My Heart Belongs to The Highlands (Part1)

There’s a large piece of my heart that will always belong to the Scottish Highlands.  I was born there in the late 1970s; spending the first 18 years of my life living in a small Easter Ross town, situated on the edge of the Cromarty Firth.  The town was divided by the long and winding river Averon, and lay at the foot of a large hill.  When people think of the Highlands, they usually envision the beautiful mountainous views of the Cairngorms; the vast green valleys of Glen Coe; or the banks of the wild Loch Ness.  The Highlands cover a large part of the country but my town was further northwards, 40 miles from Inverness; towards the East.  Easter Ross had a large number of towns and villages, set amongst hilly backdrops and situated around large acres of farmlands and forests.   The fields brough an array of colours; greens, yellows and browns; varied depending on their uses for crops or keeping animals. The Cromarty Firth sparkles in the sunlight; a home for a vast range of marine and birdlife, which lived on its banks.  We would often spot seals sunbathing on rocks; cormorants, heron, terns and oyster catchers could always be seen on the shoreline. The firth was home to dolphins and porpoises but they were mostly seen at the mouth of the firth at Nigg, or across the water, in the villages within the Black Isle.

The town lay at the foot of Fyrish; a large hill with an interesting history.  At the top of the hill, was an arched stone monument, which dated back to the late 1700s.  History tells us that the monument was built by a Laird, who had requested it to keep locals in work.  This was during the time of the Highland clearances, when many people were leaving their homes to find work in the south and across the seas.  The Laird was a soldier who had served in India.  It is believed his influences from his travels inspired the monument.  Fyrish could be seen from every place within the town.  It was far away from my housing scheme, so it wasn’t quite on my doorstep but if we were lucky, an adult would take us to explore.  Fyrish was a right of passage for the inhabitants of the town and local villages.  I was six when I had my first experience of Fyrish.  Dad drove us to the bottom of the hill and we all bounded out of the car, looking forward to the journey ahead of us.  We walked through a rich tapestry of pines and other evergreens that engulfed the bottom of the hill.  There were clear walkways.  This land had been travelled for centuries and pathways had been formed in its landscape, to help us reach our destination.  As we walked upwards, we escaped the canopy of the woods and the pathways were amongst thick, purple heather and green ferns.  It was quite an incline for a small child but I was determined to get to the top.  Some parts of the walk were scary; the little wooden bridge that crossed a deep ravine, was particularly terrifying for me.  I didn’t know it then, but I had a fear of heights.  I froze at the start of the bridge, while my confident older sibling walked across with little care.  My Dad was ahead of us but turned and shouted at me to move.  Dad had little patience and wanted to get on.  My brother encouraged me over, telling me if I didn’t go, I’d be left behind to the snakes.  Our dog must have sensed my fear because he walked with me, helping me cross over before bounding off to explore the wonderful new smells around him.  His tail was in the air as he happily explored.  He, like us, was both apprehensive and excited. Sam was a keen hunter so any sights of rabbits meant that he’d disappear after them but he’d always come back minutes later.   His nose was always to the ground. It took us some time to reach the top.  We ran around the stone monuments excitedly and in awe of the size of the arches. As my brother climbed them, I watched my dad standing with his hands on his hips. He was inhaling and exhaling deeply, as he looked at the world below.  I stood beside him and took in the views.  It truly was magnificent.  I could see my hometown and the glistening waters of the firth beyond.  The farmlands looked like a patchwork quilt of different colours and terrain.  On the other side were vast green forests and views of the neighbouring village and beyond.  I could see for miles around.   I soaked in the views and smiled, understanding my dad’s connection to the land.

The river Averon is a prominent feature of the town.  Its inhabitants live on either side of the river, which winds down into the Cromarty Firth.  The river stretched across a large area; protruding along different terrains; forests, marshlands and the town itself.  People use the river for sports and socialising but it was also used by the local distilleries too.  In the summer months, the river is bustling with life.  In 1980s and early 1990s, the river would play part to a lot of my childhood memories.  Families would spend hours in the warm sunshine playing and swimming in the dark, brown waters.  I recall many picnics down by the old weir with my extended family.  The walkways around the banks of the river saw wildlife like pine martins, stoats and weasels.  Rabbits were in abundance, much to the delight of my dog.  As we got older, many of us would go and investigate other parts of the river, higher up and amongst the evergreen forest.  There were a few popular spots, which were frequented by the older kids.  One spot, I remember vividly; a large, deep pool of water in huge bend of the river’s path.  It was overlooked by a cliff and surrounded by rocks but it was very deep. Kids would throw themselves off the edge and land in the middle of the deep pool.  There were stories and legends made out of that place; stories of kids breaking bones and others of people dying.  As I took those steps to jump from the edge, I remembered praying that I would come out of there alive.  That jump was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.  There’s something about that feeling of adrenalin, when your heart is racing and you are in that state between fight or flight.  As teenagers, my friends and I would often find ourselves spending our days by the river.  We’d go there to drink cheap cider and it was along the river, I experienced my first kiss, aged fourteen.

