Vee: Lost and Found

by David Roberts

  “Up there is Ullapool, only about twelve miles away. A fantastic drive. And over there is the Corrieshalloch Gorge.”

  “Worth seeing?”

  “Yes, if you haven’t been there before. A path winds down through an interesting bit of woodland and there’s a big viewing platform that extends over the deepest part. I had to really force myself to walk to the end of it and I was gripping the handrail like mad. The platform looked like it could have supported a locomotive but I still felt at risk.”

  “I know the feeling. Sometimes your brain just can’t override your instincts. I think that’s what must have happened to me the day I got married. Even today, every time I see a really deep chasm, or a dangerous cliff edge I still think of her… Let’s keep going.”

  After the junction and a long downhill curve, the road seemed to widen out, its bends becoming gentler as it ran across the valley floor next to Loch Broom. The combination of good road surface, scenic views and easy progress, that is what made the road a special one for Alastair; well, that and Ullapool being at the end of it.

  A couple of buzzards circled low up ahead, one alighting on one of the huge redwoods on the right. The loch looked beautiful- quite flat, if rather dull in appearance, like peened metal. Soon they began the climb uphill, round some tighter curves once again, wooded on both sides. They emerged high above Loch Broom and began the descent into Ullapool, past the newish chalets, then down into the town itself.

  It was quarter past one- too early to book into the Inn, but they were as well pinching one of the parking spaces so they continued along the main street, past the ferry terminal. They were in luck. There were a couple of spaces next to the picnic benches.

  “I’ll nip across. We may as well get the room keys now, if we can. Then we can go along the street for lunch.”

  While he was away, Tom reached into the glovebox and flicked through ‘Secret Places..’. Ullapool. Assynt. The road to Lochinver looked interesting, especially Ardvreck Castle, though the history was rather grisly. It would be interesting to see what sort of state the castle was in.

  Never having visited the north coast, he traced the route through Scourie to Durness. Just outside Durness he saw the words “white house” pencilled in. He flicked backwards and checked. Yes, the handwriting was quite different. Perhaps it was Alastair’s.

  A knuckle rap on the window brought him back.

  “We’re in luck. The room faces out into the loch so we’ll be able to see the ferry coming in at night- always interesting to see. Clear views down the loch too, of course.”

  “Should we move our stuff into the room now?”

  “No. Later will be fine. Lunch for now, I think.”

  Tom slung his coat over his arm, grabbed ‘Secret Places..’ and they headed off down the street, past the chip shop and the assembly area for the ferry traffic and on to the main street proper.

  “I remember that place,” he said, pointing up to a sign on the lower floor of a large white building. “It’s a brilliant bookshop. It’s open till about nine in the evenings too, so it’s great for a browse when nearly everywhere else is shut. Good selection as well; single copies mainly, I think, rather than dozens of copies of the same book in a pile.”

  “Yes, I know it well.” Alastair said. “It’s great to find a proper bookshop in a place like this: not just one of those chains which sells only what’s popular right now. You know- crime stories, romantic novels, wall to wall vampires.”

  “And books about footballers from the English Premiership, such as Gary Lineker’s ‘Crisps are not the only fruit’.”

  “Or ‘The Archduke was my uncle’ by Les Ferdinand.”

  “And then there’s all the celebrity cookbooks. Some pratt going on and on about fish. How to cook your celebrity the traditional way, on a bed of Etruscan pine needles and crushed flamingos, using only what you’ve already got in your fridge. Aye right. And don’t get me started on the bloody bake-off.”

  But Alastair knew it was too late to hope for that. The tedious, brief journey to the red zone had already begun. Not bitter or anything, my arse.

  “I’m telling you, see if I was writing a book, I think I’d go for the vampire genre. You know, blood-sucking female…”

  The particular female they were squeezing past on the narrow pavement looked rather taken aback by what she was hearing.

  “… blood sucking female who betrays her mate, stripping him of all possessions.”

