ULLAPOOL - Rainbows in the hills

Tuesday 10th August 1993 - Day 76

Having left my luggage with Mrs. Macleod for the morning, I went over to the main post office to send off all my packages of stones and videotapes. Then, with a sandwich from the bakery in my coat pocket, I went back to collect my bags and trundled down to the harbour. With a long wait ahead of me for the 1.30pm ferry, I sat in the CalMac office and watched the comings and goings.

Although I was sad to be leaving the islands, I knew I was ready to move on. Once the bug I somehow picked up had set in, I'd virtually abandoned any ideas of exploring Lewis. Besides, the bus timetables weren't particularly convenient for day trips to other parts of the island. Still, I feel that I have achieved what I wanted and will have the spark of a new area to inspire me. A fresh start should be just the momentum I need to put me back on an upward curve.

Suilven, the second largest ferry in the fleet, ploughs continuously between Stornoway and Ullapool two or three times every day except Sunday. This afternoon, sailing conditions were probably the best there have been all week: bright sunshine and a fresh breeze. Many passengers choose to book day cabins or sleeping berths which must be a welcome retreat from the noisy lounge and bar. With my usual desire for solitude, I found myself a quiet spot on the port side near the stern of the ship and settled down for the three and a half hour crossing to the mainland.

We steamed along the Ui peninsula and then headed out into the Minch. To the south, clouds were gathering. With Harris and the Shiants in the foreground, Skye and the Uists lay on the horizon as indistinct, dark shapes. Yet the north and east were bathing in sunshine. Fifty miles away the outline of mainland Scotland was clearly visible. As we drew closer, the impressive mountains of Assynt gained in both colour and texture.

After two hours or more of a perfect crossing, leaden clouds were catching up with us rapidly and the wild landscape became menacingly, strikingly beautiful. It all seemed unreal as though it could only be the product of some sort of illusion: light and dark playing together on the hillsides, soft greens toying with towering shadows. And I'd worried that I might find the scenery dull after my time in the islands!

As the ship wove its way between the Summer Isles which guard the entrance to Loch Broom, I stood enthralled by waves crashing against the rocks. Spray spurted up as high as the miniature cliffs themselves. With clouds racing up behind us, I looked back to find a white cloak being drawn around the scattered islands and then they vanished as if by magic.

For almost an hour we steamed up the loch and then finally Ullapool came into view with its row of white houses along the front. It was ten minutes before we were due to land and the town was illuminated through a single break in the cloud cover. Suddenly down came the rain, bouncing off the sea like projectiles hitting bullet-proof glass. What a wonderfully dramatic arrival!

As I queued at the disembarkation point with the other foot passengers, the rain began to ease. We all slid tentatively down the gangway and I set off to find the B+B. Halfway down the main street, another deluge forced me to seek shelter in a shop doorway. Once it had subsided, I pushed on searching for Brae Guest House. At the far end of the row, I came to a huge whitewashed stone cottage whose ground floor appeared to be taken over by a restaurant. A note on the door directed those seeking accommodation to go around the corner to steps which lead up to a side entrance opposite an old cemetery.

Mrs. Ross showed me to my room, one of twelve in the establishment, explaining that breakfast was served in the restaurant where I could also take my evening meal if I wished and have it added to the bill. As more prospective guests arrived, she disappeared and I heard her informing them that she only had one twin room left: being Continentals, they turned it down.

From my window, I could just see that the ferry was already returning to Stornoway. Apart from the end of the pier, my field of vision is limited to the scrap of garden below and the back of Shore Street with distant hills poking up above the rooftops. The room itself is furnished with little more than a washbasin, dressing table and chair. Mrs. Ross told me that I share the shower across the landing with the occupants of another room on this floor. It's a far cry from the creature comforts I have been used to at Mrs. Macleod's.

Downstairs I looked for the way through to the restaurant, but found only more bedrooms, a bathroom and the television lounge. I retraced my steps and went in through the front to get my first hot food for a week. When I ordered my vegetable pie, the girl told me it would take 20-25 minutes to cook. No sooner had she brought my orange juice than she was back again asking my name. There was a 'phone call for me she said, wasn't this the stuff of films I thought. As I moved towards the back of the restaurant, Mrs. Ross appeared to usher me out through the front door and I learnt that there is in fact no way through to the guest house. She instructed me to go around to the pay 'phone which was inside a second side entrance I didn't even know existed. This must surely be the most labyrinthine place I've stayed in yet. Needless to say it was my parents ringing me from their holiday digs near Perth where they had just arrived. After chatting for a while, I walked back to the restaurant in time for my meal.

