Part 11
"Auld Reekie" has seldom been hospitable to us in the way of weather. Of our many visits--I forget how many--only one or two were favored with sunny skies. The first I well recall, since we came to the old city on our national holiday, only to find the temperature a little above freezing and to encounter a bitter wind that seemed to pierce to the very bone. And again we are watching the rain-drenched city from our hotel window and wondering how we shall best pass such a dull day. We are familiar with the show-places of the town--we have seen the castle, Holyrood, John Knox's house, St. Giles, the galleries, the University, Scott's monument and his town house on Castle Street where "Waverley" was written--all these and many other places of renown have no longer the charm of novelty. We don our rain-proofs and call at the studio of an artist friend, who conducts us to the Academy exhibit, where we discover the beautiful "Harvest Time, Strathtay," which adorns this book. We confess a weakness for antique-shops, especially those where a slender purse stands some show, and our friend leads us to the oddest curio-shop we have seen in our wanderings. It is entered from an out-of-the-way inner court by a dark, narrow flight of stairs and once inside you must pause a moment to get your bearings. For piled everywhere in promiscuous heaps, some of them reaching to the ceiling, is every conceivable article that one might expect to find in such a place, as well as a thousand and one that he would never expect to see. From a dark corner issues the proprietor, an alert, gray-bearded old gentleman who we soon find is an authority in his line and, strange to say, all this endless confusion is order to him, for he has no difficulty in laying his hands on anything he seeks. He shows us about the dimly lighted place, descanting upon his wares, but making little effort to sell them. We are free to select the few articles that strike our fancy--there is no urging and few suggestions on his part; he names the modest price and the deal is completed. When we come to leave we are surprised to find that we have lingered in the queer old shop a couple of hours.
Edinburgh shops, especially on Princes Street, are handsome, large and well-stocked and are only second to the historic shrines with the average tourist. The town is a great publishing center and there are bookstores where the bibliophile might wish to linger indefinitely. Scotch plaids and tartans are much in evidence wherever textiles are sold and jewelers will show you the cairngorm first of all--a yellow quartz-crystal found in the Highland hills. Such things are peculiarly Scotch and of course are in great favor with the souvenir-seeking tourist.
The rain ceases towards evening and from our hotel window we have a fine prospect of the city. It is clean and fresh after the heavy drenching and glistens in the declining sun, which shines fitfully through the breaking clouds. There have been many poetical eulogies and descriptions since Burns addressed his lines to "Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat," but W. E. Henley's "From a Window in Princes Street" seems to us most faithfully to give the impression of the city as we see it now:
"Above the crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's seat: Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled; straight ahead Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; While heaped against the western grey, The Castle, menacing and severe, Juts gaunt into the dying day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war."
We watch the changing view until the twilight gathers and the lamps begin to appear here and there.
We are bound for the heart of the Highlands. Our route is to lead through the "Kingdom of Fife" to Perth and from thence to Braemar, the most famous Scotch inland resort. Having already crossed the Forth at Queensferry, we decide to take the Granton-Burntisland boat, which crosses the estuary some six miles farther east. We find excellent provision for the transport of motor cars and our boat carries three besides our own. Landing at Burntisland, we follow the coast through Kirkcaldy to Largo.
The attraction at the latter place is a little antique-shop close by the roadside in the village where two years before we found what we thought astonishing bargains in old silver, and our judgment was confirmed by an Edinburgh silversmith to whom we afterwards showed our purchases. The shopman had little of his wares in sight when we entered, but he kept bringing out article after article from some hidden recess until he had an amazing array before us. There was old silver galore, much of it engraved with armorial devices which the dealer said he had purchased at public auctions where the effects of old families were being turned into cash--not an uncommon occurrence in Britain these days. His prices were much less than those of city shops, and we were so well pleased with our few selections on our first visit that we think it worth while to visit Largo again. The shopman has not forgotten us and our finds are quite as satisfactory as before. And I must say that of all the odds and ends which we have acquired in our twenty-thousand miles of motoring in Europe, our old silver gives us the greatest satisfaction. It is about the safest purchase one can make, since the hall-mark guarantees its genuineness and it has a standard value anywhere. It cannot be bought to advantage in cities or tourist centers, where high prices are always demanded. The same conditions will doubtless prevail in the more remote country villages as the motor car brings an increased number of buyers.
