Seaside Special - Heavy and light, rough and smooth: Moray, Aberdeenshire, Angus and Fife


Just six months after the uplifting tour around the exposed, wild roof of Scotland – the NC500 – I was back at its starting point. This time heading east from Inverness, rather than north, to explore a bit of Scotland’s coastline I had never been to before. And in Winter, too.

I’ll be upfront. This trip wasn’t an unmitigated success. I was anticipating these few days away as eagerly as any of the previous adventures; and had route-planned, b’n’b-booked and  transport-researched accordingly. Indeed, I was on the cusp of new employment that would mean the end – at least temporarily - of my freelance, freeform, flexible career in favour of a regular 9-to-5, full-time jobby that would likely curtail such future trips. So this one would be the last for a while.

A range of factors conspired to dial down the enjoyment. Sometimes these were self-inflicted, but there was also a fair old dose of external interference as well. So batten the hatches in advance of a few barbs of bellicose bellyaching.

I had been to Inverness twice before. And whilst I am a veteran of the Caledonian Sleeper, this was the first time I had taken the service to the capital of the Highlands. The train crawled alongside Inverness estuary in the half-light of a grey morning under a speed restriction, arriving a few minutes late. This was my debut with the new rolling stock. And mixed reviews to be frank. The ticket thumped in at a price much heftier than previously in return for a poorer all-round experience.

Not least amongst my gripes was the level of noise and the absence of privacy. I learned a lot about my neighbour’s trip to Inverness through the thin interconnecting door, including his bike hire arrangements, cycling route and, more worryingly, his tight-fitting lycra. On previous, old rolling stock trips, I had enjoyed slouching around in the lounge car over a bottle of ale or a peaty malt whisky. This time, when I set off to look for it, I found myself excluded from the Club Car, which was reserved for 1st class ticket-holders only; and priced out of a separate restaurant car for diners only. No sign of the lounge car, despite the quarter-mile hike to the other end of the train.

And then one of the self-inflicted bits. I went to the loo and got locked out of my cabin! I’d left my keyfob behind, I sheepishly explained to the steward in my pyjamas. ‘Never done it before’, I said as he patiently let me back in with his skeleton key.

As a confirmed fan of the sleeper, this was my least enjoyable journey.

Inverness, though, was welcoming me with an early morning wander round the town centre and a decent fry up. 

Back to the station for train to Elgin. The first one was cancelled, with over an hour ‘til the next. The same iced lines that caused my Sleeper's delayed arrival continued to cause priblems.  I checked out the bus timetable, but that option would take longer. I waited in Costa with a bucket of caffeine.

Elgin was an impressive looking settlement. Fine civic and ecclesiastical buildings dominated the centre, alongside shopping streets and the towering Lady Hill Monument on high ground that marked out the place as a commercial and administrative centre. And a former royal burg to boot, though I came to realise that most of the towns on this coast seemed to have claims as historic royal burgs. In  fairness, Elgin wasn’t a town at all, but a city, as indicated by the large capital lettering ‘Elgin City FC’ adorning the main stand of the football stadium.

On the bus to Lossiemouth, I got a call from an accommodation agency telling me that I needed to validate my room booking in Aberdeen later in the week with a scan of my passport. They had already taken my money and now were imposing new conditions that I couldn’t fulfil. I was pretty fed up and asked them if it was some kind of scam. Why hadn’t they specified this before? I didn’t have any photo ID, having booked the room on the sleeper the night before. So it was a phone call to Mrs A who obliged by sending a scan of my passport.

Lossiemouth had been on my radar for some while. The northern-most UK base of the RAF’s Typhoon fighter/ground attack squadrons, I thought I might stroll out to the base and grab a few afterburner shots. The train delays had scuppered that plan though. I would have had to hang around for a little while, merely on the off-chance – quick reaction fighter deployments unsurprisingly are not published to the world in advance – and my revised timetable didn’t have the flex.

