The Altnabreac adventure

It's mid-May last year, and I'm in the far north of Scotland, contemplating what might be an epic drive to surely the UK's loneliest railway station: Altnabreac.

Altnabreac is on the Far North Line, which starts at Inverness station and winds its way further north to Thurso and Wick. The journey to the Wick terminus takes a long time. The line detours inland more than once, partly to avoid heavy engineering works when first built, but partly because the local landowner at the time (the Duke of Sutherland) wanted to make it easy for his sporting friends to reach the isolated shooting and fishing lodges inland. Pulled out into a straight line, the line that the trains trundle along is perhaps half as far again as the straight-line distance between Inverness and Wick. No wonder it takes a long time to travel its full length, although I am certain that many thousands of adventurous tourists do make the trip each year, just for the hell of it. The line takes them through some wonderful scenery, and I dare say many a new friendship is made on the way. It's one of the country's best train journeys. In 2022 I myself rode a short section of it, from Georgemas Junction to Thurso and back again. The tale is told in my post of 17th November 2022, Riding the furthest north train from Georgemas Junction. 

I have however, over the years, personally visited every Far North Line station but one. I've driven to these generally rather remote spots, again for the hell of it you could say - certainly for the photographs! Surprisingly enough, I've encountered a northbound or southbound train fairly often, which is odd (or lucky) considering that Far North Line stations get only four trains a day. 

The northbound train visits an evocative succession of stations:

INVERNESS

Beauly

Muir of Ord

Conon Bridge

Dingwall (where the long branch line to Kyle of Lochalsh heads off westwards) 

Alness

Invergordon

Fearn

Tain

Ardgay

Culrain

Invershin

Lairg

Rogart

Golspie

Dunrobin Castle

Brora

Helmsdale

Kildonan

Kinbrace

Forsinard

Altnabreac (the main subject of this post)

Scotscalder

Halkirk (long closed)

Georgemas Junction (where the short branch to Thurso heads off northwards)

Watten (long closed)

WICK

There were once more stations, such as The Mound Junction (for the long-gone Dornoch branch line), and wayside halts at Borrobol and elsewhere, and I've checked some of those out too. 

The Far North Line has a romantic appeal, and visiting any part of it is to experience a kind of adventure. Away from the towns, the gleaming rails get lost in the vast majesty of the mountains and peaty moorland.  It remains a strategic railway line that Scotrail strives to keep open in all weathers, and in winter that is quite a challenge. It's a vital travel link for people in the far north of Scotland, and the need to maintain that connection guarantees its survival. Actual passenger numbers are modest. These are the latest figures (for the year 2024/25, per Wikipedia) for the 'principal' stations on the route:

Dingwall 62,120

Invergordon 23, 476

Tain 23,284

Lairg 3,978

Golspie 5,352

Helmsdale 4,242

Thurso 36,980

Wick 16,046

I should think there is some commuting business into Inverness from Tain, Invergordon and (especially) Dingwall. Further north, it's mostly student movements and tourists. Some stations regularly appear on the 'least used in the UK' list - Scotscalder, Kildonan and Invershin for instance. These three do at least have a proper road going past them, or leading to them, so that you can drive there and collect people off the train. 

Altnabreac - with nil usage in 2024/25 - is rather a special case, as there is only a gravel track for access, and from November 2023 to April 2025 access to the platform was denied by a local resident in dispute with Scotrail, so not even intrepid cyclists on mountain bikes could reach it. But it reopened in time for my attempt to get there in May last year. 

I badly wanted to reach Altnabreac station, if it were at all possible. Like bagging a Monro, you could say. But how to get there? Could I really drive? I didn't want to wreck my car doing so. Well, in the area were a scattering of isolated lodges and farmsteads: the residents must use those gravel tracks. Did it require a tough truck or a Range Rover or a Land Cruiser, and extra-stout tyres? Would Sophie, my trusty Volvo XC60, with her Michelin Cross-Climate tyres be suitable? Well, surely those tracks had to be good enough for ordinary Post Office vans or DPD trucks delivering parcels. If so, they should be fine for Sophie.

