Hidden Haven

March involved a trip out west to Port na Carraidh, a place many call Bay MacNeil, though that name applies to just one of the four sandy bays that can be found there. Less well known than nearby Sanna, it remains relatively undiscovered, meaning that I am often there with the local deer for company. ​

This visit was on a particularly blustery day. Strong winds swept across the shore, and dark storm clouds rolled overhead, occasionally breaking apart to reveal fleeting bursts of sunlight. The changing light gave me ideal conditions to photograph not only the beach, but also the various static caravans that are set in the marram grass around the fringes of one of the sandy bays there.

Access is via a short walk from the road just beyond Grigadale on the way to Ardnamurchan Lighthouse. You leave the road, head through a metal gate and along a way-marked path that takes you across rough pasture and heath. After about 10 minutes, you come to the last of the way-maker posts and get your first glimpse of the bay and the static caravans around its edge.

Once down on the marram grass, it was the rounded shape of Sgùrr nam Meann that really caught my eye. This steep, rocky hill, covered in patches of dark vegetation, contrasted sharply with a single, pale caravan resting at its base in the vast, untamed landscape. It was a striking contrast that conjured up thoughts of the family holidays there, seeking stillness, seclusion, and peace.

There are four static caravans spaced well apart in this part of the bay, all nestled amongst the marram grass. Each caravan backs onto the rugged slopes of Sgùrr nam Meann, positioned so that their front windows face the wide expanse of sand and sea. Nestled amongst golden grasses, close to rocky outcrops and the sandy beach, the caravans – painted in subdued shades of white, cream and green – seem to be longing for the return of summer and the laughter of the families who bring them to life.

A closer look at some of the caravans reveals the effects of the weather – especially that of the tough winter weather that was coming to an end. Sitting on the western edge of the sea, the site is fully exposed to strong winter storms and the outer walls of the caravans, stained and weathered, clearly show the wear from constant exposure. There are also remnants of a summer passed, with a collection of kayaks, flipped over and loosely arranged, no doubt testament to many happy hours of family time out on the water.

As I continued exploring the caravans and the surrounding landscape, I was reminded of the site’s exposed, far-western position, when Ardnamurchan Lighthouse came into view, in the distance, perched on a rugged headland of dark, coarse-grained volcanic rock that jutting defiantly into what is often a wild and stormy sea.

Evidence that these remote caravans are beloved family retreats is easy to spot. A pristine tin shed, likely used to store outdoor tables and chairs, stands adjacent to one. A washing line – propped up by an old aluminium pole and strung between two weathered wooden posts – sways gently in the breeze. One caravan even had a wooden porch thoughtfully added to its side, no doubt providing shelter for those entering and leaving. Each conjured up the image of families enjoying joyful holiday moments in this beautiful, quiet setting.

Walking past the caravans, I headed toward the sea, gradually climbing a small rise covered in marram grass. As I ascended, Ardnamurchan Lighthouse came more clearly into view. As it did so, the sun broke through the clouds, casting a soft light over the jagged rocky headlands stretching into the sea before me. At that moment, everything felt so calm, although the blustery wind was a clear reminder of how untamed the weather can be here.

Next, I walked northwards along the beach, with my gaze often drifting towards the lighthouse. With each step, the perspective shifted, and the lighthouse gradually revealed more and more of itself.  Eventually, I reached a stretch of sand where the run-off from the peat-covered hills behind had left dark streaks in the golden sand. These black lines guided my eyes through the scattered rocks and on towards the distant lighthouse, standing tall at the end of Ardnamurchan Point.

On one part of the beach, the retreating tide had left behind intricate ripples etched into the sand. I paused there for a while, letting my gaze follow the lines of sand as they stretched out before me. Beyond them, jagged rocks jutted out from the shoreline, leading the way to the high headland at the north end of the bay. As the clouds parted, sunlight spilled through and lit the headland with a soft, golden glow. To the left, Bay MacNeil was visible, having been revealed by the receding tide.

Behind the caravans, nestled at the base of the hills that rise behind the bay, a swathe of common reed grass (Phragmites australis) flourishes. The reeds stand tall, their amber stems soaring over 5 feet high, crowned with clusters of feathery brown seed heads whose softness creates a striking contrast against the rugged hills behind. As the breeze danced through them, a soft rustling sound brought a real sense of peace and tranquillity.

This didn’t last long because the sky darkened, and ominous, swirling clouds began to gather, signalling the approach of another squall. Eager to avoid the worst of it, I found shelter beneath a rocky overhang, where I waited as the clouds swept in. With them, came a sharp drop in temperature and a brief but fierce snow shower. Once it had passed, I resumed my walk along the beach, retracing my outward footsteps in the sand. Footsteps outlined with delicate traces of snow.

As I finally left, I paused to gaze up at the rocky ridge stretching from the rounded summit of Sgùrr nam Meann. There, a group of red deer stood, silently observing me. They had likely been watching my every move as I explored the caravans, dunes, and beach. They are a common sight on my visits, sometimes even wandering along the beach itself. Today, however, they remained perched above, their keen eyes following me from the rocky heights, a quiet reminder of the wild beauty of my surroundings.