"My God, the Germans bought all the bread!" cried Moira

May 17, 2017

 

The essence of the Frisia Coast Trail is hiking through the heartland of (former) Frisia and to taste the landscape, its history and culture and to meet its people. Every now and then the Frisian bastards hike trails that cut through heartlands of other minority cultures. Hiking the illistrious Cape Wrath Trail in the upper north-east of Scotland was one of these hikes. A two-weeks, challenging trek without a fixed route and, thus, no path directions whatsoever. Very often not even paths you can follow, just crossing through the empty glenns. The only requirement is you start at Fort William and end at the isolated lighthouse at Cape Wrath. It took this bastard fourteen days, including one resting day. That was at KLB.

 

Ceann Loch Biorbhaidh (or Kinlochbervie and KLB for locals) has a frontier feeling. It’s a harbour in the almost extreme north-east of Scotland. The look and feel it can be rough. Strong winds and rain straight from the Atlantic. The town has no clear structure and houses seemingly scattered randomly. A store annex post office. A SPAR supermarket in an old, converted hangar at the docks. A gas station, consisting of only one rusted pump without further facilities. It’s also where a half-rusted, purple abri stands with a bus-stop sign. Here and there houses that have fallen into ruins. An old church that is no longer in use. And then small-scale industry, with rusted chains and quays around the fishing port. A large sign at the port advertises that the expansion of the port has been made possible by the EU. But for how much longer before the UK exits? Anyway, KLB is at the frontier where beauty doesn't count and, therefore, beautiful.

 

It was a tough day to get to KLB. The Frisian bastard started early at the town Kylesku, at 5:00 am. That wasn't very difficult. As usual, the birds began to sing -or quarrel- around at 4:30 am. It was still dry weather and the bastard could have breakfast in the open air and pack his bag and tent dry. Slugs were everywhere, so carefull during folding your tent not to miss one. Via the huge Kylesku bridge, which separates Loch Gleann Dubh from Loch a 'Chàirn Bhàin, the path climbed the Ben Strome. Reasonable climb, but gradually. Loch an Leathiad Bhuain is located on the east side of Ben Strome. After summiting Ben Strome the path descends to Loch More and the little village of Achfary. It's no more than a few houses and a church. The narrow secondary road through Achfary leads past the beautiful Loch Stack. You can't help but think that the creators of Game of Thrones have made abundant use of the mystically sounding names of this region.

 

 

Loch Stack - Highlands

 

 

After having walked along Loch Stack to the west, in the rain, the path went north again into the mountains, towards Ben Arkle. Almost eight hundred meters high. At the foot of Ben Arkle, the path winds off to the north-west and the path drops you off at the narrow but long Loch a 'Garbh-bhaid Mòr. Then about seven difficult kilometres follow without a path through the usual bog, swamp and peat bog. Navigating the first part from the end of the path to the loch is quite complicated. Really a swamp, but the bastard managed to get through it without being trapped and preserved as a bog body. After crossing this swamp, it became endless ploughing through bog and high grassy vegetation along the north bank of the loch. Of course, no path. Perhaps one of the most tiring parts of the whole CWT. Halfway through this disaster you arrive at the River Garbh that you have to cross. You have to walk quite a bit upstream to find a ford. With a lot of rain this river could well be a showstopper. Shoes and socks off and with feet in the cold, refreshing water. Carefully, because the current was strong and the algae-covered stones slippery.

 

Loch a 'Garbh-bhaid Mòr ends abruptly near the hamlet of Rhiconich. The road isn't visible from the loch and vice versa. Due to a small forest. So when you arrive Rhiconich it is as if you step out of the wings and suddenly you stand on the stage of civilization. Bit of a Steppenwolf feeling. It was 2:00 pm. Meanwhile, nine hours of constant walking. No breaks yet. Hotel Rhiconich was closed and would not open until 3:00 pm. The setting was sad, and the hotel looked a bit shabby. In the distance at the end of Loch Inchard you could see KLB. A magnet for the bastard. A seaport. The Ocean. But the bastard’s feet hurt, and he doubted. After some cold instant coffee, a few cigarettes and some chocolate, the energy was back in his mind. And so, inevitably, he decided to finish 'the bitch' and move on to KLB. That would be a two-day stretch in one day. But this last stretch would be on asphalt and therefore painful to the feet.

