Great oaks from little acorns..

This may be a really stupid question but here's hoping I can get some feedback. When I was in my 20s (almost a couple of decades ago) I was pretty wild with overseas independent travel but would not have called myself an explorer - always had a 'cause' to work for... 3 months then later 2 years in Congo-Brazzaville; 3 months in Zambian bush; 3 months in India; 6 weeks in mid-French Guiana rainforest doing stuff with primates from a hammock and bivouac.

Never trained in expeditions, though, and now although hankering to get back 'out there' after raising a family in comparatively staid surroundings, I am feeling somewhat 'underpowered' now there's so much gadgetry (and qualifications...) about... I would like to add some weight to my proven 'expedition' abilities... What do you recommend - BEL training seems so very tame!! But that might be necessary now? Please advise.

Very grateful.

Cheers! "

Warm Feet at minus 50 C.

 First it starts with good footwear. Now this can be a trade-off. The more support and stiffer the boot is the colder your feet are going to be pretty much regardless of the insulation.

That why even the best mountaineering boots people lose toes - there is plenty of insulation but the boot is too rigid and therefore restricting circulation. For mountaineering this cant be helped because you need supreme support to hold crampons on, front pointing and for those steep and rugged hills and ridges. On the other end of the spectrum is soft bottom mukluks or kamiks used by the Inuit or Athebascan people. The warmest of these designs are the ones made from smoke tanned moose hide. They are like big bedroom slippers lots of room for circulation and to wiggle chilly toes. They are also extremely light putting no added stress on legs during those long ski or snowshoe runs.

The down side is that they have no support. So hills and rugged terrain can make it difficult to get good footing an also make for sore feet at the end of the day. So it is up to you and your activity to determine how much or how little support and insulation you will need in your footwear. For extreme cold, no matter if it is a stiff boot or soft one, I layer my feet like this: Foot - from skin out: Thin wool liner socks, a vapor barrier liner (heavy duty plastic bag), a medium then a heavy weight insulated wool sock with some synthetic fibers say 25% to help speed in drying. Boot - from the inside out: a perforated mesh insole to capture snow and frost, then an insulated insole of synthetic felt with perforated reflective Mylar, then a insulated synthetic felt boot liner with reflective aluminium. Thicknesses of insoles and liners will depend on temperatures your needs. 

By Lonnie Dupre

More people have been to the Moon

Cave Diving Exploration really is the last frontier of true exploration. Mountains have been mapped, seas have been scanned by sonar and even the moon and planets have been studied. But the spaces under the earth really are unknown until somebody visits them in person.

Over the last few years I have organised cave diving expeditions to the south of France to push caves beyond their known limits and map places on this earth that no other human has ever seen. In 2002 my caving club visited the Herault department of France, an hour north of Montpellier in the Languedoc-Rousillon region. It was to be my first of five trips to the area, many of which yielded new discoveries, fantastic diving and interesting caving. At the age of 21, having been caving on and off since my early teens, I was truly bitten by the caving bug and it wasn't long before I began cave diving. The Herault is mainly a limestone expanse, carved up by deep river valleys, gorges and speckled with dusty, dry limestone plateaus and scrubby bushes, which hide a wealth of potential cave entrances.

The area is probably best known for the excellent red and ros wines, natural features such as the Cirque de Navacelles, showcaves such as Clamouse and Dargilan and canoeing down the stunning river gorges such as the Vis and Herault. The area is breathtakingly scenic but my friends and I don't go there for holidays. We go for the caves. For cave divers, the potential for exploration is tantalising. It is not a cave diving tourist hot-spot like the Lot or Dordogne. The access to the caves in the Herault, either on the surface or underground, is time consuming and physically demanding, requiring large teams and logistics. There are much easier sites to dive in France, so the majority of divers go elsewhere. In 2007 some friends and I went to a cave called the Calaven de la Seoubio, which I had first visited in 2003, to see if the cave could be pushed any further. Three trips into the cave to set up and haul out equipment, plus 11 hours on the day of the push, yielded about 70m of new cave passage beyond 7 sumps (the 8th sump had become an air space due to low water levels).

The local caving club, the CLPA headed up by Nathan Boinet, had supported us enthusiastically and it was an email from them that encouraged me to go back to the area and look at a cave called the Perdreau-Fourmi, which had been left unexplored by a British team who were unable to find a way on. A team of four divers, Joe Hesketh, Osama Gobara, Richard Walker and me, found the way on underwater in the second sump and we left the cave ongoing but well surveyed, as time on our trip ran out. 2012 was to be a return, to continue pushing the cave and also to take a look at another system called the Garrel, which the French cavers had asked us to dive. The Team The 2012 team was Richard Walker and me again, assisted by Jarvist Frost and Tim Webber, both members of our section of the Cave Diving Group back in the UK. Sadly Osama and Joe could not make it this year but were wholly supportive in our continuing explorations. This year we had help from Andras. Although an experienced cave diver, he mainly dived backmounted and was only just learning sidemount techniques.

He had also never done any dry caving, so he was given lessons in rope techniques so that he was able to help us with our exploration. He enjoyed himself immensely. We were also assisted by the CLPA caving club and their help was valuable in shifting equipment in and out of the dry cave passage, negotiating ropes and boulder squeezes. We had two main objectives in this trip. The first was to take a look at the sump in the Garrel, called the Siphon de Pas Perdus. Nathan Boinet had dived it once and 45m into the underwater passage, had come across an underwater squeeze which he did not fancy taking on. He handed the job over to us and Tim and I planned to take a look at it. Here follows our Blog report of the exploration: It was not a pretty sight at 9am this morning! Last year we were chased all over the French countryside by Jean Tarrit and his friend, Jean-Claude, who were desperate to find us and show us an exciting dive site in a cave called the Garrel.

I had visited the Garrel in April 2003 and remember it as an easy, dry and pretty cave with no tackle required. I don't recall there being a sump, but Nathan Boinet, the local activist in these parts, had been dipping his toe in the sumps at the end of the system, some of which came to nothing early on and one which was looking to go but he was diving back mounted 7 litre cylinders and couldn't fit through the troiture (squeeze). So, we were invited to take a look using our techniques anglaise (sidemount) and were promised a large group of slaves from the CLPA to carry all our equipment. We were due to meet the French cavers at 9am near St Jean de Buges but the troops were not to be rallied. Tim Webber and Jarvist Frost arrived last night having made awesome time but they were paying for it in exhaustion. Duncan Smith and Elaine Hill also arrived yesterday but Elaine was staying firmly between her tent and the toilet block, having eaten something dodgy. So Duncan was up and about, Rich was dragged out of his pit by me and there was no sign of life next door.

