Up North...

By David Gourley

Cathy and I have had two memorable holidays in Norway, each taking us right up to the North Cape.  This is generally regarded as the northernmost point in mainland European albeit it is on an island, Mageroya (the comparatively unknown Cape Nordkinn, a few miles to the east, is the actual northernmost point in the mainland).   On both occasions we enjoyed the spectacular scenery in what in our view is one of the nicest of countries. 

On the first occasion we travelled from Oslo to Helsinki taking as it were the scenic route via the North Cape.  Mostly this journey was by coach but there was a short stretch on the Hurtigruten, the renowned shipping service which operates along the coast of Norway.  This has the vital function of transporting goods and people between coastal communities, many of them quite remote.  Nowadays it also caters for tourists and our second trip took us the entire length of its route, from Bergen to Kirkenes and back.  On the return journey one calls by day at the places stopped at during the night on the way up. 

Bergen is one of Europe's loveliest cities.  The visitor does have to be prepared for the probability of rain: on average there is in any given year rainfall on 231 days.  We were lucky as we had a full day of sunshine, enabling us to enjoy to the full the magnificent view from the top of the Floibanen funicular railway.  Right at the other end of the voyage, Kirkenes is close to the Russian border.  The region was thus of strategic importance during the Cold War, as it was one of just two areas where a NATO state bordered the Soviet Union (the other being at the opposite end of Europe where Turkey adjoins Armenia and Georgia).  A shore excursion took us to the Storskog border crossing.  Although Norway is not in the EU, it has signed up to the Schengen Agreement so one can move freely across the borders with Sweden and Finland.  But woe betide anyone who tries to saunter across the border into Russia!

Having made it to the North Cape we hankered to go still further north, to Svalbard, often referred to as Spitsbergen, which is actually the largest island in this archipelago.  But the tours there seemed rather pricey.  Then we discovered a comparatively inexpensive cruise aboard the Marco Polo.  This vessel gets mixed reviews.  Our review would for the most part be favourable.  It is really a matter of expectation: if one is looking forward to five-star luxury one is going to be disappointed.  It looks though like 2013 was the last year in which it offered a cruise to Spitsbergen. 

The cruise started from Leith, the port for Edinburgh, and we had to arrange our own travel up there.  Rail travel in Britain can be very expensive but one can get very good bargains.  By booking well in advance on the internet, and getting single tickets either way, we got first class tickets for less than standard class would normally be.  And one is well looked after if travelling first class with East Coast Trains as food and drink are complimentary.  So on the way up we had a good breakfast and later on a late morning snack with, in my case, a glass of Argentinean red (at weekends the offering is downsized so only snacks and non-alcoholic beverages are complimentary).   Sadly however this complimentary service for first-class passengers is a result of the discontinuation of that once loved feature of rail travel, the restaurant car.  If one is travelling in standard class one either takes one's chances on the buffet, or brings one's own.  

We took advantage of the four-night add-on in Scotland, comprising two nights each in Edinburgh and Pitlochry, Perthshire, that our tour company was offering prior to the cruise.  We were attracted by the fact that, in Pitlochry, we would be staying in the Atholl Palace Hotel, where we had last stayed nearly thirty years previously.  On our full day in Edinburgh we had, in the morning, a walking tour along the Royal Mile with an excellent blue badge guide.  We were just over a year away from the Scottish referendum on independence but our guide eschewed this topic, other than to mention that 2014 was going to be a busy year for Scotland what with various events due to take place.  Thus was the possibility of her country becoming independent equated with the hosting by Gleneagles of the Ryder Cup!  She also pointed out the Canon's Gait, the pub from which Nigel Farage had recently been forced to flee by hostile demonstrators.

As an Englishman I was with David Bowie on the question of independence, wanting Scotland to ‘stay with us’.  But I would readily concede that, had Scotland become independent, it would have had as its capital a world-class city, fully able to hold its own with other European capitals.  Certainly it is one of Europe's loveliest cities.   The afternoon was our own.  We had stayed in Edinburgh a few years previously and on that occasion had visited what might be described as four set piece attractions: the Castle; Holyrood Palace; the Scottish Parliament; and the Royal Yacht Britannia, which is berthed in Leith.  Now, following a good lunch at the Scottish National Gallery, we visited some lesser known attractions. 

We started with the Museum on the Mound.  This is housed in the impressive former headquarters of the Bank of Scotland and thus recalls the days before Fred the Shred, when banking in Scotland, as in the rest of the UK, was a respected profession.  It is devoted to money and finance.  The exhibits include £1m worth of individual pound notes.  No point in anyone trying to steal these as they are suitably endorsed!  We then visited two contrasting National Trust for Scotland properties - members of the south of the border equivalent have reciprocal visiting rights.   Firstly, in the Royal Mile, Gladstone's Land.  Nothing to do with the Victorian Prime Minister, albeit he was for a while a local MP, conducting his celebrated Midlothian Campaign.  This Gladstone was a seventeenth century merchant, his 'Land' being his house.  In the elegant New Town we visited the Georgian House.

We transferred to and from Pitlochry by rail.  I am a great advocate of travel by rail rather than road.  Even so, a side of me regretted that, rather than have our cases loaded for us into a coach, we were having to lug them on and off trains, an easier task in Edinburgh, the terminal, than in Pitlochry, a brief stop on the way to and from Inverness.  At Pitlochry it was raining, not what we wanted when we were straight away heading to the Queen's View.  Would there be a view?  Luck in fact was with us for it stopped raining and the view over Loch Tummel was magnificent.  It is widely supposed that the Queen in question is Victoria but it is more likely that it was named from Isabella, the wife of Robert the Bruce.

