9-17 June 2007
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Special Delivery
Yesterday evening at the Kinlochewe Bunkhouse the landlady dropped by in the evening to inform us of the next day’s weather. The forecast was as bad as it could be but it was not her fault by any means. She gave us this forecast in as cheerful a mood as possible, which made it sound less severe. When she had done this, I asked “Could you tell me if all the buses from Kinlochewe start at the bus stop across the road?”
“All the buses? We don’t have that many buses, you know”, she replied with laugh and everyone joined in.
This morning I had hoped to take a school bus to Torridon but I had been misinformed. I enquired at a local shop for Lochcarron Garage, the operator who ran the school bus. “Lochcarron Garage is in Lochcarron, not here”, replied the lady frankly bewildered by my confusion. Only then did I realize that Lochcarron was the name of a place many miles southwest of Kinlochewe. The earliest bus to Torridon was the 1355 hours Postbus. So I walked to the Visitor Centre of the Beinn Eighe National Nature Reserve, learnt a little about the geology of the surrounding landscape and returned to the village to catch the Postbus. As I waited at the post office, I tasted a superb preparation of spicy lentil soup in the cafe next door.
The Postbus was a van that had sufficient space for eight passengers. A ninth passenger could possibly occupy the seat next to the postwoman but generally this seat is taken up by letters and small parcels arranged neatly in cardboard boxes. Bigger parcels are carried at the back of the van. On this particular trip to Torridon I was the only one to use this service of special delivery for just £2.30! The postwoman issued me a hand-written ticket just the way it is done on public buses in Mumbai. “Working for the Community”, the ticket said under a bolder heading “Royal Mail Postbus”. Indeed, without this bus I would have had to wait another two hours for the next and last bus to Torridon.
More special was the opportunity to observe first-hand the job of another person. Observing the postwoman in action was not such an idle pursuit. It brought to my attention the importance of every job and every person’s contribution to society. It is one thing to sit at home and take for granted that a letter posted half a world away will reach us in time and without delay. It is quite another thing to travel with the post through little lanes, remote villages and wilder mountain passes to finally arrive at the destination. It is one thing to assume that the job of a postwoman is trivial and of little skill. It is quite another thing to witness the different qualities and skills she demonstrates while at her job that’s just as hard as climbing a mountain.
What are the skills of a postwoman? The postwoman I travelled with was impeccably organized in two ways. First, she had neatly arranged the letters by streets and doors. She kept a mental note of who had deliveries for the day and who didn’t. Needless to say, she knew every street and door in the villages of Kinlochewe and Torridon. Second, once she had determined the deliveries for the day without even writing anything down, she knew the best route to take. She knew the best order in which these deliveries should be made so that she drove only the absolute minimum distance.
In her, I came to witness a high level of competency in her driving. If truth be told, most of the journey was very slow. Because she had to stop every few yards, door to door, she rarely moved beyond the first gear. She would rev up the engine promisingly but would stop abruptly in a second or two. After ten minutes we had moved only a few yards. After half an hour, we were still at Kinlochewe, literally just across a road junction. I could have walked to it in less than thirty seconds with the weight of a full backpack. As if these slow drives and frequent stops weren’t enough, we stopped for a good ten minutes at the petrol station to fill up the tank.
Frequent stops that interrupted every few seconds of drive also meant that it was pointless for her to wear the seatbelt. Doing so would have meant spending more time with the seatbelt than making deliveries. So here was a sensible reason for her to break the law. I, on the other hand, kept my seatbelt firmly around my waist, having read the following notice printed in bold black letters against a no-smoking sign:
ARE ADVISED TO FASTEN
THEIR SEAT BELTS
The actual delivery had in it many variations. Often she would park at the gate and walk up to the house. If it is a special delivery, she would ring the bell and wait for a response. After what was an age, someone would come to the door. A long and unhurried chat would follow while the engine is still running and the door is open. To an observer, it would almost seem that the postwoman was waiting for the recipient to prepare a reply to the sender. In other cases, she would drive through the gate into a private driveway right up to the door. Someone would walk up to the van, making it a lot easier for the postwoman. In other cases, the letters were simply dropped in a letter box at the gate or a slot in the door. In a couple of instances, people drove in their cars to catch up behind her. They had not been around to sign for their post when she had called on them earlier. Whatever method was used, the importance of this job is not to be underestimated. The postwoman was a public figure, not eminent or popular, but well-known and essential. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew her, some even personally. She even delivered newspapers to some folks.
All in all, it was an experience for me to observe hthe postwoman at her job, as a traveller who goes where the road leads him and not as a tourist on a fixed itinerary. A distance that is normally travelled in fifteen minutes at the maximum, had taken me an hour and a half; and I was the better for it.
The Magic of Torridon
The settlement of Torridon is not even a village. Houses have been built along the length of a secondary road with massive mountains to one side and the Upper Loch Torridon to the other. There is no village centre to speak of. The loch adds to the serene beauty of the landscape. This is a sea loch but it appears sheltered and bounded on all sides. However, to the west is a narrow gap which leads on to Loch Shieldaig and Lower Loch Torridon which opens out to sea. If the loch is serene, the mountains are not. In Torridon, the mountains tower in majesty. We may describe them in many ways but they are anything but serene.
