Friday, May 26, 2000
Speyside
An unusual burst of bright sunshine and warm temperatures brought the outdoors to life as we walked to the hotel for the breakfast buffet. This time I knew what to avoid.
Then we were off on highway B9152 south from Aviemore to Speyside Horn Shop, a small place that specialized in unique items crafted from horns and antlers. I’m guessing that I will never see anything like what I saw in that remarkable shop anywhere else. We did not leave without some sort of memento.
We turned back north and followed A9 to Carrbridge, a small town with little traffic in spite of the plentiful parking areas and visitors’ accommodations. Many white stucco-like buildings lined one side of the main street and were built against one another and contained homes, a restaurant, and market. Gray stone buildings stood across the street with more homes and a hotel.
We spotted an antique shop behind a row of houses and dove into a parking area across the street at the Landmark Highland Heritage and Adventure Park, one of several local attractions. We spent the next half-hour pouring over relics of British life wishing we were driving a semi instead of the Renault.
Our drooling ended when we drove to the North end of town where an old footbridge caught our eyes. It was built in the 19th century as a means to cross the River Dulnain that bubbled and rushed over the rocks beneath it. While admiring the scenery, what we thought was rain became small pellets of ice and we took to the eaves of a building across the street for shelter. As usual, the rain stopped in a few minutes and we were on our way to Grantown-on-Spey further north.
Grantown-on-Spey is a planned community, larger than many we had seen. The Grant Arms Hotel, a domineering gray granite building with a castle-like flavor, consumed almost an entire block of the business district that was lined with several blocks of large and small shops with simple themes. The late morning shadows stretched halfway across the unusually wide street leaving the reds, blues, and greens to almost disappear into the brown and gray stone at its heels. The sunlight that reached the opposite side energized the bright traditional colors of the shops that bordered the litter free sidewalks.
The first stop, a general store according to the sign, was just that. We found gifts, house wares, garden supplies, paint, and hardware. We passed a dairy, a butcher shop, the local larder, a bakery, wine shop, gift shops, clothing stores, hotels, restaurants, and many pubs. We had sandwiches at the Ben Mohr Hotel and Bar sitting at one of many mismatched tables with a variety of chairs spread among them. Cream colored walls on top of the dark wainscot gave liveliness to the pub even though we were the only customers.
The barman insisted on keeping a tab until we left.
Our lunch settled while we drove to Speyside Heather Centre, an oasis for the heather connoisseur and a grand visitors’ center. If it could be made from heather, you would find it there, as well as gourmet foods, accessories, liquor (yes, made from heather), furniture, clothing, and items for home d�cor. The garden center, just outside from the tea shop, had several hundred varieties of heather plants and unusual outdoor items.
Highway B970 led us to Nethy Bridge on the way back to Aviemore. The large hotel surprised us on the way through the tiny village and that was about it for the town. The hilly highway passed by fields thick with sheep and bounded by wire mesh or stone fences and hedges. Some of the houses had seen many years go by but presented contemporary fa�ades that masked their ages. We stopped at an obscure pottery shop just outside of the town. The colors and design were magnificent, mostly a variation of rich deep blues to steel gray and a luscious brown, and we worried about how we were going to pack pottery for the return trip. The potter, a tall and slender fellow with the notable Scottish brow, gave us a warm welcome and chatted with us about his wares. We purchased several pieces and were on our way to the lodge.
After a brief stop to recharge, we made a quick trip south to tour the Dalwittie Distillery. The copper caps on the stacks gleamed in the haze above the glaring white walls of the buildings and dark slate roofs. We joined others in the display room and shop and were disappointed to learn that it was the quiet season and no tours were scheduled since the equipment was being cleaned. My attempt at pronouncing the name of the distillery came out like something a fool might have muttered. According to the lady at the counter, it is pronounced “dal-quit’-ick”. I’m glad I asked but I have no idea how she got that out of Dalwittie. Since customs allows only one litre of alcohol per person duty free, I tried to bag my limit.
Our last official stop was back at the No. 1 Restaurant in Aviemore for high tea. I just love this British custom but I was not aware that high tea was any different from any other tea. My wife inquired after the waitress and we learned that tea is usually accompanied by a pastry of some sort while high tea is served with a snack or light meal late in the afternoon. Our hunger pangs forced us to go along with the light meal option and it was delightful. Especially the brown sugar, a staple on restaurant tables, that gave my tea a healthy flavor.
Back at the Lodge
A young piper in full tartan regalia stood at the entrance to the resort and the skirl from the bagpipes pierced the damp air with a seriousness that demanded my attention. I assumed the ceremonious occasion was on account of the sudden appearance of hundreds of Bentleys that had taken over the parking lot surrounding the hotel as well as the sidewalks, and one lane of some of the narrow roads.
I had never seen such a collection of such magnificent automobiles from the grand behemoths of luxury to the old racers and roadsters from what seemed like the beginning of time. Even the one with the Connecticut license plate. The Bentley Drivers Club had assembled there for a meeting. Even the frequent rains did not stop them from coming as we watched late arrivals in their open cockpit cars, the water spattering from the their rain hats and flowing over their goggles.
We spent the evening packing so we could depart for Edinburgh the next morning and from there on to London. I was even looking forward to the three hour drive to Edinburgh where we would turn in the Renault I had become so fond of. We would put nearly a thousand miles on it by the time we relinquished it but for eight days, that wasn’t unreasonable. We had gone where we wanted to go, when we wanted to go, and did what we wanted to do. We may not have had the benefit of an expert tour guide, but we learned enough to satiate our curiosity about the Scottish Highlands and the wonderful people we met there. Even though I was excited about Edinburgh, I slept well enough dreaming about when I would be coming back.