MISSING OUT ON MUCK
If sea kayaking is a sport, then like hill running it is also a way of life. Combining the two, approaching the mountains by sea, offers something unique. The sea lochs of of the north west coast lend themselves to such things, though in all but a few cases, it remains contrived, however worthwhile the endeavour. The Small Isles offer something different again, and while the ferry gives faster passage, the hills of the Rum Cuillin are undoubtedly the best and most logically approached by kayak. And having crossed via Eigg, to camp above the singing sands and watch the sun set beyond Rum, before making a second crossing and running the ridge, it is a place that stands out among many, in my mind’s eye.
On that occasion, and several others however, Canna - often referred to as the crowning jewel of the Small Isles - had been omitted. Either the conditions had turned or simply, time had run out. It is all too easy to get sidetracked in places such as these, where it seems time itself runs in parallel, wholly separated from mainland life. A trip to Canna therefore long overdue, Tim and I launched from Glenbrittle on Skye as I have many times when bound for Rum, but turning our bows a little more to the west, began the long crossing to Canna.
The weather on Skye had been poor. Summer squalls rattled through the glen, The Cuillin hidden beneath broiling cloud. But upon leaving Loch Brittle, heading out onto open water, the skies cleared, leaving sparkling seas across which the cliffs of Canna grew slowly in stature. There followed one of the most wonderful days’ kayaking I have enjoyed, exploring the rugged coastline, shell sand beaches and occasional caves, studying the basalt columns above, picking out the lines so rarely climbed and where there must be any number more yet to receive a first ascent.
Beneath a warm late afternoon sun we crossed eventually to the familiar coast of Rum, passing the wreck of Jack Abry II, to camp on the northern tip of the island. It is perhaps one of the most finely situated camps of any island, above clean sands, where Uist, Harris and Lewis float as though a mirage on the western horizon.
With the morning came a fresh breeze and a lively sea, lending speed to our return as we surfed small waves running obliquely across the sound. Lost in thought as the hull cut through the dark water, carving then stalling, a flash of white passed below, followed by several others. Moments later a pod of dolphins erupted from the sea as though one, toying with the kayak in boisterous mood. They stayed with me a short while, repeatedly cutting across my bow and leaping, crashing around the boat. A magical display and moments that gave memories which, like those precious hours on the Rum Cuillin, will last a lifetime. We had missed out on Muck, the smallest of the Small Isles, but there would be time enough for that, another day.
