Take the High Road...

After 11 o'clock at night, King's Cross Station in London is virtually deserted. The bars, shops, restaurants and bookstalls are all dark and shuttered. Except for an occasional burst of whistling by a porter in some far-off recess or the sudden acceleration of a Royal Mail van, the gloomy interior beneath the grimy vault of the glass roof is still and silent. Passengers waiting for the last trains of the day find themselves reduced to whispering, for fear, perhaps, of seeming sacrilegious. King's Cross, like the other old railway terminals of London, was built in deification of the god Steam, now departed, and it is fitting that proper respect be accorded ancient shrines. King's Cross is a cathedral.

From it, trains depart each day for Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland and home of the Edinburgh Festival, the greatest (text continued on page 200) Take the High Road(continued from page 144) annual celebration of the arts held in any city in the world. One of these trains is the 2230 Inter-City Sleeper; there are earlier departures, but the 2230 allows travelers to linger in London's pubs until around closing time, and it reaches Edinburgh at a respectable hour the next morning--in good time to take a taxi to one of the city's sedate hotels and enjoy a breakfast of smoked haddock with a poached egg on top, a silver rack of toast with creamy Scottish butter and marmalade, and a pot of tea.

Aboard the 2230, nourishment is scanty: a plate of arrowroot biscuits and coffee served in crockery of pale-green stoneware. These are distributed by the night-train attendants--quiet, middleaged men who might, if pressed on the topic, have a few words of mournful nostalgia for the days when sleepers to Scotland were pulled by crimson or green locomotives that cut through the dark English countryside in great gouts of steam and smoke and urgent whistles in the night.

By American standards, the 2230 is a more than adequate train, however, and is usually punctual to the minute. Inside the neat private compartments, a plaque advises occupants that hot-water bottles are available on demand and that juice with breakfast is an optional extra. British Rail, the official name of Britain's state-owned railroad complex, likes notices. There is an unequivocal warning on the improper use of the emergency alarm (a fine of £25) and in the toilet at the end of the corridor is posted the celebrated puzzler, gentlement lift the seat an unpunctuated slogan nestling slyly between admonition and definition.

The 2230 creaks gently out of King's Cross at precisely 10:30 P.M. and passengers can settle down to read their newspapers and ponder the motives of an ex-officer whose advertisement in the personal columns of The Times announces that he is willing to perform any decent act within the law in exchange for a small parcel of folding money. There are quicker ways to reach Scotland--American visitors can fly directly across the Atlantic to Prestwick International Airport--but if one travels via London, a fitting preamble to Edinburgh, the train seems to add purpose to a journey that is, after all, no more than 400 miles.

Edinburgh (pronounced "Edinborough") is Scotland's proudest city and the most elegant of Britain's four capitals. Dominated by its massive castle, from whose walls a cannon roars every afternoon to mark the hour of one, the city is an evocative mixture of the old with the still older. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Alexander Graham Bell, to name only two of the great men who have loved this place, would recognize many a local landmark today. Handsome buildings of gray stone grace the wide streets, quiet squares and crescents that mark the center of town; leafy parks enhance the spaciousness, and the ridges on which Edinburgh stands afford far-reaching views in all directions--down into the valleys between them, out over the surrounding farmland and across the misty reaches of the Firth of Forth.

It is a broody, reflective city whose dignified appearance belies the dramatic violence of its past. Mary, the tragic Queen of Scots, held court at the Palace of Holyroodhouse. Oliver Cromwell captured the city for the English and Bonnie Prince Charlie set out from here for the Scots' final and disastrous battle against their southern foe. Other luminaries associated with the old capital include Daniel Defoe, a resident of Fishmarket Close: Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson, native sons; Jane, Duchess of Gordon, who once recruited an entire regiment by promising to kiss every soldier; and a host of scholars and poets from Dr. Johnson to Robert Burns and William Wordsworth, as well as the publishers of the first edition (in 1768) of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There were also some notable scoundrels, among them the infamous Major Weir, accused of wizardry and burned at the stake for his sins; and the redoubtable Deacon Brodie, pious tradesman by day, burglar by night, prolific father of two large families--neither of which knew the other existed--and, at the end, a victim of the gallows that he personally designed and built for the city executioner.

