A tour of the west coast of Scotland, twenty-five
years ago, felt to me like an adventure into remote territory. Campsites were
rough and ready, there was a scarcity of fresh produce (even seafood), bread
was like damp cotton-wool and coffee was too exotic a concept to have caught on.
Despite that – and the changeable weather and the midges – the magnetic beauty
of the region has kept pulling me back ever since: me and plenty of others,
which is why there have been some noticeable changes to the touring experience.
It has recently been reported that the single-track roads on the scenic routes
are so clogged-up with campervans and motorhomes that residents are questioning
the benefits they bring: which has infused this, my latest tour, with a touch
of paranoia. My manner has become obsequious as I seek reassurance from the
locals, taking care to be polite and to smile, even when paying inflated
prices.
In Applecross, where it was once
acceptable for campervanners to pitch freely on the grassy hinterland of the
beach, boulders have been placed strategically to oblige them instead to go to
the campsite. Fair enough, I thought, as I occupied an elevated pitch looking
out over the sea to the mountains of Skye. It’s a picturesque scene – and it
was peaceful, until a man-on-a mission with a strimmer turned up to lay waste
to the wild-flowers and stray plants that had dared despoil the lawn-like
surface of the camping field. It seemed an act of vandalism, incongruous with
the surrounding, unkempt hillsides and with the re-wilding zeitgeist. The
re-introduction of native trees, red squirrels and otters is proclaimed on
various notice boards hereabouts. They may be small-scale, experimental
projects, but they do have the potential to create a more diverse ecosystem
than the version currently diminished by human economic activity. To escape the
roar of the strimmer, I strolled down to the village, where the once solitary
Ship Inn now has competition in the form of a trendy bar-cum-pizza-kitchen and
a shining aluminium Airstream caravan offering panini, gelato – and fish ‘n’
chips.
So, does the growth of tourism bring
benefits to all parties? The locals enjoy the extra income but have to endure
over-strained utilities during the peak months. The visitors enjoy improved
facilities but at the expense of the quintessentially remote lifestyle that was
unique to the experience. There are some things that benefit both sides. The
Victorian walled garden at the ‘Big Hoose’ in Applecross was desolate when I
first saw it: now it is well on the way to a restoration that has been made
possible by the income generated by visitors. The bleak coastal route into the
village now boasts a cliff-top café and bakery, where “artisan bread” is made
with organic flour milled in Dundee. It is just down the road from a thriving
seafood smokehouse. Traffic congestion is not yet out of control but, if it
were to become so, would the authorities build a proper road and, if so, would
that ruin the appeal of the place?
Meanwhile, there are places that remain
‘unimproved’. Such is Lochbuie on the Isle of Mull. The route to it is a
twisting, undulating, single-track road that passes over a wild hill, then
through a lush valley that is lined so abundantly with pink rhododendrons that
the experience of driving through it is like an acid-induced hallucination. At
the end, there are pretty bays, dominated by the partly ruined Castle of May
and the ‘Big Hoose’ that its owners built to retire to when Castles went out of
fashion. There is also an un-staffed wooden shack that is the shop-cum-café,
where the system of payment is an honesty box (cheques payable to Flora Corbett).
If you fancy the experience, you had better go soon. There were three motorhomes
pitched for free on the foreshore when I last looked.
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