The Atholl Palace lies high above the attractive resort of Pitlochry.  The view from our room was splendid.  The hotel had, in no unpleasant way, a bit of a dated feel.  We had a second tour, which was to the Edradour Distillery.  This is a David among Goliaths for its survival as one of the smallest distilleries in Scotland, producing in one week just twelve barrels of whisky, is somewhat against the odds.

Preserved steam railways abound in England and in Wales but there are hardly any in Scotland.  Our included tour the next day was to one of these, the Strathspey Railway, which takes one through beautiful Cairngorms scenery on its journey from Aviemore to Broomhill via intriguingly named Boat of Garten.  The rail company makes much of the fact that Broomhill was 'Glenbogle' Station in the BBC series Monarch of the Glen, something that was rather lost on us as we have never watched this programme.  Aviemore is a surprisingly dull place.  Its main centre brought to mind somewhere in a new town.  Yet this is Britain's foremost ski resort and on the continent such places as Kitzbühel in Austria where we once had a week's holiday, can be charming. 

We joined our vessel the next day.  We had a good first impression of the Marco Polo: a friendly and remarkably quick boarding process which compared favourably with that of the Hurtigruten, which in this respect was more bureaucratic.  We also liked the fact that the Marco Polo has a 'no children' policy.  We do in fact like to see children taking part in, and hopefully benefitting from, travel if they are reasonably well behaved.  But sometimes they aren't.  On our Hurtigruten vessel, our sailing from Bergen was marred by children messing around.  We complained to their parents who were annoyed - with us.  And, yes, we can tell the difference between high spirits and bad behaviour.

As said, my review of the Marco Polo would generally be favourable.  Not five-star luxury but pleasant, spacious and always kept meticulously clean.  For the most part staff were friendly and helpful though poker faces seemed to be the order of the day for the East European waiting staff.  However in the evening our Ukrainian waiter revealed his sense of humour.  Meals were good, with the ability to choose between a buffet and more formal waiter service; as a rule we went for the former at lunchtime and the latter in the evening.  There was a varied programme of entertainment.   Making hessian bags is not really our thing but we enjoyed some of the shows, one of which comprised Russian music, maybe in deference to the captain.  He informed us that he was from that country and had been born in the Crimea.  Doesn't that belong to, er, Ukraine?

There were four stops in mainland Norway as we travelled north to Spitsbergen.  The first two, Molde and Andalsnes, were quite close, being at either end of the Romsdalsfjord.  There was the option of travelling between the two by coach and it was reported to us that the scenery was marvellous.  But we enjoyed sailing along the Fjord.  We had shore excursions in both places.  Scheduling on this tour was tight and, except in the Svalbard capital, Longyearbyen, going on an excursion meant having no time to look round the towns where we stopped, though one was driven through them.  Molde rather blurred into the great number of stops, over thirty, on our Hurtigruten cruise though I remembered its distinctive Rica Hotel, shaped like a huge sail.  It is known as the Town of Roses.  Our excursion was to the Atlantic Road, a striking series of bridges spanning a number of small islands. 

Andalsnes, or NATO Harbour to use its nickname, is a very small place so I don't think we missed out on much by having no time to look round.  We would though have liked the chance to look inside the old railway carriage which has been converted into a chapel.  We would thus have upped our tally of places of worship in unusual buildings: the church in a rock in Helsinki, the church in a cave in Budapest and, a bit closer to home, the church in a windmill near Reigate.  Our tour took us first to Trollveggen, Europe's tallest vertical, overhanging mountain face and then up the scenic Trollstiggen, a road which winds its way up almost vertical mountainside and has eleven hairpin bends. Viewing platforms at the top afforded fantastic views.  Two doughty members of our crew jogged right the way up the road and then down again.

There was a full day of sailing before we reached our next port of call, Tromso.   There was little to see.  In contrast to the Hurtigruten, which hugs the coastline and thus affords continuous enjoyment of the coastal scenery, the Marco Polo is set on getting from A to B as quickly as possible.  We crossed the Arctic Circle.  Thankfully the Marco Polo does not replicate the ceremony held on the Hurtigruten in which 'King Neptune' puts ice cold water down passengers' backs.  We declined to take part in this.  If that makes us a miserable pair, so be it.

We had been to Tromsö on our two earlier visits to Norway and did not feel in need of an organized tour.  On our Hurtigruten trip, we had two visits, the second being to an atmospheric midnight service in the Ice Cathedral, the city's most distinctive landmark though it is not a cathedral nor is it made of ice.  Tromsö is a pleasant city though it does not strike one as meriting the soubriquet Paris of the North.  The name is maybe earned because its citizens apparently love to party, especially during the long dark winter nights.  A statue of Amundsen reminds the British visitor that the Norwegians got to the South Pole first!

Of the available options, we went for a visit to Polaria, a museum offering an ‘Arctic experience’ which is located in a strikingly designed building that replicates ice floes pressed up against the land.  Our view, shared by others on TripAdvisor, was that this was good as far it went, but one had expected it to go a bit further.  Of particular interest to us, given where we were heading, was the film depicting Svalbard as seen through the eyes of a little auk flying across it.

Our final stop in mainland Norway was in Honningsvag, the small town which is the base for visits to the North Cape.  Having been to the Cape twice, we decided against going again.  I hasten to add we had enjoyed our visits and it is certainly a place worth visiting.  There are various attractions but no tackiness.  These include a small Thai museum.  The reason for this is that in 1907 King Chulalongkom of Siam, as the country was then known - the young prince in The King and I - paid a visit.  There are also the rather moving Children of the World sculptures, seven semi-circles based on designs by children from seven countries.  They are intended as a symbol of friendship between the countries of the world.  They date back to the Cold War era so two of the sculptures are from the USA and the Soviet Union; the others span the continents: Tanzania, Brazil, Italy, Japan and, as might be expected, Thailand.

