Kirkwall to Stronsay

Stronsay, like the rest of the Orkney Isles gets a LOT of wind!
[Kyle]From busy Kirkwall, we sailed to the quiet little village of Whitehall on the island of Stronsay. The day started with a lovely sunny, downwind sail through narrow, winding channels that had us passing close by the nearby scenery. Once in the wider Stronsay Firth, we ran into a six knot current that required us to turn forty degrees further into the wind to crab across it. The clouds rolled in and with our forward speed added to the wind, the day suddenly turned a lot less pleasant. At least the current and the wind were in the same direction so the waves were a lot smaller than they would be when the tide shifted. The water was still a swirling, boiling mess, though. We would sail from one eddy to another and the boat would yaw wildly. Maryanne commented that all of Scotland was like the notorious Hell Gate in the East River in New York. By the time we see that place again, it’ll be nuttin’

We pulled into Whitehall, a village of about twenty buildings and found a spot to tie up along the wall by the ferry dock. Maryanne called the harbour master and he said he would meet us in an hour when the ferry arrived. In spite of having the time, he was completely unprepared. Everything is kept in great, shifting piles on his desk, in his car, on the floor. He was unable to find any of the paperwork necessary to charge us for our stay and promised he’d get to us tomorrow. The only thing he did actually find was his record of who stayed when. It turns out we are the first boat to have arrived this year. That explains why it was so easy to find space along the wall.

I love beating the crowds.


Whitehall, Stronsay, Orkney Isles

Winter’s Back

Scenes from Kirkwall on the Mainland of the Orkney Isles
[Maryanne]Kirkwall is the capital of the Orkneys, and is on the main island (or mainland) of the Orkney Isles. Kyle and I had each been to Orkney before, and each had seen the its famous tourist site: the exceptionally well preserved Neolithic settlement of Skara Brae. This time we needed to see some of the lesser sights, but the weather was severely limiting our options.

[Kyle]After experiencing nearly an entire day of Summer, it was time, once again, for Winter.

Maryanne made a trip to the Kirkwall travel/tourist office and came home bristling with brochures and bus schedules. Public transportation causes you to lose a lot of time waiting around, but we did still manage to find a couple of cool things to do.


Maeshowe Neolithic Burial Chamber - yes, under that big mound!
Thing one was a trip to Maeshowe, a Neolithic burial site that predates the earliest Egyptian pyramids by 800 years. The site consists of a long slender tunnel leading to a large square main chamber. Each of the other three walls has a small doorway leading into smaller, lower chambers. The whole thing was constructed using dry stone technique (no mortar) with enormous slabs, some weighing nearly 20 tons. All of this is covered with about 10 feet of yellow clay brought in from quite some distance to form a mound about 20 feet high.

The site itself was interesting, but it was also fairly small, so it didn’t take long to see. The tour, however, was really well done. Our guide, after torturing us by making us stand out in the freezing rain while he didn’t even seem to notice for the first five minutes of the talk, finally let our group of about sixteen into the main chamber. From there, he went on for another 40 minutes telling us all about it. Maeshowe is interesting for two reasons. One is that it is a 5000 year old burial chamber; the other is that it has the largest collection of Viking runes outside of Scandinavia. They had broken in looking for shelter in the 1100s and carved runic graffiti all over the place.

After the talk, our guide opened up the floor for any questions. Most of us asked for clarification on one point or another which he answered knowledgeably. Then a guy asked how the acoustics were, like for chanting and such. Before the guide could answer, he and a couple of others started up, imploring each of us with his eyes to join him and share his mystical experience. Our poor guide got a look on his face. I imagine it is the same look Eiffel Tower guides get when they realize that they’ve been had and that a handful of the group has parachutes and are planning on base jumping off the thing.

“Oh great,” the look said, “Another group of nutters. We get ‘em two or three times a week. Just ignore them and they’ll lose interest.” They did, in fact, but not before shooting each of us a look that made it clear they disapproved of our lack of spiritual awareness.

Whatever.

We waited in the rain for another hour and got the return bus to Kirkwall, where we walked to the Highland Park Distillery for their tour. I had a Highland Park at the Eagle pub on the Caledonian Canal and really liked it. Maryanne and I were both looking forward to the tour. Plus, distilleries are warm.

