one day of Scotland

I wound myself up, growing increasingly pissed off, stressed, driving faster and more aggressively.  Darkness had now fallen, completely cloaking a mountainside which ambivalently transmitted its bleak chill.  I clicked off the thought-cluttering stereo, finally found the full beam headlights and continued twisting the vehicle upwards through the Highland range.  My hands were becoming faintly numb, knuckles iced into a rigid grip of the steering wheel.  I didn’t really know where I was going.  This was to be expected if you set off on a loosely planned roadtrip without booking any accommodation beforehand.

AA signs on hotels are meant to signify quality, but to me only signified expense.  Growling out loud, sick of myself, cold, tired and stressed, I found a straight area of round in which to safely execute a three-point turn, turned the car around and headed back to the hotel, ready to take the hit. 

What ate at me was knowing I’d made a bad call: to turn away from that crusty hostelly place earlier, with its charming, colourfully dressed local receptionist, a full house and immediate locality that seemed populated and would be screening the Champions’ League football I’d been anticipating all day.  I could have had enough drams to blur out any lumpy discomfort of my surroundings, slept, then left early in the morning without any major wallet dent.  Instead I’m here: half way up a mountain in the middle of the Highlands with no other buildings for miles and everything ball-achingly expensive because it’s designed for affluent geriatric hikers from Surrey. 

I’ve opted out of dinner even though I didn’t really have lunch; intermittent snacking on supplies fended off any proper hunger.  Although it is extremely comfortable here - nice furniture, shiny en-suite, thick carpets – unfortunately they have no telly signal.  So no football.

These gnarky issues amassed to momentarily make me forget what a good day I’d had until around 4/5pm, when I first began tentatively knocking at B&B doors on the Isle of Skye.

Which had been another growing irritation: constant knocking on doors like a pauper, seeing if they had any room at the inn.  Nervous caution in the faces of ladies of a certain age, who’d clearly rather not thanks, no matter how much I beam at them like a simpleton, desperately trying to seem normal.  My gaul at simply being a young single male is unavoidable; at not being a couple.  It seems to be unusual and almost an offence.  “Ooh, we only do doubles sorry.”  Or when they advertise vacancies then blank you, saying there’s none because they’re not sure about you.  I’m fairly ordinary looking and middle class, what more d’you want?!  What d’you think I’ll do?!  Irreparably stain and tear bed linen by excessively violent wanking?  Shit all over the walls?  Steal the wardrobe?  What? 

There was no such uncertainty in this posh mountainside AA place.  Its unpredictable young Indian host was too busy to be bothered as he hurriedly checked me in.  Curious host for a place which clearly prides itself on its traditional Scottish character. 

                                                                        *

Until 4 or 5pm, today had been good.  Better than good, it had amazed.  Early this morning a passable cooked breakfast at my Elgin B&B fuelled me for the careful drive through a light sprinkling of frozen snow  and on towards Inverness.  A few righted wrong turns eventually spat me over a sequence of bridges in a loop around the city.  Ahead lay the Western Highlands with its proper, mansized landscapes. I stopped briefly in North Kessoch, a bridge and large loch to one side of a panaroma which swept round to present the first handsome mountains.  It was tranquil and pretty, but would pale in comparison with the grandiose new panoramas I was about to see.

These following landscapes caused photographic lunacy.  A  rare, gloriously sunshiney day saw me snapping ravenously at apparently infinite jawdropping scenery: from staggeringly beautiful snow clad mountain tops, to scenic roads lined with dense fir trees and backed by those knowing, wise ranges.  Driving at moderately high speeds, I thrust my right hand out the window to blindly capture and hope, nervous of slipstream wind prising the camera from my grasp, flying away and shattering into tiny pieces on the road behind.

[caption id="attachment_413" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="into the Highlands"][/caption]

Sunshine and pleasant warmth barely relented all day, even near the upper snowy areas of the mountains.  A spontaneous two hour hike to one peak, all alone, left me feeling like I owned the planet.  That was until I stumbled across two sets of peculiarly dispiriting recent bootprints in the snow.   I listened to fittingly epic Sigur Ros soundscapes as my feet crunched on, buzzing off the environment, grateful for being able to do this kind of thing.  Even if only once a year.  Even if my day-to-day life generally sucks, I can still use this experience and ones like it to haul myself through crappy tower block days.

[caption id="attachment_414" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="all mine"][/caption]

Driving on west, the next to move me was a shimmering giant loch which lay between jagged glens to the far west, in the direction of Skye.  Having dropped a gear to climb one short, steep incline, it presented itself.  It dug deep into the smoothed land, perfectly cultivated.   I wanted to stop, gape and walk but didn’t dare as the curling road was narrow and the sheer cliffs to one side wore landslide warnings.  It probably became quickly impassable when the snow arrived.  So I drove on, winding up and down as I skirted the Loch’s edge, stopping just once at a viewpoint which offered faraway views of seemingly minature, dispersed working farmhouses on the opposite side of the loch.  Whisps of smoke from the houses gamely fought to scale from the Loch’s valley, while the great canvas of water below sparkled, cradling tiny puttering fishing boats, knowing its allure and the mystery of its contents.  Its waters narrowed and led out further west, towards the ocean.  A clean, new bridge structure connected my endless ribbon of road to the luminous Isle Of Skye.  I wanted to explore it further, but time was ticking and I needed to start thinking about where to sleep, and if I could find somewhere showing the football.  

Back on the mainland I stopped again at a beach, enticed by an irresistible sunset over the water.  There I sat and pondered whether people naturally gravitate to one of three things in their 20s:

[caption id="attachment_415" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="sunset reflection"][/caption]

experience – travel, sport, clubs, doing as much stuff as possible;
things – getting life sorted: career, property, cars;
other people – love, relationships, domesticity, experience through others. 

Obviously combinations are possible, but don’t most lean more towards one than the others?  Could be a nonsense, but sometimes it seems cleanly classifiable like that.

Just returned from the warm, cosy expensive bar here.  I had one excruciatingly priced pint, blanched at the menu and read my book.  The cheapest meal on the menu was pie and chips – which I’d had last night in a soulless chain pub in a damp Elgin.  I'm sure it would be of a better standard here, but there the food had looked forlorn, like it could’ve been splutted onto the plate from a considerable height.  I almost felt sorry for eating it.

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original circa March 08