With so many dour antecedents, Edinburgh may not seem to be the sort of place that celebrates anything. Yet, every summer, the city has its festival, and people come from every corner of the world to take part in it. This year, it runs from August 22 to September 12. Actually, during this period, not one but three festivals are in progress: the official Edinburgh International Festival, which consists mainly of classical performances of the world's foremost operas, symphonies, dance and drama companies; the Fringe, a collection of groups that present new plays, jazz, folk music, revues, recitals and all manner of spontaneous, mostly offbeat, productions; and the Film Festival, at which an average of 50 movies were screened every week last year. There are also performances that belong to none of the three main categories--notably, a stirring military tattoo that's held five nights a week on the esplanade of Edinburgh Castle and a bewildering variety of art exhibitions at galleries and halls throughout the city. In short, enough music and spectacle to numb the mind.

On a typical clay last year, festivalgoers could have attended a Beethoven recital at 11 A.M.; a new play or the world premiere of a feature film at 2:30 P.M.; a jazz session at five; an opera, Shakespearean production, satirical revue or a triple bill of new plays at 7:30; a new American rock musical at 10:30; and another assortment of plays, films, music and revues starting around midnight. In between these events (which don't take into account any number of last-minute offerings), there was the nine-o'clock tattoo with the massed pipes, bands and martial pageantry of the British army and other military contingents from the Commonwealth. If it was a Monday night, there was also the George Hotel's Scottish dinner, piped ceremonially into the dining room under the baton of Pipe Major Hugh Wilson, and consisting of haggis, bashed neeps and champit tatties, followed by Scotch Cold Ashet, with Edinburgh Fog for dessert. Translation: a savory pudding made from sheep's heart, lungs and liver; mashed turnips and potatoes; a selection of cold meats; and a mousselike sweet.

Some people maintain that Edinburgh comes to life only during the three weeks of the festival. Certainly, the city sheds much of its civic dignity at this time, turning a blind eye to the spectacle of nude dancers leaping across stages and half-naked students cavorting along the stately shopping thoroughfare of Princes Street. But the pubs still close at the improbable stroke of ten and visitors who are unable to develop a thirst until later must repair to the bar of their hotel or to one of the three special clubs for festival visitors. Membership costs less than four dollars a week and gives a stranger the chance to meet some of the fresh-faced young lasses who pour into the city from every point of the compass for the festivities. The most distinguished rendezvous is the Festival Club in the Assembly Rooms on George Street, which is noted for the excellence of its kitchen and is the most popular meeting place for festival performers. The Fringe and Film clubs, though they may not be as sophisticated, are perhaps more advantageous for meeting unattached girls, an activity that can also be profitably pursued in Edinburgh's hundreds of taverns.

Nearly all of the city's pubs can make valid claim to a colorful antiquity. Except for the odd interruption of service occasioned by warfare or palace intrigue, these cheery establishments have been ministering to the needs of drinking men for centuries. Some, such as The Sheep Heid, trace their ancestry back to the late 1300s. The heaviest concentration of pubs--including those most popular with young patrons--is on and adjacent to Rose Street, the Amber Mile, so called for the color of the fluid that pours from the taps during business hours.

Inexpensive meat pies, sandwiches, salads and other quick snacks are available in many Edinburgh pubs; but for more substantial appetites, the city's restaurants provide ample alternatives in the form of juicy Scottish beefsteaks, fresh salmon, trout, game, succulent pies of chicken and ham, and seafood of every variety, as well as a selection of Continental cuisines. For a taste of the past, festivalgoers can drive out of the city to the 13th Century Dalhousie Castle for a Jacobean banquet complete with flagons of mead and medieval entertainments.

