Bunree Caravan Club Site, Onich, Fort William

27 August 2017:- We woke late and after an excellent night’s sleep, something I normally don't remark on, but after the last few poor nights, much appreciated. The skies were grey and I regretted that the sunshine had been wasted yesterday; The Chauffeur mesmerised by the sport on television and me slaving over a hot stove.

I quickly packed up lunch and hustled us out the door onto the tourist route, keen to make the most of the dry weather. We headed south east along the A82, that route we will take in a few more days as we head toward Glasgow. Today we stopped at Ballachulish on the southern side of Loch Leven and shopped at the Co-op for a few necessities and others items not quite so necessary. Then on we went, soon arriving at the National Trust for Scotland visitor centre all about Glen Coe. 

Glen Coe, which literally translates to “Valley of Weeping” is a spectacular mountain valley between conical peaks, mostly obscured in cloud today, with their flanks streaked by cascades of rock, scree and the ever flowing water. 

In 1935 the National Trust for Scotland purchased Glencoe to ensure that the area would remain unspoiled for everyone to enjoy. In the 1970s and 1990s additional land was purchased, and today this area covers 5,600 hectares.

Visitors to the area include tourists such as ourselves, naturalists and climbers, this latter  relatively a more recent interest. Way back, people were more concerned with survival than challenging the elements unnessessarily. In 1868, a local shepherd named Neil Marquis, stepped outside the norm by climbing Ossin’s Cave on the north face of Aonach Dubh. This was the first recorded climb in Glencoe and Marquis was to be the first of many pioneers who helped to make Glencoe the home of Scottish mountaineering. 

In 1890 when Sir High Munro compiled his list of “Munros”, mountains over 3,000 feet (914 metres) high, he could have little idea of what he would set in motion. The same year the Scottish Mountaineering Club published the list and Munro-bagging began, however the take up of the challenge was slow with access into the area far from easy for many years to come. 

It was Percy Unna, President of the Scottish Mountaineering Club, who was instrumental in organising an appeal to raise funds to buy the Glen when Lord Strathcona put the property up for sale in 1935. Two years later, in 1937, he again helped the Trust to acquire neighbouring Dalness Forest. For the next fifteen years, until his death in 1950, Unna, listed only ever as an “anonomous donor”,  gave generous bequests to the Trust, enabling it to safeguard some of Scotland’s most important heritage. It also was he who established a set of guidelines to allow public access to the hills while protecting the area’s wild and natural landscape. These rules, known as the Unna Principles, still guide the work of the Trust today. So today we gave thanks to the late Percy Unna.

The Visitor Centre has the normal café, shop, information and conveniences, along with an excellent exhibition explaining the geology, biology and history of the area, communicated by means of interpretative panels, films, audio and interactive displays, the latter more directed toward younger visitors. It was here we learned about the Glencoe Massacre, this the government sanctioned annihilation of the McDonald clan where thirty eight members of the large family group were hacked to death, and many more died as they escaped through the mountains in the depths of winter. Dalrymple, William III’s henchman, missed his mark; history suggests that some of the soldiers had no stomach for what they were to carry out and gave warning to their would-be victims. Either way, it has gone down in history as a shameful action.

We spent a couple of hours in the centre, including doing a walk up and around the immediate area, before setting off south up through the glen, stopping at the first of many walks available as one travels up between the magnificent Munros. The walks range from short to long, easy to strenuous; we did the more gentle short walk to Signal Rock, along a muddy path through forest, returning the same way.

Further south along the road we paused at various parking bays to enjoy the views, the mountains and waterfalls, the valley or glen itself and the moor that stretched out south toward Glasgow. At the pass, or summit of the route, we turned and headed back toward Glencoe, then turned eastward up to the end of Loch Leven.