The plan was for Tim and I to take a look at this squeeze and see if we could pass it. I would go first and sort the line and have a look, then, assuming I would be too fat to fit, as Nathan had insisted on a thin diver, I would hand over to skinny Tim to continue. So, having had a minor epic trying to find bread for breakfast, we got on the road and Tim would show up later with Jarvist in tow. The French team were at the side of the road, half kitted up and there was a buzz in the air. Lots of banter and greetings and introductions went around and after a degree of faff, we set off minus SRT kits. This concerned us a little as the others all seemed to have them.Nathan assured us that the climbing was easy and we werent to worry. So we didnt. Five minutes in to the entrance we were met with a 15m pitch!! Never mindThe French guy ahead of me descended and Duncan behind me lent me his descender. I attached it to my belt, abseiled down the pitch and sent it back up the rope.. I could see this being quite a fun trip for those of us minus rope gear! However, the French were obliging and over the course of several rope climbs and abseils, I employed just about every technique in the book including those with red crosses through them! I used a stop, figure of 8, Italian hitch and krab, one or two jammers depending on what I could scrounge at the time, a full kit at one stage loaned by Jean-Claude who can free climb just about anything someone elses cows-tail hauling me from above and quite a lot of brute force and ignorance!! It was excellent fun and Jean was correct in his time estimation.

It took 4 hours to get our teams and two sets of divers gear to the sump. There was climbing, crawling and boulder chokes by the bucket load and it was very, very hot and sweaty in there! But the banter and morale kept everyone going with frequent breaks. We arrived at the sump and it was large, blue and clear and very inviting. I was desperate to get in and cool down!! Everyone arrived on the boulder slope and began unpacking their lunch. It was a natural amphitheatre, with graded seats for the cavers to watch the divers kit up in comfort. We treated ourselves to sausage roll, taboul, bread and cheese. Nathan became insistent that it would be better for two people to dive together as the second diver would not get to see anything. I was unsure about this, but as he had dived it and we hadnt, we went along with his suggestion and Tim and I kitted up together. The line was broken at the very beginning, so we tied the reel off and set off down the sand slope in zero visibility. I went in front with the reel and we laid 20m of line until we found Nathans broken line in situ. We tied into it at a good belay and the water suddenly became crystal clear as we moved away from the sand slope and into a level passage with a boulder floor, about 3m high and 5m wide. We patched up the line in one place where it was needed and soon came to the end of Nathans line, marked with a 45m tag, just at the start of the squeeze.

I had a good look at it and it didn't look to bad, so after a quick chat with Tim, I set off through the squeeze and passed it easily, stopping for a moment to make a good tie off at the end, before turning slightly rightwards into bigger passage. Tim duly followed and continued tying the line off behind me. We moved forward until the passage seemed to come to a bit of a break down and spotted a higher passage so moved on up into that and went forward some more. We laid about 42m of new line altogether after the squeeze. The biggest problem in this sump was the visibility. It is a static sump so there is no flow to help you. The silt seemed to rain down in clouds from the roof probably because there had never been any air bubbles in there before to dislodge it. Furthermore, the roof sloped upwards so bubbles were travelling up the roof ahead of us and raining silt clouds down like swirling mists of powder, right in front of our noses and interfering with our visibility. This problem began to obstruct progress and I got to a bit of passage where the way on was less obvious and it looked to be breaking down. I stopped to have a good look and was engulfed in red swirling powder so I thumbed the dive and tied the line off, cut the reel free and we set off back home in awful viz. Following the thin line home was much easier than I anticipated and we soon arrived at the sand slope and looked up to see the dozen or so cavers lights glowing on the embankment in expectation, all staring at us through the ripples on the surface of the water. I gave Nathan and the expectant audience a brief explanation of what we had found in dubious French and received a round of applause and what looked like an explosion of paparazzi!! We cleared up, had some water and food and started the journey out en masse, which was not without amusement! Still minus an SRT kit, I scrounged all sorts of items on the way home.

The other Brits were having similar epics and we ended up fighting over the sole karabiner for use with an Italian hitch! The journey out was a little slicker and we stopped in the Salle de Dejeun which Jean explained was the resting place for the original explorers. We arrived at the last pitch and I was given an SRT kit from somebody and made my way up the pitch. Rich was also donated a kit from somewhere but I have no idea how the others got out! I arrived at the traverse line and was faced with a French caver, lying on his side looking like he wanted to die! He said in English (cue French accent): Christine, please can you help me..? Can you take my equipment because I am very, very tired. I said Of course! He went on to explain: I cannot feel my arms or my legs any more! Poor guy! He had left his jammer on the rope and couldn't face the return journey of all of one metre to retrieve it!! I offered to take his bag the last 15 metres of uphill crawling and he insisted we do it together! We surfaced to the flashes of cameras and dusk was settling.

A gang of us returned to the campsite for a great BBQ cooked by Rich and far too much wine! A grand day out! Perdreau Fourmi Monday evening we set off for the Event de Perdeau-Fourmi, a cave our team left ongoing at 30m depth in the second sump. It was a remarkably easy carry this time up the river bed. Rich and I shifted gear through the boulder choke whilst listening to the delightful sound of tap-tap-tapping as Jarvist set to work putting some bolts in and he and Tim set up an elaborate but excellent cable car system for hauling larger cylinders. The plan was to have a set-up dive to make the air-bell in between sumps more user friendly for big cylinders and for getting in and out of both sumps. We made light work of it and all the gear - 4 divers worth of equipment - was assembled at the top of the pitch by 6pm. Tuesday. It was time to see what Oz and Joe had done with my line reel in the passage Rich and I found last year, and on Oz's advice, to check it really was still going before we threw a big team and trimix at it.

We were very lucky to have Jean Tarrit and Claudine from the CLPA come along to help us underground and they did a great job of getting everything down to the sump's edge in under an hour. Jarvist and Tim set off into the sump wearing equipment I am too young to have ever seen before....but it seemed to work as they crossed the sump, tidied the line so that it was tight and immaculate and they preserved the visibility well. Rich and I were to follow about 30 minutes later to give them a chance to rig a ladder to make climbing out of sump 1 much easier and to place a few bolts for ropes and general helpful tatt. They did a great job and Rich and I kitted up whilst Jean and Claudine went up the ropes to get warm and get lunch. We crossed the sump easily and had the luxury of walking straight up the ladder fully kitted without breaking sweat and straight down into sump 2.

We dived to the end of the line, surveying last years new passage again as we went and hit 30m depth and my line reel. The line had been beautifully laid by Oz and Joe and the reel was well tied off at the end. I shone my cave-hunting torch down the ongoing passage and could see large cave ongoing for at least 20m. Satisfied, we cleaned up and left, very much looking forward to the return trip on Friday, to allow the viz to settle after a couple of days. D-Day I would be lying if I said I wasn't just a bit nervous or under pressure the night before this dive. Our last attempt was thwarted by my failed attempt to pass the almost vertical rift in zero visibility, which we now realised was due to a very loose, sloppy polyprop line. We had made attempts to fix it, but ultimately, it needs to come out and a heavy line put in. We had a quick breakfast and drove over to the parking spot to meet the French from the CLPA, who were keen as ever to help us.

