SCRIPT

James McKechnie
Sheila Latimer
 
Standing proudly on an eminence overlooking the Moray Firth, and commanding a superb view of mountain, sea and forest, is the castle of Inverness, capital of the Highlands.

There are several wonderful ways to the magic and mystery of the Western Isles of Scotland, but the loveliest of them starts here, where, in the language of King Duncan in Macbeth, the air sweetly recommends itself unto our gentle senses.

It recommended itself anyway to Mary, Queen of Scots, for she lived here 400 years ago.

The broad and beautiful River Ness flows through the heart of the town. Bridges connect its islets with both banks so that you may make a crossing from one side of the river to the other.

Inverness is well endowed with fine buildings, especially churches. St Andrew's Cathedral, as students of architecture will agree, is a perfect example of Decorated Gothic.

We are on the road to the Isles and the first stage takes us towards Drumnadrochit, which lies at the entrance to Glen Urquhart. The road skirts Loch Ness, 24 miles long, one of the largest freshwater lochs in Britain.

You may remember it's where the monsters come from.

But here, for the whole of those 24 miles, is an ever changing beauty of hill and woodland.

This is good granite country, and on the road we pass a quarry that seems literally to cling to the hillside. We enter the glen to the west of the loch and reach the pretty hamlet of Drumnadrochit, on the road to Lewiston. It's a bonnie clachan of wee white houses, nestling snugly in the glen like glistening jewels in a casket. Each house with its smiling garden of highland blooms.

The road sweeps southward through the village towards the distant hills. Loch ness is one of the three great lochs connected by the Caledonian Canal, which extends from Inverness to Fort William. Hereabouts the canal runs parallel with the loch and at intervals of a few miles, are tiny communities of cottages among the trees. One of them is Lewiston, on the road to Invermoriston.

On the little promontory of Struan is the ruined shell of Urquhart Castle, 700 years old, it sits grimly on the bluff, like a war battered warrior brooding on the past.

The loch sweeps majestically away to the southwest in a vista of water and woodland, rock and sky. It's the country of splendid solitude. Wild, vast, romantic.

They say that Mary's little lamb was a Scot.

He was a sort of woolly wally. If he lived here. He lived where the loch is deepest and sometimes bleakest. At this point it is over 750ft deep. As long ago as the year 750, Saint Columba sailed his coracle over this large expanse of water after converting the surly druids.

We take the road again towards Invermoriston. Like the rest of it, as far as Fort Augustus, the road hugs the shores of Loch Ness, and it's a magnificent picture all the way. The great Glen is as fickle as a woman in her moods and modes. At one point you will glimpse the dark gloom of pine and fir and larch. At another, the wild splendour of the heights, with the deep water reflecting the curves of the Guardian Hills.

Towering up on either side of the road are huge cliffs of granite, so perpendicular that there's always the risk of a fall.

It's not nice to be hit even by a lump of good Scottish granite.

Almost the entire area of the county of Invernesshire is occupied by what geologists call highland schists and metamorphic rocks, that is, rocks that easily split and change their formation. Wherever you go, you will find vast expanses of rock strewn with large boulders and torn by fissures, as if the angry gods had clawed them in their rage.

Between these rugged cliffs is one of the finest motor roads in all Scotland. Lovely Invermoriston is at the entrance to Glenmoriston. Inver means "mouth of" and throughout its length it is watered by the River Moriston. The river is a chain of waterfalls and cataracts, and brooks and streams that awaken from their meandering to plunge in a seething whirlpool of crystal clear water, miles from its source.

There are some who say that Glen Morrison is the prettiest in Scotland. I would say that it's just typical of this part of the Highlands, which is full of beautiful glens. The torrent calms as it approaches one of the old bridges that span its wooded banks.

We are heading now for Fort Augustus at the foot of the loch. The road runs all the way close to its northern bank. Along it, on a certain August day in 1773, rowed the bulky form of Doctor Johnson and his chronicler Boswell, whose reference to it, you may recall, in his Tour to the Hebrides; "It's a never ending peep show through the trees".

