Like most mornings on this journey, I awoke in the early hours, but not before the Scottish dawn. Though the clock registered a “5” as it’s first digit, a dim glow emanated from the curtained windows. After a delicious stretch, I rose to pull back the drapes to reveal – white. A mist completely enveloped the vast stone-partitioned hills that, on previous window visits, composed the lovely view from my Stromness sanctuary.
“Go back to bed, Abby, nothing to see here,” the mist seemed to say. So I did. When I re-arose two hours later, a completely different scene greeted my day. Clouds hugged, rather than obscured, the distant hills and sea. I decided to get an early start to allow time for a proper “goodbye” to Brinkies Brae.
The Brae
In only a few minutes, I dressed and repacked my belongings strategically into my mini-suitcase (things I wouldn’t need on the ferry and train), my mini backpack (valuables that I couldn’t replace, at least not easily), and my standard backpack (a sweater, a quirky Bill Bryson book, rain jacket and any straggling items I couldn’t squeeze into my thankfully expandable suitcase). I descended the stairs and went out the front door to embrace the day and the brae.
A welcoming breeze cooled my trek up to the brae’s crest. The dewy grass dampened my weary hiking shoes, but no worries – I had those Rick Steve’s recommended gallon ziploc bags back in my room to store them dryly away in my pack. Today, my feet would have a hiking vacation and lounge in my Nairn-bought sneakers during my onward journey. The clouds shifted and sunbeams illuminated my horse friend and his mates in their equine glory.
As I approached the top, I found that I was not alone. A bearded youth poured bottled water over a toothbrush near a small tent. I bid him good morning and asked how the night went. In further conversation, I learned that he had arrived on the evening ferry and then “walked up until there were no more houses and put up (his) tent.”
After trading stories on worthy hikes, he on the Isle of Skye and me on Orkney, I wished him fun travels and descended towards the guesthouse and my breakfast.
The traveler’s words about his arrival echoed all the way down. I so wanted to have the freedom to stay and go as I liked without deadlines or restrictions or the next train booked. To be someone who could just arrive at a new destination, look around and walk until I found a beautiful place to pitch my tent.
As I walked on, my heart sank, just a little, as I admitted I just wasn’t a person who could do this. At least not without extreme angst about potential downpours or grumpy farmers with pitchforks. Or a rather confused family. Plus I acknowledged my extreme affinity for a cozy bed and a hot shower. And an amazing breakfast awaiting me.
On this anticipatory note, I entered the guesthouse and its breakfast room to find the pair from the day before. They were giddy, declaring that they were moving to Orkney! There was a wonderful folk festival in May each year, they knew people on the island, and they could deal with scant daylight hours in the winter.
I pondered the wisdom of moving somewhere with cobblestone streets and dangerously slippery alleyways when one’s mobility depended upon a walker, but I admired the spirit of adventure. The woman paused and looked over her shoulder. Who she was afraid of overhearing, I do not know. She whispered, “His family doesn’t know yet.” Aha! They are a couple, I mused. Otherwise, it would just be “our” family. Mystery solved.
Yvonne came in and the man ordered porridge. I kid you not. What was wrong with this guy? I, of course, stuck with the continental. This was actually very unusual for me. I usually like to try everything and rarely order the same thing twice. But there was no beating this breakfast, and I wasn’t going to waste my last chance to experience Yvonne’s morning masterpiece. As it turned out, I was offered and did sample a bit of the porridge as well. It was predictable and nourishing, but I lit up when my Orcadian smorgasbord arrived.
Yvonne drove a tiny Fiat yet was going to transport all three of us to the ferry. While I was prepared for departure early (my German husband would be shocked and amazed), the soon-to-be Stromness suburbanites were dawdling something fierce.
I assisted the flustered hostess with depleting her vehicle of all contents. Finally, the elderly woman waddled to the car. The trunk on this Fiat was tiny. The walker went in first which left just enough room for my minuscule suitcase (maybe I could forgive RyanAir and myself for my initial assessment of a poor luggage choice) and the woman’s Vera Bradley-esque tote which was thankfully the only bag used between the pair.
