A HOLIDAY IN SCOTLAND

Richard Dury's notes on a 1996 trip he took in the Scottish Islands and Highlands

We left on 26th July, flying to Edinburgh via Gatwick. The approach to Edinburgh was along the Firth of Forth and we had a perfect view of both shores, the islands with castles, the boats on the water, the two Forth bridges clearly visible - then, as the water caught the low sun it became a ribbed surface of golden light.

At the airport we met Lorenzo and Bianca (Alda's nephew and wife) who we'd invited to stay with us in the cottage after their holiday in London (which they enjoyed - this was to be their big foreign holiday before starting a family - and in fact Bianca is now expecting a baby, so the British air seems to have been to their liking!). We stayed the night in a hotel I'd booked via Internet - nice big bedrooms, ours with a bay window onto the garden. With the sky still light until late, we went out to the Old Town for something to eat (and ended up having a Pizza - well, it was late, and it was about the only thing available).

The trip to Oban next day took about 2½ hours on a morning of grey clouds along a road flanked by green mountains, with occasional lochs (with reedy shores, often with little islands in the middle, inhabited by pine-trees). Oban, a mildly-bustling seaport, when we arrived smelt of fish. We went to the Tesco supermarket there because we knew we were about 5 miles from the nearest shop on the island. Nobody has yet written a poem 'In Praise of Supermarkets' - but there's no doubt that visiting an unfamiliar supermarket, especially in another country, can be a highly entertaining experience (the range of goods on offer gives you an idea of their diet, there will be items you never normally see) - and in Scotland it was interesting to see things on the shelves that were slightly different from England.

After half an hour of ferry we were on Mull, where almost all the roads are just wide enough for one car, with passing places - these are on alternate sides of the road and the rule is for the person with the nearest passing place on his side to stop, even if he has to wait for a whole column of cars coming the other way.

The following day, after a long, relaxing, extended breakfast we went to Iona, along a road with green hills on one side and a sea-loch (Loch Scridain) on the other, often with sheep on the road and occasionally with the long-haired long-horned orangey-brown Highland cattle, who just stand in front of your windscreen and then slowly move away when they are ready.



The ferry for Iona is at Fionphort, a place with an end-of-the-road feel and a few scattered houses - in one case washing was hung on a line stretched between two rocks. The rocks are pink granite here that stand up from the green grass. There's a little bay and a jetty and a mobile little local seafood trailer, some bits of abandoned winding gear and other matérial, a mobile ticket office and a café and waiting room.

The crossing is just one mile - when across we just had time to book the boat to Staffa at 'the house with the yellow window'. This turned out to be a small general store, with a note on the door 'If the shop is closed, go round the back as I may be in the garden'. As the notice suggests, the people here have a relaxed Irish charm. (The Gaelic-influenced accent is also not unlike the Irish accent - and S.W. Scotland is so near Ireland that on the radio in the cottage it was Irish radio programmes that we were able to pick up.)

On the 45 min. trip to Staffa, we saw the Threshnish Islands (black silhouettes of flat volcanic islands, one stepped like two parts of a cut deck of cards, another similar but with a rounded hill in the middle, looking like a wide-brimmed hat), to the north was the pyramidal mountain of Rum and then (the air being clear because of the possible approaching rain) the mountains on Skye 60 miles away. The very cheerful guide came round to groups in the boat with copies of a plastified card with a map and drawings of typical birds. When he came round to Lorenzo and Bianca, they nodded politely, but could only understand "Staffa". There were four other Italians on the boat - as well as a group of three young couples all with blue Barbours who we thought must be Italians (one was a pretty girl with stylish round glasses, a pigtail and a dark complexion which seemed to confirm this), but they turned out to be Austrian.

Staffa was a black silhouette that looked like a battleship: the cliffs on the Atlantic side seemed more than vertical, like the prow, there was a flat top with a hill that looked like the bridge and deckhouse. When nearer we could see the vertical columns of basalt, supporting another kind of rock and then the green grass on top. We were lucky that the sea was calm enough to allow us to land (this was the reason we'd decided to go on the first day because the weather was favourable - these Hebridean Islands are outcrops of sunken mountains with lots of other not-quite-so-high mountains under the surface of the water which make the sea very turbulent when there is a bit of wind. In fact when we went to Iona several days later the ferry took a zig-zag course to avoid rocks that are dangerous at low tide). We made out way along the foot of the cliff, walking on the uneven hexagonal (and near-hexagonal) ends of lower basalt columns, round the end of a headland and into the first part of Fingal's Cave.