This one was very nice. Highland Park is one of only five distilleries left in Scotland that malts their own barley so we finally got to see that. We actually scooped up a handful of freshly sprouted barley right off the malting floor and had a taste. Mmm, maltey!


Highland Park Distillery - most northerly Whisky maker
They also dry their malt over local heather peat fires. We also got a lot more information about the barreling process than other tours. Wow, that sentence even bored me. Well, it was interesting at the time! Unlike other distillers, Highland Park does the entire maturation in sherry casks instead of starting in bourbon and maybe finishing with a couple of years in sherry.

All of this makes for what several experts have called the finest whisky in the world. It surely is yummy stuff.

The Pentland Firth

Copinsay Island on a nice, calm day
[Kyle]Okay, we were not exactly in the dreaded, deadly, killer Pentland Firth, which separates mainland Scotland from the Orkneys, but sorta nearby. We actually gave the whole mess a pretty wide berth and passed by uneventfully a few miles to the east.

The first thing that happened on the day of the passage up to Orkney was that I crawled out of bed, wiped some condensation off the window and saw that the boat and the docks were covered in ice. It had hailed enough the previous evening to leave a layer on everything and it had subsequently partially melted and refrozen. It had kind of a non-skid look to it, which turned out not to be the case at all. We had to walk very carefully as we got the lines off and left the harbour. At least the sun was out (for now). By the time we left the protective walls of the harbour, the ice had melted and Footprint was just wet.

We made our turn north along the coast. I went forward to raise the mainsail. As I did, sheets of ice that had been shaded in the folds came down upon me, breaking on my head and shattering on the deck. Man, I sure do miss tropical sailing.

The wind slowly decreased until we pulled everything down to keep it from driving us nuts and we motored well clear of the Skerries (pronounced {by Kyle}: scaries!) The famous currents were all over the place. I doubt we would have been able to make any reliable progress under sail in light winds. In strong winds, with any waves against these currents, this place would be a really sloppy mess. For once, I was glad to motor by while the dragon slept.

The sun stayed out over the water and it actually got so warm that I got down to one layer, the top part being a short-sleeved t-shirt - outside, no less. It was Winter yesterday!

We entered Shapinsay Sound, we were rewarded with both wind and current and were slingshotted through the narrow gap between the Orcadian Mainland and Stronsay into Wide Firth, just outside of busy Kirkwall Harbor.

Last Day in Wick

[Kyle]Before leaving Wick, I decided to take one grand last tour of the countryside by running a big twelve mile loop to the south of the town. It was a bit windy as I set off. The sun was fighting it out with clouds that looked just itching to rain for dominance. I ran over rolling hills dotted with sheep held in by stone walls and looked over by sturdy looking houses with smoke coming out of their chimneys. I ran through a pretty patch of woodland where the ground was covered in clover. Little rabbits, startled by my sudden appearance on an otherwise empty path, darted this way and that, constantly changing their minds about the best path of escape.

I came out of the trees and turned onto a narrow road that had sweeping views of the surrounding countryside and the sea all the way out to the closest islands of the Orkneys. Then the rain started. It came in stinging drops so cold and fast that I had to run with my head turned down and to the side to shield my face from it. This was turning from a pleasant sightseeing tour into a real ordeal. I picked up my pace as fast as I could bear in order to get through it.

A couple of miles later, it started snowing. That’s right, snowing. By then, I was so miserable that I was actually relieved by this. Snowflakes are soft and a lot of them just bounce off without melting, saving me from getting any wetter. Twenty minutes after that, I came chugging into town in bright sunlight, trailing a contrail of steam behind me as the heat evaporated the moisture from my wet clothes. The weather here is absolutely insane.



Whaligo Steps
Following that and a brief rest, Maryanne and I made a mad dash into town for the next bus to the Whaligo Steps. The steps were built by fishermen to give access to tiny (and scary looking) Whaligo Harbour. The day’s catch would be unloaded and the boats would be hauled up the cliffs to safety using winches and pulleys. The fish were loaded into baskets at the bottom and then carried by the women first up the steps and then the eight miles or so to be sold at the fish market in Wick. All of this was, of course, done in the unpredictable but mostly miserable Scottish weather. I can’t imagine what life must have been like for those people.


