June 10
Inverness to Wick
The promised cloud had appeared by the time that I drew the bedroom curtains. Rain was forecast to arrive during the next few days. Oh bliss.
The Premier Breakfast was big, without being of high quality - just what I would have expected - but as it had to keep me going until dinner time, it was probably what I needed.
Outside, it was dull but warm enough. My hip wasn't feeling too good so I walked gingerly into town. At HSBC they helped me to discover that the problem I thought I had found with my account while I was in Aberdeen didn't actually exist at all. I apologised profusely and continued on my way.
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In many places, it is difficult for the weary traveller to sit down without involving the services of a pub or café. Inverness caters for people such as these and has more benches in the shopping area than in any other town I can recall.
I checked at the station that my train was still running, which it was. The old hotel and office buildings on either side of the station frontage have been retained but the main station has been bowled at some stage. They have kept the excellent war memorial plaque.
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The Victorian Market has a good story to tell, having been burnt down several times in the Victorian era, and some fine roof beams.
Right: The Victorian Market |
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I wandered aimlessly, started to feel really tired under the weight of my pack, and returned to the station. There were signs about Rock Ness, which the staff informed me was a weekend rock festival just out of town. It had finished overnight and thousands of people would be descending on the station so I would be advised to get to the front of the queue. As soon as the train arrived, I joined a small trickle of people boarding.
There was a pair of train spotting anoraks in front of me and a middle aged couple (Australian I overheard) on the other side of the aisle who had been on the train from Aberdeen yesterday. We departed on time and, whilst the train was busy, it wasn't as bad as the guy at the station had suggested.
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It was too good to be true. We travelled about 200 metres and then waited for ten minutes for the late running incoming train - it's a single track line. At the first stop, Beauly, possessor of the shortest platform in the UK, we were 13 minutes late. We had passed the sea and then the Caledonian Canal. The countryside varies considerably, with fields, forests, villages etc lining the route.
Invergordon has an oil platform repair facility and a huge distillery, the latter being on the wrong side of the train for me to photograph. I seem to remember an aluminium smelter when I last visited, about 25 years ago but this was nowhere to be seen. (Research when I got home revealed that it closed in 1981 and had been demolished since I last visited).
I should have said that by Muir of Ord, the second stop, the electronic signs denoting where we were and where we were going etc had packed up. Some aspects of First ScotRail are similar to those of First Great Western!
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After Dingwall, the sun came out to play. I took lots of photos through the window, most of which were terrible. The guard pointed out Carbisdale Castle but, yet again, it was on the wrong side of the train to photograph. I will have to have another go on the return journey. Many of the stations were in a poor state of repair but Golspie looked good. Many of them had small wooden train sets, which served as planters. Dunrobin Castle, a few minutes away, is also grand. It's unusual to find a half timbered station. |
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After Helmsdale, moorland predominated from there to journey's end and we rattled along at a good pace but remained about 18 minutes behind schedule. The sun shone brightly and all looked good.
Left: Lots of moorland |
By Georgemas Junction, we were only about ten minutes late. Encouraged by the guard, I took the opportunity to hop off while the driver changed ends. I took some photos and chatted to the guard. In common with all of the ScotRail employees I encountered, he was both friendly and helpful. I asked when they stopped splitting the train, so that half could go to Thurso, which was what happened on my last trip. The driver was summoned and said that it was in the late '80's.
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Now they follow the same process as at Bourne End, with the driver changing ends and driving to Thurso, then changing again and taking the train into Wick. There was a biting wind on the platform so I thought it wise to prepare a sweater for Wick.
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At Thurso, the train emptied, presumably people were off on the ferry to Orkney or Shetland. As soon as I left the train, I donned my fleece, took some photos in the gloom of the station and headed for the outside. With the sun coming from right behind the station, I decided to leave photos until the morning. |
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I walked down the hill, where I was waylaid by Aunty Jo's friend on my last visit, and found the hotel, Mackays, on the island at the bottom. For a small place, Wick has a lot of traffic so it took a long time to cross the road.
The hotel is on Ebernezer Place, the world's shortest street at 2.06 m. I'm not sure why anyone bothered to measure it but it's probably a good marketing ploy. The hotel was expecting me, it looked smart inside and, having failed to make the lift work, I climbed the stairs to the first floor. The room was old fashioned but clean and well equipped.
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Once armed with a second sweater, I ventured outside, took loads of photos and walked a couple of hundred yards into town. Nothing exciting was happening so I started my exploration at the Wetherspoons pub.
It was huge and had six handpumps, only one of which was working. The dark mild from York was pleasant enough and the crisps should keep me going for the three hours until I have dinner back at the hotel. The menu there looked good and the Rotary Club eats there so it's probably the best in town.
Outside the pub, the sun was hot on one side and the "breeze" off the harbour was bitter on the other.
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The gift shop didn't sell post cards so I walked down to the harbour and looked at the water. From there, I walked into Pulteneytown, originally laid out by Thomas Telford.
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There is some fine industrial architecture here, on a small scale and lots of excellent (to look at) terraced housing. The Heritage Centre closed at 15.45 so I returned to the harbour and viewed it from the other side, where there were lots of small boats.
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One poignant feature was the memorial garden to the people who died in WWII as the result of two air raids in 1940. Eighteen people died in total. Quite surprising for such a small and isolated place. I didn't walk far enough to find the distillery - it was up a steep hill - but I did find the kilt shop. I didn't avail myself of its services. I followed the river bank back to the hotel - it used to be a temperance centre! - and crossed the river bridge again in a vain search for a post card. |
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They had a few at the post office but they were mainly of Highland Cattle.
Remembering that I had seen some cards at the hotel, I gave up on my quest, took a few more photos and walked back. I bought a couple of cards at reception and had my customary lie down and shower before changing for dinner.
The restaurant had pretensions. The smoked trout was tiny but full of flavour and beautifully presented. It didn't seem to be the sort of place in which to produce my large camera so the meal won't be recorded. The Chilean Chardonnay wasn't at all bad. The lamb, local produce, also looked and tasted great. Even the French Carignan/Merlot was good. Finally, the orange and tarragon creme brulee with green tea shortbread was excellent. Some interesting dishes beautifully presented. The restaurant, only about 20 covers, was busy throughout. The food is expensive but there is obviously a market for it. The coffee and home made petit fours appeared and were also good.
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I had another brief walk, took a few more photos and returned to the hotel to pack.