_Monday, September 18th._
We rose early and walked along the beach to Duncansbay Head, or Rongisby
as the old maps have it, gathering a few of those charming little shells
called John o'Groat Buckies by the way. After walking round the site of
John o'Groat's house, we returned to our comfortable quarters at the
Huna Inn for breakfast. John o'Groat seems to have acted with more
wisdom than many entrusted with the affairs of a nation. When his sons
quarrelled for precedence at his table, he consoled them with the
promise that when the next family gathering took place the matter should
be settled to the satisfaction of all. During the interval he built a
house having eight sides, each with a door and window, with an octagonal
table in the centre so that each of his eight sons could enter at his
own door and sit at his own side or "head" of the table. By this
arrangement--which reminded us of King Arthur's use of his round
table--he dispelled the animosity which previously prevailed. After
breakfast, and in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, we made an
entry in the famous Album with name and address, object of journey, and
exact time of departure, and they promised to reserve a space beneath
the entry to record the result, which was to be posted to them
immediately we reached our journey's end.
[Illustration: JOHN O'GROAT'S HOUSE.]
It was about half-past ten o'clock when we started on our long walk
along a circuitous and unknown route from John o'Groat's to Land's End.
Our host and hostess stood watching our departure and waving adieux
until we disappeared in the distance. We were in high spirits, and soon
reached the junction of roads where we turned to the left towards Wick.
The first part of our walk was through the Parish of Canisbay, in the
ancient records of which some reference is made to the more recent
representatives of the Groat family, but as these were made two hundred
years ago, they were now almost illegible. Our road lay through a wild
moorland district with a few farms and cottages here and there, mainly
occupied by fishermen. There were no fences to the fields or roads, and
no bushes or trees, and the cattle were either herded or tied to stakes.
After passing through Canisbay, we arrived at the most northerly house
in the Parish of Wick, formerly a public-house, and recognised as the
half-way house between Wick and John o'Groat's. We found it occupied as
a farm by Mr. John Nicolson, and here we saw the skeleton of a whale
doing duty as a garden fence. The dead whale, seventy feet in length,
had been found drifting in the sea, and had been hauled ashore by the
fishermen. Mr. Nicolson had an ingenious son, who showed us a working
sun-dial in the garden in front of the house which he had constructed
out of a portion of the backbone, and in the same bone he had also
formed a curious contrivance by which he could tell the day of the
month. He told us he was the only man that studied painting in the
North, and invited us into the house, wherein several rooms he showed us
some of his paintings, which were really excellent considering they were
executed in ordinary wall paint. His mother informed us that he began to
study drawing when he was ill with a slow fever, but not bed-fast. Two
of the pictures, that of an old bachelor and a Scotch lassie, a servant,
were very good indeed. We also saw a picture of an old woman, a local
celebrity, about a hundred years old, which was considered to be an
excellent likeness, and showed the old lady's eyes so sunk in her head
as to be scarcely visible. We considered that we had here found one of
Nature's artists, who would probably have made a name for himself if
given the advantages so many have who lack the ability, for he certainly
possessed both the imaginative faculty and no small degree of dexterity
in execution. He pointed out to us the house of a farmer over the way
who slept in the Parish of Wick and took his meals in that of Canisbay,
the boundary being marked by a chimney in the centre of the roof. He
also informed us that his brother accompanied Elihu Burritt, the
American blacksmith, for some distance when he walked from London to
John o'Groat's.
We were now about eleven miles from Wick, and as Mr. Nicolson told us of
an old castle we had missed, we turned back across the moors for about a
mile and a half to view it. He warned us that we might see a man
belonging to the neighbourhood who was partly insane, and who, roaming
amongst the castle ruins, usually ran straight towards any strangers as
if to do them injury; but if we met him we must not be afraid, as he was
perfectly harmless. We had no desire to meet a madman, and luckily,
although we kept a sharp look-out, we did not see him. We found the
ruined castle resting on a rock overlooking the sea with the rolling
waves dashing on its base below; it was connected with the mainland by a
very narrow strip broken through in one place, and formerly crossed by a
drawbridge. As this was no longer available, it was somewhat difficult
to scale the embankment opposite; still we scrambled up and passed
triumphantly through the archway into the ruins, not meeting with that
resistance we fancied we should have done in the days of its daring
owner. A portion only of the tower remained, as the other part had
fallen about two years before our visit. The castle, so tradition
stated, had been built about the year 1100 by one Buchollie, a famous
pirate, who owned also another castle somewhere in the Orkneys. How men
could carry on such an unholy occupation amidst such dangerous
surroundings was a mystery to us.
[Illustration: MR. NICOLSON'S HOME, SHOWING THE ARCH OF WHALE'S JAW.]
On our return we again saw our friend Mr. Nicolson, who told us there
were quite a number of castles in Caithness, as well as Pictish forts
and Druidical circles, a large proportion of the castles lying along the
coast we were traversing. He gave us the names of some of them, and told
us that they materially enhanced the beauty of this rock-bound coast. He
also described to us a point of the coast near Ackergill, which we
should pass, where the rocks formed a remarkably perfect profile of the
Great Duke of Wellington, though others spoke of it as a black giant. It
could only be seen from the sea, but was marvellously correct and
life-like, and of gigantic proportions.
