23rd August 2013
Looking south over Kilmaluag to Sgurr Mor.
Another ginger. Scotland is full of them.
Wheatear (Oenanthe oenanthe) of the leucorhoa race which breeds not on Skye but in Greenland and Arctic Canada before heading south to Africa for winter. If the weather patterns are that way inclined, a few of them stop off on Skye for a while.
Common Buzzard, dropping in uninvited on some unsuspecting vole.
Mushroom doing its thing. Jesus apparently said something about lilies in the fields not spinning, which some interpret as meaning "Hey man, don't get your underpants all twisted up with worrying about stuff; chill out and just be happy. My Dad will deliver the bread". This mushroom will have quaint Gaelic and English names plus an impressive Latin title but doesn't care an orange pip about any of them, nor about black holes nor house prices in Scunthorpe. Being mushroom is the Universe.
Looking northwards across Dunvannarain, a flat and clearly boggy area which most of us managed to avoid by using the higher ground on the left.
And to the east, over Port Gobhlaig, Kilmaluag Bay, and The Minch, lies the mainland of Scotland.
We were heading north westwards towards the bay Lub a Sgiathain, using the dry higher ground, when we noticed that for some reason Phil had veered off to the right and was heading towards the bog. When I last saw him he was standing, legs astride, with his walking stick pointing to the swampy area, waving, and possibly shouting something but was too far away to be heard. It seemed he was suggesting that we all join him down in the bog as this was a better route but for some reason no one seemed to be taking much notice of him. Eventually the land began to slope down to the sea and we lost sight of Phil. I guess we assumed he would eventually join us via his alternative path and Linda and I clambered up a micro-sea stack to enjoy the view, a sandwich, and coffee while Judy wandered round the rocks, presumably to await Phil's arrival but, as it turned out, in vain. In the meantime I tried to relax and focus on my breathing and on the myriads of tiny wavelets that smeared the vast expanse of sea in the hope this might induce an hallucination of basking sharks but it didn't, which perhaps indicates that my susceptibility to auto-hypnotic suggestion is less than that of some more fortunate individuals.
To the west is the promontory of Rubha Hunish (the most northerly point on Skye), to the right (but left-to-right) Gearran Island just seen nestling behind Am Bord (Lord Macdonald's Table) then Gaeilavore Island and finally The Cleats.
On top of the cliffs which plummet down to Rubha Hunish is a "little house sort of thing" which some refer to as a "bothy".
The Cleats, on the far right, are separate from Gaeilavore Island and actually nearer to Lord Macdonald's Table on the left (it's all down to perspective).
Northern Gannet (Morus bassanus)
Thon Eilean, in the centre of the picture, is actually joined to Gaeilavore Island and I presume one can cross over at low tide. To the right is Fladaigh Chuain, where one can find remnants of St. Columba's Chapel.
The Shiant Islands, separated from the Isle of Lewis in the background by the Sound of Shiant.
Eventually, with no sign of Phil, we ended our period of observation and meditation and climbed back up out of the bay. As we rounded the crest of the hill, the valley opened up once more and revealed .... nothing. There was perhaps a little niggling worry that Phil, in a blind rage because we had ignored his suggestion of an alternative route, had experienced an apoplectic seizure and collapsed face down into the bog, but the worry wasn't great enough to actually go down there and have a closer look. Then Linda came up with a great idea. She wondered if perhaps Phil had been indicating that he had walked far enough and would return to the car park to eat his sandwiches, and we immediately agreed that, in any future hypothetical investigation, this is what we would all tell the police.
An emergency meeting.
Greylag Geese (Anser anser)
Well, we finally reached the little parking area and there was Phil casually sauntering around, saying he had indeed decided to return and had enjoyed eating his lunch at the picnic table, looking out over Kilmaluag Bay. So all appeared to have worked out harmoniously in the end, apart from having to retire into the car fairly quickly in the face of a significant midge assault.
But the thought arose that none of us actually saw what happened to Phil in the bog, towards which he seemed to be irrevocably and mysteriously attracted and from which his departure had been witnessed by no one. I'm fairly certain that what came out of the bog was still the same old Phil, with his subtle intimations of Foggy Dewhurst and Mr. Barraclough, but a further strange vanishing and reappearance also occurred on the next U3A nature walk, of which you shall hear more later. Just a coincidence, surely ...... !!!
