Irvines in Scotland 1995

Irvines in Orkney
written & published by Bill Irvine
copyright 1995, Victoria BC
edited September 2017 with thanks to Ray Miller

Thursday, May, 25, 1995

Looking west out of my fourth-floor corner room at the Moat House International Hotel in Glasgow, Scotland, the river Clyde patiently waits to be painted by the setting sun. Once the hue reaches the anticipated intensity, I'll take the first photograph to record this visit to Scotland that started in Victoria, BC, May 24, 1995.

I was going to call it the visit that started yesterday — which is true —  but it seems more like a week than one day. Air Club International flight 310 departed Vancouver for Glasgow via Gatwick, London, at 7:00 p.m. Wednesday evening. The passengers boarded the plane at 5:30 p.m. and after taking care of refueling and other unspecified problems, the A310 Airbus was pushed away from the terminal ramp one-and-a-half hours behind schedule. Sitting in the cramped seats in the stifling May heat (23 C.) caused much grumbling among the belated holidayers. The first movement of the plane toward getting into flight mode, was met with a deafening round of applause.

After a serving of coffee and juice, the in-flight dinner was put on hold. Eventually, the meal of chicken or cannelloni, was served about nine-thirty. This exciting turn-of-events was accompanied by a surprising display by Nature: The full-to-capacity passengers, were each expecting the onset of darkness after the red fireball in the west sank out-of-sight. Not so. At 10:15 the captain advised those behind him to set their watches to London time at 6:15 a.m. This meant it was no longer evening but morning already! The sun cooperated by imperceptibly rising again above the horizon. Its dark red glow filled the cabin area and painted the faces of some people in its glow creating a unique sight and phenomena of over-the-pole travel.

This natural display, ranks high among the highlights of the trip. After off-loading several passengers in London, the Airbus continued to Glasgow after more than an hour on the ground. By the time the plane was emptied at Glasgow Airport at 14:25  Zulu, thirteen hours had elapsed since the passengers were herded aboard in Vancouver at 01:30 Z. This being four hours longer than the advertised duration. Maybe in the relative comfort of a 747 this would have been acceptable but on the sardine-can dimensions of the Airbus the delays and cramped conditions were very enervating. Departure at Glasgow was met with a collective sigh-of-relief by all so affected. Anyway, we were now at our destination, Scotland.

I walked out of the Glasgow terminal into a light rain shower. It was 15ºC with a wind of about twelve knots. I put my topcoat on and my umbrella into standby mode and walked the fifty yards to the car-rental building beside the terminal. The trauma continued with the Alamo Car Rental Agency. The car that had been prepaid from Victoria was not available but an upgrade could be had for an additional 110 pounds for the two-week usage. After this was agreed to, the upgrade car turned out to be a manual shift! The contract had been prepaid for an automatic unit; thus, another trip was made from the car-rental parking lot back to their office. Finally, the red Nissan Primera was pointed down the wrong-side of the road, with visions of seaside resorts at Ayre, dancing in the driver's head. These too, were soon dashed. The real icing on the cake was when I arrived at my hotel and discovered I'd left my umbrella on the baggage cart the second time I off-loaded it. The instructions of, "go out here, turn left onto the M8 for Glasgow, and follow that for about four miles; take the A77 to Kilmarnock; once there you'll see the road to Ayre," didn't work. After driving around in circles for forty-five minutes the exercise-in-futility was abandoned for the comfort of this hotel room. But the story doesn't end here: After making the first stop in the rental car in Scotland to go inside at the Moat House, a local driver —  trying to back into a parking spot —  creased the driver's door on the red Nissan with his front bumper. So basically, one could say, up to this point it sounds like the "holiday from hell!" Oh yes, the river Clyde never did get painted by the sun and I don't have the picture to prove it.

Using my mini binoculars I brought with me, I got a good look at the city’s industrial area lying to the south of the hotel. What was once heavily industrialized real-estate, is undergoing dramatic changes in keeping with Glasgow’s desire to change its economic base to tourism. Pacific Quay was the name emblazoned on the sign across the river from the hotel. I could see where a large floating dredge had extricated three old car bodies (complete with wheels attached) from their watery grave and placed them high and dry for removal. It is anticipated this massive effort will pay handsome tourist dividends in years to come.

Other articles I was glad I brought with me were my laptop computer and audio tape recorder. One was much easier to transport than the other. The laptop was carried in a hard-shell briefcase complete with power adapters and foreign voltage transformer. Both proved to be indispensable. When I couldn’t sleep because of the time change, I wrote. The tape recorder was in my jacket pocket or, later, on the car seat to record thoughts and observations as they occurred. It is from these audio notes that I now write.

Another diversion to while away the hours was watching television. BBC One & BBC Two  are the two  main channels of the four available in Britain. Some hotels offer more than four channels if they have their own satellite dish. Watching BBC this first night proved to be fortunate in that a show was broadcast showing the climbing of the Old Man of Hoy in 1962. The climbers first made the ascent the previous year and were now going to climb it again for the purposes of televising it live to the world. It was an amazing undertaking and apropos as I would be sailing right past it in a few more days. Besides the challenge of climbing the Old Man, the climbers and video crew had to transport all the state-of-the-art (circa 1962) video and climbing gear to a base-camp on the Island of Hoy. Without rerunning the whole show now, suffice it to say I thought it quite providential that such a show would be presented the day I arrived in Scotland. Throughout the remainder of my journey, several people were overheard commenting on the merits of the show and it seemed many had seen it besides me.

Edinburgh
Friday, May 26, 1995.

After getting only a few hours sleep due to jet-lag, I departed the Moat International before 8:00 in the morning. The plan was to head south to see Bonshaw Tower near Locherby, in the south of Scotland. This was not to be; not having a map made it impossible to get out of Glasgow on any route except the main one — the M8 to Edinburgh. After all the little things that had happened up to me at this point, all I wanted was to get out of Glasgow -- to where was unimportant.

Once pointed east on the M8, I got my first taste of the maniacal driving of these Scotsmen. In my judgement, the sixty miles per I was doing in the slow lane, was plenty of speed for this narrow divided motorway. The cars passing on my right at around eighty miles per hour, thought otherwise. It was quite stressful trying to keep the relatively wide car I was driving between my set of white lines. I had questioned the point of increased vehicle-size with the car-rental agent but he assured me the larger unit would be best for me while visiting in Scotland.

After driving for only a half-an-hour I pulled off into a lay-by-cum-rest-area named Hearthill. Here I had a light breakfast of fruit and toast before regrouping and heading for Edinburgh. After the debacle of trying to extricate myself from Glasgow, I thought it prudent to purchase road maps of that city plus Edinburgh. This I did in the confectionery adjacent the restaurant. My preference was still to head south to Dumphrieshire but I couldn’t find a route that was accessible from Hearthill. After getting back in the car, I removed the owner’s manual from the glove compartment and checked out a few things regarding this unit: like, how to open the trunk from inside; how to open the fuel door; how to open the sun- roof, etc. Then it was back in the car and east onto the M8.

My next entry in my audio trip-log puts me fourteen miles from Edinburgh on the M8.  On the open road I drove more than 110 km/hr and was passed by everything. This first-day driving on the wrong side of the road was a real shocker for me. Later, as Edinburgh got nearer, the road swung north and I found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic in the morning commute. The road here was undergoing extensive repairs that just added to the confusion. Even without the road repairs, the road here was so narrow it resembled one of our on-ramps to a main highway in its narrow width. It was during this rest from chaotic driving that I noticed the good tunes being played on the radio; the disk-jockeys were very hip (American-style) and I noted a previously unheard phrase, “Good on ya!” Perhaps this is the start of another “You bet,” or “Hang loose,” type greeting. Just remember you heard it here first!

My hiatus did not last long: ahead loomed the Newbridge roundabout (on the M9 heading north). It was the first major roundabout I had encountered and by now I was learning to select my exit route before entering the circle. A plan view of the impending malaise is presented to observant drivers before entering into the roundabout. The trick is to know where you want to exit before entering. The road signs are very poor in Scotland compared to Canada or the US, and this caused much confusion here and throughout my journey (journey is a Scottish word to trip). From my map, I decided the route to Edinburgh was via the A8, this motorway I got onto by using these observations. I felt quite proud of myself. The A8 was as jammed with traffic as an off-ramp into Seattle from Interstate 5 in America.

After pretty-much looking at the licence plate of the car in front of me for more than  twenty minutes, and thinking, “I must be lost,” ahead — at the end of a mile-long straightaway — loomed an impressive sight: Edinburgh Castle came into view. It looked magnificent in the long rays of morning light. I was still some distance from it and not yet into the city proper. Both sides of the road were guarded by high, stone fences with houses behind.  A few local residents were out walking their dogs in the shade of the overhanging trees and clinging vines. This suggested to me, this was still the residential area. Towering church spires entered the landscape confirming my suspicions I was on the correct road and was entering Edinburgh.

The age of the ancient buildings and the size of some the churches were what impressed me most as I drove into the downtown area. To my left, at the corner of Stafford Street, was a very old building currently serving the community as a bank. Here the road was very narrow and I noted this rental car was wider than  my 190E at home. As the buildings and churches rose higher, sight of the Castle was lost and thus my sense of direction. I just kept following the car ahead in the stop-and-go traffic. From my map on the seat beside me, I noted the main artery to the Castle was a right turn ahead. Consequently, the right lane was chosen and the turn was successfully made after waiting for three light-changes. Making right turns from the wrong-side-of-the-road is one of the trickiest maneuvers for the novice U.K. driver. After the successful turn,  I was now on Lothian Street and had turned just before entering the world-famous Royal Mile of Princess Street.

Lothian Street dipped downhill and then rose up again. I wasn’t sure where I was going until my eye caught the sight of a sandwich-board on the sidewalk. “Web 13 — browse the Internet,” it extolled in chalk. One left turn onto Bread Street, put me right in front of the Web 13 Internet Cafe. After parking the car right on the street, I went in and met the owner, Ian McCarron. Ian’s son was the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer and served up awesome soups and sandwiches. Ken McDonald (a former University of Victoria student) helped Mark “Mr. HTML,” writing homepages for clients. Web 13 turned out to be an oasis for me. After eating lunch and cruising the Web I extolled the virtues of my homepage to anyone who would listen and then sent a fax home to Berne before heading for Edinburgh Castle.

The weather was beautiful! When I left Glasgow in the morning it was overcast so an undershirt was put on; I wished now it wasn’t there. The city was bathed in bright sunlight and warmth; it was absolutely vibrant and I could feel its pulse: throbbing, gyrating and pulsating. I like Edinburgh! I tried to find a parking lot for the car but, here again, the signs were terrible. I saw a ‘P’ sign but couldn’t find the lot so I parked on the street in a residential area below the Castle.


