Rua Reidh Lighthouse Melvaig, Gairloch

We got up a little later the next day because of a decision taken the night before to eat a Scottish breakfast served in the tiny shop cum restaurant ran by the hostel families. It was a delicious meal served by Hippy Lady’s teenaged daughter and set the right mood for our trip to our next destination, the Rua Reidh Lighthouse Hostel at Melvaig, Gairloch.

Jolene and Michael were somewhat concerned about the integrity of the clutch of their car and it was decided that we would have it repaired by a mechanic they knew in Kyle of Lochalsh.

Fortunately we did find another mechanic who could repair the clutch and then drove towards Plockton on the northwest Coast of Skye. Plockton was known as the Jewel of the Highlands and situated at Loch Carron. On the way there we observed a road sign indicating that a left turn would take you to Strome Ferry. In parenthesis below the name it was made clear to each and everyone that there was in fact no ferry at Strome ferry. I can imagine that before this caveat was issued, many an exasperated tourist in search of a ferry to transport the car across the loch would have arrived at a village far removed from any port.

But even more picturesque than what was described in Jolene’s guide book was the loch side village of Shieldaig. It was truly a scattering of mostly whitewashed buildings and cottages along the shore of the loch. Opposite the village was an island bird sanctuary covered in Scots pine. The whole village and surrounds were idyllic.

Red Cullins, Skye

A grass verge along the road at the waterfront was most inviting but the drizzle drove us towards what appeared to be a diner. We had lunch and a pint or two in what appeared to be a mariner’s pub.

Out on the street, two pints to the good again, I considered and then banished the thought of buying an ice cream cone from a stand situated between two shops. Strange how attractive an ice cream cone is when it is bitterly cold!

As we travelled along the shore of Loch Maree, leaving behind the Torridon Mountains and passing the Kinlochewe settlement, we encountered yet another stunning mountain reaching into the mists, called Slioch. This was apparently the location for the film ‘Highlander.’ Not surprisingly, when we left the area an information board urged one to ‘Haste ye back.’

The drive took us through a gorge and wooded area to Gairloch, another collection of settlements. Our destination was the Rudha Reidh Lighthouse situated some 20 km away and this road ran along the open sea. To say the rugged scenery was breathtaking does not do it credit. On the steep rolling hills sheep, which really looked far more like goats to me, appeared to have been velcro’d onto the soil. In the peat fields along the road heather grew in abundance.
From the cliffs one could see the Isle of Skye as well as the Western Isles on the horizon. We passed a tiny but scattered village called Melvaig where there were usually sheep huddled all over the road and drove up and then down a steep hill to the end of the peninsula where the lighthouse was situated.
The lighthouse was constructed and taken into use in 1912 and was still very much in operation but the capacious house below had since been converted into a hostel.

It was cold, and as could be expected out there in the open at the cliff edge of the sea, very windy.

Liathach, Toridon

Upon entering the hostel we encountered a not overly friendly Canadian couple with what seemed like six or seven children. The kids were ubiquitous and obnoxious! It was difficult to get into the tiny kitchen because the Canadian family seemed to occupy it all the time – cooking, warming baby’s bottle and eating at the only table.

Our bedrooms upstairs were lovely, complete with stunning views of land and sea. We thought Jolene and Michael, our respected guides, should get the bedroom en suite.

It was Claudia’s turn to cook dinner and with a little help from always helpful Josefine, she produced….you’ve guessed it; a truly vegetarian meal. I could have been fooled because it included a vegetarian ‘meat dish’ and was delicious. Maybe the wine and the wonderful atmosphere and the sense of adventure one experienced in the lighthouse contributed to make it a very pleasant evening. Before going to bed we braved the icy wind and stood outside to watch the bright light in the tower flash and spin in all directions.

That night we learnt that ‘Oidhe bha’ was Scottish Gaelic for goodbye. The only problem was that 10 minutes later you forgot it.

The 20th of September saw us on the way to Dunrobin Castle about 2 km north of Golspie in Sutherland. This castle boasted a beautiful French influence and overlooked the North Sea. It was the seat of the Earls and Dukes of Sutherland.

It turned out to be well worth the visit. Its 189 rooms of which, thankfully, we saw less than half, were tastefully furnished in 19th and 20th Century finery and history virtually seeped through its walls. I loved the library which housed some very old leather bound books, magnificently preserved. The castle had been continuously inhabited since the 13th Century and was still home to the Duchess and her family.

If I loved the library, Gloria simply adored the huge, manicured and landscaped gardens laid out in 1850. It was very sheltered and consequently able to support a remarkable variety of plants and trees.

Just off the garden was a museum in an old summer house. It housed a collection of hunting trophies and other items donated by friends of the family, including some Pictish stones which bore 1500 year old inscriptions like hieroglyphics. Of interest too were the skull and antlers of a 12000 year old elk, preserved through the millennia in an ancient peat bog and hung on the wall facing the vaulted entrance hall.

At the bottom end of the garden a falconer performed in the drizzle with a barn owl, Blue Eagle and other birds of prey. He and the predatory birds provided a highly entertaining show.

After lunch we drove to our overnight destination – Carbisdale Castle near Culraine, which was bequeathed in 1945 to the Scottish Youth Hostel Association to be set up as a youth hostel. It had a fabulous atmosphere since the huge halls and passages were still furnished and adorned with white marble Roman statues and obviously old oil paintings. Naturally legend had it that the castle was haunted and I must say, seen from the outside it had that eerie and spooky appearance.

Inside it was teeming with overnight visitors, primarily young people and consequently any old ghost would have felt most out of place. Michael, Jolene and Claudia tried hard to produce a special effects video of ghostly figures prancing along in the hall.

