Moonwalker - Adventures of a Midnight Mountaineer

IT'S not often I would vote for heavy leaden skies and a matching landscape of damp grey but these conditions seemed the perfect fit for a long circuit around two remote bothies in the far north.

Nothing masochistic about it – sunshine and blue sky would have detracted from the experience of visiting these lonely shelters in the empty moorland south of Cape Wrath. Sometimes bleak can invoke its own beauty.

The old estate cottage of Strathchailleach was the home of the reclusive James MacRory-Smith, better known as Sandy. He lived there for 32 years without any electricity, gas, piped water or sewerage services, relying on peat cut from the nearby river banks for heating.

A few miles to the south across a pathless swath of blanket bog lies another isolated dwelling, the former shepherd's house of Strathan, also an open refuge maintained by the Mountain Bothies Association (MBA). 

I had left the sparkling lochans and sunlit peaks of Assynt behind, heading towards the Atlantic coast and the descending gloom. The track over the moorland to Sandwood Bay was waterlogged and needed a bit of off-roading to avoid the worst. Intermittent drizzle added to the wetness but the constant sound and sight of skylarks alleviated the mood.

As I started the drop to the sands, the sun made a brief and welcome appearance, lighting up the deserted windswept beach, accentuating the white tips tumbling over the exuberant blue. It didn't last. There was an ominous blackness ahead, the clouds boiling up again to fill the horizon again. I crossed the outflow from Sandwood Loch with the help of waders then scrambled through the rocky wall opposite on a sandy path which developed nicely as it weaved along the top of the cliffs.

When I reached the breach filled by the plunging waters of Strath Chailleach, it was time to turn upstream to Strathchailleach. There was a path at first, but it soon deteriorated into a quagmire. It soon became obvious that my stride was wide not enough to continue to make any sort of progress and I found myself being pushed further away from the river into awkward tussocks and long, soaking grass.

It was hard – and wet – going but eventually the hermit's sanctuary came into view. Going through that red door is like entering a time capsule – the walls are decorated by Sandy's artwork, and there is a portrait and an information panel that bring the man to life.

Born in 1926 in Dumbarton, Sandy lost his mother at an early age. Tragedy struck again when his wife was killed in a car crash and it's thought this was the catalyst for his retreating from everyday life. He left their two children with his in-laws and headed north, eventually ending up at this remote location in 1964.

There's no road or track in, just a vague path in places, yet Sandy would make the 21-mile round trip every two weeks, summer and winter, to collect his pension at Balchrick Post Office and buy supplies from the local shop. His return often meant an overnight stop at Strathan before the final leg home. Visitors to Sandwood Bay regularly reported seeing a ghostly lone figure out on the sands and it was widely believed this was Sandy gathering driftwood.

He had a tendency to be slightly irascible and was barred from local hostelries on several occasions. With failing health he moved out to a caravan in Kinlochbervie around 1996. He died three years later after a short illness at the age of 73.

To reach my next target, Strathan, I would have to follow in Sandy's footsteps and tackle the three-plus miles uphill through the jigsaw of peat bog, moss, heather and water known as The Parph (the name comes from the Norse 'hvarf' which means turning point) and over the shoulder of An Grianan. The walking itself was not particularly difficult but the ground was heavy and the constant weaving and dodging around to find the best passage took a lot of effort. It also seemed strange to find a barb-wire topped fence stretching across the length of this empty sweep.

The drizzle and the grey came and went, but there were occasional glimpses of the silvery sheen of the coast far ahead in the distance, a reassuring sign that I was keeping the right line. A final descent through high bracken brought me to Strathan, its red door and windows a welcoming sight. This bothy was at the centre of a squatting row in 2000 when a couple took up residence, much to the annoyance of the MBA and the sheep farmers who rented the surrounding pastures. The stand-off lasted for four months before the pair were evicted.

The route out from Strathan involves the crossing of a deceptively deep and slow-moving section of the Abhainn an t-Srathain, and the state of the old bridge which spanned the water was reputed to be just as unpredictable. Thankfully, there is a new bridge but those without a head for heights may find it a little challenging: there are step ladders at either side to get you on to the spars and the way it swings and sways as you cross may give some pause for thought.

The final closure of the loop led past several lochans on another waterlogged path before more solid ground was reached. Following in the hermit's footsteps had taken me some seven hours for a 14-mile circuit, the terrain making it tougher than many big mountain days I've undertaken.

It seems remarkable that anyone could have tackled this and more on a regular basis, never mind enduring the daily hardships of a life lived so remotely off the grid.