Bunree Caravan Club Site, Onich, Fort William

29 August 2017: - Today marks twenty years of uninterrupted co-habitation between my husband and I, the greater part in the formal state of marriage, no mean feat when almost seven of those have been within the confines of a caravan or motorhome; I guess we have passed the worst test and will last the distance until death do us part.

However celebrations over another decadent meal were put on the backburner today, perhaps to be revisited in the next fortnight if we require an excuse to indulge in a dining experience outside the norm. We woke to weather no more or less than yesterday and nearly decided to remain indoors and spend the day with our heads in our books, or worse, square-eyed in front of the television. Thank goodness we did bite the bullet and venture out.

A ferry crosses the narrow neck of Loch Linnhe and plies the route every twenty minutes through the busiest part of the day, all for the cost of £8.20 for vehicle and however many you can squeeze inside; a very fair price if you have the whole whanau to transport from one side to the other. But with just the two of us, we thought it rather expensive, always doing the conversion relevant to the date we transferred our funds over when the rate was 2:1,  however it was probably going to be the only cost for the day’s outing and one should always keep things in perspective.

We set off about 9 am, arriving at the camp’s one way traffic controlled system as the light turned green, then overshot the road to the ferry terminal at Onich just metres down the main road, but turning and arriving just as the ferry was loading; luck definitely on our side.

Our destination was initially the most western point of Britain’s mainland, Ardnamurchan Point, immediately to the north of the Isle of Mull. Our route took us along the northern side of Loch Linnhe, then up Glen Tarbert arriving at the head of Loch Sunart, then west along the north side of this loch to Salen, passing firstly through the tiny village of Strontian where we picked up the day’s newspaper. 

This latter is considered the gateway to the Ardnamurchan Peninsula, and its claim to fame came in 1722 when local lead mines yielded the first ever traces of strontium, which was named after the village, with a small variation to the spelling, or perhaps an attempt to Latinise the name. Again without the Encyclopaedia Britannica or our loyal mate Google, we had to draw on our own limited general knowledge; we understand this to be a low grade of radioactive mineral. I shall endeavour to follow this up in a couple of days.

It is at Salen that the A861 heads north, waiting to be regained later in the day, and we continued along the coast on the narrow one way B8007, a particularly picturesque road albeit very slow. Soon after passing the tiny settlement of Glenborrodale, we pulled into the Ardnamurchan Natural History Visitor Centre which offers toilets, souvenir shop and café to the traveller, but far more interesting, an excellent exhibition about all flora, fauna and geology of the Peninsula. It is an excellent little museum, and warrants longer scrutiny than we gave it, but we were detained in the little theatre watching some fascinating films about the wildlife of Scotland’s Highlands and I would have been content to spend many more hours there had not Chris suggested we had other things to do aside from watching movies. He was quite right of course, and as we exited, we checked the spyholes through to the otter and pine marten dens, no more occupied than on first viewing.  

On we went, soon climbing up into the hinterland of the peninsula, moorland and bog populated with the most laxed-out sheep. Here one can pass these wonderful creatures at 30 or 40 mph and they don’t even bother to look up from their grazing space on the side of the road.

And it was here that I saw a small herd of red deer, and unfenced, surely wild and venturing into farmland. On whether they are welcome interlopers or not, I cannot comment. But for me, it was a little moment of excitement.

The 118 foot lighthouse on the Point is a most unattractive construction, surrounded in the remnants of equally unattractive activity. Tucked below the furthest point, a little out of the blustery gales, a café in what was most likely the lighthouse keeper’s residence offers sustenance to the travellers who come without their own lunch. Needless to say, we were organised enough to have our eski packed in the normal way and sat in the car out of the wind and intermittent rain marvelling at the wild sea. We examined our maps and could see that here we were north of Ireland but there were still islands out to the west to give some respite from the Atlantic Ocean. 

We did have a brief wander about, but did not checkout the exhibition; another rain squall came through and we decided to head on again. We retraced our route to Salen, meeting the head to head challenges of heavy traffic on the road with a little excitement, but no one died and no damage was done to them or us.

At Salen we headed north, firstly crossing up and over to the south west end of Loch Shiel at Acheracle, then up, over and down to the eastern end of Loch Moidart, then up, over and across to a picturesque inlet on the Sound of Arisaig, which we followed up until we intersected the A830, the main road through to the ferry port of Mallaig, the destination for those sailing across from the Isle of Skye’s Armadale.

Now on an excellent two way road, we travelled through to Glenfinnan, following along the north shore of Loch Eilt, then across through steep and impressive peaks. Glenfinnan lies at the northern point of Loch Shiel, and while a very small otherwise sleepy village, is a much visited spot by tourists.

There is an excellent National Trust of Scotland visitor centre here, explaining yet again the story of the Jacobites, which does become a little repetitive if you travel all the places we have in the past few weeks. It was here that the not so Bonny Prince Charlie and his supporters first raised his battle standard on 19 August 1745, which started the warfare that rolled through to the bitter end at Culloden. There is an impressive monument on the lakeshore, a sixty foor column crowned with a Highland clansman in full battle dress, erected in 1815 as a tribute by Alexander MacDonald of Glenaladade.  By the time we were finished with our further education in the museum, rain had set in yet again and we decided that the view through the big glass windows would have to do.

It was here that I read a concise summary of the fiasco that is celebrated as the Jacobite rising, sentiments I had already arrived at. This stated:

The Jacobite cause was a spent force. Charlie’s legacy to the Highlands was half a century of military occupation, the wearing of Highland dress and the carrying of arms were banned. Gaelic was discouraged as the language of rebellion, many Highlanders joined British regiments overseas or emigrated. The ’45 and its aftermath hastened the end of a traditional way of life as the clan system started to break down. 

However this was all after we had been distracted by the Jacobite Steam Train’s daily crossing of the Glenfinnan Viaduct, that made even more famous for its role in the Harry Potter films. We had been sorting our membership entry to the centre, when the girl at the till kindly informed us that the train would be crossing the viaduct in a few more minutes should we wish to see this rather special sight. I rushed out across the car park with a reluctant husband in tow, mumbling and grumbling about rushing about for a disgustingly dirty smelly steam train. I quickly told him he could sit in the car if he wished, especially now since the rain had started again. He just mumbled again and loyally remained. My whole desire to stop here at Glenfinnan was to photograph the viaduct, and here was a bonus; the smelly belching locomotive. I was delighted with the sight, but alas my attempts to capture it on film were abysmal.

From here it was a simple matter of continuing on along the main road to Fort William, then turning south along Loch Linnhe until we reached our camp at Onich. Alas it was not quite that easy; we were held up for some time waiting for two large lorries carting through massive excavation machines up along the lake at the south end of Fort William. Police on motorbikes, with lights flashing herded us all to the far side of the road and we all waited wondering why. I stood outside on the roadside and had a financial-free wager with a couple of chaps about the likely cargo: an excavator, a wind turbine or a portable building, the latter offered by yours truly. Neither the motorcyclist nor I were right, it was the houseowner whose garden wall we leaned upon who won.