I love travelling by train, especially on interesting and remote railways. I haven't had much of a break from the boats for years, so, we hatched a plan for just after Emuna's birthday.
For her actual birthday celebrations we went to see June Tabor and the Oyster Band at the Royal Northern College of Music. This turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. We didn't know the Oyster Band, but their You Tube videos are fine. They're a folk rock band. Emuna has been a fan of June Tabor since the 1980s. Unfortunately the sound engineer did a terrible job, all too common I fear. The singers and fiddlers were drowned out by the drums and bass.
This is how it should have sounded-
The plan then was that we would travel to York, where Emuna would explore the Viking history etc and I would visit the railway museum. After that we would travel to Aberdeen, I've always wanted to go up the East Coast route to Edinburgh. She has an invitation to stay with a friend in the Granite City, I would carry on travelling North to Thurso, the most Northerly station in the British Isles.
The best laid plans etc. Emuna has ME/CFS and was mot well enough to make the journey. She insisted that I go though, so I planned a rail tour of the highlands with my bike.
I bought my tickets online from Raileasy, who divide the ticketing up into bits that, through the quirks of the crazy ticketing system, save money. The problem with is is that nowadays you have to book a limited bicycle slot on most trains, but you can't do it through Raileasy. I had to call at Stalybridge station to book my bike, with the underlying anxiety that some of the cycle spaces might be booked up.
The booking clerk at Stalybridge was a big bespectacled man in his 60s. He'd never booked a bike ticket before and was clearly struggling with the computerised system. Several breaks had to be taken while he served travellers with less complex needs. All was well, I got my tickets!
I've always wanted to travel on the East Coast main line between Durham and Edinburgh, so I was pleased to find a cheap deal from Stalybridge via that ancient city. My train was booked at 11.56 on Sunday morning.
I rose early and stuffed more clothing than I needed into my rucksack, something I later regretted. Leaving home in good time, I first called at the boatyard. Hanging up there was a hat that Nessie had fished out of the cut. It clung to my head perfectly, but was a bit stained with algal growth. The hat I had been wearing was apt to blow off in a gust of wind, and I thought Scotland might be windy.
Hat exchange completed, I rode to the station and waited on a chilly platform.
I was glad I'd remembered my cycling gloves.
When I showed Emuna a picture of one of the new trains that were to be running on Trans Pennine route she said "it looks like a giant suppository". The image stuck, and we now refer to them as such.
The suppository glided into the platform
and I climbed aboard, hanging my bike by the front wheel in the grudgingly small bicycle cupboard and stowing my rucksack and bags in various racks. I had a reserved seat in a table alcove, but it was away from the window and facing backwards. The other 3 seats were taken up by young women reserved to Durham and my seat was occupied by one of their friends. Opposite a forward facing window seat booked from Manchester to Leeds was unoccupied, so I sat there. The other 3 seats in the alcove were reserved from Leeds to Durham.
The class 802 suppositories are bimodal trains. They can take power from the overhead wires or, if wires are absent, they run on their diesel engines. The transpennine electrification is going in fits and starts, so it was diesel power that whisked our crowded coaches up into the hills, through the blackness of Standedge tunnel and down again into Yorkshire. I enjoyed watching the landscape whisking.
At Leeds station, a sprawling mess of 1960s austerity, the three empty seats were taken up with 3 young mothers, liberated from their children for the day. They were clearly well off, though I wouldn't say posh. They were well dressed and their conversation was about the clothes they were intending to buy, hair, makeup and, inevitably their babies and the ineptitude of husbands in caring for them. The conversation moved on to home improvements and new houses, with figures of hundreds of K being bandied about. Clearly these were privileged women with husbands high in management. Many of their age are struggling to find somewhere with affordable rent. One had recently inherited a house which she was refurbishing to rent out. Their privilege and superficiality began to irritate me and I was glad when they got off at York instead of Durham, as stated on the seat reservation display.
The route up the Vale of York is fast, straight and through uninteresting flatlands. It occurred to me that, with the table to myself I could set up my laptop and follow my journey with online maps. I did this, using Bing Maps Ordnance Survey function to spot what was coming up. North of Newcastle the route gets more interesting, culminating in a wonderful high level view of Durham cathedral.
