This is my third Backroads trip. My first was a biking and kayaking trip to Baja. I went with my mom and some of her friends after my divorce. My second trip was a “solo” bike tour of the San Juan Islands, marketed to singles, which I did after I broke up with a long-term boyfriend. The funny thing is that the trip was populated by women in their 40’s, all of whom had recently gone through a break-up, and we bonded pretty hard over the jerks we left behind. There were a few older men who spent the week ineffectually circling us like vultures waiting for something to die. You knew they were fully expecting to get lucky but just couldn’t figure out how to get our attention. So most of the time they wore slightly disappointed and confused expressions as they pecked around the tight circle of women, flapping their knobby knees and flashing their spandex and brightly colored shirts.
The Scotland trip was not a post-breakup, and I knew that it would be rounded out by couples. But I also trusted that Backroads attracts some pretty cool, athletic and low-maintenance folks and that I’d make some interesting new friends.
We were to meet in the Inverness train station. I first encountered two attractive men (prompting a crazy moment of hope) but they were married and had been together for 35 years. My moment of hope changed to “yay, gay men,” so I settled into the trip right away. Gary, a retired pharmacist and super introverted, and his husband Irwin, a lawyer and photographer and super outgoing. Irwin got his undergraduate degree at the University of Florida, just as I did. He also had a law degree like me. They have homes in Asheville and Key West. We soon connected with other couples, Ron and Sonia, who live in Gainesville, Annie and Cales, who live in Denver but moved there from Roanoke, where I used to live, and finally Bob and Eleanor, who are Canadians and just as lovely as you would expect. Our leaders were Jenny and Eileen, the first time I’ve had women leaders. They seemed great, immediately ingratiating themselves to everyone by handing out coins for the train station bathrooms.
We met the support person (all Backroads leaders rotate between trip leaders and support) by the vans. His name is Keith and he’s totally Scottish and completely fabulous. And so we loaded up and off we went, leaving town and driving to the visitor’s center for Beinn Eighe, one of Scotland’s 282 “Munro’s,” which are mountains over 3,000 feet. Sir Hugh T. Munro surveyed and catalogued them in 1891. (For Outlander fans, this name will be very familiar) Climbing one gives you the right to say you “bagged a Munro” and of course people try to bag as many as possible because everything is a competition. If you climb them all, you are deemed a “compleatist.” Believe it or not, over 6,000 people have done this.
We walked into the Center and were greeted by a hearty Scot behind the front desk who immediately apologized about the weather. Because it was raining. Hard. I had purchased waterproof boots, a waterproof jacket and rain pants for the trip, so it was clear that they would be field-tested on day one. I was reluctant about the pants because they’re super unflattering and seemed rather extreme. As it turned out, I wore those pants every freaking day of the trip and was grateful to do so. They ended the trip inside out inside my suitcase because I couldn’t get all the mud off of them.
We convened inside a wildlife observation blind next to the Visitor’s Center to get situated. We had to choose several meals in advance. A couple of dinners to make it easier for the hotel staff, and several lunches. There aren’t any cafe’s in the middle of nowhere in the Scottish Highlands, and so our hotels would be making us bagged lunches, which were sandwiches.
I ate heavily of the bread during this trip.
So everyone was sizing each other up to make sure there weren’t any prima donnas. Our leaders said later that they knew this would be a great trip from the beginning as they watched us interact. Backroads tour leaders are masters at group psychology. Only 9 people were on the trip, which is fabulously small. There had been another couple but they bowed out. Usually the Scotland trips had a capacity of 16, and had been full all summer, but this time-frame faced some challenges with booking hotel accommodations so we lucked out.
We climbed back into the vans after ordering food, getting the flip-chart safety talk and going to the bathroom a couple of times. Again, the Highlands. No cafe’s, no loos. And frankly not many trees. The leaders told us that during the last trip some guests got bonky because they refused to drink enough.
