North To The Cape

Erik Zoha

Tuesday 15th July - I awoke with anticipation. On holiday in a well-run Dingwall B&B, tucking into a hearty cooked breakfast, I had plans for the day. A non-driver, I knew the Highlands are surprisingly well served by connecting public transport, enabling long - albeit tiring - journeys to be made amidst spectacular scenery.

I had decided to take the bus service from Dingwall to Durness via Ullapool, Lochinver and Kinlochbervie, amongst a host of smaller clachans and villages. Then I hoped to take a taxi to Keodale, a passenger ferry across to Cape Wrath peninsula, and the minibus service overland to the Cape itself - with its sheer cliffs and lighthouse, populated only by seabirds and an Army test-firing range.

By 0912 I was at the Royal Hotel stop in Dingwall town centre, awaiting the bus. It arrived a couple of minutes late - but no problem, I was on holiday, free from the cares of the world and life in Tayside - living in Dundee and visiting my parents in Perth each Sunday.

Weather was part cloudy, interspersed with bright sunshine, and a translucent light, good for digital photographs. Progress was enjoyable, if not particularly rapid, as the landscape opened out beyond Garve, with Beinn Dearg and the Aultguish Inn and dam prominent, forestry and increasingly rocky moorland and mountainscape.

There was banter among the locals and tourists making the long, arduous journey north, and a sense of camaraderie. By around 1030 the bus had passed Braemore Junction and Corrieshalloch Gorge to arrive at the harbour stop in touristy, white-building-frontaged Ullapool.

After 40 minutes in Ullapool, for a leg stretch with tea and a chocolate slice overlooking mountain-framed Loch Broom (commercial van parked, advertising shellfish sold from its Gairloch base), it was back in the bus for the next leg to Lochinver. The wind, which had been only a stiff breeze in Dingwall, was now a gale, and I noticed the Stornoway ferry appeared to be storm-bound: not a good sign for reaching the Cape.

After Ullapool came one of my favourite stretches to Loch Assynt, Lochinver and the Kylesku Bridge. Stac Pollaidh, Cul Beag and Cul Mor were there, also Canisp, as if dropped into the moorland, Torridonian sandstone atop Lewisian gneiss. Above all, there was the charismatic sugar loaf of Suilven, moody in cloud, glinting in passing shafts of sun.

Passing Ardvreck Castle and Loch Assynt, with tree-lined islets, it was in to Lochinver, past Assynt Visitor Centre to a stop overlooking a public toilet, charity clothing point, church and the bay. The wind was whipping up more, thoughts of reaching Cape Wrath receding as the schedule slipped. Quinag, the most impressive Assynt mountain along with Suilven, looked ominous, cloud-shrouded. I looked to see Loch Assynt Lodge, glimpsing it through now-widespread forestry plantations.

In the wilds, my mobile phone signal gave out, no match for the remote terrain. By around 1230 we were at graceful Kylesku Bridge in fjord-like scenery, then by 1300 we arrived at the deceptively large looking (on the map) Laxford Bridge, literally a stone bridge and a junction (now minus its old AA phone box).

Technology was letting me down in a big way. My mobile signal having failed already, so did my digital camera battery, between Rhiconich village and rundown - once thriving - fishing port of Kinlochbervie, harbour deserted. By the time the bus returned down the single-track road from Kinlochbervie to Rhiconich it was around 1330, stormy with little prospect of reaching the Cape. Along a twisting road north, passengers were more pensive now - not a good place to break down or have a collision - in the middle of nowhere, without mobile phone signal.

Whale-backed Foinaven, then Cranstackie, passed. Eventually, around 1400 hours (only a few minutes later than scheduled), we reached Durness, passing the post office, craft shop and cafe to arrive at the Visitor Centre - a neat building surrounded by several standing stones.

I thanked the friendly bus driver and picked up my shoulder bag. With difficulty, in the teeth of stormy winds and feeling aches from my spina bifida, I walked to the entrance of the Visitor Centre. Impressed by the display of rocks and minerals, I enquired about the ferry crossing times from Keodale to Cape Wrath and back. "Stormbound today, Sir, no sailings," I was told.

I proceeded to the rocky, golden Sango beach and walked along it with difficulty, wind-buffeted. As rain started to pour down, I took cover in the cafe about half a mile back towards the village. I enjoyed a haddock, chips and peas lunch, tasty and unpretentious.

I walked back to the Visitor Centre car park to await the returning bus for the journey south and got talking to a Swiss hiker who was eager to explore the wilderness, asking for directions on his OS Landranger map.

Then my mobile bleeped into life, signal restored. There was a text from my father: "Have you seen the EPSCO form? Need it now." Even in remote Durness and Sango, the long reach of technology drew me back to the outside world. I looked at the oncoming bus. Another 135 miles and 4 hours 7 minutes to go before returning to "civilisation" and the Dingwall B&B. I was sorry to leave.