Original subtitles

The lands of Torridon,

on the far North West coast of Scotland,

have a dramatic environment,

dominated by ancient, towering mountains,

and riven by deep, fjord-like sea lochs.

For centuries, people eked out a meagre living here.

They fished the seas and harvested the thin soils

in the struggle to survive both against the elements,

and a succession of ruthless landlords.

But there is no doubt about it,

this is a harsh environment

but it's also a place of breathtaking beauty.

Lochs are Scotland's gift to the world.

And are the product of an element

that we have in spectacular abundance.

Water.

It's been estimated that there are more than 31,000 lochs in Scotland.

They come in all shapes and sizes.

From long, fjord-like sea lochs,

great, fresh water lochs of the central highlands,

to the innumerable lochans that stud the open moors.

In this series, I'm on a loch-hopping journey across Scotland,

discovering how they shaped the character of the people

who live close to their shores.

For this Grand Tour

I'm going to places that will literally take my breath away.

My journey starts at Loch Torridon,

climbs one of Britain's highest and steepest public roads,

explores the deep history of Loch Kishorn,

and wanders along the shores of Loch Carron,

to journey's end, near the village of Plockton.

This is Loch Torridon -

as wild a place as you'll find anywhere on the west coast.

In many respects, living here is like living on an island.

That is the Applecross Shore,

and until the 1970's

there was no road linking the scattered communities

along the lochside.

And the only way in or out

was on foot or by boat,

which is how some people still prefer to travel.

Kenny Livingston is a native of these parts

and has lived on the shores of Loch Torridon

for most of his life.

I was born and brought up at Ardheslaig,

which is just, erm...

Just along the coast here. Just the house that is actually ahead of us at the moment.

This white house that's at the head of the bay here.

Was there a road in those days? There wasn't no, no. Everything came by sea in those days.

Virtually every house in every community

would have had it's own boat.

Right, was that like having a family car?

It was, absolutely, just the same.

And some people had better models than others.

Was there rowing boat envy?

There was rowing boat... particularly outboard envy,

I think in latter days.

So, who's that? You've got a picture there, is that...? I do, yes.

Is that you and your brother? Yes, it's my brother Dickie and I. and someone called John McDonald,

Johnny McDonald, who is in the bow,

we seem to be rowing him around the bay for some reason.

You seem to be going round in circles.

(LAUGHS) Yes, go to church by boat. By boat?

By boat, yes. And what was that like?

As boys we used to enjoy seeing

other peoples' boats from other communities.

So it was an event, a good day out? It was an event, yes.

Tea and biscuits from the minister after the service.

Right. Did you not feel cut off?

Did it not feel like a remote part of the world?

It didn't, no, it was just what we knew I think,

and we didn't really feel it was remote at all.

Following the coast and its wooded bays

we eventually reach the village of Shieldaig -

a name that comes from the language of the Vikings

and means 'herring bay.'

And herring is part of the reason why

the village developed here.

For many years, this was an important herring fishery,

and boats would leave the loch to go in search of the silver darlings,

which provided people here

with a decent, but hard-won livelihood.

Kenny drops me off in the village

where I bump into a present-day fisherman, Richard Frost,

known to everyone around here as 'Frosty,'

is inspecting some of his prawns,

which he keeps fresh in cages under the pier.

So, when did you catch these? Just yesterday.

Just yesterday afternoon so.

What kind of market have you got?

The majority of them go to a wholesaler in Dingwall.

What about locally, do you supply locally as well?

I supply my wife in the cafe as well.

Oh, right. She takes some as well.

What kind of price do you get from your wife?

Is she a poor payer, is she?

She's a poor payer, yeah, not the best price.

No, not the best price.

But that's just the way it goes I suppose, isn't it? Yeah.

Are they all kind of graded according to size?

Yeah, these are all in a medium tube,

so this is all medium ones, so they're all the same size.

They're all wanting to come out. Right, Mr Langoustine, yeah.