Today Kinlochleven survives on the tourists trade it attracts with the stream of hikers who pass through while walking the West Highland Way, a seven day trek for the one girl I spoke to today. This 96 mile long great-walk, starting six miles north of Glasgow at a place called Milngavie and ending at Fort William, was opened in 1980 and is apparently the most popular such trek in Scotland. Today we noted many camps and hostels open to cater for the weary wanderers, but were disappointed  to find the tourist information centre which doubles as The Aluminium Story closed. In fact this rather charming township, created for industrial purposes, exhibited the old fashioned “closed for Sunday” atmosphere.

In 1898 the River Leven and surrounding hill lochs were chosen as the site of a hydro-electric power station and associated aluminium smelter. Large areas of land (and some crofts) were flooded to create Blackwater Reservoir. The smelter was completed by the British Aluminium Company in 1909 and employed over eight hundred workers at the peak of its operation. After many years it was closed down, and in 2001 the Alcan Smelting and Power UK transferred the land to the Kinlochleven community.

We parked in the town and walked the loop up one side of the River Leven from the town, across the river and back down on the other side passing the old industrial buildings, reading the few signs that told some of the story of the town. We left with more questions than answers and were further frustrated by the fact that we are unable to consult our old mate Google to fill in the gaps.

Our return to Onich was along the northern side of the loch, a lovely drive, although by now the clouds were rolling in from the coast and it was just a matter of time before the rain would arrive. We had one last destination; a walk at Inchree just up the hill from our camp at Bunree.

The Abhainn Righ cascades down the hill in a series of steps, forming eight mighty waterfalls, quite spectacular in full flow as they were today. As we approached the viewing platform, we could hear youthful cries of exuberance, and when we did arrive, we learned from our fellow viewers that a team of abseilers had all just leapt the last fall; the woman showed us the series of photos she had managed to capture of their madness. I was pleased to learn that this had been an organised activity with a couple of supervisors; I had been imagining this to be a pack of insane dare-devil teenagers.

Back adjacent to the car park, there is a red squirrel feeding station, and a screen with peep holes for the squirrel  appreciator. Unfortunately there had been several parties of noisy and exuberant young children ahead of us, and had the squirrels been planning to show themselves to us, they would surely have decided against such an opportune moment. I was most disappointed.

Within hours of returning home, the rain arrived albeit of the more misty variety. We will be juggling our plans with windows of dry weather.

Bunree Caravan Club Site, Onich, Fort William

26 August 2017:- I spent another night scratching and as wakeful as the one before and hoped this was not to be a pattern of the next year; something many women of this particular age endure. I suspect it has more to do with camping in midge infested areas.

But despite an imperfect night’s sleep, the bright sunshine of the morning could only be greeted with joy. Chris reckons we have had only four days of fine weather whilst travelling in Scotland, and while I suspect he is technically right, we have enjoyed many fine interludes along the way. What a delight to pack up in dry conditions, drive down through such picturesque countryside with excellent  visibility and set up here again in still good weather.

Initially our route was the reverse of that which we had taken three days previously, back across the Skye Bridge to Kyle of Lochalsh, climbing up Glen Shiel and along the northern shore of Loch Cluanie, and then we struck into new territory; south up and over elevated countryside on the A87 past Loch Loyne and Loch Garry, much of the steep hillsides having been milled for timber, then descending to Invergarry, and crossing Loch Oich, which is effectively part of the Caledonian Canal from Inverness through to Fort William. By now the traffic was pretty much nose to tail, keeping up a fair pace along Loch Lochy, a lovely drive, soon within view of the Nevis Range, Scotland’s highest ski area. Here are about fourteen mountains, ranging from Ben Nevis at 1,343 metres ASL to the diminutive Ben Na Gucaig at 615 metres ASL. Soon we were travelling through the outskirts of Fort William, obviously undergoing expansion with much construction work going on, much of it hampering traffic progress.

At the south end of the town, we lost most of the traffic and continued on south along lovely Loch Linnhe, stopping for lunch just a couple of miles short of our destination.

