Scotland highs

Nehchal Sandhu

Our 11-week Police Command Course in the UK drew to a close in late October 1988 just as autumn was fading away and wintry conditions were anigh. Each of us had plans to make the best use of the 14-day leave granted by the Government of India. For me, it was decidedly Scotland, having heard about the pristine beauty of its diverse landscapes during our brief official visit to Edinburgh. For my wife, the priority was a coach tour through 10 countries of Europe in as many days. The compromise that was struck allowed less than three days for Scotland.

And so, early next morning, we headed out in a hired Ford Fiesta. In about 90 minutes, we came upon the eastern end of Hadrian’s Wall in ‘Geordie country’, a defensive fortification built by Roman emperor Hadrian around 120 AD to protect Britannia from the ‘barbarians’ of Caledonia. After a short drive, we got to Berwick-upon-Tweed, the last town in England before crossing over into Scotland, with which is associated the apocryphal story that its Mayor had concluded a peace treaty with a Soviet official in the 1960s. Proponents of this version contend that, alongside Great Britain and Ireland, this town of 8,000-odd was named as a distinct territory by Queen Victoria when she declared the Crimean War against Russia in mid-19th century. Skirting Edinburgh’s cobbled streets, I crossed the Firth of Forth (the guttural Scottish pronunciation of which is quite incomprehensible) in the hope of making a pilgrimage to The Royal and Ancient Golf Club at St Andrews, the Mecca of golf, having by then played the game for three decades and more. But that was not to be. Having exhibited forbearance in allowing me to explore several sights on the way, my wife ordained that we go instead to Caithness Glass, which, she had gathered, was a ‘must visit’ for its artistic glassware. High prices of none too striking artefacts put paid to her plans to acquire a souvenir.

Availing of a diversion in central Scotland, we headed towards Pitlochry, a small Victorian town which became a favoured tourist resort after the British royalty acquired Balmoral Castle in the nearby highlands 150 years ago. Edradour Distillery, the smallest licensed one in Scotland with just a couple of employees and thus limited production, and the 300-metre-long salmon ladder, allowing fish to skirt a hydro-electric project, were the key points of interest. The adjacent village, Blair Atholl, situated on flat ground amidst the Grampian Highlands, is the traditional home of the Dukes of Atholl, the chieftains of the Murray clan. Though detached for the most part from their impressive castle, the Dukes have continued to patronise the Atholl Highlanders, the only private army permitted in the UK. First raised as a regular British army regiment, it was disbanded within 15 years in the late 18th century following a mutiny. Fifty years later, the then Duke of Atholl raised it as a bodyguard element, which was presented colours by the Queen for protecting her during a visit to Blair Castle. At the time of our visit, this cadre had 80-odd troops.

Traversing an ascending course through lush environs capped occasionally by trees laden with wilting golden autumn leaves, we got to the then 90-year-old Dalwhinnie Distillery, the second highest in Scotland. Drawing upon a clear spring for water and peat from the nearby bog, the distillery, located in this windswept coldest village of the UK, produces single malt whisky which sits easy on the palate. Over the next 10 miles, the highway bisected expansive fields of heather, with purple stems bearing small but numerous pink flowers, dominated in parts by the taller, thorny gorse-bearing yellow buds; quite a sight it was with alpenglow produced by the setting sun. A stop was mandated for collection of heather, known widely as a good luck charm ranking only next to clover. Only a few sprigs are now traceable amidst the treasured possessions in our household.

Soon came the decision point – whether to fire on for another 50-odd miles to Inverness on Scotland’s Northern Coast or to submit to my wife’s call for a quick halt to the journey; we had already covered 350 miles in a long day in an under-powered car. There was actually little choice, but I inveigled her into another 40-mile drive suggesting we could find a B&B in the shadow of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the British Isles at 4,400 feet. My plea that this way we cut short our return journey met with grudging acceptance. We got to Spean Bridge, a village of 250-odd people, and found a delightful B&B run by an aged McCluskey couple. Warm and welcoming, having never seen any Indian and a woman in salwar-kameez to boot, they suppressed their curiosity and offered us a choice between two well-appointed bedrooms with exquisite wallpaper and interminable views of Ben Nevis. Having ascertained our choices for breakfast and our early departure plans, Mrs McCluskey trundled off to gather the requisite victuals and her husband showed us to the drawing room and how to operate the TV and made himself scarce, leaving the entire house to us. We saw them early next morning emerge from their outhouse and while the lady took care of breakfast, the gentleman proceeded to clean our frozen windscreen with a kettle of hot water. After a hearty breakfast, we left these digs with a well-founded impression about the generous hospitality of Highlanders in Scotland.

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