All language subtitles for Grand_Tours_Of_Scotlands_Lochs_S02E04

In the far north of Scotland,
there's a huge area of wild country

where sometimes there seems to be
more water than land.

Remote and windswept,
this loch-studded landscape

is the north's Empty Quarter

and one of the most sparsely
populated areas in northern Europe.

But it wasn't always like this.

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 fjordlike sea lochs,

great freshwater 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 shape the character

of the people who live
close to their shores.

On this Grand Tour, I'll be
travelling under wide skies

through a wilderness

where life can seem to exist
on the margins of what is possible.

My journey starts with a train ride

to a station
in the middle of nowhere,

goes with the flow
across miles of featureless moorland

to a river with a glittering past,

then loch hops
through space and time

to discover why people
were pushed to the margins.

Journey's end is on the shining
sands of a tide-swept beach.

I'm crossing a vast expanse
of country far from any public road,

travelling on Britain's
most northerly railway line,

which connects the town of Caithness
to the cities of the south.

This is Altnabreac - one of Britain's
remotest railway stations.

When you get off the train here, you
really are in the middle of nowhere.

It's 10 kilometres
to the nearest road,

39 kilometres
to the nearest supermarket

and a very long way indeed
to the nearest pub.

Meeting me at the deserted platform
at Altnabreac Station

is retired rail worker
Lewis Sinclair,

who spent 32 years walking the line,

maintaining this track in this
lonely corner of the rail network,

and when the winter snows hit hard,

this is how they kept the trains
running in the 1970s.

That was them trying to open
the track after a big snowstorm.

The train had got buried.
Good grief.

It's completely buried.
Completely buried.

It would have been over 20 feet
at that time.

They were stuck on there the whole
Saturday night, Sunday morning
on the train,

and then the helicopters came and
rescued the people off the train.

That's a great shot.
That's a snow plough?
Yes.

That's a small plough.

That's a SMALL one? (LAUGHS)
Yeah, that's a small one.

And that's the big plough, is it?
That's the big plough.

Look at the depth of the snow there -
a good 15-foot drift.

That's the one that got buried,
just...

The snow plough got buried?
Yeah.

How would you get it out,
once you'd found it?

Just dig.

Moving hundreds of tonnes of snow?
There would've been a big squad.

Like a chain gang.
Yeah, a chain gang.

Amazing winters in those days.
Oh, yes.

I would be cut off
for quite a time here.

I remember they were cut off
for six weeks at one time.

Lewis heads home by train,

down the track that he tended
most of his working life,

and I continue my journey by foot,

through almost unimaginably
gloomy weather.

The view ahead is obscured
by clouds hanging in the treetops,

which seem to press in on me
from either side.

I come at last
to the first loch on my journey -

Lochdubh, the Black Loch.

Dominating the eerie scene
is one of the hunting lodges

that the station was built to serve.

At one time it was at the centre
of a vast sporting estate,

but the guns are silent now
and today it's a private house.

Despite the grandeur,

there's definitely something spooky
about this place,

and I can't help thinking
that the house really would make

a great location for a horror movie.

So I'll not tarry long
on the shores of Lochdubh.

With a quickening step,

I gladly leave the trees
and the dark loch behind,

and the landscape suddenly opens out
under wide skies -

so typical of Caithness.

The country here
is full of Gaelic placenames -

a reminder of an earlier way of life
before the coming of the railway

and sporting landlords.

Now, most of my knowledge of Gaelic

actually comes from
ordnance survey maps,

and I happen to know that the loch
behind me is called Loch Mhuilinn,

which means 'the mill loch',

and the wee burn that flows from it

is marked on the map here as Alt
na Mhuilinn, or 'the mill stream',

which indicates there would have been
a mill here at one time.

The question is, where is it?

I'm not looking for the remains
of a big old-fashioned mill

with a large vertical waterwheel,

but something much simpler.

That's because the traditional
type of mill used here

was a very primitive affair

and little changed
over many centuries,

and was common in Scandinavia,
Scotland and Ireland.

Unfortunately, I can't find
the remains of the mill

that gave its name to this burn.

In fact, it's hard to imagine
anyone living here.

But this wasn't always a wilderness,

and we have the evidence to prove it

in this fascinating
if slightly unwieldy atlas.

Named after the man who made it,
it's called Roy's Great Map,

and was commissioned by
the victorious government army

after the Battle of Culloden in 1746.