Acting on Mr. Nicolson's instructions, we proceeded along the beach to
Keiss Castle, and ascended to its second storey by means of a rustic
ladder. It was apparently of a more recent date than Buchollie, and a
greater portion of it remained standing. A little to the west of it we
saw another and more modern castle, one of the seats of the Duke of
Portland, who, we were told, had never yet visited it. Before reaching
the village of Keiss, we came to a small quay, where we stayed a short
time watching the fishermen getting their smacks ready before sailing
out to sea, and then we adjourned to the village inn, where we were
provided with a first-class tea, for which we were quite ready. The
people at the inn evidently did not think their business inconsistent
with religion, for on the walls of the apartment where we had our tea
were hanging two pictures of a religious character, and a motto "Offer
unto God thanksgiving," and between them a framed advertisement of
"Edinburgh Ales"!
After tea we continued our journey until we came to the last house in
the village of Keiss, a small cottage on the left-hand side of the road,
and here we called to inspect a model of John o'Groat's house, which had
been built by a local stonemason, and exhibited at the great Exhibition
in London in 1862. Its skilful builder became insane soon after he had
finished it, and shortly afterwards died. It was quite a palatial model
and much more handsome than its supposed original was ever likely to
have been. It had eight doors with eight flights of steps leading up to
them, and above were eight towers with watchmen on them, and inside the
house was a table with eight sides made from wood said to have been from
the original table in the house of Groat, and procured from one of his
descendants. The model was accompanied by a ground plan and a print of
the elevation taken from a photo by a local artist. There was no charge
for admission or for looking at the model, but a donation left with the
fatherless family was thankfully received.
We now walked for miles along the seashore over huge sand-hills with
fine views of the herring-boats putting out to sea. We counted fifty-six
in one fleet, and the number would have been far greater had not Noss
Head intervened to obstruct our view, as many more went out that night
from Wick, although the herring season was now nearly over. We passed
Ackergill Tower, the residence of Sir George Dunbar, and about two miles
farther on we came to two old castles quite near to each other, which
were formerly the strongholds of the Earls of Caithness. They were named
Girnigoe and Sinclair. Girnigoe was the oldest, and under the ruins of
the keep was a dismal dungeon.
It was now getting dark, and not the pleasantest time to view old
castles surrounded by black rocks with the moan of the sea as it invaded
the chasms of the rocks on which they stood. Amongst these lonely ruins
we spoke of the past, for had our visit been three centuries earlier,
the dismal sounds from the sea below would have mingled with those from
the unfortunate young man chained up in that loathsome dungeon, whose
only light came from a small hole high up in the wall. Such was John,
Master of Caithness, the eldest son of the fifth Sinclair, Earl of
Caithness, who is said to have been imprisoned here because he had wooed
and won the affections of the daughter of a neighbouring laird, marked
out by his father, at that time a widower, for himself. He was confined
in that old dungeon for more than six long years before death released
him from his inhuman parent.
During his imprisonment John had three keepers appointed over
him--Murdoch Roy and two brothers named Ingram and David Sinclair. Roy
attended him regularly, and did all the menial work, as the other two
keepers were kinsmen of the earl, his father, who had imprisoned him.
Roy was sorry for the unfortunate nobleman, and arranged a plot to set
him at liberty, which was unfortunately discovered by John's brother
William, who bore him no good will. William told his father, the earl,
who immediately ordered Roy to be executed. The poor wretch was
accordingly brought out and hanged on the common gibbet of the castle
without a moment being allowed him to prepare for his final account.
Soon afterwards, in order to avenge the death of Roy, John, who was a
man of great bodily strength and whose bad usage and long imprisonment
had affected his mind, managed to seize his brother William on the
occasion of his visit to the dungeon and strangle him. This only
deepened the earl's antipathy towards his unhappy son, and his keepers
were encouraged to put him to death. The plan adopted was such as could
only have entered the imagination of fiends, for they withheld food from
their prisoner for the space of five days, and then set before him a
piece of salt beef of which he ate voraciously. Soon after, when he
called for water, they refused to give him any, and he died of raging
thirst. Another account said they gave him brandy, of which he drank so
copiously that he died raving mad. In any case, there is no doubt
whatever that he was barbarously done to death.
[Illustration: GIRNIGOE CASTLE.]
Every castle along the seacoast had some story of cruelty connected with
it, but the story of Girnigoe was perhaps the worst of all, and we were
glad to get away from a place with such dismal associations.
About a hundred years after this sad event the Clan of the Campbells of
Glenorchy declared war on the Sinclairs of Keiss, and marched into
Caithness to meet them; but the Sinclairs instead of going out to meet
them at the Ord of Caithness, a naturally fortified position, stayed at
home, and the Campbells took up a strong position at Altimarloch, about
two miles from Wick. The Sinclairs spent the night before the battle
drinking and carousing, and then attacked the Campbells in the strong
position they had taken up, with the result that the Sinclairs were
routed and many of them perished.
They meet, they close in deadly strife,
But brief the bloody fray;
Before the Campbells' furious charge
The Caithness ranks give way.
