TRAVELING IN STYLE : SCOTCH AND WATER : With Spectacular Seas and Whisky All Around, This Luxury Voyage Through the Isles and Inlets of Scotland’s Wild Northwestern Coast Is a Whole New Kind of Princess Cruise

Remote, romantic, steeped in maritime lore, Cape Wrath marks one of the British mainland’s most emphatic physical extremities--one that few Britons have ever seen. Standing miles from anywhere, in the remote northwesternmost corner of mainland Scotland, it may be reached by land only by following a difficult little Highland road built for lighthouse maintenance. Access by sea is much simpler, but what vessel is going to take you into those latitudes? Fishermen work these waters--Cape Wrath’s cold and stormy seas are richly stocked--but few other craft venture there.

One of the few, though, is the Hebridean Princess, a tiny Scottish luxury liner from which you may see Cape Wrath and its fantastic attendant coastline in well-provisioned warmth and comfort.

I made the trip--billed as a “Grand Cruise of Scotland’s sea lochs combined with the remoteness of Sutherland and Cape Wrath”--last fall. The cape’s name suggests perpetual uproar, and we passengers had all, I think, imagined a fearsome place of shrieking winds, boiling seas, wrecks stacked up against the cliffs like rusting bicycles. Our foreboding deepened when the BBC Shipping Forecast warned that a very big storm--”affecting the areas Malin, Hebrides and Fair Isle”--was due to reach the Cape at the same time as we. But there we were, on the appointed day, approaching Cape Wrath across a millpond sea beneath a calm, clear, Caribbean sky. The storm, which had flattened southern Britain, was loitering 50 miles astern. There, ports were closing like slamming doors--but here the breeze was warm and fitful and the famous Cape Wrath foghorn, on its high grassy bluff, pointed mutely toward a diamond-clear horizon. We nosed out past the Cape to glimpse the Clo-Mor Cliffs, Britain’s highest, then did a long, slow 180-degree turn and began retracing our course.

No one doubted that the ship would behave well in big seas. Built in the early ‘60s for ferry service in the Western Isles, the 1,420-ton Princess had routinely carried tenant farmers, livestock, bales of hay, barrels of sheep-dip and consignments of malt whisky from the outer island distilleries. With its rounded bottom and almost imperceptible draft, the ship could navigate in waters normally accessible only to canoes.

Today, the Princess retains the sturdy, bathtub lines of an inter-island workhorse. Inside, though, all traces of its ancestry have vanished. Recently refurbished, it now resembles a sumptuous little country-house hotel. Forty-five passengers were accommodated in luxurious staterooms, the dining room provided high-quality and big-quantity haute-cuisine meals (I seemed to discern a wistful echo of the old British maritime tradition of serving food 19 times a day), the bar stocked an awesome variety of malt whiskies and--homiest touch of all--the lounge contained an imitation country-house brick-and-beam fireplace. The one truly alien element, the sea itself, had been turned by dint of clever design into a mere component of the view.

The decor was supervised by Susan Binns of Skipton, Yorkshire. She and her husband, Tony, bought the old ferry after spending their summers enjoying Scotland’s west coast by sailboat. They became aware of the beauty and immensity of the sea lochs--many penetrating so far inland that access to the Highlands is as easily achieved by water as by road. They visited the islands and noted that the only facilities available to travelers were bed-and-breakfast guest houses served by fish-and-chip ferries. So why not, they reasoned, find a ship that would enable people to see this huge, remote domain of water and rock in comfort?

They spent about $500,000 to buy the ferry, a further $4 million or so on the refit. The Duchess of York (Sarah Ferguson) presided over the commissioning ceremony (and apparently loved the new look). It’s very Laura Ashley, very pretty, very feminine--if not, perhaps, the sort of thing a real sailor would approve of. “Too damn twee for my liking,” one subversive officer was heard to mutter. And I heard a few honks of derision around Oban, the vessel’s home port. “The MV bluidy Powder Puff” one weather-beaten fisherman called her.