Durham was my first change and the women opposite got off here too, I think for the university. It's a nice neat old station with stone buildings and Victorian awnings, well kept, high above the city. I had about half an hour to wait for my train. It was another suppository, this one owned by the London & North Eastern Railway.
Two other bikes were being loaded, belonging to a tall and fit looking elderly couple who had to change on to the same train as me at Edinburgh. They were bound for Inverness. So was I, but I planned to travel over the Highland line in daylight, hence the pause at Perth. I settled down with my laptop again and enjoyed the increasingly enjoyable landscape and seascape as we travelled along the hilly coast, rising over cliffs and swinging round bays. We crossed the long Royal Border Bridge to Berwick and Scotland.
As we approached the outkilts of Edinburgh anxiety rose in me and the other cyclists about our connection. Our train was running a bit late, which would leave us little time at Waverley to find the right platform and make the transfer, There was a a rumour that the Inverness train would be on platform 8, but nobody was sure.
As we unloaded the gentleman cyclist suggested that whoever got to the next train first should keep their wheel in the door until the others caught up. I ran with my bike to the ticket barrier and asked the ticket inspector. He didn't know and, giving my ticket a cursory glance, suggested I look on the departure board on the concourse. I ran there, saw it was indeed platform 8, then ran to illegaly take my bike on an escalator. At the top I met the tall cycling couple coming out of a lift. As we reached the platform the Inverness bound suppository swept in.
The guard was suspicious of my bike. I got the impression that he disapproved of cyclists. He said only two bikes were booked from Waverley and a third would join at Haymarket, bringing us up to the train's limit of 4. I showed him my reservation, taped to the saddle, and he grudgingly accepted my bike's right to travel in the poky cupboard. After the short ride to Haymarket I went to help the fourth cyclist load his bike, squeezing it past mine, only to discover that its tyres were too fat to fit in the hook it was supposed to hang from. We jammed it in place and hoped for the best.
Somehow, quite a complex network of lines survived Beeching in the Scottish lowlands and now serve their communities well. I had put my laptop away and didn't really know the route. I recognised Linlithgow as it flashed past. I once cycled there from Edinburgh to visit the Bo'ness railway. Shortly after passing I spotted a double headed steam train climbing the bank towards us. At Falkirk I looked out for the Falkirk wheel, unaware that I was looking out the wrong side.
Our train twisted and turned, traversing woods and fields, hills and plains, rivers, lakes, towns villages, golf courses. It was a journey of constant variation. The wires ended and the train ran on its diesel engines until we entered the great city of Perth.
I unloaded my bike, hitched up my rucksack and plodded through a dismal and deserted station the long walk to the unmanned exit. I mounted the bike then followed my recollection of the online map to look for the Lovatt Hotel. Soon I was going uphill among big stone built Victorian mansions. I found the place and, after a bit of kerfuffle with the doors, met a squat fellow of South Indian heritage in reception. He summoned a friendly Scottish woman who took my details and gave me my room keys. The place seemed a mix of faked Scottish baronial and 1970s fake bierkellar.
With my stuff stashed in my economy double room I decided to go looking for some food. I unlocked my bike, fitted the lights and rode back down the hill into the city centre.
Oh how are the mighty fallen! The fine and noble city of Perth was once the capital of the country. It has been fought over time and again through Scotland's bloodstained history. I may be doing it a disservice. Perhaps there are nice parts, but the part of the city centre that I found was a sleazy run down dump.
I needed butty making materials for the following day. The only shop that I found was a drab off licence. I locked my bike and went in, asking for margarine, but the owner didn't seem to have any, or even understand my question. I rarely feel uneasy in a city, but I really didn't like the atmosphere here. I took the valuable battery off my bike and carried it with me lest someone lever off the lock. I bought my supplies, including a jar of something I didn't understand, from a continental food shop. My evening meal was a kebab, something I generally avoid, from a Turkish kebab shop. It actually looked like the fast food joint least likely to give me salmonella!
I refitted my battery and rode to the near deserted station to sit on a bench and enjoy my meal. One or two trains came and went but, to paraphrase Edward Thomas, hardly anyone left, and hardly anyone came. A tanker train took the curve on to the Dundee line headed by one of the unusual looking class 70 locos. I pointed my camera and hoped for the best.
The tank wagons were labelled TEA. Emuna would like that.
Until the late 1960s Perth was a principal stop on the main line from Glasgow to Aberdeen. Great steam pacifics would pause here with their important trains, hissing and pawing at the rails to once more be unleashed and gallop down the tracks to their destination.
