It was down by the farm of Scottas
Lord Brocket walked one day
When he saw a sight that troubled him
Far more than he could say
For the seven men of Knoydart
Were doing what they’d planned
They’d staked their claims and were digging their drains
On Brocket’s Private Land

Hamish Imlach

I was up early, before 6am and as the skipper was still asleep, I made a cuppa and took it out on deck in my pjs so not to disturb him.

It was so tranquil watching the little township gently awakening. Walkers appeared from hostels, stretching in the morning mist. A Landie trundled by, then a tractor hazards flashing to warn who?

The blackbirds and sparrows played their chirpy tunes and some ducks paddled by. I took a deep breath in trying to soak it all in and commit it to memory.

Knoydart was such a special place for me. My late father’s favourite stomping ground. I’d been brought here as a child and knew the continously boggy grounds, rough rivers  and peaks that give unsurpassed views, from a young age. I’d slept in the remote bothies, wrapped in down sleeping bags that were always damp, cooked on a temperamental Primus stove, gathered water from the burn and fell asleep to the low drum of deep male voices getting the craic at the smouldering fire. The smell of wet wool, dubbined leather boots, tobacco and maybe a wee dram painted those special evenings.

Returning in teenage years with the skipper, camping and climbing the iconic mountains then my summer as a temporary resident while I did my research. It was during that time too that I met an elderly Sir George Band, at just 23 years old, he was the youngest member of the legendary British Mt Everest Expedition in 1953. He helped clear a safe path through the notorious Khumhu Icefall so Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay could make their famous first ascent. I was handing out questionnaires on top of the highest peak to any climber that appeared and he was quite taken aback at what I was doing and why. We chatted and he gave me his card which read Alpine Club, London and he said he’d be in touch.

He did indeed write to me some time later and offered me a job in the Himalayas surveying part of  the region. I graciously turned him down as I was about to be married and had my heart set on becoming a mum, rather than pursuing a career just yet

I still have the letter though.

Adult visits were sometimes with work on expeditions with students, guiding work with clients then social visits with friends.

One particularly memorable trip was with dear friends and their family to stay in the bunkhouse for a long weekend. The lads were to walk overland with our deerhound/lurcher and I was to meet up with my pretty Irish friend at Mallaig to get the boat in. I was running late at work and left college in a hurry to get up there in time. I had a very sassy silver wee sports car at the time and arrived in Mallaig in a bit of a panic. I called my pal to find out where to park the car and she said just to come to the pier as the boat was leaving soon. I drove on to the pier and screeched to a halt as the HiVis harbour man slowly raised his hand infront of me.

“Ok Penelope,” he smiled “”Just give me your keys and I’ll park her and just you get on the ferry”

I jumped out to get my bags out of the boot which I then lay down on the peir and told him I would just turn her round then give him the keys.

I reversed over my bags.

He shook his head as I handed him the keys. Hanging my head in deep embarrassment, I picked up the bags now decorated with a black tyre mark and slightly squishy with the exploded bottle of shampoo inside!

Anyway I made it to the ferry and over to the peninsula and we had a great weekend of walking, eating and the occasional tipple.

The skipper surfaced and we had a quick breakfast then took the bikes ashore for assembly and cycled off round the coast to  Sandaig where we’d been told there was a self service cafe.

I could tell the skipper was not on full form. He was tired, it was two weeks today since we left and its pretty full on. Although I assist, he does all the navigating and sailing and the disturbed nights were catching up on him. However he got on with it and we tied the dinghy on the pier with enough tide rise for a couple hour’s cycle.

The road round and over the hills inland was delightful. Newly tarred and winding through mixed woodland, over stone bridges, across myrtle moors and past little water  lily strewn lochans. The must hung low so the views were more occluded but it gave it such a romantic atmosphere.

We took the rough track off the road that went down to Sandaig Bay and passed a group of cheery girls cutting bracken.

The bed and breakfast building was a complete surprise. An old chapel that was never used as was built just at the time of the Clearances. Burned down then rebuilt in the 1980s a delightful Swiss couple own and run it now. It was a fascinating place, every corner and room filled with curiosities, paintings and trinkets.  An honesty system for a cup of tea and homemade lemon cake and I bought a couple of beautiful felted scarfs made by the lady of the house. We had a nice chat with the owner then started our way back, grinding up the steep uphill and loving the welcome downhills.

The amount of bracken clearance was evident and new planting of native trees covered the lower hillsides. This was very hard but important work. The verges were peppered with butterworts and orchids and I was delighted to find a very rare, endangered Lesser Butterfly Orchid.

The hedges were abundant with meadow sweet, iris and flowering Valerian and the distinctive calls of moorland Stonechats and meadow pipits were replaced by the cheeps of sparrows as we cycled through the tiny village.

We’d been longer than intended and the dinghy was now floating at the foot of the stone pier. Nothing for it but the skipper, soaked once again from a wet ride, waded to retrieve it.  We dismantled the bikes for the last time this trip and loaded them back on to the dinghy then down into the cabin once back inboard.

I stripped off entirely as everything was sodden.  A quick wash then dry clothes on and we set off out Loch Nevis to push further south.

It was raining again and the soft cloud hung round the peaks and blanketed the glens as I looked back at the wilder loch end at Kylesknoydart  with a smile and acknowledgement of another special time spent there.

We negotiated the busy waters off Mallaig and motor sailed across the grey expanse of water between the mainland and the Small Isles.

The captain decided to have a shower as we motored along taking advantage of hot water and me on watch.

I watched but there wasn’t much to note until the striking cliffs of Eigg came in to view and we rounded her western shores to drop the hook in the sheltered waters of Kildonnan Bay. Seals were hauled out and oyster catchers shrieked around, annoyed at our arrival. It seemed a neighbouring boat was also annoyed at our arrival as greeted us with a call that we were anchoring too close.

The captain refuted this statement and I was glad he had dressed after his shower as the sight of his earlier scuddiness on deck might have given him more cause to request we move on!