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Loch
Lomond To Oban
For
the next thirty miles the road closely followed the west shore
of Loch Lomond, and for the larger part of the way we had a
magnificent panorama of the lake and the numberless green islands
that rose out of its silvery waters. Our view in places was
cut off by the fine country estates that lay immediately on
the shores of the lake, but the grounds, rich with shrubbery
and bright with flowers, were hardly less pleasing than the
lake itself. These prevailed at the southern portion of the
lake only, and for at least twenty miles the road closely followed
the shore, leading around short turns on the very edges of steep
embankments or over an occasional sharp hill, conditions that
made careful driving necessary. Just across the lake, which
gradually grew narrower as we went north, lay the low Scotch
mountains, their green outlines subdued by a soft blue haze,
but forming a striking background to the ever-varying scenery
of the lake and opposite shore. Near the northern end on the
farther side is the entrance to the Trosachs, made famous by
Scott's "Lady of the Lake." The roads to this region
are closed to motors, the only instance that I remember where
public highways were thus interdicted. The lake finally dwindled
to a brawling mountain stream, which we followed for several
miles to Crianlarich, a rude little village nestling at the
foot of the rugged hills. From here we ran due west to Oban,
and for twenty miles of the distance the road was the worst
we saw in Scotland, being rough and covered with loose, sharp
stones that were ruinous to tires. It ran through a bleak, unattractive
country almost devoid of habitations and with little sign of
life excepting the flocks of sheep grazing on the short grasses
that covered the steep, stony hillsides. The latter half of
the distance the surroundings are widely different, an excellent
though winding and narrow road leading us through some of the
finest scenes of the Highlands. Especially pleasing was the
ten-mile jaunt along the north shore of Loch Awe, with the glimpses
of Kilchurn Castle which we caught through occasional openings
in the thickly clustered trees on the shore. Few ruins are more
charmingly situated than Kilchurn, standing as it does on a
small island rising out of the clear waters, the crumbling walls
overgrown with ivy and wallflowers. The last fifteen miles were
covered in record time for us, for it was growing exceedingly
chilly as the night began to fall and the Scotch July day was
as fresh and sharp as an American October.
Oban is
one of the most charming of the north of Scotland resort towns,
and is becoming one of the most popular. It is situated on a
little land-locked bay, generally white in summer time with
the sails of pleasure vessels. Directly fronting the town, just
across the harbor, are several ranges of hills fading away into
the blue mists of the distance and forming, together with the
varying moods of sky and water, a delightful picture. Overhanging
the town from the east is the scanty ruin of Dunollie Castle,
little more than a shapeless pile of stone covered over with
masses of ivy. Viewed from the harbor, the town presents a striking
picture, and the most remarkable feature is the great colosseum
on the hill. This is known as McCaig's Tower and was built by
an eccentric citizen some years ago merely to give employment
to his fellow townsmen. One cannot get an adequate idea of the
real magnitude of the structure without climbing the steep hill
and viewing it from the inside. It is a circular tower, pierced
by two rows of windows, and is not less than three hundred feet
in diameter, the wall ranging in height from thirty to seventy-five
feet from the ground. It lends a most striking and unusual appearance
to the town, but among the natives it goes by the name of "McCaig's
Folly."
From Oban
as a center, numberless excursions may be made to old castles,
lakes of surpassing beauty and places of ancient and curious
history. None of the latter are more famous than the island
of Iona, lying about thirty-five miles distant and accessible
by steamer two or three days of each week in summer time. We
never regretted that we abandoned the car a day for the trip
to this quaint spot and its small sister island, Staffa, famed
for Fingall's cave and the curious natural columns formed by
volcanic action. The round trip covers a distance of about seventy-five
miles and occupies eight or ten hours. Iona is a very small
island, with a population of no more than fifty, but it was
a place of importance in the early religious history of Scotland;
and its odd little cathedral, which is now in ruins, except
the nave, but recently restored, was originally built in the
Eleventh Century. Weird and strange indeed is the array of memorials
rudely cut from Scotch granite that mark the resting places
of the chiefs of many forgotten clans, while a much higher degree
of art is shown in the regular and even delicate designs traced
on the numerous old crosses still standing. In olden days Iona
was counted sacred ground after the landing of St. Columba in
563, and its fame even extended to Sweden and Denmark, whose
kings at one time were brought here for interment. We were fortunate
in having a fine day, the sky being clear and the sea perfectly
smooth. We were thus enabled to make landing at both isles,
a thing that is often impossible on account of the weather.
This circular trip, for the return is made by the Sound of Mull—is
a remarkably beautiful one, the steamer winding in and out through
the straits among the islands and between shores wild and broken,
though always picturesque and often impressive. Many of the
hills are crowned with ruined fortresses and occasionally an
imposing modern summer residence is to be seen. Competent judges
declare that provided the weather is fine no more delightful
short excursion by steamer can be made on the British coast
than the one just described. Three miles from Oban lies Dunstafnage
Castle, a royal residence of the Pictish kings, bearing the
marks of extreme antiquity. It occupies a commanding position
on a point of land extending far into the sea and almost surrounded
by water at high tide. We visited it in the fading twilight,
and a lonelier, more ghostly place it would be hard to imagine.
From this old castle was taken the stone of destiny upon which
the Pictish kings were crowned, but which is now the support
of the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. A place so rich
in romantic legend could not be expected to escape the knowledge
of the Wizard of the North and Scott made more than one visit
to this solitary ruin. As a result the story of Dunstafnage
has been woven into the "Legend of Montrose" as "Ardenvohr"
and the description may be easily recognized by any one who
visits the old castle.
Oban
is modern, a place of many and excellent hotels fronting on
the bay. So far, only a small per cent of its visitors are Americans,
and the indifferent roads leading to the town discourage the
motorist. Had we adhered to the route outlined for us by the
Motor Union Secretary, we should have missed it altogether.
We had made a stop in the town two years before, and yet there
are few places in Britain that we would rather visit a third
time than Oban.
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