I got into the back, ducking under the handlebars of the walker and squeezing my backpack onto my lap. The husband plopped down next to me and did the same as if this was an everyday occurrence. In this crouched crash position, we braced ourselves through the twists and turns of the sometimes cobbled streets to the ferry terminal.
It was with relief that I extracted myself from the vehicle, thanked Yvonne profusely for her outstanding hospitality, wished my companions well and entered the terminal to collect my reserved ticket.
The Ferry
By this time, I knew the drill, secured my ticket, checked my suitcase and queued to enter the gangway once the entrance opened. When the official unlocked the door, I purposefully strode aboard, climbed the brass-railed staircase and claimed a comfy seat hugging a round table next to a picture window. Given all the signage and persistent announcements about staying with luggage, I asked the hiker next to me if she would “freak out” if I left my pack at my seat to use the toilet (I actually used the word, “toilet,” this time, awkward as it was). She barely looked up from her wifi-powered phone to shake her head.
I used the facilities and returned to my perch. For this 90-minute journey, I vacillated between typing into my keyboard enhanced iPad Mini and catching glimpses of Orcadian isles drifting by.
Midway through the journey, a German dad attempted to lure his teenage crew from their electronics by claiming to have seen a dolphin. After a half-hearted and brief rise to an almost standing position, his daughters sank to their previous states of lap attention and rapid thumb movements. I didn’t see the dolphins either. Though I did stand fully upright and look for a bit longer.
As we approached the Scrabster port, I quickly packed up the few items I’d pulled out of my bag, reinserted my mini pack into my larger one, and headed to claim a front spot near the exit. I only had ½ hour to collect my bag, find my scheduled taxi, and scuttle 10 minutes away to catch the train that would return me to Inverness. In the event I missed the connection, I would spend three hours in middle-of-nowhere-Thurso, need to buy a new full price train ticket and jeopardize my B&B reservation. It was a tight connection, but both the ferry line and taxi emailers wrote that it shouldn’t be a problem.
When the portal opened, I effortlessly descended the stairs and located the luggage claim. The ferry was a large one, the size of a small cruise ship. The luggage for the vessel was loaded into a series of small carriages, one of which I had placed my mini suitcase upon back in Stromness. I could see the tractor pulling the baggage train approach. When it halted, a glass roll-up door ground open in front of me. My suitcase was not on the first car, but on the second one. The second door didn’t open.
I peered out toward the tractor, and it was abandoned. Eager backpackers quickly emptied the first car of its huge hiking packs. I was left with a couple who also bewilderingly stared at the inaccessible luggage visible behind door #2. Assessing that I could not possibly squeeze into the gap between the terminal and first cart to gain entry to the second, I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I still had 20 minutes to my Inverness train departure. Surely the tractor driver would return and move the luggage cars forward, so I could get my case.
There was no staff or anyone slightly official looking about. Five minutes went by. I was just going to start a reconnaissance mission to find help when a blond teenage girl swinging a ring of keys strode around the corner, bent to unlock the door, and rolled it upwards. I jumped to grab my bag and ran for the exit where my taxi should be awaiting.
Emerging into the sunshine, I found the Brinkie’s couple emphatically insisting that a taxi driver let them into his vehicle. The driver sighed, relieved, when I arrived and announced that I was “Abby.” Another driver waved his arms towards the pair, they relinquished my cab to me, my bag was popped in the “boot,” and we were off. Five minutes to departure.
My cab got a jumpstart on his fellow, and we arrived quickly at the terminal to claim a parking spot right by the track. A small crowd huddled, all squinting to the right. An electric sign apologized that the train would be delayed 15 minutes. Exhale.
The Train
The Brinkie’s couple plodded their way to the platform from a distant drop zone. Now that we were old friends, I asked the woman if I could leave my bag with her to go in search of a bottle of sparkling water. Her partner had left already in search of a loo. I don’t know how she would have protected my bag from a thief, though I was pretty certain she could inform a conductor that it wasn’t left by a terrorist.
The station had no shop or vending machine. Come to think of it, I don’t think I had seen a vending machine since I landed in the UK. Thank goodness for the amazing tea trolley service on the trains. I would buy my sparkling water from a smiling hostess along with a pastry and perhaps even some ready made hot black tea from a dispenser (a dispenser much larger, I might add, than that for coffee. I loved this tea-prioritizing land). With no other option, I returned to my platform perch and made small talk until the train arrived.
