Even though our alarms go off at 7am, we doze intermittently. I return to the dream world and imagine that we are surrounded by loads of other campers and tents. I’m grateful that when I wake, this isn’t the case.
We’re walking for 10:20am and march along in wet shoes towards the Camasunary bothy and beach. The rain sets in and we see the bothy and lone house sitting in the bay. It is sandy and dull white clouds float over head bumping into the surrounding peaks, splitting in two and going their own way. We poke our heads into the bothy which is empty of people but a few packs and bit of gear are dotted here and there. It is a large rectangular building with a mini porch with coat hooks and a bench which is very thoughtful for those just having traversed through wet marshes and rain. A dining hall beckons with two large square tables and benches on either side. A counter top sits beneath the window and allows a useful work surface to organise yourself whilst offering views over the sea. Further still to the structure, an open-plan bunk room fills the end space. A simple row creates a two bunks, allowing perhaps 12-15 people to stay at once, if they were friendly and some were prepared to sleep on the floor. I guess if it meant residing out of the rain, many including myself would take it.
Returning to the elements we see a large crowd approaching over the hill. On we go, scaling the cliff path as it follows the winding trek. Outstretched branches snag at our clothes and the uneven steps forces us to use our hands to safely descend the ragged hillside. It delivers us to a beach with a waterfall dividing it. It’s vast, about 100m in width, probably more. Sheep and lambs amble around and masses of various types of sea rubbish is strewn over the pebbly beach. Max’s rain cover has pinged off his pack back so he grumbles walking back in hopes of finding it. I strip off to my pants and go for a dip. Having been wearing our waterproofs all morning, we were quite sweaty and I was ready for a refreshing plunge. It is super clear, crystal clear in fact and I can see my feet as they stand on large boulders. I sink my shoulders beneath the cold water and look out to the mountains across the bay. Little tourists boats can be seen milling about in front of them. I suddenly hear voices and whip my head around to the beach. Someone is there, my bag sits undisturbed and I can see no one walking in from the path we’ll leave by. I lurk in the shallows for a couple of minutes before returning to dry land. Feeling refreshed I see Max trudging back to our bags, annoyed but relieved to have found his elusive cover.
We see the tour group growing in size and quickly finish our lunches before they catch up. Max struggles to get his pack on and this is the final straw for him as he hurls it to the ground. It rolls into a puddle so we sit and pause for a moment. The heat, hairy cliff path descent and loosing his pack cover had not done anything for his humour. It had been a the grueling day.
Once collected we hike on and scale the edge of the hillside. Elgol is next and we follow a road which leads to the tiny hamlet with a bay. We use the fancy loos and find a tap to refill our water bottles, readying us for a bit of road walking. Up and over we pass by houses on their lonesome and cows milling freely. The rain starts again and we reach the village of Kilmarie. There is no where to camp being so near to houses, even though wild camping is permitted in Scotland we feel rather exposed being so close to the road. We reach an estuary and a little patch of grass. A small hand made sign reads No Camping there is no where else and we are both beat for the day. Dropping our packs, the rain is pouring over us with speed as we pitch Max’s Lavvu tent with haste. A tall wall surrounds a large mansion and we see a man pop his head over the wall. He is drinking a hot beverage as a mug lingers in his hand as he surveys the rain and the gentle tide flowing inland. He must have cap eyes on us as he soon appears, a little dog yaps at us who had run ahead.
He is a similar height to Max with a grey ponytail, two piercings are attached to his eye brow.
“I know that wild camping is allowed in Scotland, but a local takes strong offence at anyone doing so, I’m not telling you to move on but I know how annoying it is to get ready for bed and have a local turn up, guns blazing on a quad bike.” We nodded and accept, appreciating the mans words. He is a caretaker for the mansion here which belongs to the lead singer and flutist of the band Jethro Tull.
After thanking the man, we drag ourselves to the opposite side of the bay and pitch on a bumpy, grasslands as the midges descend…
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