Back in those days there were two main lines to the granite city, this one from Glasgow via Perth, and, the East coast route from Edinburgh, over the Forth and Tay bridges, via Dundee. They met a Kinnaber Junction, the target point for the famous 'race the the North' of the 1890s.
Dr Beeching disapproved of duplicate routes. He ordered the direct route from Perth to Kinnaber Junction to be ripped up. Glasgow to Aberdeen trains still call at Perth, but they sneak in and out round tight curves on a side line to Dundee. The main line North leads only to the single track Highland line to Inverness, that I was to travel the next day.
The station is still magnificent, but shabby, run down and unloved.
Food enjoyed, I rode back up the hill to the hotel. The nice Scots lady showed me into a conference room where I could leave my bike. "Nobody goes in here" she assured me.
I went up to my room, hung up my coat, then felt an urge for sociability. I decided to go to the hotel bar. The pleasant Scottish woman was serving. The only other customer was an elderly woman clutching a hot water bottle and drinking coffee. She talked a lot about Florida, I think her son lives there. I'm not sure why she was staying in a hotel in her native land. Most of the beer advertised was not available, so I asked for a pint of Guinness. As I handed over nearly £8 I was assured, with commendable honesty, that it was extortionate!
The barwoman was constantly busy, if she wasn't cleaning things she was on the 'phone to her husband. She produced a brass figurine of a gorilla playing a guitar which caused much amusement for the hot water bottle woman. I think it was representative of the Indian man who I had first met. I suspect he is the owner or manager.
Hotwaterbottlewoman left and the busy Scottish lady bustled off to deal with tasks elsewhere in the building, leaving me sitting, drinking my guinness, nursing the pain in my wallet and watching a marathon on a huge wall mounted TV screen. I've never really seen the point of watching people running. I finished my pint alone, then went to bed.
I like to be in good time for trains and ships. You ask Emuna! I once woke her at 5am for a 10am ferry. She was not amused. My train was at 8.30. Breakfast started at 7am, but I was there at about a quarter to. A slim efficient woman was busy setting out the breakfast things and she didn't mind if I started early. I was just going to have cereal, but she insisted that I sample the bacon and sausages. Two men in orange work clothes came in, quickly grabbed some food, then hurried out to start their days labour.
With a good breakfast and much caffiene inside me, I extracted my bike from the conference room and whizzed down the hill to the station in good time for my train. There were now some staff present, but still few passengers. I was able to organise some bike tickets for later in the trip before trekking through the station in all its shabby loveliness to my far flung platform. In a bay a diesel unit for Glasgow waited silent and hopeful with its doors wide open. Overlooking the main Northbound (down in railway parlance) platform was an ornate clock that had long ceased to tick.
I noticed that there was a big black smudge on the ornate but almost paintless awning, just above the exhaust of the silent diesel train. Clearly the platform was used by identical sets, all with their exhausts in the same place as they stopped just short of the buffers, each leaving its own little deposit of soot on the ancient wood.
A train from the South arrived in the adjacent bay. The atmosphere changed as passengers poured out on to the platform and hurried away, eager to get to work.
My platform was steadily filing with passengers as the information display showed that the train was on time and on its way.
Eventually its headlight appeared in the distance. I was pleased to see that it was a good old fashioned diesel unit, not one of those suppositories.
I loaded myself in, stashed my bike and my luggage and found a seat with a good window. We were soon rattling along the old Aberdeen main line through gentle farmland along the Tay valley. The train took a sudden turn to the left as we left the main line on to the single track of the former Highland railway. The trackbed of the abandoned route could be seen heading off towards Coupar Angus.
The day was sunny but I could see cloud hanging around any bits of high ground. There was a sudden view down the Tay valley, which had looped round to join us. The sun glinted off white cloud. I thought it was beautiful, but Emuna had warned me about "Scotch mist". After Dunkeld we entered the Highlands proper, and the cloud obscured everything. Just my luck, I thought, come all this way to the highlands and can't see them.
The mountains were only obscured for a short time. The sun burned off the cloud and I was back to enjoying the views, checking my progress with the map displayed on my laptop. The line clung to the side of the valley of the River Tummel. At first this was quite wide, but steadily the mountains closed in until we were threading the gorge of the River Garry by the time we reached Killiecrankie, the site of one of the many battles of the many Scots rebellions against English domination.