Before heading up the hill to the Castle, I walked up to Princess Street and Fraser’s Department Store to buy another  umbrella. While in Fraser’s store, I saw a shirt similar to the one Wayde, Jennifer and Kathleen gave me for Christmas; it was £55.00! That is one-hundred and twenty-one Canadian bucks! Did I say things were expensive in Scotland? Well, they are. Prices are about the same in pounds what we pay in dollars. At 2.2 the value, this makes our dollar very valuable if spent in Canada; it doesn’t go very far in Britain or Europe.

Next, I went looking for some place to stay. As I headed down sunny Princess Street, I checked several hotels along the way. They were expensive! The Jarvis Hotel wanted £95.00 per night for a single! Forget it. At the east end of Princess Street, is Waverley Station and Tourist Centre. Here was playing a musical troupe from Central America — a nice change from the ubiquitous bagpipes. Hundreds of people gathered in the open fountain-area of the Centre enjoying the sunshine, warmth and music.

Edinburgh Tourist Board found me a single for £35.00 at Thrums Private Hotel, 14/15 Minto Street, EH9 1RQ. Before heading out to Thrums, I returned by taxi to the Web 13 and my rental car. I arrived at Thrums at noon. It was after talking to Adrian, the desk-clerk, that I learned all the hoopla and confusion with people and traffic were due to this being a long weekend with a Bank Holiday on Monday. I was  lucky to get a room for Friday night but Saturday was already booked up; too bad, I would have liked to stay longer in this exciting city.

After taking a shower in my little, narrow room, I left the car right where it was parked behind the hotel (hotel is a misnomer in that the accommodation was in two adjoining old houses) and hopped the bus for fifty pence back to town. It was a straight run back to Princess Street from where I was: Minto changed names several times, but it was still one street back to town: Minto Street, Newington Road, Clerk Street, Nicolson Street, South Bridge Road and North Bridge Road were name- changes within a couple of miles. Like I said, the signage on Scottish roads caused me more problems than driving on the left side.

After alighting at Waverley Station (North Bridge Road) I boarded a waiting open-top convertible tour bus to see the sights and enjoy the sounds of this marvelous place. The bus driver had the most wonderful sounding voice. He could have been narrating a T.V. special or documentary. In his rich Scottish brogue, he described each building, statue and park as it was passed. “The statue nearest to us is that of David Livingstone [1813-1873], African explorer and missionary, who died while attempting to find the source of the River Nile,” is just one of his descriptive phrases. “Now we are passing the Scott Monument,” he announced as he looked to his left. “Ordinarily, ladies and gentlemen, you could actually climb the 287 steps the top of this building; from there, a fine view of the city could be had; however, you notice scaffolding surrounding the structure. This is due to the very serious state of decay taking place in the monument and it is currently undergoing extensive repairs,” our driver continued. “In spite of all this, you notice we still have a statue of Sir Walter himself seated between the four pillars.” Grisly details were omitted from the stories about the body-snatchers from the graves beside Lothian Road!

Another advantage to the tour bus — besides the sights and sounds (and don’t forget the smells from the whiskey breweries) —  was the fact admission was by pass instead of a ticket. This meant one could get on and off at will at dozens of sites around the city; this included the Castle on the hill. After completing the city tour once, that’s where I got off. Edinburgh Castle is without question the heart of Edinburgh. Princess Street is the “main artery” but the Castle is its heart. Edinburgh's central dominating landmark is Edinburgh Castle, rising on sheer cliffs above the city. Located here is the over- nine-hundred-year-old, 11th-century Chapel of Saint Margaret, the city's oldest structure. The Castle Rock is connected to the 16th-century royal Scottish residence of Holyrood Palace by  the Royal Mile, the main thoroughfare of the Old Town district of the city.

I returned to my little cell at Thrum’s  about six o’clock quite exhausted, had a shower and a nap and phoned mt wife, Bernice, at 8:30 p.m. Unlike the first time I phoned home, Berne answered this time. She, like myself, was on holidays from her work at the hospital. After another night with only three-hours’ sleep, I was ready to hit the road again at 6:30 Saturday morning. Before trying to find my way out the city, I took a long walk up Minto Street and enjoyed the solitude of the quiet morning. I was amazed by the fact that since getting out of bed in Victoria Wednesday morning, it was now Saturday morning and I had only slept six-and-a-half hours since then! It was amazing because I felt very well-rested.

Finding my way onto the A90 (across the Queensborough Bridge) to Aberdeen was the usual debacle: After several false- starts — like heading east for a while on the wrong road — I was finally on my way north. The Forth Bridge is a monster of a bridge. It reminded me of flying at low altitude. It rises over 200 metres. Here again, construction is taking place and creates its own dilemmas. The good news was the speed limit was reduced to thirty m.p.h. which made navigating the pylons easier. The bridge was wet from the Scottish mist which engulfed it, and fluorescent green-clad workers were busy going about completing the tasks at hand although it was Saturday.

The road signs on this part of the road were as poor as the rest of Scotland. Looking for signs showing the way and distance to Aberdeen was a complete waste of time. Several signs indicated the Tay Bridge was nearby but who cares? Where’s Aberdeen, one of Scotland’s largest centres? Or did they forget? Twenty-four miles before Aberdeen a sign was finally seen stating the obvious. The signage problem here really is disgraceful. I remember being in Dawson Creek, British Columbia and seeing signs giving the direction and mileage to Nome, Alaska or Tierra del Fuego (Argentine Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego), archipelago, at the southern extremity of South America. The road signs in Scotland in a word are hopeless! Just to confuse the issue more, I saw a sign saying Inverness was 123 miles but still no sign suggesting the whereabouts of  Aberdeen.

The road here was wider than before and the countryside was classic Scotland: green moors, rolling hills, with quite a few trees. The trees were mainly conifers and grew in bunches suggesting they may be the remnants of an ancient (or modern) forest. Of course the sheep were everywhere. The first ones were sighted upon leaving Glasgow and reappeared everywhere outside the larger cities. Adding interest in the driving and sightseeing was the topography of the area. Making large, sweeping curves downwards and upwards from one valley to the next, the road continued onward; it made me wish I was in a sports car with the top down!

After  crossing the Tay Bridge, I no longer thought this was Scotland; I knew this was Scotland. Open valleys and remnants of ancient volcanoes added a new dimension to the scenery. Not an unfamiliar one, either, for anyone seeing photos of Scotland. Every house now was made of stone. Some were hundreds of years old. Stone fences or hedgerows (boxwood) separated the pastures and in the little villages there were whole rows of stone houses. It gave me a good feeling to  be here.

The weather was still fair but it had rained recently. Wet roads made driving strenuous due to the reduced visibility caused by flying mist from passing cars. When a vehicle overtakes one, here in Scotland, they do not continue in the passing lane for any distance (as they do in Canada and America). They pretty much cut right back in front of you. This is annoying and puts much spray over one’s windscreen in the process. I guess they do it because the roads are so narrow. I don’t know, really. Another point worth mentioning added to the dangers of driving in this area this day: Entrances from side-roads came directly into the motorway, and at 70 m.p.h. one could just hope the drivers were going to stop before entering. It looked rather scary to me.

My map said this highway (to Dundee) was the A85 but all the road signs showed it was the A90. The roads are all good in their own way. The roundabouts are a pain but necessary. With land boundaries defined for centuries, it is not a simple matter to get a couple of extra feet on either side to widen the road. The roadside is valuable real-estate; especially, when one considers how many lives were lost over the centuries fighting over it. Visitors to Scotland will just have to  get used to it; after all, this is what the Scots have done. One does get the impression though, that they actually think their system of roundabouts and no signs are superior to ours. I have my doubts it is; they could learn much from driving in Canada or America. This was my single-most complaint about driving here: the poor road signs combined with the roundabouts. Often the signs had letters only two-inches in height to show highway numbers. At twenty to thirty-miles per hour, this is not large enough for the average driver to read while negotiating a congested roundabout. Anyway, that is how large they are and they are not ready to change.

“Roadway completed in 1994,” is what the sign said and it stated this roadway was the A9 to Aberdeen. I was laughin’! The radio played great tunes as my red Nissan Primera cruised through the yellow fields of mustard barely visible in the Scottish mist;  lush crops and beautiful farms surrounded me. One crop (I don’t know what it was) grew to the height of a man as a testament to the richness of the soil; two-foot-wide trails had been cut through the middle of this crop that gave a good indication of its height. Remnants of the ancient forest that once formed an, “impenetrable wall of trees,” were still here in small plots. Other trees looked very much like Oak. Jennifer would love to see this part of Scotland, but our return trip would not bring us back this way. A roadside sign indicated 66 miles to Aberdeen.

Driving in this vibrant area was a treat. The rain stopped and the traffic got lighter. New home construction dotted the surrounding farms and one could see prosperity was very much on the local residents’ minds. The road perambulated up, down and around the rich farmland so green one would have to see it to believe it. You haven’t seen green until you’ve seen Scotland. Everything is green. Really green. It’s a bonny land.

Coming into Aberdeen is by way of a grand entrance. Here the winding roadway is lined both sides with lovely, new homes. Although they were all new, by design, they appear almost ancient. Grey or red tiles on the roofs guarantee the untrained eye will be fooled into thinking many moons have crossed over them. Again, the ubiquitous roundabouts reared their ugly heads, but were easily negotiated by this by-now experienced driver. Why, I even had one local driver get out of my way and stop for me!

The houses gave way to buildings the A93 ended and changed name to St. John’s Terrace. St. John’s changed into Great Western Road before connecting with Aberdeen’s main street — Union Street. Union Street is the classic Scottish main street: lined both sides with buildings and churches with steeples in the sky; sidewalks were curb-to-buildings covered in people. Yes, mostly those personages referred the world over as Scotsmen (and women and their offspring). It was crowded! It felt like being in a parade where everyone had come out to see me. The only difference was no one was looking at me. This was Saturday and everyone just decided to come to town all at the same time. Victoria was like this in the 1940s, as I recall.

Aberdeen is a big city. Red, orange and yellow sandstone used in construction add variety to the architecture, especially the many churches. Banners strung above the melee said a ten- kilometre race was to be held tomorrow morning. Where? What time? I surely didn’t want to get caught up in that while trying to get out of here tomorrow morning. While stopped at a traffic light, I had time to read another banner which showed 11:00 a.m. as the starting time Sunday, May 28. I had to be out of here before then. The name Victoria caught my eye on a restaurant marque off to my left and to my right was the familiar Golden Arches of Ronnie McDonald’s. Yes, McDonald’s is a Scottish name and he is here. People were everywhere! I’d never seen so many people in one city. It was crowded.

After following the arrows to the large ‘P’ as in parking, I left the limo in the underground on West North Street and walked up to the Tourist Bureau on Broad Street. They found me a single room at the Prince Regent Hotel on Waverley Place (off Albyn Place) back where I had entered Union Street to the west. I drove over there and parked the car in their lot and walked to town for supper. It was pouring down rain and very wet. After eating, I returned to the hotel and booted up my laptop and did some more writing.