But after about a week of chasing around from opera to rock musical and from movie premiere to jazz concert, with time off for shopping, pub crawling and all the other pursuits Edinburgh offers, most visitors get the feeling that life in Auld Reekie--the ancient nickname derives from the city's sooty air--is becoming a bit strenuous. When this mood sets in, it's time to start thinking about Scotland's other attractions--and none could be more soothing than the western Highlands and, beyond their shores, the hundreds of lonely islands on which the only music is the sound of sea birds, the only spectacle that of rocky beaches, gaunt castles and wind-swept moors. To reach this haunting, haunted land, one can fly from Edinburgh to Glasgow and then proceed by rented car, or else drive the 45 miles from the capital.

The road journey from Edinburgh through Glasgow to the inland borders of the western Highlands takes about three hours. Once the suburbs of Glasgow are shaken off, the countryside opens abruptly and dramatically. Before long, the first glimpse of Loch Lomond and the islets that stud its lower reaches come into view; here, the highway forks--northeast through Drymen and Aberfoyle to the wooded defile of the Trossachs or northwest along Loch Lomond, hugging the west bank all the way to the junction at Tarbet, where the road brandies again, to the west through the hills of Glen Croe until it reaches the Rest-and-Be-Thankful Pass. Here the landscape, losing all trace of its man-made look, turns wild and desolately beautiful. A single-lane track leads off the pass to Loch Goil and the sparkling village of Lochgoilhead, where an overnight stop can be made at Drimsynie House or another local inn. A few years ago, it was pleasant to spend several days in this quiet little village; but recently, a local entrepreneur has built a hideous collection of identical chalets and a trailer park on the banks of the loch, so that the pristine charm of the locale has been tarnished; still, the qualities of light and color that lend such mystery to this part of the world are unchanged.

The steep hills of Hell's Glen, near Strachur, are often wrapped in a swirling mist of rain while the open grasslands on the other side swelter in the sun. Drive another mile to the top of the pass and you're likely to find the long basin that holds Loch Fyne filled with a blanket of cloud, like suds on beer. Beneath this layer, the foothills and forest are gray-green shadows enveloped in an opaque shroud of white, and the weak rays of sun that pierce it give a ghostly tinge to inn signs and the roofs of old cottages. In late August, when the sun is occasionally in full view, the colors in the hills change again, throwing into sharp relief a dark stand of Sitka spruce or a velvety glen carpeted with green fern. The long grass sways in the wind, revealing patches of purple heather and clover or the course of a glittering, icy stream that tumbles down the hillside on its way to the loch.

Late summer is also the time of the biggest Highland gatherings, the festive celebrations of Scotland's clans. One of the most popular in the west is the Cowal Gathering in the town of Dunoon, held on the last Friday and Saturday of August. Spectators and participants converge on the town from all over the globe, and everyone appoints himself an honorary Scot. Small boys gaze in awe at the Highland giants in their regalia of kilts, sporrans and black feather bonnets, and at the Samsons who compete in the muscle events--throwing the long-handled hammer, putting the shot and hurling the caber, a shorn tree trunk measuring some 21 feet and weighing up to 285 pounds. Until a few years ago, there was also a tug o' war between a team of Scots and a contingent of brawny American sailors stationed at the Holy Loch nuclear-submarine base. The visitors never won any of the contests, but nobody would have dreamed of attributing this to lack of strength. If the question is raised these days, the Scots explain that strength is not everything in the tug o' war and that even if the American lads did get up at dawn to practice every morning for six months before the great day, and even if they did feed on a special diet of steak, and even if they were all great strapping fellows hand-picked from the ranks of America's strongest athletes in uniform--well, even so, you have to have the knack for the tug o' war, because, without it, you lose. And that's what happened to those American lads; they never got the knack.

