Cameron’s Travels

One of the big additions to our new Rick Steves Scotland guidebook is the far north of Scotland. Travelers on a tight timeframe rarely make it north of Inverness or the Isle of Skye…but I just had to check it out for myself (and for the book). From Skye, I took the scenic coastal route through the region called Wester Ross, with a landscape so epic that it inspired George R.R. Martin to steal the name for Game of Thrones’ Westeros.

This —and a lot more like it —is what you’ll see up north: Endless miles of jagged lochs, towering bald peaks, moody glens, and secluded silver-sand beaches. The north has some of Scotland’s most dramatic scenery. But, to me, it’s not that much more glorious than Glencoe or the Isle of Skye. What Wester Ross does have a lock on is remoteness. It’s as sparsely inhabited as Siberia. Even on a mostly sunny weekend in the middle of the summer, I didn’t see another car for 20 minutes at a time. And most of the roads are “single track” (one-lane). You can make great time on single-track roads, zipping along at 50 mph — until you reach a blind curve, a flock of wayward lambs, or another motorist. Then you just have to slow down, or pull over, until the obstruction has passed. After two days of this, my shifting leg started cramping up.

I’d done my homework, and thought that I knew the location of each and every Highland Games for the duration of my trip. But wee Applecross — an end-of-the-road hamlet in one of Scotland’s most famously remote corners — happened to have their (unadvertised) games on the day I drove through. The timing was perfect for a pit stop: I was happy to stretch my legs, eat an overcooked church-fundraiser hamburger, armchair-judge the dog show, and watch the pipe band (who knew John Oliver played bagpipes?)…before hopping in my car and continuing north.

At the end of a very long day following the jagged coastline, I was ready for some rest. I pulled into Ullapool, a humble fishing village dominated by a huge ferry dock…a metropolis by Wester Ross standards.

Seeking dinner at an Ullapool pub, I couldn’t figure out why, on a fine summer evening, the interior was chockablock while the beachfront tables were deserted. Moments after ordering and sitting down, I got my answer. Anyone who’s been to Scotland in the summer is familiar with midges — those bloodthirsty mini-mosquitoes (like no-see-ums) that terrorize the Highlands. This year’s crop of midges wasn’t bad  farther south, thanks to a cold summer. But they were swarming in Ullapool. It was a scenic, slappy dinner: I’d slap myself, pause just long enough to deliver the fork to my mouth…then slap! again.

This panorama — just north of Ullapool — reminded me of a mossy Monument Valley.

Is northern Scotland worth the trip? There are no real “sights,” and only a few workaday towns. But if you have a few days to spare, love the feeling of being far from civilization, and believe that a journey is its own reward…then, by all means, go north.

One proud local told me that the Isle of Skye is Scotland’s second-most popular destination, after Edinburgh. While that seems like a stretch, Skye was certainly packed when I was there at the peak of summer. And for good reason: The biggest of the Hebrides Islands offers some of the best scenery in all of Scotland.

Skye’s “capital” is Portree. Apart from its stunning pastel harbor, I love all of the endearingly quirky stories that bubble through little island towns like this one. Portree first hit it big thanks to its rich deposits of kelp…yes, seaweed (they’d burn it to create an ash that was rich in soda — apparently a big industry in the 18th century). The island has just one high school (some kids get bussed in from an hour away) and two hospitals — but no obstetricians. Mothers-to-be are sent three hours away to Inverness a week before their due date. Babies are born on the Isle of Skye only by accident.

The Trotternish Peninsula, north of Portree, has some of my favorite views in all of Scotland (right up there with Glencoe). These jagged formations — called the Quiraing — show up frequently in movies that call for an otherworldly location, from Flash Gordon to Prometheus.

Driving up into the Quiraing on a single-track road, I slammed on the brakes when I found myself immersed in a traffic jam of sheep. Just ahead of me, the truck of a farmer was just pulling away after moving the flock to a new grazing patch. While I waited for the sheep to clear out, I looked up on the ridge to see this hoofed couple, who seemed to be posing just for me.

In summer, Scotland enjoys long hours of daylight. I have a lot of guidebook-research chores to squeeze into every day. So on Skye, I did the two-hour Trotternish Peninsula driving loop after dinner. After a socked-in day, the sky opened up as I headed north out of Portree…and I had the roads all to myself. As I crested the tip of Trotternish, the setting sun lit up the cliffs like a spotlight.

For our new Rick Steves Scotland guidebook, I’m adding some new hiking tips. And in the dramatic Cuillin Hills — in a different part of the Isle of Skye — I tried out the glorious hike to the “Fairy Pools.” As a stream of mountain runoff trickles out of the Cuillin, it carves a canyon deep into the bald turf. The water tumbles down several cascades, creating stunning pools where you really could imagine supernatural sprites hanging out. Even on a chilly day, people were taking a dip. I overheard a tourist say, with her delightful Scottish lilt, “Despite the fact that it’s so cold, it’s so invitin’!”

Scotland’s stunning Highlands are matched by its wonderful islands. And I enjoyed the best weather of my trip for a very busy, very satisfying day of island-hopping from the port of Oban.

From the busy harbor in Oban — the “Gateway to the Isles” — boats fan out to the Hebrides. I signed up for a long (10-hour) trip that included stops on three different islands.

You could spend days exploring Mull, the second-biggest of the Inner Hebrides. But I had one hour — and I used every minute to drive (on twisty, single-track roads) from the ferry port at one end of the island to the ferry port at the other end of the island. Parking my car, I had five minutes to enjoy this view of a rocky cove before boarding my next boat.