The shrieking mother wrung her hands,
The maiden tore her hair,
And all was lamentation loud,
And terror, and despair.
It was commonly said that the well-known quicksteps, "The Campbells are
coming" and the "Braes of Glenorchy" obtained their names from this
raid.
The Sinclairs of Keiss were a powerful and warlike family, and they soon
regained their position. It was a pleasing contrast to note that in 1765
Sir William Sinclair of Keiss had laid aside his sword, embracing the
views held by the Baptists, and after being baptized in London became
the founder of that denomination in Caithness and a well-known preacher
and writer of hymns.
In his younger days he was in the army, where he earned fame as an
expert swordsman, his fame in that respect spreading throughout the
countryside. Years after he had retired from the service, while sitting
in his study one forenoon intently perusing a religious work, his valet
announced the arrival of a stranger who wished to see him. The servant
was ordered to show him into the apartment, and in stalked a strong
muscular-looking man with a formidable Andrea Ferrara sword hanging by
his side, and, making a low obeisance, he thus addressed the knight:
"Sir William, I hope you will pardon my intrusion. I am a native of
England and a professional swordsman. In the course of my travels
through Scotland, I have not yet met with a gentleman able to cope with
me in the noble science of swordsmanship. Since I came to Caithness I
have heard that you are an adept with my favourite weapon, and I have
called to see if you would do me the honour to exchange a few passes
with me just in the way of testing our respective abilities."
Sir William was both amused and astonished at this extraordinary
request, and replied that he had long ago thrown aside the sword, and,
except in case of necessity, never intended to use it any more. But the
stranger would take no denial, and earnestly insisted that he would
favour him with a proof of his skill.
"Very well," said Sir William, "to please you I shall do so," and,
rising and fetching his sword, he desired the stranger, who was an
ugly-looking fellow, to draw and defend himself. After a pass or two Sir
William, with a dexterous stroke, cut off a button from the vest of his
opponent.
"Will that satisfy you," inquired Sir William; "or shall I go a little
deeper and draw blood?"
"Oh, I am perfectly satisfied," said the other. "I find I have for once
met a gentleman who knows how to handle his sword."
In about half a mile after leaving the ruins of these old castles we saw
the Noss Head Lighthouse, with its powerful light already flashing over
the darkening seas, and we decided to visit it. We had to scale several
fences, and when we got there we found we had arrived long after the
authorised hours for the admission of visitors. We had therefore some
difficulty in gaining an entrance, as the man whose attention we had
attracted did not at first understand why we could not come again the
next day. When we explained the nature of our journey, he kindly
admitted us through the gate. The lighthouse and its surroundings were
scrupulously clean, and if we had been Her Majesty's Inspectors of
Lighthouses, if such there be, we could not have done otherwise than
report favourably of our visit. The attendants were very kind to us, one
of them accompanying us to the top, and as the lighthouse was 175 feet
high, we had a great number of steps to climb. We had never seen the
interior of a lighthouse before, and were greatly interested in the
wonderful mechanism by which the flashlight was worked. We were much
impressed by the incalculable value of these national institutions,
especially in such dangerous positions as we knew from experience
prevailed on those stormy coasts. We were highly delighted with our
novel adventure, and, after regaining the entrance, we walked briskly
away; but it was quite dark before we had covered the three miles that
separated the lighthouse from the fishery town of Wick. Here we procured
suitable lodgings, and then hurried to the post office for the letters
that waited us, which we were delighted to read, for it seemed ages
since we left home.
(_Distance walked twenty-five miles_.)
[Illustration: NOSS HEAD LIGHTHOUSE.]
_Tuesday, September 19th._
We had our first experience of a herring breakfast, and were surprised
to find how delicious they tasted when absolutely fresh. There was an
old proverb in Wick: "When the herrings come in, the doctors go out!"
which may indicate that these fish had some medicinal value; but more
likely the saying referred to the period of plenty following that of
want and starvation. We went down to the quay and had a talk with some
of the fishermen whom we met returning from their midnight labours.
They told us they had not caught many herrings that night, but that the
season generally had been a good one, and they would have money enough
to support themselves through the coming winter. There were about nine
hundred boats in the district, and sometimes over a thousand, all
employed in the fishing industry; each boat was worked by four men and
one boy, using nets 850 yards long. The herrings appeared about the
second week in August and remained until the end of September, but the
whales swallowed barrels of them at one "jow."
We called at the steamboat depot and found that our hampers of shells
had already arrived, and would be sent forward on the _St. Magnus_; next
we went to get our hair and beards trimmed by the Wick barber. He was a
curious old gentleman and quite an orator, and even at that early hour
had one customer in hand while another was waiting to be shaved, so we
had of course to wait our turn. The man who was waiting began to express
his impatience in rather strong language, but the barber was quite equal
to the occasion, and in the course of a long and eloquent oration, while
he was engaged with the customer he had in hand, he told him that when
he came into a barber's shop he should have the calmness of mind to look
quietly around and note the sublimity of the place, which ought to be
sufficient to enable him to overcome such signs of impatience as he had
exhibited. We were quite sure that the barber's customer did not
understand one-half the big words addressed to him, but they had the
desired effect, and he waited patiently until his turn came to be
shaved. He was a dark-complexioned seafaring man, and had evidently just
returned from a long sea voyage, as the beard on his chin was more like
the bristles on a blacking-brush, and the operation of removing them
more like mowing than shaving. When completed, the barber held out his
hand for payment. The usual charge must have been a penny, for that was
the coin he placed in the barber's hand. But it was now the barber's
turn. Drawing himself up to his full height, with a dignified but
scornful expression on his face, he pointed with his razor to the penny
he held in his other hand, which remained open, and exclaimed fiercely,
"This! for a month's shave!" Another penny was immediately added, and
his impatient customer quickly and quietly departed.
