Highland ponies in their element
Inverlael, Highlands The bog is dirt-black and soupy, threatening to mire us at every step. All we can do is give the horses free rein to seek a safe route
At the weir at Glenbeg, we abandon the path and head west, using the river as a guide. The bog is dirt-black and soupy, threatening to mire us at every step; all we can do is give the horses free rein to seek a safe route through the morass. They lower their heads, ears pricked as they inspect the ground, and veer off along sheep-trodden detours, leaping sloughs and streamlets. Highland ponies in their element.
Where the river branches, we follow the tributary high onto a plateau to the east of Eididh nan Clach Geala, a Munro whose Gaelic name suggests it to be "clothed" in white rock: gleaming, boulders of quartz that glimmer, unnervingly clean and sharp as bared teeth. On a good day, one can see the Summer Isles or the stark lines of Assynt, where lone mountains rear up from the flats. But, today, low clouds have closed around us, brushing past damply, and the steady, relentless rain hasn't faltered since we woke.
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