Yet there are always lots of Americans, uniformed and civilian, at the Cowal Gathering. They cheer the American-Scottish pipers and dancers and, along with everyone else, join the rush for beefsteak pies in the luncheon tent. And they help soak up the never-ending golden river of whisky that pours from the bottles of Mackinlay's and Whyte & Mackay's that are set up in the bar tent. A sailor takes a bet that he can touch the top of the tall center pole in the tent; he does so, effortlessly, and a trio of admiring Scots insists on treating him to a dram or two while a piper who has slipped into the tent for a quick refresher plays a brisk reel to honor the feat.

The grounds are a mass of brilliant plumage--the cloaks and kilts of every clan that ever trod the heather. There are thousands of pipers and dancers, long-legged girls with neat white bodices and kilts, splendid pipe majors in bearskins and tartan trews (trousers), and silent old men from the hills who wear faded tartans and stand in the background, aglow with the music and Haig Gold Label. The sight and the sound stir the heart of everyone, Scottish or not; there are cheers for the winners and bigger cheers for the losers; and when it's all over on Saturday evening, the pipers gather on the big field to perform the last tattoo of the gathering before setting out in procession for a triumphal parade through town. The whole crowd--pipers, spectators, dancers, sailors and visitors--lines the streets and then disperses into the bars and taverns of Dunoon for an evening of rousing song and reminiscence, all of which takes on a more and more exuberant tone as the magic hour of ten approaches and the shore patrol rolls into town, looking for disable-bodied seamen. It's all a bit like the celebrations held at the end of World War Two. Braemar, the Royal Gathering, is no doubt more refined, but the one at Dunoon has something extra, not the least because of its international flavor.

Once the weekend is over, life in Dunoon returns to normal and the modest little town resumes its role as a seaside resort for families, with little of interest to detain other visitors. From here, one can move north, beyond the neat and picturesque town of Inveraray, to the grim and stately ruins of Kilchurn Castle, a 15th Century fortress that looms on a spit of land projecting into the black waters of well-named Loch Awe. East of the castle, the road turns north again to cross the bleakness of Rannoch Moor. This is the route to the Pass of Glen Coe, the scene of the bloody ambush and slaughter of the MacDonalds by the Campbells in 1692, commemorated today by a simple sign on the banks of the River Coe and a notice in Rory MacDonald's Clachaig Inn: No Campbells Allowed. The Clachaig is a snug hostelry with electricity supplied by a generator that goes off when everybody's in bed. After the motor issues its final tough of the night, there is a hush before the natural sounds of the glen reassert themselves--the rush and roar of the Coe and the moan of the wind in the trees. It's an idyllic spot in which to be tucked under a mountain of blankets and to read by candlelight the chilling account of what happened in Glen Coe on that terrible night so many years ago.

If the Clachaig is filled, rooms may be found at the King's House Hotel on Rannoch Moor. Once used as a barracks for the troops of King George II on one of their never-ending searches for the elusive Bonnie Prince Charlie, it is said to be Scotland's oldest continuously licensed inn. Accommodation and food are first-class, but the most memorable feature is the inn's location on the edge of the moor. Few places in the country are as desolate. Even in fair weather and bright sun, the panorama of marsh, stunted islands in Stygian ponds and the bare mountains beyond is one that chills the spine. It is a place in which dark and terrible deeds would seem to flourish, and the lights of the King's House are a welcome sight to guests who have wandered off after dinner for a stroll.

From the moor, the road straggles northwest to Fort William and Loch Ness, where there is always a settlement of hopeful monster spotters camped on the banks. At the head of the loch is Inverness, the true capital of the Highlands, and not too far away is the melancholy battlefield of Culloden, where the Highlanders' dreams of glory under the Bonnie Prince finally disintegrated in the face of the English army. Some 25 miles north of Fort William, the road cuts off to the west at Invergarry and follows the route of an old military highway past lakes and through forests and eventually to the village of Kyle of Lochalsh; the hulk of land about half a mile offshore is the Isle of Skye, largest island of the Inner Hebrides. There has been talk in recent years of building a bridge over this narrow strait, but the only people in favor of the project seem to be those who build bridges and those who profit from their existence. Nobody else is very keen about the idea, for the name Skye is synonymous with romantic legend, and a bridge would inevitably diminish the magic. One crosses on a car ferry.