  “Would that not just be another autobiography?” Alastair inquired helpfully.

  “Technically yes but I’d throw some gratuitous sex in there to spice it up.”

  There was a pause before he added a ‘rider’. “You know, I’ve never had gratuitous sex.”

  “You should ask Eleanor about that. Maybe you just didn’t realise,” said Alastair, nipping smartly into a small café. Being quite late in the season, it was a lot quieter than he had seen it previously. Only one of the five tables was occupied, which gave Alastair enough room to spread out the map.

  “We’ll need to decide how we’re going to spend the next two days. Obviously we’re in Ullapool tonight. The Inn is not too busy, so we could book it for another night, or even both nights. It depends on where we want to go.”

  “There’s a couple of places quite near here I’d be interested in,” said Tom. “The Achiltibuie road looks interesting- I’ve never been along it.” He traced it with his finger, along the side of Loch Lurgainn and out round the coast before continuing.

  “The Summer Isles. That sounds familiar. It says in the book that there’s a small community there, of about fifty people, and a good harbour for fishing.”

  “You’re probably thinking of The Wicker Man- you know, the Christopher Lee horror film, starring Britt Ekland’s backside, wriggling famously.”

  “That’s the one,” said Tom. “The policeman ends up inside a huge wicker sculpture. Burnt alive, I think.”

  Oh…Really? I don’t remember that bit. Never mind.”

  Tea and apple pie arrived, brought over by a well spoken English gentleman who looked like he owned the shop. Perhaps he had moved there after a career in the Home Counties, to get away from the stress and the pressures (and the high property prices). That seemed the most obvious explanation.

  “Imagine this place in winter,” said Alastair quietly, “if it’s like this now, half empty. Great in the tourist season, of course, but you’d probably need something else to do in the winter months. You really have to know what you’re doing when you open a business like this. That’s why a lot of them go bust.”

  “I suppose you’ll always have some passing trade here, because of the ferries. There will always be people waiting around for one, or people who’ve just got off one.”

  “It would still be risky, though, relocating to a place like Ullapool.” Alastair polished off the last of his pie. “And thank goodness they do. Think what it would be like visiting the Highlands if there were no cafes or tearooms.”

  “And no converted primary schools, run by retired Art teachers, selling pottery, paintings, wooden toys, jewellery and serving coffee. There must be dozens of them. You even get them in Lanarkshire, for God’s sake.”

  The plates were cleared away, giving them back some space for maps. Tom continued the conversation.

  “So what do you reckon? Is it worth going to Achiltibuie?”

  “It’s an interesting road, quite narrow, but it goes across some interesting landscape. You go past Stac Pollaidh, which is very distinctive. As a place there isn’t much to Achiltibuie. There’s a shop, a Post Office but the houses are strung out. There’s no real centre to the place. We can do that this afternoon, if you like. But what about the next two days, before we have to head home?”

  For the next few minutes, or more precisely, until the tea ran out, they pointed at the map, shook their heads, nodded their heads and came to agreement. Day one would explore the Lochinver road. Via the Lochinver Pie Shop, they would go to
Laxford Bridge, then down to Lairg, along the side of Loch Shin. The total was 109 miles according to the map. They would stay in Lairg for one night.

  Day two would take them through Altnaharra to Tongue and then along the north coast road. This would take them through Scourie, Ledmore and back to Ullapool. That was about 138 miles. These two trips would cover a big area and give them enough time to do a bit of exploring. They would head down south the following morning.

  This simple framework was all they needed. These holidays were never about ticking off sites or even seeing specific things. Here in a world without filing cabinets and racks of tools, you could be someone else and feel it was the real you. This is how we deceive ourselves: this is how it is done.

  _________________________

  Forty minutes later they were nearing the top of the long northwards climb out of Ullapool.