After a lot of banter and greetings, Jean, Etienne and three others offering surface support, set off to the cave entrance and shifted the gear through the small boulder choke. this consisted of a pair of 12s, a pair of 15s, two deco bottles of oxygen, and 4 7litre bottles for Jarvist and Tim, plus all sundry bits and bobs you need for diving, like masks, fins and regs etc. We embarked on a mammoth lowering session which involved pulley cars and 'staged' people but it worked fantastically and all the gear was at the bottom of the pitch in not much more than an hour from leaving the surface. Jarvist and Tim were to kit up first and cross sump 1, with the plan to shoot a bit of video and help us out of the water with our large cylinders. They also carried our oxygen deco bottles, which was very welcome. Once they had set off, Rich and I got kitted up slowly and with some help from Andras (Kuti), it wasn't the nightmare we envisaged. We had a 12l and a 15l each of 18/45, as we were expecting the cave to go deeper and wanted plenty of gas to allow for surveying at depth. A pair of 12s would have been ideal, but we didn't have any - and so it was.

Rich and I dived to the air-bell and Jarvist and Tim did an excellent job of helping us un-kit and carefully pulling our big bottles up the slope, to get them ready for re-kitting in sump 2. I got into the water first and with a little help, managed to kit back up again in the narrow rift and float around a bit, trying to keep warm whilst Rich went through the same process. We were handed our deco bottles and had agreed to get them to the other side of the 'annoying flop'. Sump 2 is a very short dive to another air-bell which is passable by belly flopping over a narrow rock bridge which gets in the way. We passed our deco bottles over this and I found a good place at 6m to drop them, quite close to airspace. We set off with the intention of picking up my line reel from where Oz and Joe had left it last year. The cave appeared to be going deeper, but on recent inspection, it may stay at -30m for a while at least. We set off along the rift and the viz had cleared from our last dive a little, but it was not perfect despite being given 2 days to settle. We continued for a while and were both very surprised to meet an upwards line into airspace. Somehow we had overshot the junction which takes us to the 'new' line.

Confused, we went back on ourselves and realised that, in our efforts to avoid the appalling floating polyprop line which had taken off into the roof of the rift, we had swum past the clothes pegs and other general tatt. Even more surprising was that the floating line had hidden itself so far up into the roof, it was quite an effort to pull it down and put it back into the downwards rift which was looking empty. We made several attempts to fix it but ultimately, polyprop sucks and it will be coming out next time. We continued on the correct path, having wasted a few minutes. We very soon came across the 'new junction' and set off along Oz and Joe's line. I surveyed the last leg whilst Rich untied the line reel that had sat quiet for a year and once I had underlined the numbers in my wetnotes, Rich turned to me, reel at the ready and smiled an 'Ok?' I nodded and we set off along beautiful rift passage, horizontal and about 30m depth, dipping to 34m temporarily.

The rock was sharp, pale, sculptured and pretty. the passage was 10m high and 2m wide at the widest part. Rich made a lovely, tight line with good tie offs and I bimbled along behind, counting knots, recording the depth and the compass bearing. It was heading north and all I could think of was that poor geologist who was desperate for the cave to go in the opposite direction! The thing is, it might yet as it has already done one weird corkscrew and we emptied the reel as the rift started to close down - a sign maybe that we should be looking elsewhere now for the continuation. The Coudoulire is known to connect from dye tracing and that cave corkscrews considerably before settling on a path - and it goes deep. It currently lies at 1650m long and 100m depth. We looked at the floor nervously waiting for it to engulf us into the depths - but it never did. It just started to pinch up and Rich was getting itchy feet in large 12 and 15 litre bottles.

The reel emptied at just the right time. We dived back in appalling visibility which was very patchy and were relieved to get back to our deco bottles at 6m with no deco incurred. We had spent 36 minutes in the sump with an average depth of about 20m. We returned to expectant sherpas and delivered the empty reel and Rich was pre-occupied with the fact that he found his long lost Halcyon knife!! We were helped out of the water and out of our cylinders by Jarv and Tim. I was absolutely freezing - I had somehow managed to be the first in the sump and the last out - so I got an extra 10 minutes of coldness either end! We climbed out and I was generously given something sugary by the resident diabetic. He'll live! (probably). We had a shivery dive out. I went ahead and Rich followed, exiting the sump at a rate of knots even I found alarming! Clearly he wanted out! We changed into warm fleecy caving undersuits - the posh element changed into fourth element underclothes! We started packing up and getting gear ready for hauling and we were out of the cave, with our gear back at the car, by 6pm!! Unbelievable! Many thanks to the gang for their help - Elaine, Duncan and Gerick turned up later in the evening to help on the surface as well.

The French cavers had asked us to take water samples from the second sump to confirm that the water was the same as other sites in the area. This job was handed to Jarvist and Tim and we carefully carried the water bottle out of the cave. Once on the surface, the French began doing their science bit and confirmed that the water was the same as that in the nearby source and also others in the area, helping prove a connection between systems including the Garrel. We retired to the campsite to shower and get tarted up for an evening meal in St Jean de Buges - a timely place - but devoid of champagne.

St Kilda : Island on the Edge of the World

If you enjoy my article Id really appreciate a like on my FB page In a far corner of the United Kingdom, forty miles from the Western Isles, lies a speck of land that has caught the imagination of many. St Kilda supported a modest population, adapted to survive in such harsh and isolated conditions, for two millennia, but with the influx of modern world influence the population began to dwindle as religion, tourism, emigration and disease eventually eroded the sustainability of this fragile society.

The 29th of August 1930 saw the final evacuation of its last inhabitants. Now the archipelago is recognised as both a natural and cultural UNESCO World Heritage Site, its significance on a par with sites like Machu Picchu in Peru. Trying to get from London to St Kilda, or just the Outer Hebrides on a budget will mean you're not in for the most comfortable of journeys. Its going to be long and tiresome, but I say to myself; it will certainly be worth it! If money is less of an object, you can fly to a number of small airports on the Western Isles with FlyBe, changing at Glasgow, or even get the Caledonian sleeper train from London Euston Station to Fort William (or Glasgow) where you continue for the last few hours by coach. For me, it was on the 9pm overnight Mega Bus (tickets as little as 5) from London Victoria which gets me to Glasgow for 5am, and then a short wait for a connecting 7am Scottish CityLink couch to Uig (about 46 return) and finally a ferry to the village of Tarbert on Harris.

