The most beautiful beach in the world.

If, as you leave Lochinver on the Ullapool road you take the first left turn after Baddidarrach, you find yourself on a little single track road that hugs the coast for many miles before arcing back inland and joining up with the main road north just south of Kylesku. There are too many delights along this narrow twisting ribbon of asphalt to name in one posting, but I really can't write another word about Assynt without mentioning the wonder that is Achmelvich beach.

We first came here on our first visit to the area twenty years ago, when we walked over from Lochinver on a grey, overcast day. Even in bad weather we were blown away by the astonishing beauty of the place. Anyone who has spent any time at all on the West Coast of Scotland will know that dazzling white sand and crystal clear waters are not unusual in that neck of the woods, but Achmelvich really is something else.

These days we tend to arrive by car, because we are older and lazier than we used to be. The approach by car is pretty interesting, as you leave the narrow and twisty road and join a narrower and twistier road which takes you up a steep hill with a sharp turn at the top. Don't worry though - however tight you might think it looks there's a caravan site by the beach which means the road is towable, which means unless you're driving a very large car indeed you won't have a problem. Indeed, we've often thought of staying at the caravan site, but are unlikely to now for reasons I'll go into later.

There's a largeish carpark behind the beach, equipped with an un-staffed warden's hut displaying information about the area, examples of local flora and fauna and details of the various ranger guided walks and events that happen throughout the year. Beyond that is a short stretch of Maccair (free draining and fertile grassy plain) before you finally hit the beach.

Just look at it!

When the tide is out - as it was in this picture - the beach is huge and insanely inviting. The view is tropical - although the temperature often is not, this is still the highlands after all. To stand on the dazzling white sand, gazing out over the azure waters and breathing in the crisp pure air is to fall in love. You won't be able to help yourself.

You'll see all manner of sea birds here - this bay is where I saw my first family of Eider Ducks, for instance - as well as other, larger wildlife. There is a rather arresting photo in the warden's hut of a Basking Shark crusing just a few metres off shore and whales have been seen off the headland.

Can you not feel the water lapping at your toes?

Sadly, this could in the end be the place's downfall. It looks very peaceful and empty in these pictures. The truth is that beauty this exquisite cannot hide for long and when it is discovered it attracts, well, pretty much everyone.

The brutal truth is that when we first came here nearly two decades ago, this was a deserted stretch of sand. Now, twenty years later the only way we were able to take pictures that were not full of other people was to arrive ridiculously early - and even then this once isolated haven was far from deserted. The caravan site which is just out of shot on the left of these images is now huge and rather chaotic, as are the fields of tents crammed in behind the Machair. 

It is, sadly, an age old problem - and something that particularly afflicts the highlands.

Beautiful places attract people who want to experience that beauty. This is understandable, and more people experiencing beauty is clearly a good thing. But for most places there's a tipping point wher the weight of numbers visiting a place starts to erode that beauty and I think that sadly Achmelvich may be reaching that point.

The question is, what can be done about it? I mean you can let market forces do their work - once the beauty of a place has been destroyed people will stop visiting and the issue resolves itself, but this is hardly satisfactory. But what else do you do?  You can't just restrict access - who do you restrict access to? Who do you say can or cannot visit the beautiful places? I've often joked that while it's fine for us to go to places other tourists should probably stay away - but that really is nothing more than a selfish joke. Such places must be available to everyone.

So. Visit Achmelvich. It really is the most beautiful place in the world. But tread lightly. 

Making our way to the Summer Isles

The Summer Isles are made up of a seemingly endless number of tiny pinpricks of land to the north of Loch Broom, off the coast of Coigach. 

Only one, Tanera Mor, is inhabited and is perhaps best known for issuing its own postage stamps - something it's done since nineteen seventy. Given that according to the 2001 census only five people live on this roadless three and a half kilometre square lump of torrodonian sandstone I've never been entirely sure how they've kept the post office staffed, but fortunately such issues happen above my pay grade so I've never really worried about it. 

We've often gazed across the waters of the Minch and considered paying it a visit, but somehow have never quite managed to actually do it. One day, perhaps...

The truth is our interest in these islands is firmly rooted on the shore that overlooks them - but more of that later.

If you're not approaching by sea, there are only two routes in to the isolated little enclave of villages that occupy the mainland shore beneath the shadow of Ben More Coigach and Stac Pollaigh.You can take the narrow, single track twisty road that runs out of Lochinver, past the Culag woods, the school and Loch Culag, or you can take the narrow, single track, twisty road that branches off the A835 about half way between Ullapool and Elphin, with Cul Baeg and Stac Pollaigh on your right and Ben More Coigaich on your left.

