Here are three location maps. Click on them to see the detail better.
The sunshine was waning, but it was fine enough to make the trip worthwhile. Helmsdale is a former fishing centre, but is rather quiet now. It says a lot - everything, I think - that apart from its own station, I didn't take any pictures of the town. There was nothing about it that made me want to. And yet, of course, the place would (like any other) have an inner life, plenty going on, though none of it necessarily obvious to the casual passer-by. Helmsdale station, however, had a vague air of importance. Trains passed each other here, so there was a double track between the platforms, a footbridge, an electronic display on each platform to say when the next train would come, and a good view up the valley. Though really nothing else for the traveller. No taxis waiting, for instance. With only four trains a day each way, that wasn't of course entirely surprising.
As usual, the station buildings were in private hands. No sign of life inside though. And nobody else here. Where were the 5,000-odd passengers it sees annually? They had left no trace. The station was immaculate - completely free of litter and urban graffiti.
I always like it when I have these places completely to myself. I don't have to be self-conscious or sneaky. I don't want onlookers to think that I'm a sad railway nut, even though I certainly enjoy taking pictures of whatever is photographically interesting about stations, and I assiduously seek them out. Every one has traces of its history, however scant, and every one has an atmosphere. In my book, they are on par with country churches and standing stones.
I took my pictures and left. I wanted to get to Kildonan before the sun sank behind those forbidding hills!
The valley had a decentish road - the A897 - which made its sinuous way up what had now become the Strath of Kildonan. The views were good.
As the turn-off to Kildonan station approached, I passed something called Baile an Or on my right. It looked worth a stop. Perhaps something for my return journey. Now where was the left turn-off for the station? It was pretty much 'blink and you miss it'. I didn't miss it, and made a sharp left down an unpromising track which ended in gates by some workaday buildings. Gates to restrain sheep and cattle, I suppose. Through one of these gates was Kildonan station.
It looked pretty basic. It was within walking distance of nearby Kildonan Lodge and a few other local houses, but really it was no more than a wayside station in very empty countryside. It seemed lonely even on an April afternoon. How would it be on a bleak and very chilly day in December? Why was it even here?
I opened the gate and had a good look around. This was the view back to Helmsdale.
This was the view on to the next station, Kinbrace.
That was a loading bay in the foreground. And in fact off to the right in the picture above was a wide area, now cleared, which might once have accommodated animal pens and a siding.
It also shows buildings and a signal box, now long gone. There was just a 'bus shelter' for passengers waiting for a train, a notice board or two, an electronic display showing the next train, and steps to help passengers get into the train - for the platform was rather low.
I sat in the shelter. It was rather pleasant, out of the breeze. Three or four hours between trains. I was in no hurry.
The station was, like Helmsdale, immaculate. That might be down to its lack of use. Only 168 people used the station in 2018-19 - an average of half a person per day. So another 'Least Used Station in the UK' in the bag! It had a recent reprieve from closure. I wonder who protested, and how they were able to justify to the authorities its continuing existence. Perhaps it was the salmon-fishing lobby.
It was now about 4.30pm. The electronic display told me that if I waited only another twenty minutes, the Wick train would call here. It was meant to come at 4.48pm, but was running two minutes late.
Should I hang around to see it? I thought about it, but the seat was hard and the sun was going down. It would soon get chilly. Besides, the shelter was transparent - I was exposed to view, and I'd be seen by the driver on the approaching train. There was nowhere else to hide. I didn't want to bring the train - already a bit late - to a grinding halt, and then explain that I was here only to see the show, on a whim, and wasn't actually going to board the train.
I was sure that wouldn't go down well. Driver, guard and passengers wouldn't get out and give me hugs and kisses, laughing heartily. And roar with wonder and amazement when I said I was up here on holiday from far-away Sussex. And then, reboarding the train, cheer and clap while I waved them on their merry way. No, best to drive off now, and save myself any unpleasantness.
But I did pause to contemplate the River Helmsdale. You could see that in season it would be rammed stiff with salmon, all leaping their heads off.
Back at the A897, a difficult choice. Should I go left to the next station, Kinbrace? Or right to Baile an Or? I had never been to Kinbrace, and it was one of only two ultra-remote Far North stations I hadn't yet been to - the other being Altnabreac. Forsinard and Scotscalder (both very lonely) were already in the bag. I was sorely tempted to see Kinbrace, but decided to resist. The sun was fading. I didn't have the time to see it in reasonable light. For another holiday then.
Baile an Or - the Gaelic name means 'Gold Town' - was just down the road. Here's another map.
Well, there was a car park and a level patch of land, and a covered notice board.
Apparently, if properly equipped, the public could still pan for gold on the banks of the stream a few hundred yards off. That was a surprise. Presumably the estate that owned this land had no fear whatever that anyone would find a nugget or two! The notices were in fact mostly concerned with using sterilised footwear and panning equipment, in order not to contaminate the stream with a deadly parasite that would infect the salmon. Which was fair enough.
The history of the 1869 Gold Rush in these parts was a little more interesting. It didn't last a year, and nobody made a fortune. There was a little gold, but it was really just a flash in the pan. The then landowner, the omnipresent Duke of Sutherland, killed the Rush off by requiring everyone to pay for a licence, and ultimately evicting them all. The makeshift town they lived in was dismantled and vanished. No doubt the Duke and his sporting friends were relieved to see the unruly riff-raff depart, and the mess cleared up. See http://www.suisgill.co.uk/home/baile-an-or/ and https://www.nmrs.org.uk/mines-map/metal/baile-an-or/.
Well, did I try my hand at finding a fortune? I looked at the soggy ground and decided that no, it could be left for a more auspicious time. The warmth and comfort of my caravan called me.
But who knows? Probing the ground anywhere hereabouts, I might have felt something heavy and metallic and golden...