As the loch narrows, the hills hem it in until it tapers off at the headland. A farmhouse stands near the southernmost end of the loch, where it is joined by the Caledonian Canal. The loch gates mark the junction of the waters at Fort Augustus. Here the Ness is met by the River Oich and Tarff, as well as by the canal, and clustered around are the few houses in the village.

An avenue of trees down the slopes of the glen forms one approach to the fort, which was built after the rebellion of 1715. The old fort is now a Benedictine monastery. Of the original structure, only the bastions remain. They alone are the silent witnesses of a turbulent past. Today the village is sheltered and peaceful.

Turning west from Invergarry on Loch Oich towards Tomdoun, we come into the sheep country. The happy grazing ground of the hardy Scotch Blackface breed that thrive upon heather hills and exposed grazing lands.

Scottish sheep, like Scottish women, have a will of their own, and it takes more than a mere dog to frighten either.

As a matter of fact, though, that sheep is a male, sheep a ram.

Well, he had a mother, hadn't he? In any case, it's the spirit of the sheep that so much like the spirit of the Highlander. Male or female.

Thank you. Perhaps you're right.

From the high mountain pass on the road to Cluanie, we get a remarkable view of what Boswell described as the land of mountain and flood. A narrow stream runs through the Grampians like a silver ribbon, and stretches across the valley into the loch beyond. We have climbed up to within hailing distance of the Five Sisters of Kintail, the highest peaks in the range and the most impressive.

And very aloof. The Five Sisters are, with their graceful fluted outlines and noses well up in the air.

Glen Shiel is a lonely corridor through the Grampians, a wild panorama of grey hills and tumbling waterfalls. Halfway up the glen is the bridge of Shiel. Near the head of Loch Duich. It's here that the road to the Isles divides. The Left Fork, the old military road to Glenelg and the right fork skirting the loch to Dornie Ferry.

The waters of Glen Shiel reflect the solemn hills that rise up on either side of the valley. Here, in truth, is one of nature's playgrounds, where, in the language of Ballantyne, she paints the landscape in unbridled mood and strews it with wild splendour.

On your right hand as you travel on towards the isles are the massive heights of the Grampians, which stretch from Argyll in the west to Aberdeen in the northeast. As far as the eye can see, the misty hills are silhouetted against the sky.

The sweeping contours of the mountains give place to the rugged depths of the glens, and the beauty of the lochs beyond. Down below is Loch Duich and at its western end, where it joins Loch Long, the crofting and fishing village of Dornie.

Scotland's national emblem, the thistle, rears its prickly head to remind us that we are indeed in the heart of the Highlands, the country where they say with the pipers we met on the road to Balmacara: "Here's tae us, whas like us. Deil the yen."

Which means "here's to us, who's like us, devil a one, or damn few". That calls for a little music, I think. Piping hot.

We are now in Wester Ross and overlooking Loch Duich, from the head of which we can see the Grampians in one direction and the heights of Skye in the other. The entrance to the loch is guarded by Eilean Donan Castle, which is 700 years old. For centuries it was the stronghold of the Mackenzies, Lords of Kintail and afterwards Earls of Seaforth. The castle, which was a ruin until 1913, was restored after the First Great War and is now an historic showplace. It is connected to the mainland by a stone bridge.

The village of Dornie lies in the dark shadow of the mountain range that runs to the edge of the loch. Its name means the place of the hand stones or round pebbles, a reference to the smooth stone still to be found in abundance in the neighbourhood.

A new bridge has been built over Loch Long on the road to Balmacara, near the Kyle of Lochalsh, where you set sail for the Isles.

From this point you get a magnificent view of the mountains that encompass the loch. The West Ross-shire giants rise directly from sea level, and you can view them in all their height and majesty, from base to crest. The loch itself is like a series of small lochs, narrowed at intervals by little promontories. All around, and almost down to its shores, are the slopes of the hills, some steep, some little more than mounds.

At Balmacara, the hills are mirrored in the clear waters, and horses and cattle graze on the grassy banks. From Balmacara, the mountain road for most of its way is fringed with trees.

