Lochs, Moors, and Glens – Behind the Wheel in Scotland

Lothian

From where I was sitting the wheel was on the wrong side, I had to use the gearbox with my wrong hand, and I could never decide where my other hand should go.  My brain had been conditioned to steady the wheel with my left hand and keep the right hand on the gearbox so it was unsettling to have to switch and I found myself using the driver’s side mirror as my rearview because glancing up and to the left felt completely unnatural. Add to that the fact that everyone was driving on the wrong side of the road and it is safe to say that my trial by fire began with considerable unease. There were the further challenges of minding my surroundings, choosing the proper lane, managing the clutch, coping with the relentless rain and keeping an eye on the GPS to make sure I was headed in the right direction, that by the time I had Edinburgh behind me and was trying to find a place to park the car in Falkirk my heart had been racing faster than I had ever tested the engine.

I parked Cliopatra in a retail parking area and had lunch in the Falkirk city centre. Haggis pizza and Irn Bru: Barely edible and barely drinkable. At this point, I was still safe and so I was reluctant to start driving again but Falkirk isn’t exactly picturesque by anyone’s standards, regardless of your feelings of the Kelpies, so I forced myself to do it. You got this. Dunblane is less than 70 kilometres from Edinburgh, but it was my big task for the day. When Cliopatra was stationed again, and I was settled in my accommodation, the stress melted away and I noticed some things: the streets weren’t overrun with crowds of people, I could hear birds singing and the sound of the breeze blowing. Dunblane is beautiful. There is a lovely old church at the end of town and a gently rolling river that cuts through the middle with a lovely footpath along its edge. There are fields up around the edge of town where bunnies hop about with bravado. Little Dunblane had arrested my heart sufficiently to embolden me to not fear a world flipped 180 degrees. That evening I downed a dram of 10-year-old Jura and exercised my brain by buying a steak and cutting it left-handed. I’ve got this.

Argyll and Bute

I headed out from Stirlingshire toward Loch Lomond and the Trossachs and into Argyll and Bute where all of the drama of the landscape of Scotland suddenly hit us. Now I was able to maneuver with ease and panache through narrow roads along the cliff faces that dropped off into the long stretches of lake. Jagged dark black rocks jutted forth from dark grey trees that cast shadows on the shimmering grey lake that reflected the small shards of sun that were able to leak through the cloudy grey sky. In late June and less than a week past the solstice and stretching the days as long as possible and I was reminded that Scotland is a place where though the sun may never set, it also never shines. The rain flew in from the side riding on the wind and off of the lakes clattering against the windshield around every winding curve of the road when suddenly the traffic came to a standstill just outside Inverary. I killed the engine and braved the rain and travelled down the build-up of the line of cars to ask others what to expect as far as time lost. The air was thick and the smell of the moss-covered rocks draped along the side of the mountain wafted along the thin blanket of cement. Drivers were on their phones checking websites for traffic reports. An accident had just happened along a sharp turn no more than a half-kilometre down the road and, with only one road in or out, it was going to take a while I was told. I explained to some of those waiting where I was headed, Oban, and the consensus was that I was better off to turn around and head back toward Tarbet. It took me a while to do a three-point U-turn on the narrow road, further complicated by my misunderstanding of Cliopatra’s dimensions, but once I was back on the road I was reminded that some people leave in their car and never return home.

Big ships dock in front of the Green Shack that sells fresh oysters and mussels by the Oban sea terminal. Johan, an Italian chef from Trentino who works in a restaurant across the sound, takes the ferry there just for the seafood because it is better than what they have at his restaurant. Seagulls squawk along the main boulevard seeking scraps left by the tourists who are willing to pay five times the price for whiskey from the distillery rather than the Tesco. The pelting rain tapered to a mist as the sun began to set and shanties began to stir from the inns and pubs along the harbour.

Highland

I had a long way to ride the next day from Oban to Alness in the Highlands, but my host was insistent that I have her famous breakfast with Lorne sausage and pudding from her native Stornoway. I got back out on the road and sped past Loch Creran and Loch Linnhe and pulled off the road in Glencoe because work still needed to get done and I could not do it while I was driving. The mountains loomed over Loch Leven keeping watch over the sleepy town. Clouds swept down from the mountains like spirits and coalesced into a fog before dispersing again into the heavens. The mountainside seemed to move from the winds blowing through the coarse grasses that thin out toward the peaks. I drove past Loch Lochy and Loch Oich before I reached Fort Augustus and was faced with a decision. I chose the slower and less travelled route around the eastern side of Loch Ness. Cliopatra dropped down into a low gear as the single-track road climbed straight up into the mountain. There were uneasy moments with the occasional car driving in the opposite direction, forcing us to make eye contact and decide who would back up until there was enough space for two cars to pass. High up in the mountains the lakes are still because the air is still and there are no more low-hanging clouds. Not a single rivulet disturbed the tranquil waters at the top of the mountain. I drove past Loch Tarff, Loch Mhor, and Loch Duntelchaig until the road along the eastern side of Loch Ness met back up with the western road and the final stretch into Inverness. Civilization resumed as the smell of wood fires burning off in the distance filled the air. The hills were gone and replaced with pasture and industry before all of it ends abruptly at the sea.

