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An unforgettable journey
Sep. 24th, 2006 11:32 pmToday, 17 years ago, was a high water mark of my 1989 trip to the West Highlands. My first yessss!-moment was finding this beautiful hazelwood walking stick in Mallaig. For years I'd wanted an otter-headed cane, so I dropped £19 for this one in a heartbeat!
Then came the road trip. During the day that Sunday long ago, I drove the circuit from Mallaig to Kyle of Lochalsh (A 830 -> A 82 -> A 87), then back the way I came and down to the Ardnamurchan peninsula. My goal was to get to Ardnamurchan Pt (the westernmost spot in mainland Scotland) by dusk and watch the sun set over the distant Scottish isles.
Now for anyone who has driven in Scotland, you know the route I described above is a bloody long way to travel in one day, even taking all A roads. But the highway out along the Ardnamurchan peninsula is a B road (the B 8007 to be precise), and those can make for some pretty slow going.
I was not to be deterred. The B 8007 is a lovely drive leading into one of the more scenic and still relatively unspoilt areas of rural Scotland, and all along the way, I listened to glorious Mozart on the car stereo. It seemed I had the road all to myself, which was good because I was driving my little rented Austin Maestro like it was a fucking Maserati. ;-) I was a mad thing that day, free as a bird, and at the absolute apex of my life.
I would have reached Ardnamurchan Pt on time if not for the fact that I simply had to stop at every beautiful spot and snap photos, which meant I stopped a lot. ;-) I tried to save some film for sunset pictures, but I ran out of both film and light before I reached my desination.
Well, not all the daylight was gone. What remained was a wash of purple twilight just luminous enough to silhouette what was probably the island of Coll on the horizon. But there was another treasure I found at the point that night - one I wasn't expecting at all.
It was a road sign (of course!), but not just any road sign. It was one of the really old-style baked-enamel road signs which were everywhere around Britain when I first visited in 1967, but were nowhere to be seen now (1989). On this amazingly well-preserved sign, below a blood-red Egyptian-like Ra sun-disk, was a single word in embossed black letters:
END
Talk about an iconic image. If there's one scene I regret not being able to photograph during that whole holiday, it was that single, ancient road sign against that stark, burgundy-hued horizon.
On the way back inland, I stopped at the first public house for supper. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was starving. I was about to experience another sort of apparition. As I walked into the pub, I was greeted by the blaring music of George Strait, a then-hot American country and western musician. After I was seated, on came another George Strait song, so I knew this must actually be a tape that was being played. I was amazed! In this tiny pub in one of the remotest mainland stretches of rural Scotland, everybody was happily listening to the ambient sounds of the latest wave of American country music.
After supper, I drove the entire distance back to the Loch Shiel Hotel in less than an hour. Arriving home, I mused about having survived the B 8007 in such fine style. It was truly a day and a night that I would never forget...
Then came the road trip. During the day that Sunday long ago, I drove the circuit from Mallaig to Kyle of Lochalsh (A 830 -> A 82 -> A 87), then back the way I came and down to the Ardnamurchan peninsula. My goal was to get to Ardnamurchan Pt (the westernmost spot in mainland Scotland) by dusk and watch the sun set over the distant Scottish isles.
Now for anyone who has driven in Scotland, you know the route I described above is a bloody long way to travel in one day, even taking all A roads. But the highway out along the Ardnamurchan peninsula is a B road (the B 8007 to be precise), and those can make for some pretty slow going.
I was not to be deterred. The B 8007 is a lovely drive leading into one of the more scenic and still relatively unspoilt areas of rural Scotland, and all along the way, I listened to glorious Mozart on the car stereo. It seemed I had the road all to myself, which was good because I was driving my little rented Austin Maestro like it was a fucking Maserati. ;-) I was a mad thing that day, free as a bird, and at the absolute apex of my life.