I feared that our few hours in Honningsvag might be a bit boring, but not so.  We went to the local museum.  This turned out to be a moving experience.  Honningsvag is located in the province of Finnmark where, towards the end of World War II, retreating German forces adopted a ‘scorched earth’ policy, thus razing towns and villages to the ground.  In Honningsvag the German commander evidently had something of a conscience for he spared the church, which we visited later on.  It might well be asked why, if he had a conscience, he didn't spare the whole town, but he would no doubt have been signing his own death warrant had he done so.  The Germans adopted similar tactics in the north of Finland and, in the town of Kuusamo near the Russian border, we were told that the German officer in question came back to the town after the war to help rebuild the church. 

But the story is an inspiring one for, after the war, the townsfolk returned and they are pictured rebuilding their town and looking as if they are relishing the task.  Honningsvag is once more a thriving and attractive town.  Finnmark was liberated by the Red Army who, here at least, really were liberators as they withdrew, Stalin having accepted that Norway was not going to fall within the Soviet sphere of influence.  Elsewhere in the country the German forces surrendered to the Western Allies.

We now set sail for Spitsbergen, soon seeing the North Cape as we had not seen it before i.e. from the sea.  There was a full day of sailing with just one sighting of land, tiny Bear Island.  We docked in Longyearbyen, which is named after an American,  John Munro Longyear, whose Arctic Coal Company started coal mining operations in the island in 1906.  I was somehow expecting Longyearbyen to be a ramshackle sort of place, a bit like Kotzebue in Alaska, our first foray across the Arctic Circle.  On the contrary it is a neat, well laid out town which even boasts a four-star hotel of international standard, the Radisson Blu Polar.  We went in there to get postcards and some stamps thinking that, as this was a Sunday, the downtown shops would be closed.  But they weren't: there were two cruise ships in town and the opportunity to make a bit of money was not going to be lost. 

In the geopolitical sense the archipelago has unique status, resulting from the Svalbard Treaty that took effect in 1925.  This granted sovereignty to Norway, but all signatory countries were granted rights to its resources.  Of these only Russia, formerly the Soviet Union, has taken advantage and there is thus a separate Russian coal mining settlement at Barentsburg.  The archipelago is demilitarized so NATO cannot conduct exercises there. 

Our excursion took us first to a husky farm on the outskirts of the town.  In his early days as Tory Party leader, David Cameron came to Spitsbergen and hugged some huskies.  Immediately beyond are signs warning of polar bears.  These do not venture into the capital, but otherwise there is the risk of encountering them and tragically they can and do kill human beings.  We were all right in a tour bus but otherwise the advice is to carry a powerful weapon, just in case one finds oneself up close and personal with a bear.  Coal mining continues to be one of the mainstays of the local economy, though a number of the mines have closed.  Our tour took us through wonderfully wild scenery to Mine No.7, which still operates. 

Our vessel carried on overnight to Magdalenafjord.  There was no landing but according to our itinerary we needed to be on deck between 5.00am and 8.00am in order to enjoy the scenery.  I was not very pleased at having such early start and was at first inclined to leave it till later to get up, the assumption being that we'd still be in the fjord.  Fortunately I had second thoughts.  When we got on deck we found that we were halfway along the fjord and that the boat was already turning round, the captain having judged that it was not safe to go any further, given all the ice floes.  So we left the fjord much sooner than scheduled.  

It would have been a great shame to have missed out on the fjord.  Firstly it is beautiful.  Secondly it was the northernmost point in our tour and is thus the northernmost place we have been to.  In all likelihood it will remain so as it rather unlikely, especially with old age creeping up, that we are going to make it to the North Pole!

There was one more shore visit in Spitsbergen, this time to Ny Ålesund, which takes its name from the Norwegian town of Ålesund, one of the ports of call on our Hurtigruten cruise and noted for having been rebuilt in Art Nouveau style after the disastrous fire in 1904.  Its Spitsbergen namesake houses a number of research institutes.  It is wise to stick to the main pathway, which loops round the site, as otherwise the arctic terns, protective of their young, are liable to swoop down and attack, as in the Alfred Hitchcock movie.  We in fact saw a young couple being so attacked but they had strayed away from the path and appeared to be enjoying themselves daring the birds.  

We now left Spitsbergen for the long journey back to Leith.  There were two stops en route.  The first was in Thorshavn, the capital of the Faroes.  These are part of the Kingdom of Denmark but enjoy substantial autonomy, so much so that they were allowed to take themselves out of the EU.  To forestall a Nazi takeover, the British occupied the islands after the German conquest of Denmark in 1940.

We had booked a shore excursion, taking us through Streymor, the main island, to the neighbouring island of Vagar, which lies to its west.  This meant that we did not, as we would have liked, have time to look round Thorshavn and in particular visit Tinganes which is located on a small peninsula jutting out into the harbour.  This is the oldest part of the city, very picturesque with its stone-and-timber buildings.  The original Parliament met here, making this one of the oldest parliamentary meeting locations in the world, dating back to the ninth century.  

The scenery in the Faroes is superb and the infrastructure impressive: a tunnel took us across to Vagar.  The unemployment figures are one of the lowest in Europe, even so there is dependence, or over-dependence as some would see it, on the fishing industry.  Our guide told us that as a result Faroese sometimes get our fishing ports, Grimsby and Aberdeen, muddled up in their minds - not something a British person is likely to do!  We stopped in the village of Sorvagur and went inside its church.  Our end point was Gasadolur.  This is no more than a hamlet.  Nevertheless a tunnel has recently been built through the nearby mountain to connect it to the rest of the road network.  Before that the dutiful postman used to walk over the mountain in order to deliver the mail.