Opting for the coaches is cheap, but long and boring, it's not really until after I pass Glasgow that the amazing Scottish highland scenery begins to tantalise my mind. The mountains, valleys and lochs make for a lovely scenic ride, made slightly harder to appreciate after a sleepless night on the motorways of England. Its 2pm when I finally escape the confines of my coach seat at Uig, and here the ferry to Tarbert awaits (5.70 single). Excited, my short adventure begins as I board the MV Hebrides, a roll-on roll-off ferry, similar though smaller than those you would cross the English channel in, but way more exciting simply due to where it's heading, one of the UK's most remote locations. As the sun shines, I go on deck to celebrate making it this far with a can of Tennents Lager as I watch the Isle of Skye disappear below the horizon. After an hour and forty minutes we arrive in Tarbert, Harris which will serve as my base of my stay. Tarbert is a small and charming settlement, which acts as the capital and administrative area for Harris.

You wont find too much here; a few shops and couple of hotel bars. Its located on a narrow strip (an istalus) of land with the sea on both sides, and steep hills which contain its spread. As I walk off the ferry, I recognise the tourist office at the end of the street. I head there in the hope of obtaining a basic bus timetable. Its closed, so my second port of call is the Hebrides Hotel on the same road. I'm not checking in as I suspect this place may be a bit out of my budget, but the hotel bar looks inviting - I'm a great believer in a short break at the nearest pub presenting a solution to whatever situation you find yourself in. I walk in and ask if they know when the bus leaves for Leverbrough (as that is where the boat to St Kilda will leave in the early morning), and I figured its best to wake up close by to where Id be leaving. Sorry, we've no buses on a Sunday, I'm told by the young bartender. Ah, taxis? I ask. I sense a little hesitation when the bartender smiles and tells me shell check with her manager. It turns out Sunday may not have been the best day for my arrival. She disappears, so I figure Ill treat myself to a pint and a late lunch or perhaps an early dinner of fish and chips.

Just as I've placed my order the supervisor appears and informs me that they've the next best thing to an official taxi; she explains that only one real taxi firm operates on the island and they're based an hour away in Stornoway, which incurs a substantial additional call out cost. They offer me the next best thing, and call a local man who sometimes offers to undertake taxi duties. A pleasant half an hours ride starts to give me a feel for these islands. First, I begin to realise that they're massive: looking at a map just doesn't do this place justice, and I soon realise my backup plan of walking would have been foolish. Instead, I enjoy the ride as it takes me past wide deserted beaches, moors, highlands and lochs, occasionally passing a lone building or playing chicken with stubborn sheep on the narrow roads. 30 lighter after my ride, I arrive at Leverbrough to be told there's nothing open today, not that there is much there anyway. I'm told I wont find anything to kill time until the morning, but why kill time when it looks like time has stood still? Leverbrough is a lovely spread out village, with no person in sight, just a light breeze in the late afternoon and the evening sun reflecting off the coastline.

My pre-arranged bunkhouse is hard to miss; a big red building with a large BUNKHOUSE sign on its side will be my home for the night. I'm eager to dump my bags and set off for a little wander to the small harbour where I will be setting off for St Kilda the next day. A few boats are moored in the nearby waters but the highlights are two stunning vessels moored close to each other, the bright red hulls of the Orca III and the Hirta are the unmistakable hallmark of Kilda Cruises, who Ill be sailing with. As the sun begins to set on this sleepy place I find myself on the porch of the Am Bothen Bunkhouse. Its a pleasant summers evening but as the sun continues to disappear it also becomes noticeably cooler and time to put on a jumper. The rest of the evening is spent sipping on a couple of bottles of beer I picked up in the Hebrides Hotel Bar before turning in for my early morning.

Now I'm certainly not a morning person but today, waking at 5.30am, showering and making my coffee wasn't at all a burden I'm far too excited by the anticipation of my upcoming voyage to the edge of the world. Following a brisk walk towards the nearby harbour, where a few people were gathering, I'm approached by a man who seems to know who I am, he introduces himself as Angus; he runs Kilda cruises and captains the Orca III. A brief handshake and he explains the sea swell on St Kilda is much too high and that it wont be possible to land today. An overwhelming sense of disappointment fills me, and I'm not really sure how to respond to Angus. After all, I've travelled up from London all this way, only to be told I wont be sailing anywhere. Of course, at the time of booking Kilda Cruises strongly advised I allocate an extra day to my itinerary in case of such circumstances, but still I cant help but feel disappointed. Angus tells me that we can try again tomorrow, though he didn't sound too confident that tomorrows conditions would be any better.

Perhaps tomorrow was down to luck, or maybe years of experience have taught him to limit expectations. Angus kindly offers me a lift to Tarbert, where Ill find my way to another bunkhouse, Rock View, which is pretty much a self-service affair. Punch in a code to let yourself in and drop the money in a small box left downstairs, it reminds me of my old student digs so I feel right at home. I have the place to myself but I wont spend much time here as I want to explore. I've a few choices on how to proactively spend my day. Not too far is the Clisham, a 799 meter high mountain whose peak marks the Western Isles highest point, or perhaps I could rent a bicycle and head to the beaches of Harris world renowned as some of the most stunning beaches on earth. Id driven past Luskentyre Beach and from my ride it looked like a scene from a Caribbean holiday brochure, miles of flat white sands and turquoise waters hugged by green Scottish hills and moorland. Its a tough choice but instead I opt to make this tomorrows back up plan. For today I decide Ill visit the Callanish Standing Stones and Stornoway, the capital of the Western Isles. First its a visit to the Tourist Office to formulate a travel plan.

They explain to me the nature of the islands bus system. Essentially, coaches service the islands public transport needs; they run few and far between but provide the vital link connecting the settlements for many of the islanders. I'm told Ill need to change coaches in what appears to be the middle of nowhere. Furthermore, timetables aren't really printed to keep cost down, and if I miss a connection then it could be a very long wait or a long walk back to civilisation. I'm told to let the driver know my plans and he can drop me off and tell me where to head onwards, so I do just that. The fifty-seater coach races though the moorlands on narrow hilly roads like a giant rally car: these coach drivers clearly know the terrain and Im sure they must enjoy ragging these massive vehicles around the empty roads. Miles and miles of barren, uninhabited landscape as far as the eye can see truly make an impression of unforgiving terrain should one be caught out, and its not long before a new found respect for this place is thrust upon me. Yes, the emptiness is strongly beautiful but it could well be deadly.

The remoteness is occasionally broken up with scattered settlements and every so often with locals running from their front road to coach our bus, the reality seems to be local transport service offer close to a door-to-door service and will pick up and drop you anywhere along the route. After about forty minutes, I disembark to find another coach already waiting for me, and then its only another twenty minutes ride before I arrive at my first stop, the remarkable Callanish Standing Stones. I make my way up the path, conscious of the fact that the next bus leaves in forty minutes or its a two hour wait. While there's no rush, I'm just not convinced that I could appreciate the forthcoming landmarks for that long. The standing stones come into sight, massive grey rocks vertically planted in the green grass. Dated to about 5000 years ago, they represent an ancient burial ground. Like Stonehenge, these monoliths are impressive, but unlike Stonehenge you can walk straight up with no restrictions. Impressed with my first replacement trip, Ive almost forgotten my cancelled sailing as a coach takes me to the administrative capital of the Outer Hebrides, Stornoway.

