Atlantic Rock: New Routing In The Outer Hebrides

The Outer Hebrides are famous for their dense populations of rare seabirds that nest in the imposing rock faces of the islands’ cliffs. Most will observe these craggy formations and their inhabitants from a distance, and from the relative safety of a boat. But in September 2022, a crack team of climbers set sail for St Kilda, the westernmost point of the British Isles. Their objective: to establish new routes on the tallest sea cliffs in the United Kingdom.

Avian flu, inclement conditions and rough seas meant the odds were stacked against them, but as Will Birkett recounts, sometimes fate favours the bold.

Is there even any point in going? It’s an unusual statement for a plan more than a year in the making. But like a lot of plans, this one hinged on the unseen; those subtle unpredictable tremors on the periphery of our own personal little bubbles. 

Avian influenza was the simmering issue, one that had just begun to boil over, spilling onto these best-laid plans. Nature Scotland had just put out an advisory notice to stop public landings on Soay and Dùn, two of the main islands a team of climbers had pegged to explore.

Early Thursday morning, I was at work when I received a voice message: 

‘Hey dude, it’s Robbie, hope you’re well. I don’t suppose you’re free for a climbing trip to St Kilda are you? Guy hurt his elbow and we might need an extra climber. Only thing is, we leave tomorrow. Once in a lifetime trip!’ 

How could I resist? But now it seemed this spontaneous sojourn could come to an end before it had even started.

We first sailed to Barra Head, also known as Berneray. Tilted on its axis as if a giant had sat on its northern aspect, sinking half the island while simultaneously raising the other half up, this is the most southerly island of the Outer Hebrides. Its largest cliffs stand proud at 200m and the flawless gneiss form steep, oppressing corners flaked in vivid yellow algae that protrude uninterrupted, straight from the seabed. 

When your time on islands such as these is limited, it helps to be paired with some of the best adventure trad climbers in the world.

The first day, myself, Guy and Robbie spied an unclimbed line on the right hand side of the crag known as Giant’s Pipes, taking a stone pillar directly up the face. Robbie negotiated patches of seeping saltwater to lead the best pitch of climbing I had seconded all year. From a thinning crack to rounded smears and obscure, undercut power moves through a stepped out roof, continuing up pockets and crimps to a belay some 58 metres above the swell.

The main attraction of climbing Outer Hebridean sea cliffs in September is that the nesting season is finito. Once our feathered friends have fledged their cliff ledges, the options of ascendible rock are greatly increased. So naturally, looking for new lines at this more unsettled time of year made far more sense, even if the forthcoming autumnal weather might throw some curveballs our way.

Prior to our arrival on Hirta, we had been in touch with the Scottish National Trust, so we could discuss climbing on the islands of Soay and Dùn, both of which had been badly affected by avian influenza. When we arrived in the bay, we radioed across to their permanent base on St Kilda to arrange a meeting with the wardens in person. Our expectation was that they’d fob us off, but to our surprise they were extremely personable and helpful and we were soon given the go-ahead to climb on the sea cliffs of Hirta, Soay and Dùn as it was outside of nesting season. So long as we accessed the base of the cliffs and left the same way via the sea, it was highly unlikely that we would disturb or even come into contact with the birdlife. They also asked that if we did see any bird remains that we take photos and report back each day with any finds. Elated that not only could we climb on our desired cliffs, but that our climbing expedition had been upgraded to an ecological survey, we went forth and looked for crags.

We remained in regular contact with the wardens on Hirta. Most days we would radio across or visit in the dinghy. One warden named Chris had mentioned in passing his recent acquisition of a racing pigeon who had likely been blown off course was now refusing to fly away. He fed it every day but was worried it would meet an untimely end if it stayed on the island much longer, and that equally if sent back to its owners they might themselves kill it. After some debate back on board Half Light, we ended up with guardianship of said pigeon. We named him Charles and he became a sort-of mascot to the trip, patiently minding the boat from his window view.

We weathered the final part of the trip on the island of Mingulay, one north of Berneray. The island too boasts an array of fascinating wildlife. Seals play and howl at all hours along the golden sandy beach, and a plethora of birdlife nests along its cliffs, some seasonally and some year round.

Regular showers rolled across the sea occasionally drenching us but we climbed when we could. Guy and Hamish found a whole new unclimbed sector over 100 metres high and quickly bagged an incredible looking 5 star route, climbing roofs, cracks and walls. Robbie and I spent a bit of time swinging around on Dun Mingulay, and eventually Robbie smashed a new E8 up through the roof left of Big Kenneth that hosted a surprise second pitch delaying our ascent and finishing in the dark. 

I feel honoured to have had these experiences with these amazing people in such a wildly beautiful place, on what was truly a once in a lifetime trip.

But what happened to the pigeon? I hear you say. 

After his epic journey back to the mainland, Charles the pigeon found himself driving to Edinburgh with Robbie. There he was rehomed in a pigeon sanctuary to live out the rest of his days eating seeds and hanging around with his own kind, safe from the perils he once oversaw from his bolthole onboard Half Light.