78 THE FERNS OF SUTHERLAND AND ROSS. 



great measure disappear, and the whole is one dreary waste of heather, 

 sloping gently down to the Loch. On the opposite shore the rocks rise 

 bold and steep in some parts from the water's edge. I crossed the Loch, 

 and had now ten miles to walk on foot, as my pony was sent back; at 

 first, and as far as the River Hope, the road is interesting, twisting round 

 the hills, rising bare and black in all directions, with a small Loch, now 

 and then, to vary the scene. After crossing the Hope, which is done by 

 a draw-bridge, the road passes up a steep rising ground, grown thick with 

 birch and the more common Ferns, and out on a moor the most dreary 

 and miserable that can well be imagined. Round and round as far as 

 the eye can reach, nothing but heather without almost a single rock to 

 break the monotony. On and on for several miles, without seeing any 

 living being, except a solitary man on horseback, muffled up as if it had 

 been in the midst of winter; I reached the highest part of the road, the 

 Moine House. From this is got a fine view of Tongue, lying like an 

 oasis in the desert, in gentle slopes from the rugged hills to the water's 

 edge, and finely dotted with clumps of trees, amidst which shine the 

 white houses and the green fields. 



On reaching it, it did not belie its appearance. Every sense was regaled; 

 the air was mild and perfumed with the sweet odour of the woods and 

 flowers; the ear was greeted with the song of birds, broken in upon by 

 the scream of the Common Tern and Oyster Catcher, mingled with the 

 bleating of sheep and the lowing of cattle. Through the opening amongst 

 the trees, on the one side, might be seen, lying calm as a sleeping infant, 

 the Kyle, ringed with its low black hills; and on the other, the steep 

 and broken sides of those that lie towards the north, while in front, in 

 the far distance, toward Ben Loyal, and close at hand, rose up from the 

 water's edge, a steep rock, crowned by the ruins of an old castle, where 

 once the voice both of sorrow and mirth resounded, but whose very 

 memory has now perished. Alas, for human greatness! a bubble on the 

 ocean of time. 



My road now lay through the eastern part of the county to Lairg. 

 The whole district is a dreary waste of heather and loch; mile succeeds 

 mile of dismal solitariness; not a hush to be heard, so that the silence be- 

 comes oppressive; now and then sweeps along a gust of wind with mournful 

 howl, as if sorrowing for the desolation. 



From the ditches by the side of the road I was gathering Equisetum 

 palustre, E. umbrosum, E. sylvaticum, and E. limomm. A stout pair of legs 

 and a happy heart soon put the road behind me, and I arrived in due 

 time at Lairg, on the second day after leaving Tongue. From Lairg to 

 Inverinn the road is beautiful, a fine mixture of hill, wood, water, heath, 

 and field. The road after crossing the river that flows from the Loch to 