Aberdeen is not a one-street town. The harbour area forms its eastern edge and it is bounded on the north by the Don River and on the south by the Dee; both rivers are the same size and share many characteristics; such as, contour and bridged crossings. The topography is flatter than Edinburgh's but exhibits enough remnants of ancient volcanic and glacier activity to make it interesting.

Another memorable highlight of Aberdeen — at least to me — was using my international voltage transformer with my laptop computer. Having purchased it for close to forty dollars in Victoria, I was determined to get some use out of it. My first night's writing was easily powered by the charged batteries. Today's renderings caused the red warning light to come on as it does each time the battery is low. I hooked the power conversion unit up as recommended in the manual and guess what? It's still working.

On To Aberdeen
 Saturday, May 27, 1995

There is nothing quite like kickin' back after a hard day of driving on the wrong side of the road. That's what happened after driving from Edinburgh to Aberdeen on the motorway and carriageway. Once having packed all my things into the car, I got away from the Thrum's B&B at 7:00 a.m.  and arrived Aberdeen about noon. It would have been a quicker journey if I'd started heading in the right direction instead of going off on an easterly heading. It's a good thing I stopped for my morning coffee when I did because when I asked a young man from Sheffield, England, where we were he pointed his finger to a spot on the map that lay on the opposite side of Edinburgh to where the route to Aberdeen lay! What a surprise that was. After continuing eastward to a turnaround point on the A1 carriageway, I turned 180 degrees and headed off back toward Edinburgh.

One has to use extreme diligence to stay on the right route to the destination while driving in Scotland and doing it all from the wrong side of the road, only compounds the problem. The road signs are the main culprits; however, in combination with the roundabouts (used to allow access from side-roads at the same level), it becomes more difficult for persons used to driving on the right side of the road, to follow the patterns necessary to achieve the required result. "At the same level," means in North America drivers normally don't have to contend with this system when travelling a freeway. Interchanges are the favoured mode for this integration in America and increasingly so in Canada. The Scottish mentality is, "our system is older and therefore better; we've managed traffic hundreds of years longer than you colonials and we know how to do it better." Bull-feathers! Scotland, it appears, cannot devote the resources to build interchanges the way North Americans have; money and land rank first and second on Scotland's wish list if it ever decides perhaps there is a better way than the setup now encountered. Having said that, the carriageways and motorways are in excellent condition and seem to work perfectly well for those sufficiently inured to them.

The highlight of the trip had to be crossing the Queensborough Bridge. The exhilaration came from the fact one is almost 600 feet up in the air over the Firth of Forth, but also from achieving entrance to the monolith through the labyrinth of obstacles erected by the Scottish road-builders in this area. It was with a great sigh of relief that I got a few minutes' respite by stopping to pay the toll. I don't know how much it was, but it was worth it just to be able to stop for a few seconds. The repair work continued over the entire length of the span. This provided further relief in that speed was restricted to 30 miles per hour.

Entering onto the southern end of Union Street in Aberdeen would have to rank as the second highlight of the day. After driving down an ignominious Holburn Street, once the forty-five degree turn onto Union Street is made, its entire length reveals Aberdeen’s heart and soul before your eyes. Union Street’s length appears to be longer than it actually is due to the proximity of the stone building lining both sides. Towering church spires of many different types of bricks, adds to the impression.

Another memorable highlight of Aberdeen — at least for me —  was using my international voltage transformer with my laptop computer for the first time. Having purchased it for  forty-dollars in Victoria, I was determined to get some use out of it. My first night's writing was easily powered by the charged batteries. Today's renderings caused the red warning light to come on as it does each time the battery is low. I hooked the power conversion unit up as recommended in the manual and guess what? It's still working

Drum Castle
Sunday, May 28, 1995 (inserted September 3 2017)


Sunday morning, I awoke to grey, overcast skies but the rain had stopped. Leaving the Prince Regent Hotel before seven o’clock gave me an opportunity to see the city of Aberdeen in relatively secluded conditions. Union Street was empty except for one garbage truck and two delivery vans. The only visible life-forms were a sweeper at the train station and a fellow tourist out for an early morning stroll. I wanted to view the ship dock where overnight voyages embarked to the northern isles; also, I wanted to check where one would arrive if they travelled to Aberdeen by train. Both terminals are close to each other and there are several hotels nearby. Travelling by either of these modes would be very convenient. I had chosen not to go this route [train & sail] and instead, chose the car because I did not want an overnight ferry ride of ten-hours to arrive at Kirkwall.

After satisfying any lingering curiosity I had regarding Aberdeen and its ports, I headed west down Union Street heading for the A93 and Drum Castle. The National Trust of Scotland brochure showed it was located, “ 3 miles west of Peterculter and 10 miles west of Aberdeen.”  It seemed my exit from Aberdeen was not too soon: the last directions I received were from a city worker erecting barriers for the ten-kilometre marathon to commence shortly. I did not want to get stuck on the wrong side of these.

According to the road sign I was on the A93 heading west. Magnificent trees lined the narrow, winding road, openings periodically gave beautiful vistas of distant valleys. I kept my fingers crossed and my eyes open to make sure I was on my way to Drum Castle. Here again, there were no signs, except for the one seen half-an-hour ago. Driving through the Woodbank area one is definitley in the high-rent district. The homes were splendid! It reminiscent of Beverly Hills, California or the Uplands in Victoria, BC, except the properties were strung along each side of the road like pearls. I stopped at a little place called Milltimber and got out of the car to enjoy the views even more. It was still early and no one was about. To the south, the land fell away into a large, green, sparsly-treed valley, basking in the morning sunlight. Looking toward the horizon on the next ridge, the stone fences were barly visible in the mist. As I continued onward, so did the grandeur of the homes and surroundings. “One mile to Peterculter,” the sign read.

My Carrara sunglasses mitigated the impact of the ever- brightening sun’s rays as I pelmelled toward Drum Castle on the A93. Dense residential area gave way to open farmland once again. Dead squirrel carcasses liberly  spaced in the roadway were a definite idication of their abundance in this area of Scotland. None had been seen since leaving Edinburgh. A quiant little sign advertised the Woodside Farm Shop [Woodside Farm was the name the Muir family gave to their place at Sooke, BC, in 1853]. A sign read, “Drum Castle 300 yards.”

The long, narrow road to the castle was my first where there were lay-bys on each side for cars to pass. So narrow was the road, only one vehicle could traverse at one time. After fifteen minutes’ driving, the “closed” sign in the window of the ticket booth was plainly visible. This did not concern me as I knew this only refered to actually entering the castle. From the National Trust of Scotland literature I read in Aberdeen, I knew the visiting hours didn’t start until 1:30 p.m.. I didn’t have time enough to hang around for that, and would be satisfied with photographing the relic from the exterior. I drove on to the parking lot above the castle and took my two cameras [Canon EOS 650s: one with 35-105mm lense & the other with a 17mm lense attached) and circulated around the property and buildings taking photographs at a copious rate. A pleasant and unsuspected surprise was encountering the cleaning ladie doing her chores in the chaapel hidden in the bushes. I didn’t even know ther was a chapel at Drum and was most delighted when she invited me into photograph the interior. Had she and I not met at this time, the resultant photos in my collection, could not have been taken; I got one of the alter and one each of the stained-glass windows.  I had to return to the car several times to reload my cameras with film. The radiant sunshine and light breeze gave me more photo-ops than I had anticipated. Using my two lenses enabled me to photograph Drum Castle as its probably never been done before. I shot-off over four rolls of film including those I used in the courtyard.

And so, at ten o’clock, I bid a fond adieu to Drum Castle and returned to the A93 headed west. I could tell from the map, my next destination, Inverness, would be achieved ony by taking a very curcuitious route. Aboyne to Ballitor and then right-turn north over the Highlands to Tomintoul on the A939 was the only way to go.

Back on the A93, an unidentified castle was seen on the right side of the raodway; it looked very familiar but no name was visible. The country-side remainded rural with the attendant sheep and ubiquitous stone fences and farmhouses. It was beautiful! One had to remember that although the A93 appeared to be just a county road [to North Americans] it is the main east-west artery from Aberdeen inland. Stopping to take pictures was not always possible on these narrow raods.  I wanted to get pictures of the of the swollen rivers in this area. I have never seen rivers so full of water! Dark and rushing, they filled to-the- brim their restraining space. The nice lady at the Tourist Bureau in Aboyne, said if I drove on to Ballater and turned right, I would eventually arrive at Gaston-on-Spey; from there, Inverness was another thirty miles. This confirmed what the map showed.

I had really stopped at Aboyne to get something to eat. It was now eleven o’clock and I was hungry but do you think I could find a place to eat that was open? No way! I just kept driving. Soon I came upon a picturesque setting of an ancient kirkyard out in the middle of nowhere. I stopped there and took many frames of this splendid photo opportunity. And yes, I do have the pictures to prove it. The remains of the kirk and those grave-stones close by it, were indicative of the age of this site. Graves had been added over the years in ever-widening circles around the original structure. Now, dates of 1995 could be read written in gold type on the most-recent black stones. Unfortunatley, there was no breakfast served here so I continued on to Ballater.

The young waiter (age seven year) at the Station Restaurant, in Ballater, served me a real Scottish breakfast of sausage and eggs. Even after arriving at Ballater, there was some doubt as to whether or not I’d get anything to eat. I pulled over to the sidewalk as two tourist walked by and powered down the window.

“Have you found anywhere to eat?” I asked.

“Not yet,” was the man’s response.

“We came to Scotland but it was closed,” he quipt.

How true, I thought.

With my tummy full, I pointed the red Primera north on the A939 and slowly depressed the gas peddle. This action was sufficient to get me on my way again. The road went from narrow to narrower. As I approached a stone bridge as high as a basket-ball hoop, a sign to the side read, “Risk of grounding.” I believed it! The road was one of those you often hear about but seldom see: One lane with laybys on either side placed at strategic internvals to allow cars to pass each other. The road was more the width of a driveway than a road. The scenery, however, remained its beautiful self: sheep and farms everywhere in the valleys and hills throughout the steadily rising terrain. I knew I was entering higher ground due to the upward angle of the car. The lassie in the tourist bureau at Aboyne said this was a mountain road and she was right. As the car rose and the vistas became ever wider the thought struck me I was travelling in the most beautiful country in the world. I had had this thought before but it was now being confirmed.

Before achieving the summit of the climb, my world turned into a sea of heather as far as the eye could see. At this time of the year  it is not in bloom and is plain brown in colour. Another characteristic I thought unique to this area was the number of stones laying about in the fileds. “Wow,” I thought, “maybe this is a stone farm!” I surmissed stones had to come form somewhere and perhaps this was the place. There certainly was enough of them to supply the world’s needs. I always wondered where stones came from.