The next day the sun decided to make a rare appearance and I decided to keep the driving to a minimum. Chanonry point guards the Moray firth at the foot of Fortrose and Rosemarkie. There is medieval witchcraft in the air as I lumbered on foot through the forest toward Fairy Glen and past that perfect shining field of wheat that has a sea view. Sheep and cows hollered from their paddocks at me, the lone human to pass them for half a day and breaking the monotony of their grazing with my bipedal striding.

Moray

There were no more mountains or lakes, only a long highway through gently sloping fields on my right and the sea on my left. Through Forres to the point at Burghead for some Cullen Skink that stuck to the ribs before I headed on through Elgin to Fochabers where the road split. The people along the Moray coast are hardy and weather-beaten and find a way to be friendly without saying much. The pleasing putrid stink of the sea crashes on the shores with every gentle Arctic wave and the sounds of the sea create a polyphonic rhythm section as the jostling of the steel hooks of fishing vessels sway in the wind colliding sporadically against their masts like wind chimes. Cullen, then Portsoy, and right through Banff until I hit Pennan where suddenly the world stopped. The cliffs drop into the sea leaving just enough space for a single road and a row of houses. There are treasures in the sand, and old tales in the Auchmeddan. There is a ravine overlooked by a farm and a small cottage. The land by the ravine is now pasture but tales tell of a castle that once stood there, now long gone. The story of Jane Whyte whispers along the rocks and sand at the far end of Aberdour beach across from St. Drostan’s well before the road winds back up a gentle slope and into the hauntingly empty streets of New Aberdour. I pulled into Fraserburgh tired but I took the time to walk out to the lighthouse and breathe in the sea air while staring out over the North Sea with Norway somewhere off in the distance.

Aberdeenshire

What would Scotland be without the rain? Cliopatra and I headed out again driving south bearing the full force of Scotland’s weather. Any apprehension about how to drive her is hundreds of miles behind me as we bypassed Aberdeen city and headed west toward Dinnet and the Cairngorms. The rough and rugged harbour towns of Morey and Aberdeenshire gave way to quaint and picturesque wooded mountain towns. Stone bridges hopscotch over rapids and cobbled streets surround tiny churches and a main street with a local butcher and a few cafés. Then it was Ballater and through the woods to Braemar before the forests fell away completely and the landscape opened up again. Sporadic patches of varieties of grass growing in clumps create a mosaic along the mountainside like some irregularly sewn tartan. The gently hewn stones of the mountaintops, crafted by millennia of erosion from the high country’s relentless rain, appear purple in contrast to the verdant green grasses below that demonstrate that the richness of the colour of grasses depends more on moisture than it does sunlight. Cliopatra and I headed through the valley and eventually up to the peak at Glenshee before the road dropped again down into the valley at the southern end and the highway spits out into Angus country.

It was slow going for a mile along a rocky dirt track before I pulled into the shooting club where myself, a small handful of guests, and the cheery Italian proprietors were the only people for a mile in every direction. The shooting club is off the grid and cattle outnumber the human population 20 to 1. Evening was swiftly approaching and I had eaten nothing all day and locating provisions for myself, now that I was settled, would have taken an hour or more. My hosts offered to make supper. That night, the joyless meal forged from indifference by the Wetherspoon’s in Falkirk that failed to satisfy was a distant memory as steam rose from a bowl of gnocchi covered in tomatoes and cheeses and was placed in front of me. It was a generous helping, with salad and flatbread, that would satisfy anyone’s hunger. But, made with such caring and generosity, that single meal could satisfy the soul for years to come resting in the comfort that there are those who still care about what they serve. Sleep came easy and swift though darkness never overtakes the land.

Perth and Kinross

Morning flooded into my tiny room springing me into action. I could make the drive from Kirriemuir in an hour but my time with Cliopatra was drawing to a close and I was determined to make the most of it so we head back into the Cairngorms toward Braemar where we headed along the northern route up toward Grantown-on-Spey. The first leg of the journey was familiar but in reverse much as the driving now seemed. I picnicked at the top of a mountain with a view over the hills extending endlessly into the horizon as the smell of the dew-covered grasses added a soupcon of earthiness to the meal. My hands shivered as I filled up preparing to make the journey along the western edge of the mountains. Civilization returned as the A9 interrupts the delicate splendour of the landscape and by the time I reached Pitlochry, there was no avoiding the highway and my arrival in Perth was a reminder that my journey through this hearty and mystical land was coming to an end. There were demonstrators in the street protesting the Tory Party leadership. There are perfume shops and high-end clothing stores along High Street – luxuries that would seem trivial to the people further north – it is drama of an altogether different variety.

Cliopatra and I had one last journey to make. I rose early the next morning and washed her with a hose and sponge so she could go home looking as beautiful as the day we met. We cruised into Edinburgh barely noticed. All around us seemed unaware and uninterested as to where we had been – it is a secret only we share. I pulled into the lot along Salamander street in Leith and silenced the engine one last time. Our parting was unemotional and unceremonious but our brief partnership brought us in a short time to some of the most magical corners of this exquisite and mysterious land. Thank you Cliopatra and thank you Scotland.