So how do you put them back in there? Still very alive.

Yeah, yeah, very alive.

You don't want to get nipped.

They've got some pretty vicious wee claws on them, haven't they, these things?

They certainly have. Do they nip you?

Oh, look at that. Um, not if you're holding them right.

If you hold them like that they can't, you know... Right, yeah.

But if you hold them like that they'll eventually...

They'll get round and get you. Yeah, yeah.

He's got lots of barbs on his nose, hasn't he?

Yeah, they're all razor sharp. You'll know about it.

I bet you've been nipped a few times, have you?

Aye, fingers like that, yeah.

So, erm, I'm going to be going up to the cafe soon,

I might see some of those up there on a plate.

You probably will, I'm sure you will, yeah.

Interesting to see what price I pay for them,

and how much your wife paid you. (BOTH LAUGH)

Alright, cheers. Thanks now. Thanks a lot, see you later. Bye.

Heading around the bay and along Shieldaig's main street,

I come to the cafe run by Frosty's wife.

The cafe is called Nanny's,

and the proprietor, Lynn Frost,

is busy serving her husband's freshly landed prawns to hungry tourists.

Prior to me running the cafe here,

it was run by a lady called Anne Grant. Right.

So, she ran a little shop on this site

from the 1950s until 2007.

Is this her? That's her, yes, that's her there.

She was fondly known to locals and visitors alike as Nanny Grant,

so that's where the name's come from.

What kind of shop was she running? Was it a general store?

What could you buy here? Yeah, exactly, yeah.

It was just like a very traditional general store,

selling all...just groceries, and a little bit of fresh fruit and veg,

potatoes, firelighters, paraffin, dog food, you know, all the usual.

Yes, right.

But the original Nanny's building was built in 1918,

so it would have been 100 years old this year.

Right, that's amazing, just after the First World War.

Yes. What were her clientele like?

What people did she serve?

All the people that lived in the village would go to Nanny's,

but as well as that, there was no coast road,

so Nanny would make up parcels of groceries,

and the boat would take them over to all the outlying communities.

Right. And these would be some of the parcels being landed by boat.

That's right, yes. To one of the shoreline communities.

She would have wrapped up all of these groceries

in these very neatly parcelled together boxes.

I know. Brown paper and string.

(LAUGHS) It's brilliant.

Well, it's a great legacy and it's great that you've kept the name.

Yeah, it's a great name though, isn't it?

It is, 'Nanny's.' Yeah.

Leaving Lynn and memories of Nanny Grant,

I return to the loch with Kenny,

heading for the village of Torridon,

which lies in the shadow of some of Scotland's most impressive

and breathtaking mountains.

In many ways, the harshness of this rugged and ancient landscape

is reflected in the hardships endured by the people

who lived here through the centuries.

Life was never easy, even for God-fearing folk.

In previous centuries,

when people were just as concerned with heaven, hell and the hereafter,

religion was taken very seriously indeed.

And religious disputes could have great consequences.

So much so that in the 19th century,

the established Church of Scotland, suddenly split apart

in what was thunderously called, 'The Disruption.'

The dispute centred on the right of landowners

to appoint a minister over the heads of a congregation.

Many saw this as compromising their independence.

The issue split the church.

And 450 ministers left to set up the Free Church of Scotland.

But they had nowhere to worship

because the established church closed its doors on these 'heretics.'

Pushed to the margins,

highlanders came up with an ingenious alternative.

Congregations met in the open air.

Here in Torridon, the faithful kept their covenant

with the Almighty at this amazing natural amphitheatre.

And as you can see,

seating was on these horizontal stones,

arranged in tiers to face this central pillar of rock.

Known in Gaelic as Creag am Priosdan,

or in English, as 'the preaching stone,'

it would have been from up here that the Gaelic-speaking minister

would have addressed his hardy flock.

And hardy they had to be because his sermons could be very, very long.

And the weather, summer or winter, could be unspeakably harsh.

