This is the second of two posts describing our visit to Glen Affric in north-west Scotland a couple of months ago, for a spot of Munro bagging. After climbing the eight Munros surrounding Glen Affric itself, described in my previous post, we turned our attention to a northern side valley, Glen Cannich, where we faced a truly epic hike.
We left the longest walk of the trip until the second week, when we hoped to be more mountain fit. Even so, when we stood on the summit of Toll Creagach and looked across Loch Mullardoch to its four associated Munros (the ‘Mullardoch Munros’), we could see quite clearly that it was going to be a loooong day.
The four peaks were spaced widely above the north side of the lake. There was a fair walk along the lake shore just to get to the first one, Carn nan Gobhar. One of the high ones, An Riabhachan, was shaped like a giant table with no obvious summit.
The Walkhighlands guidebook described it as follows.
Exceptionally remote route of epic length
Time: 11-14 hours
The return along the shores of the reservoir can be very tiring after such a walk.
We were prepared for eleven hours. Our day on the highest peaks of Glen Affric had been a 10-hour day, and it wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch to walk for an hour longer. But fourteen hours? It would be moving from an enjoyable hike to something of an ordeal. Ultra runners might shrug their shoulders at such a proposition, but I believe that self-flagellation is one of their key motivations. It isn’t one of mine.
Then something unexpected happened. Quite by chance, we were enjoying a drink at the pub in Tomich, a short toss of a cricket ball from our cottage, when I overheard one of the hotel guests tell the staff that they would be skipping breakfast. They went on to explain that they were doing the Mullardoch Munros the following day, and they needed to leave at 7.15 to catch the ferry.
Ferry? There was no mention whatsoever of a ferry in the guidebook. Why on earth not?
Back at our cottage I googled ‘Mullardoch ferry’ and found the Facebook page of the ferryman, a man called Angus who had recently re-started the service after recovering from a road traffic accident. His boat ride would take us halfway along the lake first thing in the morning, so that we could come back across the Munros in reverse. It was an ideal way to shave two to three hours off the most tedious part of the walk. My research also uncovered various threads in online forums describing the path along the shore as rough, overgrown and eroded. In a nutshell, sheer hell at the end of a long day. I plotted this shorter route on my OS app and could see that it reduced an eleven hour hike into a much more enjoyable eight and a quarter.
The catch? The price was an eye-watering £40 per person with a full boat or a minimum charge of £120 if there were less than three passengers. Compare this with the £17 we’d paid from Elgol to Loch Coruisk, or £8.50 from Mallaig to Inverie last year, both much longer journeys.
Still, we spoke to several people in the pub the following day, and they all agreed that it was money well spent. These included the couple I had overheard, who returned at 7.30pm, having caught the 8.30am ferry. They looked tired, and had been rushing to arrive for dinner before the kitchen closed. We hoped to do it quicker than they did.
I called Angus and he suggested that we join the 7.30 boat. There were two older guys packing up a tent when Edita and I arrived at the car park beneath the concrete wall of Loch Mullardoch dam the following morning. They both wore mosquito headnets, though it was May and the midges were mostly still in the planning stage for their three-month reign of terror.
‘Are you’s catching the ferry?’ one of them asked us. ‘You’ve just saved us forty quid.’
We discovered one of the reasons for the extravagant pricing when we strolled up the service road beyond the dam and spied the beach below, where Angus was waiting beside his boat. If I’d been expecting him to paddle across in an old-fashioned coracle with a pair of wooden oars (it had crossed my mind) then I was quickly corrected. This was a silver space-age watercraft with a special captain’s wheelhouse in the stern. It can’t have been cheap.
There were seven of us catching the 7.30 ferry. As well as the two gentlemen with headnets, we were joined by another older couple and a young physics teacher who had completed all seven Munros of the South Glen Shiel ridge the previous day.
‘Keep hold o’yer hats,’ Angus said as he cranked the motor into life.
A split second later, we were zooming alongside the shoreline in an icy, jet-propelled wind. We had a chance to study the path we were avoiding as it hurtled past to our right. It didn’t look as bad as the online forums had warned. It traversed a steep bank that was partly eroded in places, but it was a proper trail.
The journey took just under seven minutes, or around £6 a minute. Or to put it another way, £1 for every 10 seconds afloat. I’m happy to be corrected, but it’s quite possibly the most expensive boat journey by time spent on the water anywhere in the world.
We were deposited on a shallow beach. Angus had pocketed his £280 before we embarked and had no reason to linger. Before we’d even had time to raise our rucksacks to our shoulders, he had turned his boat around and was whizzing off back to pick up his punters for the 8am departure. On a good day like today, he expected to make a couple more trips, but then he would need to wait around for the rest of the morning in case anyone else turned up. On rainy days, he might not see anyone all day. He needed to collect the money while he could. There was no faulting him for his efficiency. We knew the price before we started and we had no reason to complain.
