It is a wild, thinly inhabited section—this strangely named Sutherland—lying a thousand miles nearer the midnight sun than does New York City; but its silver lochs, its clear, dashing streams and its unrivalled vistas of blue ocean and bold, rugged islands and highlands will reward the motorist who elects to brave its stony trails and forbiddingly steep hills. Despite its loneliness and remoteness, it is not without historic and romantic attractions and its sternly simple people widely scattered throughout its dreary wastes in bleak little villages or solitary shepherd cottages, are none the less interesting and pleasant to meet and know. The transient wayfarer can hardly conceive how it is possible for the natives to wrest a living from the barren hills and perhaps it does not come so much from the land as from the cold gray ocean that is everywhere only a little distance away. Fishing is the chief industry of the coast villages, while the isolated huts in the hills are usually the homes of shepherds. The population of Sutherland The name Sutherland—for the most northerly shire of a country which approaches the midnight sun—strikes one queerly; a Teutonic name for the most distinctly Celtic county in Scotland—both anomalies to puzzle the uninformed. But it was indeed the “land of the south” to the Norsemen who approached Scotland from the north, and landing on the shores of Caithness, they styled the bleak hills to the south as “Sudrland.” There was We leave the pleasant city of Inverness on a gray misty morning upon—I was going to say—our “Highland tour.” But Inverness itself is well beyond the northern limit of the Highland region of Scott and the wayfaring stranger in Scotland to-day can hardly realize that the activities of Rob Roy were mostly within fifty miles of Glasgow. A hundred years ago the country north of the Great Glen was as remote from the center of life in Scotland as though a sea swept between. To-day we think of everything beyond Stirling or Dundee as the “Wild Scottish Highlands,” and I may as well For the first half hour the splendid road is obscured by a lowering fog which, to our delight, begins to break away just as we come to Cromarty Firth, which we follow for some dozen miles. The victorious sunlight reveals an entrancing scene; on the one hand the opalescent waters of the firth, with the low green hills beyond, and on the other the countryside is ablaze with the yellow broom. Dingwall, at the head of the firth, is a clean, thriving town, quite at variance with our preconceived ideas of the wild Highlands; and a like revelation awaits us at Tain, with its splendid inn where we pause for luncheon on our return a few days later. It is built of rough gray stone and its internal appointments as well as its service are well in keeping with its imposing exterior. But an excellent inn, seemingly out of all proportion to the needs of a town or the surrounding country, need surprise no one in Scotland—such, indeed, is the rule rather than the exception. At Bonar Bridge—the little town no doubt takes its name from the sturdy structure spanning Dornoch Firth—we cross into Sutherland and for the next hundred miles we are seldom out of sight of the sea. An ideal day we have for such a journey; In a sheltered nook by the ocean, which here ripples at the foot of a bleak hill, sits Golspie, the first village of any note after crossing Dornoch Firth. It has little to entitle it to distinction besides its connection with Dunrobin Castle—the great Gothic pile that looms above it. Dunrobin is the seat of the Duke of Sutherland and Golspie is only the hamlet of retainers and tradesmen that usually attaches It is of little consequence that luncheon time is two hours past; the Scottish inn keeps open house all day and the well-stocked kitchen and sideboard stand ready to serve the wayfarer whenever he arrives. The sideboard, with its roast beef, mutton and fowls, would of itself furnish a substantial repast; and when this is supplemented by a salad, two or three vegetables, including the inevitable boiled potatoes, with a tart or pudding for dessert, one would have to be more particular than a hungry motorist to find fault. The landlady personally looks after our needs—which adds still more to the homelikeness of the inn—and as we take our leave we express our appreciation of the entertainment “Would you believe that the roses bloom on this wall in December? Indeed, they do, for Golspie is so sheltered by the hills and the climate is so tempered by the ocean currents that we never have really severe weather.” And this is nearly a thousand miles north of the latitude of New York City! The day is too far advanced to admit of a visit to Dunrobin Castle, despite the lure of its thousand years of eventful history. It stands on a commanding eminence overlooking the sea, its pinnacled turrets and battlements sharply fretted against the sky. Its style savors of the French chateau, though there are enough old Scottish details to redeem it from the domination of the foreign type, and, altogether, it is one of the stateliest of the homes of the Highland nobility. It has been in the unbroken possession of the present family for nearly a thousand years, having been originally built by Robert, Thane of Sutherland, in 1098. Its isolation no doubt saved it from the endless sieges and consequent ruin that so many ancient strongholds underwent. Wick is celebrated for its herring fisheries, upon which nearly the whole population of about twelve thousand is directly or indirectly dependent. It is the largest town north of Inverness and of some commercial importance. The artificial harbor was Logically, Wick should mark the conclusion of our day’s journey, which is of unusual length, and the huge Station Hotel is not uninviting, but we hasten farther, to fare—so far as accommodations are concerned—very considerably worse. John O’Groats is our destination. We have long been fascinated by the odd name at the far northern extremity of the map of Scotland—a fascination increased by the recurrence of the name in Scotch song and story—and it pleases our fancy to pass the night at John O’Groats. A friendly officer assures us that we will find an excellent hotel at our goal and with visions of a well-ordered resort awaiting our arrival we soon cover the dozen or more miles of level though bumpy road between Wick and the Scotch Ultima Thule. The country is green and prosperous—no hint of the rocky hills A half mile from the tiny village of John O’Groats—a dozen or more low stone huts—we come to the hotel and our spirits sink as we look about us. A small two-story building with an octagonal tower faces the lonely sea and it is soon evident that we are the sole guests for the night. Two unattractive young women apparently constitute the entire force of the inn; they