Compared with the ruggedness of the glen passes, these crossroads are literally high, wide and handsome.

From the summit of the road, you can get a view of the loch as it stretches away towards the sea, towards the strait that divides the mainland from the Isle of Skye. The pretty little village of Lochalsh is at the mouth of the loch. It's the port of call for the steamers to Applecross, Skye and the Outer Isles.

The strait between the mainland and Skye is barely half a mile wide, though it's within easy rowing distance, and you can see from shore to shore that half a mile is the distance between two worlds.

(speed bonnie boat)

At the other end of the crossing, on the Isle of Skye, is the village of Kyleakin. The broken walls of the castle are relics of the spacious days, nearly 700 years ago, when Haakon, King of Norway, sailed through the straits with his great fleet of galleys, and was vanquished. Today, the village is a cluster of neat little houses fronting the harbour,

The vague, misty mass of the Cuillins dominates the view, whether by land or sea. That great range is inseparable from your first impression, the vast stretches of water and the inevitable hills. To some, Skye means the Cuillins.

Says Morton, in his book In Search of Scotland, 'I have never in all my life seen anything like the black Cuillins, standing great blue and still in morning sunshine.

And the distinguished traveller was right. There is something mysterious about the mountains of Skye that is part of the traditional island story.

Loch Slapin is an inlet on the south of the island, midway between Broadford and Elgol. Across the ruffled surface of the loch with its caverned shores, you can get a grand view of Ben Blaven, which mountaineers will tell you is the best climb of all the Cuillins.

From the hamlet of Torrin and the Broadford/Elgol road, The wild magnificence of the Blue Hill is paraded before your eyes. Gaunt and austere, the range rises in serene isolation from a glittering sea. Between the summits are wide sweeps of moorland, with mountain passes wriggling their way over the crests. Though none of the heights is much more than 3000ft., here is a mysterious fascination about them, especially to the climber, that makes them irresistible. The very names of the Couliins are fascinating. From this point, you can glimpse the Peak of Youth, the Peak of Mighty Winds, the Red Peak, the Black Peak, the Notched Peak, and so on. Their summits present a striking contrast in shapes, from a needle point to a stream line. They are the sentinels of Southern skye.

The peaks overshadow the rippling waters of Loch Scavaig, beloved of artists and poets. And above the peaks hover the great dark clouds.

Of such a scene, the wandering Robert the Bruce sang 'many a waste I've wandered o'er, clo'ed many a crag, crossed many a moor. But by my halidom, a scene so rude, so wild as this, yet so sublime in barrenness. Ne'er did my wandering footstep press where'er I had to roam.'.

Shaggy coated Highland cattle graze on the hills that stretch away northward toward Sligachan. As we approach the glen, the giant outlines of the Peak of Youth confront us. Rising from the moorland to a pinnacled crest. The glen lies dark in the hollow of the grim Mountains, and it divides the Black from the Red Cuillins.

The glen is full of gnomes and fancies. Legacy of the days when the Old Norse warriors from across the seas stormed through it. Today they tell of strange things seen by shepherds on misty mornings in the glens and on the hills. Steeped in tradition as it is, who can say that the desolate glen of Sligachan is not at long last giving up its secrets?

From Sligachan, the road heads due north to Portree. For nine miles it takes the visitor through a wonderland of changing scenery. Past small lochs, through lonesome glens and across mountain passes, up hill and down dale all the way.

For most of the way, the lochs are on one side of the road and the heights on the other. You take the middle course between water and rock.

Sheep come down from the mountains to the shelter of the glen. They always do with the threat of heavy rain. The central part of the island is the best sheep rearing country, and these are some of the largest flocks.

In the distance, across the quiet harbour among the trees, is the town of Portree, or the King's Harbour, the island's capital. At first glance it looks very much like Polperro in Cornwall.  The houses slope down towards the wooded cliff overlooking the natural harbour, which is sheltered by headlands, and the green breakwater of the island of Raasay.