Either way, the scenery is spectacular and the road is easier than you'd imagine. I've said this before, but I've never understood why some people have an issue with single track roads - all you have to do is drive at a sensible speed and pay attention to what's in front of you and what's coming up behind. Things that you should be doing anyway if you're behind the wheel of a car.

So.

The little twisty road winds its way along the northern shore of Loch Gurlainn, on the other side of which stands the lumpen mass of Ben Mor Coigach - all seven hundred and forty three metres of it. Like many big hills in, poor old Ben Mor doesn't look all that impressive. It is, essentially a big rolling rounded lump. As you approach the end of Loch Lurgainn the more diminutive Stac Polliagh (a whole ninety metres shorter) sits demurely on your right, presenting a far more interesting vista.

There's a fairly sizable car park at the base of Stac Pollaigh (it's pronounced "Stak Polly") should you wish to make the ascent. I've never climbed it - but am assured that the summit requires rather a lot of rock scrambling which pretty much guarantees I never will. I'm a hill walker, not a mountaineer, the distinction being that I rather like have solid ground beneath my feet and clinging to a rock face doesn't appeal in any way...

If you feel the same way, eschew the charms of the Stac Polliagh ascent  and bypass the car park you'll leave Loch Lurrigann behind and almost immediately find yourself with the wider but shorter Loch Bad a Ghaill taking its place on your left hand side. To your right you'll catch some views of the sea looking north towards Stoer Point and it's lighthouse, then the road begins to climb and the sea disappears, before reappearing briefly as you descend once more to a "T" Junction. Just before the junction there is a spectacular view out over saltmarsh to a wonderful golden sandy beach and the crystal blue sea of Achnahaird Bay beyond.

It's worth stopping to take a look - especially if the weather is good, because this photograph utterly fails to do it anything approaching justice:

 Honestly. It looks spectacular when you're there.

 Turn right at the junction here and you can gain access to the beach a few hundred yards down the road just turn right when you see the little sign marked "to the beach" - it's a dead giveaway. It's a good beach, provided with more than ample car parking, from which you have access not only to the beach but also to a couple of pleasant footpaths, should you fancy a walk.

Continue on this road and you'll make a loop the two hundred and three metre lump of Mael an Fheadain - the road offering some impressive views to the north, although very few places to stop and enjoy them unless you're walking or cycling. As of 2012 there's a camping and caravan site along here, just outside the little settlement (it really is too small for me to call it a village) of Althandhu. It's a smart and well appointed little place, offering excellent views, great walking and access to the beach. We've never stayed there, but we probably will at some point.

As a point of information I should point out that the Camping and Caravan site marked on my copy of the local OS map by the beach at Achnahaird has been closed for some time, so if you fancy pitching up in this neck of the woods you'll need to keep going for a bit. There are a fair few self catering chalets around Altandhu as well, so there are plenty of opportunities to linger.

Altandhu is also where you'll find what used to be called the "Achiltiebuie Smokehouse", but now seems to have rebranded itself "Summer Isles Foods" - a rebranding which makes sense because while you can see some of the Summer Isles from their car park, you are manifestly not in Achiltiebuie. Here they smoke all manner of local seafood, and operate a little shop which sells not only their own wares, but also high quality stuff from other local producers.

It's a lovely place. You can't take a tour of the production line as such, but since production takes place in what are basically a couple of big sheds, there are huge windows you can peer through, with signboards outside explaining what is going on at each stage. In this pre-packed world, it is very nice indeed to see real food being made. Also, you can stand under the vent from the smoke room and breathe in the awesome smell. Honestly, two or three lungfuls of that are worth the trip ontheir own.

As you leave Altandhu the road begins to climb, and after about a quarter of a mile you have an opportunity to make a hard right turn down to the little harbour at Old Dornie. Nobody lives down there, but there is a very sheltered harbour, protected by the bulk of Isle Ristol - one of the largest of the Summer Isles, and on a sunny day it's a wonderful place to stop for a picnic.

Carry straight on and the road sweeps you on to Polbain - which is basically a street with houses strung along it like gems on a necklace - a tiny settlement posessed of one of the finest village stores we have ever seen. I have no idea how they fit everything in, but there is very little you might need that they don't have.

Beyond Polbain the road sweeps back down to sea level, and then back up towards Achiltiebuie, another sort of "necklace village" which has grown rather a lot since we first ventured down here in the nineties. Achiltiebuie is home to the object of our visit to the Summer Isles, and that my friends is the subject of the next post.

From Elphin to Lochinver.