From Largo we traverse narrow byroads to Cupar, the county town of Fife. It is substantially built of gray stone and slate, but is not of much historic importance. The surrounding country is well-tilled and prosperous and there are many fine country houses which may occasionally be seen from the highroad. We hasten on to Newburgh and from thence to Perth, where we stop for luncheon at the splendid Station Hotel. The day has so far been clear and cool, but during our stop there comes a sudden dash of summer rain and a sharp drop in temperature--not a very favorable augury of fine weather in the Highlands, whither we are bound. Perth does not detain us, for despite its old-time importance and antiquity, scarce a vestige remains of its once numerous monastery chapels, castles and noblemen's houses. Perhaps the iconoclastic spirit inspired by old John Knox, who preached in Perth, may be partly responsible for this, or it may be as a Scotch writer puts it: "The theory which seems to prevail in the Fair City is that the Acropolis of Athens would be better out of the way if grazing for a few goats could be got on the spot; and the room of the historic buildings was always preferred to their company when any pretext could be found for demolishing them." The home ascribed to Scott's "Fair Maid," restored out of all knowledge, serves the plebian purpose of a bric-a-brac shop and there is nothing but common consent to connect it with the heroine of the novel. The fair maid indeed may have been but a figment of the great writer's imagination, but the sturdy armorer certainly lived in Perth and became famous for the marvelous shirts of mail which he wrought.
Our route lies due north from Perth, a broad and smooth highway as far as Blairgowrie, near which is another original of the "Tullyveolan" of "Waverley"--the second or third we have seen. Here we plunge into the Highland hills, following a narrow stone-strewn road which takes us through barren moors and over steep rough hills, on many of which patches of snow still linger, seemingly not very far away. Its presence is felt, too, for the air is uncomfortably chilly. The low-hung clouds seem to threaten more snow and we learn later that snow actually fell during the previous week. For thirty miles there is scarcely a human habitation save one or two little inns which have rather a forlorn look. The road grows steadily worse and the long "hairpin curves" of the road on the famous "Devil's Elbow" will test the climbing abilities of any motor.
While we are struggling with the steep, stony slopes and sharp turns of the Devil's Elbow, a driving rain begins and pursues us relentlessly for the rest of the day. The country would be dreary enough in the broad sunshine, but under present conditions it is positively depressing. The huge Invercauld Arms at Braemar is a welcome sight, though it proves none too comfortable; so cold and cheerless is the evening that every part of the hotel except the big assembly room, where a cheerful fire blazes in the ample grate, seems like a refrigerator. The guests complain bitterly of the unseasonable weather and one lady inquires of another, evidently a native:
"What in the world do you do here in winter if it is like this in July?"
"Do in winter? We sit and hug the fireplace and by springtime we are all just like kippered herring!"
Braemar has lost much of the popularity it enjoyed in Victoria's day, when as many as ten thousand people came to the town and vicinity during the Queen's residence at Balmoral, some ten miles away. She was fond of the Highlands and remained several weeks, but King Edward did not share her liking for Balmoral and was an infrequent visitor. The British have the summer-resort habit to a greater extent than any other people and Braemar still has considerable patronage during the season--from June to September. The surroundings are quite picturesque; wooded hills, towering cliffs and dashing streams abound, but one who has seen America would hardly count the scenery remarkable. There is nothing to detain us in Braemar and the next morning finds us early on the road. The day promises fine, though of almost frosty coolness, and the roads in places are muddy enough to remind us of home.
Braemar Castle, a quaint, towerlike structure near the town, attracts our attention and we find no difficulty in gaining entrance, for the family is away and the housekeeper is only too anxious to show visitors around in hopes of adding to her income. It proves of little interest, having recently been rebuilt into a summer lodge, the interior being that of an ordinary modern residence. The exterior, however, is very striking and the castle was of some consequence in the endless wars of the Highland clans.
A few miles over a road overhung by trees and closely following the brawling Dee brings us in sight of Balmoral. Our first impression is of disappointment, since the castle seems but small compared with our preconceived ideas, formed, of course, from the many pictures we have seen. It has no traditions to attract us and as considerable formality is necessary to gain admission on stated days only, we do not make the attempt. The situation, directly on the river bank, is charming, and the park surrounding the castle is well-groomed. We hie us on to Ballater, a pretty, well-built village occupying a small plateau surrounded by towering hills. But a mile or two from the town is the house where Byron as a boy spent his vacations with his mother, and there are many references in his poems to the mountains and lakes of the vicinity. Lochnagar, which inspired his well-known verses, is said to be the wildest and most imposing, though not the loftiest, of Scotch mountains. It is the predominating peak between Braemar and Ballater. For some miles on each side of Ballater the road runs through pine forests, which evidently yield much of the lumber supply in Britain, for sawmills are quite frequent. The trees are not large and they are not slaughtered after the wholesale manner of American lumbering.
