MALLAIG - Life on the ocean wave

Sunday 27th June 1993 - Day 32

The Spanish couple rolled in at some inconsiderate hour last night. It must have been way after midnight, since it was totally dark outside and I haven't witnessed that for a long time. This morning they were enchanted with the performing seagull (if not with breakfast itself), as it managed to bring along some of its friends and gave a real show. There was much Mediterranean amusement as "The Birds" swooped onto the balcony after the sliced bread. However, proceedings began to take on an altogether more sinister, Hitchcockian overtone when Norman showed no signs of surfacing for his requested early breakfast. We found it hard to believe that he wouldn't be awake after all the commotion with the seagulls. By nine o'clock Mrs. McEwan was starting to worry and tried knocking on his door, but to no avail. Using his girlfriend as interpreter, she persuaded the Spanish man to take a look in the room. Slowly opening the door, he gestured that there was indeed someone lying in the bed. As he moved inside, the three of us women looked at each other fearing the worst. I was already beginning to script my speech to the Police, assuming that I would be the only one capable of going to the station across the road if Mrs. McEwan became hysterical. To our great relief, after a prod from the Spaniard, Norman jerked himself into life and switched on his hearing aid. Later he told us that following yesterday's exertions (whatever they were), he'd had his best night's sleep in years.

After all the drama, I finished packing and left my bags there to kill some time in town. The ferry wasn't until 6.15pm, but I couldn't really go very far without any of my usual kit. Besides, there aren't many buses on Sundays. Once the poor old man in the Post Office had managed to sort out all the Sunday supplements, I managed to buy myself a paper. After returning to the B+B for lunch, I spent the afternoon watching Wimbledon and finishing some postcards. Eventually I began the difficult trek down to the ferry with my growing load of belongings. The sun decided to put in a re-appearance, but I had to wear both my coats as there was no room in my bags. Narrowly avoiding heat exhaustion, I reached the pier and felt near to collapse.

The place was teeming with passengers for the ferry. Half a school had arrived in a special bus and no-one seemed willing to accept that there just wasn't enough room for it to turn around. In fact it was still blocking the road at an awkward angle when we left. The ferry came in on time about twenty minutes before we were due to sail. Guess who came striding down the gangway to shake my hand and wish me well - good old Norman who'd been for the six-hour round trip to Coll and Tiree. Once everyone was off, the schoolchildren charged onboard, followed by a rough assortment of German cyclists. The vehicles time-consumingly drove on at the side of the ship and were spun around to be parked.

After leaving my bags by the luggage racks bursting with dozens of rucksacks from the school trip, I headed straight for the cafeteria. As soon as we left Tobermory harbour, the shutters went up and I ordered a plate of fish and chips. Most of the tables were set for the teenagers, as I discovered when I tried to sit down in what looked like a good spot. I had to share one of the remaining tables with the German cyclists. The kids streamed in for their three-course meal and started arguing about the soup. I hastily finished my dinner and went outside. Clouds were just beginning to blot out the sun.

I remember thinking about June 27th when I was in Paris. The date was etched on my mind. Today is the first sailing this year from Tobermory to Mallaig, which is why I had long stays in Oban and Mull. The journey is only possible on Sundays at the height of the season.

Having seen the Ardnamurchan Peninsula so many times over recent days, I was eager to see the famous lighthouse at the most westerly place on the UK mainland. As we rounded the Point, I looked back towards Mull searching for the forest where I walked last week. A curious mist seemed to have developed like a veil drawn across the scene, making the colours appear unreal. Dull clouds covered the sky except for patches of blue behind the hills on the horizon. The dancing sea became an odd mosaic of white and blue, reflecting the legendary spell-binding quality of light unique to the Highlands. Words can hardly do it justice. It conjured up images of a canvas with soft colours and delicate brushstrokes, more like a Victorian oil painting than real life. I found it a strange, timeless experience watching it slip into the distance as the evening drew on, knowing it could never be captured like a dream which fades when you awake. The wee folk had given me a glimpse of a magical world which remains tantalisingly beyond the reach of mere mortals.

