Rambling In Mull to MacKinnon’s Cave

This one is a little longer than normal, so settle in with a cup of something.

It was Day 8 of our trip in Scotland and my legs were starting to complain about all this outdoor activity. I had slept poorly and after my morning yoga stretch, my left leg in particular said “Enough is enough” and promptly began aching. The kind of ache where you want to cry, but it doesn’t seem justified cus all you’ve done is lightly rub the muscle. As we waited for our 8:30am ferry out to the Isle of Mull, I desperately tried to stretch out the offended muscles with some standing yoga stretches next to our car.

The dock men made sure to vocalize their appreciation of my efforts.

We had hiked Conic Hill two days prior - our first forewarning that a Scot’s estimation of “Short, moderate hike” was decidedly different from our American couch-potato sensibilities. Following our 900 meter climb to the summit of the Hill, which included 3 long flights of stairs, 80 degree scrambles and a dizzying view for hundreds of miles across the Trossochs, my husband Ian promised me only meandering hikes for the rest of the week as I huffed and puffed my way back to the carpark.

“Sure. Whatever. I’m totally fine,” I panted while mentally chanting I love him, I swear I love him.

Collapsing back into the car as the ferry men indicated we were next, I whispered a small apology to my leg for the driving I was about to ask of it. Since the cost to rent an automatic car in Scotland was outside of our price range and Ian didn’t know how, I had volunteered as only a martyr can to drive a manual car for our three week road trip around the Highlands. Three days in reminded me why automatics were invented in the first place. Pushing down on the clutch pedal, my leg quivered, but held.

“Right, now I just have to get the car on the floating boat thing.”

“Thank you so much for driving, babe,” my husband said for the umpteenth time.

The Isle of Mull is situated off the West Coast of Scotland, beneath its arguably more popular brother the Isle of Skye. Inhabited by people since the Ice Age, the Isle of Mull is full of sheep, coos (Scottish hairy cows), and sweeping vistas. Accessible only by ferry, boatloads of tourists flock there for wildlife, castles, and access to the remote attractions the island offers. From Mull you can take a ferry tour to the small Isle of Iona, supposedly the site where Christianity was founded in Scotland in the 5th century. A small abbey where the monks lived can be visited and from there, a tour will take you out to Straffa island to see puffins and the frequently Pinterested Fingal’s Cave, a beautiful natural basalt cave along the ocean.

All of that of course wasn’t on our list for the day. Although I would have loved to have seen both of those sights, while researching the area in April I had discovered Fingal’s Cave was closed for preservation works. With our knowledge we could return later on a cheap flight to Scotland, we elected to skip the whole of Iona and simply drive around Mull photographing and appreciating the landscapes. Of course, when we explained our plans to our Scottish Airbnb hosts the night prior, they noted “Oh yeah, it’s closed, but you know, you simply walk around the sign.”

Scots make their own rules.

Later in the evening, curled up browsing Mull activities, Ian shot me a somewhat guilty look. “So… I found a hike.”

I inwardly winced, did another sun salutation, and said, “Go on.”

“It’s marked short and easy. It’s a walk down to a cave along the coast and look, there’s a legend a monk lived there and battled fairies. Only his dog escaped!”

I eyed the website and reminded myself I needed a way to walk off all the scones I was devouring.

“Sure, doesn’t seem like it’s too much. Let’s do it.”

The ferry deposited us on Mull and we set out down the road. The views on Mull are incredible. Towering hills covered in mottled green and yellow heather cast shadows over glacier carved valleys while water collected at the base forms marshes where birds nest. The single lane road with its Scottish optimism of space and time didn’t even bother me as we made our way down across the island.

A hairpin turn, a sturdy farm gate to keep the sheep from wandering, and we found our carpark for the hike under stunning cliffs bravely facing the strong western wind and Atlantic seaboard.

We were truly out in the remote reaches - our car park was less an actual marked space as a couple car spaces width of a farmer’s land left open on the side of the road. I eyed the small sun-bleached map posted next to the “P” sign with suspicion. Online, the MacKinnon’s Cave hike had seemed like a stroll down to the water with a short “rocky scrabble at the end” which I took to be one of those things tourist offices make sure to say so you don’t complain about rocks getting in your sandals. From what I could make out however, we were looking at a couple sheep-filled fields and then a cliff face with an indeterminate amount of time along a rocky beach. Watch the tides! Please close gates behind you.

“You think I’ll need to wear my boots instead of my sneakers?” I asked Ian casually.

“I mean, it said it was an easy hike with a short scramble at the end. You’re probably fine,” he said distractedly while gazing around the landscape.

“Eh… I’ll wear them anyway.”

We set off along the road, bahhing at unimpressed sheep and making cooing noises at the new calves and their suspicious mothers on either side. A brief moment of uncertainty presented itself when we came to a farmer’s barn with three gates, but a brief amount of investigation led me to determine the correct path.

“I’m so glad my wife rolled high in Wisdom,” Ian crowed and merrily set out along the road. Turning around the corner, we promptly lost the train and found ourselves squarely in a sheep pasture, complete with running streams causing the grass to sink beneath our feet as we attempted to cross with minimal mud damage.

“They definitely didn’t mention this on the website…” Ian laughed a couple of feet below me and then yelped as he began sinking, prompting a rather hilarious dance across several mounds of grass until he reached dry shore.

“I’ve got a feeling they didn’t mention a lot of things,” I snarked back and gingerly stepped along the edge of the mound I’d found a sheep path on.