It was now our turn for beard and hair trimming, but we had been so much
amused at some of the words used by the barber that, had it not been for
his awe-inspiring look, the scissors he now held in his hand, and the
razors that were so near to us, we should have failed to suppress our
laughter. The fact was that the shop was the smallest barber's
establishment we had ever patronised, and the dingiest-looking little
place imaginable, the only light being from a very small window at the
back of the shop. To apply the words sublime and sublimity to a place
like this was ludicrous in the extreme. It was before this window that
we sat while our hair was being cut; but as only one side of the head
could be operated upon at once, owing to the scanty light, we had to sit
before it sideways, and then to reverse our position.
We have heard it said that every man's hair has a stronger growth on one
side of his head than the other, but whether this barber left more hair
on the strong side or not we did not know. In any case, the difference
between the two sides, both of hair and beard, after the barber's
operation was very noticeable. The only sublime thing about the shop was
the barber himself, and possibly he thought of himself when speaking of
its sublimity. He was a well-known character in Wick, and if his lot had
been cast in a more expansive neighbourhood he might have filled a much
higher position. He impressed us very much, and had we visited Wick
again we should certainly have paid him a complimentary visit. We then
purchased a few prints of the neighbourhood at Mr. Johnston's shop, and
were given some information concerning the herring industry. It appeared
that this industry was formerly in the hands of the Dutch, who exploited
the British coasts as well as their own, for the log of the _Dutillet_,
the ship which brought Prince Charles Edward to Scotland in 1745,
records that on August 25th it joined two Dutch men-of-war and a fleet
of herring craft off Rongisby.
[Illustration: OLD MAN OF WICK.]
In the early part of the fourteenth century there arose a large demand
for this kind of fish by Roman Catholics both in the British Isles and
on the Continent. The fish deserted the Baltic and new herring fields
were sought, while it became necessary to find some method of preserving
them. The art of curing herrings was discovered by a Dutchman named
Baukel. Such was the importance attached to this discovery that the
Emperor Charles V caused a costly memorial to be erected over his grave
at Biervlet. The trade remained in the hands of the Dutch for a long
time, and the cured herrings were chiefly shipped to Stettin, and thence
to Spain and other Roman Catholic countries, large profits being made.
In 1749, however, a British Fishery Society was established, and a
bounty of £50 offered on every ton of herrings caught. In 1803 an expert
Dutchman was employed to superintend the growing industry, and from 1830
Wick took the lead in the herring industry, which in a few years' time
extended all round the coasts, the piles of herring-barrels along the
quay at Wick making a sight worth seeing.
We had not gone far when we turned aside to visit the ruins of Wick
Castle, which had been named by the sailors "The Auld Man o'Wick." It
was built like most of the others we had seen, on a small promontory
protected by the sea on three sides, but there were two crevices in the
rock up which the sea was rushing with terrific force. The rock on which
its foundations rested we estimated to be about 150 feet high, and there
was only a narrow strip of land connecting it with the mainland. The
solitary tower that remained standing was about fifty feet high, and
apparently broader at the top than at the bottom, being about ten or
twelve yards in length and breadth, with the walls six or seven feet
thick. The roar of the water was like the sound of distant thunder,
lending a melancholy charm to the scene. It was from here that we
obtained our first land view of those strange-looking hills in Caithness
called by the sailors, from their resemblance to the breasts of a
maiden, the Maiden's Paps. An old man directed us the way to Lybster by
what he called the King's Highway, and looking back from this point we
had a fine view of the town of Wick and its surroundings.
Taught by past experience, we had provided ourselves with a specially
constructed apparatus for tea-making, with a flask to fit inside to
carry milk, and this we used many times during our journey through the
Highlands of Scotland. We also carried a reserve stock of provisions,
since we were often likely to be far away from any human habitation.
To-day was the first time we had occasion to make use of it, and we had
our lunch not in the room of an inn, but sitting amongst the heather
under the broad blue canopy of heaven. It was a gloriously fine day, but
not a forerunner of a fine day on the morrow, as after events showed. We
had purchased six eggs at a farmhouse, for which we were only charged
fourpence, and with a half-pound of honey and an enormous oatmeal
cake--real Scotch--we had a jovial little picnic and did not fare badly.
We had many a laugh at the self-satisfied sublimity of our friend the
barber, but the sublimity here was real, surrounded as we were by
magnificent views of the distant hills, and through the clear air we
could see the mountains on the other side of the Moray Firth probably
fifty miles distant. Our road was very hilly, and devoid of fences or
trees or other objects to obstruct our view, so much so that at one
point we could see two milestones, the second before we reached the
first.