As the wind turned colder, every so often I had to go inside to get warm. Apart from the cafeteria, the only sitting area was the lounge towards the bow. There was little room to spare, given that the ferry was packed and most people had already staked their claims to seats. Anyway I preferred to experience the crossing to the full, not artificially behind protective portholes. Whilst trying to replenish my body heat by the luggage racks and ticket office, two entrepreneurial boys sold a couple of t-shirts bearing a map of their journey. I had already noticed that most of the school party were wearing them and it sounded like they had had them specially printed. Judging by the dates, it appeared to be another whistle-stop tour, but at least it made reassuring reading - they were going to Skye and not Mallaig.

As I moved up and down the decks, I glimpsed what must have been dolphins jumping out of the water to the south. Off the port side, the Small Isles came into view. We passed close to Muck and Eigg, with Rum in the background. Their true colours had to be imagined in the increasing murkiness. After another hour, we finally docked at Armadale pier and most of the passengers disappeared down the gangway. Peace reigned for the thirty-minute crossing over to the mainland.

Mallaig seemed comparatively small in relation to the number of times I'd heard talk of it. As we came into the sheltered harbour around 9.15pm, I asked the ticket officer if he knew of the Western Isles Guest House. After conferring with one of the girls from the cafeteria, he pointed it out to me directly opposite. If I could walk on water, it wouldn't have taken me five minutes. As it was, I had to negotiate the entire length of the newly extended pier, go past the fish market and around the semi-circular harbour.

Mrs. Watt was very welcoming, although I suspect she must have been watching her favourite programme on TV when I rang the doorbell. My room looks out on the harbour and I can see right over to Skye. It is spotlessly clean and nicely decorated with flowery patterns and frills everywhere. There's a television set with remote control, a clock radio and a washbasin. Across the landing is the shower which I seem to share with the room next door. On the ground floor, there are four more bedrooms and a bathroom. It's a definite improvement on Mrs. McEwan's chalet.

Monday 28th June 1993 - Day 33

Mrs. Watt was very disappointed that I only want toast and tried to tempt me with cereal, eggs, grilled tomato and fruit. The breakfast room has a table for each room, so I didn't have to make polite conversation with complete strangers for once. There comes a limit to the number of times you can explain the why, where and how of a three-month trip to people who have no idea of your background, especially first thing in the morning. I dread the question "How long are you up here for?" and now have several answers ranging from the selective truth of "Just a week" to the full blow-by-blow account.

I walked around the harbour to the heart of the town which comprises two general stores, a Post Office, two "tourist shops", a bookshop in a Portacabin, a tearoom, railway station and Tourist Information Centre. It was a dull morning, so I spent a good while in the Tourist Office looking for things to do in the area. I picked up a leaflet about the various cruises that run from Mallaig - one on a boat owned by Bruce Watt who, I discovered later, is my landlady's husband.

On noticing some Ordnance Survey maps of Skye, I decided to see if I could find any clues to explain the rather odd address of my B+B in Broadford. After scrutinising the area, I deduced that the house was in fact five miles out of the town on a road to nowhere. I doubt there would be a bus, so I think my best bet is to cancel and ask Mrs. Watt if she could keep me until I move onto Portree next week. It would enable me to go on four different cruises and make the famous train trip to Fort William as well, which sounds more promising than being stuck for five days with no public transport (assuming I managed to get there in the first place). Makes me wonder why it was listed under Broadford in the brochure. I only hope that the place in Portree is actually in Portree. I suppose I've been lucky that everything else has gone to plan so far.

