At the Worlds End

There are still quite a few parts of these here British Isles that I have yet to explore. Can you believe that I have not ever been to either Liverpool or Blackpool but I guess that is a weekend waiting to be pencilled into the calendar some time ahead., perhaps a combined Cilla Black memorial tour whenever she pops her clogs.

It is interesting that even though we are not a very large country, expecially when compared to our nearest European neighbours, the actual physical effort to get around and about can be quite a disincentive to do so. On the other hand, if planning a road trip from say Lands End to John O'Groats, therefore the full 960 mile navigable length of the country, this could feasibly be done in a day by car including wee-wee stops which begs the question about what is there to do for the rest of the week?

I seem to think that I have been to the farthest south west tip of England from a photograph of myself as a small child next to that totem pole of a signpost showing the distance to all global parts from Lands End. I cannot actually remember it. Factually, the actual southernmost point for the British Isles is somewhere a bit more Scilly.

Westwards I have been to Enniskillen in Northern Ireland but only for a brief weekend for a wedding. This falls some degrees short of the official westernmost point of Rockall. I can however claim to have visited the most eastern extremity of the country when in 1971  my father, with me as a small enthusiastic hanger-on, test drove a VW 1600 Fastback through Suffolk to Lowestoft. Compared to the wilds of Rockall and the Atlantic battered Scillies the port town of Lowestoft may represent a bit of an anti-climax as extreme places go. Nice fish and chips though. Easily wipeable vinyl seats in a VW as reassurance for those susceptible to travel sickness after a childs portion of fish and chips.

It sounds a bit sad to tick a mental box in the part of the brain dedicated to meaningless and trivial acheivements. I did not even consider this to be the motivation behind a road trip, some years ago,right across the topmost part of Scotland even though it included passing the end of the unclassified and no-through single track road signposted 5 miles to the northernmost place in mainland GB at Dunnet Head- yes, virtual tick. Relax. Move on.

The farthest north eastern section of Scotland is surprisingly bleak and not very inspirational. In saying this I have disregarded the spectacular scenery from the car journey through the Highlands which by setting such a high level of expectation would make even the Natural Wonders of the world look a bit shabby and tacky. The landscape would certainly make a Falkland Islander homesick. A bit on the flat and featureless side with coarse grazing for a large population of sheep .Even this has been wrestled away over many centuries from the harshness of the natural environment as evidenced by mile upon mile of low walling of stones cleared from the land to create an enclosure of even a few square feet to keep livestock from flying away in the wind or being abraded to bone by the driving rains. I had come to that part of Scotland partly out of curiosity but mainly because some of my ancestors came from there.

My Gran, on my father's side, had grown up in the harbour town of Wick in Caithness not too far from John O'Groats. One of a large family her claim to local infamy had been that she was one of the first, if not the first
woman in the town to get a motorbike. Immediately images of a slightly built leather clad figure roaring about the narrow streets with the exhaust tone echoing amongst the granite buildings come to mind. To her it was a way to get to her job teaching at a local school with some independence.

Wick was closed when I got there with my travelling companion of my wife to be. It was, after all, a tuesday. The Bed and Breakfast at Rose Cottage close to the quayside was of a different era. I think we had to show a false marriage certificate to share the same dining table let alone the same bunk bedded room. Although in the height of summer Wick had decided not to participate that year and it was  gloomy and wet and very depressing. The obviously newest, and more enterprising, migrants to the town at the Chinese Takeaway were the only business open at 5pm. The livelihood for the locals appeared to be a combination of loading up refridgerated lorries with fish, ironically to be driven overnight to the wholesale market in my home city of Hull and the manufacture of gawdy glass paperweights. We ate our chow mein very slowly in the car as it did appear to constitute the main entertainment for the evening. There was a more poignant reason for the stay-over in Wick. After finding my Gran's family home, a pinkish hued granite terraced house close to the glass factory we made our way to the cemetery. On the basis of a puritanical B&B, chinese meal in the car and a trip to a graveyard you must be thinking that the guy sure knows how to treat the ladies. In Wick terms I was a real Casanova.

We walked up and down the neatly arranged pathways between the gravestones for some time until a sorry sight came into view. A modest polished granite cross marking a small grave mound was broken in two. The wording on the tombstone confirmed that it was the resting place of my Gran's brother who had drowned, aged 10, after falling into the sea whilst fishing off Scrabster Head. His untimely death was tragic enough but compounded by the neglect to the memorial to him. It is one of my biggest regrets that I did nothing to resolve this situation.

From Wick we drove into the summer weather which was waiting patiently for acceptance just beyond the outskirts of the town.