Helen Ochyra - Scotland Beyond the Bagpipes

This beautifully written book makes me want to jump on the train right now and head north of the border to follow in Helen Ochyras footsteps. Truly compelling.

Jane Knight, former travel editor of the Times

This lively and illuminating read is a must for anyone who loves Scotland or wants to get to know it better.

Natasha Foges, editor of Britain magazine

Capturing a moment in time in pre-Brexit British history, Helen Ochyra writes about Scotland with the same warmth she finds among those she meets on her travels.

Not just a travelogue that gets under the skin of some of the countrys untrammelled spots, including Rannoch Moor and Fifes East Neuk, Scotland Beyond the Bagpipes examines the cultural heart of a nation and our response to it.

But, above all, this is a miss-your-bus-stop travel narrative that whisks you along with lobster suppers, scenic drives and cosy B&Bs.

Laura Jackson, editor of LoveExploring.com

Ochyra writes with wit and charm, bringing to the page many of the nuances of Scottish life that are every bit as appealing as the countrys more obvious attractions.

Sally Coffey, editor of Scotland magazine

If youve ever wondered what makes Scotland so special, this book gets to the heart of it. Its more than a love letter to the country it blends history, nostalgia, culture and quotes in one glorious read that makes you want to hop on the first train to the islands, cities, mountains and people that the writer so clearly adores.

Meera Dattani, editor of Adventure.com

First published in Great Britain in 2020 by

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Copyright 2020 Helen Ochyra

The right of Helen Ochyra to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978 1913551 148

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For Mum.

Because without you, none of this would have been possible.

It was back in 2005 that I first discovered Scotland. At least, I thought I did.

Like so many people who live south of the border in England, I had decided that I knew Scotland. It was part of Britain after all, a place that was more the same than it was different. I had pictures in my mind of bagpipes and tartan and shortbread, a vague notion that it was more mountainous, and wilder, than England. I imagined it to be fairly small, compact, easily tick-offable. It was somewhere that could always wait until next year. It would, after all, always be there. On my doorstep.

And so, as many other Scotland first-timers do, I flocked to Edinburgh for the Festival Fringe one year and expected to return home having somehow ticked off Scotland. Neat and done and dusted. I was twenty-two and I only stayed for the weekend. I spent more time watching other English people performing monologues and stand-up comedy routines than I did talking to Scottish folk and I did not get any more than a mile or so from Waverley Station. Lets be honest: I didnt see Scotland at all.

And yet, even on that visit there was something unsettlingly magical about Edinburgh. Something in the way the grand Georgian buildings of the New Town gleamed in the rays of the sun as their medieval counterparts in the Old Town glowered behind the raindrops. A spell seemed to be cast on my undulating walk across ancient volcanoes the story of getting from one side of the city centre to the other and I was bewitched by the fact that the citys train station was named after a historical novel. I remember the clock tower of the Balmoral Hotel, glowing in the gloaming just above the station and lighting the dusky sky above me as I strolled from show to show. This clock is always set just a few minutes fast to make sure you do not miss your train and I never quite got used to it, feeling a jolt every time I passed as I imagined myself to be running late. On my final morning, I remember standing atop the peak of Arthurs Seat a volcano in the heart of the city and staring down the barrel of the Forth at the astonishing red lattice of the world-famous railway bridge. I left wanting more.

After that first foray I returned to Scotland dozens of times. But I always visited areas in isolation taking the sleeper train to visit Loch Ness, or flying up to Glasgow. I was always on assignment, seeking a story for a newspaper article before speeding back to London to write it up and move on to the next item on the to-do list. In the pubs of the cities and the Highlands I heard tell of eight hundred islands, of a coastline twice the length of Frances, of castles that could have been built for Hollywood or for Harry Potter. But, as a travel writer, I could have told you more about the restaurants of Sydney or the bars of Bangkok than I could the twenty-three beaches of Coll or the eight whisky distilleries of Islay. Why had I for so long ignored the country immediately to my north?

I was constantly on the road and then my life hit a speed bump. In October 2016 the earth shifted beneath my life, a force more powerful than a volcanic eruption and a jolt far sharper than any that the Balmoral Clock could bring. As the leaves shrivelled and fell, so too did my mother, dying suddenly and entirely unexpectedly after a brief, cold illness. At sixty-two she had been healthy and full of spirit. Having already lost my father as a child I found myself parentless in my mid thirties. I was left with a house to sell, and a sense that life is just too short not to go on an adventure.

So I decided to spend a few months in Scotland, finally getting to those places I had sped past the signposts for or flown over on previous trips. Arrogantly I thought that I could see it all. With the smugness of a traveller who feels they can do a country in one trip, I fell into the classic trap of thinking I could somehow tick off everything in three months.

Then I started plotting my route. In a heady rush of excitement the unfolded map spread across my kitchen table seemed to expand with every crackle of the paper beneath my fingers. Names like Glen Coe and Castlebay leapt out and before my eyes formed landscapes of deep glens and towering castles, while fantastical-sounding places like Achiltibuie and Dunvegan lit my imagination and seemed to come with a rousing, filmic soundtrack.

All at once it was screamingly obvious that I couldnt possibly go everywhere, up every mountain, into every glen and onto every sandy beach. Scotland had expanded in my excited mind and somehow I would have to narrow it down, find some boundaries. After all, nobody can visit eight hundred islands in one trip; even a travel writer with a serious love of ferries and powered by a geeky enthusiasm.