So here we were, ensconced in the heart of Assynt, the region of Scotland that first kindled our devotion to the highlands, and the place that made us buy a caravan in the first place. 

We first came to Assynt nearly twenty years ago. Mrs Snail's parents invited us to join them on a self catering holiday in the fishing town of Lochinver, a few miles north of our current pitch at Elphin. We were students at the time and the chance of a free holiday was impossible to refuse. Once there, I don't believe we ever truly left.

We returned to the self catering chalets at Lochinver many times in the following years, sometimes alone, sometimes with Mrs Snail's Mum and Dad. But the price inevitably rose year on year until we were paying in excess of six hundred quid a week to stay in a little chalet with a view of the harbour. And a jacuzzi. If I'm honest, however much I love life on the road with the caravan,  do miss that Jacuzzi. Mind you, the way caravan equipment is going at the moment, I'm guessing it's only a matter of time...

But the fact was that at those prices a trip to this wonderful part of the world was too expensive to be anything other than a treat we allowed ourselves only occasionally. What can I say? We're greedy. We were determined to find a way to come here more often, and Mrs Snail suggested that a caravan was the obvious solution. I confess I took some convincing, but it all turned out extraordinarily well in the end. Since picking up the Road Snail we've been to all sorts of places we wouldn't otherwise have got to, but most of all, we've been to Assynt a lot more frequently than would otherwise have been possible.

Elphin sits a few miles inland, opposite the twin hills of Cul Mor and Cul Baeg. (Respectively "Big Back" and "Little Back" in Gaelic.) Many years ago, as a much younger and fitter man I accompanied my father in law on an ascent of both of these hills in one day. He was older then than I am now, and I have to say that now I'd probably just do the one... It's a good walk though, and not particularly difficult - and the view from the top is fantastic, assuming the clouds are higher than the peak and you actually get one. This, I'm afraid, can not be guaranteed.

Head north from here and in a couple of miles you arrive at the Ledmore Junction - something of an important landmark hereabouts, although if you didn't know that you'd be hard pressed to tell. The "T" junction marks the point where the mostly North/South A835 ends and you join the mostly East/West A837. That's all there is really, a T junction and a sign - not so much as a house. I'm not even sure that Ledmore actually qualifies as a place at all...

Still, if you're minded to turn right here and head to the west you'll follow a winding single track road that will eventually take you to the central town of Lairg. We, however were turning left and taking the rather more substantial road West towards the coast and the little fishing community of Lochinver. 

As you approach the Ledmore junction you are afforded impressive views of the long craggy ridge of Suilven - my very favourite hill - and the taller and rather pleasingly mountain shaped Canisp, both rising up on your left. Right in front of you, however looms the impressive bulk of Ben More Assynt (not to be confused with Ben Mor Coigach, the other "big hill" in these parts) which is the region's only Monroe, or Scottish Mountain over three thousand feet. 

The A837 sweeps you onwards, eventually bringing you to the shores of Loch Assynt, and the little village of Inchnadamph. As we passed through we noticed a couple of RAF Regiment soldiers ambling their way along the road, and wondered what they were doing there - the RAF is often to be seen in the skies over Assynt, but you seldom see them on the ground. We assumed that they must be involved in some sort of training exercise and pressed on. Bear them in mind though - we'll be coming back to them in a future post...

Ichnadamph is also the site of the memorial to the geologists Peach and Horne, who we well also be coming back to in a future post. On that morning however we kept rolling on towards Lochinver and soon were passing the ruins first of Calder House and almost immediately afterwards of Ardvrek Castle. These two buildings span a great deal of the history of this area, and both ruins are interesting in their way.

Perhaps forever fated to be the bridesmaid rather than the bride in this pairing is the grey boxy structure which is all that remains of Calder House. However historically and politically significant it might be, Calder House looks like the derelict shell of an old house, while Ardvreck looks like a ruined castle, and castles are always interesting.

Unsurprisingly the Castle came first. Built on a promentary that is very nearly an island in Loch Assynt in the later part of the fifteenth century by Angus Mor III* of the Clan MacLeod, the castle is joined to the mainland by a narrow strip of beach. This former MacLeod stronghold began life as a simple rectangular block, perhaps three or four floors high - presumably reminiscent of the Pele Towers that can be found all over the border between England and Scotland.

It remained a fairly simple affair for about a hundred years until in the latter part of the sixteenth century when Donald Ban IX made some improvements. It was Ban who added the tower, and following the fashion of the time he also vaulted the cellars and the ceiling of the great hall on the first floor.

Very little remains visible of the other building that stood around the castle itself, or of the ramparts that augmented the building's natural defences. The stronghold needed good defences, because Ardvreck experienced a lot of violence throughout its active life.