The Palace Hotel in Aberdeen is well-vouched-for officially--by the Royal Automobile Club, the Automobile Association and an "American Touring Club" which is new to us--and we reckon, from the first mention in Baedeker, that it takes precedence of all others. It is conducted by the Great North of Scotland Railway and is quite excellent in its way, though not cheap or even moderate in rates. At dinner our inquisitive waiter soon learns that we are not new to Aberdeen; we have seen most of the sights, but we have to admit that we have missed the fish-market.
"Then ye haven't seen the biggest sight in the old town," said he. "Seven hunder tons of fish are landed every day at the wharves and sold at auction. Get down early in the morning and ye'll aye have a fish story to tell, I'll warrant."
And it proves an astonishing sight, to be sure. A great cement wharf a mile or more in length is rapidly being covered with finny tribes of all degrees, sorted and laid in rows according to size. They range from small fish such as sole and bloater to huge monsters such as cod, haddock and turbot, some of which might weigh two or three hundred pounds. It would take a naturalist, or an experienced deep-sea fisherman, to name the endless varieties; it is a hopeless task for us to try to remember the names of even a few of them. The harbor is filled with fishing craft waiting to unload their catch, and when one boat leaves the wharf its place is quickly occupied by another. And this is not all the fish-show of Aberdeen, for herring and mackerel are brought in at another dock. We return to our hotel quite willing to concede our waiter-friend's claim that the tourist who does not see the fish-market misses, if not the "biggest," as he styled it, certainly the most interesting sight in Aberdeen.
We linger a few hours about the town, which is one of the cleanest and most substantially built it has been our good fortune to see. It shows to best advantage on a sunny day after a rain, when its mica-sprinkled granite walls glitter in the sun, and its clean, granite-paved streets have an unequalled attractiveness about them. Granite has much to do with Aberdeen's wealth and stateliness, for it is found in unlimited quantities near at hand and quarrying, cutting and polishing forms one of the greatest industries of the place. Civic pride is strong in Aberdeen and there are few cities that have greater justification for such a sentiment, either on account of material improvement or thrifty and intelligent citizens.
XI
IN SUTHERLAND AND CAITHNESS
It is a wild, thinly inhabited section--this strangely named Sutherland--lying a thousand miles nearer the midnight sun than does New York City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams and its unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, rugged islands and highlands will reward the motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and remoteness, it is not without historic and romantic attractions and its sternly simple people widely scattered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the less interesting and pleasant to meet and know.
The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how it is possible for the natives to wrest a living from the barren hills and perhaps it does not come so much from the land as from the cold gray ocean that is everywhere only a little distance away. Fishing is the chief industry of the coast villages, while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the homes of shepherds. The population of Sutherland proper is sparse indeed and one will run miles and miles over the rough trails which serve as roads with rarely a glimpse of human habitation. No railway reaches the interior or the western coast and the venturesome motorist will often find himself amid surroundings where a break-down would surely mean disaster--a hundred miles or more from effective assistance. The precipitous hills and stony roads afford conditions quite favorable to mishap, and for this reason the highways of Sutherland are not frequented by motor cars and probably never will be until a different state of affairs prevails. The Royal Automobile Club, however, has mapped a fairly practicable route, following roughly the coast line of the shire, and with this valuable assistance, we are told, a considerable number of motorists undertake the trip during the course of the summer.
The name Sutherland--for the most northerly shire of a country which approaches the midnight sun--strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for the most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland--both anomalies to puzzle the uninformed. But it was indeed the "land of the south" to the Norsemen who approached Scotland from the north, and landing on the shores of Caithness, they styled the bleak hills to the south as "Sudrland." There was not much to tempt them to the interior, the good harbors of Caithness and the produce of its fertile plains being the objective of these hardy "despots of the sea." The county of Caithness contains the greater part of the tillable land north of Inverness and this, with the extensive fisheries, supports a considerable population. The traveler coming from the south finds a pleasant relief in this wide fertile plain with its farmhouses and villages and its green fields dotted with sleek domestic animals. It was this prosperity that attracted the Norseman in olden days and he it was who gave the name to this county as well as to Sutherland--Caithness, from the "Kati," as the inhabitants styled themselves.
