Seeing as I'm up here in North West Scotland and at the moment it's pouring down, it seems a good moment to repost some memories from 1979, to remind myself why I appreciate the rain!
In early 1979, my Dad suggested to me that during the summer we should visit North West Scotland. Specifically he wanted to see the Inverpolly region of Sutherland and Wester Ross, but also wanted to re-visit the Central Highland region of Speyside, which he had previously experienced in the mid-1950’s. During that earlier visit, he also spent time on the west coast at Loch Carron.
We were both birdwatchers, though my interest had waned somewhat during my mid-teens, and by 1979 it was only just being re-kindled. My Dad’s inspiration came from, as usual, a book entitled “Where to watch Birds in Britain and Ireland” by John Gooders, and also I suppose from his memories of his previous visit.
On that occasion he had travelled to Aviemore by train (he worked on the railways so it was his best option), spent a few days there, and then continued to Kyle of Lochalsh, before taking to his bicycle and staying in a guesthouse at Loch Carron. At Kyle of Lochalsh he took the short ferry journey to Kyleakin and spent a few hours on Skye, but didn’t venture more than a mile or so on the island.
It’s difficult to imagine now what it must have been like for him in the 1950’s. Communications were almost non-existent by modern day standards, no mobile phones, no Internet and no email. Very few homes would have had their own telephone, and public telephones would have been very sparse, especially in such a remote region. Many homes would not have owned a television, and would rely on radio for their news and entertainment.
Tourism in Scotland would have been very much in its infancy, and there would have been very few guesthouses, and probably no holiday homes. At that time, locals were locals, and not wealthy outsiders. They were very religious people who would have lived in their villages and cottages for generations, and not simply people who had retired there or were retreating from the ‘rat race’.
Many people probably could not afford to, and probably had no desire to travel very far. Distances were vast by British standards, with sometimes 10 miles or more between houses outside of the towns and with very few people owning cars, they would have had very little contact with people from the outside World. Combined with a limited experience of television, they would know very little about life outside the Highlands.
The railways had of course brought a glimpse of the 20th Century to these remote places, and towns such as Aviemore and Kyle of Lochalsh would have undoubtedly prospered and grown as a result, but away from these oases, life would have continued very much as it had done for generations.
To my Dad, it must have seemed like he was travelling almost to the edge of civilisation, a journey into a great wilderness. There were no television documentaries to show him what to expect, and no glossy magazines with trip reports and full spread photos. His knowledge of the region would have been based almost entirely on what he read in books and had seen on maps, and he would probably have not seen more than a handful of black and white photographs of the area.
At that time, most working class people did not travel very far, so by travelling from Liverpool to the Highlands of Scotland he was probably considered an oddity, both by those he was leaving behind and by the people he was visiting. In the mid 1950’s, most Liverpudlians considered a week across the water in New Brighton to be an extravagant holiday.
So why did he do it? Why did he go? Well I guess he was always an oddity. In the years immediately following his discharge from the Royal Navy at the end of the Second World War, he spent many weekends walking and cycling in the mountains of North Wales, spurred on by his books. His favourite area was the Clwydian Mountains around Mold, and he would often take the ferry from Liverpool to Birkenhead, and then cycle into Wales.
At the same time, his interest in bird watching grew, inspired by local naturalist Eric Hardy, who wrote a weekly wildlife column in the Liverpool newspaper, the Daily Post, and by the books and paintings of Peter Scott, whom he considered a kindred spirit, due to them both spending time in the Mediterranean during the War on Motor Torpedo Boats (MTB’s). He became a regular visitor to the Wirral coast, at Heswall, Thurstaston, Hoylake and of course Hilbre.
Finally of course, he had the opportunity to travel. He worked on the railways before the War, and continued his career with them after it. He was used to travelling by train, and his journey to Aviemore and beyond would have been free to an employee of the railways. The journey was longer, but travelling by train and bicycle, the cost would have been little more than a couple of weekends away in Wales.
He told me tales of his visit, of locals peering from behind curtains on Sunday morning, amazed that he was venturing out on the day of prayer, and of the birds that he saw. Golden Eagle, Ptarmigan, Greenshank and Crested Tits in places with evocative sounding names such as Rothiemurchus Forest and the Lhairig Ghru. I still find it amazing that back in the mid 1950’s, a working class scouse lad in his mid twenties, from Solon Street, Edge Hill was watching Ptarmigan, alone, below the mighty cliffs of Beinn MacDui, Britain’s second highest Mountain, 10 miles from the nearest house, while most of his mates were buying “Kiss Me Quick” hats in New Brighton, Southport or Blackpool.
Our goal in 1979 was to see summer plumaged divers on their breeding lochs, and in Speyside we hoped to pick up a few speciality species such as Crested Tit.
I can’t remember exactly what my reaction was when he suggested visiting Wester Ross and Sutherland, but I agreed almost immediately. At the time I was not so obsessed with bird watching that I was desperate to see any particular species of bird, I just saw what I saw and didn’t worry about the rest. However, divers were different. I was probably inspired by the Arthur Ramson book “Great Northern!”, which I had read during my school days, and which tells the tale of a group of youngsters who travel by boat to the North West Coast of Scotland, discover the nest of a Great Northern Diver, and set about protecting it from egg collectors. Divers have a primitive, almost prehistoric feel about them, and have always been amongst my favourite birds.
Finally, I had an interest in mountain walking, having previously walked in the Lake District with my Dad. Even so, at 17 I was approaching a time in my life when most people are more interested in the opposite sex and socialising, rather than spending a week away with their Dad, especially to such a remote area, so I guess I was something of an oddity myself.
We decided to go for six days in July 1979. We chose July, because at the time I was working in a factory, and was committed to taking the last two weeks in July as holiday. Based on my Dad’s memories of the place, we were expecting to rough it a bit and didn’t really know what to expect. Therefore for the first time, my Mum was not going to come with us, which partly explains the decision to go for just six days.
