Pt3 - 15:

ACROSS THE TOP AND DOWN TO SKYE

The most serious challenge driving across the very top of Scotland is resisting the urge to stop every 500 meters for a four second pan with the video camera. Rounding every corner and topping every crest drew gasps of wonder. The landscape is simply immense, a hostile and forbidding wilderness of bald moors and looming tors shrouded in shifting mists. The only evidence of human occupation are long abandoned, forlornly exposed stone bothys, now just weathered grey shells defying the relentless wind.

On the shores of Loch Eriboll a savage squall swept in. The horizontal rain sounded like gravel hitting the bullet as I battled the wheel to keep her on the road. I pulled over to let it pass and as it did a perfect rainbow appeared, gleaming in the watery light. By the time I reached the western head of the loch the rain had blown right through and the sun beamed down on an exceptionally beautiful coastline, from the sheltered sandy cove immediately below the road to imposing Whiten Head in the eastern distance. A few kilometres further on I took advantage of the break in the weather, parked the bullet and descended the steep path to the irresistibly named Smoo Cave. Despite sounding like something from a smurf adventure the Smoo is a dramatically vast coastal cave into which an underground river cascades twenty meters in a roaring waterfall. Holes in the cavernous ceiling cast an eerie light in the vault, creating a palette of unusual colours on the damp walls.

Back in the bullet I studied the map and fancied I might reach Cape Wrath. I had no illusions what I’d find there, the name said it all, but it was the north-western most tip of Scotland and I’d never be any closer, so what the hell. Surprise, surprise; I arrived at the turnoff in a fully foul force 40 gale and rain so heavy the wipers were futile. The Kyle of Durness, which I’d have to cross by ferry, was a heaving sea of white spume so I set the controls for Scourie instead.

If I thought the most imposing scenery was behind me I had another think coming. The A838 to Rhiconich at the head of Loch Inchard passed through some of the most spectacular landscapes since Turkey and Crete. Tortured into steep fells and rugged, cloud-capped crags, the driving rain and the white veins of streams sluicing down jagged black ravines gave the whole panorama a primeval feel. Here and there derelict bothys stood lonely and pathetic, lending a sense of scale to the roaring immensity of the elements. Who would have dared try to live here? It was no surprise they were abandoned, only that they were ever built in the first place.

After nearly ten hours of sensory overload I finally wheeled into Ullapool around six. I scored the last room in town at the Brae Guest House right on the waterfront, then showered and took a stroll the length of Shore Street to the Arch Inn at the western end where I installed myself with a pint of Guinness and stared slack jawed at the big TV on the wall. I don’t remember walking back to the room, but I woke up to a thoroughly glorious morning for the road to Skye.

*

We interrupt normal programming with today’s lesson:

GLOSSARY of GAEL

Aird = height

Brae = steep hillside

Cnoc = hill

Dubh = black

Dun = fort

Eilean = island

Strath = broad valley

Struan = stream

&

FROM THE NORSE

Bost = township

Burgh = town

Dale = glen

Ness/Nigh = headland

Shadder/Sheiling/Stein = stone

Uig/Vaig = bay

*

I took the A835 south to Gairloch in bright sunshine. The air was still for the first time in days, which made the physical demands of driving far more manageable; I’ve spent a lot of energy just keeping the bullet on the road since Inverness. The calm waters of Loch Broom and Loch Ewe lay on my right and then, as the road swung south-east after Gairloch, Loch Maree appeared on the left. I stopped for coffee at Kinlochewe and as I gazed idly at the map it dawned on me that Scotland is really a community of islands separated by a system of waterways slashing the landmass from north-west to south-east, some large like Loch Ness, others more modest but no less important. The ocean coastlines are dramatic, with deep fjord-like incisions. Rarely are you out of sight of water, and even then it’s never far away.

