In which Henry meets an old friend on the banks of Loch Linnhe

Whilst driving the road from Killin to Crianlarich Henry Morton announced that he had received a letter from a man named Robert Louis Stevenson who he now planned to meet on the shore of Loch Linnhe. He muttered something about '1751, David Balfour, and the British Linen Company', but his words were kidnapped in a gust of wind from the open window of the bull nose Morris, pulling a cloud of smoke from Henry’s teeth-clenched pipe.

Leaving Achallader in the Morris, we head towards Glencoe. Would Henry recognise today's Glencoe?, I thought to myself.  Might he continue to marvel at a 'landscape without mercy...still dreaming of geological convulsions?'

The mountains that border Glencoe remain to this day ominous and overbearing. There is drama - simply from the inescapable landscape. But what of man's efforts to tame the journey? I sensed that Henry might be saddened. Civil 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. HVM's shepherd no longer walks his sheep in a 'grey wave over the grass on invisible feet. Enchanting Dianas no longer visit in breeches and dubbined boots'. And, despite Henry and I singing 'D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay' we fail to spot the Highlander Campbell in Crianlarich, or on the mountain above.

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

As we approach Loch Leven Henry picks up his 1933 copy of  ‘In Scotland Again’ and reads aloud from chapter 6 section 3, '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'.

At the Loch Leven crossing we search for Henry's ferry boatman; but instead we see but an expanse of box bridge. The Highlands are surely tamed. We miss 'the ferryman's Ancient Mariner's eye' and the Renfrewshire traveller. How times change.

Now Loch Linnhe spreads before us, with a stretch of pure white sand in the distance. As we approach, a lone figure comes into view. Might this be Robert Louis Stevenson? He is soberly dressed, but a single silver button stitched to his lapel catches the autumn sun.

I watch as HVM greets his friend, and they walk slowly to a small house standing alone by the shore of the Linnhe Loch. 'The sun was already gone from the desert mountains of Ardgour upon the hither side, but shone on those of Appin on the farther; the loch lay as still as a lake, only the gulls were crying round the sides of it; and the whole place seemed solemn and uncouth'.

That evening, over a glass of Talisker in the spitting light of a log fire, RLS tells his story of David Balfour’s exploits on the banks of Linnhe. 'It was near noon before we set out; a dark day with clouds, and the sun shining upon little patches. The sea was here very deep and still, and had scarce a wave upon it; so that I must put the water to my lips before I could believe it to be truly salt. The mountains on either side were high, rough and barren, very black and gloomy in the shadow of the clouds, but all silver-laced with little watercourses where the sun shone upon them. It seemed a hard country. There was but one thing to mention. A little after we had started, the sun shone upon a little moving clump of scarlet close in along the water-side to the north. It was much of the same red as soldiers' coats; every now and then, too, there came little sparks and lightnings, as though the sun had struck upon bright steel'.

Beyond 'a wood of birches, growing on a steep, craggy side of a mountain that overhung the loch. It had many openings and ferny howes; and a road or bridle track ran north and south through the midst of it, by the edge of which, where was a spring, I sat down to eat some oat-bread of Mr. Henderland's and think upon my situation'.

Smoke curls from Henry’s pipe; our glasses clatter on the wooden table and an empty bottle of Talisker 1956 Cask catches the fire’s dying embers. RLS rises to extinguish the gas lamp, pulling the low door closed as we depart the cottage. Robert heads off into the darkness by the loch, whilst we ascend the bank to where our bull-nosed Morris is parked.

'A magical night', says HVM as he swings his failing legs into the passenger footwell and pulls on his seat belt. 'Fancy that, there was only two years between us, you know', he continues, '26 July 1892 to 3 December 1894'. I frown with confusion, but as we turn towards Onich and the Corran ferry I realise how time can play tricks.

In which Henry and I arrive in Galloway at the World’s End

As we arrive Henry observes, “The Mull of Galloway is, in a sense, the Land’s End of Scotland. It is the extremity of a long slender strip about thirty miles in length that, but for the narrow neck of land between Glenluce and Stranraer, would be a little island of the coast of Wigtownshire. It has, like all out-of-the-way places, an island atmosphere”.

We are here in Galloway - me and Henry. It is our third visit to Scotland. Henry’s followers will know that he, then aged 37 years, came first to Scotland in 1929 and last visited in 1933. Readers of my blog will recall that 2018 is my third consecutive year here. Whilst previously, I have contrasted Henry Volam Morton’s accounts with my own, this time, I thought it would be fun to invite Henry to travel with me and to chat about our experiences. Henry was good enough to accept.

“Look over there! Just as I remember it from 1929”, he recalls, “a soft, gentle land of woods and broad fields continually swept by sea winds”. “Yes”, I retort, “the same fields and sea, but the some of those secluded little lanes and the lonely white farms have been replaced by B class roads and pink houses with satelite dishes”. 

HV looks thoughtful and lapses into an unusual silence, which within moments he breaks with the words, “Stephen, dear boy,  the secret is to see this landscape through my eyes; and before me through those of King Alan, John Balliol and Devorgilla. It is your task to find and recount the romance of true Galloway”. 

“Shall we take the high road by Glen Trool and the Merrick?”, he suggests. “ Where the road reaches its highest point is a magnificent view of the loch lying below, trees creeping down the flank of the opposite hills, little islands of tall dark firs near the shore, and on a piece of high ground overlooking Loch Trool an immense boulder poised upon a plinth?”

“Let’s leave that as a memory of yesteryear”, I reply, “unless you are keen to visit the cosy little cafe at the visitors’ centre? How about taking the coast road from Port Logan to Ayr?”

And so we agree.

Henry settles down in the passenger seat, observing the power and girth of the Fiat Ducato Enduro 5 compared with his bull-nosed Morris. “Not only do you not have to double clutch, but the whole process is automatic”, he observes as we descend towards the sea. 

Below us, the bay spreads with small foamy waves whilst gulls circle on a high wind. As we approach we notice the tinder gorse dressed with late summer red campion and purple vetch. Crows staking out the cropped fields rise to chase a raptor as it  cythes the ash branches in its bid to escape. 

Tonight will be spent at New England Bay.

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 - 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 - 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.