mile or more in length is rapidly being covered with finny tribes of all
degrees, sorted and laid in rows according to size. They range from
small fish such as sole and bloater to huge monsters such as cod,
haddock and turbot, some of which might weigh two or three hundred
pounds. It would take a naturalist, or an experienced deep-sea
fisherman, to name the endless varieties; it is a hopeless task for us
to try to remember the names of even a few of them. The harbor is filled
with fishing craft waiting to unload their catch, and when one boat
leaves the wharf its place is quickly occupied by another. And this is
not all the fish-show of Aberdeen, for herring and mackerel are brought
in at another dock. We return to our hotel quite willing to concede our
waiter-friend's claim that the tourist who does not see the fish-market
misses, if not the "biggest," as he styled it, certainly the most
interesting sight in Aberdeen.
We linger a few hours about the town, which is one of the cleanest and
most substantially built it has been our good fortune to see. It shows
to best advantage on a sunny day after a rain, when its mica-sprinkled
granite walls glitter in the sun, and its clean, granite-paved streets
have an unequalled attractiveness about them. Granite has much to do
with Aberdeen's wealth and stateliness, for it is found in unlimited
quantities near at hand and quarrying, cutting and polishing forms one
of the greatest industries of the place. Civic pride is strong in
Aberdeen and there are few cities that have greater justification for
such a sentiment, either on account of material improvement or thrifty
and intelligent citizens.
XI
IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS
It is a wild, thinly inhabited section--this strangely named
Sutherland--lying a thousand miles nearer the midnight sun than does New
York City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams and its
unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, rugged islands and highlands
will reward the motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and
forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and remoteness, it is
not without historic and romantic attractions and its sternly simple
people widely scattered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little
villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the less interesting
and pleasant to meet and know.
The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how it is possible for the
natives to wrest a living from the barren hills and perhaps it does not
come so much from the land as from the cold gray ocean that is
everywhere only a little distance away. Fishing is the chief industry of
the coast villages, while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the
homes of shepherds. The population of Sutherland proper is sparse indeed
and one will run miles and miles over the rough trails which serve as
roads with rarely a glimpse of human habitation. No railway reaches the
interior or the western coast and the venturesome motorist will often
find himself amid surroundings where a break-down would surely mean
disaster--a hundred miles or more from effective assistance. The
precipitous hills and stony roads afford conditions quite favorable to
mishap, and for this reason the highways of Sutherland are not
frequented by motor cars and probably never will be until a different
state of affairs prevails. The Royal Automobile Club, however, has
mapped a fairly practicable route, following roughly the coast line of
the shire, and with this valuable assistance, we are told, a
considerable number of motorists undertake the trip during the course of
the summer.
The name Sutherland--for the most northerly shire of a country which
approaches the midnight sun--strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for
the most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland--both anomalies to puzzle
the uninformed. But it was indeed the "land of the south" to the
Norsemen who approached Scotland from the north, and landing on the
shores of Caithness, they styled the bleak hills to the south as
"Sudrland." There was not much to tempt them to the interior, the good
harbors of Caithness and the produce of its fertile plains being the
objective of these hardy "despots of the sea." The county of Caithness
contains the greater part of the tillable land north of Inverness and
this, with the extensive fisheries, supports a considerable population.
The traveler coming from the south finds a pleasant relief in this wide
fertile plain with its farmhouses and villages and its green fields
dotted with sleek domestic animals. It was this prosperity that
attracted the Norseman in olden days and he it was who gave the name to
this county as well as to Sutherland--Caithness, from the "Kati," as the
inhabitants styled themselves.
We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray misty morning upon--I
was going to say--our "Highland tour." But Inverness itself is well
beyond the northern limit of the Highland region of Scott and the
wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day can hardly realize that the
activities of Rob Roy were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A
hundred years ago the country north of the Great Glen was as remote from
the center of life in Scotland as though a sea swept between. To-day we
think of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the "Wild Scottish
Highlands," and I may as well adopt this prevailing notion in the tale I
have to tell.