I spent the rest of the morning in the Marine World, a lesser version of the Sea Life Centre I visited in Oban. Sited near the ferry building, it was opened exactly one year ago today. There were numerous tanks containing skate, baby sharks, rays, a huge conger eel and two aggressive octopuses. One kept looking at me, then puffing itself up and shooting down the other end of the tank like a torpedo. Display boards outlined the former glory of Mallaig when the harbour used to be packed with steamers and fishing boats. After entering the mock-up of a modern wheelhouse, complete with radar screen, I watched a video about the life of today's fishermen and chatted to a lady waiting for her husband.

I bought some food and a paper from one of the grocer's, then walked halfway around the harbour, past the marine stores and the mobile café, to the start of a footpath into the hills behind the town. I climbed up as the sun came out and was greeted by a splendid view over to Skye with Eigg and Rum away to the south. I sat on a rock surveying the scene and watched the ferry heading for Armadale. After vowing to return another day when it was less hazy, I picked my way back over the heather to the track. It led down to a village and joined the main road from where I made my way around to the B+B.

After persuading Mrs. Watt to let me stay on until next Tuesday, I started planning the cruises I will now be able to go on. Later I rang to cancel my accommodation with Mrs. MacKinnon and went to look for somewhere to eat. Despite being told that the Seamen's Mission next to the butchers' shop serves good, cheap food, I went into the bar of the Marine Hotel where I had a big helping of sweet and sour vegetables with rice. The place has a surprisingly extensive menu for non-meat eaters. It was just a pity that they weren't as generous with the orange juice as they were with the food.

Tuesday 29th June 1993 - Day 34

This morning I went over to the ferry terminal to buy my tickets for the four cruises I shall be going on, charging the £35.45 to my Access card in an attempt to make the amount feel more acceptable. I had another look at the shops and bought a paper to help while away the time until 11.30am, when today's excursion to the Crowlin Islands was due to leave. I joined a young Japanese family sitting on the wooden benches arranged outside the Tourist Office. Despite their new-look shine, I soon found that most were already stained with chip shop grease. After half an hour of my trying to control a broadsheet newspaper in the wind, it began to spit with rain and I made a dash for the ferry office. There was little room inside, so I stood outside sheltering under the overhanging roof with a couple of caped cyclists. Eventually the Lochmor came to life and we trundled onboard, bikes and all.

By the time we left the harbour, about twenty people had joined the ship. The rain stopped, but visibility remained poor. As we headed up the Sound of Sleat, I was surprised to see such high hills surrounding Loch Nevis which takes quite a slice out of the wild mainland scenery. After almost an hour, the Captain pointed out the Ornsay lighthouse on Skye. Gradually the Sound narrowed and we passed the tiny ferry point of Kylerhea. Shrouded in low cloud, land loomed large off both sides of the ship.

At 1.30pm we finally docked at Kyle of Lochalsh. Several people got off and only one man got on. This is the first place on my journey that I've actually been to before. There's now a whole new dock area with lots of RN Auxiliary Service tugs which I don't remember seeing last time. Huge arm-like cranes stand out against the northern skyline, marking the site of the controversial bridge. At present, two large ferries ply non-stop between Kyle and Skye performing dance-like manoeuvres in time to an almost constant stream of queuing cars. As soon as the ramp hits the jetty, the vehicles start to roll off and others roll on. If one boat stays a minute too long, its partner is already there treading water in the background, waiting impatiently to complete its balletic circle.

Once we left Kyle, passing close to the unsightly foundations of the bridge, drizzle began to descend again, obscuring the view yet further. The Crowlin Islands lie just over five miles north-west of the ferry point, but today was not my day for seeing them. Most people retreated to the cafeteria to console themselves with hot drinks and chocolate bars. I set myself up in the lounge area, emerging every so often in an attempt to find out where we were. There were a few covered places up top where you could shelter from the wind and rain if you were so inclined. On the way back, the Captain helpfully described the surrounding islands to us. Raasay, Scalpay, Longay and Pabay lay hidden off the coast of Skye, all enclosed in the clinging film of mist.