The dormitories were adequate, comfortable and clean and the bathrooms situated not too far away. The view from the outside balcony of the North Sea and the forests below were gratifying.

We drank some wine and tea before dinner in one of the capacious lounges and thereafter enjoyed a proper hostel dinner, prepared by the Castle’s caterers. What I enjoyed most was the pure blues that emanated from the dining room speakers during dinner. Muddy Waters and friends, I learnt from the man at reception. I immediately made a mental note to search for the CD when back in a city.

Piper

A couple of cockerels and a chained-up dog that sounded like it had been fasting for a day or two, made it quite certain that nobody would oversleep. By the time I made it
to the bathroom it was already full of naked or stripped to the waist men, smelling of toothpaste and sissy soap. I padded around for a bit in other people’s drips and then joined the wave of humanity.

The morning of the 20th September we travelled to Loch Ness and found a spot amongst trees where we could park before finding our way down to the water. The loch was neither spectacular nor extraordinary and I could not help thinking that Nessie, the mysterious loch monster, had been dreamed up by some Scot desperate to bring tourists, money and hence economic life to the area.

We proceeded on to Inverness before going further south to Pitlochry. On the way we almost passed Scotland’s smallest distillery, the Edradour. It was situated on a very neat estate but not surprisingly, the whisky was outrageously expensive.

Upon arrival at Pitlochry, one of the most stunning villages we had seen in Scotland, we found the Bistro No. 1, a diner very popular with what seemed to be the locals, After lunch the time to say goodbye to our fellow-travellers and family members, arrived. Gloria and I were sad to see them go because they were such easy, no-nonsense travel companions. Michael was taking them to Glasgow and to the airport the next day while Jolene, Gloria and I remained in Pitlochry for the night.

Highland Coo

The Pitlochry Backpackers was a lovely overnight establishment where we met some New Zealanders our age who agreed that the World Cup Finals would be played out by our Springboks and their All Blacks. (As it subsequently turned out, we won the World Cup and the All Blacks did not even feature in the semi-finals).

Gloria adored the town with its flowers and quaintness. We took a long walk, ice cream cones in hand, from the one end to the other and found the gardens to be spectacular.

Jolene prepared us a pasta and tomato dish that evening. It was difficult to believe that such a simple dish could be so tasty.

The next morning it dawned on us that it was already the 22nd of September and that our holiday in Scotland had just about come to an end. With no time to waste we set off to pay a visit to the Stirling Castle and cemetery. We passed a street with a sign saying ‘This way to Hospice.’ The first building you saw in that street was a morgue, which must have been a great comfort to people on their way to the hospice.

It was a rather steep walk up a hill from the city centre to reach the castle balustrade where we were able to join the statue of Robert the Bruce, at its pride of place, overlooking the city with its prominent and awesome Wallace Monument.

We eventually made our way down again to the shops in the city. Going downhill made it easier to take in the magnificence of the architecture of a bygone era. I was armed with some birthday vouchers and bought, amongst others, the Muddy Waters CD, from a well stocked shop in a very modern mall.

Rather incredibly, young women wearing mini skirts braved the cold weather of Scotland on the streets. These Scottish lasses were clearly a tough lot. The not so brave amongst them seemed to prefer leggings. Now leggings, imagined by women with fuller figures everywhere to create a slimming effect, in fact make the average body look like a sack full of hammers. It is not unlike the rotund and portly men in South Africa who believe that a tight fitting T shirt shows off a muscular frame.

After a cup of coffee and scones we drove to Edinburgh, that very distinctive capital of Scotland. The old city was both beautiful and charming but, as could be expected, very busy. It teemed with tourists from all over the world and yes, there were dozens of Japanese with camcorders capturing every breath of the city.

Edinburgh was built on and around hills and central to it all appeared to be the Princes’ Gardens with its Gothic masterpiece, the Scott Monument.

Jolene found parking at the far end of the Park and we sauntered slowly through it, taking in the activities and enjoying the sunlight and atmosphere. There were people all around on the immaculate lawns, surrounded by colourful flower beds, sleeping, eating, playing ball or just talking. Looking up from the Park one was struck by the sight of the majestic Edinburgh Castle on the hill against pale blue skies.

Uisge´Beatha

We walked the length of the park up to Waverley Bridge to have lunch at the famous Chinese restaurant known as Jimmy Chung’s. At the corner of the bridge a piper for hire was playing his breadwinning tunes and we duly requested that he pose with Gloria for a photograph. He happily obliged (in expectation of a fee of course).

We ended up in a queue which mercifully was not too long because by then our stomachs were growling with expectation.

Once seated one was served drinks from the bar by a host of Chinese waiters but the food itself was not served. Instead there were several buffet counters with countless dishes filled and emptied by runners with alarming regularity. The dishes were marked and the variety of Chinese dishes was simply astonishing. We noticed that the ubiquitous potato chips were there as well.

A family of very obese people from wherever were eating heaped plates of sweet and sour pork at a table near us and can you believe it, their two boys were eating chips. Plates and plates full of the stuff. The parents, like Tweedledee and Tweedledum, were washing theirs down with Diet Coke, probably in the hope that they would look like Bruce Willis and Demi Moore in the morning.

By the time we three had done and I must add, the food was truly delicious, the two boys had gone to fill their plates once again – of course, with chips!

We caught a hop on hop off bus right in front of Jimmy Chung’s for a rooftop tour of the City. It took us past the National Gallery of Scotland, along the Royal Mile, past the Scottish Parliament Building and Holyrood Park and along many streets lined with
magnificent buildings. Our guide was knowledgeable but moreover had a dry sense of humour.

