June 2012 Northern Highlands and Orkney

First post on this blog, but obviously not the first travel. Not even the first time in Scotland, also obviously. First time flying into Inverness, however. Not too happy about that, but it was the only way to not spend over twenty-four hours in transit. We got there on Saturday, the 16th June, still more or less recovering from a tasting on the 14th. 'We?' That is dom666 (who was not at said tasting), JS and myself.

Sunday, the 17th June

The real reason why Glen Ord is not more widely available.

A short hike around Dingwall in the morning, then train to Muir of Ord. Muir of Ord is a pleasant little town and the weather is dry. We set off for the start of the hike. En route, we see donkeys, birds, sheep (including an unlikely dark brown and white species with goat's horns). We get a little lost to a point I have to ask a couple of farmers: we are not on the right hill. Put back on track, we head to the right place and start the hike. It is a forest trail that would even be suitable for cars (4x4, probably), but it is also quiet and nice. More birds. The hike leaves the trail to climb the hill at some point. It then becomes a steep and adventurous journey to the wind-battered top. There, the rain starts falling. The view is terrific. A dram is in order. We empty my flask of Imperial 1990/2013 (40%, GMP).
We start the descent, pass by a man and his dog, then proceed to an abandoned caravan (in dire condition) where the trail stops.

My plan was to cut across the fields on the North side to the nearby road. The 'fields' turn out to be bogs, though, and after a half-arsed attempt, the plan has to be changed: we go back the way we came up, encountering another couple of people.
Once back at the start of the trail, the prospect of walking the full route to the station before starting another trip is not too exciting. Just as we try to gather enough courage to do so, the guy with his dog reaches the car park; a bit embarrassing, considering how much later he started. I initiate the conversation and, soon enough, he offers us a lift to the station. Yay. It is a pocket-sized car, but we are ready to cope with the discomfort.
From the station, we walk North to the Ord malting plant, a lot closer than I thought it would be. A little further, the distillery sits in the middle of trees. Very picturesque... but shut on Sundays. All the same, we take the needed photographs before heading back into town.
A hotel en route advertises food and drinks, which we could do with. It is a lot further up the road than expected, though, and we end up ditching the idea and going into town.
On a corner, we enter what seems to be the only pub around (opened the day before, we later learn). The kind of village pubs where everyone freezes when a stranger pushes the door. However, once the initial inspection is over, we are met with welcomes, questions and friendliness. A customer asks us if we came back from the hill: he saw us on the way up... near his dark brown and white sheep. :-)

Is it a shoat or a geep?

We have cider and lager (only see Glen Ord too late), then make our way out greeted by everyone. We wait for the bus for 15 minutes, decide to take the train instead, wait some more (both late) only to see the bus drive by.
We get home, refresh, then head to Dingwall's curry house, which proves excellent.

Monday, the 18th June

After another hearty breakfast (there are tons of those during this trip) and a brief detour to greet the closed Ferintosh distillery (we stay right next to it -- on purpose, of course), we take the bus to Alness. A ten-minute journey later, we need directions to Teaninich and manage to ask a mute woman (!) We are close enough for the explanation to be swift and easy, though.

'They won't notice we're stealing a still if we keep smiling nonchalantly!'

The walk to the distillery is short and nice, alongside the river. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, all good. The distillery is a typical example of 1970s architecture: a huge block of concrete, painted white. It seems functional and lacks poetry, but under this weather, it is not without charm. There are no tours at Teaninich. We only want to wander around, though. I enter the reception office and tell the guy we are here and what we are about to do; of course, he does not mind. I crack a couple of jokes, then we play Japanese tourists (snaps ahoy).
Once we have our share of pictures, we carry on South, greet nearby horses, cross the highway, make a left and reach the vast Dalmore complex. I cannot remember ever seeing that many warehouses. All the same, the site is picturesque.
Dalmore is the least interesting distillery today, but it is the only one that does tours. We sign up for one, then spend the hour's wait on the lawn, watching birds (gulls, oystercatchers and kamikaze-swallows) and oil rigs. JS causes a few stirs among flocks of seagulls while walking around in search of the perfect picture.
The tour itself is interesting enough -- we are treated to bits of Scottish History as well as W-making process. As a bonus, it is the silent season: they are so sorry we will not see whisky being made, but we do not care because it means 1) the tour is free and 2) we can take pictures everywhere. Well, except in the warehouse, that is. We are told Richard Patterson will be here tomorrow, so that is a bummer. Once the tour is done, we are made to sit in a kitschy room, in front of a screen and they play a dire, dire DVD: 'Best whisky I have ever tasted,' 'most expensive whisky ever sold' and suchlikes forget to mention they also do a 12 year-old, not only 60+ whiskies. The images of barmen shaking cocktails is also very much off-putting. Once we are asked what we thought of the DVD, I make it clear it is terrible and rather insulting. They do not seem to like the film themselves, yet are made to follow the aggressive marketing policy. Our complimentary dram is a Dalmore 12yo, which is ok, though not very interesting to us. They have a handful of special bottlings we would prefer. Oh well. The glasses are covered with a glass disc (to concentrate the flavours): one of the two Italians in our group does not notice and drops the glass, which causes a lot of noise, a lot of laughters and a very confused Italian.