When it did, though I was certain from the small gathering that this would be a sit-where-you-want journey, I waved to the Brinkie’s pair and made my way to my assigned car and an empty table window seat on the “view” side of the train. I spread out, plugged my iPad Mini into the convenient socket, and resumed my writing.
Just before the train jerked to its departure, a woman with long gray hair plopped down across from me and said, “I’m Rosemary.”
I said hello and nodded to her smiling companions who took the seats at the table across the aisle. I went back to documenting the occasions of my Orcadian escapades. Or at least tried to. I wrote a paragraph, looked at some photos on my phone for inspiration, and started typing again.
Then,
“Where are you from?”
“Michigan. In the States.” I went back to typing.
“I’m from Tasmania.”
“That’s fun. You’re a long way from home.” I typed two words.
“Yes, I’m traveling with my sister and her husband. We just went up to Thurso. Did you go over to Orkney? I wanted to go there, but it wasn’t up to me.”
I gave up. A conversation during the four hour train trek would offer a nice break. I described my time in Stromness and asked about her travel plans. She too would overnight in Inverness and take the Kyle of Lochalsh train the next morning.
I noted that the tea cart seemed to be delayed. Rosemary said that there wasn’t likely one on our trip if it hadn’t shown up yet. This was somehow very disturbing. Maybe the Royal Highland Hotel by the Inverness train station would still be serving cream tea when I arrived. But then I would be late for checking in to my B&B. Errrrrr.
In this state, I returned to writing for a bit. Rosemary just couldn’t take it.
“Do you have kids?”
After we exchanged our life details, there was a pause in the conversation. Eventually, I got up the nerve to ask the obvious question.
“So, do you actually have Tasmanian devils? Like in the cartoons?”
“Oh yes. Once even in the house in the middle of the night. The dog was barking crazy outside. I went to the kitchen and saw something quivering on the window sill. I ran back to the bedroom and shook my husband. ‘There’s a devil in the house!’ He didn’t move and said, ‘then get it out.’ I went back to the kitchen. The devil didn’t want to come inside. It was trapped by the dog. I went out and dragged the dog towards the door. The devil jumped into the night.”
“Wow. That’s a pretty good story. I don’t think there are too many people who have yelled ‘There’s a devil in the house!’ and actually had one there.”
I mentioned again that it would really have been nice to have a tea cart.
I was pretty surly about the missing treat conveyor and its grinning attendant. On all my other train journeys thus far on this trip, I’d been prepared with an abundance of sweets and drinks and waived away the cart. Now that I needed it, it was mysteriously missing.
“Would you like some of this?” Rosemary held out half of the pasty that had just been passed across the aisle. Though this was exceptionally kind, I demurred. I had a mini apple, some refilled water bottles and a few of the Kind bars I had brought from the States and was sick of. I would survive.
And so, I spent several hours talking with Rosemary. She tried to remember the name of the beautiful “weed” I’d been admiring railside since arriving in Scotland. It grew in towers of pink blooms along most roads and the rail lines. It was something “herb.” I also learned that the oil rigs I saw in the waters out the windows were hauled in from the North Sea to be recycled.
Upon arrival at the Inverness Station, I gathered my accouterments and bid Rosemary and her companions a good journey. I exited the station looking longingly at the triangle board outside the hotel touting their lovely cream tea. With great restraint, I continued on my way, pulling from my pocket the folded directions printed a lifetime ago back in Michigan.
The Lodge
I have to say, the Craigside Lodge’s directions were excellent. From the main entrance of the train station, one could not possibly get lost if following them. I cut across the car park and turned onto Academy Street. I passed the taxi stand on the right and The Filling Station restaurant on the left. From there, I crossed over to Inglis Street which led to High Street which led to the Market Brae stairs next to the Royal Bank of Scotland. You get the idea.
When I approached the Market Brae stairway, all remnants of self-reproach about not packing a larger suitcase disappeared. I contemplated the 14 steps, a small landing, and then 8 more steps in view. I hoisted my thankfully teeny tiny suitcase up these and turned left to mount another set of 8 steps, a landing, 5 steps, another landing, 8 steps, one more landing, 8 steps and finally the summit. No extra pair of shoes or a book would be worth hauling up a larger, heavier suitcase.
