In Scotland Again: Episode 1

On 26 October 1933 - nearly 83 years ago at the age of 41, Henry Vollam Morton, journalist with the Daily Express and Britain's foremost and prodigious travel writer, left his home in a London square to undertake his second motoring trip to Scotland. He titled his account 'In Scotland Again'.

In his earlier1929 trip, described by him in his book 'In Search of Scotland', Morton had travelled a route from Jedburgh to Edinburgh, St Andrews and Aberdeen, topped Elgin and Inverness, cutting down to Fort William and on to Skye, returning through Glasgow, Ayr and Dumfries. His second trip in 1933 took him clockwise from Dumfries, Galloway, Arran, Mull, Fort William, Inverness, then right the way across the north coast of Scotland to Wick, returning via Inverness, Pitlochry, Aberdeen, Dundee, Stirling and Edinburgh - to Carter Bar and the border.

Reading 'In Search of England' back in the early 1980's, I little realised that I would attempt to recreate at least part of Morton's travels. Last year in a little bookshop in Wigtown Dumfries, I rediscovered H V Morton, hidden amongst dusty books on the bottom shelf. And so my love affair with Morton was rekindled.

Those who know me will know that I have some advantages over Henry Morton: a 200 mile start - leaving Darlington in Co Durham, rather than a Queen Anne square in central London; a network of fast roads leading to the Highlands; and rather than a pre-war Morris 'small but experienced motor car', a 2015 Auto Trail Tracker motorhome.

Given those advantages, my account here is set against the penalties of twenty first century life - the rash of civilisation, the huge population increase, the ubiquitous internal combustion engine, a loss of community, and with them, the death of an era.

It is Thursday 1 September 2016. Stephanie (in 'khaki shorts') and I leave Darlington in the motorhome, equipped with waterproofs, walking boots, a map and H V Morton. This time, he will be a passenger, to brave our company, tucked in the book rack . We head not north, but strike out west on the A66 route via Bowes and Brough to Westmorland and Cumberland. Our aim is the M6 at Penrith, and on to Carlisle - where Morton's second adventure starts.

Carlisle, once a key town on the road to the western Highlands, now lies shortly to the west of the motorway, avoiding Scottish travellers. Within moments the signs appear, then recede in the rear view mirrors. and so we progress towards the A74M. Stephanie looks wistfully at the signs for Gretna, and I, remembering Earl Edward Gibbon Wakefield, cough self-consciously, taking instead the A75 Dumfries road into 'the strong land of Galloway'. Between Gatehouse of Fleet and Creetown, the road hugs the coast and the joy of this still undiscovered 'heavenly country' of Scotland emerges.

To the west, Wigtownshire - the peninsula that descends south to the Isle of Whithorn, is an area of considerable delight. Leaving the A75 by Newton Stewart, the A714 heads down through Wigtown towards Garlieston. Here the strong land softens as one skirts the bay projecting to the Irish Sea. It is not yet the land that time forgot, but rests a good couple of decades behind middle England. Morton described it as 'infinitely remote', and save for the House Martins, Sand Martins, Swallows and Swifts that hurtle overhead, and the speeding local bus that races the clouds along narrow but straight roads, the pace of life slows.

Wigtown, now the book town of Scotland, is perhaps less solemn than that found by Morton. Almost every shop, café and pub contains books to buy or simply to borrow. It still boasts its huge square, leading down, passing the church, to the dead harbour below where in 1685 Wigtown Martyr Margaret Wilson was drowned. Today, close boarded walkways lead out into the fen to the stone to which she was chained and left for the tide. Perhaps here Morton's solemnity returns in the desolation of the marsh and the paining memory of lost souls.

The Mull of Galloway is still the 'Land's End of Scotland'. It is here at New England Bay, south of the Sands of Luce, that we camp for our first night. Slipping from the road, the site lies against the bay. We pitch short of the gorse covered rocks and dunes. This is a land of seals and Osprey. Linnets and Goldfinches search for seeds and Whitethoats dart for cover. As the sun sinks behind us, the lights of a tethered tanker flicker out in the bay. Our Scottish return with Henry, has begun.