It's certainly something worth going to see - the tall columns of basalt (with some shorter ones at their base) and the tall ceiling a natural straight-sided arch formed of suspended hexagonal shafts like in some Arabic vaulting (these ceiling shafts have taken a light greenish colour). At the very top of the arch on one side (and more further back) there was the other rock that had flowed on top. In contrast to the geometrical regularity of the basalt this is amorphous, chaotic, folded, flowing, turbulent, massive. Below is the luminous floor of water, lit with light-green reefs in patches, darker between them, with a constant sigh of the water as it flows back and forth from the columns-bases.

We then went to the other end of the little island over grassy hillocks to where, around a bay of vertical cliffs, Puffins were nesting. They come near humans, whose presence protects them from larger birds. They're instinctively amusing - small (about 9 inches high), with their unexpectedly delicately-coloured beak (orange and red), white front, black back and black top like brushed-down hair. Their movements seem perky: as they searched for bits of grass for nesting, one of them picked a daisy and went around with it in his beak. Then suddenly these comic characters launch out into the empty air of the bay, beak pointing forward, webbed feet stretched out to a line, looking suddenly like very professional birds indeed, except for the amateurishly whirring wings or flippers (a passing seagull glides by and seems to raise an aristocratic eyebrow). They land with less style: with two little webbed feet spread out wide they bend forward with thrashing wings as if not quite confident of making a smooth landing.

Not all the basalt column on Staffa are vertical: some are in amazing geometrical sculptures, sloping up to a point with the hexagons getting smaller, or arranges in fans, or in curved horizontal lines.

On the way back to Fionphort, the steersman suddenly stopped the engine and the guide shouted "Dolphins!" - so we all stood up and there were a pair of dolphins following each other in parallel arcs above the waves, occasionally spouting.

I forgot to tell you about the house - Tiroran House was on the north shore of Loch Scridain (a sea loch, so we soon learnt to note if the tide was high or low - when it was low the sheep and cattle went onto the grass that was revealed). There was the family house (probably had 5-6 bedrooms) and then three cottages converted from various dependances. Ours was the best and had a very good view from the kitchen window across the lawn and the croquet lawn: I taught Bianca and Lorenzo to play - I obviously was a very good instructor as Lorenzo ended up by beating me!), the burn and then the sea loch, and beyond that the green hills of the other shore.

On the second day we went to a bay on the south of Mull (Carsaig Bay), over a moor road and then down a steep hill among tall trees (passing an isolated red phone box). As we walked along the path round the bay someone said "Look!", and we saw, among the ferns of the steep sides behind us, the antlers, then the head, then the upper bodies of 2, then a third, then 4 magnificent stags!

Then a bit further on, on the grass above the beach, a cappuccino-coloured pony with a lighter mane came trotting up to us (photo opportunity). The beach was of brown-black (?basalt) sand, crossed by streams of water that cut precise, straight-walled little channels. Then we walked further along, sometimes on grass, sometimes scrambling over boulders and loose stones, sometimes on irregular platforms of basalt columns, while above us the cliffs got steeper and steeper with a stratum of basalt columns half-way up the face.

There were two burns to cross, which we could see high up falling like a silver thread down the cliff-face. Several times we wanted to give up. Alda at one point said "Go on without me", as they do in films about explorers, but then the horseflies saw she was a good immobile target and she decided it was best to keep moving with us. The intrepid group continued till it saw the sphinx-shaped rock promised by the walk-guide book that showed the entrance to the Nuns' Cave, a triangular-shaped space in the cliff with a sandy floor, where stone had been taken for Iona Abbey in the Middle Ages. There were some plastic crates around a recent camp-fire, some modern carvings on the rock walls along with one or two faint crosses that the guidebook promised us were of medieval age and were the trial attempts of apprentice carvers. This was what we had come for - not wonderfully impressive unless you added a lot of imaginative reconstruction, but getting there and back was a nice exhausting energetic walk.

