GLADMAN

Ah, hill forts.... of all the myriad monument types featured within – or should that be on? – TMA I would have thought the hill fort would be the simplest to define? A fort built upon a hill, right? What could be easier? Hmmm. For starters, how does one define a hill? My Oxford English Dictionary reckons a hill is “A naturally raised area of land, not as high or craggy as a mountain”, whereas a mountain is “A large natural elevation of the earth’s surface rising abruptly from the surrounding level; a large steep hill”. Pretty woolly explanations, to be fair. Open to interpretation, particularly when, for example, the locals upon The Isle of Skye refer to the peerless, 3,000ft plus naked rock of The Black Cuillin as ‘hills’. Depends on your point of view.

Herein, then, lies my dilemma when attempting to categorise the superb little fortress of Bryn Castell. As we human are wont to do. In my estimation a ‘mountain’ imparts a certain mind set upon the visitor, irrespective of height above ordnance datum. An (apparent) appreciation that primeval forces – represented, perhaps, by the extreme application of adverse conditions such as cold, wind, precipitation etc – are acting upon the human cognitive process, somehow accessing seemingly forgotten memes (or other ancestral ‘group knowledge’ cascaded down the millennia – hey, clearly I’m no expert here) long since subsumed beneath an accumulation of modern behaviours and values which, I guess, only time will reveal may or may not represent an incremental advancement of our species. A feeling that, just perhaps, the landscape may actually be ‘speaking’ to us, unlocking that door in the psyche behind which a lot of interesting ‘stuff’ lies in cold storage. Reminding us that we should really be taking a lot more notice of the base forces which shape our environment. That we should show more respect to the Nature of Darwin and Hawking, venture forth from the geodesic dome on a more regular basis. Like Michael York who, upon finding that his ‘life clock’ is now blinking, decides to do make a break for reality in Logan’s Run. Making sure not to forget Jenny Agutter as he does so, naturally. Or something like that. Whatever the truth... for me, Bryn Castell is a ‘mountain fort’ since it causes me to think of such things.

The current 1:25K OS map depicts Bryn Castell as a ‘Settlement’. Not something to raise the antiquarian pulse, to be honest. However, needs must, the site featuring upon my ‘bad weather list’, invoked upon those unfortunately all-too-frequent days (such as today) when cloud sits upon the North Walian uplands like a gigantic mothership piloted by intergalactic beings having much to learn in the parking department. As if maintaining solidarity with said cloud base, my mood is not lifted by the presence of one of those pathetic, black-clad ‘heddlu’, er, individuals avoiding doing any worthwhile police work by pointing his little laser at me, so ensuring I miss the turning at Bontddu first time around. Look for the massive blue (I think) ‘chapel’ and follow the very steep, very minor road to its eventual terminus at a parking area beyond a gate (at SH657202).

I ignore the rough track heading left, instead venturing forth straight ahead through a gate to ascend a green track... the old London to Harlech ‘road’, no less, travelled when ‘horse power’ was quite literally just that. And employed by all. At a (presumably relatively modern) marker stone a track veers to the left (west) while the main, walled route continues to ascend the excellent, grassy Y Braich – or ‘The Arm’ – reaching down from the heights of the southern Rhinogydd above and beyond. Now since Bryn Castell is located upon the southern-most extremity of Y Braich sticking to the main route will do; however I veer to the west to enjoy what, in my opinion, is a much more memorable approach, the site towering dramatically above to my right.

So... a short climb finally brings me to the fine, univallate ‘fort. As Postman says, the view southwards across Aber Mawddach toward Cadair Idris is absolutely stunning, even when viewed under somewhat less than ideal conditions. However it is that to the north, looking up the aforementioned Y Braich to the high summits of Y Rhinogydd, the latter obscured by swirling vapour, that seems to awaken the hunter-gatherer in me. The 2,462ft Diffwys periodically beckons through the gloom, the brutal landscape occasionally illuminated by washes of sunlight all too quickly extinguished, as if by the silent admonition of a cosmic Warden Hodges: ‘Put that bloody light out you ruddy ‘ooligan!’. The path appears tempting, the foreshortened scene promising an memorable afternoon... if only the cloud would break. I wait in vain, deciding to return and make the climb some other time. As it is the weather provides an opportunity just two days hence. The route is a lot steeper than it appears.....

Suffice to say, then, that Bryn Castell occupies a damn fine spot. But what of the archaeology? Well, for such a small site the defensive wall is pretty strong (albeit clearly robbed to the east to build a dry stone field wall). Furthermore, the northern high point of the enclosure features the remains of an enigmatic round structure which could, I guess, be variously interpreted as ‘round house’, proto-donjon or round cairn. Or none of the above. For what it’s worth, the feature is perfectly profiled upon the skyline when viewed from the valley below, a characteristic suggestive of a cairn. But then again... Guess only excavation will confirm. Yeah, right. A retrospective perusal of Coflein suggests that, as with a number of other upland defensive enclosures clustered around Cadair Idris, the small size of Bryn Castell might suggest use as a temporary citadel rather than permanently occupied home?

Despite the impressive, nay, intriguing remains, for me the primary reason to come here is to enjoy that (obviously) indefinable ‘mountain vibe’. As with Crug Hywel upon the southern slopes of Pen Cerrig-calch far to the south, Bryn Castell belongs to the uplands, as if a small, wild bird cupped in the grasping hand of Y Rhinogydd. To call it a mere hill fort is to do it an injustice.

It is – I would assume – one of the lesser debated imponderables of relatively recent Welsh history to contemplate whether or not, when faced with a barrage of questions from inquisitive Ordnance Surveyors, the rural peasant simply ‘made stuff up’. And, if so, was there mischievous intent? Consider a theoretical example: OS man (pointing fervently): ‘I say, you, peasant. What is the name of that big, round hill over there?’ Exasperated Peasant: ‘Oh, that’ll be ‘The Big Round Hill’, sir’. OS Man (scribbling into his notebook): ‘Jolly good. Carry on, doing whatever it is you peasants do’. Smirking Peasant (tugging his cap, then muttering under his breath): ‘Heh, heh. You muppet.‘

OK, a fanciful scenario, perhaps... but it would certainly explain why here, in the quiet, green foothills between the summit peaks of Cadair Idris and the wondrous Aber Mawddach, we have two Craig y Castells depicted upon the current 1:25K map within a mile of each other. Surely some mistake? For what it’s worth I don’t buy the alternative to local wind up... that a people steeped in the lore of giants and fairies would apply such rigidly pragmatic, localised nomenclature. Not when hoodwinking gullible officials can be so much fun, methinks. Incidentally Coflein namechecks the northern of the pair as Craig-y-Waun. Yeah, you do the maths.

But enough of such facetious, unsubstantiated conjecture! Like Thomas Dolby, way back in 1982, it’s time to defer to a more, er, scientific approach, in my case that of logical deliberation (hopefully) informed by personal observation. Or, to put it another way, time to blunder up another Welsh hillside in the teeming rain and ‘see what happens’. Hey, whether such action is more demonstrative of lunacy than the wildly exaggerated antics of the former synth boffin’s eccentric associate, Magnus Pike, is perhaps a moot point. But there you are. Anyway.... travellers approaching from Dolgellau (Love Lane, as I recall. Nice touch) should keep their eyes peeled for an obscure right turn servicing the farms of Gellilwyd Fach and Fawr. Continue beyond the latter and park up at Tal y Waen, whereupon a track heads north through the farm yard of Tyn-y-llwyn. This, now a green ‘path’, of sorts, crosses a stream and sweeps to the left under the inquisitive gaze of grazing ponies seemingly oblivious to the downpour. Or perhaps scornful of the approaching creature so woefully adapted for such conditions? Surely not?

After a short while Craig y Castell/Craig-y-Waun (tack your pick) looms above to the left. The towering profile of the ancient fortress is somewhat disconcerting viewed from below, it has to be said, the steepness of attack putting a noticeable damper upon the previous alacrity of my approach. Hmm. Nevertheless, I follow the left flank of a rather splendid dry stone wall and – eventually – arrive upon the small, craggy summit. As one might have expected from the vernacular. The ‘front door’ is approached by looping around from the south and is defended by a quite substantial drystone wall... or at least the remains of one... this continuing along the eastern flank in the ubiquitous ‘fill in the gaps’ style of such upland defensive enclosures. The western flank falls sheer to the cwm below and, together with the northern aspect (supporting a modern wall) would appear to have required little artificial protection back in the day.

The position is wild and inspiring, particularly when the low cloud base, which has been prevalent all week, caresses the hillside with swirling, grey tendrils of opaque moisture. Once again I’m a little overawed until, having ensured I know my way back down again by compass should the clammy embrace becomes more than temporary, I can afford to relax and, basically, do bugger all. As it is the conditions remain in a state of flux, glimpses of the exquisite Mawddach to the north periodically rescinded, only for views toward mighty Cadair Idris to open to the north. To be fair to locals past it is easy to imagine such a landscape being the haunt of otherworldly creatures at times such as this. Woaah! Mind where you’re placing those big feet, Mr Idris.

As I ponder ‘stuff’ (e.g. are giants all in the mind, to be feared, or merely misunderstood gigantic.. sorry, ‘size challenged’... creatures possibly taking The Human League a little too seriously?) I decide a visit to the trio of cairns shown on the map below to the south is in order. However I duly abort a direct approach – too many walls – in lieu of returning to the car and heading west at Gellilwyd Fawr. But that’s another story.

As for my observations of Craig y Castell? Well... guess it’s fair to relate that I was not so much blinded with science as seduced, held in thrall, if you will, by the stark, ethereal beauty of this landscape under such inclement conditions. Poetry? Well, yes, but the more brutal King Lear as opposed to wandering lonely as a cloud, perhaps? Although wandering lonely in a cloud might be more apt, come to think of it. But none the worse for that. And should a nameless rural peasant have, perchance, taken the piss out of a wandering map maker once upon a time.. thanks for the prompt, my friend.

Approaching from Domen-ddu, a mile (ish) to the approx south, I find the large, grassy cairn crowning the 1,873ft summit of Crugyn-Llwyd to be far less obvious – topographically speaking – than I had envisaged. Indeed, upon arrival, I’m not at all convinced that Coflein haven’t got this one badly wrong (the shame if it – oh me of little faith]. Yeah, all hill and no cairn. Please move along. Nothing to see here. However.... persevere, since, as it happens, this is very far from the case. For although Crugyn-Llwyd has reclaimed its eponymous Bronze Age monument as if clutching it close to its evergreen breast (so to speak) for safe keeping, it is nevertheless very much still here. As it has been for millennia. Hidden in plain sight, one might say. Without doubt the most effective camouflage.

So, following my own advice (for once) I go walkabout around the summit and, upon viewing the apparent monument from various angles, find that the artificial intent underscoring what we have here soon becomes all too obvious, the grass mantle no longer sufficient to deny the insight of a somewhat wonky prehistoric antennae now tuned to more-or-less the correct band width. Hey, just needed warming up a bit. Furthermore, albeit with some not inconsiderable effort, I manage to identify some stone subsumed beneath the turf and thus satisfy any lingering doubts. This one is a ‘grower’, as they might say. If ‘they’ were ever to venture up here, of course.

Note that not everything is rosy here. The cairn is unfortunately bisected by a boundary fence. Furthermore, the summit area to the east isn’t exactly the most aesthetically pleasing in all Wales. Nevertheless this is a memorable place to be, even when lashed by periodic weather fronts, alternating with washes of golden light. A wild, uncompromising location seemingly divorced from everyday life ‘down there’ by some currently unquantifiable, additional dimension yet to trouble the scientists. Although to be fair Mr Hawking has probably already considered it. Whatever it is. As if to emphasise this sense of apparent ‘other worldliness’ a fox comes ambling by... sees the intruder.... tarries a while to check him out... then duly buggers off on his way again with a carefree ‘skip’ worthy of Father Dougal McGuire. Ha! Nothing to fear from that muppet, methinks...

As with neighbouring Domen-ddu, the west facing vista is quite superb; haunting, even, when perused at length under an ethereal September sky. A suitably expansive panorama for contemplating the sheer nebulosity of any notions of the passing of time, even those within scope of human comprehension. Or something like that. Maybe, on a much baser level, it’s just damn beautiful. Inspiring, even?

Pegwn Bach rises to the approx north-north-west surmounted by an obvious – therefore presumably significant – ‘Tumulus’. Further ‘Cairns’, not to mention serried ranks of wind turbines, are visible upon Pegwn Mawr beyond to the north. What with the Fowler’s Arm Chair monuments located about a mile to the east it is clear quite a few homo sapiens called hereabouts ‘home’ back in the day. Yeah, word on the hill is a lot was goin’ down back a few mill. Consequently strong walkers, or perhaps those content to spend less time sitting about than I, might consider expanding their itinerary to include the whole lot in one fell swoop?

But then again, in my opinion at least, there is a lot to be said for ‘sitting about’ upon hill/mountain tops.

The hills to the north of the Rhayader, lacking the tourist foci of the Elan Valley Reservoirs to the Mid Walian market town’s west, may fairly be described nowadays as being ‘somewhat off the beaten track’. Nevertheless, rising to as near-as-dammit 2,000ft (1,923ft at Pegwn Mawr) and crowned by numerous Bronze Age cairns, not to mention those enigmatic ‘tumuli’, this lack of popularity is a veritable blessing for those Citizens Cairn’d willing and able to satiate their curiosity by donning boots. Hey, no incoherent, clueless tourist sightseers to shatter that all important upland vibe with mindless jibber jabber... as Mr T might observe with characteristically unconcealed distain: “Hey crazy fools! This ain’t no ‘old pile of stones’ but the dawn of civilisation! I pity the fool who thinks otherwise!”

However I must confess to knowing nothing of this pleasant state of affairs prior to blundering north upon the B4518, upon experiencing my (hitherto rock solid) resolve to set foot upon the large round barrow at Ty Lettice (SN99026866) blown asunder by ludicrously heavy rain on site. Yeah, ‘ludicrous’ even for Mid Wales, that is. That’ll be bad, then. But here even clouds without silver linings can have beneficial consequences.

So, riding along in my automobile.... with no particular place to go, the day is fast disintegrating into a big, fat nothingness when I’m struck by the impressive escarpment profile to my right as I pass through Pant-y-dwr. Noticing the downpour seemingly having abated I pull over and check the map.... whereupon Crugyn-Llwyd appears to offer a potential solution to Chuck’s perennial, not to mention best selling conundrum. But in these conditions? What new lunacy is this? The meteorological ceasefire is maintained as I tentatively navigate the minor roads eastward to park a little south of farm buildings at Garth (where the straight road beyond Bryn Hafod turns sharply to the right to eventually lose its tarmacadam in apparent homage to Owain Glyndwr, near Esgair Fedw). I opt to forgo following in the former Tywysog Cymru’s boot steps – if, indeed, yer man ever came this way – instead heading steeply uphill through trees to the south-east... to be seduced, in short order, by a nice, green track to the right of a fence line... retrospectively determined to be heading roughly east instead of the planned north-east. Spying a substantial cairn crowning the high ground some considerable distance across the Rhyd y Clwydau Brook to the south I realise I’ve gone wrong. As is often the case with my lamentable map reading. However opportunity knocks. Why not visit Domen-ddu and loop around to Crugyn-Llwyd later. If I’ve got enough puff? It’d be rude not to try, to be fair.

The intervening ground is rough, the monument – in actual fact there are two – occupying the 1,814ft summit of a southern spur, bounded to the east by the forestry-clad flank of Cwm Llygod and to the west by the abrupt line of the escarpment edge. The cairn noted earlier (at SO01697826) is indeed impressive, Coflein citing dimensions of “...23m by 13.1m and 2.3m high...” [J.Wiles 02.08.02]. Furthermore, a little to the north at SO01687828 there is a “..circular, flat-topped mound.... 18.6m in diameter and 1.0m high”. Two for the price of one, then.

So, the archaeology here upon Domen-ddu is worth writing home about.... should you happen to have relatives who give a monkey’s about old piles of stones and earth set upon obscure Mid Walian hills lashed by the inclement elements of September, that is? OK, not very likely, is it? But technically feasible, I guess. However, as is often the case with these upland monuments, it’s where they decided to erect them that truly matters, the real reason to put oneself out to come here. Hey, perhaps some metaphysical force told the Bronze Age architect “Build it and they will come. Albeit it not very many of them.” Yeah, the topography is truly special, the sweeping vista westward quite exceptional in my opinion, the vibe equally so. Whether Pumlumon (Herself) is looming upon the far north-western horizon is a moot point since, with temporary cease fire rescinded, multiple weather fronts sweep along the Wye Valley to give me the proverbial periodical pasting. Potential visitors might be interested to learn that, somewhat bizarrely, there is currently a little wooden seat set overlooking the drop to the west. Carpentry? Is there no end to Kevin Costner’s talents? Aside from trying to play Robin Hood.

As I sit and contemplate ‘stuff’ – as I confess I’m apt to do when in these uncompromising environments liable to banish common place notions of everyday existence from my head – Crugyn-Llwyd beckons ever more emphatically to the north. I duly assess the situation... hmm... a small deviation from my return route back to the car. Yeah, guess I don’t really have a choice.

Should the somewhat more adventurous visitors to Ceredigion happen – whether by chance or design – to arrive at the hamlet of Ponterwyd, astride the A44, with a desire to head north... I dare say that, upon pondering awhile (as you do) they may well be tempted to emulate the locals and take the single track ‘short cut’ across Pumlumon in lieu of the looping, coastal route via Aberystwyth. And why not, since, although by no means endless, the possibilities that will present themselves are nonetheless multiplex, albeit at the mercy of the not infrequently inclement weather? Particularly for a traveller with a megalithically calibrated mind and/or an eye for an inspiring landscape: one, even today, still infused with legend; that subliminal, pseudo-metaphysical condiment forever seasoning the human story. For this is the land of Glyndwr and Taliesin, where almost every summit is crowned by a Bronze Age cairn, as if echoes of mighty deeds literally turned to stone upon the Medusa’s searing gaze. Ah, if only these mountains could talk, what tales would they tell, eh? Well, perhaps all is not lost in the mists of time, for listen carefully and Pumlumon really does speak for itself: the ‘piping’ call of the soaring Red Kite; the cacophony of the nascent Hafren (Severn, Britain’s longest river), Wye and Rheidol as they cascade from their lofty sources upon the main ridge following heavy rain; the wind audible in ubiquitous long grass concealing wetlands which once ensured Henry II’s knights floundered to their doom...

But what of the green foothills which sweep northward toward Dyffryn Dyfi from Nant-y-Moch, fleetingly glimpsed upon traversing our aforementioned minor road? Surely but a minor diversion before entering the domain of Idris and, on.. er.. somewhat firmer historical ground, Vortigen, Owain Gwynedd and Llywelyn ap Iorwerth, not to mention Edward Longshanks himself? The answer to that is, in every respect, a resounding ‘NO’. Firstly, access to the area is far from straightforward, it being necessary to negotiate the descent of Cwm Ceulan to Tal-y-Bont and approach via very minor roads exiting the A487 to the north; secondly, there is simply so much to see... from one of Wales’ premier waterfalls (Pistyll y Llyn), Moel y Llyn (with it’s very own ‘lady of the lake’ tale, to Cwm Einion. Ah exquisite Cwm Einion, perhaps better known to the occasional tourist as ‘Artist’s Valley’ owing to formative visits from one JMW Turner and, much more recently, home to a certain Mr Plant who (apparently) was inspired to write ‘Stairway to Heaven’ here with some other bloke amongst the ancient tilio-acerion native woodland. Furthermore, with almost every hill top once again crowned by a Bronze Age cairn, stone circle or chambered cairn, the Citizen Cairn’d must really take notice...

Which brings me, eventually, to Foel Goch, a seemingly minor coastal hill overlooking the Afon Dyfi as it nears the end of its short journey to the sea from Creiglyn Dyfi, the latter cradled beneath the mighty crags of Aran Fawddwy. I say ‘eventually’ because I make a farce of the initial approach by car... losing my nerve as I pass Bedd Taliesin and backtracking to the A487 to finally park up, rather sheepishly (appropriately enough in these parts) in a farmyard east of Tre’r-ddol, at Llety-lwydin, Cwm Cletwr, to my mind the only feasible option. Now on foot, the road descends very sharply from here to a T-junction, the right hand selection arriving in due course at a habitation on the left overflowing with free range chickens and other creatures pleasing to the senses. A public footpath sets off to the east ranging above the northern bank of the Afon Clettwr, the initial lush, green pasture giving way to a more coarse, upland domain. That’ll be Foel Goch, then.