A cheap, entry-level Dalmore.

Once the customary glass and bottle (The Dalmore Tay Dram Season 2012) are bought (no clothing available), we set off along the beach to the next town: Invergordon.
The walk is enjoyable on the cycling path with little traffic (one lonely bicycle, though many, many cars on the road) and beautiful scenery and fauna (butterflies and birds). We stop at the local shop and get some sandwiches which we then eat on a bench outside... in the sun. With an eye on the clock, we start making our way to our final destination for the day. We get a bit lost, as what we are looking for is not too clearly indicated, but finally reach Invergordon distillery long before the bus is supposed to pick us up.
First grain distillery we see and what a shock! Dalmore was a big distillery, yet this is on a completely different scale, what with it stretching on what seems to be a couple of square kilometres. There is a high fence around the complex, with huge hedges obstructing the view. I inquire at the reception whether I may take shots from the reception desk, five meters past the gate, but am met with a polite refusal. Through the fence it is, then, in those rare places where the hedge allows it. I climb a small bank to shoot from above the fence and am amazed to see it stretch North a lot further than I could initially see. Gigantic. From here, I am able to see stacks and stacks of casks, hundreds of them, waiting outside. Workers seem to go from one part of the site to the other by car. That is how big it is. It has been a great day for us distillery spotters, yet this is the most impressive part.
We start waiting at the nearby bus stop, but become quickly concerned that our timetable might not be accurate -- there is none on display to check -- and figure we would be better off waiting in town, which is not so far anyway. We walk back to Invergordon, come across a couple of buses that turn out not to be ours (does not prevent us from running and getting cold sweats). From bus stop to bus stop, we grow increasingly concerned we missed the last bus that will allow us to get the Dingwall connection in Alness (timetables are not reliable at all, as we understand by this point -- more on this later). We end up taking the first bus to Alness. Once there, it becomes clear we will not get a bus back before at least a couple of hours, so we book a cab. The driver is silent at first, but it does not take long (or much) to get him going. Then there is no stopping him, to the point he gets out upon reaching the destination and carries on chatting with us on the station's parking lot. No food necessary, as we indulged at lunch time. Off to bed early.

Tuesday, the 19th June

Last hearty breakfast in Dingwall, then it is a short walk to the station for a cold shower: tickets to Golspie are expensive because not prebooked. There was no mention of that on the Web site, therefore it is unexpected for a local train.
The ride takes us through Alness, Invergordon and Tain, where we easily spot Glenmorangie, before finishing in Golspie. At the station, we bump into a guy who we start chatting with: he visited Belgium at some point (Mechelen) and walks with a stick after a Tar MacIllness -- when a body comes in contact with tarmac at high speed, also know as a motorcycle accident (his own words). A short walk later, we are at the B&B to drop off our bags. The hosts are away, but their daughter is looking after the B&B until they return.

'That statue ain't that tall.'

Our mission for the day is to climb Ben Bhraggie. The hike starts not too far from the B&B, then we go through forestry alongside a mountain-bike track. Quite steep for bikes if you ask me, but well. In the beginning of the path, I catch a diabetic guy who's overdone it and is about to fall as we come across him. The journey up is a bit sporty, though not too hard or boggy.

The top view is well worth the effort. From the pedestal upon which the statue of the Duke of Sutherland stands, the landscape stretches endlessly. In this beautiful weather, it is a treat. We have a dram of The Dalmore Tay Dram Season 2012 (40%, OB) to savour the moment.

Sheltered by the peddle-stool.

Twisting by the pool was a big hit in the Highlands.

