followed out of Inverness, and from the opposite direction the green and
thriving countryside presents quite a new aspect. We have often remarked
that it is seldom a hardship to retrace our way over a road through an
interesting country. The different viewpoint is sure to reveal beauties
that we have missed before. One cannot complain that the country here
lacks attractions--there are many famous excursions to the lochs and
glens and one of the most delightful is the ten-mile drive to Glen
Affrick, which may be taken from Beauly. Mr. MacWhirter's picture shows
a view of the dashing river--and I recall that the great artist, when
showing me the original, remarked that if one were asked to guess, he
would hardly locate Glen Affrick in the Scotch Highlands, so strongly
suggestive of the Dark Continent is the name.
XII
DOWN THE GREAT GLEN
That we had once--under the guidance of that patron saint of tourists,
Thos. Cook--made the regulation boat trip down the Caledonian Lakes and
Canal, in no wise lessens our eagerness to explore the Great Glen by
motor car. On a previous occasion we reluctantly gave up the run from
Inverness to Oban because of stories of inconvenient and even dangerous
ferries; but recent information from the Royal Automobile Club shows
that while only a few attempt the journey, it is entirely practicable.
The English motorist, accustomed to perfect roads and adequate ferry
service, is likely to magnify deviations from the best conditions, which
would be scarcely remarked upon by his American brother, to whom good
highways are the exception rather than the rule. And so it chanced that
the Great Glen acquired a rather unsavory reputation and only a few
Americans or an occasional venturesome native undertook the journey. At
the present time, I understand, the road and service have been so
improved that no one need hesitate in essaying this delightful trip.
[Illustration: THE GREAT GLEN, SUNSET
From original painting by Breanski]
Mr. George Eyre-Todd, a Scottish author, in a recently published book
gives some descriptive and historical information concerning the country
we are about to explore:
"Glen More na h' Albyn, the Great Glen of Scotland, stretching from the
Moray Firth southwestward to the Sound of Mull, cuts the Scottish
Highlands in two. For grandeur and variety of scenery--mountain and
glen, torrent and waterfall, inland lake and arm of the sea--it far
surpasses the Rhine; and though the German river, with its castled crags
and clustering mountain-towns, has been enriched by the thronged story
of many centuries, its interest even in that respect is fully matched by
the legends, superstitions and wild clan memories of this great lake
valley of the north. For him who has the key to the interests of the
region the long day's sail from Inverness to Oban unrolls a panorama of
unbroken charm.
"The Caledonian Canal, which links the lakes of this great glen, was a
mighty engineering feat in its day. First surveyed by James Watt in
1773, at the instance of the trustees of the forfeited estates, and
finally planned by Telford in 1804, it was begun by Government for
strategic purposes during the Napoleonic wars, and when finally opened
in 1847 had cost no more than a million and a quarter sterling. It has a
uniform depth of eighteen feet, and ships of thirty-eight feet beam and
a thousand tons burden can sail through it from one side of Scotland to
the other. In these peaceful times, however, the canal is very little
used. In autumn and spring the brown sails of fishing-boats pass through
in flights, and twice a day in summer the palace-steamers of David
Macbrayne sweep by between the hills. But for the rest of the time the
waters lap the lonely shores, the grey heron feeds at the burn mouths,
and sunshine and rain come and go along the great mountainsides, exactly
as they did in the days of Culloden or Inverlochy.
"The canal at first has the country of Clan Mackintosh, of which
Inverness may be considered the capital, on its left. At the same time,
down to Fort Augustus, it has the Lovat country on the right. Glengarry,
farther down, was the headquarters of the Macdonnells. South of that
lies the Cameron country, Lochaber and Lochiel. And below Fort William
stretches the Macdonald country. All these clans, in the '45, were
disaffected to Government, and followed the rising of Prince Charles
Edward."
Inverness, with her bracing air and clear river, her beautiful island
park, well-stocked shops and wealth of romantic associations, will
always tempt one to linger, come as often as he may. It is our fourth
stop in the pleasant northern capital; we have tried the principal
hotels and we remember the Alexandra most favorably--though one
traveler's experiences may not be of great value in such a matter.
Individual tastes differ and a year or two may work a great change in an
inn for better or worse.