Just across a narrow channel from Mull is the Isle of Iona, the spiritual heart and soul of Scotland. This is where St. Columba, a sixth-century Irish monk, introduced Christianity to Great Britain. To this day, it has a spiritual aura. Church groups from all over the world come here to spend a week in soulful contemplation and kumbayah fellowship. Its mellow, nurturing spirit reminded me of the church youth groups I grew up attending. But all of that serenity is at odds with the many day-trippers from Oban, who have exactly two hours here before they have to make a mad dash back to the ferry.

For my work, I’ve been inside probably hundreds of churches around Europe. One thing they have in common is that, even if they seem nondescript at first glance, they’re packed with details that only become meaningful with explanation. Inside Iona’s historic abbey — which is still an active church — you’ll find eternally screaming faces hiding in the Gothic vaults, an ornate tomb of the local clan chieftain who donated the property back to the Church, and a sleepy cloister ringed with old Celtic tombs (dead clansmen holding massive Braveheart swords). If a place seems boring at first, you probably just don’t know enough about it yet.

One of the most pleasant surprises of my entire trip was Staffa. This uninhabited, castaway islet has always been there — hovering somewhere between Scotland and Ireland — but until now, has only warranted a brief mention in our guidebook. I noticed that the local boat companies are pushing the Staffa option now, so I checked it out. And I loved it.

Staffa is the “other end” of the much more famous Giant’s Causeway, across the sea in Northern Ireland. Hexagonal basalt pillars push up from deep below the sea. Walking across these natural formations reminded me of playing Q-Bert as a kid.

From Staffa’s boat dock, it’s a picturesque 10-minute walk (across those Q-Bert blocks) to Fingal’s Cave. There’s a legend about the Irish warrior, Finn Macool, and the cruel giant Fingal, and how the causeway was destroyed as the climax of an earthshaking feud between them…but I just enjoyed the view.

In the opposite direction from the ferry dock, it’s about a 15-minute hike to where the puffins hang out. Our boat captain explained that they scatter when the boat arrives. But if you head to their cove and just sit still, the curious sea birds will come to say hello. It was a nice excuse just to enjoy the sun and sea scenery. And sure enough, after a few minutes, I started to spot the adorable little birds bobbing through the air, fluttering to a stop just a few feet away. I’ve seen a lot of cool stuff in Scotland…but the puffins of Staffa were a particular treat.

Most Scottish travel dreams are set in the Highlands, the rugged and remote northern fringe of Great Britain. The Highlands are the most mountainous, least inhabited, and most scenic and romantic part of Scotland. In the Highlands, grizzled islanders man drizzly ferry crossings, intrepid Munro baggers scale bald mountains, and mini-mosquitoes called midges make life miserable (bring bug spray). Here are a few of my favorite pictures of the Scottish heartland.

I’ve driven thousands of miles across Scotland… and the valley called Glencoe may just have my favorite Scottish scenery anywhere. It’s famous as the site of the Glencoe Massacre, when British Redcoats rose from their beds and murdered their Clan MacDonald hosts, violating the rules of Highland hospitality. It’s fitting that this achingly beautiful place — where countless waterfalls inspired the nickname “the Weeping Glen” — would host one of the most tragic stories in Scotland’s very tragic history. Today the valley is justifiably popular with hikers. I attempted a hike myself, but the saturated turf stymied my plans. With each step, my foot disappeared into a brown puddle. The summer of 2015 has not been ideal for Highland hikes.

At the excellent Scottish Crannog Centre on Loch Tay — which Rick wrote about after his visit there — I enjoyed touring the reconstructed stilt house and learning about Stone Age tools. I watched in awe as our guide created fire out of nothing but wood, string, and stone.

The Highlands are littered with castles. Inveraray Castle, between Loch Lomond and the west coast, was one of my favorites. The outside is a turreted masterpiece. And inside, its grand public spaces have a lived-in coziness. Here in the main atrium, swords and rifles are artfully splayed into starbursts. Public television fans may recognize Inveraray as “Duneagle Castle” (a.k.a. Uncle Shrimpy’s pad) from one of the Downton Abbey Christmas specials. (Big photos of the Grantham and MacClare clans decorate the genteel rooms.)

When I’m in the Highlands, I can’t get enough of the adorable “Hairy Coos.” These shaggy Highland cattle have hair falling in their eyes, protecting them from troublesome insects and unpredictable weather. Hairy coos graze on sparse vegetation that other animals ignore, and, with a heavy coat (rather than fat) to keep them insulated, produce a lean meat that resembles venison. Highland cattle meat is not commonly eaten, so they’re basically kept for patriotic reasons…like gigantic mascots.

You probably know the Glenfinnan Viaduct from the Harry Potter movies — it’s where the Hogwarts Express made its journey to a remote school of witchcraft and wizardry. But patriotic Scots also know it as the place where Bonnie Prince Charlie began his Jacobite uprising. To reclaim the thrones of England and Scotland, the fresh-faced, 24-year-old prince would need the support of the Highlanders. And here at Glenfinnan, he held his breath at the moment of truth: Would the Highland clans come to his aid? As Prince Charles waited, gradually he began to hear the drone of bagpipes filtering through the forest. And then, the clan chiefs appeared: MacDonalds. Camerons. MacDonnells. McPhees. They had been holding back — watching and waiting, to make sure they weren’t the only ones. And before long, the prince felt confident that he’d reached a clan quorum. And so, here at Glenfinnan, on August 19, 1745, Bonnie Prince Charlie raised the royal standard — officially kicking off the armed Jacobite uprising that came to be known as “The ’45.” (Sadly, Glenfinnan is also the place Bonnie Prince Charlie retreated to eight months later, after his campaign failed in the crushing defeat at Culloden.)