Garlieston - photo by Stephanie Rose

With thanks to H V Morton Society and Niall Taylor for reference material.

In Scotland Again - Galloway to Ayr: Episode 2

In 1933 Henry Vollam Morton was in no rush to reach the Scottish Highlands, and of twelve chapters of 'In Scotland Again' the first four tell of his travels in the border counties of Dumfries and Galloway. And so it was with our first four nights, camped out at in the peninsula at New England Bay.

It is here that we walk the dunes, lying back in the long drying grass to watch seals surfacing and fishing, creating small black pools with watchful eyes. Guillemots and Razorbills track the coast. In the early autumn evenings we hear the gentle sound of breakers riding the rocks at high tide.
Inland walks take us through overhung tracks and deep-sided lanes giving panoramic views as they slope to the bay, and beyond to Port William. From the Mull on a good day you see the twinkle of car windscreens on the Northern Irish Ballywalter coast.

On leaving Galloway, Henry Morton headed for Arran. We, on the other hand, are diverting, drawn by chapter 12 section 5 of 'In Search of Scotland', to the coastal town of Ayr. Our's is a 'haste for the Highlands', and we need to stock up one final time before crossing Erskine bridge and heading up by Loch Lomond to the Killin Falls of Dochart.

Ayr is always a surprise. The town sits comfortably on the river as it enters the Firth of Clyde. It retains the feel of the old seaside town - ageing splendour of Scottish architecture meets modern market town, and neither seem to be winning. We pitch on the outskirts and walk the riverside to town, the Ayr smooth as a boating lake and overhung with willows. The sun has brought out the walkers, joggers and lovers. A series of three bridges, two for pedestrians, invite entry to the town on the south bank.

Now is the moment to relish  Ayr's highlight. We stroll to 3 Sandgate, the home of Robbies Drams. Established in 1983, this is a whisky paradise. The bell tinkles as we enter. Ahead, an old assistant, presumably here since the shop first opened, smiles. It is the smile of a man who has something to sell, but all the time and patience in the world to sell it. This may indeed be the founder, Robbie Russell.

H V Morton in chapter 10 section 5 of 'In Search of Scotland' introduced me to both 'the Highlander Campbell' and the Skye whisky 'Talisker'. My untested tastes of whisky do not extend to the old and expensive vintage single malts, but the Talisker Port Ruighe whetted my appetite for another dram. We walk by the shelves of Scotch seeking something different - maybe Compton Mackenzie's 'Stalker's Joy', rescued from the S.S. Cabinet Minister at Little Todday; but settling eventually on a double matured Cardhu single malt.

With the sensation of a fisherman with a great catch, we return to the Tracker. Stephanie repeats Morton's words teasingly "Ye don't mean to open the bottle? It's a shame to waste it; but man, its a grand whisky!"  She is right, now is not the time and place to crack open the Cardhu. Like Morton's Talisker, a 'Tumbler or twa o'  Toddy' will wait for thunder in Glencoe.

In the morning, the Tracker heads for the Trossachs, Loch Lomond and Crianlarich. Our destination is Maragowan at Killin, right at the head of Loch Tay.

To reach Crianlarich, the A82 skirts the west side of Loch Lomond. The first 15 miles to Tarbet, where the A83 turns west to Loch Long, the road is fine, with 'bonnie banks'. From Tarbet to the head of the loch, what can I say? For car drivers, the route is negotiable with care. For motorhomes it is a nightmare - sandwiched between the loch shoreline and the mountains. 7.2 metres width of horror with rocks and walls to one side and water to the other is not condusive to gentle motoring. In chapter 10 section 7 Morton's gaze along 'twenty four miles in exquisite beauty' was presumable to the lake side with an empty road ahead. On his return in 1933, chapter 5 section 8 of 'In Scotland Again' reveals that he took the wise alternative and branched off west on the A83 to Glenroe, Inveraray and on to Oban. This was the one occasion when I envied his choice of road.

Leaving the A82 at Crianlarich, we turned east on the A85 to Ardchyle, and beyond the A827 to Killin.

The road lies just to the south of the river Dochart, slim and fast, then widening suddenly to the falls. At Killin, the road crosses the falls, giving a spectacular view.