Within a dozen miles of Inverness one may find many historic spots. Few
will overlook Culloden Moor, with its melancholy cairn and its memories
of the final extinguishment of the aspirations of the Stuart line. Not
less interesting in a different way is Cawdor Castle, the grim
thirteenth-century pile linked to deathless fame in Shakespeare's
"Macbeth." There are drives galore to glens and resorts and you will not
be permitted to forget the cemetery, in which every citizen of the town
seems to take a lugubrious pride. Indeed, it is one of the most
beautiful burial grounds in the Kingdom. Crowning a great hill which
commands far-reaching views of valley and sea, it lacks nothing that art
and loving care can lavish upon it.
But Inverness, with all her charm, must not detain us longer. Our
journey, following the course of the lakes to Oban, begins in the early
morning; the distance is only one hundred and twenty miles, but they
tell us we are sure to experience considerable delay at the ferries. It
is a dull, misty morning and the drifting fog half hides the rippling
river which we follow some miles out of Inverness. By the time we reach
the shores of Loch Ness, the sunlight begins to struggle through the
mist which has enveloped everything and, to our delight, there is every
promise of a glorious day.
The lake averages a mile in width and for its entire length of nearly
twenty-five miles is never more than a few score yards from the road. It
is an undulating and sinuous road and one of the most dangerous in the
Kingdom for reckless drivers. Here it turns a sharp, hidden corner;
there it drops suddenly down a short, steep declivity into a dark little
glade; at times it winds through trees that press too closely to allow
vehicles to pass, and again it follows the edge of an abrupt cliff. Such
a road cannot be traversed too carefully, but, fortunately, to anyone
with an eye for the beauties of nature, there is no incentive to speed.
Every mile of the lake presents new aspects--a dark, dull mirror or a
glistening sheet of silver, and again a smiling expanse of blue, mottled
with reflections of fleecy white clouds. In one place it shows a strange
effect of alternating bars of light and shade sweeping from shore to
shore, a phenomenon which we are quite unable to understand. About
midway an old castle rises above the dark waters which reflect it with
all the fidelity of a mirror, for at this point the plummet shows a
depth of seven hundred feet. For six hundred years Castle Urquhart has
frowned above the lake and about it has gathered a long history of
romantic sieges and defenses, fading away into myth and legend. Its
sullen picturesqueness furnished a theme for the brush of Sir John
Millais, who was a frequent visitor to the Great Glen and an ardent
admirer of its scenery.
[Illustration: URQUHART CASTLE, LOCH NESS]
As we pursue the lakeside road, we find ourselves contrasting our former
trip by steamer, and we agree that the motor gives the best realization
of the beauties of landscape and loch. There are points of vantage along
the shore which afford views far surpassing any to be had from the dead
level of the steamer deck; the endless variations of light and color
playing over the still surface we did not see from the boat. There may
be much of fancy in this; everything to the motor enthusiast seems finer
and more enchanting when viewed from that queen of the road--the open
car.
The old chroniclers have it that St. Columba traversed the Great Glen in
565 A. D. and they declare that he beached his boat near Kilchimien on
Loch Ness after having by his preaching and miracles converted the
Pictish kings. This is the first record of the introduction of
Christianity into the northern Highlands.
Fort Augustus marks the southern extremity of Loch Ness and here are the
great buildings of St. Benedict's Abbey and School, a famous Catholic
college patronized by the sons of the gentry and nobility of that faith.
The fort was built by the English a couple of centuries ago as a base of
offense against the adherents of the Stuarts in the vicinity, and we may
be sure that the fierce Highlanders did not permit the garrison to
suffer from inactivity.