Local people were cleared from the good land

to allow sheep farming.

The consequences were destitution and hunger,

while their wealthy landlords

created deer forests and great sporting estates.

But times have changed.

This is Torridon House,

which was once at the centre of one of the biggest sporting estates.

Today, new ownership brings a new vision.

Here I meet the current owner,

Baron Von Racknitz.

Happily, the Baron likes to be known less formally as Felix.

Felix, I can tell that you're not from around here.

Not exactly, no.

Where do you hail from originally then?

I was born and bred in Germany. Uh-huh.

Lived there most of my life, worked there.

But I came to Scotland, er, in '91.

I was captured by the magic, obviously, of the west coast.

And then I met my wonderful wife. Uh-huh.

Which is another long story but...

Is that another reason why you're here?

That's definitely a reason I'm here now.

This is where you chose to live.

I know. Torridon House.

Yeah, couldn't be a better place.

We're both musicians, you know,

we just think this is the appropriate space

for creating and composing.

We write a lot of music together.

So it's going to be a creative centre.

Definitely! It already is.

I'm not used to being serenaded,

especially by such an accomplished musician as Sara, Felix's other half.

Sara comes from Skye,

and is a gold medal-winning fiddle player.

Sara and Felix hope that music

will be at the heart of their new venture,

which will see the old house become a creative arts centre,

powered by water that cascades through the grounds.

This is not just romantically picturesque,

it's the key to the future - and a surprising vision of the past.

So, what have you got in here?

So, this is your big surprise and it is a surprise. Look at that!

This is the Mama -

a 100-year-old micro-hydroelectricity turbine.

This is Victorian technology really, isn't it?

That's right, yeah. Edwardian Victorian technology.

Yeah, right. And it's still working?

Yeah, it's working really well, and it's heating our house.

Yeah? And we're getting, actually, a tariff.

How much can this power? Well, at the moment she's doing, at maximum, 15 Kilowatts.

Right. Depending on how much water is in the river.

But it's amazing, this is really back to the future.

It is, and the idea is that we will use the electricity

to run the ground-source heating system

and heat the whole house.

Well I'm very envious, and I'm really astonished

to see such an ancient piece of machinery,

made in Britain, still working.

That's right. And it proves that we used to make stuff.

Yeah, yeah. That really is fantastic.

It's made by gilts, and they still come up and maintain it.

And they said to me that it is possibly

one of the oldest running turbines in Britain.

Well, that must make you feel very proud to be the owner of it.

Yeah, I know, I know. Yeah.

And it's great that you've brought it back to life.

The road from Loch Torridon heads south,

crossing the Applecross Peninsula to Loch Kishorn and Loch Carron.

But a turning on the right leads to a notorious mountain pass -

the Bealach na Ba, a tortuous single-track road

with the steepest and greatest ascent of any road in Britain.

Now, that's unusual, look -

a road sign with a route description.

"The road to Applecross, the Bealach na Ba.

"This road rises to a height of 2,053ft

"with gradients of 1 in 5 and hairpin bends.

"Not advised for learner drivers, very large vehicles or caravans."

But I'm guessing it's just fine for a bicycle.

Well, I hope so!

In Gaelic, the Bealach na Ba means 'the pass of the cattle.'

In the 18th century there were more than 3,000 head of black cattle

grazing the lands on the other side of these mountains.

To get them to market, drovers herded them along a high-level track,

which today is followed by the road,

completed in 1826.

But it wasn't tarmacked until the 1960s.

For early motorists, its gravel surface

would have added to the epic nature of the ascent.

Now, because the Bealach na Ba is the wildest road in Britain,

people come from all over the world just to conquer and claim it.

And having ticked it off, they go back happy and satisfied.

Which, of course, means it's very popular,

and in summertime it can be very busy indeed -

making the Bealach na Ba perhaps a little less than wild.

The road ahead climbs relentlessly for 8 km -

though I've been told that the effort is rewarded

with breathtaking views.