The valley widened again, but after the Blair Atholl stop we began to climb into wilder landscapes, brown with late season heather.
As the landscape widened I became more aware of being accompanied by a modern road and, now no more than a track in most places, General Wade's Military Road. This was one of a network built, rather like the Roman roads of an earlier era, to facilitate the movement of government troops to quell rebellions. In this case the Jacobite rebellion of 1715. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_roads_of_Scotland
As we passed Druimuachdar summit, at 1484 feet the highest railway in Britain, the engine note changed and the train gathered speed as it started the descent towards the lusher lands of the Spey valley. Aviemore is now something of a winter sports centre, though , with global warming skiers mostly have to make do with artificial slopes. From here, the original Highland line took a longer course, climbing out of the Spey valley to cross the moors to Forres before heading East again to Inverness. The first part of this line is now the Strathspey Railway, operating steam trains. Off this, from the beautifully named Boat of Garten, once ran one of the loveliest lines, the Speyside line, twisting and turning with the river's dramatic route to the sea. The loss of this line, serving on its way many distilleries, was one of the tragedies of the 1963 Beeching report.
Our train took the newer route, climbing again, through conifer plantations, towards Slochd summit. From this high point the line wandered around until, after crossing Culloden viaduct and circling another battleground, it descended sharply to join the line from Aberdeen and roll round a tight turn into it's terminus at Inverness.
Inverness is a sort of double parallel terminus with the lines from the South terminating on one side, and those from the North on the other, both entering on tight curves as they point towards the town centre. Nobbut a single spindly track joins the two.
Along with many of my fellow passengers I quickly wheeled my bike round the platform ends to join the two car unit for the far North. The guard was suspicious of my bike, despite the growing thickness of bicycle reservations taped to the saddle.
The diesel growled out of the station and shortly crossed the River Ness, which drains the famous loch, on a long bridge. After that the train slowed almost to walking pace to cross the swing bridge over the Caledonian Canal between two locks. The line ran close to the Beauly Firth before moving more inland to cross coastal plains to our next stop at Muir of Ord, a village of mostly modern housing. From here there once ran a branch line to Fortrose on the coast.
At Dingwall the route to Kyle of Lochalsh turns away to the West and out train went straight on through coastal farmland, bridging the occasional river. The main A9 crossed the wide waters on a new bridge to once again join us. At Invergordon there was a good view out into the Cromarty Firth, with oil rigs anchored.
The railway left the seaside, crossing low lying ground, then ran alongside the Dornoch Firth from Tain.
The roadway has been given a huge advantage by new investment in recent years by the building of the Three Firths Bridges. By bridging the Beauly, Cromarty and Dornoch firths the A9 road has been considerably shortened, whereas the railway still has to follow it's 19th century route along this convoluted coastline. Just after Tain station the road can be seen crossing the sea whilst our train carried on within metres of the firth. When this bridge was being planned there was a possibility of the railway taking the shorter route alongside the road, but the cost was too much and the traffic too little.
Nevertheless, it's a lovely route that the train takes, clinging to the coastline
then following the Kyle of Sutherland and the beautiful valley of the River Shin to Lairgs, from where it climbs high into the mountains, before dropping down to The Mound and following the coast again. I love travelling on railways that skirt the sea, but I wonder how long it will be before this one is inundated by the rising sea.
The station at Rogart is a request stop. There were no passengers so the train slowed down, then sped onwards. I just happened to get a glance of a small diesel locomotive in the former goods yard. This is part of the Sleeperzzzz hostel. Despite having been closed down by excessive bureacracy. https://www.northern-times.co.uk/news/we-have-been-derailed-by-scottish-government-legislation-306723/ it's now open again https://www.facebook.com/p/Sleeperzzz-100063771660170/
There used to be a station at The Mound. There's no real settlement for it to serve and, though the buildings still stand in private occupation, trains no longer call there. Once upon a time it was the junction for the Dornoch branch, which dropped down steeply to cross a causeway, then hug the coast to that town. The causeway now carries the inevitable A9 road. I remember my big brother Merv telling me about the demise of the last Highland Railway locomotive that used to work this branch and its replacement with a Great Western pannier tank from South West England. That was in 1957, 3 years before the line closed. https://www.railscot.co.uk/img/9/211/
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The wandering railway had been heading roughly South East. It turned Northward again, briefly skirting Lough Fleet. After Golspie we stopped at Dunrobin Castle station. This used to be a private station for the Duke of Sutherland, who even had his own private locomotive and coaches. https://preservedbritishsteamlocomotives.com/dunrobin-0-4-4t-duke-od-sutherland-highland-railway/
I chuckled at the name of the station, so appropriate for a member of the aristocracy, though I doubt they've really done robbing. They just do it in a more legalistic way nowadays. Perhaps in an ideal world, Dunrobin Castle should become a home for retired burglars.