The path then goes down from the other side of the hill, through moorland, lochs and rugged scenery to finally rejoin the initial path in the woods. Fantastic hike, this one.
We make it home for a shower, then venture out for food.
Downtown Golspie is as quiet as one could hope for on a Tuesday night. The local pub is playing the football game on the telly, but it does not prevent us from enjoying our supper and a dram (Loch Ness (40%, DT) for me and Old Pulteney 8yo (40%, GMP) for dom666).

Wednesday, the 20th June

Best night of the holiday. At breakfast, we meet the hosts who are just back from Edinburgh. It turns out he is a country music celebrity. I talk him into showing us his whisky collection for pictures. Not everything is impressive, but he has a couple of unbelievable bottles, including a one-off, sixty-year-old Clynelish (ie a Brora). 'Will you open it one day?' 'Maybe for a special occasion.' Researches later hint at it being a custom-made label, which could have been stuck onto a bottle of llama urine, for all I know. Pity.
Leaving the B&B en route to our scenic path, we bump into yesterday's funny guy and his stick who asks how our accommodation was. When he knows where we stayed, he jokes the host used to be known as the thalidomide, 'Short arms and deep pockets. Could never buy a drink.'

"It is crucial for one to wash one's tyres each day."

We proceed to the coastal path past some formidable cottages, Dunrobin castle, horses and generally good-looking scenery to Brora. We stop for a dram at the Sutherland Inn, which turns out to be the place I wanted to visit. Impressive selection, but the atmosphere leaves me cold to say the least. We settle for a North Port 27yo 1982/2010 (43%, GMP Connoisseurs Choice, AJ/JJED) (myself) and a generic Strathisla 12yo (40%, OB) (dom666).

O, sole mio!

We then carry our bags and ourselves further on to the distilleries, where we enjoy a well-deserved rest on Clynelish's lawn, overlooking the old Clynelish distillery (aka Brora). A quick peek at the shop proves they will not serve us anything else than Clynelish 14yo without our taking the tour, so we do not insist. It is then back into town to catch a bus, which, again, proves to be quite a mission. I had asked the previous bus's driver if they would stop to pick us up in between stops and to confirm the timetable: yes and no idea. We then go by the timetable I have printed a few days earlier and wait at a stop. After a rather long wait, we decide to walk back to town, proceed to catch a bus in front of the station as it drives by it, ask if it goes where we need to be and hop on. Ensues a fantastic trip to... Thurso. In Dunbeath, we took a turn to Thurso. We all noticed that, but since we are so late, I am convinced we are going to Thurso to make the ferry connection, then continue to Wick. Nope. Terminus. The driver sees us and asks where we are going. Upon my telling him, he says we had to change at Dunbeath and he said so there. He did not, or we did not hear it. When is the next bus to Wick? He does not know. Two (wrong) timetables inspections, discussion with another driver and a couple of phone calls to the office later, it turns out we are stranded in Thurso for a couple of hours. I have not written down the B&B number to warn them. Might as well grab some supper, in any case. The driver tells us the next bus's time, to which I ask whether he is certain and say that if it is not there, we will come for him, then his family. He then recommends a place for nice pub food, which we find and eat at. At the appointed time, we board the last bus to Wick -- the fare is covered by our ticket. We only lost a couple of hours when we reach Wick. We walk up the hill to the B&B to meet our worried hosts, who quickly become amused upon hearing our story.

Thursday, the 21st June

The hearty breakfast (all variations on a same subject throughout the trip) is punctuated by teases from the hosts about our getting lost. I start thinking it will be a long stay, but then it is all in good humour, so it is fine.
dom666 got sunburnt during yesterday's walk (he is still too manly to wear a hat or, indeed, sunscreen, despite the obvious danger of the weather and a long, first-hand experience) and has not slept. Our plans for today therefore exclude him completely upon his request. Since the weather forecast is not good for tomorrow and we want to have decent weather for the planned, long hike, we decide to not change the itinerary and tough luck for dom666. I had obtained a quote from a taxi company to go where we need to be -- it is accessible by bus, but the times are too tight to do it without rushing and there is no available car to hire in Wick today. Once I have mentioned that, the hostess vanishes, discusses in the kitchen, makes a phone call, comes back and says, 'The taxi will cost you 32£. The man will drive you there for 25.' Although my quote was 28£, we are happy to have a nice guy drive us for cheaper.
The drive to Dunnett via the scenic route is a mixture of pastures, centuries-old castles, fire-ravaged landscapes and breathtaking views. We reach Dunnett Head pretty much exactly when I had planned to, though the hike is cut short because he actually drove us way further than the bus would have taken us. Not a problem, since there are still many kilometres for us to cover. Dunnett Head is rather busy with a small Chinese group (of three) screaming at each other from one end of the parking lot to the other and other quieter tourists. The light house, like many others, erected by Robert Stevenson (Robert Louis's grandfather), is a useful landmark. Although it is a considerable altitude above sea level (105m), the windows were smashed by sea rocks during a particularly violent storm, some time ago. There is a plaque detailing the horizon at the top of the hill. The view from there is spectacular, but with the wind and the grey skies, we do not really enjoy it to the full. We set off for the bus stop: only 7,5 hours to reach it. :-)