Note that I wasn't even considering hiring a bike, and doing it that way. I wouldn't dare. I didn't own one when young. I learned to ride a bike only when thirty. So I did not have that fluid skill that kids have. For me it was a very deliberate business, and I never really acquired the knack. My balance was poor, I wobbled, and I could tip over when waiting at traffic lights. Occasionally I fell off, which wasn't too serious on Wimbledon Common, but potentially suicidal in ordinary London traffic. It was always scary, never fun. After a few months I gave up without regret, and haven't perched on a bike saddle since. It's a normal thing for mountain bikers to ride into the Flow Country to reach Altnabreac, explore the forest tracks in the vicinity, then ride out again. But that's not something I would ever do, especially not on my own. It would surely end badly. I'd definitely risk serious injury, far from assistance.

I could of course go to Altnabreac station by train. Four trains daily in each direction. It wouldn't be at all difficult to catch one from, say, Georgemas Junction and step off at Altnabreac. Scotrail had in fact lately installed new electronic equipment at its remotest Far North Line stations, so that any passengers turning up at a station could let the driver of the next train due know, and ensure that the train stopped for them. And once on the train, a word with the guard would ensure that one was dropped off at the desired station. So a Georgemas Junction to Altnabreac journey, and a later return, was actually simple to arrange.

Some years previously, in 2019, I'd watched a series of TV programmes (Paul Murton's Grand Tours of Scottish Lochs) in which the man visited some of the mysterious and hidden-away lochs of Scotland. In one programme he had wanted to see Loch Dubh just south of Altnabreac, and so took the train there, intending to walk past the loch and then head south-east on a long tramp over the peat bog. I took these screen shots from the BBC iPlayer of him arriving at Altnabreac station:

That's him discussing the history of the station. Nobody knows exactly why it was built. It was built before the forestry got going, and before there was any real community there. The water tower gives a clue, and the fact that originally there was a passing loop here, so that northbound and southbound trains could each stop alongside each other - two platforms in use then - before proceeding into the next single-line section. In steam days, thirsty engines might use the stop to take on some water. So Altnabreac station might well have been built simply as a crossing point, or as a place where trains from the south could replenish their water tanks, with no expectation of custom from local passengers wanting to travel.

The 'Way Out' sign in that 2019 shot points to a gate that became very contentious when the owners of the adjacent farmhouse became embroiled with Scotrail in a heated argument over access to the platform. For a while it was impossible to use the station, and it deteriorated. Access has been restored, and new electronic equipment installed for the use of passengers (mountain bikers mainly), but local discontent rumbles on. I wondered what would happen if I did reach the station in Sophie. Would I be facing a man with a shotgun, or a pack of bloodthirsty hounds?

Paul Murton had walked out of the station and then southwards to Loch Dubh, which seemed a dismal place (the name means 'black loch' in Gaelic). It was overlooked by a country house with turrets called Lochdhu Lodge. 

The Lodge was closed up and secretive when he passed by, but apparently it used to come alive, with reports of ladies in cocktail dresses being seen within. It was a fishing and shooting hotel for many years up to 1975, and perhaps attracted a sophisticated clientele. My own experience of fishing hotels around the country - for lunches only! - is that they tend to be classy places, where a touch of evening formality might be expected. More recently the Lodge has been owned by a chap called Kevin Booth, who attracted the attention of the Scottish legal authorities for creating a dungeon in the Lodge in which he reportedly subjected young women (mainly from abroad) to sadistic torture sessions. The authorities did not charge him with any criminal offence, but have placed an order on him, intended to stop any further abusive behaviour. The whole story was big news in Scotland early in 2025.

It's easy to see how a man could do what he liked with pretty girls procured from the Far East in such a remote place. There would be no easy way to escape, once taken to the Lodge. And I'd be driving past. If I got that far. 

That track looked reasonable though. Or should I just take a quick look on foot, after alighting at the station? No: two snags with train travel made me prefer an attempt to drive there. 

First, doing it by train was much too easy. It wouldn't be nearly so much of an adventure as driving there would be. I wanted to feel that I had taken on a challenge, had driven to a destination well off the beaten track, had had a demanding drive, and had come back to tell the tale. A leisurely train ride there and back wouldn't be half as exciting as using the car. 

