North West Highlands

Introduction

WHAT A TASK! Each one of these delectable areas should have a guide book ten times longer than this one. Each is an enormous area to describe, full of obvious beauty and hidden delights, replete with history, laden with myths. There is the burden of old remembered wrongs and sorrows here; there is an ancient, embattled culture; there are long traditions besieged by alien invasion; there is romance and real poverty.

Today the myth of Highland Romance is carefully fostered, especially by those who hope to profit from it. In reality, Highland history is a bloody mish-mash of clan warfare, feuds and piracy - they are the reality behind the myth.

The clan chiefs, for power and wealth, segregated their miserable followers from all the social and economic progress that was taking place in the rest of Scotland and indeed in the whole of western Europe. When the time came that those renegade chieftains could satisfy their extravagance by exchanging their swords for an English pension, they did not hesitate for one moment in deserting their clans and selling the lands they claimed - falsely - as their own.

Only then, when that 'parcel of rogues in a nation' - to quote Robert Burns - had been paid off, did peace come to the Highlands, even if it was, in all too many cases, the peace of death. The Highlands had for centuries been devastated, looted and damned by one of the most appalling ruling classes in all of world history, and the price of their pleasures, and of their final treachery, is still being paid. That is the reality behind the romance of the Highlands.

But it is still, and will remain, an area of quite incomparable loveliness. It is a wholly fascinating region, fascinating to visit, fascinating to study.

Clearly, any guide book has to centre itself somewhere, and the first part of this one is centred on Fort William, and all the tours described run from there. But Fort William is hardly the centre of the area covered; indeed, it is at the edge. However, all the roads radiate from the town, and it is perhaps the most convenient place from which to tour the whole area described.

There is a lot of accommodation, of all qualities and prices, in Fort William. However, except perhaps for Morvern (where there is a good hotel at Lochaline) there is also excellent accommodation along all the routes described, and if you don't fancy the bustle of Fort William, attractive though the town is, you will certainly not be disappointed at the standards of accommodation and Highland hospitality out in the countryside.

Starting, then, from Fort William, the Roads to the Isles run west and north west, out to Ardnamurchan Point standing defiant against the Atlantic roar; out to Morvern, that vast empty triangle which once guarded the Sound of Mull; out to Mallaig, the last outpost on the mainland, beyond which the Islands begin. And then once more from Fort William, north again, over the great rocky spine of the country, then back to the west coast, and north to Ullapool, another port from where the ships go to the Isles, another Road to the Isles.

Much of the area used to be in Argyll before that ancient county disappeared (according to the bureaucrats) in a quite ludicrous re-organisation of local government.

In terms of climate, Argyll is blessed. It is laved by the waters of the Gulf Stream, and is warm and equable. It can also be wet. For an odd statistic, you might note that more palm trees grow in Argyll than in any other British county!

The name derives from Arachaidal or Ergadia, the Boundary of the Gaels, and there are very ancient links with Ireland. The original kingdom of Dalriada in northern Ireland was colonised from Argyll, but the tide then turned, and the Irish people, now called Scots, returned to Argyll - Ergadia - and established a Dalriada there. And if you think that is confusing enough, it is only the very beginning, the first faint dawn-light, of history.

It would be tedious even to outline the history of the area, with its long story of clan battles and see-sawing clan fortunes. This area endured such things more than most others. It happened to be the borderland between the great clans of the Campbells and the Macdonalds. It was also the border between the Presbyterian and Catholic religions - still is, in fact - and that, too, caused much misery. The holiday-maker of today will hardly care whether he is in Campbell or Macdonald country, or, except perhaps on Sundays, in a Catholic or a Presbyterian area. The same rules of welcome and hospitality will apply.

And all of this great area is empty - empty of everything except scenery, that is, and that scenery is unquestionably the best in Scotland and arguably the finest in the world. Of course there are settlements here and there (no need to fear going without any creature comforts!). There is even a little industry at Loch Aline and the sad remains of more in the hills above Strontian. And there is forestry. There is agriculture, of course, here and there, and fish farming and even deer farming, although how long they will survive is still a question.

To the romantic sentimentalist it is the land of Bonnie Prince Charlie and his foolish, doomed, heroic attempt to hold back the march of time. To the realist it is the land where venal chiefs sold the birthright of their clansmen for English gold and then watched disdainfully as the Clearances (which began later and lasted longer here than elsewhere) emptied the straths and glens and left 'nettles growing where once the children grew.'

In all of this, it is a playground without parallel for the sailor, the walker, the climber and the holiday maker. There are vast arcs of white sand, washed by a gentle sea, which sing as you walk barefoot over them. There are thousand-foot cliffs and gentle strolls through quiet valleys and by murmuring burns. There are great passes which will tax the strongest walkers. There is colour and shape in those hills and sea lochs which make the Greek islands drab. I will show you a sight down the Ardnamurchan Peninsula which, on any sunny day, must be Tir nan Og, the Islands of the Blessed, the Islands of Eternal Youth.

There is much to interest the naturalist in this land, for both flora and fauna are notable. Inevitably, the flora and fauna reflect the use that man is making of the land and the sea, and what we look at today is not necessarily what our fathers saw, nor what our children will see.

That has been especially true in the last few years, when vast conifer plantations have appeared on the bare hills. That particular change, and it will be a permanent change, inevitably alters the whole of nature around it. It seems that the forestry industry plants nothing but pine trees. I suppose there is a very good economic reason for this, since they grow quickly and in poor soil, but the visual effects can be appalling. The essence of Highland scenery is variety. Every hilltop and every corner gives a new and lovely view. If every view becomes a monotony of greenish-black conifers stretching to the horizon and beyond, then the whole character and nature of the area is changed. And certainly not for the better.

To be fair, it has been the recent policy of the Forestry Commission (although not of all others) to plant a proportion of hardwoods at the edges of their vast conifer plantations. Eventually this will help, but only a little. It is about as effective as painting your own front door in a decrepit tower block.

Of course, once long ago, these mountains were covered by great forests, but they were forests of oak and other native, mostly deciduous trees, not the pines of today. There are still some remnants, especially around Strontian, of those vast woodlands, and today they are carefully preserved. Then, the deer lived and thrived in the forests, feeding well on all the herbage of the forest floor. They cannot live in the forestry plantations, though. For one thing, they are fenced out of them, and for another, nothing grows in the deep shade of pine trees.

Still, for today at least, there are lots of deer in all this vast area, both red and roe, and they are easy enough to see, if not to approach.

Of course, like the salmon and sea trout in the rivers and the brown trout in the hill lochs, they are private property and you must not think to shoot them. But you are in Scotland, and the law of trespass here is different and much more sensible than that of the rest of Britain, so you can wander at will, and when you will, over these hills. Do not, though, carry a gun or a rod, or you might then be charged with trespass in pursuit of game, and that is an offence, and a heinous one.

You will of course respect the farmers when you are walking, and not break down fences or gates. And you will, of course, use some discretion and sense in walking the hills during the shooting season, for there are high-powered rifles around then, and not all of them in skilled and responsible hands. It cannot be easy to mistake a walker for a deer, but it has happened.

As well as deer, there are wild cats here - real ones, not feral domestic tabbies - but you are unlikely to see one. There are seals, and those you will surely see. There are red squirrels and badgers and even a few, a very few, pole cats and pine martens. There are curlews, shags, oyster-catchers, lap-wings and ptarmigan and every possible sort of gull. There are ravens and owls and even eagles. There are hooded crows, and every farmer is a sworn enemy of every hooded crow, for that bird has the pernicious habit of attacking new-born and even partly-born lambs, and pecking out their eyes. And there are a few adders...