I arrive here and begin to explore on foot. Though the population is only around 9000, this is a bustling metropolis compared to the rest of the settlements I've seen so far. I quickly notice the abundance of pubs - perhaps an attempt to make up to the scarcity of them elsewhere! I note to myself it would be rude not to visit at least one before I leave town, but first I wander the streets and make my way to the neo-gothic Lews castle. Unfortunately, I cant get as close as Id like due to renovation work. Most of Stornoway can be easily covered on foot, its a modest town with a few recognisable high-street chain stores. Perhaps its the grey skies and the rain which contributes to my subdued mood here. For now its time to wait for the bus home - well, after a pint of course! Its amazing how quickly the day slips away, and before I know it I'm back on an almost-full bus to Tarbert. The driver speeds across the barren landscapes of the Western Isles as I chat to a native Glaswegian who settled here over eight years ago.

Back in Tarbert the suns shining and I begin to formulate a backup plan for the next day, should my voyage to St Kilda be cancelled again. Over dinner in the Harris Inn I think about tomorrows back up plan of climbing the Clisham, and then a ride to the beach, perhaps even braving a dip in the North Atlantic. At this point Im excited by how tomorrow may turn out, and have nearly put St Kilda out of my mind when my mobile phone suddenly vibrates on the wooden table. Its Angus, letting me know the sea conditions for the morning. Its a yes: we are due to sail first thing! For a moment I feel a pang of disappointment as my planned alternative day wont materialise, but this quickly passes. Angus kindly offers to pick me up from Tarbert as Im on route back to Leverbrough, its much appreciated, even if pick up is at 6am. The next morning Im in Anguss 4x4 with his young son Alex and crew mate Murdur as we head back to the harbour at Leverbrough. I see another Kilda Cruises crew preparing the sister vessel, the Hitra. Im there before the rest of the passengers and while Angus, Alex and Murdur refuel and prepare the Orca III for sail I wonder what kind of people visit St Kilda, and why. Finally Im called on board the newer of the two, the Orca III. She carries twelve passengers, is very modern and with the open bridge I'm fascinated by the vast array of monitor screens, radar, GPS and other instrumentation positioned upfront.

After an initial safety briefing, Angus takes his place on the captains seat, the engines roar into life, and we head for the open ocean. Were allowed outside on the rear deck, providing we have our life jackets on. I'm joined on deck by a few middle-aged couples as well as a retired couple, and a family of bird enthusiasts. I'm the only solo traveller. It seems there's no stereotype visitor to St Kilda, and the one thing we all have in common is that for whatever reason, this fascinating place has caught our imagination. Sailors often see a variety of wildlife from whales to puffins, but for this voyage were out of luck and all that's abundant over the long two hour and forty minute trip are the dark clouds forming overhead; it seems the heavens could open up at any moment. I half expect a shout of land ahoy when the island of Hitra appears on the horizon, but no such cry is made. We continue our approach into Village Bay, anchors drop and we prepare to disembark on to a small jetty via a small motor dinghy. I'm given a hand up, and were soon greeted by the islands warden. He explains that hes one of three employees of the Scottish National Trust, his colleagues comprise an archaeologist and an ornithologist, in his words a bird woman. He describes himself as a general dogsbody, filling multiple roles from maintenance to clerk of the gift shop, which hell later open for us. He continues to explain that there are a number of Ministry of Defence contractors on the island who are best not disturbed.

They share the island with a number of researchers and students who are here for the summer to study the unique species of found here on Soay and Boreray. The weathers not looking good and the surrounding peaks are engulfed in cloud. The warden points in various directions suggesting where to go and where to stay away from. He emphasises the dangers of getting lost or worse, falling off a cliff. Wished a good day, we set off to finally explore the island. On first impressions I think to myself, this was not in the brochure; blocks of green portacabins used by the MOD as barracks and offices, and a large ugly grey building disturbs the peace with what I assume to be the generator for the complex. It takes a few minutes to navigate past these modern monstrosities before a visitor can finally make eye contact with the old village buildings and wow, what a sight! Instantly I forget about the modern structures behind me as I get lost in the atmosphere. A lone street with the ruined houses along one side that once stood inhabited.

The first five houses have been restored and let to the researchers as accommodation. House number three has been converted into a small, elegant museum with much information, illustrations and artefacts. Many of my fellow day trippers have their packed lunches here, however I'm much too excited to be in such an astonishing place to sit inside, so after absorbing as much information as I can, I carry on along the village street. To my left is the bay, to my right is the single row of houses along the old village street, the backdrop to which are the steep hills, disappearing into the mists. Scattered all along landscape are cleits, small stone structures roofed with turf used for drying foodstuffs and keeping goods cool and dry. I stroll along slowly along my path, entering these now roofless buildings to truly get a feel for how the islanders lived. Fittingly each ruined building has a piece of slate, no larger than a roof tile, on the ground resting against the wall with the name, age, and year of the last occupant. Names like Ewan Gilles and Rachel McDonald really bring to life that this isn't just a ruin, but it was a home for someone, a home they were forced to leave. Leaving the village behind I now follow a concrete track laid by the MOD uphill. It leads to a radar station positioned on one of the islands high points.

I'm eager to reach a high point, or ideally the highest point on the island from where I'm sure the views must be amazing. I'd be able to see the village from high above and the sea stacks in the ocean miles way which make up this archipelago. Wishful thinking with the current weather conditions, Id be lucky to see a metre in front me at a respectable altitude, but I'm not deterred. The walk is steep, and as I carry on upward I can see the village bay below, the grey buildings, the lush green grass with the slight turquoise ocean, fading into deep blue further along the horizon, even on such an abysmal day. A few more vertical metres and I'm completely swallowed up in the low cloud, visibility is down to a few metres, and the village below me has now completed disappeared. Its raining, windy and not at all pleasant as I persevere onward for another half-an-hour when suddenly, out of the white, grey buildings with domes and masts begin to emerge. Its the unmanned radio stations on top of Hitra. They give this place a ghostly feel, and I half expect zombies to come at me.

Though I cant see it, I certainly feel that this is a very exposed area as the winds blast my body and sideways rain drops sting my face. Here the road ends, and under normal circumstances, if one were to continue to reach the islands highest peak, they'd have to walk off-track along some of the highest cliffs in the UK. With such bad visibility any attempt would be extremely unwise, so I reluctantly turn back down the road. With every downward step the conditions seem to improve: less rain, less wind and thirty minutes later the village comes back into sight. I pass a flock of unique sheep, they're much darker, and with larger horns then what Id expect, but that's as far as my analysis goes. Back at the village bay, its time for the mandatory photo opportunities as I carry on exploring every nook and cranny of the village - I even make it down to the sandy beach.