The river cascades towards the loch in torrents between large flat slabs of rock, accessible from the road, giving a spectacular natural show. Nearby, Breadabane Folklore Centre (run by village volunteers), is a working mill on two floors, providing local information, crafts, cards, maps and donated items of furniture and clothing.

Eating out in Killin should not be missed, with 'hunger and anticipation' taking us to  The Courie Inn. Here is served locally produced and wholesome food cooked to perfection. This, our second visit rivaled the first. Stephanie and I skipped the Haggis Bon Bons (described as 'fabulous') simply because we knew the portion sizes of the main dishes, and ordered Solway mussels as a first course. Delicious, served without shells in a parsley, cream and garlic sauce with warm, crisp bread. For main dishes we ordered lamb and beef, both subtle and cooked with devotion. The lamb in particular was impressive, crisp on the outside and melting within, served on a bed of potato with roasted vegetables. We liked the vernacular 'feel and flavour' of the food - prepared without pretension but with style and finesse. It was quintessentially Scottish in character.

And so to another night, this time with the sound of the river Lochay making its way to Loch Tay and the wind in the trees. Time for Cardhu.

In Scotland Again - Killin to Bunree: Episode 3

Those readers familiar with H V Morton's 'In Search of Scotland' and 'In Scotland Again' will already have issues with our route. We have not been strictly faithful to Morton's 1933 account and have slipped between his two journeys. Our trip has taken us to Ayr (as did Morton's in 1929) - and not to Arran. But that is how travel works, and I suspect, how occasionally, Morton too used his artistic licence.

However, we are to meet up again with him on the road to Fort William as we head for Bunree, between Onich and Corran on the A82, and this means that his bull-nosed Morris and my Auto Trail Tracker can pass each other in the heart of Glencoe (chapter 10 section 2 of 'In Search of Scotland').

We are already apprehensive, remembering Dicken's words, as quoted by Morton, from 'Foster's Life'  "anything so bleak and wild and mighty in its lonliness, as in the whole country, it is impossible to conceive. Glecoe itself is perfectly terrible. The pass is an awful place". 

Would Morton recognise today's Glencoe? He would continue to marvel at 'a landscape without mercy' - a land 'still dreaming of geological convulsions'. The mountains that border Glencoe remain ominous and overbearing. There is drama - simply from the inescapable landscape. But what of man's efforts to tame the journey? Morton would undoubtedly be saddened. Engineers have cured 'the worst road in Scotland' that 'winds its way through the solitude'; but with the cure, comes the crowd. Yes, the glen is busy as we journey on a September morning - still preserved and uninhabited, but with coaches (and motorhomes) delivering tourists rather than travellers. Morton's shepherd no longer walks his sheep in a 'grey wave over the grass on invisible feet', he rides an ATV. Enchanting Diana's no longer visit in breeches and dubbined boots, they are tamed in designer jeans and trainers as they inspect the glen from the viewing point. And sadly, despite Stephanie and I singing 'D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay' we fail to encounter the Highlander Campbell in Crianlarich, or on the mountain.

So we leave the glen behind and reach Loch Leven where the A82 swings to the west along its southern shore which will take us through North Ballachulish, on to Onich and Bunree at Loch Linhee.

Let us return promptly to chapter 6 section 3 of 'In Scotland Again' to rejoin Morton. 'Imaging dark mountains rising from a tidal loch, ridges of trees marching the hills like regiments, the mountains piling up in the distance towards the gloomy fastnesses of Glencoe and Lochaber, the whole scene mirrored in sleety-grey water ruffled at the edges by a fresh wind and swirling in a central channel with an incoming tide'. Like Morton, Stephanie and I have reached the Loch Leven crossing, and pause, looking for Morton's ferry boatman; but instead we see but an expanse of box bridge. The Highlands are surely tamed as 7 metres of motorhome hums across the loch on tarmac. Needless to say, we miss the ferryman's Ancient Mariner's eye and the Renfrewshire traveller. How times change.