Thistle, Isle of Skye

We finally walked up to the Edinburgh Castle but none of us felt like a tour of its interior. I think at that point we were close to saturation point sightseeing wise. So we drove back to Glasgow to spend our last night in the Angels’ Hotel. It was situated near where Jolene had been sharing a flat with friends. Michael was at the flat packing Jolene’s belongings.

They joined us for dinner in the hotel that night. Gloria and I were not hungry after the Chinese buffet but Michael declared himself starved for the steak on the menu. After the meal and some beers we settled down for the night while Jolene and Michael went to sleep at the flat.

The morning of the 23rd September we helped pack Jolene and Michael’s bags since they were leaving for Germany in their car the next day. Before taking back the rented car we frantically searched and fortunately found a service station with coin operated car vacuum cleaner. Jolene’s housekeeping skills acquired over a number of years in hotels were plain for all to see. In no time at all the interior of the car had been vacuumed and declared clean by the agents.

It was hard for us to say goodbye again to Jolene and Michael, the only consolation being that we knew that they were to visit us in Umtentweni over the Christmas period. It was also difficult to express our gratitude for the manner in which they had hosted and played guide to us in bonny, verdant Scotland.

We somehow managed and soon we were on our way to a sunny South Africa where a prediction of sunny skies for any particular day would be accurate most of the time.
The lasting impression of Scotland was however that of a pleasant, mysterious and captivating country with warm and hospitable people; and above all, where we had left our much adored children behind.

Skye

It was a good thing we did not know what Jolene and Michael had in store for us that morning of the 13^th of September. To be fair, Jolene had warned us beforehand to bring along good walking shoes since we would be going on hikes. Not quite appreciating the challenges of hiking in cold, wet weather along slippery slopes, Gloria donned sneakers and I my trusty veld shoes. My decision was almost disastrous.

The drive down to Malcolm’s Point was a rewarding one in terms of the magnificence of the scenery. Where the road eventually descended to the beach we found, in all its splendour, a traditional red telephone booth on the side of the road. It was almost incongruously out of place. The available parking at the beach was already full and after some difficulty we managed to park the two vehicles precariously on the side of the road and set out on our walk.

The coastal walk from Malcolm’s Point to the Carsaig Arches is said to be the most magnificent of all the coastal walks on Mull. The stunning scenery, I understood, was the result of eroding sedimentary rocks underlying the Mull volcanics. As the younger rocks crumbled, the volcanic cliffs above were dramatically steepened.

The 13 kilometre route passed under some of the highest and most spectacular cliffs in Britain with fearless goats, daring deer and soaring eagles variously spotted. This

walk was, to put it mildly, extremely hard and rough going at the best of times. The footpath traversed rocky areas, water-bogged grassy areas and contoured all along the escarpment of the cliffs for what seemed like many miles.

The rain and wind suddenly kicked in. For a while we were walking along the narrow plateau from where the ascent to the summit looked impossibly difficult and dangerous. Up to our right was the towering rock face of the cliffs, lined with what looked like giant finger marks, as if someone had fallen off, then clung on, scraping the side as he fell.

A blister had formed under the arch of my foot, the consequence of clambering over the many rocks and lunging over dozens of streams with slippery, thin shoe soles.

It was getting increasingly difficult to keep up a good pace. My contemporaries had other problems of their own. To say we were gasping would be seriously underestimating the situation.

I am sure that anyone close to us would have heard the sounds as if all of our internal organs were about to rupture like badly perished rubber bands. Traversing over the rough terrain and along the steep contours we wheezed and rattled like a consumptive beagle on a tobacco baron’s treadmill. Jolene and Michael were very fit and cruised along like luxury liners on a calm sea.

We did stop to have lunch – delicious cold chicken thighs oven roasted by Gloria the night before- and also to inspect a cave which abutted a lively waterfall. The floor was covered in deer droppings and the remnants of a wood fire revealed that the cave must have served as shelter for someone not too long ago.

We eventually reached the arches. They were all spectacularly different in character – one was a massive tunnel and the other a crazy 36 metre tower – described as a gothic freak of nature with a keyhole slot through its centre.

Motherly and always-prepared-for-the-worst Jolene duly covered my blister with plaster and this at least made the journey back more bearable. At this point we were relentlessly battered by freezing rain from the direction of the sea and our enthusiasm had an uphill battle against the dawning reality that we just might not make it back to the cars in the available light. But we did, cold and soaked to the skin.

Realising that we might just end up with colds or worse, we did the sensible thing- the men, stripped to their underpants, travelled in the one car and the girls in their delicates in the other. While a patrolling police officer, if there were such a thing on Mull, might have been thrilled to find four girls dressed in their finery in a car, we men would no doubt have been summarily apprehended and arraigned on charges of obscenity. No need to worry though because we quickly steamed up the inside of the car.

Back at Penmorebeg cottage we alighted stiff with the cold from the cars and dashed almost shamefully bare into the cottage. A warm bath cured all looming illnesses. Michael and Claudia in the meantime prepared a scrumptious meal of chicken, rice and salad. Some time later we realised that we had drunk enough wine to ward off the pneumonia and would be better off in bed.

The 14^th was another special day – Jolene turned 30! After a hearty breakfast she started opening presents and for posterity displayed them inside the bay window in the lounge. Michael and Claudia had secretly baked a chocolate cake the night before and presented same in all its glory, complete with little candles.

Iona

The sun was shining shyly yet comfortably and this enthused our families sufficiently to get into the vehicles and drive to Fionnphort in order to catch the ferry to Staffa on the Isle of Iona. While the sun did shine, the temperature remained low and the wind turned robust.

The Isle of Iona is located out in the one mile expanse off the western tip of Mull and is three miles long and a mile and a half wide. Our cars were not allowed on the island and were consequently left behind in Fionnphort.

