On the second day of our trip along the North Coast 500, we reached the top of Wailing Widow Falls by late afternoon. The walk from the road to the top of the falls was short, but the path was boggy and a strong wind had come barreling down from the mountains. We were high up, but the surrounding mountains were taller still and from the edge of the cliff the wild landscape of Assynt tumbled and raged far into the distance.

Behind us, Loch na Gainmhich stood serenely above it all, as if in its own little world — and it was. Totally isolated on the mountain top, it was a quiet, lonely place. A white veil of fog had fallen upon the mountains behind it, softening their jagged edges and dampening all sound. Only the roar of the falls could be heard and it drew us near.

Legend says that long ago, a deer hunter fell to his death after losing his way in the fog. His mother, a widow, threw herself over the falls the next day. From where we stood in the slippery mud, the story felt all too real. Was it the wind we heard creep in from the mountains or the wails of a lost soul in mourning?

Mesmerised by the cascading water, time slipped away from us and the light began to fade. Rain rolled in and we became separated, each of us finding our path back to the road. In the battle against mud and mist, Dylan fell into the bog, nearly losing his life boot.

In the land of the Fae

Back in our car and covered in mud, we took the short drive down into the valley. From there, we walked into the heart of the gorge. There was no clear path to the falls, so we followed the river upstream. The way was rough and rocky — and of course, muddy — and we found ourselves grabbing at tree roots just to steady ourselves.

Before long, the narrow gorge opened up to reveal a green world of rock, moss and flowering trees. It was a place of ethereal, other-wordly beauty. As we gazed up at the falls, the fog thickened, the daylight faded, and over the sound of roaring water came one last, mournful wail.