 

 

the post office annex shop annex gas station, Ceann Loch Biorbhaidh, KLB

 

 

But it went well. The weather cleared up until the sun just shone brightly and it was warm while walking. That helped. There was a blister that bothered the bastard, but that was all. After an hour and a half, the bastard arrived at the London Store. Famous spot, according to the guides. The owner sat outside in the sun. An old man over 70 years, probably. "Ye're doin' well," he threw at the bastard in a hard-to-understand Scottish accent. "Saw ye comin'," he added. "Thanks," said the Frisian bastard and he put down his walking poles and backpack. The man's store was packed to the ceiling with anything and everything. The bastard bought an apple, two packs of cigarettes, a bottle of coke and some candy. After another half an hour the bastard was in KLB. It was around 4:00 pm. A hike of ten hours and about thirty-five kilometres. Through mountains and bog, with a pack. That's ok.

 

The bastard tried the only hotel in town near teh harbour; Hotel Kinlochbervie. An original name and it was in a decaying state. Bit smudgy too. The aquarium in the hall was covered with algae, although the fish were still alive. The big woman behind the desk barked without making eye contact: "No, we are full." "Oh, that's a pity, but can I make a reservation for dinner tonight?" the bastard asked. "No, full too," she barked again. No progress in the conversation. The bastard played the desperate hiker: Sigh. No food either. Sigh. Do you know where I can get food now? Until what time is that store open? Close already too? Sigh etc. The bastard remained friendly and cheerful. His only chance. And yes, she lifted her body and walked slowly to the back and returned. If I came early tonight, around 6:00 pm, the bastard could still eat. He thanked her at lenght, promised to eat quickly and asked where he could set up his tent at a sheltered spot, or maybe that she might still have addresses for bed & breakfasts. He dared to ask this after the dinner was fixed. She actually started calling for a B&B. After the fourth call she had a hit. Abruptly she handed over the wired phone to the bastard with a: "you make the deal!" It was 35 pounds. The bastard told the owner of B&B Buzzy Bee, because that was the name of the place, he would come right away.

 

The bastard opened the door of the hotel to rush to the B&B, when standing in front of him the Manchester Man. Incomprehensible! The bastard had last seen this fellow hiker, whose name he had forgotten, two days ago in the village of Inchnadamph. The bastard couldn't imagine that the Manchester Man had travelled the same distance. The Manchester Man knew that his deception was clear and immediately started telling a story that he couldn't be in Durness (near the end of the trail) in time and so he had taken the bus from Kylesku to KLB today. The bastard wondered how many times more he had used public transport. Anyway, the Manchester Man needed to find accommodation too and followed the bastard to the Buzzy Bee. When the bastard opened the squeaky fence, Moira, the owner, was already outside. "Gosh, it's two of you!" she shouted from afar. The bastard explained who the Manchester Man was. Eventually, he too could get a bed. Owner Moira moved from her own bedroom to the little house in the garden.

 

Moira was pleasant and energetic. End 50s, talkative, bit of a hippie. Just like her house. Full of frills. And she grows her own vegetables. It was a typical old Scottish house. Door in the middle, left and right one window. White. Very cosy. Moira explained never to make reservations. Not her style. "I am too chaotic for that," she said. Proud of what she had achieved. She also originally came from Manchester. Moved here with her little, barking dog after her divorce. Her children studied elsewhere in the UK. The bastard had to end the conversation and freshen up quickly, because he didn't dare arrive a minute late at the hotel for his dinner. Moira confirmed that. The big lady turned out to be the owner. Moira was surprised that the owner, her name was Mrs Tower, had even taken the trouble to phone for shelter.

 

The restaurant was huge and almost nobody was there. In total ten guests. The bastard had two entrees, pea soup and salmon salad. Main course, a steak and for desert an apple pie with custard. And the necessary alcohol, of course. Beer and Laphroaig whisky. The bastard got into conversation with two tall, strong guys. First thought was that they were soldiers. When the bastard ordered Laphroaig whisky with the Irish waitress, they both burst out laughing. The bastard inquired why. "You only drink Laphroaig as punishment when you lose a round in a card game," was their response. The bastard immediately called after the waitress: "make it a double!" That made them laugh again and a conversation started. They turned out to be anglers, but then at the ocean. The bastard said they looked 'different' than the river trout fishers he dined with in the fancy Oykel Bridge hotel a week earlier.' They laughed a lot and said, "yeah, they're more traditional, ye mean." Trout fishers are rich men, driving big cars, wear stockings and talk like British nobility, and you do not associate them with soldiers.

