Loch Ness to Inverness
A still, cool black and silver image made this morning unforgettable: the deep, dark waters of Loch Ness. We were moored at the outflow of the Oich river, one of seven which daily top up the endless volume of this extraordinary loch. Gouged so deep by giant glaciers that its depths exceed even the North Sea between here and Norway, it is said that the entire world population could stand within it and still not reach the surface. The official depth is 742 feet: some believe it may go as deep as 1000’.
What could there be in those great depths? Trout, yes, salmon for sure, eels undoubtedly, strange postglacial fish like the Char, seals occasionally, even Sturgeon potentially. But how does one explain the scores of sightings from the 6th century onwards of “The Monster,” fondly nicknamed Nessie by the locals? There are over 90 documented first-hand records from the 1870s onwards, and a catalogue of sketches, grainy photos, even cine film of surging, swirling, splashing water creatures.
We scanned the lake. Still smooth and placid, with just the faintest ripple from a southerly zephyr. But turning to scan the north shore, I suddenly noticed a distinct wake, a chevron of bold ripples moving in to the edge of the loch. What had made that sudden pulse in the water? The nearest visible object was a yacht a mile ahead of us, and no wake from that, nor explanation for the disturbance….. had I seen the denizen of the deeps?
We were all on deck for the iconic ruins of Urquhart Castle, focus for so many sightings in the past, built centuries ago as a monster observatory and no doubt destroyed by the beast itself, fed up with being spied on by visiting voyeurs. I sympathise: it seems everyone has a camera these days, and everywhere our boat passes, we too have been met by a constellation of scintillating flashes.
From Loch Ness through the miniloch of Dochfour and then down to Inverness, literally the “mouth of Ness” where the entire system of lakes drains out into the Moray Firth. Our afternoon destination was Culloden, the infamous final act in the Jacobite rebellion of 1745, when the Highlanders last bid to return a Catholic king to the throne died in a murderous salvo of government cannon fire. Bonnie Prince Charlie had marched his Jacobite army to within 120 miles of London, at the last minute retreated to Scotland, then massed his tired army on the worst possible site for a pitched battle: a sodden heathery bog just outside Inverness. It was a rout, 1500 Highlanders slain in the battle and the ensuing reprisals, and the fresh wreaths at the foot of every clan memorial stone show that for many Scots, this key moment in Highland history is not forgotten.
During our farewell dinner, we enjoyed the traditional address to the haggis delivered by Brian, our heroic hotel manager, sampled the delights of organic free-range dolphin-friendly haggis fresh from the moor, cooked to perfection by our Scottish chef, Ross. It was our own clan reunion, tinged with sadness at departure.
It is hard to believe that we will not be sailing on through the glory of Scotland’s Highlands and Islands, but these rugged moors, mountains and lochs will be there still, long after we are gone.
