Castle Town, Lochside View

Nothing prepared me for this little town. The first time I saw it, my husband, John, and I were headed elsewhere, driving down Highway A83, about 40 miles northwest of Glasgow. We crossed the naked summit of Glen Croe and rounded the head of Loch Fyne, and five miles down the loch, the road curved and presented us with a stunning view. Across a bay that appeared to have been made to reflect its charms was this elegant, well-planned town, all white buildings with black trim, lined up along the water like model schoolchildren awaiting inspection.

As we drew closer, a green stone castle with pencil-sharp turrets appeared in the parkland on our right. The castle, like the town, dates to the mid-1700s. The third duke of Argyll, the head of the Campbell clan, moved the town and the castle to this location, and it is his vision, altered by years and remodeling, that one sees today.

Americans have not yet discovered Inveraray on the bank of Loch Fyne in western Scotland, although Europeans have. Those who come here--and there was, during our stay, one exceptionally noteworthy visitor--find an orderly village of about 500 that seems to weave a visual spell that holds the mind’s eye captive.

Enchanted, we tried to stop to explore but couldn’t find a parking spot. So we kept driving but vowed to return and savor Inveraray at leisure. It was a promise we were glad we kept.

We returned in early autumn, renting for a week the top half of an old stone farmhouse, Stronshira, tucked between the A83 and the little bay called Loch Shira just north of town. From Stronshira’s windows we enjoyed that first-seen vista of Inveraray at all hours of the day and night.

The layout of the town is simple, like an upside-down cross. The north-south main street is intersected by one short street. The Georgian-style courthouse, now home to the Inveraray Jail Museum, blocks off the loch end. Ignore its flier’s lurid description of the exhibition of “torture, death and damnation.” That, although harrowing, is only the introductory part of the museum. Instead, it is a faithful re-creation of what 19th century Scottish prisoners once suffered in law court and jail. Taped excerpts of famous trials lend an air of authenticity.

Many Scottish towns cluster their main institutions--courthouse, school, church and public house--around their principal crossroads, earning the corner the nickname “Legislation, Education, Salvation and Damnation.” In Inveraray’s case, “Legislation” is the courthouse, and “salvation” is the severely classical parish church (so unchurchlike that a sign states: “This is the Church of Scotland. Not the town hall!”). “Damnation” awaits in the George Hotel’s cheery bar, on the northeast corner. “Education” is now relocated on the other side of the wall, so Inveraray substitutes “Medication,” as in Dr. Kevel Singh Bijral’s medical office on the crossroads’ west side.

Bijral, a Sikh from the Punjab, has practiced here for 17 years, but I had to wonder: Did he not miss other Sikhs? No, because there is a Sikh community in Glasgow, where the family goes for services. And Indian food? “Curry has been voted the most popular dish in Scotland!” he assured me. Didn’t he feel exotic as a Sikh in a small Highland town? His eyes twinkled under his deep blue turban as he told the story of his eldest son, who, on a break from medical school, got a summer job as a guide at the castle. “He wore the green sweater and kilt that the guides wear,” Bijral said. “He was the most photographed person at the castle that summer.” And at the young man’s wedding, which was still the talk of Inveraray, all the Sikhs wore kilts.

“They danced magnificently, just like Highlanders!” said Niall Iain MacLean. He and his wife, Inez, were wedding guests. Niall Iain, white-haired, ruddy and handsome, and the merry Inez are Stronshira’s owners. They live on the ground floor, with a shared relish for life, deep-seated kindliness and endless humorous anecdotes of town goings-on.

“You see that house over there?” Niall Iain asked as he pointed to a small, isolated building along the shore. “That’s a dangerous house.” Our eyes opened wide. “Yes,” he continued, solemn-faced. “When you walk past, he asks you in and gives you drinks this size.” His thumb and index finger parted widely.

He enjoyed quoting his 10-year-old grandson on their home: “Not very high-tech, but environmentally friendly.” The old toaster worked well, and the free-standing cupboard with a heater in the base for drying rain-soaked clothes was eminently practical. But the comfortable if old-fashioned apartment had modern appliances, too.

Our meals had a definite home-grown bent. We brightened up plain breakfast cereal bought at the local Spar supermarket by adding compotes of blackberries and apples, picked, at their invitation, from the MacLeans’ laden bushes and trees. We found excellent pork and lamb, steak pies and good rolls at the butcher’s near the jail, and the truly splendid Loch Fyne Whiskies, a breath away from the church on Main Street, carried 400 whiskeys. Soon we also discovered the wonders of Loch Fyne Oysters, a modern seafood shop in a long, white traditional building at the head of Loch Fyne, and our meals definitely became more gourmet. The shop sold, besides the oysters grown in the loch nearby, superb fresh and smoked trout and salmon, crab and lobsters, kippers and herrings. It also carried rich, dense, fruity Scottish cakes, Highland cheeses and oatcakes to spread them on.

S tronshira’s view was its outstanding virtue.

We would wake to the smoky tones of early morning and see herons fishing along the stony beach while an otter broke mirror-shard waters offshore. At night we’d fall asleep to owls hooting down the drive and red deer stags roaring up nearby Glen Shira.

