Yep, it's been a month since I last blogged!! But it's been a busy time with filming projects.
At the start of Easter, ten of my young students attended a masterclass week on acting-for-camera. It was an intensive week, building up their toolbox of skills; shooting a 90 second drama scene for their showreel; getting their professional headshots done and meeting a casting director.
Even I learned a lot from the acting coach!
The Academy was then off for the remainder of the Easter holidays, which allowed me to continue my documentary film, The Last Ferries of Ballachulish.
I had recently received a tip on the whereabouts of the third ferry, the Glen Loy, which has remained elusive since I started this project back in 2017. I am yet to get definitive proof of its whereabouts, but if it is where someone believes it to be, then in order to get there she would have come through the Crinan Canal on the west coast, an hour south of Oban.
So this was my first location, but on arrival the wind was blowing above 40mph, and so there was no choice but to wait it out until morning.
Accommodation for the night was my tent in a small campsite at Tayvallich, a little further south. Ahh, the glamour of filmmaking! Not in the mood for cooking I ate out at the Tayvallich Inn. And very nice it was too.
By early morning the wind had died down, and despite the overcast skies and subsequent low light, I managed to get the shot I was after at the start of the Crinan Canal.
Along twisting narrow roads I headed north, 65 miles to Ballachulish, to meet up with my friend Kate, one of the people interviewed in the film, and someone who has been a great source of information.
But this was a very wet day. A day for traveling. So I continued on in the afternoon, via Fort William, 75 miles to Ratagan, and a Scottish Youth Hostel for the night, on the shores of Loch Duich at Shiel Bridge, with views across to the Five Sisters of Kintail. Nearby was the road that could take me over to Glenelg where the Glenachulish operates, and though tempting, this was not on my shot list this time round.
I was now within striking distance of my next location, the pretty little village of Plockton.
After shooting the compulsory shortbread-tin-shot of Eilean Donan Castle, a further 20 miles on, with a winding single track road to finish, I arrived at the sun-drenched picturesque village of Plockton. Though bright and sunny on the village itself, the far views were very hazy, and would remain so all week unfortunately.
I now followed the road around Loch Carron, to Strome Castle, where the first of the wrecks of an old turntable ferry were beached, the Pride of Strome.
Though she has no connection to the Ballachulish ferries, it is still a sad sight to see such an icon from 20th century Scottish history, left to rot. No longer the Pride of Strome. Compared to the Glen Duror wreck on Mull, there was a substantial amount of her left, easily recognisable from afar.
Bed for the night was another SYHA, this time in the dramatic setting of Torridon, with the mighty Liathach mountain within spitting distance.
To me it looks inaccessible, but the hostel was full of many hopeful souls for an ascent the following day. During the evening the conversation inevitably veered toward the Munro baggers, of which I am not one, and will never be. I was reminded of a line from Bothy Tales, by John Burns, that when admitting publicly that I did not "bag" Munros, "it hung in the air like a malevolent fart".
I awoke to hot sunshine, though still with that annoying haze in the distance. This was now Thursday, and I was headed 55 miles to Inverness to interview an historian, James Hunter, and his knowledge of the impact of the opening of the Ballachulish bridge on the economy of the West Highlands.
We wrapped within a couple of hours, giving me plenty of time to reach Achiltibuie, 75 miles north, out on a peninsula north of Ullapool.
I had heard about this place for decades from an old friend Jim Downie, who, until recently, spent time there every year. As I pulled in to the car parking space for Acheninver hostel, I could see why. Astonishing views across the Summer Isles, with a spectacular setting sun welcomed me. The haze for once proved to be a good thing, as it dispersed the sunlight and created a red glow over all I could see. I had never seen a sunset like this.
As the sun dipped a full moon rose on the opposite horizon, and I sat a while with an evening cuppa watching the sunlight glitter across the water.
I reached my furthest most point the next day, 40 miles further on to Kylesku. The road north is this perfect ribbon of tarmac, gently winding its way through the landscape, mostly empty of any traffic. I reached a T-junction at one point; left for Kylesku and Durness, right for Thurso. I sat a moment at the junction, marveling at the remoteness.
At Kylesku was the second wreck, the Maid of Kylesku, again, abandoned to rot on the shoreline, though her turntable was largely intact.
After a well earned coffee and banana cake at the Kylesku hotel, I set off on the 250 mile journey home, happy with the weeks filming, and what a privilege to capture all that among the grand setting of the Western Highlands of Scotland.