Whaligo Cliffs
We had some time left before sprinting for the bus back to Wick, so we occupied ourselves with a stroll along the tops of the stunning coastal cliffs feeling grateful that it wasn’t something we had to do every day with a heavy wicker basket on our backs.

Back at the marina, we noticed the Isabella Fortuna sitting at one of the docks and went over to have a better look. The Isabella Fortuna is a restored herring boat that first was commissioned in the late 1800s when the whole operation was still done under sail. A local man, Norman McLeod, who was part of the group involved in the restoration, was working on his own boat on the same dock, saw us admiring her, and insisted we climbed aboard for a look. The boat was huge on the outside, cramped on the inside and all business. What a joy she would be so sail out of the harbour on a sunny reach and what a misery it must have been tacking home at the end of a long, cold day.


Isabella Fortuna - 1890 herring boat
It turns out Norman was also infamous locally because he had just been sacked (or encouraged to resign) from the lifeboat service, after 44 years, for swearing. The event happened during a tense part of a rescue, but the higher-ups weren’t going to let it pass and got rid of him. In protest, his son, grandson and a few others also quit, leaving the Wick lifeboat seriously undermanned – not something we wanted to know before crossing the Pentland Firth. He was so generously kind to us, that we naturally felt he's been unfairly treated.

Meanwhile…

[Kyle]After a week or so, I was beginning to feel pretty at home in Wick. With not very much to do, Maryanne and I were able to space out Wick’s few attractions into a nice, leisurely schedule. Our days would usually consist of a morning run in the pretty countryside, followed by our “one thing” for the day. By the time I left for work at the end of the week, we were able to get around and give directions without the need for a map. Maryanne even briefly acted as de-facto harbour master for a late arriving boat, doing her best to match Malcolm’s kindness and helpfulness.

My commute was supposed to be an easy, stress-free one, at least relatively, apart from the distance and duration. I had a short walk to the airport, where I boarded a half-full flight to Edinburgh. There, I would stay in a hotel and get the half-full flight to Newark the next morning. Another night in a hotel and I would be ready for work the next day.

That was how it was supposed to work. The whole thing came crashing down on me when Maryanne called and woke me up at 11:23pm to tell me she had just received an email saying my flight to Newark was cancelled. I had a suspicion what the cause was: Eyjafjall, the volcano in Iceland (commonly referred to as Eyjafjallajokull, the jokull part actually refers to the glacier on top of the volcano, not the volcano itself). Some more checking revealed that all flights to and from Ireland, Scotland and the northern half of England were cancelled as well.

Maryanne found me an express train that would get me to Heathrow with 30 minutes to go before the last flight out. I managed to find – and buy – the last ticket on BMI airlines that would get me there a couple of hours before that. The last flight from Heathrow to Newark had over a hundred empty seats when I left the hotel. By the time it left London, it was a nail-biter as to whether I would get the last seat or not before they finally cleared me on five minutes before pushback. When the flight got to Newark, I learned that the northern UK flights had been cancelled for the next day as well. Whew! I’m Even Steven.

I had a tough schedule that week at work, but I was with a First Officer I really get along with, so it went by much more easily than it could have. Throughout the week, I monitored the ash cloud concentration charts diligently. The danger zone for altitudes below 20,000 feet gradually grew to a blob covering the entire western half of the North Atlantic. From 20,000 to 35,000, the altitudes used by most airliners, the blob was about half the size but still presented a pretty large barrier to a crossing.

Fortunately, the ash cloud had managed to stay sufficiently offshore of the British Isles that no more flights were cancelled during the rest of the week.