We were not the first arrivals here at the camp, but did still have a fair choice of sites, all of which have lovely views down to the shore, covered with rocks and beaded seaweed.

I did suggest to Chris we set out on a short excursion once I had the washing hung, but it was clear he was happier to settle in front of the television and indulge in some armchair sport. I cooked up a big batch of bolognaise sauce for the freezer, and apart from a wander down to the loch shore, I lounged about for a second day of inactivity despite the glorious weather outside. Our fellow campers who had chosen to hang about for the afternoon were mostly sitting out in minimal clothing soaking up the sunshine, apparently not at all concerned about skin cancer. But then I am sure I have said that before. While we do have television and cellphone contact here, we are still without internet; the Scots really do get a raw deal as regards modern technology.

Asaig Quiet Camp, Breakish, Isle of Skye

25 August 2017:- Given the weather forecasted for yesterday was to be an improvement on today, we set off very early, heading first to find a restaurant whose advertising brochure we had picked up in Morvich. It was my birthday and we intended to shout ourselves dinner out; any excuse not to cook! We parked up outside the unimpressive little hoos and debated our choice. Donning raincoats we peered through the front windows and saw a light on in the back; it was, after all, still very early in the day. Returning to the car, we were still humming and ha-ing when a woman appeared at the back door with a rubbish bin, looking at us with great suspicion. A decision was quickly made, for better or worse; Chris accompanied her into the bowels of the kitchen and booked a table for the evening. He had obviously not been put off by the state of the restaurant machinery.

Further north we called into the Co-op fuel station, topping the tank with a token amount and discovering the price of fuel here not as inflated as you might expect. That done, we headed north on up the A87, a continuation of the mainland road that ends up at Uig here on Skye. The road hugged the coast, the Cuillin Hills rising on our left into the rain mist, visible enough to suggest majesty, but for now only offering mystery, on around Loch Ainot where we parked at the far western end so I could walk back to photograph the waterfall, one of many we were to see today. Not only was the rain falling from the skies, but it was pouring from out of the hills, and seeping through the roadside banks. Water, water, everywhere! Needless to say Chris refrained from venturing out into the rain this time and many later on, considering my obsession for taking photos absurd given the inclement weather.

“Sunshine and showers” is the mantra recited so often by the television weather girl and so appropriate for yesterday. We pressed on until we reached the seaside township of Portree. Here we parked in the square where the parking machine was wrapped up in waterproofing as we were. I imagine it is still waiting for adjustment to cope with the new £1 coins.

Portree, with a population of about 2,500, is as close to a metropolis as Skye has, and is well worth a wander about. Its deep cliff edged port filled with fishing and excursion boats and circled with pastel multi-coloured houses is quite charming. The wharf only dates back to the early 19^th century, which suggested to me it was another of those established by the fishing authorities as a response to the Clearances, however I saw nothing to confirm this, and the following actually suggests a life well before those turbulent times. It is said that the town’s name came from an anglicisation of the Gaelic Port Righ, the King’s Port, marking the occasion of a visit of an early tourist to the area, King James I.

Even mid-morning in the rain, the town was busy with the babble of foreigners, as they shopped in the Co-op, sought information in the Visitor’s Centre and checked out the souvenir shops. We left with bakery treats and a handful of maps and brochures, heading on further north, still on the coastal road, now the A855. By now the traffic was dense  by Scottish standards and we streamed up into the isolated Trotternish Peninsula to see all the famous must-see attractions. 

This peninsula, protruding only twenty miles north of Portree, has some of the island’s most bizarre scenery, with volcanic basalt having pressed down on softer sandstone and limestone, causing massive landslides, which in turn have created sheer cliffs, peppered with outcrops of wizened basalt.  The first and most celebrated of these curiosities is the Old Man of Storr which is all that is left after one of these slips. There is a visitor car park from where one can walk for half an hour or so to examine the Old Man more closely.  Here too was the first evidence of all we had read in the newspapers about the problems of tourists in Skye; too many with too few facilities. Those facilities required are larger car park areas, metalling of existing parks to stop people from resorting into the bog peripheries and public toilets. Here below the cliffs of Storr, the car parks were over full and the roadside lined in an unsafe manner; we pressed on having to be satisfied with a photo taken out of the car window. 