So instead I pootled around James Square where a tribute to Ramsey MacDonald, born here in 1866, reminded me that he was the UK’s first Labour Prime Minister. I also admired the concrete Art Deco co-op that presumably used to be a cinema. A 10 minute walk brought me to the marina which was filled with yachts, many up on scaffolding awaiting attention to their hulls. One bloke in orange overalls and a red beanie was busy with an orbital sander. He nodded a greeting. Over by the old harbour, similar looking vessels and a few cruisers were moored by the quay, with brightly painted fishing boats in amongst the pleasure craft, carrying the port registration ‘INS’ for Inverness.

The town’s most attractive feature was the sprawling network of dunes and breakwaters on East Beach, accessed by a sinuous, shiny metal bridge over the River Lossie.  The town used to be three settlements: Seatown to the east, Stotfield to the west, and then the two joined by a planned development on a grid system of wide boulevards and handsome houses around the harbours, called Branderburgh. The three eventually became known as Lossiemouth. I really liked the town, especially so quiet on this cold late January Monday. It was about then that two RAF Typhoons took off from the air base, filling the air with a spectacular roar from the runway less than a mile away. I scanned the skies but could not pick anything out.

Time to move on. I caught the bus back to Elgin and then changed on to the Number 35 which followed the Moray coast on a twisty-turney two-hour trip to Macduff. I bagged the top-deck near-side seat and enjoyed the meander through a succession of gorgeous whisky-region villages like Spey Bay, Mosstodloch and Fochaber. Then cutting back to the coast and running through ports and fishing villages with stout, stone built houses clustered around strong harbours with dark, thick outer walls, sheltering fishing fleets from massive North Sea storms. Portgordon,  Gordonsburgh, Portessie, Portnockie, Cullen, Portsoy. I was hoping that my good run of pretty towns wouldn’t peter out before I reached my destination for the night.

Sadly it did. The bus pulled out of Banff, round the bay and dropped me at Macduff harbour. First impressions were not good. This was a working town, and rough around the edges to say the least. The harbour looked busy enough, but the foreshore was quiet. There was one basic looking pub, The Moray Arms – ‘cash only, no food’ - with a pool table occupying the main room. Another building  clearly used to be a hotel but now hosted a charity shop and a cafe, sporting a hand written note on the door - ‘closed until March’.

I took all this in whilst snapping away at the amazing sunset playing out over the eastern harbour below Banff ridge. Blue, purple, orange and red exploding across the sky as if a detonation on the hidden horizon had sent pigments, dyes and tints streaking into the atmosphere.

Walking up the steep High Street, passed near-derelict empty shops and houses, trepidation about my evening’s accommodation grew exponentially.  It looked alright on the website, but…? Very much out of character with Macduff’s initial revealings, the Knowes Hotel was, in fact, most excellent. Well appointed, clean, welcoming and boasting a commanding view over the Moray coast.

After dinner (fish and chips just seemed right) I ventured out in to the darkness to look a bit more closely at this strange town. I headed for the harbour. The basin was filled with a mixture of craft. Macduff Shipyards was the main enterprise here and had two or three trawlers up on stilts for repair. Out of water they looked stocky – pugnacious boats with surprisingly deep hulls, looking eerie under the floodlights from the slipway. 

I pottered around the harbour front, but the town was absolutely dead on this cold evening. A couple of people were playing pool in the front bar of the Moray Hotel and I saw a light through the frosted, chipped glass door of an unsavoury looking Cantonese take-away that may or may not have been open for business. There were no other signs of life. Eventually I wandered back up the hill for a couple of beers in the quiet hotel bar.

Over breakfast I was chatting to a young bloke from Bolton. He was staying at the hotel whilst on contract work for a couple of months at the shipyard. He said the pay was OK, but because there was nothing much to do after his shift, it was fairly easy to save money. He didn’t know where or when the next job would be. A minibus pulled up in the forecourt and he hopped in alongside his workmates and was ferried off to the harbour.  

In daylight, I became a little more sympathetic towards the place. I came to respect Macduff as one of the few on the coast that still earned its crust from heavy industry. The inner harbours were lined with fishing vessels and muscular boats linked to the oil industry and offshore energy generation. The harbour master, a chandlers, a boat paint shop and a navigation business occupied some run-down late Victorian premises on Shore Road. Macduff Shipyards built wooden and steel hulled vessels, pilot boats and survey craft. It also ran crane hire and engineering arms and had acquired the old yards at Buckie and, at the very north-east tip of this coast, Fraserburgh. I wouldn’t get to Fraserburgh, which seemed to have pretty poor public transport connections from Macduff.