The trip to Iona was well worth the trouble. It was a low lying island with lovely white beaches. The colours of the sea varied between turquoise and emerald green.

The earliest Celtic writings and traditions insist that St Columba came here from Ireland in order to establish Christendom. Instead, we learnt, he had also had to fight off the marauding Vikings and the earliest island inhabitants, the Picts.

Long before the Celts settled in Scotland, in the whatever century BC, the country and the islands were occupied by Picts, tribes of obscure origin who today have taken on near-mythical status.

Due to the relentless influence of the Church, Iona eventually became a revered place of learning. It was clear to us that ever since, the continuity of pilgrimage had remained unbroken for many centuries. All things considered, there was a burden of history on Iona to make the most devout pilgrim feel a real spiritual lightweight. As a tourist I was intimidated.

Pride of place on the island was occupied by the Iona Abbey. We walked through the ruins of the nunnery, went on a guided tour of the ancient chapel and marvelled at the Celtic crosses and the grave slabs of warriors, chiefs and abbots.

Ben More

On our way back to Dervaig we stopped to view Duart and Torosay castles. What a treat it was to virtually step back in time and admire the splendour of the bygone era! The cannons perched on the lawns at Duart Point and facing an approaching enemy threat on the water, spoke volumes of the violent past of the land. On the other hand the splendid, manicured gardens at Torosay spoke only of beauty and peace.

Tired but happy we feasted in style that evening on the lasagne, salad and garlic rolls that Gloria and I prepared. This was our last night on Mull.

The morning of the 15^th we travelled to Glencoe. It rained throughout the day but at least the rain did not obscure Castle Stalker, the history of which had been virtually painted in the blood of the Stuarts, Campbells and MacDougals. It was built on a small island in the waterway and was no doubt a formidable fortress in its time.

The scenery along the route across Rannoch Moor was indescribably beautiful, definitely some of the most breathtaking landscapes not only in the North West Highlands but probably in the world.

In our car Jolene was a knowledgeable and enthusiastic tour guide par excellence and I imagine so was Michael in the other car. They knew the mountains and glens and lochs, sometimes even by their Gaelic names and Michael, so we learnt, knew many of them intimately from scaling up and down the magnificent and steep slopes of some of the mountains and by swimming in every loch he could. When asked by Jolene in the morning of his last birthday how he wished to spend the day with her, he, much to her disquiet, reportedly grasped the opportunity to take Jolene along to climb the formidable Bla Bheinn mountain.

When we reached The Three Sisters, a magnificent mountain range outside Glencoe, we simply had to stop to take in the scenery. The sky had temporarily cleared and the wonderful wide valleys, tussocky grass and wild mountainsides looked good enough to be in a movie.

But not for long because the next moment a fine cold drizzle was coming down in sheets from a very low sky and one could only guess how much of the summits of the mountains were hidden in the clouds.

We stopped for lunch at the Clachaig Inn and some of us had traditional haggis, neeps and tatties while someone else ordered vegetarian haggis. The view of the mountain closest to the inn was also one you will never forget.

It struck me that this part of the Highlands was not a region as much as it was a fitness camp. The Highlanders appeared to be an entire nation on a self-imposed commando training course. Why look at something, these people seemed to reason, when it will toughen me up if I charge it with my head? The women looked like no mother of four among them dared show her face in public unless she could torpedo-pass a small barrel of scotch thirty metres with one arm in plaster.

Glen Coe

Now, Glencoe is without doubt one of Scotland’s most historic and beautiful glens. There is something very profound about the scale and sheer grandeur of the surrounding mountains but more so the intrigue of Glencoe’s turbulent past. A notice above the doorway of the inn where we had dinner that evening, purported to deny hospitality to hawkers and Campbells. It seemed that the MacDonalds and their kin would never overcome their outrage at the heinous treachery that was associated with the massacre of 40 of their ancestors by Captain Robert Campbell and his troops on 12 February 1692.

On our way to the village we first stopped at the Glencoe Visitors Centre where entrance was free for the day. The exhibitions were both informative and awesome. The mountains of Glencoe were apparently built from some of the oldest sedimentary and volcanic strata in the world and came into being through a geological event known as cauldron subsidence some 380 million years ago. The effects of glaciation and millions of years of erosion had worn the rocks away to shape the mountains as one sees them today.

The local museum in the main street of course kept the memory of the Massacre of the MacDonalds in 1692 alive.

Our overnight accommodation in Glencoe was in the Scottish Youth Hostel outside the village. It was a very pleasant, well equipped yet rustic place. A South African girl working in reception recognised our accents immediately.

After dinner we settled down in the dormitory that was to house the nine of us. The bunk beds were quite comfortable and it was fun for the two families to be together like this. Jolene supplied ear plugs for protection against the snorers in the hostel.

It was an essential measure because without ear plugs one was unlikely to sleep very well. Never again do I expect to experience Dolby sensurround, quadraphonic, Nicam digital snoring of such exceptional quality as I heard that night. There was none of the horrid, gruff, pig-like snorting because no-one there was drunk; but all the other tones were represented, all pitches, all-time signatures and notes – a great variegated polyrhythmic wall of sound coming out of the all-enveloping darkness. So, on with the ear plugs and to a good night’s rest.

The morning of the 16^th saw us invade the well-equipped kitchen of the hostel. It never ceased to amaze me how well a nine member group could prepare breakfast together, wash up and pack away. The operation almost had a military quality to it.

Most of the other visitors in the hostel were locals who had slipped away from a cold, wet city to come and climb a mountain in cold, wet weather. They were friendly and hospitable as the Scots generally were.

After breakfast we set out for Kyle of Lochalsh, the village where Jolene and Michael had worked for almost a year in a local hotel.