The Craigside Lodge was recommended in the torn out pages of my Rick Steve’s guidebook. It is a stone manor with a view upon the Inverness Castle and looked quite nice from the exterior.
Upon my 5:15 p.m. entry, my hostess swooped down the stairs and said, without introduction, “Are you Abby?” I verified my identity. She grabbed my suitcase and sprinted up the stairs to the second floor. I hastened to follow. A flustered tour of my room and private bath ensued, and she bolted for the door.
Before she made it, I blurted a request for restaurant tips and asked if it was too late to try to see those much desired dolphins frolicking off the distant shores of the Black Isle. The retreating figure paused to emphasize that The Rajah Indian restaurant was the best ethnic food in town, it was too late for dolphins, and the river walk was lovely and doable in an evening after dinner. She was gone.
I surveyed my abode and was delighted to spot some biscuits in the tea alcove next to the window. Finally!
After refreshment and organization of my small quantity of belongings, I set about posting my adventures from Nairn (I had fallen behind on my daily posts at this point but was taking notes as I journeyed along).
My method was a bit ad hoc. I wrote on my iPad mini and then cut and paste this text into my WordPress blogging site online. There I did a final edit, saved the draft and logged off the site. I then brought the website back up on my phone and uploaded photos. So far this system had been going rather well.
I was almost finished and happy to be posting again when I misentered something. I don’t know what I did and had yet to find an “undo” button. All of my text doubled throughout the post. When I tried to delete the duplicated portions, they disappeared for a moment and then reappeared.
Alas, after many subsequent attempts and expletives, I finally deleted the whole mess and began the process from the start. My planned hour of pre-dinner reclining was usurped by the technological failings of this blogging novice.
When all was right in the WordPress world, I set off to find The Rajah.
The Rajah
I have to say that Inverness has a bad rap. The guidebooks describe it as an “inevitable” stop on a journey to the Highlands, explain how to quickly leave the city to see the nearby sites and almost apologize for there not being a better option for a place to lay your weary head (which did lead me to choose to stay in Nairn previously).
But really, “Humble Inverness” is a remarkably welcoming locale for an overnight stop. First, it is an easy town to navigate. Once the location of the River Ness, the castle, and the famous Hootananny pub are pinpointed, everything else falls into place. The small train station is a breeze to maneuver, the cobbled streets are picturesque, and how bad can a place be that has a tree-lined river walk? And Indian food?
The B&B had a framed map of Inverness on the wall outside my room. My photo of said map led me effortlessly to my destination.
The Rajah was down a side street near Hootenanny. I was careful to ensure I was in the right spot. My hostess, as she retreated down the stairs, had warned vigorously over her shoulder not to mistake the Indian restaurant on the main drag as my dining spot. It wasn’t nearly as good.
I passed under a neon minaret and descended stairs to the underground dining area. A middle-aged Indian man welcomed me with a warm smile. After my stated “one,” he led me without hesitation to a table with a view of the entire restaurant. Dimly lit, the antiques gathered from the far reaches of the Indian subcontinent (or, perhaps, from the Scottish version of Pier 1) created an atmosphere of relaxed anticipation. I ordered a cider and began my perusal of the menu. Chicken Masala and some garlic naan bread would do nicely.
A boy of about 10 years made it his mission to keep me well hydrated. My water glass and carafe were beaded from the consistently frigid water inside. I was an honored guest.
As I awaited my culinary treats, a couple were seated in the corner booth to my left. The blond woman was flustered. She had never been in an Indian restaurant, let alone one in Scotland. Her companion smiled complacently and said to find something that looked familiar. They spoke in accents hearkening to the vicinity of Kentucky.
My naan, which was about the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter, arrived delightfully warm and garlicky. Soon thereafter came the Chicken Masala. It was red. With a slight pause I realized that I had mistaken the Thai Chicken Massaman dish for Masala. A funny mistake to make in a clearly not-Thai restaurant, but one I had managed to make on at least one previous occasion. No worries. I was asked again if I wanted rice, and declined. While it would have been a nice accompaniment, I already had more food than I could eat in three meals.
