Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, November 13, 1994 TAG: 9411160043
SECTION: TRAVEL PAGE: F6 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: BARBARA M. DICKINSON
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
the average was well maintained.
And when our fields had turned to bogs
It started raining cats and dogs."
Anon.
This bit of doggerel was posted in the study of Torosay Castle on the Isle of Mull, of Scotland's Inner Hebrides islands. "Anon." obviously visited Mull under the same conditions I encountered in August: rain falling in buckets from a leaden sky.
Unusual weather for an unusual trip. My husband and I were participants in a study tour of the "Islands of Scotland with a Mainland swing through 225 castles." (It may have been 25 castles and just seemed like 225.) Glasgow, Edinburgh, indeed most of that ancient and fabled island was known to us as being relatively accessible. But to travel and learn about remote and varied offshore habitats of this lovely country presented the chance of a lifetime.
We journeyed by private coach (our own orange pumpkin), ferries , feet, knees trains and pony cart. Vague and strange-sounding places gradually became familiar actualities. We entered into the spirit of exploration that this special tour of the Scottish Islands demanded.
Before leaving Roanoke, Arran was known to me only through labels on expensive hand-knit sweaters. On the first Friday in August our bus, dozens of passenger cars, hundreds of pedestrians with either well-behaved Border collies or noisy children, or both, lined up dutifully at Ardrossan to be swallowed up by the ferry for an hour's ride across the Firth of Clyde. (Arran is one of the Clyde Islands.) As the vessel glided into the port of Brodick, Arran became a reality. The air was festive: many of the ferry's passengers were commuters returning home for the weekend. Brodick, Isle of Arran, might easily have been a resort town in the Hamptons, U.S.A. It appeared less and less resort-like as we drove the String Road out of Brodick to the rambling Kinloch Hotel in Blackwaterfoot.
Arran is a classic textbook for a geologist. Formed of Old Red Sandstone deposited some 400 million years ago, its topography was further modified by volcanic activity and finally, the Ice Age. The approximately 20-mile long, 10-mile wide island is a study in contrasts. To the north the terrain is ragged and brash, uncultivated, with sheer vertical mountains, dense forests and a coastline that could have been a model for the state of Maine's. Red deer romp and golden eagles soar over these spaces.
Follow the narrow and winding "interstate" south to find acres of weathered plains rolling gently to a softer shoreline notched with beaches. Sheep graze peacefully here as they have done for years. Villages with such tongue-pleasing names as Lamlash, Whiting Bay, Kilmory and Ballymichael dot this Southern coast, vying for attention from the tourists and the trawlers.
Long winter days yield intricately knitted products, tons of distinctive mustard and a not-inconsiderable amount of rough cut orange marmalade. Most of Arran's goods are exported to the mainland where consumers happily purchase the harvest of nimble fingers' work.
Mull was dull.
Aside from providing this excuse for a brief rhyme, Torosay Castle (even in the rain) and a passable pub were the only memorable footprints on the otherwise monotonous landscape of the third largest island of the Hebrides. The volcanic chunk must have flattened when it dropped here: the expanse is far greater and much tamer than that of Arran. Driving southwest from the port city of Craignure, A849 (the only road) leads all pilgrims to what must be the smallest and most ancient of the Hebrides, Iona.
A pedestrian ferry runs hourly to Iona. From the upper deck it was possible to see the island with its long dock and boat slips, a few shops and a square stone tower in the distance. The northern tip, I mused. As we drew closer it was apparent that this was not just the tip of the island, but the all of Iona. Three miles long by one mile in width, its year-round residents number around 100. Summer tourists swell both the population and the island's coffers. My spouse and I engaged the services of a friendly young woman driving a pony cart. As we rode behind a clip-clopping staunch little beast named "Danny Boy" we learned about the flora, fauna, history and vicissitudes of island life from our new friend the expatriate (for 14 years) from London.
The small shops I had previously spotted were mostly bed and breakfasts for the tourists. The square stone tower visible was none other than part of St. Columba's Abbey. Reportedly Columba came here in 563 A.D. from his beloved Ireland, and began to spread Christianity to mainland Britain and beyond. The abbey, nunnery and the grave yard - traditional burial place for the succession of Scotland's kings - are all focal points for visitors from around the world.
Despite the intrusion of the 20th century, Iona still managed to convey its spell of unique beauty and deep tranquility to this afternoon visitor.
Traveling to the Isle of Skye was an adventure worth repeating. From Inverness, "the capital of the Scottish Highlands," our group boarded a coach and rode for nearly three hours (lunch and tea included) past panoramas of lush West Highland scenery. Lochs, firths, charming villages and one-house "stops," rolling hills and a crossing over the Caledonian Canal made this a memorable journey. The narrow gauge track ended at Kyle of Lochalsh, a typical end-of-the line port of call. From there another steadfast ferry across to Skye.
