Scotland’s greatest rail scandal
Amazing tale of the line that never was
Just as the Glenfinnan Viaduct has become a huge attraction, the line towards the head of Loch Broom would have been really spectacular
It started in the 1880s as a plan to bring herring to the central belt – an engineering dream that would have transformed transport, and later tourism, in one of Scotland’s most remote areas. But after decades of wrangling, politicking, business shenanigans and delays, the scheme was dropped – and what would have been one of the world’s greatest railways was lost forever. Here is its story ...
COLOURFUL fishing boats bob in Ullapool’s busy harbour, their colours offset by the whitewashed buildings that line the shore, a reminder of its long links with a once-thriving herring industry.
Loch Broom, either dark and brooding or postcard pretty depending on your luck, provides a perfect view for visitors to relish as they wait for the red and black colours of the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry to appear in the distance.
Most will have arrived in one of Scotland’s most treasured northwest coast spots by travelling the 32 miles of the A835 from Garve.
The twisting road will have swept them up and down hills, past Ben Dearg and Ben Wyvis, alongside the Black Water river, Loch Droma and past the Glascarnoch Dam.
Some might have stopped at Corrieshalloch Gorge, 12 miles east of Ullapool, parking just off the edge of the A-road to walk to the spectacular Falls of Measach.
Of those who make that extra effort, most will almost certainly have stood on the 82ft suspension bridge that spans the gorge and provides a perfect view of the waterfall.
Constructed by pioneering engineer Sir John Fowler, joint designer of the Forth Bridge and who created the world’s first underground railway, the bridge sways gently as just six pedestrians at a time look over the 200ft drop.
An ingenious construction of wire-rope cables, pylons and suspension rods, Fowler’s bridge has stood the test of time – yet another symbol of good old Victorian engineering prowess.
It is a skill for engineering which could, had history taken its own brief off-road detour, have completely transformed that far distant corner of Scotland.
For had Fowler and a group of visionary colleagues had their way, it would not have been just that busy, winding road crammed with caravans, motor homes, trucks and cars that would have brought visitors and business to Ullapool.
Instead, the route to that prized northwest corner, where tourists now flock to see glorious coastal scenery, dark lochs overlooked by dramatic hills and rolling moorland, might well have been via one of the most spectacular rail journeys in the world.
It is 130 years ago this year since an Act of Parliament paved the way for the construction of an ambitious but achievable rail link that could have transformed Ullapool and brought a host of potential economic and social benefits.
Devised by Fowler, his son Arthur and a group of well-heeled companions including Lady Mary Matheson of the Lews, widow of James Matheson, co-founder of Hong Kong-based conglomerate Jardine Matheson & Co and owner of the Isle of Lewis and much of Ullapool, the railway could have solved a longstanding problem: how to transport massive quantities of herring being landed by local fishermen to market as fast as possible.
Steamships took too long. Railways were new and fast. A railway, they believed, could have brought prosperity to desperately poor crofters and cotters, opened up the Isle of Lewis to new trade, and helped extinguish troublesome land raids and civil disobedience which had become an all too familiar element of island life.
Branching off the Dingwall-to-Skye line slightly east of Garve station, the proposed track would have powered steam trains upland, following the road past the Black Water river, through the Glascarnoch glen and rising to 900ft towards Braemore Lodge and the estate owned by Fowler, already celebrated as one of Britain’s most acclaimed engineers.
If the scenery didn’t take the breath away from railway passengers, surely the prospect of a steep descent towards the head of Loch Broom would have.
Or, the engineers’ preferred option, a tunnel carved through the hillside which would bring them, blinking, into glorious sight of the mouth of the River Broom sprawling before them.
Once in Ullapool, rail travellers would simply have stepped from their carriages at a terminus built at the junction of the town’s Shore Street and Quay Street, mere steps away from the ferry to the Isle of Lewis, and potentially one of the most magnificent settings imaginable for a railway station.
However, as a forthcoming book