Coastalsurvey

The only way in to Sandwood Bay

“Aye, ye jest go up tha hill here, through two gates, an when ye git over tha hill ye’ll see tha loch on yer right. Cross the moor an on tha far side o’ tha loch ye’ll find tha track.” Christine’s mother waved her cigarette in the direction of the hills. Her fingers were so thick and rough from a lifetime of raising sheep in this remote Highland village that the cigarette looked like a tiny sprig grown from the branches of an old tree. Christine and her mother sat at the kitchen table in a haze of cigarette smoke, drinking coffee and talking about the price of sheep.

I had arrived at their bed and breakfast the previous day after a grueling ride from Durness. A week before that I had set out from Wick, on Scotland’s northeastern coast, on an old touring bicycle and a brand new aluminum trailer with a surfboard and about 100 pounds of assorted gear in tow. The scenery had been spectacular, but the surf was not. The famed reefs at Thurso and Brims Ness were quiet when I rode by and the beach breaks at Strathy and Melvinch showed small swell badly torn up by sideshore winds. My only spot of luck came one sunny afternoon at Torrisdale Bay, where I surfed clean shoulder-high waves at the rivermouth with only a curious otter for company. My last shot at finding surf in the north of Scotland would be Sandwood Bay, five miles to the north of Christine’s B&B.

A wee birn in the Highlands

“It’s tha damn European Union,” Christine’s mother explained. “Ya can only git 14 pence for a ewe an it costs more than a pound ta bring it ta market.”

“Aye,” Christine said.

We chatted a bit more about the fate of small farmers in Scotland before I thanked them for the huge breakfast and went out to the shed to get my gear together. Once I got the backpack loaded with raingear, clothes, food, water, a tent, sleeping bag, a thick wetsuit and a 7’6″ surfboard, I found a new appreciation for the wheel. What had seemed merely heavy in the trailer was a substantial burden on my back.

The road that I had followed from Kinlochbervie petered out in the hills and across the moor I could see the loch, just where the old woman said it would be. “Moor” is Scottish for “swamp”. Not swamp like the Everglades, but boggy ground that never quite dries out. It’s mostly tussocks of coarse grass rising out of a bed of moss, streams and fissures that are deep enough to swallow a few sheep each season. It’s the moss, when cut and dried, that makes the fuel called peat. It also makes for slow walking. I tottered across the moor, scattering sheep before me as I hopped from tussock to tussock like some bizarre Polynesian totem pole come to life.

On the far side of the loch I found the track. It was much easier walking and I fell into a steady pace. Stopping was out of the question because of the midges. Midges are the scourge of the Highlands. In July and August clouds of these barely visible insects rise from the moors to feed on whatever unfortunate creature stumbles into their path. Although I had bathed in industrial-strength bug dope one step removed from napalm, the midges were not deterred. The only defense was to keep moving.

Two miles into the four-mile hike, I heard voices behind me and turned around as a young man and woman drew up alongside me.

“Hello,” the young woman said. “Is there surf at Sandwood Bay?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “When there’s a swell it’s reputed to be one of the best spots in Britain.”

“And is there a swell?” the young man wanted to know.

“I hope so. There’s been a steady southwest breeze blowing the last few days. That might have kicked up something.”

On the moors

“How’s the fishing?” I asked, noticing the fly rod case in his hand.

“Excellent,” he said. “These lochs are full of trout and they’re hardly ever fished. We’ll see you down there. Good luck.” As they were only carrying daypacks, the couple soon disappeared down the trail ahead of me.

If it weren’t for the hills in the Highlands, you could see for miles. At 58 degrees north latitude that part of Scotland is almost devoid of trees. The flora in the northwest of Scotland resembles the arctic tundra. Cotton grasses grow from the high moors along with sedges, Bell Heather, Purple Saxifrage and Roseroot. Animals like ptarmigan, red deer and grouse inhabit this landscape. Three hundred years ago this region also had wolves and bear, but they were cleared off along with the ancient forests that once covered these hills.

The land has a timeless quality to it that makes one think it has always been this way, however, the look of the Highlands is largely man made. By the mid-1700s England’s economic incentives had done what her armies could not. Made lairds (lords) and given a junior role in the Empire, the clan leaders were also granted ownership of the land once controlled by their clans. In effect, the once fierce clan chieftains were tamed by greed. This investiture led to the Clearances as timber and men were removed from the land to make way for more profitable sheep and cattle. The Highlanders who had hunted and farmed these hills were encouraged to emigrate or forced onto tiny plots of land along the coastal fringes of the laird’s property, where they became tenant farmers, or crofters. Because of continual grazing the forests never grew back and to this day Scotland has many more sheep than people.

The trail gradually descended from the high moor and broke up in grass-covered sand dunes surrounding a loch. Beyond the dunes, I could see the two-mile long crescent of beach and the blue Atlantic. I took the most direct route to the beach and dropped my pack in the sand below the cliffs that define the southern edge of the bay. The waves, which I had hoped were not as small as they looked from the edge of the moor, were in fact smaller. Perhaps waist-high.

Inspired by its rugged beauty and remote location, ten miles south of Scotland’s most northwesterly point, Cape Wrath, Sandwood Bay has generated a small anthology of legends. The best known is the story of Sandy Gunn and the mermaid. In 1901 or 1902 a shepherd named Sandy Gunn was collecting his flock from the dunes by the shore when he heard and ethereal singing. Gunn followed the sound to the edge of the water where he saw a creature half-woman, half-fish seated on a rock in the briny foam combing her long red hair. Rather than introduce himself, the wily shepherd fled for he knew that the siren’s song was meant to lure him to a watery grave. I’d have welcomed such a diversion, but the only other beachgoers were a party of hikers a half-mile away across the sand.