On the transatlantic trip home, my flight deviated significantly left (North) of the usual great circle track to Scotland. We started by heading NNE until we were a couple hundred miles north of Cape Farewell, the southern tip of Greenland. The flight then turned NE until Iceland where we first passed over a barren and desolate looking landscape of mountains and ice then, just a few miles to our right, we passed to the windward side of Eyjafjall, illuminated by the low midnight sun. By then, the ground was obscured by a layer of low cloud, but the plume could be seen bursting through and then curving to the SE. The off-white plume was boiling and tumbling over itself as it cleared the cloud below. It then gradually smoothed out and could be seen stretching off over the horizon. At our altitude, the horizon was about 250 miles away. The ash cloud stretched about ten times that far, gradually becoming indistinguishable from the cloud layer below.


Route diverts well North of normal path to avoid ash
There is a lot of ash and smoke coming from this volcano. Comparing it with the eruption of Montserrat as we sailed by in December of 2008, Montserrat looked like a tea kettle boiling next to a power plant chimney. The amount of mass being thrown into the atmosphere is enormous. It’s hard to imagine how there could be any of the mountain left. I wish I had taken some photos, but I didn’t have the camera with me.

Volcanic ash is very dangerous for turbine engines (jets and turboprops) because the ash melts at turbine engine combustion temperatures. As the combustion gases and ash make their way through the engine past the combustion chamber, the gases expand and cool. The ash then solidifies and becomes caked on to the turbine drive blades, changing them from an airfoil to a useless club shape. This causes the airflow to try to go the wrong way, resulting in complete and permanent failure of the engine.

I didn’t want to fly through the ash, but I’m glad that, so far, the airlines are able to find useable routes around it and thus I was able to get home. I’m Even Steven.

A Classic British Pilgrimage -LEJOG

Old Wick Castle
[Maryanne]Kyle and I managed a good hike to the south to check out remains of Old Wick Castle. Supposedly there was a trail, but it was boggy again, and passed through a military firing range (luckily no red flag flying the day we went). Kyle was concerned about what we might do if on our way back we found the flag flying and we’d be stuck there... Hmmm... Good Question. The castle was little more than a square of walls, much damaged, but set on an amazing site of high sea cliffs that 100’s of nesting sea gulls clearly appreciated. In town we spent some time searching out the Worlds shortest street. We walked by it a few times, I guess being small, it doesn’t seem like a street as much as a corner. Ebenezer Place is just 2.06m long, has one door, and an official postal address, and well, looks like a curved corner of two other streets.

Ha! So Kyle was eventually off at Work, and I’m left to play. Well that sounds all good and well, except that the weather really didn’t cooperate AT ALL, and every item I started on my chore list turned into a multi-day exercise to keep me well away from too much fun.

I HAVE met some amazing people. I contacted what sounded like some interesting locals Via the international community web site Couch Surfing, and had a wonderful time with Louise and Mano from the nearby Lybster (Fist syllable: Lie) a tiny little fishing village just south of Wick. Louise is a gutsy gal who can hold her own with anyone, and has many, many talents (e.g. she makes her own chutney, and she gifted us a nice little chilli version for Kyle and me to try). They were both fun, but also really helpful, they offered me rides as far as Inverness and enabled me to purchase a giant load of groceries and have the use of their car to deliver them back to the boat.

I also have new neighbours; an Australian boat called Acrobat with Charlie and Marie aboard. They are stuck here waiting for the weather to be more favourable to move North and we’ve been entertaining each other to help pass the grey days to some extent.

One of the chores on my list was to fill my propane cylinder. My expert research had shown a petrol station in town with AutoGas where I could fill the bottle. But things change and the station has closed down, no alternatives existed; so much for my research! So this week I’ve entered the world of making up hoses and decanting Propane. A very slow and frustrating process at which I was only half a tank better off after 2 days of trying. I would have been even worse off if it wasn’t for the assistance of Charlie next door. Oh well, we should be able to fill at Orkney and Shetland so it’s not as worrisome as I first thought (this time I phoned ahead to be sure the places were still open).

I’ve continued to explore Wick (mostly indoors) and spent a day at the Heritage Museum. It is a tardis of a place, and stuffed full with interesting photos and artefacts. It lacks a little in explanations, but makes up for it well by having lots of friendly locals that are happy to spend as much time as you wish to tell you stories about each and every display; it was wonderful.