The industry that had shaped this town remained a largely male, working class preserve. There was very little requirement for fancy middle class affectations like bijou coffee shops, nail bars and art galleries. There was decline, certainly. The town had seen many, many better days. The population was leaving, pubs and hotels had closed or had been demolished. The retail and hospitality trade was threadbare. Duff Street was sad looking. Too many former shops that had ceased trading were laying empty or boarded up. The street names didn’t reflect their original purposes either. Market Street looked like it had never hosted a single stall in its entire existence. And High Street had a spacious, new library, but no signs of shops.

And yet… And yet scratch away at the surface and a more complex picture emerged. A few large, almost grand merchants houses  were dotted about the town, and gothic public buildings hinted at a more prosperous past. Most private houses were sound, well cared for and became more substantial further up the hill with tended front and back gardens. Many were built of attractive large granite blocks, whilst others were clad in that grey concrete spray that weathers so badly. Up on the hill, next to my rather fine hotel, the Macduff Memorial Tower commanded a wonderful aspect over the coast.

The town had other assets that I hadn’t appreciated the previous evening. The large aquarium was clearly popular and currently busy with school trips. And I followed the coast road out to a hidden gem. There’s a disused open air swimming pool at Tarlair Bay. The walk over the cliffs revealed a stunning coastline and, rounding the headland, the bay opened up to reveal the outline of the tidal pool walls and a gorgeous Art Deco pavilion and former tea room wedged under the cliff. Derelict of course. But relatively intact. And being renovated. There were actually three pools in the lido – paddling, boating and swimming. The site closed in 1995. Waves and weather had taken their toll and there was a realistic chance that the structures would be lost to the elements forever.

Tarlair Bay pools in their heyday. Courtesy Aberdeenshire Council

It had taken almost 25 years to put together architects plans, funding packages and viable partnerships, but now work was starting on repairs. The site was off-limits behind an eight-foot wire developers' fence. But I could see people attending to a construction to the side of the pavilion. A rock arch just beyond the tideline provided a superb backdrop to the bay and I was envious of a bloke working on the enclosure of his croft with this view below his front window. I’ve seen many remarkable sights on this coastline adventure but Tarlair Bay was up there with the best. 

This beautiful corner of the world could one day be open to the public again. An enticing project. Alongside the promised levelling up money for the aquarium (if it actually appears) there just might be a bit of welcome tourist opportunity to sprinkle amongst the industrial graft.

On the way back I wanted to explore a sea cave I'd seen underneath the town’s football pitch, resting precariously at the top of granite cliffs. The cave seemed to have broken up concrete slabs across one of the ridges that formed the entrance wall to the cave. Why was it there?  I wanted a closer look. I certainly got one. Descending the face, I slipped on black ice clinging to a smooth piece of slate and went arse over tit towards the sea. Bloody fool. I couldn’t stop myself for a good few yards, which was pretty scary as the sea loomed up towards me. I came to rest in a dishevelled state and surveyed the damage. A few grazes on the legs and hands and some rips in my jeans that probably doubled their fashion interest. Great cave though. Long and deep and frothing with wild foam. Nothing so life-affirming as a near-death experience!

The first bus to Aberdeen didn’t show up and I fell into conversation with a local woman who was waiting for a bus up to the top of the town where she lived. She must have been well into her eighties. I'd seen her earlier at the bakery up Duff Road. (The busiest shop in the whole town. I’d scoffed a mince and onion barnie, which is a sort of pasty type thing from Forfar, but heavier and more lardy, like having a fatberg lodged in your belly). She was a right chatterbox with a thick enough Moray accent and I only caught every third word until I managed to tune in.