Dinner jacket required.

During the first hundred metres, I find a glove. I pick it up in case I meet the person who has lost it. It seems trivial, but given that the temperature is far from tropical, I am rather glad to be able to warm up one hand. A few steps further, we reach a first geo (rocky inlet carved by the sea, locally called 'goe' -- goe figure!) Binoculars come in handy (thanks adc!) It is not possible to get too close to the bird colonies, but a quick look with the binoculars reveals... puffins! Far fewer than on the Treshnish a few years ago, and far further, but still very rewarding. Yay. There are also gulls, kittiwakes and a few razorbills around the corner. Since it is the beginning of the hike and the weather is questionable, we decide not to spend too much time there. Pity in hindsight, perhaps: we will not see any more puffins. The hike is long and stunning. From geo to geo, bird colony to bird colony, moorland to moorland on an obviously rarely-trodden-on path. The (unprotected) cliffs drop into the sea from various heights, starting at 105m, declining, rising again, declining again, so it is not for the faint-hearted. Highlights include an inaccessible beach next to an abandoned house (in which I find a hat), a double geo enclosing a slice of rock, a mildly-descending geo which we decide to climb down to sea level and a red deer running away from us in the distance. By the time we reach the car park, hence completing our half-loop (remember we started about halfway through), we are happy to be on firmer ground and in awe at all the marvels we walked past. One of the brilliantest hikes ever, in my opinion.

Nothing impresses me. Except a nice hat.

The hamlet of Dunnett, I am confident, will have a pub -- a British village without a pub is like whisky without alcohol. We walk past very curious but not-too-brave sheep, spot horses in the distance, but too far for a detour, reach the end of the local road and, just as we rejoin the main road, spot the bus around the corner. Knowing how infrequent these are, unsure when the next is and whether we will come across a pub at all, I run two steps and wave to stop it. The driver stares at me, opens the door and says, 'You came back to get me!?' It is the same driver who took us to Thurso. Laughters ensue.

A nice slice of rock, straight from the oven.

He welcomes us on board, tells us how bad he felt a couple of days earlier about our sorry fate. He is driving the school bus, but has to stop for whoever asks (the Highland way), so is happy to carry us back to Wick (we double check the destination, ask if we need to change anywhere). The day after leaving us in Thurso, he spoke to his manager about the incident who blamed him: he should have done extra hours and driven us back to Wick, she said. We reply there is nothing to regret, that we only lost a couple of hours, did not miss a ferry, get killed or anything else, that everything went smoothly since and we are already laughing about the incident. He turns out to be a nice fellow indeed and we spend the journey chatting merrily. He goes out of his way to drop us off in front of the B&B before finishing his service. We are very amused at the coincidence and happily tell dom666 and the staff about it at the B&B.
dom666 ventured out to explore the town a little, but mostly spent the day indoors resting and feels better. He was interrupted at some stage by the host and a photographer who wanted to take pictures of his bathroom.
After a shower, we go into town for supper, excited as a paedophile at a school fair: a fishing town such as this one is bound to boast many seafood restaurants. Nope. Fishing activity is all but dead and the restaurants have gone. We end up at Weatherspoon, which seems to be the local hot-spot. The food is good and ridiculously cheap, though not necessarily typical.