  “Pull in! Pull in!” said Tom, indicating a side road. It would be all right to block the entrance for a minute, provided they stayed with the car. Stepping out, Alastair could see the reason. The Stornoway ferry was powering up the approach to Loch Broom. They watched as it made the turn round the headland into Ullapool.

  “You forget how big they are,” said Alastair. “They completely dwarf the houses. And it looks so clean, so sharp. A lovely thing.”

  It slowed right down as it came in, to make the turn. “Someday we should go to Lewis,” he said, “just for a change.”

  They climbed back into the car and headed north once more. It was a road of long hills and long dips. After ten minutes they turned left at the Achiltibuie turn-off.

  The narrow road wound along some high ground, then down nearer the loch side. Ahead of them, they could see the distinctive shape of Stac Pollaidh; like a cone with the top cut off, and devoid of vegetation.

  Near the base of the mountain they pulled into a small parking area. Stac Pollaidh was even more dramatic close up. The top was heavily weathered and split by deep vertical fissures. The jagged shards and columns, and the huge amounts of scree around the base, made it look like a bombed-out fortress.

  “That’s interesting,” said Tom.

  “What’s that?”

  “This plaque- it’s about Norman MacCaig. I studied his poetry at school. He wrote about natural things: basking sharks, trees, birds, mountains like this. One poem is called ‘Climbing Suilven’. That’s a few miles further north. He used to spend every summer here. This plaque quotes a bit from one of his poems.

  “Self under self, a pile of selves I stand

  Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand

  Lift the farm like a lid and see

  Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.”’

  “Did you like the poems?”

  “Well I wouldn’t have said so at the time but since they are about the only things I remember from the whole Higher course, I suppose they must have made some kind of impression. They’d mean more to me now, I think, now I’m coming to these places.”

  Tom reached into the back of the car and collected his camera. It was a clear day and the tops of the spires stood out clearly on the mountain, framed against dark blue.

  “Twenty past four,” said Alastair. “The light will be starting to draw in down in Edinburgh by now. I remember I had a pal from Croydon in Surrey. He couldn’t believe how long the daylight stayed in Scotland. It’s strange how you can be caught out like that. Even when you understand things they can still feel odd.”

  They spent a good ten minutes just looking, just absorbing the feel of the place before Tom spoke.

  “If we go to Achiltibuie, I imagine we’d only be there for a wee while- and then it would be straight back along this road.”

  That was right.

  “Well, I’d be quite happy to give it a miss. If we just head back to Ullapool we’ll be there just after five and we can have a bit of a wander round the place. I quite fancy that.”

  Alastair nodded. The car turned round and headed back.

  17 Making Sticks

  Gairloch 1940

  John sounded the horn just as they were coming to a standstill, and the farmhouse door opened before they had reached it. Granny was standing there, her pinny on as usual, with a beaming smile.

  “Happy birthday Jamie,” she said, giving him a hug. His response was not the sort of arms- length cuddle which have to be forced out of some small boys, who are usually straining to get away. His arms gave her a tight squeeze, hands almost meeting at the back. A proper one, not a stolen one.

  “Come in, come in all of you,” she said, kissing Mhairi on the cheek and shaking hands with John. “So nice of you to come, Dr John,” she said. “It’s lovely to see you again. You are keeping well, I hope.”

  The commotion overtook his reply.

  “How is my lovely boy?” said Elizabeth. “My, how you’ve grown!”

  They were hugging each other, Jamie’s legs almost able to touch the floor.

  “Happy birthday,” said Grandpa Robert, leaning forward in his armchair, hand extended till Jamie went up to him and gave him a hug too.

  “Would you look at all this!” said Mhairi, turning to John. There were balloons, a cake and party hats folded next to the napkins.

  “You’ll not have had any presents yet I imagine,” said Granny, winking discreetly to Mhairi, “so you might want to have a look at these.”

  She reached behind the sofa and brought out two, no, three boxes.

  “This one’s from your Grandpa and me,” she said, handing him one about the size of a small shoe box.