As I sat gazing out across the now still waters of the loch, I reflected on the storm that had brought me here and thought back to my equally apocalyptic arrival in the Western Isles a month ago. Then looking up the brightening glen, I saw my first Scottish rainbow.

Wednesday 11th August 1993 - Day 77

It was a dullish morning, but at least it wasn't raining as I walked around to the restaurant. In fact there wasn't even a whisper of wind. Motionless yachts cast a perfect reflection on the shiny loch surface. Breakfast was not so serene. Ebullient Europeans argued amongst themselves as to the meaning of the menu whilst the two waitresses, one Australian and one New Zealander, rushed between kitchen and tables.

When I left, the photogenic loch, which runs for another six miles inland between dark green hills, had drawn a crowd clicking away on cameras. After passing the Youth Hostel on Shore Street, I came to a health food shop and café where I was able to buy myself a tuna sandwich and some flapjack. By the pier, tourists interested in a cruise around the Summer Isles were comparing the merits of rival boat trips advertised on painted boards. Opposite I found a dingy-looking CalMac office and wooden stairs leading to the Tourist Information Centre on an overcrowded upper floor. The size of the queue for booking accommodation suggested serious understaffing. On noticing an electronic gadget which appeared to be counting the number of people that entered, I wondered if an alarm would ring when a safe level was exceeded or if the floor would just collapse.

From here, the road running along the waterfront becomes little more than a line of guest houses. At the far end, I turned the corner and was unexpectedly confronted with a huge campsite spread out on a green plain by the pebbled shore. In the distance I could just see the ferry cutting through the silken water and heading out to sea. As I stood to watch a group of seals, midges swarmed around me, telling me it was time to move on.

With a view to filming the surrounding area, I set off down the main road which climbs along the shores of Loch Broom. With all the traffic heading for Inverness, it was easily the busiest road I have walked on so far. Several backpackers trying to hitch lifts started to walk when they saw me pass by. Perhaps they thought I knew something they didn't. Being followed by unkempt individuals as vehicles screamed past non-stop wasn't my idea of fun. I was pleased when they overtook me and kept on walking into the distance. For the first time on the trip, I felt just a little concerned, although probably without good reason. Safety isn't something I've had to think about before. Once I'd gone far enough to be able to film some panoramic shots of the town, I speedily turned back.

Ullapool is bigger than I expected. Full of souvenir shops and hotels, it bustles all day long with people arriving off the ferry or waiting for the next one. Judging from the numberplates, every third car is either French, German or Italian and yet I wouldn't have expected so many foreigners to get this far north. Further investigation of the town revealed a couple of fish and chip shops, several banks, a butcher's, a small supermarket and a tiny post office. Founded by the British Fisheries Society in 1788, it now sees more Eastern European factory ships than Scottish herring boats.

Thursday 12th August 1993 - Day 78

This morning I set off along the other road which leaves Ullapool heading north towards the Coigach and Assynt mountain ranges. After a steep climb out of the town, past swathes of red Torridonian sandstone, I rounded the hilltop to find myself amongst part of the wild landscape I had glimpsed from the ferry. As the sun played hide and seek with the few remaining clouds, the foreground was a patchy mixture of light and dark, green and brown, where heather bordered with grass carpeted the surrounds. On the horizon, the sea was a startling clear blue. Yet it was the ridge of Ben More Coigach which attracted my roving eye. Dominating the scene, it stands almost 2500 feet high and runs for several miles. White, flat-bottomed clouds had formed around its summit adding an air of mystery and intrigue.

I followed the road as it wound its way down to Ardmair Bay whose shale beach is sheltered by Isle Martin. A series of waves rippled across the water's surface, so perfect it seemed they could only have been generated by machine. Out to sea, the Summer Isles lay scattered like an assortment of broken biscuits on a smooth blue cloth.

