A Sunday stroll to the Singing Sands

07 Aug A Sunday stroll to the Singing Sands

Beyond the lighthouse at the end of Kilnaughton Beach and a short walk north from there is another beach, locally known as the Singing Sands. I walked there this morning with a flask of coffee and a notebook, pausing first to wonder at the sculpted beauty of Kilnaughton at low tide.

As I reach its western end, a heron is fishing for some elevenses in the rocky pools by the shore. Completely still and watching intently, its long neck is stiff, its head tilted down. When it spots its prey, it lowers its head, curling its neck into an extravagant C-shape and creeps slowly through the water, then straightens up again and, quick as a flash, dips an empty beak into the water and emerges munching. 100% hit rate as far as I could tell. Everyone says it, I know, but herons look primeval and a little ridiculous, like elegant but anorexic descendants of pterodactyls. Magical to watch.

My route climbs behind some houses on a well-kept, stony track that meanders between grassy verges flush with wild flowers. At the brow of the hill it becomes a grassy path and passes through a series of three small wooden gates with charming, weathered metal catches the like of which I’ve never seen before, a sort of rectangle that slips onto the fence post to secure the gate. Between the last two gates, half a dozen trees have been planted recently, alder, hazel, rowan. At the last gate a finger post points right and the track skirts the coastline, past a tiny bay where a couple of wild goats are looking for food and guzzling whatever they can find. From here, a few stone steps cut into the hillside mark the path down to a quite lovely beach. Life imitating art – it’s a beach that looks like a fabulously curated installation. Pale sand studded with large, dark, sharply etched rocks pointing skywards, perfect shelter from the wind if that were needed. Not today.

There are several beaches on Islay where rivers flow into the sea, cutting canyons in the sand that are sometimes too deep and wide to cross easily without waders or by going barefoot with your trousers hitched up to mid-thigh. Some of them are fast-flowing, bringing stones, tufts of earth and grass from the river bank with them. It’s like that at Big Strand, a 5-mile long beach further up the coast. But here at Singing Sands, there are only tiny rivulets that, later today, the incoming tide will meet, mingle and swell. I cross them easily as I walk to the far end of the beach and find a perfect spot, slightly raised, soft sand tucked inside a semi-circle of grassy dunes. I sit down, pour myself some coffee and take a long, deep breath. 

The light today is pure and clear. There is something about light on the west coast of Scotland, a special quality. In the far distance across the water, wisps of white cloud lick the hilltops like icing drizzled on a sticky bun. The geography is confusing without a map showing the relationship between different parts of the island and the mainland, but I think I’m seeing the southern reaches of the Mull of Kintyre over there to the east as it slips into the Irish Sea. If I’m right, then somewhere on the other side is Arran and beyond that Ayrshire. I could wave to my cousin.

The ferry has just pulled into Port Ellen. I saw it steam in quietly as I walked the grassy track. For such a big vessel, it makes very little noise as it carves a wide arc between markers, avoiding any hidden rocks or sandbanks, I suppose. Finlaggan crosses from the mainland to Islay several times a day. It’s named after a loch further north on Islay on which there are three small islands where, back in the middle ages, Somerled, the Lord of the Isles had his seat, his Council and, perhaps, his spiritual home. Obviously, a man with a feel for the landscape.

Rocky outcrops surround me, where grass has taken root and wild flowers thrive in clusters of white, yellow and purple. The rocks are craggy, quite sharp on top and they lie at an angle, as if they’ve tipped over on themselves so that they look like so many roof tiles leaning up against one another. Some cataclysmic geological event several millennia ago, no doubt. Sand nestles in crevices, bright orange lichen drapes itself on the tips, grass, weeds or moss cling to the sides. Nature close-up is astonishing. There’s just so much of it. The low-lying rocks at my feet are spattered with sea thrift, spent now but, back in May, it would have been covered in pretty pink flowers held above cushions of slender foliage. I have some of it in a pot in my garden at home that I brought from Skye some years ago. It flowers every year despite the unfamiliar habitat and the absence of sea and salt breeze. A survivor. A reminder of a past life. A bee is busy excavating among the petals of a yellow vetch beside me. There’s plenty of it here on the edge of the dunes along with dandelions, chickweed, clover, knapweed and marguerite daisies as well as several grasses that someone might be able to name. Not me!

I have the beach to myself for a while and it’s blissful. It’s a Sunday and maybe there are long lies, cooked breakfasts, even church services that are keeping people away. Fine by me. But soon they arrive. Firstly, a group of teenage boys, followed by two sets of parents and maybe a grandparent. They’re kitted out with chairs, cricket bats and a blow-up canoe as well as cool-bags with supplies. Further along, I can hear the squeals of two little girls jumping over the waves. I have to share this paradise. I paddle. The water feels cold at first but soon I adjust to the way it gently caresses my bare feet.

I think it’s the sea that sings rather than the sand. The sea is never quiet. Though maybe there’s a particular sound here as it laps onto sand that is granular – more caster sugar than flour –  it has texture and heft. Does that make it sound like singing? Or maybe it’s when a westerly wind blows and whips up the sand and rustles the shoreline that the beach breaks into song? I think, perhaps, every island has a Singing Sands. Because the sea is never, ever quiet. There is music in the beat of waves on a shore. I like the name. It reminds me to listen.