We passed Loch Hempriggs on the right of our road, with Iresgoe and its
Needle on the seacoast to the left, also an old ruin which we were
informed was a "tulloch," but we did not know the meaning of the word.
After passing the tenth milestone from Wick, we went to look at an
ancient burial-ground which stood by the seaside about a field's breadth
from our road. The majority of the gravestones were very old, and
whatever inscriptions they ever had were now worn away by age and
weather; some were overgrown with grass and nettles, while in contrast
to these stood some modern stones of polished granite. The inscriptions
on these stones were worded differently from those places farther south.
The familiar words "Sacred to the memory of" did not appear, and the
phrasing appeared rather in the nature of a testimonial to the
benevolence of the bereft. We copied two of the inscriptions:
ERECTED BY ROBERT WALLACE, MERCHANT, LYBSTER, TO THE MEMORY
OF HIS SPOUSE CHARLLOT SIMPSON WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE NOV. 21
1845 AGED 30 YEARS.
_Lovely in Life_.
PLACED BY JOHN SUTHERLAND, FISHERMAN, LYBSTER, IN MEMORY OF
HIS WIFE WILLIAMINIA POLSON WHO DIED 28TH MAY 1867 AGED 29
YEARS.
_At Death still lovely_.
In the yard we noticed a large number of loose stones and the remains of
a wall which we supposed had been part of the kirk. The name of the
village near here was Mid Clyth, and the ruins those of an old Roman
Catholic chapel last used about four hundred years ago. Several attempts
had been made to obtain power to remove the surplus stones, but our
informant stated that although they had only about a dozen Romanists in
the county, they were strong enough to prevent this being done, and it
was the only burial-ground between there and Wick. He also told us that
there were a thousand volunteers in Caithness.
[Illustration: THE NEEDLE OF IRESGOE.]
The people in the North of Caithness in directing us on our way did not
tell us to turn to right or left, but towards the points of the
compass--say to the east or the west as the case might be, and then turn
south for a given number of chains. This kind of information rather
puzzled us, as we had no compass, nor did we know the length of a chain.
It seemed to point back to a time when there were no roads at all in
that county. We afterwards read that Pennant, the celebrated tourist,
when visiting Caithness in 1769, wrote that at that time there was not
a single cart, nor mile of road properly so called in the county. He
described the whole district as little better than an "immense morass,
with here and there some fruitful spots of oats and bere (barley), and
much coarse grass, almost all wild, there being as yet very little
cultivated." And he goes on to add:
Here are neither barns nor granaries; the corn is thrashed out and
preserved in the chaff in bykes, which are stacks in the shape of
beehives thatched quite round. The tender sex (I blush for the
Caithnessians) are the only animals of burden; they turn their
patient backs to the dunghills and receive in their cassties or straw
baskets as much as their lords and masters think fit to fling in with
their pitchforks, and then trudge to the fields in droves.
A more modern writer, however, thought that Pennant must have been
observant but not reflective, and wrote:
It is not on the sea coast that woman looks on man as lord and
master. The fishing industry more than any other leads to great
equality between the sexes. The man is away and the woman conducts
all the family affairs on land. Home means all the comfort man can
enjoy! His life is one persistent calling for self-reliance and
independence and equally of obedience to command.
The relations Pennant quoted were not of servility, but of man assisting
woman to do what she regarded as her natural work.
To inland folk like ourselves it was a strange sight to see so many
women engaged in agricultural pursuits, but we realised that the men had
been out fishing in the sea during the night and were now in bed. We saw
one woman mowing oats with a scythe and another following her, gathering
them up and binding them into sheaves, while several others were cutting
down the oats with sickles; we saw others driving horses attached to
carts. The children, or "bairns," as they were called here, wore neither
shoes nor stockings, except a few of the very young ones, and all the
arable land was devoted to the culture of oats and turnips.
We passed through Lybster, which in Lancashire would only be regarded as
a small village, but here was considered to be a town, as it could boast
of a population of about eight hundred people. We made due note of our
reaching what was acknowledged to be the second plantation of trees in
the county; there were six only in the entire county of Caithness, and
even a sight like this was cheery in these almost treeless regions.
An elderly and portly-looking gentleman who was on the road in front of
us awaited our arrival, and as an introduction politely offered us a
pinch of snuff out of his well-filled snuff-box, which we accepted. We
tried to take it, but the application of a small portion to our noses
caused us to sneeze so violently that the gentleman roared with laughter
at our expense, and was evidently both surprised and amused at our
distress. We were soon good friends, however, and he was as pleased with
our company as we were with his, but we accepted no more pinches of
snuff in Scotland. He had many inquiries to make about the method of
farming in Cheshire and regarding the rotation of crops. We informed
him that potatoes were the first crop following grass grown in our
neighbourhood, followed by wheat in the next year, and oats and clover
afterwards--the clover being cut for two years. "And how many years
before wheat again?" he asked; but this question we could not answer, as
we were not sufficiently advanced in agricultural knowledge to undergo a
very serious examination from one who was evidently inclined to dive
deeply into the subject. As we walked along, we noticed a stone on the
slope of a mountain like those we had seen at Stenness in the Orkneys,
but no halo of interest could be thrown around it by our friend, who
simply said it had been there "since the world began." Near Lybster we
had a good view of the Ord of Caithness, a black-looking ridge of
mountains terminating in the Maiden's Paps, which were later to be
associated with one of the most difficult and dangerous traverses we
ever experienced.