Since our provisions were running low we called at Morrison’s in Fort William and restocked on groceries. Beyond Fort William we passed Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest Munro as well as the Five Sisters of Kintail, yet another imposing mountain range.

On the way we paid a visit to the famous Eilean Donan castle on the island of that name. Although the island had a proud yet bloody history dating back to the late 13^th century, the present castle was built in the early 20^th century on the ruins of the ancient fortification.

We were able to explore most of the castle and were pleasantly surprised by the realistic recreated kitchen featuring wax models of the erstwhile landlady, the butler and kitchen staff where they were preparing a banquet. The billeting room and banquet hall were truly inviting.

Kyle of Lochalsh was very quiet and unassuming with white washed houses, a main street and one set of traffic lights. It was connected a few kilometres further to the Isle of Skye by the magnificent Skye Road Bridge, another marvel of German engineering genius.

After driving over the bridge onto Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye we quickly found our overnight accommodation in the Dun Caan Independent Hostel, which was in fact a small but nice self catering establishment. That afternoon we took a long walk back to the Bridge and the photographers amongst us had a field day with magnificent bridge views of Kyle of Lochalsh and the symphony of clouds and light over the water.

Naturally we had to sneak into the premises of the MacKinnon Country House Hotel where Chandre had worked on Skye for a peak at the caravan used by the staff as accommodation. It had no doubt been brave of her to sleep in it at the height of winter and without hot water.

That evening Jolene prepared a delicious meal of fish et al. A friend of theirs arranged to meet with us that evening and we all repaired to the King Haakon Hotel for drinks. It was bitterly cold when we walked back with wine-stained lips and we really hoped for more sun the next day.

The morning of the 17^th September saw us head for Portnalong on the Isle of Skye. At times one felt that the beauty and magnificence of the landscapes was almost too much to bear. We passed Mount Bla Bheinn, which Michael ascended on his birthday. The journey took us along the most impressive mountains and wide valleys to the Elgol pier where one was treated to the most beautiful yet savage views of the Black Cuillins mountainscape.

The cold now obliged me to wear the Springbok beanie Jolene had given me. It finally dawned on me that the first place one loses body heat from in the cold, is the head.

We enjoyed another typical Scottish lunch at Sligachan, the Glamaig Mountain looming ahead of us. Apparently a competition to determine who can run up and down that mountain the fastest and who can run up and down the most times is held there annually.

Our curiosity and delight at finding a Highland ‘coo” (cow) grazing and plodding about, seemingly unconcerned that it might just get stuck and dry out in a water bogged grassy patch, had us stop and stare at this rare sight. The cow’s legs were in the bog so deep that it appeared to be swimming. Occasionally the legs would start moving precariously about until it found the next patch of edible grass.

Talisker

It took us some time to reach our overnight destination at Skyewalker Independent Hostel, perhaps because we were a wee bit detained at the Talisker Distillery at Carbost!

Our hostel was situated close to the Cuillin hills on the Minginish Peninsula and used to be a school before. It had been taken over by a lovely couple who had one day packed their bags in the city, told their parents to join them and the kids and moved to Skye to establish the hostel. The lady, who possessed the looks and mannerisms of a hippy from the early seventies, had a son and daughter from a previous marriage and it was amazing to see how well the three generations worked together to offer the traveller what was really nice accommodation.

Was für ein ausgezeichneter Jahrgang!

In the back yard of the premises was a large plastic semi- sphere which served as a terrarium. Once seated inside, the pale sun warmed one up very quickly. I noticed, with more than a measure of pity, that some guy was living in a tent nearby. Crazy!!

That night I cooked a lamb stew which the families enjoyed with two of the excellent table wines picked by Jolene. We made ourselves at home at the big table in the one corner of the large hostel kitchen and, my almost choking on a piece of lamb regardless, it turned out to be a good fun meal.

The bunk beds, two to a room, were very comfortable but a walk to the bathroom meant that you had to proceed along a passage and turn here and there, something which ensured that by the time you got back into bed you would remain awake for a while. There was central heating throughout and consequently the freezing cold outside did not bother.

Cuillins

The morning of the 18^th saw us back in the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Since it was Wolfgang’s turn to cook a meal when we would return from the day’s excursion, he pre-cooked a whole pot full of potatoes and set it aside in the kitchen.

We drove to Portree, the main port and town on the north eastern coast of Skye. It was a beautiful town with main street lined with brightly painted buildings and running parallel to the back of the harbour. The moored boats against a background of treed hills and the blue water belonged more in a picture than in real life, I thought.

The round trip yielded breathtakingly marvellous scenery- the unusual upright rock formation on the Storr Mountain veritably called The Old Man of Storr and Kilt Rock with its volcanic formations and waterfall being two of the most striking. The wind was howling and very cold as we stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the sea and observing the clearly discernible tartan–like pattern on the 200 feet high rock formation.

There was a must stop along some really old ruins said to be Duntulm Castle, in the Trotternish area, the most northerly of Skye’s peninsulas. The ruins itself were fenced in – a wise precaution because with the number of tourists who visited the spot and the instability of the soil and ruins, it was an accident waiting to happen.

We also drove up the Quirang and Michael was simply dead keen on hiking along to its summit. Wolfgang, Josefine and Claudia went along while the rest of us drove on to Staffin where we had coffee in a restaurant with a leaking roof and house music. Jolene recognised the bagpipe music from the movie, The Last of the Mohicans and immediately enquired who the musicians were and where she could buy the CD.

Upon our return to Skyewalker Hostel, Wolfgang was perturbed to find that a good deal of his boiled potatoes had been purloined. It seemed that some of the hostel dwellers had helped themselves to it in our absence. There was fortunately more than enough left for us and with Josefine’s assistance, a typically German dinner of delicious Wieners and potato salad was served to us. The white wines brought along ensured a harmonious balance.