This place seems to exert such presence that I think I could never tire of it: a dramatic landscape, amazing natural beauty and fascinating history as well as an important wildlife habitat. I begin to sense a break in the weather. Typical! I shout at myself. Hesitantly, I think, is now the time to hike up to the viewpoint again? I look past the buildings to the area called The Gap. Its not as high I was previously but connects to high points and the views should be just as impressive from there should the clouds dissipate. From where I'm standing, the tip of The Gap becomes visible and that's my sign to make a brisk hike for it. I race up the steep hill past the many clients dotted around and within fifteen minutes I'm making my final approach. I see the edge of The Gap, just about clear of any cloud cover but within seconds of me reaching my view point the cloud again foils my plans as it swiftly blows in. My pace slows as disappointment seeps in, and then, just as I'm about to plant my right foot on the ground, I suddenly, instinctively jump backward, and simultaneously feel like my heart jumped not just one, but a few hundred beats.

Catching my breath, I slowly crawl to where I was about to plant my foot, and I'm gazing out over sheer cliff. I just about make out the ocean below before more cloud works its way in. This is exactly what the warden warned us about. Realising how close I've come to simply disappearing off the most remote outpost of the United Kingdom, I sit down for some lunch and reflect on my day, and hope it may still clear up before I head back down. Unfortunately, it doesn't. Back in the village I visit the small shop and buy a postcard and the warden kindly promises to send it on my behalf. Then I wander into the nearby chapel where I'm told services are still sometimes held, and on to a nearby artillery gun, mounted in World War Two after a German U-boat attack.

My fellow visitors have gathered at the jetty awaiting pickup. The day has flown by and I'm not at all disappointed anymore about the weather, I tell myself that its been more authentic this way, the islanders would have probably had more of this weather than the sunshine I had hoped for. Once on-board the Orca III were all greeted with a much welcomed cup of tea and some homemade banana cake. Its not long before Angus brings his engines roaring back to life. Our return trip will take us past some of the steepest cliffs and sea stacks in the UK, and well visit the other islands of the archipelago where some of the most important bird breeding colonies on the planet are situated. In particular, the gannet population here is of major significance. On deck, an elderly gentleman tells me Now imagine how the islanders felt when they left their homes for the last time, a sobering thought which stuck with me for much of the return voyage.

The Orca III takes us further seaward for close of views of Stac Lee, Stac An Armin and the island of Boreray. Angus and Murdur explain to us how the islanders used to sail here to these unforgiving cliffs to collect bird eggs and how they'd stay here for weeks at a time. They point out features in the rock, shelters built for and by these brave men for the gatherings. They share their knowledge with great enthusiasm, and its obvious to me that these two love what they do. The boat is piloted close to these cliffs to give us a true sense of how enormous these monoliths are. High above us are thousands of birds, flying, diving and nesting. The dark cliffs are lined with white guano, the noise from these sea birds is loud, and the smell is strong. I was later told that they eat thousands of tons of fish a week, which in turn means they produce thousands of tons of guano a week, with no one to clear it up! Angus pilots the Orca III around the tall stacks: for perspective, these sheer cliff faces are substantially higher than the tower which houses Big Ben.

The tour comes to an end as we head into open waters once again for the trip back to the small harbour in Leverbrough. Its been a long day and opposite me a fellow passenger looks to be turning a bit green as the rocking of the boat puts me to sleep. The final moments of our time on board are marked with a complimentary whisky poured by Murdur, here the weather has lifted and the suns come out as I sip away. When we all say goodbye to each other at the pier, it feels like saying farewell to old friends. We've all shared this magnificent place and its clear that everyone enjoyed their day, however they spent it. I wait behind for a lift back to Tarbert but not before having a quick pint with the crew of the Orca III.

The conversation revolves around St Kilda, the boats, the sea, fishing and then back to St Kilda. I'm grateful for the chance to visit this amazing place and to share the experience with people who have a real passion for what they do.

 www.doinitonline.com

How do I embark on a career in Expedition Leading?

Hi there! I've been incredibly interested in working as an expedition leader now for about 4 years. Recently I've begun to realise just how much this line of work excites and interests me so I've been seriously considering it.

However it seems that it's incredibly hard to find much information about where to start. Being 20 years old, i don't have the money to gain travel experience. I can just about afford to save for a ML qualification but surely this is not enough to actually get employed by anybody?

There are various other courses, such as Trekforce's Expedition Leader Training Program which i have extensively looked in to, but at nearly 8000 in costs, it simply is not an option for me. Any advice or information would be greatly, greatly appreciated. Anywhere would be a good place to start!

eagleaoife@gmail.com

Pennine Way for Crisis UK

I completed this challenge for Crisis UK on 10th July 2013. The Pennine Way is 270 mile / 430 km from Edale in the Peak District to Kirk Yetholm in the Scottish borders. I realised after the last four walks that I need to keep my own costs down so I camped where possible and did the walk without support.

You can read more about the walk including the kit that I took athttp://rucksackrose.wordpress.com/distance-walks/the-pennine-way/ This was my fifth distance walk. I did Hadrian's wall (84 miles/135km) for the MS Society in June 2012 and the Dales Way (78 miles/126km) for the British Lung Foundation in August 2012.

This year I also completed the St. Cuthbert's Way (65 miles) and the Cumbria Way (78 miles) in preparation for the Pennine Way.

St Kilda: The Island On The Edge Of The World

In a far corner of a United Kingdom, 40 miles from the Western Isles, lays a speck of land that has caught the imagination of many. Its thought that for two millennia St Kilda supported a modest population, which adapted to survive in such harsh and isolating conditions. With the influx of modern world influence the population begun to dwindle as religion, tourism, emigration and disease eventually contributed to the un-sustainability of this fragile society. It was the 29th August 1930 which saw the final evacuation of its inhabitants.

Now the archipelago is recognised as both a natural and cultural UNSECO World Heritage Site, its significance on a par among such sites a Machu Picchu in Peru. Trying to get from London to St Kilda, or the even Outer Hebrides for that matter, on a budget will mean youre not in for the most comfortable journeys. Its going to be long, uncomfortable, tiresome, but I say to myself; I it will be certainly be worth it! However if moneys less of an object you can fly to a number of small airports on the Western Isles with FlyBe, changing at Glasgow, or even get the Caledonian sleeper train from London Euston Station to Fort William (or Glasgow) where you carry on last few hours by coach. For me, however, it was on the 9pm overnight Mega Bus where tickets start from 5 from London Victoria Coach station which gets me to Glasgow for 5am, wait for a couple of hours for a connecting 7am Scotish CityLink couch to Uig (about 46 rtn) , the Ferry terminal which will finally take me to village of Tarbert on Harris. Opting for the coaches is cheap, but long and boring, its not really until after you pass Glasgow where the amazing Scottish highland scenery begins to tantalise your mind.

