A Haggis Bus, a Battlefield, an Ancient Graveyard and a Genuine B&B Castle

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24th August 2005
Sutherland, Scottish Highlands.
Day 1 of Skye High Haggis Tour.

I left Edinburgh this morning with about twenty other holiday-makers, all bound for the highlands of Scotland and adventures untold (and undoubtedly pre-packaged). We passed the apparently famous Forth Rail and Road Bridges on our way north towards Fythe, stopped briefly in a whiskey distillery outside Pitlochry, then continued northward to Killiecrankie, which I just love to say in a faux-Scots brogue. Kee-li-crrrahnki.

At some point during the morning we were cheerfully manipulated into playing a kind of speed-dating game where the people in aisle seats moved systematically along the bus and we each had about three minutes to converse. It was actually quite a laugh, but damned if many of their stories stuck with me.

In a stroke of brilliant luck, we had what I would come to know as an absolutely fantastic tour guide and driver, both of whom were wonderfully charismatic and knowledgeable people. A tour can be completely ruined by the fact that you're stuck with a guide you dislike, but in Lynne and Tony we had hit gold. And rather than strictly following the normal tour route, they detoured into lesser-visited attractions such as the Clava Cairns and even surprised us by ending the day in a genuine B&B castle instead of the expected hostel.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. After Killiecrankie the flatter plains of the Scottish lowlands gradually became less pastoral and more rugged as the bus travelled through the forests of Atholl and past the lovely Cairngorm mountains. My heart swelled; purple mountains! For so many years I have read of and envisioned Scottish hills covered in magnificent violet heather. I do not know when this obsession began or why. Perhaps some illogical, childish piece of me is convinced that if magic and faery ever existed in this world, it was amongst purple, mist-enveloped isles.

That initial far-off glimpse both enchanted and disappointed me. My first time should have been impromptu and close-by, not a distant and obscured view. I should have awoken amongst a field of it! - haha. And the first few mountains were patchy, with browns and scrubby beige colours amongst the heather; not what I had hoped for! Happily, my disillusionment did not last long, as the further north we travelled, the more spectacular (and purple!) the mountains became.

Lunch was traditional fare in a wee and unremarkable town called Kingussie. Well, I went tradish with "haggis, neeps and tatties" (read 'haggis, mashed parsnips and mashed potato'), but the rest wimped out.

We arrived in Culloden thereafter and made our somber way along well-trod paths to the famous Culloden Battlefield. For those not familiar with Scotland's history (apart from Braveheart, who hasn't seen Braveheart??!), it was here in 1746 that the final battle between the Highlanders and the English occurred. Bonnie Prince Charlie, 'rightful' king of Britain but really just a silly french fop with apparently no aptitude for battle stretegy, had roused the (Catholic) Jacobites (when's it ever NOT related to religion?) to his cause to regain his grandfather's throne. He marched them all the way down into Derby in central England, winning all skirmishes along the way. The English king had already been running in fear of the approaching army when gullible ol' Charlie, tricked by a traitor in his midst, sent his men into retreat back up to Scotland. Starving and exhausted, the Highlanders were run to ground on Culloden Moor by the Duke of Cumberland's army. After some more bad decisions by their leader, the Scots were deafeted. Had it concluded at that, Culloden would likely have faded into the same ignomity as the battles in the weeks preceding it. But it was the atrocities that followed which made it unforgettable.

Cumberland, who history will remember as "the Butcher", ordered his men to kill every surviving clansman they found, irrespective of age or gender. Women and children in nearby fields were slaughtered alongside them, and some Highlanders were even knowingly buried alive in the mass graves. In the years that followed, as the English government attempt to root out the Highland clan system forever, the Scottish Highlands would see a genocide of all that they were: "The Highland Clearances".

Clan chiefs were executed, jailed, or exiled, as were great numbers of men, women and children, on mere suspicion of disloyalty or for no reason at all. Hundreds were even sold as slaves to the American Colony plantations. Those that survived had their lands and powers stripped from them. Their dress, music and language (gaelic) were outlawed - most especially tartans and bagpipes. Thousands were forced by starvation to 'willingly' emigrate to places such as Canada and Australia as their new landowners cleared the holdings to make way for livestock grazing. It was, effectively, the end of the Highlanders, and in my admittedly biased opinion one of the great injustices of history.

Standing in that empty field, with naught but scrubby plants and heather to be seen upon most of it, I felt a great sorrow and wondered if it was my own foreknowledge or a residual energy of desolation from the earth itself. In the distance several flags fluttered, marking where one or another of the regiments had fought, and people could be seen to be slowly walking the paths from one to the next.

I left the group and wandered in the general direction of the tourist centre, following the clan grave markers: enormous mossy three-point stones engraved, from so long ago, with the clan names. Look, there is where most of the Mackinnons were buried. And here, the Rannochs... and here, a mixed clans grave of people unidentified. Finally I came to the Culloden Memorial Cairn, erected for all the clansmen and women buried here. (A cairn, as seen in the accompanying picture, is basically a high mound of stones usually erected as a memorial or to cover an actual grave. They are native to the UK and the practise originates from the Bronze Age).

It was only as we were leaving that I saw the traditional Scottish crofter's cottage, kept in reasonable condition and now open to tourists, by the visitor's centre. I took photos and mentally kicked myself as I dutifully traipsed back to the bus, but didn't have time to investigate it.