But perhaps not today, the weather is looking a little grim.

Oh, these...

Oh, these hairpins are awful

And by the time I reach the upper mountain

I can barely see the road ahead.

Oh, my knees, my knees.

This really is crippling. Urgh!

Altogether, my legs have to negotiate five hairpin bends

before I can relax and take in the much-vaunted views.

Urgh, deary me.

Well, I'm glad to have got to the summit in one piece.

But I have to say, the rewards for all my efforts

are a wee bit disappointing.

And someone has very kindly erected a viewpoint,

which tells me that I'm at 2,053 ft above sea level,

and the view, as you can see,

is not very glorious at all.

But on a clear day, they do tell you

that you can see Ardnamurchan Point 50 miles away,

through the mist, in that direction.

But I think there's not much point in me hanging around here

freezing myself to death.

I'm going to head back down the hill

in the hope of finding better weather.

Of course, the best thing about having cycled uphill

is the freewheeling ride back down again.

Wee-hee, this is great!

All the way to Loch Kishorn, where there seems to be no village,

or obvious centre of population.

In fact, Loch Kishorn is a pretty undistinguished place,

except for its huge and magnificent hole -

truly the wonder of the west.

This dry dock was created by the effort of thousands of workers

who toiled here in the 1970s,

and was once the centre piece

for probably the biggest

and most surprising civil engineering project

ever to be undertaken in the highlands -

the construction of the gigantic

600,000 tonne Ninian Central Platform -

at the time, the biggest moveable object ever built.

I meet up with two Kishorn veterans, Alfie Edwards and Donnie MacDonald.

So, this is where the rig was actually constructed?

This was where the rig was constructed. The first part of it.

So it grew up from this level? It grew from this level.

What was your role, Alfie? We were actually digging the hole.

So, you dug this hole? We dug this hole out, yes.

How many machines were working? Two main machines.

Two Caterpillar 988s, big, big machines

were going full out and smaller mechanical diggers, you know.

They were working as well. A lot of explosives, I guess.

Big, big explosives, maybe ten, 20 tonnes of explosives

going off in one blast.

They were landing halfway across the loch.

(ALL LAUGH)

Now, Donnie, what were you doing here?

I started here in 1976 on the marine side, when, er,

just before the Ninian Central base section floated out of here.

Uh-huh.

So, I was skipper on one of the passenger boats.

When it was going at full pelt, this yard, Donnie,

how many men were working here?

Probably the peak was somewhere over 4,000 altogether.

That's like a town. It's a town, it's a town.

It's a Dingwall. It's the size of Dingwall.

Is it really the size of Dingwall?

It's the size of Dingwall. (LAUGHS)

They had a police station here.

There was a nurse station, there was security, there was...

They had a camp, entertainment. They had bars.

Cinema, bars. Cinema?

They had two or three bars, actually.

I think it was... The popular one was what they called the Wellie Bar.

The Wellie Bar. (LAUGHS)

Which you could go in in your working gear. Right.

Wellies, hard hats... The other bars were more like cocktail bars.

You'd have to dress up. I don't think cocktail...

That would be pushing it a bit, but they were a little bit better.

So, it must have been a real boomtown then?

It certainly was, I mean,

it brought a lot of people back from, you know,

local people who had... most people went away for work.

But there was work here for anybody that wanted it.

And it must have been a really exciting moment

when this rig finally left the dock.

Massive... when it slowly started moving out

it was just...it felt fantastic.

The history of Strome goes back centuries.

Now, because of the narrows and the ferry,

it was once strategically important,

which explains why the MacDonells of Glengarry built the castle here

some 600 years ago.

According to local legend, the castle was besieged

by the rival Clan Mackenzie in the 16th century.

Unhappily, the MacDonell's supply of gunpowder

was accidentally rendered useless

after some women, who were drawing water from the well,

mistakenly poured it into the wrong barrel.

The MacDonells were left with nothing more than a damp squib

to defend themselves.