As usual I haven’t done my homework – note to self: don’t... it’s far more interesting this way – so, having found the ‘Cairns’ depicted upon my map here, upon the southern flank of the hill/mini mountain, to be less than convincing, I head for the obvious, large cairn crowning the skyline to the north-east. Clearly this must be Pen y Foel Goch. Except, of course, it’s nothing of the sort, being in actual fact Carn Wen, a little below and to the west of the summit monument at SN68979274. According to RCAHMW (Dave Leighton, 30/7/12) this, one of numerous ‘White Cairns’ to be found in Wales measures “13m (N-S) by 17m (E-W), its shape distorted by slippage of material down steep west side of the summit; height 1m-2m.” Yeah, it’s a pretty substantial cairn... but the compelling reason to come here is the location which, to these eyes, is extraordinary for the relative low altitude. It really is. The stunning Dyffryn Dyfi, its river meandering to its all-inclusive conclusion, takes centre stage... but there is much more: the brooding, central ridge of Pumlumon surmounting the horizon to the south-east, Cadair Idris – with the seriously be-cairned, tautological Tarren Hills to its left – soaring sentinel to the approx north. Things (arguably) get even more interesting nearer to hand, initially just across the Afon Clettwr at Caer Arglwyddes, ‘The Lady’s Field’, where there are a number of cairns, one with impressive cist still in situ visited back in 2012. But why ‘The Lady’s Field’? Well, according to Dr Gwilym Morus (Welshmythology.com)... “All became clear when I had a conversation with an old lady who’s father had been born at Cae’r Arglwyddes, and according to her the name of the farm refers to a ‘lady of the lake’ folktale about the small lake up on Moel-y-llyn”. Things begin to fall into place... since Moel y Llyn, rising due south-east of Carn Wen, possesses a quartet of cairns in addition to its legendary feminine bathing facility.

A short, yet sweet scramble brings me finally to Pen y Foel Goch, featuring a further substantial cairn at SN69519285, that is a little to the approx north-west of the actual summit. Again according to Dave Leighton, this “measures some 10m across, allowing for distortion caused by slippage of material down the steeper west side. Robbing has left the eastern perimeter of the cairn as a grassy ring, its height 0.3m”. If anything, the vista to be enjoyed from this monument is even more impressive/expansive than from its neighbour below to the west. The fundamental difference, I guess, is the sight of yet another cairn, upon Cerrig Blaencletwr-Fawr (aka Esgair Foel-ddu) just under a mile distant to the east, beckoning the footsore modern antiquarian onward with its silent siren call. Nevertheless, what with a significant height loss to contend with – all too often the tired hill walker’s nemesis – I immediately give up any notion of an attempt today as falling within the ‘so near, yet so far’ category... only to find my impetuosity, if not curiosity, has decided otherwise and launched me half way down the slope before counter-revolutionary reason can react. Ha! Emotion over reason? Right on!

The intervening terrain is rough, trackless, featuring areas of severe bog. Standard practice for Pumlumon, to be fair. However the cairn is worth the not inconsiderable effort and is again exquisitely sited, this time gazing down into the equally compelling Cwm Einion at SN70779256. Now I’ve no idea whether Mr Turner made a foray up here – to this very spot – to be similarly entranced by the ever-changing light playing upon the legendary Moel y Llyn to immediate south-east. I doubt it. Hey, perhaps Timothy Spall might know? But if he did, it would explain a lot, methinks... for his work invokes, nay encapsulates the vibe I feel at places such as this. Mr Leighton reckons the much more mundane technical specifics are “11m NE-SW by 9.0m & 0.9m high”. Unlike both Foel Goch’s cairns Cerrig Blaencletwr-Fawr’s monument has unfortunately been defaced, given a hollow centre. The reasoning behind this is even more obscure than the usual ‘built by ignorant muppets’ since, clearly, no such fool has taken shelter here in a very, very long time, to judge by the presence of a tenacious tree of indeterminate (to me) type occupying the space. Now that, together with the other ‘Plant’ life formerly found within The Artist’s Valley, I can live with. Way to go, my woody stemmed friend! As if to mark the moment.. a rainbow arcs across the valley. Time to leave. Since it is a long way back... and who knows what other legendary idiosyncrasies these unassuming northern ‘foot hills’ of Pumlumon have up their collective ‘sleeves’ to bestow upon unsuspecting punters after dark? Hey, perhaps some of the more artistic people associated with this magical area were brave enough to find out? Perhaps.

Now it might be considered paradoxical – in the extreme – to talk of a ‘Green Desert of Wales’. Particularly when an already saturated ground simply can not absorb any more of the seemingly incessant torrent of water issuing forth from looming nimbostratus. Nevertheless I understand where that celebrated Welsh raconteur and walker, Wynford Vaughan-Thomas, was coming from when he employed the epithet to determine the wild, upland region of Mid Wales between the military domain of Mynydd Eppynt and Pumlumon, doyen of Welsh rivers. Yeah, despite only breeching the 2,000ft criterion in a handful of places, these deceptively brutal hills demand the utmost respect. Paths, where they exist at all, possess the disconcerting habit of luring both the wary and unwary alike into lugubrious bog, the ‘industrial strength’ grass the very antithesis of terrain suitable for ageing knees and ankles. Tell me about it.

So why do I return again and again to submit myself to such privations? Well, aside from subscribing to the teachings of Marx – Groucho, that is... not the dialectical German, nor his modern far left ‘disciples’ – and not wishing to belong to a club that would willingly have me as a member, I guess it is because the implied feeling of ‘wilderness’ here is – arguably – without parallel in all Wales. Even the UK, perhaps? And nowhere is the aura more apparent, for me, than at the highest point of Cwmdeuddwr, the summit ridge of Drygarn Fawr itself, crowned by the remnants of two ancient cairns in turn surmounted by massive, idiosyncratic beehives worthy of association with the soulful jazz canon of Amy Winehouse. Yeah, it was whilst chilling out here last year that I noticed a small cairn below to the east... Carnau... with another a mile or so further north. Duly noted for future reference. Intrigued, it seemed to me there is no end to the Bronze Age sorcery of Mid Wales?

The great reservoirs of Cwm Elan have their southern terminus at Llanerch y Cawr where a restored medieval long house still affords a glimpse of times past... right here in the present. However to briefly shine a light upon an aspect of the human story a little more obscured by the mists of time – and, usually, the aforementioned nimbostratus – it is necessary to don walking boots and follow a track westwards above the access road for Rhiwnant farm, subsequently veering south to head for the exquisite Nant Paradwys. After approx a mile the cascading river is my cue to scramble up the flanks of Esgair Ceiliog to the left (east) in order to visit a fine cairn at SN897599. To be honest this is a more than adequate prime destination; however my curiosity gets the better of me and... well, you know how it is?.... I find myself continuing along the bank of the river toward Bwlch-y-Ddau-Faen upon a path that is, in reality, more stream than anything else.

Bwlch-y-Ddau-Faen – the ‘Two Stone Pass’ – is an enigmatic place. Assuming wild, windswept moorland a couple of miles from the nearest road is your thang? Firstly there is a natural spring here amongst the peat hags; secondly, a number of standing stones protrude from said peat to varying degrees forming an irregular ‘ring’, as opposed to ‘circle. So why the colloquial reference to ‘Two Stones’ when there are substantially more than a pair of stones here? As I said, enigmatic place, augmented by a fine, sweeping view toward the Great Escarpment of South Wales dominating the southern horizon. Reassuring to find everything in its right place, so to speak. For what it’s worth, I’m tempted to think what we have here is a typical, if disrupted upland Welsh ring. With numerous diminutive orthostats barely breeching the current surface it just feels ‘right’, you know? It is difficult to hypothesise a satisfactory reason why these tiny stones should otherwise be here. But there you are. All is silent now, almost overwhelmingly so; however the location is significant, the past cacophony of untold drover’s agitated cattle seemingly hanging in the wind just out of human audible frequency.

Carnau rises a little further on, the route, somewhat ironically perhaps, marked by a couple of boundary stones clearly of relatively modern genesis. Although not in the same league as its neighbour overlooking the cascades to the north, the cairn, although dishevelled, is substantial enough and, unexpectedly, features an arc of kerbing still in situ. Although, in retrospect, its very isolation is probably to thank for such welcome preservation. With Drygarn Fawr looming to the west and Gorllwyn to the east it soon becomes apparent that, far from being in the middle of ‘nowhere’ as the map, not to mention my preconceptions suggested, Carnau is in fact an integral piece of the Cwmdeuddwr Bronze Age jigsaw situated close to a main thoroughfare across this landscape. Furthermore, what a wonderful, invigoratingly wild vibe this place possesses! A rarefied, somewhat esoteric atmosphere further amplified by a succession of progressively more brutal weather fronts sweeping along Nant Paradwys. Not everyone’s cup of tea, but there you are. Needless to say this contrary Englishman duly satiates his thirst with coffee.

Time marches on toward inexorable darkness ensuring I must all too soon leave and retrace my soggy steps to Llanerch y Cawr, boots long since succumbed to the sheer volume of surface water. Yeah, The Green Desert of Wales is no place to be benighted without shelter. As Vaughan-Thomas would’ve known only too well.

This wondrous site reminded me a lot of the not-too-distant Grim’s Grave upon Dartmoor and, although not possessing the latter’s exquisitely isolated location, may well top it in terms of sheer aesthetic appeal. You know, I reckon it does.

Looking for a reasonably easy time to recuperate aching limbs pushed to their limit during the previous day’s 10 hour walkabout around Brown Willy, Twelve Men’s Moor, sexist nomenclature notwithstanding, appears to tick all the boxes. So, in accordance with my ‘path of least resistance’ game plan, I take the very minor road climbing steeply away to the north-west from the B3254 at Berriowbridge. Having safely negotiated Mr Hamhead’s far from inconsequential tarmacadam ‘bumps’, I park at its terminus and set off on foot, heading very approx west along a bridleway (actually a surfaced track accessing Trewortha Farm). With the serrated skyline of Kilmar Tor rising to the left and Hawk’s Tor to my right the scenery is appropriately ‘rugged’... ‘Cornwall-esque’, if you like... as if to compensate for any intrinsic lack of significant height above ordnance datum in the area.

Simply put, there is an awful lot going on here upon Twelve Men’s Moor – a plethora it might be said – should one possess a penchant for grassy stone piles, enigmatic, roughly circular arrangements of stone erupting from the earth as if discarded dragon’s dentures (should’ve used fixodent)... and, first up upon my progressive linear agenda today, the utilitarian, yet immeasurably evocative little stone coffin: the cist. Far enough removed from our present time to sever any potentially uncomfortable, lingering connection with the macabre, there is something so inherently, demonstrably ‘human’ about these structures, their fabric seemingly impervious to the inclement weather of passing millennia... yet their former organic content anything but. As everyone of us knows only too well. This example – at SX252755, a little to the left (south) of the track – is a worthy specimen to represent the genre. Although lacking capstone, it stands exposed within its former cairn and, with settlements and associated field system in close proximity, it is easy – I find – to transcend the notion of a simple ‘stone box’ and contemplate what might have formed the basis of the hopes, dreams and aspirations of those that lived, farmed and died here at the dawn of our time.

Moving on a little further to the west and, again, to the left of the track, I encounter a small group of cairns (SX250752), one of which is a pretty substantial, grassy mound, another what appears to be a long cairn. Whatever the truth of its origin, the latter is certainly a ‘long cairn’; however, as is the case with many cairns, I guess the definitive yes/no regarding prehistoric ancestry will only be attained by way of that excavation which will probably never be scheduled, let alone executed. Incidentally, grave goods including a disintegrating BWM ‘key’ fob are either indicative of the hitherto unknown exceptional technical prowess of the locals back in the day... or one very pissed off motorist in somewhat more recent times.

So, finally, the pièce de résistance is reached following a short walk across the moor to the approx south-west, passing what is, apparently (well, according to the map) a ‘mound’. Albeit a not-very-clear-one obscured with summer vegetation. I’m compelled to say upfront that, in my opinion, this obscure ‘Cairn and Cist’ is one of the most sublimely pleasing monuments I’ve had the pleasure to encounter in a long while. Yeah, some sites are so joyous, invoke such a feeling of wellbeing in this traveller as to render categorisation superfluous. And this is such a site. Kerbed-cairn, cairn-circle, cairn and cist? Irrelevant. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say... and every wondrously wobbly orthostat surrounding the cist bears mute testimony to such an assertion today. Assuming one concedes ‘mute’ to solely relate to audible sound; there are other, non-empirical methods of communication. The combination of cist, cairn, uprights and landscape just ‘works’, you know? As if the constructors of this monument had an epiphany moment comparable with Da Vinci realising he was onto a winner with this Lisa Gherardini and her wicked smile. Why, even the farmer loudly strimming away like a demented Alan Tichmarsh in the field beyond the track doesn’t affect the vibe.

Kilmar Tor rises to the south-east. And, as I relax, drink my coffee and think of ‘stuff’, it becomes all too clear that in order to complete.. to realise the coda... as Ralf Hütter would insist I should... I must return to the car via that shattered skyline of wonky rock. The main tor is riven with cracks as to threaten immediate, catastrophic collapse. The wind batters my person and prompts a fleeting self diagnostic. Why willingly choose to do this upon a supposed ‘rest day’? All I can offer by way of explanation is the invitation to come and walk Kilmar Tor if you are able. Like the superb cairn and other monuments clustered below to the north, Kilmar Tor has what it takes. For me.

I approach from Bray Down:

themodernantiquarian.com/post/154482/fieldnotes/bray_down.html

Having not undertaken any homework back in Essex – well, in mitigation I had expected to push on to Land’s End following a few days upon Dartmoor, so had no expectation whatsoever of still being upon Bodmin Moor on the penultimate day of the fortnight – I’m not anticipating much from Buttern Hill. Aside from some sweeping views to Rough Tor under very welcome clear conditions... and the chance to ‘reverse engineer’ the vista enjoyed from Brown Willy three days earlier. Yeah, I do like different perspectives, me.

As usual things don’t go to plan; mainly, I guess, because I like to bring along, as it were, a rough artist’s sketch in my mind and fill in the detail as circumstances dictate. Either that, or I’ve an appalling short term memory. One of the two. Anyway, upon leaving the summit of Bray Down I encounter (presumably) the same herd of brooding bovines I met on the way up. None shall pass. Consequently I detour around and forget all about the settlement apparently sited below, instead fording the river – or is it now a stream? – rather more elegantly than earlier in the day. From here, after hanging out with some wild ponies for a short while, ‘up’ is the only required direction. As I recall Yazz pointed this out, rather emphatically it has to be said, during the late 80’s? I think. But then again the longer term memory isn’t what it was either nowadays. Anyhow, whatever the correct timeline, her long, ‘stompy’ legs would’ve no doubt made far easier work of the grassy pull to the summit of Buttern Hill than mine. But there you are. One must work with what one has got.

As I approach the summit the first of a linear grouping of reasonably well defined cairns comes into view. Not bad at all. What I’m not prepared for is the ‘contents’ of the primary cairn... a damn well near perfectly preserved example of a cist, complete with fine cap stone slipped back to reveal the interior. Wow! Incoherent thoughts flash into my brain, which, sort of summarised, I guess relate to the wonder of finding something such as this standing more-or-less intact after all these millennia. Or something like that. OK, the location, the topography, isn’t quite as fine – in my opinion – as that occupied by the western cairn upon Bray Down from whence I’ve just come... but you simply can’t argue with archaeological quality such as this, even with the associated cairn being reduced to a grassy ring delineating the monument.

Er, except it seems that you can. It is therefore with a high degree of irony that I have to endure a pair of ramblers, suddenly appearing like the shopkeeper in Mr Benn, do just that, loudly ‘debating’ over my head what this could possibly be? A kennel, a sheep shelter, perhaps? Thankfully they are soon gone. Now whether the catalyst for accelerating the action was the pungent odour of sheep hanging in the air... or me apparently not going anywhere soon – odd man that I am – is probably a moot point. Anyhow, the trade mark Bodmin Moor ‘utter silence’ is resumed and Buttern Hill lives again in the imagination, if only for a short while. What price a couple of Bronze Age people somehow turning up in lieu of the now departed ramblers? Ha, dream on. So I do until advancing time dictates I must leave and return to the car.

Yeah, both Bray Down and Buttern Hill are fine objectives for the TMA’er in their own right. However a walk combining the two, in my opinion, might just well be one of Bodmin Moor’s unexpected gems.

Now, since I’m not in the habit of adding to the physical burden that is my already way-too-heavy rucksack with a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary – nor, I have to admit, Apple’s apparently ‘wondrous’ device, so subjecting my movements to the scrutiny of GHQ – I’m not privy to the official definition of ‘idyllic’. Not even sure I’ve spelt it correctly, to be honest. But no matter, since, whatever the selection made by Dr Johnson’s scholarly successors, I’d suggest the following would suffice nicely: “Where the Penpont Water is forded by the Bothwick-West Carne road, Bodmin Moor”. Yeah, this is quite some spot to begin my last day in Cornwall. Not so much ‘chocolate box’, as, upon having eaten both layers of Terry’s All Gold, finding a third beneath within a TARDIS-like confectionary dispensary.

A track heads southward, well sort of, following the right hand (western) bank of the water course, Bray Down, a perceived hint of cairn at the apparent summit, rising to my left. The route becomes progressively more boggy in short order, prompting thoughts of crossing sooner rather than later... or perhaps more to the point, why didn’t I set off along the left hand bank, muppet? Sure enough, the terrain soon degenerates into a quagmire and it takes all my not-very-copious reserves of ingenuity to find a way across dryshod. Giggity, indeed. Nevertheless, once across, a short, rough ascent brings me to the summit, much to the apparent bemusement of some cows. Well, it is hard to tell. Might have simply been bovine indifference.

The summit of Bray Down is crowned by – in my opinion anyway – a trio of cairns. OK, only the western-most is particularly upstanding nowadays... but the survival of an arc of large kerb stones is more than enough supplementary detail to compensate for the assumed robbing of its near neighbours. As Mr Hamhead notes, exposed natural outcropping can be seen within the cairn, prompting deliberations as to whether this was intentional, symbolic, or utilitarian in nature. Or just plain lazy. Or damn clever. Whatever the truth, a truth now forever lost in the ever receding depths of time, this is a great cairn with excellent views across Bodmin Moor and, nearer to hand, within sight of a nice little logan stone. As for the other two monuments.. the middle, bearing an OS trig pillar, is ravaged but clearly rather substantial back in the day... whilst the eastern is substantially overgrown, of no great height, but nonetheless displaying a not inconsiderable footprint.

Furthermore, a triumvirate of upland cairns, unlike people, doesn’t make a crowd; rather an appropriate environment generating a vibe imploring the visitor to plonk oneself down and partake of possibly upland Cornwall’s greatest resource: utter silence. A revolutionary act, perhaps, in an era of information overload arguably reaching critical mass. Yeah, Robespierre and the other Jacobin nutters might not have approved, but there you are. Of more concern is the abundance of aerial insects in the immediate vicinity of the western cairn. Or, more specifically, their identity. Well, seeing as ancient cairns are, in my experience (not to mention the Mam C’s) prime locations for bees to establish a hive, one has to take these things seriously. Fortunately the creatures are particularly noisy flies. Annoying, but without a sting in the tail, so to speak.

Lazing in the sun upon Bray Down (don’t you just love the inconsistencies of the English language?) – particularly following the flash floods experienced earlier in the week – is a great way to spend a few hours. However eventually Buttern Hill calls from across the valley. Time to complete the walk:

themodernantiquarian.com/site/10341/buttern_hill.html

The concluding afternoon of a fortnight’s deliberations in the far west country duly arrives... and with it, that curious, emotional juxtaposition of muted acceptance of the party’s imminent end with the warm, still glowing embers of time well spent. Such ambiguous, inconclusive moods perhaps should not be conducive to rousing finales, even accepting that sitting around upon hill tops doing, frankly, not a lot, could be considered ‘rousing’ by most. However, as chance would have it, Cox Tor plays host to just such an event today. For me. Well, it’s a personal thing.