Meanwhile, the physics teacher shot off in the other direction. We were the next to leave with the others not far behind. Our route followed a good sloping track beside a small river, the Allt Coire a Mhaim, through a narrow gully.
After 1.5km of brisk walking, the seven of us were strung out a few hundred metres apart when Edita and I passed a small footbridge across the river. The main path continued on our side, but the OS map suggested that it would soon disappear and we would need to find somewhere else to cross the river.
Everyone else continued on the track, but we decided to cross the bridge and traverse rough bogland to rejoin the trail where it began the ascent of An Socach, the first Munro. At first, this decision appeared to be a mistake. The bog was dry, but the path disappeared almost immediately and the ground was very rough. There were several awkward hags to manoeuvre around (by which I mean overhanging shelves of peat, not wizened old women in pointy hats).
Keen to make up for lost time, I hurried along, keeping my eye on the base of the ridge where I believed we would regain the trail. When we climbed atop the last hag (stop it) and saw the base of the ridge before us, I was surprised to find that we were the first ones there.
The physics teacher soon appeared behind us. He told us that the main path had petered out and he had some difficulty crossing the river. We climbed with him most of the way to the summit of An Socach, and saw him on and off a few times thereafter until he eventually outpaced us.
Somewhat inevitably, we had a conversation about Munro bagging. He told us about his serendipitous encounter on the South Glen Shiel ridge the previous day. It’s possible to climb seven Munros in a single day by following the ridgeline south of the A87 to Skye, but in order to complete a circular walk back to your car, you have a long walk back along a busy road. Some people take two cars and leave one at each end. Our friend had just completed the seven peaks and was descending to the road, contemplating the unpleasant return to his car, when he met a female runner coming up the other way. They had a short conversation about this mutual difficulty when a light bulb pinged alight above her head (not literally, of course — that would have been even more remarkable).
‘Actually, I’ve hidden my car key behind the back wheel,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take it and drive my car back to where you’re parked. Then neither of us have to walk along the road.’
A simple solution, though unusually trusting on her part. Thankfully, our friend was no car thief, nor an atrocious driver. They exchanged phone numbers and car number plates. He descended to the road, and was grateful that a police car didn’t pass by as he was peering under her vehicle on his hands and knees. He found her key and drove her car back to the start of the walk without causing a road traffic accident. He replaced her key behind the back wheel, texted her a message to say mission accomplished, and drove off in his own vehicle.
Having taken Angus’s ferry this morning, some people might accuse him of cheating, but I say good for him.
The path up An Socach was non-existent to begin with, up a steep grassy slope. We eventually located a faint impression in the grass and followed it as the incline became gradually more gentle. The trail kept several metres from the edge of cliffs to our right.
We reached a false summit at a point marked on the OS map as Meall a Chaisg. We emerged at the top of a cliff face and found ourselves looking across a curving corrie to the main summit about 500m away on the other side. There wasn’t much more to ascend. We simply walked around the edge of the corrie above the cliff edge. There were fine views of Skye and the coastal peaks of north-west Scotland ahead of us: the Strathcarron Munros that Edita and I climbed in 2021, and the Torridon peaks beyond.
We reached the summit of 1,069m An Socach at about 10.30. The physics teacher sat down for a banana, but it was a little windy on top, so Edita and I continued onwards. We followed the cliff edge as it narrowed to a ridge, then descended steeply 200m to the delightfully named Bealach a Bholla, the col between the first two Munros.
We sat in soft grass on the leeward side of a large boulder and had a snack. We looked north across the western end of Loch Morar to Bheinn a Choire Sheasgaich (known more commonly as ‘Cheesecake’), Lurg Mhor, and two Munros with less memorable names, Sgurr Choinnich and Sgurr a Chaorachain (better remembered by me as ‘those two Munros with a ludicrously steep descent that we climbed with your niece Bernadeta’). Our view was almost entirely duochromatic, framed by a cloudless cerulean sky. Not a single tree or shrub interrupted the russet green landscape of grassland beneath us.
Suitably rested, we began the crossing of 1,129m An Riabhachan, which was certainly my favourite Munro of the day. In fact, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that it’s among the all-time favourites of the 167 Munros I’ve climbed so far. The main bulk of the mountain is a 2km, largely horizontal, ridge that I’ve previously remarked looks like a table mountain when viewed from a distance. Somewhere along that ridge is the 1,129m high point. Ridge walks, with their 360° panoramas, are always to be savoured. The added adornment of this one is that the summit plateau is sandwiched between a pair of knife-edge ridges like the twirls of a moustache.
