A Highland Retreat by Jonathan Barattini

A HIGHLAND RETREAT OCTOBER 2010

The following collection of images, experiences, memories and thoughts were gathered during a two-week trip to Scotland in October 2010. Thank you to: Oli and Sam Brian and Sheila Culcheth at Otter's Holt, Kilchoan, Ardnamurchan. Babe and Sinclair Mackie at Tigh Na Mara, Skerray Harbour

It is with eager anticipation, that I load my rucksack and boardbag (additionally packed with snorkelling stuff, speargun and anything else that could be squeezed in) into the guard’s carriage on the first morning train out of Tiverton, North-bound. I like travelling by train, settling into my seat and revelling in the passiveness of absorbing whatever glides past the window. I am on a journey, a trip into different perspectives, away from the day-to-day, to clear some headspace. Headspace which can be crammed full of new experiences and lasting memories. Next stop, Glasgow, to meet two of my best friends who will have made the considerably less serene trek by motorway from London. Travelling with a surfboard amuses me. Lugging bags and boards across platforms and through train stations in towns and cities that are nowhere near the sea, let-alone any waves, always draws the strangest of looks from other people. Stepping out into the bustling, cold Glaswegian street, I have time to observe passers-by; the guy sneaking into the bookie’s across the road, a bunch of teenagers hanging out on the station steps, musicians, businessmen, shoppers, and a group of giggling women, dressed to impress, making an early start on their hen-do as they’re whisked away in a pink limousine. It's only one o’clock in the afternoon after all. The guys arrive, tired from the drive, and we head North and West along lochs and through highland passes taking in scenery which astonishes us evermore around each corner.

Our destination is the most Westerly village in mainland Great Britain, the tiny Kilchoan; a remote spot on the Ardnamurchan peninsula, nestled between the Scottish Highlands and Hebridean Islands. Our home for the week is the delightful Otter’s Holt; a traditional log cabin set on a hill top, overlooking Loch Sunart with stunning views over to the Isle of Mull and out to the open ocean and the Inner Hebrides. The narrow road that snakes its way along the edge of the loch, twisting and turning around every inlet, means that the final fifty miles from the last town takes close to two and a half hours and leaves us well and truly away from it all. As we roll into the village, we are treated to a sunset that only Scotland can offer and end the day with a glass of Island Pale Ale brewed just across the water on Mull. Over the following days we explore the area during the final flurry of the stag-stalking season, as Land Rovers bounce past us with majestic heads lolling over their tailgates – trophies of the annual cull. We walk along pristine white beaches and idyllic coves which in our eyes, if we squint slightly, could hold perfect set-ups if it weren’t for the Hebrides soaking up the marauding North Atlantic swell. We wake in the dark and hike nearby Ben Hiant with a growing light in the East. With the frozen ground crackling underfoot, we reach the summit in time for the sky all around us to erupt with the fire of a highland sunrise. Immediately below us, the glassy surface of The Sound of Mull and Loch Sunart mirrors every changing colour above us. Out to sea, we can see the Hebrides, the snow-capped Cuillins on Skye blushing pink in the first sunlight of the day, whilst inland, the rugged, craggy landscape stretches out for many miles towards Ben Nevis.

We enjoy many meals, walks, laughs and talks with Brian and Sheila who look after us as their own. One evening, over dinner with the former-gamekeeper turned local-oracle, we receive a tip-off to the location of a potential scallop-hunting ground. The very next morning, peering over the edge of the jetty, we see the unmistakeable shapes of our quarry and, with pulses racing and stomachs rumbling, we dash back to the car to don wetsuits, snorkels and bags for our bounty. The first flush of cold loch water only adds to our disappointment when the first dive to the bottom yields only empty shells. Eventually, after realising that what we should be spotting is the white horseshoe shape of the creaturesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; feeder tentacles in the silt, our bags start to burgeon along with our excitement. We call into the only shop for miles around to buy local black pudding and crusty bread to complete our lunchtime feast, before heading back to the cabin for the marathon shucking session.

The time comes to move on so we ram everything into the car and head North in search of waves. Distances here are immense. Not in terms of miles but in terms of time. We had heard a story of a two and half-hour commute to school! There arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t many roads and as we travel further and further North, these get narrower and more meandering. Up here landscape is definitely king. The second half of the journey is on a singletrack A-road. There are no white lines, only signs demarking the next passing place. We hardly see another vehicle for the final fifty miles as we skirt around lochs, watch Golden Eagles soaring over snowy peaks and fighter jets screaming, full-tilt up the valleys mere feet above the water. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s extremely bleak but impossibly beautiful. Eventually, we pull up outside our cottage, next to a little harbour filled with colourful boats and lobster pots. The couple who live next door are expecting our arrival and we find a bucket of peat on the front step and a roaring fire in the living room. This will be our base for the next week or so, from where we will head out to see what the most Northerly stretch of coast on the Bristish mainland has to offer.

The thirty-five mile drive east to Thurso along sweeping, sheep-lined roads allows us to survey what the ocean may hold in store for us, as bays, beaches and line-ups are revealed around every bend. Our target, spurred on by the latest swell forecast and wind direction, is the hallowed righthander at Thurso East. Standing on the harbour wall at this most famous of Scottish breaks, surveying the pumping setup for the first time, analysing currents and safe access points, our trepidation is amplified by tales of hostility towards travelling surfers. Eventually we suit up and paddle out in the river. As we reach the line-up, we are greeted by fellow nomads and locals alike. A friendly camaraderie exists on the peak, rarely witnessed in the water of the Southern beaches we are accustomed to, as on the inside, overhead bombs detonate on the reef gradually being exposed by a receding tide. A local bodysurfer joins us. He tells us that he has bust his hip and, as a result, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t surf at the moment. Not one to let a good day go un-ridden however, he proceeds to take off deepest and snag some of the longest rides of the day.

