Some November Days in Torridon: A Photo Blog

It’s low clouds, low light and drizzle as I head north across the Firth of Forth. Perhaps, I’m heading for some grey November days, I think, as the A9 unfolds through the Cairngorms.

But past Dalwhinnie, the sun comes out. And as I turn onto the road from Garve to Kinlochewe, a golden, low-angled sun is creating reflections on the calm, unruffled lochs as I pass.

There are golden autumn trees, reddening mountains and, as the sun starts to sink with a dazzling white light ahead of me, there are sharp, dark outlines of thickset mountains looming over the road. I keep pulling over to take photos, such perfect light as I head westwards.

The last rays of sun are touching the peaks of Beinn Alligin - the jewelled hill - as I near Shieldaig, my home for the next two nights.

Once there, I catch the after-glow of sunset, pinks still reflecting on the loch while the hills’ texture and shapes dissolve into black outlines.

I’m in luck - it’s a few days after November 5th but Shieldaig is having its bonfire and fireworks the evening I arrive. And soon, I’m standing in a crowd of people, in the reflected glow of a large bonfire, holding a warm cup of mulled wine, watching fireworks shoot up into the dark night sky. As I leave, it looks like one firework may have set fire to a patch of the hillside above us. Walking along the waterfront, I overhear a woman on her phone describing the now plural fires to someone. But even as I turn and watch, I can see four head torches up there too, and the last fire is soon extinguished.

The next morning, after coffee in the friendly Torridon village shop and cafe, I have a leisurely walk by the loch before driving further up through the pine forests to take more photos. Finally, in the afternoon, I set off to walk up the first part of the path that is the usual descent route for those who’ve been up Beinn Alligin. The path soons emerges from amongst the trees and I chat to several people coming the other way who’ve been on the mountain all day - they look reassured when I explain I’m just walking up for an hour or so, offer suggestions of where to take photos.

There’s a lot of low cloud on the mountain tops. But the autumn colours are beautiful and there’s a rushing burn through the glen, red berries glisten on small rowan trees overhanging the burn. And with Beinn Alligin on my left, Beinn Dearg ahead and Liathach to my right, there’s an ever-changing set of mountains merging into shifting clouds to watch as they emerge and disappear again.

There’s a waterfall half way along the path, before it turns across a bridge, with Beinn Alligin’s cloud-wreathed summit beyond it.

One walker, who checks his watch and tells me he’s been up and back in four hours, gives me some detailed guidance how to do the walk - another day.

I stop at the bridge, cloud clearing from Beinn Dearg a bit ahead of me - but not fully - as the river races down towards the loch. Two larger groups of young walkers descend past me. Time is getting on in these short autumn days, and I turn back down the glen to follow them.

The next day starts grey and damp but soon improves a bit. The short walk I did yesterday is also part of a longer trail that can take you round the back of the towering mass of Liathach - the grey one. But the semi-circular path leaves a long stretch of several miles between the start and end points. So, instead, I do the first part of the other end of the walk that climbs between Liathach and Beinn Eighe (or file mountain).

It’s bright for a bit. But as I get higher, the clouds are rolling in. More misty mountain views.

But I’m in luck with only the odd spot of rain, and some clearing skies as I reach a burn and several lochans further up.

At the furthest point I reach, there’s a beautiful lochan with deep red reeds and the sky, now with patches of blue, reflecting in it. The long mass of Beinn Dearg emerges beyond it.

As I turn to descend, I meet just one other walker.

We chat for a while - he’s on a six week walking and driving tour. He goes ahead as I stop for some photos to catch the brief bit of sun turning the mountain-side a deep yellow.

It starts to rain. I mistakenly guess it will only be a shower again so I don’t stop to don waterproof trousers. Once I reach the bottom 20 minutes later, I’m soaked. But as the friendly woman in the cafe who made me a sandwich earlier said, getting wet doesn’t matter - well, up to a point.

I head north along Loch Maree - my destination for the next couple of nights is South Erradale. I emerge from the hills in the dusk to see the ocean rolling in, like arriving somewhere new entirely. Across the Minch lie the western isles, not visible in the darkening sky.

But in the morning, to the south-east, I can see the Torridon hills in the light of sunrise, the isle of Skye to the west. It’s only later that I also realise, I’m staying just next to the ‘red river croft’ written about by Annie Worsley in her evocative book ‘Windswept’ that I’m in the middle of reading back at home.

I head off at lunchtime to see Red Point beach - or rather Red Point beaches, one to the north and one to the south of the headland. A short walk across farmland brings me to the southern beach, a herd of cattle roaming free at its far end, just a few people around. The Torridon, Applecross and Skye mountains are all hazily visible amidst cloud and bright, dazzling sun from the west already. It’s a stunning view.

I chat to a German couple who’ve just given up on walking round the headland to the northern beach - ‘too swampy’ says the woman. I give it a go and am doing quite well, I think, at judging the bog and not getting stuck up to my ankles. And then I suddenly get it quite wrong and my right leg is knee-deep, I’m trying to balance on my left leg and keep my camera above the dark, boggy water. I get to the other side wet and muddy but with my camera intact. And I still, eventually, make it round to the beautiful, north red point beach.

And while I’m keen to get home to change into clean, dry jeans, I linger as there’s a beautiful, early sunset over Skye, from a viewpoint just above the beach.

The next day dawns sunny. I’m in luck. I head back down Loch Maree to walk the Beinn Eighe mountain trail, helpfully way-marked by NatureScot. It only goes half way up the mountain, which suits me for the day. Their booklet tells me that Beinn Eighe is Scotland’s - and Britain’s - oldest national nature reserve, set up in 1951. After the ice age, apparently birch trees and junipers would have arrived here first, the pines a mere 9,300 years ago.

Many of the pines you pass today are hundreds of years old. It’s a steep walk all the way - even if one section of it through the pine trees is labelled ‘steep path’, it doesn’t seem to ever not be (on the way up). Emerging from the trees, the landscape is quite lunar, the trail a bit of a scramble up grey-white quartzite rocks, the ridge of Slioch sharp against a blue sky, more bare brown mountains tumbling into the northern distance beyond.

At the highest point of this trail, there are great views in all directions, mountains glistening in midday sun to the east, and the peaks of Beinn Eighe black against the sun that just gets over their sharp edge as I arrive, having walked in shadow most of the way up.

In perfect, calm and sunny weather, glorious reflections shine in the small loch Alt an Daraich. A beautiful reward for a steep climb up. There’s a flock of birds circling around the small lochs. But I meet no-one else on the whole trail.

The mountain of Meall a’ Ghiubhais - hill of the pine tree - casts stunning reflections in the still waters too.

Then I head on across and down another glen - it’s a circular trail so you don’t have to repeat the path. And as the sun starts to turn the hills deep yellow, in the mid-afternoon golden hour, Slioch shows itself in a rapidly changing set of moods and colours as I descend on a clear but slippery-damp path.

From darkening to black, stark against the deep red reeds in the bogs, to gentler browns, greens and duller reds in a perfect sky, to a jagged grey-brown ridge descending steeply, Slioch shape-shifts as I walk.

It’s truly golden hour as I reach the final stretch of the trail. More views of Loch Maree, and old pine trees edge a deep gorge, before I reach my starting point from the morning.

The next day starts misty, clouds rolling down to the loch’s edge. I couldn’t have done yesterday’s walk today. But as I head north towards Ullapool and beyond, the November weather relents again. And blue skies and clouds rolling over summits beckon me on north.