At this point the road swings across the canal and follows the western
shores of Loch Oich and Loch Lochy. We miss the trees which border Loch
Ness; here we pass at the foot of high, barren hills over which, to the
southward, rises Ben Nevis, the loftiest of Scotch mountains. There is
not much of interest until we reach the vicinity of Fort William at the
northern end of Loch Linnhe. As we approach the town we catch glimpses
of the ivy-clad ruin of Inverlochy, one of the most ancient and romantic
of northern Scottish castles. A portion of the structure is supposed to
antedate the eighth century and it was long the residence of a line of
Pictish kings--kings, indeed, even though their subjects were but a
handful of ill-clad marauders. In any event, one of them, King Achaius,
was of enough importance to negotiate a treaty with ambassadors sent by
Charlemagne. It would be a long story to tell of the sieges and sallies,
of the fierce combats and dark tragedies that took place within and
about the walls of Inverlochy Castle; for in all its thousand years it
saw little of peace or quiet until after the fight at Culloden; and such
a story would accord well with the air of grim mystery that seems to
hover over the sullen old ruin to-day. Standing on the verge of the
still water, its massive round towers outlined against the rocky sides
of Ben Nevis, whose snow-flecked summit looms high over it, it seems the
very ideal of the home of chivalry, rude and barbarous though it may
have been.
Fort William, with its enormous hotels, shows the usual characteristics
of a Scottish resort town--but the attractions which bring guests to
fill such hotels are not apparent to us. More likely these are in the
neighborhood rather than in the town itself. We pause here in an
endeavor to get some authentic information concerning the ferry at
Ballachulish, for our doubts have been considerably aroused about it.
The office of the steamship company of David Macbrayne, who controls
nearly all the coastwise shipping in North Scotland, seems a likely
place and thither we hie ourselves. The canny Scot in charge assures us
that the ferry is exceedingly dangerous--that motors are transferred on
a row-boat and some day there will be a dreadful accident; he even
darkly hints that something of the sort has already occurred. The safe
and sane thing to do is to place our car aboard the next canal steamer,
which will land us in Oban in the course of five or six hours--and it
will cost us only three pounds plus transportation for ourselves. Shall
he book us and our car for the boat?
His eagerness to close the deal arouses our suspicion--besides, we have
done the Caledonian trip by boat before and are not at all partial to
the proposed plan. It occurs to us that the proprietor of a nearby
garage ought to be as well informed on this matter and more
disinterested than Mr. Macbrayne's obsequious representative.
"Cars go that way every little while," he says. "Not especially
dangerous--never had an accident that I know of."
Thus encouraged, we soon cover the dozen miles to the ferry. Our fine
weather has vanished and a drizzling rain is falling at intervals. At
the ferry we learn that the crossing can be made only at high tide,
which means four hours' wait amidst anything but pleasant surroundings.
There are two vehicles ahead of us--a motor and a small covered wagon
about which two miserably dirty and ragged little youngsters play,
regardless of the steady rain. A dejected man and a spiritless woman
accompany the wagon and soon respond to our friendly advances. They are
selling linoleum made in Aberfeldy--traveling about the country in the
wagon, stopping at cottages wherever a bit of their commodity is likely
to be in demand. It is a pitiful story of poverty and privation, of days
without sales enough to provide food, and of cold, wet nights by the
roadside. If the end of the trip finds them even they are well content,
but more often they are in debt to the makers of the linoleum.
There are thousands of others, they tell us, gaining a precarious
living, like themselves, though of course not all selling the same
commodity. When they see our annoyance at the delay, they offer to yield
us their turn in crossing, which we gladly accept, for it affords an
excuse for a gratuity, which we feel our chance acquaintances sorely
need.
In the meantime the tide is flowing swiftly through the narrow strait
which connects Loch Leven with the wide estuary of Loch Linnhe and our
boat approaches from the opposite side. Four men are rowing vigorously
and as the small craft grates alongside the slippery granite pier, one
would never choose it as a fit transport for a heavy motor. It is about
twenty feet in length by ten or a dozen wide; two stout planks are
placed crosswise and two more form a runway from the sloping landing,
and, altogether, the outlook is rather discouraging to anyone so
prejudiced in favor of the terra firma as ourselves. We are half tempted
to retrace our journey to Fort William, but fortunately, the two young
men who have preceded us in a large runabout furnish an object lesson
that proves the trick not nearly so difficult as it looks. We follow
suit in our turn and our car, by a little careful jockeying, is soon
nicely balanced on the planks in the center of the boat. We express
surprise that the added weight seems scarcely to affect the displacement
of the craft. "O, ay,--she'll carry twelve ton," says one of the men who
overhears us. So the two tons of the car is far from the limit, after
all. It is a strong pull, well out of the direct line in crossing, for
the tide is running like a mill-race and would sweep us many furlongs
down the shore were not due allowance made by the rowers. The landing is
easier than the embarking, and we are soon away at something more than
the lawful pace for Benderloch Station, where another crossing must be
made.