The mountains, valleys and lochs make for a lovely scenic ride, though made slightly harder appreciate after a sleepless night on the motorways of England. Its 2pm when I'm finally escape the confines of my coach seat at Uig, here the Ferry awaits to take me to Tarbert (5.70 single). Excited, here my short adventure starts as I board the MC Hebraises, a small roll on roll of ferry, similar to what you'd expect to cross the English channel, but way more exciting simply due to where its heading, one of the UK's most remote locations. As the sun shines and I go on deck to celebrate for making it this far with a can of Tenants Lager as I watch the Isle of Skye disappear below the horizon. After a short 1 hour and 40 minutes we arrive in Tarbert, Harris which will serve as my base of my short stay. Tarbert is a small and charming settlement, which acts as the capital and administrative area for Harris, you wont find too much here; a few of shops and couple of hotel bars. Its located on a narrow strip (an istalus) of land with the sea to either side of it and steep hills contain its spread.

Very scenic though and everything seems to be a few minutes walk away. As I walk off the ferry, instantly recognise the tourist office at the end of the street. I head there in the hope I can obtain some basic bus timetable information. Its closed so the second port of call, the Hebrides Hotel on the same road, not to check in as, as I suspect this place may be a bit out of my budget, however the hotel bar looks inviting and I'm a great believer in which ever situation you find your self in a short break to the closest pub will present a solution. I walk in and ask if they can know when the Bus leaves for Leverbrough (as that is where the boat to St Kilda will leave in the early morning), and I figured its best to wake up close by to where Id be leaving. Sorry weve no buses on a Sunday, I'm told by the young bartender. Ah.. Taxis? I ask. I senses a wee bit of hesitation when the bartender smiles and tells me shell check with her manager. Turns out Sundays may not have been the best day for my arrival. She disappears so I figure Id treat myself to a pint and a late lunch or perhaps an early dinner of fish and chips. As I've placed my order the supervisor appears and informs me that they've the next best thing to an official taxi She explains that one real taxi firm operates on the island and theyre based all the way in Stornoway, about an hour away, and hence the additional call out cost. So they offer to call me the next best thing a local man who sometimes offer s undertake taxi duties.

A pleasant 30 minutes ride starts to give me a feel for these islands. First, I quickly begin to realise a that theyre massive, looking at a map just doesnt do this place justice, I soon realise my backup plan of walking would have been foolish, instead I enjoy the ride as it takes me past wide deserted beaches, moors, highlands and lochs, occasionally passing a lone building or playing chicken with stubborn sheep on the narrow roads. 30 lighter after my ride I arrive at Leverbrough, Im told theres nothing open today, not that there is much there anyway. Im told I wont find anything to kill the time till the morning here, but why kill time here when it looks like time has stood still? Leverbrough is a lovely spread out village, with no person in sight, just a light breeze in the late afternoon and the evening sun reflecting off the coastline. My pre-arranged bunkhouse is hard to miss, a large red building with the large BUNKHOUSE sign on its side will be my home for the night.

I'm eager to dump my bags and set of for a little wander to the small harbour where I will be setting of the St Kilda the next day. A few boats more in the nearby waters but the highlight are to stunning vessels moored close to each other, the bright red hulls of the Orca III and the Hirta are the unmistakable hallmark of Kilda Cruises, who Ill be sailing with. As the sun begins to set on this sleepy place I find myself on the porch of the Am Bothen Bankhouse. Its a pleasant summers eve but has the sun continues to disappear it also becomes noticeably cooler and time to put on a jumper. The rest of the evening is spent sipping on a couple of bottles of beer Ive managed to pick up in the Hebraise Hotel Bar before turning in for my early morning. Now Im certainly not a morning person but today waking up at around 5.30am, showering and making my coffee wasnt at all a burden Im far too excited and anticipate my upcoming voyage to the edge of the world. A brisk walk towards the nearby harbour where a few people where gathering.

I'm approached by a man who seems to know who I am, he introduces himself as Angus; he runs Kilda cruises and captains the Orca III. A brief handshake and he explains the sea swell on St Kilda is much too high today and that we wont be possible to land today. An overwhelming sense of disappointment fills my gut, not really sure how to respond to Angus after all, Ive travelled up from London all this way only to be told I wont be sailing anywhere today. Of course, on the time of booking Kilda Cruises strongly advise I allocate an extra day into my itinerary in case of such circumstance, but still I cant help feel disappointed. Angus tells me that we can try again tomorrow though his voice didnt sound too reassuring that tomorrow will be any better condition. Perhaps tomorrow was down to luck or maybe years of experience have taught him to limit expectations. Angus kindly offers me a lift to Tarbert, where Ill find my way to another bunkhouse, Rock View, which is pretty much a self-service affair. Punch in a code to let yourself in and drop the money in a small box left downstairs, it reminds my old student digs so I feel right at home. Ive the place to myself but I wont spend much time here as Ive the day to explore. Ive a few choices on how to proactively spend my day. Not to far is the Clisham. A 799 meter high mountain whose peak marks the Western Isles highest point, or perhaps I could rent a bicycle and head to the beaches of Harris world renowned as some of the most stunning beaches on earth. Id driven past Luskentyre Beach beach and from my ride it looked like a scene out of the Caribbean holiday brochure, miles of flat white sands and turquoise waters hugged by green Scottish hills and moorland. Its a tough choice but instead I opt to make this tomorrows back up plan for today I decide Ill visit the Callanish Standings Stones and Stornoway, the capital of these Western Isles. First its a visit to the Tourist Office to formulate a travel plan. They explain to me the nature of the islands bus system. Essentially coaches service the islands public transport needs, they run few and far between but provide the vital link for many of the islanders connecting much of the settlements. I'm told Ill need to change coaches in what I assume to be the middle of nowhere on to another coach. Furthermore timetables aren't really printed to keep cost down and if I miss a connection then it could be a very long wait or walk back to civilisation. I'm told to let the driver know my plans and he can drop me off and tell me were to head onwards, so I do just that. The 50 seater coach races though the moorlands on narrow hilly roads like giant rally cars, these coach drivers clearly know the terrain and I'm sure they must enjoy ragging these massive vehicles across the empty roads. Miles and miles of barren, uninhabited landscape as far as the eye can see truly make an impression of unforgiving terrain should one be caught out, its not long before a new found respect for this place is thrust upon me. Yes, the emptiness is strongly beautiful but it could well be deadly.

