Wet day, warm hearts—and no taxi

Press, 25 February 1978, Page 16

Wet day, warm hearts—and no taxi

By

HILARY DONALD

Scottish people are warm and hospitable, but intractable. When we asked one week-end if there were not just one train or ferry running on Sunday, we were met with a stern reply: “This is the Sabbath, and no-one works. It is a day of rest.” But we noted that

because everything stopped on Sunday, many of the people were so bored that on Monday morning the garbage containers in parks and reserves spewed over the grass the empty beer cans they could not contain. At Inverness, where I telephoned every taxi firm, I was disappointed but not surprised that not one driver was prepared to take us from our hotel to catch a train at the ridiculous time of six o'clock in the morning. But how could we be as far north as Inverness without experiencing the excitement of travelling the Highland Line to Thurso, in the far north? An obliging company representative from Leeds overheard our conversation, and said cheerfully, “Give us a call at 5.30, love, and I’ll take you to the station.”

The proprietress, who expressed shame on behalf of the uncompromising taxi firms, showed us how to work the tea urn and left breakfast cereal and fruit juice for a light but hasty breakfast. After dressing a little sleepily at 5 a.m. I awakened the kind man from Leeds a little later with a cup of tea, and was somewhat nonplussed to note that he slept with his pyjamas beneath his pillow. Even at such an early hour. travellers spilled through the railway turnstile as soon as the train came into the station. Many were young Continentals, weighed down with enormous packs from which hung an assortment of tramping boots, billies, and drinking containers. We settled with relief in a double seat in the ancient railway carriage, The win-

dows were wide, and between each set of seats, which faced alternately front and rear, was a large and convenient table. This arrangement is an excelleht one, for it not only makes it easy to eat a picnic meal, but also renders it almost impos-

sible to refrain from striking up a conversation with another passenger. It was because of these conditions that, on another line, we were introduced to the joys of Scotch malt whisky. A young fellow traveller, after first presenting us with a carton of hot coffee and a chocolate biscuit each, enquired: “Have you tried malt whisky?” He seemed horrified to learn that we had not, and said, "When we reach the end of the trip, let me take you into a little bar I know and I’ll buy you one. It goes down smooooooooth.” We found that it did, and were captured. Leaving Inverness, we travelled at first through pleasant, wooded country scattered with stone cottages. On the other -side stretched the continuing firths that gnawed at the land. Suddenly, we noticed a movement in the green fields. The place was crawling with rabbits, dashing playfully across the grass or resting in the early morning sunshine. For a time we were intrigued, but the numbers were so great that we soon tired of counting them, and ceased to be impressed. Crumbling crofts recalled the clearance laws of the earlier centuries, when the people were driven from their homes to make way for the sheep population. A rose-draped stone cottage was now a railway station, the old world building presenting a strange contrast to the

neatly uniformed stationmaster.

Past blue lochs, murky tarns, and heather-clad moors we travelled, where the purple bells were beginning shyly to unfold. We caught a glimpse of a deer stepping fastidiously across the peaty .ground,

and close beside the railway tracks a brightly feathered grouse courted his dull-plumaged mate. Higher still we laboured, through the lonely, uninhabited moors backed by brooding hills. We saw high barricades of wooden frames stretching for many miles above the railway line, barriers for the winter snow that can make the lines impassable. At Georgemas Junction we paused while our train was split. One half went eastwards to Wick, while we continued on the downhill run to Thurso. Five hours had passed by the time we pulled into the windswept station. A chill rainsprayed atmosphere told us that we were farther north than ever before. The train did not return for six hours, and we mused that a day of sunshine would have made conditions more comfortable. We made our way up an incline toward the centre of the small town. Wtih a flurry of wind, the rain descended in fury. Just ahead was a stone church, and, like the fugitives of old, we sought sanctuary. We stepped inside a little uncertainly, and were met almost immediately and welcomed by a handsome young minister. “Come in from the rain, and sit down,” he invited us. We occupied two seats in the choir stalls and looked out at a modern interior, with seats ranged in a semi-circle. “Shelter from the rain for as long as you like to stay,” he said, obviously warming

still, more to us on finding we were New Zealanders. “The children from the local school will be in soon to practise for their break-up,” he said. “Would you like to watch?” We accepted enthusiastically. The young Scots came crowding in, carrying recorders, cymbals and triangles, and accompanied by a pretty young teacher carrying a guitar. She sat at the piano and accompanied the fresh young voices that had the engaging lilt of the Scots. A red-headed boy read the lesson and the teacher moved from the piano and took up her guitar. The minister spoke to the children. “I’d like you to meet two visitors who have come all the way from New Zealand to be with us. Would you sing your last song especially for them?” As the words of “Morning Has Broken” rose clearly we both fumbled for handkerchiefs, as tears sprang unbidden to our eyes. The rain had eased a.’d the minister directed us to a hotel up the road, where, he. told us, we could obtain a meal in the dining room, or, at lesser cost, in the bar. We warmed our insides with a drahm of malt whisky, followed by a bowl of delicious Scotch broth, so thick that the spoon almost stood alone. Then followed a liberal plateful of fried plaice with chips and salad. By this time a young woman had joined us at our table. She was a farmer’s wife, having a day’s shopping in town. Her husband raised sheep and when she told us that his property extended for 10,000 acres we ( gasped, thinking of the number of sheep that would crowd into that area at home. We walked the flagstoned streets, admiring the lovely seventeenthcentury houses, the gardens with roses blooming, even at this inhospitable latitude. The shop window* displayed Highland

craft and the inevitable delicious packets of shortbread. Thurso is a fishing port , where the river wends to the bay. Moving towards the river, we passed through a courtyard flanked by ancient cottages, where several cats lolled in the fain sunlight. Quite by accident we came on the ruins of St Peter’s, a church dating from the. sixteenth century. Blind windows still contained the framework where once the glass had rested. We were asto-

nished to note that the whole framework, including the supports, were carved from one block of stone, according to a record supplied. With raised umbrellas we battled with cutting wind and driving rain to inspect the ancient tombstones, many placed within the crumbling wall for pre- . servation. Some were so old that the inscriptions had weathered away, but some held quaint verses and the youth of many that were commemorated was mute evidence of the hardships endured in this

windswept place. With surprising rapidity, the time was gone, and we walked back to the railway station, where birds quarrelled and small boys frolicked, at one stage wheedling a ride in a carriage being shunted up the line. Thankful for the warmth of the train, we settled back to drink tea from a flask accompanied by sandwiches. Back through the fascinating countryside we travelled, reaching Inverness at 10.30 p.m., intrigued, as always, by the sun still high in the sky.