Friday, the 22nd June

Today's programme comprises two hikes back to back: the old harbour, the distillery and castle of Old Wick, then Girnigoe. However, since we stay in Pulteney Town, we start the first from the top, bypassing the whole harbour -- bah! we'll do it afterwards. Pulteney distillery is our first stop, then. A few people are there, waiting for the first tour already. A quick shop inspection reveals two nice polo shirts: they are the older model and there is only one item of each. My size too. Swiftly kept aside for me. Old Pulteney 21yo (46%, OB, b. ca 2012) is in dom666's line of fire. The tour first, though. Nice tour, truth be told. The girl who leads it has been working there forever, so she knows her subject and cracks a few jokes. We are treated to a close up of their Porteus Mill, the oldest piece of equipment in the distillery that just will not die. I get all excited when she tells us Pulteney still uses worm tubs, rather than the more widespread condensers. They reckon changing that might change the nature of the spirit, so they will not do it. Inver House, the group that owns the distillery, has six distilleries under its name and five of them still use worm tubs. Out of only six in Scotland still using that technology. Old school. Once the tour is over, we get a dram of either the 12yo or the liqueur, which JS tries: not that good -- way too sweet. The 12yo is fine, of course, but I am more interested in the single cask they bottle for visitors. She leaves us for the DVD presentation, then does not come back. I help myself to the single cask, which is nice enough, but not worth the 70£ to me, and not worth taking back by airplane. Back at the shop, I get an accidental discount when checking out, but decide against the Speyburn 25yo, which, in hindsight, is a stupid mistake.

'Get arrrrrf moy field!' (or 'Moo!' in cow language)

We then proceed to the castle. An easy walk across pastures in a more and more menacing weather. The castle is more spectacular than in my memories. Only parts of the walls remain, but the cliffs around it are nothing short of breathtaking. A sea rock shaped like a table is particularly impressive, washed by the sea and swept by the wind on one end and adopted as a perch by cormorants (or are they shags?) on the other. Mesmerising. I try to film it a bit: the camera battery dies. I change it. The spare one dies. Argh. We are able to revive them for a few pictures, not more. The path to the castle splits: dom666 goes right of the shooting blockhaus (it is a shooting range) we go left. Once on the other side of the geo, the view of the path we took mortifies me: it is a thin strip of rock held by nothing and the drop is shocking. The B&B hostess had warned us, but we really did not see it coming. Funny to then see other travellers take the same path, completely oblivious, as we were. We come across a couple of people at the castle, including an ornithologist taking notes about his study plot (the castle's rocky promontory). Something else we meet is a thick layer of fog closing in at scary speed: one minute we are gazing at the sea table, the next, we cannot see the castle anymore. We leave before running any risk -- this kind of terrain in thick fog could prove very dangerous indeed. The hike is supposed to take us to the harbour, but we go back to the B&B to recharge the batteries, literally and figuratively. There is little point carrying on if we cannot document anything, especially in the dreary weather of today -- it soon starts raining.
We waste a couple of hours in the rooms, until the clock nears four. The second hike is around ten kilometres. A check at the bus timetable and the sky and we decide to book a cab to Girnigoe. We are so close it would be a shame to write it off, though it would be as silly to go on foot and be miserable throughout. It is now raining too hard to walk comfortably and the visibility is terrible. That does not put us off too much, but it prevents us from soaking in the atmosphere fully, once there. Spectacular castles again, though not as much as what I remembered: the cliffs are much lower. We spot a kestrel near the top of the nearby old man. The castle is in terrible shape, the oldest part being inaccessible and held together by scaffholding (apparently, castle of Old Wick itself is left abandoned to the sea). The visibility is getting worse and worse. Interestingly, there seems to have been some mind changes about the castles: I used to know them as Sinclair and Girnigoe, which is what is written on older signs and in guides. Now, it is known as castle Sinclair Girnigoe: Girnigoe being the original name and Sinclair the renamed version of a single castle, after the lord received the right to call it that. It went through various stages of expansion and rebuilding, but was left to rot for three centuries, shamefully enough. I do not think many generations will still see it. We find a pair of camouflage trousers hanging on the fence near the entrance, which seem to be exactly my size. No one around? They are mine. :-)
It is now raining more than we care for and the visibility is atrocious. We call in another cab to bring us back to Wick. The driver, who is a lot more agreeable than the one on the way out, recommends the curry place, which we go to. Lovely meal. Then back to the B&B for a well-deserved dram and some sleep. I hear French spoken in one of the rooms. Louder than other guests, of course.