To my knowledge, Morton never visited the lochside at Bunree. Had he done so, he would have experienced a true Scottish delight. This is to be our eighth night, and destined to be the start of a longer stay. A single red traffic light turns to green, and we thread our way along the approach road to Bunree site as it opens out into the glorious bay where Loch Linnhe narrows to the Corran crossing.

Our pitch is lochside. Now in spirit we can recreate a sense of Morton's Loch Leven crossing here on Linnhe. Our Auto Trail Tracker faces out to the bay, and sitting in gathering dusk we prepare to navigate out across the loch. The light dims. A single buoy blinks out towards Clovullin and the straits lighthouse spins a flash of warning to our starboard side.

Time to pull the blinds, to return to the Cardhu single malt, and to sleep.

In Scotland Again - Bunree, Loch Linnhe to Loch Duich and Morvich: Episode 4

Whilst HV Morton, on his 1933 trip, forges ahead in his bull-nosed Morris to Fort William and the Mod, we are resting back at Bunree, looking out over the bay at stunning sunsets. September has gathered pace, 'the Rowan berries are red as the blood in Glen Spean', and the bracken russet brown.

Henry Morton's observations of the drama of the Highlands is so real here. One moment huge grey clouds race from the west into the bay and rain lashes against the camper roof, the next, sun lights and warms the craggy landscape as 'a day of atonement'.

Today is one of the atoning days, and we thread our way to the Corran ferry, just under half a mile from the site. Taking the little track from the roadside path to the ferry point, we arrive just as the boat moors across the narrowest point of Loch Linnhe at Ardgour. As the cars and vans arrive to queue, we feel almost intrepid as free foot passengers, and are waved on first by the crew.

Take the high shelf on the boat to enjoy the view and feel the wind. The crossing takes but four minutes or so, departure and arrival assisted by hydraulics rather than 1930's rough ropes. But nevertheless, it is still a ritual. The cars are stacked so that barely a crisp packet could be placed between their bumpers. Drivers, new to the ferry, look anxious, whilst the regular travellers spin their vehicles into place. The doctor's Mercedes is given a place at the front for quick get-away, whilst butcher's van holds back to fill an awkward slot across the deck. Did a siren sound? Morning sunshine glints on a computer screen in the wheelhouse. We slip across the smooth loch.

Disembarking at the Inn of Ardgour, we are indeed back in Morton's 1930's. When the noise of engines has subsided, there is nothing left but the breeze lifting across the crofts cluttering the bay. We stroll north past the parish church, designed and built by Thomas Telford, to take a sharp left turn up the lane and into the woods towards Lochan na h Eaglais, a perfect lake rimmed with silver.

If time forgot, it forgot this place. Here we dip down to the lakeside to sit in silence. A carp plops beneath overhanging branches and finches nibble the seeds of reeds. Otherwise, it is totally still -even the breeze that blew on Linnhe has evapourated in stillness.

The track takes us round to the crofting community of Clovullin and its village shop where a purchase, however small, must be made. From there, the road leads back to Corran lighthouse and the ferry home.


Two days seep into four before we resume Morton's route. Leaving Bunree, we travel north to Fort William, stopping not for the ceilidh but for provisions and fuel at Morrisons; and at Invergarry, we head west on the A87 past Loch Garry towards Lochs Layne and Cluanie - eventually to reach Shiel Bridge and Loch Duich where the leaves are turning 'blood-red and plum-yellow'.

On our route we meet again with H V Morton at chapter 7 section 3 of 'In Scotland Again'. The road, running alongside 'the roof of the highlands' is a delight, with mile after mile of wilderness tamed only by the Cluani Inn.

Beyond at Mam Rattachan before Glenelg, Morton observed 'As the light was drawn from the sky the mountains became grape-blue. Grey mists crept through the valleys; dark mists were hung from gorge to gorge high up in the wilderness of the hills. Above, the first star burned; and the mountains settled into silence and the dark'. 

We are on 'the road to the isles' and our way to Morvich.

In Scotland Again - Morvich, Kyle of Lochalsh, the Isle of Skye and Talisker: Episode 5

Morvich camping site lies to the east of the A87 in a drowsy, sunlit valley by the river Croe, peering up to Dorusaduain and overlooked by Lienassie.

This is yet another place of joy, back from the loch, but enjoying long views towards Duich.