The next destination was something of a spontaneous decision, I think, and involved much teasing and secrecy. I have no idea how Tony squeezed the bus down some of those tiny little lanes, but we survived the journey and were soon discovering several cairns of a much older creation.

The Clava Cairns, while likely still a burial site as Culloden is, seemed to me to be more a place of peace than of mourning. Perhaps, then, it is the passage of time that heals all wounds and differentiates between sadness and serenity. (And yes, I know Culloden was over 200 years ago, but the Scots can really hold a grudge). Or perhaps it was the landscape, the dappled sunlight and the moss-green trees of the sanctuary, which is so different to the starkness of Culloden Moor. Or perhaps, after all, it is simply a matter of knowledge. Little is known of those once buried in the Clava Cairns, while Culloden marked the end of a people.

But enough of that. The next destination, our location for the night, was also the subject of much secrecy and excitement. "It's gorgeous", was all that they'd say. We stopped to buy dinner at a Tesco's in Inverness, but didn't see much more of the city than that. Lynne wasn't a big fan of Inverness, which she soon made the source of much laughing derision.

We'd guessed the secret before too long, but they refused to admit to anything and so it was still a pleasant surprise when Tony suddenly stopped on a wee bridge in the middle of nowhere and drew attention to the castle, perched atop the next mountain and glowing prettily in the late afternoon light. It was gorgeous.

Carbisdale Castle, built in 1917 by the Duchess of Sutherland, was even beter inside. Far from the renovated, modernised, impersonal interiors expected, the public rooms and galleries were brimming with statues, paintings, original furnishings, and even a tartan carpet running throughout! Upon arrival you are greeted first by reception staff and then by a wall-mounted stag head wearing a Scottish beret. I could swear he’s grinning at you.

Beyond the lobby is a cavernous gallery with enormous window-embrasures on the left, hallways and an elaborate fireplace on the right, and a multitude of classical statues arranged throughout the room upon pedestals. The closest end of the gallery is overshadowed by a sweeping stairway up to the second floor, and the far end branches off to the sides with smaller hallways, stairwells, kitchens and the western wing of guest rooms.

In that same wing and up an awful lot of stairs lay my room, which I was to share with three women from the tour. The bedroom was fairly spartan, but then that’s the way it should be. Who comes to such a place only to hide in their room? I stayed, literally, just long enough to dump my luggage, claim a bottom bunk, fish out a disposable camera, and slip away to explore the castle.

Though I believe that only three floors of the castle are in use, it felt like there were many smaller levels, with some suites on higher platforms, some lower, and some another level altogether. Everywhere I ventured yielded a new artwork, an unexpected turn, a novel discovery. In one upstairs hallway I found a crossbar with old-fashioned, dismantled servants' bells. Downstairs, a vast reading room, once a private library, had the most unusually ornamented ceiling I've ever seen. And outside, a wide stone balcony ran the length of the castle, providing incredible views of the valley below.

But I was denied the place that I truly yearned to explore: the top of the towers, the curtain wall, the uppermost battlements. After all, there are no imprisoned princesses, no dragons or knightly rescuers that look like Johnny Depp in the lobby, are there? The action was always upstairs. So it's a curiosity that I've been trying to satisfy since I arrived in the UK, but have been refused in every castle I've visited, thanks to overzealous safety laws. Carbisdale was no different, despite being in a structurally safe condition. Their excuse? "The stones are slippery".

I decided instead to briefly scout the surrounding countryside for a choice vantage point to take photos of the castle before sundown. The days are still long; I had plenty of time to wander about the roads and fields before returning to the castle at dusk. Feeling restless, I joined the group planning to walk down to the local pub, who promptly went straight back down and across the same field I’d been traversing, across an unnervingly high pedestrian bridge with latticed metal material that you could see the river beneath you through, over a fence, across a road and into the Invershin Pub.

It was a pleasant evening. Everybody loosened up after a few pints; there was even some table-top dancing, though the tables were wobblier than the dancers. But I had the misfortune of sitting at a boring table. The pub was fairly small and it would have been rude to move. So I consoled myself with alcohol and pointed glassy, smiling nods in the general direction of whoever was talking about whatever it was they were going on about. Was it cycling in Germany? Eh. Not that I want to give the wrong impression. I was just as lucky in my fellow tourists as I was with the guides. All very nice people, and even a couple of temporary buddies in the making.

Stumbling back home over that bridge was certainly an interesting experience. So was ascending the road in a straight line. I amused myself by stealthily picking up rocks and every now and then throwing them into the forest by the roadside. Everybody spooked the first few times; some kept spooking all the way to the top, or I swear I would've stopped doing it. Truly. But at some point I just couldn't contain the laughter, so I got busted on that one. Yep, it was meeee. Boo.

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Tour Route, Day 1

*Edinburgh
to
*Firth of Forth
to
*Fife
to
*Pitlochry
to
*Edradour Distillery
to
*Killiecrankie
to
*Cairngorm Mountains
to
*Kingussie (lunch)
to
*Culloden battlefield
to
*Clava Cairns
to
*Inverness (tesco's)
then
*Through Cromarty Firth
then
*Through Dornach Firth
to
*Carbisdale Castle (Sutherland) --- Invershin pub

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Photos

Carbisdale Castle
Borrowed from www.carbisdale.org