Saturday, the 23rd June

The French guests are late for breakfast. We joke about them and how "noisy" they were the night before with the hostess -- nothing to complain about, mind. We eat our breakfast, bid farewell, then proceed to the bus stop. There, the same driver who took us to Thurso drives the bus we need to take. He swears he did not change his schedule to be there, so the coincidence is really striking. He takes us to John O'Groats where he unfortunately does not have time to have a drink with us. We buy birds and pass on the postcards, stupidly enough: we will not see any decently priced ones before Inverness. JOG is a horrible place, full of tourist traps and newly-built bungalows that spoil the scenery -- hope they end up a little better integrated. The wait is too short to do a proper hike and we have the bags, so cliff riding is out of the question today. We take a short walk along the coast, spot the impressive wave across the Pentland Firth (the swell), then head back on time for our connection. The bus takes us to Gills Bay and even drops us at the ferry terminal, despite it not being on its route today. We board promptly, though depart late: the boat is full and parking the cars on it proves to be a fascinating Tetris-like game.
The crossing is easy, but it is pouring at St Margarets Hope, where we disembark. We hop on the bus to Highland Park distillery, conveniently waiting, inconveniently printing Hatston Park tickets instead. It stops raining upon arrival at the distillery. We shop for clothes and glasses, but there is nothing interesting on the bottlings front, apart from HP The Sword 1997/2010 (43%, OB for Taiwan and the distillery). I am shouted at by a worker in the courtyard ('Advertising the competition?' at my Old Pulteney bag). We chat for a bit: he is a retired worker driving VIPs around when they land from the HP/LoganAir plane. He asks us where we are going:
'Scapa.
-What for? There is nothing to see, there.
-We want to see the distillery and take a few pictures, then we will head to Kirkwall.
-So, you're going to Scapa?
-Yes.
-Now?
-Well, yes...
-That's exactly where I'm going. Would you like a lift?'

He then takes us to Scapa (I foolishly do not dare ask him to stop so I can take a shot from the seafront), and parks in a driveway right next to the distillery's own driveway. He then takes a look at us and says, 'Would you like a dram?'

It turns out he has worked for decades at Scapa, then was moved to HP at the time Scapa was mothballed. He always remained loyal to his first employer. Also, he lives next door to the distillery. We invade his living-room, where he pours us some Scapa 16yo (40%, OB) -- we offer him some Dalmore Tay. He then shows us Scapa memorabilia and some rare bottlings, which makes me happy as a pig in a dirt farm. We bid good bye before it is dark, though, as we want to take good snaps. The weather is not impressive, so we do not linger on too long. We start our walk to Kirkwall, but without a detailed map, go in the wrong direction, u-turn when a random 4x4 stops at our level, 'Are you lost?
-No, we were going in the wrong direction, but we are ok, now.
-Where are you going?
-Kirkwall. Well, to Kirkwall, so we can take a bus to Stromness.'

Woo!

The lady then explains she will drive us, as she prefers it to seeing people lost in the rain. Amazed at the local kindness, we arrive 45 minutes early for the bus, so decide to get some supper at a gift shop/café near the cathedral (SEAFOOD AT LAST!) We then rush to the bus stop only to find we had the wrong time and have another hour to wait. We spend part of it in town, where the local festival entertains a large crowd (by Orcadian standards). We catch the last bus to Stromness, where we call in late.

Whammy!

The B&B is ok, great situation, but we are on top floor and it is a bit awkward, with low ceiling and shared bathroom downstairs. The hostess asks us our plans for the following day -- we say it is supposed to be Hoy, but we are unsure, due to the weather. The forecast is pretty much that it might rain, or it might not rain. She tells us how gorgeous Hoy is, regardless of the weather and about an old lady who moved from Hoy to North Ronaldsay, because Rackwick was 'getting too busy.' Even without having been yet, we all laugh at the thought the Hoy village could be too busy for anyone.

Sunday, the 24th June

Since last night, we have been debating the weather and whether it is good enough to sail to our destination, pretty much destined to be the pinnacle of this trip. It is raining, but the hostess convinces us we should go, as regrets would be a pity. We sort of had made up our minds anyway, yet we all secretly fear it is the wrong choice. The breakfast is interesting -- no cooked breakfast, only fresh local products, which is great, bar the bread: too small to toast and brought too early, so always cold.
Once it is finished, we run to the ferry terminal and set off. Destination: Hoy.