It withstood many attacks and sieges over the years, as various branches of the Clan MacLeod fought for dominance and other enemies, from outside the family tried to muscle in on MacLeod territory. It was one such attack, by the MacKenzies of Wester Ross in sixteen seventy two that finally breached the fortress and, after a two week siege, ended MacLeod rule in Assynt.

The castle continued under MacKenzie ownership for some time, and it was nature who had the final word. The great devastation that brought the place to ruin was the result not of attack by men, but a lightning strike in seventeen ninety five.

By that time, however, the main focus of the MacKenzie Lairds of Assynt had moved to Calder House, the construction of which had been ordered in Seventeen Twenty Six by Kenneth MacKenzie II. By all accounts his wife Francis found Ardverck a little too lacking on modern comforts, and Calda was an attempt to make her feel more at home.

There's an argument for suggesting that he might have been showing off a little mind you. When it was constructed Calder House was the pinnacle of gracious living. Apparently it was the first symmetrical manor house in North West Scotland and the design would be influential in the plans for later MacKenzie houses in Wester Ross.

The MacKenzie dominance of Assynt was to be short lived, however. Kenneth built up massive debts supporting the Royalist cause, and his wife was not exactly a paragon of frugal living. By seventeen thirty seven it was all over. Not just the house, but the whole of Assynt was sold to the Duke of Sutherland - the region still resides within the county of Sutherland today - and the brief MacKenzie dominance of the area came to an end.

With that end came the end of Calder House. The Duke of Sutherland had no need for a manor house in Assynt, he had a whole castle of his own on the east coast. Indeed, he (or at least his successor) still does. Besides, even if he'd wanted to he wouldn't have got the chance. Determined that no Sutherland should ever reside there, MacKenzie supporters looted and burned the building on 12th May seventeen thirty seven.

The ruin you see today was finally produced when, demonstrating an attitude to recycling that does them credit, at the end of the eighteenth century a bunch of guys from Inchnadamph at the head of the loch earned themselves one shilling and sixpence each for taking stones from the house and taking them to Inchnadamph for use in the construction of the schoolhouse. That was good money in those days and certainly easier than quarrying stone from the ground.

Ardverck is an old friend. We've been visiting this wonderful little ruin for the better part of twenty years, and I have to say, it's looking pretty good. When we first visited back in the nineties we had to park at the side of the road and both Ardverck Castle and Calder House were covered in warning signs that suggested anyone venturing too close  was taking their lives in their hands. Since then extensive work by Historic Assynt has secured the structures and provided ample car parking and informative sign boards.

Very informative for tourists, if only because they help explain why you see so many geology students on the side of the road. Geology is important in this neck of the woods, for reasons we'll get to in a future post - the same one where we'll talk about Peach and Horne, in fact. For now all I'll say is "drive carefully around here" - geology students turn up on the road as unexpectedly as the Red Deer that roam around here, and hitting students is every bit as damaging and inconvenient as hitting deer...

Indeed, as we moved on from the castle I was forced to break sharply as a young lady in a mud spattered waterproof and a short black skirt - going bravely bared legged in the midge filled air - stepped backwards into the road without looking, presumably to get a different perspective on the rock face she was staring intently at. My speed on the break was rewarded by a broad grin and a cheerful wave. Ah, the immortality of youth...

Just beyond the ruins you have an opportunity to turn right, and head north along the A894 towards the north coast - and we'll be doing precisely that in a few posts time. But we kept cruising westward along the shoreline of Loch Assynt, the western half of which is dotted with small islets sporting clumps of spindly pine trees. It occurs to me that in all the years we've been coming here we have never once stopped to photograph the Assynt Pines, as we have come to call them, which is odd because they're a sight we have come to think of as iconic.

The loch dominates the left hand side of the road. Before the junction with the A849 the view to the right is the massive bulk of Ben More Assynt and his associated peaks. Once past the A849 Ben More is replaced by the smaller but no less impressive form of the mountain Quinag (which so far as I can tell is pronounced Cun-i-Ag). Both of these mountains are actually more like mini mountain ranges in their own right, but Quinag, although much small both in terms of area and height, is rather more impressive because you can see so much of it at once.

Once you've passed the end of the loch the land around the road begins to rise above it, so views become more limited. However, don't despair because this just makes the glimpses you get between hills all the more interesting and in any case before long you're skimming through the small light industrial area that sits on the edge of Lochinver and them suddenly you're driving down the high street with the sea loch stretching out into the Minch.

 Next time we'll be exploring this remarkable little town and its surroundings. See you then!