From Kinlochewe I cut across to Torridon to join the coast-hugging road to Shieldaig and then Applecross. Ideally I’d be able to relax into this panoramic route without fear of being blown off the face of the Earth. The road rose and fell gently all the way around to Applecross, here and there offering serene views of the islands of Rona and Raasay across the Inner Sound. Behind them the profile of Skye levitated in the hazy distance. After Applecross the road turned inland and rose steeply to the sonorously named Bealach-na Bo. And then things got really interesting…thrilling actually.

The narrow ribbon of tar threaded in and out and round about a rocky, barren landscape not unlike the Judean desert south of Jerusalem, but without the warmth at this altitude. Once over the peak the road rapidly descended in a series of vertiginous hairpins. The Archers soapie was on the radio, I turned it off to concentrate. The dramatic views towards Tornapress on Loch Carron were peripheral to the strip of tar immediately ahead. Fortunately oncoming traffic was light; when another vehicle approached one of us would have to give way by nosing onto the soft shoulder. It was all pretty exciting.

Back down at sea level I made for Skye, taking the bridge over Lochalsh on what was still a fine afternoon. By six I’d settled in to the B&B at Achtalean north of the capital Portree and found a table at the Cuillin Hills Hotel in town with a speccy view over Portree Bay to the Cuillin Mountains.

*

Skye’s a good place to do not very much driving. I’ve covered 2000 ks since Cumnock so a couple of days just pootling around here look pretty attractive. Yesterday I did a loop through the centre to Bracadale, up the west coast to Dunvegan Castle, over to Staffin Bay and back down the rugged east coast to Portree. The lilting names are a treat to the ear, even if you never actually hear them; they look lyrical on the map: Rubha nam Brathairean, Eilean Flodigarry, Uig, Kensaleyre, Skeabost. The rain returned at Dunvegan, which is a moody ruin full of ancient ghosts. On the traverse of the highlands to Staffin I struggled to keep the bullet on the road in the wild wind that sprang up out of nowhere and funnelled through the narrow passes. I got back to Portree at beer o’clock and hit The Pier Hotel. The tiny bar was packed for the England v Moldova Euro Cup qualifier. The whole joint fell silent when they played “Goodbye English Rose” before the anthems. The Moldovan anthem sounded like a funeral dirge performed by a cat in a bag; fortunately it only went for three hours. After the game I got pissed with a bunch of filmies who were working on a shoot with Bob Hoskins for a film called “One Inch Over the Horizon”, or so they said. They kept the stories, and the beers, flowing. One incident was particularly Pythonesque; they were shooting a scene on the Yorkshire moors when a prop boulder they were using for the scene blew away in the breeze, leaving the actor gurning dumbly at the camera.

Today I’m seriously overhung.

*

That’s it! I have to do something about all the mountainous English breakfasts, fried pub grub, rivers of Guinness and sitting on my fat arse for hours behind the wheel. I’m at a small seaside village south of Portree called Camastianavaig – there’s a Viking mouthful for you – looking up at a headland above the town. I leave the bullet in a car park by the little shingle beach and strike out for the summit. There’s a stiff breeze a-blowin’ and the sky is alive with low, billowing, fast moving clouds but it’s dry…so far. I follow the sheep trails up the steady incline at the base, taking a break every twenty minutes or so. The slope gradually steepens until just below the summit where it’s almost vertical. The wind brings with it short bursts of light rain, just enough to be a pest. It takes me one hundred and three minutes to reach the top. The panorama is breathtaking; across the sound to the Isle of Raasay and Applecross, where I gazed at the reciprocal view just a couple of days ago, and along the ancient coastline of Skye from Portree in the north to Peinchorran in the south. And I have this immense landscape entirely to myself. Rain flurries force a quick descent against the wind. I arrive at the bullet fifty seven minutes later, huffing and puffing and feeling all righteous. Now I can leave for Oban tomorrow with a clear conscience.

Next time: Oban, a maud on Mull and across the sea to Belfast...