Scotland's oldest inhabited castle, Dunvegan, is on the Isle of Skye; here the chiefs of the Clan MacLeod have lived for 700 years. One lives there today. Visitors, who are allowed in on weekday afternoons, are always morbidly curious to see the room in which one of the more psychotic MacLeods dispatched two brothers and three nephews one day in 1557 in a somewhat unorthodox attempt to secure the chieftaincy for himself. Skye is also the burial place of the heroine Flora MacDonald--who helped Prince Charlie make yet another escape from the English--and the home of the Fairy Flag, the good-luck emblem of the MacLeods. Twice it has been waved in battle, and victory followed on each occasion. The flag is among the relics displayed in Dunvegan Castle, along with the huge drinking horn of Rory Mor, the 13th chief, which is filled with claret upon the ascendancy of a new chief and must be drained by the claimant to the title. Rory Mor would do the fling in his grave if he knew that for most modern chiefs, the horn has a false bottom.

Only about 100 of the western islands are inhabited today. Two that lie close to Skye are Rona, where the lighthouse keepers are the only residents, and Soay, whose population consists of a fisherman and his family. Neither island has a regularly scheduled ferry connection with the mainland, and about the only outsiders who set foot on them are the yachtsmen who drop anchor in their inlets. At the southernmost end of the Hebrides is Islay, noted for its magnificent beaches and unhurried ways. Not far from the principal village of Port Ellen is a tweed mill operated by an elderly man who shears the sheep, washes, dries and dyes the wool and then weaves it into tweed himself. His machinery is powered by the river that runs the water wheel on the side of his mill. It is an arduous but rewarding process and the customers are in no great rush. One aged couple on Islay are said to have been waiting most of their married lives for the local photographer to deliver the daguerreotypes of their wedding.

Not far from the Islay Hotel is a golf course, splendid in its way, but appreciated mainly by those islanders who cherish it as a source of peat for their hearths. Sea trout and salmon are fished in local rivers, but the biggest contribution of these crystal waters is to the Islay whisky distilleries. About 12 miles from Port Ellen is the village of Bowmore, one of the few communities on British soil that had the War of 1812 brought home with a vengeance when it was attacked in 1813 by a ragtag fleet under the command of an American privateer. That quiet, lovely hamlet has not seen so much excitement ever since.

But there are many other parts of western Scotland, of course, where seclusion can be found in the midst of such unspoiled scenery, and it's not always necessary to travel to the islands to experience it. Everywhere in this incomparably beautiful country are landscapes that bewitch and people with stories to tell. Perhaps their legends--and those of the Highlands themselves--seem out of context in our world, but that may be our loss. Skye, the other Scottish islands and the Highlands do not share our obsession with the future; they are bound up with the past because it cannot be escaped. It seems to hang in the mist, in the folds of glowering mountains, mocking the tinny automobiles and their occupants who must return to city homes. It can be heard in the pipes at the gatherings and read in the keeps and dungeons of battered castles, lying in wait--and growing older.

Playboy's Guide to a Scottish Holiday

Edinburgh

Where to Stay

Festival time in Edinburgh (August 22--September 12) is the liveliest season of the year, but it's also the most crowded. If you're planning to stay in a top hotel, make reservations well in advance. However, even if you arrive with no place to stay, there are hundreds of small, very comfortable hotels and baardinghouses. Simply contact a travel agent or Edinburgh's Public Relations Department for a Register of Accommodation.