We were luckier at the next place, the Falls of Lealt, however this is a little of a misnomer. One can glimpse the top of the falls and imagine how stunning they must be as they fall down to sea level, but the official track and lookout points are more about views down to the shore where there were once  stone buildings, and views across to the mainland. I was fascinated to spot a couple of sheep grazing down on the side of the very steep drop-off, as nimble as goats; “nimble” is not normally a word one associates with sheep.

Alas the car park for the next, the Kilt Waterfall, was overflowing and we gave that a miss too so I cannot tell you anything about those except they are visited by many who do manage to find somewhere to park their car. We had to be satisfied with the views of the cliffs above the village of Staffin.  Most of the houses on the Isle of Skye, and in fact, on the north west of Scotland, are whitewashed and look so very picturesque in their wild settings. This we enjoyed time and time again, all the way along our route taken yesterday, the days before and that today, especially when the rain ceased and a little piece of the sky opened to let a ray of sunshine through.

Just north of Staffin, a narrow single-track road turns inland and cuts due west across the peninsula, into the Quiraing, apparently a spectacular area of rock pinnacles, sheer cliffs and more strange rock formations. We debated whether to take this short-cut, albeit a slower route, or to continue on around the coast; the coastal route won and we had no regrets. 

At the top of the peninsular we came around to the western coastline of Loch Snizort, the road a one way with passing lanes as it had been after leaving Staffin, sharing it with a sultry sauntering herd of cattle, the cows heavily pregnant, the calves quite independent and the bull no more savage than a gentle Labrador. They were heading in the one direction, not at all interested in grazing the side of the road and without herdsman or cattle dog; I guess they knew where they were going. Sheep were also present beside the road, rarely on it, and so very laid back, not at all like their far-off cousins in New Zealand who are more likely to run ahead for miles before heading off into the paddocks or onto the roadside verge. Perhaps that comes of the countryside being so bog ridden, and random hurried movement can be quite hazardous, and as to the question, why is it so very boggy in this part of the country? It comes of the soil being so shallow on the old hard base of the rock, that the water has nowhere to go. 

We had decided that we would not visit the Faerie Glen, the must-do for all tourists to Skye; we had read the horror stories of hazardous parking and traffic in the newspaper and did not want to add to the woes of the locals on this issue. This is reported as a Hobbity landscape of miniature hills, and is near the little settlement of Uig, but we saw no signs. We wondered if the locals had taken matters into their own hands and removed them all? 

Further south and around the bottom of the Loch, we turned north west again onto the A850, now entering the Waternish Peninsula. We stopped up above Edinbane to have our lunch, after which I decided I needed to relieve myself. We had seen no public toilets since leaving Portree, so the heather clad moor would have to suffice. I ended up to my knees in the bog and came back to the car in rather a sorry state, albeit feeling more comfortable in another. I was glad I was wearing my tramping boots!

We drove on north to Stein looking out over the Loch Bay, now on a more minor road, and found it to be everything the guide book promised; Waternish’s prettiest village, one of few, a row of whitewashed cottages built in 1787 by the British Fisheries Society. The place never really took off as was intended, and was more or less abandoned within a couple of generations. There is a pub and restaurant here, but the patrons were well tucked up inside, as Chris was in the car. I walked up and down the little street in the rain to take a few snaps, surprised to see a few cabbage trees along the sea frontage; maybe an immigrant Kiwi planted them to remind themselves of home?