The portents are not good when, following a memorable morning at the isolated Ingra Tor my megalithic antennae, fine tuned by a fortnight in the field, duly overload upon arrival at what can only be described as a massive, and furthermore full car park below and to the south of the tor; that is, at the point where the B3357 begins a steep descent toward Tavistock. What is this all about, then? Bemused, I watch punters of all shapes and sizes, seemingly attired for the pleasantries of the beach, disgorge from vehicles to head northwards across the gently undulating hillside toward the unseen summit above and beyond. Subconsciously looking for a reason to opt out, not to join the merry throng, I check the map once more, only to reaffirm that, according to the wondrous OS people anyway, Cox Tor is indeed crowned by several ‘Cairns’ depicted in that beguiling, ‘antiquarian’ typeface. Guess it would be rude not to, then.

To call the ascent short and straightforward is pretty much like saying, “come to think of it, the bloke with the moustache and hat in Frankie didn’t do a lot, did he?” Consequently it’s positively affirming to find that, upon arrival, the summit of Cox Tor is a wild, rock strewn, uncompromisingly brutal place. With extra wind and cold to send my poorly clad fellow punters heading back to their cars in short order. Dartmoor-esque, you might call it. In fact there is so much loose rock surrounding the summit outcrop that, at first, the penny doesn’t drop that here we have another fine example of perhaps that most enigmatic of West Country prehistoric monuments... the tor cairn. OK, I know the stone row is Dartmoor’s signature feature; but, for me, there is just something SO primeval about (apparently) venerating the living rock itself.

As it is, however, the sight of a fine, round cairn a little way to the immediate north has me hurrying away to take a look and, concurrently, take in the wider views. It is a pretty hefty stone pile, perched upon the northern edge of another, lesser outcrop and with expansive views to all point of the compass save the south, that being reserved, as you would expect, for the ever more intriguing summit. Looking north-east the landscape is vintage Dartmoor, seemingly desolate, featureless moor... but in reality packed with prehistoric treasures, tangible reminders of the people who once called Langstone Moor and its environs ‘home’: a stone circle, numerous cairns, cists, monoliths... hey, even a hill fort crowning White Tor. Looking west the visitor has no need to attempt to reconcile such apparent ambiguities, a series of patchwork fields leading the eye toward Cornwall and the mysterious, rolling hills of Bodmin Moor. But that’s another, wondrous story.

After sitting out a brief, yet violent weather front, I check out another, apparently less well defined cairn a little further to the approx north to find it appears to be a pretty substantial ring cairn – as opposed to robbed round cairn? Perhaps not. An extended walkabout highlights at least one additional small cairn before, gazing across to White Tor and its tor cairns, I – finally – make the connection. Returning to the summit crags, now in brilliant sunshine, the surrounding girdle of shattered rock is obvious, in retrospect. Duh! The summit area is way, way too small to have been a habitable defended enclosure, so I have no doubt that something rather splendidly incomprehensible to my modern thinking – for better or worse – was going on back in the day.

Yeah, clearly Cox Tor was a significant member of the canon of Dartmoor’s upland sites back then. What is also certain is that it is the perfect locale to end a fortnight in the west. When something promising so little ends up delivering so much one can only shrug one’s shoulders and go with the flow...

Travellers heading south upon the A470 – or at least those with a tendency to, perchance, lift their eyes above the horizontal plane – will note, upon leaving the limits of the busy town of Rhayader, a substantial ridge dominating the skyline. This is Gwastedyn Hill, and, although rising to no more than c1,565ft, the ‘summit’ is conspicuously crowned by a neat ‘beehive’ cairn of the type so beloved by visitors to the erstwhile ‘wilder’, more inaccessible heights of Cwmdeuddw feeding the famously nearby Elan Valley Reservoirs with their not inconsiderable watery excess. However, appearances, as are often the case, are deceptive here, for no Bronze Age VIP was interred upon that rocky spine. Indeed, a rusting iron lattice-work ‘beacon’, set upon a post beside the cairn, commemorates a much more recent event... that of Queen Elizabeth II’s 1977 Jubilee. An event which this then proto-Modern Antiquarian spent dressed as a pirate... well, as the wondrous Mr Ant said, ‘ridicule is nothing to be scared of’... attending the local street party, whilst Mr Rotten and his dodgy cohorts had their collars ‘felt’ by the Thames river police. And Rod Stewart apparently got to No.1. Apparently. Don’t get me wrong; The Pistols were just stupid kids.... but out of the mouths of babes, as they say. Curious how ‘criminality’ is sometimes defined, isn’t it?

Nevertheless should one decide to park up just beyond the sewage works (on the right) and follow the (unsigned) public bridleway, steeply up through trees beside a tumbling stream in the general direction of Bwlch-y-llys, an equally taxing pull up the bare north-west flank of the hill will bring ample reward in a fantastic panorama to all points of the compass. Here the Royalist can drink his/her fill... the prehistorian, however, must head to the true summit of the hill some way to the approx south-east, where.... well, to be honest I don’t think anyone’s been able to define just what the hell is going on.

Two things, however, are apparent to me today: the remains of a substantial cairn still stand at SN98686614... the Carn Wen (White Cairn), one of a number so named in the extended locality; and secondly, the inclement weather, the peripheral effects of Hurricane Irma no doubt, is certainly in no hurry to leave. But what can you do? Except offer heartfelt ‘thanks’ to the wondrous institutions of Berghaus and Karrimor for the blessings of their waterproof garments. Not so much in physical genuflection, you understand?.... but such a posture does have much to recommend it when faced with rain seemingly not in obeyance of the laws of physics.

In my opinion Carn Wen is worthy of the honour of such personalised nomenclature. As Coflein duly notes, it features “...the remains of a substantial bouldered kerb and a possible cist”. Always welcome features to find associated with one’s upland cairn. Furthermore, to seal the authenticity deal, as it were, “A battle-axe, a bracelet and some other relics’ were recovered in 1844 and a large erect stone was noted at the centre of the monument”. So, clearly, what we have here is but the shattered remnants of what once was. But it is enough. Large, erect stones notwithstanding. However there is more... apparently much more, for immediately to the approx north-west stands the circular ‘Druid’s Circle’ feature, currently interpreted as “a roundhouse and enclosure” (at SN98676615), whilst to the north-east, three further cairns have been recorded by CPAT. None of this detail was obvious to me, I have to confess. Although, in mitigation, lashing, freezing rain and swirling hill fog do tend to adversely affect observation. If not authentic upland vibe.

After a couple of hours the weather’s onslaught finally triumphs over my resolve and I descend back to the car... ironically in brilliant sunshine. Yeah, Gwastedyn Hill is a curious place. Just what an apparently prehistoric ‘enclosure’ is doing immediately adjoining a bone fide summit burial cairn is, of course, open to much debate. If Iron Age, perhaps it was indeed – for once – actually associated with those enigmatic Druid priests, holding ceremonies with meaning now lost in the mists of time, if no longer, thanks to penetrating sun, opaque mists of H20?

Popularity is relative; however it’s nevertheless probably fair to say that the environs of The Kyle of Durness feature pretty highly upon the itineraries of most visitors to far north-western Scotland. And not without good reason: the coastal scenery is exquisite, particularly striking when a low, late Spring sun blurs demarcation between hillside, sandbank and water with washes of golden light bordering upon sheer ostentation.

What might not be so obvious to passing motorists restricted to widescreen panoramas is the fact that such scenic splendour was (or so it would appear to me) specifically chosen as the necessary backdrop to a myriad funerary cairns erected by the first peoples to call the locale ‘home’, monuments which still remain, in varying degrees of preservation, clustered either side of the A838 coastal road. Unlike assemblages of similar cairns – cemeteries, if you will – to be found in many other areas of these Isles, gaunt stone piles standing in enigmatic profile against the skyline... those to the south-west of Durness are seemingly shy to the point of reclusion. Even when in plain sight. Some, I like to think, offer a sublime, harmonious juxtaposition of monument and landscape, a glorious summation of just why I do what I do.

One such was only discovered... or rather ‘re-discovered’... by those wondrous OS people during field investigations as recently as 1960, obscured by peat upon the low rise of Cnoc na Moine. Following a 1972 visit, the indefatigable Audrey Henshall classified the monument as “The heavily robbed remains of an Orkney-Cromarty round cairn with a polygonal chamber”. The description is succinct since not a great deal of cairn material remains in situ, it being the substantial orthostats of the surviving chamber which impress, their squat solidity evoking a notion of timelessness, a reference point, perhaps, in a world seemingly accelerating uncontrollably toward cyber information overload. (Although no doubt some pioneers of The Industrial Revolution had similar concerns about their own ‘Great Leap Forward’). I was expecting a lot less ‘chamber’ and more ‘cairn’, to be honest; but happily settle for the inverse. Happily.

The chambered cairn doesn’t sit at the modest outcropping summit of Cnoc na Moine, rather a little way below to the approx west. The summit itself is crowned by a ring – perhaps ‘stone arrangement’ is a more apt descriptor – not depicted upon the map, but clearly of human agency (Canmore cites this as a ‘Kerbed Cairn’). The splendid profiling as seen from the chambered cairn is perhaps instructive? Furthermore another Kerbed Cairn is located beside the southern shore of Loch Caladail to the east, this furnished with a similar aspect of the summit. The assumption that both monuments were in some way subsidiary to – or at least associated with – the summit is arguably pretty cohesive.

So... the archaeology to be found secreted away upon and around Cnoc na Moine is somewhat extensive, not to mention impressive. The same can be said about the fabulous, contrasting views. The brutally rugged heights of Beinn Ceannabeinne and Meall Meadhonach dominate the near eastern horizon, despite relatively modest elevations, but it is the aforementioned, magnificent seaward vista – particularly when viewed from the chambered cairn – which, for me, is the crowning glory here, the gaze irrevocably drawn across the shining waters of the Kyle of Durness... toward Cape Wrath itself. A timeless view worthy of a timeless viewpoint.

I don’t believe the chambered cairn of Cnoc na Moine can be readily seen from roadside. Consequently travellers willing to ascend the short distance for a personal audience should pretty much be guaranteed just that. A spot to hang out in solitude for a while without, as George Eliot memorably said “feeling obligated to look serious”.

Like most visitors to the far north-west of mainland Scotland, I guess, the great Loch Eriboll – arguably one of Scotland’s most enigmatic sea lochs – has erstwhile featured as a rather extensive (c10 mile long) watery backdrop to the approach to Durness, the town (in season at least) a bustling focal point for those enjoying the superb coastal scenery this exquisite corner of Sutherland has to offer. In abundance.

This year, however, I manage to infuse a degree of structure to my wide-eyed wanderings, somehow finding myself in the position to allocate a full day to traverse the A838 between Tongue and the southern extremity of The Kyle of Durness... the proviso that I camp at the latter notwithstanding. Furthermore, in stark contrast to my last venture two years back, the generally inclement Scottish weather is anything but, a golden glow announcing a more-or-less cloudless dawn at my camp near Loch Hakel, what vapour there is smothering Ben Loyal, the mountain appearing as if immersed in whipped cream. So, following a glorious diversion along the eastern shore of Loch Hope, an almost impossibly blue Loch Eriboll beckons beyond Ard Neackie as the A838 swings south. Hey, it would be rude not to stop this time, particularly seeing as the chances of encountering such conditions again are pretty slim, it has to be said.

Passing Eilean Choraidh – apparently used by the Norse of yore as a burial ground (it appears ‘Loch Eriboll’ is derived from the Norse meaning “home on a gravely beach”) – I park beneath the imposingly rocky flank of Creag na Faoilinn overlooking the loch to the south. Unlike eagle-eyed TMA-er Carl, I can’t positively identify the cairn from roadside, so head for the eastern side of Lochan Havurn, before veering to the right. The going is rough – very much so – with intermittent bog to make things more, er, interesting. In retrospect it’s no doubt easier to approach via the house at Foulin (there’s a souterrain to see nearby as well, if that’s your bag). But there you are... whatever route is taken the cairn, upon arrival, will be found to be a beauty of the type.

Small, but perfectly formed... and, as far I could tell, apparently inviolate (?)... this is an excellent, unassuming monument. The setting is exquisite for a lowland cairn (let’s face it, it can’t really get any lower), the vast expanse of Loch Eriboll, stretching away to the northern horizon, contrasting vividly with the towering crags of Creag na Faoilinn to landward. Hey, if visiting punters can manage to vacate their Bronze Age perch there’s even a personal beach close at hand. As it is I prefer the former, an ideal spot to relax, drink coffee and chuckle at the antics of the numerous ‘themed tourer groups’ (Porsches, Harley Davidsons, brand new, shiny 4x4s etc) passing by in convoy upon the A838, the relative proximity of the road somewhat paradoxically accentuating the splendid isolation of the monument. Such is the idyllic perfection of the scene it almost beggars belief to recall that Eilean Choraidh was used as a target practice proxy for the infamous German battleship Tirpitz during the war... and that Loch Eriboll has been a surrogate home for Royal Navy – as well as Merchant Navy – groups on numerous occasions, thanks to the deepness of its water.

Such is the vibe I could’ve stayed all day... but there is so much more to see beyond Durness. Yeah, tell me about it.

Following a day spent wandering the (arguably) somewhat bleak, intimidatory (at least under massive leaden skies), indubitably wet landscape of Badanloch, an evening sojourn within Clach an Righ’s forestry clearing appeared to offer an appropriate, conciliatory contrast before settling down for the night... or at least what passes for ‘night’ in these far northern outlands in late May. Now although I’m aware that “To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect”... or at least according to the splendidly caustic brain of Mr Wilde... I’d contest a somewhat pragmatic disposition based upon practical experience – I’d hesitate to call it cynicism – is probably nearer the mark in my case.

Whatever the source of this personal stoicism – damn it to blazes when all I want is an easy life – it is once again soon put to practical use. Yeah, upon arriving at the expected footbridge shown crossing the River Naver (immediately opposite the stone circle) on the current 1:25K map... said bridge is nowhere to be seen. No sign of debris, nothing. Troll hunters please take note. Nothing to see here.... move along please. Which is what stone circle seekers must also do, heading north on the B873 to Ceann-na-coille where successive wooden suspension bridges – for, please note, ‘the exclusive use of local fishermen’ – afford access to the far bank of the river, via an islet. Making the – perhaps unfounded – assumption that said ‘sportsmen’ would not begrudge my passage, my relief at remaining dry-shod is immediately tempered by the realisation that an unclimbable deer fence comprehensively bars access to the forestry track beyond. So, no early evening stroll, then, but a rough, soggy trek along the river bank in the face of a sustained cacophony from the bloody dog across the water. After almost a mile (I think, maybe less) a stile is finally forthcoming, and, eventually, the forestry clearing bearing stone circle. Not before time, too.

Despite just the two stones remaining upright, Clach an Righ proves well worth the effort. For me this is, in no small way, due to the manner in which the now fallen stones preserve the integrity of the ring, maintaining its circumference, its inherent symmetry. Furthermore they – erect and prostrate monoliths alike – are beautiful specimens, still surrounding a low, grassy cairn of some former VIP; presumably not ‘our Harald’, as old man Steptoe might have said, but someone laid to rest (in whatever form) at a much earlier date. In fact the impression I have is that Clach an Righ more resembles an Irish site than Scottish... something akin to Ardgroom, perhaps?.. which is certainly a favourable comparison, indeed.

An information board provides visitors – should any happen to pass this way following the removal, by natural causes or otherwise, of the former bridge – with a precis of the events responsible for generating such stirring local legend... the towering treeline, shifting audibly in the breeze, somehow synonymous with the last resting place of great warriors of yore; if not stricken, dying men crying out for their mothers with last gasps of humanity. Whether those apparently nearby ‘clearance cairns’ did, in fact, once protect such battlefield casualties from the opportunistic attentions of wild animals is perhaps a moot point. For the shattered, yet still haunting monument of Clach na Righ continues to mark the passing of one enigmatic local millennia ago.

Conditions upon the ground may not be at all favourable nowadays and, owing to the unforeseen trek, I reach the car exhausted, nearing dusk, thus necessitating a wild camp overlooking Loch Naver. However there was something about Clagh an Righ I really liked. Couldn’t quite define what it was, to be honest. Which is no doubt part of the appeal.

As with the excellent kerbed cairn of Carn Glas standing, unseen upon its hillside, a half mile or so to the south-east, the motorist traversing the B871 would be unlikely, in the extreme – even if he/she also happened to have assumed membership of that rather idiosyncratic club of Modern Antiquarians – to halt and explore the low ridge of Cnoc Molach... if it wasn’t for the extraordinary actions of those, past and present, responsible for annotating our maps with references to ‘burnt mounds’, ‘hut circles’, ‘field systems’ ‘cairns’ and, perhaps most intriguing of all, ‘stone rows’. So thank you Ordnance Survey for helping me to assuage, temporarily at least, this almost amaranthine state of curiosity I appear to possess.

I pull off the road a little north of the Badanloch Burn and, overcoming a momentary hesitation – courtesy of my spiritual guardian John le Mesurier’s customary ‘Do you think this is wise’ admonition (much better than an angel, I find) – I advance westward across the very wet, rough moorland to the low summit of Cnoc Molach, the ubiquitous, tussocky grass here giving way to outcropping rock. The outlook is expansive, the watery aspect maintained, albeit in a much purer, infinitely more attractive form than the soggy, eastern flanks, the extensive contents of Loch Badanloch leading the eye toward a horizon diffused by distant hill tops.. not to mention the occasional mountain summit, too. However stone rows are very much conspicuous by their absence.

Descending to the south-west(ish) I’m still none the wiser until, suddenly, protruding through the peaty surface like (thankfully) misfiring versions of Cadmus’s dragon’s teeth, there they are. A couple of reasonably sized stones notwithstanding, these monuments – or is it a single monument? – are distinctly underwhelming in physical stature, the layout not at all clear... four, maybe five rows?; indeed one wonders how many more diminutive orthostats still stand subsumed within the moor. If buried stuff can be said to ‘stand’, that is? I’m left with the impression that this was very much a ‘no frills’ working landscape, tailored to the specific ritualistic needs of the community which called Cnoc Molach home back in the day. The people who, I assume, lived within the hut circles which still stand overlooking the loch... and tended the surviving field system, buried their VIP(s) within the nearby cairn? Anyhow, according to those wondrous OS people:

[Upon the] “SW-facing moorland slopes of Cnoc Molach within an area of hut circles and field system is a group of at least five incomplete stone rows. They are aligned from NNE to SSW, converging slightly towards the uphill NNE side. A total of twenty eight stones can be identified Visited by OS (N K B) 26 April 1977”

I go walkabout upon Cnoc Molach, noting numerous examples of the aforementioned hut circles and cairns, clearance or otherwise. As I do so, pausing at one particularly large hut circle to reflect – a hall circle, perhaps? – I become acutely aware of the all pervading, almost eerie silence, an overwhelming sense, perhaps, of ‘what went before’ irresistibly seeping into the present? Hey, maybe this isn’t as daft as it sounds... is it possible that placing yourself in such positions may retrieve or trigger memes (for want of a better word) buried deep within the shared human consciousness? Guess Richard Dawkins might have a view on that.

The former community of Cnoc Molach, therefore, is not somewhere to come to be blown away by awesome feats of human constructive endurance, to see exquisitely shaped monoliths defining a pioneering culture. In my opinion it transcends all that, great as all that may be, instead perhaps offering an opportunity to be a little more self-indulgent. A suitable environment, the ‘space’ to ponder who we are vis-à-vis who we used to be?

Dismissed by the only previous poster, I hereby suggest this idiosyncratic cairn is in need of reappraisal by Citizens Cairn’d travelling to the Snowdonian heartlands...

Yeah, despite having been the unfortunate recipient of several, large rogue boulders – presumably field clearance from times unspecified (let’s face it, Wales has a lot of those to choose from) – and featuring the criminal presence of embedded industrial polythene, this monument confounded my expectations, such as they were nearing dusk on a seriously overcast evening of gale force winds.

