Campervans get a bad press – but there's more to 'the great north exodus'
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Former social worker Dan MacKay, from Wick, considers the impact of an ageing population across Caithness and Sutherland, and how land is at its heart
I am standing on the veranda of The Sheiling holiday cabin overlooking Loch Nedd, in north-west Sutherland. The view is simply breathtaking. Quinag, at 2651ft, towers over this beguiling sea inlet.
I’ve travelled from the grey coast of Caithness and the contrast in landscapes could not be more pronounced.
I’ve recently been watching a rather quaint 1944 film showing life on Scottish crofts during the war years. Made in co-operation with the crofters of the nearby Achriesgill in "Sutherlandshire" it describes how, to a Lowlander, the Highlands rise like a great barrier.
"Mile upon mile of mountain and moorland, of heather, peat bog and scree… In the north-west corner of Sutherland, the scenery changes and encompasses bare, desolate hills which tower above an almost treeless landscape scored and pitted by a thousand lochs and tarns."
It feels remote and primeval – one minute lunar landscape, the next the rough bounds of Mordor! But what lies beyond?
The Drumbeg loop – it has also been called "the wee mad road of Sutherland" – extends to 24 miles in length, all of it single track and made up of twisty turny bends and rises, and even blind summits. A few hair-raising moments are guaranteed!
The other more immediate challenge is negotiating roads with the endless invasion of campervans who have come to explore this beautiful part of the world.
Who can blame them, but don’t they get such a bad press?
I’ve read of plans to petition Holyrood to ban motorhomes and campervans from parking anywhere outwith designated sites. Surely a bit harsh? Yes, there is a shameless lack of infrastructure to support the NC500 yet, but the whole idea of taking to the open roads is the freedom to roam and explore. Designated sites seem too authoritarian – and who would enforce it anyway?
It's obvious that tourism is the main bread and butter employer in this part of the world. But with many local homes converted into self-catering accommodation, this comes at a cost.
It’s all part of downward spiral adding to rural depopulation, in what has been described as "the great north exodus" as forecasts show a continuing decline in the most fragile areas.
It’s a dilemma all tied up with employment opportunities – or lack of them – and access to, albeit sparsely available, affordable housing. Highland Council and the Scottish Government are both committed to "repopulation zone" initiatives to help reverse population decline to support re-settlement.
It’s difficult to have much faith in these approaches given the remoteness of these so-called democratic institutions – and the time it takes to witness reversals in patterns of decline.
The council has a history of rural school closures with Kinbrace, Altnaharra, Achfary and Stoer just a few of the more recent casualties. School closures often sound the death knell for fragile communities and only undermine endeavours to maintain social wellbeing and community cohesion, whilst the SNP at Holyrood has long been accused of central belt myopia.
With a background in social work I’m especially concerned about the changes in social care provision – and not all of them for the good. Now I’m hearing about dwindling and very limited home care services, care home closures in Ullapool and Talmine, and the very real concerns of families worried about the support needs of frail older people in the area.
The more I hear about the ageing demographics the more it sounds like a silent ticking time bomb.
With exacerbated cost-of-living charges for goods and services and more extensive fuel poverty, is the outlook all gloom and doom?
Thirty years after the Assynt community buy-out that opened the dam for new land ownership in Scotland, what has changed?
The symbolic land grab certainly heralded a new era of land ownership paving the way for further buy-outs and reforms. Local people are now said to be more connected in ways not previously possible for 200 years, but it is not a land of milk and honey. The very real issues of schooling, employment and housing are every bit as problematic.
And the demands of attracting volunteers from small, dispersed communities to oversee developments is challenging. They can lay themselves open to criticisms of squabbling or even accusations of being the main beneficiaries of government funding streams.
According to that wartime film I watched about crofting, the "hardy, independent crofters were not always justly treated in the past".
"Much has been done" it noted "but more is needed". It was only right, the film concluded, "that their future should be secure".
Yet, it seems the song remains the same.
New land reform legislation is currently going through Holyrood. But will it address issues of foreign ownership to prevent random Arab sheiks, business tycoons and other venture capitalists with offshore accounts buying swathes of the country as secret bolt holes? Not likely!
Closer to home, will entrenched attitudes to crofting tenure ensure embedded rights-to-buy can be replaced, instead, with a new vision of crofts as community assets that can be passed on, when required, to new tenants?
The late novelist Lillian Beckwith wrote extensively about life in isolated Highland and island communities from her own first-hand experiences. Her characters were sometimes portrayed as comical and, for some neighbours, too close for comfort.
One of her most popular books was The Hills Is Lonely. In Assynt they seem to be getting even lonelier…