Caledonian Hotel: Grand and gracious veteran in shadow of Edinburgh Castle; deluxe comfort, hospitable service and home of the epicurean Pompadour Room.

Carlton Hotel: Huge old-style hotel with all the conveniences; excellent restaurant plus good bar serving hot and cold hors d'oeuvres as well as drinks.

Esso Motor Hotel: Handsome newcomer with ultramodern, attractively furnished suites; residential location.

Forth Bridge Motel: New and efficient, with pleasant decor; bleak South Queensferry setting, but convenient for travelers heading north from Edinburgh.

George Hotel: Elegant and old-fashioned, most rooms refurbished; close to downtown stores.

Hawes Inn: 300 years of service to wayfaring strangers, among them Sir Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson, who modeled the inn of Kidnapped after it; excellent food; South Queensferry address, short drive from city center.

Mount Royal Hotel: Top-front rooms of this busy central hotel afford magnificent views of the castle and of Princes Street Gardens.

North British Hotel: Spacious, impressive old-timer housing eminent Grill Room; convenient city location.

Roxburghe Hotel: Distinguished accommodations on Charlotte Square; exceptional food and service.

Scotia Hotel: Five Georgian terrace houses in Edinburgh were converted into this fine hotel situated in quiet surroundings on Great King Street; recently modernized with due regard for tradition; the management goes all out to see that guests are pleased with service, food and comfort.

Where to Dine

Beehive: Modernized old inn on the historic Grassmarket; steaks and specialties including chicken cooked with brandy and port; adjacent are Luckpenny Coffee House (omelets and home baking) and White Hart Inn, where Robert Burns stayed during a visit to Edinburgh.

Café Royal: Two restaurants, two bars under one roof; a culinary landmark for over a century.

Cramond Inn: Three miles from city; follow a marine course through mussels in wine, fresh sardines, smoked salmon and lobster; or partake of the game--grouse, pheasant and wild duck.

Grill Room: In North British Hotel; best Scottish kitchen in town; helpful staffers will translate menu's colloquial tongue twisters.

Henderson's Salad Table: Fresh salads, country foods and vegetarian dishes, as well as tempting concessions to meat fanciers; similar fare at several Farmhouse restaurants, where nearly everything is homemade and bread is baked with stone-ground flour.

Laughing Duck: Celtic suppers of cockaleekie, haggis, Balmoral trout, curds and whey; bar snacks include bacon rolls and duck sausages.

Pompadour Room: In the Caledonian Hotel; famed favorite of international stage and concert stars at festival; luxurious setting, three-star food.

Prestonfield House: Renowned Continental cuisine in 17th Century manor house; peacocks room the landscaped gardens.

Trade Winds: A leading purveyor of seafood; also a wide selection of Continental dishes, and Scottish fare during the festival; nearly 50 brands of whisky.

Where to Play

Apart from festival events, Edinburgh offers the standard diversions--discothéques (none with a liquor license), hotel cabarets, supper clubs and a small gaming house. Some night clubs with special liquor licenses, as well as private clubs unrestricted by the drinking laws, are open past midnight every evening except Sundays. For pub crawls, try Rose Street (the Amber Mile) or High Street, a historical parade of taverns meandering from castle to palace. Pub hours: 11 A.M. to 2:30 P.M. and 5 P.M. to 10 P.M., most closed Sundays.

Americana, Casablanca and White Elephant: Live rock alternating with recorded music.

Carriage Club: Ornate town-house casino with roulette and blackjack; closes 4 A.M.; foreign visitors welcome; operated by a Las Vegas veteran.

Dalhousie Castle: Short drive from Edinburgh at Bonnyrigg; Jacobean banquet offers lots of hokey good fun by smoky candlelight under banners in the great hall; all the mead and wine you can drink, plus a feast of tasty dishes eaten with the fingers; entertainment provided by harpsichordist, fiddler and ten of the prettiest singing lasses in the realm.