  “What does it say on it, Jamie?” asked Mhairi. “I can’t quite read it from where I’m sitting.”

  “To Jamie, with love from Grandpa Robert and Granny.”

  “That looks exciting,” she said. “I think you’ll just have to open it now.”

  He unpicked the string and took off the paper. ‘Britains Limited’ it said. He opened the end of the box and slid out a beautiful, orange metal tractor. It was one of the ones with two wheels close together at the front, leaning into each other. A long shaft led up to the steering wheel, which turned as the front wheels were moved from side to side. On the side it said Allis Chalmers.

  “It’s an American design,” Grandpa said. “The front wheel can sit in the rows between crops. It can also follow the last furrow so the tractor will follow it and plough in nice straight lines.”

  Jamie nodded without taking his eyes from it.

  “And this one’s from me,” said Elizabeth. Another box, with the same wrapping paper. It was a trailer. Jamie hooked them up.

  “Isn’t that wonderful,” Mhairi said. “What do you think of that Dr John?”

  “It’s fantastic. I’ve never seen a tractor quite like that up here. The Macfarlane’s have one rather similar, but this must be the very latest design.”

  “It is,” said Robert. “If I could afford a tractor, that’s the one I would have.”

  “If you could afford a tractor like that,” said Granny, “you’d be getting a decent car instead. You know, one that has working brakes and which doesn’t splash water over your legs when you drive through a puddle.”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “There’s one other thing too,” said Robert, reaching over to the small table next to his armchair. It was a small packet, wrapped in brown paper. “Now that you are eight, I think you are old enough to have one of these. I carry one all the time, even now.”

  Jamie opened the package. It was a penknife. There was one blade, which Grandpa showed him how to open and close safely; a short, strong-looking hooked thing which Grandpa explained was a can opener, and a big spike that folded into the side.

  “That’s for the horses,” he said, “for getting stones out of hoofs- that sort of thing. It’s not a toy, of course. It’s a real knife but now you are eight we thought you should have one.”

  Jamie looked at the black, chequered grip and felt the weight of it.

  “Right,” said Granny, “who�
��s for a cup of tea?”

  It was a welcome lightening of the mood.

  “I thought we’d have something light now, to give you young ones time to go out together. We’ll have the birthday tea when you come back.”

  In fact, the trip was to be a short one but Granny and Grandpa both came to the door to wave them off. John drove only a mile up the road and parked next to the hotel. Jamie was confused.

  “Are we going to the hotel?”

  “No, we’re going somewhere more interesting than that,” Mhairi said. “Not many people are allowed, but Dr John has permission from the hotel to use one of their boats. We’re going out there.” She pointed to some small islands in the centre of the loch. “Euan and I….” She suddenly stopped, then looked around for someone to come to her rescue. It came from an unexpected source.

  “So what did you and daddy do there?” Jamie asked matter-of -factly.

  “”Well, there are some old ruins there and some of them go back hundreds and hundreds of years.”

  “I remember your dad telling me and Margaret about this island,” said Elizabeth, helping out. “We will have to explore it.”

  “There are lots of old stories about its history,” said Mhairi, recovering. “They say even Queen Victoria sailed across to the island. But not perhaps on this boat.”

  It was obviously quite a new one, bought by the hotel for the loch fishing which appealed so much to residents.

  “Now before we go,” she said, “check we’ve got everything. Coats, hats; that sort of thing.” Everyone nodded.

  “Auntie Vee,” Jamie inquired, “can I take my knife?”

  “That would be a very good idea Jamie, it could be very useful over there.”

  “And can I take my binoculars and my pipe?” John asked, nudging Jamie with his elbow.

  “Only if the men have to do the rowing,” Elizabeth said.

  They clambered in and John pushed them off the shore, the boat wobbling rather more than he had expected. The water was flat and John was careful to match his strokes with Jamie’s, whose oar sometimes skipped across the surface rather than biting.