As I stopped to film the view, a party of tourists who had just arrived at their rented cottages eyed me with suspicion as if I would be training my zoom lens on them next. For lunch I chose to retrace my steps to what appeared to be the remains of the original road. Hidden from the new road by rocks through which the way had been blasted, I spread myself out on huge slabs of pink sandstone, wondering how they came to be formed.

Later I scoured the area for stones to add to my collection and found some unusual flat grey specimens. It was still early, so I went a short distance along the side road to Rhue to see more of the ocean before starting the climb back. The many foreign cars and camper vans made easy work of the ascent, but I found it a little hard on the knees.

Once over the top, I sat on the seat looking down on Ullapool and its shield of dark hills. Grey clouds were closing in fast now and I watched a storm brewing out to sea. Hoping that the rain wasn't coming in my direction, I hurtled down towards the town, encouraged by the prospect of another good meal. Movement suddenly caught my eye and I found that a herd of deer was silently foraging on the hillside.

Friday 13th August 1993 - Day 79

Having realised that the two waitresses divide the restaurant down the middle, each keeping to their own half, I now know where to sit to be looked after by the friendlier New Zealand girl who always makes sure I have enough toast and orange juice. She was very interested to learn where I've been walking particularly as she has had little time to see much of the surrounding country, through working until late in the restaurant at night and then early in the morning serving breakfasts and cleaning rooms. She told me she only intends staying for another month or so before moving on to work her way across Europe.

When I mentioned that the shower had suddenly decided to produce only cold water, she shared my dismay. Since she and her Antipodean colleague have no shower in their own quarters (wherever that is exactly in this vast ancient complex), they use the one on my floor. Apparently, Mr. Ross has said he will fix it, but she didn't sound overconfident that he would succeed.

It turned out to be a wet and windy day, brightened only by the sight of a rainbow this morning. I spent most of my time buying and writing postcards.

Saturday 14th August 1993 - Day 80

More rain. I spent the morning in the local museum which has grown out of the exhibition organised for the town's bicentenary in 1988. Located in the old parish church dating from 1829, it houses a vast amount of material which was donated after being found in attics and various hidey holes. A wide range of exhibits covers crofting, fishing, education, religion and tourism in the Loch Broom area. Together with a collection of farming implements and hundreds of old photographs illustrating all aspects of Highland life, there was also a huge patchwork put together for the two-hundred year celebrations. In the pews sit dozens of reference books waiting to be read by today's generation. The section devoted to emigration includes ships' ledgers, letters and family scrapbooks telling the stories of those who were promised a better future in Canada and New Zealand. So many people's lives.

Sunday 15th August 1993 - Day 81

This morning I decided to investigate the track I had seen from the road on Thursday. It led past what appeared to be the local tip (complete with attendant flock of seagulls) before disappearing into the hills. After a while walking through the windswept wilderness, I suddenly heard the sound of a motorbike. Sure enough a young lad was bouncing his way along the uneven path behind me. Intrigued as to the route of the track, I tried to follow his progress across the landscape. After twisting and turning over the undulating ground, he finally made it to the top of a hill and vanished. A group of tired walkers came over the summit and I could see others below me. By now it had started to rain and there was no possible shelter. I decided to call it a day and turned back. The stony path which had been uncomfortable to walk on before, was now even more dangerous in the wet. Fortunately I heard the motorbike returning and was able to move out of the way before it ran me over. As I made it back to the main road, the boy was strapping the machine down to the rear of his van. More walkers had parked their car and were getting ready to set off, so it must be a well-known track.

After eating my sandwich back in my room, the skies began to clear. For my final afternoon here, I thought I would try another track I had discovered on the map. Running along the wooded banks of the local river, it heads up Glen Achall and into the mountains. The start was a makeshift road leading through a quarry and I was pleased it was Sunday when I read the warning signs about explosions. Although I could hear water rushing down towards the sea, I was disappointed at not being able to see the river. Passed only by a family on bicycles, I pressed on for a mile or so until I came to some rocks giving a panoramic view over Loch Achall in the distance and the surrounding craggy hills. Basking in the sunshine, I looked down into the ravine, but still couldn't see the elusive Ullapool River.

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

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May 1998