The cairn is reached by a short, yet splendid ascent through woodland above the old school house of Capel Curig. In fact the public footpath is seemingly served by a handy car-park... unfortunately this is not actually the case, a sign stating rather pedantically that said enclosure is a private facility for the exclusive (get that) use of visitors to the Community Hall, or such like. Presumably so fine, upstanding members of the ‘community’ can discuss how the community is manifestly – not to mention disgracefully – failing to protect Capel Curig’s ancient heritage from damage by local inhabitants? Hmm. Needless to say they probably have far more important items upon the agenda. I wonder what they could be?

Nevertheless the rugged Snowdonian landscape transcends all, particularly when, in a state of agitated turmoil, its Turner-esque attributes never fail to overwhelm my senses. Such is the case as I break the forestry line and, veering to the immediate left, realise an hour is not going to be anywhere near enough. The setting is exquisite, Moel Siabod towering above to the south-west, Crimpiau presaging the rise to the Creigiau Gleision and the high Carneddau to the north; and the lights of Plas y Brenin twinkling away in the ever growing gloom. Wind violently agitates the foliage, likewise the captivated traveller, rendering photography more a matter of luck than judgement. And then – a point worth mentioning, I’d have thought? – there’s the more-or-less intact cist still in situ amongst significant cairn material, the latter arranged to incorporate natural outcropping to a degree I don’t think I’ve witnessed before. In fact such is its regularity I have to admit I’m not sure whether some of this initially assumed naturally occurring rock is not artificially placed? Either that, or the architects of this tomb possessed an appreciation of the landscape far in advance of supposed enlightened moderns such as myself. Mmm. Maybe I’ll go with the latter? Yeah... as the lovely Marsheaux girls said... ‘Figure it out’.

So, what’s not to like? Ah, yes... the embedded industrial polythene waste. Can’t blame tourists here, my friends. The fault lies much closer to home. Remove this and – in my opinion – Capel Curig will once again possess an absolutely first class prehistoric monument. Set the record straight. Hey, perhaps the local community might wish to decease biting the hand that feeds and do something of worth to future generations? Just a thought....

Having once again found myself powerless to resist the bleak, idiosyncratic allure of Caithness, however that may be defined – the call of the wild perhaps.. a primeval meme roused sleepily from the subconscious as if by a sudden jolt to the roosting song birds’ tree? – dawn sees me studiously studying my vintage map beneath the sweeping façade of Ben Uarie standing sentinel overlooking Glen Loth. The intention is to plan my onward route to Glen Naver, to ensure stony opportunities are taken; however, like the child frantically attempting to avoid the waiting teacher’s censure, the outcome is rather haphazard, with only ‘Carn Glas’, depicted in that wondrous ‘antiquarian script’ of old, suggesting a worthwhile break near Loch Badanloch. Yeah, there’s nothing like last minute homework; particularly when ‘home’ is currently such a fluid concept.

Newcomers to the area, in my experience one of the most densely populated – in terms of sheer volume of chambered cairns, brochs etc – in all Scotland, will find a myriad of options to the south, east and west of the small hamlet of Kinbrace. As it is, my decision making faculties are not held to account. Yeah, having sampled these megalithic delights a few years previously I’m more-or-less just passing through, heading west upon the B871 beneath the mighty stone pile of Carn Richard, following the sinuous River Helmsdale back to its source, Loch Badanloch. The landscape possesses – in my opinion – a paradoxical grandeur. A distant skyline featuring Ben Hope (Scotland’s most northerly Munro) and the wondrous Ben Loyal notwithstanding, the hills, generally speaking, do not attain any significant elevation. Consequently it is the vastness of the sky, complemented by a notable body of surface water, which affirms the perception that these are, indeed, The Highlands. However I sense a certain aura of melancholia here, a feeling inherent within that perhaps here is somewhere non-locals such as myself will never be able to truly comprehend, regardless of return visits.... to always be ‘passing through’?

Needless to say other factors can influence vibe, impact upon the vagaries of human psychology, affect the mood of a man stripped of the familiar reference points of the city, albeit voluntarily. Such catalysts are in evidence at the first site of the day, the great kerbed cairn of Carn Glas. Extolling the benefits of doing a little homework – assuming hanging out upon bleak Sutherland hills for a while is your idea of fun – the monument does not announce its presence from the B871, at least to the casual glance. There is no substantial stone pile looming enigmatically above here. Rather it is a feature as mundane as a cattle grid, set within the tarmac, which alerts me to what lies incognito to the left of the elevated tree line. As I make the short ascent I pass a wooden hut, the hill side beyond liberally coated with colourful inorganic material. Sadly, I reckon I know what it is.

Little remains of the cairn itself, set at a slight downward facing angle as if – somewhat ironically now – designed to present its interior to the former settlement below... however the retaining kerb is very much in evidence, seemingly almost intact. Indeed the impression is more that of a proto-stone circle (such as to found at Carrowmore across The Irish Sea) than mere demarcation of a now more-or-less lost cairn. According to the Ordnance Survey, way back on 18th February 1977:

“It is 12.8m N-S by 13.4m and is extensively robbed, remaining more or less only in a fairly complete retaining kerb of contiguous boulder-slabs 0.4m high; the little left of body infill has been added to by later stone debris. OS (J M)”

The monument’s positioning, set upon Badanloch Hill overlooking the eponymous loch, is expansive to the west and, particularly this morning with some nice cloud definition pleasing the eye, to the north-west whence the traveller’s gaze is drawn toward Cnoc Molach’s (apparent) stone rows and extensive settlement. Clearly what initially appeared to me such an empty, spartan landscape is – or at least was – anything but. A landscape formerly supporting a full on community. My itinerary, such as it is, is quickly assigned to history, shot to pieces, you might say?

The term is unfortunately prescient, the causation the appearance of a herd of deer approaching to check me out from the summit of the hill. The function of the little hut below me becomes clear, supposition subsequently confirmed upon further investigation. Yeah, Badanloch Hill is where intrepid individuals come to shoot. Some to blast defenceless creatures with guns prior to returning to the comfortable environs of Badanloch Lodge. A once thriving prehistoric community now substituted for, well. I believe the term is devolution? Needless to say I couldn’t think of anything worse than to slaughter for fun, for sport... not for food. But there you are. Should you wish to avoid the company of such individuals it would appear, at least according to the Badanloch Lodge web page, that ‘the hind stalking season’ dates from October the 21st to February the 15th. Just so you know.

However don’t let this detract from the worth of this fabulously obscure site. Well worth stopping off when driving cross-country to the coast... and resulting from probably one of the most useful bits of homework I’ve undertaken.

Standing overlooking Holy Loch, an aesthetically pleasing north-westerly protuberance of The Firth of Clyde, I’ve been wanting to visit this particular Adam’s Grave for some years now. Hey, seems bits of the poor, fabled sucker must have been interned all over the place back in the day. But there you are; that’s what you get for crossing Yahweh. Or rather parasitical priests making a living out of superstition and ignorance. However the site has hitherto proved difficult to fit into a practical Gladman route heading north to The Highlands... until I find myself on the way to Bute this year.

The weather conditions are not ideal. I understand the small craft pootling up and down the loch below were, once upon a time – up until 1992, anyway – subject to accompaniment by the menacing presence of nuclear submarines of the US Navy, no doubt with Denzil Washington or, if you were really unlucky, Gene Hackman at the helm? Guess we’ve Mr Gorbachev to thank for that no longer being the case... although the way Putin’s going, who knows what the future might bring? Anyway, such is the torrential downpour this afternoon that a megalithically-inclined traveller may be forgiven for casting envious glances at occupants of distant marine craft. At least of the surface variety. However since I’m finally here it would be pretty dumb not to grasp the opportunity, taking the minor right hand turn (heading south on the main A885) just before the school to park up near a (signposted) picnic site.

Lacking boat, I set off on foot following the road north westwards past some waterworks (yeah, very funny) whilst noting the monument, beyond to the right, standing proud upon a hillside seemingly devoted to matters of an exclusively equine nature. The field gate is unfastened, fences ‘step over-able’.... the Clyde cairn (how could it be anything else sitting here?) sublime, well worth both the effort and the protracted wait. The cap stone, worn at a jaunty angle like all the best chambers, is a weighty slab of rock complemented by a pair of equally substantial portals. The overall impression is that of reassuring solidity, of being built to last which, needless to say, it has. The outlook toward the aforementioned Holy Loch is, for me, an integral part of an ethereal, multi-faceted vibe which seemingly hangs in the atmosphere like the mist threatening to subsume nearby woodland. Hey, even in a teeming downpour. I also think it is a stony sculpture of the highest merit.

Interestingly, as the Misc post states, the chamber was apparently the location of matrimonial rites in times gone by, thereby emphasising the significance attached to the site in local lore. Whatever other-worldly, metaphysical ‘authority’ was thought to reside here – whether or not Saint Munn had a say in matters is probably a moot point – clearly it was something not to be countermanded lightly.

Succinctly put, the monument that still resides here above the Holy Loch is – and always has been – a commanding presence within this landscape. A great place to be.

In my opinion the sentinel feature of the South Lanarkshire landscape is the great Bronze Age cairn surmounting the sprawling, elephantine bulk of Tinto. Now I’m assuming this is not an overly contentious assertion, the monument visible for miles around... well, at least when not subsumed within an all too frequent mantle of low cloud, that is. My choice of the most enigmatic site in the locality – Park Knowe – is, however, far more subjective... not least since, I guess, the very meaning of ‘enigmatic’ is itself equivocal and subjective.

Crowning a low, seemingly insignificant hill to the north-east of the aforementioned, dominating Tinto, a designation of ‘Enclosure’ upon the relevant OS map does little to promote a visit here. Why indeed, what with the fine Iron Age earthworks of Fallburn perfectly placed below (to the approx west) to detour any travellers still retaining a little residual energy not expended during the ascent to the massive cairn? In fact, arising from an overnight camp to a vividly bright dawn, it is only a chance reference to a ‘ring of standing stones at Park Knowe’ (or words to that effect) upon the Fallburn car park noticeboard that raises my curiosity. Whatever could it mean?

So... standing upon the ancient ramparts of Fallburn a short time later I find myself intrigued as to why this impressive hill fort was not itself erected upon Park Knowe, obviously a far more naturally defensible location... assuming the latter’s enclosure is indeed less structurally significant? Hey, suffice to say a visit is now not only required, but essential. However, upon arrival, close proximity nevertheless does little to resolve the conundrum. Yeah, the summit of the hill is indeed girdled by two, roughly concentric banks; however these are so diminutive in stature – a thin rubble core held in position by a line of contiguous stones on each face – as to suggest their function was to merely delineate the enclosure? For this was surely no hill fort, the pragmatic RCAHMS classification justified:

“In view of the slightness of the banks, the monument cannot be classed as a fort... in the 18th century the interior is reported (OSA 1791) to have contained “a large mound of earth”. There is no indication of this mound at the present time, and if it ever existed it was presumably levelled when ploughing encroached upon the site. (RCAHMS 1978)..”

So what do these remains upon Park Knowe represent? If the enclosure did, in fact, once feature a ‘large mound of earth’ I’d suggest it’s not unreasonable to hypothesise a low level companion to Tinto’s incomparable monument rising to the south-west, standing within an enclosure devoid of any defensive characteristics or intention. For me the fact that the Iron Age locals chose to build their great fortified home below Park Knowe – rather than take advantage of its clear defensive worth – is indicative that something of very significant (non-military) importance already occupied the summit, something that had to be left inviolate. Or suffer the consequences.

That this mysterious structure still exists, still accords wondrous views across the surrounding landscape this golden morning... still has the capacity to confound, to send thoughts cascading around this human brain in a futile quest for immediate comprehension... is truly something to behold in a age where ‘everything’ can seemingly be answered in an instant at the activation of an on line app. Ha! Not everything, or so it would appear!

I find it difficult to define, let alone relate, what characteristics a prehistoric site must possess to be considered ‘enigmatic’. However I have to say Park Knowe is probably as close to a physical representation of this nebulous term as I’ve yet encountered in these Isles.

Suffice to say that the long, long drive from South-east Essex to Scotland is not an event I anticipate with any degree of relish.... despite this year marking the ninth, consecutive such undertaking. Yeah, a glutton for punishment, me. Consequently it’s always a boon to my sense of well being to finally cross the border and feel enabled to switch off the mental auto pilot, to engage with the landscape. Furthermore, my arrival at Junction 12 of the M74 this time around coincides with the usual heavy precipitation seen in this parts being rendered conspicuous by its absence. So, a wee jaunt up the Cairn Table – postponed from last year by the aforementioned rain – it is, then. The mountain... well, at 1,945ft I’m going with that ... overlooks the town of Muirkirk, itself astride the A70. ‘Furnace Road’, no doubt a linguistic reference to the locality’s former industrial heritage, heads past a caravan park to a specially-designated car park at Kames. Upon arrival, a local elderly man duly takes great delight in informing me that the recent fortnight of fine weather is set to end. Rhetorical question.. but why do that, swine that you are?

Miserable git dispatched upon his way, I follow a track roughly south-east toward the distant summit, negotiating my way between numerous derelict quarries and areas of bog... not altogether successfully in respect of the latter. Incidentally should one (for any reason) happen to contemplate inspection of such excavations signs warn, in no uncertain terms, that this really is not a good idea. Veering to the left away from Linky Burn I ascend The Steel, a small cairn situated across the boundary fence residing upon a suggestively grassy footprint. Nothing however upon the map... or Canmore. As I gain height the summit cairns crown the horizon beneath a towering cloudscape. Nearly there, then.

The summit of Cairn Table is a not overly appealing place, thanks to the rusting remnants of a former enclosing wire fence and the sadly anticipated accumulation of rubbish. However this is how things are nowadays, a Scotland the soldiers commemorated by the massively conical War Memorial would no doubt not altogether approve of. Having said that, it’s a fine viewpoint, such an assertion supported by the presence of a topographical indicator confirming that, yes, that is indeed Tinto resplendent to the approx north-east. The memorial is a mighty construction sourced from what must clearly have been an even more substantial Bronze Age monument, now sadly, by definition, a mere fragment of its former self. I have mixed emotions... is it better for ancient heritage to be destroyed to facilitate an act of latter-day respectful rememberence than to erect a storm shelter? Could what occurred here upon the Cairn Table in 1920 be regarded as simply moving a cairn from one point of the summit plateau to another? I’ll have to give that conundrum further thought.

Thankfully Cairn Table possesses a second, more-or-less intact cairn a little to the east. Yeah, this is more like it, truly a fine upland cairn... probably not as massive as its neighbour once was, but easily substantial enough to compensate. Canmore reckons the monument “measures 16m in diameter and 3.5m in height.... A bronze armlet and ring, found together under a boulder on its E margin, were donated to the NMAS in 1933” (Acc Nos: FA 90, 91). As I sit and take in the horizons, wondering what the next two weeks will bring – I have no real plan, to be fair – the wondrous Tinto begins to exude a ‘presence’, an attraction far in excess of it’s relatively limited height.

Needless to say I end up spending the night beneath it.

Ah, Sleat .... at last. Yeah, this is the first occasion I’ve ventured forth upon Skye’s southern-most, less mountainous peninsula. A sorry state of affairs that reflects more upon my ‘upland’ prejudices than any lack of intrinsic beauty to be enjoyed here. A fact that can be categorically verified by anyone taking the time to visit the small coastal hamlet of Isleornsay, overlooking an idyllic harbour sheltering small boats from the more extreme vagaries of The Sound of Sleat.

Hmm... it might therefore seem a little obtuse, perhaps, to abandon this wondrous coastline shortly afterward, following Gleann Meadal across Sleat’s rocky spine to the peninsula’s opposite flank. But rest assured it’s not, the River Ord’s sinuous course guiding the traveller unerringly to the eponymous township (An t-Ord in Gaelic) and a beach with quite wondrously stunning views across Loch Eishort to The Cuillin. The single track road climbs steeply away from such sedimentary grandeur before reaching a small parking area, this just before a cattle grid upon the southern flank of Sron Daraich. Light woodland screens the panorama so – boots on – I head north to pick up the line of a fence crossing (more-or-less) the summit of the hill, this veering to the left to make a rough, heathery descent toward the merging of the Allt an Leth-bheinn and Loch Eishort at Inbhir Amlabhaig. Whoah... quite an odd experience, this. Clearly I’m not used to descending to see cairns. Or most other prehistoric monuments, now I come to mention it. But there you are.

Now if I had a 1:25K OS map finding the monuments would, maybe, have been a doddle. Needless to say I’ve just an old 1:50K edition lovingly procured from Oxfam in Chelmsford in my possession. Consequently I head for what are obviously the cairns.... to find that ‘they’, just as obviously, are not. Anyway to cut a long story short – as Tony Hadley once crooned – prospective visitors should head directly for the near bank of the river, not far from loch side, where two very forlorn-looking cairns stand most unimpressively behind the foundations of later dry stone structures. Both are choked with the ubiquitous heather virtually to the point of not resembling cairns at all... or at least to any noticeable degree.

However it is what lies within their hollow, albeit obscured interiors that makes the soggy downhill stomp more than worthwhile... the clear remains of cists. TSC’s misc post has the technical detail; however I have to say that here – more than ever – it is the sensational landscape context that defines the sublime nature of the site. Proclaims it as if a loudspeaker fed through a Marshall amp turned all the way to eleven! Yeah, the silence is so overwhelming it is almost too loud to process. If that makes any sense? Archaeology and vibe in perfect harmony. Having said that the visuals are pretty good, too. Now I’ve often heard it said that perhaps the finest mountain view in Scotland is that of the Black Cuillin from Elgol? The place where Midge Ure and friends take a boat ride in Ultravox’s ‘Lament’ video. If so the vista of the same serrated peaks, Bla Bheinn to the fore, rising across Loch Eishort from these cairns takes that celebrated scene to the wire. No really. I reckon it does.

But wait, the best is yet to come. As I lay back and proceed to not do an awful lot (now there’s a contradiction in terms) – except ride out the periodic storm fronts and bask in the light of the interludes – I recall that, according to Canmore at least, there is a further cairn overlooking the far (western) bank of the Allt an Leth-bheinn, apparently placed upon the crag looming above another, more substantial dry stone ruin.... the shell of an old school house? Now elsewhere reaching said far bank might well be an issue. Here, however, as luck (or rather resourceful locals) would have it, the river is crossed by stepping stones a little upstream. Yeah, functional and aesthetically pleasing... everyone’s a winner. I therefore wander across dryshod to take a quick shufti and duly discover a very well preserved cist with capstone slipped to one side. OK, like its neighbours to the east the cairn is pretty nondescript as a stone pile... but so what with such marvellous internal attributes? What’s more a pretty persuasive case could be given for this cairn to actually have contained multiple cists in its time. What a haunting, ethereal location this is. Why, one of the cist’s substantial orthostats even possesses an enigmatic circular marking. Whether this is natural or artificial I’m not competent enough to determine. But it sure wouldn’t surprise me if it was the real thing.

The Black Cuillin, taking matters very literally indeed, glower across the water beneath a positively Wagnerian sky... as the progressively more vigorous movement of a couple of trees, their small stature clearly at odds with herculean survival tendencies, pre-empts the arrival of yet another storm front.

Sure enough the downpour catches me midway across the stepping stones. But I am dry before reaching the car.

By my reckoning this is the most northerly of the twelve – or so I understand – chambered cairns to grace the Isle of Skye... although, to be fair, the margin between the Carn Liath and Cadha Riach upon the eastern coast is pretty minimal. Indeed, a statistic of perhaps far greater interest is that this is the last of the celebrated dozen to feature upon TMA. Another mini-milestone upon the Cope-inspired quest for megalithic enlightenment? Whatever, my assumption is there’s not a lot left? Well, there’s only one way to find out... assuming the traveller doesn’t possess a laptop or dodgy smart phone and didn’t do any Canmore-based homework before leaving Essex? Time to put on the boots, then. Do this exploring the old fashioned way....

The A855 climbs steeply away from the ferry terminal of Uig heading northward along the western coastline of Trotternish. Passing an (official) viewpoint – from where there is an intriguing (and duly noted) sight of Dun Skudiburgh perched above the water – the road then bypasses the small hamlet of Totscore to seaward before reaching the similarly sized Linicro. Here the map depicts a ‘surfaced’ road accessing a small group of dwellings at Monkstadt, that is due west, upon the crest of the coastal ridge. OK, I admit lethargy raises its arm, in the manner of a primary school child requesting leave to take a wee, but, for the sake of my car’s nether regions, I resist the easy option and set off on foot. In retrospect the road is ‘driveable’, although the options to park at the other end debatable. Sometimes you’ve just gotta walk, you know?