The railway now followed the coast Northward, mostly high up on the cliffs with views far out to sea. At Helmsdale it turned inland to follow Strath Ullie, the U shaped glacial valley of the rushing River Helmsdale. High up on a ledge on the valley side I enjoyed watching this sparsely populated valley. The A road on the other side was little more than a lane.
The train left its ledge and ran down towards the river, crossed it on a girder bridge, then headed off into another valley, Strath Beg. This one was wide and brown, the land here high but gently undulating. We climbed into a terrain of dun moorland, wide and gentle with frequent lochs, like huge puddles on a brown carpet, occasional forests and sometimes big rounded mountains.
The stations were all request stops, but often the need to request wasn't announced until the station had rattled by. The track was all the old jointed rails, each 60 feet long joined by fishplates, so the speed was audible. It speeded up as we started to come down off the great moorland. We crossed a fast flowing river then the brakes went on and we drew to a halt at Georgemas Junction. To my left was the empty platform. To my right a strongly fenced compound containing rusty sidings and a massively built crane. There was no signage to explain its purpose, but I'm pretty sure it was for loading flasks from the nearby Dounreay nuclear facility, now being dismantled.
The trains to the North carry Wick on their destination boards but, in reality, they serve two termini. The train first reverses to go to Thurso, the furthest North station in Britain, then it calls again at Georgemas (i'm not sure why it bothers) and carries on to Wick. After a bit of a rest it will then form the next Southbound service, calling at Georgemas, Thurso and again at Georgemas before heading off to the South.
The Thurso branch traverses fairly level grazing land. It crosses the river then runs along the top edge of the deep ravine that the river has cut in its hurry to reach the sea. The terminus has a wooden overall roof that the train doesn't quite reach.
The Far North train didn't have plug sockets to charge my laptop, so it had run out of power. I had to remember the route to Castletown where I was booked to stay for the next two nights. The station is at the top of the town and the main street falls towards the sea. I freewheeled down, then spotted the right turn that I needed to take a little too late. I stopped, U turned then headed down towards the river bridge. I was on the A9, which I had been shadowing since Perth. It ends just North of Thurso at the Scrabster ferry terminal where ships go to Stromness on the Orkney islands. Immediately after the bridge a left turn was signposted Castletown and Wick so I followed it. Though it is an A road the potholes are some of the worst I've come across. This turned out to be a feature of roads in this area.
I rode uphill out of the Thurso valley, then on to a dead straight and easily graded road through rough grazing land of sheep and cattle. Occasional single storey houses dotted the landscape. The traffic was quite heavy, but I noticed a much greater courtesy from drivers towards me as a cyclist. There was a steady wind blowing from the South West, mostly behind me. A big lorry came the other way and its pressure wave lifted the hat off my head. I had to stop to pick it up.
Before long I was riding downhill into Castletown, formed mostly of low grey stone houses. The Castletown Hotel was easily found on my right. I locked the bike and went in to a deserted reception area. I found the responsible person in the kitchen, a young man dressed quite formally, white shirt, tie, waistcoat. He booked me in and asked what time I wanted dinner that evening. I asked about the prices after my experience in Perth, so he brought me a menu. It seemed comprehensive and reasonably priced. I said I'd think about it. He also wanted to know precisely what time I wanted breakfast. Everything here seemed to be precise.
My room was small but clean and lovely with lots of coffee sachets provided. I plugged in my computer and studied the map. I thought I might just have enough time and battery power to get to Dunnet Head before dark, so I set off. The road dropped down to a seaside car park, where I stopped to take a photo of Dunnet head
then rose up gently past dunes before falling again past a caravan park at Dunnet Bay. Dunnet village was a sparse collection of low old houses. In this area dwellings seem to be spaced randomly across the countryside. Wherever there happens to be a chance concentration of homes it is declared a village and gets a name.