We returned to Kyle and were given the skipper's apologies for the meteorological conditions. Quite a lot of people came onboard for the trip back to Mallaig, most arriving directly from the railway station opposite. As the weather closed in further, I spent most of the time below decks, occasionally peering through portholes which seemed uncomfortably close to the water-line. Two hours of newspaper reading and anxious glances later, I was pleased to feel the boat slow down as we entered the harbour. It was too early for the hotel bar to be open, so I went into a place called The Cabin for haddock, chips and peas, declining the offer of bread and butter.

Wednesday 30th June 1993 - Day 35

It was another grey start with more drizzle this morning when I woke up. Unsure as to what to expect on today's seven-hour cruise to the Small Isles, I bought two newspapers and a book on the Loch Ness Monster which I'd seen in the Tourist Office. As it was, I hardly had chance to even read one of the papers. The Lochmor left Mallaig harbour at 11 o'clock with just a sliver of blue sky on the horizon over towards Eigg and Rum. About thirty-five people spaced themselves out around the decks, staking claims to seats and convenient boxes containing life-jackets.

Dank clouds hung over the hills behind Mallaig as the small boat ploughed through the sea. The further out we went, the clearer it became, until eventually we reached the very edge of the cloud. It was like a blanket being pulled back. I stared over the side at the water changing colour in front of me. To my right it was deep blue, to my left murky grey. Each wave darkened as it rolled over the line, a perfect reflection of the sky above. I stood fascinated by the spectacle, forgetting to look at the scenery passing by.

An hour and a half after leaving Mallaig harbour, we reached Eigg. The second largest in the Small Isles group, the island is privately-owned. Its distinctive outline is provided by a sloping ridge of lava known as the Sgurr which runs down the island like the backbone of some prehistoric creature. It looked an interesting place to explore. A motor launch came out to meet us and one man scrambled onto it. The crew winched over some supplies and we soon set off towards Muck.

To the south, I could make out the Ardnamurchan lighthouse and Mull behind in the distance under a clear blue sky. Run as one large farm, Muck is the smallest and flattest of the group. Another motor boat came out to us and more shopping/mail was unloaded. Apparently, the islanders telephone their weekly requirements to the grocer in Mallaig, who then sends the boxes around to the ferry. As we set off northwards to Rum, the other side of Eigg came into view. In a dip between the hills was Laig Bay with its Singing Sands of white quartz.

Rum had long been dominating the horizon like a steam engine chugging along with puffs of white cloud above the mountain tops. After an hour and a quarter we managed to catch up with it. As we sailed along the coast, its tall twin peaks revealed themselves to be five or six separate hills. Water flowed down one of the gullies and into the sea. Someone spotted deer and up shot a barrage of binoculars. Away to the north-east, pearl colour clouds tinted purple-grey were lying lazily over the summits of the Black Cuillins on Skye.

We entered Loch Scresort, a sheltered bay halfway up Rum's east coast. A little way inland stood a huge, reddish building. This was Kinloch Castle, an extravagant Edwardian dream, built by a wealthy industrialist in 1901 and now operated as a hotel. The supply winching ritual was performed again as yet another boat came out to meet us in the sparkling blue water. This loss of cargo was more than compensated for by the backpacks brought onboard by half a dozen research students who clambered over together with a few friends wishing them last-minute goodbyes. Owned by the Nature Conservancy Council since 1957, Rum is a sort of outdoor laboratory for the study of rocks, plants, birds and animals, and as such is well-protected from tourists by strict access rules. Visitors generally need to apply for permission to camp and climb here on what has long been known as The Forbidden Isle.

Once the farewells were over, we set off northwards around the tip of the island to Canna, another hour away. It appeared small and whale-shaped, with a solitary stack rising out of the sea near the east coast. Currently in the care of the National Trust for Scotland, Canna is the only island in the group where the ferry can actually land. A number of people had gathered to collect their supplies. Two teenage girls struggled down the gangway with their camping gear and were met by someone in a Landrover. The only person to come onboard was a gentleman well over eighty years old, dressed in what must have been his Sunday best. You could easily imagine that this was the first time he'd ever left the island.

