MONTY: Says farewell to the West Coast

So the west-coast odyssey comes to an end. I am fleeing back south, like the migratory creature I am, to the world of central heating and flatscreen TV, chased down the M1 by the shrieking winds of a Scottish winter.

Already, the first hint of autumn is in the air, with the hills turning a golden brown and the stags heading into them to start the annual rut. Their eerie roars sound constantly from the glens, amplified by the steep hills so they echo across the sea channel that stretches in front of the bothy. The burns that meandered with the clear water of late summer are now crackling torrents. The calm waters of the bay have become restless at the approach of the winter storms. Everything around me is preparing for the dark, cold days ahead, when the animals of the sea will seek the sanctuary of deeper water or warmer climes.

So, I crammed in a couple of final dives on the wild northern tip of Skye on a clear, crisp day. In the capable hands of Gordon and Aileen from Dive and Sea the Hebrides, I drifted slowly along the dark overhang of Conger Crevice, a vipers’ nest of slate-grey leviathans peering out at me, with a clicking array of lobsters and crabs alongside. Such was the drama and atmosphere of this dive that I completely ignored the cuckoo wrasse that accompanied me throughout, bustling ahead like some tour guide in a bright livery of stripes anades. One of the congers took exception to being gawked at, and slithered out of its gloomy home to gently nose my camera away, with me furiously backpedalling in a mass of gauges, hoses, bubbles and adrenaline.

I also had the good fortune to be accompanied on this dive by Sue Scott, who took a relentless series of annoyingly excellent photographs, which I will be delighted to show all and sundry when I get home. I may even mention that it was her that took them and not me. Maybe.

I had my leaving party a few days ago, lighting a bonfire on the beach, erecting a marquee (very badly), and inviting a legendary local band (the Big Field Blues Band – all beards, ponytails, smiles and tunes that made even the limpets jig along). I even had the chance to create a few new divers, as Dave Black – an instructor from nearby Lochcarron – ran some intro dives from the beach. As a steady succession of bright-eyed locals emerged beaming from the bay, I thought to myself: ‘Aha, a few more of us, a few less of them.’

We were blessed with a calm evening, the surface of the channel burnished by the light of dusk. A great mob from the village tramped muddily over the horizon and immediately began to organise me, the marquee and the evening’s proceedings, and to assist in the disposal of large quantities of alcohol. As the band struck up and the first of us began a lazy jig, a shout went up from Dave, the local gamekeeper, whose gimlet gaze had spotted a movement on the water’s surface in the bay.

After six months of not seeing a basking shark from the bothy, here was one in the shallows at the very centre of the bay – a massive fin not 30m from shore, the belly of the animal scraping the white sand of the sea bed. Everyone stopped to watch its regal progress: a silent crowd lined the rocks to stare at an ocean giant as it slipped away into the shadows of a golden dusk.

The resultant party left alcoholic scars that may never heal, and also meant that this month’s column tumbled alarmingly down my list of priorities. The appearance of a certain diminutive, ginger, unintelligible Para was a powerful reminder, rather like encountering Frodo on steroids. [You’ll read about Andy’s journey on page 53 of this issue.] I’m not too sure where he went after finding me, although I did hear the unmistakable sound of a stag being chinned from the hill behind the bothy a few days ago. Maybe all that testosterone proved irresistible.

I return to the insanity of modern life and a world in the grip of recession, leaving behind one of the most beautiful places on Earth and a group of people I will never forget. It’s strange how – after a lifetime of expeditions and travelling – the finest journey I’ve ever undertaken meant staying in the same place.