The turning for Dunnet Head gave a distance of 5 miles. I was dubious about having enough time and battery power to get there and back, so I carried on along the main road for a while. I rode alongside a shallow lough fringed with brown. When I felt it was time, I turned back and, at the hotel, ordered dinner. The smart young man said he could fit me in at 7pm, so I went to my room and caught up with WCBS emails (no rest for the wicked!)
At 7pm sharp I arrived at the allocated table in the restaurant. I had the feeling that if I was 5 minutes late I would be reprimanded! I chose scampi from a long list of options and it was excellent. Nearby a multi generational family group from Newcastle way were enjoying their meal with lots of chatter and laughter and fun.
Next morning, after waking myself with coffee, I came down to breakfast at precisely 8am, as agreed. Breakfast is on a buffet system, so, if you wish, you can really stuff yourself to see you through the day. Belly filled, I fitted my battery and rode off in the Dunnet direction. This time I turned off up the narrow road towards the prominence, at the side of a gun maker's residence. This route took me along the other side of St John's Lough before another turning took me to a lovely bay on the edge of the peninsula.
I was amazed to find that there was a regular 'bus service on these little roads. Most of the people here seem to have a hand in both farming and tourism. There was a regular traffic, largely of camper vans, on the little road. The courtesy to cyclists continued, vehicles mostly waiting for me at passing points rather than forcing past in the narrows.
Out into the brown wastes my hat blew off a couple of times, so I gave up and tied it to my back rack, The road zig zagged up the final rise, then levelled out as it approached a car park full of motor homes;
I was now at the most Northerly point of the British mainland, but, to be honest, it was a bit disappointing. It doesn't seem like an end because the Isle of Hoy is clearly visible to the North. I was imagining being able to stand on top of a cliff at the very top end of Britain. This is not possible because the very end is a lighthouse
and a complex of buildings around it. These were walled off at some distance and access was verboten. A sign explained that the lighthouse was automatic and was only visited once a year for maintenance. I was going to suggest that Trinity House were missing a trick by not renting out the lighthouse keepers house as holiday lets. A little research has shown me that the lighthouse actually belongs to the Northern Lighthouse Board but the other buildings now belong to a locally owned company whose main business is providing holiday accommodation, so, perhaps you actually can rent it.
Dunnet Head seems to be mainly of interest to birders. There was a path down to a cliff top viewing area at one side of the head and a sign explaining the different kinds of birds to be seen there. I overheard conversations about bird sightings among other visitors. I like birds. I'm glad they're there as part of our ecosystem. I like to see things like murmurations of starlings or the pair of crows that often root through the moss on the wharf looking for grubs and slugs etc to eat, but, I'm not a twitcher! I don't want to stand for hours in the hope of catching a glimpse of Great Crested Godwitted Shagpuffin. I had a look.
There were no birds. I decided to move on. I was enjoying riding more than looking.
After descending from the head I took a left turn which brought me down to some old farm buildings near the sea. On the landward side was a ruined mill with the valley dammed up to enclose a millpond. From here it was uphill. I crossed the main road and carried on through the village of Barrock. I turned right at an area called Lucifer Moss to follow a dead straight road for about 3 miles to Greenland. It was all mostly sheep country, but gently graded. Just before getting to Castletown I came across an abandoned World War 2 airfield. Built largely for the defence of the fleet at Scapa Flow. https://www.forgottenairfields.com/airfield-raf-castletown--891.html
My bike battery has 4 lights to show its state of charge. It was now down to 2 lights, so I went to my hotel room and put it on charge while I ate the butties I'd prepared, drank coffee and dealt with more bloody WCBS business (is there no escape?)
I'd had a problem booking my tickets from Mallaig homewards online. I hadn't noticed the option for printed tickets and ended up with E tickets, which, with no access to a printer and an old 'phone, I couldn't use. I also needed bike tickets from Mallaig. I was concerned about part of the journey being on an Avanti train as they are very strict about bikes. Raileasy agreed to cancel my E tickets and I decided to ride into Thurso to sort it out at the booking office.
The battery was now showing 3 lights. I decided to take the slightly longer back roads. The lane ran from the back of the hotel, past some industrial buildings and a scrapyard, then into the countryside. Dead straight for at least a mile it climbed steadily. Over to my right a mysterious looking abandoned old house stood empty on a hill top. The map tells me that this area is called Gothigill.
