We headed out of Lairg and were almost immediately in a bog. It was a wide dark landscape, with rocks and grass and heather close by, and mountains ahead.
There was no better glimpse into the life of remote Sutherland than through the smeared windows of this eight-seater. The post bus was a lifeline and Mr. Mathers much more than a driver. He not only picked up mail and dropped it off, and ran with it to houses in the rain, and carried scribbled messages from house to house; he also drove along a single-track road for the whole of the way north, which meant he had to stop when a car approached from the opposite direction — eighty or ninety times in a single trip — because the road was only wide enough for one car. He carried milk. He carried newspapers. He carried shapeless bundles labeled For Graham.
He stopped the bus at the Reeks, in the middle of a peat field, and with the mist flying sideways he hurried to the door with a pint of milk, the T.V. Times, today's Scotsman, and a birthday card for Mrs. Campbell. Farther down the road, at Fernside, it was two pints and a Mirror, and then a five-minute trot up a muddy path to deliver a junk-mail Sunglasses Special Offer from the Automobile Association (though Mr. Innes was expecting a long-overdue letter from his daughter in Australia), and then a copy of the Sun to Hope Cottage, and another favor — fifteen pounds of wet fish in a plastic shopping bag for a householder who had asked for it over at Kinloch. And more newspapers. Such effort and expense to bring people copies of the gutter press! But that was Mr. Mathers' job. And he was never abrupt. Whenever he handed something over, he exchanged a greeting. "How's your mother feeling?" and "The sheep are looking well" and "It feels like rain."
We came to an unearthly, gigantic landscape along Loch More in the Reay Forest. The fields looked bitter and brown and the loch very cold, and the mountains were vast shrouds of rock. One of these silver mountains was the most beautiful I had so far seen in Britain — a great bulge glittering with cataracts of scree. It looked as if it had just frozen in that carbuncular shape the day before.
"That's Arkle," Mrs. MacGusty said. She wasn't local. Her accent was amused and tentative, like someone nibbling shortbread, the tones of Morningside — the genteel landlady accent of Edinburgh. "It's Icelandic, you see."
What did that mean?
"It's all turned over. These high mountains" — she seemed to be describing babies, her voice was so affectionately savoring the words—"Ben Stack and Arkle — what should be on the bottom is on the top, they reckon, the geologists. You look at them and you think, They all look duffrent!'"
Mr. MacGusty said, "They're also very beg."
This was Achfary, "the Duke of Westminster's estate," Mrs. MacGusty said.
"Does he farm here?" I asked.
"Oh, no. It's an estate. He keeps it for the shooting and the fishing. Prince Charles comes here in a helicopter sometimes, for the shooting. Och! I expect you're a republican!"
We were sitting by the roadside in the post bus as the rain came down. Mr. Mathers was bringing a copy of yesterday's Express to a cottage behind a high wall.
I said, "So it's all gamekeepers here?"
"Aye," Mr. MacGusty said. "The duke owns a good butt of Sutherland." He thought a moment. "It's the old way of life." He thought again. "It's very unfair, in a way."
It was more a shrug than a protest. But he was resigned. After all, we were talking about feudalism.
The past was accessible here as a present fact. Not only in ducal estates and private game reserves, but also in ancient names. The MacGustys got off the bus at Laxford Bridge. It w?‹s a Norse name—lax meant salmon (and of course the Yiddish lox for smoked salmon was a cognate). Then Mr. Mathers told me how his parents had both been fluent Gaelic speakers and that he spoke it fairly well. And peat-cutting was part of the past, too. The peat was free, but cutting it was backbreaking work. It was cut and left to dry in stacks, so everything depended on good weather. Even present-day crime sounded somewhat outdated — sheep rustlers and squatters and poachers.
We drove up the narrow track to Rhiconich. This was actually the coast, a muddled maze of islands and lochs. We went to Kinlochbervie, which was a busy fishing port on a sea loch, dealing in whitefish and lobsters.
We stopped twenty more times. Mr. Mathers did this twice a day on this small windy corner of Scotland. When he stopped and parked, the wind shook the bus and rattled the cottage gates and moaned against the telegraph wires. A pint of milk, a Scotsman, and a printed postcard saying This is to acknowledge your communication of the 13th inst. to Mrs. Massey at Drumbeg.
"Cape Wrath doesn't mean 'angry,'" Mr. Mathers said. "It's from a Norse word that means 'turning point.' This is where the ships turned south. Sutherland is another Norse name — it was south for them."
Then he smiled. "Don't be disillusioned," he said. "The weather can be hellish here. In 1952, when I was still at school, we had a January storm. The winds were a hundred and twenty miles an hour — roofs were torn off houses. The Irish ferry was lost that night. It's often bad weather — horrible weather. I pity the lads in those wee fishing boats."
We came to Durness. He said, "This is it. There aren't more than three hundred people here. It's the work problem, you see. There's no employment."
The village was empty, but the wind was a presence — wild gusts flew in from the direction of the Faeroes.
I walked back through the sandy cliffs, among the rabbit holes, to Keoldale and the Cape Wrath Hotel, and had my first good meal for days. There were a number of English anglers at the hotel. They blustered when the national news came on. They were all Tories. They called the Prime Minister "Maggie." Her nonsense suited their nonsense. One said he wanted to shoot the man being interviewed, who claimed he had known all along that the Falklands were going to be invaded. "Too many bloody people giving advice!" Another said that half the Labour Party should be shot for treason. One thing about anglers, though. They went to bed early.
The next day I crossed the Kyle of Durness and walked seven miles to Kearvaig, which was like the end of the earth. But this was Cape Wrath proper and had peaty soil — it was crumbling cliffs and sand at Durness.
I saw a seal take a salmon. People told me that seals did not really eat them — that they just took bites of a fish's shoulders and threw the rest away. But this seal lay on his back with the eight-pound salmon in his mouth, and he tossed his head and snapped his jaws and ate the whole thing.
Then on my way back I saw a flock of sheep crossing a sandbar in the Kyle of Durness. The tide was coming in. The sheep started moving. Soon they were swimming, the big horned sheep in front, the lambs behind, with their noses out of the water. They were North Highland Cheviots. They moved very slowly, for the tide was still rising and they were still far from the bank. Fifteen minutes later the Kyle was filled, there were fewer sheep visible, and then there were none. They had all drowned, about nine of them, under the gray torn sky.
***
Some fantasies prepare us for reality. The sharp steep Cuillins were like mountains from a storybook — they had a dramatic, fairy-tale strangeness. But Cape Wrath was unimaginable. It was one of those places where, I guessed, every traveler felt like a discoverer who was seeing it for the first time. There are not many such places in the world. I felt I had penetrated a fastness of mountains and moors, after two months of searching, and I had found something new. So even this old, overscrutinized kingdom had a secret patch of coast! I was very happy at Cape Wrath. I even liked its ambiguous name. I did not want to leave.