Second, with a large gap between trains, I'd be kicking my heels at or near Altnabreac station for ages. And I already knew, more or less, what I'd see at the station. Apart from those Paul Murton shots, there were these on Google Maps, showing the station in 2017, 2018 and 2019:

And one from 2024, when the station had reopened but was still in a run-down state:

Really there was only the station, the forest track, the pine trees, and some isolated houses to see, plus Lochdhu Lodge if I wanted to trek there (risking incarceration and torture if I did). 

Besides, was it wisdom for a woman in her early seventies to walk those lonely tracks alone, even in daytime? Might I be stalked by mad axemen, or pursued relentlessly and savaged by slavering, baying hunting dogs? 

I'd be quite safe inside a car. So that's how I set about this challenge.

Here are some maps. Click on them to see the detail.

The best approach seemed to be this. I'd turn off the B870 at Westerdale, and follow the good tarred road past Strathmore Lodge to Loch More, then take the gravel road south-westwards to Dalnawillan Lodge, then north to the forested areas and eventually Altnabreac. If it was a serviceable farm or forestry track beyond Loch More, and therefore not too unkind to Sophie's tyres, a steady drive should get me there. The weather was fine. Coming back - after a good look at Altnabreac, and plenty of souvenir pictures taken - was a simple reversal of the route taken to get me there. 

I've used the word 'challenge' but I was prepared to abandon the full trip if the track looked too rough. There was no point risking damaged tyres or a broken suspension component. But it was worth an effort, if the thing was at all doable. 

Westerdale is well off the ordinary tourist track, but is one of the most attractive spots in Caithness. The River Thurso tumbles over rocks with farm buildings on a bluff in the background. You take in a scene like this from the road bridge:

Then you branch off along that tarred road, the empty vastness of the Flow Country ahead and all around. 

I can imagine some people deciding not to go further: peat bog everywhere, desolate even in the sunshine. And yet the Visitor Centre at Forsinard (the next station south of Altnabreac) has pictures of the Flow Country that reveal it as a place of beauty.

I thought that winter photograph was extraordinary. 

On I went, following the River Thurso. Strathmore Lodge came into view. It was a farmstead with a ancient-looking tower (though doubtless Victorian). I wondered why the place was there at all. It may once  have been a base for the shooting and fishing crowd, but what did its residents do for a living now, in 2025?

On and on. Nearing Loch More, I stopped to look at this lichen-encrusted signpost.

It wasn't obvious what the wooden fingers on this post might have been pointing to. There was nothing but the road I was on. Perhaps things were different when the signpost was first erected.

Loch More came into view, with some cars already parked there. It was an attractive place, with a long sandy shore to wander on. There was a dam, a salmon ladder, and a cottage. 

The cottage was closed up, but in good repair, and peering in through a window I saw a room that suggested this was a base for field studies.

The bridge in the background of the shots above didn't carry the road onwards. It simply led off into the wilderness, with a gate to get through first. 

To reach the track I needed, I had to go back a bit, then strike out on a forest road. And this is where I aborted my mission. The track itself looked all right. I was perturbed by the warning signs.

Hmm. 'Private Road - Authorised Vehicles Only'. Well, what about the Scottish right to roam? Or did that apply only to cyclists and walkers? And a Scottish Woodlands sign: 'No Unauthorised Vehicles'. I took that a bit more seriously. The sign that worried me most however was the yellow 'Timber Haulage Ahead' sign. Now I do know something about timber haulage in Caithness. You can hardly take any inland road without encountering a big lorry with twenty tons of timber on it. These vehicles thunder along the single-track roads (even the A roads, where they exist, might be single track) and you have to find a passing place and give way to them, for they absolutely will not stop and do not expect to.

Here's one roaring along with a full load in 2022, on the A897 south of Kinbrace, taken from my car. It must have been doing fifty miles per hour. You wonder how it could have stopped in an emergency. 