One of the houses in Gasadolur is built over a rock.  Our guide explained that the owner wanted to remove the rock before building the house, but the neighbours insisted that it remain as they believe that elves live there.  In Iceland too, which we visited in the 1990s, there is a widespread belief that elves really do exist.  But we have never seen any. 

Our final stop brought us back to Scotland and to the Orkney Islands.  This too constitutes a ‘furthest north’ for us, this time within the UK.  Previously I'd not got beyond Thurso, a few miles from John O'Groats.  Again we had a shore excursion so again there was no chance to look round the capital, Kirkwall, though we saw some of it as we drove through, including its impressive cathedral, St Magnus.    

Our excursion  here was confined to the main island, known simply as Mainland.  It took us through glorious scenery to the west coast, in the vicinity of which is the Heart of Neolithic Orkney World Heritage Site, where we visited the Standing Stones of Stenness and the Ring of Brodgar.  From the Yesnaby Cliffs we could just about see the Old Man of Hoy, beloved of rock climbers and abseilers. 

Certainly we would love to return to Orkney and carry on to the still unvisited Shetlands. There is a strong sense of independence here, but this doesn't necessarily translate into support for an independent Scotland.  On the contrary, rule from London is widely regarded as the better option, or at least the lesser evil, than rule from Edinburgh.  So it was no great surprise that, in the referendum, Orkney recorded the highest ‘no’ vote percentage, with Shetland not far behind.  Orkney and Shetland was also one of just three Scottish constituencies which didn't elect an SNP MP in the recent general election.  Maybe, if Scotland really did become independent, the islanders would prefer to rejoin Norway.  After all, in the case of the Shetlands, the nearest railway station is in Bergen!•

First published in VISA 122 and 123 (August-October 2015)

Around the Isles (part 1)

By David Gourley

This was a rather unusual holiday for us, a driving holiday that took us to all the component countries of the British Isles. 

This was also in fact our first visit to Ireland, North or South. We had been fortunate enough to travel to many far-flung places but hitherto had not been to this country on our very doorstep.

Alnwick Castle

We first headed to the North-East of England, or more specifically Hexham in Northumberland, a long drive as we live in Surrey. We detoured into Durham, something of a nostalgia trip as our daughter had gone to university there. We'd gone up there quite frequently, especially during her first two years when she'd lived on campus and had to remove all her belongings during vacations as rooms were needed for people attending conferences or whatever. 

We'd grown rather attached to what is one of the nicest of British cities, a place that changes very little over the years. We briefly stepped into the cathedral. A service to commemorate the Queen's Golden Jubilee was about to start and we had a quick chat with one of the ushers - who had once been our daughter's year tutor! Having so far driven along motorways or fast roads, we took a scenic route via the Derwent Reservoir. Our hotel was Slaley Hall, not in Hexham itself but out in the countryside. This is part of the De Vere chain which is fairly upmarket (albeit owned, a tad incongruously it might be thought, by a Warrington brewery) though one does not necessarily pay upmarket prices since they do some very good offers. We were well pleased with our stay here and indeed have been back for a return visit. 

Northumberland is maybe one of England's least well-known counties, at least if one is a Southerner, but it is one of the most beautiful. It is also a good county if one likes old-fashioned castles. On both our days here we headed for the coast. 

On Day One we first visited Alnwick Castle, which has since gained a high profile as Hogwarts in the Harry Potter films. Its pride and joy at the time of our visit was the newly opened water garden, designed by the Castle's very own Duchess, with a bit of help from Charlie Dimmock. However, Chatsworth had had the idea about three hundred years earlier! Alnwick Castle is still owned by the Percy family, who have an ancient pedigree. In lawless days of old, during the Wars of the Roses and so on, they vied with another great family, the Nevilles, to be top dog in the Northeast. I don't know what happened to the Nevilles, though their name lives on in Nevilles Cross, on the outskirts of Durham. 

The real highlight of the day was our visit to Holy Island, also known, no less romantically, as Lindisfarne. We had not long, at this time, been on the internet and had been pleased that we could simply look up the times when the causeway to the mainland is open. At other times it is submerged by the tide. The times vary from day to day. We had lunch in the delightful Crown and Anchor Inn, including an interesting and rather tasty dessert made with dandelions. We spent some time at the marvellous old castle, which is still privately owned. The next day we had another look at Holy Island, just to see how it looked when still surrounded by the sea. Unbelievably a car was nevertheless driving along the still submerged causeway. I don't know whether the driver, whose passengers included young children, thought he was being bold; we and others thought him a chump. 

We carried on to Berwick-upon- Tweed, England's northernmost town. As is well known, it changed hands between England and Scotland many times. There is a Scottish feel still: its football team plays in the Scottish league and it gives its name to a Scottish county. We then drove back down the coast to explore another fine Northumbrian Castle, Bamburgh. 

During our second stay at Slaley Hall, we returned to Alnwick Castle (which had become a bit too commercialized, I rather thought) and Holy Island, and also did a trip into Newcastle, going by train from Hexham's impressively preserved station. Newcastle gets my vote as the most attractive of England's large provincial cities. My first visit many years previously had dispelled any view that this is a grim industrial city, for it has a fine Georgian centre. Now the riverside, here and over the Millennium Bridge in Gateshead, has been impressively redeveloped. We crossed the Bridge and had an excellent lunch at the Baltic Centre, based in a former flour mill, with fine views back across Newcastle. 