For the first half hour the splendid road is obscured by a lowering fog
which, to our delight, begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty
Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The victorious sunlight
reveals an entrancing scene; on the one hand the opalescent waters of
the firth, with the low green hills beyond, and on the other the
countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. Dingwall, at the head of
the firth, is a clean, thriving town, quite at variance with our
preconceived ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation awaits
us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we pause for luncheon on our
return a few days later. It is built of rough gray stone and its
internal appointments as well as its service are well in keeping with
its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, seemingly out of all
proportion to the needs of a town or the surrounding country, need
surprise no one in Scotland--such, indeed, is the rule rather than the
exception.
At Bonar Bridge--the little town no doubt takes its name from the sturdy
structure spanning Dornoch Firth--we cross into Sutherland and for the
next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of the sea. An ideal day
we have for such a journey; the air is crystal clear, cool and bracing.
The unsullied skies meet a still, shimmering sea on one hand and bend in
a wide arch over gray-green hills on the other. Before our journey ends
cloud effects add to the weird beauty of the scenes that greet our
eyes--a play of light and color sweeping across the mottled sky and the
quiet ocean. We are enchanted by one particularly glorious view as we
speed along the edge of a cliff far above the ocean that frets and
chafes beneath; a bank of heavy white clouds is shot through by the
crimson rays of the declining sun; it seemingly rests on the surface of
the still water and is reflected with startling brilliance in the lucent
depths. Every mood of the skies finds a response in the ocean--gray,
steely-blue, silver-white, crimson and gold, all prevail in turn--until,
as we near our destination, the sky again is clear and the sea glows
beneath a cloudless sunset.
In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here ripples at the foot of a
bleak hill, sits Golspie, the first village of any note after crossing
Dornoch Firth. It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its
connection with Dunrobin Castle--the great Gothic pile that looms above
it. Dunrobin is the seat of the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only
the hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually attaches itself to a
great country seat. It is clean and attractive and its pleasant inn by
the roadside at once catches our eye--for our luncheon time is already
well past. And there are few country inns that can vie with the
Sutherland Arms of Golspie, even in a land famous for excellent country
inns. A low, rambling stone building mantled with ivy and climbing roses
and surrounded by flowers and green sward, with an air of comfort and
coziness all about it, mutely invites the wayfarer to enjoy its
hospitality. The interior is equally attractive and there are evidences
that the inn is a resort for the fisherman and hunter as well as for the
tourist.
It is of little consequence that luncheon time is two hours past; the
Scottish inn keeps open house all day and the well-stocked kitchen and
sideboard stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he arrives. The
sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton and fowls, would of itself
furnish a substantial repast; and when this is supplemented by a salad,
two or three vegetables, including the inevitable boiled potatoes, with
a tart or pudding for dessert, one would have to be more particular than
a hungry motorist to find fault. The landlady personally looks after our
needs--which adds still more to the homelikeness of the inn--and as we
take our leave we express our appreciation of the entertainment she has
afforded us. She plucks a full-blown rose from the vine which clings to
the gray walls and gives it to the lady member of our party, saying:
"Would you believe that the roses bloom on this wall in December?
Indeed, they do, for Golspie is so sheltered by the hills and the
climate is so tempered by the ocean currents that we never have really
severe weather."
And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the latitude of New York
City!
The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit to Dunrobin Castle,
despite the lure of its thousand years of eventful history. It stands on
a commanding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled turrets and
battlements sharply fretted against the sky. Its style savors of the
French chateau, though there are enough old Scottish details to redeem
it from the domination of the foreign type, and, altogether, it is one
of the stateliest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has been in
the unbroken possession of the present family for nearly a thousand
years, having been originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in
1098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the endless sieges and
consequent ruin that so many ancient strongholds underwent.