Speaking of harmony – when we settled down afterwards in the lounge with a couple from the Czech Republic and an English mother and son, we found the musical instruments on display rather intriguing. Once Hippy Lady and Adoring Husband and both their parents had joined us, the presence of the violins et al became clear. Hippy Lady and husband entertained us with guitar and harmonica and some really good voices. They did a whole range of songs, from old Scottish to some modern pub singalongs. Hippy Lady’s mother sang a haunting, ancient Scottish Gaelic song which we naturally did not understand but could sense the melancholy of.

Quirang

Much to Jolene’s concern and after some instigation on the part of the Scots, I told a Scottish joke which featured the renowned dislike of the Scots for the English. The Scots cherished it and to their credit, the Englishwoman and her son laughed along.  Perhaps I was being hard on the English; they are a very private race, which isn’t something of which you could ever accuse the Scots.

The whole setup of the two families at the hostel struck me as the perfect way of reaping the benefits that tourism can buy, while at the same time retaining a local culture, the scenery, a network of friendships and family ties on which outsiders cannot impinge, even when they are in the same room. It was like living in two parallel worlds and being happy in both.

Johan

Celtic Cross

One may be forgiven for asking, no, wondering, when the most advantageous time to visit Scotland; and the Highlands in particular, would be. Advantageous in the sense that one would be able to appreciate the cornucopian delights of exquisite and mystical beauty of this ancient country in relatively acceptable weather. Acceptable weather in Scotland, you see, is the ubiquitous light rain of early autumn as opposed to the continuous heavy and chilly downpours of winter, the incessant summer rain and the invariable drizzles of spring. It is all a matter of degree.

My daughter suggested that September would allow for less crowded accommodation and more tolerable weather conditions because it is supposed to rain a modicum less in September. It would furthermore fall outside the tourism high season of June and July when the Scots are invariably invaded by camcorder obsessed Japanese tourists, socks and sandaled Germans and high school and university graduates from all over the world who carry with them heavy back packs but few manners and no inhibitions.

I have often wondered why young Americans would be so keen on walking around a foreign country for weeks with a back breaking weight of dirty washing and cheesy memorabilia just so that they can say, at the end of it all, that they ‘have done’ Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland; that, when they had not even been to Utah or the Rocky Mountains.

I think it is fair to enquire why people carry these vast objects around on their backs when, in my experience, most back packers you see round the world are only interested in beach parties, night clubs and pizzas and have no intention of climbing a mountain or hiking a hill in their lives, unless they have to go up to score some E and even then they probably get a cab. They might as well get a little hold all instead.

In any event, how does one ‘do’ a country as mystifying as Scotland? Does it mean sleeping over in nice budget country hotels or one of those no star back packers and eating haggis and black pudding? Does it require calling in at all those must see pubs in order to drink blended scotch, get inebriated with other tourists and piss the locals off? What about climbing the odd non-Munro and wheeling your pack around and up the cold stone stairs of centuries old castles by which time you have thoroughly ‘done’ yourself in? Or is there something more, much more to this arcane country and its enigmatic people than meets the tourist’s eye?

Gloria and I decided that the profound effect which Scotland with its incredibly beautiful countryside and hospitable people had so obviously had on Chandre, Jolene and Michael during the year that they had spent working there, deserved closer scrutiny; and what better way than touring the Highlands, the Isles of Skye and Mull with the latter two? It is after all somewhat extraordinary for parents to be invited to accompany youngsters on a trip of this nature. We counted ourselves very fortunate.

So while Chandre had already returned to South Africa and was working in Cape Town, Jolene and Michael were to remain in Scotland until the end of their trip with us. Michael’s parents, Wolfgang and Josefine and his sister, Claudia, were invited along. They too saw the advantage of having two first class and inveterate guides accompany us on this ‘alchemistic’ trip – the search for Scottish gold.

Moreover our two families had travelled together before and had, despite the language barrier, found one another to be companionable and pleasant.

Now, it is said that he who fails to plan, plans to fail. Jolene, no doubt mindful of this truism, spent a great deal of time, effort and money beforehand to research the history of the Scots, to map out the topography of the land and to compile an inspired brochure designed to capture our imagination and supply answers to every possible question we might have come up with. At home our friends suggested in the course of badinage that the compendious nature of this travel brochure obviated the need to travel to Scotland.

However, appreciating Jolene’s not so risible expectations of her two families, we duly acquainted ourselves with the vicissitudes of Scottish history and the details of the itinerary planned for us.

Gloria and I departed, courtesy of Air Emirates, from Durban to Glasgow the evening of the 8^th of September 2007. Apart from the longevity of the queue at the totally inadequate number of check-in counters at Oliver Tambo Airport in Johannesburg and the awfully timed stopover at Dubai in the ungodly hours of the next morning, the flight was an unremarkable one.

During the final leg of our journey we sat with a knowledgeable Scot who had lived in South Africa for a number of years and who was able to share some pleasantries about Glasgow with us.

It seems that for more than a thousand years Glasgow had been one of the world’s most important ecclesiastical centres and today, still nestling strategically along the length of the river Clyde, remained the shipbuilding capital of the world. With a population of 800 000 people it is also by far Scotland’s largest city.

Jolene was at the airport to meet us. Needless to say, it was drizzling outside but her smiles brought all the sunshine we needed. Since Michael and the Sobes were due to arrive from Germany only the next day, Jolene decided that we were to see as much of Glasgow as we could in the meantime.

The drive to Glasgow in Jolene and Michael’s car took less than 40 minutes and without too much difficulty we found the Travelodge where we were to spend the night. The Scottish drivers were generally mild and well-mannered, I thought; certainly a vast improvement on the quality of you average South African driver.