It may not, sailing off into a windy night, have looked much like a real ship--but, as its rounded old hull began to lift, creak and shimmy in the swell running up the Firth of Lorne, it certainly felt like one. In the Tiree Lounge, passengers--disconcerted by a bar that kept assuming different planes and angles--started coming to terms with life on the ocean wave. Many had passed retirement age, not a few walked with crutches and sticks. Talk of impending gales brought a curious light to their eye. The youngsters looked apprehensive--while the oldsters, grinning, lit their pipes and ordered treble malts.

We awoke the next morning to find the ship anchored in a bay of calm, bright water; on a gray cliff flanking the bay, someone had painted three graceful white schooners. “Tobermory!” said the pretty girl who brought us coffee. Tobermory was a long line of colored waterfront houses, with more ascending the steep hill above the harbor. Iain Condie, the affable, pipe-smoking ship’s guide, pointed to one and said, “I was raised here, and yon house belonged to the doctor. He had spent many years in Egypt and, when he attended his patients, always wore a fez and baggy shorts. I recall that everything in the garden was white--white sheep, white goats, white dog, white flowers and captive white birds in cages.”

At Tobermory, we browsed through the shops, noted that the Mull Little Theatre was performing Tennessee Williams’ “A Perfect Analysis Given by a Parrot,” drank coffee and drowsed in the sun. The ship’s tenders took us back aboard and, that afternoon, landed us again at the hamlet of Salen on Loch Sunart. There, in a dense, mossy wood, we found a tiny lochen, or lake, its surface so still that the reflections of trees enclosed it like a frieze around a plate’s rim. The absolute silence somehow offended the inner ear, which set up a very faint compensatory hum, felt rather than heard. A single birdcall was as intrusive as a bugle blast.

The ship spent the night a few miles down the loch in a quiet, sheltered spot enclosed by tall hills. When the anchor rattled down, there were splashes all around as startled otters sprang into the water. Later, in the bar--after the usual six-course dinner--rumors spread that a television crew would be joining the ship the next day. An aristocratic old Englishman said, “Good God, they’ll drink us dry. I’ve met some of those film people. ‘Make mine a large one!’ That’s their motto.”

“They’re coming to do something for a food program,” said Iain, the barman. “Our chef is becoming very famous.”

Next morning, Capt. Iain Cameron took us north, passing close to Ardnamurchan Point and on toward the Sound of Sleat. The islands of Muck, Eigg and Rhum slid by to port and, as Skye loomed ever larger, the Cuillins seemed to rise out of the sea like giant tidal waves. With time on his hands, Cameron next took us on a sortie into Loch Hourn, handling his little steamer as nimbly as a fishing smack, using his bow thrusters to spin it on a sixpence. Iain Condie said, “Loch Hourn is known as the Loch of Hell. During the war, all the land around it was owned by a well-known Nazi sympathizer. Goering used to come up for the hunting.” The water was deep and black, the hills dappled with big cumulus shadows. A nocturnal frost had drained the color from the heather, but now the sun shone and the air had an almost tropical balminess. In a dark waterside meadow, a random sunbeam suddenly pinpointed a grazing white horse, seemingly startling it.

We steamed past the tiny Sandaig Islands, loud with the splash of tidal water flowing over stones, and on up the Sound of Sleat to Kyle of Lochalsh, deep in Skye’s shadow. A thin, red-cheeked lady with wispy fair hair caught our lines and made us fast, handling the heavy wet ropes without a qualm. She tied us up right beside the station where a yammering, smoking old diesel locomotive was preparing to start the celebrated scenic run right across Scotland to Inverness. Two young Australian backpackers walked up the gangplank and asked about buying tickets.

“Tickets to where?” I asked.

“Barra,” said one, “out in the Western Isles.”

“We’re not going to Barra.”