Here, we caught up again with H V Morton on his 1933 trip, and had hoped to meet his friend Sir John (or his heirs). They clearly had already departed up the valley, so as 'In Scotland Again' at chapter 7 section 6, we decided to venture towards Beinn Fhada in search of our own Red Deer, armed in our case only with a camera.

The walk leaves Morvich towards Loch Duich, but turns sharply north to cross the Croe as if heading on the back route to the A87, then turning east passing the bed and breakfast lodge up the valley into the forest and the hills.

Chapter 7 contains one of Morton's reddish-brown sepia prints. A glance will tell you that, on our way, we found the same herd, spooked as we know by Sir John's sheep, and now gathered attentively below the trees on the other side of the valley awaiting our photo. 

The return route of the walk takes you down from the forest, crossing Abhiann Chonaig at the little footbridge constructed by the Royal Engineers, and back through the fells.

The walk is one of magic. Take a flask, a sandwich, a mat and binoculars. Climb the slope, sit in the bracken and heather and listen to the wind. Then look out for the eagle.

Skye bridge rises from Dornie on Loch Long, just to the north of Eilean Donan Castle. At this point we again leave 'In Scotland Again' to join H V Morton three years earlier in 1929 in chapter nine of 'In Search of Scotland'. You will recall from blog 2 that Robbie of Ayr had tempted me with Talisker, the same as shared with the Highlander Cameron (chapter 10 section 5 of 'In Search of Scotland'). Morton, by his own account, must have acquired his Talisker whilst on Skye as he reported it to be 'that remarkable drink which is made in the Isle of Skye and can be obtained even in its birthplace only with difficulty'. 

And so to Skye - for Talisker. H V Morton left from Mallaig to the south , taking the 'Stornoway' boat up the Sound of Sleat to Kyle of Lochalsh, where the ferry tied up 'to a a wooden jetty covered with pink sea-anemones', and he transferred to the Skye paddle steamer for destination Portree.

'To me it is pure romance. Some stray old wind from Culloden blew, I think, into my nursery when I was a child, for almost the first stories I heard were stories of Skye and of a brown-eyed prince hiding in a cave'....a place 'shrouded in the splendour of a lost cause'.'The sound of it is like a sword going home into its scabbard'.

But where the ferry? No swishing of a paddle steamer. Ahead the Skye bridge rises, then falls onto Skye, and in but two minutes we have arrived at Kyleakin. 

The road from here to Portree is quick, with none of the highland single track. It is made for trucks, buses and campers. Whilst it coils along the north east coast, the island's mountains remains totally unaffected by it. Dark and brooding, they give a feeling of hopelessness, not bleak, but simply ominous. We leave the A87 at Sligachan, heading west and inland on the A683 to Carbost and the distillery. Park beyond the factory to the right down towards the loch, and once equipped with your bottle of Talisker, why not ascend the hill beyond the distillery to lunch at 'The Oyster Shed'. First appearance is of a seafood farm shop - with a fish van outside. Be not fooled! This is the most perfect place to order and eat the widest range of locally sourced fish - especially shell fish, lobster, crab, prawns and scallops. Place your order at the shop counter and wait for your number to be called. Then head round the side to 'the shed' - an open fronted communal eatery with panoramic views over Skye - to devour your choice. The fish is so fresh you can almost feel it breathe. Flavour-packed and perfectly cooked, this provides a true taste of the isle. Take a side order of chips - now this is how chips should taste - and maybe crack open that bottle of Port Ruighe that you have just bought. 

Unlike Morton, who spent time at Portree, packing by candle-light and leaving 'to go down to the jetty where the 'Glencoe' lies, her riding-lights growing pale in the grey dawn', we leave in the evening, crossing the Skye bridge as the sun sets, and the gloom gathers. 

Tomorrow we will head out to Kinlochewe. 

Thanks to the Herald Scotalnd for the pic

In Scotland Again - Kinlochewe and Achiltibue: Episode 6 - final

Leaving Morvich by the back road, we catch the A87 west bound towards Eilean Donan Castle crossing Loch Long at Dornie. At Auchtertyre we branch north on the A890 heading for Achmore and Stromeferry. The road then hugs the loch side until you reach Achintee. From there, the A890 rises north east to Achnasheen, with a west spur on the A832 to Kinlochewe.