Gloria and I were keen to visit Glasgow’s Cathedral which dated circa 550 AD. It is one of very few Scottish medieval churches to have survived the Reformation unscathed and for good measure is even reported to have been visited by St Columba, the medieval Gaelic saint we were still to hear a lot about.

Despite its reputation of having for centuries been a hospitable sanctuary for believers, the cathedral was closed to visitors on the day of our visit. Nevertheless,

viewing it from the outside was still awe-inspiring. So was the University of Strathclyde.

We found George Square an interesting hive of activity and the architecture of the City Hall was breathtakingly beautiful. A short walk through the city centre in predictably inclement weather brought us to a family restaurant of some kind whose budget meals naturally appealed to many Glaswegians, some of whom are still indigent and equally poorly educated. I had my first Tennants beer here and found it to be very adequate. I rush to add that I am neither an expert nor an enthusiast in this field.

That afternoon the sun reared its lovely head through the low clouds and this made it possible for us to drive into the countryside to Bothwell Castle, or rather, the ruins of Bothwell castle. Little other than the ancient outer walls and a more contemporary curio shop had remained of what no doubt had been an imposing structure in its time. Despite the very polite efforts of the caretaker to sell us tickets which would enable us to enter all of Scotland’s historical monuments, we declined. After all, so Jolene reasoned, we would only be seeing a fraction of these monuments during our trip.

We walked around the structure and admired the way in which the Brits looked after their heritage. In contrast to the doubtful integrity of ours in South Africa, the lawns here were trimmed and the fences sturdy. One got the feeling that their heritage mattered to them.

The morning of the tenth brought lovely sunshine weather, something which was apparently not all that unusual in mid September and really welcoming Josefine, Claudia, Wolfgang and Michael. I had to take a chance sans international driving permit to bring Jolene and Michael’s car to the airport while she drove the rented vehicle there.

Without further ado we went on a food shopping spree at a Glasgow supermarket. Since we had arranged that each of our party of seven was to cook one or more of the meals during our trip, the purchasing had to be done carefully and comprehensively. Gloria and I were most impressed with the quality of the food we bought, including the meat. In a feat of master packing, Jolene managed to get everything and everybody into every available space in the two cars and we were off to Oban on the West Coast of Scotland.

After a leisurely 32 kilometre drive along the main route north, we arrived at the shores of Loch Lomond. The knowledge that this was Britain’s largest single inland waterway and the corresponding need to open another Tennants beer made it a compulsory stop. The Loch with its distant islands was truly picturesque.

The drive to Oban was scenic enough and soon we encountered an oyster bar which was situated a mere stone’s throw away from the waterfront of Loch Fyne. The bar, so

it appeared, was renowned for its fresh water oysters and according to Jolene, Michael was dying to taste the delicacy. Naturally Gloria obliged by purchasing some take-away raw oysters. In this well stocked shop we found a variety of products said to be popular in the greater Argyl region, including vegetarian haggis! I might have succeeded in convincing our resident vegetarian, Claudia, that while haggis proper was made with sheep’s stomach and other organs, the vegetarian haggis was a product of what was found inside the sheep’s guts.

The idea was to call at Kilchurn Castle on the way to Inverary. The castle had apparently started off as a five storey 15^th Century tower house. Apart from being accessible by boat during the summer months, could also be approached on the mainland from the east. We had decided on the latter.

However, just before we reached Inverary we encountered a long queue of cars and discovered that there had been a serious car accident ahead which had left people dead and that it would take some hours before the road would be cleared. This necessitated our turning around and driving via Crianlarich to Oban.

Oban lies in a crescent that occupies a number of hills surrounding its bay. Like the Bluff in Durban, Oban’s bay is protected against the severest of weather by the northern tail of an island. Apart from the quaintness of this seaside town, its most outstanding feature is McCaig’s Tower, a Colosseum look-alike called ‘McCaig’s Folly’ that stands above the town.

Our overnight establishment, Jeremy Inglis Independent Hostel, was situated but a street or so away from the Bay. We had to carry our bags up two steep flights of stairs. As we lurched precariously up the stairs, each one was acutely aware that at any moment he or she might topple over onto his back and die like sheep before the emergency services could get there.

The bedrooms were acceptable and for good measure had paintings of questionable quality, including one with an erotic scene in ours.

From the street outside the hostel one had a superb view of McCaig’s Tower. While the Colosseum like structure was out of place in a Scottish village in the 21^st Century, it certainly drew attention. Not surprisingly then, after having bought ourselves traditional fish and chips takeaways from the very busy McTavish’s Kitchens in George Street, we ambled up to the Tower.

At times the climb was rather steep and the fact that we were eating while ascending did not make matters easier either. When we reached the summit we realised that to call the structure a tower was somewhat of a misnomer. True, it towered over everything because it was situated on a hill but in reality consisted of a semi-circular wall reminiscent of that famous landmark of Rome. There was a park behind it and our arrival must have disturbed a young couple who had been romanticising on a bench in the dark because they disappeared like denizens of the night.

The Bay was rather quiet that time of the year and the drizzle which had set in drove us to the kitchen of the hostel. Time to separate the men from the boys, we said, as Michael borrowed a tool designed to open oysters without injuring oneself too severely in the process, from the hostel manager. As the cork was popped from one of the excellent wines Jolene had bought and brought along, the men and brave Josefine proceeded to sample the oysters. I thought they were rather good. It goes without saying that whatever the merits of the raw shellfish might have been, the wine washed it down thoroughly.

