For the next thirty miles the road closely followed the west shore of
Loch Lomond, and for the larger part of the way we had a magnificent
panorama of the lake and the numberless green islands that rose out of
its silvery waters. Our view in places was cut off by the fine country
estates that lay immediately on the shores of the lake, but the grounds,
rich with shrubbery and bright with flowers, were hardly less pleasing
than the lake itself. These prevailed at the southern portion of the
lake only, and for at least twenty miles the road closely followed the
shore, leading around short turns on the very edges of steep embankments
or over an occasional sharp hill--conditions that made careful driving
necessary. Just across the lake, which gradually grew narrower as we
went north, lay the low Scotch mountains, their green outlines subdued
by a soft blue haze, but forming a striking background to the
ever-varying scenery of the lake and opposite shore. Near the
northern end on the farther side is the entrance to the Trosachs, made
famous by Scott's "Lady of the Lake." The roads to this region are
closed to motors--the only instance that I remember where public
highways were thus interdicted. The lake finally dwindled to a brawling
mountain stream, which we followed for several miles to Crianlarich, a
rude little village nestling at the foot of the rugged hills. From here
we ran due west to Oban, and for twenty miles of the distance the road
was the worst we saw in Scotland, being rough and covered with loose,
sharp stones that were ruinous to tires. It ran through a bleak,
unattractive country almost devoid of habitations and with little sign
of life excepting the flocks of sheep grazing on the short grasses that
covered the steep, stony hillsides. The latter half of the distance the
surroundings are widely different, an excellent though winding and
narrow road leading us through some of the finest scenes of the
Highlands. Especially pleasing was the ten-mile jaunt along the north
shore of Loch Awe, with the glimpses of Kilchurn Castle which we caught
through occasional openings in the thickly clustered trees on the shore.
Few ruins are more charmingly situated than Kilchurn, standing as it
does on a small island rising out of the clear waters--the crumbling
walls overgrown with ivy and wall-flowers. The last fifteen miles were
covered in record time for us, for it was growing exceedingly chilly as
the night began to fall and the Scotch July day was as fresh and sharp
as an American October.
Oban is one of the most charming of the north of Scotland resort towns,
and is becoming one of the most popular. It is situated on a little
land-locked bay, generally white in summer time with the sails of
pleasure vessels. Directly fronting the town, just across the harbor,
are several ranges of hills fading away into the blue mists of the
distance and forming, together with the varying moods of sky and water,
a delightful picture. Overhanging the town from the east is the scanty
ruin of Dunollie Castle, little more than a shapeless pile of stone
covered over with masses of ivy. Viewed from the harbor, the town
presents a striking picture, and the most remarkable feature is the
great colosseum on the hill. This is known as McCaig's Tower and was
built by an eccentric citizen some years ago merely to give employment
to his fellow townsmen. One cannot get an adequate idea of the real
magnitude of the structure without climbing the steep hill and viewing
it from the inside. It is a circular tower, pierced by two rows of
windows, and is not less than three hundred feet in diameter, the wall
ranging in height from thirty to seventy-five feet from the ground. It
lends a most striking and unusual appearance to the town, but among
the natives it goes by the name of "McCaig's Folly."
[Illustration: KILCHURN CASTLE, LOCH AWE.]
From Oban as a center, numberless excursions may be made to old castles,
lakes of surpassing beauty and places of ancient and curious history.
None of the latter are more famous than the island of Iona, lying about
thirty-five miles distant and accessible by steamer two or three days of
each week in summer time. We never regretted that we abandoned the car a
day for the trip to this quaint spot and its small sister island,
Staffa, famed for Fingall's cave and the curious natural columns formed
by volcanic action. The round trip covers a distance of about
seventy-five miles and occupies eight or ten hours. Iona is a very small
island, with a population of no more than fifty, but it was a place of
importance in the early religious history of Scotland; and its odd
little cathedral, which is now in ruins--except the nave, but recently
restored--was originally built in the Eleventh Century. Weird and
strange indeed is the array of memorials rudely cut from Scotch granite
that mark the resting places of the chiefs of many forgotten clans,
while a much higher degree of art is shown in the regular and even
delicate designs traced on the numerous old crosses still standing. In
olden days Iona was counted sacred ground after the landing of St.
Columba in 563, and its fame even extended to Sweden and Denmark, whose
kings at one time were brought here for interment. We were fortunate in
having a fine day, the sky being clear and the sea perfectly smooth. We
were thus enabled to make landing at both isles, a thing that is often
impossible on account of the weather. This circular trip--for the return
is made by the Sound of Mull--is a remarkably beautiful one, the steamer
winding in and out through the straits among the islands and between
shores wild and broken, though always picturesque and often impressive.
Many of the hills are crowned with ruined fortresses and occasionally an
imposing modern summer residence is to be seen. Competent judges declare
that provided the weather is fine no more delightful short excursion by
steamer can be made on the British coast than the one just described.
Three miles from Oban lies Dunstafnage Castle, a royal residence of the
Pictish kings, bearing the marks of extreme antiquity. It occupies a
commanding position on a point of land extending far into the sea and
almost surrounded by water at high tide. We visited it in the fading
twilight, and a lonelier, more ghostly place it would be hard to
imagine. From this old castle was taken the stone of destiny upon which
the Pictish kings were crowned, but which is now the support of the
coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. A place so rich in romantic
legend could not be expected to escape the knowledge of the Wizard of
the North and Scott made more than one visit to this solitary ruin. As a
result the story of Dunstafnage has been woven into the "Legend of
Montrose" as "Ardenvohr" and the description may be easily recognized by
any one who visits the old castle.
Oban is modern, a place of many and excellent hotels fronting on the
bay. So far, only a small per cent of its visitors are Americans, and
the indifferent roads leading to the town discourage the motorist. Had
we adhered to the route outlined for us by the Motor Union Secretary, we
should have missed it altogether. We had made a stop in the town two
years before, and yet there are few places in Britain that we would
rather visit a third time than Oban.
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