Things got worse

when the besieging Mackenzies heard about the soggy gun powder.

Now, realising that they had the upper hand,

they were able to force the MacDonells to surrender.

Now, when the castle had been evacuated,

they blew it up -

presumably with their own supply of dry gunpowder,

and the place has been a ruin ever since.

The village of Stromeferry lies across the narrows,

but without a boat, I'm faced with a 20km detour around the loch.

So, it's back in the saddle for me,

passing through the village of Loch Carron.

On the other side of the loch,

the road runs alongside the famous Kyle line,

billed as one of the best railway journeys in the world,

and I'm seeing it from a push bike.

But at the next station I get a chance to rest my legs

and hop on board a train

and enjoy the spectacle for myself.

The line hugs the dramatic shoreline of Loch Carron,

passing wooded headlands and rocky islands,

taking me to the delightfully picturesque village of Plockton.

Like Shieldaig, Plockton was developed in the 19th century

to exploit the herring fishery.

The place thrived because of the railway,

which carried fish direct to market in the big cities of the south.

The shoals of herring have long since vanished from the loch,

and Plockton today is a village that catches more tourists than fish.

Plockton has many attractions,

among them, the unexpected sight of palm trees fringing the shore.

On a sunny day, you could be forgiven for thinking

that you were in the tropics.

But although these trees look authentic,

technically they're not palm trees at all.

In fact, they are known as cabbage trees,

or Cordyline australis,

to give them their full Latin name.

And they don't come from the Caribbean,

but from parts of New Zealand,

where the climate can be just as chilly as it is here.

Among the many visitors to have been charmed by the village,

and perhaps its palm trees,

was JM Barrie, author of Peter Pan,

who has a surprising and little-known association

with Plockton and Loch Carron.

To find out more, I'm taking a trip around the bay

with skipper, Calum Mackenzie.

Calum has been entertaining visitors

for many years with his famous seal trips.

When I started first of all, Paul, I wanted to go

to take people out to see the oil rig

that was built at Kishorn, the Ninnian Central.

Right. But, er...

Were they impressed? No.

(LAUGHS)

And then I saw seals on one of the islands at Kishorn,

so I thought, "Oh, that's a better idea."

So I've been doing that for 38 years.

approaching the beautiful wooded island of Eiliean na Creide Duibhe,

known locally as Heron Island,

a place Calum believes

has a forgotten connection with Peter Pan.

Now, JM Barrie used to go for his holidays to the Outer Hebrides.

Uh-huh. And he would have gone by train.

And he would have seen this island,

and I believe this is where he got the inspiration

for the Island of the Lost Boys, Never Never Land, and Peter Pan.

Calum shows me a photograph of JM Barrie's adopted son,

Michael Llewelyn Davies,

on whom the author based the character of Peter Pan.

The Lost Boys are based on real people.

And after he died, JM Barrie commissioned a painting of him

in an idyllic Scottish landscape.

Right, right.

But the background...it's the background to me

that I'm convinced that the island that we're going to...

..could be the Island of the Lost Boys.

Armed with the photograph,

I land on the island to see if it could have been

the model for Neverland.

Moving beneath the trees where the herons nest,

I go in search of the idyllic view,

which Calum believes is of the loch and the hills around Plockton.

Just getting to the top of the wee hill

on Eiliean na Creige Duibhe,

and this I think is the view that Calum was describing to me -

which he claims forms the backdrop

to this picture of Michael Llewelyn Davies.

Now, in the background behind me you can see the hills of Applecross

shrouded again in mist.

And the headland you can maybe just make out over there

and on this picture could well be the entrance to Loch Kishorn.

And I could be standing on the spot imagined by JM Barrie

as the perfect place to remember the wee boy

who helped to inspire Peter Pan.

Which would make this the ideal place to end my grand tour

from Loch Torridon to Loch Carron.

Captions by Red Bee Media (c) SBS Australia 2019