Dunnet Bay Caravan Club Site, Caithness

14 August 2017:- This was yet another day of packing up, leaving and travelling in incessant rain; not fun at all. The forecast had suggested we might have had a small window of opportunity to avoid the worst if we rose early, but this was not the case. We each have our duties as we pack up and mine are in the main, carried out inside the caravan, so it was Chris who suffered most as he pottered about, emptying the black waste, the grey waste, unlocking the security wheel clamps, emptying the fresh water reservoir, emptying the hot water tank, bringing in the power cord then taking up the legs, storing the wooden blocks and hitching up. Motorhoming is a far easier exercise.

However for all the horrid weather, our departure was without event, and we were soon heading north on the A9, over the Moray Firth on the cable-stayed Kessock Bridge, with its central span of 240 metres, crossed on the day we visited Glen Affric. It is interesting to note that this construction is protected against movement of the Great Glen Fault by seismic buffers. This is a language often used in New Zealand, not one you think of in Great Britain but we had recently been reminded that earthquakes have occurred here when we read about a couple of slips beneath the Inverness Castle caused by seismic activity.

The road across the Black Isle rose up and then descended again to sea level to cross the Cromarty Firth. Here we crossed on yet another bridge and soon passed the turn off to Invergordon where those cruise ships of yesterday had docked. In World War I the Cromarty Firth was used as a refuelling base. In the next war, the navy considered this too vulnerable for attack from the enemy, and reverted entirely to Scapa Flow.  It was also the scene for the ten year wonder of aluminium smelting which survived here from 1971 to 1981. We noted several oil rigs in the port and later learned that many come here for repairs, maintenance or decommissioning.    

Invergordon like most of the settlements along this part of the route is bypassed by the well-designed two way A9; an excellent route but with an awful surface. 

Imagine a big ball of dough, then dividing it up into many separate balls, squishing some into cylinder shapes against other like shapes, then a few round ones along the sides; there you have Scotland. North of the Black Isle, the next side ball is Easter Ross, which in turn is left by crossing the Dornoch Firth on the bridge of the same name. Our guide book recommends that one pull into the bridge’s laybys to enjoy the views. Today the rain mist was so low that any sightings of the apparent mountains of Easter Ross were quite impossible.

The next Firth or sea crossing following up the coast was to be over Loch Fleet, which is not a loch in the sense of a lake, more like an estuary. The crossing is via The Mound, a kilometre long earthen causeway which severely interferes with the natural ecology of the Loch and a short bridge at the northern end to allow a semblance of natural water flow. Sluice gates are supposed to prevent the sea water travelling upstream, but allow salmon and sea trout pass by on ebb tide. Silting has occurred since the famous and ever busy Thomas Telford built this in the 1810s, so while it works well for the traveller, it is debatable as to its effectiveness from the salmon’s point of view.

Much of the road along the coastline here is high above sea level, rising steeply from each river crossing and steeply down to the next, with emergency run off such as those on the Australian eastern seaboard escapement descents. All along here are reminders of the settlements created to accommodate those driven off the land during the clearances. I was chilled in all senses of the word as we travelled along, anticipating the part my own descendants played in this.

While so many of the settlements had been bypassed by the road, we did pass through the centre of Gospies, overlooked by the massive statue of the 1^st Duke of Sutherland on top of 394 metre Ben Bhaggie. While our Rough Guide suggests there is little to see here, our other guides suggest otherwise and had the day been better, we might have tried a little harder to find a spot to park and have a look about. A little to the north, and up on a bluff above the village is the Dunrobin Castle, which according to the publicity photos, has an enchanting fairy castle appearance and an interesting architectural and decorative history. It is home to Lord Strathnaver, the descendant of generations of big names, some with infamous histories. Of course all of this is academic, because we did not and will not be visiting it any time soon.

On we drove through Brora, soon arriving at Helmsdale which looked even more appealing, despite the rain and poor visibility all about. This seaside spot was developed in the 1810s as a salmon and herring fishing and curing station, offering alternative work for those ousted during the clearances, although by the early 1900s the port and its curing sheds lay abandoned.

Overlooking the river is the Emigrant’s Statue, commemorating the tens of thousands of people who were displaced from the Highlands during the 19^th century. Interestingly this very evening the statue stood centrepiece to a news item about an area of land being put up for sale to descendants of those evicted all those years ago. There seems to be great celebration about the proposition, although I do think this is all a bit late. Perhaps the gesture alone will suffice and the land will end up being sold to the likes of Donald Trump for another golf course?

Further north we travelled through Langwell and Berriedale, the first of these names seeming vaguely familiar. Later I checked my ancestry records and found that my father’s grandfather’s grandmother, Benjamina, while herself born in Wick, her parents had been born on the Langwell Estate. With the information gleaned over the last few days, it is now evident that the Duke immortalised on Ben Bhaggie is the villain in the piece after all. James MacBeath and Alexandrina Sutherland, my five times great grandfather and grandmother were evicted prior to 1788 from here. I would like to say that this had a great outcome, because in the end there was me, but Benjamina who travelled out to Australia, then with her husband and children to New Zealand, was shot at the age of fifty eight, accidently by her son; a long road to tragedy from here in the Highlands.

Not too far from here we turned north, still on the A9, up through the high moorlands, today shrouded in mist and rain, the odd sheep visible across the tussock country. We pulled into a layby and lunched, bringing in the rain with our shoes and raincoats. Then off we set again, soon passing through an area of wind turbines and other excavations we are keen to learn more about.

Arriving at Thurso, we turned eastwards, now on the A836, the coast now windswept and wild and wet, through Castletown where we noted there to be a McColls for future purchases of bread and milk, and soon arriving at our camp here at the wide expanse that is Dunnet Bay.

The office was closed until 4 pm but a notice on the door invited us to set up and report in later, which we did. Setting up in the now driving rain was even more unpleasant than the morning’s packing up. Once secure, we sat over our hot drinks gazing out across the camp and the waves rolling into the bay and along the wide sandy beach. Alas there was nothing alluring about the scene today.

Road kill today: two large red deer, as stiff and impressive as red kangaroos or cattle beasts found on the side of Australian outback roads.