Our H V Morton friends will recall that, 'In Scotland Again' Henry headed east to Inverness, and in his less adventurous first journey 'In Search of Scotland', he descended from Fort Augustus to Fort William before venturing out to the western coast and to Skye. Times were different in 1933, and unless roads led to ferries, there was little point in pursuing them to the handful of crofts at the road end.

So we are leaving Morton to his inland journey. But we will retain his spirit of travel, to observe his Scottish wilderness through 21st century eyes; and just as he left his bull-nosed Morris behind, will leave the Auto Trail to walk and share the special Allt a' Chuirn path towards A'Chreag Dhubh.

We camp at Kinlochewe, a gentle site that rests below the Beinn Eighe National Nature Reserve. Our pitch collects the stream's gentle gurgle. After the mountain roads and tight bends, here is an oasis of calm. Even the nearby reserve has a soft, forested aspect to it with quiet walks on zig-zag stoned paths to the visitor's centre.

Just round from the site on the Torridon Road, Kinlochewe old village hall had probably seen better days before Lis Broome and her pose of helpers arrived to rescue the corrugated iron shed from the scrapman and turn it into The Whistle Stop Café, a vernacular place with oodles of charm and even better food. We visit before taking to the hills, and we are not alone.

Of the many Highland delights, The Whistle Stop Café's must rate as the best big breakfast. Joining Tom and Wendy, two young and intrepid walkers who were to cross the 1010 metres of Beinn Eighe and travel through 20 miles of heather tracks, Stephanie and I hunker down to the feast. This is the meal about which Morton dreamed in chapter 1 section 5 of 'In Scotland Again'.

Our journey is less ambitious. We aimed to walk the Allt a' Chuirn path west from the reserve towards the rugged, rocky Beinn Eighe, rising evenly by tracking the stream that cascades down to the A' Ghairbhe fed from Loch Clair. 

This is a truly magical walk, suitable for the averagely fit walker with three hours or so to spare. If the weather is kind, it is not to be taken at a trot, but savoured slowly with rests in the heather and long views through the valley.

 At the head of the valley where it departs into open, rugged terrain, stop at the waterfall. If the day is hot, drop down to the pool and bathe tired feet. We return down the valley in late afternoon sunshine. There is a sadness about leaving the solitude of the fells for the populated village below, but solace in anticipation of our barbecued 'born in Scotland', 'reared in Scotland', ear-tagged rib eye steak, pre-ordered from Allan at Kenneth Morrison, the camp site's visiting butcher (01445712485). 

Two days later, we head out for our final destination, Achiltibue, or more precisely, Port a Bhaigh campsite at Altandhu.

For Port A Bhaigh you must leave the A835 south of Drumrunie turning sharply out to the west 12 miles on on the narrowest single track road. The unnamed road traverses the north side of small lochs giving views into rugged low lying West Highland countryside. A measure of the terrain - you will need 45 minutes to complete the 12 miles, but using the passing places for moments to collect, we feel the journey as part of the experience. Port A Bhaigh campsite sits on a small bay, protected to the west by Isle Ristol and Eilean Mulagrach, the first of the Summer Islands, their low turf and heather clad moorland rimmed by cream rock shores.

The view is ‘heart-felt’ rather than breath-taking, but it has an intimacy that says you belong here. Ascend the hill to the owner’s pub. With friendly bar and dining room serving snacks and main evening meals, it has a convivial atmosphere. Make the most of it for, to the north, the nearest next pub is in Iceland. Walk the road to Reiff, offering headland views from the coastal path beyond, or hire kayaks for an escorted trip around the islands.

Henry Vollam Morton is still travelling as we return down to Inverness.

Like him, we found that the Highlands seeps into your soul. Gone, or rare, the Gaelic - no more the wood smoked hotel lounges with visiting 

salesmen and khaki-clad maidens. The ferries now pull with diesel engines rather than paddles. 

But the mountains remain solid and permanent, and the Golden Eagle still soars above.