Back in town we call into a local café where the waitress chats to us as if we’ve been here a hundred times before. We refuel on deep-fried haggis bites, steak baguettes and IrnBru while condensation runs down the inside of the windows. Then, inevitably, we are drawn back to the waves. Down at the harbour again, we get talking to an American guy who relocated here after his wife, a scientist, took a job at the decommissioned Dounreay nuclear power station nine miles west along the coast. Although Thurso East is still looking good, there is a small crowd out so we opt for the empty peaks at the next-door wave, Shitpipe – a bowly righthander breaking on the end of a rocky reef and racing across kelp beds in to the beach. The American explains that the pipe that gave this wave its name was extended out to sea years ago, and says that he may join us when his wife finishes work. We have the wave to ourselves – a hollow takeoff which, as the tide drops, sucks water away from the reef leaving thick kelp heads sticking out of the water, followed by long, fast walls perfectly suited to our twin-fins. After an hour or so, a hooded figure paddles over to join us. ‘Kauai Keith’ (so nicknamed because of his heavy accent and “Hawaii” trucker cap) smiles and tells us that he couldn’t wait for his wife because “you guys made it look like too much fun!” We exchange waves with him (and eventually his wife) for the rest of the afternoon.

One afternoon, when all spots are onshore, we decide to walk along the coast around Brims Ness (apparently Nordic for Surf Point). As we pull into the farmyard, a young chap driving a tractor throws us a shaka out the window. This must be a good spot to park! The howling wind drives the rain horizontally into our faces and we walk past countless slab-waves which even in the confused conditions show signs of their full potential. Hoods pulled tight, we sit, watch and whoop at the ocean doing its thing. We have been told that the nearest pub is three miles up the road from our cottage and that, despite the landlord being away, it should be open, manned by one of the locals. So it is that we find ourselves one evening walking into the back bar of the otherwise dark, burn-side hotel surrounded by tall spruce trees, where all eyes turn to meet ours through peat smoke hanging heavy from a roaring fire in the corner. “Ah…the three surfers staying down at the harbour” Our brows must furrow or heads tilt quizzically, as the statement continues almost without hesitation…..“well there’s three of you…..and you look that way inclined. You must be mad going in that water!” These hospitable fellows, hardy folk; rig-workers, fishermen and crofters, maintain a very different relationship with the ocean that we call our playground.

Scouring the coast for breaks that are working on the decreasing swell and high tide, we park up on a hill, beside the graveyard, and look down, across the dunes below and out to right-hand walls peeling off a clump of submerged rocks. Next to the car is a bothy built of logs, constructed by the local community offering shelter to anyone who needs it. We gratefully step inside, pleased to be able to change, sheltered from the offshore wind. Just as we are locking the car, a hire van pulls in next to us and out step a bunch of guys, one of whom is a friend from down South. Stoked to see them, we joke that it suddenly looks like the otherwise empty break will become insta-crowded and we hastily grab our boards, eager to get in and snag some waves before them. The overhead waves are as fun as they look from the top and we continue to enjoy them to ourselves. As the tide drops out, we are aware that our friends are still watching from the hill and after a couple of hours we return to the car and find the lads still huddled round their van with glum faces. It turns out that the locking mechanism has malfunctioned, trapping all their gear in the back. They have no choice but to drive the two hours South to Inverness and the nearest depot to release their incarcerated boards.

Deciding to stay closer to home one day, we change into suits, boots and gloves on the side of the road, next to the estuary, surrounded by fields marked by generations of crofters cutting peat to burn. The tide is low and we walk across the exposed sand, dotted with mounds of bladderwrack. We drift on our boards down the peat-stained river and out, aided by the current, past mussel-clad rocks to catch a few onshore lumps that march unabated from the deep low-pressure system sitting high in the North Atlantic. On our way back along the beach, we drop our boards on the sand and float across the river-mouth to fill our hoods with huge mussels before driving home in our wetsuits, lighting the fire and preparing our shellfish supper. On our final evening on the North coast, we stop at the local beach on our way back to the cottage and spend the next couple of hours hand-planing empty tubes, not realising how dark it has become until, upon our return to the car, we are unable to read the combination lock that holds our key. Unsurprisingly, this road through nowhere yields no passing vehicles, people or wildlife to flag down for assistance and we have to resort to shaking the car off its suspension, setting off the alarm in order to see the digits on the code which are now intermittently illuminated by orange hazard lights.

We leave early as planned. We need to leave early. The sat-nav reads “666 miles to destination” and the boys have to be at work tomorrow morning. So that’s it, in a little over twelve hours we’ll be the length of the British Isles away from here, surrounded by towering buildings and rushing people instead of soaring peaks and raging seas. As I write, Britain is gripped by sub-zero temperatures. Scotland is experiencing heavy snowfall and major disruption. I think of those waves, perfect, fun, daunting, relentlessly pounding the snowy coastline. My thoughts turn to the people we met, enduring folk who work with the land and the sea for their existence. No doubt they are resiliently continuing with their lives – surviving, crucially supporting one another, as it always has been. Before embarking on this journey, we were not prepared for the impression it would leave on the three of us. Headspace has been cleared and refilled with memories that will last a lifetime. I can’t wait to go back to Scotland. Never mind a highland fling, this is a full-blown love affair.

A HIGHLAND RETREAT SAM TAYLOR . OLI CULCHETH . JONATHAN BARATTINI