The next bus was already running late. It was hers too. She kept saying she didn't know why 'cos there's nae snar'. They were even more unreliable in bad weather, I took it. More than once she made me chuckle. She’d had her hair done at home by the same hairdresser for the last 17 years. ‘It's cheaper ye nar. Nine pund. It's more than 20 over in Banff. Mind I'm using my own electricity and washing my own heed.' She also told me that the last time she had a driving lesson it cost 80p an hour. I was relieved to hear that this was back in the 1970s, and not another of her recent cost saving initiatives. And she firmly put to bed my prejudices about the rubbish retail opportunities in Macduff. She loved the Costcutter and the two charity shops were ‘full of lovely stuff - and nice and clean ye nar'.

The road trip to Aberdeen was long and inland and not so interesting as the previous day's coastal route. Aberdeen, though, was ace. Great architecture – the granite city and all that – and had a lovely atmosphere.

I made for the harbourside and port buildings, the oldest part of town. Fishing had been the area’s main industry before the arrival of oil and now the balance was shifting towards renewable energy. Half a century ago, this giant basin would have been filled with mighty trawlers, which in time gave way to energy servicing and cargo craft. Now it was a mixture of all those, plus a fair few cruise ships, ferries and breakers yards.

There was money in those industries. Two of Aberdeen’s streets have been named among the most expensive in Scotland. The soaring cost of energy has driven sky-high property prices and long made Aberdeen one of the most expensive places to live and work in the UK.

I had a happy hour or so strolling round the ancient streets of Castlegate, busy, commercial Union Street, through the St Nicholas Kirk Cemetery, browsing a craft ale and vinyl record shop, and enjoying the calm of Union Terrace Gardens.  My room for the night was the place that had demanded photo id, but there was still an issue getting in which took ages to sort out. The modern, spare, harshly-lit box was not my best choice. It was run by a large commercial agency and you could tell. I went nuts the next morning when someone from their office rang at 8am to ask if I would like to purchase a check-out extension. ‘No thanks’, I said, ‘10am is fine, but as you’ve now woken me up early to try to sell me something I don’t want, I might as well leave early. Do I get a refund?’ Of course I didn’t say anything nearly so clever and articulate. I grumbled and huffed a bit at the caller, who had the decency to be a little bit embarrassed and rang off, consoling myself with the prospect of uploading a thoroughly excoriating TripAdvisor review.

The evening before had been spent at Ma Cameron’s excellent boozer on Little Belmont Street, supping Belhaven and watching a bit of European footie on the telly. This was a lovely relaxed pub and had two of its many rooms had been taken over by the Aberdeen Board Game society: thirty or so members spread across five or six tables playing Ticket To Ride and such like. Lovely.

After I’d ranted at the accommodation, I spent an excellent couple of hours at the Aberdeen Art Gallery. Fantastic building housing a mixed collection variously of local, national and international significance. But the seal on the deal for me was the exhibition about the granite quarrying industry. Some frightening video and audio testimony laid bare how the material was mined and worked by hand in the Nineteenth century amid terrifying industrial accidents and freezing, dangerous conditions. Vicious looking cutting and lifting equipment was displayed throughout the room.  

I needed a shot of caffeine after all that hard labour and sat around in the top floor café watching Storm Jocelyn outside, blowing over tables and chairs and bending trees to near snapping point. The storm was an angry, swirling, gusty thing and trains were inevitably cancelled. So the next part of my trip was made up on the hoof. After lots of hanging about and even more caffeine, I opted for Montrose. I arrived just before dark and dumped my stuff in an attic room I’d hastily booked above a Thai Restaurant.

There was just about time to walk through the town’s tired streets and head out to the coast before dark. The harbour was not really accessible behind windowless, empty warehousing and offices lining the basin. It was hemmed in by a maze of roads hogged by chunky port vehicles that left the casual pedestrian all at sea. I flirted with disaster skipping between the juddering traffic to take a pic of the railway bridge across Montrose Basin. Almost worth the risk...

I changed tack and headed for the dunes, via Montrose Golf Links, ‘The fifth oldest golf course in the World’. This gave on to a wide, hard-packed sandy beach arcing away north and bookmarked to the south by the Scourie Ness Lighthouse at the mouth of the River South Esk. I revelled in the silence and the quiet, as a contrast with the transport clatter of earlier.

