WEDNESDAY morning was dull and misty. We had to feel our way cautiously between Eigg and Rum in the direction of Skye. No view could be obtained either of the Coolins or of the mountains of the mainland. It was indeed tantalising to know that we were in the neighbourhood of some of the grandest scenery in Scotland, and to be unable to see a vestige of it, except occasionally a few outlying rocks, or a mountainous headland swept by the mist. Early in the day we cast anchor in the Sound of Soa, near the entrance to Loch Scavaig.
The ‘Iolanthe’ off Eigg and Rum.
The object of stopping at that point in the voyage was to visit Loch Coruisk, the wildest and most desolate of Highland lochs, imbedded in the heart of the Coolins. In spite of the mist and the threatening rain, nearly the whole party started in the ‘Iolanthe’ for the head of Loch Scavaig. Scavaig itself is a very grand loch, partaking of the gloom of the mountains that surround it,—a gloom relieved only by the breakers on the rocky coast, and the glint of the wings of sea-birds. The landing, at all times difficult, was rendered more so by the slippery state of the rocks: but it was effected without serious mishap. After a rough walk of half a mile, over boulders and broken rocks, the south end of the dark lake was reached. No one had any reason to regret the toils or the risks of the expedition. Though the mists concealed the mountain tops, they intensified the darkness of the lake. The rain, which had been falling for some time in sport, now began to come down in earnest, and it quickly swelled the thousand streams that covered the hillsides. The silver streaks had become roaring cataracts. The loneliness of the scene was oppressive. The lines in which Scott has described the silent lake, whose name is a synonym for desolation, occurred to many. It is the Bruce that speaks:—
‘Saint Mary! what a scene is here!
I’ve traversed many a mountain-strand,
Abroad, and in my native land,
And it has been my lot to tread
Where safety more than pleasure led;
Thus, many a waste I’ve wandered o’er,
Clombe many a crag, crossed many a moor;
But, by my halidome,
A scene so rude, so wild as this,
Yet so sublime in barrenness,
Never did my wandering footsteps press,
Where’er I happed to roam.’
No marvel thus the Monarch spake;
For rarely human eye has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,
With its dark ledge of barren stone.
Seems that primeval earthquake’s sway
Hath rent a strange and shattered way
Through the rude bosom of the hill;
And that each naked precipice,
Sable ravine, and dark abyss,
Tells of the outrage still.
The wildest glen but this can show
Some touch of Nature’s genial glow;
On high Benmore green mosses grow,
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe,
And copse on Cruchan-Ben;
But here,—above, around, below,
On mountain or in glen,—
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower,
Nor ought of vegetative power,
The weary eye may ken.
For all is rocks at random thrown,
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone,
As if were here denied
The summer sun, the spring’s sweet dew,
That clothe with many a varied hue
The bleakest mountain-side.
The evening mists, with ceaseless change,
Now clothed the mountains’ lofty range,
Now left their foreheads bare,
And round the skirts their mantle furled,
Or on the sable waters curled,
Or on the eddying breezes whirled,
Dispersed in middle air.
And oft, condensed, at once they lower,
When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower
Pours like a torrent down.
If the rain added to the picturesqueness of the scene, it did not add to the comfort of the visitors, most of whom returned to the ship drenched from head to foot. But their spirits were not damped, whatever their bodies were: for all were in the greatest good humour. Some one, probably a man, expressed the wish that the mist were away. Some one else, probably a woman, suggested that it would not be missed if it were away. Such ‘Coruiskations’ of wit were not inappropriate to the occasion, though they may have been to the scene. They helped at all events to keep up the spirits of the party. The refreshments distributed on the return to the ‘Dunottar Castle’ had a similar effect.
The anchor was then weighed, and we steamed round the west and north coasts of Skye, the ‘Iolanthe’ going in the opposite direction through the Sound of Sleat to Portree, where we were to meet, and to anchor for the night. The effects of the rain were seen in a tremendous increase in the waterfalls that precipitate themselves into the Sound of Soa from the steep sides of the mountains. The cataracts were indeed magnificent, and every one felt that the wild weather had not been without its compensations.
To tell the truth, however, the scenery had to be taken very much for granted. One or two picturesque bits of rocky coast were all that could be seen. ‘M‘Leod’s Maidens’ were ‘children of the Mist.’ Dunvegan Castle was nowhere. Duntulm was invisible. The bold Quiraing, and the Old Man of Storr, and Prince Charlie’s Cave, were held as seen; and when we anchored in the evening in the Sound of Raasay, opposite Portree, we might have been anywhere.
These untoward conditions, however, did not interfere with our enjoyment of the good things provided for us on board, or of the adjournment to the smoking-room at a later hour, when bad jokes and good stories were equally enjoyed, and when some wonderful card tricks were performed by our own Wizard of the North, who proved, however, mere potter’s clay in the cool hands of Captain Webster.
