A couple of
years ago, in the Rockies, I was in conversation with a Canadian who said that
she would love to visit the Scottish Highlands. “Why?” I asked, “the Rockies
are far more impressive.” “Yes,” she said, “but we don’t have castles here.”
She had a point: castles add romance to landscape. However, after three weeks
of encountering them on my Scottish tour, I have to say that they are losing
their allure. In fact, they are all beginning to look alike and it is easy to
imagine that the Tourist Board commissioned a job lot of them, in various
stages of ruin, to be constructed and positioned strategically.
One thing that
really is variable here, though, is the weather – especially on the west coast,
which takes the full brunt of the North Atlantic fronts. Conditions can change
rapidly – put your deckchair out, then bring it back in fifteen minutes later.
And the wind can be so fierce that a short coastal stroll can leave you
ruddy-faced for hours while you watch (from the shelter of your campervan)
tent-people struggling to prevent lift-off. It’s an amusing show but I try not
to smile, lest they consider me smug. In fact, I sense that they feel superior
– in a stoical, hardy way – to us wimpish shirkers of the unmediated rigours of
the great outdoors.
I also suspect
that the locals have a similar attitude to tourists. Compared with urban existence,
their life in the remote corners of the land is challenging and requires
fortitude, tenacity and resilience. Or it used to, before they got electricity,
roads and cars. Now it is surely the townies’ turn to roll their eyes at country
folk who drive everywhere just to access the most basic services. Do they have
no regard for their CO2 emissions? I haven’t seen a Tesla in three weeks! Lately,
pockets of the population here have been provided with cell-phone signals and
internet access, which means they can get Ocado deliveries. But coverage is
patchy and, in my experience, the best way to get connected is to drive around
until you see a telecoms mast, then park as close to it as possible. Visits to
the remote corners of the country are stimulating and demanding in ways that trips
to more populous parts are not.
In the summertime,
visitors outnumber residents, many of whom appear to be descendants of farming
or crofting families. But there are permanent incomers, such as
seventy-year-old Jenny, a keen amateur baker, who has set up shop on a
cliff-top, miles from any potential customer-base. With capricious opening
hours and opaque signage, I suspect that her enthusiasm to bring sourdough to
the fringes may be cancelled out by her lack of business nous. But maybe she
doesn’t need to make a profit and is happy just to bake while looking out to
sea.
“I’m heading home tomorrow,” I said, in reply
to a fellow camper’s enquiry. “Where’s that?” she asked. “Manchester”. “How
horrible!” she said. “That’s a bit rude,” I said. “Oh, I meant…well, it’s just
that it’s so beautiful here.” She had a point, though clumsily expressed: it is
a pretty spot. The sun was shining, enhancing the colours of the verdant trees and
the wildflowers in the hedgerows. The soundtrack was the splashing of a stream and
birdsong – in particular, the call of a cuckoo seeking a mate. “Well,” I said,
“the pastoral idyll is a lovely thing, but cities have their own special beauty
too.” But she looked sceptical and disinclined to learn what they might be. Perhaps,
for her, castles and cuckoos are all it takes.
P.S. If you
are in Manchester on June 11th come to Joe’s Jazz Evening at 33
Oldham Street. (It’s a city thing.)
No comments:
Post a Comment