I would have reached Ardnamurchan Pt on time if not for the fact that I simply had to stop at every beautiful spot and snap photos, which meant I stopped a lot. ;-) I tried to save some film for sunset pictures, but I ran out of both film and light before I reached my desination.
Well, not all the daylight was gone. What remained was a wash of purple twilight just luminous enough to silhouette what was probably the island of Coll on the horizon. But there was another treasure I found at the point that night - one I wasn't expecting at all.
It was a road sign (of course!), but not just any road sign. It was one of the really old-style baked-enamel road signs which were everywhere around Britain when I first visited in 1967, but were nowhere to be seen now (1989). On this amazingly well-preserved sign, below a blood-red Egyptian-like Ra sun-disk, was a single word in embossed black letters:
END
Talk about an iconic image. If there's one scene I regret not being able to photograph during that whole holiday, it was that single, ancient road sign against that stark, burgundy-hued horizon.
On the way back inland, I stopped at the first public house for supper. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was starving. I was about to experience another sort of apparition. As I walked into the pub, I was greeted by the blaring music of George Strait, a then-hot American country and western musician. After I was seated, on came another George Strait song, so I knew this must actually be a tape that was being played. I was amazed! In this tiny pub in one of the remotest mainland stretches of rural Scotland, everybody was happily listening to the ambient sounds of the latest wave of American country music.
After supper, I drove the entire distance back to the Loch Shiel Hotel in less than an hour. Arriving home, I mused about having survived the B 8007 in such fine style. It was truly a day and a night that I would never forget...
An unforgettable journey
Sep. 24th, 2006 11:32 pmToday, 17 years ago, was a high water mark of my 1989 trip to the West Highlands. My first yessss!-moment was finding this beautiful hazelwood walking stick in Mallaig. For years I'd wanted an otter-headed cane, so I dropped £19 for this one in a heartbeat!
Then came the road trip. During the day that Sunday long ago, I drove the circuit from Mallaig to Kyle of Lochalsh (A 830 -> A 82 -> A 87), then back the way I came and down to the Ardnamurchan peninsula. My goal was to get to Ardnamurchan Pt (the westernmost spot in mainland Scotland) by dusk and watch the sun set over the distant Scottish isles.
Now for anyone who has driven in Scotland, you know the route I described above is a bloody long way to travel in one day, even taking all A roads. But the highway out along the Ardnamurchan peninsula is a B road (the B 8007 to be precise), and those can make for some pretty slow going.
I was not to be deterred. The B 8007 is a lovely drive leading into one of the more scenic and still relatively unspoilt areas of rural Scotland, and all along the way, I listened to glorious Mozart on the car stereo. It seemed I had the road all to myself, which was good because I was driving my little rented Austin Maestro like it was a fucking Maserati. ;-) I was a mad thing that day, free as a bird, and at the absolute apex of my life.
I would have reached Ardnamurchan Pt on time if not for the fact that I simply had to stop at every beautiful spot and snap photos, which meant I stopped a lot. ;-) I tried to save some film for sunset pictures, but I ran out of both film and light before I reached my desination.
Well, not all the daylight was gone. What remained was a wash of purple twilight just luminous enough to silhouette what was probably the island of Coll on the horizon. But there was another treasure I found at the point that night - one I wasn't expecting at all.
It was a road sign (of course!), but not just any road sign. It was one of the really old-style baked-enamel road signs which were everywhere around Britain when I first visited in 1967, but were nowhere to be seen now (1989). On this amazingly well-preserved sign, below a blood-red Egyptian-like Ra sun-disk, was a single word in embossed black letters:
END
Talk about an iconic image. If there's one scene I regret not being able to photograph during that whole holiday, it was that single, ancient road sign against that stark, burgundy-hued horizon.
On the way back inland, I stopped at the first public house for supper. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was starving. I was about to experience another sort of apparition. As I walked into the pub, I was greeted by the blaring music of George Strait, a then-hot American country and western musician. After I was seated, on came another George Strait song, so I knew this must actually be a tape that was being played. I was amazed! In this tiny pub in one of the remotest mainland stretches of rural Scotland, everybody was happily listening to the ambient sounds of the latest wave of American country music.
