped in.

Our last walk of the week was along a burn (creek), the Coire Mhic Nobuil, that wound between four mountains, a few of their peaks dusted with white quartzite. For most of the way the track followed the old stalkers' trails, broad and rocky, constructed a century ago (and currently being restored) to provide easy access in the mountains during hunting season.

Midway along the trail, we passed the burn's headwaters, then started down another creek. The day was blowing up cold and the clouds played around the tops of the mountains like restless spirits. In the distance Loch Torridon was a sheet of silver.

No one in the world knew where we were at that moment. We had come to this far-off corner of the world just south of Iceland, on the same latitude as Siberia, knowing nothing of it at all. Now we'd hiked its hills, learned its contours and textures, talked with its people, read its history.

But the wind had shifted overnight, and we knew our fair weather was over.

Sarah Clayton last wrote for Travel on cooking with Lady Claire Macdonald at Kinloch Lodge, in Scotland.