 
*Yes, all those of you who've been following the Gaelic notes in this blog have already realised that Ardverck Castle was built by "Big Angus". Seriously.

The long narrow road to Dornoch.

I said in an earlier posting that the Altnaharra Caravan Club Site, by the shores of Loch Naver below the clearance village of Grummore was in the middle of nowhere. And so it is. This means that if you want to have a day of shopping you have to be prepared for a bit of a drive. This is, however, not a bad thing because while you will have a long way to go, the landscape you will be driving through is so gorgeous you won't want it to stop.

So it was that when we set out for a day in the coastal town of Dornoch we chose not to take the "quick" route through Lairg and Bonar Bridge, but the "scenic" route via Syre and Helmsdale. You might want to grab a coffee. This will be a longer than usual post, because it is rather a long way...

We left the site and turned right, away from Altnaharra and head in a roughly northerly direction towards the little settlement of Syre. At first the road follows the lochside, and then from the end of the loch it runs along the western bank of the River Naver as it flows relentlessly towards Bettyhill, the north coast, and the sea. As you drive you will pass first the clearance village of Grumbeg - which is also the site of a neolithic chambered cairn - and then the memorial to Donald Macleod, a resident of the cleared village of Rossall, on the opposite side of the river.

In 1857, some years after the clearance, he wrote his experiences up in a series for the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle. Under the title "Gloomy Memories" these reminiscences were later collected into a book which remains one of the primary sources on the clearances. You can't actually see Rossall from the memorial as it is now obscured by commercial forestry, but we'll come back to it, and to Macleod later.

At around about this point there's also a sign informing motorists that this is now an experimental road surface for timber lorries, and thanking us for our cooperation. Now, we've been driving around this area on and off for more than five years. The sign has always been here, as have the massive timber lorries which hurtle along the narrow roads with careless abandon. In all of that time we've never been able to discern anything experimental about the bog standard tarmac road surface, or managed to work out exactly what it is we've been cooperating with.

After about six miles or so you arrive in the little settlement - I'm going to suggest it's too small to be accurately described as a village - of Syre. There's a little car parking area on your right here, and it's worth pausing for a while to take a look at the church. This neat and tidy little black and white corrugated iron building was constructed in 1901. It was essentially a pre-fab flat pack designed by Spiers and Co. of Glasgow and still hosts services on the second, fourth and fifth Sunday's of the month.

For ourselves myself and Mrs Snail are not church goers, but that doesn't prevent us from appreciating a good church. This little building exudes a sense of calm and tranquillity - a sense that is heightened as you venture inside. The walls are wood lined and white painted, the ceiling a soft sky blue and the pews simple stripped pine. It's surprisingly quiet considering you're sitting inside what is basically a big metal box - although I confess I've never been in there during a hail storm. It's a wonderful little nugget of peace, and I commend it to you.

At the start of the twentieth century people were beginning to move back into Strathnaver after the clearances seventy five years earlier- hence the need for a new church. New crofts were established, but the new settlers hardly had a chance to establish themselves before their young men - so vital on a working croft - were taken by the carnage of Ypre, Paschendale and the Somme, a second tragedy for the valley attested to by the war memorial which stands outside the church.

Behind the church is the house built by Patrick Sellar -who you may remember from the last post as the one time Factor for the Duke of Sutherland and overseer of the Strathnaver clearances, although according to the guidebooks it's been extended and renovated to a point where the man himself wouldn't recognise it.

We need to move on though - turning right just past the church, across the bridge over the River Naver.  If you've set off early and have plenty of time, you might want to turn right again as soon as you hit the opposite shore and take a little detour down the Forestry Commission track. This does mean you're going back on yourself, but if you've developed an interest in the valley - and trust me, you will - there are a couple of things down here that you'll want to see. There's a car park about half a mile down the track, and you'll be on foot from here. Trust me - take a deep breath and stride out into the forest gloom.

You're actually only going to be walking a shade over a mile, but I'm afraid because of your surroundings it will feel like more. don't get me wrong - I really like trees. There are few things I like more than wandering through a forest, the sun streaming through the canopy; dappled shed an fresh, chlorophyll green light. But this isn't that kind of forest. This is a Forestry Commission commercial forest, which means regimented lines of close planted dark green conifers, all standing straighter than a Buckingham Palace guard reaching ever upwards towards an invisible sky. You can't see anything to the side of the track, and you can't see beyond the next bend.

It's like being stuck inside a dark green bubble and you'll be relieved when you get to the little sign that directs you to the left, off the track, and into the lost village of Rossall. You are now more or less opposite the Donald Macleod memorial we passed earlier, although obviously you can't see it because of the trees.