The route back to the town centre took me through its more affluent parts adjacent to the golf course. Very pleasant in isolation, but overall Montrose was pretty run down. The same sense of a crumbling buildings and empty commercial premises as Macduff, without the saving graces or the friendly people. Here there was more of an edge. I’d seen drug dealing on open stairwells off the High Street, gaggles of blokes street-drinking  and kids tearing up the road in screaming, souped up Corsas and whining, baffler-free Suzukis. All of this gave me a sinking feeling.

I found a boozer in a converted cinema off the main drag (literally) for some food and a bit more European footie. The pub was very quiet. Then an early night beckoned, demanded by a quick rail getaway booked for next morning.

The station was on the edge of Montrose Basin, a 750 hectare enclosed estuary of the river South Esk comprising tidal mudflats and marshland. Remnants of a purple sunrise were playing on the rippled surface of receding water. The town is in a brilliant setting and has so much natural resource going for it. A few too many things in the debit column though.

I picked up the direct train to Edinburgh and settled in for a pleasant journey south along the coast. Low, bright, winter sunshine magnified a pin sharp horizon between sea and sky. But soon, we ploughed a path inland from the coast through lowland agricultural regions. I lost count of the number tractors I saw hauling ploughs across fields of rich, dark earth making ready for the sowing of spring crops. Gulls expectantly following the new furrows.

We joined the coast again at Arbroath. Allegedly more deprived and run down than Montrose after the fishing industry collapsed. Smokies or no. The harbour is supposed to be very lovely though. Next time.

The buildings on this stretch of coast were of a granite much more red in colour than up by Aberdeen. Different quarries. Granite has many hues and textures, I learned the other day.

I salivated at a beautiful beach at East Haven just north of Carnoustie, empty except for a few dog walkers. Soon, the championship golf courses at Carnoustie flashed by the window. All looking fine and dandy. My compliments to the greenkeeper.

Then Monifieth and Broughty Ferry. My mate Tim spends a lot of time up here and he said they were the posh suburbs of gritty Dundee. ‘A bit like Berkhamsted’, he chirruped on WhatsApp, ‘you’d be at home there’. Cheeky get. I’m a working class lad.

Across the striking Tay railway bridge and then inland towards Edinburgh. If time had allowed I would have disembarked at Leuchars and headed east to St Andrews, the Anstruthers and the Elie peninsula. The affluent parts of Fife. But time most certainly didn't allow. This had already been a logistically challenging trip and anyway who wants to see a few more posh golf courses?

The logistical challenges had one last kick in the guts for me. I’d used up my remaining Air Miles (I know they are no longer called that, but what does ‘Avios’ mean to anyone?) on a one-way flight to Luton. However, my oversight in leaving physical photo id at home that had caused me grief with the Aberdeen accommodation came back to bite me here.  I was refused boarding because the scan of my passport was deemed insufficient proof of id. BA had only changed the rules at the end of December. Up until then a scan would have been fine, but now they needed a physical document. It didn’t matter how long I stood there and asked them why, the answer was always an inadequate ‘because it’s the rules’. Deeply frustrating. I got my money back (eventually), but had no option but to traipse back in to Edinburgh and take the LNER home.

Some memories and experiences that will live long were gathered in this intriguing corner of Scotland: thrills, spills, frustrations, incompetence, contrasts, colourful skies, wide oceans, hidden jewels, great people, good food and whole vat-load of waiting-room coffee. A challenging trip overall, I'd say! 


Series navigation: Intro and chapter guide

Previous episode: NC500 part 3

Next episode: Lothian and Perthshire


 

Comments

Tim said…
Superb as usual. Some places for my next trip. Always fancied Elgin. Did a tour of the Highlands with Sarah and her dad ending up in Montrose on the way back. You were more complimentary than me about the place. Arbroath is much nicer with the harbour and Abbey. Shame you missed the Fife coast. The Cornwall of Scotland. Always time to visit in your retirment

Popular posts from this blog

Seaside Special - NC500 part 2: north and north-west Highland

Seaside Special - Long way round to the races: Lothian, Fife and Perthshire