The narrow road to the deep north
May. 20th, 2008 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shewhomustIt's 400 miles from here to the north coast of Scotland; our habit is to set off in the morning, overnight somewhere north of Inverness and catch the Orkney ferry around midday.
Spring is the season of yellow flowers. I knew this already, but it was still an astonishment. Here the daffodils were past their best already, but as we drove north the season receded, and the roadsides were lined with daffodils in full bloom, patches of primroses spiked with cowslips. The gorse drips off the hillsides like molten gold: Gail said "When you envisage this scenery, you don't think of it being so yellow," and put on her sunglasses.
North of the Cairngorms there was the occasional tentative field of rape, a splash of brightness on a grey day. Further north still, the sun began to break through; we rounded a bend to see a rainbow so low and shallow thatit seemed to flow down the mountainside. On the farthest hills, the sun met the snow on the summits and reflected the brightness back to the low cloud, a strip of gleaming silver beyond the nearer, darker range of hills. "Unnatural," said Gail.
But the Highlands are unnatural, or at least inhuman. I'm happier as we come down to the water at Inverness, the sun gleaming on the Firth and the distant peaks beyond. By the time we reached Tain the air was bright, and the evening light glowed on the old buildings - a good place to stop for the night, and to stroll out in search of an evening meal.
At seven next morning, we eased the curtains apart to a blast of sunshine; but by 9.30, when we drove off, the light was pearly, the distances washed to a watercolour blur.
This is my favourite part of the drive, north of the high mountains, a dramatic coastline with the road running along high cliffs, but lush with green grass agains the blue water. Everything that could flower did so in yellow. There were more - and yet more - daffodils. The little streams that ran down the steep inlets to the sea were thick with kingcups. Even the rooflines were lined with golden lichen, underlining how very erratic some of those stone-slated rooflines were. And finally, as we pulled into the little port at Gill's Bay, I added the yellow stars of celandine to my list.
Spring is the season of yellow flowers. I knew this already, but it was still an astonishment. Here the daffodils were past their best already, but as we drove north the season receded, and the roadsides were lined with daffodils in full bloom, patches of primroses spiked with cowslips. The gorse drips off the hillsides like molten gold: Gail said "When you envisage this scenery, you don't think of it being so yellow," and put on her sunglasses.
North of the Cairngorms there was the occasional tentative field of rape, a splash of brightness on a grey day. Further north still, the sun began to break through; we rounded a bend to see a rainbow so low and shallow thatit seemed to flow down the mountainside. On the farthest hills, the sun met the snow on the summits and reflected the brightness back to the low cloud, a strip of gleaming silver beyond the nearer, darker range of hills. "Unnatural," said Gail.
But the Highlands are unnatural, or at least inhuman. I'm happier as we come down to the water at Inverness, the sun gleaming on the Firth and the distant peaks beyond. By the time we reached Tain the air was bright, and the evening light glowed on the old buildings - a good place to stop for the night, and to stroll out in search of an evening meal.At seven next morning, we eased the curtains apart to a blast of sunshine; but by 9.30, when we drove off, the light was pearly, the distances washed to a watercolour blur.
This is my favourite part of the drive, north of the high mountains, a dramatic coastline with the road running along high cliffs, but lush with green grass agains the blue water. Everything that could flower did so in yellow. There were more - and yet more - daffodils. The little streams that ran down the steep inlets to the sea were thick with kingcups. Even the rooflines were lined with golden lichen, underlining how very erratic some of those stone-slated rooflines were. And finally, as we pulled into the little port at Gill's Bay, I added the yellow stars of celandine to my list.
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Date: 2008-05-21 12:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-21 04:07 pm (UTC)