As suddenly as the clouds can descend over the Scottish Highlands, just as quickly can they clear up again. It takes us all morning to recharge from our adventure the night before, but when we finally step outside around noon, we are greeted by a clear blue sky. We are sluggish and soar, but we know a day like this is rare in November. So we unfold the map and plot our next move.

Nov 19, 2022

The idea was planted in our brains, the weekend we met in the caving hut in Yorkshire.
Camping on top of Suilven.

Liam once climbed Suilven solely for the purpose of mapping suitable camping spots. Reaching the summit of this legendary hill is one thing (and not the least achievement), waking on top of its dome is a whole different story. It means hiking into Glencanisp for hours carrying a heavy load, your legs worn out long before you begin the relentless climb straight up the mountain ridge. If you make it this far, you might be rewarded with superb views all over Assynt, but you may just as well be caught in the clouds, for a night at the mercy of the bitter wind. So you don’t simply venture out on this journey, the conditions need to be just right; a clear, windless night with little chill in the air. Tonight could be that night.

We should not get ahead of ourselves; there’s a whole afternoon where the Scottish weather can do what it wants. But also: so long as the sun is on our side, we can do what we want. And our domain knows no limits. There’s the ragged peak of Stac Pollaidh, slowly crumbling to erosion. There’s Eas a’ Chual Aluinn, the highest waterfall in the UK, and cone-shaped Canisp, hugging Glencanisp to the northeast. And then there’s Quinag, the giant we pass by on the road north towards Kylesku. It is said that it’s always sunny on Quinag. Or maybe it’s just Liam the Highlander who says this; I’ve yet to verify it. Today he’s in the right though; Quinag’s spine, waving for miles above the moors, is on fire in its entirety. My heart starts beating faster at the thought of standing on that ridge. It’s a long day out; three corbetts interconnected by dramatic arêtes. If we park now and start out immediately, we still won’t be back before darkness. A spectacular sunset yes, but we can forget about Suilven.

We do not stop. No, first things first: petrol and coffee. Those we find in Unapool, a tiny settlement right by the famous curved bridge of Kylesku.

In November, the sun rises so low over the northern Highlands that all day the hills are bathed in golden light on one side, and in blue light on the other. There is a magic in the landscape, a force from above that sweeps over the earth with a soft brush, the landscape her living painting that’s ever changing. When you drive through it there’s a new dimension behind every corner, where the sun hits the decor from a slightly different angle. For instance, Loch Glencoul, which we pass near Unapool, has never before caught my attention; now it mesmerizes me. Everywhere I look there’s blue; the softly rippled water, sparkling white where it’s in motion; the sky, bright blue apart from some elongated clouds hanging low above the hills; the shadows over the hillside, sloping down into the lake.

Where do we go then, in this fabled land? In the end, it’s the pies of Lochinver that win the day.

Lochinver

I first came to Lochinver three years ago with my family, after a 12 mile hike across the soggy heart of Assynt. It was the middle of summer, but the weather that day was grimmer than on this day in November. We had parked our car in Elphin, and my sister, her boyfriend and I had slogged the last miles through Glencanisp in an attempt to catch the one bus that was to bring us back to Elphin. My parents had fallen behind and we would pick them up in Lochinver later.

When at last we reached town, we found the bus stop to be empty. It was Sunday, and Sunday in the Highlands means no service. There we were, soaked and worn, stranded in a village on the edge of the world. We considered hitching a lift, but the road was deserted and minutes passed before a single car drove by. How about a taxi? Difficult to arrange without phone service. Things were starting to get tense, when an old lady came towards us out of the white house on the corner across from the bus stop. She immediately knew what was going on. I will phone you a cab, she reassured us, and she vanished inside. A moment later, she stepped outside again, phone in her hand. There are no cabs, she had to confess, but not to wory, her daughter was coming to pick us up from Scourie.

Do realise that Scourie is a 45 minute drive to the north. Then a half hour ride from Lochinver to Elphin, and 40 minutes back to Scourie. These people had not hesitated a moment to help out five strangers – lost tourists, for that matter – and to sacrifice two hours of their day for it. We could hardly believe that we found them here on this empty square, and we couldn’t be more grateful. But that’s the thing. In a place where conditions are rough, and means are scarce, all you’ve got is each other. That is the core of Highland hospitality.

The daughter, whose name I have sadly forgotten, turned out to be a teacher at the primary school in Scourie, which is attended by about 10 children from all around the region. In the 45 minutes we spent in her car she told us all about the harsh Highland life. In winter, villages are cut off from the rest of the world for hours by deer licking salt off the roads. They are the rulers of this place. Going to the hospital means a two hour ride to Inverness. It isn’t unheard off for pregnant women to give birth on the roadside, unable to get there in time.

The encounter with the teacher from Scourie is the most vivid memory I have of my first time in Scotland. It’s the moment which solidified my respect for life in the Highlands, and ignited the dream of an aspiring doctor to give something back to these people.

Three years later the same curtains still hang in front of the corner house in Lochinver. Would that sweet old lady still live here?