The night was now coming on, and we hurried onwards, passing two old
castles, one to the left and the other to the right of our road, and we
noticed a gate, the posts of which had been formed from the rib-bones of
a monster whale, forming an arch ornamented in the centre by a portion
of the backbone of the same creature. In the dark the only objects we
could distinguish were the rocks on the right and the lights of two
lighthouses, one across Dornoch Firth and the other across Moray Firth.
In another mile and a half after leaving the farmer, who had accompanied
us for some miles and who, we afterwards learned, was an old bachelor,
we were seated in the comfortable hotel at Dunbeath. The landlord was
civil and communicative, and we sat talking to him about the great
difference between Caithness and Cheshire, and the relative values of
turf and coal. He informed us that there was very little coal consumed
in the county of Caithness, as the English coal was dear and the Scotch
coal bad, while the peat was of good quality, the darkest-looking being
the richest and the best.
Our tea was now ready, and so were we, as we had walked fifteen miles
since our lunch in the heather. We were ushered into the parlour, where
we were delighted to find a Cheshire gentleman, who told us he had been
out shooting, and intended to leave by the coach at two a.m. Hearing
that two pedestrians had arrived, he had given up his bed, which he had
engaged early in the day, and offered to rest on the sofa until the
arrival of the mail-coach. We thanked him for his kind consideration,
for we were tired and footsore. Who the gentleman was we did not
discover; he knew Warrington and the neighbourhood, had visited Mr. Lyon
of Appleton Hall near that town, and knew Mr. Patten of Bank Hall, who
he said was fast getting "smoked out" of that neighbourhood. We retired
early, and left him in full possession of the coffee-room and its sofa.
At two o'clock in the morning we were wakened by the loud blowing of a
horn, which heralded the approach of the mail-coach, and in another
minute the trampling of horses' feet beneath our window announced its
arrival. We rose hurriedly and rushed to the window, but in the hurry my
brother dashed against a table, and down went something with a smash; on
getting a light we found it was nothing more valuable than a
water-bottle and glass, the broken pieces of which we carefully
collected together, sopping up the water as best we could. We were in
time to see our friend off on the coach, with three horses and an
enormous light in front, which travelled from Thurso to Helmsdale, a
distance of fifty-eight miles, at the rate of eight miles per hour.
(_Distance walked twenty-one and a half miles._)
_Wednesday, September 20th._
We rose early, and while waiting for our breakfast talked with an old
habitué of the hotel, who, after drawing our attention to the weather,
which had now changed for the worse, told us that the building of the
new pier, as he called it, at Wick had been in progress for seven or
eight years, but the sea there was the stormiest in Britain, and when
the wind came one way the waves washed the pier down again, so that it
was now no bigger than it was two years ago. He also told us he could
remember the time when there was no mail-coach in that part of the
country, the letters for that neighbourhood being sent to a man, a
tailor by trade, who being often very busy, sent his wife to deliver
them, so that Her Majesty's mails were carried by a female!
[Illustration: A STORM IN WICK HARBOUR.]
Almost the last piece of advice given us before leaving home was, "Mind
that you always get a good breakfast before starting out in a morning,"
and fortunately we did not neglect it on this occasion, for it proved
one of the worst day's walks that we ever experienced. Helmsdale was our
next stage, and a direct road led to it along the coast, a distance of
sixteen miles. But my brother was a man of original ideas, and he had
made up his mind that we should walk there by an inland route, and climb
over the Maiden's Paps mountain on our way.
The wind had increased considerably during the night, and the rain began
to fall in torrents as we left the Dunbeath Inn, our mackintoshes and
leggings again coming in useful. The question now arose whether we
should adhere to our original proposal, or proceed to Helmsdale by the
shortest route. Our host strongly advised us to keep to the main road,
but we decided, in spite of our sore feet and the raging elements, to
cross over the Maiden's Paps. We therefore left the main road and
followed a track which led towards the mountains and the wild moors. We
had not gone very far when we met a disconsolate sportsman, accompanied
by his gillies and dogs, who was retreating to the inn which he had left
early in the morning. He explained to us how the rain would spoil his
sport amongst the grouse, though he consoled himself by claiming that it
had been one of the finest sporting seasons ever known in Caithness. As
an illustration, he said that on the eighteenth day of September he had
been out with a party who had shot forty-one and a half brace of grouse
to each gun, besides other game. The average weight of grouse on the
Scotch moors was twenty-five ounces, but those on the Caithness moors
were heavier, and averaged twenty-five and a half ounces.
