When I grow tired of London

The house that squares up to the mountains

I’m going to live in a manse in the Scottish Highlands, within striking distance of a Victorian railway station, with glass canopies and pillars with cast iron flowers. I want an honest granite house that squares up to a view of mountains and water. Fit for a minister, his wife, four children, and domestic, the manse has grounds (unmaintained), outhouses (unconverted), and fishing rights (mainly pike). The chimneys lean towards Charles Rennie Mackintosh, but the architect is unknown. The rooms are generously proportioned, and sparsely furnished. There are more bedrooms than a bachelor could need, and not quite enough bathrooms.

The manse is set well back from the road, invisible to traffic on the A9. On rare days when the clouds have lifted, the view of the Cairngorms makes you want to stop and stare. There is no heating to speak of, and lighting fires between March and October is forbidden. There are potholes in the unmetalled track to deter visitors. I am furious when intruders come to picnic by the river. The midges drive them away.

I will have a manservant called Duncan who seldom speaks. Duncan does everything. He runs the house, grows vegetables, chops wood, and fixes the car. Duncan knows what I am thinking before I do. Duncan reads books about the Second World War, and keeps a firearm that he knows how to use.

I will drive a beaten up second hand car, a Bristol, or some classic tourer that has not been driven by James Bond. For entertainment I drive recklessly into Inverness, and drink gin at the Station Hotel. I post letters in the antique post box. Sometimes I enjoy myself too much to drive home. The hotel staff, who all know me, arrange parking for the car, and a bed for me.

I am on speaking terms with my distant neighbours, most of whom could be extras in the Carroll / Donat version of ‘The 39 Steps”. We hail each other at the annual Highland Gathering, and, more often, at Tesco’s in Inverness, when I am stocking up on malts, and other essentials.

People bracket my name with Fitzroy Maclean, Patrick Leigh Fermor, and Compton McKenzie. I have Whisky Galore in my cellar.  I write prickly prose and poetry in 72 page notebooks bequeathed to me by Muriel Spark from the stock she acquired from James Thin in Edinburgh. People think I am writing a great work. I will never complete it.

Increasingly, I am absent from the manse. People say I am doing something ‘hush hush’. In fact, I am sailing around the Mediterranean with a troupe of dancers from the Royal Ballet, drinking gin martinis with friends up at their villas. I repay their hospitality with advice on what to plant in a hot border. When it comes to drought tolerant plants, I am a fount of knowledge. Small wonder I never made much of the bog garden at the manse. I’m going to give up the manse. It’s just not a realistic proposition.

Take a break: get a new perspective

I’ve just had the most wonderful experience walking with a friend in Torridon, North West Scotland. Only a week ago, we were taking in the beauty of the Cairngorm valley from the window of the Caledonian Sleeper: snow-capped mountains in the distance, stations built like Victorian hunting lodges, silver birch and Dulux white snowdrops growing by the line. Despite the inspiring view, I was worrying about work. Was there anything I had not done that I should have done? Were there things I had done that I should not have done? Even though I slept soundly on the train, I could still feel the ties that bind me to work.

The power of time, distance and novelty 

Removing myself from a situation and waking up in a totally different environment can help to reduce my killer sense of responsibility for everything. After a cooked breakfast at the station hotel, I felt the ties weakening. Maybe it was admiring the grand hotel staircase that is the original of the one in The Titanic. Probably it was the black pudding that helped most. Meeting the owl from the Harry Potter films outside Inverness M & S was magical. With one eye closed and one eye open, she turned her head from side to side like a clockwork toy. I couldn’t help noticing that the owl’s keeper looked very like an owl himself, with his owlish glasses and long snowy white hair. Time, distance and novelty all helped to make me feel less responsible for everything.

Take a SMART challenge

Walking in Torridon for the first time helped me to focus on a practical and immediate goal: getting to Coire Mhic Fhearchair and back safely. Unlike my never ending ‘to do’ list at work, a guided hill walk is a SMART challenge. You know where you are going (specific) and how far you will have to walk (measurable). By turning up you agree (agreed) to the route.  Your guide has assessed your fitness for the walk (realistic) and you know roughly how long the walk will take (timebound). Ryan, our guide, showed us the remains of a Lancaster bomber that crashed in Coire Mhic Fhearchair in 1951. He had recently taken part in a ceremony to mark the 60^th anniversary of the crash. Someone had cut the wreath from the skeletal wing of the plane.

The Importance of Treats

When you have walked to one of the most beautiful places in the world, it’s quite all right to stop for tea and scones. A gin martini can add value to the view from the hotel of the loch and the mountains. It would be impolite not to drink local beer and eat haggis with 2 GPs, an anaethetist, and an accountant in the bar. Talking nonsense to strangers is a good way to see how far you can reinvent yourself. Losing (respectably) at the pub quiz is part of the fun.

Cathedrals in the sky

The hills of Torridon look as if Andy Goldsworthy has arranged them. They guard the entrances to valleys like sphinxes. They change colour in the evening sun. Scottish hills are a bit of a tease. Sometimes they hide in the clouds. Just when you have forgotten about his existence, Ben Eighe will reappear. Several walkers in our group said that being in the mountains gives them a sense of humility. Ryan McLean, our mountain guide, has lived in Torridon all his life. When challenged by the local minister to come to church, Ryan told him that walking in the mountains is his equivalent of going to church. Seeing the mountains through Ryan’s eyes made me question why I live in London. If you want a different perspective, try going for a walk in the hills of Torridon. 

http://www.thetorridon.com/inn/