Festival Club: Popular meeting place for performers; one of three special clubs offering late-night entertainment, food, drinks (except Sundays). Membership for visitors is less than $4 a week; Fringe and Film clubs not so sophisticated but renowned for the charming damsels on their premises and the conviviality of their patrons. Clubs open 10 A.M. to 1 A.M. weekdays (midnight Saturdays) and 3 P.M. to 11 P.M. Sundays.

The Old Chain Pier: Hearty, historical pub festooned with flags, posters and memorabilia amassed by late-and-legendary lady owner.

The Sheep Heid: Tavern considered ancient when Bonnie Prince Charlie met nearby with his army in 1745; summer drinking in wee garden at back.

What to Buy

Books, including specialized publications about the clans, their tartans and Scotland's history, at Cairns Brothers and John Menzies & Co. Ltd.

Chinaware, leather goods, cutlery, watches, jewelry, at H. Samuel Ltd.

Fine linens at John Wilson & Son Ltd.; goods from all leading manufacturers are available, but Wilson's own Ducal brand is particularly prized.

Leather goods, including wallets, luggage and numerous other travel accessories, at A. Boswell.

Menswear, including suits, well-cut casual slacks and jackets, lamb's-wool knits, at Austin Reed Ltd.

Perfumes distilled from peat and heather from the western Highlands, silver jewelry of ancient Celtic design, at McCall's of Edinburgh.

Shetland wools, sweaters, shawls, scarves, berets, gloves and rugs, at Shetland Woolen Specialists, a family concern for 40 years; clothes can be made to order in any size, color and pattern.

Tartans, tweeds, shoes, Highland dress (ceremonial regalia), sports equipment, at R. W. Forsyth Ltd. department store; tax-free export service for visitors.

Women's fashions plus accessories, at Jenners and Darlings; both stores enjoy excellent reputations for quality apparel.

Woolens and high-quality pure-cashmere knits at Romanes & Paterson.

Highlands

Where to Stay

Following the Highland journey described in the text, you'll drive through the various scenic and historic places listed in the order below. Hospitality and comfortable lodgings will await you en route at the recommended hotels and inns.

Tarbet

Tarbet Hotel: Stately old inn on upper western bank of Loch Lomond.

Arrochar

Arrochar Hotel: Pleasant, rambling hostelry on edge of Loch Long.

Lochgoilhead

Drimsynie House Hotel: Friendly, quaint lodgings near Loch Goil.

Strachur

Creggan's Inn: Homey digs overlooking Loch Fyne.

Glencoe

Ballachulish Hotel: Victorian charm on Loch Leven; five-minute drive from Glencoe.

Clachaig Inn: Historic Highland hotel at site of MacDonald-clan slaughter by the Campbells in 1692. No Campbells Allowed, warns a sign. (The owner is a MacDonald,)

King's House Hotel: First-class food and accommodations on Rannoch Moor.

Fort William

Inverlochy Castle: Baronial fortress with sumptuous furnishings; service and food of noblest standards; in shadow of Ben Nevis, the United Kingdom's highest (4406 feet) mountain.

Invergarry

Invergarry Hotel: Stolid country house on River Garry; rustic and comfortable rooms; splendid scenery.

Kyle of Lochalsh

Lochalsh Hotel: Modernized inn with idyllic vistas of mountains, sea and Skye.

Skye

Dunvegan Hotel: Spectacular location; excellent food and cheery rooms.

Skeabost House Hotel: Country manor with spacious rooms; fresh farm produce on the dining table, commendable wine cellar.

Islay

Ardview Hotel: Friendly service, cozy rooms, peat fires for chilly evenings.

Islay Hotel: Magnificent seascape; expert chef prepares hearty fare.

Port Askaig Hotel: Commodious island inn overlooking the Sound of Islay.

Port Charlotte Hotel: Same family management for 107 years; airy rooms, views of Loch Indaal.