I’ve been up to this area of the Scotland only once before, and most likely will never be here again. On my last visit I failed to detour to John O’Groats – this time I was not going to be so amis. All I needed was a nice day with no rain, so I could actually enjoy the views. That was Friday.


Proof!
John O’Groats is the British mainland’s most northerly settlement, and is tucked way up on the far NE Corner. Just two years ago, Kyle and I visited Lands End in Cornwall, the most westerly point, it is at the “other” far corner of Britain (SW). Lands End to John O’Groats (LEJOG) is a classic journey in the UK, and often the start and end points of charity walks, runs, cycles etc. At 874 miles, the Yanks and the Aussie may not think much of it! Regularly walkers seem to make the journey in about 90 days, and there are many different ways to get from end to end. I took a little longer, but finally I can say that I’ve been to both (for what it’s worth!).


Duncansby Head beaches and Lighthouse
Of course the small village itself is a tourist trap of things to buy, I was a bit early in the season for even the official photographer to be cashing in. Rather than hang around I took the trail along the coast to the most North-Easterly point and it’s lighthouse, Duncansby Head. Just south of this are the impressive Duncansby Stack formations – well worth the 2.5 hour round trip hike from John O’Groats.



Duncansby Stacks
Having spent a whole morning on travel and exploring I still had half a day to spare so I set off for Thurso (most northerly town in mainland Britain and the other big town in Caithness, along with Wick, this one on the North Coast). The town seems to be a similar size, and have a similar history to Wick, but appears quite a bit healthier economically. Mostly this is down to Dounray (the Nuclear Power plant, now well into its decommissioning lifecycle employs at least 2000 workers).

Thurso has an excellent museum dedicated to showing the history of the whole of Caithness (Caithness Horizons), it was even free! I managed to spend a couple of hours there, took a stroll around town, and finally got the bus back to Wick. By chance the bus stopped right outside Wick library and I jumped off eager to see if it was true about the Crocodile. I found him, a stuffed Indian Crocodile tucked away unloved in one of the library rooms. Well who has the space?


Resident Croc at Wick's Carnegie Library, please don't return your books late!
I spend a lot of time in local libraries on our travels and I was amazed to find Wick library so busy. There were kids and families all over the place. Eventually I found the source of the odd behaviour - the local primary school (ages 4-11) was using one of the library rooms to host an art exhibit of the kids work. I could hardly believe the art was from a primary school, the work was fantastic, used plenty of mediums, and certainly nothing like the crayon drawing and finger painting I did at school!

For my day of travel around Caithness, I'd studied the bus timetables and it seemed I could take a leisurely pace and still see everywhere I'd planed - all for a £6.20 day rider ticket. Of course that only works if the first bus doesn't just drive right by you. The prospect of waiting 2 hours for the next one to drive right be my did not appeal, so I set off and hiked with my thumb out! Yes I managed the whole day with 1 bus ride and 3 separate locals moving me along. I met more interesting people including one older chatty local I could barely understand, and a lady just back from sailing a tall ship in Spain who kept her sailboat at Dunstaffnage (where Kyle and I had spent so much time) on the west coast of Scotland.

I guess you could say I’m warming to Wick and Caithness. It’s still grey, but they assure me that it looks better in the summer once the flower beds are in full glory. The council workers seem to be preparing many of them now and in the mean time there are plenty of bright yellow daffodils in the parks. The streets still seem very grey, and the rain doesn’t brighten that up one bit.

Uh… Wick

[Kyle]The time came for us to leave Helmsdale. We used a trip across town to drop off our recycling as an excuse to take a farewell stroll through the little village we have come to like so well. I always get a little melancholy upon leaving a place I like, particularly if I have no plan to return in the foreseeable future. I feel so fortunate that, with our lifestyle, we are able to see and spend quality time in places off the normal tourist path that we otherwise wouldn’t ever see. The harbormaster, Alex Jappy, stood on the opposite break wall and wished us bon voyage. He also said he was sorry we had to go to Wick.

The sail was very nice. We stayed within a mile of shore, where a tailwind and a following current pushed us past cliffs of red stone capped with green turf. We flew full main and screacher. There was one brief period of about thirty minutes in the middle where the wind just wouldn’t decide which direction to blow from or how strong. We would get the sails set and as soon as the boat started moving, everything had to be redone or undone, but it passed. Soon after, the wind returned to a nice reliable tailwind for the rest of the way. The rain that we thought we would be spending the day sailing through held off until we were secure at the dock.