In the dunes beneath the cliffs I found a campsite sheltered from the wind with a fine view of the ocean. Unfortunately there was no fresh water nearby, so I set out with an empty water bottle to the northern edge of the bay. Sandwood Loch might have provided a source of water, except that the amount of cattle grazing on its banks would make boiling the water advisable and, like most Scottish shores, Sandwood Bay held barely enough dry tinder to light a cigarette let alone boil a quart of water.

Camp at Sandwood Bay

The tides in this part of the world are tremendous. The difference between high and low water can be 30 feet or more. Surf breaks that work at low tide vanish at mid tide and high-tide breaks can turn into bare rock outcrops a mile from the water’s edge at low tide. Sandwood Bay is no exception. At the northern end of the beach I forded the shallow river that emptied from the loch into the sea and skirted a headland into an isolated cove adjacent to the bay. There I found a slow drip of fresh water falling from the cliffs. I placed my bottle beneath the drip and sat down in the sand to wait.

Apart from the lack of surf, it was a fine day. A few fair weather clouds scudded across the deep blue sky. The long northern twilight was beginning. The clouds were touched with flame. A pair of gullimots hovered and swooped from the cliffs above the cove. Sandwood Bay is about the same latitude as Moscow and in midsummer it doesn’t get dark until about 11 pm. Of course, in December the days are depressingly short, which probably accounts for the Scots’ fondness for whisky.

By the time my water bottle had filled beneath the slow drip, the broad apron of sand I had followed around the headland was gone. Waves were now breaking against the base of the promontory. I started to wade around it, but saw that I would soon be swimming and retreated to the dry sand further up the beach. My little cove was now completely cut off by the rising tide. The only way out was a barefoot climb up and over the headland. It wasn’t too steep, but a fall there could have had grim results.

Back in Sandwood Bay, I saw that the cattle had all come down from the hills to lounge on the beach. Although they look like a prehistoric cross between a Texas Longhorn and a Mastodon, Highland cattle are quite docile. I couldn’t make out why they had left their graze until I got back to my camp in the dunes. The midges were out in force, landing so thick I inhaled a score of the little bastards with each breath and was blinded by their tiny bodies landing on my eyes. Swatting at my face like a madman, I dove into the tent and stayed there until morning.

That night it rained. Hard. I awoke several times worrying that the rain would sweep me into the sea, but the tiny tent stood up to the squalls and I slept dry.

The next morning there was surf. The passing storm had pushed the waves into the head-high range. I stood on the beach for a long time watching the water. There were a few weak rips and no discernible littoral. It wasn’t lined up — the peaks were breaking all over the place and the air had grown cold. Hardly an inviting session.

There are times when you want to surf and there are times when you have to surf. This was a case of the latter. In the end I did steal a few rides from the general confusion. Mostly though, I got worked. There was a power here you don’t normally find in the Atlantic. It was only a taste, just enough to show that Sandwood Bay would be intimidating at size and rewarding for the surfer prepared to wait.

Less than a mile from the trail’s end, the rain began again. This wasn’t the daily “Scotch mist,” but a proper downpour. By the time I trudged up the road to the bed and breakfast I was soaked to the skin. All I could think of was a hot shower and hot food, in that order.

On my way to the house I was startled by a sound like the croak of an enormous bullfrog. It was Christine’s mum, leaning over the garden gate and calling out in her mentholated rasp. “We’re almost oot a faggies,” she said, raising her last cigarette, “So we’ll tae ya up ta tha pub for some tea an a pint.”

I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome.

Continue on to Surfing Scotland, Part 2 >>

Detail from a Celtic manuscript

IF YOU GO:

The railway ends at Thurso, but bus service in the summer is regular and stops at every little town on the main roads. Scottish CityLink is the main service and Macbackpackers buses provide a funkier alternative with their hop-on-hop-off circuit routes and affiliation with some of Scotland’s best independent hostels. Haggis Backpackers also runs self-guided bus tours. In the off-season your best bet is the Postbus. The Royal Mail also delivers people: the minibuses that carry packages often have room for passengers. Inquire at any post office.

If you’re surfing the north, some type of independent motorized transport is the way to go (towing a surfboard behind a bicycle is NOT recommended). Rental cars are pricey and gas costs a small fortune, but sharing the costs with other surfers makes it viable. If you plan to stay more than a month, consider buying an old car or van. Check the local papers and bulletin boards for vehicles that have passed their annual inspection (MOT) and have their yearly tax paid up.

Accommodation is cheap and plentiful across the Highlands. In some towns it seems that every other house is a B&B. A bed and a breakfast can be had in most rural areas for under US$30 per night. If bunking in some old lady’s guest room isn’t your idea of a good time, try one of Scotland’s many independent hostels. Unlike the Scottish Youth Hostels, which are usually cheap and clean, the Independent Backpackers Hostels of Scotland are also cheap (typically around US$20 per night) without annoying rules about curfews and drinking. They are also great places to meet other travelers.

In Thurso be sure to check out the Thurso Youth Club Hostel, in the old mill building between the town pool and the river. Each winter the Edinburgh Surf Club rents this rustic old building for a few weeks of cold-water mayhem.

There is a longstanding tradition in Scotland that the coast and many inland areas shall remain open to hikers and backpackers. The Scots call it “freedom to roam”. Consequently, the best accommodations in Scotland are free. With a good tent you can camp along one of the most wild and scenic coastlines in the world. Just ask for permission from the local crofters first. Who knows, they may even invite you in for a cup of tea.