I met a man who had come to survey an overgrown walking path on the hills. His job was to trim this path to make it clear and easy for walkers. He worked for the National Trust for Scotland and this was one of his jobs. From him I learnt a few things about Torridon. This village, if one may call it so, consists of no large businesses. There is not much fishing done here, none on a commercial scale. Even during the stalking season, there is not much activity in these parts. He also joked that sometimes deer get hit by vehicles on the road and this by itself limits the population. Most people earn their living from tourism. Those who render specialized services do so on a small scale to meet the local needs of the community. So at Torridon they have painters, decorators, plumbers, carpenters and the like. There is nothing luxurious in these services. These are basic necessities fulfilled by locals for local needs.
Talking of fishing, I saw the ruins of a stone wall peeping out the water at the upper end of the lake at low tide. I was informed that this is a caraidh or a fish-trap commonly used by local people before the 20th century. As the tide receded fish got trapped, thus providing the locals easy food with little effort.
Foxgloves looking out to Upper Loch Torridon
Walking along Upper Loch Torridon, I saw some seemingly simple scenes, simple only in comparison to those of the Great Wilderness but picturesque and beautiful to say the least. Here were blue skies on which fluffy white clouds paused in their journeys. Here were foxgloves in abundant blooms catching late afternoon light and bending with the same breeze that ruffled the waters of the lake. Here was a stream that made its way amongst rocks submerged in its crystal clear flow. Here were Highland cattle grazing peacefully. Here was a grassy hill on which grew a stand of trees clothed in summer greens. Under the shades of these trees and amongst the sun-kissed highlights lay some rocks resting peacefully. Across the calm lake stood a string of peaks that filled the stretch of the horizon. The day had turned out well after all.
This morning I left Torridon at quarter to eight by the school bus that takes kids from Torridon and Kinlochewe to the school at Gairloch. At a place so far from towns and cities one might expect kids to be less distracted and more motivated towards studies. Two kids were dropped off at the bus stop by their parents in a Land Rover. They were dressed improperly. School kids in Britain are often required to wear ties. This makes their uniform more formal and gives a sense of discipline. When students do not wear ties properly, half done, slung over their shoulders or tied like a scarf over an unbuttoned collar, their appearance is worse than not wearing one. Their shoes were unpolished and their hair unkempt. Sleep was still in their eyes. Their eyes were set in a weary face. For the entire journey on the bus they listened to loud music. Four days have past, but some were still wearing a fluorescent “Rock Ness” hand band as a matter of pride. They looked like students on their way to school but they behaved in every way otherwise. It was clear that school and studies were not on their minds. This may be a passing mention in my travel notes but the occurrence of such behaviour is common all over Britain. When I looked at this appalling situation, it becomes more and more apparent that this country is going down the drain. If it has to survive only a healthy immigration of a skilled workforce can make it happen.
Scene from woods near SYHA Torridon
It is needless to say that the magic of Torridon has not been in travelling with these school kids. The principal mountains of Torridon are Beinn Alligin (985m) to the west and Liathach (1054m) to the east. Further east, we may even include Beinn Eighe (1010m). These heights are in fact well-named and distinct peaks of the mountains. Coming from Kinlochewe (yesterday on the Postbus) along A896, the views are stunning. Leaving Kinlochewe, we find Beinn Eighe rising to the clouds with its scree-covered upper slopes. It looks a formidable challenge to climb to its peak on such steep and slippery terrain which promises to slide down the mountain at any human attempt to conquer. In the back of our minds we are conscious of having left behind magnificent Slioch, hiding behind the clouds but ever watchful over Loch Maree. As we turn west towards Torridon, we lose sight of Kinlochewe and a magnificent spectacle opens before us. The valley is not quite broad or gentle as a glaciated valley. Mountains crowd from both left and right. If it has been a dull overcast day, the feeling is enhanced hundred fold by the shadow of these mountains. We immediately feel tiny in such a vast terrain where there appears no escape, no repair and no reprieve.
These wonders are still not the magic of Torridon in its overall composition. The magic of Torridon belongs to one and only one view, that of Liathach seen from the east along A896. Liathach has a singular presence of its own against which nothing else can compete. Every other mountain in this vast terrain diminishes under the foreboding presence of Liathach. There is majesty in its form. It is dark and oppressive. When it throws it shadow, ripples on the loch are stilled, the wind is quiet in its path, the clouds do not linger and the mountains do not kiss the clouds. Liathach crouches like a silent beast waiting to pounce. No one knows what is its next move and its next meal. No one knows its thought.
The rocks here are what are called Torridonian Sandstone. Such is their importance and wide presence in this area that this type of rock has been named after them. While Lewisian Gneiss has been named after the Lewis Islands where there are common, here the primary rock is Torridonian Sandstone. Each region has it unique characteristic. Each region has a piece of geological history, a tale to tell. Each rock is a piece of a puzzle that is as old as earth itself. To quote Peter Maguire from the University of Leicester, “There is a lifetime of study beneath your feet”.
Of all the mountains I have seen, from valleys, from peaks, in England, Wales and Scotland, there is nothing than can match Liathach. Liathach is not such a high mountain, being well short of Ben Nevis. But height is not everything. Liathach has a shape and form that is unmatched. It is not a perfect cone as Mt Fuji but the magic it creates comes from asymmetry. Its top is a series of sharply pointed pinnacles that drop steeply by rugged cliff faces. This steep drop is not continued to the base. Rather, it broadens towards the base by slightly gentler steepness. This contributes to its bulk while the pinnacles echo a dangerous agility. Liathach may look motionless and rooted to the firmament but in its every craggy face and pinnacle there is movement. The ridges stride from pinnacle to pinnacle. The peaks rise and dip from the overhanging clouds. The rocks drag their unpolished elements down the craggy slopes. Everything else watch in awe and wonder.
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