We continued along the way, avoiding mud pits and sheep poop as the wind roared around us. Scottish sea air was bracing and refreshing at the same time, especially to noses in pastures. We found the herd of resident sheep who stared at us in shock, until I raised my arms which sent their woolly butts bounding away in terror. Ian kept making noises about wanting a selfie with a sheep, but made them more quietly after I noted the farmer would likely take armed issue with us harassing his livestock for Instagram fodder.

Up and over the heather brought us to the edge of a cliff face which we followed to a small gate with what appeared to be a long-erased sign hidden in the grass nearby. We shrugged and hopped over, at this point reconciled to the fact any semblance of a trail had long ago been surrendered to sheep and elements. We had yet to see another soul so the sight of a boat bobbing in the cove beneath us was strangely comforting, although the huge rocks along the shoreline were less so.

“Where do you think we get down?” Ian asked, peering over the edge. I shrugged and made a noise indicating his guess was as good as mine. We walked along the edge until I spied the outline of a path beneath us.

“Ah, I think this is the rocky scramble they were talking about. The cave must be just on the other side of those big rocks down the way,” Ian said, ever the optimist.

I nervously made my way down the smoothed rock, breathing a sigh of relief to hit earth eight feet below. “Yeah, sure. Just gotta, you know, watch the tide I guess.”

Making our way along the path, I felt something crunch beneath my feet. We’d found the bones of what looked like a lamb, stripped clean and lying at the base of the cliff. Sometimes lambs don’t make it, although after finding this display, I began to wonder if sea eagles had spotted an easy lunch frolicking above us a couple weeks ago.

Having hit the actual shore, we made our way uneasily across the beach heading south, the larged polished round rocks making me grateful I’d worn by boots for ankle protection. Further along, they got larger and volcanic. Swaths of seaweed made the ground slick and full of lurking ankle killers. I eyed the ocean edge twenty feet away from us and picked out a rock half hidden in water. A few more tottering jumps from rock to rock and I paused to check in on my marker. The water had definitely risen.

“Ian… not to be an alarmist, but I think the tide is coming in. How much further do you want to go?” I said, trying not to be the nagging wife, but definitely not wanting to get stuck out here just because Robinson Crusoe didn’t pay attention to his surroundings.

“I think it’s just up here. Just a little bit further,” he yelled back from behind what now had become volcanic boulders, slick with what I now knew was recent ocean wave deposits.

We scrambled and climbed further along, hitting dead ends and backtracking to find better ways up towards the waterfall we could now see dropping down into the ocean from the towering cliffs above.

“Here, why don’t you stay here and I’ll go ahead,” Ian said kindly as I made another concerned grumbling noise.

“Bloody will not,” I said as I climbed up between two boulders to reach him.

“Alright, just a little bit further?” he said, letting a touch of pleading enter his voice. I shook my head and picked out another rock to watch sink beneath the incoming waves.

We didn’t end up finding the cave. We walked along a gigantic square rock to the waterfall, giving the appearance of a knife edge leading into the sea. We paused for photographs and when Ian began pointing and picking out a path down from our perch to rocks below now only feet from the ocean, I finally put my foot down. It felt anticlimactic to come all this way for nothing, but I insisted we not risk being trapped on a cliff face and miss our ferry home.

Turning back along the rock, I laughed. Visible along the edge of the cliff was a small path leading to our exact spot.

“I guess we won’t have to worry about the tide going back at least,” I said as I confidently strode up the hill, sure I’d found the original path.

Ten feet along the path and I realized our mistake.

“Where did you take us?” Ian called behind me as I took another couple ginger steps along the open cliff face holding onto the branches of a small tree who definitely didn’t appreciate the extra weight on its already precarious life.

“I don’t know! Watch it; there’s mud here,” I called back. He laughed maniacally.

It was definitely a sheep path winding its way up the cliff. Little cloven hoof prints mocked me as we shimmied along the foot wide path and tried not to look down to the rocks we’d cursed earlier who stood safe and dry a dozen feet from the ocean.

Guess I’m not getting my tide reader girl scout badge, I thought as I paused and surveyed along the cliff for a way to get down as Ian caught up with me.

“Think if we just sat and slid down, we’d make it?” he asked merrily in a tone that almost said, Please say yes.

“Us and half the side of the hill probably,” I scoffed in reply. “I think there’s a path in that field of wheat looking stuff. If not, we’ll make one.”

With a hand on the wall and small steps along the edge, we wound our way to the grass area before turning to face the long way down.

“I’ll never believe a Scottish map again!” Ian whooped as we slid and jumped our way down the twenty-feet to the beach.

Safe on the ground, we laughed, grateful to be alive and unscathed. “Well, it’s always an adventure with you, dear,” I grinned at him and we set off back to the car. “Just promise me no more hikes across pastures into the unknown, okay?”

As it turns out, we wouldn’t have been able to enter the cave since we discovered upon further research that the tide had likely flooded the entire entrance as you can see just behind my left shoulder in our photo together.

You can find more on the MacKinnon hike here including more incredible photos by other artists. It’s definitely worth the hike, all jokes aside — just definitely time it better with the tides!

All photos except for the boat were taken using my Samsung S9 due to my camera battery dying on my Olympus (got caught without my spare). Appreciate you reading and if you’d like to see more of our trip, be sure to follow our Instagrams at petracat09 and iancookwestgate!