 

The food was average but not bad either. Mrs. Tower served the food, breathing heavily and in silence, while the cheerful Irish woman in dito accent took the orders. She addressed the Frisian bastard emphatically with both 'Mister Faber' (pronounced as Veebur) and with informal 'love'. The Irish took care of the bar in the pub next to the restaurant at the same time. Something she had become too old for, she said. But since her years in Switzerland, she could no longer pursue a profession other than this. The view while eating was grandiose. The hotel is high above the fishing port, has big windows and the weather was beautiful. Especially in the evening sun. After dinner the bastard made a detour through the village and across the port area especially.

 

Back in B&B the Buzzy Bee the bastard drank coffee with Moira and he met the third guest, Joshua. Joshua was a Kenyan in his mid-30's and since three months in Scotland. Joshua was a math teacher and taught at the local secondary school since recently. After two years, he and the school finally had succeeded in getting visas for Joshua to become the UK as the new maths teacher in KLB. The school hadn't had a maths teacher these years. No Brit or other European interested. "Great how Western immigration procedures prioritize the future of children in the already empty and aging countrysides," the Frisian bastard couldn't help thinking. Now Joshua was waiting for a better, more private accommodation. It would probably be a residential caravan. Predictable for a Kenyan, Joshua ran fast each morning. That must be a special sight in this environment. This fishing port in the northern Scotish Highlands. But more people from far away came to KLB. More and more tourists, according to Moira. Sometimes even tour buses instead of the usual campers. Recently, a coach full of Germans. They had entered the small SPAR supermarket and had bought the bread. That led to panic in the village. "My God, the Germans bought all the bread!" yelled Moira. KLB, namely, is only supplied with fresh bread once a week, every Thursday. With the departure of the German tour bus, the village had suddenly ran out of bread for almost a week.

 

After some more gossip about the locals, the bastard smoked a sigarette outside and went to bed. Tired and satisfied. A wonderfully soft bed with duvet. For two nights even!

 

 

The bastard made the following comparison between Scots and (Mid-) Frisians, ten things they have in common and ten thing the don't.

 

Scots and Frisians have in common:

 

both suffer from predominant western winds and lots of rain;

both have lots of sheep;

both still carry the original tribe name after more than 2,000 years: Scoti and Frisi;

both distillate whisky (yes, Frisians too);

both excessively use their national flags;

both have no real independent country;

both value the concept freedom highly;

both are capable of self-reflection;

both favourite pastime is building things (Frisians terps, Scots castles);

both have the skill to recognize beauty.

 

Scots and Frisians have not in common:

 

Scots still wear skirts. Frisians do not;

Scots destilate good whisky, Frisians do not;

Frisians destilate Beerenburg, Scots do not;

Scotland has 5,3 mln inhabitants, Friesland 0,6 mln;

60,000 Scots speak Gaelic, 400,000 speak Mid-Frisian;

Frisians are scattered over countries and area's, Scots are not (both diasporas not included);

consensus about Scottish identity, about Frisian identity exists no consensus; 

Frisians remember battles they won, Scots remember those they lost;

Scots have wet bog, Frisians have wet clay;

broad sentiment under Scots for independence, under Frisians marginal.

 

 

 

Note 1. Read our blog post Frisian support for the Corsican Cause in jeopardy hiking the GR 20 in Corsica and our post Croeso i Gerddwyr hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path in Wales.

 

Note 2. If interested in the complete blog post of the author about his solo hike of the Cape Wrath Trail, check this link (in Dutch), and this link for his pictures of the Cape Wrath Trail.

 

Note 3. SPAR supermarktes are a Dutch invention founded in 1932. A multinational franchise that manages independently owned and operated food retail stores. Originally the name was DESPAR (The Spar) which stands for Door Eendrachtig Samenwerken Profiteren Allen Regelmatig, which freely translates as 'By Unitedly Working-together Profit All Regulary'.

 

 

Further reading:

Allan, G., The Scottish Bothy Bible. The complete guide to Scotland's bothies and how to reach them (2017)

Atkinson, T., The Northern Highlands. The Empty Lands (1986)

Harper, I., Walking the Cape Wrath Trail. Through the Scottish Highlands from Fort William to Cape Wrath (2015)

Murphy, A., Schotland Highlands & Islands, Footprint (2011)

Page, O. et al, Schotland, Trotter (2009)

Wilson, N., Scotland's Highlands & Islands, Lonely Planet (2012)

Wright, P., Walking with Wildness. Experiencing the Watershed of Scotland (2012)

 

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