According to Roy's military map,

back in the 18th century there were
several communities out here,

with names like Dalwhillan,
Dalnaha, and even The Glutt.

But there's nothing left of this
now-forgotten way of life -

in fact, today
this is more like a human desert.

Continuing through this wilderness,

I enter an increasingly
remote landscape.

Here the ground
becomes ever more waterlogged.

Stretching as far
as the eye can see,

there are lochans and pools
everywhere.

This watery mosaic
is all part of a vast peat bog

known as The Flow Country.

The name Flow Country was first used

to describe these wide open
but rather soggy spaces

by surveyors from the Nature
Conservancy Council in the 1950s.

They recognised the unique importance
of this environment

and used the Old Norse word 'floi',
meaning a flat, marshy area,

to describe this fabulous wilderness.

I want to investigate the nature of
this vast tract of the Flow Country,

which covers a total area
of 2,000 square kilometres
of northern Scotland.

Roxane Anderson is a scientist
who specialises in peat -

the stuff that makes up
most of what you see out here.

Along with her field technician,
whose name happens to be Pete,

they show me how a peat bog
is an accumulation of dead plants

that haven't fully decomposed
due to the waterlogged conditions.

Roxane, we're standing on
blanket bog,

so it's smothering the landscape.

Absolutely. It's just covering.

This is why
they're called 'blanket'.

It really is covering
the whole landscape.

It is the largest blanket bog
in Europe,

and potentially even
the largest in the world.

So it's really significant.
It is.

Another aspect
that's really significant

is the amount of carbon
that is stored in the peatlands.

This is significant in, for example,

Scotland's fight
against climate change,

because if we have peatland
in good condition

and that enables
the carbon to be stored,

then it helps to reduce
the amount of carbon

that's emitted in the atmosphere.

Roxane is keen to show me
how the peat not only locks in carbon

but is also a record
of the climate in the past.

To see into history,
Pete first takes a core sample

of...well, the peat.

This is from the top
at 50 centimetres,

so you're looking at the most recent
vegetation to the oldest.

So, 50 centimetres would be...yeah,
a few hundred years, maybe.

A few hundred years. That's amazing.
That's incredibly well preserved.

And you can still see
all the vegetation.

And then by the time you get deeper,
there's hardly anything at all.

Is it completely decayed away?

It's much more decomposed but...
No, no!

..even at the very bottom you can
still find remains of plants,

and that's one of the interesting
things about, you know, peat -

is that if you know how to read it,

it's basically like a history book
of what happened in this landscape

for the last 9,000 or 10,000 years.

And the vegetation
over the thousands of years

would have changed, would it,

or is it the same vegetation
growing all that time?

It has changed a little bit.

About 5,000 years ago,

there was a period of...the climate
was a bit warmer and drier.

That allowed the pine to rise.
Really?

But then it got wet again,

and so we can see the rise and fall
of the pine in the peat as well.

So as the climate got wetter, it
would've killed off the pine forests.

Yeah.

Today this blanket bog is recognised
as both an important carbon sink

and a very special habitat
for flora and fauna.

But this wasn't always the case.

In recent decades,

the Flow Country was severely damaged
by afforestation,

and huge plantations of spruce and
pine still blight the landscape -

the legacy of government policy
in the 1970s and '80s,

when the super-rich
were encouraged to tax dodge

by investing in tree planting.

Many peat bogs were drained, and the
rivers that they fed were starved.

Even worse, there was a scheme
to exploit the peat

on an industrial scale,
and turn it into electricity.

60 years ago, these huge mechanical
beasts crawling over the bog

were deemed a symbol of improvement.

Jim Johnston helps me
to paint a picture

of a very different period
of Flow Country history.

Jim, can you describe what this
amazing contraption is there?

I mean, it looks like a tank
with a garden shed on the top.

There would be a number of machines
like this one

which would be ditching the bog,

and picking up the milled peat
off the surface.

And why were they milling the peat?

To supply heating material
to a very large power station

which was standing just a few
thousand yards or so away

which was operating on a very modern
system - a closed-cycle gas turbine,

and the idea was that you would
clear that peat completely

while generating
all this electricity,

and then you would create farms
on the cleared ground.

The purpose of it
was to make something better

out of what they regarded as
the wastelands of peat.

In the end it didn't run properly,
which was rather a shame.

But of course these days we see peat
as valuable in its own right

for different reasons.

