Thursday, 31 March 2016
Mull...
Had another productive day, taking pix on Mull. The weather has been amazing the last few days, but, according to the BBC website, it's due to break tomorrow.
Wednesday, 30 March 2016
Ferry to Tobermory...
When leaving Skye, I didn’t take the bridge; I drove south, instead, to Armadale and took the ferry to Mallaig. Mallaig is a curious little town. Not really a destination, it’s more of a place you pass through on the way to somewhere else. Trains stop here but go not further; it’s the end of the line. Instead of taking a boat trip to Knoydart - I’ll leave that for another time - I drove along the serpentine coast road round the headland of Ardnamurchan (a place I’d only ever heard mentioned in the context of the shipping forecast), and took loads of pix. Lands End isn’t the most westerly point on the British mainland; that accolade goes to Ardnamurchan Point
I waited for the ferry at Kilchoan with a couple of guys who were on a six-day jaunt around the inner isles, having driven all the way from Devon. That must have been two days driving, with two days to drive back… but they seemed cheerful enough. The sky grew ever darker as the ferry came into view, and Mull - our destination - disappeared behind a curtain of rain. It was one of CalMac’s smaller ferries, with room for only room for about eight cars, and we rocked and rolled our way to Tobermory in the gloom.
Tobermory is the biggest town on Mull, but not the biggest ferry port. So, unlike Mallaig, it feels like a place to visit in its own right. The pastel-coloured houses line the harbour - as seen on countless photographs (and now mine as well). I had a wander round the town last night, and watched the first half of Scotland v Denmark - just a friendly match, and a wee bit dull. Scotland won, and I pretended to care.
This morning I got some pix of the town, before another band of rain came over. I want to have a tour of the island - and maybe take a boat-trip to Iona while I’m here - before taking yet another ferry to Oban, and heading south. I’m mildly addicted to ferries, the smaller the better. The guys know what they’re doing, and, so far, the arrivals and departures have been bang on time. It’s just another day’s work for the guys who take the tickets, monitor the traffic flow and man the boats. But for visitors, like me, it’s a bit of excitement; there’s something special about arriving in a new place by sea…
I waited for the ferry at Kilchoan with a couple of guys who were on a six-day jaunt around the inner isles, having driven all the way from Devon. That must have been two days driving, with two days to drive back… but they seemed cheerful enough. The sky grew ever darker as the ferry came into view, and Mull - our destination - disappeared behind a curtain of rain. It was one of CalMac’s smaller ferries, with room for only room for about eight cars, and we rocked and rolled our way to Tobermory in the gloom.
Tobermory is the biggest town on Mull, but not the biggest ferry port. So, unlike Mallaig, it feels like a place to visit in its own right. The pastel-coloured houses line the harbour - as seen on countless photographs (and now mine as well). I had a wander round the town last night, and watched the first half of Scotland v Denmark - just a friendly match, and a wee bit dull. Scotland won, and I pretended to care.
This morning I got some pix of the town, before another band of rain came over. I want to have a tour of the island - and maybe take a boat-trip to Iona while I’m here - before taking yet another ferry to Oban, and heading south. I’m mildly addicted to ferries, the smaller the better. The guys know what they’re doing, and, so far, the arrivals and departures have been bang on time. It’s just another day’s work for the guys who take the tickets, monitor the traffic flow and man the boats. But for visitors, like me, it’s a bit of excitement; there’s something special about arriving in a new place by sea…
Tuesday, 29 March 2016
Monday, 28 March 2016
Cuillins...
Most Scottish hotels have a bar, probably with a separate entrance and no direct access to the hotel itself. The bar will typically be cheerless and unwelcoming - by design it seems, more than accident. If you must drink, the room would be saying, then don’t expect comfortable surroundings; crap lager, pork scratchings and formica tables are good enough for the likes of you.
I walked into a bar in Dunvegan, which, even by Scottish standards, was spartan. A guy sat one side of the the bar, the barman - with most of his teeth missing - on the other “Where are you from?”, he asked. “Yorkshire”. “Where in Yorkshire?” “Leeds”. “I was living in Leeds when the police were hunting the Yorkshire Ripper”. “Me too!”. We shared anecdotes about those strange, paranoid times, though I got the feeling that the barman had a rather less judgemental opinion about Peter Sutcliffe’s activities than were common in Leeds at the time… or, in fact, anywhere, at any time. We could, at least, agree on the ineptitude of the police who, despite all the manpower available, only picked up Sutcliffe by chance: he was sitting with a woman (potentially victim number 14?) in a car whose number plates didn’t match the model.
