An Epic Drive

We are leaving Orkney this morning and I'm a little sad about it. It's such a beautiful, interesting place with a long, rich history, and the people are kind and helpful. The weather is finally turning and it's even windier than usual and rainy. According to the locals, though, we've had unusually good weather during our stay. The weather system rolling in now is how things usually are here. We pack and start driving to the ferry dock, noticing how far the tide has come in and how choppy the water is. The waves spray our windshield as we drive over the causeways between Kirkwall and the St. Margaret's Hope ferry terminal.

Once we've loaded onto the ferry and seated ourselves in the passenger decks, the captain comes on to give information about life vests and evacuation (something he did not do on our last ride), and tells us that the upper open-air decks are closed to passengers for safety reasons. I wonder if we're in for a wild ride. As we move out to sea, the vessel rocks back and forth quite a bit, and I see people stumble as they walk to and fro. An elderly woman is hanging onto tables and seats as she makes her way from one side of the passenger deck to the other. A couple of men offer her an arm but she waves them off. "No, no thank you," she says. "There's nothing wrong with me. It's the boat that has the problem!" I'm surprised I don't feel seasick and instead feel like I could be lulled into a nap. But interesting islands keep appearing out the windows, and I examine them with my binoculars, marveling at how the hell people could live not only in such a remote area but also one with such a harsh climate.

I spot some seals frolicking near the shore as the ferry docks at Gills Bay, and we begin our journey down the North Coast 500, one of the most scenic drives in the world. We stop first in Thurso to fuel up and buy some supplies. The jolly gas station attendant is watching the news when I walk in to pay. "They say that storm is coming here," he tells me. I don't know what storm he's talking about, but I can see from the low, heavy gray clouds that things are about to get inclement. The wind has probably doubled in speed since this morning.

Over the next three hours, Scotland gets very dramatic indeed. It's immediately easy to see why this driving route is so popular. We pass through rolling hills covered in heather and wavy clumps of grass. The clouds group and break intermittently, causing surprising changes in the light and shadows that fall across the landscape. The wind barrels across the North Sea so hard that it feels like it might push our car off the road. We see a few RVs stopped in odd places and I wonder if this is a precaution on their part so that they don't tip over. Layers of clouds speed by just overhead, wrapping around the hills and nestling in the valleys, occasionally unleashing rain, which blows horizontally. Everything is cloaked in mist.

Color and clouds

Occasionally, we find ourselves driving along the edges of high seaside cliffs overlooking smooth sandy beaches with turquoise water that would seem more at home in a Caribbean travel brochure. The road is very rough in places and narrow enough that there are passing bays at almost quarter-mile intervals. Why Scotland doesn't just widen the roads between these short stretches is beyond me. I gasp several times when we round blind corners at the same time as oncoming travelers, causing both vehicles to hit the brakes and veer to the edges of the road. The shoulders are barely any safer, full of drop-offs, potholes, and the kind of rough, broken asphalt that popped our tire a few days ago. As much as I try to relax and enjoy the scenery, thanks to our recent car drama, I also feel like I'm riding on a poorly maintained rollercoaster. We stop at a few places and do our best to capture pictures of the unbelievable landscape, but it's hard to do it justice. 

An alien landscape

After three hours, we arrive at Smoo Cave, which lies close to the most northwesterly corner of the country. By now it feels like we are in a hurricane. It's hard to open the car doors to get out and the car's hatchback tries to guillotine us as we fish around the trunk for our waterproof gear. We descend stairs, the wind almost pushing us down them, into the sandy Geodha Smoo inlet between the types of dramatic cliffs we saw the day before at Yesnaby. A stream of water is running out from under the road and we turn to follow it upstream into a high cavern. The rocks here are covered in moss and ferns, and lights have been installed in some of the high-up, deep recesses so that visitors can appreciate their features.

Looking out to sea from Geodha Smoo, the tidal gorge that leads to the cave

The entrance to Smoo Cave

Cavern greenery

Crossing the waterway is a small wooden bridge that leads to a dark enclave. We walk across it and find ourselves face to face with a loud, splashy waterfall spilling into the cavern. I'm immediately blinded by water droplets on my glasses, and it's loud enough we can barely hear one another. After a few moments, we head back out.

On the way in, I had noticed an area across the stream where visitors had built small cairns, stacks of stones that seem to be the new way for people to declare "I was here." I've read some about this phenomenon, and it seems there is concern about the ecological implications of doing this. As a bug lover, I think about the poor critters, not to mention the mosses and lichens, who might have been living happily under those stones before some human came along and decided to interfere. I tell Taylor I'm going to go knock over the dozen or so stone stacks, and find a shallow path across the stream. The other visitors to the cave (including a person had just been stacking rocks) watch dumbfounded as I do my best Godzilla impression and kick or push over every single one. I feel triumphant and, full of hubris, do a shit job of finding the shallow place to cross back over the stream again and end up with my waterproof boot full of water. Worth it.

We climb out of the inlet and return to the car, where I brave the decapitating trunk again to fish some dry socks out of my suitcase. I change my socks and shoes, and we're back on the road for another half hour to our destination in Rhiconich, where we'll stay the night. Our B&B is called Ardbeg House and is just off the highway. There we are welcomed by a warm and kindly hostess named Susan, who gives us a tour of the homey place, takes our breakfast orders, and shows us to our room. The place is quiet and cozy, with thick golden wood doors. The temperature is toasty and it smells of tea and scented candles. It's perfect for coming in from a storm.

We take a load off for only a short time and then head out for our dinner reservation at a nearby hotel restaurant. There we fill our bellies with seafood, venison, and ice cream, and then brave the elements again to return to the B&B. On the way we see Scottish red deer, the type we've just eaten, and they are so lovely. The wind and face-pelting rain are violent and we're happy to arrive and get into our PJs and under the covers. Outside it sounds like nature is trying to tear the building down and I feel like Dorothy in the tornado scene from the Wizard of Oz.

Scottish red deer