For the first nine years of my life, I lived in a community that was close-knit.  Our housing scheme was filled with people from all sorts of backgrounds and from many different countries.  My parents had previously lived in a caravan, as they waited for their opportunity to be placed in a bigger home.  They’d moved there shortly after my brother was born. It was a council estate; one of the estates in the town that had a reputation and often sneered at by residents in neighbouring estates. The houses had wooden exteriors and stood out from the neighbouring granite bungalows and larger privately owned homes, where they owners had felt somewhat superior to the inhabitants of my estate.  I never saw it as a small child because I was blissfully unaware of the class divides and judgemental opinions of adults.  In my neighbourhood, I had the pleasure of living amongst a community of people who looked out for each other, we were like an extended family banded together.  We all felt connected and there was a closeness with many families, that still exists today.  My house was number 50.  It was near a large playpark, playing fields and at the back of our house was farmland, separated by a little burn.  I loved nothing more than going into a world of make believe with my friends.  In those days, we didn’t sit in our homes and play computer games for endless hours.  Our Commodore 64 was only out during rainy days or when it was too cold and horrible to venture outdoors.  We’d play endlessly for hours; only venturing home when hunger overwhelmed us. We were encouraged to go out and play until the streetlamps came on. 

For the most part, the weather never really stopped us from going out.  We’d find many ways to battle against the elements.  In the long days of the summer, we’d pack picnics of jam sandwiches, a piece of fruit and crisps. We’d disappear for hours; venturing far and wide across our large playground.  There was usually a little gang of us; a group of explorers who enjoyed games of tig, hide and seek and enter imaginative worlds.  We’d pretend to be like Indiana Jones or be the A-Team fighting the baddies.  Sometimes, we’d simply play dares and give each other challenges.  We’d walk into fields unsuspecting of the farm animals that resided there.  Once, I remember we walked along a new area and saw this large brown bull huffing towards us.  We screamed as we ran as fast as our little legs would carry us, making it through the fence just in time, as the large brute stomped by the fence.  We all lay flat on the other side looking at him.  He was angry and loud.  We had many experiences with bulls, sheep and horses chasing us out of fields we shouldn’t have been in. A few of us found shelter in an old hay barn and stayed there out of the rain but one of the kids stumbled across a nesting pair of white geese who were very cross with us and they pecked and chased us.  At the playpark, there was a large metal climbing frame, monkey bars, tyre swings and a metal chute that burned your skin if you went down it in the height of summer.   The climbing frame was where we would play Dead Man’s Fall; a game that consisted of us pretending to die by the choice of the person killing us.  It could be by machine gun, grenade, bomb or even just a simple banana skin.  The climbing frame was a source of fun and yet thinking back, it was incredibly dangerous.  It was three layers high but instead of some rubber protective flooring, it was concrete.  If you had the unfortunate experience of falling through the bars, you were in for a painful landing.  Several kids ended up with broke arms and legs on that frame.  It never stopped us from playing there.  At the burn, there was a big old oak tree on its banks.  One of the older kids had made a swing, which was far more appealing that the old tyre swings at the park.  This one allowed us to swing over the water and jump to the edge of the field.  Many of us ended up in the water due to poor timing.  It was a source of amusement just sitting watching as kids ended up having a cold dip in the water.

Living in the Highlands, you couldn’t help but be very aware of the seasons.  Summer days were long and filled with lots of adventures; the sun would rise at 5am and fall after 10pm.  We’d wake up with the sun and plotting adventures for each day.  The weather was unpredictable; you could wake up to bright, warm sunshine and by the afternoon, there could be rain, sleet or snowfalls.   We’d often experience the phenomenon of four seasons in one day. The sunny days were the best.  If we weren’t out playing with our friends, my parents would pack up the car and take us to a local beach.  We had a choice of many in the area; Portmahomack and Rosemarkie beaches were usually our go to destinations.  My favourite was Rosemarkie.  We had many fantastic memories of being at this beach.  There’s a snack house, a play park, tennis courts and the local ice cream store would come down selling cones to the visitors.  It really was heaven to me.  Who needed Ibiza or Tenerife when this was on your doorstep?  The park and playing fields by our house, were often maintained by a tractor that would cut the grass every few weeks.  We loved nothing more than following Davey who worked the tractor.  He’d often shout at us to keep out of the way.  When he was done, we’d play with the abundance of cut grass, making dens and throwing the grass at each other.  My dog used to follow us down and join in the games; he loved findings us under the piles of grass, jumping on us and barking when he sniffed us out. The school holidays felt endless back in those days.  We made each and every day count back then, rarely having a moment to feel bored.