After supper, I drove the entire distance back to the Loch Shiel Hotel in less than an hour. Arriving home, I mused about having survived the B 8007 in such fine style. It was truly a day and a night that I would never forget...
Then came the road trip. During the day that Sunday long ago, I drove the circuit from Mallaig to Kyle of Lochalsh (A 830 -> A 82 -> A 87), then back the way I came and down to the Ardnamurchan peninsula. My goal was to get to Ardnamurchan Pt (the westernmost spot in mainland Scotland) by dusk and watch the sun set over the distant Scottish isles.
Now for anyone who has driven in Scotland, you know the route I described above is a bloody long way to travel in one day, even taking all A roads. But the highway out along the Ardnamurchan peninsula is a B road (the B 8007 to be precise), and those can make for some pretty slow going.
I was not to be deterred. The B 8007 is a lovely drive leading into one of the more scenic and still relatively unspoilt areas of rural Scotland, and all along the way, I listened to glorious Mozart on the car stereo. It seemed I had the road all to myself, which was good because I was driving my little rented Austin Maestro like it was a fucking Maserati. ;-) I was a mad thing that day, free as a bird, and at the absolute apex of my life.
I would have reached Ardnamurchan Pt on time if not for the fact that I simply had to stop at every beautiful spot and snap photos, which meant I stopped a lot. ;-) I tried to save some film for sunset pictures, but I ran out of both film and light before I reached my desination.
Well, not all the daylight was gone. What remained was a wash of purple twilight just luminous enough to silhouette what was probably the island of Coll on the horizon. But there was another treasure I found at the point that night - one I wasn't expecting at all.
It was a road sign (of course!), but not just any road sign. It was one of the really old-style baked-enamel road signs which were everywhere around Britain when I first visited in 1967, but were nowhere to be seen now (1989). On this amazingly well-preserved sign, below a blood-red Egyptian-like Ra sun-disk, was a single word in embossed black letters:
END
Talk about an iconic image. If there's one scene I regret not being able to photograph during that whole holiday, it was that single, ancient road sign against that stark, burgundy-hued horizon.
On the way back inland, I stopped at the first public house for supper. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and I was starving. I was about to experience another sort of apparition. As I walked into the pub, I was greeted by the blaring music of George Strait, a then-hot American country and western musician. After I was seated, on came another George Strait song, so I knew this must actually be a tape that was being played. I was amazed! In this tiny pub in one of the remotest mainland stretches of rural Scotland, everybody was happily listening to the ambient sounds of the latest wave of American country music.
After supper, I drove the entire distance back to the Loch Shiel Hotel in less than an hour. Arriving home, I mused about having survived the B 8007 in such fine style. It was truly a day and a night that I would never forget...
Arisaig remembered
Sep. 24th, 2006 06:20 amSeventeen years ago today, September 24, 1989, I just happened to be in the seaside village of Arisaig, in the West Highlands of Scotland.
I had been in Arisaig before, 15 years previous to that, in September 1974. On that first visit, my mom, her cousin and I stayed there overnight in a very cozy bed & breakfast in a real Scottish farm croft.
That night we had a fascinating discussion with the Pringles who ran the b&b. I thought it was remarkable how knowledgeable this older farm couple in rural Scotland were about the broader world, and American politics in particular. They were extraordinarily well-informed, incisive, witty people. I was also impressed by how genuinely welcoming and hospitable our hosts were. For that one night, that warm little croft was truly Home. The thing I remembered most about the house itself was my upstairs bedroom. The ceiling was just barely over 6 feet high, so it grazed my hair as I walked around, and I actually had to stoop a little to get in and out the door!
During our visit, Mom took this picture of me under the Pringles' apple tree.
Then she took a picture of the hayfied in front of the croft (enlarged behind the cut).
