Highlands

I hadn’t planned to enjoy any of this. As summer light fell on Stac Pollaidh – the summit’s teeth bared, the views stretching across the surreal emptiness of Assynt – I found myself ankle-deep in blanket bog next to a hiking path, back bent, hacking at the tough terrain with a heavy-duty mattock. Farther up the hillside, another hunched figure was cutting a deep brown scar into the moor grass and, while he worked, I stood back to look at my efforts. At my feet was a cross drain that I’d unblocked and repacked with new stonework to prevent storm damage and aid runoff from the path. A burble began to trickle, slow yet clear across the sparkling bedrock. It felt a little like appreciating a masterwork in a museum.

I’d come to Wester Ross with a bucket and spade, not for a beach break at particularly gorgeous Achmelvich or Clachtoll nearby, but with the notion of giving something back to the hills. The Outdoor Access Trust for Scotland (Oats) is a steward of many of the Highlands’ most famous mountains – developing, building and repairing paths and habitats – and I’d joined a group of volunteers for a two-day stint on the north-west Highlands’ most visited peak. Factoring in a free stay at Ullapool youth hostel and the promise of a home-cooked communal meal in return, plus an acceptable midge-free forecast, I’d driven north from Edinburgh the night before in a buoyant mood.

Oats’s purpose is to promote sustainable public access and these days that’s largely done through voluntourism, with helpers set to work lifting, resurfacing and filling pathways, yielding landscape-scale results. Iconic if traffic-heavy mountains such as An Teallach, Lochnagar and Braeriach are annual priorities, as are a throng of glens and estates from Skye to the Cairngorms. (Due to this summer’s devastating fires, some events in the north Cairngorms may be changed to a different location or postponed.) The trust’s volunteers even regularly get to work on the Lairig Ghru, arguably Britain’s most unforgiving mountain pass.

It might sound like all hard graft, but it’s not. Volunteers learn new practical skills and gain awareness of mountain path design and the causes of erosion – mostly a combination of human misuse and increasing extreme weather conditions – in settings with extraordinary views. No experience is required, but volunteers must be used to spending time outdoors, have good physical fitness and be capable of using hand tools.

We started that first morning from Stac Pollaidh’s car park, a space transformed by Oats two years ago to accommodate four times more vehicles – a result of the mountain’s accessibility from the North Coast 500, which hurtles past (from Kylesku to Ullapool) only five miles east, at the end of the road. But everyone comes with the same motivation. As we climbed the open moorland, Assynt’s surrounding sea of lochans (small lochs) sparkled. Stac Pollaidh’s summit, to the north, appeared even more welcoming with its porcupine ridge under a sky as blue as a newborn’s eye.

From below the hilltop to the lower forest’s edge, we worked the path – unclogging ditches, removing invasive grasses, dredging, stabilising the soil, repacking stone drains, replanting edges – all while the mountain came to life. Trail runners, dog walkers and hikers from across Europe weaved up the slopes, stopping to ask what we were doing. A French school group trooped past, the pupils plastered with blue Braveheart face paint. A Dutch couple stopped to offer biscuits. Everyone swallowed the stunning views of Suilven to the north.

Our group of seven volunteers – including two New Zealanders; three retirees, one from Inverness, one from Stirling and another from Forfar; and an Edinburgh IT worker using his annual corporate volunteer days – appreciated the smiles.

To a newcomer, the Highlands’ mountain paths may appear to have always been there, as if part of the landscape’s DNA. But as Oats’s volunteer coordinator Eva Kupska said, they are “always evolving and always at risk from erosion, because of the influences of nature and man … and it is our job to conserve them”.

Every volunteer is vital. Post-Brexit, with a lack of EU funding streams, Eva told me there is a drastic need for a public fund for path maintenance and habitat restoration, and the charity simply doesn’t have the manpower to tackle the deteriorating pathways or native tree planting alone. To complicate matters, some of the most popular mountain paths are on privately owned land, with no access to any public funding.

There are a further 12 one-day, plus three- and five-day, maintenance and conservation events scheduled to take place this year, including some dedicated tree-planting trips. It’s a joyful shared experience. That first afternoon, flasks of hot tea were unscrewed and homemade fruit loaf was shared. There was the warm smell of flowering heather and the earthy stink of the bogs, along with the satisfaction of time well spent in the wild.

That evening, back in Ullapool, the harbour abuzz with tourists eating fish suppers and gulls circling above the trawlers, we stood in the sea-view kitchen of Ullapool youth hostel sharing life stories and the day’s experience. There are plenty of excellent dinner options, including The Seafood Shack and The Dipping Lugger, but we settled on a night of each other’s company (delightful), local beers (necessary) and a giant gurgling stockpot of Eva’s courgette and tomato risotto (terrific). And boy, did I sleep well.

The next day brought a gossamer mist to the hills of Wester Ross. We arrived earlier, picked up where we’d left off and, largely, never complained as the sun slowly cracked through the clouds. But best of all was seeing our progress as we worked down the mountain, step by step, always avoiding the fragile vegetation at the path’s edges, creating something better and more sustainable for tomorrow. A staycation with a purpose – and it felt good.

The trip was provided by Outdoor Access Trust for Scotland, with support from VisitScotland. To register as a volunteer and to sign up for events on the annual path maintenance days programme, visit Oats’s volunteering portal. Overnight accommodation in a youth hostel or a bothy, plus evening meals and transport to and from the restoration site, are included

‘I miss my camels. I miss the sun. I miss the vast emptiness of the desert plains …” These are my thoughts as I trudge through thick conifer plantations and my fifth consecutive hour of rain at the start of the Affric Kintail Way in the Scottish Highlands.