The man at the next table left for the toilet, and the woman panicked. I offered her some naan to try. “Are you sure?” I was.
We started talking. The pair were from Tennessee and had been on a whirlwind tour of Ireland. This morning they flew into London and then took a long distance train up to Inverness. Her partner returned just as she was saying she would never do it again. It was her first time in Europe. It was just too foreign, too exhausting and too hard. She introduced herself as “Sam” and her husband as “Craig.”
We exchanged travel itineraries, and I was asked the inevitable question about my soloness. I explained myself and Craig said, “I respect what you are doing . . . “ Which translated from “Southern” means I was crazy.
The waiter arrived and the two fumbled through their order. I finished off my cider and summoned my water boy to request the bill. It was time for my River Ness walk.
The River Ness
By the time I reached the Ness Bridge, it was nearly 8 p.m. but still fully bright outside. Even if not, I had no worries. The path traversing several small isles was lit at night.
I crossed a street, veering up at the castle as I strolled by. A sign ahead pointed towards the “Great Glen Way” and nudged me closer to the Ness bank. I entered a footpath connecting rivers, lochs and canals for 79 miles west all the way to Fort Williams. The view of a massive cathedral across the water must breathe life into the weary feet of the Glen pilgrims.
As I neared the first island, Victorian sandstone homes relinquished their claim on the waterways.
A tiny bridge of swirling wrought iron led to the first isle. The path wound through massive hardwoods, river rapids providing the nature soundtrack. Soon I came upon a white metal bridge and paused midway for a deep breath, relishing the calming gift from the undulating waters below.
The bubbling of the small rapids was joined by distant music floating across the river. Could there be an event at the Eden Court Theatre? The building loomed over the water, the Sydney Opera House of the River Ness.
Once across the bridge, I rested upon one of the many artistic benches offering respite and peaceful meditations to those seeking the sanctuary of the river. I found myself amazed at how safe I felt almost totally alone on this evening stroll, even wishing it darker so that the unlit yet festive lights hanging from the trees would brighten the evening path ahead.
As if sensing my wish, the lights sprang to life adding a bit of glow to my night.
Passing over a green railinged bridge, I soon came to an outcrop that was so scenic that I stopped to sit even though I was not remotely weary and longed to walk on.
Dusk was finally falling. Satisfied with my aquatic fix, I rose and crossed the final white iron bridge to the other side of the river, circling back toward the city center.
The middle schooler in me laughed at a sign ahead. The castle view from this edge of the water was admirable and warranted my brief stop.
As I looped back, the volume of the background music rose. I was happily surprised to see this sign ahead:
What could be more fun than an unexpected pop-up bar on the River Ness? One with amazing music under an illuminated tent with people clapping and dancing. Hootananny, you can wait for a future visit. I’m going here.
I crossed the grass to an opening in the tent. The Amy Henderson Band was giving the crowd a show. This woman actually made the accordion look cool. Strangers linked arms and spun to the music faster and faster until the dancers collapsed laughing onto the picnic benches nearby.
I ordered a “half” Black Isle Blonde and nestled into a corner to watch the show. The singing was everything one could wish for a Celtic Highlands band to play without feeling in the slightest that this was some tourist show. Locals grouped near the fringes, talking about future not-to-miss performances. The stomping musicians created an energy was enough to make this hesitant traveler contemplate joining in the swirling masses, but not quite enough to get me there.
After two songs, Amy apologized that they were done for the night, and the band started packing up. I was content to have stumbled across a musical tidbit just large enough to satisfy my desire whilst recognizing my readiness for a comfy bed.
I continued my journey and passed by the lit Inverness Cathedral. Maintenance workers watered flowering plants hanging from the street lamps, and I was grateful for their efforts to make my day more beautiful. After a leisurely stroll through the balmy evening back to my B&B, I entered and took a few moments to sit and enjoy the view from the breakfast room.
Rick Steve’s, you recommended a good place, and in a not-so-mediocre town.
Great post!
Abby—–Not only are you a gifted writer, you emerged as also somewhat of a poet in this post! Fun to read and travel with you. Greatly enjoyed. Mom