Early morning, day three : Wiñay Wayna to Machu Picchu, near Cusco, Peru, January 2013
Early morning hikes are perhaps the only time I can cope with this time of day – 7am may be mild for most but I can almost only do it for transcendent views like this…
An early bird memory in response to the Weekly Photo Challenge
Back in June I decided to branch out with my typical Arran activities. Visiting a few times a year on average for several years, there have inevitably developed a few staples – habits that remain strangely caught between long-time visitor and fleeting tourist.
Take meandering walks along stretches of beatiful raw coastline at Blackwaterfoot, close to Casa Being Elsewhere. Spend copious amounts on body lotions at Arran Aromatics. Pick up a bottle of Arran malt at the distillery in Lochranza (a measure or two late afternoon in the name of ‘tasting’, don’t mind if I do…). Try a wee hike I haven’t tried before: wandering out to the Machrie Moor standing stones; the circuit from Torr Righ forest down to the beach via the King’s Cave, where legend has it Robert the Bruce mused on his spider; looping up to Glenashdale Falls at Whiting Bay.
Visit the Arran Cheese Shop and position quasi-tourist status to self as sufficient excuse to demolish entire wedges of brie at a sitting (when travelling I like to view eating as a valid Cultural Activity, a tendency particularly exacerbated in Scotland whereupon any Glasgow chippy comes to acquire the status of a UNESCO heritage site. Blame London: fab city, shite chips.)
But Arran is strong on all kinds of things and the common sight of kayakers paddling past in the middle-distance had been working its way in for a while. I’ve not done a lot of kayaking, not being the most ‘watersports’ of individuals. But bits here and there; just enough for it to have lodged itself comfortably in my mental list of ‘doable & desirable’ outdoor activities, along with hiking and the odd bout of sporadic, low-effort cycling.
And in a near-total reversal of my usual fortunes with such excursions, on the Friday morning I set out from a Brodick beach, I hit peak Weather Karma. Dry and mild, with a placid rolling tide, the Firth of Clyde was favouring both me and my weedy upper body strength, hu
rrah! After 10 minutes instruction on best paddling practice and some pootling about to get the feel of things, we swished off northwards towards Corrie.
In a small group comprised of a much-practised mother and daughter, myself, and our guide from Arran Adventures , it was – let’s face it – a given it would be the nine year old child speeding off effortlessly ahead. But with calm, clear water and little choppiness, it didn’t take long to get a modicum of control over my paddle and then some downright flair, dare I say it, going on.
The journey was a serene couple of hours, tracing the coast line, listening to the sea and the birds, with just the dimmest of traffic audible from the coastal road and oars cutting through the water. There’s something inherently meditative about any trip by water and this is a lovely way to traverse a corner of the island. We chatted idly about travel and work, and alternately swooshed off in ones or twos, hanging back or pushing off alone as the mood took us.
By the time we’d pulled into the little harbour at Corrie, my shoulders were definitely Aware and my thighs were feeling the burn. But I felt thoroughly cleansed, rather blessed by the peace and the easygoing climate, and could gladly have kept going. Quite felt I’d earned the 10 year single malt that night, too…
The storm was well and truly up before we set off, skies dim and cloudy. Bleak. By the time we hit the Midlands, we could hardly see the road in front, rain pelting down relentless. Accidents left, right and centre, traffic reports grim and the outlook rough for arrival, let alone the (hiking) weekend ahead.
We arrived at the cosy Stockghyll Cottage just outside Bowness-on-Windermere to unexpectedly alleviated skies, the owner remarking that the day had been clear, the area sitting in its own climate system. The village is crammed – chocolate-box cute – with places to eat and drink and we grabbed dinner at the Angel Inn before stag and hen do’s descended there for the weekend. The Peruvian waitress apologised for her faltering English and any delays – it was her first night supervising alone and her colleague was new – an odd reminder of the cosmopolitanism at the epicentre of English tourism.
Bizarre to have visited the Argentinian lake district before ever managing the four or five hours north (normally rushed up the east coast to Northumberland or Edinburgh) to England’s premier spa region.
It’s gorgeous, of course, and comes as a reprimand for so often focusing the glance on further climes.
The cloudless sky, we were advised by the owner next morning, would be overcast and rainy by mid-afternoon but we’d be safe until around 3pm.
With heavy grey clouds visibly biding their time, it seemed daft to try anything ambitious and we kept the rambles mild. We took the boat over to Ambleside and walked up to the village proper to wander around the grounds of Rydal Hall before doing the loop over Rydal Water and Grasmere and heading up Loughrigg Fell.
The walk felt gloomy, beyond its 6.5km and – somehow, despite the mild ascent – the descent hard on the knees, while the sky blackened again as we rode slowly back across the lake, like consumptive Romantic poets on a spa break.
Dinner that night, exhausted in the lovely, candle-lit Jackson’s Bistro in Bowness.
The next day brightened and we drove north to Hawse End in the morning to take the meandering walk up Catbells at Derwent Water with towering 360 views. After lunch in Ambleside and with an eye on the overcast sky, we opted for an afternoon loop first to the waterfall at Stock Ghyll Force then up over Wansfell Pike; fat rain drops kicking in just as we headed up the steep ascent and calming into a rainbow as we stopped for a late afternoon beer in the idyllic spot of Troutbeck.
Later that night we ate a thoroughly impressive Thai dinner at Jintana Thai, with fantastic veggie options and, always my main priority, an addictively fiery Tom yum hed.
And as we pulled back out towards the M6, it seemed the worst had passed. A walk along the bright, calm beach at Arnside by the RSPB reserve and excellent chips on the seafront, looking out towards Morecambe bay; before the road home, disarmingly mild.
Laguna Colorada, south-west Bolivia: the Salar de Uyuni circuit, February 2013
Being Elsewhere 