There was some easy scrambling up from Bealach a Bholla to reach a rounded top. The trail then took a sharp right, almost at right angles, to join a ridge that soon became the first knife edge. The trail steepened at the end of this to reach the plateau at its southwestern end. Here the trail turned left, at right angles again, to cross a series of gentle summits.
We were now on the gigantic ridge, walking in a north-easterly direction. The silver gleam of Loch Monar down to the left dominated the scene, but the view was in both directions. The summit cairn stood on the edge of a cliff at the highest point of the plateau. A stubborn 50m plate of snow clung to the slope above Loch Mullardoch to the south. The physics teacher was sitting against the cairn eating his lunch, but again we decided to descend to the next col where it was less windy.
There was another enjoyable descent, this time of 350m, starting with the second knife edge, then following the edge of a steep escarpment. The ridge crest looked jagged from above, but a clear path weaved between rocky outcrops and it was a breezy walk. Ahead of us, Sgurr na Lapaich, the highest of the four Munros, rose another 400m as a less striking grassy slog.
And so it proved. After enjoying lunch of our own at the col, sitting on the north side of a sheltered boulder, we completed the steady plod up 1,150m Sgurr na Lapaich. We reached the top at 1.30. The summit was a boulder-strewn jumble of granite.
We sat on the east side of one outcrop to drink our celebratory trail beers, looking down into a verdant, forested valley. I looked at the map and realised that it was the restricted glen of Strathfarrar. We had started our holiday in this valley the previous week by climbing three Munros on its northern side. We chose not to climb Strathfarrar’s fourth and final Munro because we were up against the clock. We had to complete the walk in a certain amount of time because the only means of access by vehicle lay through a padlocked gate. The gate was opened at 9am and locked promptly at 7pm by the estate landowner. Overnight parking was not allowed. I don’t know what this meant in reality. Were you expected to drive your car up and down the glen all night or risk being shot by gamekeeper? In any case, we didn’t think that 10 hours would be enough to drive in and out and climb all four Munros. We left the last one for another day.
Whatever the rights and wrongs of restricted access, as we sat on the summit of Sgurr na Lapaich and surveyed the landscape for miles around, it seemed to me that the landowner’s stewardship in other respects could not be questioned. The contrast between this forested haven and the treeless expanse of hills to the north was striking.
Beyond Sgurr na Lapaich, the final Munro, 993m Carn nan Gobhar looked gentle and unobtrusive; a modest dome that was very much lower than where we were standing.
But it had a sting in its tail.
We followed another narrow ridge down from Sgurr na Lapaich. The trail began steep and exposed, but soon diverted right of the ridge across a boulder field. Then, incongruously, we came across a snowfield about 5m wide.
‘Let’s stop to put on crampons,’ I shouted back to Edita.
To our right, a small lake in a hanging corrie added colour and adventure to the scene. Beyond it, the much larger Loch Mullardoch, where we started our journey in Angus’s flying watercraft, reappeared after hiding behind Sgurr na Lapaich’s extended southern ridges for the last couple of hours.
The path became easier, and soon we were crossing a wide, boulder-strewn col which slanted upwards again to become the final slopes of Carn nan Gobhar. We reached the summit of the final Munro at 2.30. Behind us, Sgurr na Lapaich looked huge and daunting with no obvious line to its summit. The descent path hadn’t been too difficult, but I realised this walk would probably be much harder in the other direction.
Carn nan Gobhar was more isolated than its neighbours. We were now in a gently rolling landscape that provided an interesting contrast to the high and narrow ridges that had been our world for most of the day.
We crossed a short plateau to Carn nan Gobhar’s lower south summit, which sported a much larger summit cairn. Now we came to the sting. Beyond the cairn we faced a long and arduous descent on largely trackless terrain. For several hundred metres we descended across ankle-twisting boulder fields. We crossed mercifully dry bogland then climbed back up to the rounded dome of Mullach na Maoile.
A narrow pathway led from this final summit. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the worst was behind us, but our respite was short-lived. The path through grassy heathland disappeared as the slope steepened. We were left to find our own way down the last 300m of rough, heather clad hillside. This was the most frustrating part of all. We crossed two sagging fences to reach Loch Mullardoch at a wide footbridge over the Allt Mullardoch, a narrow stream that had come down from the eastern slopes of Carn nan Gobhar.
At last we were back on a stony track and good terrain, but the road’s undulations had the last word. We strode the last 20 minutes back to our car, with the ramparts of Loch Mullardoch’s huge dam signalling the end of the walk. Angus had packed away his boat by now, but we were grateful for the world’s most expensive boat trip, which had reduced our walk to a more comfortable 8½ hours. It had been a grand day out in near-perfect weather. Days like these in the Scottish Highlands are rare indeed and have to be savoured.
For all photos see my Glen Affric Flickr album.
Route map
Total distance: 23.12km. Total ascent/descent: 1,853m.
View route map and download GPX