Because of Macleod's book Rossall is probably the most well known of Strathnaver's cleared settlements, and the Forestry Commission has done an excellent job of preserving what's left and providing clear, comprehensive information about what you're actually looking at as you walk through the ruins.

There are the remains of forty seven buildings here, longhouses, outbuildings and kilns for the drying of corn. The settlement is spread across a small hillock, at the summit of which is yet more evidence that human occupation of this valley extends back into more ancient times. The Bronze Age burial mound which sits atop the hill isn't immediately obvious, and I confess I might well have missed it had we not been in possession of the excellent little book "What to see in Strathnaver: A guide to local history and Archaeology" by Kevin O'Reilly and Ashley Crockford which we picked up from the information centre in Bettyhill a couple of years ago.

Rather more obvious evidence of ancient occupation can be found if you leave Rossall, return to the Forestry Commission track and head about a mile and a half further on down. Be warned - it will feel very much like walking through a painting by MC Esher, the track does seem endless beneath the miserable conifer canopy where the sun does not shine and the birds seem not to sing, but you will be rewarded at the end of it with Clach an Righ, a small circle of standing stones.

In common with so many of the standing stone monuments in the north of Scotland, there is a refreshing lack of barriers here. If you've ever been to Stonehenge on Sailsbury Plain you'll know that you can't get within twenty feet of the stones. Now, while I confess that Clach an Righ is a lot less spectacular than Stonehenge, there is nothing stopping you getting up close and personal with the monument and feeling the history which radiates from the rock.

The legend is that this circle - about twenty two feet across - it's slender stones protruding snaggle toothed from the scrubby ground was raised to commemorate the Battle of Dalharrold, between Scots and Norsemen at the tail end of the Twelfth Century. Given that people of that time were not given to arranging rocks in circles such an explanation is clearly nonsense, and indeed the archaeology suggests that the stones are significantly older.

How old is a matter of some speculation, but it could easily date back to 2000BC*, meaning that this little circle of stones could pre-date the Broch mentioned in the last post by as much as two thousand years, and suggest that there have been people in the Strath for four millennia. The purpose of these circles is unknown, although the presence of a small cairn within the ring points to the possibility of a burial here.

If you've walked all this way though, you'll realise as we did that however fascinating is is to commune with the ancients, time will be getting on, it's a long walk back to the car and you'd better get a shift on if you're going to get to Dornoch by lunchtime. For the sake of brevity, and because it's a hideous walk I choose not to think too much about, I'll omit any description of the two and a half mile trudge back to the car and instead leap forward to skimming across an almost deserted landscape along the single track road** which will lead us eventually to the eastern coast of Scotland.

You're a few miles down the road before you come to the first landmark, the The Garvault Hotel, which claims - with some justification - to be the most remote hotel in mainland Britain. We've never visited, what with hotels not being our thing, but I can confirm that it is truly in the middle of nowhere, and that it is set in the middle of an empty and dramatic landscape. Indeed, it's gone the extra mile in terms of isolation by being set at least half a mile back from the road. The place has always appeared deserted, but then I guess that's the point.

A few miles further on you start tom come across isolated farms and the landscape begins to change subtley. The orange and russets of moorland begin to give way to greener, grassier, more rolling hills - particularly once you take a hard right hand turn onto the A897 at the little village of Kinbrace. (A left hand turn here will take you to the wonderful Forsinard Flows, about which more at some time in the future.) You'll notice more trees, of a more deciduous nature and for the most part you find yourself at a much lower altitude, no longer looking down on the river at the bottom of the valley but driving at more or less the same level as the fly fishermen standing up to their waists in their quest to land the biggest salmon.

You have to drive with a little extra caution around here. It's easy to get used to the wide open spaces where you can see for miles ahead and - even on these single track roads - you can belt along at a pretty fair old clip. As you get closer to the East Coast the proliferation of trees makes it much harder to see what's coming. While it's true that there aren't all that many cars on the road, there are some, and besides cars aren't the only thing you might meet on the road.

Red Deer are remarkably prolific in this neck of the woods and for some reason up on the moors where you can see them easily they stay well away from the road but as soon as you get a lot of trees to obscure your view they come right up to the road. Maybe they're all car spotters, I dunno. Still, a bit of cautious driving means you stand an excellent chance of getting a really close up view, while being profligate with your speed makes it rather likely you'll hit one - and you wouldn't want to do that. Really, you'd feel bad about it. Besides, have you seen them? Adult Red Deer are huge! Hit one in anything smaller than a tank and you're definitely going to write off your car.

