road to inverness and beyond

As we left Fort William this morning the weather was clearer, and we caught what we believe was our first relatively unobstructed view of Ben Nevis as we left town. Having conquered (ahem) Mt Snowdon—the highest mountain in Wales (and England)—we'd wondered whether to set our sites here, as Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in all of Great Britain. Practicalities of the trip had ruled this out in the end, and a good thing considering Bronwyn's recent health. The final icing on the decision though is the weather here over the last few days—we wouldn't have been climbing regardless. Ah well. Another trip?

Port Augustus lies at the southern end of the 23 mile-long spear of water known as Loch Ness. ("Here be dragons”.) The town bustled with tourists as we arrived about midday to the airs of a busking highland piper. At the time, a group of about eight fairly big boats were being taken up the seven lock system from Loch Ness to the canal system which I believe was some 13 metres above. We watched as this marvel of 19th century engineering moved these boats uphill (assisted with a few hydrolics to take part of the backwork out of it). It took about eight minutes per lock, so a relatively leisurely process including the boats being pulled through to each next lock by hand, using ropes from the shore. Huh.

It's a sure sign of a heavily touristed area when the local animals are in on the game. You see this of course with birds and squirrels at picnic areas, but we saw a new one today. A dog, belonging to an older woman who lived on the main road, stood behind its iron gate. It dropped its tennis ball and watched as it rolled through the fence. It then stood mornfully staring at the ball as people passed by. Soon, some sap's heart melted—this was a cute dog—and picked up the ball, throwing it into the back of the yard. The enlivened dog jumped up, retrieved the ball joyfully, then returned to the fence where it dropped the ball and oh! it's rolled under the fence. Engage puppy-eyes mode. Who needs canine prozac?

The Lochs are swolen with recent flooding. As we drove down the less busy eastern side of Loch Ness we stopped at the Foyer Falls. The water looked as though it originated from a leak in a Coca Cola factory. Unsure if this is the way these falls always look, but we imagine that something is washing down thanks to Mr Flood. (A new vein of those natural ingredients that make up Coke has been uncovered, perhaps?)

Largely random driving in the right area of Inverness brought us upon our B&B, where Bronwyn and I ended up in a room bigger than many London flats. From there we pushed further north for the evening, exploring country lanes and visiting two RSPB bird sanctuary sites—one in woodlands, one an estuary. (One day I must update our bird page with all the sightings I've jotted down on slips of paper over the last year or so.) Dinner eaten at Cromarty, where four oil rigs loomed like grotesque mechanical ghosts out of the mist on the bay. This harbour is both hospital and cemetary to these most strange, impressive, yet destructive form of constructed marine life. We slank back to Inverness, no sense of righteous petroleum-fuelled anger, since our very mode of travel made us complicit in this crime.