On Holidays (and Scottish Willies)

I am going on holidays tomorrow.*  I bet when I say holidays you think of sun, sea and….drinks 😉 by the pool?  Nah uh, not for me! Nope and no siree. I’m going to Scotland.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of Greek/Canary/Balearic Island holidays in the past.  I’ve even been to Fiji (ooh get me) as part of a whirlwind round the world trip (3 weeks from start to finish but that’s another blog story.  Which incidentally, includes an astronaut anecdote but….not telling that one today!)

I’m going to Scotland.  That’s as precise as it gets.  I’m going on a road trip – and if you do like driving and you haven’t driven in the Highlands – you have no idea what you are missing! Well  – you probably do – put it this way the roads are the stuff of which expensive car-advertising-executive’s dreams are made of.  Sorry, I digress – as will my journey most likely – but I do hope we make it all the way up to the tippetty-top again (as my friend called Cape Wrath when we got there last year.)

I’d normally combine a trip so far north with a hillwalking weekend as we did last year in Ullapool – and the guys I normally walk with are running an event in gorgeous Gairloch (hence the timing) but I haven’t been able to walk so much this year as I normally do – for a variety of reasons including redundancy and a second severe sciatica – which basically means my walking fitness isn’t up to much currently, and certainly not up to Scottish walking.  But it will come back – and I will be scaling peaks again I’m sure.

So this is a purely drink in the scenery of the west coast, Sutherland and hopefully we’ll make it across to the nature reserve on Handa Island this time (was unavoidably detained last year chatting to Old Willy, the 80 year old “son of the gamekeeper of the Old Duke of Westminster” who had been taken out by an old friend (jazz musician) who he’d met when they were both sent away to school at 10  or 11, and his stunningly exotic wife, in the pub on the ferry slipway at Kylesku.  Willy taught us how to eat the langoustines that were served whole skewered on a metal blade that descended like a dagger – what an ice-breaker huh? and he and his friend told us tales from their youth including their school days and playing in the rugged scenery surrounding us, including the obligatory monster (Nessie) “fish that got away” on one of their countless fishing trips.

So we dallied, after our late lunch, having already travelled up the loch to see the highest waterfall in Scotland, (incidentally that’s a must-do trip too – not least due to the larger-than-life character who provides the entertainment/commentary on the boat, whilst his sons steer and blush with shame at their dad’s risque jokes.  He has both a wicked but gentle sense of humour and an obvious love for and intimate (not in THAT way) knowledge of his environment.  He’s also called Willy….and joined us in the pub delightedly exclaiming when he saw the other Willy – “girls – you know that house at the top end of the loch – this man was born there!”  He was known as young Willy – a mere whippersnapper in his 70s.  And that’s as exciting as the Scottish willies bit of my story gets – though I did get old Willy’s number so result.  I think.  He wanted me to go and be his housekeeper – well I think that’s what he was offering!

A lovely afternoon, but it meant we didn’t get across to the cove to get the ferry to Handa until a quarter to 5, and the last boat was already on its way back.  So we sat at the edge of the land where it sloped down to the small pebbled beach, and watched the world go by as the last rays of the sun warmed our faces.  Two black and white dogs, belonging to a fisherman who was busy chatting, came and invited me to play by dropping various bits of driftwood at my feet which I threw repeatedly into the sparkling sea for them, and we also had a very long tug of war session with some of that blue fishing rope that seems to end up on most beaches now.  The dogs won by the way.

Meanwhile a French woman who was camping nearby managed to barter with a fisherman for some fresh mackerel to cook on her camp fire, by suggesting she swap them for a couple of bottles of wine.  “I hope it’s good” he muttered drily as she turned to get the promised bottles,  and she was most indignant as she replied “Je suis Francais,  c’est bon – naturellement!”

I played with the dogs and looked at the water, and watched for the dolphins and whales that I’d read often passed through the narrow channel between the mainland and island, and in my normal curious way wandered over to observe as the fisherman returned with the French woman and, after trying in vain to communicate how to prepare the fish (she’d perfected a blank expression at this point with a most excellent expressive Gallic shrug of total incomprehension) proceeded to gut the fish in the water with a blade like a Turkish scimitar.  He opened the stomach to show the fish’s last meal – and I saw the perfect tiny crabs and fish slipping in his fingers and thought of the bird within a bird within a bird roasts that were produced for feasts in times gone by.

