In Assynt, the mountains rose up fierce and wild like the Highlanders of old. Here, even the trees had failed to conquer them. The land felt rougher and colder, and with each passing mile I felt more and more like the mountains were bearing down upon us, threatening to keep us in this barren landscape should we ever try to leave the safety of the road.

We first met these ancient giants on the road from Bealach na Ba’ through Wester Ross, Scotland. Having faced that twisting and winding path and lived to tell the tale, we knew we wanted to again put ourselves to the test and climb one of the mountains before our trip along the North Coast 500 came to an end.

Stac Pollaidh (pronounced “Stack Polly”) was top of our list for its location and views of other stunning mountains. By the time we reached its base, flashes of rain had already come and gone, and our rocky path was transformed into a gentle, slippery waterfall. The threat of more rain loomed heavily in the distant grey clouds, so we took the wet steps as quickly as we could. Cracks and crevices had formed in the earth and at times we had to leap across them — a feat that was far more impressive in my mind than in reality as I stumbled in the mud.

Halfway up, we scrambled up a couple of large boulders to take in the view behind us. For just a moment, deep blue skies peeked out from the clouds and shards of sunlight swept across the hills and valleys. Loch Sionascaig lay far below, rapidly undulating beneath the shapely slopes of mighty Suilven. To its right stood Cùl Mòr, where cloud shadows danced along its twin peaks and deep green valley. The entire scene was breathtakingly beautiful.

Yet, nothing compared to the majesty of Stac Pollaidh in its loneliness. With a name that means Pinnacle of the Pool River, it looked like a mythical guardian of the lochs. It alone seemed to command the winds and when it called forth the storm from the distance and draped itself in fog, we ran down the treacherous path back to the safety of our little road.

What is it about a mountain that makes us want to stare at them? Why do we feel the need to place hand to rock, just to feel the power within? Throughout the two days we spent in the western Highlands, we found ourselves constantly coming back to this idea of the majesty of a mountain.

Standing next to any mountain is humbling, but there’s something about the lonely giants of Scotland that invoke a different feeling — something more primal. Perhaps in them, we’re reminded of the age of the earth and inevitable passing of time.

As we continued on our road to Thurso, this feeling only grew stronger with every mile.

Mountains are the visualisation of our own insignificance.

Patrick Connolly