Red sand lined the sides of the road between the blacktop and where the heather and stones started. I thought of Orkney and Red Head on Eday and the red sandstone of St. Magnus Cathedral, in Kirkwall. Both of these were made from red sandstone. The former by Nature and the latter by man. From what I was seeing out my windows, the last ise-age had been very generous in its distribution of red sand and red sandstone. Finally, I just had to stop and take a couple of pictures using my 17mm  lens. A 17mm lense captures a 104 degree angle; the same view as a panorama camera. Two frames were all it took to preserve the view on celluloid.  Oddly enough, I hadn’t noticed how hard the wind was blowing until I got out to  the car to take the pictures. It was blowing about 70 knots! I could barely stand up and had to lean against the car to stop the camera from shaking. What a surprise that was, but hey . . . I got the pictures. The land here reminded me of scenes from the movie, “Rob Roy” complete with snow-capped mountains [bens]. One got the distinct feeling one was on the top-of-the-world being here. Seeing a sign and ski- lifts were overwhelming evidence that people came to these highlands to ski. This was the Moray District of the Grampian Region of the Highlands. Right in the middle of all this remoteness, was a lttle B&B called Ingram Farm; no wonder Scotland is famous for its bed and breakfastes. At the fork in the road, the sign said turn left to Tomintoul and Grantown-on-Spey — so I did.

Tomintoul is an ancient town to be sure. Driving through the antediluvian streets to find the route out the other side required the usual dipsy-doodle. After a brief stop to stretch my legs, I was off , again, to Grantown-on-Spey on the A939. The terrain changed from mainly heather to farmland with some section heavily treed ( I even stopped to photograph the trees). Down on the valley floor could be seen the Avon River wending its weary way eastward. I thought of Shakespear and Stratford-on-Avon. I also thought: wrong river; wrong place. I forgot about Shakespeare and turned my mind back to the subject at hand. A grand home built beside the river reminded me the Scots, as a nation, are not too bad off; there seems to be no shortage of change around here (if you get my meanin’).

“Inverness 44 miles,” is what was written on the sign and I believed it. I could hardly accept I had actually seen a sign that told me where somewhere was; especially, somewhere  I wanted to go! So superb was the land I was in, I had to dicipline myself to refrain from stopping to take pictures. I had places to go and things to see and it seems I wanted to stop all the time and take pictures. What a beautiful land! It seemed ironic that although I didn’t really want to travel by car, I never would have seen this area without it. I don’t think the tour-bus goes from Ballater to Gastown-on-spey. The road undulations continued and even intensified as I thought how spoiled we are in North America regarding road conditions. What is the norm here in Scotland would be very exceptional and adverse for the Canadian or American driver. This section of my route reminded me of Bentley Hill in the Peace River District of British Columbia thirty-years ago; the worst section of road in BC at that time.

The countryside slowly changed to a mixture of grass, heather and small bushes. The bushes resemble either tumbleweeds (from the American southwest) or small Juniper bushes (from northern British Columbia). In among these three distict entities were the sheep. They avoided the heather and favoured the grassy sections. These conditions soon changed again as before me could be seen a long, green valley, reaching to the north-east. One could visualize this was the country around Inverness famous for its splenour and recreational attractiveness.

At Gastown-on-Spey, I stopped again for a little stretch and changed the tape in my audio tape-recorder. I continued to make audio notes as a reminder of my journey. Willowbank Guest House  appeared to be a wise choice if one was seeking accomodation in this area. The vista views of the long valley continued as I carried on my way west to the A938 to Carrbridge; there, I joined the brand-new A9 motorway north to Inverness. On this section of the raod I travelled at 80. m.p.h. and everything on the road passed me. By now it no longer surprised me. Forteeen miles from Inverness the dual-carriageway was lined with an “inpenetrable wall of trees,” rising over forty-feet in height. Even the distant hills were now seen to be covered in trees. There certainly are forests in Scotland. Contrary to recent reports, all the trees have not been cut down . . . yet.

Before entering the city of Inverness from the east, I got a grand view of the sea and drove alongside it for a few miles. The road here is a few-hundred feet above sea-level offering an enjoyable view of the Firth of Inverness lying to the north. Inverness itself was a zoo! Bank holiday, bank holiday, bank holiday! Remember? And it wasn’t even Monday, yet! After pressing through the traffic, I left the limo in Safeway’s parking lot and tried to find the Tourist Board Office. I mentioned to the service-person at the Tourist office, I’d consider staying near, or at, the Lock Ness Monster Exhibit (I had made a contact with someone there on the Internet a couple of month ago). A phone-call to the Exhibit Hotel confirmed accomodation for £15.00. After telling the wee lassie I’d pay up to £35.00, this  sounded reasonable, indeed. Seeing Inverness was so busy, I concluded it was a good idea to just get out- of-town and stay out. The Loch Ness Exhibit is located forteen miles southwest on the A82 at a place called Drumnadrochit.

After checking  into my room above the Nessie Shop, I toured the Official Loch Ness Monster Exhibit in the adjoining building. The aging exhibit portrayed in slides, photos and audio-recordings, the history of Loch Ness and the research that’s gone into searching for its elusive, world-famous resident — the Loch Ness Monster — lovingly named, Nessie.  I walked over to the Loch Ness Hotel and went in to check-out the accomodation. Once I learned it cost £40.00 per night for a single, I lost interest. It is a nice place, though; old — or built to look old — it provides a quaint setting for residents to enjoy the library, fire-place or meals in the bar.

Drumnadrochit  is not on Loch Ness but is a picturesque little community just two-miles from Urquhart Castle on the lakeshore. Drumnadrochit has other hotels, B&Bs and two to three restaurants, tied together by several novelty & souvenire shops. It also boasts a police station: the policeman’s house with his little, white Vauxhall Corsa backed-in to his driveway, ready for a fast get-away in case of an emergency. Across the street from the policeman’s, is Fiddler’s Restaurant where I had dinner at six o’clock. The menu listed,  “pizza and anything Scottish.”  I chose the tatties & nips with haggis; you can’t get more Scottish than that! I did, however, live to regret this choice when, next morning, I had a mild-to-severe attach of diahria! Remember two-pages-back when I was at Tomintoul and I had a Scottish breakfast of sausage and eggs? A whole day of Scottish food was too much for my digestive system and after this experience at Drumnadrochit, I  laid-off the Scottish food for the remainder of my vacation. I must say, though, both meals were very tastey while eating them!

While relaxing in my room around eight o’clock that evening, the phone rang and it was Marilyn Shine inviting me down to the bar for a drink with her and her husband, Adrian. I mentioned I’d learned about the Loch Ness Monster Exhibit while browsing the Internet a couple of months prior to my departure. My contact-person was one Marilyn Shine, the same one who was now on the phone. Upon my arrival at Drumnadrochit, I gave my card to the lady at the hotel desk along with a copy of Marilyn’s email message inviting me to, “drop in and say hello if you’re ever  up this way.” Marilyn’s call to my room was a result of the foregoing; I got dressed in a jacket and tie, and met them in the restaurant.

Marilyn and Adrian were in their late thirties, casually dressed and unimposing. Marilyn was petite and Adrian was tall (6’3”) with a heavy beard. I felt over-dressed and wished I had not worn a tie. The jacket was needed because — did I forget to mention it? — Scotland is not warm in May. Our meeting was cordial and I was impressed to learn Adrian is the manager at the Loch Ness Monster Exhibit. He was Field Supervisor & team-leader during the period (mainly the 1970s) when the most extensive research and searching were done on the loch for the elusive monster.

They were interested in my trip to Orkney and outlined their own plans for a vactation to the western isles of Scotland starting the next day (Monday, the Bank Holiday). They suggested, when Jennifer and I returned from Orkney, to take this route (through Drumnadrochit), back to Glasgow, instead of taking the A9 to Perth. This sounded good to me (I wouldn’t have to travel over an area already travelled) but I would leave the final decision up to Jen. Marilyn and Adrian provided camaraderie that had been missing during my solo mission. I started to look forward to joining my daughter, Jennifer, next Friday, in Kirkwall, Orkney Islands, Scotland.

By 5:45 a.m. , Monday morning, May 29, 1995, Drumnadrochit, Scotland, was miles west of my rear licence plate. I didn’t feel too well after all my Scottish food on Sunday, and wanted to get on the road. As a I drove east, back toward Inverness, Loch Ness lay to my right. It was like a mirror. I wanted to stop and take pictures of boats and their  reflections on the water, but thought it too dangerous to stop right on the roadway in the dim morning light. It probably was, too. I have, however,  the most beautiful pictures in my mind.

Getting back through Inverness to the A9 north was a horror story; thankfully it was early and there was no traffic. The A82 enters from the southwest and I wanted the A9 that goes northwest out of Inverness. The A82 just seemed to end in the middle of a residential area and there were no signs to show which roadway one was on. After several turns — and no signs — I came to a major                 roundabout with about five roads leading into it. Look as hard as I may, I could not find a sign saying “A9” or “Wick” or ‘Scrabster” or anywhere north. There were at least ten names and number on each spoke of the wheel (roundabout) but not one was a name I recognized. One trick I had learned after driving in Scotland for four days was this: when one enters a roundabout and the proper exit cannot be found, don’t take any of them! Make a complete 360 degree turn and exit where you came in; this way you at least know where you are, even if it it where you just came from. Then, find a place to stop, and check your map or ask directions. Before I learned this trick, I wound up in the middle of nowhere and even had trouble finding the roundabout again. Thus, not being able to find th eroad north, I did a three-sixty (as we call it in flying) and parked in a layby on the A82. A passing lassie didn’t have any more luck reading the signs than  me. Finally, as we stood at the edge of the roundabout in th emornig sunshine, I saw — in letters two-inches high (and in parenthisis) — “(A9)”. Whoopi! I would be going north to Scrabster after all! I uttered a few choice words and departed Inverness.

Scrabster
 Monday, May 29, 1995

After driving for three-and-a-quarter hours, I arrived in Scrabster  just before the P&O Ferries’ ticket office opened at 9:00 a.m.. The drive from Inverness was scenic but not without incident. Uphill, downhill and roundabout just about sums up how one arrives at the most- northern car-ferry port in Scotland. John O’Groat’s has a passenger-only ferry, but that was of no use to me. Lack of speed-limit signs caused me some frustration as I negotiated the road north. Several signs stated the dire consequences awaitng anyone exceeding the speed-limit, but none stated the speed not-to-be-exceeded! “Unmarked police cars in operation,” was on one sign; “Speed radar camera in use,” stated another — but no speed-limit posted anywhere. I concluded the speed-limit must be 120 m.p.h. because that’s how fast all the cars were going as they passed by me. Go figure!

Upon leaving Inverness a couple of interesting bridges have to be crossed: the first is the Kessock Bridge over the inland waters of the Moray Firth (Firth of Inverness, separating the Beauly Firth from the Moray) and the next is over the marches of Cromarty Firth. Kessock Bridge is a low-rising suspension bridge in the modern style using two vertical supporters and tention wires strung like a harp from each side. Viewed straight ahead from the bridge, Ben Wyvis’s snow-capped slopes could be seen rising into the clouds.