We returned to the city centre by one of the city's novel electric buses. Actually until the mid sixties Newcastle had plenty of electric buses: they were called trolleybuses. 

Reverting to our British Isles round trip, we headed the next day into Scotland, hurrying past Gretna Green which looked anything but romantic with its main road and meandered along the Solway coast, with its fine views back into England. 

I was struck, as we left the small town of Annan, by the road sign exhorting us “haste ye back”. Annan, along with nearby Carlisle, was for many years remarkable in that the pubs were state owned, the result of a decision in World War 1 when there were lots of munitions workers in the area. They were privatized in the early seventies. We spent some time at the picturesque Caerlaverock Castle, which has an unusual triangular shape. 

Our next stop was in not- Dumfries. This is one of those smallish towns which can punch a weight greater than its population because it is the centre of a fairly large region, in this instance Dumfries and Galloway. It is nothing very special - we only stopped because we needed to make one or two purchases. The riverside might be attractive, were it not given over to a sprawling car park. 

Our abode for the next two nights was a B&B in the Galloway region, a few miles south of Stranraer. We had again used the internet to find this and the lady of the house, clearly something of a technophobe, seemed rather impressed. It is a fine Robert Adam building and we had good accommodation, though the breakfast was somewhat stingy for what was supposed to be a fourstar guesthouse. 

Our hosts had, at time of booking, recommended a restaurant in nearby Portpatrick, which turned out to be fully booked when we rang them. But we headed to Portpatrick anyway and found that they could give us a table after all. We had a first-class meal there. Portpatrick is about as close as mainland Britain gets to Northern Ireland, which can be seen very clearly on a fine day. 

We debated what to do with our one full day here. One possibility was to explore the eastern part of Galloway - the old county of Kirkcudbrightshire - which is said to resemble the Highlands in miniature. The countervailing attraction of Culzean Castle, involving a scenic drive along the Ayrshire Coast, won. 

First we diverted to a lighthouse, right at the tip of the more northerly of Galloway's two peninsulas, or Rhinns. This has been transformed into a rather classy hotel, which we had considered staying at, but was rather pricey. We did book dinner there. This drive took us through Stranraer, which presents two faces to the world: an attractive resort in the west, a rather port in the east. We spent several hours at Culzean and could have done with more time still, as there is plenty to see, not just in the castle itself but in its extensive grounds. President Eisenhower was given a flat here in appreciation of his services to Britain as a general in World War II and apparently found time actually to stay there. 

Whilst walking around, an American couple asked us to take a photo of them. We thought nothing of this until, the next day, they appeared at the breakfast table in our guesthouse! Dinner at the lighthouse did not disappoint. We were continuing the next day by ferry to Northern Ireland, departing from Cairnryan, a little to the north of Stranraer. There was still the morning in which to explore locally and we headed for the tip of the southern Rhinn. One is supposed to be able to see into England, Wales, Northern Ireland and the Isle of Man, but it was misty and we saw none of them. We then visited the Dunskey Gardens, the description of which led us to expect a mini-version of the Lost Gardens of Heligan. They weren't, however, of much interest. 

In Stranraer we had a sandwich lunch and attempted to visit the main attraction, the small Castle of St John. I was indignant to find it closed as it was supposed to stay open for another twenty minutes or so. But the chap heard us try the door, presented himself and let us look round for free.  

First Published in VISA 74 (August 2007)

Read about the second part of the trip here.

Three Go Adventuring in Scotland

by Rachel Kruft Welton

Lagangarbh Mountain Hut is situated in the Highlands at the foot of Buachaille Etive Mor, an imposing mountain surrounded by purple heather, blue Devil's bit scabious and vicious Scottish midges.It is one of those places so remote that I wasn't given an address by the custodian, merely a grid reference. The water supply has a brown tinge and tastes of peat. All drinking water needs to be boiled, and the warning sign inside the hut suggested we should be careful not to swallow water whilst showering. We like to live dangerously, however, and managed to live through the week unscathed, despite brushing our teeth in the unboiled bog-water that came out of the tap.The hut is separated from the track by a brook with a footbridge and a short hike through the heather. Everything had to be carried up to the cottage in several trips. We had the place to ourselves, apart from the odd hiker peering through the window as he or she passed. (We usually caught a glimpse of their rapidly retreating form, legging it away down the glen in an embarrassed manner, once they realised the hut was occupied.)The Met Office had threatened rain for Tuesday. The cloud obscured the top of Beinn Bheag opposite, despite it being half the height of Ben Nevis. We hung around the hut, barricading ourselves in against the blackfly. There was a lack of toys for the kids, which probably precipitated the building of Stonehenge out of Jenga bricks before venturing out.Glencoe, the valley, is amazing - sheer mountains rise almost vertically from the flat bottomed valley floor. It is nearly a perfect U shape, carved by glaciers over 10,000 years ago. We stopped at several scenic parking spots to take photos in the mist. There was a waterfall, which was pretty, but the stars of the show were the mountains. The colours seemed intense in the damp air - green, brown, grey and white. A highland piper serenaded multi-national tourists with his bagpipes. Tour buses from all over the world stopped in the lay-by disgorging their cargo to look at the scenery. The drone from the bagpipes carried down into the valley, where we and just a handful of others were walking. Most tourists stopped only long enough to take a photo of themselves standing next to the strange musician in his kilt, before leaping back into the safety of their cars and tour buses. I see the hills and want to walk on them, to really experience them. Others see a pretty view. 'Snap' and it is stored away in digital memory. Experience over.

