The Hillwalking Boys - enjoying the Plockton Sunshine!
That great writer on the British countryside, Alfred Wainwright wrote lovingly of "Dear Plockton", to which he "arrived in eager anticipation and left in reluctance". He adds, "By common consent, it is the prettiest of Scotland's west coast villages",..."It really deserves a more romantic name, Plockton meaning the town on the headland. But what's in a name? Plockton is a little paradise." We'd like to add that in addition to all these charms, it makes a great place to have a rest day from hill-walking and has a fabulous little fish and chip take away too. Wainwright describes the village as "unspoilt and unsophisticated" and his "priority holiday venue...throughout the 1970s". Plockton is full of happy memories for me too, having been here a couple of times with my family (and my sister), on both occasions in weather more suited to the villages famous palm trees than to its situation in the Northwest Highlands. I remember watching some of the Live8 gig here with Lord Provan of Mearns after a particularly memorable ascent of the Forcan Ridge - and now I have another sunny Plockton memory to add to the collection.Knowing that we were out of food, and that in the still relatively Sabbattarian Highlands we would have trouble finding an early morning shop - hillwalking was out of the question. So, after much time-wasting at Gerry's Hostel, Dr K. became decisive - and announced that we were going to Plockton - a suggestion with which we were happy to concur! The day before had been a leg-aching, energy sapping long day in the hills. The air was cold, the walks long and the experience invigorating. Nothing could be more contrasting - within sight of the same mountains - than a Plockton day. While twenty miles inland, dark clouds menaced the high peaks of the Coulin Forest, the sun blazed on "Dear Plockton!". While the day before our rucksacks had been filled with ropey sandwiches and high energy snacks, Plockton has fresh succulent fish 'n' chips, and ice-cream. On Sgurr a Chaorachain we had clambered into Goretex, but at Plockton at least one of our number shed almost all his attire and lept into the sea (the vigour with which he did so almost causing him to shed the little he was still wearing). Sgurr Choinnich had treated us to an arduous but rewarding climb up a narrowing ridge, but Plockton invited us to enjoy the widening views of the bay - where I fell asleep in the sun.
The hillwalking boys have a lot in common with the Stooges, about whom I have previously posted. This is not least because two thirds of the personnel are identical, having lost one stooge to the delights of Oklahoma (the place - not the musical), and gained a hillwalker in Nairn. A day with nothing to do but to slow one's breathing down to a rate appropriate to the surroundings may sound dull to some - but dull moments are thankfully few and far between with the hillwalking boys. I like to think that when it comes to choosing friends I am quite discerning; and here I have them with wit, honesty, faith, wisdom, and who exemplify what it means to face adversity with integrity. They (we!) also have the worst, ham Australian accents in the world, Bruce! Exactly why conversation repeatedly lapsed in this direction was never entirely clear - but may have been related to the fact that a few days away from our wives was initially billed as the "no Sheila's!" event.
Plockton remains a place of overwhelming happy memories for me, a charming place around which I have wandered with my wife, my children, my sister and a handful of good friends. Ah! it would be great to be back in Plockton again.
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