Brighton Of The North

Part One

I am starting to write this at lunchtime.

We are a thousand miles from anywhere.

We are in the wilderness, at the side of a road, between the sea and an iron-dark range of snow-covered mountains.

There is brilliant sunshine here.The skies are ice-blue over the sea, but the mountains are grey and lost in clouds.

We are going to drive over the mountains in our little van.

I know it is quite a big van really, but it does not feel like it. Beside the grim hugeness of the mountains it is a tiny speck of warm colour, a humming bird lost in an arctic wilderness.

When we woke up this morning the winds had faded away, and the sea was quiet.

We walked along the shore with the dogs, looking north and feeling excited.

We were in a place called Nairn. There was a sign explaining to any tourist who had not already guessed, that it was the Brighton Of The North.

We were interested in this, because regular readers will remember that we were in the Brighton Of The South just a few months ago, and so we were keen to spot the similarities.

Indeed, it was very like Brighton in that there was a large expanse of salt water at the edge of it, albeit at the other edge.

After that we had to give up. Nairn is built of grey stone, heavy and dour. There was a line of stoutly-built houses along the seafront, mostly facing away from the sea, presumably in order to be able to deter the icy Arctic blast from howling through the cracks under the front door.

There was not a single vegan bicycle or kefir goat cheese organic community cafe anywhere.

There was a kirk. It was solid and forbidding. Women in headscarves and overcoats leaned into the wind as they walked.

Apart from that you could hardly tell the difference.

Roger Poopy charged about, barking at other dogs and sniffing at the seaweed. They were Scottish dogs, and so mostly they ignored him as a brainless immigrant. After a few minutes we remembered that everybody in Scotland says hello and smiles. If you stop for a moment they will tell you everything about everything, all of their secrets and their family history. We tried smiling briskly and walking on, in an English sort of way, but after a few moments there was a spaniel with a gentle lady owner, and after that it took ages.

It is so cold. The ice wind bites through jackets and scarves, and I have forgotten to bring my sheepskin mittens. This is such a painful loss I can hardly believe it. I have some knitted woollen gloves, but they will not even come close. I will have a week of frozen fingers.

Thermal underwear tomorrow.

Part Two

We stopped, on a heather-covered hillside, somewhere north of Inverness, beside the sea.

There was a tiny garage at the roadside, and we thought it would be a sensible plan to replenish everything and empty the loo, and to eat something before we set off into the mountains.

I think it must have been the very last place in the world where it is possible to buy LPG gas. We use this for cooking and hot water, and the van holds enough for just over a week.

We filled up the tank. There is nowhere to buy gas on Orkney. We will have to make it last.

We ate an enormous lunch of spicy buttered curry and soft bread rolls, washed down with a glass of red wine, very small because it is Scotland.

Then we set off on the last long stretch of the journey through Scotland, to the northern port.

It is heart-stoppingly beautiful.

The world somehow seemed to have all the colours of a summer sunset, the pink and the gold, but bright at mid-day, without the tired haze of a day’s end. The light was so clear that every colour seemed to become fresher and cleaner, and an enormous silver moon hung in the blue sky.

We did not listen to the story. We drove on along the winding road between the mountains and the sea, and stared at everything.

At first, on the southern side of the mountains, it is crofters’ country. The landscape is dotted with hundreds of low cottages, each in the middle of their patch of earth, some ruined and desolate, others bright and tidily kept, all running down to the little boats tethered on the seashore.

Eventually we turned inland, and climbed the steep climb towards the northern coast. After that there was nothing but heather and sky.

It was dark, and the ferry terminal closed and shuttered, when we arrived at Scrabster, which is where we are now.

We walked the dogs around the deserted port, scarves wrapped around our faces to protect from the icy wind. One door had not been locked, and slid open unexpectedly as we walked past it, which made Roger Poopy yelp in shock.

We have lit the fire and closed the curtains. The sea is crashing against the dock walls, and the wind is blustering ice all around us, but we are safe in our tiny nest.

We are going to read our books for a while and go to bed.

This is a very exciting adventure.