From Golspie to Wick we are seldom out of sight of the ocean and there
are many pleasing vistas from the clifflike hills which the finely
engineered road ascends in long sweeping curves. The entire road from
Inverness to Wick ranks with the best in Scotland, but beyond--that is
another story. The villages along the way are inhabited by fishermen,
many of whom speak only Gaelic, and they are always civil towards the
stranger. Especially do we notice this when we pass groups of children;
they are always smiling and waving welcome in a manner that recalls in
sharp contrast the sullen little hoodlums in the French and German
towns. The country houses, though small and plain, are clean and solidly
built of stone. Many well-bred domestic animals are to be seen,
especially sheep. In this connection I recall a conversation I had with
a young Montana ranchman whom I met on a train near Chicago. He had just
sold his season's wool clip in that city and realized the highest price
of the year--and he had imported his stock from Caithness, where he
formerly lived.
Wick is celebrated for its herring fisheries, upon which nearly the
whole population of about twelve thousand is directly or indirectly
dependent. It is the largest town north of Inverness and of some
commercial importance. The artificial harbor was built at an immense
cost and when the fisher fleet is in presents a forest of masts. On
Mondays the boats depart for the fishing grounds, most of them remaining
out for the week. Some of the boats are of considerable size and a
single catch may comprise many tons of herrings. The unsavory work of
cleaning and curing is done by women, who come from all parts of the
country during the fishing season.
Logically, Wick should mark the conclusion of our day's journey, which
is of unusual length, and the huge Station Hotel is not uninviting, but
we hasten farther, to fare--so far as accommodations are concerned--very
considerably worse. John O'Groats is our destination. We have long been
fascinated by the odd name at the far northern extremity of the map of
Scotland--a fascination increased by the recurrence of the name in
Scotch song and story--and it pleases our fancy to pass the night at
John O'Groats. A friendly officer assures us that we will find an
excellent hotel at our goal and with visions of a well-ordered resort
awaiting our arrival we soon cover the dozen or more miles of level
though bumpy road between Wick and the Scotch Ultima Thule. The country
is green and prosperous--no hint of the rocky hills and barren moors
that have greeted us most of the day.
A half mile from the tiny village of John O'Groats--a dozen or more low
stone huts--we come to the hotel and our spirits sink as we look about
us. A small two-story building with an octagonal tower faces the lonely
sea and it is soon evident that we are the sole guests for the night.
Two unattractive young women apparently constitute the entire force of
the inn; they are manageresses, cooks, waitresses, chambermaids and even
"porteresses," if I may use such a word, for they proceed to remove our
baggage and to carry it to our room. This is in the octagonal tower,
fronting on the ocean, and is clean and orderly; but the dinner which
our fair hostesses set forth precludes any danger of gormandizing,
ravenously hungry though we happen to be. The dining-room occupies the
first floor of the octagonal tower, which stands on the supposed site of
the original house of John O'Groat, or John de Groote, the Dutchman
whose fame is commemorated by a tradition which one must hear as a
matter of course if he visits the spot.
[Illustration: HOTEL, JOHN O'GROATS]
John de Groote, a wealthy Hollander, is supposed to have established
himself in Caithness in the time of James IV. to engage in commerce with
the natives. As he was a person of importance, he brought with him a
number of retainers, who held an annual feast in celebration of their
arrival in Scotland. At this there were bickerings and heart-burnings as
to who should occupy "the head of the table"--an honor that was made
much of in those days. Wise old John de Groote pacified his jealous
guests as best he could, assuring them that at their next gathering all
should be equally honored and satisfied. He must have been a man of
influence, for his enigmatical assurance seems to have been accepted by
all. When the eight petty chieftains assembled again they beheld an
octagonal house with eight doors and in it was a huge octagonal table
with seats at each side for the jealous clansmen and their retainers. As
they must enter simultaneously and as no one could possibly be exalted
above his fellows, the question of precedence could not arise. And so
John O'Groat gave his name to eternal fame--but if this strange domicile
ever existed, all trace of it has disappeared, and the question of
precedence does not trouble our little party nearly so much as the
indifferent dinner, which we make but a poor pretense at eating.