Finally you drive over the Kildonan Beck, where there is a helpful display of information about the gold rush of 1869. Everything here is green and peaceful now, but back in the latter half of the nineteenth century this section of the Helmsdale valley was occupied by a dense little shanty town known as "Baile an Or" in Gaelic - "Village of the Gold" in English. There still is gold in these thar hills, and you can still pan for it. (There are rules though, so a little research is required before you start.) You're unlikely to get rich, but there is a heart warming story in the Timespan Museum in Helmsdale about a bloke who panned the stream for years until he had enough gold to make a wedding ring.

Then, suddenly, you're in Helmsdale. The town just seems to suddenly appear - the single track road broadens out to the more standard two lane arrangement and ordinary suburban houses on either side of the road. After such a long drive through such emptiness Helmsdale feels like a major conurbation, although it really is - by Southern standards at least - quite tiny. It's a pleasant little place, but one I won't describe now because we'll be back in the not too distant future.

From here we pointed the car south on the A9 - one of the few A roads in this neck of the woods which isn't single track, and consequently feels a bit like a motorway - through the towns of Brora and Golspie towards Dornoch and much more importantly, lunch.

About which, more soon.

*Or BCE is you prefer more PC dating.

**Not that the road being single track is remarkable in any way - all the roads are single track around here.

Glencoe: Massacre and Majesty.

Glen Coe, or Gleann Comhan as it is named in Gaelic, runs more or less east-west and marks out the path that an ancient glacier carved out of the landscape on its way to join the even bigger glacier that must have carved out Loch Leven, which in turn must have flowed* into the even bigger glacier that formed Loch Linnhe. It is long, U shaped and sweeps the motorist on a gentle descent towards the sea, before the road turns sharply northwards again.

Indeed, given that the A82, which is the main road north if you're on the western side of the country, cuts straight through it, it must count as a minor miracle that Glen Coe remains pretty much unspoiled, at least, unspoiled by traffic and industry.  Huge articulated lorries thunder through the narrow cutting that leads into the glen from the high western end, and yet the peace tranquility of the place seems undiminished. Not that the glen has always been quiet, of course...

On the thirteenth February 1692 the Campbell clan, who were staying as guests of the MacDonald clan, rose up after a night of convivial feasting and massacred their unsuspecting hosts in a crime that shocked a nation and resonated down the centuries. Clans killing each other wasn't exactly unknown back then of course, but to transgress against the mores of hospitality in such an underhand way, rather than to face their foes on the battlefield as honourable men was an unconscionable crime that has left a deep scar in the psyche of the place.

This was no fight after a party either. The massacre began simultaneously in the settlements of Invercoe, Inverrigan, and Achnacon, which suggests a pretty high degree of planning - this was 1692, it's not as though they could send each other a text saying "GO!". The killing then spread out across the glen as MacDonalds, roused from their beds, attempted to flee to safety. In all thirty eight members of the clan MacDonald were directly murdered by their Campbell guests, with something in the region of a further forty women and children dying of hypothermia after their houses were torched. This was February don't forget. I've been in Glencoe in winter - I can only assume that the only reason about forty people died of exposure was that there were only about forty people there.

The reason for this shockingly violent attack? What terrible crime had the MacDonalds committed to bring down the wrath of the Campbells?

Basically it turns out that they were being punished for their tardiness. They'd been a little late in pledging their allegiance to the new Monarchs on the Block, William and Mary, who'd been brought in to depose the previous Monarch who was basically a bit too Catholic for Parliament to stomach.

Nope, not making that up - check your history. Some protestants in Parliament didn't like the fact that their King was Catholic and feared he might forge an alliance with Catholic France. They therefore invited the Protestant William of Orange, who had no claim to the throne in his own right but was married to a woman who did, to come over from Holland and take the crown. Which he then did, in the so-called "bloodless revolution".

It can't have felt all that bloodless in Glencoe.

All of that is a massive over-simplification, of course. There are any number of books and pamphlets about the massacre, its context and its aftermath. I think for me it all comes back to the fact that the Campbells were there as guests. That they ate and drank with the MacDonalds knowing that they would murder them later that night. There's a measure of cold bloodedness in that which I find chilling.

It's a testament to the stunning beauty of Glencoe that knowing all of that doesn't take anything away from the jaw dropping magnificence of the place. Glencoe is quite frankly stunning. Big enough to impress, but built on a small enough scale that you can still take it all in. Given that the main road up the north west of Scotland runs right through it, I'm astonished that there aren't accidents as motorists drive off the road while gazing in slack jawed awe at the magnificence around them. This effect is amplified when you approach the glen from Rannoch Moor.