The land arched around and I realised from the map that I was seeing not just Canna, but Sanday too. On the horizon stood a church seemingly out of all proportion to any possible past population of the two islands. I discovered later that it was built in the 1890s for the Roman Catholic congregation. The harbour cliffs are daubed with decades of graffiti from seafarers happy to find a safe haven and leave their ship's name for posterity. Looking out over to Skye sits Compass Hill, so called because the iron in its basaltic rock affects compasses up to three miles away.

We headed eastwards into the Cuillin Sound and there I had my first glimpse of the Outer Hebrides. My eyes made out several groups of bumps far away in the hazy distance and I knew that these were the islands which were drawing me constantly closer. Only another ten days and I'll be there.

Continuing on the two and a half hour journey back to Mallaig, the entire boat became enthralled by a sight way behind us. Someone had spotted a whale. A dark shape jumped out of the sea five or six times in as many minutes before finally submerging for good. Its last jump was the most spectacular: flinging itself completely out of the water, it flopped down with an almighty splash sending spray high into the air. I let the camcorder roll on maximum zoom, but with filming into the sun, I don't know if it will turn out very clearly.

From the dark cliffs of its most north-westerly point to the low-lying Sleat Peninsula, Skye dominated the view off the port side. The Cuillins stretched upwards into the fluffy white clouds which congregated around their summits and cast shadows on the upper slopes. Further south at Elgol I would guess, the sun lit up a few houses by the shore. This was the only sign of habitation.

Mallaig slowly came back into view and it was six o'clock by the time we were moored in the harbour. I crossed through the fish market, sidestepping the heaps of leftover ice and went into the Marine Hotel bar for scampi and chips. I sat by the window overlooking the railway station with the shadowy mass of Eigg towering above a glistening, silver sea. Feeling quite exhausted for once, I couldn't finish my meal and returned to the B+B to find that my face has been well and truly caught by the sun and wind again. Later, looking out of my window, I saw a fiery, orange sunset over the hills of Skye.

Thursday 1st July 1993 - Day 36

A grey day from start to finish, hardly the weather I would have chosen to see my favourite castle for the first time in almost nine years. Although according to my original schedule, I should have been crossing to Skye today, so really the Loch Duich cruise was an unexpected bonus.

The Lochmor left at 11.30am in a light drizzle and we repeated Tuesday's murky journey up the Sound of Sleat. Several people got off when we reached Kyle of Lochalsh, only to be replaced by a few more who came for the cruise. By the time we were heading back up Loch Alsh, the weather was fine, if still dull with heavy clouds hanging in the hills. I soon spotted Eilean Donan Castle sitting on its little island at the mouth of Loch Duich. I hadn't remembered that habitation was so close by. The village of Dornie is almost next door and now there's a new bridge which I'm sure wasn't there in 1984. Although I've never had chance to see it from the water before, the castle still looked its old familiar self. Given that it is the most photographed of all Scottish castles, I should be able to increase my collection of postcards of it when I go to Kyle tomorrow.

A solitary yacht stood out against the grim stone walls and famous arched causeway, darkened by the rain. I wondered if it was the same one we passed earlier which was flying the American flag. We sailed about halfway up the loch before turning around. Occasional spots of sunshine hit the hillside from invisible breaks in the cloud cover, turning the whole scene even wilder.

Buffeted by the cold wind, I stood at the highest point on the ship looking back down the loch. My eyes remained fixed on the diminishing shape of the castle walls. Towards the end, I stared continuously at the same spot, even though I could no longer be sure of distinguishing it from the backdrop of dark hills and all the time wishing it won't be another nine years until I see it again. Finally we turned and I knew that the castle was truly out of sight.

