I'd always known there were big stones on Ben Donich - it's typical of Arrochar rock architecture with split schist crags and chasms and jumbles of scree giants in corries - but I'd never gone up for a proper scout. So, with the forecast promising sun in between hail and snow, I squelched up the speedy north east ridge to the summit in under an hour, then backed down the craggy east flank towards the Brack, stalking the boulder clusters, giving sheep the odd adrenaline-shock. Arrochar schist is not impressive in the wet of midwinter, its lichen coat soaking up slime and soaked heather-bunnets dripping down cracklines. Nevertheless, finding such a bloc as this bodes well for summer projects and those who like solitude and king lines topping out at 8m over, for a change, reasonable landings...
'Tha tìm, am fiadh, an coille Hallaig ...' Hallaig - the lost village of Raasay - is a powerful place. Arguably, it has become a shibboleth for the soul of Gaelic culture. To visit it, to just be there momentarily and feel the resonance of the place, is to know the fragility of place and home, of how kinship can be shattered and how loss can invade a land. Aptly, Hallaig is now a site of pilgrimage for those who value the universal lessons of history. There are t errible reasons for the loss of Hallaig. Its silent mouths of abandoned shielings, the dumb sheep meandering amongst the ruins, whisper with Sorley MacLean's poetry. The place misses the sounds of day-to-day community, and all around the woods and burns and slopes this tough but rich landscape once made this a hardy paradise under the eastern cliffs of Raasay. Facing east to the dawn and overlooking the peninsula of Applecross and the berry-dark depths of the Inner Sound, the walk to Hallaig leads quietly...