At Monkstadt the road veers to the approx north-west, becoming a concrete track for a short distance before giving up the ghost and leaving me to my own devices, striding across a grassy ridge with the sea to my left. In short order several rocky outcrops suggest – to me at least – what might have been interpreted as trashed chambered cairns in another context. Well, sort of. However I’m having none of it and press onward. Sure enough after about a further half mile a massive dry stone wall impedes progress. As I draw nearer a large block of stone can be seen lying against its near face upon the highest point of the ridge. A displaced cap stone? You know, I think it most probably is?

The supposition is given further credence by what lies behind the wall.... the disturbed, yet still massive remains of a major cairn, by the looks of it, chambered. Audrey Henshall [1972] reckoned Carn Liath is of Hebridean type – as you might perhaps expect? – rising to a height of 14’ and “probably measured about 60’ N-S along the axis of the chamber by 80’ transversely expanding to 90’ at the N end.” Clearly I can’t confirm those dimensions are current, but suffice to say they seem about right. He says. The monument is certainly very substantial and, furthermore, features an incomplete peristalith. Miss Henshall believed the chamber was entered from the SSE which I guess would account for the position of the assumed capstone beyond the wall. Last but not least the chambered cairn is accorded further complexity by the encroachment of a settlement upon its northern arc... judging by the differing styles of building footprint to be found here (round house, rectangular, er, house) my assumption is this is a multi-phase settlement? Hey, maybe the round houses were contemporary, or near contemporary with the monument? Or not, as the case may be.

So, the archaeology is excellent... but matched with ease by the coastal location, the site sandwiched between the sea and the green heights of the Trotternish Ridge to the east.... a curiously ‘upland’ terrain, despite being not that far above ordnance datum. Yeah in my opinion Skye is not pretty, a little bleak, even? Yet nonetheless I reckon it forms a beautiful, beguiling landscape demanding regular emotional updates from whatever it is that we call ‘the soul’. Anyway, as I sit and ‘do lunch’ my attention is drawn to the far north-western point of the ridge, approx a mile distant. The map reckons this is Cairidh nan Ob featuring, significantly, a dun Dun Liath a little to its right.

Hey, two miles sounds a lot when you’re already knackered. But sometimes you’ve just gotta walk.

With the benefit of hindsight – ah, a wondrous thing – perhaps a sojourn at this pair of monuments beneath the soaring, eastern profile of Beinn na Caillich wasn’t exactly conducive to a nice, relaxing evening following on from pretty intense visits to Shiel Bridge and nearby Achadh a’Chuirn?

Now this is not to insinuate that such an obscure location, one lying well out of sight of prying eyes within forestry – in fact only actually visible from upon the dominating mountain itself – doesn’t possess all the necessary constituents for the optimum vibe. Quite the contrary, in fact. To clarify, let’s just say that when even an authority such as Audrey Henshall [1972] was confused by the form of these monuments, to the point of even questioning their assumed funerary function, this Citizen Cairn’d’s brain wasn’t exactly going to be able to simply chill out. It wants answers! Now! Which, needless to say, were not forthcoming... I’d like to attribute this failure to the overgrown nature of the site, but perhaps that’s mere wishful thinking?

Thankfully I’m on much firmer ground – metaphorically speaking, since the physical terrain is very waterlogged indeed – as I attempt to ‘walk the talk’ (as our erstwhile revolutionaries across the Atlantic might well say) and follow my own previously posted directions. Yeah, parking opposite the electricity sub station the gaunt lattice work of a power pylon highlights the entrance to a wide forest break, this allowing the passage of its cable-slung companions through trees to the approx south-east. A lateral wire fence needs to be negotiated before, upon passing two further pylons, a gap in the trees will be discerned to the right leading unerringly to the relevant clearing. Pretty simple, to be honest. However interpreting the archaeology located within the clearing is anything but.

Initial observations are pretty standard, assuming any inspection incorporating the imposing mass of Beinn na Caillich filling the available skyline can be described as such, suggesting the presence of two disturbed chambered cairns subsumed within the long grass and aligned upon a roughly north-south axis. Closer examination, however, reveals not only what appears to be the welcome remains of a substantial kerb encircling the larger, northern monument... but also a distinct lack of ‘cairn’. The latter, of course, is easily explained away since many an ancient stone pile has been severely reduced – or destroyed – by locals pilfering building material for dry stone walls and such-like. And Nature has been pretty thorough reclaiming the stones for herself, possibly obscuring a lingering residue in the process.

What is not so easily explained is the apparent ‘horse shoe’ ground plan of the internal grouping of orthostats, the assumed ‘chamber’. Yeah, what was that all about? Why just pinch the cairn and chamber door... and leave the rest. Unless there was never a ‘door’ in the first place and the stones formed a free-standing arrangement within a kerb, or proto-circle? Supposition, naturally, but one can appreciate why Miss Henshall had her doubts back in 1962, perhaps? The southern monument is much less substantial but (tentatively) seems to follow the same pattern.

Somewhat perplexed, I decide to lie back in my self-imposed, albeit temporary obscurity and enjoy the moment under the watchful gaze of whoever – if anyone... ‘Saucy Sue’, perhaps? – still resides within Beinn na Caillich’s great cairn looming overhead. I’m hoping the subliminal workings of my subconscious will bring enlightenment. However they do not. Aside from the realisation that, for more or less the first time this trip, conditions are ideal for the midges which are now making their presence felt. Little bastards! Time to retrieve the head net from the rucksack and give them the proverbial ‘two fingers’, allowing me to drift off for a while. OK, I might not be enlightened... but I’m nevertheless illuminated by a sun seemingly intent upon doing its thang before finally dropping below the razor-sharp skyline. So, time to go, having decided to spend the night below An Sithean.

So who’s correct about the nature of what is to be found here in this wondrously quiet spot? The post WW1 RCAHMS... or Audrey Henshall visiting at the beginning of the swinging 60’s? For what it’s worth I would suggest both authorities have a point and perhaps these are idiosyncratic monuments. Not classic chambered cairns, but maybe incorporating hybrid elements? Guess the best course of action for those who might be intrigued is to come and have a look for themselves.

Funnily enough it’s more-or-less 200 years since that little preening, gobshite Corsican, Napoleon Bonaparte, came to a field near another Waterloo and saw his imperial power base sink forever in Belgian mud stained red with blood. Not surprisingly I’ve no plans to build an empire of my own; instead finding myself rather more interested in furthering my ongoing stony destiny at this Inner Hebridean Waterloo – or Achadh a’Chuirn, should you prefer the vernacular... which I do.

The linear hamlet occupies the western base of the Ardnish peninsular forming the eastern flank of Broadford Bay... albeit a bit of a gloriously wonky one. The dwellings of its inhabitants stand to the landward of a single road skirting water’s edge, this terminating at Rubh’ Achadh a’Chuirn and proferring a magnificently iconic view of Beinn na Caillich rising above Broadford.. as well as the site of another, massive chambered cairn immediately across the water at Liveras. It is possible to leave a car or two in strategically placed laybys here without inconveniencing the locals. I leave my vehicle in one such before heading approx north to, quite literally, the end of the road. My plan is to head to the right and subsequently double back southwards behind the settlement to (hopefully) locate the chambered cairn in its own, enclosed crofter’s strip field.

Needless to say the execution of said plan was not supposed to feature stepping knee deep into bog on two separate occasions (like a prize muppet), my reward for such privations to eventually locate the monument behind serious barbed wire... not to mention in full view of the gauntly staring windows of the adjacent house. Now I’ve never actually been diagnosed with Scopophobia – assuming that is a possibility? – but nevertheless decide to retrace my steps (further encouraged to do so by the cacophony made by nearby horrible hounds) and – unlike the emperor with the dodgy hat – retreat to fight another day. In a manner of speaking.

Anyway, in one of those bizarre coincidences that occasionally manifest themselves I discover that I have actually parked immediately in front of the required house, identified by a name plate as ‘Geol na Maira’. I duly knock... only to find classical music emanating from an upstairs room repeatedly masking my exertions. That would be Brahms Third Racket, I believe? Boiling over with frustration, the proverbial ‘one last try’ thankfully alerts Fiona, the occupant, to my skulking presence. She’s only too happy to grant me access to her ‘back garden’.

The ground is churned to mud by livestock, which would be a problem if the monument was of earthen construction. However since it’s a stone pile – and a bloody big one at that – I guess this is not an issue. Yeah, it has to be said that rather a lot of cairn still remains in situ, albeit somewhat imperfectly camouflaged with turf (see Carl’s Misc entry for details). Furthermore, as surmised by the pros back in 1972, I can confirm that the monument most certainly possesses a chamber, as evidenced by a couple of small orthostats still in position. There are hints of more detail lying beneath the surface....

I sit and munch – a very belated – lunch as the watery sun plays hide ‘n’ seek with the fast moving cloudbase, so allowing washes of light to flood the monument and its immediate landscape whilst rain falls from darker skies above the bay. That’ll be ‘changeable’ weather, then? Once again the curvaceous – or as Aldous Huxley would have perhaps said, ‘pneumatic’ – profile of Beinn na Caillich dominates the western skyline. I guess I’m probably biased, not least since the peak is blessed by the apparent tomb of “Saucy Sue”... to use the local moniker, as kindly volunteered by Fiona. However I really think the outlook from this monument is something special. Wonder satiated – well, at least for now – my thoughts are drawn to the dark patch of forestry visible below, and to the left, of the enigmatic mountain. That’ll be where the Old Corry chambered cairns are located, then? Needless to say the itinerary for the rest of the day is sorted.

So, in the end I have my audience with Achadh a’Chuirn’s great cairn. There is no Lion’s Mound here as at that other Waterloo burned indelibly into European consciousness. But then, considering what I’ve found tucked away in this obscure croft strip of this small hamlet... I reckon Skye has got the better deal.

Emerging from a rain-lashed overnight stop upon Mam Ratagan.... I decide to rectify an omission dating from my previous visit to the environs of Loch Duich before finally – and not before time – crossing once again to the wondrously misty Isle of Skye. Yeah, reckon the time is nigh to determine what – if anything – remains of the henge said to stand near Shiel Bridge. Well, as it happens there is quite a lot....

Now to say, with any conviction, that the prevailing weather conditions have improved depends, I suppose, upon your definition of ‘improved’. Suffice to say that the introduction of periodic intervals between hitherto incessant downpours, such respites enlivened by bursts of golden light slanting through cracks in the clouds, constitutes a welcome progression to this traveller. Nevertheless conditions are still pretty shite, it has to be said.

The ‘hengiform enclosure’ stands within very soggy pasture due west of Glenshiel Lodge. In fact the enclosed field is so wet as to almost require a sub-aqua visit... so what the local herbivores make of it is anybody’s guess. Anyway, I park up by the cattle grid sunk within the minor Ratagan road and kit myself out in waterproofs, having neglected to pack any diving stuff. Gingerly entering the pasture it soon becomes apparent that here, standing in almost complete obscurity at the south-eastern end of a glowering Loch Duich, we do indeed have a pretty well defined, albeit diminutive henge. Marvellous. And what a location, too!

According to the Ordnance Survey [JM 1974] – who, rather paradoxically, do not feature the monument upon either the current 1:50 or 1:25k maps – the monument consists of a “level central area, 7.8m in diameter” with a “surrounding bank, c. 3.4m wide x 0.2m high”, this best preserved upon the eastern arc. There would appear some doubt as to whether the henge possesses two causeways, one to east and west; in the OS report it is alleged that only the western is original, the eastern merely a “mutilation”. I couldn’t form a clear opinion owing to ongoing erosion being caused, judging by the footprints, by grazing livestock. This really is not on. I understand – from a passer by – that the landowner is a Scottish patriot? If so I would suggest an active appreciation of the cultures of the peoples that lived here before the Scots arrived would be a good base line?

The weather fronts arrive, unleash their contents and subsequently move away in timely procession. I receive a bit of a pasting.... but it is worth the effort before the pull of Skye becomes too much.

Well, this is a challenge. How to describe the small, round cairn which stands here in more-or-less total obscurity – in sublime isolation – beside the fast flowing River Etive as it prepares to enter its loch and, henceforth, the sea? How to adequately convey why I reckon the intense vibe, allied to preservation, makes this is one of the finest sites of its genre in all Alba? Hmm. How indeed... since, as Thom Yorke said, “Just ‘cos you feel it, doesn’t mean it’s there”. All I have is personal opinion.

Having said that – and running with the assumption that these monuments’ raison d’etre was to manipulate human behaviour through the generation of emotions above and beyond what we homo sapiens have the cerebral capacity to process in a rational manner – this modest example furnishes everything I look for when out and about in the field. Whether that ‘everything’ can actually be defined in a rational manner or not. In short, I reckon this monument absolutely nails it.

I approach in somewhat low spirits following a necessarily truncated visit to the indefensibly maltreated cairn at Gualachulain, located a little further south-west at the head of Loch Etive. Unfortunately that’s one of the penalties of actually giving a damn, but there you are. Passing Loch Druimachoish (on my left) and subsequently crossing the Allt nan Gaoirean, two dirt tracks are soon encountered in quick succession. The right hand of the pair leads to the ‘Forester’s House’, the cairn standing in pasture bordering the river beyond. The fenced field is accessed by an unlocked gate, my low expectations immediately blown asunder by both the sheer serenity of the spot and the apparently intact condition of the monument slumbering beneath a mossy carapace. Truly, the rotting, apparently unsafe remains of a walkers’ bridge crossing the river notwithstanding, time appears to have been upon an extended hiatus here.

The cairn is small, yet perfectly formed... “Bowl shaped in profile it measures 8.25 metres in diameter by 1.6 metres in height.. constructed with a kerb of boulders on which a second retaining course of stones has been carefully set.” RCAHMS [1975]. The archaeology is more than matched by the quality of the surrounding landscape, most notably the dramatic profile of Beinn Ceitlein soaring above the far bank of the River Etive to the north-east. Then again the snow-streaked, mountainous skyline to the approx south-west is pretty dramatic, too, it has to be said. However the former is particularly arresting owing to the deep ‘V’-shaped chasm carved by the Garbh Allt to the right of Stob Dubh. Now clearly the question as to whether this scenic idiosyncrasy influenced the placement of the cairn or not is rhetorical... and, in any event, likely to raise the ire of tiresome pseudo-feminists should I comment further (don’t you so prefer the real thing?) Whatever, shielded from the road by a blanket of forestry and but a short distance from the wondrous, fast flowing river, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that the person compiling the Oxford English Dictionary had this location in his/her mind’s eye when finalising the entry for ‘idyllic’. Really, I wouldn’t.

So, the anticipated ‘quick visit’ instead morphs into a protracted chill out, any notion of getting to Skye today (once again) shelved until tomorrow. Yeah, it appears Glen Etive is actually a pretty good place for a Citizen Cairn’d to spend a few hours or so after all?

As it transpires I actually make Loch Duich before nightfall, the pristine blue sky of the morning comprehensively swept into oblivion by an overwhelming front of driving rain. Nevertheless a short visit to the enigmatic Dunan Diarmid rounds off the day before retiring to Mam Ratagan.

Together with its larger neighbour Creag a’ Chapuill – also well worth a visit... but better appreciated from the B840 at Loch Ederline – the copiously craggy Dun Chonallaich comprehensively controls the northern approach to Kilmartin Glen. Indeed, standing dramatic sentinel above the A816, the sheer perpendicularity of the site is a little off-putting to the prospective visitor. Well, at least this one, fresh from a contemplative – OK, lazy – morning at the Baroile chambered cairn. However with said morning’s very low cloud base having dissipated, albeit reluctantly, I decide that today might as well be the day to finally determine what actually resides upon that fearsome rocky little height. Curiosity, eh? To be honest I can’t imagine any characteristically lethargic member of the family Felidae venturing up Dun Chonallaich, so cat lovers needn’t concern themselves.

Dun Chonallaich overlooks the Abhainn Airidhcheoduin (sort of) shadowing the A816, the water course suddenly thrown into spasm, executing an abrupt series of looping convulsions immediately to the south-east of the fort... as if reluctant to flow onward through Kilmartin Glen to the sea. Whatever the geological reason for this apparent disinclination to yield to the force of gravity the outcome was no doubt handy for the former occupiers, the linear water obstacle and associated marshland further enhancing the apparent impregnability of the site to an assault back in the day. This idiosyncrasy also ensures a modern day visit is no easy skate either, albeit thankfully without rocks, arrows and – no doubt – insults aimed at one’s person.

No off-road parking is available beneath the site... so I elect to stop in the entrance to a forestry track a little to the south and walk back to the bridge across the river. Incidentally this is as good a spot as any from which to approach Creag a’ Chapuill along the northern edge of the forestry. But I digress... once across the bridge a very rough scramble steeply upwards to the east through scrubby woodland brings me to an area of significant scree which, due to its apparent regularity, I take to be the collapsed remains of defensive outworks? From here trending to the left (north) appears the path of least resistance to the summit, although Christison (1889) cites an entrance to the south-east. Unfortunately I neglect to check this out upon my descent getting carried away in the moment.

Whatever the original approach... mine, to the approx north, is certainly covered by the remnants of dry stone walling, my not inconsiderable exertions encouraged by glimpses of more of the same perched above my head. Anyway... and not before time... I finally clamber up to emerge upon the summit into a fierce wind, finding most of the top occupied by a rocky ridge, this in turn encircled by a pretty substantial wall enclosing an area “about 37m by 16m” [RCAHMS 1988]. A couple of dry stone structures are notable, the most obvious of which is a modern looking circular enclosure which was apparently erected to serve as a film set a little before the RCAHMS’s visit. Such a ‘who gives a damn?’ mentality might well have encouraged significant vandalism of the summit wall soon afterward. I would say ‘you couldn’t make it up’, but there you are. Clearly – very sadly – there is no need to make this kind of disgraceful act up. Nevertheless, to focus upon positivity as one must try to do in such circumstances, far more ancient walling remains in situ than I ever imagined, with further stretches covering the eastern approach to the summit area. Yeah, this is a pretty damn fine Iron Age fort regardless of the actions of morons/film directors.

And then there are the sublime views to be enjoyed from this isolated little peak. Southward the course of the aforementioned Abhainn Airidhcheoduin leads the gaze between (and beyond) Creag a’ Chapuill and the great cairn of Carn Ban to Kilmartin itself and the distant coast; the northern arc (apparently) features another dun crowning the similarly rocky height of Dun Dubh to the right. However it is that to the east which, for me, takes the plaudits with ease... a fantastic vista looking along Loch Awe to distant Ben Cruachan, with Loch Ederline winning ‘best supporting water feature’ to the right, incidentally complete with crannog and nearby standing stones. Yeah, it really is something. In fact such is the vibe up here upon this miniature mountain that I decide to linger and forgo plans to venture to Skye today... and subsequently even Glen Etive... to settle for a camp within Glen Orchy. Not a hardship, to be fair.

Particularly with a short visit to the chambered cairn at Cladich (at the north-eastern end of Loch Awe) to be enjoyed en route. A fine way to round off the day.

Dawn arrives a little way south-east of Kintraw ushering in one of those mornings where it is resolutely NOT a joy to wild camp in Scotland – or any other place for that matter. Yeah, one where the very atmosphere appears to be contracting in upon itself toward apparent claustrophobic myopia, a swirling mass of grey/white vapour unleashing a hitherto retained, most unwelcome cargo of driving rain. But there you are. Scotland is as Scotland does. Echoing, perhaps, the actions of pioneer English antiquarians of bygone times, a couple of pints of tea duly revive a flagging spirit, fortify the resolution to make every moment spent in such wondrous locations count. So, Baroile chambered cairn it is, then? Hell yeah! To be honest the bravado is not overly convincing, so I hurry to commit to actions before I can change my mind....

Despite the appalling weather Kilmartin Glen is alive this morning with sundry locals and tourists going about their business, the latter betraying their (presumably) more pleasurable vocation through either inappropriately slight or excessive protection from the elements. I like Kilmartin, the grey stone piles lying marooned within lush pasture so matter-of-factly as to suggest the intervening millennia since their inception are but a figment of our modern imagination. Having said that there is also something a little too ‘manicured’ about the monuments for my taste nowadays; guess for me they possess the archaeology, but lack the intensity of vibe. Elitist bastard.