( Then (1974) and Now (1989) )
When I returned to Arisaig in 1989, I really wanted to visit that little croft again. Walking up from the road, the neighbour lady next door was in her front yard, so I told her why I was there. I had brought with me the pictures I took in 1974, and the neighbour was thrilled to see how much I had clearly treasured the memories I had of our stay at her friends' b&b all those years ago. She regretted to tell me, however, that Mrs. Pringle had died 3 years before. What a shame, but she told me that Mr. Pringle still lived in the croft and that he was at home, but when I knocked on the door, he didn't answer. I was sad about that. I really would have liked to talk with Mr. Pringle and get some more pictures of the inside. Still, it was nice to see the old place again.
It's now been 17 years since I was in Britain. That's the longest period I've been away in my whole life. I know now I'll likely never see my beloved Scottish Highlands again. I don't have the money anymore to even think about travelling. All that's in the past now, I'm afraid...
*snif*
I had been in Arisaig before, 15 years previous to that, in September 1974. On that first visit, my mom, her cousin and I stayed there overnight in a very cozy bed & breakfast in a real Scottish farm croft.
That night we had a fascinating discussion with the Pringles who ran the b&b. I thought it was remarkable how knowledgeable this older farm couple in rural Scotland were about the broader world, and American politics in particular. They were extraordinarily well-informed, incisive, witty people. I was also impressed by how genuinely welcoming and hospitable our hosts were. For that one night, that warm little croft was truly Home. The thing I remembered most about the house itself was my upstairs bedroom. The ceiling was just barely over 6 feet high, so it grazed my hair as I walked around, and I actually had to stoop a little to get in and out the door!
During our visit, Mom took this picture of me under the Pringles' apple tree.
Then she took a picture of the hayfied in front of the croft (enlarged behind the cut).
( Then (1974) and Now (1989) )
When I returned to Arisaig in 1989, I really wanted to visit that little croft again. Walking up from the road, the neighbour lady next door was in her front yard, so I told her why I was there. I had brought with me the pictures I took in 1974, and the neighbour was thrilled to see how much I had clearly treasured the memories I had of our stay at her friends' b&b all those years ago. She regretted to tell me, however, that Mrs. Pringle had died 3 years before. What a shame, but she told me that Mr. Pringle still lived in the croft and that he was at home, but when I knocked on the door, he didn't answer. I was sad about that. I really would have liked to talk with Mr. Pringle and get some more pictures of the inside. Still, it was nice to see the old place again.
It's now been 17 years since I was in Britain. That's the longest period I've been away in my whole life. I know now I'll likely never see my beloved Scottish Highlands again. I don't have the money anymore to even think about travelling. All that's in the past now, I'm afraid...
*snif*
Arisaig remembered
Sep. 24th, 2006 06:20 amSeventeen years ago today, September 24, 1989, I just happened to be in the seaside village of Arisaig, in the West Highlands of Scotland.
I had been in Arisaig before, 15 years previous to that, in September 1974. On that first visit, my mom, her cousin and I stayed there overnight in a very cozy bed & breakfast in a real Scottish farm croft.
That night we had a fascinating discussion with the Pringles who ran the b&b. I thought it was remarkable how knowledgable this older farm couple in rural Scotland were about the broader world, and American politics in particular. They were extraordinarily well-informed, incisive, witty people. I was also impressed by how genuinely welcoming and hospitable our hosts were. For that one night, that warm little croft was truly Home. The thing I remembered most about the house itself was my upstairs bedroom. The ceiling was just barely over 6 feet high, so it grazed my hair as I walked around, and I actually had to stoop a little to get in and out the door!
During our visit, Mom took this picture of me under the Pringles' apple tree.
Then she took a picture of the hayfied in front of the croft (enlarged behind the cut).