Inchree

We'd booked an experience through Vertical Descent in Inchree. We signed up for canyoning down Inchree Falls. This involves scrambling and sliding down numerous waterfalls and clambering over rocks for a couple of hours. The biggest challenge for me, however, appeared to be how to get into a neoprene wetsuit designed for thin people with no boobs (skinny men, in other words). I felt trussed up like a chicken, and once the life-jacket was added, I could hardly breathe, let alone swim. Bending to scramble seemed virtually impossible. I was puffing like an old horse and about as graceful as King Kong on the dance-floor. I thought I was going to faint - and that was just on the walk in.Once in the cold water, the suffocating feeling eased, but the inability to move fluidly didn't. Neoprene plus life-jacket = cushioning from rocks when sliding down a gully, followed by floating instead of swimming. This then leads to a flailing and floundering exhibition, instead of positive graceful swimming, and a kind of beached whale event upon arrival at the far bank.Despite this, it was excellent fun. Donny and Mel were up for everything - jumping in off the side from three metres up, sliding down 16 feet of waterfall and inching their way across the face of the falls whilst the spray drummed on their helmets.The final hurdle is a zip-wire above a 37ft falls. It is one of those zips that drops you about three metres before catching your weight and sliding you into the water. I was last, of course -I'd been bringing up the rear all along - so I'd watched everyone else do it. Anticipation is a terrible thing! In the end, I just jumped as though I was going to land in the water, and it wasn't too lurchy. The fear of the drop is what puts you off jumping. I landed inelegantly, backwards, with a massive splash. I surfaced to see one of the leaders taking photos of me. Hmm.

Kinlochleven

Tendrils of cloud wrapped themselves around buttresses high on the mountains. Fingers of mist probed the gullies and gorges, not quite willing to let go, but unable to hold on for very long. The sun broke through in patches.We set off from the very eastern end of Loch Leven, where the town of Kinlochleven nestles. The path is waymarked and promised waterfalls. It weaves up through a witchy forest, between silver birch and aspen, crusty with lichen and damp with multicoloured moss. The path is stony and shifted underfoot.The waterfall remained tantalisingly elusive. It is called the Grey Mare's Tail Falls, and the glimpses of it through the trees showed a long streak of white water, which could, with a little imagination, resemble a horse's tail. There was no clear stunning view of it though, and this felt somewhat frustrating, given it was signposted as the Waterfall Trail.
After crossing a few fords, and putting the steepest section behind us, we passed a large group of teenagers with matching orange rucksacks and glowing red faces. The race was now on to reach the top of the hill before them. We headed up, across the bare slope. The path didn't rise above 350m, so we barely hit the hill-fog. We did spend the whole day putting our waterproofs on and taking them off again, as the weather changed every ten minutes.The teenagers passed us while we were having lunch, but we soon caught up and overtook when they stopped for theirs. After that, I think they must have taken a different route, as they didn't pass us again. Either that, or they are still sitting there, looking bewildered.Loch Elide Mor finally came into view, blue and shimmering. We stayed on the pebbly shore for quite some time, skimming stones and throwing in big ker-plunk ones. Mel managed to step off a rock and flood his boot, in what is starting to feel like a family ritual part of any day out now.The route back took us down the far side of the valley, a little higher than we had been, but a little shorter too. Both the kids were getting tired. Donny manifests this as whining for food. Mel expresses it by sitting down and refusing to move. I dosed both with chocolate and Hula Hoops. We took frequent diversions to investigate mushrooms and cranberries, and to pick wild raspberries. We even saw some pyramid orchids in the heather.Mallaig

Tickets were virtually sold out so we arrived at Fort William station by 8.25am and stood in the queue. We were the third family. Half an hour later, the steam train puffed into the station and we got the last but three tickets. By this time the queue was maybe ten families long, so not everyone was successful. We had tickets, but we didn't have seats. We got the little half-bench bum-perches in the buffet car, meaning we had to assume a kind of tortuous stress position for the two and a half hour journey each way. We took a quick look round Fort William before the train left at 10.20am. The scenery is the big draw on this route and, despite the occasional shower, the views were stunning. I tried to take pictures through the window, but they weren't very good. They varied between 'look at my lovely reflection' and 'oops, I missed it and photographed a bush instead'. The engine was called The Great Marquess, and the train was known as the Jacobite, but the kids were only interested in the Hogwarts Express. It crossed the Glenfinnan Viaduct, as seen in the flying car scene in the second Harry Potter movie. Then there was a half hour stop at Glenfinnan station to allow the tourists (i.e. us) to look round the tiny museum, buy a souvenir and give their loose change to the young bagpiper trying to raise cash for his university education. Back on the train, we got some more scenery on the way to Mallaig. We did see Eigg and Skye through the mist, their shapes phantasmal on the horizon. Mallaig is a fishing village, famous for kippers. We stood on the dock and ate our sandwiches in the rain. The kids bought some gifts and I got to check my e-mails. There wasn't much to do. In the end, we found the fisherman's mission and their secondhand bookshop, which certainly kept Donny amused on the journey back.The scenery was just as scenic on the return journey, if not better in the occasional patch of sun. Donny read her book, and made herself more and more comfortable, until she was actually lying down on the bum-perch. I stared out of the window and wished I had a seat. Mel informed Neil, the chief caterer, that his price-list was all wrong because he had labelled it all as p instead of £. He tried to buy a very cheap bottle of champagne for 25p but Neil pointed out that he was underage.

First published in VISA 96 (Apr 2011)

The Colonel and the Kites

by Elizabeth Johnstone

My parents-in-law retired from Glasgow to the delightful village of Doune in Perthshire. This Easter, our visit to my mother-in-law coincided with uncharacteristically glorious weather which showed off the village at its best.