Anyway, following the A816 past the great Ballymeanoch alignments upon the right, with Dunadd rearing enigmatically upon the near horizon, a minor road (severely potholed) heads left toward ‘Rhudle Mill’. The ‘road’ – for want of a better term – eventually peters out at Kilbride farm, but it is possible to park within an old quarry now utilised as an apparently terminal resting place for sundry units of farm machinery etc. Here a footbridge crosses the swollen Rhudil Burn (not a typo, that) whereby a short, soggy, shallow ascent trending to the left brings me within sight of the monument I’ve come to see in surprisingly short order. ‘Surprisingly’ since I was unable to locate the chambered cairn upon my previous visit to the nearby Rhudil Cairn. In retrospect I have no explanation for such a failure except to cite navigational error. Hey, it happens. And ‘amen’ to that since I’ll always wish to retain the imperfect human element in finding these places. Suffice to say I’m not a fan of GPS.

A barbed wire fence blocks progress, although a field gate is available. The monument, located upon a little grassy knoll (thankfully without picket fence...) affording excellent views upon and down the Rhudil valley is, in my opinion, impressive. Roughly oval, the cairn (according to RCAHMS 1988) “measures about 26m by 24m” with four (and a bit) upright stones ranging from “1.1m high” at the eastern end to “1.25m” in the west forming a substantial façade facing north-north-east. The axial chamber, accessed through the remains of a double portal “measures about 3.5m in length by 0.8m in breadth and up to 0.85m in height internally...” and is subdivided into two compartments upon a slightly wonky alignment. Or so it would seem. Unfortunately an 1929 excavation by Craw did not return any grave goods.

As I sit and take it all in – the experience, as is often the case, much more that the sum of its parts – revelling in the knowledge that such an unobtrusive, well preserved and – above all – atmospheric monument can be found so close to the Kilmartin honey pot, the inclemental weather of morning begins to falter and finally move away to terrorise some other poor buggers. The sun duly takes the opportunity to break through the cloud mantle and quite literally display Baroile chambered cairn in something approaching its best light. Yeah, the silence may well be golden here this late morning... but so is the intensity of late Spring colour. A perfect combination.

Guess it may well be an aphorism to state that the fort occupying the eastern-most extremity of Kildonan Point is well sited. ‘With reference to what’, the traveller might well ask, with some justification? Nevertheless it is difficult to counter that there is indeed an authentically ethereal atmosphere to be enjoyed here upon this rocky crag, the remains of an ancient settlement still encircled – at least for a good part of its enceinte – by the remains of a dry stone wall up to 4m thick (according to the RCAHMS – 1971).

Add some majestic, sweeping coastal views across Kildonan Bay to Ugadale Point to the north, Black Bay (south-west) and, last but certainly not least, eastward across Kilbrannan Sound to the Isle of Arran.... and it will be seen that visually aesthetic gold dust has been sprinkled around here, too.

The promontory fort stands above and a little to the approx east of the great round cairn at Kildonan Point, the substantial stonework protecting the apparent original entrance within the north-eastern flank initially misinterpreted by myself (in mitigation at a distance) as a companion funerary monument. Again according to the RCAHMS the settlement measures “internally 55m from NE to SW by about 64m transversely.” As noted above the defences – at least those resulting from human agency – are not traceable around the full circumference of the fort, the south-eastern arc noticeably lacking in this respect. However since this sector features substantial rocky outcrops falling away directly to the sea, I reckon it’s reasonable to assume that none were ever erected? Yeah, when Nature answers a potential problem so emphatically why elaborate. Why, indeed?

Having said that... the concrete Ordnance Survey trig pillar standing at the summit of the crag resides upon “a low stony mound 4.3m in diameter.” Whether this cartographical aid now surmounts something far older is a rhetorical question pending an unlikely excavation. But it is nonetheless an intriguing thought.

As the afternoon drifts inexorably toward evening I must eventually retrace my steps across the foreshore back to the fabulous dun lying across Kildonan Bay and, subsequently, Kilmartin. Now it’s fair to say Kilmartin Glen receives its fair share of architectural plaudits... and rightly so. However I’ve got my beady eye upon a much lesser known subsidiary site tomorrow... the chambered cairn at Baroile.

Guess I need to come clean and admit I had no intention of visiting Kildonan Point during this latest – well, second – sojourn upon Kintyre. Strange as that may seem in retrospect, given the excellence of the monuments to be found here. Suffice to say there was no master plan. There never is. Yeah, not even a night spent upon the Mull itself was sufficient to fire the relevant synapse in a brain not engaged with the appreciation of copious tea and muesli... and bring a well subsumed recollection of antiquarian typeface upon an OS map bubbling into consciousness.

Not surprisingly, given the site’s obvious architectural and aesthetic quality, the sublimely positioned dun lying immediately across Kildonan Bay was the sole focus of my attention upon finally vacating the equally enthralling Balnabraid kerbed cairn. However as I recline upon the ancient wall top gazing contentedly across to Arran – as you do – something that looks suspiciously like a large stone pile catches my eye to the south, that is a little ‘inland’ from the promontory’s terminal point. Now, given my well documented fondness for such features upon the landscape, annoyance generated by the subsequent confirmation of supposition by memory may seem somewhat paradoxical. Nevertheless I dig deep, drag myself to my feet and set off along water’s edge to go have a look. The going is pretty rough, the grassy shoreline, riven by the infinitely repetitive actions of high tide, eventually merging with rock and, finally, beach enlivened by the skeletal spars of a boat long since past its sell by date.

From here it is but a short meander up a shallow rise to determine that my eyes – not to mention dormant memory – did not deceive me. Yeah this cairn is really something special.... arguably second only to the great Correchrevie should you happen to be contemplating the round cairns of Kintyre. OK the monument has been significantly damaged upon its eastern arc, a threatening mass of industrial strength gorse seemingly determined to mitigate against further loss with a show of unbridled ferocity... however enough stone remains in situ to give a more than convincing impression of overwhelming solidity. The RCAHMS (1971) gave the cairn’s dimensions as “23m in diameter and 3m in height”.... however... “a short stretch of a heavy boulder kerb, still visible on the SW, suggests that it originally had a diameter of about 18.5m”.

As mentioned Nature has now initiated the process of reclaiming this great stone pile, perhaps with a little artificial assistance, if the presence of some delicate white flowers upon the summit is indicative of such? The Mam C would know. In fact the cairn could be said to resemble a rock garden executed in true ‘no-holds-barred’ Scottish style. Fine by me. What’s more the view looking across Kildonan Bay and beyond to the high ground of Arran, the latter now periodically semi-obscured by an advancing cloud base, is excellent, if by definition somewhat muted of colour.

Eventually my attention is drawn to what appears to be a second, shattered cairn located very oddly upon the northern flank of promontory’s end. Investigation duly resolves the apparent conundrum. Hey, it’s not a cairn at all but part of a substantial, dry stone rampart demarcating what was once clearly a pretty powerful promontory fort gracing the apex of Kildonan Point.

It would appear there is to be no rest for the inquisitive.... yeah, no sleep ‘til Kilmartin.

Located a couple of miles south of Kildalloig Bay upon Kintyre’s eastern flank and, incidentally, not far from New Orleans (hey check the map, it’s true) the current denuded nature of this (apparently once very substantial) cairn belies a monument with a far, far more significant pedigree. In fact – seeing as its multi-faceted internal arrangements were found to feature no fewer than ELEVEN (count ‘em) cists – I’d go as far as to say that, in my experience, I reckon this to be a truly unprecedented site. Sadly none of that ridiculously copious funerary detail can now be seen due to protective post excavation backfilling... one assumes upon the conclusion of the 1966 dig, the other excavations having taken place in 1910 and 1913. Sometimes it’s enough to be aware what lies beneath, you know? No need to touch.

Not to mention what previously lay interned within those little stone-slabbed boxes. Yeah, the grave goods... artefacts which Bronze Age locals deemed suitably precious and noteworthy enough to accompany their loved ones (or at the very least, respected ones) into whatever afterlife loomed large in their collective consciousness at the time. According to Canmore these included “a beaker with jet disc-beads and a flint knife, three food-vessels and a cinerary urn.” In addition, as if that fine assemblage of objects infused with inherently intimate human association wasn’t enough, “a bronze razor, probably dating from 1400 to 1000 BC, was found on the site in 1966.” Hmm. Suffice to say the prehistoric providence of this particular stone pile is not in any doubt. As is its ability to transcend millennia.

Furthermore, despite being located at little more than sea level, the placement of the monument within its landscape is excellent. Yeah, set overlooking the Balnabraid Water as it flows down Balnabraid Glen to merge with the southern approach to Kilbrannan Sound, the focus is, and no doubt was always intended to be, seaward.... a grandstand view of fresh water returning back whence it came to the saline, courtesy of the planet’s natural weather cycles. With the enigmatic profile of Ailsa Craig looming upon the south-eastern horizon for good measure. It could be said that the monument’s connection with the Balnabraid Water is definitive since it was erosion caused by the action of the latter that “revealed a cinerary urn in the exposed face of the cairn” in 1910. Well, there you are.

Whether the visitor approaches the site from the north or south a fine aerial view will be obtained from the coastal road as it descends to Corphin Bridge. Parking is available at roadside, a field gate allowing access to the cairn.

Although apparently a shadow of its former self... the funerary cairn at Balnabraid nevertheless casts a long shadow indeed.

Although there are actually less standing stones here than at the not too distant Lochorodale 2... this monument – in my opinion – fully justifies its numerical primacy on account of its wondrous location overlooking the eponymous loch. And, to be fair, a substantial volume of cairn material remains in situ, together with four heavy slabs forming a chamber to the north-west. OK, a façade would have been nice (assuming one existed as an original feature?); but with a view like that.....

It is possible to park at the entrance to the stony track just south-west of the house at Lochorodale, that is just before the road begins the steep climb to the summit of the glen and Lochorodale 2. Following the track northwards a grassy diversion to the left is soon encountered which will take the inquisitive visitor straight to where he or she wants to be in short order. I, however, conscious of my dodgy route finding in forestry with old OS maps, elect to stick with the primary route. I would recommend this option since the views are better, the track subsequently veering to the left (west) to meet its neighbour below the southern face of a rocky crag.

The track peters out servicing a holiday home – or so it would appear (certainly a good place to rent out for a week or two if you fancy staying somewhere off the beaten track, I’d have thought?) – it being possible to circle around the left hand (western) flank of the crag to reach the monument. This is the approach I take but, in retrospect, I would suggest that ascending the crag directly northwards is the preferred option since this accords a grandstand, sweeping vista of the chambered cairn set in its landscape below.

The Clyde-type chambered long cairn sits to the left of a forestry plantation which partially obscures the onward view across the loch to the north-west; nevertheless I really think the setting is something special. As mentioned the monument appears pretty well defined, according to JG Scott (1952) and – as expected – AS Henshall (1972) the NW-SE facing cairn rising to approx “5ft to 6ft high near the centre”. The chunky chamber stones project “1ft 3ins to 2ft” from the surface of the cairn forming the perfect spot to lie back, take in the glorious view and eat lunch. Yeah, this really is a superb place to simply sit and do nothing for a couple of hours, particularly if the weather is kind. Hey, I even had a bit of a stiff breeze to keep the midges at bay. A very welcome bonus indeed.

So in summary: not an overwhelmingly great chambered cairn, if relative merit is determined solely upon the criterion of quality of archaeology... but, of course, there are many other aspects to take into consideration, are there not? Consequently I reckon this is a classically located site worthy of seeking out for an extended visit.

And that, I guess, is that except to mention that the 1:25K map depicts a cup marked stone nearby at NR656161. The RCAHMS [1971] reckon this is “A cup-marked boulder, 1.7m by 1.1m by 0.5m high, bearing at least fourteen cups.” Didn’t visit myself since the lure of Blasthill was too great. But there you are.

Arriving at the summit of the very minor road ascending Achnabrand Glen (from the B842 to approx north-east) following an afternoon of – it has to be said – sensory overload at Greenland I readily admit to being more than pleasantly surprised at the substantial nature of the chambered cairn located here, a little south of this very steep section of tarmacadam. Just the thing to round off an excellent day upon Kintyre, an opportunity to watch the last rays of the sun sink below the coniferous tree line embraced by the calming presence of this most ancient stone pile, prior to parking up for the night.

OK, Greywether didn’t rate the remains of this Clyde-type chambered long cairn... but then, with cairn material still rising to approx (my) head height, together with several large façade orthostats and a couple of chamber slabs still remaining in situ... I beg to differ. Quite understandably, having searched for many a vague, grassy undulation in southern England, my megalithic standards are somewhat less exacting.

Even during my late May visit the monument is very overgrown with ubiquitous fern obscuring much of the body of the long cairn; nevertheless the remaining southern half of the west-facing façade stands proud of the vegetation according the site a memorable profile... particularly when looking eastwards across the monument down the glen. Ditto the remains of the axial chamber, which, I would assume, was entered from the west through the façade. I’m afraid I could find no trace of the anticipated lateral chamber. Whether this inability was due to the obvious past disruption, the overgrown nature of the monument... or simply the fact that it doesn’t exist... is I guess a moot point.

Having subsequently read Carl’s notes I would say that, bearing in mind the minor nature of the road, a winter visit is probably not recommended unless you have a 4x4... and know how to use it. I could be wrong, but assumption is this route will not be gritted? Hence if, upon struggling up the road, no long cairn is forthcoming, I suggest visitors look for a small rise to the left (south), climb that and the site will (surely?) be seen to be located exactly where it should be.

Furthermore, if time permits, a visit to the excellent companion chambered cairn at Lochorodale 1 is highly recommended.

Even with 1:25k map clasped in my perspiring palm, compass bearing duly set .... this excellent chambered long cairn proved a real bugger to get to. However – if such an assumption can be based upon the presence of several ‘walking man’ directional posts and a picnic table placed more-or-less adjacent to the monument – it wasn’t always thus. Indeed, guess it must’ve been a mere stroll in the woods once upon a time. Ah, trees; herein lies the fundamental problem when it comes to route finding... to paraphrase Dylan somewhat, time’s constantly a’changing beneath the dark coniferous mantle of Scotland’s forestry plantations.

For identification purposes the chambered cairn assumes the name of a ruined (or so it appeared in passing) dwelling beside a small loch about a click to the south-west; although to be honest it could also have appropriated that of ‘Black Loch’ a similar distance to the north-west. For what it’s worth I prefer the latter title. Anyway, a few miles after leaving Campbeltown heading (east then) north upon the B842 coastal road the farmhouse of Low Smerby is passed (on the right), that is about a mile short of Peninver. Shortly afterward I park up at the entrance to the long access drive of High Smerby upon my left. The arrangement is not ideal, but in my opinion not a problem.

So... advancing along the track, a diversion to the left conveniently bypassing the farm, I enter the forestry and, upon encountering the Smerby Burn, the root source of the nomenclature of numerous local farms suddenly becomes all too apparent. As, incidentally, is the presence of numerous gentlemen engaged in what a rather alarmist sign – think Arnie Schwarzenegger doing the ‘talk to the hand’ scene in Terminator 2 – terms ‘forestry operations’. I decide to force the issue and finding myself completely ignored (what’s new?) carry on my way. Beyond a small quarry the track veers uphill to the right, climbing above the aforementioned Greenland ruin and its water feature before forking to the right in approx a further half mile. The monument stands a similar distance to the east. Seems simple enough? Needless to say it’s not, primarily since it is difficult to see the continuation of the route through the wood for the fallen trees.

Nearing the track’s terminus a grassy path veers to the right, one of the aforementioned directional posts suggesting I’m (finally) nearly there.... only for a further, seemingly impenetrable mass of twisted timber to bar the way. Furthermore, as I try to outflank my wooden nemesis I find myself in real danger of losing my bearings completely unless I retrace my steps best as I can and regroup. Although, to be fair, regrouping with myself is not that onerous an undertaking. Reckoning that I’ve more-or-less fixed my location once more I set about slipping and sliding up and down various muddy inclines in torrential rain until the proverbial ‘one last look’ highlights an improbable picnic table – of all things – set at the edge of a clearing. A hint of stone protrudes from a nearby mound and... sure enough... there it is. Finally. What took us so long to find each other?

Now the miscellaneous post gives the technical info... however the long cairn is so overgrown, wondrously so in terms of vibe, that most of the detail is superfluous this afternoon. Suffice to say that the monument appears to recall that of the excellent, not too distant Blasthill with an axial chamber – albeit a far better one with cap stone eased to one side – and lateral chamber opening upon the western flank. Hey, there’s even tentative evidence for a façade at the northern end. Which brings us to the primary difference betwixt the two long cairns... orientation, Greenland being aligned approx north/south to Blasthill’s east/west. Hmm. Unfortunately forestry clearings are not condusive to sussing out possible reasons for alignments. As noted, however, they can furnish a site with a superlative atmosphere, one such given a nitrous-oxide boost today by fast moving weather fronts of ridiculously violent intensity. Not so much ‘changeable’ as ‘buckle up for a rollercoaster ride’.

As I sit and drink my coffee steam rises from the cairn following one full on assault, the rain front motoring away toward the coast as the sun takes its turn to flood the clearing with golden light, as opposed to precipitation. It is a surreal experience, but, for me, sums up the appeal of this site. A couple of miles – that’s all – from the road... but the walker’s signpost might as well have been pointing to the heavens and stated ‘to the moon’.

The deceptively large round cairn surmounting the 413ft summit of Creagach Leac is well worth a look when visiting the superb Blasthill chambered cairn, located below to the north-west... if only to enjoy the ‘aerial’ view, to take the opportunity to observe how the latter was placed within the landscape. To attempt to grasp the ‘bigger picture’, if you like. And I do. Make the attempt, that is.

Despite the relative lack of elevation, the coastal location of this small, craggy hill (apparently the 5,398th tallest peak in Scotland, no less) ensures the canvas painted by Nature – and subsequently adapted, with varying degrees of aesthetic aptitude, by succeeding generations of humankind – is a fine, expansive work of vibrant colours balanced with subtle tonal nuances. Or something like that. Yeah, the sweeping vista looking westward toward The Mull of Kintyre is really quite something to behold, the azure sky of early afternoon now supplanted by the advancing vanguard of the next sequential weather front, a billowing mass of low cloud smothering the horizon. The thought occurs: how ironic is it that most visitors – myself included – probably first became aware of the existence of this sublime little corner of lowland Scotland through something so utterly devoid of beauty and artistic merit as McCartney’s dire ditty? Besides, I understand this was always MacDonald territory...

With such an outlook is it easy to become consumed with speculative ‘stuff’ and forget that this grassy hill top is actually a Bronze Age cairn. Quite a big one, too, the RCAHMS (visiting way back in 1965, admittedly) recording that it “measures 13.5m in diameter by 0.84m in maximum height”. In mitigation, however, the monument is so grassed over that it is necessary for me to wander around a bit, checking out the differing profiles, before I’m satisfied that the commission people weren’t pulling a fast one back then. Needless to say they were not.

I guess the final thing to note – OK, penultimate, since there are a couple of suspiciously artificial looking mounds upon the western flank of Creagach Leac encountered on the way back to the car – is the shimmering, seemingly other-worldly presence of Ailsa Craig looming upon the southern-eastern horizon to the left of Sanda Island and the diminutive Sheep Island .... a vision conjuring up images of La Morte d’Arthur... with himself being conveyed across misty waters toward the Isle of Avalon.

Yeah, this is a good spot alright. If a little windy. I decide to seek out a wild camp upon the Mull itself tonight. Hopefully said wind will ensure there is no ‘mist rolling in from the sea’....

Located below and to the north west of the summit of Creagach Leac – the almost entirely grassed-over Bronze Age cairn rather contradicting the ‘craggy, slabby’ references inherent in the name – this excellent chambered cairn is, to my mind, the finest of Kintyre’s ancient monuments... although I guess another chambered cairn hidden away in forestry a little to the north at Greenland runs it damn close. Hey, even the sardonic Greywether rated what is still to be found here gracing the rough pasture separating the farms of Blasthill and Macharioch.