are manageresses, cooks, waitresses, chambermaids and even “porteresses,” if I may use such a word, for they proceed to remove our baggage and to carry it to our room. This is in the octagonal tower, fronting on the ocean, and is clean and orderly; but the dinner which our fair hostesses set forth precludes any danger of gormandizing, ravenously hungry though we happen to be. The dining-room occupies the first floor of the octagonal tower, which stands on the supposed site of the original house of John O’Groat, or John de Groote, the Dutchman whose fame is commemorated by a tradition which one must hear as a matter of course if he visits the spot. HOTEL, JOHN O’GROATS John de Groote, a wealthy Hollander, is supposed to have established himself in Caithness in the time of James IV. to engage in commerce with One will hardly find a lonelier or more melancholy scene—at least so it seems to us this evening—than the wide sweep of water confronting us At the risk of being set down as heathen by the natives, who observe Sunday even more strictly than their southern brethren, we are early on the road. Our breakfast, hastily prepared by our hostesses, gives us added incentive for severing relations with John O’Groats. We settle our modest score—our inn has the merit of cheapness, at least—act as our own porter—saving a shilling thereby—and soon sally forth on the fine road to Thurso. But the scene changes—almost suddenly. Leaving the low, green meadows of western Caithness, we plunge into the dark, barren hills of Sutherland—a country as lonely and forbidding as any to be found within the four seas that encircle Britain. The road—splendid for a dozen miles out of Thurso—degenerates into a rough, rock-strewn trail that winds among the hills, often with steep grades and sharp turns. At some points where the road branches a weather-worn stone gives an almost illegible direction and at others there is nothing to assist the puzzled traveler. At one of these it seems clear to us that the right-hand road must lead to Tongue, and with some misgiving we take it. There is absolutely no human being in sight—an “The road to Tongue? Ah, an’ it’s a peety. Ye have ta’en the wrang turn and the road ye are on leads to—just nowhere.” We thank him and carefully pilot our car backward for half a mile to find a practicable place to turn about. ACKERGILL HARBOUR, CAITHNESS We have passed a few little hamlets since we left Thurso—Melvich, Strathy and Bettyhill—each made up of a few stone huts thatched with boughs or underbrush of some kind and though cleanly and decent, their appearance is poverty-stricken in the extreme. At Bettyhill we pass many people laboriously climbing the long hill to the kirk which stands bleakly on the summit—the entire population, old and young, appears to be going to the service. They are a civil, kindly folk, always courteous and obliging in their response to our inquiries, though we think we can detect a latent “With all their dreariness there is something impressive in these long stretches of lonely moorland, something of the same feeling that comes over one, you fancy, in the Sahara. As a stranger you will probably see them in the summertime. There is then the endless weird light of the northern sunrise and sunset, there is the charm of the sunlight; and nature using such magic effects is potent to infuse strange attractions into the wilderness itself. But the infinite gloom of the days of winter, the long periods of darkness, the rain-cloud and the storm-cloud sweeping at their will over the wild moorland without any mountain screen to break the storm! Can you wonder that men who spend their lives amid such scenes become gloomy and taciturn, and that sadness seems inseparable from such surroundings, It is well past noon when the blue waters of the Kyle of Tongue flash through the rugged notches of the hills and a few furlongs along the shore bring us to the village of Tongue, with its hospitable inn. Though Tongue is fifty miles from the nearest railway station, enough lovers of the wild come here to make this pleasant, well-ordered inn a possibility. We find it very attractive inside; the July day is fresh and clear but chilly enough to make the fire burning in the diminutive grate in the drawing-room very acceptable to us who have never become really acclimated in Britain. But the same fire is evidently intended to be more ornamental than useful, for the supply of coals is exceedingly limited and they are fed into the grate in homeopathic doses. An Australian lady—who with her husband, we learn later, is on a honeymoon tour of Scotland—is even more sensitive to the chill than ourselves and ends the matter by dumping the contents of the scuttle on the fire and, like Oliver Twist, calling for more. Oliver’s request possibly did not create greater consternation among his superiors than this demand dismayed our hostess, for coals might well be sold by troy instead of avoirdupois in Tongue. The supply must come At dinner our host, a hale, full-bearded Scotchman, sits at the head of the table and carves for his guests in truly patriarchal style. The meal is a satisfying one, well-cooked and served; the linen is snowy white and the silver carefully polished. We find the hotel just as satisfactory throughout; the rooms are clean and well-ordered and the whole place has a homelike air. It is evidently a haven for fishermen during the summer season and these probably constitute the greater number of guests. The entrance hall is garnished with many trophies of rod and gun and, altogether, we may count Tongue Inn a unique and pleasant lodge in a lonely land. The following day—it is our own national holiday—we strike southward through the Sutherland moors. The country is bleak and unattractive, though the road proves better than we expected. For several miles it closely follows the sedgy shores of Loch Loyal, a clear, shimmering sheet of water a mile in width, set in a depression of the moorland Lairg is the only village on the way, a group of cottages clustered about an immense hotel which is one of the noted Scotch resorts for fishermen. It is situated at the southern extremity of Loch Shin, where, strange to say, fishing is free—not a common state of affairs with the Scotch lochs. It is famous for its trout and salmon, though it is decidedly lacking in picturesqueness, one writer describing it as “little better than a huge ditch.” GLEN AFFRICK, NEAR INVERNESS From Bonar Bridge southward we retrace the broad, level road that we followed out of Inverness, and from the opposite direction the green and thriving countryside presents quite a new aspect. We have often remarked that it is seldom a hardship to retrace our way over a road through an interesting country. The different viewpoint is sure to reveal beauties that we have missed before. One |