Right at the low tide, just before the current switched, we arrived at Wick. The harbor is enormous and heavily blockaded against the North Sea swell. It has the feeling of a big fort that has been flooded. We motored through a small entrance into the harbor, then through another small entrance into an even better protected inner harbor. It was completely calm and flat in there.

Before we arrived, Maryanne had phoned the harbormaster, Malcolm, to tell him we'd be arriving after hours and to ask where he wanted us to tie up. He told her anywhere would be okay. Once we powered through the second entrance and the inner harbor spread out before us, we understood. We need not have worried. The entire marina had less than a handful of fishing boats and us. We picked a slip in the middle of a completely deserted finger of slips and tied up.


Wick Harbour - still early in the season
Malcolm, who otherwise had things to do that night (it was 7pm), graciously came out to give us a gate and bathroom key so that we would not be trapped aboard the boat. With our new freedom we decided to have a quick orientation walk around Wick.

I finally understood what Alex Jappy meant. Wick is bleak. Wick is grim. This place, particularly in an overcast sky, feels like half Dickens novel, half Batman’s Gotham. Three and four story buildings made of gray stone loom over gray streets. No window boxes or spindly trees interrupt the transition between gray building and gray sidewalk and gray asphalt. Or, for that matter, even the heavy gray sky. The eeriest thing about the place is that it’s so empty. A place this size should have way more people milling around but it just doesn’t. I had a certain uncomfortable feeling of conspicuousness as we roamed the preternaturally quiet streets all alone. It seemed the perfect setting for a Stephen King novel. I told Maryanne I wouldn’t have been surprised to turn a corner and find Shawshank Prison standing there before us. Even though it’s not, the place seems covered with coal dust. The recession has hit especially hard here. Every business that we saw looked as if they needed three more customers today or they would be going out of business tomorrow.

The thing is, In spite of all of this, I kind of like Wick. It doesn’t take long before that feeling of isolation turns into a certain comfort about having the whole place to ourselves. This place could not possibly be on any sensible tourist’s itinerary, yet I felt a certain privilege at being in this neglected corner while all of the other tourists are busy snapping pictures of The Scott monument in Edinburgh.

Many years ago, before I even met Maryanne, The first night I ever spent in Scotland was in Wick. This was not because I wanted to see Wick, particularly. I was headed for the Orkneys. The ferry left before the train arrived, so I needed somewhere nearby and randomly chose Wick. I got in late and left early. I never got a look at the place or a sense of it, but I was excited at returning nonetheless, the circle being complete and all that.

It’s not all depressing. Everybody we’ve met here has been super nice. On our first walk, a man called out to us from the sidewalk of a nearby pub and asked if we were the Americans. News travels fast, huh? It turned out he was working on a survey boat called the Chartwell and had seen us come in. He and Maryanne talked shop for a bit (she had done seabed mapping for her last dissertation) and then he gave us a five minute run-down of what’s worthwhile and what we should skip within the town.

The harbormaster, Malcolm, who, like everybody else, is surprised that we plan to spend more than one night in Wick, couldn’t be friendlier. We are already being treated like long-lost family. Without us even having to ask, he gave us the best deal he could for our stay. Our initial conversation with him reminded me of the guys in Crosshaven, Ireland. He can’t do enough for us. We need diesel - no problem. How about kerosene for the heater (hard to find) – he’ll get it. We need a part – he’ll bring it to work with him tomorrow. The guy on Chartwell said he asked him if there was a grocery store nearby and Malcolm’s response was, leave him a list, it’ll be waiting for you on the dock tomorrow.