I approach from the village of Southend, the hill rising above to the north bearing the tell-tale contours of Iron Age earthworks to off-set the fact that the later settlement is not, in actual fact, the ‘south end’ of anything, let alone Kintyre... yeah, that accolade, of course, belongs to the (in)famous Mull a little to the approx south-west. Chances are you might have heard of it referenced by another of the area’s ancient relics? Anyway, crossing the Conieglen Water at Mill Park I ignore the immediate left hand turn to follow the minor road past Blasthill Farm (on the left) and, in the interests of symmetry, Kilbride (on the right). It is currently just about possible to park – without causing offence – in the entrance to the driveway of an unidentified house a little beyond ‘Suilven’. Needless to say that’s not the celebrated mountain... or else I’d suggest you dispose of that Satnav in the nearest litter bin forthwith. Hey, do it anyway. Before it becomes self aware.

As Greywether notes the track opposite the aforementioned Kilbride is key here with a field gate, fastened with nothing but ubiquitous rope, encouraging even the somewhat reticent Englishman to enter. I head for the far (northern) shoulder of Creagach Leac, encountering a pretty worthy area of bog upon abandoning the sanctuary of the track, wetland enlivened by the vibrant hues of the occupying gorse. This formidable natural barrier duly breeched, the way lies open to the fabulous chambered cairn located, unseen, beyond.

To be fair there isn’t an excessive volume of ‘cairn’ material to be found here. No soaring, enigmatic vertical profile; rather the well preserved/restored (?) orthostats and internal features of a Clyde-type chambered long cairn. Arguably the most impressive component is the crescent façade at the eastern end of the monument emphasising the entrance to the axial chamber. As you’d expect with such a cairn there is also a lateral chamber, this within the southern flank and possibly sited to focus upon the summit of Creagach Leac since the northern flank, overlooking the fertile fields bordering the Corachan Burn, would’ve otherwise seemed a more natural choice to me? In addition, more-or-less the entire footprint of the cairn is defined by the remains of a peristalith. OK, none of the stones are that large, but substantiality has numerous measures, so to speak. According to Audrey Henshall (1972) this long cairn is “about 72ft overall, with cairn material remaining to a depth of only about 3ft... The stones are irregular in shape and pointed, the tallest, 3ft high above the turf being the north portal.”

Blasthill is orientated approx east/west which, given the nature of the landscape, would appear very deliberate policy on behalf of its erectors. Let’s just say that otherwise it wouldn’t make much sense.... not with a glorious vista in the general direction of the Mull of Kintyre there for the taking to the west and the aforementioned aerial view – looking across Corachan Burn to distant hills – to the north. OK, the low mass of Creagach Leac (413ft) obscures any far-reaching outlook to the south, but east still wouldn’t have been my choice upon aesthetic grounds. My assumption is therefore that other factors held sway back then.

Whatever the reasoning, the monument is a fine place to hang out for a few hours in the sun before finally moving on to the Bronze Age summit looming insistently above.

By some distance the most impressive round cairn to grace Kintyre (I reckon the next in line is that at Kildonan Point), the great stone pile at Correchrevie nevertheless duly serves up a double-whammy by occupying a quite stunning coastal location. Yeah, the sweeping seascape looking across the Sound of Gigha to the Isle of Gigha and its diminutive companion Cara Island is, more-or-less, the same celebrated outlook to be found at the wondrous Ballochroy alignment a little up the road.

As indicated above this is a substantial monument. But no need to take my word for it since the RCAHMS visited, albeit way back in 1961, determining that the cairn measured “27.5m in diameter and 5.0m in height”, which is pretty hefty, it has to be said. Furthermore, despite a number of ‘excavations’ being apparent within the structure, such is the volume of stone still remaining in situ that I’d agree with the observation that the damage wrought by stone seekers of yesteryear appears to be “...superficial, and the main body of cairn material and any internal features are probably undisturbed.” Yeah, here we have another sleeping behemoth.

My mid-morning visit coincides with, and needless to say greatly benefits from, a somewhat boisterous weather front propelling vast slabs of cloud across a brilliant cobalt-blue canvas, this mass of grey-white vapour towering above my stony perch and occupying a vertical plane of a scale quite beyond this human’s comprehension. Hey, what are the works of humankind, relatively speaking, when considered within the context of the biggest of all pictures?

Despite Correchrevie’s impressive bulk travellers approaching along the coastal road to the north – as no doubt many do – may be forgiven not even clocking its existence, such is the nature of the topography. However stop for a while a little way past Ronachan Bay (at the second lay-by, the one with emergency ‘phone) and wander down to water’s edge to taste the salt air at the limit of the crashing breakers... where, upon turning to face inland once more the superb positioning of the monument is instantly apparent.

Access, it would seem, is either via a stony track beside (currently) unemployed farm buildings or directly up the hill through woodland. A barbed-wire fence encloses the relevant field upon the crest; however I found I was able to step over this without damaging either it or my nether regions... or else would’ve ventured a little further north toward a gate.

Let’s face it.... an area would have to be pretty special – from an archaeological perspective, at least – for this particular ‘Grey Cairn’ (needless to say Scotland has numerous others) to feature as nothing out of the ordinary.... par for the course, so to speak. In retrospect I guess that tells me all I need to know about the relative merits of Strath of Kildonan, a veritable megalithic cornucopia, if ever I did experience one?

Situated upon the lower, south-western slopes of Craig Halligarry (this mini-height featuring rock art and hut circles, no less) the cairn is consequently denied the sweeping, elevated views accorded a significant number of the other dramatis personae in the extended vicinity. Nevertheless the location, overlooking the northern bank of the River Helmsdale with Ben Uarie looming upon the skyline, whilst not breath taking is certainly aesthetically pleasing, albeit in a somewhat archetypal, uncompromising northern Scottish manner.

The monument, although damaged upon the north-eastern arc – one assumes by quarrying – is substantial. According to an Ordnance Survey estimation back in 1976 it “would have been about 17.0m diameter, and, at present, is 1.5m high.” [JM]. Yeah, anywhere else but here Carn Liath would surely be a headline act? As it is.. it represents an understated perch upon which to pause and review; to take stock of the frankly overwhelming volume of treasures to be experienced travelling the A897. To once again see the cairns for the stones.

Is it chambered? The OS didn’t believe so, back in the day. However a couple of stones rising through and above the summit of the cairn suggest otherwise. Let’s say it is, in my opinion, certainly a ‘possible’. There are further uprights standing a little distance to the north-west, perhaps related to what I assume to be a field boundary? Then again could they be associated with the monument? Whatever the truth of the matter Carn Liath is certainly worthy of a stop-over on the way to more spectacularly positioned sites.

The pair of chambered cairns gracing the south-western flank of Creag nan Caorach, the hill rising rather ‘sheepishly’ (assuming my limited gaelic is not even more so) to the east of the small hamlet of Kinbrace, are not among the largest monuments of the genre I’ve had the privilege of visiting over the past decade or so; nevertheless they form yet another vibrant entry in the wondrous canon of prehistoric cairns seemingly tasked by our forebears with escorting the River Helmsdale to the sea. Well, wouldn’t want the river spirits to get lost now, would we? Causes all sorts of problems. I imagine.

As mentioned... the chambered cairns do not crown the near-on 1,000ft summit of Creag nan Caorach, as might have been expected if collective, vainglorious self-aggrandisement had been the motive of their erectors. Oh no. Instead the monuments appear to have been carefully placed to observe the landscape... rather than be observed attempting to subjugate it. That is literally a much more classy outlook upon life and what it means to be human, don’t you think? Inherently so. To be fair it’s not that difficult to hypothesize what ‘event’ might have been the focus of attention here, the gaze of the visitor drawn to the south-west toward the confluence of the River Helmsdale with the Bannock Burn flowing down from the approx north; the perennial meeting and merging of waters.

Anyway, advancing uphill from the unfenced A897 a little south of Kinbrace (note that there is a railway station here should the train be your preferred mode of transport) the traveller must first negotiate a group of hut circles and an associated field system, the former presumably representing the residual footprints of the homes of the people who chose – or perhaps felt compelled – to bury their dead a little above and beyond to the east. So, onward and upward to these former homes of the ancestors of the ancestors, so to speak. All is quiet now upon the bare – dare I say inhospitable? – flank of Creag nan Caorach, where once upon a time voices, mingling with the coarser utterances of other animals, would’ve drifted on the breeze.... or remained inaudible upon the inevitable days of inclemency.

I dare say one such voice, albeit in much more recent times, was that of the ubiquitous A S Henshall who came to see and describe these cairns back in 1963. The western cairn [NC86903094], the best preserved of the pair, is an “Orkney-Cromarty type short, horned cairn with a Camster type chamber”.. rising about “4ft 6 inches above the heather.... It measures 43ft E-W by 46ft N-S and the horns project about 10ft”. The cairn is certainly chambered, part of which is exposed and is in my estimation a fine monument.

A little to the approx east stands its companion [at NC87073094]. Significantly robbed and overgrown with heather it “appears to have had a diameter of about 47ft. Three upright stones, two of them set at right angles, occur near the centre and suggest that the cairn has been chambered.” To be honest I’d go further than Audrey’s tentative notes and concur with the Ordnance Survey people who commented that these orthostats “leave little doubt that it is chambered, though no identifiable pattern is evident” [JM, 1977 and EGC, 1961].

There is more here, firstly in the form of another cairn set further to the approx south-east at NC87263056. Once again it is a substantial stone pile, according to the aforementioned OS people “...8.0m diameter by 0.7m high”. Unfortunately I could not discern any trace of a former chamber. The final monument of the quartet is a grassy cairn at NC86863099. I neglected to take an image of this, for whatever reason... however it apparently measures “15m by 14m by 1.3m high”, again with no visible chamber or cist.

So there you have it. Clearly Creag nan Caorach was deemed to be a very special place back in the day. Although, to keep things in context, it is in very good company with the fabulous (now deforested) Kinbrace Hill cairns a little to the south and the fine Carn Richard chambered cairn to the west. And that’s just for starters...

Eventually it is time to shift attention away from the prehistoric cairns adorning this windswept hill and focus upon the imperceptible abrasive action of water upon rock below. A vision of a landscape that is simultaneously impossibly ancient and absolutely contemporary. I find such a concept difficult to process so, as with the water, perhaps it is best to do as I do and let it just flow over you?

Two ancient cairns grace the hillside that sweeps down to the River Helmsdale to the south-east of the fine broch at Kilphedir. Not that anyone, save the curious Citizen Cairn’d in possession of OS map, would be aware of this arresting fact .... since they are so obscure and reclusive as to render Howard Hughes a real live wire in comparison. Yeah, Nature has now more-or-less completely embraced her artificial charges, peerlessly camouflaged them within heather to such an extent as to ensure I wander past, oblivious, before retrospectively realising my error.

To be fair it is the sense of location... hard won experience, if you like... which gives the game away and not excellent map work (that’ll be the day), an area of relatively level ground proffering a truly superb panorama of Strath of Kildonan to the approx east, one I accept utterly and without reservation. Hey, the cairns should be here... this is where I’d have put them. And indeed they are.

The better preserved (NC99581867) is – according to field notes of the inevitable Audrey Henshall (1963) – “roughly circular... measuring about 56ft NW-SE by 51ft transversely and 4 or 5ft high”. Several large orthostats strongly suggest the monument was chambered and “orientated NW-SE and entered from the SE.” Not bad at all.

The internal detail of the larger, companion monument located at NC99551870 is less clear, but nonetheless also indicative to me of a chambered cairn. Again according to Audrey it is “about 70ft by 55ft and 3ft high. Parts of a boulder kerb or possibly two concentric kerbs together with several large earthfast slabs, are visible”.

Needless to say visitors should take the opportunity to visit the fine broch looming above to the north-west, not to mention numerous hut circles. My suggestion, nay recommendation, would be to ascend directly to the ancient fortification from the south and subsequently drop in on the cairns on the way back down to the road, emerging near the lodge. However since I had already visited the broch several years previously I instead simply hang out for a while and enjoy the view. There is really only the one owing to the nature of the topography. But suffice to say it is enough.

This large, round cairn has sadly had to suffer the indignity of having a large portion of its western arc removed at some time or other.... leaving it with a footprint perhaps reminiscent of a giant ‘Pac Man’ frozen mid gulp upon this uncompromising hillside. Needless to say the true effect would only be apparent from the air. A Nasca-style monument for the jilted 80’s Atari generation.....

Such damage notwithstanding, the cairn remains architecturally impressive measuring – according to those intrepid Ordnance Survey people (WDJ, 1960 and J M, 1976) – “about 19.5m NW-SE by 18.5m”. What’s more, there is the remains of an arc of kerbing to the east.

As is often the case, however, it is the placement of the monument which impresses this traveller the most. Located upon a low spur above the western bank of the Torrish Burn, the cairn was clearly orientated to overlook the River Helmsdale, the site possessing a wondrous view eastwards and westwards along the strath. Incidentally the river deviates sharply southward at the point where the Torrish Burn adds itself to its seemingly inexorable flow... the thought momentarily occurs that perhaps the tributary is more than capable of – quite literally – punching well above its weight when flash floods visit these hills? Whatever, best not to be around to test the theory when such deluges sweep across the landscape.

Despite the relative proximity to what is, after all, an A-road (honest, it’s the A897) there is a great ‘upland’ vibe here enhanced by distant Ben Uarie keeping an eye on proceedings upon the south-western skyline. That such impressive, yet unassuming stone piles can be found in such easily accessible locations is, for me, truly one of the joys of northern Scotland.

Although there is nothing here – where the Caen Burn flows down from the rolling hills to subsume itself within the voluminous River Helmsdale’s procession to the sea – in the same jaw-dropping league as the Kinbrace Hill monuments, this quartet of differing long cairns (count ‘em) nevertheless accord my final day exploring the wondrous environs of Strath of Kildonan a fitting climax. Indeed, the view of the more-or-less intact southern monument from high ground to the north-west is way beyond all expectations. And to be fair I can imagine an awful lot... as Han Solo once said in that somewhat obscure film.

My arrival is significantly delayed, the small matter of checking out preceding cairns at Carn Liath, Torrish Burn, Kilphedir and Salscraggie, in linear progression from the west, ensuring it is late afternoon before I finally park opposite an islet within the aforementioned River Helmsdale, a short distance prior to where the water course veers sharply to the south. The first of the long cairns (the western at ND00781783) lies upon a terrace to the immediate north. Sadly this is very much a case of what might have been.... or rather what once was, the monument clearly having been used as a quarry for building stone with nothing, save a trace outline of stone, defining what must have been a truly massive monument. Audrey Henshall [1963] has it at about “135 feet long, 27 feet broad at the W end widening to 50 feet in the E...oriented ESE-WNW”. Still the positioning, overlooking the river, is excellent.

I head approx north-east following a rough path across the flank of the hill, pausing to gawp at the spectacle of the superb southern long cairn lying below. I decide to leave what would appear to be the best to last and carry on to overlook the Caen Burn itself, the northern cairn (ND01251802) clearly visible above its western bank. Although disturbed, there remains a significant volume of curiously reddish/orange stone in situ, albeit with no discernible chamber visible to these eyes. According to Audrey “It lies ENE and WSW and measures about 100ft in length, some 35ft in breadth at the E end and 27ft at the W.” In my opinion the view looking north along the Caen Burn into the hills is excellent – there are apparently numerous hut circles and a souterrain up there – whilst the eastern long cairn can be seen to the north-east upon the lower, near flank of Caen Hill rising above the burn. Guess I’ll have to haul my aching body up there, then? Afraid so. Let’s call it a labour of love.

The Caen Burn is easily forded – or at least was at the time of my visit in late May – whereupon a (thankfully) short climb alongside a dry stone wall brings me to an unlocked gate accessing the long cairn at ND01481815. Like its lower neighbour, the monument hasn’t survived into our age unscathed. Nevertheless it remains a substantial stone pile “oriented NE-SW measuring about 166 feet in length and 25 feet broad at the SW end, widening to about 26 feet in the NE”. Speaking of orientation, both the northern and southern long cairns are visible from here, the angles of attack of the surrounding hills suggestive of riding upon a billowing green seascape. Or at least that might be the case if not for the luxuriant carpet of blue bells.

So... finally... I descend for an audience with the southern long cairn at ND01231776. As mentioned the monument appears almost intact and “orientated E-W appears to be 168ft long, 27ft wide at the W end and 46ft at the E.” The profile is not uniform, the cairn rising gradually from the west to “a height of 7ft” at the eastern extremity. Here some large displaced stones suggest the presence/former presence of a chamber. Well, Audrey Henshall certainly thought so way back in 1963. Hey, to think that was before I was born? A true pioneer lady. The cairn is covered in a thick mantle of moss, this a little puzzling since there is no indication of recent forestry here? Whatever, the happy effect only serves to heighten the sense of a location being somehow frozen in time. Someone call Stephen Hawking. He’ll know what’s what. Top man. Sadly my watch refuses to co-operate with my ‘theory of everything’ (in retrospect perhaps ‘everything’ was a little too ambitious) and I have to move on to once again find somewhere to crash out for the night. But not before determining that a nearby ‘hump’ is actually a Bronze Age round cairn. What a place......

Ha! What new sorcery is this? Surely even a myopic Citizen Cairn’d such as I couldn’t have ‘overlooked’ monuments of this magnitude during my previous visits to the Strath of Kildonan, lamentably few though those have been. Surely not? Luckily, not least for the preservation of any lingering notion of personal sanity there is a pretty straightforward reason for the oversight, this given immediate credence by the carnage of devastated timber covering the hillside. Yeah, concealing something in plain sight would be a pretty Machiavellian concept if premeditated; needless to say conspiracy theorists need not linger. Forestry comes and goes in these parts.

Moving on from the arresting Creag Nan Caorach – itself a sequel to the excellent Carn Richard – it becomes apparent that there are simply an overwhelming number of sites lining the flanks of this valley. A linear progression requiring at least 48 hours. Clearly my itinerary is (once again) shot to pieces and I will have to stay another day. Hey, shame it’s not Christmas since that reminds me of a certain song. With bells on. Anyway... suddenly a massive circular stone pile looms above the road to my left. I check the map – in confusion since I should not be able to see the cairn for the trees – and, to be honest, don’t know where I am. Whatever. It’s not as if it’s the first time....

The cairn (NC86882935) appears circular, of impressive stature and apparently ‘unopened’. It is almost certainly chambered, two uprights upon the approx south-eastern arc surely representing the entrance to a passage, albeit one now inaccessible? Audrey Henshall [1963] reckoned the monument measures “87ft E-W by 83ft, and the height at least 9ft”. What a fine, unexpected way to end the day. But wait, there’s more. Much more. And it’s even more special.... iconic, even.

A further mass of grey stone visible crowning the rise of the hillside to the approx south-east sees me stumbling, with great difficulty – and I have to say many expletives – across the chaotic residual detritus of those forestry operations in order to take a look. It is worth the effort (a bit of an understatement, that), the apparently damaged profile revealed to be formed of two distinct, very large cairns as I draw near. That to the north-east is the higher of the two and (apparently) the earlier, by all accounts seemingly another, even more massive round cairn. However the sheer scale ensures first appearances are most certainly deceptive for (once again according to Audrey Henshall) it is actually “almost square with rounded corners and rises steeply to a height of 14ft.... about 100ft along its main axis”. Furthermore it possesses “a low horn projecting about 7ft on the north”. OK.... not your standard cairn, then? Very idiosyncratic indeed. Its companion, set immediately to the south-west, is similarly unusual. Somewhat lower at “10ft high” its horizontal dimensions (at least in 1963) are “102ft long, 62ft wide at the SW end and 36ft wide at the NE end”. Make of that what you will?

Blimey. So what the hell was all this about, then? Just what was going on in the minds of those people who toiled to erect these monuments millennia ago? Was this a long cairn subsequently ‘decapitated’ by separating the north-eastern head from the body. Or were these two cairns always set apart, albeit associated. A prototype for the genre of monument that would, by combining the two, eventually become the ‘long cairn’? Perhaps Kinbrace Hill’s outstanding monuments are analogic of Caithness’s celebrated Grey Cairns of Camster? Only far, far more obscure, at least nowadays? The mind boggles to find such extraordinary stone piles still standing here, apparently intact. Truly, it does.

