CAPE WRATH
Calling its siren song to every sea kayaker, Cape Wrath is for many, the ultimate sea kayaking trip. The challenges it presents are well documented and once on the water, all too real.
There are few days when both the west and north coast will be calm, a major tide race runs from the headland which cannot be avoided, and the landings are few and far between. On the right day, it is one of the best days in a kayak it is possible to have. On the wrong day, it is terrifying. Conditions finally came good for us in the long hot summer of 2018…
Leaving Scourie we followed the coast north to camp at Shiegra before committing to Cape Wrath. It began beneath the cliffs on which I’d spent many happy days climbing. Pushing north, now acutely aware of the exposure, we committed to the paddling ahead.
We had crossed our Rubicon in passing Am Buachaille – the stack that stands proud of the cliffs to the south of Sandwood Bay – on smooth rolling seas, the din of surf on the beach tracking our progress north until rising cliffs blocked all thoughts except Cape Wrath.
It was close now, the seas growing rapidly as waves collided with sandstone walls and bounced back towards open water. This was it.
Without warning, the cliffs ended, the swell dropped, and on flat seas we paddled in, beneath the huge double arch. Talking animatedly now, gripping the paddles less tightly, we relaxed and moved east beneath cliffs gargantuan in scale, puffins, kittiwakes, skuas, gannets and guillemots circling in every direction.
Landing that afternoon, surfing onto Kervaig’s perfect sands, elated to have rounded Cape Wrath, survived the clapotis and the powerful tidal flows beneath this infamous headland, I stood in awe on this wild beach, soaking in every moment, absorbing every detail and committing the scene to memory.
The camp at Kervaig was among the best I have ever had.
And the following day, the perfect conclusion to our trip.
Heading east, the cliffs dropped in height. Balnakeil Bay opened before us, the sea now like a mirror. I stripped the salt-caked cag from my arms and paddled on into the Kyle of Durness, moving with the flood tide towards Keodale.
We landed once on white sands, drinking in the last of this journey, before launching again on gin-clear water to paddle the last kilometres. Soon we landed on a slip where those waiting for the ferry looked on expectantly, anticipating the rough journey across the Parph to Cape Wrath that would follow.
All that remained was to run back to Scourie for the car. All 26 miles of it.