The crossing is short and easy. The weather is not fantastic and gets worse on the other side: it starts drizzling and it is windy. We all feel miserable and I contemplate hopping back onto the ferry to Stromness. We all do, though we do not say anything. A guy inquires where the bus is: there does not seem to be any running on Sundays. His trolley and he proceed to one of the island's youth hostels on a road that is highly inappropriate for trolleys. We start the hike. After fifteen minutes, the rain stops. We start relaxing and spotting strange birds, including one being attacked by what seems to be a kestrel. We cannot confirm, because we forgot the binoculars. At a branch, we decide to move away from the road and move on to a path "not suitable for pedal vehicles" that goes through a nature reserve. A little further, we cross a stream coming from an artificial loch, then climb the few stairs to loch level. The spectacle commences.

Where is the local supermarket?

My initial thoughts on Hoy, right off the boat, were that it was quite pastoral, with farmland as far as the eye could see (granted, that was not far). At this stage, it becomes obvious that was not Hoy, but the coastal hamlet near the pier. We now enter moorland of a wilderness akin to Glencoe's (though less grandiose, I must admit) or Jura's. The path often shrinks to either completely disappear or run on the river bed, leaving no doubt as to why this is not suitable for pedal vehicles. As far as the landscape stretches, the only signs of human activity are a few fading footsteps in the mud and an arrow sign here and there. This is nature at its best, as close to unspoilt as it gets.

Bird II, e-skua-yer.

Full of admiration, we hike along the loch, quickly spotting flocks of birds upon its surface. When some start flying by, we realise they and the ones we saw earlier are great skuas. Hoy is home to 12% of the world's skua population. Quite a sight: dark brown plumage with a white stripe under each wing, they look like fighters in their D-Day livery. We obviously come close to a few nests, seeing the agitation we cause at times. For what feels to be minutes, but later shows on the map to be around seven kilometres, we are treated to this magnificent panorama. At one point, the mist coming down the mountain is operating a strange and hypnotic ballet during which different layers collide, climb, dive, move away and start again. Then it is the descent to the sea on the other side of the island. Butterflies, small birds and all sorts of flowers. The first houses of Rackwick start showing up. We reach the road.

Somehow, they knew I was coming...

I was hoping for a place in Rackwick to buy postcards, stamps and have a drink. There does not seem to be any such place, though.
We start the second part of the hike, now, which will lead us to my nemesis. First across pastures, then along the unprotected cliffs. From a small height, the sight is stunning on many levels. Firstly, the "busy" Rackwick is in fact twenty house spread over what seems to be a couple of square kilometres; secondly, Rackwick is in a trench surrounded by very abrupt cliffs, with no progressive climb; thirdly, the clifftop is lost in a layer of cotton, giving the whole an eerie atmosphere.

No hard feelings!

It's not all that tall, to be honest.

The track to our goal is straight forward, although rugged, and we reach there easily, coming across only four or six people in total -- not quite the overly touristic spot I had feared. We saw the Old Man from the Scrabster-to-Stromness boat, six years ago; but from the top of the closest cliff, it is a different story. The sense of scale is completely changed and we do feel small, next to this fifty-metre sea stack. Also vulnerable, perched on the cliff of the same height. We observe the ballet of the gulls with admiration, but that gives me a vertigo effect that could prove quite dangerous around here. We sit down and share a dram between Old Men while JS snaps like a Japanese tourist.

"Those crisps look nice."

"The plan is for a parking lot to be built there."

Two walkers reach us -- the trolley guy and an unequipped young man whose pack of crisps attracts a rather huge seagull. He is taking pictures, so I offer him to take one of him. We share a quick chat: South African tourist who wanted something different. His cotravellers all flaked out, but he decided to come all the same rather than call off.
The weather does not permit to walk back to Moaness via St John's Head: it is raining, there is supposedly no path after a bit and the clouds are so low that we will not see anything anyway. We decide against taking pointless risks and walk back the way we came, much to my disliking. The walk is still beautiful, though.
Coming out of the RSPB, the bird population changes dramatically: it is all hooded crows and gulls, all of a sudden. And gulls are the Italians in the bird world: noisy. :-)

Nice roll, too!

We reach Moaness way too early, completing 24 kilometres in around seven hours, including many stops, some of which quite lenghty. Fortunately, there is a place to shelter at in Moaness, Bene'th Cafe, where we have some refreshments and food (a scallop roll for me *drool*). The South African guy is there too, having a snack.
The ferry takes us (and the pub staff) back to the mainland. We stop for supper at the Stromness Hotel, which turns out to be a great idea indeed. The French waiter is very nice to boot.

"Your boots smell of another cat! Where have you been?"

JS and I venture out to see the location of Man O'Hoy, a distillery that could very well have been burnt down by the resentment of biggots, although that is unproven. Stromness at dusk is ridiculously charming. After a shower, it is a well-deserved rest that awaits us.