I actually like downbeat drinking holes, where half a dozen guys sit at the bar and complain that everything used to be better in the good old days, but even that attraction can wear off after a while…
The Cuillins at Sligachan, Isle of Skye...
I walked into a bar in Dunvegan, which, even by Scottish standards, was spartan. A guy sat one side of the the bar, the barman - with most of his teeth missing - on the other “Where are you from?”, he asked. “Yorkshire”. “Where in Yorkshire?” “Leeds”. “I was living in Leeds when the police were hunting the Yorkshire Ripper”. “Me too!”. We shared anecdotes about those strange, paranoid times, though I got the feeling that the barman had a rather less judgemental opinion about Peter Sutcliffe’s activities than were common in Leeds at the time… or, in fact, anywhere, at any time. We could, at least, agree on the ineptitude of the police who, despite all the manpower available, only picked up Sutcliffe by chance: he was sitting with a woman (potentially victim number 14?) in a car whose number plates didn’t match the model.
I actually like downbeat drinking holes, where half a dozen guys sit at the bar and complain that everything used to be better in the good old days, but even that attraction can wear off after a while…
The Cuillins at Sligachan, Isle of Skye...
Sunday, 27 March 2016
Portree...
Portree is quite a bustling little town (at least in comparison with communities in the Western Isles), with pastel-coloured houses overlooking the harbour. Lots of Chinese and Japanese people about, taking pictures with their phones and selfie sticks. Boats leave from here, offering trips to see the sea eagles… but I think I saw one anyway…
I’ve had a wander round the island, getting a few pix in between the rain showers. Uig is where the CalMac ferries dock, on arriving from Tarbert on Harris; nearby is the Bakur Bar. I followed the sign around the back of the building; even when I got to the door it looked as if the place was closed for winter. Then I saw somebody move inside. The bar was open after all, with half a dozen guys - and one pugnacious woman - propping up the bar, drinking beer and whisky chasers and swearing extravagantly.
After a few minutes one guy pretended to see me for the first time and “apologised” for all the swearing. “No fucking problem on my account”, I said. I’m told I swear quite a lot, but at least I don’t pretend to apologise for it (then carry on swearing even more loudly)…
I’ve had a wander round the island, getting a few pix in between the rain showers. Uig is where the CalMac ferries dock, on arriving from Tarbert on Harris; nearby is the Bakur Bar. I followed the sign around the back of the building; even when I got to the door it looked as if the place was closed for winter. Then I saw somebody move inside. The bar was open after all, with half a dozen guys - and one pugnacious woman - propping up the bar, drinking beer and whisky chasers and swearing extravagantly.
After a few minutes one guy pretended to see me for the first time and “apologised” for all the swearing. “No fucking problem on my account”, I said. I’m told I swear quite a lot, but at least I don’t pretend to apologise for it (then carry on swearing even more loudly)…
Friday, 25 March 2016
Over the sea to Skye...
Had a few day’s holiday, from the relentless grind of the nomadic life, on the Moray Firth. My birthday treat (thank you, Helen… and Michael) was having a morning’s tour of good bird sites, which gave us views of capercaille, crested tit, black throated diver and crossbill (the first three I’d never seen before, their range being limited to the Highlands; crossbills I hadn’t seen for, gulp, fifty years). I drove across the Skye bridge this afternoon: another first. The last time I was on Skye, you had no choice but to take the ferry. Drove to Portree in driving rain, and here I am, drying out…
The crested tit we saw (pic by Michael Crutch)...
The crested tit we saw (pic by Michael Crutch)...
Thursday, 17 March 2016
Glencoe...
Spent the night in Tyndrum (a favourite haunt of Günter Grass, apparently), having found a petrol station… eventually. I’d ventured into the highlands with the petrol gauge on low, which wasn’t too bright. Drove through Glencoe this morning, mostly in thick mist. When the mist lifted - a bit - I stopped to take some pix. Jimmy Saville’s pied à terre is still boarded up, though someone has washed the grafitti off. It's a shame to see it empty. The views are fantastic; despite the unfortunate associations, I'm sure a children's charity could put the house to good use...
Jimmy Savile's rural retreat...
Glencoe...
Jimmy Savile's rural retreat...
Glencoe...
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