Cromarty Bridge's interest lies in how low it is above the water; one approaches it, from the south, by a long and winding, down-hill slope; the bridge is visible for several minutes before the crossing begins. The thin ribbon of a road made a sharp right turn on the norhtern shore. Looking east to Invergordon, several oil-drilling platforms were visible in the shipyards across the firth. To the west the valley continued; the greenest greens that I came to believe can only be found in this bonney land of Scotland.

Driving east, into the rising sunlight, along the north shore of Cromarty Firth, was no picnic either. large trucks, unlike here in Canada, are not required to  run with their headlights on in the daytime; hence, some were not seen until passing by on my right side. I was very thankful they were on their side of the road as I never seen them coming. What was good about this new area, were the road signs: they were very North American. The signs showed several northern destinations and their mileages. Simple but effective — not to mention, helpful!

After continuing east for thirty-minutes, I again became concrened about my route, which lay to the north. A quick check of the map on the seat bside me, confirmed the road did, indeed, go east for several miles. This exercise gave me occasion to reflect upon my driving habits in this strange land. After checking the map, and returning my gaze to the raod ahead, I realized my instincts were still to drive on the right- hand side of the road. Looking at maps while driving is a dangerous practice and henceforth would be avoided by me. That was the last time I looked at a map without pulling off  to the roadside.

The horrendous lighting continued until I made the turn north passed the town of Tain. The daul-carriageway here was wider than usual. One had to remember it was a dual-carriageway and not a motorway (similar to our freeways). There were approaching cars in the other lane whether one could see them to not! The turn to a more-northerly heading noticably improved the visibility. The bad news was the road-signs seemed to disappear again. Even this far north, roundabouts were still rearing their  ugly heads. Without adaquate signs, they were just as confusing as before. I think there are many opportunities in Scotland for sign-makers! I continued to drive and drive without any indication as to where I was or where I may be headed. On a dual-carriageway there is no place to pull off and stop to check the map; one just keeps on driving, there is no other option. It was, however, refreshing to learn (from the signs that were posted) I was being watched by radar to ensure I did not exceed the unposted speed-limit! The continuous flow of oncoming cars told me this road went somewhere and I should not be unduly concerned about my impending fate. If I continued, I would eventually arrive somewhere; for now, that was the best I could hope for.

I crossed over the Dornoch Firth still looking for signs to tell me which road I was on and where my destination lay. At last there was a road sign! Seventy-six miles to Thurso and this is the A9 main road north. Wonderful! As the road off to Dornoch passed to my right I found a place to pull off the road and place a magazine in the driver’s window. It did not block my vision to the right, but it did block out the intense sunlight that was imparing my forward vision. My Carrera sunglasses have side-blinders but I left them at home in Victoria. With new-found confidence, I continued onward enjoying the view of the Northwest Highland’s mountains to my left and the sea to my right.

The A9 made an abrupt right turn at Kirkton as it cut around the end of an inland sea (Loch Fleet). Ancient stone fences lined both sides of the road and it became very narrow. Not what on ewould expect on a main thorough fare. It was obvious no one was going to disturb the old fences and progress would just have to take on a new meaning. With Scotland’s future lying in tourism, the old fences will prove to be a better resource than wider roads. Let me reiterate it is not the narrowness of the raods that is th emain drawback to driving in this country; it is the lack of adaquate signs.

Just passed Dunrobin Castle the vast expanse of the North Sea sprawled out from the shorline below me. Dunrobin Castle apeared to be a working-farm as I viewed the grounds from my passing vehicle. Cows, horses and sheep, were grazing or resting in the lush, sloping, pastures. The road remained narrow and I was able to make an interesting observation regarding driving habits in Scotland: If the oncoming car had its right-hand wheels on the centre-line while negotiating a right turn in the road, it was driven by a tourist. If the left-hand wheels were clear of the centre-line (and about four-inches from the road-side line) it was a local driver. Herein lies the most difficult maneauver for the uninitated to driving on the left-hand side of the road — the right-hand turn. Even in the cities it is a difficult move to get used to. These observations may not interest everyone, but on the fifth day of driving in Scotland, these are the little nuances one picks up on to guarantee one’s survival while driving here. If someone is coming around a curve on the wrong side of the road, the sooner you know about it, the better. You either move over further (left, if there is no stone fence there) or make a quick stop; in these cases, one’s options are limited.

Caught between the sea on the right and the Highlands on the left, made the air flowing into the car through the open vents become noticably cooler. When I left Drumnadrochit in the morning (which is inland) it was quite warm; now, by the sea and moutains, it was still sunny but cool. I closed the air vents, leaving the sun-roof open. The road-signs now warned of cross-winds but they would not be heeded this day; there was no wind. It looked like a good day to take a ferryboat ride across the Pentland Firth to the Orkney Islands.

“Sixty-four miles to Thurso,” the sign read. The digital panel- clock showed 7:22 confirming I would make the 12:00 sailing from Scrabster in plenty of time. Cooler weather herein the north was the probale cause for seeing field being seeded with new crops. The brown sandy-loam soil looked very rich as the green shoots sprouted from it. These old, stone farmhouses had seen many plantings. How they added to the beauty of the landscape! Many had multiple chimnies, demonstrating they were built when either the central fire-pit was in use or later when the fireplace (built into the wall) came into vogue (mid nineteenth century). Hills, trees, cattle and sheep made this a most pleasant place to be this day; sunshine and calm seas added to my euphoia.

Brora is on the seashore and the A9 passes right through it. Between Lothbeg and Lothmore, Lothbeg Point juts into the sea supporting the remnants of an early fortress. The landscape is now more open; the rolling hills and green pastures remain. The scenery  reminiscent of the many photos I studied of Orkney. If this is what Orkney looks like, it is a bonney land. Pulling the automatic transmission lever on the floor into the number two position, was sufficient to slow the car as the many twists and turns and ups and downs of the road were negotiated. All the little hamlets marked on the map — New Port, Borgue, Ramscraigs or Dunbeath —  were little more than a few houses on either side of the road. I passed through an iron gate that was, mercifully, open. A sign stated this would be closed in winter due to snow accumulations on the roadway. The rolling hills of heather on the left were a reminder this was the Highlands and subject to some rather severe weather. At Latheronwheel, taking the right road out of the roundabout, put me on the A895 heading northwest for Scrabster. “Twenty-five miles to Scrabster,” was a welcome sight for sore eyes. Actually, my eyes weren’t that sore. I had had my first full-night’s speep last night at Drumnadrochit after leaving Victoria on Wednesday. Five days to get over jet lag? Seems like a long time to me. I guess the older one gets, the more one is affected by the time-change.

Two-and-a-half hours on the road put me twenty-miles from the ferry dock. The open country just begged to be photographed but I did not want to stop. Even when I couldn’t resist the temtation any longer, I couldn’t stop anyway because a bus was behind me. It seemed to be a transit bus on a regular route to Scrabster. It was difficult to believe a transit bus operating in this remote area but every so often, ad I continued nward, peopel could be seen standing at the roadside. It appeared very much like they were waiting for something; maybe it was a bus! Once I saw in the rear-view mirror the bus had stopped to pick up another group of passengers, I knew had a few seconds to stop and take a picture. This I did in another mile-or-so. There was a layby on the left over-looking Loch Rangag and fields of heather. This was the first heather I noticed growing on relatively flat land. Most of what I’d seen thus far, I equated with alpine regions near home. This heather was like looking over a vast prairie; the heather was visible to the northwest horizon. I was standing in tuft-grass when the photo was taken, but it only extended to the lake.

 I got going in the car again before the bus caught up to me. I did not want to get behind it nor did I want to pass it on these narrow roads. The sheep and lambs presented a new obstacle to driving in Scotland: they were feeding on the tuft grass right at the road’s edge. One passed them at sixty-miles per with their warm bodies just inches from the cold steel of the car. One move toward the road and they were goners! Just think of the body-repair bill awaiting the unsuspecting rental-car driver when the car was returned to the agency! Scarey stuff. No one slowed down as they passed these animals; they only got to step out on the road once — and that was the end of them.

From Loch Rangag to Spital the land was flat and open. The fields were being plowed to produce a product resembling cinders. Whether or not it was peat, I do not know. This makes an interesting point regarding travelling by automobile: Many things are seen enroute that remain unexplained. If one is on a tour, the guide or driver explains everything; it is very much like attending school: one learns things about the area. This often is not the case when driving one’s own vehicle. One just drives by and wonders. No explanation was needed, however, to explain the flat stones which now appeared as fencing- material. Northern Scotland and the islands are famous for flagstones and it was logical that they would now start to appear. This area of Scotland — known as Caithness — is really no different from Orkney. It was formed from the same alluvial deposits eons ago, and the islands were separated merely by the whim of gracial activity.

Entering the city of Thurso was reminiscent of Edinburgh: busy with large buildings and many turns to negotiate. The road-signs were adaquate and I wasn’t stopping for anything. After driving through the outskirts of the town, the sea reappeared below the cliffs supporting the road. It looked like the end of the world. Upon closer examination,  a large land cropping could be seen in the distance. Was this the land of my forefathers? Was this the Isle of Hoy in Orkney? No. None of the above. It was Dunnet Head; a piece of land equally famous with Orkney, but for different reasons: Dunnet Head is a magnificent high-cliffed, lighthouse-capped rock, forming the most-northerly point of the island of Britain. I’ve never heard Britain refered to as an island, but you get what I mean. In any case, I had arrived at Scrabster and had to wait until noon for the ferry to arrive.

To Orkney
 Monday, May 29, 1995

The ticket-person sold me ticket number one for £99.00 ($218.00 CAN). This included a return trip for me and the car. Jennifer would have to buy her own ticket when we returned from Stromness for £13.00. And we thought the British Columbia Ferry charged too much! This trip to Stromness is the same duration and distance as from Swartz Bay, in Victoria, to Tsawassen, on the BC mainland but it costs more than three times as much. Anyway, I drove  onto the ferry St. Ola,  and was on my way to the Land-of-Ork.

Egg-salad sandwiches are one of my favourite lunches. The chef on the St. Ola made a classic blend and, combined with the spectacular views of the Pentland Firth, made for a most enjoyable luncheon. The St. Ola’s cafeteria is similar to the ones on the BC Ferries. The ship is nearly-new and a well appointed in eating and rest areas. Large windows allow excellent views of the sea and islands. The Old Man of Hoy — that famous pillar of stone — was the first feature to draw everyone out on the starboard decks. When the elements eroded the western cliffs of Hoy, they left standing a four- hundred-foot pipe of layered sandstone only yards in diameter. It has become a favourite place for climbers since first being scaled in 1967. St. Ola’s passengers were content to just look at it and take pictures.