Monday, the 25th June

Another local-product breakfast and a chat with the other guests (mostly about how beautiful Hoy is and how the Yorkshire lady who just arrived left her past life to start afresh in Stromness), we settle the bill, then it is a short walk to the ferry across the street. Easy-peasy crossing, including cracking views of the Old Man (hikers near it give a sense of the size again -- flies on a skyscraper) and St John's Head (still as impressive as six years ago) and we reach Scrabster in no time. The initial plan was to take a cab to the station, then a train to Inverness. The Dingwall-to-Golspie experience (remember: non-pre-booked train tickets are expensive) and the price of a taxi fare put me off, though. No bus makes it to the station on time, but... there is a non-stop bus from Scrabster to Inverness! Good thing too, as there is not one taxi in sight. The bus stop is not very well indicated, so we miss it, walk to the next one, find a timetable, are as confused as ever, decide to call the bus company to get reliable times and the right bus stop, walk back to the terminal, see a bus on its way, miss it (of course), but realise it is out of service. Phew. It comes back later on with a new driver and stops right where we are to pick us up. It is not that driver, this time. The bus journey is long and not extremely entertaining, though parts, such as the steep drop-and-climb at Berriedale, are impressive. To think I once did that on a bicycle with a big rucksack!...
We spot a few distilleries on the way and Bairds Maltings in Inverness. Unfortunately, we are not able to take pictures, which is a pity, as the weather is beautiful, now.

At last, we would get some good whisky.

Once in Inverness, we set off for the B&B. On our way, in a backstreet, a ravaged pair fights, seemingly about who will go fetch the next fix of smack.
We check in before going out again. It is tough to find (affordable) postcards, but we do so at the tourist office, about three minutes before they close. Next stop: supper, not too far from the castle. The food is dreary (meat is good, but the vegetables are not fresh; stinky, even -- I do not finish them) and the service is average (who asks whether everything is ok two seconds after the dishes have been served?)

Nice place, though.

dom666 is not feeling too well after the bus ride. B&B time for him, while we take a digestive walk to Millburn distillery. We do not regret not eating there: it was transformed into what seems a bland steak joint with nothing nice to drink. We walk back.
In the tourist guide provided in the room, JS finds a flyer for Piano Bar, which seems to serve a few drams. We call them up to find out what time they close: it is still worth going. dom666 is up for it as well.
We reach there easily, ask for the menu, get it, choose, order, then get turned down upon ordering a Linkwood 1954 GMP: the waiter does not have the key to the cupboard. I say everything we want to order is in there, to which he replies some are also behind him and we might be lucky. I arrogantly tell him he will not have any Linlithgow 1982 Mackillop's Choice or Ben Nevis 34yo Adelphi. He does not, of course. He says we can have anything on the shelf behind him: all entry level. How about telling us a bit earlier next time? We leave. disgusted. There will not be a next time on this trip, perhaps at all.
I got a much better impression of Inverness than the first time (it was grey, rainy, and I was verbally assaulted by French dickheads in the sanitary block of the campsite -- it was also a looooong time ago)... until we came in contact with pub staff. Two places, two unpleasant experiences.

Tuesday, the 26th June

As we were told last night, there are 'Mericans in the place. It turns out at breakfast they are Texans. The waitress "befriended" them (some sarcasm, there: her aggressive teasing seems to go well over their heads) and asks about their previous day ('was it really awesome?') She then tells about her life as a nurse: she used to look after a big, old lady in a wheelchair who had got run over by a bus. Each sordid detail of the life conditions adds up to the Dickensian story to a point I want to laugh out loud -- fortunately, I manage to contain myself.

Because we're worth it!

The breakfast is great, probably my favourite of the whole stay: crusty pastries, haggis (about time!) and black pudding from the Dingwall champion whose shop we passed by last week.
It is soon time we make our way to the airport, which is easy enough: the bus takes us there in no time. There, I buy a bottle of Tomatin 16yo 1995/2011 (46%, GMP Exclusive for Inverness Airport, Refill ex-Bourbon Barrel, C#5122), answer a satisfaction survey from a guy in a suit and joke about the Dutch girls next to us. A gentleman asks us how the rest of our trip was: the trolley man from Hoy. Life is full of surprising coincidences!
We leave and arrive on time and spend what remains of the day in town, shopping for whisky and feasting.