[Illustration: THE MACDONALD MONUMENT, GLENCOE]
We might have wished to take the right-hand road to Glencoe, only a few
miles from Ballachulish--mournful Glencoe, with its memories of one of
the darkest deeds that stain the none too spotless page of Scottish
history. For here the bloody Cumberland, acting upon explicit orders
from the English throne, sent a detachment of soldiers under the guise
of friends seeking the hospitality of Clan Macdonald, which received
them with open arms. The captain of the troop was an uncle of the young
chieftain's wife, which served still farther to win the utmost
confidence of the unsuspecting clansmen. For two weeks the guests
awaited fit opportunity for their dastardly crime, when they murdered
their host in the very act of providing for their entertainment and
dealt death to all his clan and kin, regardless of age or sex. A few
escaped to the hills, only to perish miserably from the rigors of the
Scottish midwinter. Such is the sad tale of Glencoe, where to-day a tall
granite shaft commemorates the victims of the treacherous deed.
A hundred tales might be told of the Great Glen--true tales--did our
space permit. Here Bonnie Prince Charlie marshalled his forces and made
his last stand in his struggle for the throne of his fathers. In 1745,
at Gairlochy, near Fort William, the royal adventurer organized the
nucleus of the army which was to capture Edinburgh and throw all the
Kingdom into consternation by its incursion into England. Here he
planned a battle with General Cope, who avoided the encounter, a move
which gave great impetus to the insurrection. Charles was in high
feather and passed a night in revelry at Invergarry Castle with the
Highland chieftains, who already imagined their leader on the highway to
the British throne. Less than a year later the prince again sought
Invergarry in his flight from Culloden's fatal field, but he found the
once hospitable home of the chief of Glengarry empty and dismantled and
so surrounded by enemies that, weary and despairing as he was, he still
must hasten on. Two weeks later, after a score of hairbreadth escapes,
the royal fugitive left Scotland--as it proved, forever.
We did not at the time reflect very deeply on these bits of historic
lore; the rain was falling and the winding, slippery road required close
attention. Much of the scenery was lost to us, but the gloomy evening
was not without its charm. The lake gleamed fitfully through the
drifting mists and the brown hills were draped with wavering cloud
curtains. Right behind us rose the mighty form of Ben Nevis, on whose
summit flecks of snow still lingered. The wildness of the country was
accentuated by the forbidding aspect of the weather, but we regretted it
the less since our former trip had been under perfect conditions.
At Benderloch Station we found a railway motor van and flat car awaiting
us, in response to our telephone message from Ballachulish. Our motor
was speedily loaded on the car, while we occupied seats in the van, an
arrangement provided for motorists by the obliging railway officials.
All this special service costs only fifteen or twenty shillings; but no
doubt the railroad people established the rate to compete with the ferry
across Loch Creran Inlet. They set us down safe and sound on the other
side of the estuary, and we soon covered the few remaining miles to
Oban, where we needed no one to direct us to the Station Hotel, for we
learned on a former visit that it is one of the best-ordered inns in the
North Country.
XIII
ALONG THE WEST COAST
The day following our arrival in Oban dawns clear and bright with that
indescribable freshness that follows summer rain in the Highlands. We
find ourselves loath to leave the pleasant little town, despite the fact
that two former visits have somewhat detracted from the novelty of the
surroundings. We could never weary of the quiet, land-locked harbor,
with its shimmering white sails and ranges of green and purple hills
beyond, or of the ivy-clad ruin of Dunolly that overhangs the waters
when looking up the bay. The town ascends the steep hill in terraces and
a climb to the summit is well rewarded by the splendid view. One also
sees at close range the monstrous circular tower which dwarfs everything
else in Oban and which one at first imagines must have some great
historic significance. But the surmise that it was the work of ancient
Romans in an effort to duplicate the Coliseum is dashed when we learn
that Oban is scarcely a hundred years old and that "McCaig's Folly" was
built after the foundation of the town. An eccentric native conceived
the idea of erecting this strange structure "to give employment to his
fellow-townsmen" and dissipated a good-sized fortune in the colossal
gray-stone pile. Its enormous proportions can only be realized when one
stands within the walls, which form an exact circle possibly two hundred
feet in diameter and range from fifty to seventy-five feet in height.