A party of young Orientals joined the ship at Kyle and we sailed down the coast to Mallaig. I alternated between reading the newspaper, going up top for some fresh air and hiding in the toilets, having discovered that it's the only place where I can listen to the Wimbledon results on the radio. The lounge is too close to sea level and the upper decks are really too wet for playing with anything electrical. After three days, I already feel as if I live onboard this ship like part of the crew.

On our return, I tried the vegetable crumble in the Marine Hotel, then went back to the B+B to catch up on the latest match news.

Friday 2nd July 1993 - Day 37

I've found another addition to my catalogue of odd and interesting people. This time it's a German girl who appeared at breakfast this morning. She arrived last night on a train at half past midnight and went to the Police station when she realised that everything was closed. Fortunately, one of the officers on duty helps out on the lifeboat with Mr. Watt and knowing that they usually stay up late, he gave them a ring. On finding that there was just one room left, they promptly delivered her to the door in a Police car.

For some reason the table barriers were broken down today and the guests actually started talking to each other. Perhaps this was because we had a foreigner in our midst. She sat next to two old dears from Glasgow who have been here all week and have just begun to smile at me. I expect they appreciate a familiar face, since most people only seem to stay one or two nights, probably because it's a convenient stopover before going to Skye. Due to this fever of communication, I discovered that their car broke down the other day and they had to be towed back to Mallaig.

As for our foreign friend, it transpired that she was looking for somewhere to rent for two weeks, since she is writing a book about grains (I can't help wondering if we didn't lose something in translation there). Her luggage would appear to comprise largely of a typewriter and her research notes. Later I saw her struggling to convey all this to the girl behind the desk at the Tourist Office. The staff probably think I'm casing the joint, having seen me in there every day for a week, but I did manage to stay long enough to overhear that they had fixed her up with a caravan somewhere towards Fort William. Even though it was three miles from the railway station, she didn't seem the least deterred by the thought of having to carry a fortnight's supply of groceries into the hills. Good luck to her!

The final excursion I had booked was to Kyle of Lochalsh which meant yet another two-hour trip up the Sound between Skye and the mainland. The weather was even worse today with much rain and wind tossing the ship around. It was positively choppy when we left Mallaig, but turned calmer as we approached Kyle. It even condescended to stop raining when we arrived.

With just over two hours on dry land before the ferry sailed, I began by looking for Aunty Mary Bell's old house where my sister and I stayed in 1984. It wasn't hard to find as I recognised the streets once I was there. Someone was painting the outside of the house. Seeing it again jogged my memory and I set off to retrace the walk we used to go on in the evenings. Instead of the track I remember leading to the golf course, there are now new houses, picnic tables, steps and a proper landscaped viewpoint complete with Scottish flag. It was the ideal spot to observe the work on the new bridge and I could hear lorries dumping soil at the foot of the hill. According to a metal plaque detailing the view, I should have been able to see Broadford and the Cuillins on Skye, as well as various islands off the coast, but menacing clouds put paid to that.

I returned to the town past what appeared to be a new leisure centre and browsed around the shops and tiny Tourist Office. Several places stood empty, whilst others looked to have recently opened. At the ferry point, a local information board displayed a drawing of the finished bridge, together with photographs of what is already in place. After queuing for an age in the Post Office, I managed to buy some postcards and then headed back down the railway platform to the ferry around 3.30pm. The other passengers were watching the arrival of a tall ship, manoeuvring around through an obstacle course of boats and rocks. A know-it-all couple who were also on the Small Isles cruise told me it was the Malcolm Miller.

The wooden ship kept out of our way as we turned around and headed home. As we went past the entrance to Loch Duich, I just managed to see Eilean Donan castle illuminated by a single shaft of sunlight. Although it became increasingly rough on the way back, it didn't stop me from going directly into The Cabin for a plate of nice hot pizza, chips and beans once we made it back to dry land.

