What sets this area of bog
land that blankets the major part of the island of Lewis apart from others is
the sheer extent of unbroken and actively growing peatland and the pervading
influence of the sea on it unique plant life. While others rush to the two
magnificent beaches at Garry and Traigh Mhor I head inland for a spot of
solitary bog trotting. Taking the track across the road from the newly opened
bunkhouse passing the quarry where only two weeks ago the pair of young
buzzards huddled together scruffy with chick white fluff between virgin
feathers and yesterday I watched the last one make its maiden flight acoss the
valley to make a rather ungainly landing. I pas over the tiny bridge that
crosses the aptly named Allt na muilne where further down stream you can still
make out the remains of at least two ancient mills. The river in full spate is
an impressive sight capturing water over five square kilometres and half a
dozen lochs it crashes down peat-brown from the moorland little over a
kilometre long to do battle against the incoming tide on the white sands of
Traigh Mhor beach. The old peat gathering track, one of many that fan out onto
the moor from the back of North Tolsta rises slowly up to about 100 metres
where it stops at Loch Diridean. Along the left bank of the loch there are
still the neat striped contours of peat extraction and at this its north
easterly end there is an ancient stepping stone crossing to a spit of ground
that once served as the old sheep fank for working on sheep brought in off the
moor. I like to cross at this point but the stones at the near side are beneath
the water so its shoes and socks off and on all fours as the slippery flat rocks
are now anything but steady. Clambering to the high ground beyond I can see my
hoped for destination the 248 metre hill of Muirneag which dominates the
skyline from Stornoway to the north-west and east coasts. This extra ordinary
landscape was formed during a period of climate cooling which saw trees recede
and peat build up beneath sphagnum mosses. The winter has been surprisingly dry
and follows an exceptionally dry summer of 2012 where the multicoloured blanket
of acid green, rich red and pale yellows of the moss has been dried and
bleached in the sun. Further in I make my way through a maze of small pools of
flowering bog bean their root system clearing tracing the depths. This land of
blanket bog is scarce in world terms and is one of subtle contrasts where drier
heath ridges give way to wet hollows and streams cut deep into the peat that
connect the open water tapestry of lochs. The soft walking provides a rich
array of wetland plant life with bog mosses, butterworts, sundew, spotted
orchids and bog asphodel. The lochs are set low in the landscape and as such
often remain unseen until close to. Both red-throated and black-throated divers
can be seen in the lochs and are easily disturbed so a wide berth by humans in
spring and summer is recommended. I well remember at the age of six struggling
home with a dead black-throated diver dangling from the handlebars of my bike
as its beak strummed the wheel spokes so keen was I to show it to my parents
the beauty of this bird. The Red Indians have a story of how the loon got its
spots as a gift for having restored the sight of the Indian chief but this
eye-catching summer plumage arrangement of dark lines with bars of white spots
may have more to do with camouflaging the bird as it hunts for small fish.
I plod on towards my goal
that now seems even further away and almost tread on a red grouse, it flies low
chattering in anger and I assume it is a male since females will often do a tumbling
defensive dance as if injured in order to lure one away from her young. High
above the cascading song of the skylark marks for me childhood’s classic summer’s
day and beyond on a raised dry mound an alert golden plover calls out with a
soft whistle warning to its mate. I arrive at last at Loch Nic Dhomhnaill at
the foot of Miurneag and decide to head back, leave the climb for another day
and head to the north east to Loch Scarasdail where a shieling is marked on the
map. As I reach the ridge the rusty tin roof is immediately visible at the far
end of the loch and as I approach I marvel at just how perfectly the old stone
structure blends into the landscape so different from our modern homes that
must be perched on the highest spot to obtain the finest view and a clean wind
that negates any form of gardening. Within the walls of this low hut a wren has
made its nest and trills loudly in anger as I enter, the old iron stove has be
lugged way out here on the moor but with strong winter winds full of sea salt
it has corroded beyond use. Further over I discover two more ruins before
continuing north-east to the river leading down to Garry beach. Earlier on this
year we had a massive fire on the moor which lit up the night sky for several
days and seems to have started on the north side of this valley, now with the
heather burnt the grass has grown lush and the grazing will be good. The fire
was not without consequence to nature as it spread over some seven square miles
as far as the coast however visually it is already becoming difficult to see
where exactly the burn took place and apart from a lack of heather and a
greener aspect I am amazed at how quickly it has regenerated. The river
Ghearadha winds its way eastward cutting deeper into the landscape where
eventually it cuts through an escarpment passing under the bridge to nowhere
and joins the Minch. On the way there are several ruined remains indicating
that in the past this valley was used during the summer months as common
grazing when the women, children and young adults would live in the shielings
tending the township cattle and sheep while the men laboured on the more
fertile ground close to the coast. The traditional Lewis shielings became in
later years a low stone-built base with turf sods for its upper walls which
explains why today many remains are little more than knee high mounds of grass
covered stones. Inside these windowless smoke filled structures was a raised
platform where dried heather and moor grass made a fairly comfortable nights
sleep.
On the high ground above
Garry beach I along with other locals continue the tradition of peat cutting,
leaving them to dry flat for three weeks then setting them up for the wind to
continue the drying process. Arriving back at the house its time for tea and an
evening close to a good open peat fire and outside in front of the house is
displayed the peat stack today a symbol of pride and I smile as another visitor
to the bunkhouse takes a photo of my labours.
