29/05/07 – 30/05/07: Ullapool

We were leaving early today to catch the ferry back onto the mainland, so I got out a bit earlier than that and went to have a look at St Magnus’ Cathedral. Gorgeous place! The bit I found most interesting was the fact that the skull and cross-bone, as seen on all things pirate-y, featured on all of the tombstones! It was so cool. and headed straight for a most remarkable drive along the northern coast of Scotland. It was reminiscent of the Nullabor drive – they’d only put asphalt down up along here only recently; and it’s the most remote part of all of the mainland. The road was incredibly twisted, winding this way and that, going up and down, and the scenery was pretty amazing too. Needless to say, I didn’t have my eyes open long enough to see a lot of it. I passed out pretty early on whilst still on the ferry, and most of the crew already knew I wasn’t feeling my best. The New Zealander next to me, an older woman, was so sweet. She went and sat somewhere else so that I could have both seats to stretch out on. So I slept most of way, waking up occasionally when Dave-the-tour-guide put on the PA to tell us some interesting fact about the surroundings (‘we’re now in McKenzie territory’ or something like that).

We stopped by the town of Tongue – I know! – but the rain prevented us from enjoying the view from the lookout. I took a shot nonetheless. And of course, I had to get an ‘I love Tongue’ T-shirt! (partly because I only packed two shirts and I’d already worn one since Friday morning…).

After a little more shut-down on the bus (I don’t know how long I was ‘out’ for), we stopped again, this time at Smoo Cave – I know! – and once again, the rain stopped us from having a good time of it. Apparently, you can get into this cave, and there’s rivers inside the cave, and there’s little boats that you can hop into and paddle down these dark tunnels until you get to the ocean or something. But the rain was falling pretty badly, such that the water pouring out of the cave was torrential. I tried to get a shot – god I love my waterproof camera! – but the water was just pounding down so strongly from somewhere – you couldn’t even see it – the pictures just turned out white. So we walked up to the top of the cliffs instead. Check out the photos I took of their slugs. Everyone just thought those black things were sheep droppings. I did too, I must admit. Until I remembered that sheep don’t do droppings like that (anyone else thinking of ‘The little mole who knew it was none of his business’?) So I took a closer look. They were big, fat, gigantic slugs. Zoologist major I may be. But they still give me the heebees. Got a few ‘looks’ when I took out the coin.

The next stop was Durness. Talk about a desperate attempt to put your town on the map! This has got to be it. Remember that song by the Beatles, the one about how there are places he remembers but some have changed? (In My Life) well the people of Durness reckon he was singing about Durness because he went there as a child. So they’ve built a memorial garden there for him. So Dave-the-tour-guide parks the bus and I kid you not, on one gets off. Except me. And the coo-lovin’ Canadian. So we walked around this memorial garden while the rest of them watched us from the bus.

By the time we got to the Assynt, my ears, eyes, head and stomach were getting some very, very mixed signals and I really just needed to lie down. The people from sheep countries were eager to see deer. Yes, yes, you could always see one at a zoo, but here, in the highlands, in their own environment you know? Dave-the-tour-guide had pointed a single one out in the distance when we stopped to take pictures of the Assynt mountains (mostly blocked out by the mist and fog), and when we got into the bus again, one of the New Zealander yells out – ‘Theer! Theer!’, which is how you cleverly point out that over there, there are some deer. So we get excited, Dave realises that he really had to pull over, and we run out to get a few shots of fluffy white tails. But they were so far away it was pretty fruitless.

We stopped by Lochinver next, and Dave was going on about how this place (Lochinver Larder) makes the best pies in all of Scotland, not only because they make the best pies, but because they make really interesting pies like ‘wild boar and rhubarb’ or ‘venison and cranberry’. And seeing as he wasn’t wrong about the Orkney ice cream, I decided to try the haggis pie. And when he saw me he doubled over, crying out in agony ‘What ye think ye doin’ mon?!’ the ladies are giggling, I’m going ‘What? What’s wrong?’ ‘Ye dinna come herrre un get a haagis pie un put ketchup on it! It’s sacrilegious! Aaaarrrrggghhh!!’ I had to try to get the other Aussies to back me up – how else do you eat a pie but with sauce? I was the only one who actually got the haggis pie. Everyone else had gone for an apple pie or something mundane. Then one of the girls asked ‘what’s it like?’ and I replied, quite honestly, ‘tastes like leftovers’; and from the left of me there’s another horrendous cry, so much louder this time: ‘AAARRRGGGHHH!!! WHA??!! Wha? Did she just say leftovers??!!’ The girls are giggling even more. I’m feeling a little mean: ‘well, you know, like a Chico Roll – you guys get Chico Rolls here? – Chico Roll without the cabbage…’ It was one of those you-have-to-be-there moments. Oh. And the pie was as good as he said it was. The pastry was light, fluffy and crispy and yet, it was substantial you know? Not puff pasty or some of that French stuff, but not so thick that it was like German bread or something. Not too hot, but consistently warm throughout, and the haggis inside – well, having never had haggis before, I couldn’t compare it. But it was nice.

Okay. Next stop, Calda House and Ardvreck Castle. One of the McKenzie lairds had built the house for his wife because she didn’t like the castle. Both are in ruins, although Calda House was an architectural first in its time (nothing remarkable now, it’s just a plain house), and all the other McKenzie lairds followed the design and popularised it.

The Ullapool YHA was a little squishy, but we were lucky to be in the dorm with our own ensuite! Yay! And I got the trundle bed, which worked fine for me. Fell into it and didn’t wake up until the next morning, still in my clothes. I didn’t even realise I was that tired.