Saturday 3rd July 1993 - Day 38

Rain stopped play again. I went out this morning to buy some food and a newspaper, but the drizzle soon turned to heavy rain. I paid my first visit to the two tourist shops and browsed around the Tourist Office again in an attempt to give Mrs. Watt enough time to clean my room before I returned to watch the Wimbledon ladies' final and some of the doubles. She is very friendly and tut-tuts with a laugh each morning when she brings my toast, enquiring if it's really enough. When I asked if there was a laundrette in the town, she kindly offered to put my washing in her machine, so I shall be clean when I reach the islands.

Sunday 4th July 1993 - Day 39

I decided on having another rest day today, as there would be no transport to take me anywhere. I arrived at the newsagent's too early for the Sunday papers, so went for a walk up past the school and the new million-pound swimming pool which Mrs. Watt raves about. From the top road, there's a good view over to the Small Isles. I returned to town to pick up a paper just as it started to rain and went back to the B+B to watch the men's final at Wimbledon.

Monday 5th July 1993 - Day 40

For my last full day on the mainland until August 10th, I decided to go on the famous West Highland Railway Line to Fort William. It cost me £8.90 for the return ticket and the train left at 10.25am. I travelled with two girls who were going home to Manchester after spending the weekend at the B+B. Booking through a rail travel company, they had a very good deal which worked out at only £8 for the three nights' accommodation. From what I gathered, both were primary school teachers, although one was unemployed and was going to house-sit for a friend in Cornwall. Chatting to them meant that I didn't have chance to appreciate all the scenery, although it was rather dull anyway, but it made a change to talk to someone in my own age range for once.

I left them worrying about whether they had to change in Glasgow or not, and went into a massive Safeway store opposite the station to buy a "real" sandwich. I walked into the town centre, but didn't recognise anything from when I was there in 1984. It rained as I recall and the car was too steamed up to see much anyway. I sat and ate my lunch in the only bit of green I could find, between a church and the crazy golf course. Then I hit the shops, most of which were very tourist-orientated. I tried to concentrate on the book and postcard sections. In the end, the only thing I bought was a set of headphones for my walkman, as the other seems to have developed a loose connection in the left ear. I walked along the waterfront for a while and spotted frigate F89 again. The train back to Mallaig wasn't until 4.30pm, so I had plenty of time to go back and look around Safeway, where I was able to buy a few different eats before I leave civilisation for good. I still haven't got over how much variety there is in shops in this country, especially for vegetarians. All the French supermarkets I used to go to weren't half as good as this. In fact I found Safeway more interesting than the town! At the station, I relented and bought a postcard of Ben Nevis. Then the inevitable happened of course - it rained when the train left and so I never did see anything of the famous mountain.

Three or four miles out of town is the end of the Caledonian Canal which links Fort William to Inverness, some sixty miles to the north. The train slows down as it curves around the shore of Loch Linnhe by Neptune's Staircase, a series of eight locks which raises boats twenty metres over a distance of five hundred metres. A queue of boats was waiting to go through.

We stopped at a "station" called Loch Eil (OB) to drop off what looked like a complete outward bound expedition. Several seemed rather bewildered when they found there was absolutely nothing there, whilst the others quickly strapped on their backpacks and disappeared into the trees. According to the timetable, passengers wishing to disembark have to tell the driver in advance.

We carried on down Loch Eil and across the curved viaduct you always see pictured carrying a steam engine. Below at the head of Loch Shiel is the Glenfinnan Monument, topped by a kilted Highlander. Built in 1815, it marks the spot where Bonnie Prince Charlie unfurled his Jacobite standard on 19th August 1745 at the start of his campaign to regain the throne for the House of Stuart.

Just past here is the famous railway museum at Glenfinnan station, the only staffed station between Fort William and Mallaig. Several odd-looking foreigners left the train and we continued on to the coast. With the sea finally back in view, we passed through Arisaig and Morar, arriving back just before 6pm to find the entire harbour packed wall-to-wall with fishing boats. From my window, I even saw a seal diving up and down in the water, perhaps enticed by all the scraps that get thrown to the seagulls.

..... Go to the next chapter ......

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May 1998