In the early morning of the 11^th we packed the two cars once again and set off for the harbour where we caught a ferry, the illustrious Caledonian MacBrayne, to Craignure on the Isle of Mull. Some of us rushed from the loading level to the upper decks in eager competition with school children on an outing, dozens of locals and other tourists in order to find the most comfortable lounge for the journey. There were a bunch of Koreans blocking the first entrance and shooting the shit out of everything that moved with four camcorders at once.

Having finally settled in a heated coffee lounge with pub, we men converged on the two barmen with orders for cuppachino and of course, stout for Wolfgang and me. The girls needed to find the ladies’ first.

Patrons were four deep at the bar counter and it seemed many of them were gripped with the terror that they might not get served. I learned a very valuable lesson there that would stand me in good stead in Scottish pubs in the future. Because of the time and care lavished on the pouring of a pint of stout, the trick is to order your next one five minutes before the previous one comes to an end. That way there will be no uncomfortable drinking hiatus. I must admit that it does take a day a day or two to get acclimatised to this.

Oh yes, it was my birthday and I was made to sit on a couch and open many lovely gifts and receive a lot of attention from not only our families but also the passengers in our immediate vicinity. I drank my first Velvet beer with alacrity.

The voyage took us past a 13^th Century fortress and famous landmark – Duart Castle, which was ensconced on an enclave of the Isle of Mull. We disembarked with considerable enthusiasm at Craignure Pier and Jolene and Michael drove us around the west side of Northern Mull to the head of Loch A’Chumhainn.

Now, over most of the Isle of Mull there are but single tracks, fortunately with tarred surface that serve as roads. This signifies that when the road is not deserted, which it seldom was, vehicles travelling in opposite directions have to pass one another on the single track. Motorists are generally required to give way to one another by stopping in specially constructed bays. Consequently driving on Mull requires a great deal of patience and considerate driving on one’s part. Jolene and Michael proved to be very good at this.

After a scenic drive we arrived at the tiny village of Dervaig. Dervaig has 26 houses and a population of 40 to 80, depending on who you ask. Our accommodation for the

next few days was to be a cottage called Penmorebeg, on the outskirts of the village. It turned out to be a gorgeous, comfortable country cottage set amongst trees and alongside green fields. It really had every comfort we could wish for. At last we could unpack our bags.

That afternoon we walked up the hill overlooking the village. It was winding and steep and led one past a cemetery and also what seemed a not so insignificantly sized forest. The sweeping views from there were breathtaking. We were at some point joined by a Scottish terrier of questionable breed and it followed us around and sometimes, as if sensing where we were going, even led the way. Many tourists must have made their way to the forest before in the company of this canine.

A short distance beyond a fence in the wood we found some of Mull’s enigmatic standing stones. Another misnomer, I would suggest, since three of the five in the alignment had fallen and nobody had bothered to re-erect them. The two upright stones, or menhirs, were 2, 5 metres in height and oriented NNW-SSE. It was if these relics from the past indicated thousands of years of human continuity, random and unadorned, in an unchanging landscape. It was only natural to feel a strong sense of awe in their presence.

Everywhere amongst the surrounding trees were ferns and the trunks were covered with beautiful emerald moss. At home we go to great lengths to get rid of moss and algae in the garden and pool but here one realised just how beautiful it is – another moment of great realisation.

We ventured along the comforting main street with shops selling things you don’t really need. Wolfgang, the roof builder amongst us, was quite intrigued by the age and durability of the tiles which covered the roofs of the older houses.

The centrepiece and pride of the village must be the Bellachroy Inn, an historic drover’s inn which was established in 1608. A brief check revealed that it had a most interesting menu and it was without further ado considered appropriate to celebrate my 54^th birthday in that simple splendour.

And so we did that night. The place was all refreshingly non-corporate. I’m a great believer in putting your cash directly into the local economy rather than giving it to the Internal Global Chain of Hotel Evil. The dish chosen by most of the carnivores amongst us was delicious lamb shank in red wine sauce. This and the local beer provided much succour for a man who had turned yet another year older.

After a hearty Scottish breakfast prepared by Jolene and Michael and which included our first haggis and black pudding, we drove to Tobermory, situated on the shore of the Irish Sea. It is an early 18^th Century fishing village that today boasts the most spectacular picture postcard views but its most distinct feature lies in the brightly painted frontages of many of the sea facing buildings.

Where the main road descends into the harbour one finds the Tobermory Distillery, an establishment which held more than just a passing interest for Michael. The art of

distilling a good whiskey had sparked enormous interest on his part in the year or more which he and Jolene had spent in the Highlands and on the Isle of Skye. His enthusiasm was truly infectious and not surprisingly we were quickly persuaded to join him and other tourists on a guided tour of the facility.

Well, we certainly learnt what role peat, that ubiquitous slow burning, smoky ground cover found in the hills and the strange shapes of the stills had to play in the production of single malt scotch whiskey. Also that while whiskey was aged in used oak casks, it, unlike red and some white wines, did not age and improve in the bottle.

That afternoon we drove through to Calgary Bay for what proved to be truly stunning and sweeping views of the sea and the surrounds. That despite a chilly wind and sea mist which obscured much of the distant isles. The spectacular coastline gave way to fields and forests that in turn shaped green hills and mountains. There had been no indiscriminate house-building for many decades.

It was only every fifteen minutes or so that you might pass some ancient ruin of a farmhouse. The result was that the whole area had a quiet and eerie feeling to it. Hardly a soul about but one nevertheless had the feeling that the long-dead might be watching from behind every dry-stone wall. The brooding, empty quality to the landscape was both exciting and unsettling.

The beach was a cold, desolate mud and stone expanse which did not invite a dip in the water.

Back at our cottage, Josefine took over the kitchen and with a little help from Claudia and Wolfgang, in due course served us a beautiful, steaming goulash. Michael selected a good bottle of wine or two which made for a most convivial evening.

Johan