One will hardly find a lonelier or more melancholy scene--at least so it
seems to us this evening--than the wide sweep of water confronting us
when we look seaward from the sandy beach that slopes downward from the
inn. Near at hand is a bold headland--the small rocky island of
Stroma--while the dim outlines of the southernmost Orkneys rise a few
miles away. No ship or sign of life is to be seen except two
crab-fishers, who are rowing to the little landing-place. The beach is
littered with thousands of dead crabs and masses of seaweed cling to the
wreckage scattered along the water line. All is quiet and serene as the
nightlong twilight settles down, save for the occasional weird scream of
some belated sea-bird. The sun does not set until after nine o'clock and
on clear nights one may read print at midnight under the open skies. And
it is with an odd feeling, when awakened by the rising sun streaming
into our windows, that I find on looking at my watch that the hour of
three is just past.
At the risk of being set down as heathen by the natives, who observe
Sunday even more strictly than their southern brethren, we are early on
the road. Our breakfast, hastily prepared by our hostesses, gives us
added incentive for severing relations with John O'Groats. We settle our
modest score--our inn has the merit of cheapness, at least--act as our
own porter--saving a shilling thereby--and soon sally forth on the fine
road to Thurso.
The glorious morning soon effaces all unpleasant recollections. The road
runs for miles in sight of the sea, which shows a gorgeous color effect
in the changing light--deep indigo-blue, violet, amethyst, sapphire, all
seem to predominate in turn, and the crisp breeze shakes the shimmering
surface into millions of jewellike ripples. In sheltered nooks under the
beetling crags of the shore the water lies a sheet of dense lapis-lazuli
blue such as one sees in pictures but seldom in nature. On the other
hand are the green fields, which evidence an unexpected fertility in
this far northern land.
But the scene changes--almost suddenly. Leaving the low, green meadows
of western Caithness, we plunge into the dark, barren hills of
Sutherland--a country as lonely and forbidding as any to be found within
the four seas that encircle Britain. The road--splendid for a dozen
miles out of Thurso--degenerates into a rough, rock-strewn trail that
winds among the hills, often with steep grades and sharp turns. At some
points where the road branches a weather-worn stone gives an almost
illegible direction and at others there is nothing to assist the puzzled
traveler. At one of these it seems clear to us that the right-hand road
must lead to Tongue, and with some misgiving we take it. There is
absolutely no human being in sight--an inquiry is impossible. The road
grows so bad that we can scarce distinguish it and at last we catch
sight of a shepherd-cottage over the hill. Two elfish children on the
hilltop view us with open-mouthed wonder, but in response to our
inquiries flee away to the house. The shepherd comes out, Bible in hand;
he has no doubt been passing the morning in devotion at his home, since
the kirk is too far away for him to attend.
"The road to Tongue? Ah, an' it's a peety. Ye have ta'en the wrang turn
and the road ye are on leads to--just nowhere."
We thank him and carefully pilot our car backward for half a mile to
find a practicable place to turn about.