Loading and off-loading the P&O ferry seemed to take in inordinate amount of time. As an experienced ferry-traveller from Vancouver Island to points east and south, the routine here seemed somewhat archaic. The four-hundred-car-capacity BC Ferries take about twenty-minutes to off-load and load a full complement of cars and passengers; P&O takes forty-five minutes for one-quarter of those numbers. There does, however, seem to be a plausible explanation: our ferries are not crossing the Pentland Firth. The P&O vessels, first and foremost, have to be seaworthy — very seaworthy. This change-in-design puts limitations on the configuration of the loading facilities onboard and on the shore. Our ferry is more like the Scots ro-ro ferries, which they use very effectively in the relatively sheltered waters of the Orkney Islands. On this route (Scrabster-Stromness), one wants a real ship first and the ease-of-loading model second.

First Night in Orkney

Looking out my window from the Merkister Hotel,  I could see fishermen on Loch Harray. The wind was blowing more than thirty-knots but that did not deter these hardy Scotsmen. The three tired-looking young businessmen in the hotel’s entrance/gazebo, had done all their fishing and were waiting for a car to take them to Kirkwall Airport to return home to Glasgow.

“Do you fish?” asked one.

“No,” I replied.

“Birds? Archaeology?” he tried again.

“No,” I replied, “History . . . I like history,” I explained.

“Well, you’ll get lots of that here,” he said, " . . . everyone comes here for something.”

What he said sure made sense. I thought about what I had gone through in the past five days. Yes, no one would just come to Orkney; they would have to be driven to get here. Driven by a desire to accomplish or to do something — something different and important. That’s why I was here. I was on a mission from God: to trace and record the footsteps of my ancestors in this ancient land, and, by God, that is what I was going to do!

By the time my dinner of Westray Haddock had been devoured, the wind outside was just a whisper. The decision to just find a nice a hotel and rest for the remainder of the day, was made while I was crossing the Pentland. It had been a pretty full day for me so I went into shutdown mode upon my arrival at the Merkister at 2:30 p.m.. It was now six o’clock and I was enjoying the quiet relaxation of this beautiful loch- side hotel. The Merkister is a first-rate facility catering mostly to fishermen. Even the ones not registered as guests, came into the bar for drinks or food. There was a steady stream of them until around eight in the evening.  I had a panoramic view of the loch and surrounding countryside form my second-story windows. Here again, including my mini binoculars proved to be a good idea. It gave me a chance to examine, in detail, all the surrounding farms and buildings. It was all new to me, and I wanted to learn as much about it as I could. The sun showed no signs of setting when I retired at ten o’clock. I never did find out what time it gets dark in these northern climes because I wasn’t awake late enough. It was my understanding — at this time of the year — the sun sets after eleven o’clock and rises again about three in the morning. During the summer months (July & August) it does not get dark at all; this phenomena is called the grimly. It is not night, it is not twilight, it is the grimlings.

I awoke Tuesday morning before six, May 30,  in this quiet paradise. I didn’t hang around for breakfast as I had places to go and things to see. By nine o’clock, I had walked the grounds of St. Magnus Cathedral, in Kirkwall, and shortly after that, phoned Mrs. Goar at her home. We agreed she would be pick me up at 10:30 a.m. at the Commodore Hotel where I planned to stay that night (Tuesday). I had contacted Mrs. Goar through the local newspaper, the Orcadian. As an international subscriber, I wrote a letter-to-the-editor which they published last year. In response to this, Mrs. Goar contacted me by mail and sent some genealogical charts suggesting her husband, James, may be related to the maternal side of our family. Our discourse became so agreeable, through letters and phone- calls, we felt like friends, and our first meeting was very cordial. Mrs. Goar is owner/operator of her own tour business in Orkney. I agreed to avail myself of her services as tour- guide for the entire day. We were together seven hours and I saw much of the Mainland Island of Orkney. At the end of the day, Mrs. Goar invited me to her home at Midhouse, Holm, for tea and to meet her husband, Jim.

Our first stop on the tour was close by: the Italian Chapel, just across the first barrier right in front of the Commodore. Italian prisoners during the second-world war built the chapel out of waste materials and much work and artistry. The allies not only allowed the structure to remain but have encouraged its preservation. Today it is a symbol of cooperation between old enemies. It is an inspiring place to visit. It was extensively renovated and restored in 1961 and is to this day maintained by the Italian people.

The barriers could use some explanation at this point. Skapa Flow probably needs no explanation: it is one of the most- famous harbours in the world. It has been used by the Allies in two world wars. Being surrounded by land on four sides, it provides necessary protection from the wild weather of the northern regions in general, and the North Sea in particular. Access to Skapa is by way of numerous channels between the many islands surrounding it. Many of these could be guarded during wartime but many could not. It was decided, (by Prime Minister Churchill’s Cabinet) after some famous instances of the enemy ships infiltrating the Allied defences here, that certain entrances should be blocked-up permanently. The entrances to the west and south would remain open but the four entrances from the east would be blocked with sunken ships and stones. Hence, today, we have what are known as the Churchill Barriers. The barriers are numbered from the north from one to four. Nowadays, there is a modern road system crossing them and joining the islands of Lamb Holm, Glimpsholm, Burray and South Ronaldsay, together. This may be of little interest to the casual reader, but it was paramount to our survival while visiting in Orkney. You see, we (first me and later, me and Jennifer) chose to stay in St. Margaret’s Hope on the isle of South Ronaldsay. If it were not for these barriers, we could not have driven from Kirkwall to our hotel! In fact, there are five barriers to cross in the car, but only four block sea-channels.

My day with Mrs. Goar was most enjoyable. We left the Italian Chapel and continued southward, crossing all the barriers (including the one at Echna Loch), and arrived at St. Margaret’s Hope in time for lunch. The Anchorage Hotel was a little out-of-the-way hotel and restaurant facing north on the edge of St. Margaret’s Hope — the bay; not to be confused with St. Margaret’s Hope the town, the third-largest community in Orkney after Kirkwall and Stromness. The proprietor and owner was on e fiesty little lady known as Mrs. Cromarty — just plain  Margaret to her friends and guests. After finishing a scintillating conversation with Mrs. Goar on the relative merits of operating under the auspices of the Orkney Tourist Board, Mrs. Cromarty gave me the grand-tour of her establishment. It was a really nice place. The rooms were small but tastefully decorated with many  extra amenities not specified in the dictum from the OTB.  It reminded me of a doll-house, and I concluded this would be a good place to stay for the remainder of my time in Orkney. The lunch was delicious so I knew the food was good.

Tuesday night I caught up on some of the sleep lost due to jet- lag. After going to bed at seven in the evening, I didn’t awaken until seven Wednesday morning. That is about twelve hours sleep. I decided the Anchorage would be my next-night’s resting place, but I didn’t head south to there, I got in the car and drove the seven-miles Kirkwall. Instead of going directly to Kirkwall on the A961, I went the other way, past the airport on the A960. Anticipating Jennifer’s arrival in a couple of days, I wanted to become familiar with the airport's location and amenities. It was a fairly straightforward operation: runways for the airplanes and a terminal for the passengers. I was confident Jennifer would be met without any complications.

Before parking the car in Kirkwall at the free parking lot, I fueled it up. What a shock that was! Three-quarters of a tank cost £23.00 [$50.00 CAN]. At sixty-six pennies per litre, fuel in Scotland is more than double what it costs in Canada. When I finally ended my trip back in Glasgow, June 7, 1995, I had burned up over £100.00 [$220.00] worth of fuel. Travelling by car in Scotland cannot be considered cheap transport.

Kirkwall is an ancient town. The morning sun shone brightly as I walked the quiet streets. St. Magnus Cathedral was — and still is — the heart of the city. Located on the dying-slope of a hillside, the land flattens out in front of it and runs to the sea. This fact is fairly-concealed by the hundreds of old, stone buildings comprising the downtown core of Kirkwall. Across the street from the Cathedral, are some of the main retailers in Orkney: Judith Glue (in a building reminiscent of a castle) and Orkney Television and Ola Gorie Jewelers in the next building. Continuing north along Broad Street, one enters the narrow confines of Albert Street. Here is located the bulk of retail businesses in Kirkwall. Grocers, jewelers, shoe sellers and book stores abound on either side. Here auto traffic is one-way only from the entrance by the sea on Bridge Street.  An interesting place.

Before noon, I left Kirkwall on the A956 for the short drive to Finstown at the sea shore of the Bay of Firth. Finstown is a place without any noticeable commerce which makes it an ideal place for people to live. It is centrally located on Mainland Island and accommodation is reasonably priced. Good waterfront cottages give one a view of the islands in the bay to the north. Unfortunately, there was no where to find a bite to eat nor a cup of tea. Without further adieu, I headed for Stromness. On the way, I stopped at the Standing Stones Hotel, on the shore of Loch Stenness, for a delightful lunch.

Although I had first arrived in Stromness, I had not seen much of the place. After disembarking from the St. Ola, I had driven straight to the Merkister Hotel at Loch Harray. All I saw of Stromness was what could be seen from the ferry deck as we sailed into the dock. Now, I strolled the same streets my great- great grandfather and grandmother had strode 145 years before me. After visiting Stromness Museum the nice lady there told me where the old Hudson's Bay Company‘s dock was located and also the cannon used to sound the notice a ship was arriving in harbour. “When the cannon fired,” she confided, “everyone would hurry to the dock.”

Stromness is strung along the western shore of a waterway named Cairston Roads, only a port-turn after entering the harbour from Hoy Sound. Stromness is further protected from the elements by Inner Holm & Outer Holm: two islands strategically located a few hundred yards out from the land. Behind the city of Stromness, to the northwest, the land rises to a height of 100 metres to dissuade the harsh north wind from bothering its inhabitants. Combine this with an abundant supply of water, and one readily appreciates why this place was the centre of shipping activity, in the North Atlantic, through the mid-eighteenth to mid-nineteenth century. Indeed, as already mentioned, its value as a harbour is known to this day, throughout the world. After a grueling day of relaxing and taking pictures in Stromness, I returned the thirty-miles to St. Margaret’s Hope. The drive took approximately thirty- minutes, but the money saved made the trip worthwhile. The accommodation and meals were half-price at the Anchorage.

St. Margaret’s Hope
Thursday, June 1, 1995

My first night at the Anchorage was very relaxing and the meals were good. I spent the day sightseeing around Kirkwall and some other attractions located around the island. The highlight of the day had to be visiting Corrigall Farm and meeting its curator and resident old- time farmer-cum-tour-guide, Harry Flett. Corrigall Farm is located in Harray (not far from the Merkister Hotel) and is part of the Orkney Natural History Society’s many venues. It’s an authentic, original, untouched, mid- nineteenth century, working farm. As mentioned, Harry Flett is the resident farmer. Harry learned much of the old folklore and farming skills and preserved and maintained his efficiency in their use. He thrashes grain, makes beer, cuts peats and even keeps the peat fire going all day. Harry was well-suited to his task: he is a direct descendant of Adam Flett (1812-1894) who was also born in Harray and part of his story is in the book, The Ice-Bound Whalers,  [ISBN 0-907618-15-4]. What a marvelous ambience for anyone wanting to capture the essence of life on an Orkney farm in the mid-nineteenth century.