Being a town with but 600 inhabitants, and the only town in a scope of 30 miles, Lochinver has managed to reach a big audience. All of this is thanks to Lochinver Larder, the local pie shop. Its pies have gained so much popularity that they are now delivered at home all around the UK. On caving weekends, Liam often makes the journey from Elphin, just to lay his hands on one. That’s how tasty they’re supposed to be.

For weeks hundreds of agitated birds have been circling above Lochinver Bay and dozens of seals floating by the shore – I’ve never seen so many before. The lady in Lochinver Larder tells us that it’s a long gone fish, probably herring, that has made the birds go berserk. What a noise they make, and every so often they suddenly shoot towards the water at full speed, in search of prey. We are sitting on a rock near the shore eating our pies – and yes, they are delicious, mine with sweet potato and butternut squash – and we can’t take our eyes off the scene. Liam has a bird book and we try to recognise the species that crisscross each other.

‘See the way they dive. Could they be arctic terns?’

‘There's no black spot on their heads.’ I point at the image of the white tern, black-capped and red-billed.

‘There are also smaller birds flying in between. Look! A kittiwake maybe?’

The greatest mystery are the dark, long-necked birds that swim around the water. All the birds in the book that look somewhat like them are too large, or their beak the wrong shape.

‘It’s only a pocket book, the right bird might not be in it.’

I lean back, enjoying the sun rays that heat the rock I’m sitting on. In this warmth you would hardly believe it’s November. Only the position of the sun, low on the horizon in the early afternoon, betrays it. We could have stayed here forever, hypnotised by nature’s dance, and we would have been happy. We humans, we so often have the urge to aim for the higher summit, to take that one step further, always chasing wilder extremes. But sometimes the most beautiful of nature can be found close to home, or in this case, the homes of a tiny village in Assynt. Here, men lay so low that the birds, seals, even the fish have free rein. Nature comes to you, if only you give her space.

And so it doesn’t matter if we reach Suilven tonight, or watch the sun set from Canisp – I have already won, for I am having lunch with the seals.

Stoer

With only two hours of daylight left we decide not to head to the mountains, but to the sea. A lighthouse on a cape to the north of Lochinver catches our attention: Stoer Head.

A quiet single-track road leads towards the peninsula, twisting through mossy rock formations. The only uncoming traffic are sheep, hopping over the asphalt at a leisurely pace. Suddenly it occurs to me that I’ve driven this road before, three years ago on the way to a campsite on the coast, that turned out to be full. A strip of a stunning beach was visible from the reception, and I’ve always regretted not taking a look there. Since returning to Scotland I’ve been brooding over the question where that beautiful place had been; never had I realized that it was there where all my dearest memories of Scotland lie, in Assynt. It feels fated to be back here of all places.

When I look back from the window, the vistas become wider and wider – the isolated hills of Assynt, the wild Fisherfield Forest beyond, and even Skye on the horizon. Down by the waterside there’s one single house that looks out over all of this. Whoever decided to build their home here, that person has lived the dream.

At Stoer Lighthouse you can park overnight for a donation of £5. We put on extra layers and leave the van behind for a sunset – read afternoon – walk. I secretly laugh at Liam when he puts on his wellies. But when we trudge through the mud a moment later, I envy him.

The trail leads past coastal cliffs to the northernmost point of the peninsula, Point of Stoer, where a seastack sticks out above the waves of the Minch: Old Man of Stoer, as the Scots love to name them. The view back over the white lighthouse is simply magical, alone on top of thick layers of Torridonian sandstone climbing out from the sea.

The sun slowly sinks behind the clouds, but it is in that hour between sunset and nightfall that we are most active, in a state of limbo, pushing the limits of what the landscape can give us. Near us there’s a tiny hill, Sìthean Mòr – the highest point on Stoer – that blocks the view inland. It lures us, the wish to peek over its edge. From here the hilltop is a null hump in the moorland – nothing would make a random passerby suspect the spectacle that lies hidden behind the cairn. But we know better, and eagerly we step towards it, swiftly to beat the sun to it.

A staggering panorama unfolds before our eyes from the hilltop cairn, the inselbergs of Assynt side by side on the horizon, painted deep orange to purple to blue. From this distance their fascinating geology is visible, the U-shaped valleys where glaciers cut through the surface during the last ice age, revealing a layer of ancient Lewisian gneiss. What remained were island mountains of Torridonian sandstone, rising lonely above the ice sheet.

There she is at last, Suilven, in all her glory. The dome of Caisteal Liath, her highest summit, and the pointy peak of Meall Beag are unmistakable amidst the other hills. But Canisp, Cùl Beag and Stac Pollaidh also have their own unique contour. Clouds settle over the landscape as we follow the boggy path back to the lighthouse, but Suilven remains visible until the very last twilight. Could it be?

Back at the van we eat a quick dinner of halloumi and roasted veggies, the option to pack and leave for a nightly adventure still tangible in the air. But then we sit across each other, glass of red wine in our hands, and we get caught in conversation. It’s the serenity of that day, of the little moments, that flows through us, bringing out our dearest memories and biggest dreams. The wind has risen and is shaking the van. We talk on and on, night falls and for a moment I forget Suilven..

To be continued.