This is an island for fishermen: the seasoned settlers who earn their living by the sea and the anglers who visit the lochs. Mountainous scenery is spectacular and the appellation "isle of mist" is an absolute. Skye's Dunvegan Castle (every island seems to have its own castle or two) has been the ancestral home of the chiefs of the MacLeod clan since the 13th century.
Perhaps Skye's location produces a populus of individualists or perhaps folks I met were more reserved, more aloof than many other Scots. My impression as I left this island was that they did not need nor did they particularly welcome the outsider - even to purchase their exquisite woolens. Skye is one distant geographical trace on any map.
To reach the Orkney Islands one has to drive north, and north some more on mainland Scotland and take the P&O Scottish ferry from either John O'Groats or Scrabster. Our group departed from the latter. The Orkneys lie on the 60-degree latitude with their closest neighbor to the East, Norway. Our "Go, Orkney" guide told us that on a clear day it was possible to see Norway in the distance.
There are 70 islands in this archipelago, of which 20 are inhabited by 19,000 people and 30,000 ewes (that was the 1991 census - no one tallied the lambs). The economy is stable and the people are prosperous, largely because of the relatively "new" oil drilling in the North Sea. Fishing and agriculture are the two time-honored occupations. Unemployment is virtually unheard of here.
The Orkneys are austere and beautiful. The people are fashioned by their Norse forefathers and by their environment. Both are tough. There are few trees on the Orkneys. One hardly notices. The land is rolling, rocky, with cliffs that drop more than 2,000 feet to a broiling sea at some points in the coastline.
Cut off from what we have come to expect, and accept, as "modern civilization" and its attendant privileges and conveniences, the Orcadians celebrate life in a simpler manner. When our group stepped ashore in Stromness we felt as though the clocks had been plugged into another era. Our orange pumpkin traversed the roads of South Ronaldsay, Burray, Holm, Lamb Holm and a myriad other minuscule islands and we saw banners heralding the forthcoming "Festival of the Horse and the Boys' Ploughing Match." Frequently the community centers offered "Sewing and Supper" or "Cards Night." Video stores were in short supply. As were traffic lights: there are two on the entire Orkneys. The pace of living here might be described as "leisurely." To some, enviable.
If the Orcadian landscape is austere, the people are not. They are courteous, kind, humorous, hard-working to a fault and take immense pride in their unique quality of life.
There is something for every visitor here. Archeologists are still discovering dwellings of the settlers who built sophisticated housing developments 5,000 years before Christ. Numerous finds have literally been unearthed by local farmers. One of these archeological wonders - the Tomb of the Eagles - is where I crawled in on my knees - to see for myself a stalled chambered tomb that had been used for 800 years from 3300 B.C. The mortar-less stone work was in as pristine condition as when the first settler and White-tailed Sea Eagle had been buried there. The farmer who plowed this up is collecting a tidy 2 pounds per head from every visitor who comes a'crawling.
Marine biologists and ornithologists arrive annually to track the common and gray seals, puffins, hen harriers and hundreds of other birds who call the Orkneys "home."
The natural harbor of Scapa Flow made the Orkneys home base of England's Royal Navy until 1939 when a German submarine sneaked in and blew up the battleship Royal Oak. At that time Winston Churchill ordered the now-famous Barriers built: huge blocks of solid steel and concrete sealing the mouths of the harbors. To satisfy the Geneva Convention's requirements about prisoners of war working only on peacetime projects, causeways were built on top of these barriers. It was a stroke of good fortune, for the roadways provided an unbroken route from the main towns to all but the most distant islands. Before the 1940s the Orcadians simply sailed from island to island as their ancestors had done. The Churchill Barriers are an impressive sight, with the solid bull-dog impassivity of their namesake.
Tourists are beginning to trickle into, or up to, the Orkneys in larger numbers. Ferries are crowded and airlines run special flights from Aberdeen and Edinburgh. There is a proliferation of small hotels, new B&B's and even one or two gourmet restaurants. We dined at one such establishment, The Creel, in St. Margaret's Hope, South Ronaldsay Island. I get hungry just recalling the menu, much less the aroma of "Orcadian Parton Bree" (the mother of all she-crab soups) that welcomed us to this tiny culinary paradise.
Scotland is islands, salmon, golf, bagpipers, tartans and terriers, gentle single malt whiskies, castles and churches, heather and highlands. I saw it all, I loved it all.
But most of all I loved the islands.
Barbara M. Dickinson is a free-lance writer who lives in Roanoke.
by CNB