From around two weeks before the work meet the custodian can be found checking the long range weather forecasts on a daily basis. Sometimes this sends his little heart aflutter, at others into a pit of despair. So you can imagine my excitement when the national media started mentioning a coming heat wave. I had been monitoring a build up of high pressure to the east, which would draw in a light southerly and keep the Atlantic lows at bay. I closed my eyes and imagined us, sitting outside on the Saturday, our work done, enjoying some refreshments whilst shielding our eyes from the glare from the newly whitewashed walls. Now read on.
Whether it was the lure of a weekend on Skye, or the anticipation of shifting gas cylinders, but there was a fine response to the call for volunteers to attend the workmeet. Some weel kent faces, some elder statesmen of the club, some returnees after a bit of an absence and a few first timers. All in all a fine mix of youth and experience. One of our party- definitely in the youth camp- suffered an exhaust failure (on his car, not his person) and was not able to attend. Having read this, he might think he dodged a bullet. So there were thirteen of us that gathered at Elgol under lowering skies. Our Chief Engineer had succumbed to delay by a thousand campervans – all doing a maximum of 40mph- and would join us the following day. The good folk of the Misty Isle were not optimistic. No boats until Tuesday was their advice, and whilst the forecast was, hmm, sub optimal, this seemed unduly pessimistic. So, we might be marooned. Great.
We load the boat with our provisions and half a ton of gravel and off we sail. Hang on, there are only eleven of us. Unbeknownst to us, two of our party had sloped off to the Elgol cafe for a coffee and had missed the boat. Out of the goodness of his heart the boatman does a 180 and picks them up. Off we go again and without further incident ourselves and our cargo are unloaded. Tents are pitched, our elder statesmen crack a bottle and a convivial evening is spent by all. Meanwhile, outside the wind is strengthening, and by the time I retire to my tent it is blowing a hoolie. It only gets worse, and my tent poles suffer structural integrity failures. I sleep in the hut from now on.
Saturday morning, and I’m preparing breakfast when the Chief Engineer appears, having made short work of the walk from Kilmarie. He didn’t fancy carrying the new septic tank lid across the bad step, so that’s a wee treat for another day. Collectively we crack on and humph the gas and gravel to the hut and the gas bunker is restocked in record time. Although the day is windy, it’s dry, so we take a risk and see if we can get the outside painted. A couple of volunteers slather Sandtex on the walls and occasionally themselves. Others cogitate about my plan to put a path in between the front door and the toilet. We start the digging under the chief Engineer’s steely gaze and with many willing hands it proceeds at pace and it is rapidly completed. What we do now is lay a membrane before putting down the gravel. Where is the membrane? Anyone seen the membrane? No one has seen the membrane. Could it have been left outside? In that wind? We start searching, although it could be in Glen Brittle for all we know. We accept it’s not going to be found but carry on.
A hexagonal grid is laid and filled up with gravel. End result? Pretty good, and it’s only early afternoon and most tasks are done. So a couple of the younger members take a trip up Sgurr nan Eag, others take a walk round to the loch. For the Chief Engineer no trip to the hut is complete without a visit to the mad burn so he sets off with a couple of companions to plan his next campaign against the force of nature that is the water supply. A few weeks earlier during a visit to the hut he had let slip to the custodian that he had just compleated his Corbetts, and after dinner the legendary Trig Point Trophy was awarded.
It rained on Sunday. All day, a proper Skye soaker. The mad burn lived up to its name and then some. With doubt hanging over a boat on Monday four of the party made the decision to walk out, two to Elgol and two to Slig. The stepping stones were still visible, which was something, but it was a driech day for a walk.
The remainder of us occupied ourselves with jobs in the hut. At the risk of breaching all manner of Health and Safety regulations a couple of expendable members were dispatched into the loft space to facilitate fitting a couple of new lights, and they do make a difference. What also made a difference is that you can now walk between the door and the cludgie without stepping in a puddle. The new path certainly got a baptism on the Sunday. If we did have to stay another night I was fairly certain we had enough food for the humans but the dog was another matter, so I opted to concoct a meal for Findlay the Flatulent with a can of mackerel fillets and some pasta so I could keep some of his kibble in reserve. He loved it, but he insisted on sharing his mackerel laden breath with all and sundry. It was just as bad as you think it would be.
Monday dawned and it wasn’t promising. Still windy, and I really wasn’t hopeful. I made a speculative call to the Misty Isle folk and was somewhat surprised when they told me the boat was on its way. Cue a mad panic of packing, cleaning and tidying. It was a bit of a bumpy crossing. but we made it. And there, lying in the boot of my car was the roll of membrane. Typical.