He frowned. “Isn’t this a ferry?”

“Used to be,” I said. “Not any more.”

His companion glanced through the door, noted the opulent manner in which the ship was outfitted and said, “It’s some sort of Oxfam boat, used for pulling refugees off Third World beaches by the look of it. Let’s go, mate. We’re used to better.”

All afternoon the great green flank of Skye, flecked with small, comma-shaped waterfalls, loomed over us, playing tricks with the color and texture of the light. Huge tides swept through the Narrows, causing the ship to rise and fall like a lift.

The television crew, led by Derek Cooper, a well-known author and narrator of television documentaries, came on board early next morning. We passed through the Narrows of Raasay and on up the Sound. It was a fine, calm Sunday morning, and Cooper spoke of a local Presbyterian fundamentalist preacher--the kind who ordained that children’s swings be chained up on the Sabbath--who, after delivering his usual fire-and-brimstone sermon, retired to the vestry for a teapot of whisky.

By late afternoon, the Hebridean Princess was racing north toward the Summer Isles through a gloriously warm and sunny evening. In the lounge, passengers enjoyed strong tea, cucumber sandwiches and plates of very, very rich cream cakes. A retired coffee planter from Kenya was complaining about his grandson. “He’s so damned middle-aged,” he said. “He looks middle-aged, he sounds middle-aged, he even thinks middle-aged.”

“And how old is he actually?” I asked.

“He’s 6,” said the old man gloomily.

We reached Cape Wrath next morning, after a visitation by a big Coast Guard helicopter--which, appearing out of nowhere, made a steep, howling turn only feet from the bridge. David Campbell, the first officer, remarked, “We see him on most trips, actually. Very often he’ll want to do an exercise with us--putting a doctor down on deck or winching up one of the crew.”

At midday, we put into Loch Laxford, anchoring close to transatlantic oarsman John Ridgeway’s well-known adventure school. Several dozen middle-aged business executives--here to develop their mental, physical and spiritual potential--paddled kayaks unsteadily across the loch. Said a retired colonial administrator: “Tonight those poor buggers will be sucking sheep’s bones up some horrible bloody mountainside.” Then he led us purposefully into a lunch of fillets of sole stuffed with avocado mousse, sirloin steak and banana ice cream served with cherry syrup.

Then everyone was tendered ashore to walk off the meal. With the sun on our backs, we climbed a 1,500-foot hill and sat for an hour on the top. Far across the loch we saw the gaunt, sparkling crystalline mountain of Arkle, its summit lightly dusted with snow. Bees drowsed in the heather. A tern idled past so close we could hear the faint rush of air across its wings. A friend hunted for fossils and found two good ones: a fish and a fern. Strolling back to the tender, we saw squadrons of yellow butterflies patrolling the banks of a small loch. The sun and the water and the gamelan tinkle of water on stone induced a mood that was almost transcendental.

THE SKY WAS DARKENING. ANGRY BANKS of gunmetal clouds appeared out of the west and small, fierce gusts of wind began farrowing the water. The front had finally arrived, and by morning the full force of the attendant storm would be upon us. At breakfast, riding bows-on into 40-knot gusts, the Hebridean Princess urgently prepared for sea. Andrew Ouarrie, the purser, briefed passengers on the tannoy. “For the first hour or so,” he said, “we shall get some protection from the islands at the head of the loch. But then we must cross 40 or 50 miles of open water through Force 10 winds. Conditions are likely to get very rough indeed. I shall be showing ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ on the video channel, and I would urge passengers to go to their cabins and lie down. It is the safest place to be.” Rashly he added, “Especially for those who are aged or infirm.”

The aged and infirm took immediate umbrage. “Cheeky gob,” said an old English lady who walked on sticks. “I’ll climb the bloody mast if I choose to,” said her companion.

