From Mallaig to Tarbet

Okay, I admit it, we didn't really walk from Mallaig, we got a taxi as far as Bracorina on the north shore of Loch Morar. We had a good excuse for cutting the walk short though; it was Games Day in Tarbet, that miniscule hamlet tucked in a bay on the south side of Loch Nevis, and we didn't want to miss it. From the end of the road at Bracorina it was only seven miles of peace and calm before an afternoon of jollity and mayhem in the back end of nowhere.

Showers chased us up the loch as we tramped along the well trodden path. This has been an ancient pathway for generations and the ruined chapel on the shore at Inbhir Beag told of a more populous time when folk would walk from miles around to pray. Tommy, my walking companion and ex-colleague in the Knoydart ranger service sighed and lamented the loss of a culture.

At Brinacory we passed four women swimming in the black waters of the loch - at 300 metres, the second deepest inland water in Europe and deepest in Britain. They had matching pink swimming caps on and black wetsuits and gave us a jolly wave as we passed. On the shore there was nothing, no bags, no clothes; it was as if they had appeared out of the loch. Perhaps they were looking for Morag the Monster. The tourist brochures will tell you that this beast lurks in the cold dark depths but there has been no Nessie effect here and, unlike Loch Ness, the loch is free of tourist coaches and souvenir shops.

The path rises above the loch to Sron Ghaothar ('Nose of the Goat') a rugged headland jutting into the loch and a great viewpoint. Down at the east end of the loch heavy sheets of rain were falling on the hills in great streaks like grey brushstrokes from the inky sky. It's wild country down there but I knew it well so I could picture what was round each corner of each hill. Sometimes it's better not to know, so that your imagination can wonder at the wild landscape that lies beyond. I think that's the explorer in me.

Our journey ended as we crossed the isthmus (what a great word - use it whenever you can) between Loch Morar and Loch Nevis and strolled down to Tarbet (the Gaelic for isthmus - even better!) and the Games. Like the Games in Knoydart these don't follow traditional lines. There's no Highland Fling or Hammer Throw but there was a horizontal bungee run, egg throwing and in place of the caber toss, the sheep toss (don't ask). As Tommy rightly said, a culture has been lost but on this part of the west coast a whole new one has been born.