Iconic landscapes are all too apt to be anti-climactic when photographic familiarity is overridden by the reality. Yet my finest Marilyn outing of the year was, without doubt, the traverse of the three tops on Hoy. There are those who cannot countenance hills lower than the arbitrary boundary of 2000 feet; here is a location with which to taunt them unmercifully. Hoy has just about everything - steep-sided hills, an air of remoteness, proximity to the sea below towering cliffs, a famous landmark which doesn't disappoint on close acquaintance, and an evocative base at Rackwick.
I visited in March, possibly not the time of year most likely to produce clement weather, so the arrival of a high-pressure system was lucky indeed. It should be noted that north Hoy is quite uncharacteristic of Orkney as a whole; its glowering heights are a landmark from most of the other relatively flat and pastoral isles. The name - no surprise - comes from the Norse for high. Viewed from Stromness on a spring afternoon, the hazy hills held an allure which I experience all too rarely these days on mainland Britain.
My late-afternoon walk from Moness pier, up to Sandy Loch and through the pass between Ward Hill and Cuilags, was sufficient to demonstrate the steepness of the surroundings. The Explorer map of Hoy, with its 5m contours, is a joy to peruse and conveys the nature of the terrain with only mild exaggeration. Miniature the landscape might be, but it offers no concessions and the ascents look brutal. I reached Rackwick with just enough light remaining to gather driftwood from the beach of massive rounded boulders and guarantee a fire in the spartan lodgings of Burnmouth Cottage. The magic was continuing. Rackwick was a landscape I'd longed to experience for years, and the reality was matching the dream. In the limpid morning radiance, the surroundings retained their mystical quality. Rackwick is almost, but not quite, a ghost village, with few permanent residents and only a scattering of houses. It is dominated by two features; cliffs and hills. In a tight cirque above the curve of shingle and bookend headlands, all three Marilyns are in monolithic mode. The gauntlet had been thrown down. On a morning of rare perfection I wanted a greedy round of the lot.
An anti-clockwise direction seemed best, thus leaving the Old Man as a coda for the close of the walk. Steep grass was brutal but had at least the merit of elevating me quickly to the high moorland which forms the Knap of Trowieglen. Thankful for a preceding dry spell, I threaded my way between numerous bogs and small pools to attain the walled trig on the summit. Ahead, I looked over an aerial panorama of Orkney Mainland. Other more distant isles floated in the ocean like lilies on a pond.
The Dwarfie Hamars proved to be a sham precipice, and a route down to the Dwarfie Stane was teased rather easily. This hollowed-out boulder would offer a primitive bivvy in case of need, though the raised kerbs between compartments would necessitate a thick mattress. The sheer effort involved in creating the tomb beggars belief; clearly the Orkney forebears must have been a devout and dedicated crew.
I was almost back at sea level, so the reascent to the Howes of Quoyawa looked most intimidating. This shoulder of Ward Hill has such an evocative name that I deliberately avoided the disappointment of learning that its meaning is probably quite banal. It did have the distinction of being the residence of a surprising population of mountain hares, more tame than I've seen anywhere other than the Ben Chonzie hills. Ward Hill itself reprised the wonderful views already witnessed.
A further dispiriting plunge blew away the cobwebs. All the lost height has to be regained on the subsequent trudge up to Cuilags. The going underfoot was easy despite the steepness, vegetation being short-cropped. As the third and final Marilyn of the day, Cuilags would normally have merited a sense of climax, but on this most dramatic of islands the greatest excitement was yet to come. Once again I enjoyed the sensational airy prospect across the low-lying green archipelago, but anticipation was building for the marvels ahead. A straightforward moorland plod on easy ground took me over Sui Fea to the abrupt end of the moor and a startling transition to an entirely different landscape. I was now promenading along the very edge of red sandstone cliffs with the top of the billing directly ahead. The Old Man of Hoy adds an element of fantasy to an already incredible vista. Viewed from above, the most fascinating aspect of this celebrated rock stack is its apparent fragility - it appears top-heavy and taunting reality, a natural Leaning Tower of Pisa. My disdain of mere Yeamans seemed cowardly but eminently sensible at this point, as any thought of climbing the thing verged on the insane.
Weary now, I took leave of the cliffs and followed the clear path back round the headland to Rackwick. The arc of shingle appeared a tranquil haven in comparison to the stark precipices, and I was glad to be descending into its caress as the evening fell. Burnmouth Cottage was a welcoming refuge, and the twin comforts of driftwood fire and Islay malt ensured an evening of utter satisfaction. The Rackwick horseshoe had lived up to its promise.
The Old Man of Hoy (drawing: Colin Brash)