The village is dominated by Doune Castle, a splendid 14th century property whose more recent claim to fame is as a location for the film Monty Python and the Holy Grail. A stroll down to the castle and along the River Teith is deservedly popular with residents and visitors alike.
We always study the river when we walk along it and are sometimes rewarded with the sight of a salmon. Doune Angling Club enjoys salmon fishing rights – which might cost a king’s ransom elsewhere – and my late father-in law spent many a quiet afternoon on the river with rod and net. Sometimes he caught a salmon, sometimes he didn’t. One magnificent specimen graced the table at our wedding reception. He gained even more respect from the guests when it was announced that he had caught it ‘in the Teith’.

Doune has expanded to accommodate commuters to Glasgow and Edinburgh but its heart remains postcard perfect. Not far outside the village, a statue of Colonel Sir David Stirling, founder of the SAS, looks out over the countryside, no doubt admiring the many wind turbines which now controversially grace the Braes of Doune. Another local sight of interest is at Argaty, Scotland’s only feeding station for red kites. 

Historically, Doune was famous for the manufacture of pistols, and the village’s symbol includes the crossed pistols. If memory serves, this emblem was downplayed after the appalling events of the 1996 massacre in Dunblane, a mere eight miles away, but the pistols are back in evidence again.

Another pleasant stroll takes you to Deanston Distillery. It’s probably best to visit on foot if there is any sampling involved. Not my tipple, I’m afraid. When it comes to our national drinks, I’m more of an Irn-Bru gal myself.

Always a pleasure to visit family, of course, and we never tire of the old joke that we’ve been ‘up in Doune’!

First published in VISA 99 (Oct 2011)

I Captured the Castles

by Neil Matthews

Note: Since the original publication of this article, Torosay Castle has changed hands and it is currently closed to the public. A pity, as the tea room served the most delicious simnel cake!

Above the main entrance is a tiger’s head, with a dozen deer’s heads either side of it on the walls, and additional antlers above each deer’s head. A note explains that the tiger was “Shot by my grandmother in India in 1922.” Adding to the surreal atmosphere is the strong smell of potted hyacinths.

Torosay Castle Gardens

Torosay Castle, on the east coast of Mull, is not a castle at all. It’s a Victorian mansion built in Scottish Baronial style, completed in 1858. The Guthries, the family who own it, have had many political connections. The family tree is displayed with the caption: “Being an MP seems to be a hereditary complaint.” In the library there is a portrait of Pamela Harriman – Winston Churchill’s daughter-in-law, President Clinton’s Ambassador to France and the aunt of the current Laird of Torosay, Chris James. This is not just a visitor attraction but a family home. The library houses some reference books such as the Dictionary of National Biography, the Statistical Accounts of Scotland 1791-9 and various ornithology works, but there is also literature such as A Passage to India and the Waverley novels. A sense of self-parodic humour is in evidence from the presence of Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle.

The Castle’s hospitality is not what you might expect if you’re used to National Trust properties. There are no personal guides, not even in the car park where an NT property can boast an army of pensioners signalling to you every 20 yards. “Please sit down if you wish,” reads a notice in the Central Hall. If you have musical talents, you can try your hand on the Steinway grand piano in the living room.

In the dining room, you can study the fossilised head of an ancient Irish elk above the fireplace. One room is dedicated to displays of the Finnish four-masted barque Viking in which Chris James’s father David Guthrie James sailed round the world in 1937-8. David’s eventful life – including escape from a PoW camp in World War II, polar expeditions and time as a Conservative MP – was featured on This is Your Life in 1962. You can flick through the red book used by Eamonn Andrews for that broadcast, and other scrapbooks which give a glimpse into local life over the past 50 years.

The Castle is set in Italianate gardens, with statues imported from Padua; my favourite was the hunting dog delivering its prey to its master. Also on the estate there’s a farm, with highland cattle, cheviot and blackface sheep, and there are two holiday cottages available to let. If you’re a train buff, you can get to Torosay by 260mm gauge railway from Craignure, with views of Ben Nevis on the way.

Aros Castle 

Torosay is one of three contrasting castles along the east coast. Aros Castle, near Salen, was once the administrative centre of Mull. The castle was probably built by the MacDougalls of Lorn. For 230 years from the defeat of King Haakon of Norway at the battle of Largs in 1263 the Western Isles and seaboard were to form a semi-autonomous state within the kingdom of Scotland, the Lordship of the Isles. The castle dates from the 13th century, which is why it is likely to have been built by the MacDougalls, but by the next century it had passed into Macdonald hands and during the Lordship it was a residence and seat of government of the dominant clan. After the ending of the Lordship (the estates and titles of the Lords of the Isles were forfeited to the Scottish crown in 1493) the castle fell to the MacLeans, who in turn were ousted by the clan Campbell. Now Aros perches silent on a small headland, its one main surviving wall overlooking sheer drops down to the Sound of Mull. A few seagulls, and a small boy on a red bike, were our only fellow visitors.

Duart Castle

The third castle is Duart, which dates back to the 14th century. It is the historic base of the Maclean clan. The first recorded mention of the Macleans of Duart is in a papal dispensation of 1367 which allowed their Chief Lachlan Lubanach Maclean to marry the daughter of the Lord of the Isles, Mary Macdonald. The match is supposed to have been one of true love – though Lachlan helped to persuade Mary’s father of his intent, by kidnapping him. This incident seems typical of the chequered history of the castle, involving battles for various causes, captures and recaptures and, in the 18th and 19th centuries, ruin.