Life in Orkney grew out of the earth and stone that was here when the first settlers arrived over 5000 years ago. The earth was to grow food and the stone was to build shelter; nowhere is this more evident than at Corrigall Farm. The buildings are crafted from close fitting stone (like most in Orkney) but at Corrigall, one gets a close-up look at them. The main house, as it stands today, was built over the years by adding onto each successive structure: first the kitchen, then the bedroom, then a place for the livestock and chickens, etc.. Harry explained that by having the livestock in the same building during the winter, helped heat the living area by using the warmth from their bodies. The kitchen has a fireplace for cooking, which dates the structure around 1850; this is about the time the central fire gave way to the modern fireplace. Another innovation is displayed in the bedroom: there they have sleeping closets made of wood. These represent the next step in the evolution of  sleeping quarters for Orcadians. Before the invention of the sleeping-cupboard, families slept in stone chambers built into the walls of the house, similar to what one sees at Skara Brae, the 5000 year-old dwelling houses unearthed at the Bay of Skaill, in 1850. The significance of the Corrigall Farm was not wasted on me: after viewing many of the prehistoric dwellings around the island, one could recognize the revolution in living and farming practices represented by this exhibit. In one generation, the people went from the old ways to the new: the central fire (that man had used since the dawn of civilization) was replaced by the fireplace; oxen (garron) were replaced with horses and machinery replaced much of the manual labour. All this was more relavant because this is how John Irvine’s & Jessie Goar’s families would have lived at the time they left for Vancouver’s Island and a new life. By visiting here, one could see these people of Orkney were used to hard work and hardship, making them ideal candidates for the Hudson's Bay Company.

Friday, June 2, 1995
Jennifer Arrives

Jennifer, my youngest daughter, arrived right on time at 10:30 Friday morning. She arrived in Glasgow, from her home in Vancouver, on Thursday and spent the night at the Forte Crest Hotel at Glasgow Airport. Jennifer was ready for all the sights, so she picked out the sites and I did the driving. First, we stopped in Kirkwall and then went onto Mae’s Howe, the ancient burial tomb so popular with incomers (incomers is the name Orcadians call their tourists).  Before walking the short distance from the parking lot beside the roadway, we went into the old Tormiston Mill, which is now a restaurant, and had a delightful lunch consisting of soup and a sandwich. After Mae’s Howe it was on to Skara Brae and then Brough of Birsay. The Brough of Birsay can be reached by way of a concrete foot path if the tide is low enought. When we arrived, at the parking lot atop the cliff overlooking the channel, we could see it was already covered in about a foot of water. After taking some photograph s, we returned to the Anchorage B&B at seven that evening, and Jennifer liked the place, Mrs. Cromarty and the food.

St. Magnus Cathedral
Saturday, June 5, 1995

Saturday morning Jen and I headed for Kirkwall and St. Magnus Cathedral. Although I had been there previously, it is such a magnificent place one would never tire of it. We looked at many of the burial stones standing along the wall of the passageway in the south aisle. Many bore Irvine or related names. Jennifer took notes and I took photographs and audio transcriptions of the lettering.  Beside each stone was a tablet with the text of the etchings from the stones. The first stone past the corner where one would enter into the south nave read: “Here rests the corpse of a pius and virtuous woman, Barbara Irvin spouse to Mitchell Rendall.” Another reads, on the actual stone: “M.MORIAJVSTIBLATA, HEIR LIES THE CORPS OF ELIZABETH IRVING.” The etchings are written without spaces between the words which makes reading difficult. It was obviously done in this manner to conserve space on the tablet. On another stone the word HERE is spelled HEER. Other writings are difficult to decipher from my photographs, but one can be certain a written record of all these stones exists somewhere in Orkney’s libraries or museums. The stone which interested me the most was the one that Gilbert Brown had drawn a sketch of when he and son, Peter, were in the cathedral in 1990. It depicts the Irvine crest with the clan flower clearly visible — three holly leaves. This is consistent and identifiable with the clan crest of the ancient border clan represented by Irvines of Drum [see below].

Gilbert wrote about these stones thus: “There are a number of tombstones in St. Magnus Cathedral belonging to members of the Irving family: one in the north aisle of the choir is dedicated to a Captain Robert  Irving who was married to Barbara Williamson, June 10, 1652. The date of his death is gone as the result of decay in the stone. Another  stone in the south aisle of the choir is to William  of Sabay (mentioned in the family tree). The inscription on this stone reads:

HEIR LYIS WILLIAM VRVING SONE TO UMQLL VILLIAM VRVING
OF SABAY BEING SCHOT OUT OF YE CASTEL IN HIS MAJESTIES
SVC DEPARTED YE 20 OF SEPTEMBER 1614

This William was killed by cannon-ball fire from Kirkwall Castle during the seige of 1614.

In the south aisle of the nave another  stone to Elizabeth Irving, spouse to George Traill of Quandal, merchant and burgess in Kirkwall died 26th July 1681 aged 42 and they were married 1st January, 1674. In the same aisle, another stone to Barbara Irving spouse to Mitchell Rendall of Breck who departed this life the 16th December 1682, aged 45. There were many others belonging to the family who were buried in the floor of the cathedral but the stones have been removed during restorations. The following coats-of-arms belong to Captain Robert and Villiam Vrving.” [Here Gilbert supplied three sketches.]

Without rewriting the entire history of St. Magnus Cathedral, not much more can be said about the artifacts it contains relating to the Irvines. One really has to visit the church and spend time there to appreciate just how prominent was the name Irvine in olden times in Orkney. It is also hard to deny our family roots are in Scotland.  The holly leaf is the flower of Drum and is recognizable throughout history as belonging to that branch of the clan (and previously to Bonshaw Tower). As a matter of interest, included here will be a line drawing of the stained-glass window showing more armorial bearings of the Irvines from Drum Castle. The Sabay crest and the stained-glass window, were created by tracing over photographs and are exact reproductions.

Before too long, we found ourselves back at Corrigall Farm in Harray; this time Jennifer got to meet Harry Flett. Harry was the congenial host as always and this time offered up some home-made beer. Between sips, Harry explained the finer points of Orkney beer-making including illuminating the value of the sugar content in the grain to make a successful brew. We sat and chatted in front of the peat fire and it was a poignant experience remembering this is how our forebears lived before going to the New World in 1850. According to Harry, Orkney used to have a “peedie horse,” just as Shetland has a “peerie horse,” or, Shetland Pony to us. As the lambs in the house cried, and the chickens about  our feet crowed, Harry continued with his lessons. He is a wonderful example of an Orcadian. After stopping at the Italian Chapel on the way back to the Anchorage, we were home at 5:00 and ready for dinner.

On to Eday
Sunday, June 4, 1995

Sunday morning we headed back for Kirkwall to take the ferry over to Eday [pronounced Edee]. We had bought our tickets the day before so all we had to do was get the car in the line-up. Each car is lined up according to its destination; the cars off-loading first — which on this trip was Eday — drove on first. The trip is just over an hour in duration and passes by a couple of other islands on the way. The most recognizable land mark is Balfour Castle on the isle of Shapinsay (the first island on the right after departing Kirkwall). Gairsay is on the left and just before docking at the Bay of Backaland, on Eday, to one’s right the island of Sanday is noticeable and quite close.

We were on Eday to visit the old folk’s grave-site and the old family home at Calfsound. If one knew where to look, the old kirk in the graveyard is visible from the ferry dock. Calfsound, and Mount Thule (Hoolie), is further towards the north end of the island. We made our first stop on Eday at the Eday community Enterprises Restaurant and gas station. I soon learned they do sell gas on Eday, but not unleaded, which is what we needed. Because we were low on fuel, our driving was curtailed to visiting the grave- site and Calfsound, which, after all, is what we came out the Eday for.

The kirkyard is not hard to find: there is only one road from the ferry to Calfsound, and the kirkyard of our ancestors is just about a mile along it. As the land rises up, there is a large church on the left side of the road [built 1858]. Below, and to the right, is a road which runs to the sea and the old kirkyard. All is visible from the road. We parked the car, outside the kirkyard, on what appeared to be a driveway to the adjacent farm. The farm looked like a going enterprise, so we were careful to keep the roadway clear. There’s a steel gate at the farm entrance and another at the cemetery. We opened the gate to the cemetery and went in.

The grass surrounding the burial sites had just been cut within the last day-or-so. Among the two-hundred headstones was one with the name Irvine on it, all we had to do was find out which one. Actually there were two Irvine stones — side-by-side — six rows up from the sea and three graves over from the front of the Hebden site.

The Hebden site is surrounded with a wrought iron fence and is the most prominent feature (next to the old, stone kirk), in the graveyard. Robert H. C. Hebden was reportedly a laird, or head-man of some description, 1840- 73; thus, we know this grave was here when the old-folks, William & Mary (nee Craigie) Irvine, were buried here in 1880. So there you have it: the Irvine grave-sites are six rows up from the sea and are the third and fourth graves to the north (towards Calfsound) from the Hebden grave.

During our trip over to Eday on the ferry, we talked with a couple from Yorkton, Saskatchewan, who were coming back to Eday to find their families’s ancestors’ graves. Their name was Muir. As Jennifer and I left the kirkyard- by-the-sea, we passed the Muirs standing in the graveyard of the new [1858] church, on the hill. Beyond this, on the road to Calfsound, we passed a derelict church which had the date 1851 carved in the top-stone. It appears, that as the population left the island, the churches just died.

Gilbert wrote about the places of family interest in an article published in our family newsletter,  Irvines in Victoria BC - since 1851 {Vol.1 No.3, ISSN 1192-4497]. The pub at Calfsound is now named Pirate Gow’s (during Gilbert and Peter’s visit is was the Merry Dancer, Furrowend).  It is now owned by the vested interests who seem to own everything else in Calfsound — . According to James Harcus, caretaker at Carrik House, they also own Mount Hoolie, the old Irvine place. Two couples were staying in the old homestead when we passed by so we didn’t go in to visit. Gilbert and Peter took good photos during their visit in 1990. We didnt’ get to tour Carrik House because the owners had just returned from England the previous week-end and the house was not yet open to the public.

On our way back to the ferry, we stopped for a good look at London Airport  and the Bay of London. London Airport is a local jest on Mainland Island to ask people returning from Eday, “Did you see London Airport?” Of course we did! As a licensed pilot for many years here in Canada, I noted that London Airport was the only grass strip I’d ever seen with more than one runway. It actually had two, both sporting orange barrels for runway end- marker! Bay of London was mentioned by William Irvine to his brother John, at Rosebank, Cedar Plains, in an 1880 letter.

Because of our lack of fuel, Jennifer and I returned to the ferry dock about three-hours before it was to arrive, and parked the car. This provided an opportunity to walk about the beach area and local farms. We found many interesting stones on the beach and photographed Skuas nesting in the banks overhanging the beach. Jennifer found a perfect, miniature replica of the Stone of Setter. It was 3 mm thick and about 100 mm long with an identical notch in the top end (like the real Setter Stone) and tapered narrower at the bottom end. I found a piece of red sandstone which reminded me of Red Head, the headland at the north end of Eday, as seen from Calfsound (This I had mounted on a base, with plaque, upon my return to Victoria).