We drove to the trailhead, which was a mellow 6 mile loop around Lochs Clair (Outlander, anyone?) and Coulin through some beautiful estates. More than half of Scotland is owned by fewer than 500 people. This private ownership has been built on a system that has survived almost intact since the Scottish Reformation in 1560. Because so much land is in private hands, there is a particularly Scottish concept called “freedom to roam,” which was recently codified in the Land Reform Act of 2003. It gives everyone rights of access over land and inland water throughout Scotland (with some exceptions) as long as they behave responsibly. There’s an agency that safeguards access to the Scottish countryside for all, called Scottish Rights of Way & Access Society. There are an amazing number of beautifully maintained walking trails, long and short distance, all over Scotland, and roaming is the national pastime. In yet another example of people rising to the occasion, these ramblers wander quietly through private land, opening and closing gates and being generally well-behaved.
Our trail was very boggy and there were a lot of little streams to figure out how to cross. But it was the Scottish Highlands, exactly as you imagine. Beautiful green hills, lochs, heather, mist, rain, romance, no people, all of it. I walked ahead of the group because there was no chance of getting lost and I wanted to experience the Highlands as if I were totally alone, rather than with eight other compadres and three support people with hiking combat training. It was unutterably beautiful. I came across an older couple with two golden retrievers running in and out of a stream. The beautiful dogs looked as though they could not believe their incredible luck to have landed in such a place. The couple had rented a small white cottage on the loch and were out for a wander.
We finished the hike back at the vans and, true to form, “Snackroads” had drinks (regular and alcoholic), snacks and treats. As we drove to the first hotel, much of the conversation centered around how how fabulous everyone’s waterproof gear was working. The rain and the bogginess were a marvel to everyone.
We immediately learned that Keith had the most on-the-nose sense of humor ever. A sample joke (his mom’s favorite): A baby polar bear says to his mum: Are you sure I’m a polar bear?” His mum responded, “Yes, of course, why do you ask?” The baby: “Because I”m cold.” We tried to sort out whether there was another layer we were missing, but nope, that was it. He had a million of them. We also noted that Keith laughed. A lot. And when giant gusts of rain and wind rocked the van, he yelled with a smile, “Oh ho HO this is GREAT, isn’t it? We are living the life, aren’t we!” He also said, “Don’t read the weather forecast for tomorrow, ” before more loud gales of jolly Scottish laughter.
The Scots are very good-natured, while at the same time slightly apologetic, about their weather.
The hotel, the Torridon, is a hunting lodge on the edge of a loch. They have boot-dryers/warmers in the vestibule, with big galoshes that anyone can use. Guests are tramping around in their gear, all wet and muddy. The decor is all very dark wood, fireplaces and cozy couches, beautifully furnished, comfortable, towel heating bars in the bathrooms, and an amazing whisky bar where we convened for our first cocktail hour of the trip. The heilan coo is the hotel mascot, and so they were, happily, everywhere, including a herd of live ones next to the hotel and a stuffed one on each bed.
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At dinner, we met the very singular Martin, who would be our waiter. He is basically Rowan Atkinson’s French son. It was uncanny, his mannerisms and comic timing were spot-on. He wasn’t above rolling his eyes, pausing for a very pregnant moment as he gazed at the ceiling before responding with a tsk in his tone, the whole schtick. I cannot explain why I failed to take his picture, but here is Rowan Atkinson from Four Weddings And A Funeral:
Martin and I got off to a rough start – like a dummy, months ago I had indicated on the Backroads forms that I was a pescatarian. But in the Wildlife blind, I had chosen a roast for dinner because I thought it sounded fantastic on a cold Scottish evening in a hunting lodge. Martin, with a flourish, presented my dinner plate with roasted carrots and a few leaves of cabbage “fresh from ze garden.” I mean, I can read and knew what I was ordering. Mais non, madame, Martin was insistent in his protection of my delicate culinary sensibilities, nay, he was indeed the guardian of my honor and virtue. I died laughing. Anyway, we got it sorted and he teased me about it for the rest of our stay.
Why a French guy? Interestingly, fancy Scottish lodgings tend to have entirely French kitchens. Throughout history France has offered its (at times tepid and overpromised) support for Scotland’s efforts to win their independence, now they were supporting Scotland’s efforts to improve their historically abysmal culinary situation. No haggis, neeps and tattles here, folks.
However, amazing croissants every morning. More bread for me.
We retired to our fabulous bedrooms with their heated towel racks and stuffed heilan coos, ready for tomorrow’s adventure. Internet was weak and spotty, for which the bellman apologized profusely, blaming the surrounding hills, and so we forgot to check the weather.
Wee Dram of Scotland 