Because of global warming,
it's seen as a carbon sink

and perhaps a defence
against global warming.

Well, in those days, the worry was
that there was going to be
another ice age

rather than
that things were going to heat up.

It's incredible what a difference
a few decades can make

to our perception of the landscape.

The Flow Country has gone from
being seen as a wasteland

to being seriously considered
as a World Heritage site.

If peat were once regarded
as a version of "black gold",

then a few miles to the south
is the real stuff.

This is the Kildonan Burn,

which drains from the lochans
and bogs of the Flow Country.

The Gaelic name for this place
is Baile An Or - "gold town" -

and remarkably
it was home to Scotland's very own
19th-century gold rush.

Yvonne Creedy tells me
how locals still pan for gold

for very special occasions,

and shows me how it's done.

Get rid of some of
these bigger stones.

So, we're getting down
to finer and finer sand here.

Yeah, and you want the black sand -
that's what holds the gold.

See here?
That's a bit of gold.

That is gold, isn't it?
Yes. Uh-huh.

We've found gold.
This is really amazing!

How often do you find it?

I mean, is it
every once in a blue moon?

Am I exceptionally lucky?

Uh, there'll be...
That's neat, isn't it?

Well, where there's one piece,
I think you probably attract it.

Spin it round.
You've got more, you see?

Look at that! Is that all gold?

That's all gold there, yes.

That's Kildonan gold.

Not enough to make a ring, but enough
to make me feel very happy.

That's brilliant, Yvonne.

Enriched by the experience
and thrilled by my gold find,

I head for my next destination,
Strathnaver,

and the beautiful and melancholy
Loch Naver.

Walking through Strathnaver is like
taking a hike through history,

and I can't think of a better guide
to the area

than Roy's old Military Map.

I just wish there was a pocket-sized
version of the thing.

But it gives
an absolutely fascinating insight

into what this area was like
some 250 years ago,

and there've been
some very significant changes.

Roy's map really is
a beautiful piece of work,

but it also provides evidence
for a great human tragedy.

We've already seen
that the map shows settlements
that are no longer here,

and as I continue my journey,

the absences seem to haunt
the whole landscape.

You can see from the map

that Roy has marked several villages
along the loch side

and further north up Strathnaver.

Now, many of these places
no longer exist.

They and the inhabitants
vanished long ago,

and all thanks to the greatest
and perhaps the worst landlord
in Highland history -

the Duke of Sutherland.

The name Sutherland is synonymous
with the brutal Highland clearances

of the 19th century.

But the Highland clearances
started out

as part of a program
of agricultural improvements.

Now, the idea was to give over
the good, fertile land

to large-scale
and efficient sheep farms,

and to move the people
who lived here to the coast,

where they were expected
to take up fishing.

In Strathnaver
and across the county of Sutherland,

over 15,000 tenants of the Duke
were evicted from their homes,

all in the name of progress.

As the sheep moved in,

the 13 families who lived here
at Rosal were moved out.

The only evidence
that people ever lived here

are these few scattered stones,

but eyewitnesses from the time

reported savage cruelty
and destruction

on an almost biblical scale.

Now, this was written
by Donald Macleod,

who published
a horrifying account of events.

"All the houses in an extensive
district were in flames at once.

"I counted 250.

"Little or no time was given for
the removal of persons or property,

"the people striving to remove
the sick and the helpless

"before the fire should reach them.

"The cries of the women and children,
the roaring of the affrighted cattle

"altogether presented a scene that
completely baffles description."

As for the Duke of Sutherland
and his agents,

they described what happened
as a "benevolent action,

"necessary humanely to order
the new arrangement of this country."

The legacy of this arrangement

continues in the empty wilderness
left in its wake.

The suffering
of the people of Strathnaver

has put me
in a serious and reflective mood

as I continue to my next
destination - tiny Loch ma Naire.

In legend, Mo Naire is the name
of an ancient Celtic water goddess.

Legend has it that the waters
of this tiny wee loch

have wondrous healing powers,

and in the old days, people came
from all over the north,

seeking cures for diseases
that had baffled all medical skill.

Now, given my own rather precarious
state of health,

that sounds a wee bit like
a cue for a dunk,

although I have to say I'm not
particularly relishing the prospect.

That looks decidedly chilly.

Oooh!

I have to say that for a spa resort,

Loch ma Naire isn't
what I would have expected.