We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray misty morning upon--I was going to say--our "Highland tour." But Inverness itself is well beyond the northern limit of the Highland region of Scott and the wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day can hardly realize that the activities of Rob Roy were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A hundred years ago the country north of the Great Glen was as remote from the center of life in Scotland as though a sea swept between. To-day we think of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the "Wild Scottish Highlands," and I may as well adopt this prevailing notion in the tale I have to tell.
For the first half hour the splendid road is obscured by a lowering fog which, to our delight, begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The victorious sunlight reveals an entrancing scene; on the one hand the opalescent waters of the firth, with the low green hills beyond, and on the other the countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. Dingwall, at the head of the firth, is a clean, thriving town, quite at variance with our preconceived ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation awaits us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we pause for luncheon on our return a few days later. It is built of rough gray stone and its internal appointments as well as its service are well in keeping with its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, seemingly out of all proportion to the needs of a town or the surrounding country, need surprise no one in Scotland--such, indeed, is the rule rather than the exception.
At Bonar Bridge--the little town no doubt takes its name from the sturdy structure spanning Dornoch Firth--we cross into Sutherland and for the next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of the sea. An ideal day we have for such a journey; the air is crystal clear, cool and bracing. The unsullied skies meet a still, shimmering sea on one hand and bend in a wide arch over gray-green hills on the other. Before our journey ends cloud effects add to the weird beauty of the scenes that greet our eyes--a play of light and color sweeping across the mottled sky and the quiet ocean. We are enchanted by one particularly glorious view as we speed along the edge of a cliff far above the ocean that frets and chafes beneath; a bank of heavy white clouds is shot through by the crimson rays of the declining sun; it seemingly rests on the surface of the still water and is reflected with startling brilliance in the lucent depths. Every mood of the skies finds a response in the ocean--gray, steely-blue, silver-white, crimson and gold, all prevail in turn--until, as we near our destination, the sky again is clear and the sea glows beneath a cloudless sunset.
In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here ripples at the foot of a bleak hill, sits Golspie, the first village of any note after crossing Dornoch Firth. It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its connection with Dunrobin Castle--the great Gothic pile that looms above it. Dunrobin is the seat of the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only the hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually attaches itself to a great country seat. It is clean and attractive and its pleasant inn by the roadside at once catches our eye--for our luncheon time is already well past. And there are few country inns that can vie with the Sutherland Arms of Golspie, even in a land famous for excellent country inns. A low, rambling stone building mantled with ivy and climbing roses and surrounded by flowers and green sward, with an air of comfort and coziness all about it, mutely invites the wayfarer to enjoy its hospitality. The interior is equally attractive and there are evidences that the inn is a resort for the fisherman and hunter as well as for the tourist.
It is of little consequence that luncheon time is two hours past; the Scottish inn keeps open house all day and the well-stocked kitchen and sideboard stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he arrives. The sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton and fowls, would of itself furnish a substantial repast; and when this is supplemented by a salad, two or three vegetables, including the inevitable boiled potatoes, with a tart or pudding for dessert, one would have to be more particular than a hungry motorist to find fault. The landlady personally looks after our needs--which adds still more to the homelikeness of the inn--and as we take our leave we express our appreciation of the entertainment she has afforded us. She plucks a full-blown rose from the vine which clings to the gray walls and gives it to the lady member of our party, saying:
"Would you believe that the roses bloom on this wall in December? Indeed, they do, for Golspie is so sheltered by the hills and the climate is so tempered by the ocean currents that we never have really severe weather."
And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the latitude of New York City!
The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit to Dunrobin Castle, despite the lure of its thousand years of eventful history. It stands on a commanding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled turrets and battlements sharply fretted against the sky. Its style savors of the French chateau, though there are enough old Scottish details to redeem it from the domination of the foreign type, and, altogether, it is one of the stateliest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has been in the unbroken possession of the present family for nearly a thousand years, having been originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in 1098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the endless sieges and consequent ruin that so many ancient strongholds underwent.