He was curious to know where we were going, and when we told him, he
said we were attempting an impossible feat in such awful weather, and
strongly advised us to return to the hotel, and try the journey on a
finer day. We reflected that the fine weather had now apparently broken,
and it would involve a loss of valuable time if we accepted his advice
to wait for a finer day, so we pressed forwards for quite two hours
across a dreary country, without a tree or a house or a human being to
enliven us on our way. Fortunately the wind and rain were behind us, and
we did not feel their pressure like our friend the sportsman, who was
going in the opposite direction. At last we came to what might be called
a village, where there were a few scattered houses and a burial-ground,
but no kirk that we could see. Near here we crossed a stream known as
Berriedale Water, and reached the last house, a farm, where our track
practically ended. We knocked at the door, which was opened by the
farmer himself, and his wife soon provided us with tea and oatmeal cake,
which we enjoyed after our seven or eight-mile walk. The wind howled in
the chimney and the rain rattled on the window-panes as we partook of
our frugal meal, and we were inclined to exclaim with the poet whose
name we knew not:
The day is cold and dark and dreary,
It rains, and the wind is never weary.
The people at the farm had come there from South Wales and did not know
much about the country. All the information they could give us was that
the place we had arrived at was named Braemore, and that on the other
side of the hills, which they had never crossed themselves, there was a
forest with no roads through it, and if we got there, we should have to
make our way as best we could across the moors to Helmsdale. They showed
us the best way to reach the foot of the mountain, but we found the
going much worse than we anticipated, since the storm had now developed
into one of great magnitude. Fortunately the wind was behind us, but the
higher we ascended the stronger it became, and it fairly took our breath
away even when we turned our heads towards it sideways, which made us
realise how impossible it was for us to turn back, however much we
might wish to do so; consequently we struggled onwards, occasionally
taking advantage of the shelter of some projecting rock to recover our
breathing--a very necessary proceeding, for as we approached the summit
the rain became more like sleet, the wind was very cold, and the rocks
were in a frozen and slippery condition. We were in great danger of
being blown over and losing our lives, and as we could no longer walk
upright in safety, we knelt down, not without a prayer to heaven as we
continued on our way. Thus we crawled along upon our hands and knees
over the smooth wind-swept summit of the Maiden's Paps, now one immense
surface of ice. The last bit was the worst of all, for here the raging
elements struck us with full and uninterrupted force. We crossed this
inches at a time, lying flat on the smooth rock with our faces
downwards. Our feelings of thankfulness to the Almighty may be imagined
when we finally reached the other side in safety.
Given a fine day we should have had a glorious view from this point,
and, as it was, in spite of the rain we could see a long distance, but
the prospect was far from encouraging. A great black rock, higher than
that we had climbed, stood before us, with its summit hidden in the
clouds, and a wide expanse of hills and moors, but not a house or tree
so far as the eye could reach. This rather surprised us, as we expected
the forest region to be covered with trees which would afford us some
shelter on our farther way. We learned afterwards that the "forest" was
but a name, the trees having disappeared ages ago from most of these
forests in the northern regions of Scotland.
We were wet through to the skin and shivering with cold as we began to
descend the other side of the Maiden's Paps--a descent we found both
difficult and dangerous. It looked an awful place below us--a wild
amphitheatre of dreary hills and moors!
We had no compass to guide us, and in the absence of light from the sun
we could not tell in what direction we were travelling, so with our
backs towards the hills we had crossed, we made our way across the bog,
now saturated with water. We could hear it gurgling under our feet at
every stride, even when we could not see it, and occasionally we slipped
into holes nearly knee-deep in water. After floundering in the bog for
some time, and not knowing which way to turn, as we appeared to be
surrounded with hills, we decided to try to walk against the wind which
was blowing from the sea, for we knew that if we could reach the coast
we should also reach the highway, which ran alongside it. But we soon
had to give in, for we came to great rocks impossible for us to scale,
so we had to abandon this direction and try another. The rain still
continued, and our hands had now been bleached quite white with the rain
beating on them, just like those of a washerwoman after a heavy day's
washing. We knew that the night would shortly be coming on, and the
terrible thought of a dark night on the moors began to haunt us. If we
could only have found a track we should not have cared, but we were now
really LOST.
We were giving way to despair and beginning to think it might be a
question of life or death when a bright thought suddenly struck us, and
we wondered why we had not thought of it before. Why not follow the
water, which would be sure to be running towards the sea? This idea
inspired us with hope, and seemed to give us new life; but it was
astonishing what a time elapsed before we found a running stream, for
the water appeared to remain where it fell. At length we came to a small
stream, the sight of which gave us renewed energy, and we followed it
joyfully on its downward course. Presently we saw a few small bushes;
then we came to a larger stream, and afterwards to a patch of grassland
which clearly at one time had been under cultivation. At last we came to
trees under which we could see some deer sheltering from the storm: by
this time the stream had become a raging torrent. We stood watching the
deer for a moment, when suddenly three fine stags rushed past us and
dashed into the surging waters of the stream, which carried them down a
considerable distance before they could land on its rocky bank on the
other side. It was an exciting adventure, as the stags were so near us,
and with their fine antlers presented an imposing appearance.
We now crossed over some heather in order to reach a small path which we
could see alongside the swollen river. How pleased we were when we knew
we were out of danger! It seemed to us like an escape from a terrible
fate. We remembered how Mungo Park, when alone in the very heart of
Africa, and in the midst of a great wilderness, derived consolation from
very much smaller sources than the few trees which now cheered us on our
way. The path became broader as we passed through the grounds of Lord
Galloway's hunting-box, and we soon reached the highway, where we
crossed the boiling torrent rushing along with frightful rapidity on its
way to the sea. The shades of night were coming on as we knocked at the
door of the keeper's cottage, and judge of our surprise when we were
informed that, after walking from ten o'clock in the morning to six
o'clock at night, we were only about six miles from Dunbeath, whence we
had started that morning, and had still about ten miles to walk before
we could reach Helmsdale.