[Illustration: ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS
From original painting by Henderson Tarbet]
We have passed a few little hamlets since we left Thurso--Melvich,
Strathy and Bettyhill--each made up of a few stone huts thatched with
boughs or underbrush of some kind and though cleanly and decent, their
appearance is poverty-stricken in the extreme. At Bettyhill we pass many
people laboriously climbing the long hill to the kirk which stands
bleakly on the summit--the entire population, old and young, appears to
be going to the service. They are a civil, kindly folk, always courteous
and obliging in their response to our inquiries, though we think we can
detect a latent disapproval of Sunday motoring--only our own guilty
consciences, perhaps. They seem sober and staid, even the youngsters--no
doubt only the Scotchman's traditional reverence for the Sabbath; though
one of the best informed Scotch writers thinks this mood is often
temperamental--a logical result of the stern surroundings that these
people see every day of their lives. For Mr. T. F. Henderson in his
"Scotland of Today" writes of the very country through which we are
passing:
"With all their dreariness there is something impressive in these long
stretches of lonely moorland, something of the same feeling that comes
over one, you fancy, in the Sahara. As a stranger you will probably see
them in the summertime. There is then the endless weird light of the
northern sunrise and sunset, there is the charm of the sunlight; and
nature using such magic effects is potent to infuse strange attractions
into the wilderness itself. But the infinite gloom of the days of
winter, the long periods of darkness, the rain-cloud and the storm-cloud
sweeping at their will over the wild moorland without any mountain
screen to break the storm! Can you wonder that men who spend their lives
amid such scenes become gloomy and taciturn, and that sadness seems
inseparable from such surroundings, and poverty inevitably appears twice
as cruel and harsh here as elsewhere?"
It is well past noon when the blue waters of the Kyle of Tongue flash
through the rugged notches of the hills and a few furlongs along the
shore bring us to the village of Tongue, with its hospitable inn. Though
Tongue is fifty miles from the nearest railway station, enough lovers of
the wild come here to make this pleasant, well-ordered inn a
possibility. We find it very attractive inside; the July day is fresh
and clear but chilly enough to make the fire burning in the diminutive
grate in the drawing-room very acceptable to us who have never become
really acclimated in Britain. But the same fire is evidently intended to
be more ornamental than useful, for the supply of coals is exceedingly
limited and they are fed into the grate in homeopathic doses. An
Australian lady--who with her husband, we learn later, is on a honeymoon
tour of Scotland--is even more sensitive to the chill than ourselves and
ends the matter by dumping the contents of the scuttle on the fire and,
like Oliver Twist, calling for more. Oliver's request possibly did not
create greater consternation among his superiors than this demand
dismayed our hostess, for coals might well be sold by troy instead of
avoirdupois in Tongue. The supply must come by coast steamer from the
English mines and the frequent handling and limited demand send the
price skyward. The Australian lady's energetic act insures that the room
will be habitable for the rest of the day--though it is easy to see that
some of the natives think it heated to suffocation.
At dinner our host, a hale, full-bearded Scotchman, sits at the head of
the table and carves for his guests in truly patriarchal style. The meal
is a satisfying one, well-cooked and served; the linen is snowy white
and the silver carefully polished. We find the hotel just as
satisfactory throughout; the rooms are clean and well-ordered and the
whole place has a homelike air. It is evidently a haven for fishermen
during the summer season and these probably constitute the greater
number of guests. The entrance hall is garnished with many trophies of
rod and gun and, altogether, we may count Tongue Inn a unique and
pleasant lodge in a lonely land.
The following day--it is our own national holiday--we strike southward
through the Sutherland moors. The country is bleak and unattractive,
though the road proves better than we expected. For several miles it
closely follows the sedgy shores of Loch Loyal, a clear, shimmering
sheet of water a mile in width, set in a depression of the moorland
hills. The Sutherland lochs have little in their surroundings to please
the eye; their greatest charm is in the relief their bright, pellucid
waters afford from the monotony of the brown moors. There are many of
these lakes, ranging in size from little tarns to Loch Shin--some
seventy miles in length. We pass several in course of our morning's run,
and cross many clear, dashing streams, but there is little else to
attract attention in the forty miles to Bonar Bridge.
Lairg is the only village on the way, a group of cottages clustered
about an immense hotel which is one of the noted Scotch resorts for
fishermen. It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch Shin, where,
strange to say, fishing is free--not a common state of affairs with the
Scotch lochs. It is famous for its trout and salmon, though it is
decidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer describing it as
"little better than a huge ditch."
[Illustration: GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS
From original painting by the late John MacWhirter, R. A.]