Fortunately you can usually see them coming from some way off, and passing places are frequent. But if you are caught between two passing places, you'll have to get out of the way in a hurry and hope that there is form ground for you to turn off onto. The track I was on had only drainage ditches, because there was a peat bog on either side. So turning off meant getting badly stuck, despite having all-wheel drive. The ditches stopped me turning round too. I had to drive on, hoping that no huge forestry lorry lumbered into view until I found a place to turn. I was so relieved when I arrived at one.

As it happened, I found myself halted for a while on the way back to Strathmore Lodge by a big lorry hauling a digger. It took up all the road width, with overhang.

A little further down the road you could see what had been dug: a lot of sliced-up peat.

I poked my finger into it. The wet peat was pretty soft! I tried not to think of my car sinking slowly into that, had a log haulage lorry suddenly forced me off the road.  

So that was that. Mission not accomplished. However, I had certainly penetrated the Flow Country, which was something. 

Altnabreac station will have to remain unvisited, unless I take the train. Which I might, if I build in an extra day on next year's Scottish holiday.

Deer, close up and personal

I'm not a great one for wildlife. Yes, creatures of all sorts can be fascinating and wonderful to see, and some are beautiful, but they are not my life's obsession. I simply respect them, and would do nothing to directly harm them. Even so, this detachment rather falls by the wayside when a chance arises to meet an animal close up. Then you apprehend something more. 

But I rarely place myself in a position to experience such an encounter, even for a series of photos. Truth to tell, I'm wary of animals and their potential to injure me. Even the cutest-looking can bite. Mind you, I don't blame any animal for being alarmed or fearful if a human comes near. We are a threat. From their point of view, we are intruders, disturbers, controllers and oppressors, likely to inflict pain, loss and death. No wonder they might gear up to defend themselves if flight is impossible. 

Even the most familiar of them - farm animals like sheep, pigs and cows - are very un-human and alien. They have heads, bodies and legs, but not like ours. They peer at us with eyes that are not the same. And who knows what they are thinking, if they think. They are other life-forms. I don't consider them lesser life-forms, just different: easily tricked and herded and slaughtered, but possibly dangerous if maddened by pain or terror. No grown beast with teeth, horns or hooves, or great weight, is a creature one should take for granted. They might eagerly accept the food we offer, but it is the acceptance of the prisoner who is penned in and and has no other option.

And yet there is magic in a personal encounter. I had such a moment in April, when in Cornwall. It was at Prideaux Place, the manor house on the hill above Padstow. 

I'd explored the town yet again after a good lunch. I do this most years. This time I walked further than usual, and approached Prideaux Place, which had a deer park opposite. 

I began chatting with a local woman who was there to see the deer being fed by the present landowner. It generally happened around two o'clock in the afternoon. That time was very soon, so I decided to hang around with her, to see what happened. 

There were a lot of deer out in the park, and (as if they had glanced at their watches) several of the young males began to move towards the section of fence from which they were fed.  

On the dot, the landowner emerged from a gateway on a small tractor, hauling a trailer, and drew that to the fence. On the trailer were root vegetables, some sliced up in readiness. 

Quite a feast (if you were a deer)! A nice change from grass.

Curiously, it was still only the males that had come to get their treat. The rest of the herd were hanging back: presumably there was a strict order of precedence.

The lady I had been talking with knew the landowner and stayed close by as he began to feed the deer. I soon joined them.

The deer were clearly comfortable in the landowner's company. But (he explained) they were not pets. They were still wild animals, and it had taken a long while to build their trust up. He began to give them slices of whatever it was - turnip? - and demonstrated how to offer the morsel. 

The woman had a go. Then I did, rather gingerly, but the deer took the slice from my fingers with the utmost gentleness. That's my hand in the picture. Interestingly, I saw that the deer had eyes like a goat's. I wondered why.

Now the landowner put a slice between his own teeth and got one of the deer to take from him. It was a rather intimate scene, curiously touching. The deer didn't seem to mind getting so close, and wanted more.

I felt lucky to have been there at the right time. It was so intriguing. And I wondered whether deer are colour-blind, because while they trusted the landowner in his green country attire, I was a vision of scarlet, quite different, and possibly signalling danger. Maybe deer like red even more than green?

Feeding the deer had been one of the highlights of my day though!