The next day was a bit drizzly, so we decided to go to the main town, way up in the north-east corner, Tobermoray. The first part of the journey was along the shore of another sea loch that reminded us a bit of the Bergamo side of Lake Iseo, with cliffs coming right down to the water and the road clinging onto the side just above the water. Tobermoray is a well-protected little port with sheltering trees and a front of brightly-painted houses (pink, yellow, blue etc.).

The we went down the east-coast road to Craignure, where we had arrived on the ferry, and on to Duart Castle, home of the Clan Maclean (pronounced MacClane). This is built on a rocky promontory and is a very romantic view as you first arrive at Mull on the ferry. It was actually confiscated from the MaClean family after 1745, when they were on the wrong side (they'd come out in support of Bonnie Prince Charlie), and the head of the MaClean family bought it back in a ruined state in 1911 and restored it - ci teneva, si vede (which perhaps should be be translated: 'it was obviously important for them')Then back home via the glen road flanked by stream-threaded green mountains, stopping only to take a photo of a side valley with two shining lochs.

But this is going on at too great a length and if I'm not boring you, I am certainly taking up too much of your time. So here's a quicker run-through of the other days of the holiday. On the Wednesday we went on a wildlife safari - a pleasant way to spend a rainy day. We followed an otter across a bay with binoculars (we had the binoculars, not the otter), as it dived and resurfaced, saw a sea eagle perching on top of a tree at a distance, then we saw more deer, herons, seals. Our guide said he had had a group of Italians who spoke no English recently - he said that he learnt from them that the Italian word for 'seals' was foconi ! [actaully Italian for 'dirty great seals'] We visited some interesting out-of-the-way bays and lochs and learnt a lot about the island from our chatty guide (Richard, originally from Yorkshire).

Thursday we went to Iona again. On the road, Lorenzo and Bianca were amused to see a mobile bank in one village. We supposed that bank robbers would just have to steal the bank and make a fast getaway in it. In Iona Abbey we listened to the first part of a free choral concert. Behind the Abbey (which is an ecumenical centre) there were some tents - obviously young pilgrims. You also see mild-looking couples who might be here for some kind of retreat. There is a well-stocked second-hand bookshop; I saw a Vegetarian B + B. In contrast to the untidy local housing, with clothes hanging out to dry, there was a market garden that might have been run by an 'incomer': all the vegetables were in the straightest of lines, there was even one bed with a frame of lettuces and some other vegetable on the inside.

Friday was a long and leisurely breakfast, followed by a short walk behind the cottage (abandoned because of rain - even though we were passed by serious British walkers who seemed to take no notice of the wet), followed by a long leisurely tea (toasted teacakes!). This was our last evening on the island and Lorenzo and I went to the nearest pub for a couple of whiskies (where we heard the youngish landlord scold a group of youngsters, telling them to leave or 'control your language' - the islanders obviously have strong ideas about these things).

Saturday we went to the mainland and arrived at Pitlochry ('the heart of the Highlands'). We were all rather tired; Lorenzo was a bit annoyed at not going to Loch Ness (to see the place where there was no monster and pay to go into a 'museum' that pretended that there was). At our guesthouse we were amused however by the receptionist/waiter/?manager, who wore a ring on his ring-finger but seemed gay - chatting on at great length about any subject, discreetly waving hands, humming to himself as he came along the corridor; at the breakfast table he was continually re-arranging the objects on the table as he talked and took the order (shifting the salt-cellar two centimeters to the right, the table-number one centimetre to the left etc.).

On Sunday we went to nearby Blair Castle just outside Pitlochry - our second Scottish Castle, then to the nearby the Blair Athol Distillery. The tour was very efficiently done and our guide was a perky little Scotswoman who explained how whisky was made without giving the idea that it was the umpteenth time she'd done it. I was doing a simultaneous translation for Bianca and Lorenzo (afterwards in the car we had a general knowledge quiz on things they'd learnt during the holiday). We bought some whisky in the distillery shop (but it turned out to be cheaper in the airport duty-free!).

