serves a less romantic but more useful purpose than formerly as a door-stop. Our ledge led us into the gully dividing the Central from the South-west Peak. We crossed it, and after scrambling up its left-hand wall, traversed the flank of the South-west Peak to the rounded main ridge beyond. This is Bealach na Glaic Moire, the highway between Coruisk and Corrie na Creiche. It can be crossed in either direction from Sligachan by an ordinarily active tourist, and is probably the very finest pedestrian expedition in the Coolin. The ascent of the South-west Peak from here gave a pretty scramble, but was not difficult. The broad slab on its north side contains an unsteadylooking rock-pinnacle, under which we crept, and soon gained the col beyond. The Central Peak now towered above. Its cliffs are well broken up, and a variety of routes can be taken to the summit, but none of them are perfectly easy. After admiring the view down to Coruisk, framed in a dark setting of rock on either hand, we struck straight upward, and ten minutes later were lying on the moss-carpeted summit. It is in extent about twice the size of an ordinary couch, and is beautifully upholstered; the change from the hard rough rock to this luxurious soft lounge was altogether delightful. By this time it was about 7.30 P.M. Dinner was due at Sligachan, but in spite of this, and the fact that two of us had forgotten our lunch, we sat up there in the still air, reluctant to leave. The atmosphere was quite clear, but a grey pall of unbroken cloud covered the sky, except in the north-west, where, out of a thin streak of vivid green, the sun shot bright rays of light on the far horizon. Slowly it sank nearer the belt of clear sky, shedding its rays over a wider surface and sending long streamers of radiance towards us. Soon the whole visible ocean was a mass of molten silver, in which were suspended the distant islands of the Outer Hebrides. And then the sun reached the zone of clear sky, and flashed level into our faces, bathing the whole scene westward in dazzling light. Corrie Mhadaidh was dotted all over with points of strong light, and thrown towards us from each was a long, shimmering shadow-a Rembrandtesque landscape, with the stream running down its centre in a twisting line of brilliance. We remembered Sheriff Nicolson's verse "Where the sun sinks beyond Hunish Head Swimming in glory, As he goes down to his ocean bed Studded with islands, Flushing the Coolin with royal red," But behind us, in Coruisk and Harta Corrie, it was almost twilight, purple and mysterious. Across the corrie, on the broad flank of Sgurr na h'Uamha, the shadow of our peak was cast in faithful likeness. As the sun sank lower, we watched the shadow ascend, until it passed upward beyond the ridge into the air, where we lost sight of it. By now the lower rim of the sun was almost resting on the horizon, and, much as we wished to watch the pageant to its setting, we had perforce to turn to the descent. |