Feeling like we really needed to pace ourselves with all that Wick has to offer, we got a late start and headed for the Old Pulteney distillery for an afternoon tour the next day. We were, of course, the only two in attendance. The tour was really well done- definitely one of the best we’ve seen. All of that experience with tours means we had a good time stumping our guide (who was very sweet) with questions. Actually, Maryanne asked all of the good questions – “How does the length of time you leave the wash in the washback affect the quality of the flavour?) I got left with the bottom of the barrel questions – “So… these floors….cement, huh?” Maryanne: “No, Dear, it’s Concrete. Cement is just the binder. It’s mixed with sand or gravel and water to make concrete.” {Maryanne: I just wanted to say that this never happened, my husband has a very over active imagination some days... :-) }.

“Right, where’s the tasting room? That’s a good one.”


Old Pulteney Distillery, where we felt the pull to partake in a tour and a tasting
It is a very nice whisky. I had been looking forward to it since first tasting it on the Caledonian Canal at The Eagle pub in Laggan a week earlier.

Following that, we had a more detailed orientation stroll around. The sun was out along with a few more people and Wick seemed slightly more cheery. We found a nearby grocery and, with careful shopping, managed to get a dinner of a giant loaf of bread and a big salad for only 50p. The cheapskate in me likes that.

[Maryanne]I intend to fully explore Wick and the surrounding area. And I shall have a busy schedule to do it all (and the other jobs for the boat) while Kyle is off at work. Already we've discovered links to many famous names.

• Thomas Telford is prominent again (he designed and built Pulteneytown, the harbour area of Wick - he even built the channel that transports the water from the local loch to the distillery; a man with priorities).
  
• There are also two LS Lowry paintings of wick scenes. Lowry was the artist referred to in the '77 song "Matchstalk Men and Matchstalk Cats and Dogs" by the one hit wonders Brian & Michael.
  
• Writer Robert Louis Stevenson visited (indeed he wrote of Wick, "Wick. You can never have dwelt in a country more unsightly than that part of Caithness", and "... it is one of the meanest of man's towns, and situate certainly on the baldest of God's bays.")

Helmsdale

[Maryanne]Helmsdale is a small village, the modern form of which was purpose built in the early 1800's by the local land owners (The Earl of Sutherland); a place to move tenants from their straths as part of the Highland clearances (once the gentry discovered that sheep farming was more profitable, and those darn Highlanders were in the way!). The Sutherland family which owned the area (although lived in London) decided to create the harbour and use the population they moved to the village to create a fishing industry. Helmsdale harbour became the biggest herring fishery in Europe (catching over 40% of all British caught herring. In its day it was a very busy harbour indeed. The old harbour, along with an even older castle ruins was pretty much lost once the "new bridge" was built to accommodate the A9.


Pretty little Helmsdale
The original bridge (still standing, and still in use) across the river was designed and built by Thomas Telford (yes, the same guy that designed and built the Caledonian Canal - we are seeing a LOT of Telford's work lately! The town even has it's own railway station and 2 football teams. There was a short lived gold rush nearby (you can still pan for gold and might even find a bit of gold dust for your efforts), and as we've mentioned before there is impressive salmon fishing here too. Despite all it seems to offer, it feels very much off the beaten path. When we arrived Kyle struggled to understand some of what the Harbour master was saying (despite it being a mild Scottish accent). I joked Kyle was still learning Scottish, and the harbour master warned us that there was Scottish, and then there was "Helmy"; we had much to learn.

Helmsdale, as a place name, conjures up a Yorkshire location for Maryanne, not Scottish sounding at all (Glens are much more Scottish sounding than Dales)! However it seems Helmsdale is based on old Norse, and hints at its Viking settlement past. The area has been named Helmsdale since the 13th century.

[Kyle]The weather was such that we knew we were going to be based in Helmsdale for a couple of days before decent sailing conditions for moving on North. This provided a perfect opportunity for a guilt free sleep in; we got up mid morning and were pottering about the boat, drinking coffee and enjoying a lazy breakfast when the Harbour Master showed up to collect his fees. We were in luck; he offered us a special rate, with 2 nights for the price of one. He didn’t know the exact rate for us, so after a bit of small talk Maryanne asked him if it was OK to go to his office later to pay the dues? A look came over his face that made her think that was not good, she asked is there something you needed to do? Would another time be better? He sheepishly lowered his head and said no, they weren’t very busy at all right now. Once we finished with our long slow breakfast, we paid our dues and then did EVERYTHING there is to do in Helmsdale (well, practically everything; we did not play golf).