Though the staff pleaded valiantly, only one or two agreed to go to bed. The rest, demanding grandstand views, bagged armchairs along the lounge windows and settled down with their crosswords, their knitting and their binoculars.

Rounding Greenstone Point, the ship made a violent staggering motion and almost stopped. We had suddenly entered a wild, destabilized world full of noise and commotion. The Hebridean Princess went crashing and bouncing toward Skye, periodically falling onto the flank of a 30-foot wave that broke over the bows and sent spray clattering against the windows like buckshot. Each time this happened, the spectators gave a yell of pleasure. A speed indicator on the bulkhead registered three knots, but this was disregarded. “We are actually going backward,” an old lady said to me with absolute confidence. Two hours into the storm, the first officer reeled in to see how we were doing. “The wind’s 60 knots,” he shouted, “and I’ve never seen the ship taking water over the bows before.”

Everyone decided this was worth celebrating. A man seized his crutches and made his way to the bar. It was only a dozen yards away, but the motion of the ship obliged him to cover perhaps 40 or 50. I watched, spellbound, as he went spinning up the room and back again, arms out, crutches whirling, mouth open and yelling profanities, legs tangled, but still doing a kind of wild, impromptu hornpipe before bringing himself, triumphantly, to a heavy crash landing at the bar. He grinned at the bartender. “Brandies,” he panted. “Trebles all ‘round.”

On the mainland, near Feterburn, we glimpsed a waterfall reversed by the gale: It flowed up rather than down. Once, briefly, the wind blew a hole in the black overcast, and the sun sent us steaming through a vast, heaving field of rainbows. Every 10 or 12 seconds we hit a wave of such size that it stopped us dead. Then, heaving itself up, shaking itself like a dog, the ship staggered on.

Six hours later, we reached the Lee of Raasay and, two hours after that, limped back into Kyle of Lochalsh. A bus was laid on to take the passengers to the picturesque village of Plockton. The crew assumed that few would have the energy to go. They were wrong. Everyone went.

The next evening, our last, featured a gala dinner and frog races--toy frogs pulled with strings--as we rode at anchor near Craignure, still buffeted by wind. Avoiding the storm, we had spent the day ducking in and out of sea lochs--some running so far east that we found ourselves waving, from a ship’s deck, to people living in streets and houses many miles from the sea.

Disembarking at Oban on a dark, electric morning, the crew--young, tolerant, endlessly good-natured--waved goodby. We, sorry to be leaving them, waved back. I asked a retired brigadier, flourishing his crutches in farewell, if he was pleased to be ashore. “Good God, no,” he said. “Next week, actually, I’m planning to infiltrate Jamaica by banana boat.”

GUIDEBOOK: Scottish Luxury

Getting there: American Airlines flies daily from Los Angeles to Glasgow via Chicago. United Airlines, American Airlines, British Airways and Virgin Atlantic Airways have daily nonstop flights from Los Angeles to London, and there are frequent connecting flights to Glasgow from London’s Heathrow Airport on British Airways and British Midland. Hebridean Island Cruises can arrange chartered bus transportation from Glasgow to Oban, embarkation point for the Princess.

The cruise: The Hebridean Princess sails from early April through the end of October. Passage may be booked through Hebridean Island Cruises, Acorn Park, Heighley Road, Skipton, North Yorkshire BD23 2UE, England; telephone 44-756-701-338 or (800) 659-2648. There are five-, seven-, nine- and 14-day cruises offered. The ship has 26 staterooms, from simple cabins to two-room suites. Depending on stateroom, fares range from about $1,300 to $3,475 per person for five days, $1,750 to $5,225 for seven days, $3,150 to $6,600 for nine days and $4,800 to $10,100 for 14 days. All meals and onshore excursions are included. Drinks and tips are extra. (A gratuity of 2.5% of the fare is recommended.)

For more information: British Tourist Authority, 350 S. Figueroa St., Suite 450, Los Angeles 90071; (213) 628- 3525.