My last big adventure was a world first. I became the first recorded person to walk the full length of Saudi Arabia, north to south, from Jordan to Yemen. It took three years to organise, then 112 days of walking half a marathon a day, and I had a backup team plus Juicy and Lulu, my naughty but nice camels.

It was a fantastic, life-enhancing, often brutal, endeavour but it is over. Adventurers have got to adventure though, and I was looking for something cheap in my own country that needed little organisation or backup. I am a proud Scot and, even though I spend so much time away, I feel a strong emotional pull to my homeland, an almost physical attachment to the landscape and the thousands of ancestors who have walked it before me.

There are an abundance of long-distance walking trails in Scotland, and after many happy hours checking out the options on Walk Highlands, I settle on the Affric Kintail Way. It’s a doable distance – 44 miles (71km) in four days; easy to get to and from by bus from Edinburgh; and according to my brother, Robbie, Glen Affric is one of the most beautiful areas of the country.

Preparations are simple. I buy a map, read all the information on the dedicated website, download the route on the AllTrails app and pack my rucksack. I’m doing it solo, self-supported and wild camping, so need to take everything with me but also keep my pack as light as possible. In the end it weighs around 12kg, which is not bad. My luxury is four Ferrero Rocher chocolates given to me by my mum – one for each evening.

The bus drops me off at Drumnadrochit and I walk straight up into the forests. The rain is constant, but I enjoy the sharp smell of the conifers and the sound of the cuckoos. There’s plenty of up, but the way is easy to follow along the Forestry Commission tracks. I keep checking my weather app, which promises a half-hour break in the rain, as it is so much better to pitch a tent in the dry. It comes to 6pm and I get my tent up just before the rain starts again. I’ve done a respectable 5 miles or so since the bus dropped me off, in about four hours.

The next morning, I drop down into Cannich and history is waiting for me after a long pull up out of the village. My plan is to walk about 11 miles today. Comar Wood Dun is about 250m off the path. It is a jumble of stones perched at a lookout point over the strath. Once, it was a drystone fortified house and home to a family and their animals between 400BCE and 200AD. Life must have been so hard. It is cold and wet even in June. Barley was the main crop, grown in small clearances in the wood, augmented with meat and milk from the livestock.

One of the great pleasures for me of walking in these wild places, whether it is the Highlands of Scotland or the deserts of the Arabian peninsula, is finding these echoes from the past and wondering what life was like then. Were the people happy? Were there compensations for this hard life? How did they deal with all the extremes of nature that we have managed to smooth out with our air conditioning and heating? By hiking and camping, I am trying to get closer to them in some way.

I spend the night beside Dog Falls and the morning is another haul through the forests. Sitting in my midge net at the Glen Affric car park overlooking the inlet to Loch Beinn a’Mheadhoin, hunger kicks in and I wolf down a roll, a big bag of Revels and my emergency veggie sausage rolls – a large chunk of my provisions.

I’ve been walking steadily up and down through woodlands, interspersed with farmland. This area is one of the UK’s most ancient natural woodlands – more than 10,000 years old – and is dominated by gnarly Scots pines and silvery birch.

My heart yearns for the open spaces, though, and I’m glad when it starts to open up and I see the hills rise on either side of Loch Affric. I’m alone almost all of the time: in four days, I meet just eight people. It’s just me and the green of the hills and the deep black of the loch between them. My heavy pack hurts my shoulders, and my feet are sore from the hard tracks, but I feel so alive. I relish the adventure of being on my own, self-reliant and with no one to worry about or answer to.

When the rain stops and the sun comes out, the grassy uplands glow almost neon-bright. I stop to drink peaty water from a burn and fantasise about living in the tiny wooden hut on the sandy shores of the loch. It’s my third night of camping and the best so far, just me and the geese, but I feel completely safe and relaxed within nature.

The next day, my fourth on the trail, I’m on a mission. I need to get some provisions from the Glen Affric hostel and do a solid 10 miles so that I only have a shortish walk the day after to catch the bus. I hike as fast as I can until I finally see the hostel ahead – this tiny outpost is among Scotland’s most remote hostels. I put out my tent to dry on their fence and get to the door. “Shut between 10.00 and 17.00”.

Disconsolate, I sit at the side and contemplate my life choices. Then, a woman shrieks as she sees me unexpectedly – Chrissie, who runs the hostel and kindly lets me in to buy chocolate, crisps and a fizzy drink. Sugar and fat consumed, I feel whole again and happily share a story of camels and Saudi hospitality for the sound art project she is doing. She is recording poems, stories and songs from people who stay in the hostel for an exhibition.

I continue onwards, struggling on the ups. With a couple of miles to go, my pack feels as if it’s full of rocks. I try to focus on the waterfalls all around me, dashing loudly down the rocks to meet the rivers Affric and Croe.

I walk down to a small, flat clearing beside one of them. It’s the perfect camp spot, but if I stop now I’ve failed to reach my 10-mile goal. The sun comes out and I see there’s even a flat rock to sit on. I throw my manufactured goals and failure guilt to the wind and pitch my tent.

No billionaire is richer than I am that night in that place. I sit on my rock looking out over the peaks and listening to the music of the water. Tomorrow, I will eat my porridge and walk out by the river to the bus and everyday life. But for tonight I am queen of the world.

For more information visit: Walk Highlands, the Affric Kintail Way website and alltrails.com. The bus from Inverness goes to Drumnadrochit and picks up at The Pit Stop cafe at Kintail (citylink.co.uk)

Alice’s website is alicemorrison.co.uk; she is also on Instagram