Letter from Thurso

[A late delivery]

Up in mainland Britain’s most northerly town, ostensibly to see the Northern Lights without having to cross the sea or fly in the air. No joy. If there were any lights the clouds prevented sight of them. So only the town’s street lights to savour. I first came to Thurso in 1974 not so much to witness some spectral phenomena but to make the most of my last rail warrant in the remaining months of my RAF service. So perhaps there was some sentimental content to my journey this time. Thankfully, if that were the case I can say that it appears absolutely nothing has changed here in 52 years. Even the train seems to rattle along the same unwelded track, taking nearly four hours to get from Inverness (which itself is a good three hours plus from Edinburgh). But who could deny that there’s not something special about this place? As I watched from my hotel room (in the excellent Pentland Hotel, where I first stayed in 1974) a coffin being taken out of the church across the road I thought perhaps Stanley Spencer may have found inspiration here. There’s a definite remnant religious feel to the place with several spires competing for attention, even if one of them belongs to a church guarded by rusting wire barriers but open to the nefarious devils known as pigeons.
 
To make things more atmospheric my journey and stay were accompanied by the much touted impacts of Storm Chandra. But that didn’t do much to disrupt Scotrail or life here. Apart from making everything look grey and dull. The pedestrianised main shopping street was empty. Not just of shoppers but, it seemed to me, open shops. The visitor centre was closed until April 1st, so the joke is on out of season visitors. But the nuclear reconstruction shop was open (albeit at the push of the buzzer). This is here to remind anybody of the contribution of Dounreay to the local economy, and as ever I suspect with nuclear’s bright future. I bet one reason why the railway line has been kept open is because for 70 years the Dounreay nuclear plant had to attract workers to the remote north. There is not, so far as I can tell, any indication that Dr Beeching suggested that the Thurso line should be axed. He may have been told it had strategic importance, just as it had in two world wars when troops were sent to Scapa Flow.
 
A significant ruin in Thurso is its castle which overlooks the confluence of the River Thurso with the North Sea. I read on a website that the ‘castle’ - more a large, grandiloquent Scottish chateaux in its day—was more a Nineteenth Century construction which was largely demolished in 1952. It remains in the hands of the Lords Thurso, is not open to the public and it appears the vacant ground floor windows are bricked up with breeze blocks. A sleeping ruin. Which brings me to a closing anecdote. The perfectly amiable Lord Thurso, who had not taken his seat in the Lords in order to become a LibDem MP for his neck of the woods fell fast asleep during a speech I was making in the Commons about climate change (the subject if I recall). He was their frontbench spokesperson at the time. I interrupted my apposite remarks to wonder if M’Lord was paying attention. Of course, he was but just with his eyes closed. Rarely has any of my contributions made such a notable effect. Pity about the castle though. It once hosted royalty in Thurso. Perhaps one day there’ll be a new Scottish monarch who will scan the sea and the sky from Scotland’s most northerly pier. If she or he doesn’t mind rattling along the railway for nearly four hours from Inverness. With no first class to boot.