Retracing our route, we came down to Dunvegan, location of a castle of the same name. Descriptions in the guide books suggest something very like that at Eilean Donan which we visited some days ago. Chris was not keen to call in and add to the coffers of the greedy so-called charitable trusts; there were enough others there who did not share his sentiments. But we did continue on up the peninsula beyond the castle, for some miles and on our return stopped in the continuing rain to attempt a photo of the castle situated out on its rocky outcrop. It looked very ethereal although my camera was not able to wholly capture that.

We continued on south across the Duirinish Peninsula and on down the shore of Loch Bracadale, now on the A863, then eastward across the “waist” of the island, to the north of the Cuillin Hills, emerging at Sligachan at the end of a loch, or inlet to we foreigners. Here is a large and picturesque hotel, and a couple of stone bridges over the raging river, probably the River Sligachan, although my map does not give that detail.

Here I coerced my husband to don his rainwear and emerge from the shelter of the car. We checked out the signage, and pleasingly recognised the tops of the Hills now visible as they had not been earlier in the day. The Cuillins are considered Britain’s most dramatic mountain range, attracting geologists, tourists and climbers from around the world. My map indicates that the peaks visible to us range from 773 metres to 1009 metres ASL, and they were impressive, but it was the whole scene in front of us, the quaintness of the bridges, the raging river and the sight of a freshly wed couple having their souvenir photos taken that entranced me. They were accompanied only by two older women, who might have been their mothers, the female photographer who shouted her instructions from one bridge to the other and her assistant carrying a drone which was engaged at one point for those extra special photos. But the most memorable sight was the state of the bride’s wedding frock, which had managed to suck up all the muddy water of her settings like blotting paper and her equally clunky muddy boots. We suggested she might need to have her dress dry-cleaned and wished them forever happiness; I was glad she had a fur-lined jacket to put back on after posing here and there in the wet conditions.

Here we joined the road travelled north in the morning, but now with better visibility we enjoyed views of Raasay, the large narrow island which lies between Skye and the mainland, and closer to home, Scalpay.

Despite having travelled 160 miles, we were back before 4 pm with plenty of time to prepare for our evening’s outing. Washed, combed and clad in our glad-rags, we headed out for an excellent dinner at Creelers, where I enjoyed my seafood dinner and Chris was able to indulge in a great hunk of steak. Confessing to celebrating my birthday, my ice-cream sundae was converted to a masterpiece with two lit candles, one poked into a liqueur soaked apricot and the other a similarly drunken prune.

During the night, when I was more sleepless than usual because of having too late a coffee, and the itching of my midgy bites, I heard heavy rain all too often. The morning brought the same and we wondered at the wisdom of bothering with the rest of the Isle. Just as my husband had not been inclined to visit Dunvegan Castle, nor was he bothered with Armadale Castle, which is apparently even more of a ruin, but he was not averse to checking out the Sleat Peninsula (pronounced Slate) so we headed south west across the lochan dotted moorland between Broadford and Isleornsay. From here on a clear day, there are views of the relatively nearby Knoydart area, one of those “doughballs sticking to the edge of the mainland”, the way I had simplistically described the geogrophy of Scotland. Alas this morning, it was mist, mist, and rain and only the view of the coastline immediately below us.

We continued on along the shore, soon reaching Armadale where we drove down onto the ferry wharf and asked about the cost of taking the car and caravan across to the mainland, offering an alternative route to Fort William, tomorrow’s destination. The ferry from here to Maillaig, north of Fort William, apparently costs about £20, which initially suggested it might be a cheaper option, however we sat with the map and worked out our mileages, and while the distance would be quite a bit less, the fuel cost saving would not justify the ferry crossing for us. 

The weather had not improved one bit, there was little point in lingering although we did continue on toward Aird of Sleat until we found an easy turning spot. We returned to Broadford on the same road, and called at the Co-op to fill the tank in readiness for tomorrow and shopped in the adjacent Co-op grocery outlet.

It was only late morning that we gave up on our sightseeing tours of the day, and settled in for a sedentary day. I guess it doesn’t matter if this happens from time to time.