We were almost famished with hunger, but we were lucky enough to secure
a splendid tea at the keeper's cottage. Fortunately for us the good lady
of the house had provided a sumptuous repast for some sporting gentlemen
she was expecting, but who had been prevented from coming owing to the
storm. We kept no record of our gastronomical performances on this
occasion, but we can safely state that of a whole rabbit very little
remained, and the same remark would apply to a whole series of other
delicacies which the keeper's wife had so kindly and thoughtfully
provided for her more distinguished but absent guests. We took the
opportunity of drying some of our wet clothing, and before we finished
our tea the keeper himself came in, to whom we related our adventures.
Though accustomed to the broken regions and wild solitudes we had passed
through, he was simply astounded that we had come over them safely,
especially on such a day.
It was pitch dark when we left the keeper's cottage, and he very kindly
accompanied us until we reached the highroad in safety. The noise caused
by the rushing waters of the rivers as they passed us on their way in
frantic haste to the sea, now quite near us, and the roar of the sea
itself as it dashed itself violently against the rocky coast, rendered
conversation very difficult, but our companion gave us to understand
that the road to Helmsdale was very hilly and lonely, and at one time
was considered dangerous for strangers. Fortunately the surface was very
good, and we found it much easier to walk upon than the wet heather we
had passed over for so many miles. The black rocks which lined the road,
the darkness of the night, and the noise from the sea as the great waves
dashed and thundered on the rocks hundreds of feet below, might have
terrified timid travellers, but they seemed nothing to us compared with
our experience earlier in the day. The wind had moderated, but the rain
continued to fall, and occasionally we were startled as we rounded one
of the many bends in the road by coming suddenly on a burn swollen with
the heavy rains, hurling itself like a cataract down the rocky sides of
the hill, and rushing under the road beneath our feet in its noisy
descent helter-skelter towards the sea.
We walked on as rapidly as the hilly nature of our road would permit,
without seeing a house or human being, until we approached Helmsdale,
when we were surprised by the sudden appearance of the stage-coach drawn
by three horses and displaying its enormous red lamp in front. The
driver suddenly pulled up his horses, for, as he said, he did not know
"what the de'il it was coming in front": he scarcely ever met any one on
that road, and particularly on such an "awful" stormy night. We asked
him how far we were from the town, and were delighted to hear it was
only about two miles away. It was after ten o'clock when we arrived at
Helmsdale, tired and footsore, but just in time to secure lodgings for
the night at the Commercial Inn.
(_Distance walked thirty miles_.)
_Thursday, September 21st._
Helmsdale was a pleasant little town inhabited chiefly by fishermen, but
a place of some importance, for it had recently become the northern
terminus of the railway. A book in the hotel, which we read while
waiting for breakfast, gave us some interesting information about the
road we had travelled along the night before, and from it we learned
that the distance between Berriedale and Helmsdale was nine and a half
miles, and that about half-way between these two places it passed the
Ord of Caithness at an elevation of 1,200 feet above the sea-level, an
"aclivity of granite past which no railway can be carried," and the
commencement of a long chain of mountains separating Caithness from
Sutherland.
Formerly the road was carried along the edge of a tremendous range of
precipices which overhung the sea in a fashion enough to frighten both
man and beast, and was considered the most dangerous road in Scotland,
so much so that when the Earl of Caithness or any other great landed
proprietor travelled that way a troop of their tenants from the borders
of Sutherland-shire assembled, and drew the carriage themselves across
the hill, a distance of two miles, quadrupeds not being considered safe
enough, as the least deviation would have resulted in a fall over the
rocks into the sea below. This old road, which was too near the sea for
modern traffic, was replaced by the present road in the year 1812. The
old path, looked at from the neighbourhood of Helmsdale, had more the
appearance of a sheep track than a road as it wound up the steep brow of
the hill 300 or 400 feet above the rolling surge of the sea below, and
was quite awe-inspiring even to look at, set among scenery of the most
wild and savage character.
We had now cleared the county of Caithness, which, like Orkney and
Shetland, was almost entirely devoid of trees. To our way of thinking a
sprinkling of woods and copses would have much enhanced the wild beauty
of the surroundings, but there was a difference of opinion or taste on
this point as on everything else. A gentleman who had settled in
America, and had had to clear away the trees from his holding, when he
passed through Caithness on his way to John o' Groat's was continually
ejaculating, "What a beautiful country!" "What a very beautiful
country!" Some one who heard him remarked, "You can hardly call it a
very beautiful country when there are no trees." "Trees," cried the
Yankee; "that's all stuff Caithness, I calculate, is the finest clearing
I ever saw in my life!"
We had often wondered, by the way, how the Harbour Works at Wick would
be affected by the great storms, and we were afterwards greatly
interested when we read in a Scotch provincial newspaper the following
telegrams: