Durness May 25
I finally reached my kicking off point after two days and 680 miles. The journey did not have the most auspicious of beginnings. After bidding a tearful farewell to Claire, I set off at a steady pace, reflecting to myself that holding up the traffic would be a novel experience. Even so, the hand signals being employed by the various drivers who managed to overtake on the twisting road towards Bridgwater did seem to be particularly demonstrative.It wasn’t until a builders’ flat-bed drew alongside as we were crossing Westonzoyland airfield that I realised what the trouble was: my bicycle had broken loose from its moorings at the back of the van and was dangling at right angles, whilst the compartment below was swinging open, threatening to decant my golf clubs and sundry other precious possessions into the path of the following traffic. I swore and pulled in. I’d barely got out of the van to put things right before Claire turned up. For some reason I failed to understand, she seemed to find the whole thing highly amusing!
Thereafter, Carmen went like a bird – if rather more of a swan than a swallow. Unlike her namesake, she is built for comfort, not for speed! I stayed the night on a campsite near Moffat, dining at the Old Black Bull. No self-respecting hostelry in the Scottish lowlands is complete without (a) a reminder of some English-inspired historical outrage and (b) a connection with Robert Burns, and the Old Black Bull is no exception. A plaque on the wall informed me that it had been the HQ of Graham Claverhouse, who had been King James II’s Commissioner appointed to suppress the rebellious covenanters in 1683. “Bloody Clavers”, he was known as; and his exploits were “the Killing Time”. The Scots are great ones for “nursing their wrath to keep it warm”.
Which brings us to Burns, who, according to another plaque, wrote the following on a window pane whilst staying at the Old Black Bull: “Ask why God made the gem so small and why so large the granite? Because God meant that mankind should set the higher value on it.” As words go, they’re not exactly immortal, and maybe I’m being particularly dense, but it’s not clear to me whether it is the gem or the granite by which Burns thinks we should set the greater store. This being Scotland, presumably the latter.
Once I’d got past Glasgow, the traffic began to melt away, as did the radio reception. I lost Test Match Special between Perth and Inverness, so switched to Radio 2, to revel in the traffic reports. Sure enough, the M5 was clogged from Michaelwood services to Clevedon. How very glad I was not to be caught up in the that lot. But as I was driving along a completely deserted A838 (which is actually a single track with passing places) on the shores of Loch Shin, even Radio 2 disappeared. So I pressed the ‘search’ button, and was eventually rewarded with what I took to be a song in Gaelic. This turned out to be Isles FM and its “Drive time programme”. Drive time, in the Western Isles?! “Boat Time” would be more like it.
Durness (pronounced as in ‘furnace’) turned out to be a joy: an oasis of understated civilisation in the midst of an elemental landscape. The campsite is directly above a handsome beach called Sango Sands, with the mountains behind, and sea lochs on either side. John Lennon used to come on holiday here as a child, a fact which is commemorated in the handsome, new (and no doubt massively EU funded) ‘John Lennon Community Hall’.
I finally reached Cape Wrath (pronounced with a short ‘a’ as in ‘rat’) yesterday lunchtime, after a bike ride, a ferry crossing and a hair-raising 11 mile minibus ride along the narrow twisting road that was constructed for the building of the lighthouse in the early nineteenth century. I know that, thanks to the minibus driver, David Hirn, who knows everything there is to know about the most north westerly point on the British mainland and its lighthouse, and has even written a book on the subject called “A Light in the Wilderness”.
And a wilderness is what it is. No-one lives on the Cape Wrath peninsular. It is a vast expanse of moorland, mountain and rock which has the dubious distinction of being the only military range in Europe where live 500 pound bombs can be dropped. Happily, these are aimed at a small island just offshore, rather than at the Cape itself, and not on a bank holiday week-end. The regular pounding has made little visual impact. This is a landscape more than capable of shrugging off anything that mere man can throw at it.
We were given an hour to wander around the lighthouse, admire the towering cliffs
and watch the arctic terns fishing for their lunch. I had taken the precaution of bringing a picnic, which I ate (and drank!) in the shelter of the lighthouse walls. The sun was above and the steel-blue Atlantic below and here I was, in the most remote corner of mainland Britain. If my journey offers any better moments, they’ll have to be pretty good.
I finally reached my kicking off point after two days and 680 miles. The journey did not have the most auspicious of beginnings. After bidding a tearful farewell to Claire, I set off at a steady pace, reflecting to myself that holding up the traffic would be a novel experience. Even so, the hand signals being employed by the various drivers who managed to overtake on the twisting road towards Bridgwater did seem to be particularly demonstrative.It wasn’t until a builders’ flat-bed drew alongside as we were crossing Westonzoyland airfield that I realised what the trouble was: my bicycle had broken loose from its moorings at the back of the van and was dangling at right angles, whilst the compartment below was swinging open, threatening to decant my golf clubs and sundry other precious possessions into the path of the following traffic. I swore and pulled in. I’d barely got out of the van to put things right before Claire turned up. For some reason I failed to understand, she seemed to find the whole thing highly amusing!
Thereafter, Carmen went like a bird – if rather more of a swan than a swallow. Unlike her namesake, she is built for comfort, not for speed! I stayed the night on a campsite near Moffat, dining at the Old Black Bull. No self-respecting hostelry in the Scottish lowlands is complete without (a) a reminder of some English-inspired historical outrage and (b) a connection with Robert Burns, and the Old Black Bull is no exception. A plaque on the wall informed me that it had been the HQ of Graham Claverhouse, who had been King James II’s Commissioner appointed to suppress the rebellious covenanters in 1683. “Bloody Clavers”, he was known as; and his exploits were “the Killing Time”. The Scots are great ones for “nursing their wrath to keep it warm”.
Which brings us to Burns, who, according to another plaque, wrote the following on a window pane whilst staying at the Old Black Bull: “Ask why God made the gem so small and why so large the granite? Because God meant that mankind should set the higher value on it.” As words go, they’re not exactly immortal, and maybe I’m being particularly dense, but it’s not clear to me whether it is the gem or the granite by which Burns thinks we should set the greater store. This being Scotland, presumably the latter.
Once I’d got past Glasgow, the traffic began to melt away, as did the radio reception. I lost Test Match Special between Perth and Inverness, so switched to Radio 2, to revel in the traffic reports. Sure enough, the M5 was clogged from Michaelwood services to Clevedon. How very glad I was not to be caught up in the that lot. But as I was driving along a completely deserted A838 (which is actually a single track with passing places) on the shores of Loch Shin, even Radio 2 disappeared. So I pressed the ‘search’ button, and was eventually rewarded with what I took to be a song in Gaelic. This turned out to be Isles FM and its “Drive time programme”. Drive time, in the Western Isles?! “Boat Time” would be more like it.
Durness (pronounced as in ‘furnace’) turned out to be a joy: an oasis of understated civilisation in the midst of an elemental landscape. The campsite is directly above a handsome beach called Sango Sands, with the mountains behind, and sea lochs on either side. John Lennon used to come on holiday here as a child, a fact which is commemorated in the handsome, new (and no doubt massively EU funded) ‘John Lennon Community Hall’.
I finally reached Cape Wrath (pronounced with a short ‘a’ as in ‘rat’) yesterday lunchtime, after a bike ride, a ferry crossing and a hair-raising 11 mile minibus ride along the narrow twisting road that was constructed for the building of the lighthouse in the early nineteenth century. I know that, thanks to the minibus driver, David Hirn, who knows everything there is to know about the most north westerly point on the British mainland and its lighthouse, and has even written a book on the subject called “A Light in the Wilderness”.
And a wilderness is what it is. No-one lives on the Cape Wrath peninsular. It is a vast expanse of moorland, mountain and rock which has the dubious distinction of being the only military range in Europe where live 500 pound bombs can be dropped. Happily, these are aimed at a small island just offshore, rather than at the Cape itself, and not on a bank holiday week-end. The regular pounding has made little visual impact. This is a landscape more than capable of shrugging off anything that mere man can throw at it.
We were given an hour to wander around the lighthouse, admire the towering cliffs
and watch the arctic terns fishing for their lunch. I had taken the precaution of bringing a picnic, which I ate (and drank!) in the shelter of the lighthouse walls. The sun was above and the steel-blue Atlantic below and here I was, in the most remote corner of mainland Britain. If my journey offers any better moments, they’ll have to be pretty good.
Later in the day, I played golf, at Durness GC, and this too was very heaven. It may not be the longest nine hole course in the world, or the most manicured, but there are some fascinatingly quirky holes, and one very good one – the par 5 6th which curves its way around Loch Lanish, just daring the over-ambitious to attempt a wood across the water, to get home in two. And the views are just stunning – of blue sea and the white sand dunes of Balnakeil Bay on one side and the mountains on the other. With crisp moorland turf underfoot, and the larks singing their little
hearts out up above, it was a golfing experience I will never forget, and for just £15.The only person I’ve met who has actually visited Durness is the Western Morning News’ esteemed Farming Editor, Bingo Hall. When I’d told him where I was bound he said instantly “Ha! In that case you must go to the Seafood Platter. Marvellous fish, straight out of Loch Eriboll". And do you know what, he was absolutely right! I had a platter of lobster, crab, mussels and langoustines, all as fresh as fresh could be. It was a memorable meal to end a memorable day. By the time I’d cycled back to the comforts of Carmen, I was so mellow, not even the voting in the Eurovision song contest could disturb my equilibrium. In fact, I thought Terry Wogan made rather a fool of himself with his huffing and puffing over Eastern bloc togetherness. What does he expect?
But where, I hear you ask, is the Celtic in all this? Well, if truth be told, the far north of Scotland owes a great deal more to the Picts and the Vikings than it does to the Celts. Cape Wrath apparently takes its name from the Norse word hvarf, meaning ‘turning point’. Which describes very well the precise geographical meaning of ‘cape’. It is a headland that marks the dividing line between two seas; in this case the Atlantic and the North Sea. The only other cape in the UK is Cape Cornwall (which is where I learned all this), where the Atlantic meets the Irish Sea.
But going back to matters Celtic, I did note that the highest cliffs on mainland Britain, a couple of miles east of Cape Wrath, towering 900 feet above the churning Atlantic, are called Clo Mor, and that has distinct echoes of the cliffs of Moher in County Clare, which are the highest cliffs in Ireland. Someone will no doubt tell me that they are both Norse rather than Celtic in origin, but for the moment that is my Celtic connection and I’m sticking to it!
Apart from the obvious one, of course, which is the Gaelic language, which is still spoken by a few of the locals here. I thought I’d encountered one such when I clambered on board the little ferry across the Kyle of Durness, when the ferrymen said something completely unintelligible to a crofter from Fraserburgh, who is on holiday here with his wife. I met up with them again in the evening, at the fish restaurant, and asked about the conversation. He laughed. “That wasnae Gallic. That man was drunk. He hasnae been sober for the past five year!”
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