Jennifer returned to the car excited that we had been invited in for tea at the little farmhouse-cut-workshop of a local artisan, his wife and son. Colin and Sherry Kerr moved here from England some year’s ago to get away from the rat-race of London. He brought with him over twenty tons of exotic and hardwoods and all his tools. Colin’s work is sold throughout the world and locally. St Magnus Cathedral contacted Colin when they wanted a new alter built; his work stands to-day in the Kirkwall edifice. The Kerrs’ farmhouse is named Redbanks, and the business is named, Sui Generis, which means, “one of a kind.” After Sherry showed us through the display rooms, Colin gave us a tour of his workshop. We stayed for a cup of tea, said goodbye and headed for the ferry dock.

Tomb of the Eagles
Monday, June 5, 1995

Monday morning, for a change, Jennifer and I headed south from St. Margaret’s Hope. We wanted to visit the Tomb of the Eagles which is located on the most-southern tip of South Ronaldsay. This is the southern-most tip of the Orkney Island chain and is where the foot-passenger ferry arrives at Burwick from John O’Groat’s. The tomb of the Eagles is one of the few ancient cairns in Orkney that is privately owned and operated. Apparently, the farmer who owns the land, found it quite by mistake while going about his chores one day. Under the terms of ancient Norse Law, he was allowed to develop and preserve it himself, which he did. To-day, he and his wife, jointly conduct very interesting tours of the sites and show off many artifacts — including human skulls found in the tomb — to the hundreds who visit annually.

While we were in the area, we thought we might as well find out how people arrive on the John O’Groats-Burwick Ferry. As luck would have it,  a ferry was coming in as we arrived at Burwick. Besides the arriving ferry, the area offered many other photographic opportunities. The hull of an aging and rotting long-boat was one of the best examples of this littoral subject that I’ve ever seen. I photographed it and the graveyard adjacent to the old church.

On our way back to Kirkwall, we stopped in at Hazel Goar’s place at Midhouse [Midhoos]. Her husband Jim joined us for tea and later a neighbour, Sheena Wenham. Afterward, while Jennifer did some laundry in Kirkwall, I went up the hill to the library. I was looking for a book on the history of steam-driven ships in the early days of Stromness. From what I’d seen in the Stromness Museum, it appears there is a lapse in the chronological records of this power source relating to shipping.  While at Stromness Museum, I’d bought a couple of books which answered many questions but raised a few more. The history of Dr. John Rae, No Ordinary Journey, [ISBN 0 948636 38 6, Edinburgh, ISBN 7735 1107 5 Canada] was one, and Sail & Steam, the other. The latter is a small (ten page) booklet published by the museum and now out-of-print. On page seven it states: “With the advent of regular steamship service to Orkney in 1833, given by the Aberdeen, Lieth, Clyde and Tay Shipping Company, the local sailing ship owners suffered a knock. It was a long time, however, before sail completely bowed out to the mechanical age.” This proves steamships were in regular service for seventeen-years prior to our forbearers departure and they probably left Stromness on a steam-driven ship.

 Having brought up the name of Dr. John Rae, a brief review of his accomplishments (as reported in the aforementioned book) is in order. The foreword in the book No Ordinary Journey — John Rae, Arctic Explorer 1813-1893, tells us that Dr. Rae — like many other                                Orcadians — has not received his due in regards to his place in history. Because most of his Arctic accomplishments were achieved without mishap, popular history-writers have pretty much overlooked his contribution. This oversight is similar to overlooking the discovery of North America by Prince Henry and Antonio Zeno in 1398.

The preface in  No Ordinary Journey reads: “John Rae gave over thirty-years of his life to exploring, investigating and documenting the northern part of the American continent. He was a remarkable man, committed, independent and idiosyncratic, who contributed in many important ways to our understanding of the geography, climate, natural history and ethnography of one of the world’s last frontier territories. The map of Canada pays tribute to his work, in the many geographical features that bear his name; but beyond that, there has been little recognition of the importance and diversity of his achievement.”

He was born in 1813 and raised in Orkney, a rugged training ground for a challenging life. Rae died in London, England, in 1893 and is buried in the kirkyard of St. Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, Orkney. In 1993 a one- hundred-year anniversary celebration of his life was held in Edinburgh, Orkney and Canada. Publication of  No Ordinary Journey  was part of this celebration and highlights Dr. Rae’s work in the light of more popular (and in some cases less-accomplished) explorers such as, Sir John Ross, Sir James Clark Ross and, most notable of all — Sir John Franklin. The final point is: Dr. John Rae, and the Canadian natives he learned from, was not appropriately acknowledge in his lifetime. He has never been given due weight by Arctic historians. The book,  No Ordinary Journey,  should be mandatory reading for anyone studying Orkney. It’s about time the record was put straight about this extra-ordinary man and the race to which he belongs — Orcadian. Perhaps Dr. Rae is to blame for his own anonymity. In his later life, when asked about his triumphs in the Arctic, he humbly replied: “We of the Hudson's Bay Company thought very little of our Arctic work. For my own part, at least, I thought no more of it than any ordinary journey.”

Goodbye To Orkney
 Tuesday, June 6, 1995

This was to be the day of our departure from Orkney. After awaking at 6:10, we started the one- hour drive over to Stromness just after seven o’clock. Monday night, Mrs. Goar paid us a visit at the Anchorage to sign her guest book. What a thoughtful person! Just before her arrival, we straightened up our account with Mrs. Cromarty, and bid her goodbye (we knew we wouldn’t be seeing her in the morning).

Receiving ticket number one to board the Stromness to Scrabster ferry was a bit of a thrill for Jennifer. This was her  first trip on the P&O on this link, and the number-uno ticket was a further reminder of our early arrival at the ticket booth. Jennifer, like many other passengers, crowded the outside decks as we passed the Old Man of Hoy heading south.

Fortunately, the weather was fair for our crossing of the Pentland Firth -- reportedly one of the world's most storm-prone waterways. The sun even shone most of the time and Jen had a good first-view of the Old Man of Hoy as we passed by. After docking at Scrabster, we were the second car off and headed east through Thurso onto the A895 to Latheron. Here we joined the A9 and
tracked the costline as far south as Golspie.

This road undulates for several miles. When driving in Scotland, one could calculate that it takes about the same amount of time to comer fifty miles here as it would to go three times that distance at home (in Canada or America). anyone who's driven here would probably consider that a conservative
estimate. Another little aside here is the name of Latheron is actually Lateronwheel. We concluded at some time -- in the near or distant past -- some unsuspecting churl had inadvertenly dropped his shaving cream into the stream before it made contact with the old mill's paddle wheel -- hence, lather on wheel!

The drive itself puts one in view of some spectacular scenery and ancient homes and, in the case of Dunrobin, a castle. Because the road is so narrow and twisting, it isn't always possible to take photos of these beautiful sites. One just hopes someday the relic will be seen somewhere on a postcard
or picture and one can say, "I was there!" The scenery is really so inspiring throughout Scotland, one really has to discipline oneself to not stop and take photos; otherwise, one's destination would never be achieved.

Before long we were on the road again, tracking the coastline in the opposite direction to which I had come. The undulations of the carriageway, were a bit of an eye-opener to Jen. Again, as we passed Dunrobin Castle, we were awed by its splendour and grand entrance complete with guardhouses.

Shortly after our arrival at Drumnadrochit, we were having coffee with Adrian & Marilyn Shine. As you recall, Adrian is Field Director for the Lock Ness Monster Exhibition and was the chief scientist and project manager during the extensive search for Nessie in the 1970s. The village and hotel weren’t as busy (no bank holiday) as when I arrive the first time (Sunday, May 29). After having pizza for supper at Fiddler’s Restaurant (beside the warm fireplace) we retired early for the next day’s journey that would take us back to Glasgow.

We were on the road at six Wednesday morning, low on fuel, again. After running on fumes for several miles, filling the tank was done at a little village just before Fort William. The entire route, through and out of, the highlands, is narrow and twisting; especially, along the banks of Loch Lomond. While passing though the mountains of the highlands, we were able to stop to take a few photographs. It’s a beautiful part of Scotland and is indicative of what most people would envision Scotland to look like: green valleys, bubbling streams and snow- capped mountains, all joined by cloud and mist and rain and sunshine, but not necessarily in that order! Believe me, the weather changes every five-minutes in Scotland.

Our first order of business upon arriving in Glasgow (after checking into the hotel) was to get rid of the car. It wasn’t due back until the next day, but we had no more use for it and had enough of driving on the wrong side of the road. After these two matters were taken care of, we hopped a bus to Edinburgh around noon. The return fare was only nine pounds each, which we felt was very reasonable. I had told Jennifer, “If you haven’t gone to Edinburgh, you haven’t gone to Scotland,” so she had no intention of missing this place. The bad news was the old bus had no air-conditioning and no windows to open so it was a most uncomfortable, hot, trip across the island. On the return trip, we fared much better, riding in a brand-new unit — with air-conditioning.

We had a great time in Edinburgh, again. The weather was sunny, rainy, windy, cold and hot, each lasting for about five-minutes; I had my topcoat on and off every other block, but for the most part it was sunny and warm, and we have the pictures to prove it. Our first stop was at the Web 13 Café; Ian McCarron and his boys were all there voicing their resounding welcome, “Hi, Bill, good to see you back.” Jen must have thought I was a long-lost relative of these chaps. It’s funny how people think computers and the Internet are all about machines when in fact they are all about people. Along with a good lunch and cold drinks, Jen and I sent Web postcards home and I sent another fax to my beautiful wife. We have a fax machine right at home so it is the best and cheapest way to communicate at only £1.50 per transmission. After visiting the castle, and eating an ice-cream cone while strolling the lower walkway of the Royal Mile,  it was back onto the bus at five o’clock heading for the Forte Crest at Glasgow Airport.

Thursday, June the eighth, we arose with great anticipation contemplating our journey home. These positive thoughts were soon dashed by the inept air-carrier with whom we were flying. Without going into all the details, let it suffice to say, “it was the airline form hell.” This was confirmed several months later [August 15, 1995] when the Victoria Times-Colonist reported a debacle involving Air Club International at Vancouver Airport. These poor saps were kept waiting more than thirty-four hours! Jennifer and I and our fellow passengers were delayed most of the day, arriving at the terminal at ten in the morning did not take off until six o’clock that evening — a very poor excuse for an airline.

Mercifully, I now conclude this record of my experiences on my first trip to Scotland and Orkney. Scotland is a bonny land! Perhaps, Scotland is the most beautiful country in the world; it is the most beautiful I’ve ever seen, surpassing the beauty and grandeur of even Canada, in many ways. Maybe I’m confusing different with more beautiful and, if so,  I stand corrected.

The End. Amen.