Last year when we travelled up to Gairloch I subjected my friend to the hair-raising toe-curling (including for me as the driver) hair-pin bends to the highest road in the UK, the “pass of the cattle”, promising stunning views across to Skye and the Hebrides at the top – but we had thick mist.   So I sulked at the steel point plate showing the directions of various peaks on a clear day and pointed vainly through the damp clinging mist saying – “over there’s Askival – on Rum”  in a Ted Rogers  “look at what you could have won stylee.  We had an early lunch at the Applecross inn. Excellent scallops.  And stopped at the not as remote as it looked on the tellybox croft Monty Hall made his home for 6 months in his first series.  Once in Gairloch we  managed a trip out on a rib during a weather window thinking we were lucky; however there were no whales to be watched, and the return trip degenerated into an endurance test as the weather had turned unexpectedly and nastily so that despite our survival suits we were all drenched when we finally made it safely back to harbour.

Of course a month earlier when I’d travelled on alone after a week of walking on Skye with a group, I’d had glorious breakfast views at the pass of the cattle,  and been out on the rib and saw minke whales!  And I’d been lucky enough to see a red squirrel cross the road – entertainingly just before passing the “red squirrel crossing” warning sign on the road to Ullapool.

Oldshoremore beach was simply breathtaking, and I still intend to make it up to Sandwood Bay.  Although maybe just not this time – as it is a 4 mile walk in.

So – despite previous disappointments my friend is keen to go again – to try and experience more of the glorious wildlife and scenery knowing I’ve repeatedly come back full of tales and adventure stories  – I normally like a couple of  Scottish fixes to restore and renew my soul but haven’t been up this year.  And despite my friend not seeing the whales last time, we did see seals from the cliff top after we walked out along the top of Smoo Cave just past the glorious small but perfectly formed beach at Durness.  The underground boat trip in the caves wasn’t running as they were flooded.  However the cliff top was carpeted with orchids and the nosy seals kept us company for half an hour.

On the spur of the moment on our last night decided to bomb it back down from Durness to Gairloch (managing in just over 3 hours a journey which had taken us 3 days to meander on the way up) to join another walking buddy who had gone on from the weekend in Ullapool to camp and explore on her own.   We stopped just half an hour from Gairloch to take pictures of the most glorious sunset and a red deer hind with two calves grazing maybe 30 yards from the edge of the road – well it would have been rude not to!

After checking into the hostel we quick changed and met our friend Ele in the pub near her campsite and then drove down to the Old Inn for last night drinks and live music.  We sang our hearts out to the songs played by the poor chap with the guitar (who really didn’t know what had hit him – but in my defence he did ask for requests).

Waking at 5 (not sleeping too well at the best of times it wasn’t rocket science that the top bunk of a dorm room with snorers wouldn’t be that conducive) we were on the road for 6 – and after a last quick scout round the harbour for the elusive otter I know lives there, headed south.  To break up our mammoth journey I called in at the Loch of the Lowes just outside Dunkeld – and despite the osprey chicks having now fledged, the two surviving chicks were still hanging around the nest and we had great views of them sitting looking rather miserable, and extremely bedraggled.  Apparently once fledged the mum leaves them and dad takes over responsibility for teaching them to fish.  I approve.  Wholeheartedly. 🙂 We had breakfast in Howies and then headed on South – about 11 hours driving in total with one more stop at the services just north of Ferrybridge when the waves of exhaustion meant I needed to nap.

It was strange to have someone with me as I often do a lot of my exploring in Scotland alone after leaving a walking group, but it was quite lovely to share such stunning views and experiences with a friend – who since I helped focus and train the binoculars on the squawking osprey chicks for the first time has subsequently become  a bit of a birder themselves.  Still – if you’re going to start – start big…..  And apparently – I do give good tourguide! 😉

* I started this last Wednesday, the night before I left for my most recent trip….but never quite got round to  publishing it!  But I am a completer finisher – so better late than never!