The Maclean family history says that Sir Fitzroy Maclean (b.1835), who was brought up in Gibraltar and Malta while his father served with his regiment, saw Duart on a family holiday in the 1870s and decided there and then to buy and restore the castle. So he did. It’s not that simple, of course – restoration work continues today. But you can see an Edwardian kitchen and pantry; dungeons where officers of a Spanish Armada galleon were imprisoned; and an exhibition on the Clan Maclean at the top of the keep.

First published in VISA 85 (Jun 2009)

A Tale of Three Cities I: Edinburgh

by Neil Matthews

It had all started when Helen had found out that a meeting of a national committee of her professional body was taking place, for a change, in Edinburgh. The meeting was on a Friday. Helen had never been to Scotland and I hadn’t set foot in Edinburgh for twenty years. So we decided to use the Saturday to get a glimpse of the city. One day could only afford a glimpse. So we hit on the idea of visiting as many sights as possible for free.

Time constraints led us to focus on locations in and around the Royal Mile. It was a cold and wet day, which only seemed to heighten the imposing effect of the grey stone from which Edinburgh had been hewn. The city seems to be making a statement: whatever comes and goes, no matter what, it is there to stay and endure.

Happily, the outward dourness belies some fascinating visitor attractions. In Lady Stair’s House, Lawnmarket, sits the Writers’ Museum. Although temporary exhibitions remember other writers, the Museum is primarily an insight into the lives of Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. For a small property, the Museum packs in a lot of portraits, manuscripts and personal exhibits such as Burns’ writing desk and Scott’s chessboard.

The life of Stevenson - a sickly boy from a middle class Edinburgh family, who died in Samoa aged 44 - is probably impossible to make dull anyway. From Travels with a Donkey to Kidnapped, Treasure Island and The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Stevenson’s work amuses, enthralls and intrigues readers of all ages even now. Much of his work focused on Scottish character and history - something he had in common with Scott, another son of Edinburgh. Scott was also sickly as a child and polio left him with a lame leg, but this did not prevent him becoming one of the best known and most revered figures of his time. His work as a lawyer did not prevent him from producing an outstanding body of novels and poetry, and even masterminding arrangements for the visit of George IV to Edinburgh - the first royal visit in many years. Scott’s legacy to Scotland took many forms (for example, the novel Heart of Midlothian led to a dance hall of the same name, which in turn inspired some of its patrons to found the football club).

Burns was the odd man out, being born not in Edinburgh but in Alloway. He might have emigrated to Jamaica but for the unexpected success of Poems, chiefly in the Scottish dialect when it was published in 1786. Only after then did Burns decide to further his literary ambitions by visiting Edinburgh, an adventure which is recollected by the Museum’s audio reconstructions.

For those of an artistic bent, the five buildings which comprise the National Galleries of Scotland may provide many hours of pleasure and enlightenment. We only had time to visit the National Gallery itself, situated between the Old Town and the New Town on The Mound. Although it claims the largest and most comprehensive collection of Scottish paintings in the world, the Gallery is also home to a number of Impressionist and post-Impressionist works by Gauguin, Monet, Cézanne and others. Bernini, Canaletto, Canova and many other masters are also represented. The rich reds and greens of the traditional décor, including period furniture, are easy on the eye and do not detract from the art.

For a focus on Edinburgh, look no further than the Museum of Edinburgh itself at 142 Canongate. Huntly House, a restored 16th century mansion, hosts various collections and artefacts relating to the city, such as the National Covenant which Scotland’s Presbyterian leaders signed in 1638. There is a section devoted to Field Marshal Earl Haig, but sadly this was closed at the time of our visit. The collections of Edinburgh silver and glass are particularly fine.

 The Museum of Childhood, at 42 High Street, will take you from centuries of history to an almost inevitable nostalgia if you are of a certain age - and may even intrigue the children of today. It was opened in 1955, so is coming into middle age itself. There are exhibits of how children were dressed, how they played and how they were educated in generations past. For me, the interesting point was the overt educational content of most of the board games on display. It was a mite alarming, on the other hand, to read on one board of the player finding “something nasty in the hedge” as he attempted to visit his granny. If dolls and dolls’ houses, train sets and teddy bears are your cup of tea, you will love this museum. Or, as Miss Jean Brodie remarked in another context: “For those who like that sort of thing, that is the sort of thing they like.”

We almost broke our pledge to avoid spending when we entered St Giles’ Cathedral. The central pillars date from around 1120 and the church was burnt by an English army in 1385 before being rebuilt over the subsequent 530 years. As a result, it is a mish-mash of styles and content, but charming all the same. The cost of taking photographs is £1, but the little old lady to whom we enquired advised us to walk around before parting with our pound. We might prefer to buy a (cheaper) postcard, she said.

Our final free visit was an external gawp at the new Scottish Parliament. The building has an impossible task - namely to fit in with the rest of this very distinctive city, but also to assert its own identity. As with most impossible tasks, this one has failed. The curious mixture of grey stone and bent bamboo sticks round the doors and windows lends the Parliament a temporary air which was surely not intended. Given the controversy over the excessive amounts spent on its construction, it reminded me of a remark attributed to Dolly Parton when asked why she didn’t retire: “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.” 

 Having spent precisely no money at all on seeing any of the sites mentioned, it was only fair that we should pay a brief visit to Harvey Nichols. Crowds of enthusiastic shoppers swarmed around us as we gazed disbelievingly at a pumpkin. This unimpressive object and its ludicrous £4 price tag seemed totally out of kilter with all that had gone before. Scots presumably know a bargain when they see one; on our way out, we did not pass any new proud owners of overpriced pumpkins.

 First published in VISA issue 66 (Apr 2006).