Just north of the town, and nestling in a green valley, are the lochs Fada and Leathan, both noted for their trout. Looking further north, across the waters of the lochs, you can capture a grand view of The Storr, one of the most striking pieces of rock scenery on the island. Nearly 2500ft up, it rises sheer above a number of strange, shattered pinnacles on one side and massive basaltic precipices on the other. Part of the formation is the Old Man of Storr, a leaning steeple of trap rock 160ft high. With the gathering clouds behind him, and the steep slopes from the shore of the loch in front, Storr is a regal figure in his splendid aloofness.

The outlook from the capital is oddly restful. Though the countryside in every direction seems so remote from civilisation, there is none of that obsession of vast mountains that is inseparable from Sligachan, nine miles to the south. It is a more open country of loch and hill and pastureland.

Gone are the days where the crofters barely existed in ramshackle black huts that were fit only for their pigs. Outside the villages, the islanders today live for the most part in well-built, whitewashed cottages on a lochside, or a mountain slope, in a remote glen or some other almost inaccessible place, miles from the nearest community.

As you look up at the Cuillins you feel that they are rather like a mighty protector, keeping a watchful eye on his domain.

Across the narrow Sound of Sleat, spelt s l e a t, which divides the island on the southeast from the mainland, is the Green Peninsula, which has earned the name of the Garden of Skye. It faces, on its eastern shores, the mountains that tower above Loch Hourn and Loch Nevis. This is the road to Armadale, past the village of Isleornsay, with its lighthouse placed on an ebb tide island.

Just north of Armadale is the Ostaig Road, which mounts to a watershed and commands a grandstand view of the Cuillins. A lovely old house is almost hidden among the trees.

As befits the Garden of Skye, beautiful trees grow everywhere. The grounds of Armadale Castle, especially, are a leafy paradise with a profusion of birches, firs, larches, pines and mountain ash, and they have come from all over the world.

Sheltered by the trees and surrounded by broad, velvety lawns is Armadale Castle, seat of Lord MacDonald of Sleat. It's a stately Gothic mansion built in 1815 on the site of the house which Doctor Johnson visited with Boswell when they first set foot on the island in 1773.

The towers of the castle are built of Skye marble, and the whole structure is a masterpiece of period design. The castle, in its lovely sylvan setting, are all the more memorable by contrast with the wildness of the mountain country only a few miles distant. Here there is rural splendour in abundance.

Waterfalls, tiny brooks and leafy lanes make up the fairyland of Armadale."

"Even lily ponds are in the picture, and all around is beauty.

Beyond the village, the countryside rolls away in vast stretches of pasture land. The gauntness of the north gives way to the greenness of the south. On the peninsula, Skye is in one of her gentler moods, and although you are never far from mountain or sea, you can enjoy these quieter pleasures without distraction.

Not only in the grounds of the castle, but covering the whole of this part of the peninsula,are the trees. No part of Skye is more generously wooded, and even in the depths of winter, there is a magic charm about the landscape, which inspired many an artist. In autumn, with the late sun dappling the lanes with leafy shadows, the picture is superb.

You feel, as you regard it that you are glimpsing a little heaven, the creation not of man, but of the kindly gods. For here is beauty unadorned.

The little church at Armadale is a shrine in a wood, mellowed by the passing of the centuries.

Across the clear waters of the sound is the small township of Mallaig on the mainland. A car ferry connects it with the island and it's another favourite route. The crossing this way takes about 50 minutes compared with the few minutes taken by the Lochalsh Kyleakin ferry. But the scenery is grand and the short sea journey exhilarating. The water is so clear that you can see right down to the gravel bed.

The western shore of the Sound of Sleat, opposite Isleornsay, is a good vantage point from which to assess the beauty of the separating waters. Close to the shore are the undulating fields, and in the distance the mountains in their misty headdresses.

The wooded islet just off the shore basks in the sunshine. On it stands the fragment of an old church, and it is full of legend. Some say that the church was the sanctuary of a Norse king, who, in his sorrow at the loss of his wife, asked the gods to separate the island from the mainland and grant it to him as a solitary refuge.

So we come to the end of the road to the Isles. We take our leave of Skye with memories that will never fade.

[The End]