Once more I had made the mistake of putting my hat on. High in the hills I started riding past a huge cattle farm where a couple of men were rebuilding one of the vast corrugated sheds. A sudden gust of wind removed my had and deposited it in a lake of cow poo. I decided to continue my journey hatless.
I had pretty much reached the top and stopped in a gateway to admire the view. Unfortunately much of my video was out of focus for some reason.
I passed a big old quarry with piles of big flat stones weathering in the harsh climate. I wondered what commodity had been extracted there.
A right turn brought me on to a downward trajectory, whizzing down a dead straight road towards Thurso. I entered the town through a neat council estate, then joined the potholed main road, crossed the river and pedalled uphill to the station.
The booking clerk was a smiley woman of about 40 years. I asked her to check that bicycle slots were available on all the trains that I intended to catch from Mallaig. She confirmed that they were, so I went and sat on the concourse, fired up my laptop and booked my seats online. I then went back into the booking office, gave her my booking code and she printed out my tickets. I handed these back to her so that she could book bike tickets for the relevant trains. What a palarva!
I apologised for buying tickets online, but explained that doing so had saved me £28. We discussed the current ticketing system of the privatised railways and agreed that it's ridiculous. What people want is to be able to turn up at the booking office and pay a reasonable price for their journey. At least in Scotland most of the trains are now run by a single nationalised body, even though the actual rolling stock is leased from private companies. They have to take their cut somewhere!
I took the same route back. It was much more enjoyable than the main road. When I reached the hotel the last light on my battery was flashing. I explained to the receptionist that I didn't need dinner that evening, but I wanted breakfast at 6.30am.
I had noticed signs pointing to a chip shop in the village, so I determined to have fish and chips for my tea. It was 4pm, a bit early to eat, so I decided to explore the village a bit. I'd noticed on the map that there was a little harbour at the bottom of the village, so I headed that way.
The village and the harbour are separated by fields. I walked down a little lane and met people out walking their dogs, There was a Heritage Centre based in old stone buildings. It had just closed, but the outside trail and information boards were accessible. When I read the first one the quarries and flat stones all fell into place. I'd noticed along the shore that the rocks were mostly flat and level.
Up to about 10,000 years ago Scotland was underneath miles of ice, gradually but inexorably moving Southwards to melt over what is now England. The constant moving of the ice meant that it was gradually grinding away the rock. This is why most of Scotland's mountains are worn to smooth rounded shapes, rather than jagged like the Alps. Where the rock was hardest, like granite, the mountains were more resistant and stayed high. Where the rock was softer it wore to gentler curves as I was finding here in Caithness.
The rock in the North East of Scotland is sedimentary. It's formed from sand that was deposited by ancient rivers. It was compressed into rock by millennia of being buried under huge pressure. It's strong, it's hard, but it's not as hard as granite. If you break into it it comes out in big flat slabs. Flagstones.
Old fashioned paving stones are often referred to as Yorkshire stone. Many did come from Yorkshire but, little did I know, there was once a big flagstone quarrying industry in Caithness, and Castletown was the centre of it. In the 19th century flagstones were exported to as far away as Australia. I was exploring the ruins of the stone processing area. The most intriguing structure was a little conical windmill. This pumped water to lubricate the process of cutting the stones to neat oblong shapes and planing the surfaces smooth.
The quarries here ceased production in about 1918. Concrete paving slabs had largely taken their place and producing them became uneconomic. In recent times Caithness flags have seen a revival for upmarket applications. The Scottish Parliament is partly paved with new Caithness flags. https://www.facebook.com/scottishparliament/videos/604240683525277
The harbour is tiny, but it was built for the export of flagstones. Nowadays a few small fishing boats and pleasure boats use it. Having worked on tidal water with loaded barges I have nothing but admiration for those who carried cargo on vessels reliant soley on wind and tide. The entrance to this little haven would give little room for error, and a mistake would get a ship disastrously on to the rocks.
I was beginning to feel peckish, so I headed back towards the village. I found the chip shop but was disappointed to find that it wasn't open on Tuesdays. Amazingly, the village also has an Indian takeaway, so I got a meal from there. Nearby was a sports field, so I sat on the pavilion steps to dine. After that it was back to the hotel room to read my book for a while. And so to bed.
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