Also up the glen were vestiges of the modest dwelling of folk hero Rob Roy, who lived in the early 1700s. With an ordnance map to guide us, we searched for it one day on a long walk up the exquisitely beautiful glen, but we missed the overgrown, unmarked turnoff and ultimately found ourselves high above the site, too tired to persevere.

Niall Iain, who was retired from the hotel business, drove daily to the castle to help with the tourists who come to see the home of Ian Campbell, the 12th duke of Argyll, with its tapestries and collection of portraits and French decorative paintings.

Near the end of our stay, the duke had come up to him and disclosed, in confidence, that “someone very important” was coming that night.

“It’s Prince Charles, I hear,” Niall Iain said.

“Good God,” replied the duke, stunned. “How did you know?” “It’s common knowledge, your grace,” said Niall Iain, and the duke departed, shaking his head. That night, after the prince arrived in his helicopter, the castle, floodlit and shimmering above its trees, looked magical. I wondered how many people could say they’d gone to sleep across the bay from Prince Charles and up the glen (after a fashion) from Rob Roy.

The castle has been Inveraray’s major drawing card for a long time, attracting Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great lexicographer, and his friend James Boswell in 1773. They stayed at the Argyll Inn (now the Argyll Hotel) but were invited to dine with the duke. The great house’s splendors were lost on Boswell, who couldn’t see beyond the attractions of the ladies’ maids, but Johnson was much impressed by the fearsome display of arms in the 95-foot-high central hall. It’s still there, and it still amazes.

The castle grounds are threaded with attractive walks. We puffed up the most challenging, the zigzag path up a steep hill called Duniquaich, 813 feet high and topped by an ornamental watchtower. The view from here of castle, parklands, town and the glimmering reaches of Loch Fyne is magnificent.

Boswell and the obese Johnson bowled around the castle paths in a horse cart ordered for them by the duke. I, too, one day circled the grounds on horseback, having ridden north from the riding school at Dalchenna Farm, accompanied by its manager, Stephen Ramsay, a member of the Scottish equestrian team. We reached the castle via the ancient carriage path, which crosses a pretty nine-hole golf course.

As it happened, my husband was playing there that afternoon and enjoying the uncrowded course when suddenly, to his utter astonishment, he beheld riders on horseback crossing the fairway, and a second later recognized his wife among them. Under Scottish law any person may cross a golf course, including riders, and the local golfers waited as we rode through the rolling greens. I couldn’t help picturing the scene if I’d done the same at home.

On what is called “the Beech Avenue,” which borders the duke’s estate, stands the most conspicuous exception to this town of all white: the brown stone bell tower of All Saints’ Episcopal Church. Rae MacGregor, local historian and archivist, said, “It sticks up like a sore thumb.” We found, after climbing the 126 feet to its top, that it offered the perfect perch for sizing up the town below. The 10th duke of Argyll had the tower built--and joined in the labor himself--in 1925. The tower contains one of the finest rings of 10 bells ever cast, and teams of campanologists (bell ringers) come from far afield to play it.

N ot far south of Inveraray is the unique open-air museum of Auchindrain. It was once a farming village of a type common throughout Scotland, whose occupants jointly rented land from the dukes of Argyll. After the last tenant retired, the current duke donated Auchindrain’s land to a trust set up to preserve it. With its buildings furnished in sparse village style, Auchindrain is the only remaining Highland farm township that can be seen largely in its original form.

Five miles south of Auchindrain is Crarae Garden, renowned for its flowering shrubs. Its special splendors were long out of season when we visited, but we wandered the still-lovely grounds and admired the garden’s rare trees and vistas, undisturbed by a single soul.

Ne obliviscaris (“Do not forget”), exhorts the motto of the Campbell dukes of Argyll. “Forget what?” I wondered. Some slight to Campbell honor? Even Rae MacGregor couldn’t enlighten me. So I choose to think it refers to Inveraray, with all that that means. Indeed, how could one forget?

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GUIDEBOOK

What’s Inviting in Inveraray

Getting there: Round-trip air fare from L.A. to Glasgow, Scotland, about 40 miles from Inveraray, begins at $338 and is available on British Airways, Continental, American and United.

Where to stay: We stayed at Stronshira, a self-contained apartment in a traditional farmhouse; rates $450-$1,117 per week, depending on season. It can be booked through Country Holidays, telephone 011-44-870-444-6604, Internet https://www.country-holidays.co.uk (Stronshira’s reference number is 12988). The Argyll Hotel, tel. 011-44- 1499-302-466, overlooking Loch Shira and Loch Fyne, has 36 rooms. Doubles with breakfast, $71-$139; add $35 per person for dinner.

Where to eat: Loch Fyne Oysters, local tel. 1499- 600236, specializes in local seafood. You can eat in the restaurant or, during the day, buy fresh fish from the shop in the same building. Dinner for two with wine will cost about $100. For a pub lunch (typically $5 to $10), try the George Hotel on Main Street, local tel. 1499-302111.

For more information: British Tourist Authority, 551 5th Ave., Suite 701, New York, NY 10176-0799; tel. (800) 462- 2748, Internet https://www .btausa.com.