The north of Scotland is rapidly becoming little more than a
pleasure-ground for the people of the Kingdom, and its attractions are
yearly drawing a larger number of Americans. There are practically no
European visitors, but that is largely true of the entire Kingdom. The
people of the Continent consider Britain a chilly, unattractive land.
Its historic and literary traditions, so dear to the average American,
who holds a common language, do not appeal to those who think their own
countries superior to any other in these particulars.
It is only a natural consequence that Scotland, outside of the three or
four largest cities, is becoming, like Switzerland, a nation of
hotelkeepers--and very excellent ones they are. The Scotch hotels
average as good as any in the world. One finds them everywhere in the
Highlands. Every lake, every ruin frequented by tourists has its hotel,
many of them fine structures of native granite, substantially built and
splendidly furnished.
We left Oban over the route by which we came, since no other was
recommended to motorists. Our original plan to follow the Caledonian
Canal to Inverness was abandoned on account of difficult roads and
numerous ferries with poor and infrequent service. After waiting three
hours to get an "accumulator" which had been turned over to a local
repair man thirty-six hours before with instructions to have it charged
and returned promptly, we finally succeeded in getting off. This delay
is an example of those which we encountered again and again from failure
to get prompt service, especially when we were making an effort to get
away before ten or eleven in the morning.
It was no hardship to follow more leisurely than before the road past
Loch Awe, whose sheet of limpid water lay like a mirror around Kilchurn
Castle under the cloudless, noonday sky. A little farther on, at
Dalmally, we paused at a pleasant old country hotel, where the delicious
Scotch strawberries were served fresh from the garden. It was a quaint,
clean, quiet place, and the landlord told us that aside from the old
castles and fine scenery in the vicinity, its chief attraction to guests
was trout-fishing in neighboring streams. We were two days in passing
through the heart of the Highlands from Oban to Inverness over about two
hundred miles of excellent road running through wild and often beautiful
scenery, but there were few historic spots as compared with the coast
country. The road usually followed the edge of the hills, often with a
lake or mountain stream on one hand. From Crianlarich we followed the
sparkling Dochart until we reached the shore of Loch Tay, about twenty
miles distant. From the mountainside we had an unobstructed view of this
narrow but lovely lake, lying for a distance of twenty miles between
ridges of sharply rising hills. White, low-hung clouds half hid the
mountains on the opposite side of the loch, giving the delightful effect
of light and shadow for which the Scotch Highlands are famous and which
the pictures of Watson, Graham and Farquharson have made familiar to
nearly everyone.
At the northern end of the lake we caught distant glimpses of the
battlemented towers of Taymouth Castle, home of the Marquis of
Breadalbane, which, though modern, is one of the most imposing of the
Scotch country seats. If the castle itself is imposing, what shall we
say of the estate, extending as it does westward to the Sound of Mull, a
distance of one hundred miles--a striking example of the inequalities of
the feudal system. Just before we crossed the bridge over the Tay River
near the outlet of the lake, we noticed a gray old mansion with many
Gothic towers and gables, Grandtully Castle, made famous by Scott as the
Tully-Veolan of Waverly. Near by is Kinniard House, where Robert Louis
Stevenson wrote "Treasure Island."
A few miles farther on we came to Pitlochry, a surprisingly well built
resort with excellent hotels and a mammoth "Hydropathic" that dominates
the place from a high hill. The town is situated in the very center of
the Highlands, surrounded by hills that supply the gray granite used in
its construction; and here we broke our journey for the night.
Our way to Inverness was through a sparsely inhabited, wildly broken
country, with half a dozen mean-looking villages at considerable
distances from each other and an occasional hut or wayside inn between.
Although it was July and quite warm for the north of Scotland, the snow
still lingered on many of the low mountains, and in some places it
seemed that we might reach it by a few minutes' walk. There was little
along the road to remind one of the stirring times or the plaided and
kilted Highlander that Scott has led us to associate with this country.
We saw one old man, the keeper of a little solitary inn in the very
heart of the hills, arrayed in the full glory of the old-time
garb--plaid, tartan, sporran and skene-dhu, all set off by the plumed
Glengarry cap--a picturesque old fellow indeed. And we met farther on
the way a dirty-looking youth with his bagpipes slung over his
shoulder--in dilapidated modern garb he was anything but a fit
descendant of the minstrels whose fame has come down to us in song and
story. Still, he was glad to play for us, and despite his general
resemblance to an every-day American tramp, it was something to have
heard the skirl of the bag-pipe in the Pass of Killiekrankie. And after
all, the hills, the vales and the lochs were there, and everywhere on
the low green mountains grazed endless flocks of sheep. They lay
leisurely in the roadway or often trotted unconcernedly in front of the
car, occasioning at times a speed limit even more unsatisfactory than
that imposed in the more populous centers by the police traps.
Incidentally we learned that the finest sheep in the world--and vast
numbers of them--are produced in Great Britain. When we compare them
with the class of animals raised in America it is easy to see why our
wool and mutton average so greatly inferior.
[Illustration: IN THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.