( Then (1974) and Now (1989) )
When I returned to Arisaig in 1989, I really wanted to visit that little croft again. Walking up from the road, the neighbour lady next door was in her front yard, so I told her why I was there. I had brought with me the pictures I took in 1974, and the neighbour was thrilled to see how much I had clearly treasured the memories I had of our stay at her friends' b&b all those years ago. She regretted to tell me, however, that Mrs. Pringle had died 3 years before. What a shame, but she told me that Mr. Pringle still lived in the croft and that he was at home, but when I knocked on the door, he didn't answer. I was sad about that. I really would have liked to talk with Mr. Pringle and get some more pictures of the inside. Still, it was nice to see the old place again.
It's now been 17 years since I was in Britain. That's the longest period I've been away in my whole life. I know now I'll likely never see my beloved Scottish Highlands again. I don't have the money anymore to even think about travelling. All that's in the past now, I'm afraid...
*snif*
I had been in Arisaig before, 15 years previous to that, in September 1974. On that first visit, my mom, her cousin and I stayed there overnight in a very cozy bed & breakfast in a real Scottish farm croft.
That night we had a fascinating discussion with the Pringles who ran the b&b. I thought it was remarkable how knowledgable this older farm couple in rural Scotland were about the broader world, and American politics in particular. They were extraordinarily well-informed, incisive, witty people. I was also impressed by how genuinely welcoming and hospitable our hosts were. For that one night, that warm little croft was truly Home. The thing I remembered most about the house itself was my upstairs bedroom. The ceiling was just barely over 6 feet high, so it grazed my hair as I walked around, and I actually had to stoop a little to get in and out the door!
During our visit, Mom took this picture of me under the Pringles' apple tree.
Then she took a picture of the hayfied in front of the croft (enlarged behind the cut).
( Then (1974) and Now (1989) )
When I returned to Arisaig in 1989, I really wanted to visit that little croft again. Walking up from the road, the neighbour lady next door was in her front yard, so I told her why I was there. I had brought with me the pictures I took in 1974, and the neighbour was thrilled to see how much I had clearly treasured the memories I had of our stay at her friends' b&b all those years ago. She regretted to tell me, however, that Mrs. Pringle had died 3 years before. What a shame, but she told me that Mr. Pringle still lived in the croft and that he was at home, but when I knocked on the door, he didn't answer. I was sad about that. I really would have liked to talk with Mr. Pringle and get some more pictures of the inside. Still, it was nice to see the old place again.
It's now been 17 years since I was in Britain. That's the longest period I've been away in my whole life. I know now I'll likely never see my beloved Scottish Highlands again. I don't have the money anymore to even think about travelling. All that's in the past now, I'm afraid...
*snif*
Pilgrimage to Camusfeàrna
Sep. 21st, 2006 07:51 amReading Gavin Maxwell's book Ring Of Bright Water as a young man was the origin point of my fascination with otters. In the years that followed, the study of the animals became my life's work. In 1989, I had the opportunity to travel in Europe, so I planned my itinerary such that I would be able to visit Maxwell's Camusfeàrna in Scotland on my 35th birthday. As otters are the center of my world, it seemed appropriate to make a pilgrimage to this Mecca of otterdom at the precise midpoint of my "three score and ten" lifespan, September 21, 1989.
( My visit to the Bay of the Alders. )
( My visit to the Bay of the Alders. )
Pilgrimage to Camusfeàrna
Sep. 21st, 2006 07:51 amReading Gavin Maxwell's book Ring Of Bright Water as a young man was the origin point of my fascination with otters. In the years that followed, the study of the animals became my life's work. In 1989, I had the opportunity to travel in Europe, so I planned my itinerary such that I would be able to visit Maxwell's Camusfeàrna in Scotland on my 35th birthday. As otters are the center of my world, it seemed appropriate to make a pilgrimage to this Mecca of otterdom at the precise midpoint of my "three score and ten" lifespan, September 21, 1989.
( My visit to the Bay of the Alders. )
( My visit to the Bay of the Alders. )