From this direction, before you even see the glen you are first greeted by a waterfall, the top of which is almost at your eye-level but which thunders down maybe twenty meters to the river below. There's a good sized lay-by overlooking the thundering torrent, making it easy to stop and take in the roaring plume of water. To be fair, in the summer, when it's been dry it's more of a trickle, but it still reminds you that you're pretty high up. Get back in your car, drive on a little and  when you emerge from a high rocky cutting to find the glory of this glaciated valley stretching out below you.

The visitor to the glen is always rewarded, no matter what the time of year it happens to be. In the spring and summer you are presented with vibrant greens overlaying the subtle greys of the bedrock that forms the peaks that tower on either side of you. In the depths of winter, even if it hasn't been snowing, the place frequently shimmers under a sparkling party dress of frost and ice. When we were there most recently it was mid autumn, and the valley was clad in exuberant yellows, oranges, russets and reds.

As you make your way along the A82 you descend into the bottom of the valley. There's a small lay-by on your right which gives you a chance to take in the full length of the glen - especially if you get out of the car and climb up the hill a little way. Progress further and there are two good sized car parks on the left, both of which give stunning views, and make great starting points for exploring the valley on foot. Even when we've been feeling lazy we've spent a lot of time in these vicariously enjoying the supurb walking offered by the steep sided peaks that surround the glen by watching other people making the ascent. You could even climb up over the hills into the beautiful Glen Etive on the other side. Glen Etive is a subject for another time, however, so we'll continue down the hill.

The asphalt ribbon of the A82 sweeps down to the valley bottom, past the glistening water of Loch Achtriochtan and out towards Loch Leven and Loch Linnhe. On the way you'll pass the visitor centre run by the National Trust for Scotland, who own a significant proportion of the glen itself. The visitor centre has, I'm afraid, always left be a little underwhelmed. The centre and its buildings have won many awards, so it might just be me, but every time I've been in there the shop never seemed to be more than half open, and the staff never more than half bothered. There is an interesting exhibition though, and video presentations which will tell you about some of the local history, the wildlife and geology of the place. I think what I'm saying is, if you need to get out of the rain for a bit you might want to give it a look, but if the sun is shining you might as well give it a miss.

Heading west from there you'll come first to the village of Glencoe, and then to the village of Ballachullish. Glencoe sports a small folk museum, which I have no recollection of ever visiting - although Mrs Snail insists that we have - and a small grocery store. Well, small by southern standards at any rate. If you disregard the supermarkets to be found in the heaving metropolises of Fort William (which has a Morrison's) and Ullapool (which has a Tesco) the shop in Glencoe is actually quite large by the standards of the Western Highlands. There are also many guest houses, should you be travelling sans-caravan.

Ballachullish is actually slightly larger than Glencoe Village, although since most of the village is a little way up the hill you can't quite tell that from the road. Like Glencoe Village it overlooks Loch Leven, and at the water's edge sits the "Isles of Glencoe Hotel". Obviously we've never stayed there, and although we keep meaning to, we've never eaten there either. We still like the place, however, because of the view across the Loch which can be had from their car park...

There is also a rather good tourist information centre on the inland side of the main road, a hardware store, a car dealership and Chisholm's Garage, worthy of mention because when we had car trouble here a couple of years ago they fixed it in about two minutes flat and refused to charge me. It is true that the problem was minor - just a detached under-tray - but that's not the point. The point is that I couldn't fix it, and it must have been obvious that I couldn't - and that I knew nothing about cars. They could have sat me down in their waiting room for ten minutes, fixed the problem and charged me fifty quid. I'd have left happy and none the wiser. As it was the nice man took one look at it, crawled under the car, twiddled something, snapped the under-tray back into place, crawled out again, grinned, and sent me on my way. I offered to pay, but as I said, he was having none of it.

In a strange way, that little encounter remains one of my fondest memories of Scotland. You can tell a lot about a place and its people by the way they treat strangers...

Beyond Ballachulish you soon reach the roundabout that marks the point where you have to decide whether you're going to continue north on the A82, towards Fort William, or head back in a southerly direction on the A828 towards Oban. I'm not sure why, but this spot seems to attract Buzzards, which can often be seen sitting on the streetlamps there - like this fella, who was there pretty much every time we went past on our most recent visit:

Beyond that, it's a matter of a few hundred yards to the pale green metal bridge - which has always reminded me of the eighties video game "Outrun" for some reason - which carries the A82 over the narrow stretch of water that links Loch Leven with Loch Linnhe and which, for me at least, marks the point where Glencoe ends and the next phase of the road north begins.

*Insofar as several billion tons of ice can be said to "flow". We're dealing in geological time here though, and by those standards glaciers practically sprint!