The remoteness is occasionally broken up with scattered settlements and every so often with locals running from their front road to coach our bus, the reality seems to be local transport service offer a close to a door to door service and will pick and drop you along the route. After about 40 minutes I'm let off the coach to find another coach already waiting for me, its only another 20 minutes or so before I arrive at my first stop, the remarkable Callanish Standing Stones. I make my way up the path, conscious of the fact that the next bus leaves in 40 minutes or its a two hour wait, and while there's no rush I'm just not convinced that I could appreciate the forthcoming landmarks for that long. The standing stones come in to sight, massive grey rocks vertically planted in the green grass. Dated to about 5000 years ago, they represent an ancient burial ground. Like Stonehenge these rocks are impressive, unlike Stonehenge you can go straight up to these monoliths with no restrictions. Pretty impressed with my first replacement trip, I've almost forgotten about my cancelled sailing only a few hours ago as a coach takes me to the administrative capital of the Outer Hebrides , Stornoway. I arrive here and figure Ill walk around for an explore. Though the population is around 9,000 this seems like a bustling metropolis compared to the rest of the settlements Ive seen so far. One thing I do quickly notice is the abundance of pubs perhaps an attempt to make up to the scarcity of them elsewhere, I note to myself it would be rude not to visit at least one before I leave town, but first I wander the streets and make my way to the neo-gothic Lewis castle. Unfortunately during my visit the castle renovation work presence stops a more close up visit. Most of Stornoway can be covered on foot in not much time at all, its a modest town with a few high-street chains. Perhaps its the grey skies and the rain which contributes to my subdued mood here. For now its time to wait for the bus home well, after a pint of course. Its amazing how quickly the day seems to have gone, before I know it I'm back on a bus to Tarbert chatting to a native Glaswegian who settled here over eight years ago. The bus back to Tarbert is almost full as it again races for an hour across the barren landscapes of the western isles. Back in Tarbert the suns shining and I begin to formulate a backup plan for the next day should my voyage to St Kilda be cancelled again. Over dinner in the Harris Inn I think about tomorrows back up plan of climbing the Clisham and then ride to the beach or perhaps braving a dip in the north Atlantic Ocean.

At this point I'm even pretty excited by how tomorrow may turn out, and I even put St Kilda out of my mind. Then suddenly my mobile phone vibrates on the wooden table. Its Angus, Id almost forgotten to expect his call to let me know what the sea conditions are looking like for the morning and if we are due to sail. Its a yes! Were good to go first thing in the morning. For a moment I feel a bit of disappointment as my planned alternative day wont materials but this quickly passes and my excitement again returns. Angus kindly offers to pick me up from Tarbert as Im on route back to Lavenbrough, its much appreciated, even if pick up is at 6am. The next morning Im back in Anguss 4x4 along with his young son Alex and crew mate Murdur as we head back to the harbour at Levenbrough. I see another Kilda Cruises crew preparing the sister vessel, the Hitra. Im there before the rest of the passengers and while Angus, Alex and Murder refuel and prepare the Orca III for sail I wonder what kind of people visit St Kilda, and why.

Finally I'm called on board newer of the two, the Orca III. She holds 12 passengers, is very modern and with the open bridge Im fascinated by the vast array of monitors screens, radar, GPS positioned upfront. After an initial safety briefing, Angus takes his place on the captains seat, the engines roar into life and we begin to leave the land behind us as we head to the open ocean. Were allowed to go outside on the rear deck, providing weve our life jackets on. Im joined on deck by few middle age couples as well as a retired couple, a family of bird entrusts. Im the only solo traveller. It seems theres no stereotype of visitor to St Kilda, but one thing weve all have in common is that for whatever reason this fascinating place has caught our imagination for one reason or another. Often sailors will see a variety of wildlife from whales to puffins, but for this voyage its like were out of luck and all thats abundant over the long to two hour and forty minute trip with dark clouds forming overhead; it looks like the heavens could open up any moment. I half expect a shout land ahoy when the Island of Hitra comes up from the horizon, but no such cry is made. We continue our approach into Village Bay, anchors drop and we prepare to disembark on a small motor dingy which takes us to a small jetty. Im given a hand up were soon greeted by the Islands warden, an employee of the Scottish National Trust. The warden explains, that hes one of three employees of the trust, hes colleagues comprise of an archaeologist and in his words a bird woman. As for himself, he is a general dogsbody, filling multiple roles from maintenance to gift shop clerk which hell open later for us. He continues to explain that there are a number of Ministry of Defence contractors on the Island who are best not disturbed. They share the Island with a number of researchers and students who are here for the summer to study the unique species of Soay and Boreray found here.

The weathers not looking good and the sounding peaks are engulfed in cloud cover, he points to various directions suggesting where to go and where to stay away from. He emphasises the dangers of getting lost or worse, falling off a cliff. Wished a good day, we set off to finally explore the island. On first impressions I think to myself, this was not in the brochure, green porter cabin/container sized blocks used by the MOD, a large load ugly grey building disturbs the piece with what I assume to be the power plant or generator for the complexes. It takes a few minutes to navigate past these modern monstrosities before a visitor can finally make eye contact with the old village buildings and WOW, what a sight. Instantly I forget about the modern MOD structures barracks and offices just behind me as I get lost in the atmosphere. A lone street with the ruins of the houses that once stood inhabited along one side, the first five houses have been restored and have let to the researches as accommodation. House number three has been converted into a small and elegant museum with much information, illustrations and artifacts.

Many of my fellow day trippers have their packed lunches here, however Im much too excited to be in such an astonishing place to sit inside so after exampling information I carry on along the village street. To my left is the bay, immediately to my right is the single row of houses along the old village street, the backdrop to which are the steep hills which disappear into the mists. Scattered all along landscape are cleits. A cleit is small stone structure roofed with turf used for drying and keeping goods cool and dry. I stroll along slowly along my path, entering these now roofless buildings to truly get a feel for how the islanders lived. Fittingly each ruined building has a piece of slate, no larger than a roof tile, on the ground resting against the wall with the name, age, and year of the last occupant, Names like Ewan Gilles and Rachel McDonald really bring to life that this isnt just a ruin, but it was a home for someone, a home they were forced to leave. Leaving the village behind I follow now follow a concrete track laid by the MOD uphill.

It leads to a radar station positioned on one of the islands high points. I'm really eager to reach a high-point or ideally even the highest point on the island where I'm sure the views must be amazing, id see the village from high above and Id be able to see the sounding sea stacks in the ocean miles way which make up the this archipelago. Though with the current weather conditions once at a respectable altitude Id be luckily to see a metre in front of my feet, wishful thinking at this point but I'm not deterred. The walk is steep, and as I carry on upward I can see the village bay below, the grey buildings, the lush green grass with the slight turquoise ocean, with its deep blue further along the horizon even on such an abysmal day. A few more vertical metres and I'm completely swallowed up in the low cloud, visibility is a few metres, and the village below me has now completed disappeared. Its raining, windy and not at all pleasant as I persevere on for another half an hour or so when suddenly out of the white soundings buildings become to emerge. Its the unmanned radio stations atop of Hitra. Grey buildings with their domes and masts give this place ghostly feel, I'm half expecting zombies to come at me.