[Illustration: "McCAIG'S FOLLY," OBAN]
While the town itself is modern, the immediate vicinity of Oban does not
lack for ancient landmarks. Dunstaffnage, with its traditions of Pictish
kings, is antedated by few Scottish castles and Dunolly is one of the
most picturesque. Kilchurn and Duarte, though farther away, are easily
accessible, and the former, on the tiny islet in Loch Awe, is one of the
most beautiful of Scottish ruins. There are few drives that afford
greater scenic charm than the circular trip past Loch Feochan and Loch
Melfort, returning by Loch Awe, and there is no steamer trip in the
Kingdom that excels in glorious scenery and historic interest the
eighty-mile excursion to Staffa and Iona. With such attractions it is
not strange that Oban is thronged with tourists during the short summer
season.
But we have "done" nearly everything in our two previous visits and have
little excuse to linger. The only road out of the town, except the one
by which we came, drops southward through a country we have not yet
explored. Brown and barren hills greet us at first, relieved here and
there by the glitter of tiny lakes and by green dales with flocks of
grazing sheep. A touch of brilliant color is given to the landscape by
the great beds of blue and yellow flags, or fleur-de-lis, which cover
the marshy spots along the road. For several miles we skirt the shores
of Loch Feochan, a tidal lake whose blue-green waters are at their
height, making a beautiful picture with the purple hills as a
background.
The tiny village of Kilninver stands at the inlet of the loch and here
the road re-enters the hills; there is a long steady climb up a steep
grade ere the summit is reached and in places the narrow road skirts a
sharp declivity, sloping away hundreds of feet to the valley beneath. We
fortunately escape an unpleasant adventure here; just at the summit we
find four men pushing an old-fashioned, high-wheeled car to the top of
the grade. It lost its driving-chain, they tell us, and as the brake
failed to work, narrowly missed dashing down the hill. Had it gone a rod
farther such a catastrophe would surely have occurred; not very pleasant
for us to contemplate, since at few places is there more than enough
room to pass a vehicle driven with care, let alone one running amuck!
The descent is not so abrupt and a long steady coast brings us to the
Pass of Melfort, where a swift mountain stream dashes between towering
cliffs. We run alongside until we again emerge on the sea-shore,
following the rugged coast of Loch Melfort for some miles. The road is
rough in places and passes a sparsely populated country with here and
there an isolated village, usually harsh and treeless. Kilmartin is the
exception--a rather cozy-looking hamlet with a huge old church
surrounded by fine trees. In Kilmartin Glen, near by, are numerous
prehistoric sculptured stones often visited by antiquarians. Thence to
Loch Gilphead the road is first-class; it crosses over the Crinan Canal,
through which steamers bound for Oban and Glasgow pass daily. Loch
Gilphead is a straggling fishing-town, its docks littered with nets and
the harbor crowded with small craft; its inn does not tempt us to pause,
though luncheon hour is well past.
For twenty miles or more we course along the wooded shores of Loch Fyne,
another of the long narrow inlets piercing the west Scottish coast. It
is a beautiful run; trees overarch the road and partly conceal the
gleaming lake, though at intervals we come upon the shore with an
unobstructed view of the rugged hills of the opposite side. Near the
head of the lake is Inverary, the pleasant little capital of Argyleshire
and as cleanly and well-ordered a village as one will find in Scotland.
The Argyle Arms, seemingly much out of proportion to the village, proves
a delightful place for our belated luncheon. No doubt the inn is
necessary to accommodate the retinues of the distinguished visitors at
Inverary Castle, which frequently include members of the royal family,
with which the present duke is connected by marriage. The modern castle
stands on an eminence overlooking town and loch and a smooth lawn
studded with splendid trees slopes to the road. The design is Gothic in
style, four-square, with pointed round towers at each corner, and the
interior is well in keeping with the magnificence of the outside.