The surroundings are satisfying, warm, everything we need, cosy rooms with their two towels, hot showers, fat sofas, kettles starting to whistle, as those in our eight-strong group begin to get to know each other.
And the food, in the evening, is good and plentiful. Very, very fresh. I compliment the tiny bustling chef on the crab, and she beams. 'I'm so glad. Caught it myself just this morning.' By lights out (because of the generator) at 11, we know each other pretty well. Splendid bunch. Some retired, some still busy, some Scots, some English, some who know these hills; we all vie in self-deprecating fashion to say who's going to be the slowest. Unfortunately, I am telling the truth.
A sweet, sweet sleep by the sea, a good hot breakfast, and the walking begins. Plans are fluid, depending on the weather on the hills and the state of the water, and on this first day we get to go, gloriously, to Eigg. A half-hour or so's boat ride, with Skye and Rum passing to port in splendid sun, and then we're there. It's hot. I know this is Scotland, but it's hot. But there's a breeze, and I soon stop panting, or at least pant in a semblance of rhythm, and we find our walking legs, and move up towards the dark, looming, sheer, magnificently scary An Sgurr. It's only 393m high, good for our first day, but the fall, on those three sheer sides from the top, is pretty much every one of those 393.
Next day is, as they all are, different. We walk in Knoydart, up a long, twisting isolated glen, towards the apparently splendid peak of Meall Buidhe, hidden in the mist. We pass huge horned Highland cattle, asleep amid misted trees, and a cluster of white ponies, used to haul down stags during the season. We are very much in a wilderness, in Scotland, a knowledge that comes whirling in with the wind and rain. That's the thing about weather: it changes.
In the morning, the group set out again, chattering. Long days, long climbs; mist and wild wind and sun, and supple hard sinews by the end, and happy scrambles for the showers, and long talks into the night.
(Euan Ferguson writing for the Guardian in August 2008)
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