I return to the chambered cairn near the A897. All is quiet.... there is no traffic... and watch the light slowly fade to dusk following a last brilliant sunburst, the final hurrah of a previously subdued sun now illuminating the landscape with a golden glow. A metaphorical brass fanfare to what I’ve just witnessed, perhaps? Marvellous. Now for somewhere to sleep.

Those of us with a penchant for the perusal of OS maps during the dark winter evenings – and no doubt others – will have noticed that some prehistoric monuments have been accorded the distinction of an association with person(s) thought worthy of perpetual remembrance by the local community; an assurance policy against the collective memory of such notables being lost within the misty annuals of time by irrevocably linking them to immutable features in the landscape. I guess, in many ways, this practice is also a subliminal comment upon the relative value society places – or rather used to place – upon the monuments themselves. I mean it is clearly self evident that only the best cairn would be thought worthy of someone of the stature of Arthur, isn’t it? Trouble is such practices didn’t always work, the monument, somewhat ironically, retaining all the kudos whilst its human patron faded to obscurity. And then oblivion... Consider Carn Richard.

Awaking to an unfeasibly blue sky within Glen Loth, my camp of no consequence in relation to the elegant, stratified façade of Ben Uarie soaring, towering above, I scan the map for places to visit and hopefully occupy the forthcoming day. The bleary eyes rest for a moment upon the moniker ‘Carn Richard’, subconsciously attracted by the association with some bloke formerly bearing such name. Any ideas? Nevertheless I decide it’s worth a look. Indeed, seeing as past generations went to the trouble of selecting and subsequently maintaining such a name within local group consciousness, it would be rude not to pay a visit.

The B877 heads west(ish) from the A897 at Kinbrace whereby, having crossed the Bannock Burn, a large, circular sheepfold will soon be seen below to the left. Spotting a dry stone structure of some description upon the hillside to the immediate north I park up and go have a look. As usual it is soon clear that I’ve put two and two together to get five.... I’ve actually stumbled upon the rather fine remains of the Harvieston settlement, not exactly a problem. The great chambered cairn itself stands a little way uphill to the approx. north-west, the intervening hillside featuring numerous additional small cairns and ‘humps ‘n bumps’.

Sitting overlooking the River Helmsdale a little to the north-west of its confluence with the aforementioned Bannock Burn the positioning of Carn Richard is classic, archetypal of a chambered cairn in fact with the broad, sinuous course of the river indicative of fertility itself. Yeah, a good place to rest out eternity. It is a substantial monument, slumbering away in obscurity within a landscape seemingly beyond the effects of time. What’s more there’s a nice, big slab lying within – a capstone or chamber lintel, perhaps? – whichever the perfect perch to rest up for a few hours and, well, not do a great deal, to be honest. According to the inevitable Audrey Henshall [1963] the monument is:

“a short horned, chambered cairn... still standing 10’ to 12’ high on the south... diameters are 58’ E-W by 62’ N-S but the precise edge is difficult to trace”.

The views up and down the valley are excellent, the profile of Ben Uarie adding some cognition to the skyline horizon. In fact I could happily laze here in the sun all day... if it wasn’t for the (arguably) incomparable treasures of Strath of Kildonan waiting for me, their unseen presence tugging at my consciousness like a Jack Russell upon a leash. Clearly there’s only one way that’s gonna end.

Nevertheless, even in such company, this is a first class site. Thank you for the prompt, Richard. Whoever you were.

In my opinion this is really something special, a striking monolith up there with such notable beauties as Clach an Trushal, Punchestown... and even the wondrous Maen Llia. It’s probably to my detriment that solitary standing stones don’t generally ‘do it for me’, so to speak. It normally takes at least a pair of the things to overcome my usual inertia to pull on the boots to visit. Or, failing that, an overpoweringly massive presence, or superb positioning within the landscape.

At first sight Clach Mhic Mhios didn’t appear – to me – to possess any of those criteria. However after viewing the landscape context from the col between Ben Uarie and Beinn Dhorain... and spending three nights wild camping within Glen Loth, during which sea mist came to greet the enigmatic monolith in such a memorable manner as to positively freak me out... I reasoned I might as well go and have a look. Hey, any standing stone than could entice water to come to it, rather than wandering down to the river at night – as they apparently are apt to do – must be pretty classy, right? Either that or incredibly lazy. Albeit in a metaphysical manner.

The distance from roadside to the great monolith is not excessive. However, as the previous gentlemen note, the ground is extremely boggy. Wellingtons would be a good idea, to be fair. Trainers? You’re having a laugh! Anyway, as I draw nearer it soon becomes apparent that Clach Mhic Mhios, comprised of red sandstone, is much taller than it appears from the road, some 11ft according to the RCAHMS way back in 1911. No doubt a significant length is embedded within the ground, too, or else the monument would probably have long since toppled over within the soggy morass. The stone is 4ft 11’’ across at its widest point and 1ft 3’’ thick, facing ESW and WNW (again as noted by RCAHMS). Furthermore two smaller stones were apparently standing nearby just over a century ago. Unfortunately I could not see any trace today. More’s the pity.

So, a handsome monument. But what, for me, really places Clach Mhic Mhios in the top rank of its type is its location. Beinn Dhorain, highest peak in the locality, towers to the immediate west while the elegant facade of Ben Uarie soars to the north-west. The view looking east, not to mention those up and down the glen, are also very fine. Indeed it is Ben Uarie, possessing the remains of a large, in my opinion possibly kerbed, summit cairn that might well be the focal point of Glen Loth. The mountain and the standing stone are inextricably linked within local folklore, this relating how the stone was thrown from the summit to its current position “by a giant youth when one month old”. The mind boggles, so it does.

Now that’s what I call throwing toys out of the pram! Proper Highland style.

Although little more than a mile along the minor road traversing Glen Loth (if heading from the A9, that is) the shattered remains of this broch occupy a position in the landscape seemingly several light years away from the tourist trail when it comes to vibe. What an superb location! Although, to be fair, it’s difficult to visualise a big, hairy Iron Age warrior chieftain standing here, spear, battleaxe – or whatever- in hand and exclaiming “Such is the exquisite beauty of this landscape, sweeping contours of sublime precision echoing the pulsating life-affirming natural forces inherent within the fast flowing water.... that I am compelled, by the mighty Odin (in an admittedly uncharacteristic moment of all consuming altruistic euphoria), to erect a great big bloody dry stone defensive tower here to consolidate my power and vanquish my enemies. At this very spot”. Then again ....

For all the idyllic splendour there is, however, a catch which potential visitors should be aware of. Namely, as Nick points out, that the broch stands upon the opposite bank of the Loth Burn from the road. Ah... Luckily I was able to make my way across the lively water without having to remove the boots, thanks to several strategically placed rocks breaking the surface at opportune points. I can well imagine occasions when this will not be the case.

As mentioned at the start, Carn Bran is, on the surface, a tumbled mass of collapsed stonework far removed from the likes of the nearby Cinn Trolla. Nevertheless a few courses of walling can still be discerned within the chaos, together with the positions of a (couple?) of intra-mural chambers confirming that this is indeed a broch and not, as the name might imply, a cairn. I wouldn’t have minded the latter at all, to be fair. But then again finding a broch located in such a classic position overlooking a far from placid burn is pretty special.

I sit drinking my coffee, gazing along the glen and wonder how much of the original structure still remains in situ, subsumed within the stone pile? Yeah, on balance, despite the captivating ethereal atmosphere here, I reckon it would be a very worthwhile exercise to excavate Carn Bran and perhaps reveal its former archaeological glory.

Forming an excellent triumvirate of coastal brochs with the more obscure Ousdale Burn and the tourist-friendly Carn Liath this, the enigmatic Cinn Trolla Broch, prompted me to stay a good deal longer than I’d originally anticipated. A sure sign of a good vibe, despite being within sight of the busy A9 and right beside a railway line. Suffice to say the latter is not exactly Clapham Junction, however....

Having awoken from my wild camp to a cloudless dawn in the hills near Invergordon, my boundless enthusiasm for the day ahead – and all things Scottish – is subsequently curtailed in rather short order by the sight of sea mist more or less completely obscuring the coast in the vicinity of Brora. Particularly since I had my beady eye upon venturing upon the hills overlooking the head of Glen Loth. Nature, eh? Reappraisal undertaken, I decide to check out the Cinn Trolla before heading for the wondrous Strath of Kildonan. The broch lies a couple of miles north of Brora and is signposted from the A9... after passing a campsite on the right, followed by the access road to Kintradwell farm on the left. As it is I overshoot and end up parking, rather fortuitously, opposite Ballinreach. Hopping over the gate – or something like that – I make my way diagonally to the coast, so cunningly avoiding the traffic hurtling by a few feet from the verge. It seemed like a good idea. And for once, it was. The broch is difficult to miss...

Excavated by J M Joass around 1865 (’Two days’ diggings in Sutherlandshire’, Proc Soc Antiq Scot, vol.5 refers... class title, or what?), back in the day when learned gentlemen visited sites such as this – in lieu of middle class, scruffy pseudo-antiquarian amateurs such as myself – the interim has unfortunately (apparently) resulted in a marked deterioration of the fabric. Nevertheless the ancient fortress remains a substantial circular structure, full of archaeological interest and boasting excellent sea views. Hey, an estate agent might well mention the great transport links, too.

Yeah, sadly the guard cell opening from the right hand flank of the entrance passage, upon the western arc, has lost a former ‘domed’ roof... and debris now accumulate upon the floor of the interior of the broch obscuring a ‘well’, 7ft deep and featuring steep access steps, to the south-east. However a mural passage concealing a staircase remains in situ, together with another cell, so all the requisite archetypal broch attributes are present and correct. According to E W Mackie (2007) the outer wall face, formed of handsome blocks of sandstone, rises to approx 2m. Which seemed about right. Furthermore the broch is associated with additional external structures reminiscent – well to me anyway – of The Broch of Gurness, these of much cruder construction so, presumably, later?

I sit upon the rotund wall top and watch the thick sea mist sweeping in from the North Sea (obviously) billow up and swirl around the immovable presence of the green hills flanking the entrance to Glen Loth, one such, incidentally, bearing the fine Lothbeg Bridge chambered cairn. Ever so slowly, with an almost glacial imperceptibility, the grey vapour tendrils falter and lose their grip, the hitherto reticent sun seizing the opportunity to break through the mantle to vanquish the overcast morning once and for all.

The landscape duly transformed, I decide to postpone my visit to Strath of Kildonan and head for Glen Loth after all to see if the summit cairn of Ben Uarie has any secrets it may want to pass on?

Modern antiquarians visiting north-eastern Scotland for the first time may, quite possibly, grasp within sweaty palms an itinerary featuring little more than the ‘show sites’ highlighted – or rather, celebrated – within Mr Cope’s multi-coloured, dayglo tome. Nothing wrong with that. They are rather good, are they not? However if our friends’ cerebral functions happen to resemble my own to any meaningful degree (sorry about that)... monuments such as Grey Cairns of Camster and Achavanich will sow a priceless, insidious seed of curiosity ensuring they must return again some day to experience that which lies just below the horizon of popular perception in these parts. No choice in the matter.

Take the great chambered cairn which overlooks the Loth Burn as it exits the wondrous Glen Loth, little more than half a mile from the North Sea. Although the monument is seen to great advantage from the (very) minor road traversing the glen, our theoretical itinerant motorists heading up the A9 for the first time will need to possess exceptionally myopic vision to have any awareness of what they are passing immediately beneath. There are apparently the remains of two cairns upon this coastal crag... however such was the overwhelming dominance of vegetation at the time of my (late May) visit that the chambered example had to suffice. This wasn’t a hardship, to be fair. And besides, I had no wish to stumble upon a lost family unit of T-Rexs before they’d had the chance to partake of breakfast.

Parking is to be had upon a service road beside Lothbeg Farm, that is west of the bridge. Traversing said bridge, a wooden gate beckons across the A9, to the right of a driveway accessing further habitation, the name of which I failed to ascertain. Or at least remember. Whatever, a short, steep scramble uphill through Grade A ‘industrial strength’ fern brings me into the presence of the substantial remains of a long cairn. Although clearly having suffered at the hands of ‘excavators’ and/or locals in search of building materials, for me this is a significant monument to find slumbering unobtrusively above one of Scotland’s major tourist routes.

According to the Ordnance Survey people [EGC Jun ‘61; JM Feb ‘76] the monument’s dimensions at the time of survey – admittedly some time ago now – were “about 20.0m NW-SE by 18.0m and 2.0m high” whilst “round the south periphery there are some earthfast slabs, which may be of a perimeter kerb.” Of primary interest for me, however, was the discovery of the remains of a chamber still in situ, this featuring one particularly substantial orthostat apparently representing the back-slab. Nice.

It has to be said that the vibe here, relaxing upon the ancient stone pile looking to the nearby coast, is very different from that of sublime peace encountered at numerous other similar monuments populating the not too distant – and, from an archaeological perspective, utterly mind blowing – Strath of Kildonan. Yeah, somehow I detect a rather unusual juxtaposition of ‘ancient’ and ‘modern’ mindsets jostling for position here, neither actually achieving overall supremacy. I don’t quite know what to make of it, to be honest. Perhaps it is because – ironically, since it was here first! – the vision of this great long cairn does not sit comfortably with that of the numerous caravans and camper vans rushing by below? The former the epitome of timeless permanence, at least from a human perspective; the latter representing a fleeting instant in a life such as mine. The comparative incremental passing of time jars, the two scenarios too mutually exclusive for both to be of the same world. And yet they are. Or something like that. But then again I’d suggest TMA’ers do not do what we do in order to be ‘comfortable’.... but to experience, to have our perceptions of this world challenged.

And the great chambered long cairn, thankfully still sitting at the entrance to Glen Loth after all these years, does just that.

Having neglected to push on to this excellent little height during a visit to the Cam Loch chambered cairn last year, thelonious’s images were subsequently pivotal in ensuring I didn’t compound the error this time around. Well it is said, is it not, that only a fool repeats his/her mistakes? OK, sometimes life’s a bit more complicated than that, but I guess the general principle is sound enough.

Having spent the morning at the well placed Carrachan Dubh chambered cairn I’m – farcically in retrospect, given the quality of the site – actually in two minds whether to stop off at all.... or press on toward the night’s stop within Glen Etive, an admittedly quite considerable drive away. As it is my recollection of the aforementioned pictures wins the day, duly parking within the gaping entrance to the Lyne Quarry upon the A837, that is a little distance south of the Lyne chambered cairn. Here the low, grassy ridge of Cnoc Bad Na Cleithe rises a relatively short distance away to the approx north-west. It looks an easy ask, to be fair, but of course – this being North-west Scotland – it is not, the intervening ground riven by bog and potentially ankle breaking leats. Aren’t they just? Oh, not to mention the sinuous course of the Ledbeg River which somehow evaded inclusion within my deliberations. As it happens this oversight has a wondrous, unforeseen outcome... but there you are.

Reaching the river I (obviously) realise my error and, luckily, discover that it is possible to cross dry-shod, thanks to the lack of recent rainfall, by balancing upon naturally deposited ‘stepping stones’.... only to encounter a second line of defence in the form of an unclimbable deer fence. No doubt even more so if you happen to be a deer. Nevertheless this obstacle is, in turn, overcome – or more accurately ‘undercome’ – by crawling beneath it at the confluence with the Allt Bad a’ Ghille Dhuibh. So, aside from falling almost headfirst into a hidden leat (thankfully no damage results, except to my somewhat effected nonchalant demeanour), I manage to ascend the southern flank of Cnoc Bad Na Cleithe without further incident until I more-or-less literally stumble upon the remains of what appears to be a large round cairn. Surely this can’t be right.... the monument I’ve come to see apparently overlooks Loch Awe to the north? There is nothing depicted upon the map (and subsequently no entry upon Canmore) but I’ve seen enough prehistoric cairns now to know a clear example when I see one, at least within the acceptable parameters of ‘reasonable doubt’. The location is classic, the interior featuring a number of larger stones suggestive of previous internal structure, the circumference well defined. What else could it be? Yeah, I’m convinced that here we have a smaller southern companion mirroring the position of the great northern monument. Speaking of which...

Upon cresting the ridge, there it is. A large, round cairn, apparently ‘unopened’, set some way below the summit and featuring as just one facet – albeit a fundamental one – of a quite exquisite view looking north across Loch Awe. One might even term it ‘monumental’. Or perhaps not. According to Audrey Henshall the cairn measures – or at least did in 1963 – “7ft to 8ft high and... 63ft N-S by 70ft transversely”. Descending for a closer look it is apparent that a number of large stones occupy the cairn’s summit, slabs that might be deemed out of place if the existence of a concealed chamber wasn’t a real possibility. As I sit back and try to take it all in... an impossibility, but it’s fun attempting... the morning’s low cloud begins to peel away from the upper reaches of the surrounding hills revealing the grey summit of Canisp rising to the north-west beyond Cnoc an Leathaid Bhuidhe, a view to complement the magnificent vista across Loch Awe. Incidentally a couple of small islets within the loch’s northern waters are cited as possible crannogs by Assynt’s ‘Hidden Lives Project’:
her.highland.gov.uk/SingleResult.aspx?uid=MHG13053

It would be feasible – I think – to descend directly to the A837 from the cairn and so avoid having to ford the Ledbeg River, reaching tarmac near the entrance drive to Lyne farm. Or more to the point, vice versa. However I decide to return whence I came to have a further look at the southern monument. Hey, two for the price of one. Can’t argue with that.

So here I am at Inchnadamph (in Gaelic ‘Innis nan Damh’... ‘Meadow of the Stags)’ at the southern end of Loch Assynt, apparently a veritable mecca for geologists during the last decades of the 19th Century owing to its strategic position upon the Moine Thrust Belt, this a linear fault in the Earth’s crust stretching all the way from Loch Eriboll to Sleat, Isle of Skye. Which would explain the memorial to two such exalted gentlemen – Ben Peach and John Horne – sited a little north at NC24912221, then. Yeah, as I understand it this was the first such feature to be identified (as opposed to discovered) upon the planet, the lads’ fieldwork crucial to resolving the apparent paradox of why strata of older rock happen to reside upon those of younger here in Scotland. In knowledge lies wisdom, eh, one assuming a certain Mr Darwin was following proceedings with interest at the time?

Despite – for me – the somewhat uncomfortable vibe of the Inchnadamph Hotel... too many expensive sports cars, not enough proper cars... there is a hint of time immemorial inherent in the locale, this no doubt coloured by the realisation that the bones of polar bears were found in the limestone caves nearby, presumably hibernating for much longer than intended, poor things? For ever. If anything this feeling is amplified – turn the dial to 11, man – as I leave the car park, cross the River Traligill and follow the stony track eastward to search out another chambered cairn depicted upon my ever more annotated map within Gleann Dubh. The track veers left to accompany the Allt Poll an Droighinn for a short distance prior to swinging south-east, whereby the monument is visible surmounting a rocky knoll near the confluence with the River Traligill, accessed via a very, er, idiosyncratic footbridge.

As with other such monuments in the area Carrachan Dubh is by no means a massive cairn, the OS citing “c.20.0m in diameter and 2.3m high [(EGC) 24 Apr 1961]“; nevertheless residual traces of a passage – and hence presumably a chamber still located within – remain in situ, primarily a prominent upright “1.4m long x 1.5m thick [OS (J M) 15 Aug 1963]” protruding from the summit and featuring some exquisite surface grain. There are a pair of smaller stones upon the approx south western arc, too.

So, all in all this is a fine, unprepossessing monument occupying a great spot within a wild glen bisected by rushing water. It would be difficult to wish for much more, to be fair. Unless a passing all powerful entity transcending the laws of physics could grant world peace... or the company of Gillian Anderson for the duration. Yeah, a great spot to sit and chill out for a while despite the unwelcome attentions of the midges which, although not on their best behaviour, are nonetheless manageable enough with a head net... so don’t forget to pack one if coming in season.

The occasional walker passes by, head down, no doubt heading for Ben More Assynt. Aside from that the only apparent movement is the water making its way to Loch Assynt. No doubt there is much more than that, not least the bloody midges. However today my head is set to macro vision mode for a while before it is time to move on to the wondrous Cnoc Bad Na Cleithe.