It's totally deserted, and the fabled
waters of this northern Lourdes

might look blue and clear
but, boy, are they chilly.

Now, according to tradition,
you have to perform certain rituals

for a cure to be effective,

and the first of these
is to make an offering
to the goddess of the loch.

Now, custom had it
that you threw in a silver coin.

Now, I've got 20 pence here.

I'm just hoping
that's going to be enough.

There we go.

Next, you had to
call out your disease

and then dunk your head
under the water three times.

So, uh...this is very embarrassing,
but...

Please, Goddess, cure me
of my unfortunate verruca.

Three times. Here we go.

One!

Two!

Three!

I've actually found something here.

It looks like an old coin
from a previous visit to the loch.

Now, also, legend has it that your
offering has to be a fresh one,

otherwise you would
acquire the disease

of the person who threw this in.

So, I think this is dirty money.

Now, I feel a whole lot better
already,

and I can feel that verruca
rapidly disappearing.

Perhaps the experience
of chilly Loch ma Naire

has had a positive effect on me
after all.

I have a spring in my step as I head
for the next loch on this Grand Tour

and a body of salty Atlantic water

on the cold northern coast
of Scotland.

I'm speaking about the Kyle
of Tongue, a shallow arm of the sea

that splits the land on either side
and penetrates into the Flow Country

towards the magnificent peak
of Ben Loyal.

Apparently, Tongue comes
from the old language of the Vikings

when they held sway
in these northern parts.

The Norse word 'tunga'
means, uh, well, 'tongue'

and refers to the tongue-shaped
spit of land

that projects across the loch,

almost dividing it in two.

Today, the tongue carries
the road bridge that spans the Kyle.

I'm here to learn about
a little-known episode
in Scottish history.

The year is 1746.

The Highlands
is awash with rebel Jacobites,

supporters of
the exiled Stuart Kings

under the leadership
of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Opposing them is the Hanoverian
Government in London.

It's just a few weeks
before the culminating action

of the whole era -
the Battle of Culloden.

A French ship loaded with gold and
guns destined for the Jacobite army

sails into this kyle,

pursued by a heavily armed
British frigate.

In the ensuing engagement,
there was much at stake.

Would the Jacobites get
their desperately needed supplies?

And what happened to all that gold?

Local farmer and keen historian
Allan MacKay

helps me speculate about
a wee battle,

no more than a skirmish,

that could have had
huge consequences.

Who knows what would have happened
if the gold had got to Inverness?

Changed the course of history.

Well, I was going to say, because
in many ways what happened here

could have been
a tipping point in history.

Yes. I mean,
there was a lot of gold.

It was £13,000 worth.

So is there any evidence
of the battle that took place?

Well, there's cannonballs.
Cannonballs!

Cannonballs have been recovered.
(LAUGHS)

There's...round here they were found
in...stuck into rock.

Into the rock crevices?

There was a cannonball recovered

which I actually happen to have
in my hand here.

A genuine cannonball fired by,
presumably, the Royal Navy

firing at the Jacobites.

Good grief.

Allan tells me
how the Jacobites abandoned
their heavily bombarded ship

and made a desperate bid
to get their precious cargo of gold

away from the British soldiers,
who were in hot pursuit.

The two parties met
at Lochan Haken,

and this is where the gold
was supposedly deposited.

Do you think there was gold there?

There was a cow appeared in
with a gold coin stuck between
its cleats and its feet.

The coin does exist, I believe,
in Dunrobin Castle,

so I think if there's any gold
in the loch,

they'd have recovered it -
the people in the area.

Did it find its way
into the community, do you think?

Well, there was a family
which did become very wealthy.

Right.
And it wasn't my family!

It wasn't your family?
That's very tragic.

It is, yes.
(LAUGHS)

Leaving Allan, I wander out across
the beautiful sands of the Kyle.

It's hard to imagine that
a fortune was brought here

and then lost again
beneath these wide skies.

Countless tides have ebbed
and flowed since then, of course -

almost washing away the memory
of those turbulent times,

when a fortune destined for a prince
could have changed history.

There might not be any Jacobite gold
to be found here,

but this is surely compensation,
and a view to treasure.

Ben Loyal, in all its magnificence,
is absolutely priceless -

making this the perfect place
to end my Grand Tour

through the Flow Country.

Captions by Red Bee Media
(c) SBS Australia 2019