The first thing I did, of course, was to look at the steepest road I could see from the boat, and head off to climb it. Maryanne gave me “the look” but followed along anyway, providing me with wonderful company. As we climbed our way upwards to get longer and longer views of the surrounding area.


We spotted this little cutie on our morning hike - take a good look at those feet, he did not seem to want to move off the sun heated road surface, and who can blame him eh?
Once satisfied that altitude progress was no longer possible on our current route, we turned around and made our way back to Helmsdale where, now hungry, we visited what is (reputedly) one of the best Fish and Chip shops in Britain (or one with great marketing at least). Clarissa Dixon Wright, of Two Fat Ladies fame, says that La Mirage in Helmsdale is definitely in my top six. I’m not sure I would put it in my Top 6 but it was food in a too generous helping, inexpensive, and we were hungry – problem solved.

After our late lunch, we headed for the Timespan museum, and spent a few hours there. There we found exhibits covering the history of Scotland, particularly the Sutherland region, and Helmsdale in particular, there was also some impressive glass work in an upstairs gallery. It was very well done and we learned a great deal; we were both impressed with the quality of the exhibits given such an off the path town – they were doing a great job and we were glad to enjoy it. Tired from the hike and the standing around looking at exhibits and art work, I was ready to call it a day, but there was one more thing I wanted to do. We had noticed the beginning of a coastal path heading North and wanted to discover just how far it went. We stopped by the visitor center looking for a map or guide for the trail; here the lady that popped up apologized they were out of printed maps, but she would draw us one for a circular hike that started along that same coastal path, climbed Navidale Hill, and returned via the West of the town.

We stopped by first at Footprint, it was low tide and we wanted to check on the water depth. All was well, Footprint seemed to be the only boat completely afloat. We picked up a soda and a granola bar to keep us going. On our way out, we spotted the Harbour Master standing on the break wall, and went over to find a crew dredging. The water was so shallow that they just drove a dump truck and a digger out into the river and start digging. Neither of us had ever seen such a dredging operation (normally it is done from a boat or barge), and the Harbour Master assured us that they should not normally be able to do it this way either! Dredging was long overdue it seemed. We made a mental note why it was important NOT to leave anywhere near low tide.


Dredging operations at low tide - Yikes!
We followed the path along the coast and in a fairly short time were rewarded with views of Navidale Bay with its cobbled beach, kelp filled sea (much exposed at low tide) and a backdrop of cliffs. The path backed on itself and climbed the hill to an old cemetery set beside a picturesque stream and with beautiful sea views. The path then briefly joined the A9 road, and broke off to head up Navidale Hill. The trail started on a grassy path lined thick with gorse bushes. Early on we reached a junction not indicated on our hand drawn map; the choice was to continue along a mild slope, or climb fast and steep up the hill, naturally I chose straight up, Maryanne reluctantly followed. The path took us directly to the top of the hill, above the gorse line and into the heather and peat. Views of the village below, the valley and the coastline made it well worth the effort. Maryanne found a path to the west and forged on, but as we left the gorse and approached the top progress was made difficult due to buffeting by very heavy winds. Winds were so strong that we had trouble staying on the trail. The wind, fortunately blowing up hill, kept pushing us off the trail and into the heather; we had to struggle (even with gravity on our side) to make it back down. We had no wind instruments (both of us wished we had our little portable meter) but we both felt the wind had to be at least 60mph – we could barely stand in it. We forged along the ridge top for a while, until it became apparent that the trail was leading too far away from the town, and still making no effort to descended – it could be heading for the west coast as far as we could tell, we’d made a wrong turn. We backtracked, and with great effort in the wind, returned to our original junction to find the correct trail, a nice wide grassy trail, walled by thick gorse in full yellow flower again. A mile or so later we found ourselves deposited on a proper road, leading back into town. Having hiked much more than we planned that day, and feeling no guilt now for our earlier Fish and Chips, we happily made our way back to Footprint, and flopped down on our settees for a well needed rest.


Late afternoon Hike - coast and hill tops - windy, windy, and with plenty of gorse