The next day was a ‘free day’. Unfortunately, the previous days’ rain and carried through and it still didn’t stop. Most of the crew had opted for a ferry ride out to some of the islands. As much as I wanted to join them, after yesterday’s traveling effects, I wasn’t going to voluntarily get onto a ferry, let alone pay to do so. Regardless of how calm they tell me the waters are. I’ll go for a nice walk thank you very much.

Now, I’ve always said that there’s a fine line between courage and stupidity; between being adventurous and just plain dumb. Today, I crossed that fine line.

Feeling quite buoyant after having slept off my sickness, I had a nice shower, and got myself dressed in all my wet weather gear – oh yeah, I was prepared: waterproof hiking boots, waterproof outer pants, warm inner pants, waterproof Gortex jacket complete with hood and warm neck-cuff, warm inner fleece, waterproof extreme-weather gloves; water bottle, munchies, foodies and camera all nicely tucked away in my (you guessed it) waterproof backpack with waterproof zippers – I was so set to go. The rest of the gang could go on their boats and to the pub, but I’m not going to let a little rain (a drizzle really! A sprinkle!) stop me – no no! I’ve come all the way here, I’m going to make the most of it by god! I’m going to go for a day-long hike through the highlands!

So I get myself to the information bureau for a map or something. The man wasn’t particularly friendly, so I didn’t bother staying long or asking too many questions. Just asked to see a map. I didn’t see the point in buying one – it’d just get wet anyway (didn’t have a waterproof map-holder – aka plastic pocket), and I wasn’t going to need one. I’m quite good at remembering maps. So I had a look: hmm, yes, find my way to the quarry, follow the road, take a right… surely there’d be markers… cool. Set to go.

Yeeee-aah. You’d think that after my more ironic episodes (the numerous Nullabor trips, Radio Hill, trying to quit teaching…) I’d learn something. Maybe I need to write out lines: Murphy’s Law exists! Murphy’s Law exists!

I found the quarry. Walked along it. It was still spitting. Took a few photos. Saw the signs that said something about a walking trail. Decided to ignore it because they’d only go around for about an hour and then what would I do? No, no, I’ve got the whole day. I need a longer walk. So I followed the road. Which led to a loch. And I walked along the loch. And it was still raining. And I took some photos. And I kept walking. And it kept raining. And I kept walking. And it kept raining. And I started to get a little wet. And I kept walking. And I started to get more wet. And the mountains started to get higher. And the road got narrower. And then it wasn’t an ashphalt road anymore. And three hours had gone by. And I kept walking. And I saw a car coming towards me. They wound down the window and there were three older men in there, complete with those chequered fishing hats with flies pinned all over them, and the coloured ear-flaps folded up. Like something out of Grumpy Old Men. They asked me where I was going, I told them I’ll find the next town; and they told me they were going to find a fishing spot in the town I’d just come from. They drove on. I walked on.

I kept walking. It kept raining. I got more and more wet. The loch started to disappear and trees started to pop up. The narrow road became even more muddy and narrow and pot-holed. The skies started to get really dark. I didn’t realise how dark it was until I went back and looked at my photos. Eventually, after about 4 hours, I thought that it would take me just as long to get back into town. So I turned around and started heading back. By now, my socks were soaked, so my heels started to rub on the inside of the shoes and was starting to hurt. My backpack felt like it weighed a tonne. Probably because it, too, was soaked. And it’s a 35 litre capacity bag… Truth be told: I actually had no idea where the hell I was. I was planning out the news report for when they find my body… When halfway into my walk, the Grumpy Old Men’s car started heading towards me again. They pulled over, wound down the window and smiled. I asked them if they found their fishing spot. They said no. The rain. They asked me if I got to the next town. I said no. The rain. They then offered to drive me back to Ullapool. I accepted after doing the perfunctory ‘oh no! are you sure? You’ve just come from there!’ stuff. Got their seats all wet. Couldn’t understand a word they were saying to each other. One would murmur something, and the other two would nod and say ‘och aye, aye…’ and another would say something, and the other two would say ‘och aye, aye…’, then one of them would ask me something and I’d say something back and all three of them would go ‘och aye, aye…’. It made me smile.

Eventually got back into town. Thanked the men and sloshed myself back to the YHA. Problem: Only brought two changes of clothes and one pair of shoes. Other set’s dirty, this one’s wet. Not getting back into the smelly stuff, especially not after having danced myself silly the night before last. So I had to stay in the wet stuff. One of the girls had brought along a hair dryer (not just a travel dryer, but some bazooka-sized, blow-you-into-next-week, Black-n-Decker-powered machine of a dryer). Sat there and dried my shoes and socks and basically feeling a little silly. I think the thing that made me most upset about the whole incident was the fact that I'd completely forgotten I'd bought a nice book on the Orkney Neolithic History and some nice postcards and stored them in the safe, keep-flat compartment at the back of the bag. And they'd all turned to mush. I kid you not. I kept them as souvenirs of what could happen when books get wet. I've found a map of the area. I walked to the end of the path basically.
Two Canadian girls invited me to join them in their search for a pottery studio. So when the shoes and socks dried we went back out into the rain to find the studio: Highland Stoneware. Some of the bits and pieces were quite pretty actually. It was a nice change. Very calming. Made me want to take up pottery. And of course Unchained Melody automatically starts playing in your mind doesn’t it?

Oh, and the place here apparently makes the best fish ‘n’ chips in all of Scotland. So we all had to try it. And actually, like the ice cream and the pie, it was quite good! So I’d recommend it too. If you’re ever in Ullapool, the little fish and chip shop on the corner, The Seefresh, next to the big fish and chip shop, The Seaforth, is good (the little one, not the big one).

We fish ‘n’ chipped for dinner before heading out to the Seaforth for drinks. No dancing tonight. Slept like a log.