ULTIMATE STAYCATION ON NORTH COAST 500
You can do it in 48 hours, but a two-week trip along the North Coast 500 route around the very tip of Scotland is so much more rewarding, says Octavia Lillywhite
WHAT,’’ said my husband, ‘‘is this tainted place?’’ He doesn’t normally sound like he’s in a gothic novel, but in this small wood every tree, twig and branch is tied with tatters of cloth.
Ahead is a cave with a stream running out, and the mouth is draped with more old rags: some moulded, some algaed.
This is the Munlochy Clootie Well, an ancient Celtic spring where believers (and now tourists) tie “cloots” to the trees. As the cloth rots, their illnesses are said to heal. It’s one of the strangest places I’ve ever been: spiritual but unnerving, and it’s the first stop on our pre-lockdown 500-mile trip around the top of Scotland.
The North Coast 500 scenic driving route was created in 2015 to tempt tourism further north, and it’s been successful – maybe too much so. In peak season the roads can be clogged with campervans the size of city apartments, swiping off each other’s wing mirrors as they edge past.
We’ve hired a car, supporting local businesses by staying in hotels and B&Bs along the route.
Most people drive clockwise, turning left out of Inverness to the wild coast of
Wester Ross. I don’t know why, since this is considered the pinnacle of the trip, so we saved it until last.
That means heading north up the east coast.
THE AMAZING EAST
What the east lacks in Atlantic-beaten beauty, it makes up for in history, adventure... and cloots. The coast is speckled with villages: boom and bust places, sprung from the Highland Clearances, the spectres of which still linger. And since we’d not yet seen the west coast, we thought it was stunning. Acres of green rolling expanse and choppy, whitecapped seas guarded by depleted ports, each worth a look, wander and pause at a Harry Gow Bakery for snacks. At Shin we watched salmon leaping out of the river to scale the waterfall. At Whaligoe we clattered down the ancient cliff-cut steps, watched four seals staring back at us from the shallows, then clambered back up to the café to munch on homemade bread dunked in seasonal soup (whaligoesteps.co.uk). We searched out cliff-top castle ruins, lighthouses, fairy glens and prehistoric burial chambers. At the far corner of the country, the end of a million charity bike rides, we skirted John o’Groats (We took a picture by the sign, it’s absolutely essential. You have to fight off a few cyclists but they’re all dead tired) We walked out to Duncansby Head – the true north-east point, where great cliff stacks rise like cathedrals from the North Sea, and we could see Orkney across the grey swell of the Pentland Firth.
THE REMOTE NORTH
The north coast set a different tone as villages got scarcer and farmland turned to peat and purple heather. The places to stop, however, were just as frequent.
On Dunnet Head we layered up woolly hats under rainproof hoods to watch seabirds dodge the crashing waves (in summer it’s one of the best places to see pufflings).
A day later we lay out on Melvich Beach, blinking in the sun. Scotland, we discovered, is best approached with a wardrobe of gear to suit any weather at all times.
But it was at the north-west corner of the country that we really started to fall deeply in love with the NC500.
Years of drifting off to sleep listening to warnings of gales in Malin and Bailey on the Shipping Forecast has given Cape Wrath a mythical status in our house. We were determined to reach the enigmatic outpost.
It turns out even once you’ve driven this far it’s not easy to get there – there’s no road for a start. You can walk it in two days, camping rough, or take the tiny boat across the Kyle of Durness. From there, a minibus drives the
We saw seals on the sand banks, stags among the heather, and red kites
11-mile track to the end of the world (visitcapewrath.com).
But as our host at MacKay’s Rooms in Durness pointed out: ‘‘It’s a long bumpy ride on a dreich day if you can’t see the views.’’
We stayed three days in Durness, drinking sweet cups of the world’s best hot chocolate from Cocoa Mountain (cocoamountain.co.uk), visiting Smoo Cave, walking the white sandy beaches and waiting on the weather.
It was worth it. Our bus driver showed us seals laid out on the sand banks, stags among the heather and red kites scanning our potholed progress from the skies, while telling us about the history, geography and how useless the dating app Tinder is when you live in the Highlands.
The sun shone, the lighthouse at the end of the world gleamed and the sweet lass in the tea shop – she and her dad are the only permanent residents – franked our postcards with “Love from Cape Wrath” stamps.
THE WEST IS BEST
Nothing prepared us for how beautiful the west coast was. Beaches stretched out like miles of Caribbean white sand curled into mountain-backed bays that reminded me of rugged Greek islands.
The lochs shone cobalt-blue, glassy on still days, with the grass running right to the water edge, like Norwegian fjords in the sunshine.
At Lochinver, we hired The Hideaway (booking.com), which has views over the loch to the rounded cone of Suilven Mountain.
The compact cabin had a kitchen with everything we needed for fried breakfasts and simple dinners, but the town is less than a mile if you prefer to eat at the famous pie shop (piesbypost.co.uk).
The highlight was the hot tub – cheerily steamy even in grim weather, though we were blessed with blue skies and pin-sharp views of the Milky Way at night.
I could have spent the whole two weeks in Lochinver, exploring the Assynt valley, watching sunsets from Achmelvich Bay and hiking up to the Falls of Kirkaig where a small detour took us out to Loch Fionn for an impromptu swim. But the route beckoned on to our final showpiece stop.
Opposite the tiny village of Badachro, little more than a street and a friendly pub, is Dry Island (dryislanduk.wordpress.com). It’s cut off at high tide, except for a floating footbridge over the estuary, and it’s home to Ian, his family and some otters.
Around this tiny fiefdom are two cabins and an old curing station where you can stay (two with hot tubs).
Ian does shellfish safaris in his boat, where you can catch your own dinner to eat back at your terrace.
There are great walks (one to a wartime plane crash site where the rusting fuselage still lies), but sitting with a glass of wine, watching the silent estuary was perfection for me.
It turned out we didn’t drive 500 miles – when we returned our car after the trip, we’d just pipped 1000.
‘‘It’s not unusual,’’ said the chap at the desk
‘‘There is a lot to see.’’