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.