We'd booked a B&B in Stirling through the Pitlochry tourist office. The address - 100 Causewayhead Road - suggested a long main road out of town, which it was - but it turned out to be the best B&B we stayed in, worth stars and rosettes in any guide to good places to stay. There were two guest rooms, separated by en-suite bathrooms, all recently decorated, all finished with great care (the colours carefully matched of curtains, duvet-cover, pictures on the wall), there was a good-quality TV, the bathroom had painted floors (I don't know how they were treated to protect them) and decorated and stippled walls all done by the young wife, a circular shower in the corner - everything carefully chosen and perfectly installed. Next to the bedrooms (which were on the ground floor) was the visitors breakfast room with a piano for playing, and French windows opening onto a garden (I need hardly add, carefully planted) where Sylvia (the young wife) brought us tea and biscuits on a tray after our arrival.

I was thinking of writing in the guest-book 'Calme, luxe et volupté', but thought that the 'volupté' might give other guests (and Sylvia's husband) quite the wrong idea. I actually wrote a quotation from a play A Man for All Seasons. 'Send them home without me, Thomas, I will stay here and make music'. Lorenzo wrote 'Bellissimo!' - a nice contrast between my literary pretentiousness and Italian spontaneity.

We had dinner at 'The Golden Lion' - quite a good meal in a place that had the cavernous air of the old coaching inn about it (not unlike those German Bierkeller with all their mysteriously interconnecting spaces).

Breakfast was memorable: cooked breakfast; waffle, berries and cream (yum! obviously for the Americans); and boiled eggs and cheeses (for the Dutch and Germans). Sylvia came in and had a chat - it was all very pleasant and made one want to return for a longer stay.

Stirling, the old capital of Scotland, is a bit like Città Alta. We walked up a footpath outside the walls to the Castle, which we visited and discovered that the early-18th century defence works had been built by the engineer Theodor Dury (also active, we later found, at Edinburgh Castle). Then we went on to Edinburgh, went to the B&B I had already booked (via e-mail in Italy!) and took the hire car back to the airport. Dinner was in the brasserie-style restaurant of a nearby hotel; we were sitting in a kind of conservatory with a view of the garden. I chose the chocolate cheesecake much to the envy of everyone else. Mmmmmmm!

Tuesday started with a decision not to go to the Tattoo (display of military bands in the Castle) because of the forecast storm - which then did not arrive, contributing to a feeling of having missed something. We visited the Castle and followed a free guide - very entertaining because, with a military air and a straight face, he managed to get in a constant succession of boasts of Scottish valour and bravery and general superiority, especially when measured against the English. This was our most touristy day - as we then walked the length of the Royal Mile, went round Holyrood House Palace before collapsing in a pub for a snack lunch.

When Lorenzo and Bianca left on Wednesday morning we sat in the house for an hour as it was raining (we were in a very luminous front room with big bay window) then took the bus to the centre and went round the National Gallery - an interesting small collection that doesn't tire you out.

The famous Edinburgh Festival started in the following week, but it was 'Week 0' of the Festival - mainly the non-official Fringe Festival having a trial run. We bought tickets for three shows and on the Wednesday evening went to one of the many venues scattered about the city for a student group doing a comedy/series of sketches. It was in a little space with room for no more than 40  people - there were only 9 people, however, and the other 7 were obviously friends of the actors! But the actors weren't discouraged and the laughter was genuine.

The following day we saw 'Shakespeare for Breakfast' (coffee, croissant and jam including in the price of the ticket) - and excellent and versatile main actor played the character of an actor searching for the Complete Works of Shakespeare and was opposed by an academic Shakespeare pedant. This story flowed into various pastiches of Shakespearean scenes. Superb timing and versatile acting.

Then we went for a stroll in the New Town (went by Stevenson's home, of course)

In the evening we went to another venue that was three theatre-spaces around a courtyard where there were café tables and various food-stalls - it was a very studenty atmosphere. We saw a show by Hans Liberg, a Dutch comic, who gave a long soliloquy about music, mainly classical, enlivened by surrealistic wit. At one point he strummed a jazz piece on an electric bass guitar, interrupted momentarily to give the title, 'Happiness'; then he announced the next piece 'Garden Fence' - exactly the same as before! At one point he said 'English is not my language, so I had to learn everything by heart - in fact I don't understand the words I'm saying right now!'.

I would recommend the Edinburgh Festival and the Fringe as a holiday - it's varied, stimulating, and makes you feel more intelligent and studenty again!

Then it was Friday and the day to go back home - a nice holiday.