GLADMAN

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?